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!

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 Fear Blog. Part 20.

Aug 24th

Today I went back to the museum. I felt I had to. First, I didn't get up til 1pm, even though I hadn't slept a great deal. I knew that I needed sleep but would have to go and do something non-comedy related and that may help me later. Second, I had promised I would see more of it. It's a great museum and the view from the roof terrace is lovely. I've always been a bit suspicious of romanticised Scottish history and the strongly anti-English sentiment. This is a controversial thing to say, but I think much of it comes from the Irish influx into Scotalnd in the nineteenth century during the 19th century. This is why Edinburgh has Hibernian and Glasgow has Celtic. Now, I'm not saying that the Scots weren't right to be suspicious of the bully to the South, but the thing to remember about the Union is:

1. It was preceded by a union of crowns. James I of England was James VI of Scotland.
2. The Scottish had been considering a union for a long time to stabilise Scottish society and to gain access to English markets.
3. The Jacobite Rebellion had nothing to do with freeing Scotland from the England. Bonnie Prince Charlie invaded England. He wanted the whole lot. Most Scots didn't want him. They preferred Protestant William and Mary to the autocratic Catholic Stewarts.

The Union and Empire benefited Scotland in many ways. It also fucked over many of the Scottish. But that was true South of the border too. The rich built factories and the poor lived in squalor. There was a mass emigration to the colonies: South Africa, Canada and Australia in particular where the Scots prospered and still do.

In short, the Scottish weren't some indigenous people who were smashed by an invading imperialist England. That's Gibsonite bullshit. The Scottish had their own kingdom, their own Renaissance, even their own colonies (in fact the failure of the Darien adventure in Panama almost bankrupted the nation and led to the idea that a union would be in their best interest). They were a grown up nation. I can see why some of them may want independence. They are more than capable of taking care of themselves. The idea that they have endured English oppression for centuries is rubbish however. The Irish can keep picking at old sores if they wish, but the Scottish should be careful not to invent a tyranny that never really happened. Don't get me wrong. The English are fuckwits, but the Scottish helped them export their fuckwittery on a global scale. Without Scottish engineers, soldiers, inventors, tradesmen and administrators, the British Empire probably wouldn't have been half its size.

In short, it was very interesting. I stopped in the technology area where a robot arm picked up alphabet blocks and spelled out whatever you typed in. I entered “BOLLOCKS” and shifted before a suspicious security guard approached. The good thing about that display is that once you enter the letters there's no way of cancelling the process.

I had fish and chips and then a nap. The system works. I felt better later and went to do the show. For some reason, it didn't work again. My delivery was fine I think and I managed to improvise enough to keep it interesting, but the audience weren't doing much laughing. Mostly grinning and quiet chuckling. The problem is that once a room is quiet, people are actively afraid to laugh and then others hear the lack of laughing and just start losing confidence. I have no idea how to fix the show. I only have one more performance, so I'm just resigned to letting it go. I regret that the one show that was great didn't get recorded. I hoped there would be other crowds/ performances as good, but there haven't been. The show should be good by now. I'm probably just bored of the material and so I can't relax into the delivery. Maybe it's lost its meaning. I get the biggest laughs when I talk. I have no idea how comedians take a show on tour and do it a million times. Tomorrow, I'm just going to go for it. It'll be the last show. I have gigged almost everyday. My Ku Klux Flan show was great by the end. This show promised a lot but has failed to deliver. I guess I need to work harder. It'll be easier to do regular gigs again. 10-20 minutes and then the rest is nothing to do with me.

A French girl came to the show but didn't understand a word after I had assured her that she would. I took her to see a show she might get. We went to the Pleasance, bought a ticket, then lost her. After a frantic search, I found her again. I kept bumping into comics during the search that I didn't mean to talk to. It's like going with my mum into town. You can't take three steps without chatting to someone else. I saw Aranab Chanda and James Acaster. They were really friendly and looked fresh and happy. That's what being consistently funny brings. I wish I were consistent or funny. I'm sort of funny, but if I don't get more funny I'll go funny. And I don't mean funny ha ha. Someone wrote on a lampost "Standup is tacky shit." I guess it is. It's a cheap trick and I'm losing my sleight of hand. Perhaps I need to stop trying to deliver, but I know as soon as I do that things will go REALLY quiet. Sometimes you have to talk in a way that keeps people listening, even if they're not doubling over with laughter. I just need a good gig, but if I do one, I won't know how I did it. James Acaster said "How is the show going?." I said "Ups and downs." He said "You're learning, though?" I said "Yeah."

