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.

Loading entertainment. Entertainment not found.

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 !

I just eradicated humanity with a plague called "Mr". It gave me a huge sense of achievement. I wanted to call it "Mr Death" but the game on my phone is a bit buggy. I have avoided mostly wanting genocide by mostly avoiding the festival drinking pits. 

Take that humanity!

The exception was my second night here. I met up with someone who is working at one of the venues. She was having drinks with the rest of the staff. Her boss was 22. They mostly all went to university together and all spent their time showing Instagram pictures to each other. A typical conversation was: 

21 year old girl

"This guy was 31. And I was like err...to put it in perspective? I'm 21?"

22 year old girl

"Yeah, but you're not like the stereotypical 21 year old?"

My scowl

"Yes you are."

I was already tired and apparently didn't conceal my feelings particularly well. At one point I went off for a walk. My friend asked me where I'd got to and I told her that I was standing by a tree. She came and met me then we left. We then went to meet her more "cultured" friends, i.e. 24 year old critics at a place called Summerhall, which is where "the cool kids hang out." Festival translation: Arty nerds. Most of whom are still at universities doing masters degrees in advanced job avoidance. Bit sneery, eh? Not to worry. They will all eclipse me.

I'm not sure this was a good idea. They all seemed extremely tired and unimpressed with all the shows they'd seen. The magazines make them go and see 5 shows a day. It's little wonder the reviews are so arsey.

Conversation samples:

Critic:

I saw 5 shows today earlier. They were all shit.

Performer:
Oh hi! You saw my show earlier! What did you think?

Critic:
It was great!

---------------

Critic:

They made me go straight to a show after a 6 hour train ride. I was sooo tired.

Me:

Wow! I wouldn't want to have been that performer. "The buffet service at the venue was non-existent! 1 star."

Critic:

...

I tried not to make too many jokes about critics. It's just so hard. It's my right to reply. That's what's frustrating about being written about. There's no right to reply. If you do, people think you're insane and bitter. My friend assured me that these were very progressive, supportive critics who want to change the system and abolish star ratings. Sure they do. Right up to the time when they leave university and get offered a salary. "Then...you know...I just feel lucky to have the job, because other people would love to be in my position. Actually, I'm bloody good at it, and what's wrong with giving out stars? People respect my opinion! They'd be bloody lucky to be reviewed by me!"

This isn't an exercise in bad-mouthing critics. I just think that critics need to be experts in their fields - and the people that the Edinburgh festival publications hire are not. They need to know how to fix a show, not how to badmouth it. Anyone can say why they didn't enjoy something. How many can say how they would have enjoyed it more? Incidentally, after my Roman show yesterday, a guy approached me and said. "I really liked the show, but could I give you some advice?...Don't take so many sips of water. It really upsets the momentum." Bloody good advice.

The best use of quotes!

My Roman show has been okay so far. The first one wasn't great. I was very tired. The second one went a lot better because I was well rested. No reviewer would ever take that into account, but it is such an important factor. The difference between me doing a good show and not can often be a pair of ear plugs and a black t-shirt draped over my head to keep the light out. Again, if I were a better performer it wouldn't phase me so much, but saying the right thing in the right tone in the right way takes a brain that is operating at its best, and when it doesn't, I don't.

My first performance of Better Off Ed couldn't have begun worse. I went to the venue and realised that the room they gave me was a landing above the main bar. I went up to somebody working there and said "Where's the venue?" and he said "You're looking at it." By 7.45 there were 2 Swiss people sat down, trying to think up ways to leave. By 7.50 3 girls came up and said "We're just ordering some food. We'll come back up." Some other people came up and sat down and said "Is this the improvised musical?" and I said "No...but I could improvise one, I guess" and they walked off. I watched the girls order their food at the bar and muttered out loud "Just pick a burger for God's sake. No...don't get onion rings too." The Swiss couple were looking in their magazine for other shows they could go to.

