If I had the money, time, basic competence and social skills to mount my own Fringe show, it’d be called The Critic Sleeps Tonight. Each night at around 11pm, a reviewer would bumble onto a stage in a low-lit cavern, climb into a single bed, rest their head on a thin and unsatisfying pillow, and close their eyes. Upon entry, audience members would be given a ring binder featuring every article the reviewer has written and encouraged to creatively heckle them with the feverish abandon of an impulsive hanging in the Wild West. 

An ideal crowd would consist of every performer that critic has been even passingly dismissive of, all of whom will be allowed to hurl insults at the onstage snoozer for any deficiency, real or imagined (writing style, personal hygiene, deceased relatives: you name it, you can shout it). These primal-scream sessions will be a public service enacted by critics, drinking verbal effluent in the way that sewermen of the 17th century mopped up the faecal secretions of a city, or pious clerics silently listen to the sins of their flock. 

Few of my peers have been enthusiastic about this pitch, unwilling to risk a crowd potentially bum-rushing a stage and Saddaming them through the streets. Many already had horror stories of their own, usually from rage-fogged comics who took to social media to express their dismay at a middling write-up. ‘UK scientists have discovered the world’s biggest cunt,’ tweeted a US comic about a writer I know. ‘His name is [NAME REDACTED] and he writes for The List.’ Another erstwhile List scribbler once affectionately referred to the fans of a popular sci-fi sitcom as ‘geeks’ (which they are) and endured an old-fashioned dog pile on Twitter (RIP) when its co-creator publicly called him out. Many moons ago, there was even a publication called Fringepig which prided itself on reviewing reviewers, a source of venomous laughs that grew a mean spirit when bullets were fired towards student journalists.

Before any of you start playing tiny violins in my honour, let me make my stance clear: if your job involves sitting in the back row of a darkened room and critiquing a performer’s work, they have every right to sling a Thrilla In Manila-style onslaught of snide your way. As long as you’ve written a thoughtful, honest and well-informed piece, backlash isn’t your concern. A well-liked critic probably isn’t a discerning one, and every effective reviewer should be endowed with enough of a personality disorder to relish the occasional grievance. When you’re receiving free tickets all day and PRs are trying (and failing) to hobnob you for coverage, a constructive kicking every now and again is well-deserved. 

To put my money where my mouth is, I’ve set up the email address [email protected]. If you’ve received a review from me that you didn’t like, I give you permission to get in touch and hurl as many insults as you wish in my general direction. The address is real and, provided you don’t send anything illegal, I may even respond. I have thrown shade, and for that I will willingly atone. 

That address again: it’s [email protected]; main picture: Trust Tru Katsande.