The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !X

My last show at the Edinburgh Festival says something about my shows in general and my performance problems specifically. I had a totally full house. I started off with welcoming stuff and the laughs were big and the atmosphere was great. If I had then done "Better Off Ed" to them, it would have been a roof raising hour. But they weren't there for that. They were there for the Rome show. It wasn't roof raising. It was underwhelming. I brought it back a few times with banter and other remarks - but the Rome material was not delivering. Not that I blame the material. My delivery was tired and stilted. Friday's performance on Saturday's crowd would have been electrifying. It's a shame and a few people left, but the bucket yielded £110 and people seemed happy enough. It's just one of those things where you see what you could do with a crowd. There was so much to work with there and I started off with such big laughs. Still. Live comedy.

I went back to the house after that. My housemates were cutting windows into the front of their house. They had put up dust sheets the day before, cutting the size of the place in half. It looked like there had been a murder. I offered my labouring inexperience but they asked me if I could cook dinner instead. I went to the supermarket and bought sea bass and wine and other stuff. It cost £40 altogether. Not bad for three weeks rent I suppose! I made them dinner. It came out very well. They looked happy. We ate and chatted and then ate cheese and watched people getting killed by a plague on TV. It really was a lovely evening. I felt useful. Sometimes they call me "the boy." I'm only a year or so younger, but I feel like a boy around them sometimes. They have their own place and plans and disposable income and yet retain a huge sense of fun. I have rent I can only just pay and a haircut I'm not sure about. It's not the same. Cooking good food suggests I know what I'm doing. When I cook, I do know what I'm doing. I think some people have jobs that make them feel worthwhile and grown up. I don't. When people say things like "I find this very fulfilling" I think they are saying "This makes me feel worthwhile." I think as a species we are constantly fighting to find purpose. Animals still have this inbuilt. At least, I think they do. I'm sure there are loads of depressed elephants, however.

I want to just exist and not be defined by one thing or another or to derive validation from one thing or another - but I am only human. People can get very distraught when they don't achieve their goals because too much of themselves is defined by the goals they set. If they fail, they take it personally. The universe will not bend to my will and I don't expect it to. Be bloody nice if it did though, eh?

On Sunday I went to see "Dawn of the Planet of the Apes." It was great. Escapism. I felt incredibly relaxed after. The guy I went to see it with owns a company. He worked bloody hard for two years and now works ordinarily hard and still makes excellent money. He said "I'll buy the cinema tickets if you get the drinks." The tickets were a tenner each. We had our drinks in Wetherspoons. A lot of my friends are smart, fairly successful people. I'm a bit of an anomaly in that respect. Success is relative of course, but I am more than relatively unsuccessful. Increasingly I find that my close friends pay for my dinner once in a while or just keep buying me drinks. I don't feel ashamed, really. There have been times where I've had excess money. It's nice to spend it on people you like. In my bag, I have a tupperware box which had £700 in it from the shows. I will put it in a bank. But at the moment it's a nice thing to have. It looks like Scrooge McDuck's packed lunch.

I picked up my remaining flyers and posters from the venue. No one said: "Why didn't you do a Sunday show?" No one cares. I put up about 5 posters. I have about 45 left. Note: Fewer posters. I met up with some friends and had a few too many drinks. The film had put me in a good, neutral mood. I was being silly and playful. Then we talked comedy and I felt the weight gather on my shoulders. A few Edinburgh's ago I slept with a comedian. She approached me and said "hi" and hugged me then went back to her table. I stood there and wondered who she was sleeping with for a while and then decided to go home.

I had an 8am train. Everything went smoothly. I got on the train. It was comfortable. I felt like I was leaving Edinburgh. I didn't feel regret. It felt like the least substantial Edinburgh. In the past, I would go up there and just be glad to be gigging and coming up with material. I thought it was all adding to something. I thought that something might happen, I might be spotted, I might get booked for other things, I might get a good review that would really help me on the circuit. Despite the meltdowns and terror, there was always a point. This year, the point hadn't been so clear. I was happy to get away from it.

In London, it was raining hard. I got to my flat at 1pm and fantasised about a bath and tea and Fraiser and cooking. I couldn't get into my flat. The landlord had locked the bottom lock. A lock I don't have a key for. I called my flatmate and sat on the stairs eating a sandwich. I met my friend in a pub for some drinks and food. My flatmates thought of an ingenious scheme to send the key down with someone else and I could meet them at King's cross. That person was on a train that got delayed and then more delayed. I had too much to drink and slept fitfully on a sofa bed at my friend's house. He's a doctor, but decided not to go into work with his hangover. We administrators are made of sterner stuff.

I felt tired and a bit hungover and really didn't want to go to the place I knew I had to. Edinburgh wasn't ready to relinquish its grip immediately after all.

This is a thing.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part V!!!

My last performance of "Better off Ed" went well. Two lads turned up initially. I hoped they weren't Ramsay's friends. They weren't. They sat down in the empty room, so that when a couple came up, they weren't alone. I told them that I'd try to find one more person. I went downstairs and saw a guy who'd come to my Roman show. I asked him if he wanted to see the show. He looked hesitant. "Only until my girlfriend turns up." Good enough for me. I have 5 people. In Edinburgh, when you're unknown and doing an unlisted show on a landing above a sports bar, it's an audience. I made them into one row. I took my time with the material. They were appreciative. More people trickled in. A guy I know through Facebook said he would try to turn up. He stood in the doorway. He explained later that he was trying to block out the noise from the bar below. He complained that it was a terrible venue and suggested improvements in the set up of the room. He made good points, but it was too late. I was relieved to finish the run. The fringe company suggests a donation of £3 per performance for the room. I suggest they pay me £3 per performance compensation for such a terrible room. Let's meet in the middle. I'll pay nothing.

So the show gathered more people, the girlfriend turned up and stayed. It was fine. The travel story gets less each time. I'm glad I don't have to do it again. Repetition makes things meaningless. I start out trying to entertain and end up a tour guide. I'm not sure how effectively I'm making the point, which suggests I've made it several times before.

I met up with some friends, but soon grew tired. I have been drinking every day. My sleep pattern has found a new and destructive rut. Sleep for two hours. Awake for 2 and then it's sparse and intermittent until I reluctantly pull myself out of bed at 11am. My face looks pale and jaundiced in the morning. My brain goes into existential futility mode at 4am. It's the stress and the alcohol. After 3 weeks, the body can't abide it. The psyche is defenceless. Early nights and lemon squash, people.

My diet started well too. Home cooking and salads. After a couple of weeks, I walk around with a permanent cash float from the show. I eat pies and kebabs and falafel and chips and drink beers. I am walking toxins. It has occurred to me that I've never taken cocaine at the festival. What are the chances? I have had only one bona fide exotic sexual experience with a hot foreign woman while there. Other occasions have been drunken fumbles with comedians. I go to the wrong parties. I don't go to parties at all.

I meet with a female friend in a loud bar called Cabaret Voltaire. Another friend turns up and asks if it's okay to join us. He thinks that perhaps we mean to sleep together. I have no intention of that. Aside from the jeopardy of sleeping with someone I get on with, after three weeks, I have no libido. I'm not depressed though. I can eat like a horse. Burgers especially. Plenty of horse on those. That joke was dated last festival. Our friend doesn't like this bar. It is loud and rammed with 20 year olds ordering complicated cocktails. We go to a pub. There are women everywhere. Mental note. I will come to this festival as a tourist one year. So many available women. It will have to be soon. Before you know it I will be 40, single and seedy. Perhaps, I'll see things differently then. There is a 43 year old comedian who walks around with a handbag full of condoms. She is terrifying.

