Henhouse Putsch

Sometimes I think of things to write a blog post about, but they don't appear. This is obviously not because of quality a control. A quick glance over my past one entries will show that there is no minimum quality requirement.

Instead, it is due to forgetfulness.

I'm not a machine. A memory machine. I have faults and failings, like any other person. Well OK, I have fewer faults and failings than 94% of all other people. But I have them nonetheless.

An event will occur, or an occurrence will event, and I'll think: "Hey [I often address myself in this casual a way - and in this causal a way] Paul! There's a blog entry in that". And I'm all like: "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You're not the boss of me!".

And I come back all mad and shit, like: "I AM the boss of you! I am you! If you're not the boss of yourself, who is? The MAN? Tony Blairs?". And then I flick the Vs and get back on my skateboard.

That's how it happens.

But sometimes, I'll think "Oh. Actually that would be a good thing to write about. Certainly better than an imagined internal dialogue where I'm both petulant and retarded."

And then I'll be all like: "Really Paul, we both know that the use of the word 'retarded' there is unnecessary and offensive. It's a lazy comedy cliché that's disrespectful to those with mental disability."

But I'll offer the rejoinder: "You're right. I dislike the use of that word in any context. BUT: 1) I found the linguistic juxtaposition of 'petulant' and 'retarded' to be a pleasant one, and no other substitute was quite as good, and 2) By introducing your criticism of the term (in some second, more responsible inner-voice), I get to write it anyway, and yet still come across as self-aware and politically correct, with a dollop of postmodern analysis on top. I get to have my retarded cake and eat it. Like a spastic."

And then I'm all like: "Well, you've just undermined your own point with that last bit. Unless you think that the crudity of it will undercut the self-indulgence and pretension of the previous section".

And I'm all: "Yes. That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm brilliant."

And I agree.

So here are some things I meant to write about ages ago, but never got around too.

They are:

A: A hilarious analysis of an erroneous regional newspaper headline

and

B: An anecdote about a bleeding pensioner.

***

A hilarious analysis of an erroneous regional newspaper headline

Chronologically, this should have come somewhere in the middle of this post.

We were driving up to Edinburgh (and by "we" I mean "Jon") and stopped off in an odd little town somewhere just around the Scottish border. It was small and had sweet shops and strange local people shuffling about in the rain. I'm sure it was nice really, but the journey had been long and disorienting, and it seemed like a limbo town of some sort.

Whilst stretching my legs and my anxiety, I looked at a newspaper board. I do this all the time now, because it has yielded previous gold. Well, I say gold. It's usually silver. But rarely worse than bronze.

You may remember classics such as:

BOFFINS
'WON'T
DESTROY
WORLD'

'LIFE'S UNCERTAIN:
EAT DESSERT FIRST'

PERVERT

TEACHER

SPEARED

PRISON

BURGLER
CAUGHT IN
'HONEYTRAP'
HOUSE

Well, the sodden advert for The Berwick Advertiser has a new offering to add to that illustrious list:

'Revenge'
Attack On
Chicken
Coup

As you can probably already tell, there are a few things that I like about this headline.

The first thing I like is the sheer rurality of it. I don't know if 'rurality' is a word, but I'm going to use it anyway.

If you turn up in a town in the middle of nowhere, and have slight Wicker Man-suspicions of the inhabitants, this is exactly the kind of headline to confirm your doubts.

Oxford isn't a big city by any means, but we rarely have headlines relating to poultry housing.

What was the story? I should have bought a paper, but never remember to. Maybe it would ruin the magic of the headline.

I imagine it's some kind of farmer rivalry. A dispute escalated into property damage. These farm feuds can get quite nasty sometimes. You send one of ours to the hospital, we send one of yours to the morgue. You dent one of the legs of one of our milking stools, we smash the shit out of your chicken coop.

Which brings us to the second thing.

Chicken coup.

Not chicken coop.

Chicken coup.

Ahaha, another typo! Well spotted, Paul! You've never done a typo in your blog!

It is a good one though, even though I'm struggling to work dove calls into the scenario. I imagine a chicken coup would be difficult. An organised military uprising against a governing power requires a level of planning and subterfuge that is, quite frankly, beyond the power of most livestock. [INSERT CLEVER ANIMAL FARM REFERENCE HERE]

The chickens rose up - presumably against the farmer - only to be subject to a revenge attack. Not a counter-revolution, or a reasserting of legitimate authority, but a revenge attack. It seems a bit petty. Like punching Fidel Castro in the face. But I imagine it would still be quite satisfying.

Like punching Fidel Castro in the face.

And snapping his cigar in half.

Even though I imagine he's quite old now, probably in a hospital bed, clinging to life - his revolutionary blood, once coursing fiercely through his veins, now inching sluggishly to its end; the once appropriately vivid red, now fading to pastel blue.

If I punched him now, I think it would be difficult for me to claim the moral highground.

But my favourite bit of the headline is, as usual, the punctuation.

It was a 'revenge' attack. Not a revenge attack. 'Revenge'.

And this is entirely correct. You need those little inverted commas. Because revenge is a subjective thing. You can never definitively say whether something is revenge. You might think that evidence points to an action being the consequence of a previous action, but revenge suggests a certain mindset.

As a journalist, you can't expect to know someone's mind, be they farmer, chicken, or Fidel Castro.

Just to confirm: I think it's highly unlikely that Castro orchestrated this chicken coup, and/or subsequent revenge (or 'revenge') activities.

But don't rule it out.

That reminds me of a joke I've just invented:

Did you here the one about the guy whose speciality was treating unconscious patients by hanging them upside down?

He was a doctor (in inverted comas).

That doesn't work written down, does it?

Or said out loud.

Or even thought.

***

This has been longer than expected. I think I'd better leave it there.

I'll do:

B: An anecdote about a bleeding pensioner.
on another occasion.

If I remember.

But I'm not a machine.

