Sunday Herald - First Timer's Diary (1)
Help! The dress rehearsal's a disaster and no-one has booked to see his show.
James Grieve
4 August 2002

We arrive in Edinburgh on a Friday, just about. Our landlord has arranged a tea time meet at the flat we're renting and we simply have to drive up from Sheffield.

We've hired a van to transport our set and everyone's luggage, to be driven by our stage manager Andy. "Bloody hell it's massive," he gulps. "And by the way I haven't driven for ages." The lady at the rental desk smiles sweetly at my £600 deposit and plans a two week break in Bali.

Getting our set (a full fitted kitchen) into the van is hard enough. But it's a doddle compared to shifting actor George's provisions. Widescreen television, stereo, the British Library reading room, three wardrobes and the weight of an oil tanker in a body bag.

Andy then wanted to move house briefly, and when we finally rolled up, our longsuffering landlord has forgone a trip to the cinema to let us in as midnight chimed.

The flat is monolithic. In my room alone you could host a secondary school. The living room comprises a sofa in the hall and the bathroom would look at ease in an Eastern bloc tenement. "It's got 'character'," said leading lady Nina, with admirable diplomacy.

Our technical rehearsal the next day goes like a dream. C venues, our theatre, is a hub of activity buzzing with staff and companies lifting and hammering and chattering and encouraging. So this is the Fringe. We love it.

After a Bacchanalian day off trawling Edinburgh's bars, we returned to earth with a bump. Our dress rehearsal was a catastrophe of unmitigated proportions. The Special K packet on stage was set upside down and showers the set with cereal. Props spontaneously combust. The smoke machine doesn't work. The actors forget their lines. I hide under a chair.

And so our nemesis. The culmination of seven months hard graft, no little investment of emotion and tireless begging, borrowing and devious bank loan swindling that's left a trail of debt repayment demands from here to Abu Dhabi.

Against my better judgement, I asked Sally to find out how many tickets we'd sold. "Four," she reported, "So that's, erm, promising."

I bemoaned our certain ruination sotto voce, told everyone to stay calm, and bolted for a bar round the corner to see how many tumblers of rum I could swallow. I can't remember ever being more terrified.

I hardly dared look when the doors opened. The footsteps echoed and seemed to multiply. I figured the four punters must be walking out again or NatWest lending centre had sent a lynch mob. But they kept coming, and, Halleluiah, they seemed to be coming to see us.

We had an audience! I wanted to hug each and every one of them. For hours. The lights went down and my heart beat a bass drum. George strode onto the stage. A peal of laughter rumbled, and kept rumbling. People actually whooped at the curtain call. Nobody walked out. I took cloud nine for the ride of its life.

[Second Installment]