My friend buys me two more drinks than I want to have. I stay long enough to keep him company until someone else turns up. The friends I have up here are doing great shows and have had no reviewers. Not one. Not even one for my friend who is performing in a semi established venue and has an agent and a PR budget and everything. Something is going on this year. It feels like the whole thing has been predetermined. We are about the same age, are nice people and thus sense our limitations. In stand up comedy, it helps to be going places aged 25. It's not compulsory, but it means you're doing things right. 25. Big venue. Representation. Property ladder. Follow through. Get fleeced. Progress.

N.B. Scientology place on Nicholson Street. Up till now they have been "The L Ron Hubbard Institute of Personal Improvement." Now the gloves are off. I worry that they are on the home stretch.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival Part V!!

Today is my last performance of the show "Better Off Ed." I wanted this show to be the stand up show I really wanted to do. I wanted to tie everything together - anger, expectations, hopes and fears. Life in a show. I think I have touched on that. I think this show could be developed and made into that. But not to four people a night. There are so many good shows, there are so many great acts. The majority have to be disregarded for a few to be selected as worthwhile.

Meanwhile, my Roman show is evolving. More of me is going into it. Previously, I complained that it's not the kind of show that can be repeated every day - but I think that's true of all shows. You just have to find a way. I am letting go of the other stuff. This is my future. I want to people to be fascinated and make them laugh. The Rome show is a harder bugger to master. On a good day it's a very good show. On a bad day, it's so difficult just to keep going. With my other stand up, I can always break off into audience banter or just try something out. With the Rome show, I can't divert much. The last few days have been a very good run of shows. But this in Edinburgh. That can change at any time. I know when things are starting to go wrong. I can feel my face freeze up. My eyebrows actually start to hurt, as if my face is trying to contort life into the audience.

Yesterday, people went away smiling widely, eyes gleaming. On Sunday, they look embarrassed or tried to smile encouragingly. One old man said: "It was great in terms of energy." There hasn't been a more damning review. Triumph and disaster. "Treat those two impostors just the same."

Yesterday was the real test. I managed to get two people upstairs to the landing to the see the evening show. A father and daughter. They were hesitant. The father was earnest: "We won't stay if it's not funny. We could get an early train back" he said quite earnestly. I sat down and talked to them. They warmed a little. Then a couple came up. One of them knew my brother. Two people from flyering. Two people connected to my brother. A PR triumph!

Introduced everyone and then waited for everyone to get drinks and off we went. Things were going well. The material was flowing the goodwill was strong. It wasn't going to be bad. I was going to make a room of 4 people playable. Then two boys came up. One of them, Ramsay, demanded a recap of everything that had happened. He was mouthy and assertive and 19 and a huge fan of himself. He listened to a bit of the show and then actually laughed. He was being won over. Then disaster. They were joined by 6 drunken girls. Ramsay lost it. He was showing off. I did my story about thinking I had contracted AIDs from a bannister aged 7. Ramsay said: "He gave his mum AIDs!" They all burst into laughter. I tried to half deal with them and half continue. Some of the material was landing but I was having to put out too many fires. The daughter and father started to shift uncomfortably. They then got up to go. They had been really enjoying it. Those bastards had driven them off.

I had no alternative. I told the 19 year olds to come up to the front and take their seats. If it was going to go to hell, better that I could keep an eye on them. One of them got up and asked if she could do karaoke. Ramsay got up and put his arm round my shoulder to suggest dominance. Ramsay was keen to assert himself as King of the Group. Some of them settled down and started to listen. One girl gave a running commentary on everything. I singled her out for a few face to face canon blasts. That shut her up. I was on the verge of bullying, but I had little choice. Some of them went. Others stayed. They listened and laughed. Then they checked their phones. I was performing to 7 people. Three of whom were also checking Facebook.

I got through the show and was relieved when they went. My brother's friends were still there. They had been loyal and laughing the whole time. They expressed disappointment that they weren't allowed to hear the whole show. But these kids weren't like the massive group of boys I'd had before. The boys were disruptive, but they weren't saboteurs. These guys were like the class from hell. I don't think they were bad people - they were just misbehaving little shits. Ramsay cam back up and felt the need to tell me about all the places he'd lived - posh places - and then said "We love you, Ed" because he wanted to show me that he was popular and handsome and universally admired and that he'd just been having fun.

That's the worst kind of dick. The one who thinks their actions are excusable. That they're decent people. I think in all likelihood he will look back at himself aged 19 and blush. Or he may not. Sometimes it feels like we are producing fewer self-aware people every year. Self-awareness and pensions. Seemingly unsustainable.

No hic-hiccuping.

I then had an enjoyable evening with the two other guys. Pints and whiskies. We ended up at Canongate, where the bartender refused to serve me as I was hiccuping. It felt like I was in a Disney film. Or in the early nineteenth century. "Rough-housers, pettifoggers and personnes of a low disposition will not be admitted." Arguing your case while hiccuping is very difficult. It's like arguing that you are a really decent person whilst being naked. Or trying to convey the idea that you're a decent guy whilst heckling a stand up show to destruction.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival Part V!

I was just walking through Queen's Drive next to Arthur's Seat. It was really dark. That's what you get in Edinburgh. Darkness. London never goes dark it goes dark orange, but never black. It was black. I was walking in a field. Like being in London 200 years ago. Then some fireworks started up and it was like I had them to myself. I stopped and gasped and felt grateful. Then I realised that they came from the Edinburgh Tattoo. Nightly showings of Disney War. Troopers prancing around in military dress on a nightly basis for appreciative tourists. That took away the magic, they made that gratitude seem self-indulgent and I was out of the moment. Possibly the moment was only made in the first place because I had just consumed a cheese burger and was on a blood sugar high masquerading as existential balance.

I had a conversation with my brother yesterday. He said to me "Maybe Edinburgh isn't stressful. Maybe you just find it stressful." I tried to explain how it was basically set up to be stressful, but he stopped talking and just smiled very slightly. He does that. Sometimes I feel like my brother is Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock and he's trying out new negotiation tactics on me. He is right in the sense that no event is emotionally charged per se and that your reaction is the cause of the emotions - but if you were to argue that to its logical extent you might surmise that a shark attack is a matter of attitude as long as you don't get eaten. The Vietnam War would have been a picnic if people didn't take it so personally. Aside from anything else, one of my friends is having her first Edinburgh as a performer and says she has never been more miserable. It's what non-performers don't and can't understand. Gladiatorial battles in the Colosseum were a right laugh a long as you weren't the one getting stabbed.

"What time is it? Five seconds to charm!"

I have no ill feeling towards my brother, however. Aside from my obligatory love for him and completely voluntary friendship, he made my Monday show a success. He flyered it full of people and when the microphone cut out and football commentary came through the speakers and I was about to have a breakdown - banging on the window down to the bar like it was a scene from Midnight Express - he ran around and disconnected the speakers and, somehow, what happened was a good show. At the end he said "You need to change the structure" and for a second I felt a bubble of rage, but only because I had been spinning plates for an hour. People don't realise how taxing an hour of comedy really is. Sometimes straight after the show I can barely hear. The blood is pumping through my ears, my synapses are burning. Other times it's just taxing for the audience.

