If nothing else getting home will release us all from the nightmare of these Groundhog Day blogs and perhaps I can get back to noticing the minutiae of daily life and writing about the people who piss me off or are rude to me or question my yoghurt consumption.
Today was awards day which is both fascinating and aggravating to me. Overall I would be glad if it wasn't there, turning this arts festival into a competition, but it is also exciting to find out who will win. And as we know I am mainly pissed off about it because I have never been nominated for it. Though in the sensitive mental state I am in by the end of the Fringe this can often get to me, as I imagine it does to all but the three people lucky enough to win one. I am not eligible because I am too famous and successful and it's great to know that I am more famous and successful than Bo Burnham who only has 57 million fans on the internet and is surely already a millionaire with film and TV contracts coming out of his arse. From what I have seen of him he is a charming and modest and extremely talented young man (he's still a week off of his 20th birthday) and you can understand why a lager sponsored award would be happy to have his face plastered all over their publicity. But the inconsistency of the award rules (where my relatively unsuccessful TV work of over a decade ago preclude me from inclusion) create unnecessary friction and anger amongst the performers desperate for the exposure (and I am glad to be out of it because it still hurts a little bit even though I am know I am not eligible on many levels now). I would have thought that a better eligibility rule would be that as long as a performer is up here for at least three weeks, is doing a new show and is playing a room with under 250 capacity then they should be up for consideration. Thus anyone who is a big star and is up here to cash in on their TV fame would be excluded, but if they wanted to have a crack at it and were prepared to work up a new show and play a small room they could still have their show in the competition. And it would be clear to everyone who was taking part, rather than allowing someone to make a somewhat arbitrary decision about someone's supposed success or not. By these rules I would not have been in the running this year, but that would seem to be correct and fair. I am finally doing well enough on my own terms to not need any leg up. But if a big TV star fancied coming back and doing a small room in order to have a chance of finally getting an award then they could do so, and the more of them we can encourage to not do 1000 seater venues the better.
So a part of me was momentarily annoyed that Bo Burnham won the panel prize for exemplifying the spirit of the Fringe, but perhaps he does represent what the Fringe has become, someone already assured of stardom coming in, cleaning up and fucking off. The needy and arrogant portion of my brain felt aggrieved perhaps that once again I was overlooked with my coming up every year, creating brand new shows each time (admittedly my main show was a repeat, but I did 11 original podcasts) and staying loyal to the Fringe whether successful or not. But quickly I got over myself and realised that the work and the response from the people who like it and having built up a reputation through hard work is a reward in itself.
But the fact that even I can get caught up in this shit storm when I am as almost as detached from it as it is possible to be shows what a negative effect it has on performers, on a weekend when most of us are already at our lowest ebbs.
My lack of awards is in fact my award, which will be ruined if I ever actually get one. Though I feel if nothing I have done in the last 18 months has got any recognition then it's unlikely anything ever will. I think this has been the most fecund period of my career and it can surely only be downhill from here. But as long as we all know what I have done and a few of you appreciate it then that is worth more than all the awards in the world.
No wait. I mean less than all the awards in the world.
I just want an award. And to be back on the telly. Why can't I be back on the telly?
The clock ticks ever more slowly onwards to the end of the festival, like we're in a film and there is a big slow motion of the second hand clunking forwards at a snail's pace, every second being accompanied by a thud like a dull church bell. Thankfully for now numbers are good and tonight, I believe was a sell out. Tomorrow should be fine too, but then Monday, it seems Edinburgh will be a ghost town. Where does everyone go? Is there no one interested in coming to see all the shows stupid enough to run to the end? Come and see me on Monday, you idiots. It's only a tenner.
It was a tough Saturday crowd and I battled against their muted response, but didn't particularly enjoy it. I was determined to give it the requisite energy and with no other work to do for a little while was in a much calmer and sharper place mentally. But it's weird doing the same show to a different group of people and finding they don't laugh at the same things as everyone else did.
Afterwards though, I was determined to not skulk in my flat like the stupid hermit I have been for the last month and headed out with temporary flat mate and Collings replacement, Andy Parsons for a night on the tiles. Having got this far I was never going to fall off the wagon, no matter how many people told me I was a prick for not drinking, but I wanted at last to be sociable and to stay up late and have some fun.
And although it is slightly surreal to be sober amongst people who are incredibly drunk I had a terrific time and was slightly kicking myself for not doing this earlier (but professionally speaking I knew I had made the right choice - the show has been pretty consistent thanks to my lack of a hangover and relative freshness). But I had missed hanging out with fellow comics and forgotten how much I like them. And there were some wonderful laughs to be had, such as walking down the street with Mark Watson (whose show, as I understand it, is about at least partly about being recognised by over familiar strangers) to see people grabbing at him and saying "You're that comedian aren't you? What's your name," or simply being called a cunt by jolly well-meaning strangers. And there was a moment that was as frightening as it was hilarious when as we left Brook's bar, a large and big boned gentleman recognised Andy, and bowled him off his feet and jigged him up and down high in the air. I had assumed they were old friends due to the extremity of the greeting, but even so it was strange to see a grown man bobbing up and down, high above the ground. And then things turned weird as the large man nearly dropped the bullet-headed comedian, who now I looked again seemed to be trying to struggle out of this unwelcome hold. I tried to catch him, but luckily he landed on his feet, if a little awkwardly, at which point it became clear that Andy had no idea who this stranger was. It would be hard to think where this form of salutation would be appropriate, but to come from someone you didn't know at all, it was bizarre and a little scary and for a second it looked, not unreasonably, like there might be a contretemps. But the man was apologetic and insistent that he had met Mr Parsons two years before, though Andy did not recall this meeting - probably because he hadn't been tossed around like a baby in the arms of a grizzly bear. We decided it was best to move on. Andy was shaken, but we were soon laughing about this bit of Edinburgh madness. It is the funniest thing I have seen at the whole Fringe - even better than Collings inadvertently finding out the winner of his recorded, but unwatched Celebrity Masterchef.
I stayed out until well after 4 and wasn't in bed until 5, and am glad I didn't go through the whole Fringe without doing this. Although it was somewhat unsettling to be walking home from Bristo Square feeling completely sober and actually chipper enough to jog part of the way. I dodged between the drunks and at one point thought I was about to be mugged as a young man rather aggressively asked me for money (and he wasn't a beggar, just a high spirited teenager). I just looked at him askance and kept on walking.
I felt slightly rueful that I had absented myself from all the fun this year, and that I have seen only three shows. But tonight vanquished my blues and made me laugh a lot and in many ways the fact I was on water made it all the more enjoyable. Drunk people are pricks. Being sober on a Saturday night is like taking part in the best interactive show on the Fringe.
But this was the cure for the self-indulgent introspection that has overcome me in the last few days. As I walked down the steps by the mound I was even slightly wishing that the Fringe was not going to be over quite so soon.
You know I will be back. Edinburgh itself is my reward. And my punishment. And there's a lot to be said for remaining anonymous enough to not have strangers shouting "cunt" at you or turning you into a human caber. I am the luckiest man in town. It's only in my darkest moments that I forget that.
Now fuck off Edinburgh and let me go home.
