
Fringe 2025 – show goes on for US teenagers despite the death of their writer
The director and theatre department head, based in Florida, was working with 15 to 17-year-old students from St John's Country Day School, Jacksonville, on a production called An Idiot's Guide To Breaking Your Own Heart.
Just a couple of songs were complete and workshopping on the script had still to begin, however, flights, accommodation and a venue had been booked.
And more important than that – if there was one thing Paul would have wanted it would have been for the show to go on … and it will.
Todd Twining, fellow theatre teacher at St John's and show musical director, said: 'Paul's death was such a shock. He was so liked and admired by the students. We thought we'd just have to cancel – without Paul it felt like there could be no show.
'But we realised that we just had to finish what he'd started. Paul adored the Fringe and loved giving generations of young people the unique experience of performing there and being part of the world's greatest performing arts festival.
'Since then the students, their parents and everyone else have worked flat out to get the show finished, to rehearse, to prepare and make sure we can go on stage. And the support we've had from people in Edinburgh, especially our venue, has been just amazing.'
The result is true to Paul's spirit – a production which allows young people to explore and express the pressures they face. These include the need to fit in, look perfect, get straight As, go to the right parties, fulfill their parents' dreams – to 'live their best lives' every minute of the day.
It follows the story of Simon Walker who has a school assignment to write a manual on 'How to be You', to demonstrate whether you are a product of nature or nurture. The final part of the project is to answer two questions:
What do you contribute to society?
Does your life have meaning?
Together with his friends, Quentin Bean and Sandy Dachowski, Simon relives the high and low points of his life.
Paul Perez
Todd said: 'Paul was an endlessly enthusiastic champion of young people and the ability of the performing arts to express dreams and fears and to change lives and society for the better.
'This musical is all about the issues confronting young people every day of their lives.
'The pressure they feel is insane – the absurd idea that they need to know where their life is headed when they are still growing, developing and getting to know who they are.
'Their fear of failure causes paralysis and deprives them of the ability to explore life. But failure is not an end, rather it is a beginning, that is something the arts teach us.'
The show, presented as a collaboration between the school and Paul's Infinity Repertory Theatre Company, will run from 1-6 August.
In 2018 The Edinburgh Reporter said the company had 'a reputation for presenting quality new work by talented young people. Three Weeks in Edinburgh praised its musical Geek for toe-tapping bluegrass-style tunes and the exceptional young cast'.
Darren Neale, Greenside Venues director, said: 'Getting The Idiot's Guide to Breaking Your Own Heart on stage this year has been nothing short of extraordinary.
'In the face of heartbreak and uncertainty, these young performers and their creative team have shown remarkable resilience and dedication.
'Paul Perez was a passionate advocate for the transformative power of theatre, and this production is a beautiful tribute to his legacy. We're honoured to host a show that so clearly embodies the spirit of the Fringe.'
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Telegraph
6 hours ago
- Telegraph
Jewish comedian barred from Fringe venue for attending Oct 7 vigil
A Jewish comedian has been cancelled by an Edinburgh Fringe venue after attending a vigil for victims of the October 7 attacks. Philip Simon was barred from the Banshee Labyrinth pub because of alleged 'rhetoric and symbology' linked to Israel. One reason cited by the venue for cancelling his show, Shall I Compere Thee in a Funny Way?, was his attendance at a vigil held for people killed in the 2023 Hamas terror attacks. In a message to Simon, Banshee Labyrith said: 'Our management had a duty of care to our customers and staff members to review the political statements and opinions expressed by the performer. 'We feel it is inappropriate for us to provide a platform for performers whose views and actions align with the rhetoric and symbology of groups associated with humanitarian violations.' Simon said the only opinion he had expressed on the Gaza conflict was a desire for peace and to see the hostages freed. He said: 'I am still processing the concept that in 2025 I can be cancelled just for being Jewish. In the meantime, I will still be at the Fringe for my one remaining children's show and continue to investigate possible alternative venues for both of my cancelled shows.' Banshee Labyrinth told The Telegraph that it arrived at its decision after scouring Simon's social media pages. It said: 'We routinely screen bands and performers for affiliations to, and statements that advocate for, discriminatory groups. 