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Eleanor Morton’s The Mermaid dives headfirst into myth and modernity, blending folklore, feminism, and absurd humour. The show follows a self‑aware mermaid navigating the contradictions of beauty, desire, and identity — part stand‑up, part storytelling, part social satire. Morton, known for her sharp wit and surreal imagination, uses the mythical creature as a mirror for how women are seen, shaped, and sometimes submerged by culture.
We spoke with her about mythology, body politics, and finding comedy in the deep end.
A mermaid at the Fringe — myth meets modernity. What drew you to this creature as a lens for comedy?
I discovered when I was working on Haunted House, my 2024 show about ghosts, that it’s much easier to structure a show around something you love talking about rather than trying to write the jokes first. I love mythology and history and folklore, and mermaids also feel very modern — they’re still a hugely popular symbol, something little girls want to be. You can even become a professional mermaid and spend your day in a silicon tail waving at tourists. Mermaids are timeless symbols of what it means to be human, and there’s so much comedy in that.
Your work often blends surrealism with sharp social commentary. Where does this show sit on that spectrum?
That’s a good way to describe it — half‑weird, half‑serious. I’d say it sits squarely in the middle. Even if I tried to write something purely fantastical, my cynical side would creep in. Mermaids are beautiful and fun, but they’ve also always been used as social commentary, especially about women. In the 16th century Mary Queen of Scots was depicted as a mermaid in graffiti, symbolising her supposed loose morals — ironic, because mermaids don’t actually have sex. The sea and its creatures are endlessly fascinating, and mermaids have a dark past tied to politics. Basically, my motto is: if you’re not laughing, you’re learning.
Scotland has a long tradition of folklore. Did any particular myth feed into this show?
Originally I had a whole bit about selkies — the Scottish mythical creature that turns from a seal into a beautiful woman — but it had to get cut for time. We’ve got lots of watery creatures: selkies, kelpies, which are river‑dwelling horses that drown people, and obviously Nessie. My favourite is the Blue Men of the Minch, blue mermen who cause storms and shipwrecks.
You’re brilliant at creating characters who feel both absurd and painfully real. Who is your mermaid?
She’s me — someone who always wanted to be a mermaid when I was younger, even though I didn’t really enjoy swimming or the sea. It’s about the dichotomy between the sexy Ariel‑like mermaids of pop culture and the ugly, darker ones of myth, and how both shape how we see women: what we think we should be versus what we really are.
What’s the moment in the show where the surreal cracks open and something true slips out?
I talk a lot about how men see women, and how mermaids symbolise that. Patriarchal culture loves to see women as either Madonnas or Whores, and mermaids float between those ideas. They lure sailors to their deaths but they’re also pretty and demure. I link that to how men are taught not to trust women — especially beautiful women — because secretly, underneath it all, women are monsters. It’s also an excuse to do jokes about the manosphere and women having crushes on weird cartoon characters.
You’ve always had a knack for political undercurrents. What’s the quiet political heartbeat of this show?
Probably the idea that women are expected to be one thing instead of a multitude, and how much our bodies are used against us. I grew up in the mid‑2000s — a terrible time for body image as a girl. I talk about how disconnected we are from our own bodies and how culture relies on that disconnection to keep us insecure and buying stuff.
The Fringe can feel like a sea of noise. How do you carve out your own tide?
It’s easy to compare yourself to others — ticket sales, reviews, all that — but you’ve got to focus on your own thing and ask, “Is this better than it was yesterday?” I go see plays and things outside comedy, and I revisit places I grew up around because they feel far from Fringe madness.
What’s the strangest thing you discovered while writing The Mermaid?
That in the original Little Mermaid story by Hans Christian Andersen, she’s only twelve, and the prince makes her sleep in a basket outside his room.
If someone comes in expecting pure silliness, what deeper thing might they accidentally find?
Hopefully an undercurrent — I’d hate to say empowerment because it sounds cheesy — but maybe a celebration of women’s bodies. That sounds very hippie‑feminist, but honestly, straight men will enjoy the show too. There are some pictures of boobs.
What’s inspiring you right now — art, music, weird internet corners?
Mostly weird internet corners. I’m obsessed with The Broken Veil podcast — a spooky, immersive show that’s hard to define genre‑wise. Joel Morris and Will Maclean have made this incredible radiophonic‑workshop‑style experience with basically no money. It reminds me why creating things for the sake of it is so good for us.
Eleanor Morton: The Mermaid 🕐 1 PM | Monkey Barrel Cabaret Voltaire 1
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