Finally the girls came up and we started at 8pm. I had 45 minutes to do the show and, somehow, after some reluctance, it worked. It was fun. They were 5 very nice people and we had a nice time. At the beginning, their faces were sceptical. By the end, they were beaming and thanking me and putting money in the bucket. And that's what I like about performing. It was a lovely little show. It won't always be. Instead of 3 nice girls, I'll get three heckling men. Instead of a nice Swiss couple, I'll get some very confused, hostile Russians. No offence Russians. Or men. But I realised the show is about. It's no great message. It's not an original thought. It's simply about being in the moment. It's the only way to really live and it's the only way to perform. Other than that, it's out of your control.

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.

Moment...ummmm.

Pre-progress umming and ahhing. How Not to Succeed in Comedy Without Really Trying.

If you want to progress in comedy, you need momentum. Momentum comes from constant gigging. Through gigging you get good, your name stays buzzing around the heads of acts then promoters then agents then critics then producers and finally everybody else. What's more you have to live and breathe comedy. You socialise with comedians, you know individual agents and their proclivities, you're at every festival. You become the furniture of the comedy bedsit. Status is important, comparison is important, momentum is important. Not for your mental health or relationships, largely it's disastrous, but it's the price that comedy demands.

This guy knows what he's doing.

I haven't been willing to pay that price for a long time. I lost my momentum long ago. Every year I've watched acts below me leapfrog over my head. Firm circuit friends will now ignore me because there are others around me more worthy of their attention, some established acts who I started out with will look at me in bewilderment and ask me what I'm doing and even offer me some pity one off gig with acts several rungs up from me, but promoters are no longer excited about the prospect of asking me to gig for them. A few promoters still hold me in high regard and book me for well paid gigs outside London, but my lack of positive press quotes and inflated five star reviews do not go unnoticed when it comes for them to send posters to print. To date, Newbury Today's five year old estimation of me still appears on flyers for regional clubs.

I'm certainly better and more consistent than I've ever been but this means nothing when you no longer have the momentum. Better to be fresh and raw and brimming with potential than to be seasoned and discounted and yet more complacent. The fire quickly goes out unless constantly fueled. Somehow I have become a hobbyist.

I have to decide whether I'm willing to bury myself in the feverish core of planet stand up or to continue coldly orbiting the maelstrom from afar. There is no halfway. The inescapable truth is that success in any field usually requires more of yourself than you're willing to give.

Follow Ed O'Meara at @edfomeara. It won't help ya none.

The Fear Blog. Part 12.

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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?

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 5.

Aug 9

Although I woke up a few times at night gasping for liquid, exhaustion and earplugs served me well and I had the full complement of sleep. I felt particularly good as after watching Sam Simmons (who is mind-blowingly good. He is an Australian guy who performs this piece about the secret life of a nutter, which involved groping my flatmate Mike in a sweaty embrace, sitting on his lap whilst spinning around an office chair in front of hundreds of people...front row baby! Actually, although it was brilliant, I did lapse into the odd moment of analysing the performance and wondering what it would take to be as talented a comedian as he, but that's what always happens), I managed to extricate myself and get home before midnight. I got up with that reassuring feeling that I had spent a night in a washing machine - that dazed disorientation of the deep sleeper.

I celebrated all things with a mammoth fry up before going to the Cabaret Voltaire for a midday spot, which went well (oh sleep, how you fix everything and yet how you so often evade me) before finding an original priceless copy of Shakespeare's Hamlet, which was nice...Not really. It's just that I felt good. The sun was out, festivally things were happening and (over lots of coffee) I sent out some reminders to journalists that I existed. The coffees came to a total of £4, which is a lot for 2 hours of WIFI use, so I compensated myself by downloading a couple of albums from torrents. Fair's fair.

I should mention that the other thing I did well was deal with Mike's fried. She's a Manchester-based comedy promoter and, although being ostensibly nice, an incredibly argumentative individual. After rising to her on a number of stupid things she was saying (1. Comedians should never sit at the front of a gig, 2. Agents aren't important, 3. Australians walk on their hands, well not that one) I finally decided that she was the promoter and I the comic, and I had better just agree with her. She then offered me a bunch of gigs in Manchester. I think she was positively reinforcing my behaviour. She could have equally offered me beer and dog biscuits. Mike apologised for her, but I told him it wasn't necessary and she probably had some points. Mike and I agreed that everyone's a little bit right and a little bit wrong and a lot opinionated. That's the kind of cliched summary I'm happy with in life. Everything else is ego. Done and done. And thus a fellowship was forged. Mike has diabetes. The kind where you get to eat all the time. As far as disabilities go, I could think of worse.

