I attended the West End’s wildest Christmas show – a woman nearly dropped on my face

I was not expecting to become Sophie at Sophie’s Surprise Party in the West End (Picture: Rosie Robinson-Wood) When you get dressed for a West End show, you rarely consider the possibility of becoming part of it.

Sure, you want to look vaguely put-together, but if you see as much theatre as I do, your main concern is usually selecting trousers with a waistband that won’t slowly cut off circulation during two hours of sitting elbow-to-elbow with strangers.

You probably reach for those unflattering-but-essential glasses so you can actually see what’s happening on stage. And maybe, if you’re feeling exceptionally organised, you even consider whether you’ll be warm enough by the time you have to walk to the tube after the curtain falls.

What you don’t think about — and what I now beg you to factor in — is how your outfit will look when you suddenly find yourself lying on your back in front of a cheering crowd while a woman is catapulted over your head.

Because if you head to Sophie’s Surprise Party at Underbelly Soho, that might just be your evening.

The show bills itself: ‘Featuring world-class performers from Cirque du Soleil, La Clique and The 7 Fingers and fresh from its sell-out run at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, this isn’t just a house party – it’s award-winning circus at its very finest.’

The simple premise is that it’s Sophie’s birthday, and a ragtag group of characters has assembled to celebrate. The twist? Each night, Sophie is a different audience member.

And on the night I attended — fresh from work in my partner’s oversized sweater, frumpy-but-warm wool trousers, not a stitch of makeup, and blue-light glasses that scream ‘I have a desk job and am approaching 30’ — I was Sophie.

There I was, plonked on stage in a birthday hat and thrust into the centre of a rowdy opening number as if I’d been rehearsing with the cast for weeks, the audience howling at my attempts to keep up.

Within minutes, I’d been lifted, spun, danced around, and positioned on my back like a human crash mat while performers sailed above me with only inches to spare.

Is it really a party with out a few flaming swords? (Picture: Roger Robinson)

Roller skates on a tiny stage? Don’t worry, they’re professionals. (Picture: Roger Robinson)

The show often managed to be as sexy as it was funny (Picture: Roger Robinson) At first, it felt like my recurring nightmare in which I’m shoved into my high school’s production of The Crucible, know none of the lines, and am — for no clear reason — completely naked.

But then it swerved toward a Phantom of the Opera–style fantasy, the kind where you’re yanked onstage after the ingénue breaks a leg in a tragic fall (‘You’re the only one who can fit her costume! You have to! The critics are here! The show must go on!’), you deliver a miraculous performance, and are instantly anointed the West End’s freshest overnight sensation.

Where it actually landed was somewhere delightfully in between: that childlike, giddy joy of letting yourself be vulnerable, rolling with the punches, and laughing at yourself along with a room full of strangers, even if you felt your cheeks reddening.

The feats of human strength alone were enough to make any audience rise to their feet (Picture: Roger Robinson) So many of us take ourselves so relentlessly seriously, and in the age of Instagram, being seen in a way you don’t control can feel like a personal crisis.

But in that room, it felt like a liberating reminder that sometimes the best nights are the ones where you stop curating and start participating.

And of course, part of the magic is Underbelly Soho itself.

With its speakeasy-meets-circus vibe and a layout that forces audiences past two bars before they even sit down, it’s possibly the only West End venue where accidentally having two bottles of wine at your pre-show dinner is the right energy.

And don’t assume that if you aren’t crowned Sophie for the night, you’re safe.