I have no idea what I'm learning.

In the end we went to see a show called “Another Fucking Cabaret Show” at the Pleasance Dome. It was good fun and a nice change from comedy, although it also had two comedians. Jarred Christmas clearly thought he'd struggled because he finished his set by saying “Well, the other comic was funny. Thanks for being patient.” Even those of the semi-successful backpedal. After, I walked the girl back to her hostile. She seemed nervous and giggly and I think was waiting for me to make a move. I didn't because I didn't really fancy her. Legitimate reasoning I think. In this specific case, Je ne regrette rien.

The Fear Blog. Part 19.

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.

The Fear Blog. Part 18.

22 Aug

Gruesomely tired this morning. I had to get to Bobby's for 10am and ten he announced he'd pulled it because of lack of audience. I went with Nick Sun and Madelaine to a fancy cafe and splurged on a breakfast. That's right. £6.50. It had haggis in it. I rather liked it. This suggests I need to get out of Scotland. I'm going native. Like in that film when that guy became a blue, alien creature joining an army of savages against an oppressive intergalactic threat. You know the film. Braveheart.

I spent a few hours on the building site. It's amazing what Alex and Even are doing. Amazing and depressing at the same time. I know that between them they are in the business of building houses, but I find it incredible that they approach so much of this mammoth project with calm confidence, when lighting a barbecue leaves me frustrated and anxious. I scrubbed the rust off metalwork and painted on a new layer of fire resistant devil's blood. Nasty stuff. It was nice zoning out and getting on with a job. Very therapeutic. I could imagine doing it for a minute. Manual work. But then I realised I'd get quickly bored and I'm a bit weedy, so decided to not quit comedy to become a painter/decorator. Still, always nice to know there's something to 'fall back on'. That's a very parental statement. It's a wise position to take, but also means that you won't achieve anything that spectacular. You have to gamble and put everything on the line. I've been dipping my toe in the water for so many years, but it doesn't help. Just makes things worse. You just realise that you're standing at the edge of the water watching other people who have jumped in and are swimming fine. I think there's a line from the Great Gatsby which says something along the lines of, “When I was younger I thought myself moral, now I am thirty I see there is no honour to it. I was not moral, I just didn't participate.” Josh quoted that to me as I sat in the kitchen. It rather hit me between the eyes. I was a tiny bit stoned too, so it was doubly effective. My reaction was “Yeah. Wow. Oh.” I've hardly wasted the last few years, but it has been a rather long way of coming to a simple conclusion. I'm not going to get anywhere unless I get out there and gig like there's nothing else in life. It's true. At one time I was doing no gigs a week. What did that make me? A stand up comic? No. It made me a low-level administrator. Plain and simple. I don't think you can ever give your children better advice than “Go for it!” unless they have a nervous tic, a short-temper and are axe enthusiasts. Otherwise you drift in life and your confidence is slowly whittled away over the years. As Big George said: “If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there.” My Dad texted me yesterday and said: “Saw your Scotsman article...a career in journalism beckons?”

1. He saw it, but didn't say “Well done” or “I enjoyed it.” He merely notes it existence. I love my parents, but they lack some fundamental social skills. Do they think that if they give me some kind of minor positive reinforcement I'm going to go on a murdering spree? Mum isn't so bad, but I think she has resigned herself to my fate, i.e. homelessness.
2. A career in journalism. Dad is funny. He thinks that journalism is a career whereas comedy isn't. He obviously thinks I'm just twiddling my thumbs with this comedy lark until something proper turns up. It's like, three years ago, when my mum said to me: “You don't HAVE to do comedy. Couldn't you be a funny headmaster?” These days, father, one can do stand up gigs, write articles, do a radio show and still not have enough to pay the bills. Journalism is dying. Fewer people are buying newspapers. I have also told him that the most lucrative thing I can do is to build websites. I don't think he thinks that's a thing either.