'We have hosted Philip in previous years and only thought we should have a look at his pages to see what was going on because of what happened with [a related row at] the neighbouring venue. 'If we hadn't found anything of concern he would obviously still be performing with us.' The alleged concerns identified by Banshee Labyrinth include Simon sharing pictures from a vigil commemorating 100 days since the attack on Israel; a message on his X account saying that it was powerful to 'stand strong against terror'; and a post warning that Oct 7 rape victims were being forgotten. Several others messages the venue objected to were variations on calls to 'bring home the hostages', while others made fun of Greta Thunberg's short-lived effort to travel by flotilla to Gaza. Banshee Labyrinth said its decision to cancel the show came after a row involving a nearby venue, Whistlebinkies, which has cancelled shows by Mr Simon and fellow comedian Rachel Creeger. Ms Creeger was set to perform her show Ultimate Jewish Mother, while Mr Simon was due to host a Jew-O-Rama of Jewish comedic talents. The acts claimed they were informed that their gigs would be cancelled after bar staff at the venue expressed fears of feeling 'unsafe'. It has been claimed that concerns were raised after an announcement that the venue would receive extra police supervision amid continued worries over the safety of Jewish acts. 'We are being silently boycotted' Ms Creeger said: 'Sadly, this is part of an ongoing problem faced by Jewish performers in this country. We are being cancelled and often silently boycotted.' The pair said they were informed on July 18 that their shows would not be going ahead. It is understood there had been plans to swap venues so they could still perform but it was too late to make these arrangements. Their shows no longer appear on the Edinburgh Fringe listings website. The Fringe, and comedy more broadly, has become embroiled in several controversies relating to the Israel-Hamas conflict. At the Fringe in 2024, two Israeli audience members were booed out of Reginald D Hunter's comedy gig after they objected to a joke comparing the Jewish state to an abusive spouse. Mr Hunter then had several gigs cancelled and later appeared in court over alleged anti-Semitic social media posts. There will be a hearing in November to decide whether the private prosecution brought against him will go ahead. Earlier in 2024, the comedian Paul Currie was banned from a West End theatre after the venue said he had been 'subjecting Jewish audience members to verbal abuse'. Soho Theatre consulted police following an incident in which he allegedly pulled out a Palestinian flag and shouted at an Israeli audience member to 'get the f--- out of here' before leading chants of 'Palestine will be free'. The theatre investigated and then banned Mr Currie for what it termed 'appalling' intimidation.


The Guardian
7 hours ago
- The Guardian
‘I spent a month sleeping in a cupboard': comedians on the true cost of the Fringe
Fringe festivals have always been cash guzzlers, not only for punters but for the performers, whose show costs far outstrip their earnings – and that's not including the money needed to eat, drink and find somewhere to crash. This is just how fringe festivals work. The performers have to pay to book their own venues, and rely on ticket sales to claw back their investment, all in a highly competitive market, with tickets for hundreds of shows a night going on sale. Spiralling costs certainly make performing at fringe festivals seem elitist. But are they really only vanity projects for middle-class comedians bankrolled by their savings, or worse still, the bank of Mum and Dad? Or is living on a diet of Pot Noodles and top-and-tailing with a total stranger all part of the charm? In solidarity with these increasingly cash-strapped performers, I had initially wanted to go to Edinburgh to see if I could attend the world's largest fringe festival without spending a single penny. Unfortunately, things I don't understand, such as 'production times', 'print deadlines' and, erm, 'the passage of time' mean it's not possible for me to attend this year's Edinburgh and have the piece published before it starts. So instead, to test the waters, I've been instructed to head to the Brighton fringe (which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year) with no money to see how long I can survive. I'll also meet working comedians there, who will tell me all about the realities of putting on a show. As for me: although I'm obviously hilarious on paper, I've got no experience as a standup comic, so I'm never going to make any money telling jokes. But can I earn a day's wage handing out flyers and helping out comedians with their day-to-day? I'm about to find out … If you've never been to Brighton, let me sum it up in a word: hilly. I walk (thankfully downhill) past a variety of cafes offering croissants, cakes and full Englishes that make me drool like Homer Simpson. But with no money, I can't even afford a sausage roll from Greggs. I'm stopping at the Theatre Royal to meet the fringe crew and ask them about the difference between a festival and a fringe festival. Brighton fringe and Brighton festival take place at the same time, and it's the same in Edinburgh. I also wonder if they'll have any biscuits. 