Archive for Interviews

Soft Spot: Trust, Tension and 300 Wine Glasses at the Fringe

Photo credit: Isak Stockas

There’s something instantly disarming about Soft Spot. Before a single glass is touched, you feel the tension humming in the room — that quiet knowledge that anything could fall, crack or collapse. It’s circus stripped of bravado and rebuilt around fragility, precision and the strange tenderness that comes from watching two people navigate risk together. Soft Spot isn’t just a duet between performers; it’s a duet between humans and the objects that betray them. What emerges is playful, nerve‑jangling and unexpectedly moving — a reminder that instability isn’t a flaw in life, it’s the texture of it.

Soft Spot plays with instability and near‑collapse. When you’re performing, what’s going through your mind in that split second where everything might fall?

When things go wrong, it often happens so fast that, before we know it, the moment has already passed. It’s really a reflex. At other times, though, there’s a moment when a glass starts to wobble and we have that split second to try to calm things down and regain the balance. To handle those moments, we really try to stay as alert and present as possible throughout the performance, so that if something goes wrong, we’re ready to react.

You’re working with 300 wine glasses, an object everyone knows can shatter. What drew you to building an entire emotional world around something so fragile?

We were interested in the contrast that the wine glasses bring. Our strict circus training usually leads us to create acts, or shows that often only highlight skills, strength and control. Introducing wine glasses as a fragile element, with their potential to shatter at any moment, gives a counterpoint to the usual position of circus artists as live performers. It was hard to work with these objects. Having them shatter left and right really slowed down the creative process. We broke 317 glasses during the creation of the show and up until the premiere. After that, we stopped counting, but we’ve kept them all. It is important for us that these broken objects, which have been part of the process, continue to be part of the show, not only because we want to avoid waste, but also because the presence of these shattered glasses carries a symbolism that we feel is an important part of what we want the show to communicate. So, in the end, the very fact that wine glasses are fragile and can shatter is exactly what drew us to work with them.

The show is built on real trust between you as performers and as a couple. How does your relationship shape the way you negotiate risk on stage?

The way we negotiate risk on stage as a working duo is based on how we have been working together behind the scenes during the creation of Soft Spot. We carefully assessed and slowly increased the level of difficulty in order to make sure that we were establishing a safe environment where risk‑taking was not too reckless. This now allows us to perform the show with a good degree of confidence. On the other hand, the trust that we have built as life partners leans on kindness and forgiveness. We trust that the other person is doing their best, while at the same time knowing that they still might make mistakes. So when one of us underestimates a risk, even if it might have serious consequences for the other, we react as much as possible with forgiveness and kindness, because we inherently know that we are both simply imperfect people who are trying our best.

There’s a beautiful tension in the piece between technical precision and letting things go wrong. How do you decide when to “save” a wobble and when to let the chaos unfold?

To be honest, we are always trying to save the wobble. But because the glasses are so unpredictable, there are moments when it feels like they are the ones in charge. That creates a tension between precision and things going wrong. It happens very organically. When we realise that we can’t save a glass, we simply follow it and go with it. We try to keep the moment as honest as possible, rather than forcing or pretending that everything is under control.

You recorded the soundtrack from the sounds of the glasses themselves — clinks, tremors, resonance. What surprised you most during that process?

The composer we worked with, Mika Forsling, likes to experiment with unusual sonorities. He was excited to record the sounds of the wine glasses and eager to experiment with the recordings in his studio. What was surprising for us is that it only took two sessions to record all the sounds. We are also impressed with the variety of sounds we were able to create and by how much those sounds ended up being used in the final compositions.

Soft Spot explores how people respond when plans fall apart. Was there a moment in your own lives that inspired this theme? We wouldn’t be able to pinpoint a specific moment in either of our lives that would have inspired this theme. On the other hand, it was important for us to address this subject because we feel that those kinds of events can happen in anyone’s life but that our way of living doesn’t really give space to it.

Performing a show where failure is built into the structure must be emotionally demanding. How do you prepare yourselves mentally before going on stage?

We warm up our bodies and try to be as awake and present as possible so that we can react quickly if something goes wrong. Before we go on stage, we often also play a reaction game together, which helps us become even more alert and focused. Luckily, it also helps that we have more than 100 shows under our belts. Over the years, we’ve experienced all kinds of surprising failures, so we’ve learned to stay calm and adapt quickly.

Circus often celebrates mastery, but your piece celebrates recovery. What do you hope audiences feel when they watch you rebuild something that’s just collapsed?

We wish for people to remember that failure is mostly just a point of view. If something doesn’t go according to plan, it doesn’t mean that it was a useless experience. We also wish for audiences to see that sometimes, achieving something unique and beautiful requires us to fail along the way.

Loneliness and connection sit quietly underneath the spectacle. How did those themes find their way into the work?

Since Soft Spot is a duo work, it will inevitably address the theme of connection. When people watch two artists on stage, their relationship will always matter and tell a story to the audience. Before creating this piece, we had both mostly been working with solo acts, so it has been a very refreshing experience for us to share every moment of Soft Spot on stage.

Fringe audiences love unpredictability. What’s the most memorable “unexpected moment” that’s happened during a performance or rehearsal of Soft Spot so far?

A memorable and completely unexpected moment for us happened right at the beginning of the show, when Arttu squatted down and his pants ripped completely open at the back. We spent the first half of the show trying to hide his underwear from the audience, and we had to change one of the sections so that Stina could do Arttu’s part while he ran to the dressing room to change into a new pair of pants. It felt completely crazy and unexpected for us in the moment, but somehow the audience didn’t notice anything. When we mentioned it during the artist talk after the show, they found it very funny.

Click here to buy tickets

 

Leave a Comment

This Little Thing of Ours: Inside the Musical Mayhem of Fringe’s Mafia Comedy

Click on image to buy show tickets

There’s something irresistible about a show that knows exactly what it is and leans into the chaos with style. This Little Thing of Ours does just that — a gleeful mash‑up of mob mythology, musical theatre swagger and the kind of character work that only comes from creators who genuinely enjoy the world they’re building. Speaking with James and Michael, you get the sense that this project didn’t just arrive fully formed; it grew out of shared obsessions, late‑night ideas, and the kind of friendship where one person says “I want to write a musical” and the other immediately replies, “Right, let’s get started.”

What follows is a conversation that gets right to the heart of the show: the rivalry, the comedy, the family dynamics, the theatrical mischief, and the sheer joy of making big, bold musical theatre out of the mafia canon. Their answers are sharp, funny, and full of the enthusiasm that’s driving this show straight into Fringe folklore.

