With litter strewn across the streets, the heavens opening, and drawn faces on every comic who didn’t make the awards shortlists, there’s a post-apocalyptic feel to the end of this year’s Edinburgh fringe. Is it just the bin strike and the undeniable fact that the festival is far too long? “The only thing that should last a month,” as the comic Sarah Keyworth joked, “is a month.” Or is there more to it, a sense – long brewing, ever harder to ignore – that the fringe festival model is broken? “Ultimately,” as the comedy producer Owen Donovan tweeted, “it comes down to a lot of people having a shit time, both those on and offstage.”
I’ve spent my whole professional life loving the Edinburgh fringe, a wonder of the cultural world. Where else do creativity, youthful resourcefulness and idealism, the urge to experiment and the need to hustle, ever come together so intensely – and in such glorious profusion? And with a gorgeous castle-on-a-freaking-volcano backdrop to boot? But in recent years, my enthusiasm has been increasingly smothered by caveats: that the fringe is too absurdly expensive for artists, to a degree that excludes many; that it’s insufficiently diverse; that it can be overwhelming, gruelling and lonely for many of the people taking part.
