That facepaint I gave Pierre is lead-based.
I dumped a load of old newspapers in the back of our rehearsal space, in clear violation of the fire code.
I have given at least three members of my physical theatre group a staph infection from not properly cleaning the stage.
I spent the whole of last year’s Mimos Festival absolutely ripped to the tits on ketamine.
That bit I did at the school, where I pretended to almost drop the kid? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the shtick. He. Wouldn’t. Stop. Talking.
I often fantasize about what I’d do if I had a time machine. Most of my scenarios involve travelling back to 1910 and killing Marcel Marceau.
I didn’t learn how to improvise at L’École Internationale de Théâtre Jacques Lecoq. I learned how to improvise in prison.
I got my “man in a box” routine from watching my little brother climb into the tumble dryer when I was eight.
Whenever we warm up by throwing the invisible ball around, I always imagine I’m throwing Celine the severed head of her idiotic boyfriend.
Most of the routines I’ve been working on in the past six months are based around breaking into people’s houses and standing over them while they sleep.
I always tell people that my contributions to the Political Artists’ Picnic are completely nut-and-gluten free. I have never once checked to make sure this is true.