Michael Mackay is the composer of This Little Thing of Ours, and James Bruce is the writer of the show. Here is the full interview.

Frankie Coglione’s family curse is such a fun hook – when you first started developing the show, what came first: the mafia mythology or the musical comedy angle?

The inception of the story came from Michael. He mentioned in passing that he wanted to write his own musical, and two days later I was on the phone asking to get involved. It was always going to be a musical given Michael’s background, and we both love mafia‑related films and TV shows, so that cemented the initial direction. Once we dove into the writing, comedy came most naturally — the characters were so laughably ego‑driven that we needed to take them down a peg.

The press release hints at a real tug‑of‑war between Frankie and Tony. How did you approach building that rivalry so it feels both dangerous and delightfully theatrical?

Frankie and Tony are both bad guys — Tony is just much worse. Frankie has had a speedrun to the upper tiers of the mafia while Tony has had to grind, scheme and hustle to get where he is. There are a lot of back‑and‑forths between them, culminating in an 80s glam‑rock style duet.

Your Nonna character sounds like a force of nature. What inspired her, and how central is she to the emotional spine of the story?

We wanted Nonna to be the all‑seeing eye in the family business. Nothing gets by her and she’s sharp as a tack. We liked the idea that she had a secret web of informants throughout the crew, reporting every tiny piece of information so she could use it to her advantage. Female characters in mafia shows are often complicit bystanders; we wanted Nonna not just to witness events, but to be the puppet master pulling the strings.

You describe the show as “The Sopranos with full‑scale musical mayhem.” What elements of classic gangster cinema were irresistible to parody or reimagine on stage?

The way characters express themselves — in their words and gestures — in mafia cinema is so captivating and feels prime for parody. We loved the idea of these big macho guys singing about their beef with other members of the “Family.”

The idea that you don’t just whack someone – you give them a closing number – is brilliant. How did you balance the comedy with the stakes of a mob story without tipping too far in either direction?

Alice came up with that line — thanks, Alice. Shows like The Sopranos can have comedic elements in the darkest scenes. We tried to keep the story ticking over without getting too dark, but anything mafia‑related certainly heats up in the second half.

Michael Mackay’s Fringe experience and James Bruce’s BBC background make for an interesting creative pairing. How did that collaboration shape the tone and rhythm of the show?

Our collective experience allowed us to take ideas that worked well and avoid the things that didn’t. We’ve been friends for a long time, so we tend to be on the same page about what we find funny.

Alice Humphries’ previous Fringe success clearly brings strong directing pedigree. What new energy or perspective has she brought to This Little Thing of Ours?

Alice has been the real driving force of the show. She’s brought so much experience that we desperately needed. We met her in February and since then she’s been invaluable in bringing the songs to life.

You’ve assembled a cast of local Scottish talent. What qualities were you looking for to bring this heightened, musical‑gangster world to life? The obvious requirement was that they needed to pull off the accent and sing. We also looked for people with a bit of dark energy about them. I think all of the cast would be quite comfortable playing villains.

The show features a live band of professional musicians. How integral is the live sound to the storytelling, and what does it let you do that a backing track never could?

A live band is essential — it brings the show to life. Backing tracks or playing to a click creates a stale, repetitive atmosphere. Having four musicians playing live and feeding off the audience is much more fun.

Fringe audiences love a late‑night discovery. What do you hope people walk away with after seeing your 22:30 performance – what’s the lasting flavour you want them to carry home?

We hope they ignore the Omertà oath the mafia enforces and tell everyone they know.

Click here to buy tickets

See our review here

Advert

Leave a Comment

Inside MOMME DOMME: A Mistressclass in Power and Provocation

Click on image to buy tickets

Some artists send a press release. Blemme Fatale sent a warning shot wrapped in velvet. MOMME DOMME arrives at the Fringe already humming with danger — part ritual, part trapdoor, part love letter to women who refuse to be tidied up for institutional comfort. It’s a show that doesn’t just perform power; it handles it, tests it, breaks it open to see what’s inside.

Across London, Toronto and Jamaica, this team has been building a world where pedagogy becomes theatre, theatre becomes seduction, and seduction becomes a political act. Their answers came back with the same energy as the work itself: sharp, funny, unbothered, and absolutely certain of the stakes.

Below is our full conversation.

You describe MOMME DOMME as a “mistressclass that becomes an artwork.” When you first conceived that shift — from lesson to entrapment — what problem in contemporary performance were you trying to expose?

It’s sort of sadistic how much we love a bait and switch. When Love Island dropped Casa Amor on us. Everyone swears they’d win on Traitors. When Michelle and Emma were fake evicted on Big Brother. This is a dopamine tried and tested bait and switch.

I wanted to expose how easily institutions lure you in and censor you swiftly and how that is a gag order on risks and is flattening the cultural landscape. They’ll own you to do what they please, to make you more palatable or to shelf you.

And when the instittuon is making these decisions you can absolve yourself.

I want the audience to relish in the entertainment your the decisions produce (please do have a good time) but own how degrading and exploitative your actions can be. I want the audience to feel that bait‑and‑switch in their own bodies, so the feeling of vouyerism lingers well after the show.

The show pulls from Kirsta Kelech’s Ladies Lounge at MONA, The Slumflower’s self‑love movement, and Chantal Heide’s dating coaching. These are very different cultural ecosystems. What made those three strands speak to each other in your head?

Powerful, unapologetic, cunty women.

I discovered the lawsuit against Kirsta Kelch’s Ladies Lounge at MONA in Australia because it was a women’s only exhibit and it was so hot how they extended the artwork by sashaying out of court in stylish blazers and red lipsticks.

Cunt. I came across Chiedera Eggerue (The Slumflower) and her #SaggyBoobsMatter, provoking and catching one podcast bro at a time in their double standards.

Cunt. I was entranced by Chantal Heide’s dating coaching, defending how Body Count Doesn’t Matter, not even leaving a beat for her words to be misconstrued and for misinformation to spread.

Cunt. Three completely different rooms, a gallery, a podcast, a live stream, each woman holding a boundary which they’re prepared to defend till queendom come for their sake and mine.

Each night you bring in a fresh cast drawn from “clubs, collectives and covens” across Toronto and Edinburgh. What changes most when the room is filled with new women, and what never changes at all?

