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

My last show at the Edinburgh Festival says something about my shows in general and my performance problems specifically. I had a totally full house. I started off with welcoming stuff and the laughs were big and the atmosphere was great. If I had then done "Better Off Ed" to them, it would have been a roof raising hour. But they weren't there for that. They were there for the Rome show. It wasn't roof raising. It was underwhelming. I brought it back a few times with banter and other remarks - but the Rome material was not delivering. Not that I blame the material. My delivery was tired and stilted. Friday's performance on Saturday's crowd would have been electrifying. It's a shame and a few people left, but the bucket yielded £110 and people seemed happy enough. It's just one of those things where you see what you could do with a crowd. There was so much to work with there and I started off with such big laughs. Still. Live comedy.

I went back to the house after that. My housemates were cutting windows into the front of their house. They had put up dust sheets the day before, cutting the size of the place in half. It looked like there had been a murder. I offered my labouring inexperience but they asked me if I could cook dinner instead. I went to the supermarket and bought sea bass and wine and other stuff. It cost £40 altogether. Not bad for three weeks rent I suppose! I made them dinner. It came out very well. They looked happy. We ate and chatted and then ate cheese and watched people getting killed by a plague on TV. It really was a lovely evening. I felt useful. Sometimes they call me "the boy." I'm only a year or so younger, but I feel like a boy around them sometimes. They have their own place and plans and disposable income and yet retain a huge sense of fun. I have rent I can only just pay and a haircut I'm not sure about. It's not the same. Cooking good food suggests I know what I'm doing. When I cook, I do know what I'm doing. I think some people have jobs that make them feel worthwhile and grown up. I don't. When people say things like "I find this very fulfilling" I think they are saying "This makes me feel worthwhile." I think as a species we are constantly fighting to find purpose. Animals still have this inbuilt. At least, I think they do. I'm sure there are loads of depressed elephants, however.

I want to just exist and not be defined by one thing or another or to derive validation from one thing or another - but I am only human. People can get very distraught when they don't achieve their goals because too much of themselves is defined by the goals they set. If they fail, they take it personally. The universe will not bend to my will and I don't expect it to. Be bloody nice if it did though, eh?

On Sunday I went to see "Dawn of the Planet of the Apes." It was great. Escapism. I felt incredibly relaxed after. The guy I went to see it with owns a company. He worked bloody hard for two years and now works ordinarily hard and still makes excellent money. He said "I'll buy the cinema tickets if you get the drinks." The tickets were a tenner each. We had our drinks in Wetherspoons. A lot of my friends are smart, fairly successful people. I'm a bit of an anomaly in that respect. Success is relative of course, but I am more than relatively unsuccessful. Increasingly I find that my close friends pay for my dinner once in a while or just keep buying me drinks. I don't feel ashamed, really. There have been times where I've had excess money. It's nice to spend it on people you like. In my bag, I have a tupperware box which had £700 in it from the shows. I will put it in a bank. But at the moment it's a nice thing to have. It looks like Scrooge McDuck's packed lunch.

I picked up my remaining flyers and posters from the venue. No one said: "Why didn't you do a Sunday show?" No one cares. I put up about 5 posters. I have about 45 left. Note: Fewer posters. I met up with some friends and had a few too many drinks. The film had put me in a good, neutral mood. I was being silly and playful. Then we talked comedy and I felt the weight gather on my shoulders. A few Edinburgh's ago I slept with a comedian. She approached me and said "hi" and hugged me then went back to her table. I stood there and wondered who she was sleeping with for a while and then decided to go home.

I had an 8am train. Everything went smoothly. I got on the train. It was comfortable. I felt like I was leaving Edinburgh. I didn't feel regret. It felt like the least substantial Edinburgh. In the past, I would go up there and just be glad to be gigging and coming up with material. I thought it was all adding to something. I thought that something might happen, I might be spotted, I might get booked for other things, I might get a good review that would really help me on the circuit. Despite the meltdowns and terror, there was always a point. This year, the point hadn't been so clear. I was happy to get away from it.

