Posts Tagged Edinburgh Fringe Festival

Structure vs. Chaos: Momme Domme’s Ambitious but Unruly Fringe Performance

August 26, 2026 at 9:14 am · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe 2026, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Kink, Theatre ·Tagged , , , , , , , ,

★★★★ Momme Domme is one of those Fringe experiences that doesn’t politely knock — it kicks the door in, drags you inside, and dares you to keep up. It’s chaotic, surreal, occasionally baffling, and absolutely determined to make you part of the spectacle whether you’re ready or not.

The show’s creator, Peggy Mitchell (Blemme Fatale), stalks the space in a white‑blonde wig, setting the tone as the unhinged architect of this strange universe . Around her, a rotating cast of characters orbit like planets in a system held together by sheer audacity. There’s SUB (Sam Hackney‑Ring), the man in the dog mask gleefully distributing tasks to unsuspecting audience members . CURATOR (Abby Witchalls) oversees the voting rituals with the calm menace of someone who knows exactly how much power she has in the room .

The ensemble is a Fringe microcosm of oddballs and archetypes:

  • NELLY (Rachel Jackson), the football‑mad romantic who seems one bad decision away from disaster .
  • EVE (Fern Russell), the posh blonde with lip‑sync skills sharp enough to cut glass .
  • YARA (Natalie Punter), who snatches a wig, storms out, and returns like she’s in her own personal soap‑opera arc .
  • XENA (Revathi Eswaran), the masked entrepreneur plotting her own party empire from behind a sparkly disguise .

Left: Revathi Eswaran. Right: Fern Russell

It’s a lot — intentionally. The show thrives on overstimulation, on the feeling that you’re watching a Fringe fever dream unfold in real time. But that ambition comes with rough edges. The script is dense, sometimes too clever for its own good, and could use tightening to help the audience follow the emotional through‑line. The sound system struggles under the weight of the chaos, and clarity occasionally gets sacrificed in favour of volume.

I also think the performance would have benefited from a clearer overall structure. With so many characters, tasks, and shifting dynamics happening at once, the show often felt like it was relying on chaos rather than guiding the audience through a deliberate arc. Even a loose framework built around recognisable categories — for example power‑exchange moments, sensation‑based segments, psychological or emotional beats, or audience‑driven decision phases — would have helped anchor the experience. These aren’t about making the show safer or tamer; they’re simply organisational tools that would let the audience understand what mode the performance is in at any given moment. A few defined transitions or thematic “chapters” would give the more experimental elements room to land with greater impact.

One thing that does shine is the backstage graft. Annabel Pearson, the sole stagehand, stage manager, and tech operator, is effectively holding the entire production together with grit and tape . You can feel the live‑wire energy of a show that’s still evolving — and that’s part of the Fringe charm. They’re clearly listening, adjusting, and shaping the piece night by night.

Momme Domme isn’t polished. It isn’t tidy. It isn’t trying to be. It’s a messy, loud, participatory experiment that will either delight you or leave you blinking in confusion — but you won’t forget it. If you’re up for something bold, bizarre, and proudly unrefined, step inside and let the madness wash over you.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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A Forgotten Woman: Mrs Oscar Wilde – A Powerful, Humane Solo Show at Edinburgh Fringe

August 26, 2026 at 8:21 am · Filed under Biographical, Edinburgh Fringe 2026, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, History, LGBT+interest, Solo, Theatre ·Tagged , , , , , , , ,

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★★★★★ History has never been kind to Constance Lloyd. She appears in the margins of Oscar Wilde’s story — a footnote, a casualty, a name occasionally invoked but rarely explored. A Forgotten Woman: Mrs Oscar Wilde sets out to correct that imbalance, and in Lexi Wolfe’s hands, Constance finally steps out of the shadows with a voice that feels fully, fiercely her own. As the press release puts it, Wolfe “brings Constance Lloyd vividly to life in a powerful solo performance told through her letters” .

This is a one‑woman show, but it never feels small. Through Constance’s letters — intimate, witty, and edged with quiet defiance — Wolfe constructs a portrait of a woman navigating love, intellect, motherhood, and public scandal. The production’s description notes that her voice “emerges from the margins of history to reclaim her place in a story that has long overlooked her” , and that is precisely what the performance achieves. It is not an act of historical correction; it is an act of reclamation.

Wolfe’s performance is the anchor. She plays Constance not as a tragic adjunct to Wilde but as a woman of her own convictions — politically engaged, artistically curious, and emotionally complex. The show traces her life with clarity: the early promise, the marriage, the children, the intellectual pursuits, and the devastating public fallout of Wilde’s trial. What could have been a familiar narrative of suffering becomes instead a study in resilience. Constance’s wit is sharp, her warmth genuine, and her refusal to disappear quietly is rendered with understated power.

The production’s history adds weight. First developed at the Buxton Fringe, Wolfe earned Best Actor nominations in 2016 and 2017, and the show now arrives in Edinburgh “in a newly reimagined form” . Her track record — including Best Actress wins for After Shakespeare (2021) and Baker Street Ladies (2025) — shows an artist who thrives in character‑driven work. This piece feels like the conrinuation of that trajectory.

The staging is simple but effective. A solo show about letters demands intimacy, and theSpace @ Symposium Hall provides it. The 17:05 slot suits the tone: a reflective hour at the end of the afternoon, where audiences can sink into the quiet emotional resonance of the piece.  The show is bold not in spectacle but in its insistence on centring a woman history tried to erase.

