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 !

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.

Moment...ummmm.

Pre-progress umming and ahhing. How Not to Succeed in Comedy Without Really Trying.

If you want to progress in comedy, you need momentum. Momentum comes from constant gigging. Through gigging you get good, your name stays buzzing around the heads of acts then promoters then agents then critics then producers and finally everybody else. What's more you have to live and breathe comedy. You socialise with comedians, you know individual agents and their proclivities, you're at every festival. You become the furniture of the comedy bedsit. Status is important, comparison is important, momentum is important. Not for your mental health or relationships, largely it's disastrous, but it's the price that comedy demands.

This guy knows what he's doing.

I haven't been willing to pay that price for a long time. I lost my momentum long ago. Every year I've watched acts below me leapfrog over my head. Firm circuit friends will now ignore me because there are others around me more worthy of their attention, some established acts who I started out with will look at me in bewilderment and ask me what I'm doing and even offer me some pity one off gig with acts several rungs up from me, but promoters are no longer excited about the prospect of asking me to gig for them. A few promoters still hold me in high regard and book me for well paid gigs outside London, but my lack of positive press quotes and inflated five star reviews do not go unnoticed when it comes for them to send posters to print. To date, Newbury Today's five year old estimation of me still appears on flyers for regional clubs.

I'm certainly better and more consistent than I've ever been but this means nothing when you no longer have the momentum. Better to be fresh and raw and brimming with potential than to be seasoned and discounted and yet more complacent. The fire quickly goes out unless constantly fueled. Somehow I have become a hobbyist.

I have to decide whether I'm willing to bury myself in the feverish core of planet stand up or to continue coldly orbiting the maelstrom from afar. There is no halfway. The inescapable truth is that success in any field usually requires more of yourself than you're willing to give.

Follow Ed O'Meara at @edfomeara. It won't help ya none.

The Fear Blog. Part 9.

Aug 13

Bad, annoying, embarrassing, hard. Tonight's show was one of the worst. The first five minutes were fine. Easy enough banter, up for it crowd. Then an army of Gap types walked in. Not that they were the problem, as such. But most of them were girls and girls are unable to hide looking bored. Especially when they're on the front row. They were also annoyed. Annoyed with a long-haired Scottish teenager who kept trying to predict my punchlines. I wanted to keep the mood good, I didn't want him to effect my momentum, but he did. Once my momentum was destroyed, the crowd started to lose faith. The applause and first few laughs at the beginning of the show were riotous, by ten minutes in they were already starting to trickle away. It wasn't then 50 minutes of silence, but it wasn't enjoyable. Stories were hard to build. My material felt empty. Laughs were hard to come by, and didn't linger. It was embarrassing. My set got muddled up, and lost its meaning. Interruptions kept happening. It was a war of attrition. Every time someone knocked over a glass, everybody looked round. This is a sign your crowd are not with you. Anything for a distraction.

By the end of the show I was just keen to get out of there. A very attractive girl came in near the end. She was wearing a red dress with fake rips in it. Sounds like an 80s hair metal video, but she looked great. I went downstairs and saw her and she smiled at me and I said “nice dress” and she looked at me with a ravishing smile and said “thanks.” She was in a group of people and I wanted to leave, so I left. I wasn't going to try and chat up a girl in front of people I'd just done a crumby show in front of. Not that I lost anything. Attractive girls are allowed to smile at people and say “thanks” when they're complimented without it meaning anything. The Canadian barmaid has a boyfriend of course. No great loss. It was almost a relief that I was imagining opportunity when there was none.

I went to see Eddie Peppitone at The Tron. I also was comped into a show before it. It was a Spanish character who did songs. I didn't really get the point of it. It was funny in its way, but there was an awful lot of singing along. It was borderline cabaret. Most of the audience were Northern. Figures. Peppitone is a 53 year old physical wreck. Mike says he does different stuff every day. He does an awful lot of shouting, and a lot of his stuff was incredibly inspired, with some killer lines. I stopped laughing halfway through. I'm not sure if I was tired and preoccupied or he just lost it. A little of both, I think.

