Edinburgh Fringe: The Pleasance Dog, Queer Performance & Babyfleareindeerbag

My first Fringe hit me hard, lovingly, but without warning.

Cardiff Central at five o’clock in the morning is its own kind of theatre: seagulls giving you attitude, the murky mumblings of zombie-like bar-goers stumbling home after a long night, and there I was waiting for a taxi to Bristol. Chillie, whom I travelled with, and I shared a quiet early-morning optimism about the trip. For him, it was his first time on a plane. For me, it felt like revisiting an old frenemy you know will make you uncomfortable. Before I knew it, I was wedged into a Bristol to Edinburgh EasyJet flight, trying to look calm while not being calm.

I hadn’t been on a plane in a while, long enough that the airport felt a tad posh and the complimentary bag of Haribos felt like a Michelin-star amuse-bouche. The flight was as you’d expect. A conversation with a stranger, and a lot of mid-flight anxiety reading of the brochure – as if a fictional flight to Lanzarote would make flying tolerable.

It wasn’t my first rodeo in Edinburgh, but it was my first Fringe. And nothing prepares you for that.

When we landed in the Athens of the North, a nickname that feels a bit silly until you are surrounded by statues, scaffolding, and people aggressively waving flyers at your face, two things immediately dawned on me:
Edinburgh in August is alive.
I was wildly under-caffeinated.

Within hours, we were in our first meeting with the British Council, talking about Wales’ presence at the Fringe: our cultural footprint, our future here, and how we support Welsh artists stepping into this global circuit. Somewhere in that conversation, something clicked. The Fringe wasn’t just a festival. It was an international destination. The destination for anyone wanting to prove themselves. A place where small-time theatre-makers like Phoebe Waller-Bridge suddenly became cultural giants.

It was intoxicating. Could a working-class nonbinary creature like me ever make it big one day? Probably not.

But with that thought, I realised I wasn’t just here to watch. I was here to learn.

Relay - Leila Navabi: Cardiff, Community and Our Place in the World

My first show was something familiar: Leila Navabi’s Relay. I had seen it previously at Sherman Theatre and adored it, so it felt like checking in on an old friend who would greet you warmly and immediately crack a joke about North Wales.

Navabi’s work is the perfect Welsh alchemy of warmth and bite. Relay is musical, punky, queer storytelling at its sharpest. At the heart of it, it is a story of belonging, heartbreak, and the chaos of trying to conceive. Leila’s work feels like a masterclass in Welsh sincerity: funny, heartfelt, and capable of blindsiding you emotionally.

2 / 4Watching it in Cardiff was magic. The audience felt like a community and the room felt electric. Watching it in Edinburgh was something else. I sat at the back, hidden in the darkness like some creature in the shrubbery. Yet that same Cardiff sense of community seemed to have travelled north. The Edinburgh audience was transfixed. They laughed loudly, some cried, and the whole room felt alive.

Later that evening, at a bar, I spoke to someone who had travelled from mainland Europe to see the best of the Fringe. They were queer themselves. Although their name escapes me, their words didn’t. “Edinburgh is where I belong best.” There was something quite beautiful in that. That there was already an established community here. But the question stood. How exactly do you break into it?

Baby Doomer - The Perfect Skirt Suit and the Trans Experience

One of the first shows on my Fringe hitlist was Sam Nicoretti’s runaway hit Baby Doomer. It is one of those shows that worms its way into your chest and refuses to leave. Built around the seemingly simple moment of finding the perfect skirt suit in TK Maxx, it unravels into a whip-smart reflection on identity, misgendering, dysphoria, and the trans experience in modern Britain.

Nicoretti moves effortlessly between razor-sharp humour and gut-punch sincerity. When they recount being misgendered at the till, you could feel the entire room wince. But in the typical way of a comedian, they twist that discomfort into something hilarious.

It is vulnerable, unflinching, and utterly brilliant. An absolutely raw perspective that was just crying to be shared.

A Small Detour with a Loyal Dog

After the hilariously emotional gut-punch of Baby Doomer, I needed air, and a bit of history. I wandered over to Greyfriars Bobby, the small statue of a Skye Terrier who supposedly sat on his master’s grave for fourteen years. Which is approximately the same length of time it takes to get a GP appointment in Cardiff, so I respected the commitment

How to Win Against History - Queer Immortality

As the night drew in, I headed to the Underbelly to catch Seiriol Davies’ magnificent How to Win Against History. The venue itself was a sight to behold. After spending most of the day scouring the city, the giant inflatable upside-down cow felt like a Northern Star.

