The Infinite Ronnies

Before I moved to the U.K, to study at Liverpool Hope University, I had this fantasy of what student life would be like. Long evenings in basic, flammable halls with my fascinating, cultured classmates, cheap wine fueling big conversations on artistic expression, great movements in art history, and other clever - or at least clever sounding - insights that I could mine for essay content. I hoped that my English would be good enough and that my Danish accent - light and softly spoken - would appeal to my arty cohorts, who I assumed would benefit from the ego-boost of having a foreign friend. My weekends would be spent in galleries, wearing bright dungarees that actually made me feel confident and interesting, more like a hot Pinterest model and less like a badly-dressed child from the nineties; my evenings stumbling between trendy-but-cheap bars in the city, most likely alone but, hopefully, with one or two close friends, bonding over shared interests until the early hours of the night. I’d find my voice as an artist, become someone I could be proud of being. Search every bakery for rugbrød.

I had all these hopes and visions, stacked them up in my head - most of them based off of my Dad’s stories of his own time as a student. He’d also studied at Hope, and his love for the city and the campus shone through each time he talked about it. I never fit in back home in Copenhagen and I saw Liverpool as a chance to reset myself, become Freyja Olafursdatter, international fine arts student.

The reality, of course, had been far different. By the end of my first year I’d made one real friend - not a bad tally for me, I’m not the best at making friends - and we had spent all of our free time avoiding Uni and our studies as much as possible. Anne ‘Helter’ Skelter, my halls neighbour, was bright, loud and perfect; exactly the opposite of me but also the one person I’ve ever met that I could fully be myself around. She could have been friends with anyone else but, for some unfathomable reason, she saw a special kinship in me, and my friendship with her unlocked a far goofier, more wonderful way of living through student life than I had planned for. We stumbled through our first year, stupid students in a brand new city, with no idea how to live independently. I was always low on funds and my essays were screamed through the night before deadline, first drafts thrown together in a tornado of coffee, stress, and spelling errors. None of the other arts students talked to me and I was in no way seen as cool, arty, or interesting. I’d lose whole days glued to my phone, watching YouTube video essays and jealously scrolling through better artist’s instagram pages, and I’d end many weekend nights sat on a cold kerb outside of Concert Square in the early morning, staring at the harsh glow of the striplighting in a crowded kebab shop, waiting for the streets to stop spinning. Student life was nothing like I had imagined, and I absolutely adored it.

The academic year was over, and the Pilgrim Pub was overflowing with students, finally free from the burden of exams, revision and work. Or at least the guilt of not focusing on exams, revision, or work. It was early July, and the beer garden stunk with the hot scents of cigarette smoke, sweat, and the nearby wheelie bins that lined the kerbside.

Helter returned from the bar, two fresh drinks in hand. I’m an autumn girl, I excel under wool, but Helter is a woman built for summer; blessed with a body that looks great in colourful dresses, or shorts and tops that show off her dark, unblemished skin. She was wearing a short, cream-coloured dress decorated with geometric black and grey ravens, and light leather Birkenstock sandals. Her jet-black hair was a chaos of stylish curls and swirls that neatly framed her face, and her eyes still sparkled behind a pair of thin framed, blue tinted sunglasses. She looked as though she belonged at some celebrity-filled sunset party, swanning around some glorious Californian mansion, instead of downing bottles of cheap beer in a packed pub off of a smelly alley.

I wasn’t as dressed up as Helter or the others, but I had still made an effort - my eyebrows were fantastic and I’d somehow wrangled my easily tangled, permanently zhuzhed-up, dull-brown hair into something other than the ‘I’ve just woken up’ look that it usually had. I never wear dresses, normally, but we’d found a soft blue summer dress in the Pop boutique on Bold Street a few weeks ago that had just the right mixture of modesty, casual elegance and affordability for me to break away from my standard plain un-obtrusivness that I preferred in an outfit. I’d also given into years of temptation and celebrated my first sucessful third of undergraduate study by getting a tattoo; a daisy - my national flower! - on my right ankle. It was bright, and colourful, and though I’d immediately fallen in love with it it was as sore as hell. It was still wrapped in clingfilm, and I’d pulled my sock high over it to keep it out of the sun, but it was taking a considerable amount of willpower not to focus on it. Both this and the dress were ratchetting up my naturally-high levels of self-consciousness I am destined to always suffer under, and my new look wasn’t the only thing drawing people’s attention to me. It wasn’t just an ordinary trip to the pub, after all - It was my artistic debut.

