The Cokemedian is jerking like a corrupted file, glitching backwards and forwards on his skinny legs, making scratching noises. “Ye- ye- yeah, word up my ho- ho- homie”, he says, and looks to us for laughs. Everything he says, he looks to us for laughs. Call me po-faced; I find it hard to laugh at stale Homie hiphop jokes. The Cokemedian goes on, a Puck in spasm, prancing and flicking quips at our ears like rubber bands. We busy ourselves setting J’s turntables up and thinking up headline rhymes for a BBC newscast in rap. The Cokemedian gives up on us, and spasms off in the direction of the toilets, to refuel. It’s seven in the morning, and I suspect he’s been up all night. A little way off, a short man dressed as a dragon is rehearsing his routine, which involves a dagger and a pack of cards. He looks exhausted. But this is Edinburgh! This is the Fringe! We don’t do exhausted. We do entertainment, and charm, and impressive routines. In the strange world of fringe performers, everyone looks larger than they are, and we show ourselves only through the distorting glass of our ambition. I AM HERE. I AM DOING. LOOK!
I’m as guilty of it as anyone: the BBC presenter, cameraman in tow, swings over in our direction, and I feel the crackle of the MeOnTelly field of static as they approach. It makes my body fizz; my eyes prick up and my lips twitch into a smile. “Ready?”, the presenter asks us, straightening his linen jacket. “Completely”, we lie, and glance at each other in mild panic. “Great, we’re on air in 5 minutes”, he grins, swerving off to chat to the dragon. The fizz fades, and the three of us deflate 5 psi. J plugs his final wires in and Baba and I struggle with double rhymes for Ronnie Biggs. Rapping the news is almost in our comfort zones- we can express Opinions, doing that. But we’ll do anything for attention. Yesterday morning, we appeared alongside a belly dancer on GMTV, and freestyled gladly on the theme of Lorraine Kelly. Tomorrow, if someone asks us to paint The Rebel Cell on our buttocks and cartwheel down the Royal Mile for the cameras, we’ll seriously consider it. The Rebel Cell is our baby; we’ve worked at it for months, and now we’re here we want all eyes on the pram we’re pushing. Never mind that the content is a satire on the injustices of market capitalism… in this market, that content is For Sale. Our baby is birthed, and we want it on as many billboards as possible. “Ronnie Biggs… Politics”, I venture. Baba shakes his head.
Tags: Edinburgh fringe