Mike left today. I liked having him about, with his two glasses for one beer and his electronic Scattegories obsession. I'm used to calling him after a show and having a drink with him. No one in our house will quite fit the bill now. I should be thankful that he saw me do a good show. Although, having him there may helped me keep things together tonight. Doing a shitty show is no crime, it's just disappointing. It makes you feel like you've taken two steps back. Wednesday I have a day off, so Tuesday's show has got to be better so that I can enjoy it. I may go to Edinburgh Botanical gardens. I have a little bit of weed, so that may bring nature alive, weather permitting.

Another plus is that there were no reviewers in tonight, as far as I know. I think it's generally held that reviewers have to make themselves known and none have been in contact or approached me after a gig. All this may be wishful thinking of course. As if reviewers are going to come along. In the same way, I ran out of pasta today. I was equally relieved when the Queen didn't stop in for dinner.

I need a big slice of fun. I'm a little tired of this routine of mine. My fun slice doesn't involve going to see a show. I would just like to go off somewhere and have a laugh with people, listen to some live music and have a dance. I think Zeinu may be coming up soon. It'll be good to see that crazy fool. It will be fun to see him in action around the ladies and my inaction around the ladies. I saw Tommy Rowson, my stand up friend, with 5 blonde girls with Pleasance uniforms on. Some comics are able to construct an entourage. I can only imagine the maintenance and upkeep involved. Hanging around with 5 pretty, young girls must require the same effort as keeping a regional museum going.

I want a TV here. We take it for granted, it's a waste of time, but it's visual heroin, and I could use a hit. I wonder what antics Sheldon Cooper is up to now. Misunderstanding human interaction, no doubt. Oh Big Bang Theory. How I will tire of your repeats two weeks from now, but how I could use watching an episode now. No WIFI in this house. Fuck Minesweeper.

The Fear Blog. Part 8.

12 August

Felt better today, so got up and went to Bobby Carroll's Hungover Comedy Club. I did my set without hangover, which went okay. The only thing that was a bit dodgy was my vertigo stuff, which I assumed was going to be my stand up salvation but looks to be as troublesome as all the other stuff I do. People have stopped laughing in certain places, and I can't work out why. My room is looking messy. I barely noticed until just now. I don't know why I let it get so messy. I don't notice for a long time. I doubt that it will have any bearing on my life success, but I had previously decided it would so should probably tidy it up. Should is a good word. “Probably” and “should.” A decisive combination. I realise I am drinking coffee in a coffee shop every day. That's almost £5 a day on coffee. I don't have that kind of money, but I still do it. Maybe I'll just see what happens.

I went to see my housemate Madelaine's show. It was insane. Lots of her flitting about and being surreal. I would like it more if she had just a touch more conviction, but some bits really hit the mark. Half the people left, that's a good sign. She is clearly going to become very good at what she does. She knows Claudia O'Doherty and Sam Simmons, and she is on course. I wish I had a role model. If I had a genre, I would have a role model. I file myself under “material that no one else would want to use.” It's a good place. Some people congratulate me for not being mainstream. Be under no illusions. Being mainstream is tough. You have to nail those observations. You have to think of something funny and yet make it so that 4 out of 5 people can pretty much anticipate what it's going to be. Yikes.

I bought a pot of pasta in Tescos. I was reduced to 19p. I knew it would be only borderline edible, but 19p! Reduced from £1.50. If I ever get money, which is not altogether likely, I hope I never pass up a 19p pot of unappetising pasta. Why the sudden discount though? Probably it had been left by a plutonium isotope. I read the packet to see what an acceptable intake of plutonium was, but nothing doing. I shall write to my MP.

Later on I did my show. I tried to flyer at the Half Price Hut but I couldn't be bothered to outalk the professional flyerers. I flyered outside the venue, but put them away whenever a big bunch of lads came by. Daniel Kitson isn't performing on Fridays and Saturdays for that reason, so it's legit. Mike came along and helped me. He said “Accomplished comic, free at 9.” I like 'accomplished', there's no hyperbole. It's like me saying “I won't waste your time.” That's the standard I aspire to. I can live with that level of expectation. Somehow loads of people came in. It was hard at first because of the constant disruption, but then I got into the show and the laughs were big. It was great. So great that I overran and forgot the ending. Shame. But, a little closer to good. I need to still make things sound like a joke. I still mutter and fudge quite a lot. I will improve.