We were squashed into a corner, standing around a packed picnic table groaning under the weight of too many bodies sitting at it. Almost every occupant was a comedian or a performer, and the only thing on their minds was the looming apprehension of the ultimate student comedy event - the Edinburgh Fringe festival. In the centre of the table was an A3 printed copy of a poster that I had spent hours designing and redesigning, my entryway into what would become the most impactful chapter of my young, adult life.

The Infinite Ronnies

A sketch comedy show written and performed by Ollie Taylor and Jocelynn Skelter.

“Is that Illustrated!?”

Stand up comedians, apparently, are easily impressed. I hadn’t realised that a debut, student sketch show with an entirely illustrated poster was out of the ordinary and was, frankly, overwhelmed from all the praise being thrown my way. Fortunately for me, my newfound comedy buddies were used to - or desperate for? - praise, and were happy to help bear the load.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Ollie concluded. “All thanks to Freyja, here.”

Ollie turned to me, beaming, and raised his pint glass. Tall, neat, and attractive in a funny, charming way, he either looked nothing like what you’d expect a comedian to look like or exactly what you’d expect one to look like, depending on who you asked. His short, black hair was usually neatly combed back, though he hadn’t been able to afford a haircut in the run up to the summer, leaving it a little floppier than usual, and he was dressed sensibly as always - polo shirt, blazer, leather messenger bag casually dropped by his feet but with the handle looped around one leg, just in case.

“Seriously, you should see the work she’s been doing for the show.” He added, turning back to his friends. “We’re so lucky to have her with us. She’s got proper talent!”

Being friends with Helter was wonderful and so nice, and fun, and even though she had become friends with everyone she still spent most of her time with me. Her sister, Jocelynn, was in the year above and through meeting her, and then Ollie, I was thrown into the intense, back-stabbing world of student comedy. It started out small; I’d watch their first draft nights. I’d hang out with them. I spent long afternoons in Ollie’s flat or in Jocelynn’s halls in Aigburth, drinking tea and watching them agonise over punchlines and overly silly set-ups. It wasn’t long before I wanted to be an actual part of their group, not just a supportive and reliable bringer, so I started suggesting things. I could make props, or logos, or help backstage whenever I could. Ollie and Jocelynn gushed about how lovely I was, how helpful I was being, and though it was great to feel accepted into their group the workload rapidly stacked up.

For the last couple of months I had been absolutely cramming every hour with prep, design and feedback from the rest of the gang, while paying no attention to my academic demands. From nowhere, I had crowbarred myself into a comedy group, mostly as a way to avoid essays and gallery trips. Perhaps that’s what university really is; a way of discovering what you want to do with your life while procrastinating on whatever it is you thought you should be doing with it.

“They’re so jealous of us right now.” Helter said, handing me a bottle and indicating to the sea of white boys huddled around my work. “They’d kill for a poster like that.”

“They’re jealous of them.” I corrected, pointing the neck of my beer towards Ollie and Jocelynn.

“Nah!” Helter argued. “We’re all part of the gang, Freyja.”

“Yeah, but they’re the stars.” I protested. “They’re the ones on the poster.”

Helter was clearly caught in a proud sister moment, happy watching Jocelynn fizzing with Fringe excitement. I’d not been the only one to get a tattoo - I’d have never done it without some peer pressure involved - and I was aware that Helter was also struggling to avoid itching at the Pokéball that now dominated her left bicep.