In London, it was raining hard. I got to my flat at 1pm and fantasised about a bath and tea and Fraiser and cooking. I couldn't get into my flat. The landlord had locked the bottom lock. A lock I don't have a key for. I called my flatmate and sat on the stairs eating a sandwich. I met my friend in a pub for some drinks and food. My flatmates thought of an ingenious scheme to send the key down with someone else and I could meet them at King's cross. That person was on a train that got delayed and then more delayed. I had too much to drink and slept fitfully on a sofa bed at my friend's house. He's a doctor, but decided not to go into work with his hangover. We administrators are made of sterner stuff.

I felt tired and a bit hungover and really didn't want to go to the place I knew I had to. Edinburgh wasn't ready to relinquish its grip immediately after all.

This is a thing.

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

My last performance of "Better off Ed" went well. Two lads turned up initially. I hoped they weren't Ramsay's friends. They weren't. They sat down in the empty room, so that when a couple came up, they weren't alone. I told them that I'd try to find one more person. I went downstairs and saw a guy who'd come to my Roman show. I asked him if he wanted to see the show. He looked hesitant. "Only until my girlfriend turns up." Good enough for me. I have 5 people. In Edinburgh, when you're unknown and doing an unlisted show on a landing above a sports bar, it's an audience. I made them into one row. I took my time with the material. They were appreciative. More people trickled in. A guy I know through Facebook said he would try to turn up. He stood in the doorway. He explained later that he was trying to block out the noise from the bar below. He complained that it was a terrible venue and suggested improvements in the set up of the room. He made good points, but it was too late. I was relieved to finish the run. The fringe company suggests a donation of £3 per performance for the room. I suggest they pay me £3 per performance compensation for such a terrible room. Let's meet in the middle. I'll pay nothing.

So the show gathered more people, the girlfriend turned up and stayed. It was fine. The travel story gets less each time. I'm glad I don't have to do it again. Repetition makes things meaningless. I start out trying to entertain and end up a tour guide. I'm not sure how effectively I'm making the point, which suggests I've made it several times before.

I met up with some friends, but soon grew tired. I have been drinking every day. My sleep pattern has found a new and destructive rut. Sleep for two hours. Awake for 2 and then it's sparse and intermittent until I reluctantly pull myself out of bed at 11am. My face looks pale and jaundiced in the morning. My brain goes into existential futility mode at 4am. It's the stress and the alcohol. After 3 weeks, the body can't abide it. The psyche is defenceless. Early nights and lemon squash, people.

My diet started well too. Home cooking and salads. After a couple of weeks, I walk around with a permanent cash float from the show. I eat pies and kebabs and falafel and chips and drink beers. I am walking toxins. It has occurred to me that I've never taken cocaine at the festival. What are the chances? I have had only one bona fide exotic sexual experience with a hot foreign woman while there. Other occasions have been drunken fumbles with comedians. I go to the wrong parties. I don't go to parties at all.

I meet with a female friend in a loud bar called Cabaret Voltaire. Another friend turns up and asks if it's okay to join us. He thinks that perhaps we mean to sleep together. I have no intention of that. Aside from the jeopardy of sleeping with someone I get on with, after three weeks, I have no libido. I'm not depressed though. I can eat like a horse. Burgers especially. Plenty of horse on those. That joke was dated last festival. Our friend doesn't like this bar. It is loud and rammed with 20 year olds ordering complicated cocktails. We go to a pub. There are women everywhere. Mental note. I will come to this festival as a tourist one year. So many available women. It will have to be soon. Before you know it I will be 40, single and seedy. Perhaps, I'll see things differently then. There is a 43 year old comedian who walks around with a handbag full of condoms. She is terrifying.

My friend buys me two more drinks than I want to have. I stay long enough to keep him company until someone else turns up. The friends I have up here are doing great shows and have had no reviewers. Not one. Not even one for my friend who is performing in a semi established venue and has an agent and a PR budget and everything. Something is going on this year. It feels like the whole thing has been predetermined. We are about the same age, are nice people and thus sense our limitations. In stand up comedy, it helps to be going places aged 25. It's not compulsory, but it means you're doing things right. 25. Big venue. Representation. Property ladder. Follow through. Get fleeced. Progress.

