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 20.

Aug 24th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have no idea what I'm learning.

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

The Fear Blog. Part 19.

Aug 23

The sleep debt is definitely mounting. I really haven't been a party animal this year, but I certainly haven't had enough good blocks of sleep and doing what I'm doing everyday is stressful. Also I bought some weed called something noxious like 'AK47' or 'scud missile' or 'bovine tubercolosis', and I'm not sure if that helps matters. I just sat thinking “What did I do yesterday?” It took me ages to remember, but then I think it's normal for the days to start to roll into one.

I sat in waiting for the electrician for a while. Centuries ago, or so it feels, Hugh did something to the washing machine, and finally someone was going to come and fix it. Of course I waited in, but no one came. Why would they? It was only specifically arranged for that time. I stole a bowl of cornflakes from Madelaine's supplies. I'm not proud of myself, but I couldn't leave the house. Whilst we're confessing, I've also been using her margarine and a bit of her peanut butter. Hail Mary, full of grace...

I bought a pie from the PieMaker place on the way to a 2.30pm gig. It was steak and ale, scalding hot and fucking impossible to eat whilst walking down the road. It was all over my fingers, a bit in my moustache and on the tip of my shoe. Should have got a pasty. Regret weighs heavy on us. Also it occurred to me that I should have slept with the hot, mad girl from a few nights before. I thought “Nah. She'll sleep with anybody” and then I thought “Yeah, and that means you” and then I thought “Oh yeah.” It's the sort of thing I'm supposed to be doing in Edinburgh. Also, how many years do I really have left before I just look like a pervy old geezer thinking “Phwoar. If I were young again, I'd probably approach her. Well, maybe not.” We carry these things with us. Just like chlamydia.

It was a quiet audience at the gig. It was in the big room where they do the Anti-Hoot. The MC got nothing. I got some laughs. More grins than anything else. It felt okay though. Tim Shishoda was arsing around with Pat Cahill. I love Pat Cahill. He is fucking hilarious and a decent bloke. He will be successful and he wears it well. You forget how many amazingly nice people there are in comedy. Blowhards are always louder and more visible. Andrew Watts was on the bill. He was doing much of the same material that I saw him do 5 years ago, but got big laughs from a reticent room. We go back a bit so stayed to have a chat with him after. He complained that the comedy club he had his show in (The Shack) was getting limited audience and absolutely no reviewers. I don't fully understand the relationship between reviewers and the big venues, but I know one thing for sure: It stinks. As surely as I know that the Foster's Judges have at least one aristo-fuckwit on the panel who knows nothing about comedy, I also know of the favours and money that change hands to get good press. Stand up comedy is one of the most cash in hand industries around, after all – and these days, to a few key people, it's worth a lot of money. He also told me that some open spot comic made a 'joke' about Andrew's girlfriend (a journalist) getting raped. Andrew has called up lots of promoters and got this new act banned from lots of clubs. New comics believe they are pushing the boundaries, whereas in reality they're just pushing their luck. Yeah! Eat that, buster.

I had a crappy show. Well, it wasn't awful, but I just felt like I was talking for an hour. Laughs were sporadic, there was no momentum to the show. I had no sense of timing. My rhythm was all over the shop. It felt like I was careering down a hill in a shopping trolley. What's worse is that the audience seemed really nice, and had I been on form it would have been a belter of a show. Annoying. Also, Laurence Tuck came to see it, and I always want to give a good display when comics are coming along. The combination of that and tiredness gave my morale a big slap. I stumbled home to have a lie down and called a bunch of people to have a chat. I had some good conversations, and it cheered me up a bit. I smoked some weed and walked over to the So You Think You Are Funny Part at the Gilded Balloon. (Did I tell you how I got the weed? I got it off a comic friend, trading it for his gig diary that he'd left at the flat. It was an awesome, clandestine trade.)

