Monday, 31 August 2009

PC Gone Mad.

Train heave on to Euston. Well, Kings Cross anyway.

I'm back in London and immediately it welcomed me back the way only London can. Queues to get a tube ticket, queues to get through the barrier at the tube, queues to go down the escalator down to the tube platform and, of course, the sight of the tube doors closing and the train moving away and the dot matrix saying the next train is in 8 minutes. 8 minutes is a very upsetting amount of time to wait on a tube, 2 minutes is just about bearable but 8 is the most insane thing that I have ever heard in my entire life. At least it was at the time. Then I got on the tube and a man in crutches and wearing soiled clothes followed, apologised for asking and then asked for some change so that he could stay in a hostel. Some people don't trust people who beg but I am not one of those people.

He looks like shit and he smells. If he's conning us then at least he's done his homework. I find some people's theories on the wealthy homeless hilarious and depressing. How many times have you heard "Don't give them anything. Look at their shoes. Their shoes are OK. He probably has a mansion in Chelsea and a Lambourgini and his own independent film company and stocks in Microsoft and is married to Madonna and owns the rights to The Beatles back catalogue and is Richard Branson and invented the diamond"? It's fucking ridiculous and just doesn't make sense. I'm a deeply cynical person but if I ever get suspicious of a skinny man who looks so uncomfortable with his own skeleton, has shit under his fingernails and requests 20 fucking pence then it's time to take a long hard look at myself. I gave him some change. So did some other people. But a cunt didn't.

He was from the Department of Cunts, too. Very official. He had a badge and ID and he was so big and tough and it soooooooo impressed all of us when he stood over this skeletal half-man while he threw him off the train. "I'm Transport Police", he declared. "Do not give this man any money. Begging is a criminal offence. Get off this train at the next stop". The homeless man had to give some change back to the last man who gave him money. It wasn't just embarrassing it was simply horrible and evil. What difference could it possibly have made to this big badge-flashing shit if someone took a bit of spare change from someone else? How can Mr. Transport Police justify this action? He could plainly see that this man was, at the very least, ill. He might be on drugs, he might spend it on booze!!! We're ALL on fucking drugs and we ALL spend it on fucking booze. Why should he be left out? And what a fucking cowardly job being Transport Police is. I understand that violence occurs on trains but I have never seen any police around when this happens. Do they just sit there waiting for life's little fuck-ups to come along asking for change or fare dodging? That whole helping people thing really has to be stamped out. Thanks, pigs!

Yeah, I'm in a mood. Ha! See, he misses Edinburgh already. He's only back 5 minutes and he's missing it. WRONG. My TV blew up. That's why I'm pissed off. Might not have one for a few days. It is literally the end of the world and really puts that homeless man's petty begging into perspective. He doesn't know how lucky he is. There's only one thing worse than no TV and that's a TV that doesn't work.

Sunday, 30 August 2009

The Last King of Everything of Scotland.

And that's that.

I'm writing this on a train back to London after the final King of Everything show in Edinburgh. I'm not saying I had a bad time but I'm a wee, little bit completely over the moon that I'm leaving. It was fun but I'm too old and stupid to have that amount of fun for that length of time. My body hates me for what I have done to it in August. And today when I was on stage during The Shouting Sketch when my comedy partner and Edinburgh husband, Johnny Candon, accidentally spat in my mouth I knew that it was time to leave.

I've loved the show and loved being on stage with Johnny. Sure, he finds rehearsing a repugnant chore but he's very, very funny and that makes up for a lot. And there were other elements of Edinburgh that made me happy for a while. I saw some great shows and two very shit ones. Dan Antopolski's show was utterly predictable in as much as I knew it was going to be brilliant. He's just one of the funniest people I have ever seen and, in a way, that makes him a cunt. I saw Stewart Lee's show for a second time and it was even funnier than the first time I saw it which, in a way, makes me a cunt. What didn't I get before? Stupid Legge. Bridget Christie's show was so fantastic and I was proud that she chose me out of all the people in her audience (one of which was her own father) to stand like a fascist. I saw a good few other great shows but my brain is letting me down at the moment, which is fair enough as it's so often the other way round.

See? It wasn't all bad, eh? I even got quite happy when I heard Tim Key had won the Edinburgh Funny Trophy. He's excellent. And Johnny Sweet won best newcomer which shocked everyone in comedy. How dare someone we've never even heard of win the best newcomer prize? That is just too radical a step. Congratulations to both of them.