N.B. Scientology place on Nicholson Street. Up till now they have been "The L Ron Hubbard Institute of Personal Improvement." Now the gloves are off. I worry that they are on the home stretch.

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 !!

I am already too tired again. Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago. Tomorrow is an absurd thought. I feel drained.

Yesterday, I did too much - or almost too much. The Roman show yesterday was okay - there were flashes of good stuff, but no momentum. The one today was awful. The audience started off in a very warm and supportive manner, but by the end most of them looked relieved to leave. I felt like I sucked the air out of the room. For most of the time my words meant nothing, even to me. My mouth felt like a letterbox flapping and clattering away every time I tried to force some more contrived material through it. I couldn't say the word "adopted" even. I could feel my face contorting and straining to find fluency. Every so often I broke off and tried to find a new angle. Nothing worked. Even worse, I overran by 10 minutes. At the end, an American guy came up to me and pointed out the one bit he did like - never a good sign.

"I liked your bit on defecation."
"Decimation?"
"Oh right! Ha ha."

He was right. The show was pretty much a defecation. I don't mind an audience not laughing because they're interested, but when they just look bored...you know you're responsible for the shit part of their day. When I was at the fringe aged 22, we saw a guy who bored us for an hour and I remember thinking "Why the hell would you do a show that's boring? Why would you put something on that people don't find funny?" I remember us not laughing at something - I think it was a not very good joke about a phone going off in a cinema - and him getting visibly annoyed that we didn't laugh, snapping "It's a dichotomy!" He also angrily said "I've done all the big venues, but they don't treat you right." That was 10 years ago. I wonder if someone will remember my back-pedalling during a bad show. It's a bit mortifying to consider. I suppose that it's best not to know! I don't remember his name. Most failure is ultimately anonymous. That's a blessing.

I don't want to blame everything on being tired. I did a show last night called "Hate n Live." I did a lot of shouting. It was cathartic and I thought I did quite well, but the promoter said: "Sorry, they were a bit flat. They were like that last night, until this one guy came along and did really well." Translation: Sorry, the audience weren't great, but if you'd been better, they would have been. I'm not too precious about it. I did another spot during the day. I opened a free new act showcase. I was quite good and just doing some MCing for 5 minutes, then I did a story from my show and, as I have no idea how long it is, I massively overran - also it wasn't funny out of context and I was rushing through it when I realised how long it was taking me. I sacrificed funny for more content! Pointless! Overly long and not funny. Bit of a theme developing here. I better finish up this blog post.

I am not going to my show tonight. I shouldn't be doing this on 5th August. It's not good. But I really need the sleep, I really need to rethink the Roman show so I can get through this festival. Outside the festival it works. Here, it doesn't. I need to find a way to change things so that I can do it everyday and get a good response. What I need to do before that, however, is to get some sleep.

I'm not worried so much about the content of the evening show. There's enough to make people laugh and I don't see any proper future for me in straight stand up (even though Better Off Ed is probably much funnier than the other show) - so I like to keep it as a side project.

I have had a bit of a wobble today. Usually I feel I know why I'm here, even if it's hard. This time I don't. I could have stayed in London and done the Camden Fringe. I've never really felt like this before and it's only the 5th! I'd better start to find a way to really enjoy performing again or there's no point me being here.

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Hack Watch:

Last year I did a show called "A Comprehensive History of the Roman Empire in under an hour with Jokes" in Bannerman's. I know I only got such a good venue because someone pulled out. It also explains why business for the show has been slower where I am now. This year, I note that the line up at the venue is pretty much the same minus me. I also notice that the guy who was on after me, and was always amazed at the audience numbers I got, is now doing a show called: "The Story of Medieval England From 1066 to 1485 at Roughly Nine Years and Two Jokes Per Minute Incorporating The Hundred Years War as a Football Match and of Course Scottish Independence" shortened to "Medieval Bollocks" on the board.

I WONDER where he got that idea from. Hmm?

The Fear Blog. Part 6.

Aug 10

Hmm...

Woke up with a hangover, filled an empty white wine bottle with water and lay in bed. I will now tell you about what happened yesterday. It's not thrilling. This is like my flyering technique. “Is the show any good?” “Err...well, yeah. It's okay. Look, I'm a comedian, not a flyerer.” Like the Pied Piper.