It was quite embarrassing waiting around outside the Gilded Balloon. I couldn't get in until Omar came. Omar is the loud new comic flatmate and I have to rely on him to get me in. What's more is he was late so I got a drink in the courtyard and sat by myself, which I rather enjoy doing these days. I think most comics can sit by themselves very well. A fire alarm went off in the building and it started to rain. Floods of people were coming out of the party: intoxicated acts, fat old agents, crinkled promoters, hangers on. Like a ghost-ship of souls. All being rained on just the same. Most of these people I know. A lot of them regularly came to my Brixton night to get gigs, and now they walk passed me without the least sign of recognition. I put on Peter Gabriel's “Blood of Eden” and just watched these people pass and interact. I think the weed was having some effect too. It made me want to laugh. Lots of phonies and egos and yet a lot of them probably felt the same as me. All comics feel the same way about the festival. Weary resignation at best. Most of them can't stand it. I saw Josh and said hello. He said “Yeah. Hi” and turned his back. That shocked me a little so I walked around the corner where there were no people and had a cigarette. When I came back, Madelaine said hi and I told her I had been snubbed my Josh. She said it must have been a mistake. I don't think so. It's the Gilded Balloon. It sucks the conviviality out of people. All you see everywhere is boards plastered with reviews. It's a madness.

I met up with Omar so he could get me in. The party was terrible of course. They gave out free pairs of cheap plastic sunglasses. That's how shitty it was. Free Fosters and wine for the first few hours though. I saw fewer people than I usually know. More people seem to be staying away. There was a group of comics that I know, but I didn't feel like I could talk to them. They're all doing stuff in better venues. Not that it should really matter. I spent most of my time with Madelaine, Josh and a group of people which also included Eric Hutton, Nick Sun and others. They're a good bunch, in that they were would listen when you talk. I'm not saying that other people didn't make an effort. Joel Dommett came over, as did Mark Restuccia, but it was quite clear that they would have been somewhere else. I had a good chat with John Hastings, but then he disappeared mid-sentence. I know that this is how people are up here, but it gets so fucking boring. We're telling jokes into a microphone, fuckers. Snap out of it. The party had a hashtag, so I did a couple of snipey tweets saying that comics can't socialise properly and, whilst standing in line for drinks listening to other people's conversations: “Must...refrain...from....killing...spree.” I'm surprised I wasn't arrested. Looking around I thought, “If a bomb goes off in here, comedy would be set back for...oooh...2 to 3 months?” It's a borrowed thought from Alan Partridge, but a good one.

Nick Sun argued with Sam Simmons. Sam Simmons looked at us individually like we were all in league against him. A real crazy stare. I've never even met him. I'm delighted to be sane. I know that any paranoia or angst I experience is nothing compared to some of these comedians. Poor, stupid bastards. I bought a couple of beers and hid them so we could go outside and smoke. Eric was very impressed with my hiding place. I think that was probably the best thing that happened.

We all went home in a taxi. We played the Beatles in the kitchen and I made a spliff. They were all talking about Sam and his paranoia that we were all against him. He made that happen really. It's like if I'm onstage and I keep saying “I'm shit” the crowd starts to think “Hey, maybe you are.” In the same way Omar had shouted at the party, “I can't talk to people. To be a comic I think you need the stage because you can't deal with life outside it.” Fucking healthy attitude, there. Omar came into the kitchen later and started talking loudly as usual. I can't remember what he was saying, but he pretty much cleared the kitchen. He was drinking a lot of coffee. He said: “See? I can't socialise. I've cleared the kitchen.” What I said was “No mate. It's 4am. People are tired” but he was certainly a catalyst in that. As I left the kitchen he mentioned something about never having been loved. I hesitated for a moment and then thought 'save it for the stage' and went to bed. Omar's a good soul, but gets carried away. His brain is a bit wonky. This may sound harsh, but that's the way it is. I have other wonky brained people in my life too. I like them, they're almost always well-meaning, but there's nothing I can do to help except try to be patient and friendly. I have my own issues, but I'm vaguely sure I have some dim perception of what's going on. I'll probably end up mental, though. It's pretty much inevitable.

The Fear Blog. Part 18.