After the gig, we went out. I saw Daniel Simonsen. We swapped numbers and he's going to comp me into his show. I love that guy. He asked me if I was going to the Just The Tonic Party. Poor Daniel. He thinks I'm people. I didn't really want to go. I don't want to get into the Loft Bar. I know that people hang around there to be seen, but it's a boring waste of an evening. Probably good for career progression, but so would oral sex on promoters, and I'm not doing that. Especially not with beard upkeep to think about. We were in the Library Bar. That's where unimportant acts hang out. It was mildly depressing. I bet you there will be a time when I wander to the library bar alone and look for someone to have a drink with. No, Ed. Promise that you won't. I said hello to a comic called Jackson. He pretended not to know me at first. He does his show at noon in a yurt and gets one star reviews. Nice to know where I'm at in the pecking order.

People tell me that my flyers are really offputting. In future I will stick to whimsical flyers. Next year maybe I will call my show SlEDgehammer and just have me like Peter Gabriel on the video. What do we think?

Still no reviewers. I just need one good review to get the ball rolling. If someone would like to make up a comedy website or blog and give me four stars, then I'll totally go with it. Even if it's the Norfolk Livestock and Dairy Association. I saw a review for a show. It said “The pleasure that this show gives is immeasurable. Four stars.” Not immeasurable then. Four stars. It should say “The pleasure this show gives is a little less than a five star show. Four stars.” Are people doing this stuff on purpose, I wonder?

The Fear Blog. Part 7.

August 11th

Edinburgh is a nice enough place to live, it's sophisticated in some respects, but it also retains some crappy parts of Britishness. One of these things in underwhelming, almost naively ineffective adverts. I'll give you a frexample. There is a poster with a family of four not very good actors staring out of a bus pointing at something. They're pretending they're really having a good time, but their smiles convey as much conviction as a Scientologist trying to come across as likeable. The caption says: "For a great day out, take...the bus."

Eh? Least effective ad ever. Everyone knows that being on a bus is never a great day out. It's generally acknowledged to be the worst possible mode of transport. Below the train but above the shopping trolley. As if a couple will walk passed and say. "Do you know what we haven't taken in a while, darling?....The bus." "Oh, go on, let's."

There is an accompanying ad (this time sans kids) saying "For a great night out, take...the bus." The woman is wearing a dress. The man has pressed chinos on. They're looking their best for...the bus. You don't need to advertise the bus. You either need to take it, or you don't. If you can walk, walk. If it's somewhere further, taxi. Train even. Maybe cycle? Whatever. You know the options. We know about the bus. We didn't forget. We didn't forget the surly drivers, or crying babies, or the smell of piss, or the sinister swarms of school children. You don't need to advertise. It's not going to change perceptions. I'm not going to get on the fucking bus, the reminder that I'm on low income, and think "Right, it's party time." "Remember that amazing night out?" "It was wild. Thank you, the bus." The bus is the bus. We know. What will they advertise next? "Feeling dizzy, tight feeling in the chest...try breathing." "Full bladder?...Give urination a whirl."

Unnecessary.

I spent Saturday grumbling and muttering. I felt whoozy and dizzy and not altogether there. I went to the venue and everything was too loud. I felt nauseous and told the staff that I wasn't doing the gig. Not an easy decision. Saturday night would have meant a good size audience and MONEY! I went home and bought a pizza, a Private Eye and a bottle of lemonade. I drank some lemonade, ate the pizza and read the Private Eye cover to cover and fell asleep. It was one of the nicest evenings I've had since the festival began. That's all I have to say about that day.

Michael is leaving on Monday. Apparently we have to find another person to pay his rent. This is typical Edinburgh nonsense. I have no long how long Hugh, the 80 year old, is staying. Not on the planet I mean. He makes me feel bad. Sometimes I can tell my manner (i.e. cheeky banter and casual swearing) really bothers him. When I told him about the heckler who rode over my punchline said “I'm not heckling, I'm offering advice” and told him that I should have rightfully ripped him a new one. Hugh evn winced at my “Who are you, my mother?” comment. Hugh said. “What you could have said instead was, 'Thank you for the advice, I'll take it on board' and been a bit tongue in cheek.” He's a gentle old chap. “No Hugh, I should have fucked him in the eye socket.” I didn't say that of course, but it crossed my mind. Later I closed my door and the coat hanger thing fell off my door and Hugh said “Are you destroying the house?” He also didn't know where to look when I came into the kitchen just wearing pants and 1pm. He definitely thinks I'm a some nihilistic, senseless, rampaging madman of the modern era. I bet he didn't approve of the cup of tea I made him either.

