Miss Frisky Opens Edinburgh Fringe 2025 with Artist Welcoming Speech on Being a Performer and a Parent
Miss Frisky (Laura Corcoran) a musical comedy performer and beloved cabaret act, opened the Edinburgh Fringe 2025 for artists with her Artist Welcoming Speech.
In the speech, she talked about what it is to be both the child of a performer and parenting as a performer.
Miss Frisky’s well known tongue in cheek style brought to the fore how important supporting parents and carers in the performing arts is. How important it is for the wellbeing of all performers but especially parents and carers to take centre stage at one of the world’s best loved festivals.
PiPA would like to thank Miss Frisky for allowing us to reproduce her speech and for bringing parents and carers to the forefront of our minds when we think about the Fringe.
You can read the speech in it’s entirety below.
To find out more about Miss Frisky and upcoming shows, visit friskyonline.co.uk/
Image – Jiksaw
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Hello, and welcome, Fringe fans, Fringe firsts, Fringe old favourites, Fringe fools and Fringe fairies (assign yourselves as you wish). The festival officially springs into life for 2025, today! How are you feeling? Alright? I know, whether this is your first year, or you’ve been coming for the last 30, this time is always jittery – you’ve probably already put out several fires, made many side-steps and adjustments, things won’t be going exactly to plan, but the possibilities in the next three weeks lay spread tantalisingly before you like a buffet dessert table. It’s so FRICKING EXCITING, we love it, and that’s probably why we’re (still) here.
So, for those of you who are wondering who on earth I am, and why I’m addressing you thus – as Chris rather embarrassingly detailed, I was one half of a musical comedy duo who lived the Fringe dream. We turned up in 2009 with an hour of twisted-pop-cabaret nonsense, loosely held together by the concept of being a ‘School of Pop’, absolute no-ones to almost everyone. And by the end of the festival, we had a UK tour, a top-flight agent, an invitation to perform at the Sydney Opera House for Pride, and meetings with TV producers. We had 5 star reviews almost across the board, and appeared on practically every local and national media outlet covering the festival that year. It was literally the best we could have possibly hoped for. Apart from the swine flu – that was also going around that year and I even excelled in my dramatic bout of that too. And we did it again the following year. The third year we levelled up to the iconic Purple Cow, and sold almost every ticket. Then up to Assembly Hall – 750 seats a night. After a break, we were invited back with no financial risk – something that hadn’t happened before, and probably hasn’t since. And after a long break working on other things, we came back again in 2019, not sure what to expect, only to be treated to another gift of a run, critically and financially.
So how the crap did we manage all that?! Well, like most fairytales, it didn’t play out exactly that simply. And while luck, of course, plays a huge part, and privilege an even bigger one, we were also not coming into the Fringe wide-eyed, innocent and dreaming.
I’d describe myself as a theatrical tradey. I’m a 4th generation performer, and I apprenticed with my Dad – the amazing Chris Corcoran, a musical theatre leading man for over 20 years, and a TV director for 10. I grew up in theatres, I saw, not only the dazzling show, but also the makeup process, the costume repairs, the wig setting, the quick changes, the mic fittings, the soundchecks, the followspot operators, the lighting desks, the orchestra tune-ups and the company manager rants. It wasn’t a glamorous fantasy – it was a job, a trade. I watched my Dad like a hawk, and not just the work at the theatre – the morning vocal warm ups, the daytime press and promo, and the post-show time with fans at stage door. And I also saw the fallow years, uncertainty and unemployment. But from him I also learnt to make my own work – he put on concerts, promoting and producing them himself. Before leaving school, I already knew better than most what went into making a show, and making money from it. I actually produced my own youth production of Godspell when I was 15. Turn back, oh man, indeed.
The Fringe, however, wasn’t on my horizon. Not until University (Oxford – I did mention privilege) was I even aware of it, but in my first year I came with a student production of Guys and Dolls. At that point, it was absolutely just a jolly. But I got to see so much, and started to understand the layers and possibilities of the festival. Every summer through university I came back – as a director, and as a writer-performer with the Oxford Revue. I saw Fringe sensations become cult hits, and national, even international icons. I met some of my comedy heroes, and I found myself in my very first Spiegeltent. I could never have imagined then how much time I would go on to spend in spiegeltents all over the world. Without question, it broadened my horizons as to the length, breadth, highs, lows, beauty, brilliance, weirdness and idiocy of this global artistic industry.
