Unfit For A King: On taking the stage with pride this August

In Primary Five, I had made it. Cast as the main character, the king, in the school play – buzzing oot my trolley. Until, that is, the teacher reconsidered, deciding my talents were more suited as the back stage narrator. I howled to my mum, folds of tears emulating my despair of losing my first big break. She treated me to a look about Blockbusters before returning to my loving council house where we lived with nanny and papa. 

Secondary school did not facilitate my dreams of being on stage. With no drama department at my secondary school, I felt being creative just wasn’t for people like me. By the time a panto got put into production in my sixth year, my gnawing for social reputational points meant I could not be seen to be uncool in this way.

It was not until adulthood that I leaned into my creative side. Journaling about how terrible the world was, I noticed a rhythm to my writing. Gave my work a quick review and decided to perform at an open mic. I was terrible but I finally had an outlet for my desire to perform. 

Now, I am bringing my life’s work, weaving poems, stories and jokes, to the Edinburgh Free Fringe in a spoken word show: Wellpark Wanderer. Deep into the preparation I ask myself, is this for people like me? Could it all be taken away after a meal-deal reconsideration like the teacher did all those years ago?

My maw always said that I was inquisitive as a wean. She would get fed up with me asking questions – from the pyramids in Egypt to the ants in Glasgow Green. Her response: “I don’t know, let’s look at an encyclopaedia in the library.” Offering free access to a world of knowledge, Dennistoun Library holds a special place in my heart. The etching on the sandstone alluring, warm carpets and flaky plastering hold me tight, mums and children bouncing and rhyming tops up my joyfulness. It's here where I draw my inspiration for my work. 

Around the same time I started writing, I also became active in Living Rent, Scotland’s tenants and community union. Through this and self-discovery, I first encountered songs of Matt McGinn, poems by Freddie Anderson and the plays of housing activist Cathy McCormack. It was proof that I could overcome the stigma of being creative. This is the stock I am proud to come from – paving the way for working class writers and performers for generations to come.

Contemporary, unapologetic working class stories from Scotland – the likes of Ely Percy’s Duck Feet, Graeme Armstrong’s The Young Team and Eilidh Loan’s Moorcroft – have added to the power in which writers before them gave. We all have stories to tell, no matter what our class background is, and we should not be ashamed to shout it from the top of Bluevale flats (now demolished, miss you). 

I’ve been in writing groups where we champion each other: encouraging one another to go for that opportunity, reviewing shared work, giving hands to those who need a gentle pull. I have also been in groups where poems from 1890 are dissected and everyone chimes in with an insightful comment which is aimed at outperforming the previous. It’s easy to get discouraged with the latter – not being comfortable in thoughtful point scoring, not trained for polite disagreements on art. It’s all subjective anyway, right? It’s in these circles that I would get asked, “Have you had anything published?” I was convinced that this is the path poets should take: I started submitting to publishers, got my hopes up. Nothing in return. It is easy to blame others – I didn’t get the same opportunities as them or they are conditioned to be successful in this sphere.

But I took a long look in the mirror, glossing over a new wrinkle, and thought back to that desire to be the king. Is having a printed collection of work the real driver of mine? It never has, possibly never will. My attention refocused towards a real dream: to deliver my longest performance piece. That is when the opportunity to apply for the Free Fringe arose. Now, I’m preparing to climb those 15 flights of Bluevale’s high rise stairs, and shout from the rooftops.

I wouldn’t be doing this without the existence of the Free Fringe. I’ve heard stories of performers hustling just to break even after hiring an expensive venue. I am not a gambling man and I don’t intend to put myself through that just to make art. Without the Free Fringe, I wouldn’t have a venue to weave the pattern of my stories together, to maybe fail, to maybe be a success, to make a point or to point elbows.

I will be in Edinburgh in August. I will be in front of people. I won’t be a king but I will be me. A wanderer looking for a stage. To develop James Connolly, our demands are most moderate. We only want the stage.

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