It’s two thousand and eighteen and I’m taking my first one man show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. It’s raining. It’s been raining everyday since I got here. People from Edinburgh say it’s bad even for Edinburgh. Which means it’s bad, even for bad. I was excited to see my flyers, thought it’d be a moment where I realise that what I’m doing is real. Like, a feeling of Realness. The type of real I said Kendrick Lamar was at a poetry night in East London to a group of older poets I was trying to impress when Mr Gee said “What do you mean real music? How can music be real?” I stuttered like Henry Hill at the Copacabana, realising I had put myself in a position of explaining my idea of real rap music to a black man who’s been listening to rap since NWA came out.
The flyers were designed by me and my ex on my sister’s old work photoshop account. It was so fun making something with my ex, but we broke up before we finished making it, which made actually finalising it remarkably brutal. As was everything around that time, like breathing, and walking. I was still expecting some sense of accomplishment when opening a box. I bought the most expensive, largest flyers the company could make- two thousand of them. They looked amazing, the thick, almost cardboard texture made the photo a little darker than I wanted but it wasn’t necessarily bad. No real complaints until I turned the flyer over, only to see the front of the flyer again. There was no back of the flyer. They printed the front twice. This meant no mention of the director, no detailing what the show is about, no review quotes. I flipped the flyer round over and over again, hoping that on one of the flips I’d actually see the back design I sent to the printers. The company said they’re reprint the flyers and have them for me by the end of the week. Took a week and a half. In that time I’d hand out the flyers (in the rain) and people would take the flyer, look at it, flip it round, then flip it back, shrug and most probably never think about my show again. The first week would be shows to an audience of roughly seven.
There’s one person I know doing their show at the Summerhall with me. He’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met, incredibly smart, sensitive, a few years younger than me and his show is being supported by a publisher I’ve been contacting for years to work with (they’re not interested and I’ve now begun to resent them purely because of that) It’s a testament to his charm and warmth that I actually enjoy his company. We’re on at completely different times, he’s on just before midday and I’m on at nine- both weird times for theatre during the fringe. I ask him if anyone showed up with a voice absent of judgement, he says okay, almost sold out. Fucksake. Amazing.
After lunch we both realise we love video games and just chat about that for hours, I realise I haven’t talked about games with anyone like this since school and it almost makes me giddy, to the point where all the pressure for ticket sales and trying to be successful drifts away. Reminds me of Lavent asking me what rappers I liked half an hour before my first fight to stop me from thinking about the match. He asks me how it’s going with my ex and I, with a short intake of breath I weigh up the pros and cons of lying. Basically- do I want this person to see me cry and will I be able to stop crying before vocal warm ups. The last time I cried was at Edinburgh station, a week before the ran began, crying on the phone call to her. Cried like I was making up for lost cries. Still too little, way too late. I tell him we’re doing fine and that we’re going to go Budapest when this is all done. That’s great man, he says. Yeah, it is.
The first show is to about seven people. That’s being generous. I remember the last time performing the show was to five in a boxing gym in Portsmouth- four of which where the producer, her husband, and her neighbours on both sides- and two teenagers boxers, who were the only people stopping me from cancelling the show. I remember getting a train back to London to do a twenty minute poetry gig in a gallery in central London for the same amount of money doing three, hour long shows in Boxing gyms and pubs. The boys at that show couldn’t make eye contact with me afterwards. The people in the gallery gave me cards, asked me about specific lines and made sure I had a drink in my hand the whole night. I remember thinking that my career needs to have a healthier balance of shows for people with money and people who don’t, and also telling myself I’d never perform this show about boxing again. This was roughly a year ago and back then going back on my word felt impossible. Now I’m taking a bow.
It’s a good show, and it deserves an audience of adults and peers as much as it does teenagers- even if it feels like I’m compromising myself- This overly virtuous part of me that wants to perform only for non-theatre crowds. Non-spoken word crowds. Winding up with no-crowds. I feel like I owe it to the show, that it deserves recognition before floating away into nothingness.
I get changed in a backstage area that’s a five minute walk from where I performed. Can’t find the light so do it all in the dark. My phone screen lights up the room, there’s a notification from twitter. Something along the lines of “Just saw #UntilYouHearTheBell at Summerhall. Great show by @seanysense” a wave of endorphins rush through my body. I write to the person “Thank you!” and then stop myself from pressing send. Realise it’s been about five minutes since the show finished and I don’t want this stranger to think I’m rushing to check my tweets after the show. I Give it ten. I do a few stretches and make my way through the Summerhall courtyard, packed with people laughing and holding pints. There are fairy lights everywhere, every single person standing here is someone who hasn’t bought a ticket to my show and making my way through so many makes me so resentful I have to listen to three gaming podcasts back to back on the way to where I’m staying just to calm down.
There’s a distinct feeling of dread running through me. That the Edinburgh fringe festival really is the biggest scam the entertainment industry has run and I’m another plankton in the jaws of a basking shark. Another four grand I’ve spent months working two jobs to earn- twenty four hour shifts- thrown down the drain. Mug. Before bed I re-read a text from my ex telling me how they know I’m going to be amazing and that people are going to love the show. I think about texting her back saying I sold out, or that no one came. I know it wasn’t a question. I don’t reply.
The next day I’m in the Summerhall Cafe with a black coffee waiting for my mate with the show in the morning to finish, and I see Chris Thorpe. If it wasn’t for pictures of his face plastered around the Summerhall, I wouldn’t know who Chris Thorpe is- but they are- so I do. His show is on at the same time as mine, and he already has a five star review stapled onto a poster, with the next five shows sold out. He’s in a team of people, all younger than him- having a meeting- he goes to take a sip of his coffee and we make eye contact. I feel like I should want to nod, but deep down, I want to give him the finger.