I don't harbour ill feelings towards my parents about it. I don't see the point. I'm not a rebellious teenager who wants to 'show them', but I don't want to be worried or disappointed either. In all honesty, I bet they're not all that bothered. It would be nice if they just accepted what I was doing and spoke kindly of it. It's not like we're 18th century landed gentry. They don't have an inheritance for me. However, I'm not saying I don't share some of their scepticism, it's just that I'm starting to agree with Machiavelli, who said something like “Make mistakes of action rather than the gravest mistake of inaction.” That is the ultimate truth. You can't hide behind fear and call it prudence. I know when I'm fooling myself. I also realise that if I don't have WIFI, I can't quote things accurately.

I saw Trevor Locke today. He has pulled more of his shows because no one is coming. He is on the Laughing Horse Free Fringe. How has that happened? Four star reviews and TV guarantee nothing. As Tony Hayers said to Alan Partridge, “We don't owe you a living.” A friend of his said “Oh well. There's always next year” which is a thoroughly stupid thing to say. We are mortal. Next year is one less.

I went to see Daniel Simonsen's show. He said I could sit in the tech box. A 25 year old asked me what I was doing in the venue. I said “I'm here to see Daniel.” He said “Are you WITH him or FOR him.” I said “With” and he backed off. Let me state this now: Many of the people who work at the Pleasance are unmitigated cunts. It's because they believe they have status. Simple as that. It's terrifying. Speaking of cunty cunts, a 5-star arsehead came in at the beginning of the show. He must have been nearly 40. He heard some hip hop on and said “Is that Dan's choice of tunes?” and I said “Yes” and he said “Sweet beats” as he bobbed his stupid public-school head with his ski resort tan. At the end of the show he said “Yo, did you think Dan was good cos the audience seemed up for it.” I said “Yes, the audience were great, so Daniel was able to relax and give his best.” He said “Ya, totally. Cos I saw him yesterday and he was sooo nervous and the crowd were,'t digging it. Oh, keep this one schtum, but I'm on the Fosters judging panel, yeah? Like all the other judges were like 'He's great and I was like whatever' but now I get it.” He then went out mouthing the words to Firestarter to the Prodigy.

For years I imagined what sort of fuckwit would be on a Fosters judging panel. I assumed that I was just being cynical. I assumed it was bitterness or envy. I assumed that I was imagining some cartoonish version of life.

But all along, I was right. I was fucking right, people. They are total ballbags who don't know the first thing about comedy. This country is ran by aristocratic favours. Always has been. I told Daniel, “He was a total fuckwit, but he really liked you.”

Joel Dommett came up and gave me a hug and said that I should stay for his show. I didn't really want to. The room was boiling and I was already feeling tired, but I thought it might be worth seeing what Joels' doing. Daniel said I should, and I thought it'd be rude to say no. Don't get me wrong. Joel is a great story teller, a very accomplished comedian, and (if you catch him at the right time) he will feign actually liking you, but his audience is generally teenage girls and he says “LITERALLY THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED. I LAUGHED FOR LITERALLY 23 MINUTES” and he gets laughs for it. I'm not saying he isn't funny, he clearly is, but I LITERALLY got bored of an hour of comedy which essentially plants 4 seeds and then harvests them all at the end and you say “Wooo...clever.” It's basically what every Edinburgh hour ever does. It's BORING. Daniel did a few call backs but that was it. Joel's show was about a bully and his revenge on the bully, but it didn't feel like he was really bullied and it all seemed petty and insubstantial. He does a nun-chuk routine in strobe lighting. That was LITERALLY the best bit. He also does a great routine about TGI Fridays too. In fairness, I think he was knackered too. Maybe he did have real pain to share on the 4th August, but repetition has led to meaninglessness. (As a litmus test, he did a bit about Megabus that usually storms but got nothing.) All comics are knackered by now. Watching his show was instructive too. I am not that kind of comic, and I'm pleased not to be. I don't want to tell people what I saw today that was literally the best thing ever. I want to tell them what they're feeling in certain situations, which literally aren't the best things ever. He's got great delivery and rhythm and he works hard, so kudos. Also, he was the best thing in that Pop World sitcom.

I wanted to say 'well done' to Joel after but groupie types were hanging around, as was Tom Rosenthal. My phone battery was dead, and I needed some charge so I scarpered. I saw Josh in the kitchen who decided not to go out. We drank a little wine and had a chat. He's 26 on Saturday. I think he's going to be an excellent comic.

The Fear Blog. Part 17.