Timber

I wonder what would happen.

Anything could happen. Something will happen. But what would happen?

It would have to happen to a man like me. Or someone with different characteristics.

It would happen. Wouldn't it? It wouldn't, would it?

In a wooded area.

[Bear with me - I'm going somewhere with this.]

[I use that sentence to get away with bear theft]

[Never take a bear as a hostage. The honey overheads are immense, and if the bear gets Stockholm syndrome... well... you've got an amorous bear to deal with...]

Why would it happen? And furthermore, how?

How would it happen? And wheren?

Wheren will it happen?

[I'm combining where and when. You don't need both. It's economizing; along the same lines as smaste.]

"Wheren shall we meet?"
"The corner of four and five o'clock."
"WHAA?!"

It doesn't seem like it will happen. But it might.

It didn't. Everything didn't happen at some point, except for God. She happened. Wheren? Who can say?

Whohow?

God. I said that already.

I'm going to combine words until we have a vocabulary of six all-purpose words.

To start with: leg. A combination of "leg" and "example".

And then five more.

It would be a wise linguistic move. Or would it?

Remember when I used to write these posts? Written at an hour so late that sense was an enemy of free expression? Well, welcome back.

Whohow's the man?

Cometh the hour, cometh the comet.

It happened. It could have not, but didn't.

Wheren I read this tomorrow, I'll recoil. Then rub honey on the gums of a new-found friend and wait for God (whohowherenever She is) to make the first move.

Moretality

Back in the saddle, back on the wagon, back in town, back in black, back to front, back bacon, back to the future. Back.

"Back" is also the sound a liver makes when thrown against laminate flooring.

Edinburgh is now but a distant memory. Except for the people that live there, if they exist (which I doubt).

Also, this:

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 7
Remember that whole thing?

Intro

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

After a break to allow time for performing, reading comics, and writing a farce set inside a haunted lighthouse (to be filmed in 2013), I'm back on the Shelf Crusade, slaying the Muslims of ignorance in the name of Christ (learning). The offensive overtones of such a comparison are entirely coincidental and if you think otherwise, YOU'RE the racist.

In the gap since Part 6 I have read books by Dara O'Briaiaiaiaian and Stewart Lee, and a bucket-load of comics. (A bucket is the best way to store comics, so you can easily burn them in the event that one of them has endangered the space-time continuum).

Anyway: books.

***

Thomas More - Utopia

The good thing about this one is that I don't need to provide a synopsis. Y'all know about this.

Utopia. A place that is perfect and nowhere.

It was published in 1516, which is officially Ages Ago. Part admirable egalitarianism, part worrying totalitarianism.

The translation is written with modern language, including the use of the terms 'Capitalism' and 'Communism' (which weren't used in that context at the time). I'm not sure I like it - you don't have to spell it out for me. Well, given that the original was in Latin, you probably do.

Reading this confirms my belief that I probably quite like Capitalism, despite its many flaws. A Socialist utopia just can't allow for the emphasis on variety and individuality that I value so much.

Which might put my left wing credentials at risk. Luckily, I don't have any credentials. I gave them away to a charity shop.

Utopia is certainly ahead of its time. Not only in prefiguring Marxist social organisation, but in predicting the invention of the 110m hurdles and the astro-gun. (Not true) More was forward-thinking. More or less.

It's also weird that Utopia preaches ideas of religious tolerance, whereas More was pretty intolerant to heretics himself. I respect writers who can argue a different point of view to their own. Like in The Simpsons where Homer forsakes the church, and they present the religious figures as the noble ones.

I'd like to write an eloquent treatise about something I don't believe in. Maybe a few dozen pages on why Family Guy is really good.

But no. I fear such a thing would be beyond me. I'm no More of Groening. I'm just a mortal.

I wonder if people will be reading this in five hundred years' time - recognising it as an important artefact from Ages Ago.

Probably they will.

But what will the human race be like by then? It will probably involve jumping evenly-spaced obstacles, and will be initiated by a volley from an astro-starter-pistol.

I reckon.

Edinburgh 2010 - Epilogue

The Edinburgh adventure is over.

I'm sitting in my comfortable, familiar chair in comfortable, familiar England. It's nice to be back.

The above is an image of one of our flyers. And all of our flyers. They were all the same. I wanted to have thousands of unique images created, and to encourage audiences to collect them all. But it just wasn't cost effective.

As you can see, I'm "WHIMSICAL". I'm not totally happy with that (though it's probably accurate), as I view whimsy with suspicion. I do like that my picture doesn't really convey any sense of whimsy. A more appropriate caption would be "SLEAZEBAG". If we'd gone for the latter, we probably would have got a larger audience.

So, let's draw some conclusions.

Was it a success?

Yes. Except I spelt 'conclusions' wrong, and the sun isn't totally accurate.

What about Edinburgh?

I'm really pleased with how the show went. With a couple of minor exceptions, I think we performed well. We managed to get people to come and see it, and we had a lot of fun. Performing every night brought pressure, but also a familiarity with being on stage, and I think my stand-up skills have improved.

I was glad to be able to see a number of great shows (particularly Kevin Eldon and Daniel Kitson), and to explore the city, which is fantastic. I'd like to see it in non-festival time.

The best part of the experience was hanging around with the other comedians, making stupid jokes, talking about comedy, debating which numbers are funny (even numbers are funnier than odd), abusing each other (verbally and philosophically), and generally having "a laugh" and, on occasion, upwards of "eighteen laughs".

But, did I have a good time?

I don't know. People have asked me that, in a for-the-sake-of-politeness kind of way. And instead of saying "Yes, thanks", I find myself reluctant to give a definite answer.

I was away too long. I was homesick after a day. And by homesick, I mean Lucysick. This was the longest we've spent apart for years, and it just felt wrong. When you spend so much time with a person, it's like you're the same being.

