The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival Part V!

I was just walking through Queen's Drive next to Arthur's Seat. It was really dark. That's what you get in Edinburgh. Darkness. London never goes dark it goes dark orange, but never black. It was black. I was walking in a field. Like being in London 200 years ago. Then some fireworks started up and it was like I had them to myself. I stopped and gasped and felt grateful. Then I realised that they came from the Edinburgh Tattoo. Nightly showings of Disney War. Troopers prancing around in military dress on a nightly basis for appreciative tourists. That took away the magic, they made that gratitude seem self-indulgent and I was out of the moment. Possibly the moment was only made in the first place because I had just consumed a cheese burger and was on a blood sugar high masquerading as existential balance.

I had a conversation with my brother yesterday. He said to me "Maybe Edinburgh isn't stressful. Maybe you just find it stressful." I tried to explain how it was basically set up to be stressful, but he stopped talking and just smiled very slightly. He does that. Sometimes I feel like my brother is Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock and he's trying out new negotiation tactics on me. He is right in the sense that no event is emotionally charged per se and that your reaction is the cause of the emotions - but if you were to argue that to its logical extent you might surmise that a shark attack is a matter of attitude as long as you don't get eaten. The Vietnam War would have been a picnic if people didn't take it so personally. Aside from anything else, one of my friends is having her first Edinburgh as a performer and says she has never been more miserable. It's what non-performers don't and can't understand. Gladiatorial battles in the Colosseum were a right laugh a long as you weren't the one getting stabbed.

"What time is it? Five seconds to charm!"

I have no ill feeling towards my brother, however. Aside from my obligatory love for him and completely voluntary friendship, he made my Monday show a success. He flyered it full of people and when the microphone cut out and football commentary came through the speakers and I was about to have a breakdown - banging on the window down to the bar like it was a scene from Midnight Express - he ran around and disconnected the speakers and, somehow, what happened was a good show. At the end he said "You need to change the structure" and for a second I felt a bubble of rage, but only because I had been spinning plates for an hour. People don't realise how taxing an hour of comedy really is. Sometimes straight after the show I can barely hear. The blood is pumping through my ears, my synapses are burning. Other times it's just taxing for the audience.

All the people who have lots of success, or even a small amount of success, work stupidly hard. There is a science comedian who said to her fiancée: "You live life on easy setting." Why would you ever live life on a difficult setting? I think the basic life setting is difficult anyway - once you get older and the stabilisers are removed anyway. So why strive for what's difficult? Why is a worthwhile life one in which you believe you must consciously and constantly challenge yourself? Is that real meaning or is it just 20th century capitalism talk? Before my brother died, my mum would say: "He takes the path of least resistance" - but that was through fear and doubt - not through because he was playing ukulele on a Hawaiian beach. There's nothing wrong with hard work, there's nothing wrong with wanting to achieve something. But it also suggests that those people have a deeper knowledge of what life is all about when they don't. If anything, it suggests a personal defect. No natural animal works harder than is necessary. Why would it? People who are addicted to hard work seem to believe that they're incomplete without validation. That they are nothing without striving. But there is no meaning in that. Either everyone's life is innately worthwhile or it is innately pointless. Busting your arse won't change that. Achievement is about status or a present discomfort. Nothing more.

Stephen Hawking said that without working hard, his physical condition would have made him desperately depressed. People say "Wow! How does he do it?" I'm not knocking the man's mental resilience, but the question should be: "How do any of us do it?" After that we can ask "Wow! How does he do it?" 

This is probably how I am justifying having 15 people in my Rome show and then pulling the evening one because of lack of people. "I don't have the inner emptiness necessary to do loads of flyering and show promotion!" I'm intellectualising laziness!

I am drinking a gin and tonic. Edinburgh makes me an alcoholic. A few nights ago, I drank until 3am on my own. Sounds bad? It's okay. I had a script deadline. See? If you write, you can drink a lot of booze. I drink a beer on stage at 1.45pm. It's the Festival. I'm allowed to drink, even though because the Festival is stressful and undermines my self-esteem. It's like Christmas. Every morning I wake up and feel jet lag. My running shoes are in the same position in the warehouse as when I got here.