21 August

I walked around with a little over 1,000 flyers in my bag today. I still have a lot left and I don't quite know what to do with them. I also had my laptop in there. It was a pretty heavy load. I went to the Museum of Scotland, which was amazing. I only saw a small amount, and will have to go back there before I leave. There was an animal exhibit where you climb on some scales and it tells you how heavy you are compared to the animal kingdom. A guy got on the scales in front of his kids. He weighed the same as a chimpanzee. Then I got on there with my burden and was delighted that I thrashed him. I weighed the same as a pygmy whale. In your face monkey man! I made a clicking, squealing noise of triumph and sauntered off whistling out of my blowhole. Part of the museum is dedicated to Medieval Scottish history. There was a Latin statement made by Robert the Bruce which apparently “still rings true to this day” which basically says “Fuck the English.” I wonder how that museum is funded.

I went to see Yianni's show. It was very popular and has loads of four star reviews. It's extremely well put together and Yianni deserves all the praise he gets. He's also a terrific person. I enjoyed his performance and take my hat off to his writing, but am never so enthralled by his subject matter. It was about numbers. I like hearing about fanciful nonsense and insecurities. Still, you learn a lot from looking at a different approach. It strikes me that Yianni has been putting on good quality, critically acclaimed shows for years without getting to the next stage. It's scary how much it can take to make it on to radio or TV – or sometimes how very little.

I had a good crowd in and got some decent laughs in the first half. In the second half, I felt my energy starting to flag and my delivery suffered. After the show, no one seemed to mind. Audience members bought me drinks and I made £30 from the bucket, so I was pleased with that. A hot but obviously terrifyingly flirty blonde girl sat enraptured as I did my set. After which she came up and made terrifying advances and pelvic thrusts. A largish man came over and ushered her away. I couldn't tell if he was boyfriend or someone she'd just picked up. I guess the latter. Flirts are flirts I guess. I know that other comics in my situation would have smarmed up to her, but to be frank I was tired and frazzled post-show and not entirely comfortable with the carpet bombing technique she employed. It was not with much regret that I scooted outta there. Effective flirts are always quite hot, but almost always never worth the entrance fee, if you catch my unnecessarily graphic drift.

After some umming and ahhing I went to the Anti-Hoot. It was a good lineup, Eric Hutton was being brilliant and I wasn't sure if my pedestrian brand of comedy would dazzle. By the time I got on the audience had pretty much gone, but I was well received. Lach pulled me aside and said that next time I went he'd put me on earlier so I could play to a bigger crowd, as he's obviously enjoyed my set. I think my policy of doing jokes that mean something to me might start to pay off. I want to do stuff which makes sense emotionally as well as is funny. I think one will enhance the other. It might be the closest to growing up that I can muster.

A friend of mine talked to me after the show. We had been drunk the week before and we had kissed. She apologised for throwing herself at me. I didn't mind one bit. Partly, that's what festival time is for. More importantly, if nice girls throw themselves at me I won't complain. It's the soul-destroying ho-bags I'm sidestepping. I seem to be attracting more women at the moment, and by more I mean I mean more than none. It may be the slightly calmer confidence that comes with a good run of shows or just having something worthwhile to do every day or it might be that my beard is growing out and I'm turning into a sheepdog. Who doesn't want to french kiss a sheepdog? The uber-flirt suggested I should trim my beard. This is what happened to Samson.

The Fear Blog. Part 16.

Aug 20

It's strange what we take away from things. The performance from the night before was probably my best and there was wall to wall praise from my crowd, as well as an audience review and a tweet. Yet one of the audience members came up to me and said “You have a lot of good ideas. You should get a writing partner.” This is the same basic criticism as my brother Phil made. He said that some ideas were cut short when you expected them to be taken further. I think it's legitimate criticism, but I wish people would give me specific examples. The problem is that if you embark on an idea and no one is on board, it's a long ride. If you abandon a joke halfway through, it's a sign to the audience that you have no faith in your material. I'm naturally quite “faffy” and clumsy with my expression. Thus I find smaller ideas less risky for me. Throw a lot at your crowd and see if anything sticks. Hence the youtube channel: “Hit n Run.” That hardly defines my act, however. My grandma story is about 8 minutes long on its own. When I was a year or two into stand up I would usually do 2 things in 5 minutes, whereas most people try to cram in 8 jokes. The building story is my favourite, but it's a gamble. When you have an hour, I guess you have more time to develop something. Maybe that was his point. I've abandoned the show structure, and now just talk about each thing as it comes to me. I think it has improved the show no end, and makes it feel less like some scripted slog.

