Today, 10th April 2026, marks exactly 365 days since I first stepped foot on a stage*.
*(In a voluntary performance capacity— not being forcibly ushered to do improv with Paul Merton during a night out at the Comedy Store, as pictured at the end).
Moments before I emerged from what I can only describe as the venue’s drywall innards, and was birthed onto the Rosemary Branch stage, I closed my eyes and said the following: “Lord, if you help me not fuck this up, I promise I’ll stop photoshopping clerical collars onto the men I like.” Well, I didn’t completely fuck it up. And I didn’t completely keep my promise, either.
My first ever show (aptly branded a ‘test show’) was called ‘Please don’t come to this if you know me, I’m begging you’, and in a way, it’s a notion I’ve never completely let go of.
Performing is not something I ever planned on doing. I don’t think I would’ve studied Graphic Design in Preston for four years, had performance ever truly been on my radar. But being seen (truly seen— not in the sense of being looked at, but of being understood) has become something I care about above all else, in both my personal and artistic endeavours. It’s the only path to true intimacy (yes I’m getting this heavy this early on, sorry). And with that, sharing my art through the medium of interpretive dance on and off stage performance, is an outlet for which I can only be grateful.
It was a culmination of things that led me to it. Alongside a yearning to be understood, I realise now that I’d finally found somewhere to place the parts of me that I’d honed in performing personhood (or rather, manic-pixie-dream-girlhood), and to use them, deliberately, for something of my own.
I know what it is to morph oneself into a digestible little shape. A straightforward narrative for someone to make sense of. And as I’ve started to leave that behind in my personal relationships, it felt nonsensical to waste the skill I’d spent so long perfecting. Especially because, in truth, I’ve enjoyed it. Loved it, even. And now, I get to do it on purpose, in front of people who maybe even see themselves in that, too.
One of the biggest revelations of working in comedy has been meeting people I wish I’d known at school. The periphery-occupying, acne-wielding, funniest-people-you’ve-ever-met ones. (Dare I say: the fellow nerds.) The ones I would’ve given anything to spend a lunchtime with. People who understand what it is to dedicate your life to an idea. To retreat into fantasy. To mask so effectively it becomes an art form in itself. And then to talk with me about it into the early hours of the morning. Forget being under a spotlight, that’s being SEEN.
The performers I love most are artists first— people who happen to use performance as the medium for their work. Those who have chosen, quite deliberately, to make their lives harder, in exchange for a satisfaction that isn’t guaranteed and may never arrive. Maybe tomorrow, but most likely never. They’re driven by compulsion, by passion, by something that won’t let them stop. Some of them can do funny voices. How could you not fall in love with those people?
And the audience. My favourite reaction isn’t laughter (thank god lol), or applause, but when I see a woman turn to another woman and whispers ‘that’s you’. It makes me want to clamber through the seats and scream ‘no… that’s US!’. It’s the antithesis of not being alone, to see your ideas, and experiences resonate into whisper-form. (Luckily I’ve never clambered and I promise I never will).
Something I hadn’t considered, when I first started writing my show, was the difference between telling a fictional story and sharing intimate parts of my very real life. I admire and understand the importance of playing a character on stage, and it’s not yet something I’ve been able to do. Maybe that’s exactly why I don’t (can’t? won’t?) refer to myself as a comedian, because there’s so little between my lived experience and the story I’m telling. (I’ll get back to you on whether this was a good idea or not post-Edinburgh Fringe.)
And beyond that, I’m not looking for the outcome to be only funny. My concern is about the space performance creates— the moment where people come to their own conclusions about what something is, or isn’t. The best thing about performance art, about art in general, is that it resists being pinned down (hot). I’m far more interested in that than I am in controlling whether something lands as a laugh. I think this is true of most comedians— that they’re essentially misbranded artists. So really, it’s not that I don’t want to be called a comic, rather that I think the overarching label feels reductive.
One of the things I appreciate most about performing in comedy is people understand, and respect, the importance of the bomb. Of a big, massive, artistic flop. It’s a creative freedom that most other artistic industries don’t have. When you fuck up a design job, there’s no ‘part and parcel’ of it all, it’s more ‘don’t expect a raise this year’, or ‘how are we going to tell Hasbro you’ve made Peppa Pig look like an actual cock’. Oh to be allowed to be human, what a joy.
Some other valuable things I’ve learned:
Comedy and performance art, in 2026, is truly not for working-class people. There’s a barrier to entry. I’ve written about this before, in ‘Piss off poor people, the Fringe isn’t for you’, and all I can say is, having now lived a year in comedy: I should’ve been angrier. If I hadn’t worked at Pentagram for five years, been the Creative Director of a design agency on Carnaby Street, whilst holding down multiple freelance jobs, and saved ALL of that money— I wouldn’t be able to afford working in comedy. In short, I can’t imagine the talented, working-class people this industry is missing out on.
Mic Stands are heavy and it’s real bright up there. Oh, and you will never see worse pictures of yourself than those taken from an audience perspective. The whole thing is truly a lesson in relinquishing control.
You will piss people off. I can’t say if this is just a me problem (I think the tattoo didn’t help) but for some reason making work rooted in the reality of being a woman can really get under the skin of those existing in, and actively protecting, a male-centric world…yikes!
The antithesis of this is, of course, that if you are yourself, you will find your people. And on that, I’d like to say a special thank you to the following:
to Laoise Holohan for being a first-class producer and an even more poifect friend.
to Charlie Ralph for taking a chance on me, for being both a friend and confidant.
to Cecily Hitchcock for meeting me as a whole person.
to Stella Webb for grounding, for love, and abundance.
to Lou Sanders for making me think ‘oh fuck I might be able to do this’ after one of my very first WIPs.
to Phill Jupitus for consistently encouraging me to swear off comedy, and comedians, entirely. And for not being annoyed when I pursue both regardless.
Obviously there are far too many brilliant, creative, genuine people (girlies) to mention, but just know you’re the thing that makes this space bearable.
to my employer, you know who you are, thank you for not reporting me to HR when I start doing crowd work during our Monday morning catch-ups. And thank you for allowing me to take the whole of August off for the Edinburgh Fringe; it’s a privilege not many employed performers are afforded.
to the comedians I dated from 2024–2025 — I’m sorry it was so traumatic. I was finding my feet in a space that wasn’t built for me, using the only currency I’d learned could make me feel momentarily valued and safe. I’m sure you know how that feels. You’ll be relieved to hear I’m navigating life with intention now. And writing a whole show about the trauma of it all—lol sorry.And most of all, thank you to the people who show up. Who sit in the dark, betwixt the me-inside-the-dry-wall and the stage, and give their time, their attention, their laughter, and their implicated boyfriends— this work only exists because you do.
I know it’s starting to sound like I’m dying and these are my final words. It’s not that—it’s just that I’ve reached a point of certainty I didn’t know was possible a year ago.
One of the most important things performing has taught me is the art of separating the outcome from the work itself. If I can put something into the world that feels true to me, something that says what I need it to say, then I’ve already done my job.
My debut at Edinburgh Fringe might go well, it might not— that’s not my measure of success. It’s this: that, at thirty years old, I pivoted from a life that wasn’t mine, to one that is. Idk man I think that’s pretty fookin cool.
Harriet x
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