The Fear Blog. Part 6.

Aug 10

Hmm...

Woke up with a hangover, filled an empty white wine bottle with water and lay in bed. I will now tell you about what happened yesterday. It's not thrilling. This is like my flyering technique. “Is the show any good?” “Err...well, yeah. It's okay. Look, I'm a comedian, not a flyerer.” Like the Pied Piper.

First of all, stand up is hard. It's really really hard. People say “I don't know how you do it.” That's not hard. You talk into the microphone and screw up your face every so often. The question should be “I don't know why you do it.” I don't know either. If the crowd is good, my timing is good, my mood is right, the venue is right, there's a north easterly prevailing wind and Jupiter is aligned with Saturn, it's really a brilliant thing to do. If not, it feels like a horrible way to waste your time. I've probably lost the best evenings of my youth to stand up comedy. Well, I say that. I probably would have squandered them anyway. It's not as if I would have been learning to flamenco. But still. Even when you do a great new piece of material you sometimes still think “Oh, this is great!” and then ten audiences later, no one goes for it. You're emphasising the wrong bits, you can hear the gears clunking, your shiny new bit is suddenly tarnished. You can't remember why they laughed in the first place.

Friday started promisingly enough. Nice weather again. I considered going up Arthur's Seat but decided to go on Saturday if the weather stayed good. (Oh you poor sap, take your chances when they come along.) I did some web design stuff in a cafe by the Scottish Parliament. I'm quite a regular there now. It's a nice cafe/ bar in a contemporary style (I'm not sure if styles have changed since 2006, but that's when it was built. In fact I can honestly say, I have no idea what's developed since 2006-2012. It makes me shudder to think that I am living in such an anonymous bunch of years. Did people growing up in the 60s think “This blows!” Is it always hindsight? Seriously, what's changed? Smartphones? I think that's it. Keane may have released an album. Oh, and you can use oyster cards on the overground. Yep, that really is it.) It is a nice place to work and the beer is boring, so I'm not tempted to drink. They have a flag on each lager tap, but it really is stretching it. Thus CARLING has an English flag, Tennents a Scottish, Grolsch a Dutch, 1664 a French, Carlsberg a Danish flag, Budweiser an American...come off it. They're all brewed in Newcastle upon Tyne. They all taste the same and are available anywhere. Duff, Duff Light, Duff Dry. All from the same tap. The illusion of choice.

The highlight of my day was making a Spanish omelette. I used sweet potato in it. It came out perfectly and was very tasty. I had it with a salad. If you're a fan of omelette stop reading now. It doesn't get any better.

Flyering has got too hard. I don't want to do it. I don't mind trying to be funny onstage, that's something I will do pretty much voluntarily. But this flyering business is foul. I'm actually surprised when someone takes one. It's horrible to see the piles of flyers in the bin. Thousands of them. In the age of the slightly upgraded smartphone, flyering is a ridiculously inefficient way of getting people to the show. I see that the Fringe organisation isn't even mentioning the environment this year. Ironic that what is supposed to be an artsy festival is so damn destructive. If it isn't the forests felled to provide flyers for a show that no one will ever enjoy, it's the oil pumped to provide the garish printing ink. “Hey, I really think the planet should be destroyed a bit more so I can talk about self-scan tills. People NEED to hear this.” The Edinburgh Fringe: Fucking Up the Planet.

In the end I decided to talk to people instead. They laughed, they said they would see the show, they did not. An enthusiastic young girl flyered for me and got some people in. Then she sat and looked confused and left after 20 minutes. A ringing endorsement! One guy told me he was now a big fan. Taking over the world. One fan at a time. Phew. My brain needs a sit down.

