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.

A Game of Nothings...

Yesterday was a game of nothings. After spending a day at work securing money for a part time contract which will see me remodel our departmental website on a freelance basis (which I don’t know how to do), I fell asleep on the bus home. Well, I wasn’t sure if I had. Unless a comedy promoter was on that bus and decided to climb on my shoulders and bellow down at me “DO AN GIGS!” If he did, then it wasn’t a dream. When I got home, I skipped dinner in favour of a ‘power nap’ before my gig. I don’t know why people put ‘power’ before them. It’s as if sleep is a shameful weakness that no one will admit to, so we have to write POWER before it. Let’s try another example: “I’m just off to put on a POWER frock.” Yes, actually I can see why they say that.

Anyway, this nap was without power. I awoke with the feeling I’d taken a cross-channel ferry somewhere (to France presumably). I felt nauseas, dry-mouthed and disorientated. People repelled me and I simply couldn’t empathise with the world around me. Yes, I was definitely in France.

I got a discount club sandwich from Sainsburys and a coffee from Starbucks. Starbucks have managed to fight claims that there coffee is too weak by making it twice as disgusting. Why can’t they just make coffee taste like coffee? I do it at home. It tastes really nice. Really coffee-y.

When I was on the bus, I was upstairs eating my gross sandwich and trying to ignore some local roustabouts (in fairness, they weren’t doing much wrong, just loudly enjoying their lives. How I simmered with contempt) when an undercover ticket inspector approached me.

“Where’s your oyster card?” she barked, looking at my sandwich. I don’t know if she was hungry or simple.

I handed it over, slightly coating it in mayonnaise in the process (Ed 1 – TFL 0). Once she had tutted in annoyance at the fact that it was fine, I asked.

“Didn’t I have to touch in when I got on? How am I supposed to evade my fare? Climb in through the top floor window?”

“You can laugh, but it happens.”

“No it doesn’t. I just made it up.”

I wish people wouldn’t make stuff up. Usually I let it fly, but I didn’t this time. That said, this actually happened earlier in the day, so whose the real criminal here?

I needed to get some cash out when I got to Old Street. The first sign I saw said: “CASH AVAILABLE HERE!” Oh no. It’s literally never a good sign when they advertise cash. When they advertise anything, you know it’s going to cost you. Even Jesus. Some evangelical churches have billboards saying “Jesus love you”…all right, how much is this love going to cost? I know you say it’s free. I know it starts off being free. But there are always the hidden charges. How is it that we’ve got to a hyper-advanced stage of capitalism where we have to PAY for money. Doesn’t that sound like someone’s done it for a dare, and then no one’s ever questioned it.

“You know that cashpoint prank we pulled where we charge people for their own money?”

“Ha ha. Yeah. Wacky scheme!”

“It’s now a sustainable business.”

“Shit!”

One day I will get off at a tube stop and there will be a sign saying “Oxygen available here!” and I’ll think “Oh no. What the fuck have I been breathing?”

I got to the gig and there wasn’t really anyone there. Well, there were the acts: a comedian, a musical comedian (similar) and some spoken word people. I don’t know what that actually is. I mean. I know what words are. I know how to speak them. I just don’t know what it means. I speak words onstage. Maybe you just take the laughs out of your set. If a gig goes well, it’s comedy. If not, spoken word.

It didn’t look like it was going ahead and no one seemed to know. There was a big football match on upstairs (i.e. on the TV. It wasn’t a spontaneous Shoreditch jazz football happening). I was standing in as MC for someone. I went and talked to the musical act to kill some time. It was pretty ineffectual banter. Always a good omen for my MCing. I yawned. The guy said:

“Are you nervous?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“I always get sleepy when I’m nervous?”

“Eh?”

“It’s a fight or flight thing.”

“Right. Those are the options. Fight or flight. It’s not fight, flight or sleep. OH NO! It’s a GRIZZLY BEAR!!! Zzzzzzzzzzzz.”

As far as tactics for not getting eaten would go, I guess that would at least confuse the hell out of the grizzly bear. Or maybe cause it self-doubt: “Oh God, even my prey thinks I’m harmless. It’s gone to sleep! I’m not a bear. I’m barely a bear.”

The musician guy was called Tom Adams. I heard some of his songs online. S’funny. Give a listen.

One of the spoken word (?) guys didn’t seem so pleased about things.

“Did you say you were pulling the gig?”

“Well, it’s twenty passed 8, there’s noone here. You can’t hear anything anyway with the football, and I’m not doing jokes to no people.”

“Well, I expect my travel expenses to be paid.”

“You’ll have to talk to the actual promoter. I’m here to MC. That’s all.”

“I cancelled lessons for this! This is costing me!”

“We all have private lives, mate. It’s not something I can control.”

He seemed genuinely pissed off. The other spoken word person arrived.

“Am I late? Where is everybody?”

“No one has turned up.”

“This is ridiculous. Dougie said it would sell out?”

“How can a free gig sell out?”

“…”

I have no idea what the spoken word circuit is like, but it seems they’re chauffeured everywhere on unicorn-drawn oyster shells. The only sense I got was from the other comic there, Dane Baptiste. I had gone to the toilet and my hand was still a bit wet. I hate when that happens. I always warn them, but they look at me like I’m a sex offender.

“Sorry Dane. My hand’s a bit wet.”

“No problem. The hand dryer in this place is crap.”

“Exactly.”

Sometimes, only comedians understand.