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 Fear Blog. Part 11.

15 August

A day off. Well, I did an early morning gig and just talked about my flatmate, Zeinu. Apparently he met a girl in Costa Coffee. She said she would like to go to Edinburgh. He bought her a train ticket and then she said she didn't want to go with him, so he suddenly had an expensive ticket to get rid of...I may be moody, angry and irritable, but in other ways I have the patience of a saint. He is due down on Saturday. I will have to try SO hard not to take the piss. I wonder how he will react to my material about him and me as a married couple. Seems pretty innocent to me. We'll see.

The rest of the day was pretty great. Went up to this beautiful spot overlooking Edinburgh under some huge pillars on a hill with Madelaine. The landscape is amazing. Even though these are the 'lowlands', it's still so dramatic. Because of the hills either side, sometimes Edinburgh reminds me of Rio – apart from the beautiful people, rhythm and vitamin B. We smoked two spliffs before going to some art galleries. Most of it was Renaissance stuff, which I'm not all that bothered about – but some of the faces were incredible. When artists use light just right, it's unbelievable. Faces come out of the painting and leer at you. I don't think the weed was that strong either. Art is vanity, really. Especially the portraits and busts. It was a way of saying “Check out my face! Look at these robes I'm wearing. This feather in my hat is boss! The book in my hand shows I'm all smart and shit. Don't fuck me. I've got a sword.” Who the hell wants a representation in marble of their own head? I've got a big head. Marble is expensive. All these people thought they were ensuring immortality, and they were. However, their immortality is that they bore the shit out of restless children.

The best thing was a description of an artist who did a self-portait and then presented it to his master. Yeah, great gift.

“I've got you a present for your birthday.”

“Nice. What is it?”

“It's a painting.”

“Wow!”

“Of me.”

“What?”

“What's the matter?”

“Well, I thought it would be of me.”

“Oh...yeah, right. I guess. Seeing as you're going to own it and everything.”

“Yeah.”

The descriptions under the paintings are worthless. They all read like: 'In “A Flying Bird” the artist depicts a bird, possibly in flight. Hence the painting's title.' The older I get, the more it occurs to me that the world is run by people who have no idea what they're doing. It's scary in some ways, comforting in others.

I had a quiet evening drinking beer, eating curry and reading newspapers in our front room. Our front room is only available for two days before someone else uses it as a bedroom. I had only slept a couple of hours the night before and it was clear that before I started 6 more days of web design, emails, flyering, show I would need one monster sleep to put me on the right track. Edinburgh may be a festival for a lot of people, but for me it's work. I am enjoying it though. I'm enjoying the sense of purpose it gives me. This could be the day off talking.

My mum called me up when I was in M&S buying filters for the coffee machine. I told her about the Scotsman and some of the jokes in the show. She laughed a lot. She related a conversation she had with an old primary school headmaster of mine. She said that hhe thought I was very brave, and though some people talk about doing things in their life, I'm actually getting on with it. I used to talk about things rather than doing things, and now I sometimes talk about things and sometimes I do things. The only times I won't talk about something is when I'm very conscious of the fact that I'm not doing it. It seems my Mum has finally accepted my pursuit of comedy as something I won't give up. Now I need to accept the same! This is not a path I have just fallen into. It's a path that always made sense to me, and yet when I think about how hard it all is I want to run and hide. The fact is that there is no escaping hard work and being driven nearly insane by what we do. That's just called life. If I tried anything else, I would be good at it for 6 months and then I would become utterly disenchanted. Occasionally I think “You should have started earlier” but that's rubbish. I've being doing this all my life, really. Well, in bursts. Sometimes I look at audiences and think “Ha! They think I'm a comedian!”

I had been talking to my mum for 20 minutes and realised the whole time I'd been doing laps around ladies lingerie. I think this is my unconscious mind dropping hints: “Ed, you should have sex with somebody soon or we may become dangerous.” Suggestion noted.