A bit later I returned to the flat to find an 80 year old man waiting at our door. His name is Hugh and he's involved in a show. He is using someone else's room for a couple of days. He's a nice chap, an actor, owns a bit of property and seems on the verge of senility, but holding on in there. He was coughing a bit so I made him a cup on tea, and he told me (among other things) that he used to play the timpani but now plays a cello that he's having restored. He told me about a house he owns, the problem with trains, why he refers to motorcycle riders as “organ donors” and his theatrical past and then suggested that Argentinian wines were inferior - which I had to pick him up on. Suddenly he developed a well-timed coughing fit to drown out a winning argument I was making about Malbec. Fiendish swine, these old folk. I sound incredibly bourgeois. At the time I was making roast veg with balsamic vinegar and pesto. Mike stuck his Northern nose in and muttered profanities about softness.

Flyering was a hell of a lot easier. It wasn't any better or more successful, just a tad easier to tolerate when you've had some rest. Mike suggested that I should be talking to people and selling my show. He's entirely right. I'm basically giving people flyers and saying “Free comedy at 9” and then the actual people who come to my show just wonder in on a whim. I should really be selling my show more, I'm aware of this, but I loathe flyering so much that I just half switch off and treat it like a job. “When you get rid of this pile of flyers, you can have an icecream.” By next week, I'll probably be binning them. Self-delusion is a powerful force in my life.

There was a powercut at the venue, shows were cancelled and I was only half-delighted when they announced my show could go ahead. I know I should want to do my show, I do, but if someone says “This gig may not happen” you start fantasising about sitting on a sofa somewhere having a drink and you think “Yes, that sounds like a better idea than standing up and talking for an hour.” The show went ahead (yay-boo) but for some reason they moved the location from the big room upstairs to some chairs put in one of the corners of the bar. This was EXTREMELY disruptive. I'm not sure if they were thinking “This guys had an easy run so far. Let's REALLY try and throw in some obstacles.” I couldn't hear whether the audience were laughing (they looked like they were) but I think the show flowed well and I got all the material in. I'm not sure if I rushed through some of it, but it didn't feel like it. I think the thing to remember is to make the most out of the material, keep the pace slow and improvise a bit for added pep. I think I'm saying less words like “Err....umm...right...and that's...blah blah blah...oh good, we're almost finished” so I hope the audience experience is improved. From 7 people I made £11, which is pretty good. Also a guy in the audience is doing a charity benefit in Scotland and asked me if I wanted to come up and do a set – so it couldn't have been that bad. Somehow I have 500 posters to get shot of. I might give them to audience members who donate to my pint glass. They look like they'd make lovely rabbit bedding.

The Fear Blog. Part 4.

The lack of sleep is catching up with me. I am crumbling a little. The weather has been incredible these last two days. Good weather is bad for comedy. People don't need to be entertained when they're not miserable. Where do you think the famous British wit comes from? Terrible, terrible weather. You can flyer in good weather, but no one wants to come sit in a dark nightclub. The rain forces them into my lair.

First, I will say something positive. Tony Law was brilliant and my flatmates Mike and Madelaine are lovely people. Now, that's the positives out of the way.

I felt tired yesterday. Flyering was even harder than usual, and that was followed by a performance to 6 people that was HARD work. They were nice people, but not very vocal about it, and that made my job very difficult. Banter is all very well, but I have an hour long show to do. Imagine meeting someone and they bring up the subject of plumbing, and then they decide to subject you to a monologue on that subject for an hour. A cabbie who was in the audience thought I needed some pointers: "Well, you're likeable, you're confident and a quarter of your jokes are funny...so that's something to build on." I pointed out that it wasn't very easy to deliver material to a quiet room. "Yeah" he nodded, "Well, maybe it was more like 35%." I've never known someone so unqualified to haggle so precisely over intangibles.

