by A London satire writer’s diary on the Groucho residency, Camden Fringe overload, and the particular grief of not winning something you half-forgot you’d entered
So the Groucho Club Writer’s Residency results came out and, in a plot twist surprising absolutely nobody who knows my actual output this year, I am not the winner. Some fellow named Sufjan Bile got it, a month in Soho, fifteen hundred pounds of dining credit, mentoring, the whole glamorous package. Four hundred and fifty of us applied. I genuinely can’t remember what I submitted, which tells you roughly how much confidence I had going in.
What I Actually Did Instead Of Winning
Went to Camden Fringe instead, which this year has swelled to something like four hundred and fifty shows across nearly forty venues, which is either an inspiring explosion of grassroots creativity or the exact number of people who also didn’t get into the Groucho and needed somewhere else to put their feelings. I saw three shows in one evening in the upstairs room at the Etcetera, sweating through my one good shirt, and genuinely enjoyed at least two of them, which is a decent hit rate for pub theatre.
The Actual Standout
A one-woman sketch show that opened with a bit about landlords so specifically savage I texted my own landlord a photo of the flyer afterward, purely to make him nervous. That’s the whole appeal of the Fringe, honestly, catching someone genuinely brilliant three years before anyone with real money notices them.
Why I’m Not Actually Bitter About The Groucho Thing
I am, a bit. But four hundred and fifty applicants for one spot means the maths were never remotely in my favour, and there’s something almost comforting in numbers that large, like getting turned down by the entire literary establishment simultaneously rather than one specific editor with a grudge. Diffuse rejection is easier to carry than personal rejection.
What I’m Actually Doing With The Rest Of August
Writing anyway, obviously, because that’s the whole racket, isn’t it. Nobody hands you the Soho residency for free, you just keep showing up to the upstairs room above a pub with your good shirt getting increasingly less good, and eventually either someone notices or you die trying, and either outcome makes for decent material.