I just felt okay today. Fine. Having my brother here, even for two days, is very nice. Even if we don't skip down the road hand in hand, my animal soul likes having one of my pack around. It softens the edges of this place. I don't understand how it is the 19th already. It has gone so quickly. Usually, it is so painful and so long. Usually I have more riding on this festival. This year, I don't feel like I do. At the beginning of the festival, it felt like I didn't know why I'm here. Now I realise that it doesn't have to make any sense. It just is. I could get a five star review or a one star review or noticed or ignored. It doesn't matter. The festival is a remarkable thing. It's a strange thing.

Today, I heard a girl say "Free sketch comedy at 5pm." She said it like an announcer, but she also said it with a hesitancy in her voice. It's like she had selected a pre-formatted template which is supposed to sounds like: "See? I'm okay. This is really good. I understand life" but her delivery was off. It came out like "This is really hard. No one is paying attention. Why did I come here?" She also said these words to me after I had passed her. She couldn't even look me in the face. When I have to flyer, I can tell when someone is going to take a flyer immediately, but so much depends on the delivery of the most basic words "Free comedy at 7.45pm" or "Is your life better now than you were a baby? Find out tonight!" and if I feel the easy flow and confidence, I know they will take a flyer. And if I falter or it's forced, they will not. And that's what it is on-stage. The same words. Entirely different outcome. Sometimes you are delivering a tray of delicacies with a flourish and a wink. Sometimes you are dropping luggage down some stairs.

I can remember getting off the train and waiting in a square on the grass on the 2nd August. It is a lifetime ago, and it doesn't feel like my lifetime. My brother said that his friend Nick Mohammed is an excellent performer because he feels disconnected to the Nick Mohammed onstage. I am just me onstage, pretty much. I feel disconnected from me in reality. Perhaps that doesn't make me an excellent performer but an excellent liver. Not literally. I am destroying it with gin. 

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 Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part V

It's been a weird old time. It's always weird up here. Today the sun came out and shone brightly and then it started raining. It's some weird unsettling pathetic fallacy. I remember describing the weather, as a young teenager, to my uncle on the day of my grandfather's funeral as pathetic fallacy. I remember him saying, "Good Lord. Are they still teaching you that in school?" Not in general. Just one teacher called Reverend Chidlaw. It's amazing what stays with you, and what doesn't. My past is shudders and trivia.

Today I woke up with a sense of resigned feebleness. I didn't want to do my show. I didn't want to walk into the lights and do that tangled mess of words I've said too often. I was also aware that there was a slim chance that there just might be a good crowd in and it just might be fine. And it was. It was seriously okay. The crowd weren't laughing all the time, but they were with me. They never lost faith, and that's everything. I'll share a nice moment, because it's important to mark them too. Though they don't linger in the memory like the bad moments.

Anyway...

I do a bit about Shakespeare saying that "Nero fiddled while Rome burnt" and I say he played the lyre, so if anyone says "Nero fiddled while Rome burnt" you can say "LIAR!" and you'll be right on two levels, which is the best way to be right.

Later, I do a bit about how Diocletian killed a man called Aper after receiving a prophecy that if he killed a Boar, he could be emperor of Rome. I then tell people that Aper is also very conveniently a type of creature and ask them to guess what type of creature it is.

Someone said: "Boar!"
And I said: "Was that a heckle?"
They said: "Yes, but it's also the answer. I'm being right on two levels, which is the best way of being right - as you said."

He did my callback for me! I was overjoyed that not only was the guy listening but he was totally engaged with the show.

He said: "I may not have been laughing all the time, but I've been really enjoying it."

That's really the point. It's not always easy to make Roman history laugh out loud funny every day to a different mixed crowd in a nightclub at a free show. In fact it's bloody difficult, particularly for me. I don't need them to validate me with laughter. I need them to be engaged with the show and for them to understand what I'm doing. This guy did. Completely. Lovely.

At the end of the show I had got almost £100. Yesterday it had been £30. Same sized crowd. Same words. Completely different result. Festival comedy. Hard. Really hard.

I have not been checking for reviews. I don't want to know. A good review is nice to have. A bad review is too much a punch in the balls. I will check them after Edinburgh once I'm back in Sanityville. Last year, a one star review almost floored me. I don't want to be target practise for a 20 year old. My friend pointed out to me that my Chortle review is still the third result when googling my name. They advised I get it removed using the google 'right to be forgotten' thing. I tried, but Google said it was still relevant and in the public interest. It's 7 years old, it was judging new material from a brand new comic. It said I was borderline racist. It has followed me ever since. 100+ supporting comments have been removed when they revamped the site so it stands unchallenged. A friend of mine said about my blog that I'm unfair on critics. This is one of the reasons. Here's a weird thing. I remember talking to Jack Whitehall about it years ago. He said, "You sound bitter!" and then he cocked an eyebrow. Of course I'm bitter.

