A Love Letter to Edinburgh Fringe (Do We Need to Break Up?)

I'm writing this on the train home from a very last minute trip to the fringe. I almost didn't go this year, but about halfway through August I started pining for it in a way I didn't expect. I've been every year in one guise or another since 2009. To not go in 2020 and 2021 was a relief, but the fomo-feeling didn't come because no-one else was there either, it simply didn’t exist. But now things are back - whether or not it's actually entirely safe for them to be - I can admit that the city has a hold on me in all kinds of ways. Outside of the fringe Edinburgh is also where my nephew lives, where I've spent many a fun evening with my brilliant brother, and where my now fiance told me he loved me for the first time. But despite many of those wonderful memories falling outside of August, I can't deny the hold is at its strongest during the fringe. It's like a magnet, and no matter how hard I resist I can't pull away. Every street sparks memories from the past decade and more - different versions of me, growing up and learning about myself and the world.

Picture this. It's 2009, I am 19 and in Edinburgh for the first time for a family wedding. This was it, what my little wannabe theatre-maker heart had longed for. These were my people and this was my place. We saw all sorts, mostly free fringe, C Venues, Zoo, The Space. Hardly anything at the Big 4 because I didn't know what the Big 4 was and I certainly wouldn't have been able to afford any shows there.

Fast forward to 2010. The end of my first year at uni, I’m in recovery from a serious illness and utterly broke. But I'm desperate to come back to the fringe. An opportunity arises for me and some uni pals to be flyerers for a comedy promoter. It's paid! We can't believe our luck. We say yes. There is no contract. We are paid in cash, and we work a minimum of 10 hours every day, often 12 or 14. We are regularly watched to make sure we're not skiving our duties (once literally caught the boss watching us from behind a car, like a cartoon spy). We have only two days off in the entire month. During the first one, I make plans to see loads of shows, but in reality am so knackered I cannot leave my bed. One day, the rain came down so hard the soles of my shoes simply…fell off. We were explicitly told we had to look 'hot' at all times, because it would help us sell the shows. We were told to wear tight clothes, style our hair, wear a full face of make-up, and flirt with people - especially in the evenings ‘when they're a bit drunk’. We were aged 19 and 20. We thought that's just how things worked.

In 2011 I designed a show at C Venues, for which I was meant to be paid £500 but in reality was never paid anything, not even reimbursed for the materials. The invoice just never got paid and I didn’t know how to challenge it. In 2012 I worked in actual paid positions for not one but TWO shows for the whole month. I staffed a youth show, and was also ASM for a touring production. There were 25 minutes between the end of show 1 and the start of show 2, during which I would sprint from the Pleasance Courtyard to Underbelly Cowgate in my blacks. I loved it. Despite the exhaustion it was one of the best summers of my life.

You'll hear everyone describe Edinburgh as a bubble, and it's true. I have always been a more confident version of myself in that city during August. The yellow or purple or red pass round my neck each year worn like a badge of honour, allowing me access to secret clubs alongside people whose faces I'd normally only see on TV. I had made it - I was doing it! I was working in theatre! This lil working class lass who everyone said would never be able to work in this industry. She didn't recognise that it wasn't really 'making it' to be paid at best £150 a week and at worst absolutely nothing, seeing free accommodation as a generous and suitable alternative. Clearly I was happy to do it, no matter how much it impacted me for the rest of the year - working double shifts and bouncing off the bottom of my overdraft. The fringe is built on so many layers of exploitation I don't actually know where or how you could start to unravel it.

In 2013, 2014 and 2015 I was up staffing youth shows, often also creatively contributing as designer or co-writer. It was intense work, but it was a total joy as well - seeing the same fringe spark in them that I also felt my first year - hearing their utter joy when they made new friends or found shows they loved enough to go again and again.

Half of the magic of the fringe lies in the new discoveries. The incredible range of shows that can take you from laughing to crying, from empathy to anger, and they're short enough that you can see 5, 6, 7 or more in a day. A whole range of human emotion, so many incredible sights and sounds and smells, and the privilege of being able to take them all in at once. For me, the newfound confidence I developed in Edinburgh was also part of the addiction. At the fringe I was somebody I couldn't be 'in real life'. Braver, cooler, funnier, sexier. The bubble allows many people to be unapologetically themselves, celebrate and own their identity. When time is topsy turvy and it feels like all the best people in the world are in one place together, it’s electric. We feel we can do anything. Be anything. Stolen kisses with terrible men and beautiful women in bars that don’t close until 5am. Making the best of friends with people we know we’ll probably never see again. Drinking too much. Hardly sleeping. Not eating enough one day, and too much the next. No such thing as balance. Hangovers blend into shows blend into nights again and for somebody who never really did the party thing anywhere else, these were my people, and this was my place.