Personal boundaries, what history they’re bringing in with them, how fast they trust the postcards, the questions asked about BDSM based on experience (we’ve got femdoms to actors) and levels of surrendment to the show. Whether you just want to drop the aubergine gently or thrash it with your heels to crack it right open. We’re the last show of the night so don’t worry needing a dry stage immediately afterwards.

What never changes is the architecture. “Different women, same architecture, varying result,” that’s actually a line in the script. The mistressclass is pretty fixed. With twelves scenes, twelve lessons from “How To Spot A Sub” to “How To Pick A Fake Name”. We keep the onboarding ritual and safe words consistent across all shows so there is structure and a safety framework.

The press release mentions “online rape academies” as a provocation. That’s a stark phrase. How do you navigate referencing that digital violence without reproducing its harm onstage?

The show is interested in the pervasive sense of surveillance and control of women that drive exploitative characters from Andrew Tate, to pick up coaches to meta‑glasses content harvesters to rape academies.

The show is a call to action for what women can do once they’ve clocked; they are not safe dating and they finally mourn the fantasy. My abundant mindset is too clear to gatekeep the world of female domination for any longer.

MOMME DOMME uses BDSM language to expose “the architecture of exclusion and exploitation.” What did you discover about power — theatrical, social, or sexual — once you started working with that vocabulary?

From aftercare to hard limits, BDSM already has a vocabulary for negotiating power out loud, which most institutions don’t. You don’t negotiate, you sign on the dotted line cos you’re replaceable. Once I put the gallery, the artist, the audience and the domme in that same vocabulary, the exploitation got very easy to see, because suddenly everyone had to declare what they wanted instead of hiding behind “it’s just how things are done.” It became clear how the mindset of an understood divinity and how accepting your matriarchal inheritance can get you what you want. Don’t ask, dont get.

You’re based between London, Toronto and Jamaica, and your work is rooted in Pan‑African oral traditions and the Seven Generations Principle. Where does MOMME DOMME sit inside that lineage of storytelling?

Stories are the oldest currency in the world. When you’re lost or down on your luck, stories garner response and can shift realities. MOMME DOMME is a ritual passed down and rebuilt each night with a new set of women, the way oral tradition has always worked. What gets carried forward is our responsibility even if that may be tips for your next sub, trick or paypig.

The show contains themes of sexual violence, coercive control, surveillance and institutional abuse. How do you build an environment where audiences can sit with those realities without being overwhelmed by them?

We weave these themes together with British pop culture TV shows, high‑energy lipsyncs and gag‑worthy soap opera moments to allow the audience to settle into the familiar as they discover the sex‑positive world of MOMME DOMME. The material is a lot, it’s spicy, it’s vulnerable, it’s vulgar, some may say uncouth but we priortise care and wellbeing to the people we bring into this world.

Peggy Mitchell, your “aspiring institutional darling,” leads the audience into How To Be A Domme 101. What does Peggy let you say — or critique — that you couldn’t express through a more conventional narrator?

Peggy gets to be wrong by looking away when she shouldn’t, and that lets me critique institutional complicity from inside it rather than pointing at it from a safe distance. A conventional narrator tells you the gallery is exploitative like it’s their first day on Earth. Like they’re brand new. It’s a worthy cause, bringing the end of the patriarchy but to what extent is it justified or even possible when it’s bankrolled by these highly problematic institutions compromising your belief that we’re not free until we’re all free. Can BP or Shell sponsor the matriarchy if they also promise to cover the AC?

MOMME DOMME is described as “chronically online” and “hyper‑local.” In practice, how do you balance the internet’s speed and chaos with the slower, embodied rituals you weave into the performance?

Thank Goddess for the internet. From TikTok tarot readings to Are We Dating the Same Guy facebook groups and all the discourse in between. The ritual gives us a pace where fast paced sound can complement slowly putting on lipstick, looking directly at the audience. The chaos of the show is rooted in the audio, and the tasks allow for the women to set the intentional speed of the room.

You’ve been shortlisted for the UNTAPPED Award 2025 and previously won Most Innovative Bite at Bitesize Festival. With MOMME DOMME now premiering at Toronto Fringe and Edinburgh Fringe, what feels newly possible for you artistically?

We want to do work rooted in pedagogy and process with breathing room for interpretation and less dictation. Where natural storytellers can shine. Toronto let us test whether the form could hold with women who’d never met each other before curtain. Edinburgh is the first time I get to see if it travels, whether the same architecture works with a completely different city’s clubs, collectives and covens. In terms of my relationship with cultural recognition, I have turned my attention to leadership by starting the Binge Fringe x Blemme Fatale Productions Black Performers Award in 2025 which returns for Edinburgh Fringe 2026!

Click here to buy tickets

Advert

 

Leave a Comment

John-Luke Roberts: What I Talk About When I Run About Talking

Click on image to buy tickets

★★★★★ John‑Luke Roberts returns to the Fringe with an hour that blends surrealism, sharp language play and candid reflections on health, therapy and mortality. In a small room that suits his conversational style, he delivers a show that’s warm, inventive and consistently funny, proving once again why he occupies such a singular corner of British comedy.

John-Luke Roberts has long occupied a distinctive corner of British comedy, where surrealism, wordplay and intelligent observation meet. What I Talk About When I Run About Talking demonstrates why he has earned that reputation. This is a show that is often gloriously absurd, occasionally deeply personal and consistently engaging.

The intimate venue suits both the performer and the material. With room for around sixty people, it creates exactly the kind of atmosphere this show needs. Audience and performer feel part of the same conversation rather than separated by a stage. There’s also something pleasingly Fringe about the adjoining bar, where people can gather over a drink before taking their seats. By the time Roberts walks on, the audience already feels relaxed and receptive, and he rewards that goodwill from the opening moments.

One of Roberts’ greatest strengths is his command of language. He clearly enjoys words, not simply as vehicles for jokes but as toys to be turned over, stretched and occasionally twisted into unexpected shapes. His delivery is conversational yet meticulously controlled. There’s never a sense that he’s racing towards punchlines. Instead, he allows ideas to unfold at their own pace, trusting the audience to follow him wherever he’s heading.

What impressed me most was his ability to move effortlessly between comedy and subjects that, in other hands, might feel overwhelmingly serious. He speaks candidly about a recent health scare involving blood clots on his lungs, alongside reflections on mortality and therapy. These are not easy themes to make funny, yet Roberts never trivialises them. Instead, he finds humour in the way we process frightening experiences and the strange mental journeys they provoke.

