#11 The Fringe

Is this thing on? 🎤

Each summer, hordes of people flock to the Scottish capital to take in all sorts of shows on the various festival programmes, from stand-up comedy and spoken-word poetry to amateur theatre and avant-garde clowning. Among the punters this year were Liam and Noel Gallagher, along with thousands of their bucket-hatted acolytes, and me. During my short stint, I saw a dizzying number of performances of varying degrees of quality, and two stood out in particular, for vastly different reasons. Here’s why.

Paul Williams: Don’t Look at Me

There was an undercurrent of anxiety to my trip to the Fringe this year. It was my seventh visit, but it was like I was seeing it for the first time: the hustle it takes just to get a handful of people in the audience; the cacophony of posters desperately vying to stand out from each other; the roulette wheel of ad hoc venues ranging from lecture halls and shipping containers to dank caves and sticky nightclubs; the physical toll it all takes on the performers.

Usually, I attend as a fan, pure and simple. This time, after years of rationalising that it was a stupid idea, I was seriously considering staging my own show in the future, and I was distracted by how much work it would actually be. Every event I attended was filtered through this foreboding fog – until I experienced a surprising moment of catharsis on day four.

Note: I cannot stress enough how many spoilers lie ahead. The following account is literally a description of the denouement of Don’t Look at Me by Paul Williams, with absolutely none of the context.

Kiwi comedian Paul Williams was singing a song about the ups and downs of his comedy career. On the screen behind him played a montage of snowboard cross star Lindsey Jacobellis failing time and again to win gold at the Winter Olympics. In 2006, she crashed out in Turin. In 2010, she crashed out in Vancouver. In 2014, she crashed out in Sochi. “But I’m a showbiz baby,” sang Williams, the love-hate tone of the tune leaning into the former feeling. The crowd was in hysterics, clapping along. I was in the back row bawling my eyes out as Lindsey once more failed to reach the podium by 0.003 seconds in 2018.

Of course it was being played for laughs, but it caught me off guard. All of my apprehensions about the hardship and, if I’m being honest, humiliation of choosing a life in the arts were there: the inexplicable urge, the inevitable falls. Not only that, but it was communicated through a heartwarming and hilarious performance that I could only hope to achieve through years of perseverance, like Paul, like Lindsey.

The footage reset again. This time, Jacobellis was competing in Beijing. “No Lindsey,” some unfamiliar voice implored from my mouth, but it was drowned out by the collective laughter of the entire population of New Zealand surrounding me in the auditorium. Through cascades of plump, salty tears, I was astounded to see her triumph at long last; after 16 years of hurt, Lindsey Jacobellis won an Olympic gold medal in 2022. I let out a guttural gasp, this time one of joy. She finally did it! And maybe I could do it, too! Not snowboard cross, obviously. Stand-up.

🥇🥇🥇🥇🥇🥇🥇🥇🥇

Rating: 9 Olympic gold medals out of 10

Sheeps: A Very Sheeps Christmas

It’s hard to describe what went down at the Sheeps show without completely undermining my aforementioned profound respect for the artists who pour out their hearts, souls and bank accounts to bring their madcap ideas to life in Edinburgh. I spent my five days in the city genuinely apologising to people whose flyers I didn’t take, wholeheartedly wishing them broken legs for the entirety of their runs, and feeling nothing but compassion for my fellow performers. I literally had an emphathy-induced breakdown watching Paul Williams (see above). A simple solution would be to just not write this review. But I need to talk about A Very Sheeps Christmas.

All summer, I have scanned every Fringe round-up I’ve come across on Substack, Instagram, reputable news outlets and disreputable news outlets for reports of this performance. Nothing. I can’t have imagined it. It was on for two nights at the Pleasance Grand – a 750-seater – and it was full. To begin with.

Consider this my official plea for witnesses: if you were affected by any of the events that took place between 11pm and 12:10am on 8th and 9th August 2025, get in touch. For those lucky enough to have missed it, I will do my best to convey the chaos that was A Very Sheeps Christmas.

Expectations were high as we waited outside of the Pleasance Grand for what we thought would be some high-camp mid-summer festive fun by much-loved comedy trio Sheeps. But as the clock ticked farther beyond the scheduled start time, the excited hubbub turned to a disgruntled murmur. When we did eventually make it to our seats just shy of half past, it became clear what had caused the delay: this was not going to be a mix of sketches with a musical element, it was to be a proper concert, complete with a full drum kit and brass section. The sound check must have been done in heroic time. More’s the pity.

It kicked off with a bang – by which I mean an explosively loud noise. And it continued much in this vein. The sound was so deafening that it was hard to make out the lyrics to the comedy carols, but that wasn’t necessarily to their detriment. I think the first one was about a horny elf. There was another one that was maybe about a horny Santa, and another that was almost definitely about being generally horny at Christmas. There was one that I quite liked, but in hindsight that was because it was sung a cappella.

Roughly 12 people in the audience were absolutely loving it. With no introduction or welcome to the show, the rest of us were baffled. Behind me, someone whispered, ‘I don’t get it’ and I turned to nod in agreement. It felt like we were being held hostage in the pub by some pissed-up locals who thought they’d written the next Fairytale of New York. Between the volume and the complete lack of explanation, it was literally unbearable.

Pockets of people began to leave, which reminded me of my own free will. I was examining the room for an escape route when Jade nudged me to say she’d spotted a discreet way to slip out the back. We hot-footed it out of there, along with the people behind us. In the foyer, the four of us exchanged a few bemused ‘what the fucks??’ before disappearing into the night with our ears ringing – not with sleigh bells, with tinnitus.

Jade and I were debriefing over a drink in the Pleasance Courtyard bar when the rest of the audience began filing out of the venue half an hour later. Rather than the usual animated post-show chit-chat, there loomed a hushed silence. Everyone had an ashen look on their face. Their eyes were distrustfully darting around and their arms were defensively folded across their chests. We’d seen this look before – in photographs of WWI soldiers. The look was shell shock. Legions drifted by in a complete daze, including the various well-known comedians touted as special guests to shift tickets. They’d been used. We all had.

As Jade put it, it was ‘incredible (derogatory)’. The tickets were £21, but the experience of being a part of Fringe history was priceless. It’ll stay with me for the rest of my life. And by it, I of course mean ear damage. That is one gift that is not just for Christmas.

🐑

Rating: 1 sheep out of 10

Spicy Margarita

Maybe it was the three glasses of wine that came before it, maybe it was the limp-looking cocktails from a different food truck that I’d already poo-pooed. Whatever magic was in the air, this is the best spicy margarita I have ever had. It had a satisfying rising heat and a moreish saline quality. It was so good I barely cared that it cost 9.50 British Pounds Sterling and was served in a small paper cup.

🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Rating: 10 chillis out of 10

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Rec room

The rest of the best: Tim Key - Loganberry 🍺 Emma Holland – Don’t Touch my Trinkets 🖼️ Huge Davies – WIP 🎹 Charlie Mulliner – Love Hunt 🏹 Johnny White Really-Really – AM/PM 🚂 Bridget Christie - WIP 👖

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Words by Beau Brace. Images by Flora Hibberd.