I spotted two young guys standing at the back. One of them wearing orange combat trousers and a cowboy hat. He was joined by a friend. They came up to me after the show, said "That was fucking excellent. We're coming back on Thursday" and gave me £5 each. Two 18 year olds. Richard and Lewis. Bless you boys. I'm starting to realise that I'm most popular with Scottish goths/ space cowboys. I think it's because I argue that there's nothing wrong with feeling shitty and mental. That rather appeals to them. Me too.

Despite the nice comments, I hate my efforts to entertain not hitting the mark. True, they all laughed a lot at my 'brain' material (essentially where I argue that our unconscious minds are panicky morons) but I am afraid of removing the material from its context, because I'm not sure it will be so well understood in a shorter set. This material is my brand new baby in swaddling cloth. It's not ready for the Krypton Factor yet. I did the popular bears segment of my show this morning at a mixed bill and got fuck all for it, so I'd rather not further whittle down the confidence I have in my own material. I know it all boils down to the delivery, but that doesn't help if I'm exhausted, or not in the mood, or a butterfly has farted in Singapore. It all seems too precarious to me. "Sir Chris Hoy. You came last against toddlers on trikes. What went wrong?" "I had the wrong kind of jam this morning."

The crowning turd wasn't even performance related. Last night I went to the pleasance Dome and saw The Alternative Comedy Memorial Society. Claudia O'Doherty (an Aussie comic) did something inspired about chairs. Matthew Highton and Ben Target did a stunt involving a mousetrap and a carrot cake which was messy and fun. Pretty much the rest of it was theatre groups and festival hangers on talking over the acts, fat girls (sorry) who obviously have Red Dwarf boxsets and wardobes of Boosh memoribilia throwing their heads back and laughing at nothing (usually Thom Tucke's exaggerated laughter), and general Edinburgh circle jerking of the grubbiest variety. I think my hostility at the whole thing can be summed up by a 20 year old kid who was sat with the acts. I have no idea who he is. He probably doesn't do anything but is the 3rd most influential person in comedy. That IS how it works. When an act who he deemed important(Sara Pascoe, David O'Doherty, Dr Brown) was on, he was in spasms of theatrical laughter. As soon as anyone less important was on (for example newer act Phil O'Shea) he stared at them with utter boredom and contempt. It was the worst of lackydom, the most gruesome display of the Jacobean court mentality that pervades Edinburgh. These obnoxious hangers on run the show and yet posion it. It's all favours, status, powerplay and paranoia.

A 18 year old admin assistant in a large agency basically has more clout than actual comedians. It's stand up comedy, you stupid bastards, not the Julian Dynsaty. Stop throttling it from the top.

Sadder even was seeing comics hanging around the Pleasance Dome. If I saw these people in London, they would come up to me and say hi and we'd have a chat. In Edinburgh, they are strange, dead-eyed zombies who just look through people like me. I don't even talk to people who a few years ago I considered friends because I'm tired of having them staring over my shoulder scanning for an upgrade. When we're on a train to Norwich in mid-Novemeber, these same people will suddenly become my good friends again.

STAY AWAY, Ed. It's not good for you. I have to work very hard to keep my brain intact these days. I think there needs to be a Decent, Sane Comics Society. I saw a comic who is just starting to go places, but already has a wife and kids. He looked at me and said "Can we just go out somewhere for a meal one night?" I could sense a need in his voice. He wanted to have a chat with a non-zombie. He didn't want to have to schmooze with 'industry people', or laugh loudly at some cunt's horrible jokes. He wanted to actually relax with someone who had a vestige of sanity and empathy.

I'm sure if I was signed to some big agent, I wouldn't be compaining quite so fervently. I'd certainly keep quiet about it, anyway. I always wondered whether it was possible to navigate your way through this swamp without getting too dirty and unhappy in the process. I asked Josh Widdicombe on a train back from a gig. I wasn't sure what to think of him, then he said "Ed, let me tell you. I fucking hate Edinburgh" and my respect levels for the man went through the roof!

I don't hate Edinburgh, but I hate some of the things that people have to go through to do comedy. I hate the irresistable pressure it puts on you. I hate how insignificant it can make you feel and in what a contemptible manner it makes people behave. It never seems enough just to be good, but I guess that's the case in any field of endeavour. It's like if Prince William becomes king, it'll be pure nepotism. Call me cynical if you like.