Anyone who knows me knows that I go deep in my preparations for Fringe. I spend months getting into the character of Eric Cantona—who I play during my show. It’s quite hard to maintain the French accent, but I give it my best shot. Luckily, I live in Marseille, so I’m able to prepare by drinking lots of pastis and scowling at the sun.
Eric Cantona’s eyebrows are depicted in the show through a simple theatrical trick—black tape across the brows—so I am spared having to grow the bushy numbers myself, though they would be helpful given my many hours staring at the sun. I find it imperative to prepare for the inevitable rise to stardom that the Fringe is guaranteed to bring, so I ensure that my bank accounts are completely emptied to allow room for the incoming wealth.
I sign up for two or three credit cards, safe in the knowledge that my status as ‘artiste’ will soon bring me access to the many perks these golden tickets provide. I register my name as a trademark. I free myself of tiresome binds like friendships and family relationships so that I am completely unburdened and able to relocate to Hollywood at the drop of a hat. I begin to wear a hat.
I am told that it’s possible the show might not be a sell-out success and that I should build up my emotional resilience in the event of rejection. I ignore these fearmongerers and continue drawing up the architectural blueprints for my Los Angeles mansion. I call up Zaha Hadid but she doesn’t answer. I leave a message. Does she think it’s possible to suspend the house inside a huge football? It would be quite good for my image.
Now that I have no friends and no family, I find myself with plenty of time to wander the city. The hat draws quite a lot of attention, and I am forced to wear sunglasses to protect my privacy, even indoors. The hat and sunglasses combination mean that people begin to take photos of me, believing me to be someone important.
I’m told Zaha Hadid died in 2016. I write a poignant obituary that does not get published. A journalist calls, curious about why I registered my name as a trademark. I say ‘no comment’ and hang up. Later that day, a blacked-out Nissan G37S rolls past my shared house. I get a dog for protection, but I carry it around in a handbag for ease.
Someone calling herself ‘my mother’ phones up, concerned about my health. I tell her not to worry; thanks to the hat and sunglasses, I am very healthy and haven’t once been sunburned. However, the combo does restrict the sun from reaching my eyes, and thus I begin to lose my trademark ‘Eric Cantona’ scowl. I reach out to Eric Cantona on Instagram. He will have to play himself.
About the show
Date(s): Aug 1-11, 13-18, 20-26
Time(s): 12:10 (1 hour)
Location: Summerhall – Demonstration Room
By
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