All the people who have lots of success, or even a small amount of success, work stupidly hard. There is a science comedian who said to her fiancée: "You live life on easy setting." Why would you ever live life on a difficult setting? I think the basic life setting is difficult anyway - once you get older and the stabilisers are removed anyway. So why strive for what's difficult? Why is a worthwhile life one in which you believe you must consciously and constantly challenge yourself? Is that real meaning or is it just 20th century capitalism talk? Before my brother died, my mum would say: "He takes the path of least resistance" - but that was through fear and doubt - not through because he was playing ukulele on a Hawaiian beach. There's nothing wrong with hard work, there's nothing wrong with wanting to achieve something. But it also suggests that those people have a deeper knowledge of what life is all about when they don't. If anything, it suggests a personal defect. No natural animal works harder than is necessary. Why would it? People who are addicted to hard work seem to believe that they're incomplete without validation. That they are nothing without striving. But there is no meaning in that. Either everyone's life is innately worthwhile or it is innately pointless. Busting your arse won't change that. Achievement is about status or a present discomfort. Nothing more.

Stephen Hawking said that without working hard, his physical condition would have made him desperately depressed. People say "Wow! How does he do it?" I'm not knocking the man's mental resilience, but the question should be: "How do any of us do it?" After that we can ask "Wow! How does he do it?" 

This is probably how I am justifying having 15 people in my Rome show and then pulling the evening one because of lack of people. "I don't have the inner emptiness necessary to do loads of flyering and show promotion!" I'm intellectualising laziness!

I am drinking a gin and tonic. Edinburgh makes me an alcoholic. A few nights ago, I drank until 3am on my own. Sounds bad? It's okay. I had a script deadline. See? If you write, you can drink a lot of booze. I drink a beer on stage at 1.45pm. It's the Festival. I'm allowed to drink, even though because the Festival is stressful and undermines my self-esteem. It's like Christmas. Every morning I wake up and feel jet lag. My running shoes are in the same position in the warehouse as when I got here.

I just felt okay today. Fine. Having my brother here, even for two days, is very nice. Even if we don't skip down the road hand in hand, my animal soul likes having one of my pack around. It softens the edges of this place. I don't understand how it is the 19th already. It has gone so quickly. Usually, it is so painful and so long. Usually I have more riding on this festival. This year, I don't feel like I do. At the beginning of the festival, it felt like I didn't know why I'm here. Now I realise that it doesn't have to make any sense. It just is. I could get a five star review or a one star review or noticed or ignored. It doesn't matter. The festival is a remarkable thing. It's a strange thing.

Today, I heard a girl say "Free sketch comedy at 5pm." She said it like an announcer, but she also said it with a hesitancy in her voice. It's like she had selected a pre-formatted template which is supposed to sounds like: "See? I'm okay. This is really good. I understand life" but her delivery was off. It came out like "This is really hard. No one is paying attention. Why did I come here?" She also said these words to me after I had passed her. She couldn't even look me in the face. When I have to flyer, I can tell when someone is going to take a flyer immediately, but so much depends on the delivery of the most basic words "Free comedy at 7.45pm" or "Is your life better now than you were a baby? Find out tonight!" and if I feel the easy flow and confidence, I know they will take a flyer. And if I falter or it's forced, they will not. And that's what it is on-stage. The same words. Entirely different outcome. Sometimes you are delivering a tray of delicacies with a flourish and a wink. Sometimes you are dropping luggage down some stairs.

I can remember getting off the train and waiting in a square on the grass on the 2nd August. It is a lifetime ago, and it doesn't feel like my lifetime. My brother said that his friend Nick Mohammed is an excellent performer because he feels disconnected to the Nick Mohammed onstage. I am just me onstage, pretty much. I feel disconnected from me in reality. Perhaps that doesn't make me an excellent performer but an excellent liver. Not literally. I am destroying it with gin. 

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part Va

I've already blogged on Thursday, but I feel I need to share this with 1) my confused brain and 2) whoever reads it.

My evening gig. There were a core group of 6 people who stuck with me tonight. They gave me the confidence to be fluent and funny. Without them the show would have been hellish. There was a group of 15 pissed up 20 year olds at the back of the gig venue. This is the problem with the evening venue. It's an upstairs bar mezzanine place that people can walk through or sit round the corner from. It's not a room for a comedy. It's not a room at all. 

The group of lads came, they shouted, they went round the corner, they sat at the back, then they left. Then they came back. They were loud, but we kept ploughing through. Somehow that made my core people more faithful to me. We were okay. In fairness, those guys could have ruined things if they'd wanted to. They didn't want to. They were just noisy. But I didn't sense any malice. I'm not sure if this is fair, but I sense I wouldn't have had such a let off in Kent or Stoke or anywhere South of the border. Sometimes the English feel more lairy, in spite of the Scottish talent for drinking and violence. But that may not be national thing at all. Maybe it's because Edinburgh locals largely accept the festival. There are plenty of drunk locals around and I barely ever hear of disruption. I have done weekend shows in the seediest bars here, and never have had a serious problem. It's the posh, drunk London venue staff who are far more obnoxious. I've seen them almost ruin a friend's gig.

So, the gig turned out to be pretty good, despite all signs to the contrary. I threw them off with a sickness story I do, which is usually the highlight for people - for the 5 people that are usually there - when the show actually goes ahead! Maybe 'usually' is not a word I can associate with that show. But generally they were very much on board.

Unusually, this Scouser man and his family said it was the best show they'd seen that day. They had £20 in cash (as they were taking the train back that night) and gave me £5 of it. He shook my hand. It felt like a biblical moment. It was lovely. He said: "You deserve a much bigger audience." He's right. I deserved more than 6-10 people, but more is no guarantee of quality. Still. Two good hours in one day. On fire. Of course, then I ended up accidentally doing two more shows. I should have gone home. No. I should have been out socialising.

Also a superb show by @edfomeara at the Edinburgh Fringe in Sportsters Bar despite the goings on. Go and see him.

— Mike Hughes (@VikingHugheso) August 14, 2014

The plan was to see Bec. I finally got hold of her and it turned out she was doing two other shows herself. I had a prop for her that she told me to leave in the admin office of the Gilded Balloon. She told me in a text that she wanted to see me very soon. When I got there, she was there. I guess she wasn't expecting me to show up. I said hi and gave her the prop. I wanted to talk to her about the gig. I wanted to ask her about how things had been. She told me she briefly about the two gigs she was doing. I said I was off to do a gig in a restaurant basement. She said "Oh" and that was about it. Bec's a very focused person. I could see her mind being drawn back to her next performance, so I slightly reluctantly cleared myself away.

On the way out I said "Hi" to three comedians. Literally "Hi." Smile, no intention of stopping, move on. Festival acknowledgement. Covering the bases. I could be commissioned one day. You never know. Doesn't hurt for them to say hi. Easier than stopping.

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I had been asked to do this other gig by a guy who often asks me to do gigs in Exeter. I had some time to kill so I went to a bar on my own. I made sure it was a venue so that I could be reasonably waiting for a show or to meet someone. I'm not above having a pint on my own in a pub, but it's more difficult during festival time. When, I got to the restaurant, the promoter wasn't there. It was a particularly uninspiring room with a fairly uninspiring crowd. I did what I thought was a set. They laughed hot and cold. Patchy. After, I asked the MC if he was going for a drink. They were headed to the Library Bar. It's a place for open spots who are having their first few Edinburghs. Then they graduate to the Loft, which is the same thing except they have door staff checking passes and it feels more desperate. You get to see minor celebrities, chain smoking, looking weary and laughing too loud at nothing.