His stories about therapy were among the afternoon’s highlights. The recurring image of his therapist ending sessions with probing questions for him to ponder until the next appointment became an inspired comic device. It reminded me, oddly enough, of the cliffhanger endings from the old Batman television series, forever leaving viewers hanging until the next episode. Roberts mines that structure brilliantly, turning psychological introspection into something unexpectedly hilarious.

Interspersed throughout the show are short poems that arrive almost without warning. They provide delightful changes of pace and consistently earned some of the biggest laughs of the evening. Roberts understands the value of surprise. Just as the audience thinks they know where a routine is heading, he quietly changes direction and lands somewhere entirely unexpected.

His physical presence on stage should not be overlooked either. Although this is a language-rich show, he uses movement economically and effectively, maintaining the audience’s attention throughout. He projects warmth and confidence without becoming overbearing, and there is a generosity to his performance that keeps everyone with him.

Perhaps the most impressive aspect of the hour is its rhythm. Many stand-up shows have noticeable peaks and quieter patches. This one scarcely does. Roberts maintains a steady flow of laughs from beginning to end, moving naturally between stories, observations, poems and surreal detours. The different strands might appear unrelated on paper, yet on stage they knit together into a coherent whole.

Comedy that embraces the surreal can sometimes become self-indulgent or leave audiences behind. Roberts avoids that trap. However eccentric the destination, he always provides enough emotional truth to keep the audience invested. Beneath the absurdity lies an astute observer of human behaviour, capable of making us laugh at life’s anxieties without ever dismissing their seriousness.

Above all, John-Luke Roberts knows how to entertain an audience. He combines intelligence, imagination, excellent timing and complete command of the room into an hour that feels fresh, thoughtful and consistently funny. Fringe audiences looking for comedy that rewards careful listening as much as spontaneous laughter should make time for this show.

Reviewed by Patrick Harrington

Click here to buy tickets

Click here to read an interview with John-Luke Roberts

Leave a Comment

Room 1219: Douglas Arbuckle on Reclaiming Roscoe’s Story

Click on image to buy ticket

Some stories arrive already warped by the decades — bent out of shape by gossip, studio politics, and the public’s appetite for a villain. Room 1219 walks straight into that fog. In this production, Douglas Arbuckle takes on Roscoe Arbuckle at the exact moment his life detonates, and what follows is a study in collapse, reputation, and the uneasy space between fact and folklore. Our conversation moved between research, responsibility, and the strange intimacy of portraying a man history has half‑remembered and half‑invented.

You’re stepping into Roscoe Arbuckle’s shoes at a moment when his life implodes — “arrested and charged with murder” in Room 1219. What part of that emotional freefall hit you hardest as a performer?

I think the more you find out about Roscoe, the more you realise how much his difficult upbringing — and specifically his loneliness — propelled him to seek acceptance and approval from everybody. So it would be the loss of his friends and love from the public that hit me the hardest, as it was undeserved and unjust.

The show promises to tell “his side of the story.” How did you approach portraying a man whose public image was shaped more by scandal than truth?

I’d already read widely about Roscoe’s life, so knew a lot more about him than most, I’d say. The contemporary histories of his life and story are essentially agreed on the truths and untruths — the public records of the trials are available. I approached it as I would approach any character, trying to tell their truth, based upon what I had researched and what I felt.

Arbuckle’s downfall was brutal — the press, the public, Hollywood all turned on him. What did you discover in your research that surprised you or challenged the received narrative?

Nothing really surprised me. I was more disappointed that the story is very human, and there is avarice, greed, jealousy… and that in a sense it is no different, over a hundred years later, today. We seem not to have learned anything, in some ways, and put ourselves above others when there is a dollar to be made or someone to destroy.

This is a one‑man show. What’s the biggest challenge in holding an audience through a story that spans fame, scandal, and collapse without another actor to bounce off?

I think pacing is always a huge challenge when you are solely responsible for dictating it. You should always remember as a performer that you are there to tell a story, entertain, and most importantly hold a mirror up to society. So the biggest challenge is getting that story across in a way that engages and allows you to paint a picture of that particular world at that particular time, to allow the audience to reflect on their own thoughts. And not put them to sleep!

James Beyer says he wants to “set the record straight.” Did his script push you toward a particular emotional truth, or did you find your own angle on Roscoe?

I think both. There were obviously details of Roscoe’s story that were new to me too, despite my previous knowledge. James, the writer, does not try to make Roscoe a man without faults. But we do lay out the facts, and use artistic license to a degree, to imagine the emotional impact on Roscoe. Because the themes are universal though — love, loss, loneliness, struggle, success, greed — it’s not hard to find emotional truth, playing Roscoe and knowing what the historical facts were, as far as we can determine them.

Arbuckle was a silent‑film star. How did you translate that physical, expressive performance style into a modern Fringe setting without slipping into caricature?

I don’t know — let’s see! In a way avoiding caricature is easy because there is very little to go on playing Roscoe, as opposed to Fatty. The play is about Roscoe, and to a lesser extent his screen persona, Fatty. The childishness, playfulness and physicality that made him so successful on screen is of course naturally part of him, but is by no means all of him. So you can exhibit some of those qualities playing him as a person, rather than a performer, and to a large degree that is the creative process, because there is very little to go on about how Roscoe genuinely felt and expressed himself about the tragedies and injustices that befell him.

The production features original music by David Lyle. How does the score shape your performance rhythm or the emotional temperature of the piece?

It’s used in different ways, and allows me to play the lightness of the man, the romanticism, which was effervescent. So in terms of emotional temperature, it’s great for me to unlock the joy that Roscoe had in entertaining people, which is his essence. We are lucky to have such accomplished contributors musically, and theatrically in the creative team. I’ve not sung on stage for a while and the pipes are a little rusty, so David and others have been invaluable to me. And very patient!

The scandal destroyed careers — “No one was hit harder than Arbuckle himself.” Do you feel the show asks the audience to reconsider him, or simply to understand him?

Both. Before I started reading years ago, which was because I was researching the Arbuckles — my ancestry — all I thought I knew about him was that he was a silent film star who killed a young actress in sordid circumstances. I think most people even today would give you a similar view. So I think the play asks you to look at the evidence presented — not just about the scandal but his whole life — and make your own mind up. It doesn’t answer all the questions, it can’t.

You share a surname with Roscoe. Has that created any unexpected connection, pressure, or curiosity from audiences or the creative team?

