I knew I would love Chicken because I had been to Eva O’Connor’s previous Fringe offerings: My Name is Saoirse and the ever-brilliant Mustard. 

Chicken plays within the intimacy of the Yurt, which lends itself beautifully to Eva O’Connor’s handsome Chicken, Don Murphy, a chick rescued from the ghastly teeth of a meat grinder, where all male chicks go to die in battery farms. 

Eva recounts Don’s life to the audience, moving like a chicken, jumpy and on edge. Every so often, you hear a flapping sound, and she hits the inside of her leather-winged costume. This sound adds to the intrigue, and you start to believe that you have this giant rooster right in front of you, regaling you with stories of making it big in Hollywood and ketamine-induced sexual exploits with humans and Sadie. I often waited to hear the wings flap; something was hypnotic about it.

You won’t be able to take your eyes off this giant rooster skittishly walking in front of you, now and again locking eyes with an uncomfortable audience member. You almost feel like he would pounce and peck your eyes out at any moment. You will practically sign with relief and possibly stifle a laugh as he breaks into a dance, a much-needed respite from the intensity.

Makeup is one part of the costume that strikes immediately when you see it in all its glory. Bits and pieces of clothes taken from everyday items make up this human-sized Chicken or rooster. Which does it matter?

It is no mean feat to stay true to your character for 60 minutes without once breaking, and being believable to the point of entrancing your audience is what many of us hope to see at a Fringe performance. When you do, the feeling is exhilarating. You can’t tell me you don’t get a buzz from a spectacular performance? I know I do.

If Bouffon is an art form, you enjoy and dislike clowns as I do. Chicken is a must-see show.