The Fear Blog. Part 12.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Fear Blog. Part 10.

Aug 14

Got a text from my brother this morning congratulating me. After the gig the night before, I thought that 'commiserations' may be a better choice of word, and maybe predictive text had done the rest. Turns out the Scotsman had published a 300 word thing I'd sent them (http://www.scotsman.com/the-scotsman/scotland/festival-blogs-george-mann-ed-o-meara-1-2466385) and also decided to put my face on the front of the paper. It made a nice change from total obscurity, but I think they only published the photo because it looks like I'm looking at the newspaper title. It was a photo from when I longer hair. It wouldn't have killed them to photoshop some of my hair out. “Short back and sides mate?” It's the Adobe BarberShop. However, I took a great deal of joy from the fact that some poor journo had spent time cutting round my hair. Not a great job, I may add. He obviously gave up. “Hairy Sassenach bastard. Fuck it, I'm going on my Buckfast break.” Ironic that people who drink Buckfast never make a buck fast. Well, buskers and benefit scammers maybe.

I then received a tweet to say that a reviewer was coming to my show. Immediately, the ambivalence kicked in. This was what I was here for and yet I didn't want some guy sat there judging my show. Entertaining an audience could be hard enough, as I had proved the night before. I didn't need the added concern that every move I made was being carefully analysed. Not that they really are. If I were to review reviews I'd have a field day. One of the recent classics I've spotted was “My enjoyment was immeasurable. Four stars.” So not immeasurable, then. The star system. The method of measurement. In fact not only was their enjoyment not immeasurable, but it was also less than an immeasurable five stars.

I stayed in the house and tried to cut down my show, which has been overrunning. I've had to skip stuff on the fly and wanted to try and memorise the ending a little better. It always escapes me without a notepad. Not always a great sign, but an hour is a long time. I took a break to go and social-mediarise my dubious paper mug shot and treated myself to a coffee. By 'treat' I mean to have yet another coffeeshop coffee. I had resolved not to have them and save money, but decided the 'treat' would be to put off this resolution for a day. I don't like to use the word 'treat' when it comes to my own purchasing. It's the height of self-delusion. Also I used to work in the Cheltenham Bella Pasta (then Bella Italia, and then closed down, probably due to rancid cheese balls I had stuffed under their sauté station a decade ago. My friend Mark had sex with the manageress of that outlet in her grubby little office. Rancid cheese balls, Batman.) where they used to say “Coffee and pastry £4.50. Go on! Treat yourself.” Piss off.

Before I left to go flyering, I looked at myself in the mirror and was reasonably pleased with my appearance. Not spending all day at home or working in admin does that. The terror of the freelance life has helped me shed pounds from those problem areas, and anal-clenching has toned up my core no end. Also, I had my shirt tucked into my belt. I always thought my Dad looked silly with his shirt tucked in, but now I could see the point. When you're without gut, it an advert that you're without gut. Unfortunately my Dad is not without a gut but he is, apparently, without a belt – meaning the line where trousers end and shirt begins has a pronounced but askew equatorial aspect. I don't know if that makes any sense. I'm sleepy. In short, my ambition is still to buy my Dad a decent belt.

Incidentally, some people I have talked to say these blogs read very bleakly. Even my musician friend Depresstival (AKA Lottie) expressed mild concern. Funny. It felt like Goethe telling Mickey Mouse to cheer up. She dresses in black. I dress like a Bovis Home. Not to worry, subscribers. Edinburgh is a stressful time, but the stress is justified. I'm actually much more depressed in normal life when there's far less reason to feel so doomed. However this a stream of consciousness, bad things are easier to write about than good and I want to mention things that stick out during the day: Like annoyances, frustrations or my Dad's gut. Wahey! Whooped 'em again Josie. We sure did, kid. We sure did.

The reviewer turned up and we had a chat. He seemed nice enough. He didn't seem to know much about comedy though. No matter. If he gives me a good review, he's a man of sound judgement. If he it's bad, he's a bungling amateur. The show wasn't that great. Well, some of it was but I rushed it, concerned that I wouldn't finish in time. This was a mistake. Better to have a good show that must be cut short, than a poor show that finishes on time. I didn't make a conscious decision to rush, but even my landlady Alex (who was there to cheerlead laugh) went quiet at times. No disaster though. I could see that most people were enjoying it for most of the time, and I will take my time on Thursday. No bloody reviewers in then, of course. Alex assured me it was “really good” and her friend gave me £20, which was clearly “I like you Ed and I know you're skint, as opposed to what a terrific show, money.” The reviewer disappeared. I have the feeling that it may be a three star review, which means the show is all right but it's not something I can use on a flyer. Hopefully, he'll say something like “He has some potentially brilliant material” so I can quote “Brilliant material” or something. I know he will include a fair swathe of points criticising, but that's my fault. I left him with too many options to pick on: reading from notes etc.

Someone else got furious about that. It was later at the Anti-hoot. Lach was finishing what had been a pretty impressive night of acts (i.e. no open spots on the bill and only one comedian) with a chapter of his book which he was reading from a phone screen. It was about how his nights had helped BECK and how BECK had changed since he's found fame etc. Lach had has a pretty amazing ride with his Anti-hoot thing. In the East Village in the 80s, his night saw a huge amount of future stars come through it. Now his show is in a big room on the Free Festival. People wander in and out. This is not to say that some of the people who play there now won't go on to big things, or that his shows don't have their own magic now, but he feels a bit like he's chasing the glory days. He also talked about a cat called Agnes growing up on his porch which I thought sounded like the worst kind of home-farm, Walton's out-take. Still, Lach is a fantastic guy, so most of the crowd (i.e. musicians) were rightly rapt. There was only one woman who was sighing and shaking her head and throwing her hands up to her face. I thought, 'She doesn't like name-dropping or his prose. Fair enough. Tone it down though.' When she came down, Lottie said:

“You clearly had a problem with that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was your problem?”

“Can I be allowed to answer the question?”

etc.

These arty types may seem to like the idea of love, but not as much as they want to kick the shit out of each other. She finally said:

“He didn't learn his lines. It's UNPROFESSIONAL.”

Hmm. She should never go to a book reading. Most authors don't learn their 60,000 words either and Lach's not even a professional author. Either way, I was sure not to give her a flyer. Another interesting thing about the night was a guitarist called Erin. She is a pretty American girl with a certain twinkle in her eyes which make it looks like she starts off her days either eating toast or the souls of men. First she played a hypnotic song where she simpered “I'm sorry. This isn't very good” to which everyone responded NO, YOU'RE BRILLIANT! Then she did a song about fucking a bartender with a ten inch cock. I liked her. Her boyfriend on the front row squirmed and then pawed at her for the rest of the show. He's dead meat.

I should say that I saw an Irish comic called Conor Matthew (maybe) in the semi-final of So You Think You're Funny, who was excellent. In the first 10 seconds, I knew it was his to lose. All the judges looked like the biggest bunch of miserable cunts imaginable. None of them cracked a smile during the whole process. Could the media just release a statement saying “Success is an illusion” then we can all get on with being happy.

I went for late drinks with Lottie and a Scottish lad who was great on guitar. We asked a military veteran over to our table because I was in a reasonable mood. He talked an awful lot and I couldn't understand a bloody word he said but I smiled and nodded as is custom, going out for an occasional cigarette and a well-deserved frown. You can drink til 5am but can't buy anything from an off license passed 10pm. Can't believe that Tarantino missed that.

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.