House of Ick is bursting at the seams with outrageous characters, c*nty musical numbers, visceral messy sketches, and the best cringe you could hope for. Ginge & Minge (Nina Hogg & Megan Connolly) serve as your sickening hosts on the road to hot (but disgusting) enlightenment and show you around the wonderful characters that lurk within its shadows.
As we ascended the narrow stairway up to the studio, the anticipation began to build in that familiar way that only small, close‑quarters theatre can provoke. There is something about climbing toward a performance rather than walking into it that heightens the senses. You feel like you are entering a secret. The air shifts. The audience becomes a collective body moving toward something slightly unknown. In this case, that unknown was a night of queer sketch comedy with consent at its core, delivered by the award‑winning duo, Ginge and Minge.
Ginge and Minge, performed by Mog Connolly and Nina Hogg, have carved out a reputation in Te Whanganui a Tara for their high‑energy, queer‑centred comedy that blends improv, sketch and audience interaction. Their previous shows, including Jez and Jace: Lads on Tour, Fame or Die, Lay Over and Redemption, have earned them nominations, praise and a loyal following. They are known for pushing boundaries while keeping the audience firmly in their grasp, and House of Ick continues that tradition with a boldness that feels both chaotic and intentional.
The show begins with a descent into the fringes of queer culture, although calling it a descent feels almost too gentle. It is more like being shoved through a shimmering curtain into a world that is already mid‑conversation. Ginge and Minge invite the audience to fall through the looking glass into a space that is learning to find self‑love or the love of another, all while keeping their fingers on the pulse of queer social dynamics. The opening sequence leaves the audience questioning their life decisions up until that point. The energy from the very first moment is like watching two bogans sink a few tins of Monster Energy and then decide to see what kind of improv chaos they can unleash. It is unhinged in the best possible way.
What makes House of Ick compelling is the way it uses humour to explore discomfort. The concept of the ick, usually a throwaway dating term, becomes something far more layered. It becomes a framework for examining power, desire and repulsion within both queer and mainstream contexts. Moments of intimacy appear throughout the show. Some are clearly queer-coded, others deliberately ambiguous. These moments stretch to the point where the audience begins to feel the tension in their own bodies. You start to interrogate your reactions. Why does one interaction feel affirming while another feels invasive? Why does one moment feel playful while another feels like a warning? The show never answers these questions directly. Instead, it lets the tension sit in the room and asks you to sit with it too.
The staging remains minimal, but the world-building is precise. Lighting shifts from harsh, almost clinical exposure, where every gesture feels scrutinised, to softer tones that invite vulnerability. The simplicity of the set allows the performers to shape the space with their bodies, their voices and their choices. It also means there is nowhere to hide. Every movement becomes part of the story. Every pause becomes a question.
At times, the performance lingers in its discomfort. It slides into queer cultural phenomena that feel instantly recognisable to anyone who has lived inside queer communities. Even these moments feel deliberate. House of Ick refuses to sanitise or simplify the messiness it explores. It asks you to sit with the cringe, the recognition, the second‑hand embarrassment and occasionally the sharp sting of being seen. There is a kind of generosity in that. The show trusts the audience to handle the complexity.
What becomes clear as the performance unfolds is that Ginge and Minge understand queer culture not as a single identity but as a constellation of signals, aesthetics and contradictions. They play with these contradictions constantly. One moment is tender, the next is cutting. One moment is absurd, the next is painfully familiar. You may not enjoy every moment in the traditional sense, but you will almost certainly recognise parts of yourself or others in what is reflected back at you.
The intimacy of the venue adds another layer. In such a small space, every reaction feels amplified. You can hear the breath of the person next to you. You can see the micro‑expressions on the performers' faces. You can feel the heat of the lights. It becomes impossible to detach. The show demands presence. It demands honesty. It demands that you acknowledge your own boundaries and your own sense of the ick.
As a trans man, the show took me back to dynamics I had not thought about in years: lesbian relationship patterns; trips to the gynaecologist; the unspoken rules of queer spaces; the need to wear a carabiner and harness, or maybe even a collar, depending on the night. At one point, I found myself thinking that the only thing missing was a few cats wandering across the stage. The specificity of these memories surprised me. The show has a way of unlocking things you did not expect to revisit.
There is also a sense that the performance contains layers that cannot be absorbed in a single viewing. It feels like a show that rewards repeat attendance. Each moment is packed with detail, and the improvisational nature of Ginge and Minge means that no two performances will ever be exactly the same. The audience becomes part of the ecosystem, and that ecosystem shifts with every new group of people who enter the room.
By the time the show concluded, I found myself both exhilarated and slightly dazed. I left with my nose still attached to my face, which felt like a small victory, and a cool new stamp proving I had survived the House of Ick. More importantly, I left with the sense that I had witnessed something that was not afraid to be messy, not afraid to be uncomfortable and not afraid to be deeply, unapologetically queer.
House of Ick is being performed at Auckland's Basement Studio from March 24-28
Purchase tickets here
Review written by Josh McNally
Edited by Alex Moulton
Purchase tickets here
Review written by Josh McNally
Edited by Alex Moulton