Jess Robinson on the best and worst of the festival

Musical comedy impressionist Jess Robinson is back at the Edinburgh Fringe with her new show Your Song, revolving around Elton John’s back catalogue. Here she shares the best and worst of the festival. 

Fringe binge

In previous years, I’ve tied myself in knots trying to create the show I thought I should make. Something cool. Edgy. Reinvented. Something that might get the industry to sit up and go, ‘Ah yes, now we see her.’

 And while I’ve been massively proud of what I’ve achieved, that kind of self-contortion takes the joy out of everything. The Edinburgh hour can do that to you — shrink your world to a 60-minute spotlight and a series of neurotic countdowns. That one show becomes the be-all and end-all of your bubble, and the rest of the festival slips past in a haze of sleeping, spiralling, and stress.

But this year feels different. I’m presenting something that brings me total joy. Not what I think I should be doing, but what I love doing. And that shift — taking the pressure off, letting myself just be me — has been completely freeing. 

I’ll still probably worry about ticket sales and reviews (of course I will), but the difference is I really believe in this show. I love it. And that belief has opened up space in my brain and heart to enjoy what other people have made too, instead of spending the whole month in my head, then panic-watching twenty shows in the final 48 hours.

So this time, I want to be out and about during the day — seeing other people’s brilliant work, connecting, discovering, laughing. I want to binge on everything that makes the Fringe magic.

Also — and this is important — I would like it officially on record that my favourite Fringe activity is playing Shithead over a glass of red in the Abattoir with other performers. Please may I have a membership?

Fringe cringe

The year I lost my show pants mid-crowd surf. 

It’s very important to have a good, robust pair of sparkly show pants. I wear these on top  of my actual pants and tights like a singing superhero. This is mainly for any Kate Bush impressions or Liza Minnelli choreography that comes with the territory of the Jess Robinson show. If I kick my leg or do the splits in a particularly showy-off moment (which, let’s face it, could happen at a funeral), I don’t want the audience / congregation seeing what I had for breakfast.

The pants in question that year were sequinned scarlet hotpants. Magnificent. I was doing a guest spot at Massaoke, decided to crowd surf like a rock star, and somewhere between launching off the stage and touching down at the back of the room, my pants fell off. Just… disappeared into the crowd. Vanished. 

I put a ‘Missing’ message out on Twitter (when it wasn’t a cesspit) and bought a new pair for my run. Not as sparkly. Then, the day before the festival ended, they were handed in at my venue. Returned with a mysterious little card that just had my name on it… and a question mark. It was a bit creepy actually. I didn’t know where they’d been or what they’d been doing. So instead of a tearful embrace, I chucked them,

Fringe whinge

The Loft Bar, the private bar for performers and industry folk at the top of the Gilded Balloon Teviot House (although the whole building was closed last year and will be again this time around).

It is supposedly a Fringe haven, but I hate it. I have never had a good time there. Maybe that says more about me…

I’ve stumbled in there at 3 or 4 in the morning, and I’ve been there sober for PR parties and meetings. I’ve tried every version of myself in that room — tipsy, bright-eyed, professional, fun, fake-casual — and still, every single time, I end up feeling like I’m back at secondary school trying to sit with the cool kids.

It’s dark (even in the day time)… I can’t hear anything, and everyone seems to be looking over my head when they chat to me to see who’s more interesting. It has this energy — or maybe I project it — of self-importance and smugness, like a swirling soup of drunk, obnoxious, over-networky noise.

Every year I say I’ll never go there again, because I inevitably end up in a conversation with a bloke — always a white male stand-up — who interrogates my show and makes me feel small. And it always triggers this weird shamey feeling that because I’m doing something with music, impressions, and ridiculous joy, I’m somehow less than the people doing straight stand-up. I feel so uncool. It really is like being a nerd at a frat party. I imagine. 

So next time it’s closing time in the lovely, joyful Edinburgh I’ve been sharing with friends, I need to remember: the party will not carry on if I go there. It will curdle.

I’m much happier playing Shithead in the Abattoir.

• Jess Robinson: Your Song is at the Assembly George Square Gardens at 6.05pm during the Edinburgh Fringe

Published: 21 Jul 2025