I had texted everyone I felt like I could. That changes year by year. This year it was about 4 people. No one was around. I started to walk home. I got to a place called Canon's Gait which is the PBH Free Fringe hub. They had a showcase there so I thought I would go in and watch it and have a beer. I got one and went downstairs. The showcase was MCd by an atheist political feminist who talks about her TV appearances quite a lot. She is someone who gives her opinion for a living. No condemnation. Nice work if you can get it. Meedya.

I went and stood by the bar at the back. When she had finished her bit of MCing and got the first act on, she came up to me and said "One of the acts hasn't turned up. Can you go on?" It was a big, full room. The people seemed reasonably good-natured so I said "Sure." She came back after the second bit of MCing and said: "Right. You're the headliner unless they turn up. It means 15 minutes, but you know, 10 or something." By now, these were statements rather than request. Like it was expected of me. No criticism of her. She was in the lurch and was spinning plates, but I had just walked in off the street. I went along with it. What if no one else was around? What would she have done then? The room wasn't exactly electric, but it seemed okay. There was no reason to suggest it would be difficult.

It was difficult. 

Not disastrously bad. Worse. Reaaaally underwhelming. I felt like a new act. Staring people. Maybe three people really laughing. It wasn't silence, it was worse. A smattering of laughter. Some murmuring. Occasionally I would hit upon something that challenged the scepticism, but not for long. A general sense of weariness. The material I was doing was easy, but it was low status stuff. The MC talked about her TV appearances and newspaper articles. I talked about flyering and temping. THIS IS NOT A HEADLINER! WE DIDN'T NOT PAY FOR THIS! (It was a free show.) I left quickly after. I saw people not putting money into the bucket. Somewhere between the MCs media career and my lacklustre performance, there didn't seem the will. 

I left immediately. I hadn't planned to be there anyway. I felt like maybe if I moved fast enough, I'd escape being caught in the amber of historical events. I should have had a beer elsewhere. But that's disingenuous. If it had gone well, I would have thought "Good beer! Just popped in and ended up bringing the house down!"

The truth is that it's a festival gig. These things happen. It's not gutting. More than that, I don't want to do 10 or 15 minutes of a club set. I don't want to do club sets. There's nothing in it for me. I'm bored of saying nothing. I like doing my evening show sometimes. There are little jokes about jobs and girlfriends and such, but it's part of something much bigger. Club sets are not. They feel like condiment packets. I don't want a condiment packet. I want a jar of mustard.

Tomorrow is my day off. I am torn between just getting out of Edinburgh and going somewhere or just seeing some shows I haven't got round to seeing. Nah. Fuck that. I don't want to hear any more words. I want to see some action: wildlife or landscapes or castles. I'm a gonna buy me a train ticket somewhere. At least if I go on a tour, no one will ask me to take over if the guide doesn't show up.

It's almost 3am now. I am eating into my day trip. Bed.

Note to self: Don't go on a walk and the drop your phone in a field full of slurry like you did last year.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part V

It's been a weird old time. It's always weird up here. Today the sun came out and shone brightly and then it started raining. It's some weird unsettling pathetic fallacy. I remember describing the weather, as a young teenager, to my uncle on the day of my grandfather's funeral as pathetic fallacy. I remember him saying, "Good Lord. Are they still teaching you that in school?" Not in general. Just one teacher called Reverend Chidlaw. It's amazing what stays with you, and what doesn't. My past is shudders and trivia.

Today I woke up with a sense of resigned feebleness. I didn't want to do my show. I didn't want to walk into the lights and do that tangled mess of words I've said too often. I was also aware that there was a slim chance that there just might be a good crowd in and it just might be fine. And it was. It was seriously okay. The crowd weren't laughing all the time, but they were with me. They never lost faith, and that's everything. I'll share a nice moment, because it's important to mark them too. Though they don't linger in the memory like the bad moments.

Anyway...

I do a bit about Shakespeare saying that "Nero fiddled while Rome burnt" and I say he played the lyre, so if anyone says "Nero fiddled while Rome burnt" you can say "LIAR!" and you'll be right on two levels, which is the best way to be right.

Later, I do a bit about how Diocletian killed a man called Aper after receiving a prophecy that if he killed a Boar, he could be emperor of Rome. I then tell people that Aper is also very conveniently a type of creature and ask them to guess what type of creature it is.

Someone said: "Boar!"
And I said: "Was that a heckle?"
They said: "Yes, but it's also the answer. I'm being right on two levels, which is the best way of being right - as you said."

He did my callback for me! I was overjoyed that not only was the guy listening but he was totally engaged with the show.

He said: "I may not have been laughing all the time, but I've been really enjoying it."

That's really the point. It's not always easy to make Roman history laugh out loud funny every day to a different mixed crowd in a nightclub at a free show. In fact it's bloody difficult, particularly for me. I don't need them to validate me with laughter. I need them to be engaged with the show and for them to understand what I'm doing. This guy did. Completely. Lovely.

At the end of the show I had got almost £100. Yesterday it had been £30. Same sized crowd. Same words. Completely different result. Festival comedy. Hard. Really hard.

I have not been checking for reviews. I don't want to know. A good review is nice to have. A bad review is too much a punch in the balls. I will check them after Edinburgh once I'm back in Sanityville. Last year, a one star review almost floored me. I don't want to be target practise for a 20 year old. My friend pointed out to me that my Chortle review is still the third result when googling my name. They advised I get it removed using the google 'right to be forgotten' thing. I tried, but Google said it was still relevant and in the public interest. It's 7 years old, it was judging new material from a brand new comic. It said I was borderline racist. It has followed me ever since. 100+ supporting comments have been removed when they revamped the site so it stands unchallenged. A friend of mine said about my blog that I'm unfair on critics. This is one of the reasons. Here's a weird thing. I remember talking to Jack Whitehall about it years ago. He said, "You sound bitter!" and then he cocked an eyebrow. Of course I'm bitter.

<meta name="keywords" content="Fuck, Jack Whitehall, Steve Bennett, dicks">

Hopefully that'll come up in a google search. Probably not. I don't have the money for SEO.

Anyway, I know it doesn't really matter. I'm not even massively annoyed about it. It is what it is. There's no sense to this life. There are just things that happen. People may think that's unsettling and nihilistic. I find it extremely comforting. You are born. You die. Enjoy of it what you can. Thank God for that.

I'm waiting for my jacket potato. I'm always most bleak before lunch. I remember I was in a car with a girlfriend once and she saw me staring off into the distance and frowning.

"Let's stop at this cafe."
"Why?"
"I can see where your mind is going. You need to eat."

Bless her. If our relationships was simply based on blood-sugar/ mood ratios, I could have married her.

My evening show is not going to suddenly become great. The venue is just terrible. Everyone who uses the space says as much. I am directly competing against an improv musical in the venue at the same time. I had to cancel the show yesterday, so I went to see them. Bearing in mind what I have said about critics, if you like improvised musicals, go and see them. If you don't, don't. The audience seemed to. They had the most enthusiastic young crowd whooping their way through the whole thing. The performers talked like Transatlantic DJs even when ushering people in. "Okay guys, fill up from the front and that'll be totes amazing!" They say it again and again like they have pull strings on their backs. After that they switched to not having any punchlines as such but putting on wigs and saying everything very loudly like actors - which seems to work just as well.