First of all, stand up is hard. It's really really hard. People say “I don't know how you do it.” That's not hard. You talk into the microphone and screw up your face every so often. The question should be “I don't know why you do it.” I don't know either. If the crowd is good, my timing is good, my mood is right, the venue is right, there's a north easterly prevailing wind and Jupiter is aligned with Saturn, it's really a brilliant thing to do. If not, it feels like a horrible way to waste your time. I've probably lost the best evenings of my youth to stand up comedy. Well, I say that. I probably would have squandered them anyway. It's not as if I would have been learning to flamenco. But still. Even when you do a great new piece of material you sometimes still think “Oh, this is great!” and then ten audiences later, no one goes for it. You're emphasising the wrong bits, you can hear the gears clunking, your shiny new bit is suddenly tarnished. You can't remember why they laughed in the first place.

Friday started promisingly enough. Nice weather again. I considered going up Arthur's Seat but decided to go on Saturday if the weather stayed good. (Oh you poor sap, take your chances when they come along.) I did some web design stuff in a cafe by the Scottish Parliament. I'm quite a regular there now. It's a nice cafe/ bar in a contemporary style (I'm not sure if styles have changed since 2006, but that's when it was built. In fact I can honestly say, I have no idea what's developed since 2006-2012. It makes me shudder to think that I am living in such an anonymous bunch of years. Did people growing up in the 60s think “This blows!” Is it always hindsight? Seriously, what's changed? Smartphones? I think that's it. Keane may have released an album. Oh, and you can use oyster cards on the overground. Yep, that really is it.) It is a nice place to work and the beer is boring, so I'm not tempted to drink. They have a flag on each lager tap, but it really is stretching it. Thus CARLING has an English flag, Tennents a Scottish, Grolsch a Dutch, 1664 a French, Carlsberg a Danish flag, Budweiser an American...come off it. They're all brewed in Newcastle upon Tyne. They all taste the same and are available anywhere. Duff, Duff Light, Duff Dry. All from the same tap. The illusion of choice.

The highlight of my day was making a Spanish omelette. I used sweet potato in it. It came out perfectly and was very tasty. I had it with a salad. If you're a fan of omelette stop reading now. It doesn't get any better.

Flyering has got too hard. I don't want to do it. I don't mind trying to be funny onstage, that's something I will do pretty much voluntarily. But this flyering business is foul. I'm actually surprised when someone takes one. It's horrible to see the piles of flyers in the bin. Thousands of them. In the age of the slightly upgraded smartphone, flyering is a ridiculously inefficient way of getting people to the show. I see that the Fringe organisation isn't even mentioning the environment this year. Ironic that what is supposed to be an artsy festival is so damn destructive. If it isn't the forests felled to provide flyers for a show that no one will ever enjoy, it's the oil pumped to provide the garish printing ink. “Hey, I really think the planet should be destroyed a bit more so I can talk about self-scan tills. People NEED to hear this.” The Edinburgh Fringe: Fucking Up the Planet.

In the end I decided to talk to people instead. They laughed, they said they would see the show, they did not. An enthusiastic young girl flyered for me and got some people in. Then she sat and looked confused and left after 20 minutes. A ringing endorsement! One guy told me he was now a big fan. Taking over the world. One fan at a time. Phew. My brain needs a sit down.

I've not had anyone from the media in, of course. They are shortlisting prizes for things I'm eligible for. Surely they need to see my show? I'm not saying I'd win anything, but it would nice to be considered and dismissed, seeing as I'm eligible and all. Whoever wins the world series is the best baseball team in the world. The world being the USA and Canada. My show isn't stellar but it's definitely worth a few stars and a few nice things being said. There's still time for it, but I don't know...I've got a feeling...a feeling deep inside, oh no...The BBC got back to me to say I hadn't made it into their New Comedy Awards. I lied about how long I had been doing comedy on the application. I thought that might be a big deal. They didn't even notice, they just didn't like my stuff! I think I used the word 'fuck' three times in the recording. They asked for likeable. I'm not sure if swearing is likeable to the Beeb. I need to get out of life for a bit.When's the bus back to London? The 26th? Yuck. Don't want to go back to that life. Me in a flat in Brixton half-working. It's rubbish. Still, I can always watch multiple repeats of the Big Bang Theory so every cloud...