I went to see Alex's shed. It's not a show. It's a large former taxi shed that my landlady has bought and is converting into a massive house. By next Edinburgh she says I will have a 'des res' in which to stay. Alex and her friends are basically doing the whole building project by themselves. Zeinu was racing around in a powerful-looking forklift truck. Sheer terror. While I'm worrying about my delivery and wondering if I could get free IT classes if I went on the dole (which is a post-Edinburgh possibility) Alex had bought a large property and is building it herself. The gulf of achievement between us is epic. We're the same age and yet she displays all the signs of someone who has got entirely the right idea. By the time she's 40, she'll be drinking coffee in her superhouse. I'll be scribbling notes on the back of a bus ticket in a bedsit. If I'm lucky. Hats of to Alex, though. It's a proper Grand Designs. Shame she didn't get the TV team up. I could have had the jump on that ballbag Kevin McCloud. “What I've done is something fundamentally important. It's more than just a project. It's been years of planning, passion and patience. A labour of love which unites both dream and aspiration. That's right. I've stuck Kevin McCloud's head up his own arse.” I got up on a bit of scaffolding and started scraping rust off a beam. 12 minutes later Alex called lunch. Phew, a well deserved break. I finally got a taste of what it must have been like working at British Leyland in the 70s.

The weather was nice again. Apparently there's a HEAT WAVE in London. Temperatures of up to 31 degrees. Of course there is. Scotland doesn't suffer the same indignities of heat. Here you can see the sun on such days, but it has no apparent effect on anything. It just sits in the sky like a pilot light. It's rather like looking at a shark through some aquarium glass. Looks powerful, but no threat. “Great, but what now?” Sun, rain, it's all the same to me. Five shows left. Weird. What have I learnt? Deliver the material like you're discovering it. Smile even. You're never going to be edgy. Might as well go down the “winning personality” route. Perhaps if they like me enough, a reviewer may one day say “funny.” Newbury Today once said “Clever, well-structured jokes.” I'm clever and nice, apparently. Possibly my future lies in Dictionary Corner. I was watching Eric Hutton's gig and he said “You look like a happy person” so I just smiled. Sure, why not? What is happiness? It's a feeling, rather than a state. I don't think people need to find happiness. I don't think it works like that. I just think they need to be capable of feeling happy.

I thought about calling my next Edinburgh show “Be. More. Funny.” What do you think? That is my target for the rest of my life, after all. It's based on the idea that reviewers say that I'm clever and self-deprecating. Charming even. But funny is nothing they seem willing to give to me. It's a Simpson's quote. Homer bangs the TV on the top and says “Stupid TV. Be more funny!” It also means I can do banter and I don't have to stick to a rigid structure.

I am working out how to nap. Ready? First you male sure you're properly tired, then you eat some food, and then you go to bed. Eating food takes it out of you. The blood moves from your brain to your stomach so your brain has no energy to ruminate. When I feel like that, I think about something abstract but immersive. I think yesterday it was flying. Then you're brain takes you to weird places and I try not to realise that I'm falling asleep or your brain says “Hey, wait a minute. What gives?” and wakes you up. I slept for 45 minutes. I woke up feeling like I had been on a cross-channel ferry. God bless you nap-time nausea.

My show started with 5 people and swelled to a mighty 8. There were never any super laughs, but people went from looking bored or sceptical to looking engaged. I got £6. The lowest amount ever, but festival goers are running dry. There was a woman who might have been a reviewer. Reviewers are supposed to announce their presence, but the Three Weeks person didn't. Never mind. I recorded the show. The recording worked. Of course it did. I deleted it after. I don't want to sit and listen to long periods of quiet. It's hard for people to laugh in a quiet room. The bar staff came up and they were almost red from holding back laughter. Weird that. I went to the Eric Hutton gig after and it was kinda quiet too. One person laughing in a quiet room is like setting off a car alarm. Eric Hutton is a brilliant comic by the way.

I wish that Sunday night's gig had recorded. It was the perfect show for laughter and thus my best delivery, because I wasn't chasing the laughs. I knew they would come. Oh well. Maybe the recording exists somewhere lost. Well, enjoy my best Edinburgh show Atlantians. They always get the best lost stuff. Using my headphones right now, I'd wager.