Darius Davies once got a review that said his act was "gold-plated garbage" which was meant as a slur but I told him he should take as a compliment. He's hilarious because he talks about plug sockets with the same kind of passion and conviction as Chris Rock talks about racial inequality. What's not to like? Gold-plated garbage. This improv show is the same. There's bugger all substance, but it's very well delivered. The improv guys fill the place every day with sheer enthusiasm. After the show they say to each other "Good show guys!" They deserve it. We both have the same book on comedy, but we're just underlined vastly different bits

Tonight I'm going out again as tomorrow is my day off. I'm due to meet with my flatmate Bec and see what someone having an extremely successful Edinburgh looks like. It's nice to wish someone well who is doing well. I admire her a lot. See? Not bitter, really. Credit where credit's due. Almost £100 worth of credit in ma bucket today.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !V

I'm in a hiding mood. I have been hiding a bit. The people I'm staying with went out for dinner and expected me to go off to my evening show. I didn't. I lay on my bed. When they came back, I stayed still. My room is over the top of the sitting room so I had to creep around to not be detected. There was no reason for me to do this. I have a small history of hiding when I feel awkward. On this occasion it's because I'm insanely tired again. The tiredness came from insomnia mixed with having a 3 year old boy staying here over the weekend. This child does not stop talking or making noise. Only for naps. To recharge his energy for more noises. It's all right for him. I can't nap. It's not personal. He's 3 and I'm almost 33 and am under stress. We're incompatible.

I went out on Thursday like I was supposed to. I ended up in the Loft Bar as expected and watched the successful comedians at play. They were mostly desperately drunk or looked bored. Like they were waiting for something to happen. Seann Walsh looked impatient with everyone. He was demanding cigarettes and respect. That's the place you're supposed to make contacts. I can't see it.

I looked at social media today. Everyone is having a great Edinburgh except for me. Okay. Patently, that's not true. Still, lots of people I know are getting very good reviews. Deservedly so, but still. I don't know how this is done. I think your show has to be either very slick or very funny or both. Mine are none of these things. They are disorganised and have funny bits. That should go on my tombstone: 'Disorganised but with funny bits'. I heard the audience for the improv show after my show. That was real laughter. Loud and sustained. Not like the titters I get. The biggest laughs I get are for not talking about history. Someone came up to me and said about the Rome show: "That was lovely." I'm not complaining, but that's all the accolades I can expect. This isn't about accolades. I don't know what this is about.

I can hear someone watching Moto GP downstairs. This is the problem with this room. It's unfinished. There is no insulation. You are at the mercy of the rest of the house. I don't mind hiding up here, but it doesn't feel like home. Neither does the flat I live in in London, and I have to move out of that in October. Nowhere does. The job I work in feels like a strange prison sentence. My shows feel like the an unnerving daydream. I am quite sure I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. I have a vague idea that I will book a long weekend to La Rioja in September and just eat tapas. One of the guys who lives here said "Can I come?" and I said "Yes" because it's nice that someone else thinks I have a plan.

I'm not saying, incidentally, that my life is totally meaningless and unnerving - it just feels like that at this moment. It is almost certainly meaningless, but that's okay. I don't believe in God, but I do like the idea that he has a plan for all of us. Then we must be his software. What for? What are you up to, God, you weird bastard?

Tomorrow, I will go and do both of my shows. I will just follow through because I am booked in to do them. I will try not to think about it. I will just do the thing I am here to do.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !!!

During periods of high stress, you learn a lot about yourself. What I've learnt about me over the years is that I'm a big whoopsie.

I have had people say to me that I seem very grounded and philosophical about things. Yes. Out loud. That's because I have to be. If I wasn't, I'd be a gibbering wreck. I had some bad shows and a huge wobble and so I went to bed early and slept on two consecutive nights and now my shows are going fine and I seem to be doing fine. That's all it took, really. Lots of acts will be out there getting sozzled every night and saying "How's the show going?" to each other whilst pie-eyed at 3am and will just be waiting to talk about theirs, but I'm happy to skip all that. There are lots of beautiful women around, however, and while I'd love to be out carousing, I can't pretend that early nights are wrecking my pulling ratio. I only ever end up with someone out of dumb luck anyway, so I'll stick to that time-honoured policy.

My evening show isn't really happening, however. I have done it twice now. Both times to fewer than 7 people. However, both shows went really well. The material works well, I feel comfortable telling it, and it will until I get bored of it. I have to stand outside flyering for it, and that doesn't really seem to be working. People do come up and sit down before I start and then they say "Is this the improvised comedy musical?" and I say "No. That's downstairs" and then they look awkward and I tell them it's okay for them to leave, so they leave. I think this show is a bit too good for no one to be coming to, but that's Edinburgh for you. Or maybe it isn't that good. Maybe I've just had kind audiences who see my predicament. Yesterday, I did it to a sketch group who loved it, but that's probably because they are in the room just before me, so...solidarity. They have a blonde, Northern girl who I look at and feel weak. I told her that this would probably be my last straight stand up show and she said "But why? You're really good! Keep going!" and just looking at her face made me think "Oh. Okay then" but that's because I'm fickle. Or desperate.

My jaw dropped when I was flirted with by this Eastern European barmaid at one of the venues. Part of me thought "Wow! She seems to like me!" and the other part of me rebutted "No. She's just a very attractive barmaid who likes flirting." And that part won. That part, I think, is called reality.

I have reinvigorated the Roman show by putting in new stories and new angles. It's like I've been married to it for 20 years and now we are having sex in the kitchen just to mix it up. "Ooh, we should really get those tiles done...what's wrong? You've stopped." I also try to sell every section. This isn't a strategy. It's me having the energy and mental composure to do so.

My days here are more regimented than at home. I get up, have breakfast, watch an episode of Frasier, play the ukulele, write (if I have to), go and do the show. Collect money. Come back. Cook lunch. Eat lunch. Watch Frasier. Count my takings. Drink coffee. Play the ukulele. Flyer for the evening show. Wait to see if anyone's coming. Do show/ or not. Think about going out, then don't. Go home. Eat. Go to bed.

I will probably soon get bored of this. Or will run out of Frasier to watch. Tomorrow I don't have ANY shows at all. I am going out tonight and will drink and watch some comedy and probably end up in bed at 4am and wake up with a hangover, and put myself back together for Saturday. Tomorrow, I am going to the dentist. DAY OFF!

I think I've got a part of life wrong. I'm staying in this converted warehouse. The bathroom mirror plays music, the shower is a huge overhead waterfall. I walk across a bridge to get to my bedroom. The hobs are this plexi-glass convection thing that I've never seen before with a removable silver disc control dial. There is a tap that dispenses boiling water. You can play music from your phone wirelessly into the sound system. There is a motorbike by the TV.

I always assumed happiness was a state of mind. Now I believe it may be a massive warehouse conversion. Presumably it would get boring. But there's always kitchen sex. Open plan kitchen sex!

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !!

I am already too tired again. Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago. Tomorrow is an absurd thought. I feel drained.