In 2016 I was up for just 2 days as it was the only time I could get off work. I travelled overnight on a megabus there and back and slept in a hostel bunk. I arrived back in London at 7.30am and slept under my desk for an hour before the work week began again. I was already exhausted and burnt out before I even left.

Now, with hindsight and space I recognise a lot of this was not particularly healthy. In 2017, 2018 and 2019 I visited as a programmer. A little older, a bit more responsible. Still seeing the same friends who I only ever see once a year in August, but this time for Mosque Kitchen curries and comedy together instead of 5am shots. Seeing the Pleasance Courtyard sign still swells my heart with joy and excitement for what's to come, but these days - as I already spend the rest of my year fighting inequalities inside and outside the industry - my rose-tinted goggles are off and my eyes are more open to the problems. As an able-bodied white woman I clearly have (and have always had) extreme privilege at the fringe. It is a privilege that I did not see the problems and barriers until I started looking for them, and I'm sorry that I have not seen them since the start. The financial and class barriers are things I have personally faced - but the access barriers, sexism, and appalling treatment of people of colour also hasn't changed. In some cases it has grown to be significantly worse.

I saw some wonderful work made by trans and non-binary people this year but at the same time one of the Big 4 venues still booked a transphobic show, and in the same time slot as a trans woman's show in the same venue. The majority of reviewers are white and so white work is more likely to be reviewed and reviewed well, leaving Black and POC work with additional barriers to finding their audiences. It's thanks to small organisations like Fringe of Colour and Critics of Colour that Black and POC-led work is prioritised and shared, which means the huge machine that is the fringe is regularly reliant on small, often unpaid or freelance organisations to carry the burden of diversifying the festival on their behalf. The majority of audiences too are white and so for some individuals the challenges extend beyond their shows and into their existence in public spaces. The access barriers are blatant. As well as huge parts of the fringe still being inaccessible for disabled people - from stairs in venues to unforgiving latecomers/etiquette policies to the lack of captioning, BSL, audio description and relaxed performances - Covid safety has also not been considered as an access requirement worthy of sharing anywhere this year, so many have been unable to take the risk to come at all. Jess Thom of Touretteshero and the team at Nouveau Riche say all of this much more eloquently than me in their own blogs:
Nouveau Riche - Edinburgh Fringe: Call to Action
Touretteshero - Fringe Feelings

The Horizon showcase has been a joyfully diverse antidote to much of this, but only made possible due to an unprecedented amount of financial and logistical support that most individuals and small companies can only dream of. Kudos to other organisations also providing this kind of support and investment, like the Traverse Theatre and Paines Plough Roundabout among others.

I appreciate it's hard to change a beast as big as the fringe. It runs on its own steam now. To have no control over private landlord accommodation or wider societal issues spiralling out of control must be hard for the organisations trying to make it work. But there are plenty of problems they and the fringe society do have control over, which are also not being addressed. We have been having these conversations for several years and many things have gotten worse, not better. The Covid pause did not allow for the reset everyone hoped it would - this year the exploitation has been worse than ever, and the fringe has never felt more blatantly capitalist than it does right now. It masquerades as a radical alternative space where anybody has the freedom to make art - it's literally in the slogan - but in reality you cannot just be "anyone with a story to tell and a venue to perform in" because having a show and performing it in a shed is still going to cost upwards of £5k if you include all the associated costs - and that's before you pay yourself a penny.

We haven’t even scratched the surface of many of the issues - the impact on the local community for example, or the environment. Part of me wonders if perhaps we might be better off without the fringe. But I can't lie and say the idea of losing it isn't tinged with a deep sadness. I think I, maybe we, need the magic and discovery of the bubble, especially as the rest of the world goes to shit. There is no alternative offer which is quite the same. I can’t singlehandedly solve the fringe, no one person can. We need to keep the pressure on, demanding the high level changes that to be made. It shouldn’t be on individuals to do that - it isn't good enough - but if we want to keep the August magic and ensure as many people as possible can experience that magic, then those of us who face fewer barriers also need to step up and stop making excuses. So in the meantime, while we fight the bigger fight, I can personally pledge to speak louder, to advocate for friends and strangers when their access needs are not being met, to seek out and support the shows made by Black and Brown companies and show solidarity with my feet and my money. As a Producer, I pledge to only ever take work to the fringe that is properly supported and that includes a living wage, the wellbeing of the artists, and access provision for the audiences. As a programmer, I will always pay for tickets rather than expect comps, and I will seek out diverse work, including taking chances on work which has not been reviewed, and work by early career artists and companies. I don't have much, but I do have fundraising skills and a platform (thanks to twitter), and I can use those to elevate opportunities and voices of others. What can you do?