22 Aug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fear Blog. Part 17.

21 August

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

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

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

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

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

The Fear Blog. Part 11.

15 August

A day off. Well, I did an early morning gig and just talked about my flatmate, Zeinu. Apparently he met a girl in Costa Coffee. She said she would like to go to Edinburgh. He bought her a train ticket and then she said she didn't want to go with him, so he suddenly had an expensive ticket to get rid of...I may be moody, angry and irritable, but in other ways I have the patience of a saint. He is due down on Saturday. I will have to try SO hard not to take the piss. I wonder how he will react to my material about him and me as a married couple. Seems pretty innocent to me. We'll see.

The rest of the day was pretty great. Went up to this beautiful spot overlooking Edinburgh under some huge pillars on a hill with Madelaine. The landscape is amazing. Even though these are the 'lowlands', it's still so dramatic. Because of the hills either side, sometimes Edinburgh reminds me of Rio – apart from the beautiful people, rhythm and vitamin B. We smoked two spliffs before going to some art galleries. Most of it was Renaissance stuff, which I'm not all that bothered about – but some of the faces were incredible. When artists use light just right, it's unbelievable. Faces come out of the painting and leer at you. I don't think the weed was that strong either. Art is vanity, really. Especially the portraits and busts. It was a way of saying “Check out my face! Look at these robes I'm wearing. This feather in my hat is boss! The book in my hand shows I'm all smart and shit. Don't fuck me. I've got a sword.” Who the hell wants a representation in marble of their own head? I've got a big head. Marble is expensive. All these people thought they were ensuring immortality, and they were. However, their immortality is that they bore the shit out of restless children.

The best thing was a description of an artist who did a self-portait and then presented it to his master. Yeah, great gift.

“I've got you a present for your birthday.”

“Nice. What is it?”

“It's a painting.”

“Wow!”

“Of me.”

“What?”

“What's the matter?”

“Well, I thought it would be of me.”

“Oh...yeah, right. I guess. Seeing as you're going to own it and everything.”

“Yeah.”

The descriptions under the paintings are worthless. They all read like: 'In “A Flying Bird” the artist depicts a bird, possibly in flight. Hence the painting's title.' The older I get, the more it occurs to me that the world is run by people who have no idea what they're doing. It's scary in some ways, comforting in others.

I had a quiet evening drinking beer, eating curry and reading newspapers in our front room. Our front room is only available for two days before someone else uses it as a bedroom. I had only slept a couple of hours the night before and it was clear that before I started 6 more days of web design, emails, flyering, show I would need one monster sleep to put me on the right track. Edinburgh may be a festival for a lot of people, but for me it's work. I am enjoying it though. I'm enjoying the sense of purpose it gives me. This could be the day off talking.

My mum called me up when I was in M&S buying filters for the coffee machine. I told her about the Scotsman and some of the jokes in the show. She laughed a lot. She related a conversation she had with an old primary school headmaster of mine. She said that hhe thought I was very brave, and though some people talk about doing things in their life, I'm actually getting on with it. I used to talk about things rather than doing things, and now I sometimes talk about things and sometimes I do things. The only times I won't talk about something is when I'm very conscious of the fact that I'm not doing it. It seems my Mum has finally accepted my pursuit of comedy as something I won't give up. Now I need to accept the same! This is not a path I have just fallen into. It's a path that always made sense to me, and yet when I think about how hard it all is I want to run and hide. The fact is that there is no escaping hard work and being driven nearly insane by what we do. That's just called life. If I tried anything else, I would be good at it for 6 months and then I would become utterly disenchanted. Occasionally I think “You should have started earlier” but that's rubbish. I've being doing this all my life, really. Well, in bursts. Sometimes I look at audiences and think “Ha! They think I'm a comedian!”

I had been talking to my mum for 20 minutes and realised the whole time I'd been doing laps around ladies lingerie. I think this is my unconscious mind dropping hints: “Ed, you should have sex with somebody soon or we may become dangerous.” Suggestion noted.

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?