Frisky & Mannish wouldn’t have existed had we not been to the Fringe and seen just what some people had been getting away with on stage.
We started out in London, and from the beginning made sure we had great images and an online presence (we’re talking late-stage MySpace, early-adopter Facebook, and ad-free YouTube. What a time!). We found out about every open-mic that might be slightly appropriate and worked our way into every cabaret avenue, or cabaravenue, if you will. We made friends with other acts, and connections with producers, venues, promoters and PR. Word was spreading that we had something, but we wanted to wait until we had a killer hour before bringing it to the Fringe. We waited a year and a half, built up our repertoire, built up our connections, and built up the hype before we even arrived.
When it finally came time for us to head to the Fringe, we had no small understanding of what we needed to do to make an impression. First, we had an investor. A magnificent musical and theatrical angel by the name of John Rubin – lucky that he saw some potential in us, and privileged that he was a family friend. We knew we couldn’t do everything, so we offered accom and passes to those who could help – three glorious flyerers: Tash & Fi, now artistic heavyweights in their own rights, and my boyfriend of the time, but I couldn’t tell you where he is now. Kit Nairne was on flashy lights, and my mum, Karen, on chauffeuring and keeping house. That last one is, I realise, a bit worrying. But having had the experience of what a flat inhabited by enthusiastic, young showfolk can turn into in a mere 3 and a half weeks, and wanting to avoid the plague, I felt it wise. And, more to the point, she was super game. We brought a large printer and photocopier, a Ryman’s full of paper, staples and ink, a crate of costumes, a clunky keyboard, and off we went. We got to know the venue staff – in the office, on the doors, at the bar, the street teams. We made sure they knew how appreciated they were by us. We did every single promotional spot we could, but we didn’t do our own street flyering. As I say, we knew we couldn’t do everything, and we were far more likely to sell the show giving our best on stage, rather than in conversation in the cold light of day. Not our greatest skill. And every time a positive review came out, within the hour we had star ratings and quotes attached to the flyers and on the posters. Kevin Wilson was a PR wizard, and as the hype snowballed, he was all over it. We depended on, and trusted, the team around us, and we focused on being the best at our job that we could be. And with a bit more luck, and leaning on all that privilege, we had our Fringe fairytale.
And from there began our careers. And we’ve both made our livings in our industry ever since.
Maybe some of you are here for a jolly, but maybe some of you hope to make this your career, and that IS achievable, there are many sides to this multi-billion pound global industry, you can find your place. And if you’re deep into that process – I salute you, comrade.
The Fringe is magical, but it is also a training ground, a bootcamp, a three and half week university course that costs the same as an MA.
Whatever capacity you’re here in this year, you have the possibility to learn a lot, fast. You will probably have to. But if you’re observant, interested, thoughtful, you will see a lot of what is going into making individual performances, shows, venues, entire sites work. Start to notice. Start to think about it. How much a font choice might be impacting whether you want to see a show or not. Is the venue making more money from the ticket sales or the bar sales? What vocal choices made that punchline funny? Why is that OK show selling out, but that brilliant show playing to 7 people? What takes a review from dull and descriptive, to insightful and entertaining? How much programming went into this lighting? Start to notice, and think about it. It will blow your mind. Imagine the possibilities when you start to understand how all of these moving parts come together, and where that understanding might take you.
And whether you’re new to this, or as “experienced” (my favourite euphemism for ‘old’) as me, there’s always more to learn, more to see, and new adventures to be begun.
But alongside this rhetorical kick up the arse, allow me to also remind us all of the importance of balance.
I am not saying: “Let the festival swallow you whole! Be consumed by art! See everything! Meet everyone! Drink every negroni! Toss your 6am kebab to the seagulls for you shall be sustained by the lifegiving force of pure theatre!”
I’ve been there. It’s very fun. But, unsurprisingly, somewhat unsustainable.
If this is your job, or you want it to be, you have to learn to leave it at the “office.” Even during something as invigorating and intoxicating as the Fringe – you will absolutely benefit from remembering you are a person outside of this world. You are a beautiful, brilliant, valuable human being, who is enough, exactly as you are, loved for who you are, with an array of diverse interests and abilities.
I was never very good at this. Until I had to be. I became a mum in 2019 – any other parents here? Yeah, hear that? That’s YEARS of exhaustion. It’s a cliche to talk about tired, busy parents, burnt-out and frazzled, snapping at their kids and floundering in their jobs. It’s so ubiquitous it’s almost invisible. It’s in every industry, but this one has a particular set of challenges.