<meta name="keywords" content="Fuck, Jack Whitehall, Steve Bennett, dicks">

Hopefully that'll come up in a google search. Probably not. I don't have the money for SEO.

Anyway, I know it doesn't really matter. I'm not even massively annoyed about it. It is what it is. There's no sense to this life. There are just things that happen. People may think that's unsettling and nihilistic. I find it extremely comforting. You are born. You die. Enjoy of it what you can. Thank God for that.

I'm waiting for my jacket potato. I'm always most bleak before lunch. I remember I was in a car with a girlfriend once and she saw me staring off into the distance and frowning.

"Let's stop at this cafe."
"Why?"
"I can see where your mind is going. You need to eat."

Bless her. If our relationships was simply based on blood-sugar/ mood ratios, I could have married her.

My evening show is not going to suddenly become great. The venue is just terrible. Everyone who uses the space says as much. I am directly competing against an improv musical in the venue at the same time. I had to cancel the show yesterday, so I went to see them. Bearing in mind what I have said about critics, if you like improvised musicals, go and see them. If you don't, don't. The audience seemed to. They had the most enthusiastic young crowd whooping their way through the whole thing. The performers talked like Transatlantic DJs even when ushering people in. "Okay guys, fill up from the front and that'll be totes amazing!" They say it again and again like they have pull strings on their backs. After that they switched to not having any punchlines as such but putting on wigs and saying everything very loudly like actors - which seems to work just as well.

Darius Davies once got a review that said his act was "gold-plated garbage" which was meant as a slur but I told him he should take as a compliment. He's hilarious because he talks about plug sockets with the same kind of passion and conviction as Chris Rock talks about racial inequality. What's not to like? Gold-plated garbage. This improv show is the same. There's bugger all substance, but it's very well delivered. The improv guys fill the place every day with sheer enthusiasm. After the show they say to each other "Good show guys!" They deserve it. We both have the same book on comedy, but we're just underlined vastly different bits

Tonight I'm going out again as tomorrow is my day off. I'm due to meet with my flatmate Bec and see what someone having an extremely successful Edinburgh looks like. It's nice to wish someone well who is doing well. I admire her a lot. See? Not bitter, really. Credit where credit's due. Almost £100 worth of credit in ma bucket today.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !V

I'm in a hiding mood. I have been hiding a bit. The people I'm staying with went out for dinner and expected me to go off to my evening show. I didn't. I lay on my bed. When they came back, I stayed still. My room is over the top of the sitting room so I had to creep around to not be detected. There was no reason for me to do this. I have a small history of hiding when I feel awkward. On this occasion it's because I'm insanely tired again. The tiredness came from insomnia mixed with having a 3 year old boy staying here over the weekend. This child does not stop talking or making noise. Only for naps. To recharge his energy for more noises. It's all right for him. I can't nap. It's not personal. He's 3 and I'm almost 33 and am under stress. We're incompatible.

I went out on Thursday like I was supposed to. I ended up in the Loft Bar as expected and watched the successful comedians at play. They were mostly desperately drunk or looked bored. Like they were waiting for something to happen. Seann Walsh looked impatient with everyone. He was demanding cigarettes and respect. That's the place you're supposed to make contacts. I can't see it.

I looked at social media today. Everyone is having a great Edinburgh except for me. Okay. Patently, that's not true. Still, lots of people I know are getting very good reviews. Deservedly so, but still. I don't know how this is done. I think your show has to be either very slick or very funny or both. Mine are none of these things. They are disorganised and have funny bits. That should go on my tombstone: 'Disorganised but with funny bits'. I heard the audience for the improv show after my show. That was real laughter. Loud and sustained. Not like the titters I get. The biggest laughs I get are for not talking about history. Someone came up to me and said about the Rome show: "That was lovely." I'm not complaining, but that's all the accolades I can expect. This isn't about accolades. I don't know what this is about.