Oooh, look. I'm in Newcastle now.

Anyway, this time next week and I'll start missing it all over again. But for now I'm quite content to say goodbye to comedians who keep their reviews on their iPhones and show them to you, to fucking Sagres beer and to "young" comedians who say The C-Bomb instead of cunt. For fuck's sake. The fucking C-Bomb? If you ever use the phrase The C-Bomb, ironically that automatically makes you a wally. Yeah, I went there. A few days ago I was in Brooke's Bar and a line from the film Anchorman kept running through my mind and did so for the remaining days of the Edinburgh Festival: "We've been coming to the same party for twelve years now, and in no way is that depressing".

Bye, Edinburgh.

Saturday, 29 August 2009

Nearly Done.

Only two days to go.

I'm tired, drained, sick, ugly and fed up. That is definitely the spirit of the Fringe. I feel like I'm trapped in Groundhog Day but with a boring script written by Simon fucking Nye and it's been directed by a blind dog with rabies. And I'm not even Bill Murray, I'm Andie MacDowell, the worst actress in the fucking world.

I really need toast.

Has anything good happened over the last two days? Can I even tell the difference between the last two days and any other two days that have happen in the expensive and drunk moth of August? No. Not much. This isn't like last year. At least last year I was angry all the time. This year I'm just fed up. I'm so fed up that I can't get angry. Even the nominations for the Edinburgh Comedy I'm The Best Present Prize couldn't get me angry. Know why? Because I, along with everyone else on the fucking planet, doesn't give a shit about the fucking Edinburgh Comedy Award Present Thing. We don't even know what it's called anymore. I mean, well done to all the nominees and everything but honestly, if you're not a nominee who gives a shit? You'll get an award. Well done. You're following in the footsteps of Lano & Woodley, Will Adamsdale and all those other household names who have been flung into fame's bosom after winning it. It's such a dull award now that the only surprise about it is that occassionally you meet someone up here who has a little bit of a moan about it. "Ooh, that's terrible. No women in either of the shortlists" or "This is a disgrace. Not a single ethnic act in either of the shortlists." For fuck's sake, the awards panel are made up of a group of comedy experts who's qualified opinion is clear: Only white men are funny, everyone else isn't. It makes total sense when you think about it. Thatcher, Mugabe, Papa CJ? Are they funny?

I think I need Toilet here this year more than ever. It would just turn my last couple of days in Edinburgh right round if he, a man who keeps ignoring me, would walk up to me and put his arm round my shoulder and say "I love you".

Has it all been so bad? No. Not at all. The show is great. That is the best hour of my day. I've also been doing some stand-up at The Stand which I'm really enjoying plus last night's stand-up set at BBC Comedy Presents was so enjoyable. This is going to sound weird but I got a crouching ovation. When I said goodnight to the audience a fair few stood up to applaud. How lovely is that? Except they didn't quite stand all the way up, as if they went "Wow! He was amazing!" then immediately reassessed their opinion to "Well, not amazing but certainly quite good". Plus I've been hanging out, too briefly mind, with Tara Flynn and her boyfriend Carl. They make you happy simply by being in their presence. They're both too good looking, too funny and, well, pretty damned marvellous. Carl's stories of growing up in gangland L.A. are hilariously harrowing. He once got told off by his Mum because she tried to shoot him. I could spend a lot of time with Tara and Carl. They're great.

Oh, plus I had a truly lovely moment backstage at The Stand two days ago. I was fed up (I may have mentioned this) and was sitting on the sofa with Stewart Lee waiting for the last act to finish so I could go back on stage and wrap up the show. We started talking about Robyn Hitchcock. I'm Robyn Hitchcock's biggest and most embarrassing fan and Stewart has a lot of his albums and has gigged with him many times. Then Stewart starts playing a Robyn song on his guitar. It's a beautiful song called Linctus House and we both start singing it together. I'm sitting on a sofa singing one of the most beautiful songs ever written with one of the nicest people I have met.

20 seconds later, the last act finishes and the singing stops. But for 20 seconds I was very happy. That's not bad for Edinburgh.

Thursday, 27 August 2009

Stupid Fucking Idiot.