Even more affecting is the quiet sadness that runs through Constance’s recollections. When she speaks of her love for Oscar, there’s a sincerity and gentleness that makes the tragedy sharper; she talks about him with hope, with loyalty, with the assumption that their shared life will endure. We, of course, know it won’t. That inevitability hangs over the hour, turning even her happiest memories into something fragile. And in the final moments, when she wonders how she will be remembered — or whether she will be remembered at all — the piece lands with unexpected force. It becomes not just a story of a woman overshadowed by scandal, but a meditation on legacy itself: what survives, what is lost, and who history chooses to forget.

Wolfe never overplays the tragedy; she lets the audience feel its weight through the words themselves. The result is quietly devastating. 

A Forgotten Woman is not just a biographical monologue. It is a reclamation. It reminds us that history is often written by those who survive scandal, not those who endure it. Constance Lloyd deserves better than the footnote she was given. Wolfe gives her the dignity of a full story.

A moving, intelligent, and quietly powerful hour — one of the most humane solo performances at this year’s Fringe.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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Dusty Limits Leads a Wild, Joyous Burlesque Night at the Liquid Rooms

August 25, 2026 at 8:30 pm · Filed under Burlesque, Cabaret, Comedy, Edinburgh Fringe 2026, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Magic ·Tagged , , , , , , , ,

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★★★★★ Burlesque nights at the Fringe can be hit‑and‑miss, but the Liquid Rooms delivered one of those gloriously chaotic evenings that reminds you why cabaret survives every cultural cycle. Hosted by Fringe stalwart Dusty Limits, whose sly crowd work and razor‑edged asides are well‑documented in his cabaret appearances at The Voodoo Rooms , the night had that unmistakable mix of glamour, grit and mischief that marks out proper burlesque from the pretenders.

Limits is a natural ringmaster — sardonic, warm, and just dangerous enough to keep the room alert. His genuine love of performance, noted in reviews of his Bowie‑themed cabaret work , carries over effortlessly here. He knows how to hold a crowd, tease it, and then hand it over to the performers at exactly the right moment.

The acts themselves were a lively blend of classic strip‑tease, comic burlesque, and magic. The Liquid Rooms — usually a nightclub and live‑music venue  — proved surprisingly intimate for burlesque, helped by tight lighting and a crowd that arrived ready to play along.

What made the night work wasn’t polish but personality. The performers were bold, funny, and gloriously unafraid of leaning into the absurd. One moment you’re watching a sultry slow‑burn strip, the next you’re hit with a comic number that breaks the room open. It’s the kind of cabaret chaos that feels alive — messy in the right ways, sharp in the right moments, and carried by performers who know exactly what they’re doing.

If you wandered in expecting a tidy, packaged Fringe show, you’d be in the wrong place. But if you wanted a late‑night hit of queer joy, camp theatricality, great dance performances and a host who knows how to work a room, this burlesque night more than earned its applause.

Reviewed by Pat Harrington

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Monster Made — A Brutal, Intelligent, Unforgettable Fringe Standout

August 25, 2026 at 8:04 pm · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe 2026, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Edinburgh International Festival, Theatre ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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★★★★★  Some Fringe shows come armed with spectacle; Monster Made arrives with something far more dangerous — an actor who has spent more than a decade sharpening his craft under some of the most demanding teachers in modern performance training. Alex van Ric’s debut is not simply a play. It’s a confrontation. A study. A descent. And, at times, a reckoning.

Van Ric writes, directs and performs the piece, stepping into the skin of Thomas Duncan — a mass murderer whose crimes echo the worst realities of contemporary violence. Opposite him is Astrid Gutscher pres as Amanda Crowley, a lawyer determined to understand the “why” behind the horror. The production is stripped back to its bones: a table, two chairs, two cameras, and the relentless clank of cell doors. It’s all deliberate. Nothing distracts from the acting — because the acting is the point.

A lineage of training that shows in every moment

Van Ric’s performance is steeped in the traditions he’s trained in. You can see the Drama Centre London lineage — the psychological rigour of Christopher Fettes, the movement‑rooted character analysis of Yat Malmgren, the emotional truth‑seeking of Stanislavski as taught by Harold Lang. His body carries the imprint of Laban’s movement psychology; his emotional shifts feel like they’ve been excavated rather than performed.

This is not academic trivia — it’s visible on stage. The way he holds tension in his shoulders when Thomas resists memory. The sudden, violent propulsion when he pushes the table. The collapse into stillness when a buried truth surfaces. It’s all technique, but never mechanical. Giles Foreman’s method‑based coaching is evident in the depth of internalisation, and Roberta Wallach’s influence — that insistence on human truth — pulses through the quieter moments.

A performance that feels like a masterclass

There are scenes where the audience barely breathes. Van Ric moves through rage, denial, cruelty, panic, and — eventually — something resembling remorse. The emotional whiplash is intentional; the script demands it, and he meets it with precision. When Thomas revisits his childhood abuse, the shift is so visceral it feels unsafe to watch — not because it’s graphic, but because it’s honest.

Gutscher pres matches him with a performance that refuses to be overshadowed. Her Amanda Crowley is controlled, furious, compassionate, and exhausted all at once. She pushes him, challenges him, and refuses to let him hide behind ideology. Their scenes together are electric — two people circling the question the play keeps returning to: Is a monster born, or made?