'A fringe festival means we are an open-access festival, so anyone can take part,' says Brighton fringe festival director Amy Keogh over tea, but disappointingly no Rich Tea. 'We have 819 different shows this year. We don't curate, programme or commission. People have complete creative freedom. Brighton fringe is a charity, so we're not profiting in any way.' 'The fringe attracts up-and-coming comedians trying out new material, but they have to pay to hire the venues. It's a bottom-up approach,' explains Brighton arts marketer Caz Slota. 'The festival operates a more traditional top-down approach, where the venues book established acts and pay them in advance.' Brighton fringe coordinator Sarah French adds: 'We offer bursaries and the option to pay in instalments. We want to create a space where people can be creative and experimental.' The Brighton fringe gang have kindly lined up some comedians to talk to me about the least funny subject of all time: money. I take a seat at the back of the theatre to begin my comedian speed dating, while secretly hoping one of them will take pity on me and buy me a packet of peanuts. Ollie Yates, 28, works as a tree surgeon and is staying with their parents a 30-minute cycle away. Their show, Everyone's Dating Ollie, uses clowning to explore 'how ridiculous polyamory is in the world of modern dating'. 'I was lucky enough to win a £120 bursary,' they say. 'The venue costs £25 a night. I'm doing eight shows. With food, I might just about break even. I'm just here to see what happens.' 'I do this purely for the fun,' says Brad Jon Kane, who lives in nearby Hove and works as a pastry chef. He describes his show, Please Slow Down, as 'a series of slow, low-energy characters, like a cowboy vicar, a mime act and a substitute teacher. The shows are free, then I offer an optional bucket,' he says. 'Once I become a bit more of a name, I'll probably start charging. But I just love a good crowd.' Brighton-based cabaret act Pearl & Dean, both in their early 50s, met at teacher training college. 'The tradition of camp nonsense harks back to when gay people couldn't be out in the 70s. Like our costumes, our marriage is very much lavender,' Marsha Dean says. Their All Aboard! evening has won best new show at this year's Brighton. Even though it's a sellout, they only expect to break even. Unlike Ollie and Brad, Pearl & Dean will also be performing at Edinburgh this year. 'Back in 1994, I took out my third student loan to do Edinburgh,' Peter Pearl remembers. 'I spent £3,000 on accommodation, venue hire, food, travel and publicity, but still had an absolute ball.' With my stomach rumbling, I wonder if there's an ingenious way to make a quick buck flyering at Brighton. Flyering is discouraged for environmental reasons, but it's permitted here in the SpiegelGardens performance venue, where they sell drinks and – yes – food. I head over with my new comedian friends to meet Brighton-based 49-year-old NHS drag performer Sister Brandy Bex, who describes her show as 'a daft, chaotic, comedy cabaret' and has agreed to employ me to flyer on a zero hours, paid-by-performance contract. 'Brighton fringe is the best,' she says, handing me her sandwich board, which disappointingly has no actual sandwiches. 'I take four weeks off work and get totally involved. I did a comedy course during the pandemic and thought: wouldn't it be good to have a nurse character and take the piss out of the NHS?' By day, Bex works as a nurse. But performing at Brighton doesn't come cheap. 'I have to pay the other performers in my cabaret,' she says. 'The year before last, I lost £1,600. Last year, I lost a grand. This year I'll lose maybe £200. So I'm doing better every year.' Back to my flyering job, I ask what exactly I'll have to do. 'Flyering is great for chatting to people,' she continues. A bursary helped pay for her 2,000 flyers. Unfortunately, I'm not great at chatting to people. I'm also so hungry that I skive off to tuck into some pizza crusts I find on a paper plate in the bin. I get busted. It's a case for instant dismissal. Revel Puck Circus have their own tent at Brighton (and also at this year's Edinburgh), featuring 'high-wire walkers, teeterboarders, daring aerial skill and the only female wheel of death in the UK'. Crikey. 'We've got the tent and the props, but the real wow factor comes with the heartwarming moments, like when I get to fly over the audience' says French-Canadian acrobat Arielle. 'Everyone is just so friendly and natural,' adds fellow aerialist Imani from London. 