Comedian Rhys James is returning to the Fringe with his latest show, 'Rhys James: Remains'. Here, he discusses Fringe anxiety, and how it's become a thing of the past.
Every year I step off the train at Edinburgh Waverley, take a deep sniff of the inexplicably popcorn-smelling air and am immediately battered to within an inch of sanity with a crushing anxiety and sense of real despair. But this year was different. I was driven to the Fringe. Ol’ Smudger Mark Smith (who will be known as Park Smith for the duration of these diaries for absolutely no reason) smashed his caboose behind the wheel of a VW and floored it all the way up to Meadow Place, where I now reside, writing this, in my very best tracky-Bs.
Every year I struggle to think, eat, breathe and pretty much everything except shift my bowels until my show is finished every day. Edinburgh tends to leave me a wreck of nerves until 5.45pm when that sweet, sweet exit music plays and I bleep the stop button on my Casio F91-W and step down from my panic station. That normally means I’m absolutely starving by the end of it, having only blasted a single banana or medium-sized bowl of Coco Pops into my tiny embarrassing stomach by this point. That’s why I always race home and get myself on Just-Eat to find solace in a post-gig feast fit for an actual full-sized human. The knowledge that I can get a two-for-Tuesday to myself or order all the sides from RedBox after a gig has so often been the only thing to get me through the bland, boring, challenge-less experience of performing stand-up comedy to Scottish people who hate me, and I smash it into my large mouth quicker than you can say 'Rhys, you’re going to die at 30.'
But this year is different. It’s day four and I’ve only had two take-aways so far. Which means I’ve cooked twice. 50% of the time. Amazing! And one of those times was before my show. Before. I ate a meal, before my show. There was (delicious, expertly prepared) pasta floating around inside my minuscule, humiliating stomach during a performance of my show, and not as I lay on my back groaning hours after. Incredible. And not only that - but one of the takeaways I got was awful. Just terrible. And from a trusted chain (that I won’t name) too. Baffling.
The reason is that for some reason this year, I’m not anxious. I didn’t smell the popcorn when I arrived, it didn’t all come flooding back and make me sick in my mouth, and I didn’t give Papa John’s the full five stars I normally do. I’m fine. This is fine. I’m enjoying myself. My stress levels are only slightly above average. I mean, I bought a salad today. What the fuck?
I don’t know what is happening to me, but if this is puberty, I’m game. Let’s do a Fringe.
Rhys James: Remains, Pleasance Courtyard, until Aug 30, 4.45pm.