I can hear someone watching Moto GP downstairs. This is the problem with this room. It's unfinished. There is no insulation. You are at the mercy of the rest of the house. I don't mind hiding up here, but it doesn't feel like home. Neither does the flat I live in in London, and I have to move out of that in October. Nowhere does. The job I work in feels like a strange prison sentence. My shows feel like the an unnerving daydream. I am quite sure I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. I have a vague idea that I will book a long weekend to La Rioja in September and just eat tapas. One of the guys who lives here said "Can I come?" and I said "Yes" because it's nice that someone else thinks I have a plan.

I'm not saying, incidentally, that my life is totally meaningless and unnerving - it just feels like that at this moment. It is almost certainly meaningless, but that's okay. I don't believe in God, but I do like the idea that he has a plan for all of us. Then we must be his software. What for? What are you up to, God, you weird bastard?

Tomorrow, I will go and do both of my shows. I will just follow through because I am booked in to do them. I will try not to think about it. I will just do the thing I am here to do.

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival - Part !!!

During periods of high stress, you learn a lot about yourself. What I've learnt about me over the years is that I'm a big whoopsie.

I have had people say to me that I seem very grounded and philosophical about things. Yes. Out loud. That's because I have to be. If I wasn't, I'd be a gibbering wreck. I had some bad shows and a huge wobble and so I went to bed early and slept on two consecutive nights and now my shows are going fine and I seem to be doing fine. That's all it took, really. Lots of acts will be out there getting sozzled every night and saying "How's the show going?" to each other whilst pie-eyed at 3am and will just be waiting to talk about theirs, but I'm happy to skip all that. There are lots of beautiful women around, however, and while I'd love to be out carousing, I can't pretend that early nights are wrecking my pulling ratio. I only ever end up with someone out of dumb luck anyway, so I'll stick to that time-honoured policy.

My evening show isn't really happening, however. I have done it twice now. Both times to fewer than 7 people. However, both shows went really well. The material works well, I feel comfortable telling it, and it will until I get bored of it. I have to stand outside flyering for it, and that doesn't really seem to be working. People do come up and sit down before I start and then they say "Is this the improvised comedy musical?" and I say "No. That's downstairs" and then they look awkward and I tell them it's okay for them to leave, so they leave. I think this show is a bit too good for no one to be coming to, but that's Edinburgh for you. Or maybe it isn't that good. Maybe I've just had kind audiences who see my predicament. Yesterday, I did it to a sketch group who loved it, but that's probably because they are in the room just before me, so...solidarity. They have a blonde, Northern girl who I look at and feel weak. I told her that this would probably be my last straight stand up show and she said "But why? You're really good! Keep going!" and just looking at her face made me think "Oh. Okay then" but that's because I'm fickle. Or desperate.

My jaw dropped when I was flirted with by this Eastern European barmaid at one of the venues. Part of me thought "Wow! She seems to like me!" and the other part of me rebutted "No. She's just a very attractive barmaid who likes flirting." And that part won. That part, I think, is called reality.

I have reinvigorated the Roman show by putting in new stories and new angles. It's like I've been married to it for 20 years and now we are having sex in the kitchen just to mix it up. "Ooh, we should really get those tiles done...what's wrong? You've stopped." I also try to sell every section. This isn't a strategy. It's me having the energy and mental composure to do so.

My days here are more regimented than at home. I get up, have breakfast, watch an episode of Frasier, play the ukulele, write (if I have to), go and do the show. Collect money. Come back. Cook lunch. Eat lunch. Watch Frasier. Count my takings. Drink coffee. Play the ukulele. Flyer for the evening show. Wait to see if anyone's coming. Do show/ or not. Think about going out, then don't. Go home. Eat. Go to bed.

I will probably soon get bored of this. Or will run out of Frasier to watch. Tomorrow I don't have ANY shows at all. I am going out tonight and will drink and watch some comedy and probably end up in bed at 4am and wake up with a hangover, and put myself back together for Saturday. Tomorrow, I am going to the dentist. DAY OFF!

I think I've got a part of life wrong. I'm staying in this converted warehouse. The bathroom mirror plays music, the shower is a huge overhead waterfall. I walk across a bridge to get to my bedroom. The hobs are this plexi-glass convection thing that I've never seen before with a removable silver disc control dial. There is a tap that dispenses boiling water. You can play music from your phone wirelessly into the sound system. There is a motorbike by the TV.

