Intimacy, in the history of fringe theatre in Sussex, has often been defined by the confines of smaller spaces.

The Nightingale’s toilet could be kindly described as cosy and it provided the cold-floored setting on which David Waring, a performer with a toothbrush in his mouth and a dance groove in his heart, sat naked, awaiting guests above the somewhat contrasting entrance of a pub thronged with football fans on a chilly Saturday night.

Ushering visitors in one at a time to an accompaniment of psychedelic pop, Waring contorted, arched and kneeled before the bowl, a bareskinned study of intensity. Brave and bizarre, shedding his clothes showed the whites of this dancer’s eyes.

Partitioned by an illusory mirror, the central space also enlisted headphones. Facing each other across the divide, we heard the poisonous homophobia of a ranting bygone politician, then switched sides to find a dancer shifting serenely to soft music, elucidating the chasm between beauty and evil.

Revolutionary flexing permeated the final room, where Gillie Kleiman convinced sitters to shake their democratic tail by writing to their MP, resulting in a wall adorned with passionate pleas.

Caroline Lucas, for one, can expect an entertaining postbag this week.