THEATRE is about speaking the truth, however raw or unpalatable it may be. And I believe I have done that with my Fringe show No Daddy, I’m Not Going to the Gymkhana.
I surveyed the theatrical landscape and asked myself, why is nobody writing plays about niche personal issues told from a upper-middle perspective? Then I realised: be the change you want to see. Bring the hard truth about private school to the people.
So I wrote about the hardships of growing up in Surrey. The arguments about getting a nose stud. The pressure to ride dressage. Repeated refusals to give me a lift to Annabelle’s.
It’s all there, psychological wounds as fresh as the day I was told, aged 14, I was not getting a sleeve tattoo. I honestly feel it could be the next Fleabag.
Then the real work of rehearsals and finding a venue began. Not easy, because it turns out there are actually loads of plays about niche personal issues told from a upper-middle perspective up here, adding to my oppression.
But, surmounting obstacles like an Afghan refugee, I made it and here I am performing in Edinburgh for friends, family and sometimes up to four other people? The two-and-a-half hours just fly by.
Despite it clearly striking a chord, the critics have been less kind. Unable to look beyond their own class prejudices, some of them not even trying to hide their Scotchness, they condemned it. ‘Thinks it’s the next Fleabag but falls woefully short,’ the Times wrote.
Well, the real triumph here is that I’ve confronted the traumas of my past and emerged a stronger person. The secondary one is I’ve printed up 2,000 posters and 5,000 leaflets with ‘the next Fleabag – The Times’ on.
That should ensure sell-outs, nominations for Fringe awards, a West End run and a TV deal. See? Sometimes it is worth leaving London.