'So we do our best to spread the love.' The circus tours six months of the year, so unlike the comedians I've spoken to, performers such as Arielle and Imani enjoy full-time employment on a proper salary. I've always secretly fancied running away with the circus, but as I'm strapped into a harness and winched into the air to see if I'd make a good acrobat, I'm not sure I've got the head for heights. I spend the rest of the day seeing what else Brighton has to offer: a couple of loose chips on a tray in McDonald's and a bowl of discarded onion rings in Wetherspoons. Ollie Yates kindly puts me on the guest list to their show, but I feel guilty I can't even afford the £10 ticket. Defeated, I take the train home, and think about what a nice vibe Brighton has. Bursaries help with the costs, and everyone helps each other out – something, I'm told, that happens far less in the competitive climate of Edinburgh. My rubbish experiment may be over, but I'm already beginning to understand the financial difficulties comedians face at fringe festivals. No one I spoke to expected to walk away with a profit – simply breaking even seems rare. Brighton tends to attract local comedians, saving them the need to rent somewhere to stay, but spiralling accommodation costs at Edinburgh risks alienating all but the richest comics, as I find out when I chat to comedians performing at this year's fringe. Matt Forde, who brings his show, Defying Calamity, to Edinburgh in August, recently gave evidence in parliament about how hard it is for working-class comedians to break into comedy. 'The reason why Edinburgh is so important, as opposed to, say, Camden, Brighton, Glasgow or Leicester, is that people from all over the world can put on a show and be discovered,' he tells me. 'It has the potential to make careers, but it's so expensive it's not just the working-class comedians who are getting shut out – so are middle-class comedians. If you don't intervene financially, Edinburgh is just going to become more elitist. Then comedy on telly becomes more elitist.' 'The trickiest part is striking a balance between trying to save money and remembering you have to live,' says Glenn Moore, who is bringing his show, Please Sir, Glenn I Have Some Moore?, to Edinburgh. 'I once spent the month sleeping in a cupboard. Another time, I stayed with 15 other people in a three-bedroom flat, sharing a bed with two of them, with about an inch of free space. One of my bed pals was someone I'd never met and haven't seen since.' 'This will be my first time in Scotland,' says US comic Zainab Johnson, who brings her show, Toxically Optimistic, to Edinburgh. 'I searched Airbnb. Flats were listed for over £8,000. I hadn't even looked for flights. As a vegan, I was also warned that I might not enjoy the food. As my show is called Toxically Optimistic, instead of focusing on the negatives, I'm going to lean into the positives. I'll get to see a beautiful country I've never been to. As a black Muslim woman, I look forward to hopefully making people laugh who look nothing like me. If there's no good food, that at least cuts my expenses.' 'My first fringe, I was in my early 20s and properly broke,' says Kate Dolan, set to perform her show The Critic. 'I was in a puppet show. We stayed in a flat, an hour's bus journey away. I shared a bed with another woman, the lads were on the floor, and the puppets had their own room. I'm still a bit of a Del Boy. This year, I'm renting a room, making my own props and will happily eat Pot Noodles for a month.' 'Pursuing an accountancy qualification was potentially the worst decision I could make,' says James Trickey, whose show is fittingly called Don't Count on Me. 'Not because it was immensely dull, but because it made me all too aware of the financial irresponsibility.' 'My first three runs at Edinburgh came while I was working as a locum GP,' says Paul Sinha, of show 2 Sinha Lifetime. 'There was simply no way the contract for a junior hospital doctor was ever going to be elastic enough to allow four consecutive weeks away from the frontline. My first solo show in 2004 was a misjudged affair. After three years as a GP, I'd saved up enough for a 11.15pm slot in one of the hottest rooms in Edinburgh. It wasn't an especially notable show, nobody came, and I lost £5,000. Thanks to medicine, I could just afford miserable failure. But the vast majority are not so lucky.' All this leaves me wondering what the solution might be. One reason accommodation at Edinburgh is even dearer this year is that Oasis and AC/DC are playing the city slap bang in the middle of the festival. Last year, the Marriott hotel advertised a job as a live-in breakfast jester to amuse guests over their Corn Flakes. The position was paid and came with free accommodation. It seems a funny idea, but I also wonder if this sort of thing makes a mockery of comedians, pitching them as performing monkeys who will do anything for money. Then again, I'm a man couldn't even cut it for a day in Brighton. So what do I know?