The Fear Blog. Part 10.

Aug 14

Got a text from my brother this morning congratulating me. After the gig the night before, I thought that 'commiserations' may be a better choice of word, and maybe predictive text had done the rest. Turns out the Scotsman had published a 300 word thing I'd sent them (http://www.scotsman.com/the-scotsman/scotland/festival-blogs-george-mann-ed-o-meara-1-2466385) and also decided to put my face on the front of the paper. It made a nice change from total obscurity, but I think they only published the photo because it looks like I'm looking at the newspaper title. It was a photo from when I longer hair. It wouldn't have killed them to photoshop some of my hair out. “Short back and sides mate?” It's the Adobe BarberShop. However, I took a great deal of joy from the fact that some poor journo had spent time cutting round my hair. Not a great job, I may add. He obviously gave up. “Hairy Sassenach bastard. Fuck it, I'm going on my Buckfast break.” Ironic that people who drink Buckfast never make a buck fast. Well, buskers and benefit scammers maybe.

I then received a tweet to say that a reviewer was coming to my show. Immediately, the ambivalence kicked in. This was what I was here for and yet I didn't want some guy sat there judging my show. Entertaining an audience could be hard enough, as I had proved the night before. I didn't need the added concern that every move I made was being carefully analysed. Not that they really are. If I were to review reviews I'd have a field day. One of the recent classics I've spotted was “My enjoyment was immeasurable. Four stars.” So not immeasurable, then. The star system. The method of measurement. In fact not only was their enjoyment not immeasurable, but it was also less than an immeasurable five stars.

I stayed in the house and tried to cut down my show, which has been overrunning. I've had to skip stuff on the fly and wanted to try and memorise the ending a little better. It always escapes me without a notepad. Not always a great sign, but an hour is a long time. I took a break to go and social-mediarise my dubious paper mug shot and treated myself to a coffee. By 'treat' I mean to have yet another coffeeshop coffee. I had resolved not to have them and save money, but decided the 'treat' would be to put off this resolution for a day. I don't like to use the word 'treat' when it comes to my own purchasing. It's the height of self-delusion. Also I used to work in the Cheltenham Bella Pasta (then Bella Italia, and then closed down, probably due to rancid cheese balls I had stuffed under their sauté station a decade ago. My friend Mark had sex with the manageress of that outlet in her grubby little office. Rancid cheese balls, Batman.) where they used to say “Coffee and pastry £4.50. Go on! Treat yourself.” Piss off.

Before I left to go flyering, I looked at myself in the mirror and was reasonably pleased with my appearance. Not spending all day at home or working in admin does that. The terror of the freelance life has helped me shed pounds from those problem areas, and anal-clenching has toned up my core no end. Also, I had my shirt tucked into my belt. I always thought my Dad looked silly with his shirt tucked in, but now I could see the point. When you're without gut, it an advert that you're without gut. Unfortunately my Dad is not without a gut but he is, apparently, without a belt – meaning the line where trousers end and shirt begins has a pronounced but askew equatorial aspect. I don't know if that makes any sense. I'm sleepy. In short, my ambition is still to buy my Dad a decent belt.

Incidentally, some people I have talked to say these blogs read very bleakly. Even my musician friend Depresstival (AKA Lottie) expressed mild concern. Funny. It felt like Goethe telling Mickey Mouse to cheer up. She dresses in black. I dress like a Bovis Home. Not to worry, subscribers. Edinburgh is a stressful time, but the stress is justified. I'm actually much more depressed in normal life when there's far less reason to feel so doomed. However this a stream of consciousness, bad things are easier to write about than good and I want to mention things that stick out during the day: Like annoyances, frustrations or my Dad's gut. Wahey! Whooped 'em again Josie. We sure did, kid. We sure did.