The script: simple, sharp, and devastating

Van Ric’s writing is lean. No ornamentation, no melodrama. The 911 call that opens the show is chilling in its simplicity — a plumber, a machine gun, 416 shots, 12 women and 9 children dead. It sets the tone: this is not a play about spectacle, but about consequence.

The dialogue between Thomas and Amanda is where the piece truly sings. Their exchanges are jagged, painful, and often uncomfortable. Thomas declares himself a fascist; Amanda fires back that fascism is not an opinion but a crime. He insists he would kill again; she insists he was raised to be a monster. The play never excuses him — but it does interrogate him.

A rare Fringe production that aims beyond the festival

By the final scenes, Thomas begins to crack. Not in a sentimental way — van Ric avoids that trap — but in a way that suggests the possibility of self‑awareness. His request for books after the trial is a small moment, but it lands with weight. It’s the first time he asks for something that isn’t rooted in hate.

This is a production that should not end at the Fringe. It belongs in prisons, rehabilitation centres, community programmes — anywhere the question of violence, trauma, and radicalisation needs to be confronted. It’s not comfortable theatre. It’s necessary theatre.

Verdict

Monster Made is one of the standout productions of this year’s Fringe. Not because it is loud, or shocking, or provocative — but because it is precise, disciplined, and anchored in a profound understanding of acting craft. Van Ric delivers a performance shaped by the giants who trained him, and Gutscher pres meets him beat for beat.

A brutal, intelligent, unforgettable piece of work.

Reviewed by Jacqueline Sharp

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Inside The Bowie Story: How Peter Marchant Channels a Cultural Supernova

August 15, 2026 at 5:29 pm · Filed under David Bowie, Edinburgh Fringe 2026, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, LGBT+interest, Music, Night Owl ·Tagged , , , , , , , ,

David Bowie didn’t just bend culture; he detonated it and then calmly walked through the smoke wearing something nobody had seen before. The Bowie Story promises to trace that volatility — the reinventions, the provocations, the sheer audacity of a man who treated identity as raw material. At the centre of Night Owl’s world‑premiere production is Peter Marchant, whose performance has already been described as “electric”.

In conversation, Marchant is thoughtful, curious, and disarmingly funny — but onstage he steps into Bowie’s slipstream, chasing the imagination that made him a lodestar for misfits, futurists, and anyone who ever felt the world might be bigger than the version they were handed.

This interview digs into the mythology, the music, the queerness, the chaos, and the craft behind The Bowie Story — and why Marchant believes Bowie’s relevance isn’t historical, but ongoing.

When you step onstage for The Bowie Story, are you channelling Bowie the icon, Bowie the innovator, or Bowie the cultural disruptor — and which of those feels most dangerous to inhabit.

A bit of all three I’d say, though if I had to pick one I’d say the cultural disruptor. I’m fascinated by what’s next in popular culture and Bowie wasn’t just interested in what was coming next, he created it. That’s a big focus in the story we tell.

Night Owl Shows thrive on narrative‑driven music experiences. What story about Bowie did you feel compelled to tell that other tributes always seem to miss.

I think the first few years of his career (before he was calling himself Bowie) was a topic I found quite interesting to research and I open up the show talking about this period. He tried various bands and pseudonyms during his teens but didn’t really achieve any success for years, which is crazy when you look at how legendary and influential he became.

Your performance is described as “electric” — what’s the current behind that charge: the music, the mythology, or the responsibility of carrying someone who reshaped the cultural landscape.

Again, probably a bit of all three. Above all it’s the passion for the artist. When the artist holds such a big place in my heart the energy I feel singing their songs comes from somewhere ‘not of this world’.

Bowie reinvented himself so often he almost made authenticity irrelevant. When you perform these songs, which version of him do you think audiences are really searching for.

The unshakable qualities of the man himself were always present in every one of Bowie’s different personas, that’s what I’m reaching for. The man behind the mask whose imagination and vision gave life to his characters.

Space Oddity, Life on Mars, Heroes, Let’s Dance — these tracks are cultural artefacts now. How do you stop them becoming museum pieces and make them feel volatile again.

So long as artists continue to talk about these songs and apply their messages to the world we live in today, they’ll stay relevant. Bowie perfectly predicted the future when talking about the Internet in his interview with Paxman in 1999 and I think that ability to predict the future helped him write songs that would hold eternal relevance.

Bowie blurred the line between persona and performance. Do you ever feel that same tension when leading an all‑star band through his catalogue.

The ways in which Bowie presented his different personas on each album was not just in how he dressed but was also in how he moved and even how he pronounced words — he puts on a bit of a New York twang in Rebel Rebel for example. That’s something I like to try and reflect when portraying his different personas and our band do a great job of showing how his use of sound and production techniques evolved over the years.

The show promises audiences a rediscovery of their favourite songs. What’s the one Bowie track that surprised you most once you started digging into its origins.

I was quite surprised when I found out that Young Americans was released less than a year after the Diamond Dogs album, where Bowie was still putting out a glam‑rock kind of persona. To go from that to his ‘plastic soul’ in such a short space of time is a pretty drastic and rapid transformation.

Bowie shaped pop culture by refusing to play by its rules. What’s the most rebellious choice you’ve made in crafting this show.

Refusing to wear boring trousers.

Night Owl Shows impose narrative clarity — but Bowie thrived on chaos. How do you create a coherent story around someone who resisted being pinned down.

It definitely wasn’t an easy task. Although within each phase of his career there was a lot of consistency — organised chaos you might say. I think when you go year by year and look at the context behind his creative decisions (i.e. his move from LA to Berlin to escape drug addiction and working with Eno and Visconti) the drastic changes he went through seem to make more sense.

