OXBRIDGE patter at The Fringe. You cannot beat it.
On my way to see The Bookies at Summerhall – a play I co wrote with my best pal, Joe McCann. Bus rammed, usual. Lothian driver at the wheel. A grunting, ungrateful, sour faced tyrant, the usual. Drop my two quid and dart upstairs.
It’s late afternoon and even though I’m leaving from Bonnyrigg, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that there’s actually a few vacant seats. Plant my backside down on one and immediately I start to ponder what the actors and director have done with the script.
I work in a real Bookies for my day job, you see. Full time in my shop. Thus, I never was able to attend a single rehearsal. When me and Joe handed over the script that was it – there are, after all, bills to be paid, and bets to be taken.
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The luxury of being middle class as a writer, and the time that allows you to enjoy your craft, isn’t permitted when you’re working class like me. This is why I’m a wee bit nervous during those initial few moments of the journey.
We move at a snail's pace towards the city centre until eventually we hit Cameron Toll. Next thing I know I can hear two loud voices coming from downstairs, which are soon confirmed to belong to a pair of drunked-up "artistes" from London Town. Right away I know they have a show on somewhere at the festival. "Oh, we have a show on!" I can hear them say.
Haven’t even reached the venue and already I’m feeling like I don’t belong. I never do in theatre land, to be honest. The price to pay for being unapologetically working class. Been the same way ever since I started trying to be a playwright, which is, by now, well over a decade.
I finally get to Summerhall and it’s resoundingly mobbed. Sales for The Bookies throughout the run have been great, to be honest. And as soon as I clock them all stood there, I start to imagine that amongst the crowd congregated in the courtyard are members of our audience. I march past them and head straight for The Royal Dick pub, which is located directly ahead. I’m in desperate need of a drink. Won’t be a customary ice-cold Tennents, though. Something tells me they don’t sell it here.
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The pub's packed and I’m surrounded by more middle-class chatter as if I’m still sat on that bus. Eventually, it’s my turn to order and I do so by pointing at the first lager I see: "Pint ae whatever that is, please", I tell the pleasant lassie serving. Then, out of nowhere. Something happens which reminds me yet again that such artistic environments are not for the likes of me, and how alien I feel in the city of my birth whenever August arrives. Even on nights such as tonight when I’m about to watch my own play. The entire pub starts to belt out a passionate rendition of Dancing Queen by Abba. Not ashamed to admit that I love the song and the group but this would never happen in the pubs I’m typically accustomed to. It’s not karaoke night in The Calderwood in Bonnyrigg. This is a serious performance, worthy of inclusion in an episode of The Choir on the BBC.
Even the bar lass starts singing and I unnervingly get the impression that she’s a wee bit disappointed I’ve not yet joined in. I quickly pay her for my pint and speed walk back out into the courtyard. Once there I stand on my lonesome. Listening to more middle-class voices and conversations about what they’ve seen and what they plan to see, what they’ve got on and how wonderful the Edinburgh Fringe Festival is, all the while knowing fine well that at a momentary glance there’s no way they’d guess that I was a fellow "artist". Especially if I were to approach them and start talking. Truth is I’ll never be considered one of them. No matter how many plays I have on. Which is sound. I don’t want to be.
I just want to continue writing theatre for people from my background, theatre that is both relatable and enjoyable. Shows like The Bookies by me and Joe. A dark comedy set on Leith Walk which runs until August 26.
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