“Thank you for making it.” Helter added, all sincere. “It’s so cool. Jocelynn won’t shut up about it!”

“It’s fine. I loved it.” I replied. “I’m glad I could help.”

“I think it’s cemented in the… realness of it, for her. Like, now it’s happening. I mean the show’s been ready for ages but now that she’s got the poster, the flat, the venue; It’s going to be amazing!”

Jocelynn was the only non-male, non-white performer at the table. Like her sister, she was dazzling, extravagant and confident in everything she did, though she treated life with a little more seriousness and consideration than her little sister; slapstick and silly on stage but one of the most organised, professional and naturally cool people that I had ever met. Her giant, frizzy afro sat high on her head, pushed back by a brightly coloured bandanna, and her thick-framed, circular glasses and giant hoop earrings fit well with her full cheeks and rounder face. Whereas Helter dressed as if she was allergic to clothes, Jocelynn liked to layer up, usually wearing tight t-shirts with a cool, vintage denim shirt or long dresses with a light jacket.

“Come on, Freyja, sit here.” Jocelynn stood up, waving me forwards to take her place at the table. “This is your moment! We can’t have you sidelined in the shadows.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that in the Fringe.” One of the other performers said, as I squeezed into the vacant seat. “Seriously, though, sick poster!”

“Don’t be a dick, Rob.” Jocelynn cut back. “At least we have a Fringe show.”

“I’m in the society show this year!”

“You’ve got one sketch in it.”

She smiled at me as I sat down, repeating - just to me, but loud enough for everyone to hear - what she thought of her comedic rival, before joining Helter for some well-earned bitching about egotistical ‘funny’ men.

Artistic praise was a bit of a new sensation for me and I could easily become addicted to it. If you’re anything like me, the joy of creating something is when it finally begins to look good. Trusting the process, whittling away until the vision in your head begins to form, like magic, onto paper or screen. This had been my first collaborative project and I wasn’t used to people seeing my work unfinished; basic shapes and half-formed objects scattered around the paper, ghosts of what I had in my head. Originally, they wanted something complicated - Their original poster had been a black-and-white photo of the two of them, mid-performance, with basic text, but it didn’t really suit either of them - and after snooping around my Uni portfolio, grand plans started to form. “Maybe, like, it’s Ronnie Corbett in his chair, but there’s loads of him.” Ollie had originally pitched, “all climbing over each other to get in the chair like maggots.” After a few rough thumbnail sketches and caffeinated afternoons in Ollie’s flat, we whittled it down to a pencil illustration of Ollie and Jocelynn squashed together, both trying to wear one oversized pair of thick-framed glasses. Simple, goofy, and much better than I thought it was going to be.

I’m rarely proud of myself, but that poster had me glowing. Perhaps because it was my part in a massive group project or, more likely, alcohol and overexposure to the sun, but for the first time since starting university I felt a sense of belonging, like I had finally found my place. I would never have expected it to be among wannabe comedians, pulling all nighters making props out of recycling, but as I said - Student life is unpredictable.

There was one person at the table who was not as enthusiastic about our big poster reveal. Ollie’s girlfriend, Kris, clearly wanted to be anywhere else but here. Her makeup was perfectly applied and her black dress was tight, and short, the sort of dress you wear for clubbing or drinking cocktails with your girlfriends, having a proper, summer celebration of the end of exams. Not for watching your boyfriend hunched over a crammed picnic table, shrieking excitedly about one of several promotional printouts that had just arrived that morning. When they had arrived she was insistent that they were only staying for one, just a quick catch-up before they met her friends, but that had been a good few pints ago. Ollie, who was halfway through a panicked conversation about promotional flyers - we ordered a thousand. Is that enough? - Had likely forgotten entirely that they had other plans. On the rare occasion that she looked up from her phone, she made no effort to hide her excruciating boredom; the endless ordeal of having to put up with someone else’s interest.

