Hello, you beautiful disasters.

This is Victoria Rose, the girl who's already confessed on stage to forwarding 53 voice notes of a ghost's dirty talk straight back to him and turning my WhatsApp into a personal wank archive.

I’ve been writing an absolute filth-fest of a comedy set the last few months. You weren't supposed to see the drafts (because they were private scribbles) which are the backbone: sexting struggles with tits that won't frame, why guys dodge a straight "no" like it's toxic, manifesting my soulmate with creepy AI videos, the cunt pics I should really have added to OnlyFans and an abundance of even more feral gold. It’s an hour, that's mostly brand-new, for the stage.

Now picture those stories with live psychic readings from Gemma Collins.

This is a joint show with the psychic who does not do bullshit. Think live readings where she's tapping into the room's energies, dishing out magic like an unsolicited dick pic.
My comedy keeps it loose and rude, while Gemma’s readings increase the stakes to "Oh fuck, is that about me?" This live mix of brutal comedy and real-time psychic work changes with the crowd - and the moon.

We've cultivated an electric atmosphere where the buzz of strangers losing their shit together results in gut-laughs one second and stunned silence the next. Word gets around. It sells out quicker than a Northern Irish hypnotist saying "three... two... one."

Grab tickets before you're left howling at your own screen while the rest of us are losing our shit in style.