Aug 23
The sleep debt is definitely mounting. I really haven't been a party animal this year, but I certainly haven't had enough good blocks of sleep and doing what I'm doing everyday is stressful. Also I bought some weed called something noxious like 'AK47' or 'scud missile' or 'bovine tubercolosis', and I'm not sure if that helps matters. I just sat thinking “What did I do yesterday?” It took me ages to remember, but then I think it's normal for the days to start to roll into one.
I sat in waiting for the electrician for a while. Centuries ago, or so it feels, Hugh did something to the washing machine, and finally someone was going to come and fix it. Of course I waited in, but no one came. Why would they? It was only specifically arranged for that time. I stole a bowl of cornflakes from Madelaine's supplies. I'm not proud of myself, but I couldn't leave the house. Whilst we're confessing, I've also been using her margarine and a bit of her peanut butter. Hail Mary, full of grace...
I bought a pie from the PieMaker place on the way to a 2.30pm gig. It was steak and ale, scalding hot and fucking impossible to eat whilst walking down the road. It was all over my fingers, a bit in my moustache and on the tip of my shoe. Should have got a pasty. Regret weighs heavy on us. Also it occurred to me that I should have slept with the hot, mad girl from a few nights before. I thought “Nah. She'll sleep with anybody” and then I thought “Yeah, and that means you” and then I thought “Oh yeah.” It's the sort of thing I'm supposed to be doing in Edinburgh. Also, how many years do I really have left before I just look like a pervy old geezer thinking “Phwoar. If I were young again, I'd probably approach her. Well, maybe not.” We carry these things with us. Just like chlamydia.
It was a quiet audience at the gig. It was in the big room where they do the Anti-Hoot. The MC got nothing. I got some laughs. More grins than anything else. It felt okay though. Tim Shishoda was arsing around with Pat Cahill. I love Pat Cahill. He is fucking hilarious and a decent bloke. He will be successful and he wears it well. You forget how many amazingly nice people there are in comedy. Blowhards are always louder and more visible. Andrew Watts was on the bill. He was doing much of the same material that I saw him do 5 years ago, but got big laughs from a reticent room. We go back a bit so stayed to have a chat with him after. He complained that the comedy club he had his show in (The Shack) was getting limited audience and absolutely no reviewers. I don't fully understand the relationship between reviewers and the big venues, but I know one thing for sure: It stinks. As surely as I know that the Foster's Judges have at least one aristo-fuckwit on the panel who knows nothing about comedy, I also know of the favours and money that change hands to get good press. Stand up comedy is one of the most cash in hand industries around, after all – and these days, to a few key people, it's worth a lot of money. He also told me that some open spot comic made a 'joke' about Andrew's girlfriend (a journalist) getting raped. Andrew has called up lots of promoters and got this new act banned from lots of clubs. New comics believe they are pushing the boundaries, whereas in reality they're just pushing their luck. Yeah! Eat that, buster.
I had a crappy show. Well, it wasn't awful, but I just felt like I was talking for an hour. Laughs were sporadic, there was no momentum to the show. I had no sense of timing. My rhythm was all over the shop. It felt like I was careering down a hill in a shopping trolley. What's worse is that the audience seemed really nice, and had I been on form it would have been a belter of a show. Annoying. Also, Laurence Tuck came to see it, and I always want to give a good display when comics are coming along. The combination of that and tiredness gave my morale a big slap. I stumbled home to have a lie down and called a bunch of people to have a chat. I had some good conversations, and it cheered me up a bit. I smoked some weed and walked over to the So You Think You Are Funny Part at the Gilded Balloon. (Did I tell you how I got the weed? I got it off a comic friend, trading it for his gig diary that he'd left at the flat. It was an awesome, clandestine trade.)