I didn’t know Kris particularly well. Almost every interaction I had had with her boiled down to saying hello, and then being ignored for the remainder of the day. I’m sure she was nice if you knew her better, and Ollie was smitten with her, though if you asked the Skelter sisters it was a relationship built on looks and only a little deeper than her foundation.

“Ollie?”

“Hmm?”

“We’ll need to set off after these.”

She indicated to her - long finished - drink, and Ollie’s barely touched beer bottle.

“Yep. Sure. Five minutes.” He smiled at her, before falling back into a bragging competition regarding who had the best time slot booked. Her eyes rolled dramatically before settling on the poster, and up to me. I made a face that, I hoped, conveyed understanding to her frustration of having an easily distracted boyfriend. Not that I had any clue what that was like.

“The poster is good.” Kris said to me. “I like the colours.”

“Oh, thanks! It’s sketched physically, then I added the colours afterwards.”

“Like, with paints?”

“Photoshop.” I corrected.

“Oh.” She added, dismissively. She looked at her phone again and I returned to not knowing what to do, socially.

“We should be going.” She announced, moments later.

“Yep. Right.” Ollie, finally torn away from the fantasy of being a full-time comedian, finished his drink in a gulp and rolled up the poster, carefully packaging it away in his bag. We had plenty of spares - the rest were still rolled up in their cardboard tube, safely away from the risk of someone knocking a pint over them - so it didn’t matter too much if that one got any rips or bends. If anything, it would add to the authenticity of it; a proper show poster, tacked or stapled onto any remaining space on a pub wall.

“Where are we meeting everyone?”

Kris double-checked her phone. “Heebie Jeebies.”

“Righty-o. Heebs, anyone?”

“It’s a bit early.” I argued.

Heebie Jeebies was the sort of place you always inevitably ended up in, no matter how the night was going. Like death with an entry fee. Labyrinthine if you’re drunk, and struggle with stairs. Loud if you’re sober, and want to talk to people. It was just before nine o’clock, which meant that no one would be sober or drunk and the vibes would be uncertain and awkward. I wasn’t the decision maker, though, and my protest was quickly ignored. I quietly followed the rest of the Ronnies as we left the Pilgrim behind and headed further into the city centre.

Kris was on edge, immediately. Visibly uncomfortable, seemingly just as unhappy to go and meet her friends as she was at the Pilgrim, with us. Just as we left the beer garden she stopped walking and took Ollie by the arm.

“Look - can we talk?”

“Talk? Err…sure. Are you OK?”

Kris nodded to the rest of us.

“Oh, yeah of course, sorry.” Jocelynn ushered us forwards, leaving Ollie and Kris to some privacy but also making sure we didn’t walk too far ahead. Helter stopped us short a few metres out of earshot of their conversation, feigning - or genuinely - having to rummage through her purse for a lighter.

I strained, but couldn’t make out anything they were saying. Jocelynn, too, was fixated; her head slightly tilted, starving for any crumb of drama or gossip. Helter triumphantly pulled a lighter from the bottom of her bag and, at the same moment, Ollie stormed into our group.

“She’s not coming to the Fringe.” He explained, flatly.

“Oh, perfect.” Kris snapped, loud enough for us to hear. “That was a private conversation!”

“What?”

“She’s not coming.”

We knew that she wasn’t going to be up for the whole month, but she had planned to spend a week in the Scottish capital. We’d even started to discuss how we were going to squeeze another person into our already overcrowded accommodation; a two bedroom flat for either five or six of us, depending on if Ollie’s flatmate Nadeem could be convinced to tag along as tech support.

“It’s not-” Kris had caught up to us. “Look. I can’t.”

“Well, you said you could before!” Jocelynn argued. “Why the sudden change?”

“I’d rather focus on my dissertation-”

“Oh, so you’re choosing not to come!?”

“Right, all of you, shut up!” She fumed. “Sorry, but what the hell is this? Why are you all ganging up on me?”

