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This is a show that sounds completely deranged on paper but turns out to be unexpectedly touching once you’re actually in the room. Blip Blarp is one of those. What begins as a sci‑fi spoof about an alien invader sent to conquer Earth quickly becomes a surprisingly tender look at dating, desire, and the sheer humiliation of trying to connect with another human being.
The mind behind all this cosmic chaos is Alicia Queen, the writer‑performer who brings Blip Blarp to life. Her creation is loud, glittery, and gloriously ridiculous — but there’s a beating heart under all the bravado. Blip Blarp can cross galaxies without breaking a sweat, yet can’t persuade a single man to go home with her. It’s funny, it’s chaotic, and it’s painfully recognisable.
In our conversation, Alicia talks about bouffon clowning, B‑movie aesthetics, burlesque logic, and the strange comfort of turning personal heartbreak into intergalactic farce. It’s exactly the kind of show the Fringe was built for: weird, warm, and unexpectedly human.
Blip Blarp arrives on Earth with a mission of conquest and ends up tangled in the mess of human dating. What first made you realise that the collision between domination and desire was the perfect engine for a Fringe comedy?
In addition to Blip Blarp having elements of the bouffon clown in her character, I wanted to take something more classic and add a bit of nuance. I started with the archetype of the overconfident, arrogant man who brags about winning battles, building businesses, and being universally loved, but who is actually squeamish and never gets invited to parties. Then I applied that archetype to femininity.
Blip Blarp sees herself as an incredible seductress who can easily conquer not only men but an entire planet through her sexual prowess. In reality, she can’t even get one man into bed.
I also love sci-fi, especially the aesthetic of B-movie science fiction, so everything came together pretty organically. I think Fringe audiences are looking for experiences like that—or at least I am. Something a little weird, something you wouldn’t normally see where you live, while still inviting the audience into a unique world.
The show pulls together sci‑fi, burlesque, clowning, and multimedia — a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does. How did you find the rhythm that lets all those elements coexist without overwhelming the audience?
The biggest priority for me is always the story. Every element is there in service of it. Each one either helps move the show from one place to another, builds the world—as multimedia does—or explores emotional depth, as burlesque does.
The sci-fi element also gives me a huge amount of creative freedom. Once the audience accepts that they’re in an alien world, you can make some wonderfully strange choices.
You’re playing an alien who’s supremely confident about her reproductive mission yet hilariously naïve about human emotion. How do you keep that balance between cosmic bravado and genuine cluelessness?
I think the fact that she’s almost robotic in her emotions helps. She tries to apply her “Zoronian” logic to something that completely resists formal logic: human sexuality.
Her thinking goes something like, “My Zoronian mating sequence is often effective. Who wouldn’t want to procreate after witnessing my Zoronian mating display?” From her perspective, she’s doing everything correctly. She simply can’t understand why humans aren’t responding the way they’re supposed to.
There’s something very recognisable about watching someone fail at seduction — even when she’s from another planet. What kind of vulnerability did you want audiences to glimpse beneath the glitter and absurdity?
Sexual vulnerability. It makes you incredibly vulnerable to pursue intimacy with someone new, and even more vulnerable when it doesn’t work out.
The show explores not only the failed attempts at seduction but also the confusing and dispiriting aftermath of rejection. I think that’s something almost everyone can relate to, even if the character experiencing it happens to be an alien.
Blip Blarp’s universe feels enormous, even though it’s built inside a late‑night Fringe room. What tricks of stagecraft or imagination do you rely on to make a 60‑minute solo show feel like it spans galaxies?
I use mime to transport us from place to place, and the projections offer glimpses of life on Planet Zoron. But I think the biggest world-building tool is actually Blip Blarp herself—her language, the way she speaks, and the way she moves.
Ultimately, we’re spending an hour in the room with this character, so if she feels like she’s from another planet, the audience comes along with her.
Your comedy swings between big physical choices and tiny emotional beats. When you’re building a character who’s both cosmic and clueless, how do you decide which moments deserve physical exaggeration and which need stillness?
The physical exaggeration is very structured and mostly exists within the dance and burlesque sequences. Whenever Blip Blarp attempts seduction, she expresses herself through movement.
The quieter moments are there to build toward those attempts. They’re where we get to see her expectations, her confusion, and eventually her disappointment, which makes the larger physical moments land even harder.
Burlesque has its own language of power, exposure, and surprise. How does Blip Blarp’s extraterrestrial persona let you twist that language into something both seductive and deeply silly?
I think it’s two things. First, she’s an alien trying to perform what she believes humans find sexy, so there are lots of glitches in her approach. On top of that, her erogenous zones aren’t in the same places as a human’s, which creates some wonderfully ridiculous moments.
Also, burlesque usually exists within a cabaret structure. It’s rare that you’re following one character through their emotional desires and challenges. Because the audience is invested in Blip Blarp and sees her making herself vulnerable, there’s an undercurrent of tension beneath all the comedy that makes the funny moments even stronger.
The show’s premise is outrageous, but the emotional core feels very human — rejection, hope, the need to be understood. Was there a moment in development when you realised the story had become personal? It was personal from the beginning.
I was trying to process a lot at once—a recent divorce, dating for the first time in over a decade—and I felt incredibly vulnerable. From the start, the show became a way to process those experiences while having fun with them, making them lighter, and hopefully making someone else who’s going through something similar feel a little less alone.
Performing an intergalactic love story at 23:15 every night is its own endurance test. What’s your Fringe survival strategy for keeping the show sharp, playful, and emotionally present?
Seeing people enjoy the show, laugh, and have a genuinely fun time is always a huge source of motivation. The music and physicality are also things I never get tired of exploring—there’s always some new nuance to discover.
Outside of the show itself, I’m hoping to connect with other artists for support and encouragement throughout the Fringe. And I’m a huge extrovert, so wandering around at night in costume, inviting people into Blip Blarp’s world for an hour, is actually energising for me. Their curiosity makes me excited to perform.
If Blip Blarp could send one final message back to her home planet about humanity, what do you think she’d say — and would she still be planning to conquer us afterwards?
“Dear Zoronians, the sapient species is perplexing and bizarre and possesses modes of thinking as yet unknown to Zoron. Despite this, they are also somehow charming. Still planning to conquer. May be home late.”