So spending nearly two weeks away from Lucy was like living without my right arm and leg. I felt incomplete, and my trousers didn't fit. And I kept having to meet people side-on to give the illusion of humanity.

I wouldn't want to do it again without Lucy being there with me. That's the overriding thought.

It was also difficult in terms of socialising. As I'm sure you're aware (and the above two pictures signify beautifully), I'm not at my most comfortable when talking to people. It was OK with my fellow comedians, as I got on with them well, but when called upon to talk to new folk, or when flyering, I felt completely out of my depth. It was too long to be exposed to the ravaging winds of normality.

So, I enjoyed some elements, but found others too stressful.

What about the performing? After all, that's why I was there (and not, despite my best efforts, to try every smoothie in the city and stock up on psychedelic superhero cartoons).

I enjoy performing. I like making people laugh. I like the freedom and immediacy of stand-up.

But not that much. And not enough.

I think I'm probably not going to do stand-up any more. At least, I won't seek it out. I may do the odd show here or there.

I just think that the angst that accompanies each gig outweighs the pleasure of performing. And I don't want to be a professional stand-up, even if I was good enough. That lifestyle isn't for me: travelling, solitude, loud suits, a pet elephant - all those clichés.

To improve as a performer, I'd need to be gigging all the time. And I don't want to gig. So that's it.

What I really love is writing. I'll continue to do that here, and maybe do some other stuff (more videos, more podcasts, more one-man plays about a livid rector).

And of course, more blog posts where I write a hilarious list, make a veiled reference to something, and then complain about my job. That's my bread and butter.

Writing these Edinburgh posts has been fun, in that I've been forced to be semi-serious and demi-coherent. But it's time I got back to the form that made me so successful: NO FORM.

So that was Edinburgh 2010. I wonder what will have happened by the time Edinburgh 2011 rolls around... My guess: some months, one Christmas, and the death of one of the Beastie Boys.

I'm glad I went to Edinburgh. It was an experience. I'm definitely happy to have been there, even if I wasn't happy to be there.

I'd like to thank Alex, Jon, Tom and Matt for being such good company. I hope they remember this when I next ask them for some money.

This has probably been a bit ponderous and self-important. Sorry about that.

Or it might be really moving and brilliant. You can draw your own conclusions.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 11

So. Here it is. The last day.

The last gig.

The last word. Was "gig".

Tonight was our final performance as a group. Tomorrow, three of us are going home. And I'm fucking delighted. So much so that I've included some superfluous profanity.

That's not to say that I haven't enjoyed it...

But that's a discussion for another time. I'll do a full Edinburgh conclusion post-mortem post (mortem) later. So hang on to your hats and breath for that one.

But I don't want to ignore today aka yesterday, aka Day 11, aka my twelfth day in Edinburgh, aka The Prince of Mystery, aka Tuesday.

I woke up late, and went into town, getting distracted by a really cool bookshop. It was the books more than the shop, though no doubt the shop was an important factor. Would I have stopped to look at a pile of books on the street? Probably. But navigating the categories would have been more difficult without the shop element.

But if it was just a shop with no books, I probably wouldn't have stopped. There were many shops on the way that had no books. But did I stop in any of them? Yes. One. To get a smoked salmon roll. But that's clouding the issue.

It was a good shop, that's all. The bookshop. And the roll shop. Shops are nice. And so, I suppose, is capitalism. We're all learning something today. Eg. EDIT YOUR WRITING.

After the shop debacle, I wandered around, met objects, listened to shiny pavement, looked in a cathedral, got baffled by tartan, went to see Matt do a gig, drank some Diet Coke, did some tepid flyering, then went to our final show.

It was a really good one to end on. We weren't full, but the audience were great from the outset. Everyone did well. I did OK, but went a little bit crazy.

At one stage, I fumbled my line, but blamed the character I was playing at the time (a teacher). I named him Mr Amnesia, and improvised about three minutes as that character. Mr Amnesia, it seems, is just a weird idiot. I just staggered about dropped the mic, messed around with switches, and generally behaved like a fool.

The audience were incredibly patient. At times, it felt like I was approaching art. I probably should have done it for longer, but retreated back to my safe act. It was decidedly odd.

I think all of us have gone slightly crazy at various points, and I'm glad I saved mine for the end.

I wonder if Mr Amnesia might make a comeback. He could be my Alan Partridge.

I'll get working on a sitcom pilot.

After the show, we rushed to see Matt in the Chortle Student Comedy final. Except we didn't get there on time, as he was on first. Though that was annoying, we watched the rest of the night, which was of a pretty good standard, though we did have some cast-iron dicks sitting in front of us.

By which I mean decidedly annoying people, rather than mettalophalluses.

We went out for pizza afterwards. Bantering loudly, we teased each other and acted like idiots. It was fun. After Bantergate (which I'll name for Alex who loves banter and the suffix "-gate"), I went home. And here I am.

We need to get up early for the return trip, so I shouldn't be doing this at 3:09am. And yet... and yet...

Oh, and before the gig, I insisted (like a petulant nerd) that we had our picture taken. No-one had a camera, so we used my rubbish phone one. An audience member kindly took it. I've doctored it to make it look slightly less/more shit. I was going for a Doc and Marty from Back to the Future III-type deal. But it just looks like a poorly treated birthday snap from 1990.

Still: the memories...


Home, James!

Sorry, Jon.

Home, Jon.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 10

Day... 10. Mond...

Yesterd...

Gig...

Rain...

Tired...

See ya tomorrow!

***

Oh, I suppose I'd better do it properly.

I've been in Edinburgh too long. The city is fantastic, but doing a performance a day gets a bit draining.

Of course, loads of people do multiple shows in a day, and do that for the whole month of August. But I'm just a simple man. I like the familiar sights and sounds of a home-cooked Lucy.

I'm ready to go home. (But then, I've been ready to go home since Day 2/Sunday/The Eve of St Gibrideon's)

Yesterday, was quite good though. The sight of home on the horizon has given me a bit of a boost, and I felt like going to see some shows.

