My Edinburgh Fringe debut. What could possibly go wrong?

This snapshot of life on the road for emerging comedians rather settles my own rising panic at making my Fringe debut. In about 20 minutes, I’m appearing ‘In Conversation’ with Graham Spiers at a room in the same venue.

Here, I must declare ‘an interest’. Mr Spiers has been my friend and former colleague of more than 30 years. He’s been conducting these Fringe conversations with notable figures from politics and the media for several years now and has become a master in the art. What could possibly go wrong: we’d just be a couple of old media crusties having a gentle discussion about ‘wur country’.

Almost as soon as I’d let my ego accept his invitation I began to regret it. I told myself I needed to get a grip. What in the name of Friar Tuck was I thinking? I’ve only ever been a sporadic visitor to the Fringe, believing it to be little more than a bacchanal of smug, middle class, self-promotion that deliberately prices itself out of sensible people’s price ranges.

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When he told me that punters would be asked to pay £12 a pop for listening to me indulging all my prejudices for an hour, I began looking for a way out. What if hardly anyone turned up? What if I utter something injudicious and ill-judged that gets captured on a smartphone then bounces around yonder internet to be ridiculed and mocked for eternity with a caption that reads: “bro thinks he’s witty and urbane and quickly finds out …”

And what if I come across as a sclerotic and reactionary old rocket with a low self-awareness threshold? “I wouldn’t worry about that,” my editor had said sweetly when I’d told her of my concerns. “It’s not as though everyone thinks you’re edgy and progressive.” Aye, very good.

And there was another thing. On a few occasions I’d sallied into print to convey my disdain at political and media types appearing at the Fringe and believing themselves to be some sort of celebrity. Now, I’d succumbed to this malady and joined their wretched ranks.

In a desperate and pathetic attempt to mitigate my folly I’d taken to social media to say that I’d donate my modest fee to For Women Scotland, the campaign group that seeks to protect women’s and children’s rights. Last year, one of the other Stand venues had tried to cancel Joanna Cherry, a close ally of For Women Scotland. This was my ‘get it right up youze’ message of solidarity with them. As it turned out, all of the staff I encountered at The Stand on York Place couldn’t have been more friendly, polite and professional.

“Now don’t f**k this up,” Mr Spiers is telling me as we walk onto the stage, “this could signal the end of both our careers.” Earlier, as we’d walked here from Waverley station, we’d laughed at the absurdity of this moment. Years ago, we’d walked these streets as colleagues on the Sports Desk of the old Scotland on Sunday, worrying about little more than spanking the arses of the Sunday Times sports section. Was this really where we thought we’d end up back then? “It’s a preposterous f**king state of affairs,” I tell him.

Kevin McKenna and Graham Spiers in conversation at the Stand Comedy Club in Edinburgh (Image: Duncan McGlynn)

What do you want to talk about,” I’d asked him, the night before this ordeal. “Well, obviously, the trans debate and your views about the SNP and your political heroes. And if there’s time we could talk about The Hoops.” I fervently hoped there would be a lot of time to talk about The Hoops.

I’m reassured that there are more seats with bums on them than without and reckon that around 50 people had turned up. A handful of them belonged to assorted family members, curious for a glimpse of this other world of which they’d occasionally heard me speak, but which had otherwise held scant allure for them … like 95% of normal people.

Mr Spiers may be a long-time friend and colleague, but he doesn’t succeed at these gigs by sparing the horses and getting all sentimental. There’s no gentle, soft-balls to ease ourselves into the action; no blue-remembered anecdotes from a distant time to convey the impression that we’re not taking this too seriously, ha-ha …

He opens with a scud missile. “You’re pro-independence, but you give the impression that you despise the SNP. Is that right,” he asks. It certainly is and I seek to explain my position. “What do you think of Nicola Sturgeon,” he asks and I take refuge in an old anecdote about dragging her into MJ Heraghty’s on Pollokshaws Road for a couple of drinks in a simpler and long-distant age. I’m not sure it’s very convincing.

Then it’s on to Catholic schools and private schools and the dichotomy of being in favour of the first but not the second.

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There’s another missile incoming. “So, you’ve become quite outspoken on the trans issue. Explain this.” The panic levels are rising once more and I reach for some water. It’s one thing writing about this issue and having the luxury of refining it and editing it for print, secure in the safety net provided by the Google search engine. It’s quite something else, explaining your views out loud in one take and in a way that doesn’t make you sound like Donald Trump on a boys’ night out at Hooters. Happily, there are no sharp intakes of breath from the audience suggesting oncoming infamy.

I take refuge in JK Rowling’s iconic tweet from 2019: “Dress however you please. Call yourself whatever you like. Sleep with any consenting adult who’ll have you. Live your best life in peace and security. But force women out of their jobs for stating that sex is real?”

Can’t we get on to Celtic’s transfer strategy and how soon Rangers will return to Ibrox, I’m pleading with my eyes?

The audience questions are where it might all come crashing down. But they’re all reasonable and eloquent and I find – to my surprise – that my responses are more nuanced than usual.

The hour has sped by and people are being very kind. I’m still not sure I’d have paid 12 quid for it, though.