No pressure, certainly from the audiences or creative team, but certainly curiosity. When I saw the advert for the audition (sounding like Roscoe himself here) I saw it as fate. Everybody of course asks if we are related. I can say with quite a lot of confidence that we probably are. I’m one step away from proving Roscoe’s lineage back to South Lanarkshire, and I know my own is from that area and/or Glasgow. There are not many Arbuckles and it’s fascinating trying to put it all together. I’m hoping to get records from Jefferson County Library in Indiana… Lots of Arbuckles left Scotland for the US via Northern Ireland, and it looks like Roscoe and my line may be the same. And there are other performers in his ancestry too. I do feel a certain responsibility though, to make a good job of telling the story, as it’s my name too and my family’s.

After living inside this story, what do you hope audiences walk out questioning — about Arbuckle, about celebrity, or about how quickly public judgement hardens?

All of that! But more than celebrity and public judgement, questioning how we behave and treat each other as humans. Celebrity and status did not really matter in original drama — comedy and satires — as they were stripped away with the targets not only front and centre in the audience but often paying for the whole festival. So hopefully it’s a leveller in some way, like all good drama, and we reflect on ourselves and our own relationships.

You can buy tickets for the show here

Leave a Comment

James Beyer on Reclaiming Roscoe Arbuckle: The Story Behind Room 1219

Click on image to buy tickets

Hotel St Francis, San Francisco, September 1921: a silent‑era star at the height of his fame, a young actress in distress, and a companion whose testimony would ignite one of Hollywood’s earliest media infernos. Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, Virginia Rappe and Maude Delmont — three names forever tied to the secrets of Room 1219. Arbuckle, the man who turned slapstick into gold, saw his world collapse overnight as a charge of murder shattered his career and made him Hollywood’s first fall guy.

A century later, writer James Beyer revisits that pivotal moment in Room 1219, exploring Arbuckle’s meteoric rise, the scandal that consumed him, and the ruthless machinery of public opinion that ensured his downfall. In this interview, Beyer discusses the research, the responsibility, and the creative choices behind bringing one of Hollywood’s most contested stories back into the spotlight.

Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle’s case is one of Hollywood’s earliest and most explosive scandals. What drew you to this particular moment in cinema history, and why revisit it now?

The inspiration for writing Room 1219 came from attending many solo shows at previous Fringe Festivals, where performers portrayed figures from film or theatre. Arbuckle’s story struck me as an ideal vehicle for that format. The process hasn’t been urgent in a topical sense — it’s actually been quite protracted — though perhaps there’s a personal urgency now that I’m 77 and keen to ensure the play finally reaches an audience. I hope this won’t be my last chance, but it certainly motivated me to finish it.

The show promises to tell Arbuckle’s side of the story. How did you navigate the balance between historical fact, public myth, and emotional truth?

Historical fact, public myth, and emotional truth are all essential to Arbuckle’s story. Each has been carefully researched and woven into the script so the audience experiences a subtle shift in tone as the play progresses. It builds toward an emotionally charged final section where Arbuckle reveals the anguish and torment he endured as a result of the scandal. All three facets are handled fairly and sensitively.

James Beyer is both a musician and a film historian. How does that dual background shape the tone, pacing, and perspective of the script?

The music complements the mood on stage and creates comedic moments throughout. It supports both comedy and tragedy — reflecting Arbuckle’s early life, his later career, and the events of September 5th, 1921, with their tragic aftermath. The music isn’t the driving force; Arbuckle’s story is. Sound effects are also used to enhance the atmosphere.

This is a one‑man show led by Douglas Arbuckle. What made him the right performer to carry such a complex and controversial figure on his own?

Douglas Arbuckle is an excellent choice for several reasons. First — he is an Arbuckle. He has researched Roscoe’s character extensively, making his portrayal compelling and authentic. He has read accounts of Arbuckle’s life, watched his films, and perfected a convincing accent. All of this gives him a deep understanding of Arbuckle’s complex personality. In addition, Douglas is a highly experienced actor.

Alan Borthwick directs the production. What was his approach to staging a story that is both intimate and historically sprawling?

We had to choose between an intimate focus and a sprawling historical narrative to keep within the 50‑minute Fringe allocation. We chose intimacy. The play shows that despite Arbuckle’s immense talent and popularity, once he was branded a scapegoat for Hollywood’s perceived moral failings, there was no escape from ruination.

The press release mentions Arbuckle being treated harshly and unfairly. What aspects of his treatment by the media and public are most misunderstood today?

There are countless variations of the Arbuckle story in the public domain — some well‑researched, others sensationalised. Sensational news captured the public’s attention in 1921 and still does today. The embellished accounts of the press galvanised people into believing Arbuckle was guilty of murder (later reduced to manslaughter). Both the public and the film industry judged him quickly, fed by the biased gutter press of newspaper barons like Hearst.

The show includes original music by David Lyle. How does the score support the storytelling, and what emotional colours does it bring?

Although the press release indicated original music, the company later decided to use published material for the mood‑music extracts and the two songs performed in the show. Arbuckle would have been familiar with the songs chosen, and the mood music comes from material written for silent cinema. These extracts and songs are taken from published works of the period. For how the music supports the storytelling, see my earlier response — it mirrors the emotional shifts of the narrative.

Keystone Theatricals is a new Edinburgh company. What does launching Room 1219 say about your artistic identity and ambitions?

Keystone Theatricals was set up primarily for Room 1219. The name “Keystone” was chosen for two reasons: it was the studio that launched Arbuckle’s film career, and it also suggests a strong base or foothold. Artistically, I see Keystone promoting solo shows about significant historical figures, not necessarily limited to stage and screen. Tickets are selling well, so perhaps 2027 will see a re‑run. Beyond that, there are no immediate plans.

Arbuckle’s rise and fall mirror the early power structures of Hollywood. How do you explore those dynamics without turning the show into a lecture on film history?

The play explores these dynamics through significant episodes from Arbuckle’s life and career. It uses the masks of comedy and tragedy to tell his story. The storytelling style prevents the show from becoming a lecture, and ideally it will motivate some audience members to learn more about this period in cinema history afterwards.

With a 50‑minute runtime, the show is tightly focused. What do you hope audiences walk away questioning or reconsidering?

We hope audiences leave more enlightened about this period in cinema history and better understand the circumstances surrounding the scandal, which may previously have been coloured by sensationalised accounts. The powerful ending should evoke sympathy for Arbuckle and encourage a reassessment of how he was treated.