Where are the nannies that work from teatime to the middle of the night? Can I get my child into a nursery in every city on my tour? How on earth am I going to juggle a solo show at the Fringe with parenting a child on their summer holidays….?!! No, but that last one is too real. Oh god, what am I doing.
Now, I’m going to spend a little time talking about the challenges of being a parent performer – I appreciate this may not be relevant to many of you, but I’m sure you have other responsibilities, commitments, or compelling needs and wants in your life that demand a great deal from you outside your role here this month. Feel free to mentally transplant that into the place of “child” as I talk about some of it. But please also know this very much includes you – as I shall eventually explain.
I’ve seen parenting in the arts from many perspectives. As I said, my Dad was a performer throughout my childhood – I’ve been the little one with a fever in the dressing room, being checked-on by most of the cast in between cues. And I missed him so much when I was at school, and couldn’t be with him. But, at that time, there were no Sunday shows, and that was the one day of the week we would be together. He would travel from every corner of the country on a Saturday night to be with us for that one day, and we knew Sundays were sacred family time (I was heartbroken when Equity took that away from families by agreeing to Sunday shows as standard). But I also appreciated the quality of our time, over the quantity. He always made the effort, not just to be there, but to be Daddy for those days.
He was working in musical theatre for most of my childhood, and the attitude towards children was that we would be occasionally tolerated, as long as we were exceptionally behaved. But it was an adult environment, and certain individuals made their feelings about our presence very clear. We shouldn’t be there.
When I became the adult, and as my career developed beyond the theatre and comedy worlds, I started working with more and more circus artists, and circuses. Here, the attitude could not be more different. Traditional circuses are populated by families, acts are passed down through generations, kids make their stage debuts as soon as they nail their first trick. Backstage is a series of caravans, homes, a village. Kids aren’t just tolerated, they’re a given. Half the performers and crew grew up in caravans, they were those little idiots learning to walk on sawdust. Why wouldn’t they treat them like family? I learned that this mindset expanded beyond the trad touring circus, right up to the top of that industry – Cirque du Soleil toured nannies and teachers to homeschool the children of artists on the road, until the pandemic. And having many circus-kid friends now, I can tell you the ones I know speak multiple languages, have huge skill-sets, and fantastic circles of friends and family all over the world. So, evidently, there is another way that works.
But those of us trying to raise kids in a conventional way, while having a somewhat unconventional life, are really struggling. The unsociable hours, the financial uncertainty, the travel, the expectation that you will give all of yourself to a project and be available at short notice – all that is enormously challenging anyway, but add in a family life, and it can become impossible. I’m far from the first to point this out, and there are those working right now for change. The brilliant organisation ‘Parents and Carers in Performing Arts’ or PiPA have brilliant resources for parents, and are working with venues and organisations to address these challenges.
But honestly, not a lot will start to change without an attitude change from all of us – an acceptance, no, an embrace, of families in this field. Kids are a given. Soz. You may not have chosen to have kids yourself, but they are something of a fact of life. You were, you know, one, once. If you imagine it’s not just the problem of the parents who chose to have their own crotch-goblins, but a matter of collective responsibility, imagine how the world could be. This isn’t a problem exclusive to the arts, but as is often the case, maybe the arts have the answer.
And just as the Fringe has long been a place of artistic innovation, let it be a leader in redefining the approach to working parents in this industry too.
The Fringe has the potential to be a magnificent resource for parents. It can be hugely challenging re-entering this sphere after a career-break, but here you can work with flexibility, get incredible experience, and start to rebuild your network. If only there was a little more support.
In 2019, my first Fringe as a mother, PiPA worked with the Fringe Society to offer a drop-in creche, free of charge. It was AMAZING. Most afternoons I didn’t even leave my little one, but just came in to be in a calm, child-focused space with her. It was a godsend. I understand that the Fringe Society not having a permanent building made the red tape too constraining in subsequent years, but they are working with PiPA to explore options for next year – fantastic news for parents with little ones!
But what about older children? They’re on their long break from school, and they get dragged away from all their friends and plonked in the middle of this beautiful city. What could be offered to help the whole family have an exciting, fulfilling and productive time? Could more be done to connect parents? Could a kids club be organised, with performers offering workshops and play sessions? Could there be a pack with detailed info about activities, outings, travel logistics in and out of the city, as well as a directory of babysitters, childminders, doctors and other urgent care? Put simply, what can be done to say to parents – you’re not on your own, there’s a village here too.