I've not had anyone from the media in, of course. They are shortlisting prizes for things I'm eligible for. Surely they need to see my show? I'm not saying I'd win anything, but it would nice to be considered and dismissed, seeing as I'm eligible and all. Whoever wins the world series is the best baseball team in the world. The world being the USA and Canada. My show isn't stellar but it's definitely worth a few stars and a few nice things being said. There's still time for it, but I don't know...I've got a feeling...a feeling deep inside, oh no...The BBC got back to me to say I hadn't made it into their New Comedy Awards. I lied about how long I had been doing comedy on the application. I thought that might be a big deal. They didn't even notice, they just didn't like my stuff! I think I used the word 'fuck' three times in the recording. They asked for likeable. I'm not sure if swearing is likeable to the Beeb. I need to get out of life for a bit.When's the bus back to London? The 26th? Yuck. Don't want to go back to that life. Me in a flat in Brixton half-working. It's rubbish. Still, I can always watch multiple repeats of the Big Bang Theory so every cloud...

So after a fairly underwhelming show I went to the Anti-Hoot. A year ago it was cool. It was in the Gilded Balloon and felt artsy and interesting. People paid to get in, Lach (the host who looks like something between Woody Allen and David Cross and sounds like the leasd singer of REM) is strangely funny and makes surreal quips and does announcements for products like Air Guitars. At the old venue it felt counter-culture and subversive and great. Now he's on the Free Festival programme and the place was full of people who shouldn't have been there. Uninterested people who only came because they didn't have to pay, and yet somehow seem determined not to get into the spirit of things. The kind of people who come to my show. If you took a pub full of Yate's Wine Lodge punters and put them into a lovely country pub, would it make it still be a lovely place to go to? Nope. It would suddenly become a depressing shit hole. (Misanthropy riding pretty high there, Ed....No, sod that. I heard a 70 year old woman actually COMPLAIN because the Anti-Hoot didn't allow heckling. Bitterly complain! That's what she'd gone there to do! Didn't have to pay to get in with the express intention of sabotaging the show. “Scum. Subhuman scum.”)

There were 6 people left in that cavernous room at the end. I only stayed to support Lach. There wasn't a bill like there used to be. Just a sign up sheet. Too many open spot comics there. That killed it. Tough room though. Shitty room. I did some jokes there. Wow. Pulling teeth. Some guy actually interrupted my punchline. I told him no heckling, he said it was advice. I was too demoralised to make too much of it. ADVICE? My mother has apparently started shadowing me at gigs. I should have destroyed him. The comedian Michael Legge was there. He wouldn't look me in the eye after. Not because I was that bad, just clearly because he could see from my performance I wasn't worth talking to. That sounds a bit paranoid, but had I stormed it....

Because we were having far too much fun, I ended up at the worst 40th birthday party I have ever been to. I remember my mum's 40th. I must have been 5 or 6. I ate cake under the table. That was by far more fun. Michael may be a nice chap, but when we're having drinks together he gets out a little electronic scattegories type game and insists we play it. He doesn't approach women either. Starting to see patterns emerging. We were in a metal bar playing scattegories rather than trying to get Goth chicks when he got a text from a girl he had met at Daniel Kitson's show. We trooped over to a multi-level hell-hole called Espionage. Nothing about this place was secretive or undercover. Not the alcohol consumption, not the spray tans, not the groping. If Bond ended up drinking here I assume it would come post-breakdown.

Initially we couldn't get in as it was already 3am, but being a Mancunian Michael just slipped under a rope and found another way in and I followed. Working our way down the levels of hell, we got to the lowest bar. I remember snogging a girl there when I was 25. Grrrreat days. No they weren't, but I was 25, and that's the age we're told people want to be. Yay. At the back of the bar was a door and we had to say the word “Shaggers” and we were let in. Hilarious. A private party, a codeword on the door. Was it full of the cream of Edinburgh? Playboy millionaires and models? Nope. Five fat, middle-aged men jumping up and down to Come on Eileen. These luminaries included the promoter of a ragged chain of comedy clubs that doesn't seem to book me any more, one of the country's worst MCs and another of the country's most low rent comedians. Michael found the girl and realised he didn't fancy her at all. Did I tell you that Michael has to get 2 pint glasses for every pint to remove the fizz from the beer? Apparently it bothers his stomach otherwise. It didn't bother me before, but ending up at that party, it started to.

“Sorry, Ed”

“That's okay, Mike. All part of life's rich scattegories.”

They everyone started to do a conga. Ed, you're there. At last. The inner circle.

FML, viewers. FML.

The Fear Blog. Part 3.