Bowie was a trailblazer for sexual freedom, queerness, and self‑invention. When you embody his work, how consciously do you engage with that legacy — and what does it mean to perform songs that once helped people feel seen for the first time.

I speak about this a little bit when talking about his Ziggy years, making the character androgynous and gender‑fluid. But I think much of how I embody that comes from how I dress and move on stage (I do a lot of ass shaking on stage in my glittery trousers and sequin lightning bolt jacket). Hearing lyrics like “you got your mother in a whirl, she can’t tell if you’re a boy or a girl, hey babe your hair’s alright, hey babe let’s go out tonight” must have been very liberating and validating for queer people to hear for the first time.

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Inside MOMME DOMME: A Mistressclass in Power and Provocation

August 9, 2026 at 8:49 am · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe 2026, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Interviews, Kink ·Tagged , , , , , ,

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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!

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Good Girl: Mimi Collins on Betrayal, Consent and Starting Again

August 7, 2026 at 10:19 am · Filed under Drama, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Theatre ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

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Some Fringe shows don’t just tell a story — they hit a nerve. Good Girl is one of them. It’s direct, open, and unexpectedly funny even when things get heavy. Mimi Collins doesn’t hide behind performance tricks or distance herself from the material. She steps straight into it and shows what it really takes to put yourself back together after everything falls apart.

What follows is a conversation about betrayal, identity, kink, consent, and the strange, stubborn hope that keeps people standing even when the ground gives way. It’s not tidy. It’s not polite. It’s real — and that’s why it lands.

Alix’s breaking point — Your show begins with infidelity but quickly becomes about the reaction rather than the betrayal. Why do you think so many people are more shocked by their own responses than by the crisis itself?

How we expect ourselves to react in certain situations is a core part of our sense of self. If you were to see a crime being committed, for example, most people would say they’d intervene. That’s who they think they are. But what happens if, when confronted with that reality, they don’t?

The truth is, we often don’t know ourselves as well as we think we do. And that’s an incredibly unnerving thing to face. When Alix realizes her reaction to this betrayal is nothing like what she would have guessed — nothing like what she would advise others to do, or what her younger self would tell her to do — it rocks her entire world. Her core identity. And it’s really hard to find your footing again when you’re suddenly standing in quicksand.

Emotional self‑deception — You portray Alix as flawed, contradictory, and sometimes complicit in her own pain. What made you want to resist the “pure victim” narrative?

The only way to connect with people is to tell the truth. The truth is what allows the audience to connect with the characters. And the truth is, there is no pure victim. Just like there is no pure villain. We are flawed. We make mistakes. We handle hard situations imperfectly. And all we can do is wake up tomorrow and try to be better than we were the day before.

Therapy as storytelling — The piece unfolds through therapy sessions, late‑night confessions and “hey girl” texts. How did you use these forms to reveal the logic of someone trying to hold a collapsing marriage together?

The three avenues sort of act as a filtration system. They offer different amounts of external input. The “hey girl” texts are external information with a calculated response, therapy sessions are external conversations designed to spark internal dialogue, and the late-night confessions — well, that’s just Alix and her audience. That’s where she gets to be completely unfiltered. Say the inside thoughts out loud. The things you’d never say in daylight — not even at a whisper. The audience allows her a space to give voice to her deepest fears and most shameful secrets. And by giving voice to them, they lose their power. And she might just be able to find herself again.

The nude photo moment — Posting a nude online is a huge turning point. What does that impulsive act unlock for Alix that nothing else could?

Well — let’s be frank. Infidelity can really do a number on your self-esteem. And while infidelity rarely has much to do with the person on the receiving end, it is not unreasonable for that person to wonder — is it me? Am I simply undesirable? And, listen, I am not advising people to post nudes online. But… if you do, you’ll get an answer.

But to push beyond the initial impulse, posting a nude online offers Alix a new vantage point from which to see herself. It almost allows her to try on a new skin. And in discovering what this new person she’s playing as craves, she becomes more aware of her own needs. Needs she has been minimizing for a long time, that very much deserve to be tended to.

BDSM as sanctuary — The kink community becomes the safest, most honest space in the story. What surprised you most when exploring BDSM as a site of healing rather than taboo?

Oh, I found so much about the BDSM community to be surprising. But the most surprising thing is probably the length and depth of the conversations surrounding each and every facet of “play” or “a scene” — terms used to describe encounters (often but not always sexual) in the BDSM space.

Participants in the BDSM community talk. All the time. They have to. There’s no other way to build the trust and the consent necessary to safely play in these spaces that explore taboos.

And the welcome and open exploration of these taboos is what removes the shame around them. Shame is such a destructive force in so many relationships, and perhaps the most common precursor to deception. So removing that from the mix only enhances participants’ ability to trust one another.

Consent vs. marriage — The show contrasts the instability of a socially “acceptable” marriage with the radical communication of kink. What does that say about how society defines healthy relationships?

A lot of societal milestones (job, marriage, house, children, etc.) are in place to determine status — socially or otherwise. We put a lot of emphasis on this status. Which means we’ll fight for it even when it isn’t actually serving us. It also means we often don’t question if it’s actually what we want, until it’s too late.

We assume we want to get married, buy a house, and have kids. Because that’s what we’re taught is the pinnacle of achievement from a young age.

