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 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.

The Fear Blog. Part 3.

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

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

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

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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

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

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

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

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

Choo Choo Pain

I was on the train up to Edinburgh enjoying peace and quiet when a 4 year old started talking into a plastic phone behind me.

"Yes Mr Hippotopamus. Yes Mr Hippotopamus. I will tell mummy that you are coming to supper. Mummy will make fish fingers because I know how much you like them."

I turned to him. "Hey, what's your name little boy?"

He looked up eagerly. "Thomas"

"And who are you talking to Thomas?"

"Mr Hippotopamus. He's my best friend!"

"Yeah? Well, I have an idea. Why don't you tell Mr Hippotopamus that this is a designated Quiet Carriage and you're not permitted to make your call here, okay?"

Cute kid, but a real attitude problem. I find it best to nip that in the bud at an early age.


Unbelievable.