In the afternoon, I went to see a stand-up called Martin "Bigpig" Mor. It was upstairs in a pub's function room, and there werzen't many people there, but it was a nice atmosphere. Mor didn't do much prepared material, but was extremely amiable and charming (even if he suggested I should be a Canadian called Mitch).

After wandering around for a bit, we went to see a poetry show in our venue, the Banshee Labyrinth, lured by the appearance of Simon Munnery and John Hegley. It was a fun show. I might start writing poetry myself. (Or I might just leave it on the shelf - RHYME!!)

We only got to see Munnery in the end, as we had to do some flyering. He was great, though.

Our show was one of the best yet. We had a medium-sized crowd, but they were very receptive. Everyone did well. (Also, I did one of Alex's jokes. Annoyingly, it got a really good laugh.)

Hmm. There were a lot of capital As in between those brackets. Probably my own subconscious, telling the world that doing a comedy show at the Edinburgh Fringe is like fucking the capital 'A'.

After the show, I had a greasy veggie burger in the pouring rain. There was something noble about it. Unfortunately, the noble thing was: nothing.

We went to a weird sort-of panel show, with few people and too many ideas. I was quite tired by that point, but not too tired to act like a dick in front of strangers. That's just muscle memory.

I got wet. I still haven't tried on my shoes. I hope they have been dried by some mysterious hot-air elves.

I think I'll have to burn everything I own when I get back. Too much walking, too much sweating, too much shouting.

I might become a monk. As long as I can keep my iPod, and still swear.

Basically, I just want to wear a cassock.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 9

This is now yesterday, though would have been today if I'd started this post fifteen minutes ago. It was Sunday though. By anyone's standards. Even the standards of Ra.

And he was stringent at best.

This morning I walked to Holyrood Park, with the intention of going up Arthur's Seat. (Hey, that sounds a bit like innuendo! I wonder if anyone else has noticed that...) I only got about a third of the way up before being exhausted. I also realised I was afraid of heights, so it took ages to get back down the precarious stony path.

I walked though the park. It was a glorious day - full of optimism and dogs in ponds. One of those days.

I watched the Liverpool-Arsenal game in the pub. As usual with pubs with multiple screens showing the game, I couldn't commit to one screen. I had to keep changing my view, as though one of them might show me a perspective that the other one lacked, like a shot from inside the folds of Roy Hodgson's ears, or an x-ray view showing the players' bones and genitals.

I did some more awkward flyering. I spoke about it in my stand-up set. Flyering is a chance to relive every social rejection of my adolescence in microcosm. Every attempt to give someone a flyer highlighted my social inadequacy, my desire to please, my ability to be both terrified and disturbing. I'm so bad at flyering, I end the day with more flyers than I started with.

We were all in a bit of a funny mood during the afternoon, and it continued into the gig. It was a bit of a disaster.

I don't know if it was fatigue or mischievousness, but things never really felt on track. We messed around and didn't get many laughs. Though I went on at the end, and quite enjoyed it. I don't think it was an awful gig - I think the crowd were bemused, rather than offended. But it was still something I'd rather not repeat.

On Wednesday, we had a silly, self-indulgent gig that was fun and enjoyed by all. This was the other side of that coin. It was a dark side.

It was still quite cool, though. As long as it doesn't happen again. Apart from last Sunday's gig, I haven't really hated any of the ones we've done, which is a real plus.

And now there's only two more to go!

I'm more than ready to go home, but I do feel sympathy for my poor readers, who won't have many more of these erudite and insightful Edinburgh diaries to look forward to.

I'm terribly sorry. But I'm sure I'll be able to revert to my pre-Edinburgh blog technique of starting writing from a standing position, pirouetting, and driving text into the ground like a drill of titanium and whimsy.

It will be good to explore that fertile ground once again, under the heavy-lidded eyes of the world.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 8

Saturday. Yesterday. Well, yesterday as I write this. But in seven minutes it will have been the day before yesterday. But still Saturday.

A day almost devoid of incident. I got up late, watched some football online, and stumbled about for a bit.

In town, I saw the guy with "I LOVE ENGLAND" sign again. This time I noticed that the flip side of the sign said "I HATE ENGLAND". So he's not taking as much of a risk as I thought. He's playing to two distinct demographics, though banking on them only over seeing the side of his sign that displays their viewpoint. A bit of a risk.

Before, I suggested it might have been like Die Hard With a Vengeance. The scene I was referring to is Jon McClane being forced by a scenery-chewing Jeremy Irons to walk around Harlem with a sandwich-board saying "I hate niggers" (or else a bomb would go off or something).

This Edinburgh guy has shown that McClane could have avoided a lot of trouble, if the other side of his sign had said "I love niggers". Because any Harlem residents seeing that would have appreciated the gesture, and probably bought him a drink.

We did a lot more flyering than usual, which seemed to pay off. I still felt quite uncomfortable doing it, but the other guys seemed to have a lot of fun, and it was quite contagious. The hilarious "Free flyer, sir?" (HA! BUT THEY'RE ALL FREE!) raised a few chuckles.

We had another really big crowd, and everyone seemed to enjoy the show. It was one of our best yet. I compered, and everything went swimmingly.

I came home and watched some of Match of the Day. The Saints game was called off due to the death of our owner Markus Liebherr. Obviously it's very sad, and he basically rescued the club, but I feel a bit weird about grieving for someone I know so little about. So I won't grieve. I'll just feel slightly ill-at-ease.

I think I can handle that.

***

I was going to post this before, but if you'd like an alternate take on the Edinburgh experience, have a look at my showmate Jon's blog on the subject. It's very entertaining. Though slightly downbeat. Slightly.

Is "showmate" a real term? It sounds like he's a fellow stripper. Which, in a metaphorical sense, he is.