The show is beautifully chaotic, glittering and flamboyant. It tells the story of Henry Paget, the infamous 5th Marquis of Anglesey, whose family tried to scrub him from history. It is a sequinned fever dream filled with some of the smartest musical writing I have seen in years.
The core question is simple but profound. What does it take to be remembered when history refuses to write you down?

Paget lived outrageously, converting his family’s church into a theatre, spending a fortune on jewels, and performing shows no one saw. The performance was fantastic, but the emotional 3 / 4truth of Paget’s life is what really lands. The need to be remembered is deeply human. And towards the end of his life, he bends towards convention. Sad. But painfully common.

Rose + Bud - Becoming Who You Already Were

My third day at the Fringe was something to behold. After a pretty smashing breakfast (credit to the scrambled eggs), I set off to Pleasance to watch Lyric Theatre Belfast’s Rose + Bud.

Unlike some of the larger shows, the audience numbers were low. But inside was a quiet gem. A hilariously Irish and candid journey of transition. The story follows Rose, a drama student in Derry, portrayed through two personas: Bud, male-presenting, and Rose, female-presenting. What unfolds is a tug-of-war between two halves trying to claim the same identity.

It was tender, funny, clever, and beautifully performed.

JEEZUS - Fringe Energy in a Bottle

That evening, I made my way to another Underbelly venue, this time underneath a bridge. Aesthetically, it was breathtaking. Inside, I found a fiery, hilarious musical about religious identity, queerness, and colonial history.

A South American altar boy preparing for his first communion becomes distracted by the attractiveness of Jesus on the cross. What follows is hilariously blasphemous, chaotic, queer and outrageously funny. Exactly the kind of theatrical nonsense I expected from the Fringe.

Babyfleareindeerbag — Is Being Fringe-Famous All It’s Cracked Up to Be?

Dazzled by the Fringe dream, it was Babyfleareindeerbag that served as the stern reminder that not all that glitters is gold. The show itself was surrealist and brutally honest. It follows an artist workshopping the next big Fringe success, blending personal tragedies, government secrets, and a recycling of a show about teddy bears. After each skit, audience members write their thoughts on a board.

Hannah Maxwell’s cynicism was sharp. The show held up a mirror to the Fringe itself. The fever dream of hoping for the next overshare ripe for a TV adaptation. And it raises the question many poorer artists ask. What is the point?

Performers sleep on sofas, floors, and sometimes in cars. Accommodation prices are obscene. If your show flops, the emotional fallout can be brutal. In an oversaturated scene, pre-made fame or privilege can still dictate who breaks through. Talent isn’t always enough. Hard work isn’t always enough. Fringe success is part serendipity and part marketing. And not everyone can afford it.

Without TEAM, I doubt I could have afforded to go at all.

But despite all this, the creative community that the Fringe fosters is intoxicating. Being here matters, even if you do not leave famous.

4 / 4What the Fringe Actually Taught Me

There was something magical about Edinburgh at that time of year. For all the yelling, the aggressive flyering and low-budget theatre, there is an unbeatable sense of an international community.

Comedy and small-scale theatre is a bit like a Trojan Horse. Queer joy is as radical as queer trauma. Small stories carry universes. Artists survive on stubbornness and community far more than funding. And the festival, for all its brilliance, is built on foundations that desperately need strengthening.

The Fringe gave me access to an international community – I networked, connected with people from across Europe, and made some life-long memories along the way.

And then there is the Pleasance Dog. A small black dog with giant staring eyes that look like they have witnessed the fall of the Roman empire. His face is everywhere on totems and programmes, eyeing you up at every moment of your Fringe experience. Comforting and vaguely threatening. The embodiment of the festival’s exact energy.

“Welcome to the Fringe. It will change you. You will not survive unscathed.”

Fortunately, I left Edinburgh recalibrated, galvanised, and ready to tackle the next creative project with TEAM.

A Month Later – Hot Chocolate, croissants and Plu.

A month down the line, we have been working on our next project, Plu. To say it hasn’t been inspired by some of the work and spirit I saw at the Fringe would be a lie. The sense of creative collaboration has woven itself into the process. Alongside writer and director, Cat Burns, I have found myself spending my evenings in Scaredy Cats in town, hunched over hot chocolates and spiralling into creative chaos.

The Fringe reminded me to trust silliness. Embrace Welsh. Honour the community that brought you there. And to make space for working-class imagination rather than trimming it down to be palatable.

And as for the future, I know there is a place for the kind of theatre I’d like to make. There is always going to be room for the silly small stories – just get writing.