But the kink community assumes nothing. Everything is a question — pet names, sexual acts, aftercare, all options are presented as equal, with no pre‑conceived judgment attached to the answer — because these are not questions we’re taught to have answers for. And if you can let go of the shame, as I talked about before, and really answer honestly, you can discover a LOT about yourself.

Autobiographical risk — You describe the piece as “largely autobiographical.” What boundaries did you redraw for yourself while writing something so emotionally exposed?

This is a hard story to tell. But I think it’s one that a lot of people will see themselves in. There were a lot of times in the writing of it that I wanted to fictionalize something as a means to protect myself, as a shield. To create some distance. But then the story would suffer. And that feels like a disservice to the people who need to hear it.

So I was constantly redrawing my boundaries to expand them and break them down. If I’m going to do this, I’m going all in. There’s no use in softening the blow, we’re in it now.

Working with Ellie Pyle — You and director Ellie Pyle have a long creative shorthand. What was the darkest or most vulnerable territory she pushed you into that you wouldn’t have gone alone?

It’s because of Ellie that I’m performing this piece. That was not the original plan. But I did an early staged reading before we found an actress and she said, “You have to do this. It’s gotta be you.” And — devastatingly — she was right. It’s my story. I have to tell it. I would not have made that choice without her… erm, stern encouragement.

That said, she took incredible care of me. If you watch the show, you’ll learn about the stoplight safeword system often employed in BDSM. (Green, yellow, red — you get it, right?). And she, hilariously, co‑opted this for rehearsal. We’d run a tough scene and after it she’d ask, “color?” And if I said “green,” she’d know we were good to push on. But “yellow” meant we’d take a break, and “red” meant we needed to pivot to something else. It was both a really smart and clean way to check in with me, and also… very very funny.

Staying too long — The show asks why people stay in relationships that no longer serve them. What’s the most uncomfortable truth you discovered while exploring that question?

There are a lot of hard truths to face in this piece! But the most uncomfortable one is that we often stay in spaces that no longer serve us because we don’t think we deserve better. Or — crucially — that better exists.

But we do. And it does. It might not be what we envisioned, and that vision of how you thought your life would be is really hard to let go of. The grief for the future you imagined is heavy. But you have to remind yourself that that future never really existed. And you can’t find the actual future that’s meant for you until you let the other one go.

Pain into pleasure — The press release says the story is ultimately about turning pain into pleasure. What does that transformation look like for Alix by the end of the piece?

Well to find out properly, you’ll have to come see the play. But, without giving too much away, that transformation looks like finally facing the pain head on, owning it, and dealing with it, so as to make room for pleasure.

Good Girl 10.20pm, Gilded Balloon Patter House 5th–31st August

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A Public Display of Affection: Jonathan Wilson on Memory, Survival and Quiet Rebellion

July 18, 2026 at 6:48 pm · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Interviews, LGBT+interest ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

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Jonathan Wilson arrives at the Fringe with A Public Display of Affection, a piece that slips between testimony, memory, and performance with the ease of someone who has lived every inch of the story he’s telling. Rooted in Toronto’s queer history of the 1970s and ’80s, the show doesn’t behave like a museum piece. Instead, it breathes—funny, dangerous, tender, and defiantly ordinary in all the ways queer life has always been. Wilson begins as the “queer elder” at the lectern, but the façade doesn’t last long. What follows is a reckoning with survival, desire, chosen family, and the quiet rebellions that once made even holding hands feel like an act of resistance.

As he brings the work to Edinburgh, Wilson isn’t simply exporting a Canadian story. He’s returning to the country his parents once called home, folding questions of belonging, memory, and inheritance into a performance that refuses nostalgia and insists on truth. In an intimate space like Gilded Balloon’s The Snug, the show becomes less a lecture and more a conversation—one that asks younger queer audiences to imagine their own futures while remembering the people who never got the chance.

This interview explores how the piece evolved, what histories risk being erased, and why Wilson believes humour, imperfection, and community are as essential to queer survival as any political victory. Counter Culture asked him to explain.

You’re bringing a critically acclaimed Toronto production to the Fringe. What shifts when a show rooted in 1970s and ’80s Toronto queer history suddenly meets an Edinburgh audience with a completely different cultural memory?

I’ve learned that although the street names change, the emotions and the struggles are the same. Edinburgh audiences probably haven’t heard of Yonge Street or the St. Charles Tavern in Toronto, but they understand first love, shame, chosen family, and trying to build a life when the world keeps suggesting you shouldn’t exist.

The piece begins as a formal “queer elder” talk and then unravels into something far more intimate and dangerous. Was that structural rupture always part of the concept, or did it emerge as you explored how testimony differs from nostalgia?

It wasn’t planned at all. It happened organically when I discovered I was a terrible historian. The play began as a series of readings for students studying queer history, and I felt an unspoken pressure to be a “good” example. Thankfully, the darker, funnier, and more truthful stories of my friends kept interrupting. The moment I stopped trying to be an authority and started becoming a witness, the play finally knew what it wanted to be.

The press release describes the show as a journey through love, loss, lust, and survival. Which of those threads proved hardest to balance without tipping the piece into sentimentality?

Survival. It’s very easy to turn surviving into a sort of sainthood, but of course we weren’t saints. We were messy, funny, horny, selfish, generous, frightened kids trying to get through another day. But we weren’t simply surviving. We were falling in love, dancing until sunrise, making terrible fashion choices, flirting outrageously, and creating families from scratch.

