Shep’s show runs twice a day – once at 4:30 p.m. and then again at 7:30p.m. in a pub near the bottom of the Royal Mile called The Canongate Tavern. At his suggestion, I decide I’ll attend the later one, which – based on the handful he’s done so far – is apparently a bit livelier. It makes sense, I guess. The later the slot, the more likely it is the audience will have got boozed-up beforehand.
Shep leaves my flat around three p.m. to go and do whatever it is he does to prepare. For all I know, that might be rehearsing his delivery in front of a mirror, practising mindfulness or drinking a couple of pints to take the edge off his nerves – if he has any, as I’ve seen no sign of that so far. Once he’s gone, I use the time to do boring stuff like driving to the supermarket for my weekly shop and doing my laundry. I also get some extra food in for him, so he has something to eat before heading out each day (I offered to do this, and he insisted he’ll pay me back once his new bank card arrives).
At around 6:45 p.m., I lock up my flat and pace across The Meadows towards the Old Town. The weather isn’t quite as nice as the day before. It’s become cloudy and muggy, as if there’s a thunderstorm, or at the very least a sizeable downpour, on the way. The air is perfectly still, though, and I enjoy breathing it in, a lightness settling over me that I haven’t experienced in some time. I might be heading out alone again this evening, but I do have purpose to my outing, and that makes me feel like I’m leaps and bounds ahead of where I was yesterday.
Keen to soak in the festival atmosphere, I take the scenic route across George IV Bridge and down the cobbled High Street, past the magnificent St Giles’ Cathedral and Edinburgh City Chambers, pausing a couple of times to watch the street performers as I go. The area is bursting at the seams with a melting pot of noisy, happy revellers, and in contrast to my lonesome walk the day before, I almost feel part of things as I take in the different accents and cultural backgrounds of the visitors who have travelled here from all over the world.
Arriving at The Canongate Tavern, a traditional-style pub that’s had a modern refit of sleek laminate flooring, modish lighting and leather upholstered booths, I order a lime and soda at the bar, then follow the Fringe venue signs through to the back room where Shep’s show must be taking place. It looks like the type of space that’s normally used for private events – birthdays, leaving dos, that sort of thing. There are several rows of chairs, about sixty seats in total, split by an aisle down the middle of the room, and there’s a microphone perched in a stand at the front, ready and waiting for Shep’s arrival. Although I’m here fifteen minutes early – heeding the advice of the flyer guy in Bristo Square the day before – I’m pleased to see that I’m not the first. There are already two couples talking in muted tones, and three burly blokes sitting in the front row on the left-hand side. It’s clear they’ve been on the pints pre-show, perhaps all day from the look and sound of them. I find myself thinking that they could be a tough crowd, and hoping they won’t give Shep too hard a time. Then my next thought is how odd it is that I’ve known Shep for little more than twenty-four hours, and I’m already protective of him.
I hesitate, unsure where to sit. If I go for the front row, it’ll be a clear show of support for Shep, but at the same time, I’ll make myself an easy target for him. I’m not sure whether he was joking earlier when he said he would use me in his show, but I certainly don’t want to encourage him. Deciding that he’s a big boy with plenty of experience, who doesn’t need me there to metaphorically hold his hand, I opt for a seat near the back instead. If I’m lucky, he might not spot me or he might even forget that I was coming along tonight.
By the time the show is about to start, the room is half-full, which isn’t too bad. At least it means Shep has a decent enough crowd to do his thing in front of. Waiting for him to make his entrance and take his place behind the mic stand, I’m excited about seeing him in action. But I also feel a bit nervous on his behalf, which I know is stupid, because I’m seeing this situation through my own aversion to being the centre of attention. He clearly loves this world.
Though I should be expecting it, I start when a voice suddenly booms from behind the curtain at the front of the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, can I please ask you to give a warm Edinburgh welcome to… Shep!’
I giggle as I clock that he’s doing his own intro. He might have tried to disguise his voice, but I know it’s him. Ah, well, it’s not like someone doing free shows can afford to hire an MC for a Live at the Apollo-style opener.
Everyone in the room breaks into polite applause as Shep energetically bounds out from behind the curtain, grabbing the mic out of its cradle.
‘Good evening, how’re you all doing? It’s great to see you.’ He paces back and forth, smiling at us, no doubt checking out who’s in the room and who can be picked on. ‘So, I’m a comedian… obviously…’
He pauses briefly, still scanning his audience, and I wonder if this might be his way of covering up a faltering start, but then he goes into full flow.
‘It’s not like you lot have rocked up expecting to see a taxidermist at work. That would be pretty boring, wouldn’t it? And a bit creepy. Though the Edinburgh festival has all sorts, so if there is in fact a taxidermy-themed show, don’t tell them I said that. I might end up as one of the exhibits.’
A light chuckle ripples through the room.
‘You’re probably also not used to people announcing their occupations to you like I have. “Hello, nice to see you, I’m comedian.” Like when you get on the bus, you don’t expect the bus driver to greet you with: “Welcome aboard, I’m a bus driver.” I’d say his role in the public transport system is fairly clear, as is mine. No, the reason I’m making a point of saying that I’m a comedian is because the rest of my family, you see… they’re all doctors.’
‘Oh.’ A woman in the audience shakes her head sympathetically.
‘There we are, right there.’ Shep pounces on her. ‘What was with the “oh”?’
I feel for her as she squirms in her seat, glancing around uncomfortably. ‘Because… you’re the odd one out. And no offence, but being a comedian doesn’t earn you the same high regard, unless you’re on the telly.’