I don't know what that means.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 7

What a difference a day makes! It resets the clock, changes the date, even changes the tasks required of a person. Days certainly are significant units of time. I don't think anyone could argue about that.

From the theoretical sell-out of Thursday night to the... well, the not that of Friday.

But I'll get to that later. Friday began with a trip to see the Collings and Herrin podcast being recorded. I've listened to the podcast since day one (to clarify: not Edinburgh Day one, or my first day here, or the first day of the universe - just since the podcast started).

I feel an odd loyalty to Collings (Andrew Collins) and Herrin (Richard Herring), so it's only right that I see them in action. Even if the 'action' is just them sitting down, making up puerile nonsense and arguing with each other. This was my first chance to see it live, and was lots of fun.

Afterwards, I went shopping for frivolous treats. How frivolous? Well, I bout six DVDs of the 1960s Spider-Man cartoon. They were only £3 each. So I felt justified. I also bought a Fall album, the new Arcade Fire album, and A Serious Man on DVD. And some comics.

You don't need to know all that, but I thought that kind of precise detail might help you visualise my predicament. The Devil is in the details. And God. They're both in the details. They seem to be behaving amicably enough, but their mutual disdain is bubbling beneath the surface.

After that, I went and sat in St Andrew Square. It was alternately sunny and freezing, and there was a sweet little dog that I thought about stealing. Small as it was, it probably wouldn't have fit in my bag.

We did our usual flyering outside the our venue, and waited for the crowds to pour in. And they did. All five of them.

That's right: five.

One of whom was Jon's friend. Three of whom seemed to be hanging around for a later show.

I have no idea why there was such a disparity between Thursday and Friday's attendances. I suppose there's no explaining these things. Maybe there was some kind of Friday 13th curse. Yes. That explains it.

In the end, it turned out to be really fun. No-one really did proper material, and it was just like a fun chat between friends. I spend my whole set telling one joke:

One summer, I worked in the grounds of a convent. I subtly convinced Sister Mary Patrick to keep the sun out of my eyes. She was nun the visor.

Jon had requested the joke, using the punchline. So we basically workshopped the joke. The nun would need to be oblivious and German, we decided.

Instead of a set, Jon invited people (including the audience) to share their memories of him. It was really enjoyable.

It's funny: Thursday was full, but a bit underwhelming. Friday had a minuscule audience, but left me feeling really upbeat afterwards. Alex suggested that that kind of gig is the real "spirit of the Fringe". I think that's right. There may not have been many people there - but I think those of us who were there really had a memorable time.

It's odd to think we've done a full week of gigs. What a difference a week makes! Probably the equivalent of seven day-differences.

I don't think anyone could argue about that.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 6

My days are getting less and less eventful. And I like that a great deal. Thursday was, despite its spelling, pretty relaxed. (Stupid Wōden)

I got up late, and only left the flat when I realised that humans need food to live. I briefly looked into some shops, but realised that my time could be better spent sitting in bed, weeping (listening to podcasts). I picked up a delicious African wrap and a bottle of vitamin water.

I didn't want vitamin water. I don't like it. I'd rather just have water. But it was the closest thing to fruit juice they had. Apparently it will improve my skin. But there's no evidence so far.

Also, it's called V Water, which could mean anything. It says V Water: The Vitamin Water. But that seems a bit redundant. Unless the V stands for something else. Like Victory. Or Venereal.

The afternoon was pretty empty until I went out for our gig. I got soaked on the way. My jeans (which were probably a bit long) have gone from being tatty at the bottom, to ripped, to ripped into a ragged loop, to having the loop ripped in two. Now I have two dangling denim flaps at the bottom of my trouser leg, whipping at the air, a rain-sodden trip hazard, like the long ears of a Levi beagle.

On the way to the venue, I saw a man advertising his show with a big placard. People do that here. They have a sign with the show details on it, so that people can follow them down the street, like some Pied Piper of Ambitious and Ultimately Disappointing Dramatic Theatre.

This guy's sign just said "I LOVE ENGLAND". Which was brave. I think the show was about England, but still... If it wasn't festival time, that sign would probably get you killed in Edinburgh. I wondered if it might be part of a Die Hard With a Vengeance-style forfeit, to avoid a bombing elsewhere.

Our gig was totally full! In fact, there were more people that wanted to come in, but we didn't have the seats. I'm not sure why. I suppose word of our brilliance might have spread. Or maybe people just wanted a nice sit down.

Despite the big crowd, I didn't think the show was as good as some of the previous ones. I couldn't quite put my finger on it - things just seemed a bit more flat. I did the Headscissors stuff again, and it went OK.

Afterwards, we went for a drink or two (the normal people had alcohol, I had orange juice). I was goaded into five seconds of dancing before I left.

I'm a brilliant dancer. It was good to have that reminder. Now I don't have to ever do it again.

I was almost home when I realised again about the whole food-for-survival thing. The only place that was open was a kebab shop, and I got chips and cheese. It was my first really unhealthy thing since I got here, and made me feel a bit ill.

Or maybe it was after-effects of the dancing.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 5

It was Wednesday. It has been Wednesday on many occasions, and (hopefully) there will be many more. Despite the stupid spelling.

Stupid Wōden.
I set my alarm and got up early. But unlike the usual misery of early mornings (for work, exams, Christmas, farming etc) the mood was a positive one. Because it was time to see Daniel Kitson.

As part of his ongoing desire to alienate anyone who might not like him, his show started at 10am. There was also something exciting and illicit about going to a show this early, buying coffee and eagerly anticipating my secret liaison with Mr Kitson: just him, me and a few hundred other people.

Which reminds me, I realised this morning that on the list of guidelines we have pinned to the bathroom door in this flat (detailing how to work the shower, why we shouldn't make toast in the bath and so on), there's a bit of cleaning advice, suggesting we use Illicit Bang.

That's right: Illicit Bang.

