The Fear Blog. Part 5.

Aug 9

Although I woke up a few times at night gasping for liquid, exhaustion and earplugs served me well and I had the full complement of sleep. I felt particularly good as after watching Sam Simmons (who is mind-blowingly good. He is an Australian guy who performs this piece about the secret life of a nutter, which involved groping my flatmate Mike in a sweaty embrace, sitting on his lap whilst spinning around an office chair in front of hundreds of people...front row baby! Actually, although it was brilliant, I did lapse into the odd moment of analysing the performance and wondering what it would take to be as talented a comedian as he, but that's what always happens), I managed to extricate myself and get home before midnight. I got up with that reassuring feeling that I had spent a night in a washing machine - that dazed disorientation of the deep sleeper.

I celebrated all things with a mammoth fry up before going to the Cabaret Voltaire for a midday spot, which went well (oh sleep, how you fix everything and yet how you so often evade me) before finding an original priceless copy of Shakespeare's Hamlet, which was nice...Not really. It's just that I felt good. The sun was out, festivally things were happening and (over lots of coffee) I sent out some reminders to journalists that I existed. The coffees came to a total of £4, which is a lot for 2 hours of WIFI use, so I compensated myself by downloading a couple of albums from torrents. Fair's fair.

I should mention that the other thing I did well was deal with Mike's fried. She's a Manchester-based comedy promoter and, although being ostensibly nice, an incredibly argumentative individual. After rising to her on a number of stupid things she was saying (1. Comedians should never sit at the front of a gig, 2. Agents aren't important, 3. Australians walk on their hands, well not that one) I finally decided that she was the promoter and I the comic, and I had better just agree with her. She then offered me a bunch of gigs in Manchester. I think she was positively reinforcing my behaviour. She could have equally offered me beer and dog biscuits. Mike apologised for her, but I told him it wasn't necessary and she probably had some points. Mike and I agreed that everyone's a little bit right and a little bit wrong and a lot opinionated. That's the kind of cliched summary I'm happy with in life. Everything else is ego. Done and done. And thus a fellowship was forged. Mike has diabetes. The kind where you get to eat all the time. As far as disabilities go, I could think of worse.

A bit later I returned to the flat to find an 80 year old man waiting at our door. His name is Hugh and he's involved in a show. He is using someone else's room for a couple of days. He's a nice chap, an actor, owns a bit of property and seems on the verge of senility, but holding on in there. He was coughing a bit so I made him a cup on tea, and he told me (among other things) that he used to play the timpani but now plays a cello that he's having restored. He told me about a house he owns, the problem with trains, why he refers to motorcycle riders as “organ donors” and his theatrical past and then suggested that Argentinian wines were inferior - which I had to pick him up on. Suddenly he developed a well-timed coughing fit to drown out a winning argument I was making about Malbec. Fiendish swine, these old folk. I sound incredibly bourgeois. At the time I was making roast veg with balsamic vinegar and pesto. Mike stuck his Northern nose in and muttered profanities about softness.

Flyering was a hell of a lot easier. It wasn't any better or more successful, just a tad easier to tolerate when you've had some rest. Mike suggested that I should be talking to people and selling my show. He's entirely right. I'm basically giving people flyers and saying “Free comedy at 9” and then the actual people who come to my show just wonder in on a whim. I should really be selling my show more, I'm aware of this, but I loathe flyering so much that I just half switch off and treat it like a job. “When you get rid of this pile of flyers, you can have an icecream.” By next week, I'll probably be binning them. Self-delusion is a powerful force in my life.

There was a powercut at the venue, shows were cancelled and I was only half-delighted when they announced my show could go ahead. I know I should want to do my show, I do, but if someone says “This gig may not happen” you start fantasising about sitting on a sofa somewhere having a drink and you think “Yes, that sounds like a better idea than standing up and talking for an hour.” The show went ahead (yay-boo) but for some reason they moved the location from the big room upstairs to some chairs put in one of the corners of the bar. This was EXTREMELY disruptive. I'm not sure if they were thinking “This guys had an easy run so far. Let's REALLY try and throw in some obstacles.” I couldn't hear whether the audience were laughing (they looked like they were) but I think the show flowed well and I got all the material in. I'm not sure if I rushed through some of it, but it didn't feel like it. I think the thing to remember is to make the most out of the material, keep the pace slow and improvise a bit for added pep. I think I'm saying less words like “Err....umm...right...and that's...blah blah blah...oh good, we're almost finished” so I hope the audience experience is improved. From 7 people I made £11, which is pretty good. Also a guy in the audience is doing a charity benefit in Scotland and asked me if I wanted to come up and do a set – so it couldn't have been that bad. Somehow I have 500 posters to get shot of. I might give them to audience members who donate to my pint glass. They look like they'd make lovely rabbit bedding.

The Fear Blog. Part 4.

The lack of sleep is catching up with me. I am crumbling a little. The weather has been incredible these last two days. Good weather is bad for comedy. People don't need to be entertained when they're not miserable. Where do you think the famous British wit comes from? Terrible, terrible weather. You can flyer in good weather, but no one wants to come sit in a dark nightclub. The rain forces them into my lair.

