Fringe festivals have always been cash guzzlers, not only for punters but for the performers, whose show costs far outstrip their earnings – and that’s not including the money needed to eat, drink and find somewhere to crash. This is just how fringe festivals work. The performers have to pay to book their own venues, and rely on ticket sales to claw back their investment, all in a highly competitive market, with tickets for hundreds of shows a night going on sale.
Spiralling costs certainly make performing at fringe festivals seem elitist. But are they really only vanity projects for middle-class comedians bankrolled by their savings, or worse still, the bank of Mum and Dad? Or is living on a diet of Pot Noodles and top-and-tailing with a total stranger all part of the charm?
In solidarity with these increasingly cash-strapped performers, I had initially wanted to go to Edinburgh to see if I could attend the world’s largest fringe festival without spending a single penny. Unfortunately, things I don’t understand, such as “production times”, “print deadlines” and, erm, “the passage of time” mean it’s not possible for me to attend this year’s Edinburgh and have the piece published before it starts.
So instead, to test the waters, I’ve been instructed to head to the Brighton fringe (which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year) with no money to see how long I can survive. I’ll also meet working comedians there, who will tell me all about the realities of putting on a show.
As for me: although I’m obviously hilarious on paper, I’ve got no experience as a standup comic, so I’m never going to make any money telling jokes. But can I earn a day’s wage handing out flyers and helping out comedians with their day-to-day? I’m about to find out …
Midday, introduction to the fringe
If you’ve never been to Brighton, let me sum it up in a word: hilly. I walk (thankfully downhill) past a variety of cafes offering croissants, cakes and full Englishes that make me drool like Homer Simpson. But with no money, I can’t even afford a sausage roll from Greggs. I’m stopping at the Theatre Royal to meet the fringe crew and ask them about the difference between a festival and a fringe festival. Brighton fringe and Brighton festival take place at the same time, and it’s the same in Edinburgh. I also wonder if they’ll have any biscuits.
“A fringe festival means we are an open-access festival, so anyone can take part,” says Brighton fringe festival director Amy Keogh over tea, but disappointingly no Rich Tea. “We have 819 different shows this year. We don’t curate, programme or commission. People have complete creative freedom. Brighton fringe is a charity, so we’re not profiting in any way.”
“The fringe attracts up-and-coming comedians trying out new material, but they have to pay to hire the venues. It’s a bottom-up approach,” explains Brighton arts marketer Caz Slota. “The festival operates a more traditional top-down approach, where the venues book established acts and pay them in advance.” Brighton fringe coordinator Sarah French adds: “We offer bursaries and the option to pay in instalments. We want to create a space where people can be creative and experimental.”
1pm, comedian speed dating
The Brighton fringe gang have kindly lined up some comedians to talk to me about the least funny subject of all time: money. I take a seat at the back of the theatre to begin my comedian speed dating, while secretly hoping one of them will take pity on me and buy me a packet of peanuts.
Ollie Yates, 28, works as a tree surgeon and is staying with their parents a 30-minute cycle away. Their show, Everyone’s Dating Ollie, uses clowning to explore “how ridiculous polyamory is in the world of modern dating”. “I was lucky enough to win a £120 bursary,” they say. “The venue costs £25 a night. I’m doing eight shows. With food, I might just about break even. I’m just here to see what happens.”
“I do this purely for the fun,” says Brad Jon Kane, who lives in nearby Hove and works as a pastry chef. He describes his show, Please Slow Down, as “a series of slow, low-energy characters, like a cowboy vicar, a mime act and a substitute teacher. The shows are free, then I offer an optional bucket,” he says. “Once I become a bit more of a name, I’ll probably start charging. But I just love a good crowd.”
Brighton-based cabaret act Pearl & Dean, both in their early 50s, met at teacher training college. “The tradition of camp nonsense harks back to when gay people couldn’t be out in the 70s. Like our costumes, our marriage is very much lavender,” Marsha Dean says. Their All Aboard! evening has won best new show at this year’s Brighton. Even though it’s a sellout, they only expect to break even. Unlike Ollie and Brad, Pearl & Dean will also be performing at Edinburgh this year. “Back in 1994, I took out my third student loan to do Edinburgh,” Peter Pearl remembers. “I spent £3,000 on accommodation, venue hire, food, travel and publicity, but still had an absolute ball.”
3pm, flyering
With my stomach rumbling, I wonder if there’s an ingenious way to make a quick buck flyering at Brighton. Flyering is discouraged for environmental reasons, but it’s permitted here in the SpiegelGardens performance venue, where they sell drinks and – yes – food. I head over with my new comedian friends to meet Brighton-based 49-year-old NHS drag performer Sister Brandy Bex, who describes her show as “a daft, chaotic, comedy cabaret” and has agreed to employ me to flyer on a zero hours, paid-by-performance contract.
“Brighton fringe is the best,” she says, handing me her sandwich board, which disappointingly has no actual sandwiches. “I take four weeks off work and get totally involved. I did a comedy course during the pandemic and thought: wouldn’t it be good to have a nurse character and take the piss out of the NHS?”
By day, Bex works as a nurse. But performing at Brighton doesn’t come cheap. “I have to pay the other performers in my cabaret,” she says. “The year before last, I lost £1,600. Last year, I lost a grand. This year I’ll lose maybe £200. So I’m doing better every year.”