I thought this must have been either a joke, or be referring to some black market Cillit Bang alternative. But the purple bottle they describe was indeed Cillit Bang. It was just a mistake. An understandable spell-check error.

But I'd still like to use Illicit Bang. Perhaps by using a cannon in an old peoples' home, or organising an orgy in a fire extinguisher.

Of course, the error could have been worse. If I'd been asked to use Clit Bang, I really wouldn't know what to do.

Anyway, back to Kitson (or Danny K, as I have never considered calling him). His stage set-up was beautiful, just a wooden chair and stepladder, and about twenty naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling at varying lengths and positions around the stage. In the show, each bulb represented a particular moment in time (and would brighten as he spoke about it).

It was a really great show - a story rather than stand-up, but still really funny. It was ambitious, but totally worked, and I felt emotionally drained as I limped out into the morning air. And hungry.

Kitson is my favourite comedian, and his stand-up is just as moving as his story shows. I recommend going to see him if you can track him down. He is aloof, but sometimes you can follow his trail: straggly beard hairs, Belle & Sebastian albums, and debris from a thousand quips. Follow the scent and you'll get to the promised land.

After a quiet afternoon, it was gig time again. The crowd was a bit smaller than the previous day, but were really great and up for everything. The final member of our group, Tom Greeves, arrived and it was great to have everyone together. I think we all had a lot of fun, and there was a really good atmosphere (with lots of teasing, silliness and abuse).

I did my bit about this blog and the Headscissors fetish, which I've only done once before, and it went down really well.

After the gig, we were going to go on a ghost walk, but a combination of expense and fatigue meant that we opted out. Which was probably a disappointment to the ghosts. I think they would have enjoyed terrifying us. But then, they hadn't been doing any flyering, so can't really complain.

Of course, the ghosts may indeed have been flyering, but invisible marketing isn't always the best way to draw crowds.

So that was Wednesday. It's weird that we're nearly half-way through our run.

Maybe I'll get working on a routine about Illicit Bang, and think of other cleaning products with sexual overtones (Flash, Mr Muscle, Cif). On the other hand: I won't do that.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 4

You know what I mean by Day 4, right? I don't have to keep explaining it, do I?

Today (and, as I write this, it is today - though I suppose that's always true) I rose late.

I like saying rose instead of "woke up", even though it doesn't seem quite right. Arose, it should be perhaps.

I rushed off to The Stand to see The Actor Kevin Eldon's solo show (his first ever, I think). He was really really good, lots of good character stuff and songs, but much better than that sounds. It was cool to go to a venue I've heard so much about.

It was also cool because there were loads of famous comedians milling about (well, maybe not famous). Stephen K Amos and Simon Munnery were there. As the show was going on, Stephen Carlin stood behind me. I was a bit too conscious of this fact, and (despite not really having any particular opinions of Carlin) I felt compelled to act up for his benefit: laughing at the clever jokes, and making myself seem like an ideal audience member.

I don't know why. What was I expecting? "Excuse me mate, you seem like such a good audience member, I'd like to give you your own show and a duck!"

On the way out, we were given flyers by Stewart Lee! I probably shouldn't have been so impressed, but it's difficult be nonchalant about it. Though I think I did a decent job of being sullen and cool, even when Eldon himself came into the cafe where we were eating. I didn't throw my knife and spoon at him, and then start humping his leg, if that's what you were thinking, Kevin.

After a quick sleep it was back to the flyering, which wasn't too painful.

Our show was the best yet, I thought. It was our largest crowd, and they were all really receptive. I was compering, which I've never done. I have compared though - in fact I did a comparison in the previous sentence. I've never compeered though (as I've seen it spelled on a sign). That's obscene.

It was really fun to go out there and talk to people, without worrying too much about material. I was able to generate some good stuff from a couple of friendly Dutch guys in the audience, and almost made an offensive joke about a girl's dead grandmother (my face must have shown what I was thinking, so I got a laugh anyway - I had my dead cake and ate it).

I'd like to try it again sometime.

Afterwards (about two hours ago), I walked home, picking up a pizza and blood orange juice on the way. I love blood orange juice, even though there's something I can't quite put my finger on, that reminds me of blood. The name Sanguinello is a bit more pleasant, as it's just foreign blood (which is a delicious refreshment for any Englishman).

And that brings us bang up to date. Unless something really eventful happens before I go to bed. But I doubt that it will!

***

EDIT - After this was written, Paul found a hidden golf course in a packet of crisps.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 3

I'm writing this on Day 4 (aka Edinburgh Day 5, aka yesterday, aka Tuesday), so I'll have to remember what happened on Day 3 (aka Edinburgh Day 4, aka St Gibrideon's day, aka the Festival of the Lamplighters, aka Rick).

I stayed in for the beginning part of the day, waiting for our flyers to arrive. It was nice and relaxing, and I was able to read quite a lot of Stewart Lee's new book, How I Escaped My Certain Fate, which is excellent. Though I question my wisdom in reading a book about stand-up, when comedy is already bombarding me in every thought, poster, leaflet, and shrill maniacal whoop.

After the flyers arrived, I put a bundle in a carrier bag, and walked through the pouring rain. Realising the bag was on its last legs - it didn't really have legs; it isn't that kind of bag - I went into a shop and bought a cheap man-bag. I've never owned a man-bag before and can't help but think, despite its many uses, that I've slightly compromised my masculinity. Which is probably a misogynistic and homophobic thing to say, but hey: if you can't stand the heat of my prejudice, get out of the poorly conceived kitchen.

I eventually arrived at my destination: a live panel show where two of my fellow comedians, Jon and the almost too funny Matt Richardson, were guests. It was a bit of a train wreck, with Jon's misanthropy and Matt's energy turning what I imagine is usually a pleasant, whimsical, unexceptional show into a tense and morbidly entertaining experience. I think there was genuine ill-will towards the end, which was great.

After that, we went flyering.