You chart moments where even holding hands felt like rebellion. How do you stage that kind of quiet defiance in a way that lands with audiences who’ve grown up in a more visible, though still imperfect, queer landscape?

By resisting the urge to make it look heroic. Holding someone’s hand shouldn’t be brave. The tragedy is that it was. It should be gloriously ordinary. I hope younger audiences don’t leave thinking, How courageous they were. I hope they leave wondering why something so beautifully mundane was ever considered dangerous. So much queer history is presented as a warning. I want this show to be an invitation to imagine a long life and an earned elderhood.

Critics have called the show “a forgotten slice of Toronto LGBTQ history brought to life.” What part of that history do you feel is most at risk of being rewritten or erased today?

The ordinary lives. The street kids I loved. My chosen family. The young people on the margins who can still disappear, even within a so‑called respectable queer history. We remember the marches, the police persecution, and the court victories, as we should. But we forget the shared rooms, the back‑alley bars, the friendships, the first kisses, the tacky wallpaper, and the people who never became famous enough to be remembered.

You blend razor‑sharp humour with devastating honesty. Given your background in Second City, improvisation, and comedy, how did you decide where humour helps the story, and where it would undermine it?

Laughter opens us up to hear truth — but importantly, the laughter isn’t there only to soften the truth. It is part of the truth. Queer people have always laughed at funerals, flirted in impossible circumstances, and found joy where no one expected it. That’s an important part of our history too.

Your past work includes My Own Private Oshawa, The Normal Heart, and The Lion King. How does A Public Display of Affection sit alongside those roles in terms of emotional weight and personal investment?

There’s nowhere to hide. When you’re playing Ned Weeks in The Normal Heart or Timon in The Lion King, someone else has written the words. This time, every laugh, every silence, and every difficult memory belongs to me. It’s easily the most exposing thing I’ve ever performed. Even my earlier solo work reflected the version of myself I was capable of sharing in my thirties. This show is what that story looks like after another thirty years of living.

Bringing the play to Scotland feels less like exporting a Canadian piece than finally bringing my own family story home. My parents left Scotland for Canada in the early 1960s, so growing up, Scotland was always referred to as “home.” I’ve written some of that tension into this new version of the show, and it has taken me somewhere even more personal than I expected. Because of course… there’s no place like home.

The show insists on remembering at a moment when queer histories risk disappearing beneath progress and assimilation. What’s the one memory you felt absolutely had to remain unfiltered?

The feeling that disappearing was always a possibility. Not in some abstract political sense. Literally. Friends vanished. Spaces vanished. Entire generations vanished. The danger isn’t forgetting the dates. The danger is forgetting what it actually felt like to be alive.

Gilded Balloon’s The Snug is an intimate space. How does that closeness shape the performance, especially when the material moves between humour, danger, and testimony?

You can’t fake intimacy in a space like The Snug. There’s nowhere to perform at people. I’m simply with them. Some nights it feels less like theatre and more like a conversation that’s wandered somewhere unexpectedly honest. Those are usually the best nights.

If you could speak directly to younger queer people encountering this history for the first time, what’s the one uncomfortable truth you hope the show gives them permission to hold onto?

You don’t owe anyone perfection. Every generation inherits unfinished work. You’ll make mistakes. You’ll disagree with the generation before you. One day you’ll probably horrify the generation after you. Welcome to the club. But don’t confuse having more rights with no longer needing each other. Community isn’t something history gave us. It’s something every generation has to build again.

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Patient 13: A Darkly Funny Journey Through Illness, Independence and Magic Mushrooms

July 17, 2026 at 6:51 pm · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Interviews ·Tagged , , , , , ,

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Patient 13 is  a story that starts in a hospital ward, detours through a psychedelic clinical trial, and somehow lands in a place that feels both devastating and oddly hopeful. It’s the kind of show that makes you rethink the neat narratives we build around illness, independence, and the people we let close enough to hurt us.

Talking to Gail, you get the sense she’s spent years turning chaos into clarity — not by sanding down the rough edges, but by holding them up to the light. The humour is sharp, the honesty disarming, and the reflections feel lived‑in rather than curated. What follows is a conversation that moves between trauma, mushrooms, medical authority, dating, and the strange business of becoming a new version of yourself while the old one is still watching.

“I got rid of all the toxic people and there was no one left.” Were you laughing at the absurdity of that line, or grieving the truth inside it?

Both, the line exposes the nuance and extremes of human relationships: isolation v independence; trust v self care. As a “chronically” independent person, my impulse is to retreat when I feel I can’t trust someone. Sometimes that is the right decision, sometimes not. In the real events of Patient 13, I struggled to find the balance. What are the right boundaries? What happens when “there is no one left?” I had to ask myself if I went too far. After all, no one is perfect. We can’t do everything alone and it is possible to grow in a relationship.

Your cancer diagnosis pushed you into a clinical trial involving magic mushrooms. What was the moment you realised this experience was theatrical?

The psychedelic trip (or the dosing, as the doctors call it) was an intense download of epiphanies — one was that I missed performing and that I should write jokes again. Years later, when I returned to NYC storytelling stages, the first story I told was one called “The Dosing.” The audience loved it, so that was encouraging. Several people have told me that it was the best performance of a psychedelic trip they’d ever seen. And it’s accurate because the doctors made me write everything down. And now it’s in the play!

The show is darkly satirical, but the trauma underneath is real. How do you protect yourself emotionally while performing something so close to the bone?