Yesterday, I did too much - or almost too much. The Roman show yesterday was okay - there were flashes of good stuff, but no momentum. The one today was awful. The audience started off in a very warm and supportive manner, but by the end most of them looked relieved to leave. I felt like I sucked the air out of the room. For most of the time my words meant nothing, even to me. My mouth felt like a letterbox flapping and clattering away every time I tried to force some more contrived material through it. I couldn't say the word "adopted" even. I could feel my face contorting and straining to find fluency. Every so often I broke off and tried to find a new angle. Nothing worked. Even worse, I overran by 10 minutes. At the end, an American guy came up to me and pointed out the one bit he did like - never a good sign.

"I liked your bit on defecation."
"Decimation?"
"Oh right! Ha ha."

He was right. The show was pretty much a defecation. I don't mind an audience not laughing because they're interested, but when they just look bored...you know you're responsible for the shit part of their day. When I was at the fringe aged 22, we saw a guy who bored us for an hour and I remember thinking "Why the hell would you do a show that's boring? Why would you put something on that people don't find funny?" I remember us not laughing at something - I think it was a not very good joke about a phone going off in a cinema - and him getting visibly annoyed that we didn't laugh, snapping "It's a dichotomy!" He also angrily said "I've done all the big venues, but they don't treat you right." That was 10 years ago. I wonder if someone will remember my back-pedalling during a bad show. It's a bit mortifying to consider. I suppose that it's best not to know! I don't remember his name. Most failure is ultimately anonymous. That's a blessing.

I don't want to blame everything on being tired. I did a show last night called "Hate n Live." I did a lot of shouting. It was cathartic and I thought I did quite well, but the promoter said: "Sorry, they were a bit flat. They were like that last night, until this one guy came along and did really well." Translation: Sorry, the audience weren't great, but if you'd been better, they would have been. I'm not too precious about it. I did another spot during the day. I opened a free new act showcase. I was quite good and just doing some MCing for 5 minutes, then I did a story from my show and, as I have no idea how long it is, I massively overran - also it wasn't funny out of context and I was rushing through it when I realised how long it was taking me. I sacrificed funny for more content! Pointless! Overly long and not funny. Bit of a theme developing here. I better finish up this blog post.

I am not going to my show tonight. I shouldn't be doing this on 5th August. It's not good. But I really need the sleep, I really need to rethink the Roman show so I can get through this festival. Outside the festival it works. Here, it doesn't. I need to find a way to change things so that I can do it everyday and get a good response. What I need to do before that, however, is to get some sleep.

I'm not worried so much about the content of the evening show. There's enough to make people laugh and I don't see any proper future for me in straight stand up (even though Better Off Ed is probably much funnier than the other show) - so I like to keep it as a side project.

I have had a bit of a wobble today. Usually I feel I know why I'm here, even if it's hard. This time I don't. I could have stayed in London and done the Camden Fringe. I've never really felt like this before and it's only the 5th! I'd better start to find a way to really enjoy performing again or there's no point me being here.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hack Watch:

Last year I did a show called "A Comprehensive History of the Roman Empire in under an hour with Jokes" in Bannerman's. I know I only got such a good venue because someone pulled out. It also explains why business for the show has been slower where I am now. This year, I note that the line up at the venue is pretty much the same minus me. I also notice that the guy who was on after me, and was always amazed at the audience numbers I got, is now doing a show called: "The Story of Medieval England From 1066 to 1485 at Roughly Nine Years and Two Jokes Per Minute Incorporating The Hundred Years War as a Football Match and of Course Scottish Independence" shortened to "Medieval Bollocks" on the board.

I WONDER where he got that idea from. Hmm?

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !

I just eradicated humanity with a plague called "Mr". It gave me a huge sense of achievement. I wanted to call it "Mr Death" but the game on my phone is a bit buggy. I have avoided mostly wanting genocide by mostly avoiding the festival drinking pits. 

Take that humanity!

The exception was my second night here. I met up with someone who is working at one of the venues. She was having drinks with the rest of the staff. Her boss was 22. They mostly all went to university together and all spent their time showing Instagram pictures to each other. A typical conversation was: 

21 year old girl

"This guy was 31. And I was like err...to put it in perspective? I'm 21?"

22 year old girl

"Yeah, but you're not like the stereotypical 21 year old?"

My scowl

"Yes you are."

I was already tired and apparently didn't conceal my feelings particularly well. At one point I went off for a walk. My friend asked me where I'd got to and I told her that I was standing by a tree. She came and met me then we left. We then went to meet her more "cultured" friends, i.e. 24 year old critics at a place called Summerhall, which is where "the cool kids hang out." Festival translation: Arty nerds. Most of whom are still at universities doing masters degrees in advanced job avoidance. Bit sneery, eh? Not to worry. They will all eclipse me.

I'm not sure this was a good idea. They all seemed extremely tired and unimpressed with all the shows they'd seen. The magazines make them go and see 5 shows a day. It's little wonder the reviews are so arsey.

Conversation samples:

Critic:

I saw 5 shows today earlier. They were all shit.

Performer:
Oh hi! You saw my show earlier! What did you think?

Critic:
It was great!

---------------

Critic:

They made me go straight to a show after a 6 hour train ride. I was sooo tired.

Me:

Wow! I wouldn't want to have been that performer. "The buffet service at the venue was non-existent! 1 star."

Critic:

...

I tried not to make too many jokes about critics. It's just so hard. It's my right to reply. That's what's frustrating about being written about. There's no right to reply. If you do, people think you're insane and bitter. My friend assured me that these were very progressive, supportive critics who want to change the system and abolish star ratings. Sure they do. Right up to the time when they leave university and get offered a salary. "Then...you know...I just feel lucky to have the job, because other people would love to be in my position. Actually, I'm bloody good at it, and what's wrong with giving out stars? People respect my opinion! They'd be bloody lucky to be reviewed by me!"

This isn't an exercise in bad-mouthing critics. I just think that critics need to be experts in their fields - and the people that the Edinburgh festival publications hire are not. They need to know how to fix a show, not how to badmouth it. Anyone can say why they didn't enjoy something. How many can say how they would have enjoyed it more? Incidentally, after my Roman show yesterday, a guy approached me and said. "I really liked the show, but could I give you some advice?...Don't take so many sips of water. It really upsets the momentum." Bloody good advice.

The best use of quotes!

My Roman show has been okay so far. The first one wasn't great. I was very tired. The second one went a lot better because I was well rested. No reviewer would ever take that into account, but it is such an important factor. The difference between me doing a good show and not can often be a pair of ear plugs and a black t-shirt draped over my head to keep the light out. Again, if I were a better performer it wouldn't phase me so much, but saying the right thing in the right tone in the right way takes a brain that is operating at its best, and when it doesn't, I don't.

My first performance of Better Off Ed couldn't have begun worse. I went to the venue and realised that the room they gave me was a landing above the main bar. I went up to somebody working there and said "Where's the venue?" and he said "You're looking at it." By 7.45 there were 2 Swiss people sat down, trying to think up ways to leave. By 7.50 3 girls came up and said "We're just ordering some food. We'll come back up." Some other people came up and sat down and said "Is this the improvised musical?" and I said "No...but I could improvise one, I guess" and they walked off. I watched the girls order their food at the bar and muttered out loud "Just pick a burger for God's sake. No...don't get onion rings too." The Swiss couple were looking in their magazine for other shows they could go to.