The reviewer turned up and we had a chat. He seemed nice enough. He didn't seem to know much about comedy though. No matter. If he gives me a good review, he's a man of sound judgement. If he it's bad, he's a bungling amateur. The show wasn't that great. Well, some of it was but I rushed it, concerned that I wouldn't finish in time. This was a mistake. Better to have a good show that must be cut short, than a poor show that finishes on time. I didn't make a conscious decision to rush, but even my landlady Alex (who was there to cheerlead laugh) went quiet at times. No disaster though. I could see that most people were enjoying it for most of the time, and I will take my time on Thursday. No bloody reviewers in then, of course. Alex assured me it was “really good” and her friend gave me £20, which was clearly “I like you Ed and I know you're skint, as opposed to what a terrific show, money.” The reviewer disappeared. I have the feeling that it may be a three star review, which means the show is all right but it's not something I can use on a flyer. Hopefully, he'll say something like “He has some potentially brilliant material” so I can quote “Brilliant material” or something. I know he will include a fair swathe of points criticising, but that's my fault. I left him with too many options to pick on: reading from notes etc.

Someone else got furious about that. It was later at the Anti-hoot. Lach was finishing what had been a pretty impressive night of acts (i.e. no open spots on the bill and only one comedian) with a chapter of his book which he was reading from a phone screen. It was about how his nights had helped BECK and how BECK had changed since he's found fame etc. Lach had has a pretty amazing ride with his Anti-hoot thing. In the East Village in the 80s, his night saw a huge amount of future stars come through it. Now his show is in a big room on the Free Festival. People wander in and out. This is not to say that some of the people who play there now won't go on to big things, or that his shows don't have their own magic now, but he feels a bit like he's chasing the glory days. He also talked about a cat called Agnes growing up on his porch which I thought sounded like the worst kind of home-farm, Walton's out-take. Still, Lach is a fantastic guy, so most of the crowd (i.e. musicians) were rightly rapt. There was only one woman who was sighing and shaking her head and throwing her hands up to her face. I thought, 'She doesn't like name-dropping or his prose. Fair enough. Tone it down though.' When she came down, Lottie said:

“You clearly had a problem with that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was your problem?”

“Can I be allowed to answer the question?”

etc.

These arty types may seem to like the idea of love, but not as much as they want to kick the shit out of each other. She finally said:

“He didn't learn his lines. It's UNPROFESSIONAL.”

Hmm. She should never go to a book reading. Most authors don't learn their 60,000 words either and Lach's not even a professional author. Either way, I was sure not to give her a flyer. Another interesting thing about the night was a guitarist called Erin. She is a pretty American girl with a certain twinkle in her eyes which make it looks like she starts off her days either eating toast or the souls of men. First she played a hypnotic song where she simpered “I'm sorry. This isn't very good” to which everyone responded NO, YOU'RE BRILLIANT! Then she did a song about fucking a bartender with a ten inch cock. I liked her. Her boyfriend on the front row squirmed and then pawed at her for the rest of the show. He's dead meat.

I should say that I saw an Irish comic called Conor Matthew (maybe) in the semi-final of So You Think You're Funny, who was excellent. In the first 10 seconds, I knew it was his to lose. All the judges looked like the biggest bunch of miserable cunts imaginable. None of them cracked a smile during the whole process. Could the media just release a statement saying “Success is an illusion” then we can all get on with being happy.

I went for late drinks with Lottie and a Scottish lad who was great on guitar. We asked a military veteran over to our table because I was in a reasonable mood. He talked an awful lot and I couldn't understand a bloody word he said but I smiled and nodded as is custom, going out for an occasional cigarette and a well-deserved frown. You can drink til 5am but can't buy anything from an off license passed 10pm. Can't believe that Tarantino missed that.

The Fear Blog. Part 9.