The play goes by much faster than the real life events and now I already know the ending is happy, so that’s a plus.

There’s a line in the play that also reflects my pragmatic approach, then and now: “there’s no time to cry, I’m CEO of Gail’s biggest decision ever.” So, even back then, there was/is a breakneck urgency to move forward, to deal with the decisions, the treatments and still have some fun. I’ve always tried to approach life as an adventure, even in tough times. This will make more sense when you see the show.

As an author, the experience has transformed into emotional beats, a complete narrative. While there is some trauma and sadness, it feels like I’m reliving and sharing personal growth, as lessons are learned and action is taken. Overall it’s an empowering and joyful tale, an adventure. The humor is constant, so we’re laughing together at the absurdity of life. I like to say that the show helps me do the show.

I expect that performing almost every day for 23 days in Edinburgh may present a different challenge. I plan to sit in the meadows, hug a tree, find a yoga class or a fellow human to ground me.

You describe yourself as fiercely independent. What did psychedelics reveal about the version of yourself you’d been clinging to? As I mentioned above, I may have gone too far in my independence, especially post cancer treatment. It’s not easy to return to “normal life” after facing mortality and being treated for cancer. For me at least, I wanted to have deep conversations, not just get back to the mundane routine of living. And I think I judged certain people who didn’t behave the way I thought they should. The psychedelics helped me see the bigger picture.

The psychedelics reminded me that we’re all doing our best. And that we are all connected, like it or not. This is a lesson I still have to remember. It’s been long enough that I can slip back into old patterns. Doing the show feels a bit like tripping as the profound truths need to be repeated. It’s fun and enlightening for me and the audience.

The play is also about dating while your identity is shifting. What did illness change about intimacy and desire?

Hmm. I was raised in Oklahoma, in an environment where I was taught to suppress my own feelings, to always put other people first. Over time, this manifests as being a “people pleaser,” which can lead to personal neglect and shame. So, I haven’t always been good at standing up for myself or even recognizing that I should defend my own feelings.

However, facing mortality offers a certain immediate clarity. Suddenly, I had to put myself first — it was literally life or death. Suddenly, I had to ask “is this person good for me?” rather than “how do I make them happy?” The illness forced me into a dramatic self-love that was long overdue. It also turned me into a bit of an introvert, a better listener, and a philosopher. I love this new version of myself and want to keep those elements.

You’ve said you think of your audience as “close friends.” What does friendship mean in this context?

It means we can trust each other. I’m honest about my experience, sharing my vulnerabilities, mistakes, and lessons. In the play, my audience (aka my friends) often see my mistakes before I do. Like life. As their friend, I’m warm and welcoming, protecting them from trauma by adding humor to the “scary” parts. It’s like we are living the events together. What’s more fun than hanging out with friends?! In this case, I get to do all the talking, but it’s not considered rude. When I’ve hung out with the audience after, I joke that it’s their turn to talk for an hour.

Dan Oliverio talks about institutionalised fear and loneliness. What fear felt institutional to you, and what fear felt entirely your own?

The institutional fears that I deal with in Patient 13 are things like questioning the medical authority, power figures. For example, I faced an arrogant doctor who didn’t listen, and seemed to want to scare me into following a healthcare protocol generalised to fit the masses rather than an individual.

On a more personal level, I was fearful due to the uncertainty of a contradictory diagnosis, with treatment supervised by a doctor that I didn’t trust. The question became, do I have to do everything that an authority tells me to do? I was suspicious of his bravado and condescending demeanour. It didn’t feel like I was a person to him. I was more afraid of chemo and radiation than of psychedelics.

Patient 13 arrives as the UK debates psychedelic treatment. How does it feel to have your story intersect with a political turning point?

It feels fantastic to share my story at a time when it can be most useful. It’s synchronicity, a happy accident to be relevant. I hope that the Patient 13 show helps UK audiences see one example of how psilocybin treatment might work. There are documentaries out there, but this play enables people to take a real life journey with me as a patient. Beyond entertainment, I want the show to be a service, such that it helps the audience find more clarity in their own lives and decisions.

When I participated in the study, most people in the US were skeptical about psychedelic therapy. The stigma was so strong that the hospital had a hard time finding cancer patients to participate. Perhaps the UK debate is at that stage now. So again, happy relevance.

The show grew from storytelling nights in New York. What stayed from those early versions?

The early versions were merged into a greater narrative arc. Many little situational jokes stayed, because I know they work. But the endings were cut and reshaped. Beginnings were expanded. The transitions were fun and tedious to write to ensure that they pulled the separate pieces together in a bigger story. This experience has helped me grow as a writer and performer.

If the version of you who first received the diagnosis could watch Patient 13 today, what do you hope she’d recognise?

First off, Version One of Gail would be relieved that I/we survived. Secondly, I think she’d be thrilled and impressed that the New Version Gail managed to follow through with this project and that it is entertaining and helping people. She’d like me to get rid of some toxic people.

Version One Gail would like the jokes. Even in the midst of trauma, she saw the funny. She’d like that New Version now shares that sense of humor with a broader audience. After the diagnosis and during treatment, she never wanted pity and still wanted to be a normal person who has fun. New Gail continues that tradition, which I think people can relate to on multiple levels.

Both Versions believe that you don’t stop living just because you think you might die. Sometimes “healthy” people can be inadvertently condescending to people who are fighting an illness. It’s a weird division. Patient 13 brings light to these nuances. Version one of Gail would be proud.

