EdFringe Review: Harriet Richardson: Creep

There is an unspoken, universal hypocrisy regarding how we navigate the internet: everyone engages in a bit of digital espionage, yet no one readily admits to the depths of their late-night social media deep dives. In Creep, Harriet Richardson obliterates this collective vow of silence. Leaning on her background as a conceptual performance artist—a pedigree previously showcased in her provocative “Temporary” tattoo project and a viral 100 virtual dates experiment—she pivots into solo comedy to dissect parasocial obsession.

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Sparked by a fleeting online flirtation with an unnamed former Taskmaster contestant that abruptly ends, she doggedly tracks his digital footprint right down to his eBay account. Transforming private shame into a communal confession, she finds extraordinary comedy in her openness about a subject most would instinctively keep to themselves. Navigating this potentially alienating material with total ease, she proves herself immensely likeable and hilarious from the moment she steps on stage.

Although the opening ten minutes take a fraction too long to fully establish the show’s conceptual parameters, once Richardson finds her rhythm, the production reveals itself as a deft piece of slick, tightly wound construction.

To me, Creep is a perfectly judged journey that marries old-school stand-up schtick—much as she professes to be a performance artist, and not a stand-up—with brilliantly deployed, low-fi digital media. The behemoth PowerPoint presentation acts as a vital comedic partner. She orchestrates the reveals of her digital adventures with pinpoint precision, dropping increasingly unhinged screenshots onto the screen at the exact second the audience connects the dots.

Harriet Richardson: The Architecture of Obsession

What makes the hour so compelling is her unflinching vulnerability, masked by a wry, deadpan detachment. She cheerfully unpacks a level of obsessive surveillance that most reasonable people would take to their graves. The hour is peppered with gloriously absurd side-quests, from hiring a private investigator dubbed “Michael Evidence” to mining mundane UPS proof-of-delivery photos on her doorstep to chart her own unvarnished mental state.

Crucially, Richardson never asks for absolution. She presents her findings with the meticulous rigour of a (very funny) academic defending a thesis. In doing so, making herself a most compelling, if unreliable, narrator, all whilst ostensibly playing herself. We are invited to judge her, but instead, we become entirely complicit in her escalating digital heist.

Naturally, there is a persistent ambiguity to the endeavour. Just how much of this meticulously documented fixation is grounded in reality, and how much has been heightened for theatrical effect, is deliberately left unclear. There are moments where the narrative stretches the boundaries of plausibility, but never to the point of feeling like total fiction

Yet, the material is presented with such conviction and structural confidence that the factual reality of the timeline is irrelevant. Creep functions as a thoroughly realised live memoir, built on excellent comic timing and unashamed, voyeuristic curiosity. Richardson has crafted a highly original, undeniably hilarious hour that leaves you thoroughly entertained and checking your own privacy settings. As my final review of this year’s Fringe, August, for once, truly saved one of the best for last.

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