It's out there.
A Review of Tudor Panels: The Show That Cannot Be Unseen
By a critic who has seen too much
I have attended many performances in my career. Some sublime, some dull, some so experimental they involved yoghurt, a cello, and a woman dressed as a radiator. But nothing — nothing — prepared me for Tudor Panels.
Billed as “Britain’s Shortest, Sauciest Burlesque Boy”, Tudor Panels (real name Andy Claggs, though no one there was surprised) waddles onstage like a man who has lost a duel with gravity. At 5ft 2 and packed into white leather chaps so tight they appear to be under medical duress, he resembles a disgruntled marshmallow attempting a comeback tour.
The Entrance
The lights dropped. The crowd hushed. A drumroll began.
Then, from behind the curtain, came the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing and a grunt that suggested the performer was stuck in something — later revealed to be his own boots.
When he finally burst free, he didn’t stride onto the stage; he ricocheted across it like a buttered bowling ball. Women screamed. Men prayed. A toddler dropped a slushie in silent horror.
The Costume
Let us address the white leather chaps, though I fear they will haunt me long after I write this.
They were:
Too bright
Too tight
Too… alive
His thighs fought desperately for freedom, quivering like two boiler tanks in a heatwave. His belly was formatted into an unexpected crescent shape which oscillated independently from the rest of him. When he turned, the chaps creaked loudly — a sound reminiscent of a haunted wardrobe opening itself in protest.
The Dance
If one can call it that.
Tudor Panels’ routine is a disorienting mixture of:
slow-motion gyration
alarming lunges
a shimmy that looked like a man trying to shake off a bee
and something that may have been an attempt at a cartwheel but ended with him lying on the floor like an exhausted pancake
At one moment he attempted to climb onto a chair. The chair refused. It simply gave up, collapsed, and quietly died beneath him.
The Signature Move
His finale — The Tudor Twist — involves spinning while simultaneously removing a glove with his teeth. However, because his centre of gravity is a chaos engine, he completed exactly half a rotation before drifting sideways into the audience like a low-flying weather balloon.
Two people caught him. They will require counselling.
The Audience Reaction
Some clapped.
Some wept.
One elderly man whispered, “Dear God, no,” the entire time.
A woman in the front row was hit in the face by a flying sequin. She now has a mild concussion and a story no one will believe.
The Verdict
It was obscene.
It was terrifying.
It was unforgettable.
1 star.
The star is awarded only because my editor refuses to allow “negative stars.”
Tudor Panels is not mere performance — it is an ordeal, a seismic event, a burlesque biohazard.
I cannot recommend the show,
and yet
I cannot stop thinking about it.