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Jenny Gorelick on SORRY: Dating Apps and Apology Culture

July 14, 2026 at 11:56 am · Filed under Comedy, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Interviews ·Tagged , , , , , ,

Jenny Gorelick

Jenny Gorelick’s SORRY is one of those Fringe shows that arrives already vibrating with cultural voltage — a comedy about dating apps, apology culture, female shame, and the absurdity of modern romance that somehow manages to be both riotously funny and quietly devastating. Gorelick has turned her personal chaos into a kind of survival manual for the rest of us, drawing on experiences that range from the bleakly hilarious (“run it back?”) to the genuinely tragic (“my work crush got struck by lightning and died”).

SORRY isn’t just a show about dating — it’s about accountability, gendered guilt, the loneliness economy, and the stories women tell themselves to stay alive in a world that keeps demanding they apologise for existing. It’s sharp, self‑aware, and uncomfortably relatable. And, in true Fringe fashion, it’s also very, very funny.

1. Your show starts in the dating apps — that strange digital swamp where hope, delusion and red flags all blur together. What’s the moment on Hinge that made you think, “Right, this has to go in a show”?

Recently I got a like on Hinge from a man I had already dated. Who had already dumped me. It just said “run it back?” He is mentioned by name on the first page of my book about red flags. Like, page one. The Book of Red Flags. No. We will not be running it back.

2. You dated a man with “sorry mom” tattooed on his body who still couldn’t apologise. What did that relationship teach you about the apology gap — and about the men who think remorse is a personality trait?

Women will apologize for everything. We say sorry for saying sorry too much. And I’m sorry I said that about all women. But it seems like it would genuinely kill a man to apologize for one single thing. I’ve had men say “sorry you feel that way” — putting it right back on me!

But this relationship taught me something important: if I’m hurt, I can write about it. And it can be published in the New York Times. If you break my heart, it is the news!

3. SORRY digs into how women are conditioned to apologise for simply existing. When did you first realise you were saying sorry for things that weren’t your fault?

I’m still doing it. I feel sorry and guilty every single day of my life for every mistake I’ve ever made. I wish that weren’t true! And I think it goes all the way back to Eve. Women feel shame…biblically, because Eve is blamed for all of human sin. Even though all she did was have a healthy snack. It’s really not fair.

4. You’ve written about dating disasters for the New York Times and Cosmopolitan. What’s the story you still can’t believe happened — even though you lived it?

My work crush — a very sweet, cute, and tall guy I worked with — got struck by lightning and died. On a work trip. Which is the most tragic thing that has ever happened. He wasn’t doing what he loved. He was doing what he had to do — for health insurance. Because America. He never knew I had a crush on him. And now he never will.

Which is why you need to live out loud. You could be struck by lightning. And I mean that literally.

5. You made more money posting “tasteful thirst traps” on OnlyFans than writing your book. What did that reveal to you about the male loneliness economy — and the value men place on attention versus accountability?

What’s so interesting about “my guys” — which is what I lovingly call the men who pay money to see me in a bathing suit on OnlyFans — is that they could just go to a public pool. For free. I do worry about their finances. I don’t think it’s money they technically have, it is certainly not cash on hand, and if it weren’t going to me, it would be going to Polymarket. So honestly, I’d rather they spend their fake money on me than on sports betting. I’m a real girl. I need it more.

6. Your book The Book of Red Flags is basically a survival guide for modern romance. Which red flag do you think people ignore the most — even when it’s screaming in their face?

I hate to say it, but if it doesn’t feel like he likes you and you feel confused — he probably doesn’t like you. And if he’s being super attentive and communicative and complimentary? He still might not like you. That might just be love bombing. You have to wait a month to really know. It’s exhausting. I’m sorry.

7. You talk about confidence, shame, and the pressure on women to be endlessly likeable. What’s the moment in your life when you stopped performing likability and started performing honesty?

I’m afraid you’re overestimating me. I still need everyone to like me. One bad review might actually kill me, so let’s all just light a candle, charge our crystals (if you’re that kind of person), and pray for me.

8. Dating apps often feel like a sociological experiment. What did mapping America’s political divide through men‑with‑boats teach you about the country — and about dating?

If they own a boat, they’re Republican. If they don’t have their political affiliation listed on their profile, they’re Republican. And if they’re writing a fantasy novel in the style of Dune in their notes app — Libertarian.

9. You’ve turned personal chaos into comedy across stage, screen and print. What’s the line between oversharing and storytelling — and how do you know when you’ve crossed it?

Storytelling is oversharing. Some people are not going to like it (my younger brother). Some people are going to have to learn to be okay with it (my dad). And others are going to feel completely seen and heard (my fans). I’m doing it for them, but also for me. Am I crossing a line? Probably! But who gets to decide where the line is? My exes?!

I do feel terrible anytime anyone is upset with me — including the man with the ass tattoo who stood me up. But at the end of the day, he stood me up. And it is okay for me to turn that into art. That’s actually the best case scenario…maybe even better than if he’d actually shown up on the date.

10. At the heart of SORRY is the question of accountability. What do you hope audiences walk away reconsidering — about apologies, about dating, or about the stories we tell ourselves to survive modern romance?

I hope women leave feeling like they don’t need to be so hard on themselves. I hope men leave wanting to do better. And I hope everyone goes home and takes some amazing nudes for their grandchildren.

Jenny Gorelick: SORRY performs at Edinburgh Festival Fringe from 3rd – 30th August 2026. : Buy tickets here

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