First, I will say something positive. Tony Law was brilliant and my flatmates Mike and Madelaine are lovely people. Now, that's the positives out of the way.

I felt tired yesterday. Flyering was even harder than usual, and that was followed by a performance to 6 people that was HARD work. They were nice people, but not very vocal about it, and that made my job very difficult. Banter is all very well, but I have an hour long show to do. Imagine meeting someone and they bring up the subject of plumbing, and then they decide to subject you to a monologue on that subject for an hour. A cabbie who was in the audience thought I needed some pointers: "Well, you're likeable, you're confident and a quarter of your jokes are funny...so that's something to build on." I pointed out that it wasn't very easy to deliver material to a quiet room. "Yeah" he nodded, "Well, maybe it was more like 35%." I've never known someone so unqualified to haggle so precisely over intangibles.

I spotted two young guys standing at the back. One of them wearing orange combat trousers and a cowboy hat. He was joined by a friend. They came up to me after the show, said "That was fucking excellent. We're coming back on Thursday" and gave me £5 each. Two 18 year olds. Richard and Lewis. Bless you boys. I'm starting to realise that I'm most popular with Scottish goths/ space cowboys. I think it's because I argue that there's nothing wrong with feeling shitty and mental. That rather appeals to them. Me too.

Despite the nice comments, I hate my efforts to entertain not hitting the mark. True, they all laughed a lot at my 'brain' material (essentially where I argue that our unconscious minds are panicky morons) but I am afraid of removing the material from its context, because I'm not sure it will be so well understood in a shorter set. This material is my brand new baby in swaddling cloth. It's not ready for the Krypton Factor yet. I did the popular bears segment of my show this morning at a mixed bill and got fuck all for it, so I'd rather not further whittle down the confidence I have in my own material. I know it all boils down to the delivery, but that doesn't help if I'm exhausted, or not in the mood, or a butterfly has farted in Singapore. It all seems too precarious to me. "Sir Chris Hoy. You came last against toddlers on trikes. What went wrong?" "I had the wrong kind of jam this morning."

The crowning turd wasn't even performance related. Last night I went to the pleasance Dome and saw The Alternative Comedy Memorial Society. Claudia O'Doherty (an Aussie comic) did something inspired about chairs. Matthew Highton and Ben Target did a stunt involving a mousetrap and a carrot cake which was messy and fun. Pretty much the rest of it was theatre groups and festival hangers on talking over the acts, fat girls (sorry) who obviously have Red Dwarf boxsets and wardobes of Boosh memoribilia throwing their heads back and laughing at nothing (usually Thom Tucke's exaggerated laughter), and general Edinburgh circle jerking of the grubbiest variety. I think my hostility at the whole thing can be summed up by a 20 year old kid who was sat with the acts. I have no idea who he is. He probably doesn't do anything but is the 3rd most influential person in comedy. That IS how it works. When an act who he deemed important(Sara Pascoe, David O'Doherty, Dr Brown) was on, he was in spasms of theatrical laughter. As soon as anyone less important was on (for example newer act Phil O'Shea) he stared at them with utter boredom and contempt. It was the worst of lackydom, the most gruesome display of the Jacobean court mentality that pervades Edinburgh. These obnoxious hangers on run the show and yet posion it. It's all favours, status, powerplay and paranoia.

A 18 year old admin assistant in a large agency basically has more clout than actual comedians. It's stand up comedy, you stupid bastards, not the Julian Dynsaty. Stop throttling it from the top.

Sadder even was seeing comics hanging around the Pleasance Dome. If I saw these people in London, they would come up to me and say hi and we'd have a chat. In Edinburgh, they are strange, dead-eyed zombies who just look through people like me. I don't even talk to people who a few years ago I considered friends because I'm tired of having them staring over my shoulder scanning for an upgrade. When we're on a train to Norwich in mid-Novemeber, these same people will suddenly become my good friends again.

STAY AWAY, Ed. It's not good for you. I have to work very hard to keep my brain intact these days. I think there needs to be a Decent, Sane Comics Society. I saw a comic who is just starting to go places, but already has a wife and kids. He looked at me and said "Can we just go out somewhere for a meal one night?" I could sense a need in his voice. He wanted to have a chat with a non-zombie. He didn't want to have to schmooze with 'industry people', or laugh loudly at some cunt's horrible jokes. He wanted to actually relax with someone who had a vestige of sanity and empathy.

I'm sure if I was signed to some big agent, I wouldn't be compaining quite so fervently. I'd certainly keep quiet about it, anyway. I always wondered whether it was possible to navigate your way through this swamp without getting too dirty and unhappy in the process. I asked Josh Widdicombe on a train back from a gig. I wasn't sure what to think of him, then he said "Ed, let me tell you. I fucking hate Edinburgh" and my respect levels for the man went through the roof!

I don't hate Edinburgh, but I hate some of the things that people have to go through to do comedy. I hate the irresistable pressure it puts on you. I hate how insignificant it can make you feel and in what a contemptible manner it makes people behave. It never seems enough just to be good, but I guess that's the case in any field of endeavour. It's like if Prince William becomes king, it'll be pure nepotism. Call me cynical if you like.