I always assumed happiness was a state of mind. Now I believe it may be a massive warehouse conversion. Presumably it would get boring. But there's always kitchen sex. Open plan kitchen sex!

The Decline and Fall of Ed's Festival (Prologue)...

'If I get things right, I may not have to come back and do this festival again.' This is a very stupid thing to be thinking when you're preparing to go to a festival. The Edinburgh Festival should be a bucket-load of fun. It should be a massive ice-cream scoop of delight. It should be. But isn't. Mostly what it's about is feeling that everybody is doing better than you and feeling a bit lonely and suddenly realising you don't want to do it at all but you have to do it anyway. It's just hugely condensed life.

Yet, I'm not feeling very negative about it all. I'm really not. I'm just wondering what exactly I'm doing here. In previous years, the idea was to come up here, get better, improve my craft, get gigs, try and score some reviews, try and advance on the circuit. But now I don't want to advance on the circuit. I always have, and always will, want to write. I'm in a BBC comedy scheme. It doesn't really mean or guarantee anything - but it does show that I am good with ideas, can turn them around quickly and can be original. On my day, I'm a good performer. But so is every performer. When the audience are in a good place and they decide to like you, you can't help but ride the wave. It's cheap. You turn up the next day with your surfboard, and the sea is flat and grey...and then you think you must be a rubbish surfer. But it's not true. You're just not brilliant either. What I'm saying is that a few performers can surf on ponds and most can't. It's a strange sentence and I'm not sure how I got here. I'm not a pond surfer. Clear?

I'm doing two shows this year. I'm almost setting myself up for meltdown. Stay tuned! I wanted to do my Roman show again. That's the future for me, I think. It's a niche I can develop. The other show, the stand up show, is my last go at me doing a fringe stand up show (that's not legally binding). It's got a lot of stories I want to tell in it. It was going to have a big, profound meaning and now it's not. I will get a two star and a three star review for it from ijustsetupablog.com. It's worth 4 stars, but I can't surf ponds. I'm not a pond surfer. See? Good writer.

The Edinburgh storm clouds gathered early this year. I went home for a relaxing weekend and did the Better Off Ed show to my family. I included about my brother Tom. He died a few years ago. I wanted to include it to make a point about happiness. Instead it just made everybody sad and it felt exploitative. I hadn't figured out my ending and just ranted. Everybody looked bored and annoyed. I had been drinking all day in the sun. There was a paddling pool in the garden. I didn't try surfing that...all right. I'll drop it. The Tom thing too. I know that a normal audience wouldn't react so emotionally, of course. It's not unusual to talk about quite personal experiences in Edinburgh shows - but I'm not sure it fits my style. I think my style is *GRIN* "I hope you don't hate this next bit..." *GRIN.*

That evening, my friend told me that our other friend had been arrested for having indecent images and videos of children on his computer. My friend said he wouldn't talk to him again. I said I would. We argued about that. Then he said "Next thing you'll say Israel is wrong bombing Palestine." I said "I do think that." He said "Why are we friends?" I said "Because we love each other." He didn't look convinced. It was a perfect end to a really horribly tarnished day. The perfect foreshadowing to the Festival.

Actually, I'm not meant to tell you that. I'm actually not a very good writer either. I'm not supposed to tell you what I'm trying to achieve. I'm just supposed to do it and let you work out and think "I see. Foreshadowing. Clever. Clever me for seeing it." This is what's wrong with my comedy. I talk around it rather than just doing it. If I were Charlie Chaplin I'd say "I'm about to slip on this banana skin, so watch out for that." I don't like saying MY comedy either. It sounds pretentious. Also, I don't want to be associated with my terrible comedy. I wish I had Richard Pryor's comedy. "What I like about Richard Pryor's comedy is that it's made ME successful."

I got on the train to come up here. I had a very uncomfortable seat. I had booked quite a nice seat, but there were a fat couple in it an I didn't want to disturb their fat coupliness. I'm not really an "Excuse me sir. I believe that's my seat" person. However the train took 6 hours. Every hour I resented them more. It's my own fault.

I'm staying with nice people in a nice place. Today I don't technically have to do anything. That's how I'd like to take this whole experience. One day at a time. The point of my show, if there is a point, is to actually try and live in the moment. Like the comedy. Don't build a narrative around it. Either positive or negative. Just do it and let others build their own narrative or take their own meaning..."1 star. I didn't see any point in it at all!" 