The Fear Blog. Part 15.

Aug 19

A potentially worrying Sunday was saved by a curry at the Edinburgh Mosque followed by a 45 minute nap. I woke up feeling reassuringly seasick. I then did a fair warm up gig on a mixed bill before putting on easily my best show. Naturally my recorder didn't record the bloody thing, because that would have been the perfect version for my website. Big laughs from beginning to end. Huge fun. Everybody was so supportive from the off that I took my time and played about. It meant I lost the thread a few times and had to refer to notes, but no one seemed to care much. Two girls at the front were leading the laughter. In their eyes, I could do no wrong. They had planned to come and see me. Even had me on their timetable between two big stand up names. Without them it would have been a much quieter affair. With them, it allowed me to be good and to take risks. This is the benefit of gaining a following.

Stopped in at Anti-Hoot and saw Eric the Australian comic, who was brilliant. Erin K did the big willy song again and then there was a woman who got everyone to breathe and stretch. By mixed bill, they mean MIXED. Nick Sun got up and caused trouble. He only got onstage with 20 seconds to spare so then just counted himself down, claiming he had numerical dyslexia. When I saw him, I twatted him around the back of the head. Lach decided that he wanted to play to actual people rather than just playing to lights and chairs at the end, so played some stuff at the beginning. He's very good, and the crowd were into his counter-culture talking over guitar. We didn't stay much longer.

Zeinu and his friends were getting a bit antsy, and I knew there was an open-spot comic coming on who I didn't particularly want to watch, now that our flat has become a forum for new comics to talk loudly about how to be a comedian. My flatmate Josh came in looking bored. One of the loudest said: "Well, I wouldn't do rape jokes" and Josh said: "Well, don't then. In fact don't do stand up at all." If I said that, I would have had a shocked reaction. Josh has a nice sardonic tone so it was funny. I suggested that no one was forcing rape jokes upon him and etc. Ahhhh, those wacky comic flatshares.

I went for late drinks with Zeinu and an American comic called Lea. Lea had been at my show and had taken my 'bickering marriage' stuff about Zeinu a wee bit too seriously, so was expecting something to happen. She was sorely disppointed when there was no explosive action.

I woke up the next morning with a girl in my bed. This explains why all my dreams had involved eating hair, smothering and being elbowed in the face.

The Fear Blog. Part 14.

18 August

Went up Arthur's Seat for the annual fury. It's always at about this time. Sometimes before. I always remember it taking an hour or so, but if you're in the right mindset (i.e. peeved) you can do it much quicker. Exercise on anger is incredibly effective. (Even the portly man can shave minutes off his personal best if someone would only shout “Oi fatso.”) When I got up there, I was ambivalent to find that Barry Ferns was putting on a gig. It's the one place I go to avoid comedy, and they decide to stick on a gig. Clucking Bell. Fair play to Barry though, it's an amazing venue. That guy does about 4 shows per day. This is what I'm up against. Arthur Smith was shouting about things and BBC Radio 4 were recording it. Sweet publicity.

I loved the wind up at the top. I went to one of the slightly lower and less populated outcrops and let it blow over me. It drowned out all other sound. I thought "Everything is temporary, life is fleeting, let the wind blow it all away" but that didn't help me figure out my immediate problems. I tried meditation, but was too busy fuming. I then took a precarious cliff face root down. Some people who were climbing down the footpath looked at me ponderously as I inched down on my hands and feet, bum pressed to the rock. I found it therapeutic. There's nothing like real and present fear to take one's mind off more intangible troubles. After avoiding death I bought a fancy pizza and a bottle of coke and thought "Fuck it". Then I bought a side salad. I went to bed and had a strange nap.

I started my gig well. There were lots of geezer types in with their dolly birds. I started doing banter. They loved that. I then started doing my show. When I started doing the bit about procrastination, they obviously had no idea what they I was banging on about. I then tried one normal joke to test them. They had stopped listening. I then suggested that they could leave if they'd rather be somewhere else. They left without much fuss. I invited everyone who wanted to watch the show to the front and it wasn't bad. At times, my delivery was stilted, but it was okay. An old colleague was there. Her friend afterwards advised me that my timing was off, and maybe I should take acting classes. I agreed that my timing was a little strange, but it was becuase the material is still relatively new and I still hadn't entirely relaxed. The acting classes bit made me want to kick her in the shins. She talked to Zeinu like he was from another planet. I enjoyed spectating.

