There was a time when the Edinburgh Festival Fringe felt like a fever dream scribbled in biro by a sleep-deprived drama student with a ukulele and a point to prove. It was sticky floors, ropey tech, one flyer per armpit and the wild-eyed hope that maybe, just maybe, Lyn Gardner would walk in. It was anarchic. Beautiful. Broke. But crucially, possible. Today? It’s less “scrappy cultural utopia” and more “unregulated economic bloodbath with clown wigs”.
Someone won’t come back next year. And that would be the real tragedy. Not because the art died. But because the rent killed it
The 2025 edition is shaping up to be the most financially exclusive yet, and unless you're being bankrolled by an oligarch or you've just sold your pancreas on the dark web, performing at the Fringe is now as accessible as a Soho House membership. A recent Times report confirmed what every artist sobbing into their grant rejection letter already knew: Edinburgh is the most expensive city in the world for hotel rooms during August. More than New York. More than Monaco. More than sense. According to the Independent, the U.S. embassy reimburses its employees £480 per night to stay there during August – by comparison it’s £277 in London. And it’s not just performers that are feeling the squeeze. Journalists are expected to live on instant noodles and divine intervention too.
For young artists, the economics are insulting. The much-loved Durham Revue, a staple of student comedy, revealed they’ll spend 60 per cent of their budget on a shared flat. That’s a cool £9,000. For one month. In Scotland. Not Cannes. Not outer space. Scotland. You could put on five decent regional tours for that. Or buy a small flat in Dundee. Yet this is what is expected, even normalised, in what was once a celebration of accessible, alternative art.
But wait, it gets bleaker. There are tales of performers camping in fields at £43 a night. Others are taking four jobs just to cover the cost of bringing a show. They crowdfund, remortgage, pray. They pack their dreams and their blackout poetry into a 1998 Ford Ka and drive to their financial doom, because somewhere deep down they still believe that the Fringe matters. That it will make them. That someone will care. Of course, the only people truly profiting from this sadistic lottery are the landlords, who, having gorged themselves on the short-let feeding frenzy, are now charging up to £34,000 for a single flat during the festival. That is not a typo. Thirty-four thousand pounds. For a flat. In a city where Greggs counts as haute cuisine.
The Fringe Society has made some valiant noises about affordability. They’ve secured 1,200 rooms at £280 per week or less. Lovely. Except there are 3,600 shows. Do the maths. That’s like announcing you’ve brought a jug of tap water to put out the Great Fire of London. They’ve also pointed at the Free Fringe models and said, “Look! Hope!” which is a bit like tossing a rubber dinghy into a tsunami and calling it a ferry.
And yet, those small, rebellious outfits are offering a flicker of salvation. The PBH Free Fringe and Laughing Horse continue to operate on a genuinely community-minded ethos, refusing to charge performers venue hire fees and instead suggesting voluntary contributions towards shared costs. It’s grassroots. It’s punk. It’s underpaid. But it’s alive. Shedinburgh, the charmingly lo-fi brainchild born of pandemic chaos, is another rare gem. This year, they’re offering guaranteed fees, covering travel and accommodation, and even providing a £5,000 fund for first-time performers. In this economy, that’s basically winning the Euromillions.
But such outliers shouldn’t have to exist as exceptions. The major venues – those grand old dames of the Fringe circuit like Assembly, Pleasance and Gilded Balloon – aren’t exactly evil overlords, but their business models are starting to resemble the West End with worse acoustics. Together they’ve distributed about £400,000 in support to artists and venues, and launched memberships to stabilise the ecosystem. Fine. But a reality check is needed. These are also the places where show fees, insurance, tech costs, PR retainers, and box office splits can leave even sold-out runs in the red. At this point, it’s less of a festival and more of a reverse pyramid scheme with mime.
And what about the critics? Those of us – mostly unpaid – to endure the heat, the hype, and the 1pm immersive monologues in blackout tents? Many of us aren’t going. Can’t. Accommodation costs alone are enough to gut a freelancer’s year. The Fringe is becoming a critical echo chamber where only the well-funded, sponsored or otherwise financially suicidal get to participate. It’s like inviting everyone to a party but only letting the rich kids in the front door. Everyone else has to write their reviews from the car park.
You don’t need to be Angela Rayner with a clipboard to work out the solution. Stop giving tax breaks to Airbnb barons and start capping short-term lets during August. Offer subsidised housing for artists and reviewers, even if it’s grim halls of residence with showers that cry when you use them. Create a bursary scheme that isn’t just PR puff but actually pays living costs. Make venue subsidies conditional on artist welfare. And for god’s sake, stop pretending that “exposure” is currency. You can’t pay for toilet paper with a ★★★★ from The Skinny.
If you want the Fringe to survive – no, if you want it to matter – it needs to be reclaimed from the money-men, the brand activations, and the theatre schools with Instagram interns. Bring it back to the broke weirdos. The risk-takers. The kids who duct-tape fairy lights to pub ceilings and make magic out of MDF. If that sounds sentimental, tough. The Fringe was never perfect, but it was ours.
Now it’s being rented out by the hour, with a cleaning fee and a threat of cancellation if you speak above 60 decibels.
So here we are. A once radical, wild, DIY cultural mecca has become a gentrified circus where the clowns are broke and the ringmaster’s an estate agent. And yet. In the corner of a dive bar, at midnight, someone will perform something devastatingly brilliant for twelve people and a drunk dog. And it will be worth every penny they’ll never get back.
But unless the system changes, that someone won’t come back next year. And that would be the real tragedy. Not because the art died. But because the rent killed it.