Right now I am drinking a cup of coffee in a big warehouse. I can't complain about that, except I need to go to the shops and I have a hole in my tooth fixed. As soon as I leave this sanctuary, I will see the plastered posters and desperate flyerers and the real festival will begin. I'm going to stay here for a bit first. Refusing to leave this moment.

If I stay here, nothing bad will happen.

An Open Letter to Scientists...

Doesn't even look like one.

Dear Scientists,

In the 1950s you made one simple, binding promise: that by now we’d all be jetpacking our way through space hooking up with tasty martian tri-breasted lovelies. Now I don’t remember when this was actually agreed, but I’m pretty sure that was the gist of it, and I’m sure the man in the street would back me up on this. Now it’s 2014 and guess what? We’re still on stinking earth. 

"Remember where we parked,
guys. This planet."

Now, we didn’t know we’d be here for much longer so obviously we’ve had a great time digging up all the resources and squandering them on tamagotchis and pogs and ipods, killing of all of the animals for lulz and doing shits straight into the sea. It’s been brilliant! No one told us we’d need to ration anything. Imagine how furious I was when you sent a radio-controlled car to Mars and expected us to get excited with the pictures! Are you f**king kidding me? Are you people all 14 years old? I should be stopping over at Mars on my ski trip to Neptune and hanging out with Kuato and his Resistance pals by now.

What the shit is this with you and your school science projects anyway? All I see you doing you doing is fannying about digging holes in Cern (doesn't work) and cancer (uncured) and sheep cloning (WE HAVE ENOUGH SHEEP AND THEY ALL LOOK CLONED ANYWAY!). Not one warp drive. Not a solitary ion cannon. Thanks a flippin bunch, science. You’ve dropped us RIGHT IN IT! When civilisation crumbles and it’s dog eat dog, you nerds are going to be on the end of some severe Chinese Burns – just like in the good old days before the internet upset the natural order of things.

Thanks

Ed O’Meara

A Short History of House Shares

I live with a school friend in university. We are very good friends. A year later we are not very good friends. A year after that we become very good friends again and agree not to live together ever again.

I have a terrible hangover and am cooking eggs. I am 23. A big half-naked man called Noel comes in and tries to use a juicer. He can’t work it out. He gets frustrated and asks me to help. I mutter some annoyance and try to work it. Noel laughs a big, mocking child’s laugh and says “I’m telling Chris you broke it.” I call him a kid. He doesn’t like that when I do that. He is 8 years older than me and this is everything to him. “You can’t talk to adults like that” he says. “You’re moving out” and I say “For what?” He says “I should rip your head off” and I say that my brothers will come down on the train. I have no idea why I’m saying this. Suddenly he has me round the neck. He is strangling me. The neck of my new jumper is getting bent out of shape. It never recovers. He is strong and there’s nothing I can do. His eyes are glazed and red. He smokes very strong weed.

A couple of days later, I move out. His brother is the landlord. They all get on and I’m considered ‘posh’ because I read books. They go off and walk the dog in solidarity. Noel’s brother says: “I don’t have a problem mate, but blood is thicker than water.”

I move with the guy who gives me lifts to work. They have a former utility room I can sleep in. There is room for a bed, but I can’t open the wardrobe. He says of the last flat: “They sound like nutters.” A year later, I leave of my own accord, but one of the housemates has said to me “Some people round here don’t have a lot of time for you.” I start to get the idea that I antagonise people.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

I look at the witness. She looks embarrassed for me. She may be blushing or it may be the heating.

“Well, no. I did a stupid thing and apologised for it and you said ‘okay’ and forgave me and then you changed your mind and I’m getting evicted.”

Martha is the judge in this kangaroo court. She is a trainee solicitor. The court is in her living room. She has her friend here as a witness. This was a trap sprung on me. I was supposed to be playing five-a-side football.

“Right. Thanks for coming, Helen.”

I go to my room and weep tears of frustration. I am 26 and shouldn’t be crying, but that doesn’t make any difference. I call my sister in law and explain that I have been kicked out. I explain that I had some magic mushrooms sent through the post. She says she will send my brother to pick me up. I feel relieved. I have somewhere to go. Fuck Martha.