We went out to a few places and then everyone decided to go home. Zeinu was disappointed and hopped from foot to foot like a frenetic toddler. He complained bittertly when I said we were going home. This happens quite a lot to him in Edinburgh, becuase most of his friends are of an age/disposition when they don't want to go on the lash every night. I found a random group of teenagers and introduced him to them. I thought he would be quite the novelty for them. I was right. Responsibilities settled, I went home and left him to it. I got a text from him the next day saying that he had an amazing night and that the teenagers were remapant womanisers who stole other people's drinks when they weren't looking. He was quick to add that he bought his from the bar. Very proud.

The Fear Blog. Part 13.

Aug 17

I am feeling dispirited this morning. I woke up and looked at my thin, bruised arm and thought 'How many times have you woken up and felt like this? An awful lot.' I'm not on heroin by the way. That sounded ambiguous, eh? Yesterday I had my reviews and I thought “Oh well” which is the correct response. I also went down the “what do they know” line. All this is well and good, but they're the people writing the reviews. Of course I'll carry on and try and gig across the country when I can actually afford the train fare, but these reviews don't help me. They may resolve me to be defiant or to think “Well, they're not correct” but all I wanted was a quote where one of the reviewers actually said “This was funny.” They didn't mention that once. They laughed. I have jokes in my show. You wouldn't know it, would you? All they said was “likeable.” I don't know what to do. I felt very calm about it all yesterday, so I knew a backlash was coming today. Of course, I may just need some cheese on toast and a cup of tea. That will take care of my immediate discomfort.

I think that if I had stormed yesterday's show, it would have put things right. But I didn't. The audience were lovely and there was no reason why I shouldn't have given a great show, but I didn't. It was all right, but I'm doubting the material or my performance of it. I don't feel inspired. I'm not sure if I'm improving or going backwards. When I had my Ku Klux Flan show, I was getting pretty hefty laughs. I think it helped that I could improvise more, have more banter, chop and change etc. But that has its boredom too. Madelaine, who has been struggling with her show, apparently just sat in the audience at the start and then started heckling nobody, asked where the person was who was supposed to be doing the show, then convinced someone to get up and do some jokes, then she announced herself, did loads of banter, and got people up to do some painting onstage. She came back with the biggest smile on her face. I need something like that. Doing a free-ranging club set over an hour is unsatisfying but doing a themed show is just plain hard. I wonder what happened if I were just to do one show where I just talked to people about what they were afraid of and just stuck some jokes in there once in a while. It would at least give me a break from padding through the material.

My inspiration was Helen Keen, who did an hour on the space race, did it a couple of times in Edinburgh, and then had it turned into a radio hour. Do I have to write an hour on a period of history to get looked at? Does hiding behind source material make me just a presenter of things as opposed to a comic? I bet it's a skill in it's own right, and yet another one that I don't have. Maybe I should get all racist so we can put this “winning personality” thing to bed. “Winning personality.” I can't quote that. They might as well have said “He knows how to hold a microphone and talk.”

Zeinu came to the show. He didn't laugh much. If the crowd had been in hysterics, he would have been laughing. I asked him about the ticket business and it turned out to be a girl that he has been pursuing for a little while, so he's not so silly for buying the ticket. He told me about a party at Beverstone Road where everyone was up and off their boxes for a couple of days. I didn't want to hear about it. Drugs are for people who earn money and have leisure. I'm becoming bored of the whole concept. I would like some mushrooms on a day off, but that's it. I don't have days off. I don't have days on. I don't want to go back to the flat in Brixton without a plan. I can't take the silent panic. It's not healthy.

This is all morning mind splurge, so I'll stop now. I slept very oddly and just feel plain tired. Always a great start to a day when I've got an hour show at the end of it to a Saturday night crowd. Apart from underwhelmence (new word, yeah?), yesterday I saw Paul Foot improvise beautifully at Set List. He's outstanding. I will admit that Daniel Sloss is very funny, but he's got nothing on Paul Foot. A performer in a different league yet playing to fewer people than Sloss. Of course. There's nothing to fill stadiums like observations on Ikea.

Oh, yesterday I managed to get some laundry done, so every cloud...

Right, fuck this. I'm going to walk up Arthur's Seat and have a rage amongst the granite. It's obviously time.