The first time I took a show to the Edinburgh festival fringe, in 2006, I slept in a closet, performed to fewer than 100 people across my whole time there and got hit by a golf ball in The Meadows. Not a euphemism. I also lost an obscene amount of money and cried thrice in public. That I came runner-up in the fringe’s So You Think You’re Funny? competition doesn’t really factor in my memory list of that year, because success is not what defines the fringe experience. Failure does. Because the fringe might promise to make your showbiz dreams come true, but in reality it is more likely to give you scurvy.
I returned to the fringe with eight shows over the next decade. I wouldn’t say that I experienced much in the way of “success” in that time, but my failure rate remained consistently high. In 2011, I came off my bike and cracked my head open on some cobblestones. Another year I committed to having a healthy fringe and swore off alcohol. I opted instead to prop myself up with an artificially sweetened caffeine product and, as a result, I enjoyed a month’s-long jittering that looked very much like what those in ye olde times would have described as a nervous breakdown.
Then there was the year my pockets were literally too shallow and I lost my wallet, my replacement wallet, and the envelope I used to replace that. By the end of the festival, I was keeping my change in a plastic cup as if I was panhandling. Which I guess in a certain way I was.
It did not make economic sense for me to keep returning to the fringe. By and large, it is a prohibitively expensive enterprise and putting on a show there is closer to gambling than to acting. I had a little more scrambling to do than many artists who keep going back. In lieu of generational wealth, I had a successful career in Australia. I would make money there and lose it here. I was gambling on myself, and the house won. There were a few years when my work almost broke out of the shadow of failure and into the bright light of success but, despite this whiff, in 2014 I decided I was done with the fringe. I had gained much in my decade-long effort. I did get better as a performer. I made friends. I learned to cry in public with dignity. But, at a certain point, pragmatism has to kick in and you need to start preparing for old age. I was 36.
When I returned in 2017 with Nanette, I was not gambling. I knew I had a show that could not be ignored. And I was right. I don’t think it is hyperbole to say that Nanette is one of the most successful standup shows to ever go up at the fringe. I didn’t even lose that much money. But even with this dizzying triumph, the Edinburgh fringe still made sure I felt like a loser. Not even sharing the top comedy prize could shake that feeling.
The thing I remember most about my most “successful” Edinburgh run is pain. I am not talking about the pain of the trauma I was trying to eviscerate in Nanette, and nor is it the pain of so many of my peers openly hating me and my work. Ho-hum to both of those. The pain I’m talking about is just a regular old toothache. My wisdom tooth impacted about a week into my run. I ignored it as best I could, because ignoring your wellbeing is the only way you can survive the fringe. On the upside, the misery that accompanied my dental pain was very much in keeping with the vibe of Nanette, even if the Calippo I was holding to my face was not.
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Eventually, though, I had to seek help. I’d been in so much agony that I eagerly consented to a giant Scottish dentist reaching into my face and removing my tooth like an old fence post. Rustic but effective. The relief was immediate. I felt as if I had won life. Finally, I thought, maybe I might just be able to enjoy my success. And I did. For one day. And then I got dry socket and the rest is history. And, by history, I mean a debilitating screaming howl of a face-ache.
So why come back? I don’t honestly know. Maybe I’ve had enough good fortune and I need a good dose of failure. Maybe I just wanted the opportunity to write this essay for the Guardian to celebrate the death of journalism. But, mostly, I think I am coming back because, despite all its flaws and inequities, the fringe is still a landscape full of creatives doing their thing. And in a world where our day-to-day lives seem more and more defined by powerlessness, isolation and struggle, I can’t think of a better offset than surrounding myself with people who, despite the inevitable indignities and failures, are deciding to meet this moment with an impulse to create.