Finally the girls came up and we started at 8pm. I had 45 minutes to do the show and, somehow, after some reluctance, it worked. It was fun. They were 5 very nice people and we had a nice time. At the beginning, their faces were sceptical. By the end, they were beaming and thanking me and putting money in the bucket. And that's what I like about performing. It was a lovely little show. It won't always be. Instead of 3 nice girls, I'll get three heckling men. Instead of a nice Swiss couple, I'll get some very confused, hostile Russians. No offence Russians. Or men. But I realised the show is about. It's no great message. It's not an original thought. It's simply about being in the moment. It's the only way to really live and it's the only way to perform. Other than that, it's out of your control.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival (Prologue)...

'If I get things right, I may not have to come back and do this festival again.' This is a very stupid thing to be thinking when you're preparing to go to a festival. The Edinburgh Festival should be a bucket-load of fun. It should be a massive ice-cream scoop of delight. It should be. But isn't. Mostly what it's about is feeling that everybody is doing better than you and feeling a bit lonely and suddenly realising you don't want to do it at all but you have to do it anyway. It's just hugely condensed life.

Yet, I'm not feeling very negative about it all. I'm really not. I'm just wondering what exactly I'm doing here. In previous years, the idea was to come up here, get better, improve my craft, get gigs, try and score some reviews, try and advance on the circuit. But now I don't want to advance on the circuit. I always have, and always will, want to write. I'm in a BBC comedy scheme. It doesn't really mean or guarantee anything - but it does show that I am good with ideas, can turn them around quickly and can be original. On my day, I'm a good performer. But so is every performer. When the audience are in a good place and they decide to like you, you can't help but ride the wave. It's cheap. You turn up the next day with your surfboard, and the sea is flat and grey...and then you think you must be a rubbish surfer. But it's not true. You're just not brilliant either. What I'm saying is that a few performers can surf on ponds and most can't. It's a strange sentence and I'm not sure how I got here. I'm not a pond surfer. Clear?

I'm doing two shows this year. I'm almost setting myself up for meltdown. Stay tuned! I wanted to do my Roman show again. That's the future for me, I think. It's a niche I can develop. The other show, the stand up show, is my last go at me doing a fringe stand up show (that's not legally binding). It's got a lot of stories I want to tell in it. It was going to have a big, profound meaning and now it's not. I will get a two star and a three star review for it from ijustsetupablog.com. It's worth 4 stars, but I can't surf ponds. I'm not a pond surfer. See? Good writer.

The Edinburgh storm clouds gathered early this year. I went home for a relaxing weekend and did the Better Off Ed show to my family. I included about my brother Tom. He died a few years ago. I wanted to include it to make a point about happiness. Instead it just made everybody sad and it felt exploitative. I hadn't figured out my ending and just ranted. Everybody looked bored and annoyed. I had been drinking all day in the sun. There was a paddling pool in the garden. I didn't try surfing that...all right. I'll drop it. The Tom thing too. I know that a normal audience wouldn't react so emotionally, of course. It's not unusual to talk about quite personal experiences in Edinburgh shows - but I'm not sure it fits my style. I think my style is *GRIN* "I hope you don't hate this next bit..." *GRIN.*

That evening, my friend told me that our other friend had been arrested for having indecent images and videos of children on his computer. My friend said he wouldn't talk to him again. I said I would. We argued about that. Then he said "Next thing you'll say Israel is wrong bombing Palestine." I said "I do think that." He said "Why are we friends?" I said "Because we love each other." He didn't look convinced. It was a perfect end to a really horribly tarnished day. The perfect foreshadowing to the Festival.

Actually, I'm not meant to tell you that. I'm actually not a very good writer either. I'm not supposed to tell you what I'm trying to achieve. I'm just supposed to do it and let you work out and think "I see. Foreshadowing. Clever. Clever me for seeing it." This is what's wrong with my comedy. I talk around it rather than just doing it. If I were Charlie Chaplin I'd say "I'm about to slip on this banana skin, so watch out for that." I don't like saying MY comedy either. It sounds pretentious. Also, I don't want to be associated with my terrible comedy. I wish I had Richard Pryor's comedy. "What I like about Richard Pryor's comedy is that it's made ME successful."

I got on the train to come up here. I had a very uncomfortable seat. I had booked quite a nice seat, but there were a fat couple in it an I didn't want to disturb their fat coupliness. I'm not really an "Excuse me sir. I believe that's my seat" person. However the train took 6 hours. Every hour I resented them more. It's my own fault.

I'm staying with nice people in a nice place. Today I don't technically have to do anything. That's how I'd like to take this whole experience. One day at a time. The point of my show, if there is a point, is to actually try and live in the moment. Like the comedy. Don't build a narrative around it. Either positive or negative. Just do it and let others build their own narrative or take their own meaning..."1 star. I didn't see any point in it at all!" 

Right now I am drinking a cup of coffee in a big warehouse. I can't complain about that, except I need to go to the shops and I have a hole in my tooth fixed. As soon as I leave this sanctuary, I will see the plastered posters and desperate flyerers and the real festival will begin. I'm going to stay here for a bit first. Refusing to leave this moment.

If I stay here, nothing bad will happen.

Climate Change Is NOT a Business Opportunity! (A Breathless Rant)

Good news everybody! The United Nations have released a report basically confirming that Climate Change is really really really real. The report suggests we might be okay as long as we quickly stop polluting and as long as we quickly create and implement technical innovations to reverse the amount of carbon being pumped into the atmosphere. Awesome! I'm glad that's sorted then. Similarly, I will be financially fine as long as I trip over a big bag of money. What a relief!

Err...little help?

 The Green Party’s leader Caroline Lucas was on Radio 4 debating with some academic Johnny.
Lucas: "We need to mitigate and adapt."
Johnny: "You mean SHRINK THE ECONOMY???"
Lucas: "Well, there’s ...lots of green jobs that can be created."

Everybody wants to have their cake and eat it. Capitalism and the religion of sustained economic growth got us into this mess. The solution? Capitalism and sustained economic growth. But of course! A little fire will put out that fire, and might cool the planet down at the same time. What's massively depressing about all this is that we will not change.

Government do not have the balls to tell people that they might have to do without more plastic tat, and they will still be carbon trading on-board G7 issue dinghies once the polar melt water is lapping at their knees. What we really need is a one world government to impose major reforms from the top. Where's the fabled Illuminati when you need them? Oh, that’s right, conspiracy nerds have scared them off. Nice going, poindexters!

 The world's largest economy and polluter won’t buy any of this anyway. It's too much based on scientific evidence to be creditable. If you deny the existence of factually-based climate change, your political career gets a boost. If you deny the existence of a made-up sky daddy, it's curtains. We're so screwed.

As we all know, when a child does something bad, you have to reward them excessively so they don’t do it again. In the same way, we apparently need to sell climate change to the business world as an investable opportunity. Not everything is an opportunity. An environmental cataclysm is not an opportunity, Err...sounds a bit negative, Ed? Read the report, people. How did we get to this point?

Companies have been eating up resources, spewing out emissions and decimating the environment to the financial benefit of a few very rich people and yet they now demand to be paid to do something about it. Given that 99.9% of the world sees next to no benefit from these activities, shouldn't we just tell the rich to really, really feck off now? It’s more our planet than theirs, isn't it?

If you were stuck in a lift with a rich man and there was limited oxygen and he lit up a Havana cigar, wouldn't you tell him to put it out? No. Apparently you let him smoke the cigar and then give him your trousers to use as a face mask.

