Before the show starts, I recommend the audience take off their jackets. Coming in from the courtyard, at the tail end of August (in Scotland) to see a show at 9pm, there’s an instinct to keep as warm as possible. However, I’ve done enough shows to see people get physically uncomfortable during the show, where they either try to take off their coat as silently as possible or give in to the greatest nap of all naps, a theatre nap (dim lighting, dulcet tones, v warm, it’s a beautiful thing)
This is the only time I talk to the audience as myself, and I get nervous about it every single time- not only is it a first impression that’s not scripted and not directed, but in it’s own way, it’s become part of the story. The story of UYHTB is about what led me to the person I am now, and that small introduction is the only glimpse the audience have of myself.
In three weeks and twenty something shows, I’ve found so much more in this show than ever before. There’s a general rule in scriptwriting- once you finish the first draft, put it in a drawer and don’t look at it or think about it for at least a month- only then will you be able to see the edits you need to make. I spent a year free from performing this show at all and with that break I’ve approached the script as a performer first, and have found a new joy in performing it to an adult, theatre-savvy audience. The last time I performed the show before coming up to the Fringe was in a boxing gym in Peterborough to five people, three of which were boxers who’d never seen a play- I’m now performing to fifty five people a night, all of them paying to see me. For the boxers I have to give as much as possible, to the theatre audience it’s all about drip feeding them. Practicing restraint in the dramatic and comedic moments as much as possible.
Tonight is my last show. It’s sold out, just like the last two weeks have been. My first week had me barely reach above fifteen people, and in the second week there was word of mouth and I’d be get roughly thirty tickets sold- which for me- was amazing. At the beginning of the third week, while warming up, the producer for the play before me asked if I’d sold out yet. I thought it was a joke, till she told me I had been put on Daniel Kitson’s mailing list. It had.
Daniel Kitson is a writer and performer. Half comedian half theatre maker. Bit like me, but I do poetry, and he’s successful (and better). He saw my show at the BAC during it’s first run, and surprised he remembered my show existed. My next three shows sold out within a day, and I like to think after those shows the word of mouth grew too, as it was packed out from that point onwards.
I finished my last show. Instead of bowing, I lie down like Charlie George after he scored in the FA Cup Final. Just for a second. I look up and can’t believe this actually worked out.
After packing the set away and changing out of the world’s sweatiest vest, I make my way out to see my friends. The courtyard is still filled with people, only now I know all of them. As a Summerhall artist I get free tickets to every show, and because of that have barely left the place. I put my show under spoken word instead of theatre, thinking that real theatre can only be a direct descendent of the Arthur Miller formula. It’s been amazing to see so many shows made by people from all over the world who gleefully play with convention- it’s allowed me to realise that my show is a play, a good one, and I have a drive like never before to keep making it.
Everyone is knackered, nearly everyone is happy, and everyone has been able to do the thing they love for a month straight and no bad review or low ticket sale can take that away from them. In this business it’s rare for so many people to be able to do what they love.
In the past four weeks I’ve realised not only how much I depend on company, but how wonderful it is to have. From flyering, eating together, laughing at low ticket sales and celebrating good shows, I couldn’t have got through a day without any of them.
None of these friends have made a bad show, but some shows have been luckier than others. One of my favourite plays hasn’t received anything higher than a three star review and struggles to get sales into double digits, while others with similar reviews are sold out five days in a row.
The Summerhall in a lot of ways has felt like school, with friendship groups forming, people almost claiming certain areas of the courtyard, but this time I actually enjoy it. I actually feel prepared for the day, something I couldn’t ever say about Hampstead.
I drink with a friend from the poetry scene who’s here for the literary festival, and introduce them to the friends I’ve made. It doesn’t take long to realise there’s a distinct difference between how I’ve been with my new friends, and how I am usually. The pressure of the fringe has us in a constant state of banter my friend wasn’t prepared for. I walk her to the bus stop. On the way there she asks how my ex and I are doing, not knowing we’ve broken up. The only other time I’ve had to face it is when a new friend I made asked me how to make a long distance relationship work, and I stared into the distance talking about communicating as much as possible, all the while wishing I could evaporate into nothingness. If I don’t invest myself fully into the right now, I lose the motivation to carry on. I tell her we’re struggling. She’s sure it’ll work out. Hope so.
I listen to Swimming Pool on the bus ride to where I’ve been staying this past month. It’s forty five minutes away by bus, but I’m staying for free- they’re my mum’s friends sister and husband and are the friendliest most hospitable people I’ve ever met. I’ve barely been able to see them due to my show finishing late and both of them going to work early in the morning. I’ve been referred to as the ghost of the house. They have to sweet dogs, the one I’ve taken a shine to is there boxer puppy, whose white with a few cow-like brown spots. His name is Bill.
I get in, and quietly as I can, let him out of his cage and give him a big cuddle. Bill doesn’t quite realise how big he is yet, and his limbs go all over the place, jumping up and licking my face off.
Before bed I tell myself I’ll be back next here with Back of the Head. That I’ll get a director sorted as soon as I get back to London and that I’ll keep the momentum going.
Bill!