Aug 13

Bad, annoying, embarrassing, hard. Tonight's show was one of the worst. The first five minutes were fine. Easy enough banter, up for it crowd. Then an army of Gap types walked in. Not that they were the problem, as such. But most of them were girls and girls are unable to hide looking bored. Especially when they're on the front row. They were also annoyed. Annoyed with a long-haired Scottish teenager who kept trying to predict my punchlines. I wanted to keep the mood good, I didn't want him to effect my momentum, but he did. Once my momentum was destroyed, the crowd started to lose faith. The applause and first few laughs at the beginning of the show were riotous, by ten minutes in they were already starting to trickle away. It wasn't then 50 minutes of silence, but it wasn't enjoyable. Stories were hard to build. My material felt empty. Laughs were hard to come by, and didn't linger. It was embarrassing. My set got muddled up, and lost its meaning. Interruptions kept happening. It was a war of attrition. Every time someone knocked over a glass, everybody looked round. This is a sign your crowd are not with you. Anything for a distraction.

By the end of the show I was just keen to get out of there. A very attractive girl came in near the end. She was wearing a red dress with fake rips in it. Sounds like an 80s hair metal video, but she looked great. I went downstairs and saw her and she smiled at me and I said “nice dress” and she looked at me with a ravishing smile and said “thanks.” She was in a group of people and I wanted to leave, so I left. I wasn't going to try and chat up a girl in front of people I'd just done a crumby show in front of. Not that I lost anything. Attractive girls are allowed to smile at people and say “thanks” when they're complimented without it meaning anything. The Canadian barmaid has a boyfriend of course. No great loss. It was almost a relief that I was imagining opportunity when there was none.

I went to see Eddie Peppitone at The Tron. I also was comped into a show before it. It was a Spanish character who did songs. I didn't really get the point of it. It was funny in its way, but there was an awful lot of singing along. It was borderline cabaret. Most of the audience were Northern. Figures. Peppitone is a 53 year old physical wreck. Mike says he does different stuff every day. He does an awful lot of shouting, and a lot of his stuff was incredibly inspired, with some killer lines. I stopped laughing halfway through. I'm not sure if I was tired and preoccupied or he just lost it. A little of both, I think.

Mike left today. I liked having him about, with his two glasses for one beer and his electronic Scattegories obsession. I'm used to calling him after a show and having a drink with him. No one in our house will quite fit the bill now. I should be thankful that he saw me do a good show. Although, having him there may helped me keep things together tonight. Doing a shitty show is no crime, it's just disappointing. It makes you feel like you've taken two steps back. Wednesday I have a day off, so Tuesday's show has got to be better so that I can enjoy it. I may go to Edinburgh Botanical gardens. I have a little bit of weed, so that may bring nature alive, weather permitting.

Another plus is that there were no reviewers in tonight, as far as I know. I think it's generally held that reviewers have to make themselves known and none have been in contact or approached me after a gig. All this may be wishful thinking of course. As if reviewers are going to come along. In the same way, I ran out of pasta today. I was equally relieved when the Queen didn't stop in for dinner.

I need a big slice of fun. I'm a little tired of this routine of mine. My fun slice doesn't involve going to see a show. I would just like to go off somewhere and have a laugh with people, listen to some live music and have a dance. I think Zeinu may be coming up soon. It'll be good to see that crazy fool. It will be fun to see him in action around the ladies and my inaction around the ladies. I saw Tommy Rowson, my stand up friend, with 5 blonde girls with Pleasance uniforms on. Some comics are able to construct an entourage. I can only imagine the maintenance and upkeep involved. Hanging around with 5 pretty, young girls must require the same effort as keeping a regional museum going.

I want a TV here. We take it for granted, it's a waste of time, but it's visual heroin, and I could use a hit. I wonder what antics Sheldon Cooper is up to now. Misunderstanding human interaction, no doubt. Oh Big Bang Theory. How I will tire of your repeats two weeks from now, but how I could use watching an episode now. No WIFI in this house. Fuck Minesweeper.

The Fear Blog. Part 8.