 

Leave a Comment

Inside The Pitch: Philip Catherwood on Culture, Conflict and Coming‑of‑Age in Modern Belfast

The Pitch – click on image to buy tickets

As the writer of The Pitch, Philip Catherwood has been right at the centre of a story that’s as much about modern Belfast as it is about sport. He’s watched the play grow from a spark of local controversy into a piece that captures humour, identity, political tension and the shifting cultural landscape of Northern Ireland. His voice in the room is steady, instinctive, and rooted in lived experience — someone who understands how a single pitch can hold decades of history, and how three characters can carry the weight of a changing country. In conversation, he moves easily between the personal and the political, between the craft of rehearsal and the bigger questions the play raises. What follows is his take on how The Pitch came to life.

When you first started shaping The Pitch, what was the spark — the moment you realised this wasn’t just a story about Gaelic football but something bigger?

The spark came from a news story about a GAA club trying to refurbish a soccer pitch into a Gaelic football ground in East Belfast — the area I grew up in. If you don’t know Belfast’s geography or demographics, East Belfast is a strongly Unionist area, and the idea of GAA there is still contentious for some. But things are changing. For me, that story was the perfect example of how cultural identity is shifting in Northern Ireland, how the ground is moving, and how the country might be edging towards Irish Unity. That’s when I realised the play wasn’t just about sport — it was about who we are becoming.

The show sits right in the middle of Belfast humour and political tension. How did you balance the jokes with the weight underneath?

Honestly, it was easy. Belfast humour is built for serious subjects — we deal with heavy things by joking about them. We’re always ribbing each other, always finding the lighter side. I never felt the play tipping too far into seriousness or silliness. The priority was authenticity: real Belfast characters handling real issues in the way people here actually do.

Robbie, Deren, Melissa — three very different ways of seeing the same place. Which of them shifted the most as you developed the script?

They’re the perfect trio to guide the audience through this story. Robbie comes from a Unionist background, Deren from a Nationalist one, and Melissa — though she’s Robbie’s younger sister — represents a younger generation sitting somewhere between those identities.

Robbie changed the most during development. He’s frustrated, hot‑headed, and his views on Irish Unity are visceral. But I wanted him to be sympathetic too. He’s scared of losing part of his identity, and that fear doesn’t make him a bad person. It just makes him human. James Grimm, who plays him, captures that internal struggle beautifully.

There’s a United Ireland referendum hanging over everything. How did you decide how loudly or quietly that should sit in the background?

It starts quietly. Characters mention it in passing because it’s just been announced, and they’re unsure how things will unfold. As time moves forward, the referendum gains momentum and becomes a central part of Robbie, Deren and Melissa’s interactions. Whether a United Ireland happens or not… you’ll have to come and see.

Tell me about a rehearsal where something unexpected happened — a moment that changed how you saw the piece.

There are too many to choose from. The actors are brilliant at ad‑libbing and improvising — adding lines, shifting meanings, finding new beats. We’ve done a few versions of the play before, so they’re comfortable with their characters and with each other. Improv happens naturally, and half the time you won’t even notice it’s unscripted.

Gaelic football is central, but it’s not really “about” the sport. What’s the heartbeat of the show once you strip the pitch away.

At its heart, it’s a coming‑of‑age story. It’s about friendships, relationships, family. It’s about growing up in a unique place with a troubled history and a cultural divide that’s lasted for centuries. I wanted to give a snapshot of modern Belfast — not The Troubles, not the Peace Process, but right now. The conversations young people are having today.

Every production has a detail you fight for — something tiny that most people won’t clock. What’s that detail in The Pitch?

All the little local jokes. They landed perfectly in Belfast but might not be as familiar elsewhere — Tayto, Van Morrison, the Red Hand of Ulster, Down GAA, Buckfast, pastie baps. Those wee references make the world feel real, so they’re staying in.

The show deals with identity, belonging, and the idea of home. How has writing or performing it shifted your own sense of those things?

Like Robbie, I’m from a Unionist background and didn’t grow up with Gaelic football or much Irish cultural tradition. Working on the play broadened my understanding of Irish history and let me explore perspectives I hadn’t fully grasped before. It’s even inspired me to start writing a new play set in 17th‑century Colonial Ireland.

If you had one more week in the room — one more chance to push something further — what part of The Pitch would you dig into?

I’d explore the Irish Unity referendum in more detail — the practical implications. How it would affect people in Northern Ireland. What it would mean for social care, education, housing, sport, transport. All the everyday things. But I’m happy with how much we cover without turning it into a lecture. If you want to dip your toes into the topic of Irish Unity while following the journeys of three funny, flawed Belfast characters, this is the show to see.

You can buy tickets here

 

Leave a Comment

00:45:00 – Five Walk In. One Walk Out. The Audience Decides.

Five people walk into a room, and only one will make it out alive. The clock is running, the rules are brutal, and the audience isn’t allowed to sit comfortably in the dark.

This is a real‑time experiment led by a scientist who wants to know whether one person’s life can ever be worth more than another’s — and what happens when ordinary people are pushed to make that decision. It’s a story about spectators who discover they’re participants, about the moment when watching becomes acting, and about the uncomfortable truth that complicity is rarely abstract.

The playwright behind 00:45:00, Katie Gaven, understands that moral pressure isn’t a gimmick — it’s a provocation. Here, she talks about how the idea formed, why she wants audiences to feel implicated, and how the show has transformed on its journey to the Edinburgh Fringe.

When did the premise of five people entering a room and only one leaving stop being a dramatic device and start becoming a moral experiment you wanted to run on an audience?

The dramatic premise came to me pretty quickly once I knew I wanted to write a psychological thriller, and the decision to turn it into a social or moral experiment developed hand in hand with that. I’ve always loved the horror genre, especially psychological horror, and a lot of the material that inspired me was told through digital mediums — Alice in Borderland, Black Mirror, Squid Game.

That made me ask myself: if I’m going to work in this genre, why tell it through live theatre? The thing I love most about theatre is the way it connects people. So it made sense that the experiment should involve the audience directly.

The show asks whether one life can ever be “worth more” than another. Do you see that as a provocation, or as a question we all quietly answer every day without admitting it.

Honestly, I think it can be both. Weighing one life against another is not something we like to think about day to day. Putting people in that spot is tricky — you can lose the trust of an audience if you mishandle it.