It was quite embarrassing waiting around outside the Gilded Balloon. I couldn't get in until Omar came. Omar is the loud new comic flatmate and I have to rely on him to get me in. What's more is he was late so I got a drink in the courtyard and sat by myself, which I rather enjoy doing these days. I think most comics can sit by themselves very well. A fire alarm went off in the building and it started to rain. Floods of people were coming out of the party: intoxicated acts, fat old agents, crinkled promoters, hangers on. Like a ghost-ship of souls. All being rained on just the same. Most of these people I know. A lot of them regularly came to my Brixton night to get gigs, and now they walk passed me without the least sign of recognition. I put on Peter Gabriel's “Blood of Eden” and just watched these people pass and interact. I think the weed was having some effect too. It made me want to laugh. Lots of phonies and egos and yet a lot of them probably felt the same as me. All comics feel the same way about the festival. Weary resignation at best. Most of them can't stand it. I saw Josh and said hello. He said “Yeah. Hi” and turned his back. That shocked me a little so I walked around the corner where there were no people and had a cigarette. When I came back, Madelaine said hi and I told her I had been snubbed my Josh. She said it must have been a mistake. I don't think so. It's the Gilded Balloon. It sucks the conviviality out of people. All you see everywhere is boards plastered with reviews. It's a madness.
I met up with Omar so he could get me in. The party was terrible of course. They gave out free pairs of cheap plastic sunglasses. That's how shitty it was. Free Fosters and wine for the first few hours though. I saw fewer people than I usually know. More people seem to be staying away. There was a group of comics that I know, but I didn't feel like I could talk to them. They're all doing stuff in better venues. Not that it should really matter. I spent most of my time with Madelaine, Josh and a group of people which also included Eric Hutton, Nick Sun and others. They're a good bunch, in that they were would listen when you talk. I'm not saying that other people didn't make an effort. Joel Dommett came over, as did Mark Restuccia, but it was quite clear that they would have been somewhere else. I had a good chat with John Hastings, but then he disappeared mid-sentence. I know that this is how people are up here, but it gets so fucking boring. We're telling jokes into a microphone, fuckers. Snap out of it. The party had a hashtag, so I did a couple of snipey tweets saying that comics can't socialise properly and, whilst standing in line for drinks listening to other people's conversations: “Must...refrain...from....killing...spree.” I'm surprised I wasn't arrested. Looking around I thought, “If a bomb goes off in here, comedy would be set back for...oooh...2 to 3 months?” It's a borrowed thought from Alan Partridge, but a good one.
Nick Sun argued with Sam Simmons. Sam Simmons looked at us individually like we were all in league against him. A real crazy stare. I've never even met him. I'm delighted to be sane. I know that any paranoia or angst I experience is nothing compared to some of these comedians. Poor, stupid bastards. I bought a couple of beers and hid them so we could go outside and smoke. Eric was very impressed with my hiding place. I think that was probably the best thing that happened.
We all went home in a taxi. We played the Beatles in the kitchen and I made a spliff. They were all talking about Sam and his paranoia that we were all against him. He made that happen really. It's like if I'm onstage and I keep saying “I'm shit” the crowd starts to think “Hey, maybe you are.” In the same way Omar had shouted at the party, “I can't talk to people. To be a comic I think you need the stage because you can't deal with life outside it.” Fucking healthy attitude, there. Omar came into the kitchen later and started talking loudly as usual. I can't remember what he was saying, but he pretty much cleared the kitchen. He was drinking a lot of coffee. He said: “See? I can't socialise. I've cleared the kitchen.” What I said was “No mate. It's 4am. People are tired” but he was certainly a catalyst in that. As I left the kitchen he mentioned something about never having been loved. I hesitated for a moment and then thought 'save it for the stage' and went to bed. Omar's a good soul, but gets carried away. His brain is a bit wonky. This may sound harsh, but that's the way it is. I have other wonky brained people in my life too. I like them, they're almost always well-meaning, but there's nothing I can do to help except try to be patient and friendly. I have my own issues, but I'm vaguely sure I have some dim perception of what's going on. I'll probably end up mental, though. It's pretty much inevitable.
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