If there's one thing that you should watch for in Edinburgh, it's letting the place bite you in the arse. If you let your guard down or get complacent, it will take a chunk out of you. Today I put on shorts. The sun was suspiciously ruling over the sky. The clouds waiting in the wings. "Come and play, Ed" said the sun. "Yes, dig out those shorts. All will be well." I climbed up from our place to the Burns monument. A very pretty panorama awaited me after a lovely waft of wild flowers. Just as my heart rate started to drop, the rain clouds ambushed me, the air chilled and it started to bucket it down. Edinburgh knows there are comics here. Even the weather systems feed reflect the all-pervasive manic depression. I seem to remember that being called pathetic fallacy. Nice one Mr Chidlaw. You taught me so much for which I have no useful outlet.

I had had a very turbulent sleep again. My bed is soft and saggy. You can be comfortable, but I shudder to think of what damage it is doing to my already warped spine. I awoke with a blistering hangover at 8am and then fell back to sleep only after the inducements of mobile phone youtube and weetabix. I used to think of sandcastles to lull me to sleep. Now I think of Napoleanic memoribillia, muskets, artillery and suchlike. I may complain about the all too sporadic presence of women in my life, but the fact that I get any is a fucking miracle.

After giving up the search for a legendary Tesco Metro which is supposed to be near our flat, I then went on a quest for WIFI. I paid a whopping £2.50 for a Starbucks coffee only for the WIFI to fail after 20 minutes. The staff shrugged.  It's outrageous. Why do they actually think that any one who likes coffee goes into the place? Not for the piped jazz music. This is Edinburgh. Cheapskate writers need their WIFI.I finally found a free source in the performers centre. I was about to send out some press releases before spotting a hatchet job done on one of my flatmates. The reviewer (some turd basket from the Scotsman) said "This show was free. Frankly, I think that's too much.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Why is it that backseat comedians have more power than people who actually have the power to amuse? If hacks want to slag off a crumby phone app, fine. But rubbishing a stand up comedian just to flex a muscle is vindictive. No journalist in their right mind would give a poor review to anyone under the wing of a powerful agent, but they're happy to use unrepresented people as target practise. I hesitated before sending out emails. I want to make sure the show works. I can't give them an excuse to sharpen their knives on me. I decided to send out emails on Wednesday. This gives me two days to days to iron out problems with the show. All of a sudden I remembered a solitary man in the back row of yesterday's perfomance. I hope he was a loner and not a comedy reviewer, although in essence it's the same thing. All this is wishful thinking, of course. I highly doubt if the media will swing along to my show. I am rightfully ambivalent about the eventuality.The rain continued to pour and my saturated shoes turned into footspas. I made changes to my show and was late leaving the house. Flyering was never going to be effective in this weather. People have umbrellas in their hands and aren't minded to stop. The umbrella almost provides a zone of protection from incoming flyers. Shields up! Even so, I only managed 30 minutes of it under a bridge. Flyering, that is.

Four Swiss people were joined by a middle-aged woman who wants to start comedy. The show started off very informally and then four Scottish people came in. Although the crowd were the smallest so far, they were incredibly appreciative. Barely a line failed and I actually felt very lucky to have them. They were enjoying themselves far too much, and so was I. One of the Swiss guys said "That wasn't funny. It was hilarious and brilliant. Brilliant and profound." They looked like a bunch of people who had had a superb hour. I asked them to write audience reviews and they agreed. Of course "hilarious, brilliant and profound" today could well be "shit, boring and clunky" tomorrow. I may be caught have been caught in shorts, but I've got my mental umbrella up.

The older woman was slightly less impressed. I think perhaps my liberal use of swearing put her off, and maybe lampooning my mother's advice. She put a pound in my bucket. "Listen to your mother" she said. Pssh. Open spots.

Called my friend Lottie for a chat. She's a depressive musician type who complains about the inauthenticity of stuff. She has a brilliant voice, is very amusing and a real tortured artist. She makes me look like Bambi. I like spending time with her, however. Some people put me in a good mood, regardless of what they say.

Off to see Tony Law tomorrow. The man is exceptional.

The Fear Blog. Part 2.

