What seems like an eternity ago, maybe as long as three months back, I made the impetuous – some would say foolhardy – decision to ‘take a show’ to the Edinburgh Fringe. My first ever show – scripted by me, cast by me, produced by me. Well, OK, hands up, not exactly scripted by me; a monologue adapted by me from George Orwell’s novel ‘Coming Up For Air’ would be the more cumbersome but correct tag.
On and off, I’ve been reviewing the festival – first for the Independent, then Time Out, and now for the Telegraph – for over a decade, almost as long as little Tom Daley has been growing into a would-be champion diver. That’s quite long enough, I suppose, to be able to bring to the table a healthy scepticism about what it‘s possible to achieve here. Over the years, I’ve seen plenty of talented people head up to the Fringe in August and belly-flop badly; so much needs to be in place for things to go even moderately well that the odds seem fiercely stacked against achieving that dream of an outright hit. Continue reading