I've never flyered (flyered?) before, and found it a bit uncomfortable. I'm too apologetic to promote myself, and have the awkward air of a sex offender who's been forced to go door-to-door, notifying his neighbours of his hideous crimes.

Also, I try to make judgements about who I should give the flyer too (which is clearly stupid, as everyone is welcome, and anyone can be a good audience member). I didn't want to give a flyer to anyone too tough, to old or too Scottish. I think I overcame this prejudice eventually.

When the show rolled around, I thought the audience might be a bit quiet, but they were really great. It was a lot of fun in the end, and it did a good job in cheering me up after the previous night's disappointment.

After the show, we had no time to waste, as Matt and Alex were both in the So You Think You're Funny? semi-final at the Gilded Balloon. It's one of the biggest stand-up competitions in the world, and so the gig was quite a big deal: in a swanky venue with a large crowd.

There were eight acts, and only one was guaranteed to get through. Both of them were great, and Alex won the thing! It was a great feeling afterwards (we cheekily flyered the crowd, advertising the man of the hour's appearance in our show).

We topped off the night by going to Late 'n' Live, the legendary late-night comedy show, which may not be quite what it used to, but I still really enjoyed. There was a raucous atmosphere (it seemed a fight was brewing at one stage), but the acts were good, especially Terry Alderton who was insane.

I fell into bed at about 4am, too tired to think about anything. I think it was a good day.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 2

I've realised that my naming convention for these posts is going to be confusing. It's not really Day 2. It was my third day in Edinburgh. But was the day of our second gig. Which, in turn, is different from the date of this post.

Oh, well. I doubt it will cause anyone too much distress (except for me, but I've gotten used to carrying distress round with me - I've knitted a special pocket!).

So, this day (Day 2, third day in Edinburgh, yesterday, Sunday) was less busy, and that was probably for the best.

(I've noticed a tendency to start too many sentences with "So". So I'll stop doing that. Ahaha.)

There was some general pootling about. That's right: pootling. I've never pootled before, but I believe it's mandatory in Scotland. On the other side of the famous St Andrews flag, there's a sketch of Robert the Bruce pootling his way around the Maldives.

I wandered around all Baudelairean-like. Well, if Baudelaire spent a couple of hours leafing through the Fringe programme making snide remarks in a hotel bar. Which I'm almost certain he did.

We saw a documentary about Malcolm Hardee and The Tunnel which was well worth seeing.

In the evening, we had our show. At first it looked like we'd have no crowd, but we managed to press gang a few strays into the venue. In the end we had a decent number of people.

I was on first and did badly. It was the same set as the day before, but this time they weren't going for it at all. I'm not sure whether to blame myself or the crowd, so I'll blame both.

It was a thoroughly disheartening experience (I think I've used that phrase many times, which should tell me something), especially after the fun of the night before.

Then I went back to my room and ate too much of a too big baked potato.

Glamourous, glamourous, glamourous.

I was probably going to write something profound there, but got distracted by looking up how many 'u's should be in glaumouruous.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 1

It was Saturday on Saturday. You may have noticed, due to the corresponding words.

It was also the day of our first gig, which I hadn't really thought much about, what with all the looking at things and nodding at animals that looked like they might have some kind of industry connection.

We walked around the city, and I went exploring on my own, not getting lost (which was a real boon for me - that's right: boon). I got knackered walking up hills and steps. I went up to Edinburgh Castle (though didn't go in). On the way, I saw what looked like police sniffer dogs. With them were some police. I heard some people speculating about a bomb threat, but I'm not sure that's what they were doing. Maybe someone had simply mislaid a pungent wallet.

While I was there, I went to get a smoothie in a little shop. There was something slightly off about the staff. They created the impression that they'd beaten and tied up the real smoothie shop staff in the back, and had been sent out front to make it look like everything was normal. They didn't seem to know how things worked, or where anything was. They also didn't know the names of any of the smoothies.

Which reminds me of a real pet peeve of mine (which in turn reminds me, I probably should have arranged for a neighbour to take care of my pet peeves while I was away - or have put them in some sort of peeve kennel).

It really annoys me when cafes have wacky names for their menu items, but then don't ever use them themselves. There's always a list of sandwiches or salads called The Morning Magician or The Wild'n'Crazy or The Foreigner or the Lightning Bolt Panini.

And you see these on the menu, and feel you have to call them by name. It's embarrassing, but you do it.

"Can I have one - uh - The Foreigner, and one Morning Magician please?"

And to compound the demeaningness (that's right) of the whole exchange, they say "which one's that?"

"The.. Morning Magician?"

"The what?!"

Then you point to the menu, and they say: "Ohhhh. Cheese and tomato. Why didn't you say so?"

YOU WERE THE ONES THAT NAMED THE PRODUCTS! AT LEAST ADHERE TO YOUR OWN STUPID RULES!

At the suspicious smoothie shop, I asked for the first one the menu, which was the (ugh) "Up and at 'Em!". But which they only knew as "the top one".

I didn't like that.

After smoothiegate (which I'll name for Alex - who loves the suffix "-gate"), I went to see a show by two lesbian poets. It seems like it might be a bit reductive to refer to them as that (I probably wouldn't describe going to see two black poets), but what're ya gonna do?

They were good. Though I feel intimidated by people with that level of self-belief and powerful annunciation.

They were performing in the spooky basement of our venue: The Banshee Labyrinth.

We had a look at our stage, which is a small cinema space. It was pretty cool.

Before our show started, we saw Jon do five good minutes in a weird gig at an adjacent venue, and we awkwardly left in the middle to go to our place.

(I should just say that any time I refer to awkwardness in this blog, it's only me that's awkward. I've almost made awkwardness into an art form, If you want someone to stand around making people feel uncomfortable, just give me a call - a call which will be so excruciating, you'll feel compelled to burn your phone.)

The audience for Gig 1 was good - most of the people there were friends of Jon's (though we had a few more people come in throughout the show).

