Part 2 of My Life on the Fringe by Evergreen contributor, Owen O’Neill. Owen is an award-winning stand-up comedian, writer and actor.
IT’S A BIT LIKE THIS
1991 was the year I stopped drinking. And I wasn’t confident enough to go back to the Edinburgh Fringe until 1994.
I needed three years of sobriety under my belt before I tackled four weeks of having the shit kicked out of my ego by ‘reviewers’. I wrote a show called ‘It’s a Bit Like This’, a neat contrivance whereupon the stage was pre-set with a red curtain and microphone stand. I introduced myself from off-stage, came on to applause, did three minutes of stand-up and bid the audience good night. There is a black-out, the curtain is opened to reveal that I have gone back to my sitting room, replete with rug, fireplace, armchair, table and two chairs. And for the next fifty minutes, in this more relaxed atmosphere, I rail against everything from my not being able to drink, to my crazy next-door neighbour, to the mediocre audience that I had just played to and the pressure of having to write a new routine of jokes every few months. I ended by leaving my living room in a rush explaining to the audience that I had to go back to do another stand-up set at the comedy club. Black-out, the red curtain is pulled across and I do exactly the same three minutes that I opened with.
The idea stemmed from me not wanting to do ‘jokes. I never really thought of myself as a stand-up comedian although that’s where I seemed to have ended up. That’s where I was earning the most money but I wanted to branch out and expand the routines, go a little deeper and It’s a Bit Like This was the start of my one-man shows which were described in the Scotsman as ‘Stand-up Theatre’. The Edinburgh Fringe was the only place that gave me the platform to do these shows. For all its drawbacks, it was the perfect hermetically sealed cultural zoo where I could pad up and down inside my own cage for a month and be completely immersed in the work. It was like painting a self-portrait and showing it to the audience every five minutes to see how they thought it was shaping up. The reviewers I spoke of, the ego-shit-kickers, would also skulk into the room, only too keen to give everyone in Edinburgh their take on it. By the end of the four weeks, I had either created a masterpiece, or a pile of shit, or something in between. But there was nowhere else on the planet that gave me the freedom to do that and once you had committed to the process there was no going back. End of March, five months before the Fringe started, was the final deadline for the Fringe application when you paid your £400 entrance fee. You also had to find a decent venue and, more importantly a decent time slot and with three thousand other shows vying for roughly the same spots, the competition was fierce.
STEPPING STONES THEATRE AND THE FIREPLACE OBSESSION
I was lucky enough to secure The Stepping Stones Theatre in West Bow. This was where the old Traverse theatre was situated before its move to Cambridge Street. It had a long history of some fine productions where Scottish luminaries like Billy Connolly, Robbie Coltrane, Bill Paterson, Alan Cummings, John Byrne and David Hayman cut their teeth.
I had managed to find all my props locally, table, chairs rugs etc the only thing I didn’t have was a fireplace. Looking back on it I really didn’t need a fireplace I could have drawn one on the wall with chalk. This was theatre dah-ling and theatre is all about imaginings, but I had it in my head that I needed a fireplace. I already had the flames which I’d cut from shiny red paper and glued to a black crumpled-up bin bag. I had rehearsed standing at those flames warming my arse, so whatever it took I was going to find a fireplace.
My agent at the time was Richard Bucknall. He was the most patient of men and indulged me in my Fireplace Obsession. He called around every antique shop in Edinburgh whilst I tramped the streets. I even ended up at scrap yard in Leith. A young lad with hair redder than mine but less teeth sold me a ‘Wee lectric fire eh that’ll day the job jist as well’ I thought that wasn’t a bad idea. I can’t remember how much I paid for it, but I’m sure it wasn’t worth it as it didn’t have a plug. With about four hours to go before opening night I walked into a place which I’m sure was called ‘Grate Scots’ and asked the manager could I borrow a fireplace for my show. I showed him a flyer and without batting an eyelid he said ‘Aye on ye go ye can have that wan jist make sure ye dinny light any fires in it’ and pointed to a black cast iron fireplace with roses carved on the top. It weighed a ton and I had to get a Taxi to transport it to the venue. It took three men to carry it upstairs. It looked fantastic and really added to the set. I’ll always be grateful to that Grate Scot.
THE PERRIER?
Midway through the run I was nominated for the Perrier award. This used to be a big deal in Edinburgh, there are several awards these days none of which I could tell you the name of. I knew that I wouldn’t win, because essentially the Perrier was a ‘comedy award’ It was won by an Australian double act called Lano and Woodley who no one in the UK had ever heard of. My other fellow nominees included Harry Hill, Jeff Green and Alan Davies. I think Alan was the hot favourite. I did win, irony of ironies, a crate of champagne which of course I couldn’t drink. How about that for a kick up the Twelve steps? (I gave the Champaign and a commemorative keyring to my landlady. The wine is long gone of course but I understand she still uses the keyring.)
What the Perrier nomination did do was help sell out the run for the final week. Up to then I’d been averaging thirty to forty people a night, this extended it to eighty which was my capacity. The average cost of putting on a show in Edinburgh in those days was about two grand, so the extra box office income was very welcome. I also got to do one night in the West End along with all the other nominees and every year after I plastered ‘Perrier Nominee’ on all my posters. I stopped doing this when a couple of years ago I overheard a young comedian ask, ‘What was the Perrier Award?’ But hey, that’s showbiz.