Daily Mail
9 hours ago
- Daily Mail
I've been on The 1% Club, Tipping Point and The Chase - here's my stern warning for anyone who makes it onto TV, plus there's an awful truth about how we get cast
A former winner of The Chase has issued a stern warning to others who make it onto television - informed by his experience on some of the UK's most popular game shows. Having also featured on The 1% Club and Tipping Point, Steven Sneade has become something of a veteran contestant. His most triumphant win came when he beat chaser Paul Sinha, aka The Sinnerman, and took home an impressive £17,000. But the 69-year-old hasn't always had such good luck. 'I was knocked out of The 1% Club on the first question,' he admitted. 'Then I just had to sit there for hours while the rest of the show was filmed.' Speaking on behalf of OLBG, Liverpool-based Steven revealed just how gruelling the interview process can be, as well as the tricky task of being 'entertaining' for the camera. 'It's a difficult one, because you've got to stand out from the crowd,' he said. 'But if that's not what you're like normally, you're not going to come across very well.' Steven warned against pretending to be someone else, arguing that both viewers and producers can smell inauthenticity. 'Trying to fake a big personality will not help,' he continued. 'If you're a naturally quieter person, trying to be an extrovert isn't going to work. It's going to come across as false.' But Steven stressed there is a balance to be found, because producers will inevitably be drawn to the most interesting contestants. 'You've got to remember that it is, first and foremost, an entertainment show,' he said. 'For ITV, it's to get as many viewers as they can. Try and see it from their point of view – what do they want? They want someone who is going to be a bit lively and a bit different.' As far as talking about yourself, Steven advised would-be contestants to sell themselves and pick out the juiciest nuggets. 'You've got to play for your strengths. If your hobby is that you play the piano, don't just say you play the piano at home - try and make it something excellent. If you once played at the Royal Albert Hall, say that.' And while Steven thinks honesty is a virtue, he nonetheless suggested embellishing the truth slightly. 'You don't always have to stick 100 per cent to the truth. They don't check up on it,' he admitted. 'It's awful, and I don't like lying, but there is something about television, it's all a bit false. Exaggerate the truth. Emphasise the positives.' The well-versed player urged applicants not to take themselves too seriously - and to prepare for the barrage of negative comments they will get. With avid game show fans picking apart their favourite episodes on social media in real time, participants have to enter with a thick skin. Steven said: 'One of the things they've emphasised on all the shows I've been on is that, sadly, you will get slated on social media when the episode is shown. You've got to be prepared to laugh at yourself.' Of his own experience applying for The Chase, Steven explained how he had to complete an online application, a phone interview and 20-question general knowledge test. What followed next was an in-person group audition with other prospective candidates held at a Liverpool hotel. 'We played a few little games, then a mock-up of The Chase. We had to do a minute piece on camera and another 20-question test.' The stakes were high, though, and only two out of ten hopeful applicants were shortlisted for the final cut. And it was a long two years before Steven even got a call back, although he had nearly been dropped owing to his previous appearance on Tipping Point. 'They don't want people being on those two programmes so close together. Apparently they get a lot of backlash for having the same people on different shows.' Steven has previously revealed why ITV bosses warn the players to not share any of their prize money with the eliminated players. Steven said: 'If you win you have to sign another contract as you're accepting money from them. 'They told us not to give money to the contestants who didn't win money just because you feel sorry for them.