‘Exactly that!’ Shep points to the woman triumphantly. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘Beth.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Beth. Thanks for your honesty.’ He smiles at her and then returns his attention to the audience as a whole. ‘What Beth here has put way more diplomatically and eloquently than I’m about to is that I’m the outcast of my family… the embarrassment, the one that didn’t get a real job, the one that you pretend doesn’t exist. Basically, I’m the floating turd of the Shepperd family.’
The audience snickers and I can already tell they’re enjoying Shep’s dry sense of humour. Sitting forward in my seat, I grin from ear to ear, now imbued with a sense of pride, which again is ridiculous. It’s not like he’s my son, or my brother or boyfriend. He’s just my temporary lodger.
‘This week my Fringe accommodation went down the pan,’ Shep continues. ‘Through no fault of my hosts, they’re lovely people, and I send my deepest condolences to them. But I found myself with nowhere to stay, broke, almost cancelling my show. Did my family step up? Did they hell.’
There’s a collective ‘boo’.
‘Oh, don’t be so judgemental, I never actually told them about it.’ There’s a swell of groans at being caught out and Shep chuckles to himself. ‘But if I had, I know what the answer would have been. No, the reason I’m still here is because I’ve got a new landlady and I don’t even have to sleep with her to keep my bed.’
‘Is she hot?’ shouts one of the burly guys from the front row.
‘Shall I let you be the judge of that? She’s sitting here at the back.’ Shep homes in on him, and despite being well-oiled, the man looks mortified but in a taking-the-teasing-well kind of way.
‘Lea, why don’t you say hello.’ Shep’s impish gaze lands on me and my face immediately flames as all eyes in the room turn towards me.
‘Hi.’ I give a self-conscious wave.
‘Lea is an angel,’ Shep tells the room. ‘She’s opened up her home to me in my time of need, and she’s only accused me of being a criminal once since I moved in. Isn’t that lovely?’
The thirty-strong audience laughs while I turn beetroot.
‘She also thought I was dead this morning, but that’s a story for another time. Give a round of applause to my new landlady.’
Everyone claps and cheers obligingly, while I sink into my seat.
‘Sorry, Lea, but you knew you weren’t gonna get off scott-free tonight.’ Shep grins at me then gets back on track with his set. ‘So where were we… ah yes, my doting family. I’ve actually turned their mockery of me into a sport. You know how, during the pandemic, video-call bingo became a thing? You know, like: “You’re on mute again, Moira, you look like a cast member of The Muppets.” And: “Can everyone see my screen?”. “No, we can’t but we’ve got a decent view of your blackheads, have you heard of exfoliator?” Then there’s my personal favourite… when someone goes on and on about how wonderful their child is, then said child appears in the background having a really good dig up their nose and snacking on what they find. And we got to enjoy this entertainment even more by marking each of these moments on a bingo card behind our colleagues’ backs.’
‘Best part of the working day!’ another one of the burly guys from the front row calls out.
‘I wholeheartedly agree…’ Shep nods at the guy. ‘Which is why I’ve started playing “Shep bingo” with my family. It’s my way of giving them the finger when they start on about my life choices, without having to lower myself to the level of actually doing it. In fact, I’ve got so into this game format that I’ve designed a supersized bingo card for us to use tonight. This one’s called “comedy audience bingo”.’
The moment he says this, the room fills with yet more groans as everyone, including me, realises they’re about to be part of the show.
For the best part of an hour, the room is totally immersed in Shep’s performance, getting boisterous and embarrassed in equal measures, picking on each other as part of the bingo game, whooping with awkward laughter at his more controversial jokes, and clapping at the moments we identify with most. He covers everything from being a gawky teenager to the latest political scandals, weaving his stories into each other perfectly and then into a brilliantly clever finale. By the end of it, I really am a beacon of pride as the audience members praise his performance while throwing their donations in the bucket he’s holding on their way out.
‘Thanks a million,’ Shep calls after the last couple as they leave. ‘Make sure you tell your friends about me.’
Once everyone has gone, I step forward to congratulate him.
‘That was amazing!’ I hold a hand to my heart in fangirling adoration. ‘You’re a total natural.’
‘You’re saying that ’cause you think you have to. You don’t, by the way.’
‘I’m not, honestly. My face actually aches. I’m not used to laughing that much.’
‘Unsurprising in your line of work,’ he deadpans.
‘Careful,’ I warn him light-heartedly, enjoying the banter. ‘Remember I’m the keeper of the keys to your Fringe experience.’
‘That, I am acutely aware of. Though I’m guessing from the smile on your face that I got away with ribbing you.’
‘I’ll overlook it, given it was funny and I was pre-warned.’
There’s no way I’m letting on that, when I thought he’d taken off to Belfast without a word, I had a much worse vision of how he might use me in his show.
‘Thanks.’ He looks into the bucket he’s holding to see how generous his audience members have been. ‘Geez, they were a great audience but tight as hell. I’ll be lucky if that works out as two quid a person.’
‘Well, I haven’t given my donation yet.’ I pull my purse out of my handbag.
‘I thought we agreed you giving me a bed for the month was enough.’
‘Nonsense. You just put on a belter of a show that was better than some of the ones I’ve paid for—’
‘Just some?’
‘Don’t push it. You might be the next Dara Ó Briain, but right now you’re playing in the little league.’
‘Ouch.’ He clutches his stomach as if I’ve physically wounded him. ‘Say it how it is, why don’t you?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. What I mean is that you’re good. Really good. And you deserve proper payment for your work.’ I take a tenner out of my purse and drop it in his bucket.
‘Aww, thanks, Lea. You’re a wee star. And I get what you were saying, by the way. I’ve got a way to go yet.’
‘A “way to go” is better than a dead end.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Shep lifts his chin as if rising to the challenge. ‘Come on, let’s get a beer in to celebrate my return to the stage.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Did you not tell me you never cancelled your show?’
‘It’s symbolic, Lea. Get with the programme.’