I think it’s fair to say, there’s not only a benefit to parents, and to their children, but to the Fringe itself. As I already said, I am a 4th generation artist, I apprenticed throughout my childhood. Some might call that a nepo baby, or you might call it joining the family business. We already see Fringe institutions bringing up the next generation – Karen Coren’s daughter Katy is Co-Artistic Director at Gilded Balloon, William Burdett-Coutts’ daughter, Annabelle, is starting in the Assembly offices in programming. I have no doubt there are numerous performers here this year who have been coming to the fringe since they were kids. It is part of the survival of this fabulous festival that generations of performers see their way into it, learn from it, and come back year on year. Of course, this isn’t the only accessibility challenge facing the Fringe, and I haven’t got the time, or even close to the depth of understanding needed to speak to all of them. But I add my voice to the chorus of parents, guardians and carers, that we don’t get forgotten as the balances are redressed.
I do also want to take a moment to say that motherhood isn’t a tiresome millstone around my neck, an endless obstacle to my career. Luckily for the child-averse among you, the joys are literally indescribable. Oddly, I can honestly say that, after becoming a mother, I felt myself level up, once I hit my stride. You cannot help but be emboldened by finding out just what you are capable of. Facing down pregnancy and birth, and, whatever challenges you faced, surviving it? Badass. Learning the juggle, and I don’t mean multitasking, I mean hardcore, life and death plate-spinning? Superhero level. Getting that sudden, internal-landscape-reshaping depth of perception, that sudden perspective shift where you realise that you are holding someone’s childhood in your hands. Pffffffff. OBVIOUSLY I want to do a great show, but it doesn’t really, like, not really reeeeeeeeeeeally matter. It’s the power-trifecta of a perceptible upskill, a deep form self confidence, and not giving too much of a crap. I don’t want to scare you, but the parents in this room might be very, very tired, but they might also be unstoppable.
So, when I do feel myself sliding into the Fringe ego-vortex, I remind myself that my brilliant daughter cares more about what snacks I have, than what star ratings I have. I might have to face the public humiliation of a one-star review, but I’ve also had to get home following a diarrhea poomageddon in a coffee shop. She was in a baby carrier at the time. I did not bring spare clothes for myself. I have failed harder and more painfully as a parent, and picked myself time and time again. If I can do that, I can face any amount of professional disappointment, and I will survive.
So whatever challenges you’ve faced-down, hold space for those, hold yourself, or just very lightly hold someone’s finger in the midst of the chaos that is about to come.
It’s never easy to keep a hold of yourself at the Fringe – whether it’s getting lost in your work, or getting pulled in multiple directions. Ideally, you would compartmentalise – you would allow yourself to be swallowed whole, but for very short, contained windows. And then get back to another part of yourself entirely – do something fun with your kids, call your parents, or someone you love. Even, do your tax, or something that’s weighing on you that you’ve been putting off, that’s actually an amazing feeling. Or just do some yoga, go for a walk, or go see a movie, whatever will break the spell, and give your nervous system a bit of a reset.
FOMO is the enemy with which you must make peace. Much like the Hulk, the secret to defeating FOMO is by accepting that you are actually missing out ALL THE TIME. There is simply too much happening here for you to not miss out on SOMETHING. This festival is not one collective experience, it’s thousands of intersecting personal journeys, and you’re on your own path.
So, to conclude: what message am I humbly offering for you to take forth into this year’s Fringe? Well, look, it’s expensive. You’ve already invested a great deal in yourself by being here. Don’t waste it. Be smart. Be observant. Be curious. But also, trust your instincts, and do whatever you need to do to find balance without having a trace of guilt or FOMO. Know when to work, know when to let off steam, know when to rest. Don’t bankrupt yourself – morally, spiritually, or financially (I recommend drinking soda water with fruit, hydrating and often free). And if you manage all that, please tell the rest of us how the hell it’s done, would you?!
Shall we finish with a song? Why not? This is a beautiful rendition of an oddly powerful song (although maybe not the second verse, don’t look too deeply into that). It’s a stunning piano arrangement by Michael Roulston, and I first performed it here, at the Fringe, with Briefs: Sweatshop in 2016. It comes to you today very much from the heart. Apart from the second verse, as I said, but idk, maybe there’s something in there for you? Go with it.