I am a stupid, fucking idiot. This will not comes as news to anyone who regularly reads this blog. It's obvious that I'm stupid. All the fuck-ups that I make prove I'm an idiot. Even Abie has noticed that I'm "angry". So, it's not that different to any other day. I'm an idiot every day. But yesterday I just couldn't shake the sickening feeling in my stomach that I am, indeed, a stupid fucking idiot.

I walked into the Five Pound Fringe office and made a joke. It was a long, loud, sarcastic joke. I meant it as a humorous "innit bleedin' typical" but that's not how it came across. I know this because I made Lisa Keddie cry. I was utterly surprised that it happened because I didn't think anything I was saying could be taken any other way than as a joke. I was wrong. I know this because I made Lisa Keddie cry.

I'm a stupid fucking idiot.

Lisa was very nice about it. She said that she was upset because I was upset and something else had just happened in the office and it had been a bad day and she was stressed...and...and...and all I heard was YOU MADE LISA CRY, YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT.

To be honest, I still can't quite shake it. Lisa is my favourite person by far up here. She has supported, helped and understood King of Everything fully while up here even when we didn't deserve support or help or were beyond understanding. She organised the Mr. Jolly night which I loved. That didn't stop me making her cry. What a bellend.

Yesterday was a bad day anyway. Luckily, the show was great. Sadly, I wasn't really there as all I could hear in my head was YOU MADE A GIRL CRY, YOU FUCKING RAPIST. Mind you, that is mainly what Johnny says during the show so it couldn't be helped. I ended up late in Brooke's bar boring the arse off my friends telling them my sorry-for-myself story. It's almost as if it was the last week of the Edinburgh Festival.

Here's the good news: Since the awful incident, I have seen the two best shows I've seen in Edinburgh so far. Andrew O'Neill's Occult Comedian and Caroline Mabey's Go Go Go Coffee Show. They are equally excellent. Andrew's show is as strong and confident a stand-up show as you're likely to see but with enough surrealism to make you childishly giggle as well as heartily laugh. Caroline simply is like no other stand-up you've seen. Her show is one of the funniest mental breakdowns you will ever see. And it's free.

I can only assume that the other shows that have been chosen for the Edinburgh Comedy Prize are even better. I mean, they must be.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

It's the Pinnacle of Escorting.

I haven't mentioned the show in a while. Generally, it's been great. Our Sunday show was probably my favourite so far. It was nice to see the room (nearly) full. This is very probably thanks to a few mentions in the recent Collings & Herrin live podcasts. I know this because quite a few people waited around after the show to tell us where they heard about us and to say they enjoyed the show. We even had our first walkouts during that show. A dickhead of a man and two airhead fuck-holes of women who sat at the front and talked/texted their way through the first few sketches. Then, during the blackout before our Sex Change sketch, they left. I stormed after them and screamed CUNTS down the stairs of the venue. The audience seemed to like this. Especially those people sitting anywhere near the fuckers. For anyone who has seen our show, the three escapees left behind a little bit of irony: a load of wrappers and empty cups from O'Brien's Sandwich Shop. We obviously insulted their church. The best part of it was a MySpace message sent to me by a very nice person called James. James heard the three fuckers talking before going into the show. The man said "So if we walk out during the show does that mean I get to fuck both of you or just one of you?" Classy.

Only 6 shows left and I am looking forward to every one of them. Last night's screening of Mr. Jolly Lives Next Door just made me so happy that I feel I've no choice but to enjoy my last few days up here. I'll not lie to you, I was very nervous about talking to Nicholas Parsons and for a couple of good reasons. Firstly, he is in Mr. Jolly Lives Next Door and therefore I'm in awe of him. Secondly, because that afternoon Nicholas phoned me up to ask for my phone number. Now, that's odd behaviour in anyone's books. I thought, hmmmmm....tonight will be interesting. And it was. One thing that grips your brain first about meeting Nicholas Parsons is the little man in your head who continually whispers "For fuck's sake, don't swear in front of Nicholas Parsons". That is pretty much permanent. When he arrived, at midnight and remember he is 85, he seemed a little grumpy. I immediately asked him how he was. "Fucking tired" was the reply. Right. I can't swear but he can. New rules.