Besides, there are plenty of investment opportunities in green technologies – they’re just not happening. A British company called Novacem created a brilliant new kind of cement that actually captures carbon. It actually reverses global warming! It works! All they needed was an investment of £50 million. Did they get it? Did they balls. They went bankrupt and were bought up by a shadowy Australian investor, and have since gone quiet. Maybe they have been issued with a new range of exciting concrete overcoats and are spending their early retirements at the bottom of Sydney Harbor. Surely, we could have found £50 million! How much of our money was thrown at the banks?

Of course, it was Novacem's fault. They obviously didn't run their company well, and that’s the free market for you. If something fails, let it fail. Except the banks of course. They are TOO BIG to fail. Yes, when the economy is good, we’re all unregulated hyper capitalists. As soon as there is a hiccup, they come running back for a cuddle, some warm milk and the taxpayer’s blanket. Why bother turning up for work? They’ll get paid anyway.

Of course, global warming isn't bad news for everyone. Look at Greenland. Now that the ice has retreated, they have access to LOADS of oil and drilling companies are spending millions on decimating natural habitats and turning the landscape into Swiss cheese. On the plus side, we've got all this brand new oil. Sod renewables. We don’t need to bother, now. But what about the devastation that oil has created? No, it’s cool. We've found some more. A little booze will take the edge of that hangover. Leave it for now and worry about it later. You can do your homework on the bus to school.

Either all this is very serious and we take it seriously or it's not and we have a tire burning party. The world has thought about it, and seems to be going with the latter option. I say bring on the apocalypse! Let’s at least be positive about it.

An Open Letter to Scientists...

Doesn't even look like one.

Dear Scientists,

In the 1950s you made one simple, binding promise: that by now we’d all be jetpacking our way through space hooking up with tasty martian tri-breasted lovelies. Now I don’t remember when this was actually agreed, but I’m pretty sure that was the gist of it, and I’m sure the man in the street would back me up on this. Now it’s 2014 and guess what? We’re still on stinking earth. 

"Remember where we parked,
guys. This planet."

Now, we didn’t know we’d be here for much longer so obviously we’ve had a great time digging up all the resources and squandering them on tamagotchis and pogs and ipods, killing of all of the animals for lulz and doing shits straight into the sea. It’s been brilliant! No one told us we’d need to ration anything. Imagine how furious I was when you sent a radio-controlled car to Mars and expected us to get excited with the pictures! Are you f**king kidding me? Are you people all 14 years old? I should be stopping over at Mars on my ski trip to Neptune and hanging out with Kuato and his Resistance pals by now.

What the shit is this with you and your school science projects anyway? All I see you doing you doing is fannying about digging holes in Cern (doesn't work) and cancer (uncured) and sheep cloning (WE HAVE ENOUGH SHEEP AND THEY ALL LOOK CLONED ANYWAY!). Not one warp drive. Not a solitary ion cannon. Thanks a flippin bunch, science. You’ve dropped us RIGHT IN IT! When civilisation crumbles and it’s dog eat dog, you nerds are going to be on the end of some severe Chinese Burns – just like in the good old days before the internet upset the natural order of things.

Thanks

Ed O’Meara

A Short History of House Shares

I live with a school friend in university. We are very good friends. A year later we are not very good friends. A year after that we become very good friends again and agree not to live together ever again.

I have a terrible hangover and am cooking eggs. I am 23. A big half-naked man called Noel comes in and tries to use a juicer. He can’t work it out. He gets frustrated and asks me to help. I mutter some annoyance and try to work it. Noel laughs a big, mocking child’s laugh and says “I’m telling Chris you broke it.” I call him a kid. He doesn’t like that when I do that. He is 8 years older than me and this is everything to him. “You can’t talk to adults like that” he says. “You’re moving out” and I say “For what?” He says “I should rip your head off” and I say that my brothers will come down on the train. I have no idea why I’m saying this. Suddenly he has me round the neck. He is strangling me. The neck of my new jumper is getting bent out of shape. It never recovers. He is strong and there’s nothing I can do. His eyes are glazed and red. He smokes very strong weed.

A couple of days later, I move out. His brother is the landlord. They all get on and I’m considered ‘posh’ because I read books. They go off and walk the dog in solidarity. Noel’s brother says: “I don’t have a problem mate, but blood is thicker than water.”

I move with the guy who gives me lifts to work. They have a former utility room I can sleep in. There is room for a bed, but I can’t open the wardrobe. He says of the last flat: “They sound like nutters.” A year later, I leave of my own accord, but one of the housemates has said to me “Some people round here don’t have a lot of time for you.” I start to get the idea that I antagonise people.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

I look at the witness. She looks embarrassed for me. She may be blushing or it may be the heating.

“Well, no. I did a stupid thing and apologised for it and you said ‘okay’ and forgave me and then you changed your mind and I’m getting evicted.”

Martha is the judge in this kangaroo court. She is a trainee solicitor. The court is in her living room. She has her friend here as a witness. This was a trap sprung on me. I was supposed to be playing five-a-side football.

“Right. Thanks for coming, Helen.”

I go to my room and weep tears of frustration. I am 26 and shouldn’t be crying, but that doesn’t make any difference. I call my sister in law and explain that I have been kicked out. I explain that I had some magic mushrooms sent through the post. She says she will send my brother to pick me up. I feel relieved. I have somewhere to go. Fuck Martha.

Martha knocks on the door and comes into the room. She has been crying. “Do you want to talk about things?” Why so much interest in what comes out of my mouth all of a sudden? I turn around with a friendly smile on my face like I’m a Christian Youth Leader or a murderer:

“I don’t think we have all that much to talk about.”

“You think I’ve overreacted don’t you?”

“Yes. I would never have done the same thing in your position.”

She leaves.

The next day my brother comes to pick me up. We banter together as we take boxes down to the car. Martha looks furious and doesn’t say a word. He says: “She’s cheerful.” I say “You’d think she’d be happy. Winning that court case.”

I later send her a text asking for my deposit back. She refuses. By kicking me out, she is out of pocket. If I want to challenge her legally, bring it on.

Six months later I go travelling. A ‘mututal friend’ says that Martha thinks it will be good for me. Fuck Martha.

I live with my parents after getting back from travelling. My dad keeps saying that rather than turning on the heating people should hoover the stairs if they’re cold. Only I find this hilarious. My dad doesn’t. He is shaking with rage. He says “I’ll punch you in the nose.” Even the threat is funny, but I walk away shaken. I decide to move out of my parents place.

I live in a flat in Brixton Hill. Now I am 28. There is a man there called Kidus – he is a wide-eyed man who emotionally lives by the seat of his pants and shows me texts he is going to send to girls and asks me for approval. He says things like “Meringue-utan” when he means “urangutan.” I don’t know what to make of him. It is the age of Karl Pilkington. I find it hard not to laugh. Four years later we are having blazing rows. I get five page texts from him. He’s the worst girlfriend I’ve ever had. My landlady says that she wants to convert my room to an office and asks me to move out. Tears stream into my eyes. I am 31 and still cry at this stuff.

An old university friend comes to my rescue. He has a place for me to live. It’s perfect. My own desk in my room. Comfortable, spacious flat with excellent rates. I say “Hello” in the morning and sometimes he blanks me. I get used to it. 8 months later I come home and there is an eviction notice on my desk. I am 32. This time I don’t cry. This time I’m convinced I antagonise people.