5th August

Today it rained, and Edinburgh started to morph into its true state: glistening, saturating, oppresive grey. From pavement to sky. I squelched along, trying not to look up at the posters. I don't want to know who has four million stars. It only ever demoralises. I know a lot of these people who get endless 5 stars. They're good, they have worked hard. But if it wasn't for the fact that they had an uber-powerful management agency, they wouldn't get a single review. Praise is always lavished on the people that need it least. "Free to those who can afford it. Very expensive to those who can't."

Slightly more demoralising was a young comic I was on a morning bill with. The promoter kissed him on the head. When I was a bit younger and showed some kind of promise he used to give me suffocating hugs. Those have stopped. Up til now I didn't care, now it seems significant. Like when Jude Law's Alfie gets dumped by the older woman for a younger woman. The fact that I'm referencing Alfie here worries me, but it was an odd form of jealousy, but feelings generally get odd. Then this 23 year old went on and did very well. I knew he was good because I sat there and wondered what all the fuss was about. He told lots of stories about sex he had had. How can a good comic realistically get so much sex? I pondered this a little. I'm sure for most comics, comedy is a release for their insecurities. There was a comic I know a little of already called Lindsay Sharman. Really brilliant! Commits wholely to the material. I could watch the shit out of her. She's not doing an hour this year. Shame.

I realised I was getting annoyed by the relative merits of others, so it was time to leave. I ejected myself from comedy, did a supermarket shop and listened to Radio 4 to reset the brain. Later at my gig, I improvised a lot of stuff about my brain, how it was like an overprotective, vindictive mother, also about the fear that I may throw myself off a cliff on a whim. Oh, and punting a baby out of a window. It REALLY connected with people. Or maybe because I honestly meant it. I will develop it today and try it tonight, possibly to bemused silence. This is what happens when you tamper with the truth. A word in the wrong place seems to change everything. Ah comedy, you are a frustrating bastard sometimes. 

My show was quieter (in both audience number and laughter) than yesterday and I struggled to keep any kind of momentum. People said they enjoyed it after, but what I think they enjoyed were the moments when I relaxed and got on with it. There were some nice moments, but these were hard won. I need to LEARN my show.After the gig I needed a drink and there was nothing doing with the Canadian. If I make an unsuccessful pass at the venue manager, that's 3 awkward weeks ahead. Even if I manage to sleep with her somehow, ditto. I like pretending that me backing off is shrewd, as opposed to cowardly! Nice one, Ed. Delusion working its magic I see!

I met up with my Edinburgh flatmates and went to a disco at the Gilded Balloon. It's basically just the Magic FM playlist padded out with a weak "Hot Dub Time Machine" theme. A section of a song from 1955-today, with a Chinese air hostess introducing each era. Not very authetnitc. For Chuck Berry's "Johnny B Goode" they used the Back to the Future scene. For Rick James, they took a segment of the Chapelle show. It was like the Scottish kilt. Inauthetic. Sometimes you have to look at the screen and follow the moves and, because they assumed that loads of people would be there who were growing up in the late 80s, they played the theme tunes from Never Ending Story and Ducktails rather than classic hits of the same year. I got chatting to a cute barmaid but then my brain reminded me that she was paid to be nice. She was also attractive and young, and that reminded me of a terrifying girl I slept with, so I bugged out. Then I looked at a tall, sweet looking girl dancing away and just never made a move. It's not that I desperately wanted to, it's just that it felt like something I should have done. "Darling, why did you approach me that night when we met?" "Well darling, I saw you on the dancefloor and thought 'That's something that I should do.'" Later on the tall girl fixed me with a slightly reproachful stare. Possibly I imagined it. Yeah, I probably did. I'm quite dramatic!

It's odd how I don't act. I guess that the girls I've gone out with I have just gravitated towards, or vice versa. I guess it's interesting for my show: I know that women love confidence, and that really doesn't help. It's like when I used to be afraid of dogs, someone said to me "Don't show any fear. Dogs can smell fear", which is the most unreassuring thing to say. "Hey you know those four legged things with sharp teeth? They're telepathic...well, have a nice day." I actually had the thought, "Hey, maybe I can do an Edinburgh show where I have to approach girls on the street and..." Such a comedian's/ writer's solution. Rather than just going and talking to someone I decide that by far the best thing to do is to turn it into a production! I have spent all of my bucket money on gin and tonics. Wise? No. Inevitable? Yep.

The Fear Blog. Part 1.

