From the very first animated montage, it’s clear this won’t be your standard-issue actor’s reminiscence, stitched together with tired anecdotes and predictable “and then I got the call” beats. Instead, Scott Kyle — best known to millions as Ross the Blacksmith from Outlander, and to Glaswegian theatre-goers as the original, fiery lead in I’m No a Billy, He’s a Tim — opts for something sharper, stranger, and far more candid.

He begins not at the beginning, but in the middle of one of his greatest triumphs: producing and starring in I’m No a Billy…, a two-hander that became a sensation in Scotland. Written by Des Dillon, the play explores sectarianism through the lens of two men — one Rangers, one Celtic — locked together in a cell on Old Firm day. It’s raw, funny, and politically charged, and under Kyle’s stewardship it became a phenomenon, selling out venues across the country and even touring internationally. And then — in a moment that feels almost cinematic in its sting — he lost control of it entirely, watching as the work he had built from scratch slipped away, even as it played to thousands. Lesser mortals might have curled up, but Kyle? He did the only thing he knows how: keep moving, keep creating, keep finding new roads to travel.

From there, the show unspools as an autobiographical journey through a life that, on paper, should never have led here. Growing up in Rutherglen, in a family where acting wasn’t so much a dream as an impossibility, Kyle had the odds stacked high against him. But then came the lucky breaks — and the friends who became lifelines. We hear about his work with Ken Loach on The Angels’ Share, the whirlwind fandom of Outlander, and even the unexpected global fame of appearing alongside Harrison Ford in those viral Glenmorangie whisky ads.

What’s most striking isn’t the résumé — though it’s impressive — but the way Kyle frames it. There’s no bitterness in his voice, even when recalling moments of loss or disappointment. Instead, there’s a candour that borders on vulnerable. He admits to wrestling with imposter syndrome even now, and the admission feels entirely genuine. Watching him, you get the sense he’s still puzzling over his own story, still wondering how he got from there to here.

The animated sequences — created in collaboration with Kyle and Frazer Murdock, and used throughout as a parallel narrative — add wit, visual texture, and an almost graphic-novel charm. They’re not gimmicks; they deepen the storytelling, underscoring the mix of grit, absurdity, and resilience that runs through his life.

By the end, whether you arrived knowing Kyle only as “that guy from Outlander” or not at all, you leave with a richer sense of the man: the hustle, the knock-backs, the flashes of luck, and the quiet, stubborn determination.

In the end, It’s Not Where You Start is not just a personal memoir in stage form — it’s a reminder that success in any form rarely runs in a straight line, and that the measure of an artist is not in the victories, but in what they do next.