Features Published 1 September 2015

Edinburgh Fringe 2015: A Farewell Song

Before reality kicks in, here's Natasha Tripney's poetic parting of the ways with this year's Edinburgh Fringe.
Natasha Tripney



Old stone.  Cold stone. Spires. Slate sky.

Here we go again.

Traverse. Oak Trees. Aliens. Choirs. Christians. Pelicans. Snow.

Bryony Kimmings.

Brigette Aphrodite

Black dogs. Big black dogs, beautiful black dogs.

Glitter. More glitter. All the glitter. Covered in glitter.

Bruce. Brute. Little birds.

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.




Bristo Square. Building works.

Purple cow. Pastures new.

Freestival. Fuck-up. Utter fuck-up.

The Caves. Damp. The fug of centuries. And why is there a bathtub in here? And just what is that smell?

Circus. Hub. Skin. Silk. Muscles pulsing. In flight. Tight. Like a dance.

And, wow, just wow. How?

I had no idea bodies could do that.

Cobbles. Cobbles. Puddles, puddles. Puddles. Cuddles. Yikes.

This year might be the year I actually climb Arthur’s Seat.

I really think it might be.

And what’s that you say? A wine? Well, OK then.





Wine. Wine. Wine.

Haggis. Deep-fried.

Bed time now; it’s definitely bed time.

C. Sticky floor. Ick. Seriously, what is that? Why is that?

Where have all the cowboys gone? Oh, they’re in C.

And I think the ceiling might actually be sweating on me.

Sunshine. This is. Unexpected. Nice. But unexpected.


Belgians. So many Belgians.

Barrel Organs. Voice thieves.  Flick books. Treadmills.

Border crossings. Serbian swearing.

Jo Clifford. Blessing. Balm, Jamie Wood. Hope. Love. Lovely.

Gin. Grapefruit. Another one? Well, if you insist.

Roundabout. TARDIS. Kitson. Brilliant things. Baptists. Chickens.

Manwatching. Man speaking. Li. Li­bid. Libidinous.

Torycore. Torycored. Pain. Rage. Tinnitus.

Poets, lovely, lovely, poets.

Johnny Bevan. Raw, hard, like a punch.

The Meadows. Green space. Escape.

Cops. Sweaty cops. Shirtless cops.

Lemons, lemons, lemons, lemons, lemons.

More sunshine. And apparently it’s pissing down in London. This is. Not right.

Sugar water. Surtitles. Like a knife, twisting.

Robot. A bloody impressive robot.

Binaural soundscaping.

Bit late. Bugger. Running. Running-running-running.

How long? One hour fifteen? Gah. OK then.

Tiger. Tiger. Tiger.

Many tigers. The year of the tiger.

And, isn’t that? I think that might be Nicholas Parsons? That’s definitely Nicholas Parsons.

3am. My old friend.

4am. We must stop meeting like this.

5am. I suspected we might run into one another at some point.

Warwick graduates. More Warwick graduates. Warwick graduates are owning things at the moment.

Crepes. Cakes.

Stairs. So many stairs.

Hot boxes. Seriously, it’s like a fucking sauna in here.


Another penis.

Zoo is definitely where all the penis is this year.

And now that I say that, is he? Hang on. Is that? Is that a tuck­-under?

It’s definitely a tuck-under.


Wine. Wine. Wine. Wine

Whisky. Whisky. Whoops.

Ow. Bugger. Oh dear. Paracetamol. Coffee.

Magicians. Cups. Balls. Cards. Frock coats. Mutton chops. Superior whiskers.

Sponge puppets. Shadow puppets. Dead animal puppets. Creepy fucking dead animal puppets.

Forest. Fringe. Further away then you remember.  Always that bit further away then you remember.

Calm. Cool. Soothing. White. Light. Safe space.

Soup. They have lovely soup here. I’m just going to sit here for a bit and have some soup.

Magic. Wail. Whale. Song. Andy Field, running. Milk Tray. Talcum powder. Cacophony.  Explosions.

Caroline Horton. Chrissy. Perfection.

Jesus, Peter’s Yard, how long does it take to make a cappuccino?

Iphigenia in Splott. Fuck me. Brilliant, accusatory.


Stretched. Thin. Leaf-like. Quite tired.


Tired but actually pretty damn happy.

Ready to go but sorry to leave.

Until next year.


Natasha Tripney

Natasha co-founded Exeunt in 2011 and was editor until 2016. She's now lead critic and reviews editor for The Stage, and has written about theatre and the arts for the Guardian, Time Out, the Independent, Lonely Planet and Tortoise.