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 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 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.