But I also believe one of our best human qualities is empathy, the kind that ignites us to fight and advocate for others. That’s what I wanted to experiment with. It’s a question I’ve asked our audiences to think about, and I hope we can all try to make sense of it together.

Immersive theatre often lets audiences hide behind the novelty of participation. You seem to be doing the opposite — forcing them to confront complicity. What made you want to push them into that uncomfortable territory.

It’s a hard balance, and I’m still figuring it out. One of the main things I’m discovering through new drafts and conversations is that there’s actually positivity in acknowledging complicity. When we treat that acknowledgment as a victory — a step in the right direction — it becomes easier to inspire ourselves and others to do more.

Complicity is difficult to reckon with in everyday life. I think it’s good to be reminded of it, prodded to engage with it. It’s something I’m still unpacking within myself.

 

You explore corruption of power and the temptation to look away from injustice. Were there particular moments — political, personal, global — that made you realise this was the story you needed to tell now.

There are so many things that factored into it. The world feels full of terrifying injustices, and while media can be a tool, it can also be desensitizing. We see horrible acts of violence and political injustice every day, and I often feel horrible but also powerless — unsure how I can personally make a difference.

I consider myself privileged, and I never want that to become an excuse to disengage. I feel desperate to actively engage in these conversations and hold myself accountable. This play is an attempt at searching for that action.

The piece was first produced at UNCSA and is now leaping to the Fringe. How has the show changed as it moved from a university environment to an international stage.

OMG it has changed so. freaking. much. We did our first production at my university in a very controlled environment, got incredibly helpful feedback, and were insanely fortunate to be supported by the Thomas S. Kenan Institute for the Arts and fiscally sponsored by Producer Hub.

The play has gone through new drafts, more audience feedback, and a total transformation thanks to the financial support that allowed us to collaborate with amazing artists — our publicist Rosaline Hodgetts, lighting designer Miles Goldsmith, and many more. I can’t wait to share what we’ve been working on.

You’re a six‑time published playwright with recognition from Scholastics, The Blank Theatre, and California Young Playwrights. Does 00:45:00 feel like a continuation of your earlier work, or a rupture — a new artistic chapter.

This is definitely a new artistic chapter. Believe it or not, I’m mostly known as a comedic writer, so working on this play has been a new and vulnerable experience. I’ve never been so scared or excited for a play before. Experimenting with this genre has taught me so much, and I’m excited to see how it influences me as an actor, writer, and director.

Audience participation can be gimmicky if mishandled. How do you ensure the involvement here isn’t a trick, but a genuine ethical pressure point.

For us, it’s important to keep our end goal in mind. If we believe the audience participation is important and impactful, the audience will believe that too.

We’re specific about what success looks like for each character so we understand how participation affects their journey. Most interaction is between the audience and Dr. Wilison, so establishing her objective from the moment she welcomes the audience is crucial. Every bit of participation gets her closer to her goal, and treating those interactions as integral makes them feel genuine.

The show is supported by the Kenan Institute and fiscally sponsored by Producer Hub. Did that backing give you freedom, or sharpen your sense of responsibility.

It definitely sharpened our sense of responsibility. This has been a huge learning experience in balancing collaboration, and I’m beyond grateful for the opportunity.

There’s no way we could’ve done this without the financial support and collaboration from the Kenan Institute and Producer Hub. Getting new work onto the stage is a huge challenge, and for most young playwrights it would be impossible without this kind of help. We feel unbelievably lucky and are doing everything we can to make them proud.

Your cast comes from varied backgrounds — film, theatre, dance, visual art. How did those different artistic languages shape the tension inside the room.

It helps that we all come from the same training program, so we share the same acting vocabulary. I’m an actress first and then a writer, so connecting with the cast as a director through familiar techniques has been great.

At the same time, being multifaceted artists helps us collaborate. Each person brings unique skills. Our best days are when we embrace our different approaches and use them intentionally to build a cohesive world.

Fringe audiences are famously game for risk, but they’re also saturated with choice. What do you hope they walk out carrying — adrenaline, discomfort, clarity, or simply a question they can’t un‑ask.

Absolutely a question they can’t un‑ask. I want this to spark conversation. I don’t know the answers to the questions I’m asking — I want to learn through others.

I also hope to inspire actionable activism instead of passivity. I wrote this play because I’m still unsure how to create change, but I believe the first step is recognizing you want to get involved and engaging in conversations to figure out how.

We hope people interested in those discussions will come see us at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival — August 17–22 at thespaceUK @ Surgeon’s Hall (Stephenson Theatre) and August 24–28 at thespaceUK @ Venue 45. Join us for an experiment you won’t forget.

Buy tickets here

 

Leave a Comment

Kate Butch: Camp, Chaos and Kindness at the Fringe

Click on image to buy ticket

Kate Butch doesn’t just do drag — she weaponises wordplay. Her Fringe show titles are gloriously bad puns elevated to high art, and A Kate in the Hand is Worth Two in the Butch might be her most audacious yet. Beneath the camp and chaos, there’s a performer who knows exactly how to turn silliness into sincerity. This year, she’s blurring the line between persona and person, sequins and soul, glamour and  grit — all while reminding us that kindness can be just as radical as comedy.

Your show titles are always deliciously cheeky. What’s the story behind this one?

I’ve always been fascinated by proverbs and idioms, so when I realised I could shoehorn my name into one then I was thrilled! I adore a really clunky title in a Fringe show, where the pun is so garishly bad it loops back round into being genius (Glenn Moore and Joe Lycett are the masters of this genre). My first show was the ridiculously titled Kate If You Wanna Go Butcher, so I think this one is an improvement.

Drag comedy is a space where identity, satire, and joy collide. What’s the collision point in this show?

I think it’s in the parts where the persona slips a little, and you get a glance at the person underneath the sequins. I’ve always tried to keep a firm divide between my on‑ and off‑stage identities, but with this show I’m going to blur that line a little.

You’ve built a persona that’s both glamorous and chaotic. What’s the moment where that duality shines?

‘Glamorous’ is VERY generous, thank you! There’s a moment where the chaos descends somewhat into violence (and that’s all I’m giving away!), but don’t worry — I look proper fit while it happens.

What’s the cultural itch you’re scratching this year?

I’m being more creative with my meal‑deal choices.

Drag is political even when it’s not trying to be. What’s the quiet political thread in this show?

I think the overarching theme is kindness, and remembering to be kind to others and, possibly more importantly, yourself. To stand in your power and not take any shit from anyone, which is still a lesson I’m trying to learn.

