Writer: John Swale
Concocted by compulsive surrealist punster John Swale and his event-making collective Mother Wolf, The Immortalitea Party brings endearingly hand-crafted fun, games, decomposition, funereal foodstuffs, audience workouts and singing eels to the potentially humdrum business of taking tea and tidbits.
It’s all in aid of London Month of the Dead, a packed programme of walks, talks, taxidermy and séances supporting the city’s Magnificent Seven Cemeteries: enchanting green spaces much in need of charitable shoring up.
In his tattered dog collar and tall Puritan hat, wispy, ’60s style troubadour Swale cuts a dashing yet dishevelled figure as ‘exquisite corpse’ Pastor Whey, the guitar-toting MC. He’s unique but displays shades of Johnny Depp, Keith Richards and Bill Bailey, with a Harry Hill-like voice: manic yet reassuring.
At the outset, audience members are handed a customisable Order of Service for their own funerals. Pastor Whey is, in effect, delivering a rambling end-of-life sermon studded with cabaret performances spanning puppetry, songs, poems, painting, and outright swearing. “Congrats! You’ve all now died… here in the hinterland of salvation and salivation, you must now choose between immortality and good ol’ fashioned dying.”
Successive characters highlight key existential themes. Charon the Boatwoman is the stroppiest, a smoking, over-accessorised teen from out in the Styx that sulkily dishes out coins and advice: “A word to the wise: most ferrymen don’t go south of the river, but I go all the way.”
Her acidity is balanced out by sweet Memento Maureen, an obliging maid with a feather duster (for sweeping up ashes) who brings round the tea and biscuits… or rather, Misfortune Cookies, in return for Charon’s coins, containing gnomic lines for her to interpret further. “Life’s too shortbread!” says one. “You can’t Jammy Dodger death, babes.”
Fervent audience teapot rubbing brings on His Earl Greyness the Tea Genie, in a necklace of spoons and mini tea party turban. He, too, can read fortunes, depending on the choice of brew. He greets “I demand Dali-jeeling!” with: “You’ll meet your end in the desert, melting while supported by wooden struts.” There’s an amusing turn from Elvers Presley, the quiffy sock puppet eel with a spangly duo of backing vocalists, singing Bermuda Love Triangle to demonstrate mating rituals and the slurpy circle of life.
Mycelium Gallagher lopes about aggressively in his Liberty Kappa hoodie and mushroom hat, singing ‘Champignon Supernova’: “Where were you when we were getting hyphae?” Swale’s take? “He’s the best thing in rock ‘n’ roll since Sisyphus.” Mouldy face-masked ‘artist in putrescence’ Bob Rott paints a creditable audience member portrait on a coffin lid, then decomposes it: “Desiccation. Gauntness. Distension. Rupture. Be careful what you volunteer for.” Swale enjoys rabble-rousing in between acts with call-and-response, the likes of: “When I say living, you say dead, when I say Sylvia, you say Ted.”
Chef-hatted Human Remainsley Harriott introduces the night’s delicacies: Mushroom Turnover In Your Graves (deep, rich sauce; light vegan puff pastry), pleasantly cushiony, slimy, savoury Okra Winfrey fritters (“You get a fritter… you get a fritter… you all get a fritter!”), and chocolate-dipped Dates with Death. Sensibly, this is quick, grabby food that doesn’t need cutlery or crockery, just paper napkins. It’s genuinely tasty, and nowhere near as unpleasantly gimmicky as it might have been.
Pastor Whey returns to the stage in the second half to introduce another slew of acts, including rooster-headed poet John Cooper Cluck, who angrily recites ‘Chicken my Privilege’, and saucy singing sandcastle spades Sandy and Doug: “You could give me Beachy Head.” The audience is encouraged to reveal their own ‘Oglitchuaries’ (aided by prompts on the Order of Service), and the show’s rounded off by choreographer Dan Z. Pulcha in starry Elton John sunglasses, exhorting the audience to take part in a workout video featuring vigorous mortal coil-shuffling and daisy up-pushing.
Groaning with puns and loaded with mirth, The Immortalitea Party is a delectable treat that slips down with ease. There’s absolutely nothing off-puttingly slick from any cast member: they’re all just great at offhandedly, effortlessly sharing the fun they’re having. Hugely inventive, in Mighty Boosh vein, the show is a real labour of love that could do with a longer outing than a single night, although much of the material should bear mulching down into other projects.
All the players – even Charon, for all her sniping, and the plastic sandcastle spades – are likeable and fun to spend time with, generating a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Special mention must go to the pianist with a gunshot wound to the head who manages the gamut of audience-requested musical styles from classical to death metal with consummate skill.
Maybe the only elements lacking in the piece, billed as ‘surreal’, are moments of real horror and weirdness, although perhaps there’s just nothing left these days that’ll leave an audience in shock. The show’s timekeeping was a little slack – over 45 minutes late to start, imperilling last train journeys – but at least the one a.m. late finish is flagged.
One of the things The Immortalitea Party achieves most effectively is showcasing the prodigious talents of Mother Wolf, who are exceptionally good at making spectacles of themselves. Keep a – sliced – eye out for them.
Reviewed on 10 October 2025
The Reviews Hub Star Rating
90%
Delectable punning cabaret