12 August

Felt better today, so got up and went to Bobby Carroll's Hungover Comedy Club. I did my set without hangover, which went okay. The only thing that was a bit dodgy was my vertigo stuff, which I assumed was going to be my stand up salvation but looks to be as troublesome as all the other stuff I do. People have stopped laughing in certain places, and I can't work out why. My room is looking messy. I barely noticed until just now. I don't know why I let it get so messy. I don't notice for a long time. I doubt that it will have any bearing on my life success, but I had previously decided it would so should probably tidy it up. Should is a good word. “Probably” and “should.” A decisive combination. I realise I am drinking coffee in a coffee shop every day. That's almost £5 a day on coffee. I don't have that kind of money, but I still do it. Maybe I'll just see what happens.

I went to see my housemate Madelaine's show. It was insane. Lots of her flitting about and being surreal. I would like it more if she had just a touch more conviction, but some bits really hit the mark. Half the people left, that's a good sign. She is clearly going to become very good at what she does. She knows Claudia O'Doherty and Sam Simmons, and she is on course. I wish I had a role model. If I had a genre, I would have a role model. I file myself under “material that no one else would want to use.” It's a good place. Some people congratulate me for not being mainstream. Be under no illusions. Being mainstream is tough. You have to nail those observations. You have to think of something funny and yet make it so that 4 out of 5 people can pretty much anticipate what it's going to be. Yikes.

I bought a pot of pasta in Tescos. I was reduced to 19p. I knew it would be only borderline edible, but 19p! Reduced from £1.50. If I ever get money, which is not altogether likely, I hope I never pass up a 19p pot of unappetising pasta. Why the sudden discount though? Probably it had been left by a plutonium isotope. I read the packet to see what an acceptable intake of plutonium was, but nothing doing. I shall write to my MP.

Later on I did my show. I tried to flyer at the Half Price Hut but I couldn't be bothered to outalk the professional flyerers. I flyered outside the venue, but put them away whenever a big bunch of lads came by. Daniel Kitson isn't performing on Fridays and Saturdays for that reason, so it's legit. Mike came along and helped me. He said “Accomplished comic, free at 9.” I like 'accomplished', there's no hyperbole. It's like me saying “I won't waste your time.” That's the standard I aspire to. I can live with that level of expectation. Somehow loads of people came in. It was hard at first because of the constant disruption, but then I got into the show and the laughs were big. It was great. So great that I overran and forgot the ending. Shame. But, a little closer to good. I need to still make things sound like a joke. I still mutter and fudge quite a lot. I will improve.

After the gig, we went out. I saw Daniel Simonsen. We swapped numbers and he's going to comp me into his show. I love that guy. He asked me if I was going to the Just The Tonic Party. Poor Daniel. He thinks I'm people. I didn't really want to go. I don't want to get into the Loft Bar. I know that people hang around there to be seen, but it's a boring waste of an evening. Probably good for career progression, but so would oral sex on promoters, and I'm not doing that. Especially not with beard upkeep to think about. We were in the Library Bar. That's where unimportant acts hang out. It was mildly depressing. I bet you there will be a time when I wander to the library bar alone and look for someone to have a drink with. No, Ed. Promise that you won't. I said hello to a comic called Jackson. He pretended not to know me at first. He does his show at noon in a yurt and gets one star reviews. Nice to know where I'm at in the pecking order.

People tell me that my flyers are really offputting. In future I will stick to whimsical flyers. Next year maybe I will call my show SlEDgehammer and just have me like Peter Gabriel on the video. What do we think?

Still no reviewers. I just need one good review to get the ball rolling. If someone would like to make up a comedy website or blog and give me four stars, then I'll totally go with it. Even if it's the Norfolk Livestock and Dairy Association. I saw a review for a show. It said “The pleasure that this show gives is immeasurable. Four stars.” Not immeasurable then. Four stars. It should say “The pleasure this show gives is a little less than a five star show. Four stars.” Are people doing this stuff on purpose, I wonder?