TWhen I took my first show to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2006, I slept in a closet, performed to fewer than 100 people during my stay, got hit by a golf ball at The Meadows (that’s not a euphemism), lost an exorbitant amount of money, and cried in public three times. Coming second in the Fringe’s “So You Think You’re Funny?” competition barely makes it onto my list of memories from that year. Because it’s failure, not success, that defines the Fringe experience. Because while the Fringe may promise to make your showbiz dreams come true, in reality it’s more likely to give you scurvy.
I returned to the Fringe for eight shows over the next decade. I wouldn’t say I experienced “success” in that time, but my failure rate remained consistently high. In 2011 I fell off my bike and hit my head on the cobbles. Another year, determined to have a healthy Fringe, I gave up alcohol, instead fuelling myself with artificially sweetened caffeinated products, and as a result enjoyed a month-long shudder that old-timers would describe as a nervous breakdown.
Then there was the year my pockets were literally so shallow that I lost my wallet, my replacement wallet, and the envelope I was using instead, and by the end of the festival I was dropping coins into a plastic cup as if I was begging. In a way, I suppose I was begging.
For me, it didn’t make financial sense to keep returning to the Fringe. All in all, it’s a prohibitively expensive undertaking, and doing a show there is more of a gamble than an act. I had to struggle a bit more than many artists who keep going back. Instead of generational wealth, I had a successful career in Australia. I’d make money there and lose it here. I was betting on myself, and the house won. There were a few years when my work was about to emerge from the shadows of failure and into the bright light of success, but despite these faint signs, in 2014 I decided to quit the Fringe. I’d gained a lot in those 10 years of hard work. I’d grown as a performer. I’d made friends. I’d learned to cry openly in public. But at some point, pragmatism kicks in and you have to start preparing for old age. I was 36.
When I returned with Nanette in 2017, I wasn’t gambling. I knew I had a show I couldn’t ignore, and I was right. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Nanette is one of the most successful stand-up shows to have ever played at the Fringe. I didn’t lose a lot of money. But despite this dizzying victory, I felt like a loser at the Edinburgh Fringe. Even sharing the Best Comedy award didn’t make me feel that way.
What I remember most about my most “successful” Edinburgh run is the pain. I’m not talking about the pain of the trauma I was trying to eradicate with Nanette, nor am I talking about the pain of the many colleagues who openly disliked me and my work. Neither of those are big deal. The pain I’m talking about is just a regular toothache. A week or so into the run, my wisdom teeth came in. I ignored them as best I could, because ignoring your health is the only way you’re going to survive the Fringe. On the plus side, the misery that came with my toothache was very much in keeping with the Nanette vibe, even if the Calippo I was holding in my face didn’t.
After newsletter promotion
But eventually I was forced to seek help. I was in so much pain that I happily agreed to let a giant Scottish dentist reach into my face and pull my teeth out like old fence posts. Simple but effective. I felt instant relief. It was like I’d won at life. I thought maybe, finally, I could enjoy success. And I did. Just for a day. Then I got a dry socket, and the rest is history. And by history I mean a debilitating, shrieking cry of facial pain.
So why did I come back? I honestly don’t know. Maybe I was so lucky that I needed failure. Maybe I just wanted the opportunity to write this essay for The Guardian to celebrate the end of journalism. But more than anything, I think I came back because, for all its flaws and injustices, there are still creative people on the fringes, doing what they love to do. In a world where our daily lives are increasingly defined by powerlessness, isolation and struggle, I can’t think of a better balance than to be surrounded by people who are determined to meet this moment with a creative impulse, despite the inevitable humiliations and failures.