So after a fairly underwhelming show I went to the Anti-Hoot. A year ago it was cool. It was in the Gilded Balloon and felt artsy and interesting. People paid to get in, Lach (the host who looks like something between Woody Allen and David Cross and sounds like the leasd singer of REM) is strangely funny and makes surreal quips and does announcements for products like Air Guitars. At the old venue it felt counter-culture and subversive and great. Now he's on the Free Festival programme and the place was full of people who shouldn't have been there. Uninterested people who only came because they didn't have to pay, and yet somehow seem determined not to get into the spirit of things. The kind of people who come to my show. If you took a pub full of Yate's Wine Lodge punters and put them into a lovely country pub, would it make it still be a lovely place to go to? Nope. It would suddenly become a depressing shit hole. (Misanthropy riding pretty high there, Ed....No, sod that. I heard a 70 year old woman actually COMPLAIN because the Anti-Hoot didn't allow heckling. Bitterly complain! That's what she'd gone there to do! Didn't have to pay to get in with the express intention of sabotaging the show. “Scum. Subhuman scum.”)

There were 6 people left in that cavernous room at the end. I only stayed to support Lach. There wasn't a bill like there used to be. Just a sign up sheet. Too many open spot comics there. That killed it. Tough room though. Shitty room. I did some jokes there. Wow. Pulling teeth. Some guy actually interrupted my punchline. I told him no heckling, he said it was advice. I was too demoralised to make too much of it. ADVICE? My mother has apparently started shadowing me at gigs. I should have destroyed him. The comedian Michael Legge was there. He wouldn't look me in the eye after. Not because I was that bad, just clearly because he could see from my performance I wasn't worth talking to. That sounds a bit paranoid, but had I stormed it....

Because we were having far too much fun, I ended up at the worst 40th birthday party I have ever been to. I remember my mum's 40th. I must have been 5 or 6. I ate cake under the table. That was by far more fun. Michael may be a nice chap, but when we're having drinks together he gets out a little electronic scattegories type game and insists we play it. He doesn't approach women either. Starting to see patterns emerging. We were in a metal bar playing scattegories rather than trying to get Goth chicks when he got a text from a girl he had met at Daniel Kitson's show. We trooped over to a multi-level hell-hole called Espionage. Nothing about this place was secretive or undercover. Not the alcohol consumption, not the spray tans, not the groping. If Bond ended up drinking here I assume it would come post-breakdown.

Initially we couldn't get in as it was already 3am, but being a Mancunian Michael just slipped under a rope and found another way in and I followed. Working our way down the levels of hell, we got to the lowest bar. I remember snogging a girl there when I was 25. Grrrreat days. No they weren't, but I was 25, and that's the age we're told people want to be. Yay. At the back of the bar was a door and we had to say the word “Shaggers” and we were let in. Hilarious. A private party, a codeword on the door. Was it full of the cream of Edinburgh? Playboy millionaires and models? Nope. Five fat, middle-aged men jumping up and down to Come on Eileen. These luminaries included the promoter of a ragged chain of comedy clubs that doesn't seem to book me any more, one of the country's worst MCs and another of the country's most low rent comedians. Michael found the girl and realised he didn't fancy her at all. Did I tell you that Michael has to get 2 pint glasses for every pint to remove the fizz from the beer? Apparently it bothers his stomach otherwise. It didn't bother me before, but ending up at that party, it started to.

“Sorry, Ed”

“That's okay, Mike. All part of life's rich scattegories.”

They everyone started to do a conga. Ed, you're there. At last. The inner circle.

FML, viewers. FML.

The Fear Blog. Part 2.

5th August

Today it rained, and Edinburgh started to morph into its true state: glistening, saturating, oppresive grey. From pavement to sky. I squelched along, trying not to look up at the posters. I don't want to know who has four million stars. It only ever demoralises. I know a lot of these people who get endless 5 stars. They're good, they have worked hard. But if it wasn't for the fact that they had an uber-powerful management agency, they wouldn't get a single review. Praise is always lavished on the people that need it least. "Free to those who can afford it. Very expensive to those who can't."