“OK,” Ollie said, trying to calm everyone down. “OK. You’re right, this was a private conversation. But it’s not just me that’s affected by this, you know. They’re part of this, too! You’re not supporting them, either!”

“I have to focus on my future!” She snapped. “I know it’s disappointing to you guys, but I do have my own stuff going on.”

“You’ve never seen us perform.” Ollie said, clear hurt in his voice. “Not once.”

“It’s not really for me.” She explained.

“What, laughing?”

“It’s not that-”

“You can’t spare, even, like a single weekend to come up and support your own boyfriend?”

“I can’t.”

“This means so much to me, so much -” Ollie shouted, “and you can’t even be arsed to sit in a chair for an hour for me?”

“It’s not just that, though, is it-”

“Even Freyja’s parents are coming up for it and they’re in a different country!” He raged. I didn’t add that they had planned to visit the UK for a summer vacation regardless, or that they had sounded worried when I’d told them my August plans.

It wasn’t just Ollie that was furious. Jocelynn was clearly hurt too, and Helter, the two of them silently seething away, boiling over but holding their words in.

“You’ve got your sister coming to see it, your parents.” Kris added. “You’re going to be supported. You’ll be fine.”

“But I wanted you to be there.” He replied, not hiding the crack in his voice. “I thought you wanted to see it.”

She didn’t respond, not initially. Long enough for us all to tell that she was thinking of an excuse.

“I do.” She - eventually - said. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

A fire engine screamed past along the nearby main road, its siren blaring over the heavy silence of the argument. By sheer bad luck I had found myself right between Ollie and Kris, wedged into the fight unnecessarily. I looked between the two of them, momentarily catching Kris’ eyeline, her stare hard and practically challenging one of us to speak out, to kickstart the shouting. She didn’t know me at all! I would literally rip my own tongue out of my head if it meant avoiding conflict.

“Whatever.” Jocelynn growled, her jaw tight. She turned, marching back into the Pilgrim, as if being near Kris was a waste of her time. Helter quickly followed and I awkwardly slipped away from the couple, back into the relative bliss of the beer garden.

We sat back at the table. Someone tried to make a funny comment about us breaking up before the Fringe had even started, which Jocelynn ignored with such frightening hostility that he slunk away, disappearing towards the bar and not reappearing for quite a while. Half an hour later, Ollie rounded the corner; pale, strained and alone.

“We’re… taking a pause.” He announced, flatly, dumping himself onto the bench. Jocelynn wrapped him in the tightest hug imaginable.

“Ollie, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Freed from the hug, he slumped forward, head resting on his palms.

“So, are you guys over?”

“I… I don’t know.” He exhaled.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“She wants some time away.” Ollie explained. “She’ll focus on her dissertation prep and go on her family holiday, but she won’t be visiting us in Edinburgh. We’ll see how we are when we come back next year.”

“Shit, Ollie. I’m sorry.”

“She just needs a little space.” He said. “I get it. I’ve been so focused on the show…”

“Yeah but this is the Edinburgh Fringe,” one of the other comedians argued. “Your first Fringe! You’ve been dreaming about this forever.”

He shrugged. “It’s still happening.”

“Yeah but, you know…”

“It’s fine, honestly.” He lied. “Anyway. Nothing we can do about it now. And you’re right. I have been dreaming about it forever, and it’s actually happening! I have a Fringe show, and a brilliant comedy partner… I’ll be good. It’s going to be great. The show must go on!”

We left for Edinburgh on the last Saturday of July. Practically, we were ready for it; Ollie and Jocelynn had performed and improved the show all throughout Spring in the run-up to the Fringe, we’d rented a small but costly flat for the month, all our flyers and posters, all our admin and props were packed and ready to go. What none of us could have prepared for was the hectic, electric lifestyle of running, shouting, spending, and panicking through Edinburgh - the wild, exhausting and incredible month that was to follow.

This is, mostly, the story of the Infinite Ronnies.

(It’s also the story of me: Freyja Olafursdatter, international disaster. With a nice new daisy tattoo.)