Back to my flyering job, I ask what exactly I’ll have to do. “Flyering is great for chatting to people,” she continues. A bursary helped pay for her 2,000 flyers. Unfortunately, I’m not great at chatting to people. I’m also so hungry that I skive off to tuck into some pizza crusts I find on a paper plate in the bin. I get busted. It’s a case for instant dismissal.
4pm, circus
Revel Puck Circus have their own tent at Brighton (and also at this year’s Edinburgh), featuring “high-wire walkers, teeterboarders, daring aerial skill and the only female wheel of death in the UK”. Crikey.
“We’ve got the tent and the props, but the real wow factor comes with the heartwarming moments, like when I get to fly over the audience” says French-Canadian acrobat Arielle. “Everyone is just so friendly and natural,” adds fellow aerialist Imani from London. “So we do our best to spread the love.”
The circus tours six months of the year, so unlike the comedians I’ve spoken to, performers such as Arielle and Imani enjoy full-time employment on a proper salary. I’ve always secretly fancied running away with the circus, but as I’m strapped into a harness and winched into the air to see if I’d make a good acrobat, I’m not sure I’ve got the head for heights.
I spend the rest of the day seeing what else Brighton has to offer: a couple of loose chips on a tray in McDonald’s and a bowl of discarded onion rings in Wetherspoons. Ollie Yates kindly puts me on the guest list to their show, but I feel guilty I can’t even afford the £10 ticket. Defeated, I take the train home, and think about what a nice vibe Brighton has. Bursaries help with the costs, and everyone helps each other out – something, I’m told, that happens far less in the competitive climate of Edinburgh.
Eyes on Edinburgh
My rubbish experiment may be over, but I’m already beginning to understand the financial difficulties comedians face at fringe festivals. No one I spoke to expected to walk away with a profit – simply breaking even seems rare. Brighton tends to attract local comedians, saving them the need to rent somewhere to stay, but spiralling accommodation costs at Edinburgh risks alienating all but the richest comics, as I find out when I chat to comedians performing at this year’s fringe.
Matt Forde, who brings his show, Defying Calamity, to Edinburgh in August, recently gave evidence in parliament about how hard it is for working-class comedians to break into comedy. “The reason why Edinburgh is so important, as opposed to, say, Camden, Brighton, Glasgow or Leicester, is that people from all over the world can put on a show and be discovered,” he tells me. “It has the potential to make careers, but it’s so expensive it’s not just the working-class comedians who are getting shut out – so are middle-class comedians. If you don’t intervene financially, Edinburgh is just going to become more elitist. Then comedy on telly becomes more elitist.”
“The trickiest part is striking a balance between trying to save money and remembering you have to live,” says Glenn Moore, who is bringing his show, Please Sir, Glenn I Have Some Moore?, to Edinburgh. “I once spent the month sleeping in a cupboard. Another time, I stayed with 15 other people in a three-bedroom flat, sharing a bed with two of them, with about an inch of free space. One of my bed pals was someone I’d never met and haven’t seen since.”
“This will be my first time in Scotland,” says US comic Zainab Johnson, who brings her show, Toxically Optimistic, to Edinburgh. “I searched Airbnb. Flats were listed for over £8,000. I hadn’t even looked for flights. As a vegan, I was also warned that I might not enjoy the food. As my show is called Toxically Optimistic, instead of focusing on the negatives, I’m going to lean into the positives. I’ll get to see a beautiful country I’ve never been to. As a black Muslim woman, I look forward to hopefully making people laugh who look nothing like me. If there’s no good food, that at least cuts my expenses.”
“My first fringe, I was in my early 20s and properly broke,” says Kate Dolan, set to perform her show The Critic. “I was in a puppet show. We stayed in a flat, an hour’s bus journey away. I shared a bed with another woman, the lads were on the floor, and the puppets had their own room. I’m still a bit of a Del Boy. This year, I’m renting a room, making my own props and will happily eat Pot Noodles for a month.”
“Pursuing an accountancy qualification was potentially the worst decision I could make,” says James Trickey, whose show is fittingly called Don’t Count on Me. “Not because it was immensely dull, but because it made me all too aware of the financial irresponsibility.”
“My first three runs at Edinburgh came while I was working as a locum GP,” says Paul Sinha, of show 2 Sinha Lifetime. “There was simply no way the contract for a junior hospital doctor was ever going to be elastic enough to allow four consecutive weeks away from the frontline. My first solo show in 2004 was a misjudged affair. After three years as a GP, I’d saved up enough for a 11.15pm slot in one of the hottest rooms in Edinburgh. It wasn’t an especially notable show, nobody came, and I lost £5,000. Thanks to medicine, I could just afford miserable failure. But the vast majority are not so lucky.”
All this leaves me wondering what the solution might be. One reason accommodation at Edinburgh is even dearer this year is that Oasis and AC/DC are playing the city slap bang in the middle of the festival. Last year, the Marriott hotel advertised a job as a live-in breakfast jester to amuse guests over their Corn Flakes. The position was paid and came with free accommodation. It seems a funny idea, but I also wonder if this sort of thing makes a mockery of comedians, pitching them as performing monkeys who will do anything for money. Then again, I’m a man couldn’t even cut it for a day in Brighton. So what do I know?