Slightly more demoralising was a young comic I was on a morning bill with. The promoter kissed him on the head. When I was a bit younger and showed some kind of promise he used to give me suffocating hugs. Those have stopped. Up til now I didn't care, now it seems significant. Like when Jude Law's Alfie gets dumped by the older woman for a younger woman. The fact that I'm referencing Alfie here worries me, but it was an odd form of jealousy, but feelings generally get odd. Then this 23 year old went on and did very well. I knew he was good because I sat there and wondered what all the fuss was about. He told lots of stories about sex he had had. How can a good comic realistically get so much sex? I pondered this a little. I'm sure for most comics, comedy is a release for their insecurities. There was a comic I know a little of already called Lindsay Sharman. Really brilliant! Commits wholely to the material. I could watch the shit out of her. She's not doing an hour this year. Shame.

I realised I was getting annoyed by the relative merits of others, so it was time to leave. I ejected myself from comedy, did a supermarket shop and listened to Radio 4 to reset the brain. Later at my gig, I improvised a lot of stuff about my brain, how it was like an overprotective, vindictive mother, also about the fear that I may throw myself off a cliff on a whim. Oh, and punting a baby out of a window. It REALLY connected with people. Or maybe because I honestly meant it. I will develop it today and try it tonight, possibly to bemused silence. This is what happens when you tamper with the truth. A word in the wrong place seems to change everything. Ah comedy, you are a frustrating bastard sometimes. 

My show was quieter (in both audience number and laughter) than yesterday and I struggled to keep any kind of momentum. People said they enjoyed it after, but what I think they enjoyed were the moments when I relaxed and got on with it. There were some nice moments, but these were hard won. I need to LEARN my show.After the gig I needed a drink and there was nothing doing with the Canadian. If I make an unsuccessful pass at the venue manager, that's 3 awkward weeks ahead. Even if I manage to sleep with her somehow, ditto. I like pretending that me backing off is shrewd, as opposed to cowardly! Nice one, Ed. Delusion working its magic I see!

I met up with my Edinburgh flatmates and went to a disco at the Gilded Balloon. It's basically just the Magic FM playlist padded out with a weak "Hot Dub Time Machine" theme. A section of a song from 1955-today, with a Chinese air hostess introducing each era. Not very authetnitc. For Chuck Berry's "Johnny B Goode" they used the Back to the Future scene. For Rick James, they took a segment of the Chapelle show. It was like the Scottish kilt. Inauthetic. Sometimes you have to look at the screen and follow the moves and, because they assumed that loads of people would be there who were growing up in the late 80s, they played the theme tunes from Never Ending Story and Ducktails rather than classic hits of the same year. I got chatting to a cute barmaid but then my brain reminded me that she was paid to be nice. She was also attractive and young, and that reminded me of a terrifying girl I slept with, so I bugged out. Then I looked at a tall, sweet looking girl dancing away and just never made a move. It's not that I desperately wanted to, it's just that it felt like something I should have done. "Darling, why did you approach me that night when we met?" "Well darling, I saw you on the dancefloor and thought 'That's something that I should do.'" Later on the tall girl fixed me with a slightly reproachful stare. Possibly I imagined it. Yeah, I probably did. I'm quite dramatic!

It's odd how I don't act. I guess that the girls I've gone out with I have just gravitated towards, or vice versa. I guess it's interesting for my show: I know that women love confidence, and that really doesn't help. It's like when I used to be afraid of dogs, someone said to me "Don't show any fear. Dogs can smell fear", which is the most unreassuring thing to say. "Hey you know those four legged things with sharp teeth? They're telepathic...well, have a nice day." I actually had the thought, "Hey, maybe I can do an Edinburgh show where I have to approach girls on the street and..." Such a comedian's/ writer's solution. Rather than just going and talking to someone I decide that by far the best thing to do is to turn it into a production! I have spent all of my bucket money on gin and tonics. Wise? No. Inevitable? Yep.

The Fear Blog. Part 1.