Edinburgh is quiet. It's the first real day and yet the streets feel empty. Obviously once it gets going, the place will be swarming but at the moment (possibly because of the early stage, or possibly because of the large sporting event down South) there is an uneasy calm over the place. It is the beginning of the festival, performers wander the streets well-rested, full of vitamins from their as yet deep fried-haggis free diet. They even smile. All this is to change of course. As such I feel a false sense of calm, we're in the eye of the storm, and yet I can already see what the place will become. The soul vaccuum, the morale dyson, the smile sucker upper. I can already the far off whistling as if a bomb has been released far above, hanging over us - promising to descend. Also, it's very hard to find pesto. Spam, there is plenty of.

The flat is like a scaled-down version of the Shining hotel. If my grandmother owned a borstal, this is what it would look like: Dark green paint on the hall walls makes the place gloomy, everything echoes, doors slam, there's no TV in the front room. You'd be more likely to expect a threadbare pool table. There's not one of those either. Still, the room's nice. I say nice. I mean that it's a room with a door. It's not a camp bed in a communal room or a blow up mattress in a kitchen, both of which I have experienced. There are wardrobes and drawers for everything. I put all my clothes away, wowed at what put away clothes look like. Luxuries I can never afford in London. There is even a desk. This is unprecedented. I set everything up to my liking and think, "If I can keep the room this nice, perhaps my Edinburgh show will go well." Pure heathen superstition, but the secret of every performer is to just blithely hope for the best, so some kind of mental shamanism seems in order.

I decided not to smoke. Then I started flyering, and then I bought cigarettes. It's my least favourite part of Edinburgh. Every year I flyer for myself is another year where I'm aware that if I were more successful, someone would do this for me. It's a false economy of course, once you take the 10 grand of successful venue hire into the balance. I would pay not to flyer if I had the money to do that. I don't. "Free comedy at 9?" "..." "Welcome to Edinburgh (fucktard)." I must not mumble under my breath. I must not get into the habit of negative thoughts. Edinburgh wants that. It wants me to embrace the darkness. The whole city is full of murder. I'm not making this up. Bodies buried everywhere. It's the Sarajevo of the North.

Flyering is hard. People don't care, the success rate of the flyer is miniscule. At least 2 people assumed it was a horror show, claiming that my design looked 'scary'. I bet a professional PR company would have spotted that. "I don't know, Ed. Our demographic may expect you to wear a Scream mask" Great. Morons will get the wrong idea and not come to the show. Still, I can see a Darwinistic filter in this. Are these people I want after all? I have 5,000 of these flyers. I hope this isn't a theme. Got to the venue. Some graffitti on the toilet wall said "My shit smells better than this place." Nice one, Ed. Excelsior. This is where you are. Grotty nightclub. 10 minutes before the show. Grotty, empty nightclub.

I started the show with 7 people. Hmm. It's Saturday night got God's sake! But then, full house! Hooray! I didn't need the horror tour idiots after all. Don't get picky, Ed. Wait til Tuesday. You'll be dressing up as a ghost to lure them in. Not the invisible kind of course. That would be counter-productive. The show went well. I rushed through it, and it didn't make sense, but there were laughs at nice points. The crowd wanted the best for me, even when I gave them a story that was too long with few laughs. £32 in the bucket. Must not spend it all on pies and fancy cereal. The week may well prove lean. Also, some shows WILL stink. You haven't cracked it. That's not how this works. Speak slower so that people have a clue about what you're talking about. Don't start too many new thoughts until you have made something of the ones you start. At least try.

The venue manager is cute and Canadian. All ample and charming. She was probably just being nice, but still. She likes me a bit, but then the show went well. I must try and capitalise on this before it starts to go badly. I will hang around and talk to her tomorrow and see if anything emerges. Not brilliant tactics, but serviceable. I guess this is the universe's cue to rain shit on me tomorrow. Come on the universe. I had a reasonable gig and a flirt. Let me have that at least. It's not much. I'm off to bed while everything seems okay. Quit while you're £32 ahead, or £1500 behind, or whatever the overdraft has racked up to now. If I fall asleep now, I won't feel hungry. I have two rolls. I will steal butter. Breakfast! It's midnight and I don't have internet access. That means that I won't accidentally stay up til 3am. Day one done.