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.
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