Edinburgh is quiet. It's the first real day and yet the streets feel empty. Obviously once it gets going, the place will be swarming but at the moment (possibly because of the early stage, or possibly because of the large sporting event down South) there is an uneasy calm over the place. It is the beginning of the festival, performers wander the streets well-rested, full of vitamins from their as yet deep fried-haggis free diet. They even smile. All this is to change of course. As such I feel a false sense of calm, we're in the eye of the storm, and yet I can already see what the place will become. The soul vaccuum, the morale dyson, the smile sucker upper. I can already the far off whistling as if a bomb has been released far above, hanging over us - promising to descend. Also, it's very hard to find pesto. Spam, there is plenty of.

The flat is like a scaled-down version of the Shining hotel. If my grandmother owned a borstal, this is what it would look like: Dark green paint on the hall walls makes the place gloomy, everything echoes, doors slam, there's no TV in the front room. You'd be more likely to expect a threadbare pool table. There's not one of those either. Still, the room's nice. I say nice. I mean that it's a room with a door. It's not a camp bed in a communal room or a blow up mattress in a kitchen, both of which I have experienced. There are wardrobes and drawers for everything. I put all my clothes away, wowed at what put away clothes look like. Luxuries I can never afford in London. There is even a desk. This is unprecedented. I set everything up to my liking and think, "If I can keep the room this nice, perhaps my Edinburgh show will go well." Pure heathen superstition, but the secret of every performer is to just blithely hope for the best, so some kind of mental shamanism seems in order.

I decided not to smoke. Then I started flyering, and then I bought cigarettes. It's my least favourite part of Edinburgh. Every year I flyer for myself is another year where I'm aware that if I were more successful, someone would do this for me. It's a false economy of course, once you take the 10 grand of successful venue hire into the balance. I would pay not to flyer if I had the money to do that. I don't. "Free comedy at 9?" "..." "Welcome to Edinburgh (fucktard)." I must not mumble under my breath. I must not get into the habit of negative thoughts. Edinburgh wants that. It wants me to embrace the darkness. The whole city is full of murder. I'm not making this up. Bodies buried everywhere. It's the Sarajevo of the North.

Flyering is hard. People don't care, the success rate of the flyer is miniscule. At least 2 people assumed it was a horror show, claiming that my design looked 'scary'. I bet a professional PR company would have spotted that. "I don't know, Ed. Our demographic may expect you to wear a Scream mask" Great. Morons will get the wrong idea and not come to the show. Still, I can see a Darwinistic filter in this. Are these people I want after all? I have 5,000 of these flyers. I hope this isn't a theme. Got to the venue. Some graffitti on the toilet wall said "My shit smells better than this place." Nice one, Ed. Excelsior. This is where you are. Grotty nightclub. 10 minutes before the show. Grotty, empty nightclub.

I started the show with 7 people. Hmm. It's Saturday night got God's sake! But then, full house! Hooray! I didn't need the horror tour idiots after all. Don't get picky, Ed. Wait til Tuesday. You'll be dressing up as a ghost to lure them in. Not the invisible kind of course. That would be counter-productive. The show went well. I rushed through it, and it didn't make sense, but there were laughs at nice points. The crowd wanted the best for me, even when I gave them a story that was too long with few laughs. £32 in the bucket. Must not spend it all on pies and fancy cereal. The week may well prove lean. Also, some shows WILL stink. You haven't cracked it. That's not how this works. Speak slower so that people have a clue about what you're talking about. Don't start too many new thoughts until you have made something of the ones you start. At least try.

The venue manager is cute and Canadian. All ample and charming. She was probably just being nice, but still. She likes me a bit, but then the show went well. I must try and capitalise on this before it starts to go badly. I will hang around and talk to her tomorrow and see if anything emerges. Not brilliant tactics, but serviceable. I guess this is the universe's cue to rain shit on me tomorrow. Come on the universe. I had a reasonable gig and a flirt. Let me have that at least. It's not much. I'm off to bed while everything seems okay. Quit while you're £32 ahead, or £1500 behind, or whatever the overdraft has racked up to now. If I fall asleep now, I won't feel hungry. I have two rolls. I will steal butter. Breakfast! It's midnight and I don't have internet access. That means that I won't accidentally stay up til 3am. Day one done.