Pleasance crowds can be rowdy. What energy do you want them to bring?

I love an audience that’s up for it. Edinburgh can be exhausting, for both performers and audiences, so anyone that can bring some hype to my show will get it returned back to them in spades. My advice to an audience is not to pack in as many shows as humanly possible — you’ll knacker yourself before 5 PM and then each show after that will feel like a slog. Take a break. Get a macaroni pie.

What’s the joke or bit that always gets you laughing, even in rehearsal?

There’s a photo of me that is used in the show which I think is so funny. If anyone asks me how the show is going I just show them that picture, and it somehow depicts EXACTLY how I am feeling at any one moment. I might sell prints of it afterwards.

What’s the costume moment you’re most excited about?

Honestly? The fact that I don’t have to wear the same thing every day. For previous shows I’ve had the ONE show costume, which is usually made of something very much not machine‑washable, and by the end of the run it could probably get up and walk away. Being able to perform the show without having to worry about how much Febreze I have left, or the 4D aromatic experience I’m inflicting on the audience, is very liberating.

If someone walks in expecting pure camp, what deeper thing might they find?

I hope that there’s a very human side to the show, and that despite the very specific‑to‑me stuff I am talking about, there’ll be a thread that anyone can relate to. They’ll also get to see me do some manual labour, so there’s that.

What’s inspiring you right now — drag, music, pop culture, or something stranger?

TikToks of people falling over. Timeless.

Kate Butch: A Kate in the Hand is Worth Two in the Butch 🎭 Pleasance King Dome | Edinburgh Fringe 2026 🕗 8 PM | Buy tickets here

Leave a Comment

John‑Luke Roberts: Running, Talking, and Twisting Comedy Into New Shapes

Click on image to buy tickets

John‑Luke Roberts has always been one of the Fringe’s great experimenters — a comic who treats absurdity as both art form and philosophy. His new show, What I Talk About When I Run About Talking, takes that impulse and runs with it, literally and metaphorically. It’s part stand‑up, part linguistic labyrinth, part existential sprint. Roberts has built a reputation for turning nonsense into meaning and meaning into nonsense, often in the same breath.

We talked about mortality, mechanics, and the strange joy of chasing ideas until they collapse laughing.

 

Your show titles always feel like riddles, jokes, and philosophical puzzles at the same time. What unlocked this one for you?

Haruki Murakami wrote a book called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, and it’s a really good title, isn’t it? I think Murakami wrote it as a play on Raymond Carver’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Love, and must have thought, “That’s a really good title, I’m having that.” Anyway, I was playing around with it in my head and made myself laugh by saying, “What I Talk About When I Run About, Talking,” and then thought, “I’m having that.” When I started building a show that was more stand‑uppy and verbal than my other shows, I thought the title was a good fit. Once I attached it, I tried to make the show feel like the title.

You’ve built a reputation for bending comedy into strange shapes. Has there been a moment where you thought, “This might be too weird… even for me”?

That’s a really interesting question. I think the only thing that’s stopped me doing something is trying it out and it not getting a laugh. Once I’d dressed as my dead‑dad‑dressed‑as‑a‑vampire and performed naked as Mediaeval Poet Geoffrey Chaucer, I’ll give any stupid or weird idea a go. These days I’m more careful about emotional risks. I used to be quite devil‑may‑care about trauma‑dumping on stage or putting myself through unprocessed emotional stuff, and I’m very wary of that now.

Running and talking — two acts of escape. Did one inspire the other, or did they collide by accident?

They can be, but you can also run and talk in circles, which can feel like escape but actually trap you. I just took the title from Murakami and jiggled it, but as it happens the show is partly about escaping and trapping yourself.

You often smuggle big ideas into silly moments. What’s the idea you’re wrestling with this year?

I had a big health scare in November, so the show has a lot about mortality in it. Beyond that, it’s about identity and about words. I don’t want to over‑explain it, but I got some really helpful notes from Lara Ricote the other day, and we worked out it’s about identity and “the edges of things.” Hope that helps. But yes, also, it is silly.

Monkey Barrel has become a home for comics who like to experiment. What does that room give you that others don’t?

First and foremost, it gives me a decent split of the ticket sales. Beyond that, being at Monkey Barrel works as a stamp of approval for comedy audiences — it helps get people in because they think, “He must be all right, he’s on at Monkey Barrel.” I always feel looked after there; it’s run by people who really like and understand comedy.

How much of this show is meticulously planned, and how much is you letting chaos in through the side door?

This time round it’s pretty meticulously planned. Within each routine I give myself leeway to improvise or play around the theme. There’s no audience participation in this one, so chaos can’t really come in that way. But honestly, even when I did a lot of audience participation, I could be 95 percent sure of what they’d do anyway.

You’ve always been interested in the mechanics of comedy. What’s the new structural gamble you’re playing with?

Genuinely, it’s trying to do a straightforward conversational stand‑up show. I’ve had a rule for myself that whenever a tricksy ending or puzzle‑box structure offered itself up, I’d go the other way. I think I’ve done that, and I really like how the show plays.

Fringe audiences arrive exhausted, overwhelmed, or over‑stimulated. What do you hope they leave your show carrying?

I hope they leave energised, laughing, and thinking a bit. I hope the ideas ricochet around their heads for a while and intermingle with their own.

Comedy is changing — fast. What do you think live performance still does better than anything else?

Bringing people together and fostering human connection. I hope — and I think — that as generative AI starts poisoning all the digital wells, people will treasure the humanness and authenticity of live performance even more. Comedy is all about social bonding and laughing with other people, so the best place to watch it is in a room full of them.

What’s feeding your brain right now — books, music, obsessions — that’s quietly shaping the show?

I’ve been listening to a lot of Modest Mouse — a band you’d think I liked, but I’ve only just started. I’m watching a lot of stand‑up specials and finding exciting things in the form I hadn’t noticed before. I’ve been watching quite a few American specials and started thinking about them differently. Generally, a UK stand‑up hour has a unifying theme or story; a US hour is often a series of bits. I used to think, “Why can’t they put the work in to finish their shows?” but now I see them more like albums — a series of tracks that the audience draws associations between, or not. You can take an audience to a really satisfying place that way.

 

John‑Luke Roberts: What I Talk About When I Run About Talking 🎭 Monkey Barrel Comedy | Edinburgh Fringe 2026 🕐 Times vary | Buy tickets  here 

Leave a Comment

Older Posts »