Grace Campbell is a one-woman manifesto for body, sex and mental health positivity. A sharp-drawling contradiction who clearly adores the men she’s mocking, revels in the delighted discomfort of her audiences, and who occasionally seems to catch herself wondering how on earth she came to create the very complex being she clearly is.
Campbell is the schoolmate your mother definitely didn't approve of
Campbell’s apparently autobiographical set is akin to spending the night down the pub (or more likely, Soho House) with that garrulous friend from North London whose life successes you are delighted - if a little perplexed – by. She’s the schoolmate who taught you to smoke weed; locked the both of you in the stationery cupboard at school to teach you how to kiss; can always be relied upon to have a spare condom. She’s the mate you just gaze at... wondering how someone so fragile can have so much chutzpah. She’s the mate you want to be and yet are completely terrified of. She’s the mate of whom your mother definitely didn’t approve… no matter how famous her father was.
Campbell’s Fringe Show About Me(n) is an utterly filthy trawl through some of her sexual shenanigans, with little detail – or audience embarrassment – spared. But what raises the show above sensationalist prurience is Campbell’s mix of goofy charm and firebrand refusal to give a toss about the boundaries of over-sharing. It is an hilarious hour which zips by on a tsunami of wide-eyed, open-mouthed, deliciously appalled audience reactions; and which definitely leaves a very specific taste behind.