The thing about being part of the Free Fringe is that it's free. (You may have noticed, due to the corresponding words.) So people float in and out, and you need to convince people to come in with sheer charm (or in my case, awkward standing in hallways). We don't have our flyers yet, so had to improvise with bits of paper and banter.

The show went well, I thought. I was pleased with my performance, which included some fun ad libs.

I've stopped doing one-liners in my set, as I found them a bit incongruous and embarrassing. Though I might try a few later in the run.

(I won't be reviewing my showmates' performances here, as that could be a bit weird. So just assume that they're always brilliant unless I say otherwise.)

All in all: a satisfying first show. It will be interesting to see how my mood and opinion of myself fluctuates throughout the week.

Well, I say interesting. I mean self-indulgent. Which is interesting to me, at least.

Edinburgh 2010 - The Previews

So, I'm in Edinburgh. We did our first show last night.

I'm sorry I haven't had time to update this blog as much as usual. I have been busy getting tired and excited and nervous and lost and confused; often all of these simultaneously.

I'm not sure what to write about the whole thing. Should I give a blow-by-blow account of it all? Does every gig need a summary? Probably not. Also, I'm not used to using this as an actual diary, so it seems weird to be writing about something instead of ridiculous nothing.

I'll probably fall somewhere in between, disappointing everyone. But I'll give a quick account of everything, so that in years to come I'll be able to look back on this and say "huh".

I'll start by talking about the preview gigs we did back in Oxford (which now seems like several years ago).

Last Monday we did a preview at Baby Simple on Cowley Road. It was OK, but a bit of a letdown. I went on stage with two long, largely unwritten bits that didn't really work. I felt unprepared, and I think that showed on stage.

Hmm. Nothing funny so far.

Oh I know what's funny! There was a chicken bone in the corner of the venue by a plant pot! No-one else seemed to see it! A chicken bone! Probably a leg bone or face bone or something. Just lying there, bold as brass. It didn't pay the entrance fee or anything.

I know what's funny!

The second gig, on Tuesday at The Duke's Cut, was much better, but still a bit underwhelming. There was a really good crowd there, but I think I underperformed.

I think that there's usually about 7% of the audience that finds me funny. And mostly in a curious way, like a grown man grinning at a chicken bone, rather than a laughter-inducing way. I don't think I'm ever going to be the next Michael McIntyre.

Which suggests that it's just my unorthodox, revolutionary material that will stop me being accepted by the mainstream. Rather than me just not being that funny.

But I know what's funny. Remember the chicken bone? I bet about 7% of you really enjoyed that whole bit (and maybe even gave a single throat-clearing "HA").

I was a bit down after the two gigs, feeling a bit bored of my material.

Last week was busy at work too, so it felt like a bit of an ordeal. We came up to Bonnie Scottishland on Friday (kindly driven by fellow comedian Jon Spira). The drive up made me realise how little of my own country I've seen, as we went through tiny towns in the North with names like Fisherly Anton and Bleaieaderieaeieae.

We arrived in Edinburgh and had a look round. It's a really beautiful city. I don't know if I've ever thought that about a city other than Oxford. After being shown around, we went to the Pleasance to see Dutch comedian Hans Teeuwen do some strange and funny stuff in a stiflingly hot venue - at points I was forgetting the show and eyeing his water bottles with parched envy.

And that brings us up to the end of Friday.

It has been stupidly busy week. I don't like busy. Busy and I don't get along. In fact, I was going to paint a white line down the middle of my world: Busy stays on one side, I stay on the other. But frankly, I haven't got the time.

I sure could go for a chicken bone right about now... Maybe with some chicken enclosed as a little bonus comedy treat.

Gloop

Well, here it is: August.

The Big A. The Auger. Lord Gust. Gustavo Poyet. The Gamechanger. The Worldbreaker. The month of months.

At least that's how it seems.

Edinburgh is nearly upon us, and the goose is getting fat (but funny fat).

I'm going to be doing a show called This Is What You Get with three fellow comedians (Alex Clissold-Jones, John Spira and Tom Greeves). We're performing at the Banshee Labyrinth in Edinburgh from 7-17th. And we have two Oxford previews this coming week.

I'm feeling my normal combination of physical nerves and mental confidence. It's not particularly comforting.

I'll try to regularly update this blog when I'm in Edinburgh (depending on online availability). I've never performed at the festival before, been to the festival before, been to Edinburgh before, been to Scotland before, or left my flat before. So I'm relying on my companions to be my guide through this alien world. I'm like a naive hobbit on some unknown quest. My feet are quite hairy too.

I'm going to be doing a lot of new material this week. I know I should really work on finding and honing ten great minutes, but I keep getting bored with my old ideas, and am eager to try new ones.

I've come up with a couple of pieces of material today, which I may try. And I might throw in a few of my Twitter jokes. I worry that I don't have a consistent style yet (part anecdotal, part surreal, part one-liners; ALL disappointing), but I suppose that's what Edinburgh is for. It will be a real experience to perform every night for eleven nights.

I'm also looking forward to seeing some of the famous sights Edinburgh has to offer. I'd like to see at least most of the following:

- The Tartan Mound
- Furbrenies
- The Ankles
- The William Wallace Toxic Dance Quartet
- an elk
- a man smoking a cigarette
- Dublin
- a fight between two different Anne Franks, from two different plays about Anne Frank
- some acorns
- wee (Scottish for "urine")
- many hogs
- a confrontational leaflet
- longbread
- The Anticlaimers (the Proclaimers' Evil Quadruplets)
- Debbie Harry
- my own navel

Obviously, time won't permit all of them. I'm not Superman, despite what my driver's license says in crayon.

Right, I might go and work on my act. (I have some cracking material about how different men and women are!) Or I might just read a comics message board and listen to Tim Buckley.

But who can say?

I'm not Professor X, despite what it says on my homemade T-shirt in crayon.