Martha knocks on the door and comes into the room. She has been crying. “Do you want to talk about things?” Why so much interest in what comes out of my mouth all of a sudden? I turn around with a friendly smile on my face like I’m a Christian Youth Leader or a murderer:

“I don’t think we have all that much to talk about.”

“You think I’ve overreacted don’t you?”

“Yes. I would never have done the same thing in your position.”

She leaves.

The next day my brother comes to pick me up. We banter together as we take boxes down to the car. Martha looks furious and doesn’t say a word. He says: “She’s cheerful.” I say “You’d think she’d be happy. Winning that court case.”

I later send her a text asking for my deposit back. She refuses. By kicking me out, she is out of pocket. If I want to challenge her legally, bring it on.

Six months later I go travelling. A ‘mututal friend’ says that Martha thinks it will be good for me. Fuck Martha.

I live with my parents after getting back from travelling. My dad keeps saying that rather than turning on the heating people should hoover the stairs if they’re cold. Only I find this hilarious. My dad doesn’t. He is shaking with rage. He says “I’ll punch you in the nose.” Even the threat is funny, but I walk away shaken. I decide to move out of my parents place.

I live in a flat in Brixton Hill. Now I am 28. There is a man there called Kidus – he is a wide-eyed man who emotionally lives by the seat of his pants and shows me texts he is going to send to girls and asks me for approval. He says things like “Meringue-utan” when he means “urangutan.” I don’t know what to make of him. It is the age of Karl Pilkington. I find it hard not to laugh. Four years later we are having blazing rows. I get five page texts from him. He’s the worst girlfriend I’ve ever had. My landlady says that she wants to convert my room to an office and asks me to move out. Tears stream into my eyes. I am 31 and still cry at this stuff.

An old university friend comes to my rescue. He has a place for me to live. It’s perfect. My own desk in my room. Comfortable, spacious flat with excellent rates. I say “Hello” in the morning and sometimes he blanks me. I get used to it. 8 months later I come home and there is an eviction notice on my desk. I am 32. This time I don’t cry. This time I’m convinced I antagonise people.

Who wants to join The Muder Friends?

With today’s unstable economy and shrinking job market, there has never been a better time to get involved in organised crime. I am pleased and proud to announce the formation of a new crime family: The Murder Friends. Check out themurderfriends.com or follow us on twitter for all our crime-related news. NB: Retweeting heist details to the FBI is a frownable offence.

OUR MAIN CRIMINAL ACTIVITIES

STATIONERY – Everyday, millions of people work in office jobs they despise which lead to millions of stolen revenge stationery. My crime organisation would buy the stationery at a small price and then sell it back to the companies where it came from. It’s win win. The only bums taking a hit are the companies, but are you telling me that those multi-million pound global conglomerations don’t got stapler insurance? Geddoudahere.

SCRATCHCARDS – They’re stuffed into all the worst papers to try and improve readership among the scratch card using classes, so if a few go missing and come into my hands? Whatsacomeandago?

PROSTITUTION – Generally against it, but if prostitutes want to buy educational textbooks from our associates or sign up to an evening class in accountancy that we can help arrange? Fageddaboudid.

CARD GAMES – We will run executive card games where gamblers will lose large amounts of matchsticks. Once we have enough matchsticks, we will have a controlling stake in the matchstick industry. Other games: Boggle and Kerplunk. Vafancooler.

MONEY LAUNDERING - I read an article about this on wikipedia, but the doorbell went and I'm none the wiser.

OUR POLCIES

PASTA – We like to spend the day eating big bowls of steaming pasta, particularly when we have nothing better in. SomethingaboutItaliansausage.

RATS – Rats are people who talk about our activities to the police. Named after rats, who are famous for gossiping about criminal activities to the police. Generally our outlook on them is unfavourable, but we take it on a case by case basis. Whaddajoik.

HIERARCHY:
BOSS: The Head of the Family.
CAPO: The Captains who report to the Boss.
NIGHT CAPO: 11pm-6am shift.
THE MADE MEN: Our cloning project. We successfully animated a man made out of playdo, but his pronunciation of basic words was very poor. Whaddayagonnado?

FORTHCOMING EVENTS
- Overnight camping at the Plymouth Aquarium. What’s it like sleeping with the fishes? Your questions answered.
- A turf war with the Yardies. Bring sandwiches or salads to share. We hope that they’ll provide with some of their delicious jerk chicken. A waterproof poncho will cover us in the event of both rain and blood.