He was very impatient and wanted to get the whole thing started and get it over with. That was, until we started. When he saw that people turned up to actually see his film he became joy itself. I asked him a few sycophantic questions before the film and he pointed out that he couldn't really answer them because some people in the room hadn't seen Mr. Jolly yet and he didn't want to spoil it. I'm a fucking idiot. Thankfully, Nicholas stayed for the film and a brief chat afterwards. It was all really, really nice and I was nervous, sweaty and stupid. Still, I got him to say fuck twice to the audience and, if I do nothing else in this horrible blip between oblivions, I will always have that. Thanks to everyone who turned up especially the significant amount of people who had never seen Mr. Jolly before. Except one. The one who said that it wasn't that good. In front of Nicholas Parsons. He can cunt himself in his cunting face, the cunt.

Huge thanks to Lisa Keddie who organised everything even though she told people I did. She even said it was my idea. It wasn't. It was hers. I am simply taking the credit where absolutely none is due. Lisa is a credit to the Five Pound Fringe which is probably the most interesting thing going on in the fringe this year anyway. If you haven't supported the Five Pound Fringe yet then go to see one of the many shows today. I hear Superclump are good. And Trevor Lock. And King of Everything.

6 shows to go. Don't miss this opportunity to enjoy "two overgrown man-children" (Scotsman) at The GRV, Guthrie Street, 3pm, £5.

Monday, 24 August 2009

Sleep Well Tonight.

OK, Edinburgh is winning now. I tried to beat it but it has beaten me too much. I have drunk alcohol every night since the 4th August, stayed up to drunk o'clock and eaten badly. This needs to change. I'm starting to shake through lack of sleep and everything I see gets on my nerves. Mainly flyers.

I was DOA at Peter Buckley Hill and Some Comedians last night. I mainly waffled some crap about how I hated the audience because they were keeping me in Edinburgh when all I wanted was to be in my own bed in London. Oh, they laughed. The fuckers. But before I went on I was pacing everywhere just to keep awake. I looked like a bear in a zoo enclosure that was way too small. Just walking up and down, up and down and generally losing my mind. The back of the room at the venue has flyers scattered everywhere and occassionally my mind would focus on one and I'd get furious. For no fucking reason. I saw one for a show called Wanchorman and nearly lost all sense. Apparently it's quite good but you couldn't have told me that last night. Then I got pointlessly furious about something called Jimmy Frinton's Barmy Bingo. I think it's fair enough to get pointlessly furious about Jimmy Frinton's Barmy Bingo though. It boasts this: "A madcap hour featuring the ever popular B*stard Bingo". For the love of God. Then I saw Papa CJ's flyer for his show "Self-loathing Racist" mean, "Slumdog Comedian". It has a great press quote on it. "Papa CJ set fire to the city" - Asian Age. What a cunt. These fucking people came out to see you, Papa, and you commit arson. For fuck's sake, that is just so irresponsible and the fact that he's so proud of burning an entire city to the ground sickens me. All the people wanted was an hour of funny stuff about all people from India working in call centres and he had to make the poor fuckers homeless? He should be shot.

See? I'm tired. After PBH's gig I went to see Robin Ince's absolutely fantastic Bleeding Heart Liberal show. I've said it before but Robin really is incredible. Hard working, intelligent and very, very funny. Why someone wouldn't go to at least one of his four Edinburgh shows is a mystery to me. They're probably cunts. Mystery solved. Then it was off to Karaoke Circus, which should NOT be fun at all but definitely is. Fucking drunk comedians being self-indulgent and smug? I get enough of that at King of Everything but Karaoke Circus is a hoot. It's Martin White and Danielle Ward's baby (Awww, that would be nice. I'd love them to have a baby. I hope they fuck just for me) and their band plays music while comedians and the occasional human take turns to sing. My favourite bit was seeing Richard Herring laughing at Andrew Collins "singing" Love Cats and then getting up to sing This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us to prove that he was even worse. I couldn't do it because I'm saving my voice for my show and I am shit.

It was another late one. Got back to the flat about 6. Can't do that again tonight. In fact, I'm off to sleep RIGHT NOW because I need to be well rested for tonight's midnight screening of Mr. Jolly Lives Next Door with Nicholas Parsons Q&A at The GRV, Guthrie Street, Edinburgh. Please come along. It's very near sold out so book your ticket right away. Thanks!

Sunday, 23 August 2009

Sick, Sober and Sorry.

You can run but you can't hide. The cunts will find you in the end. There I was thinking that maybe I could get away with not bumping into any complete arseholes up here and, so far, I'd been doing a damn fine job of it. I'd been generally happy and enjoying myself up here. That is NOT the spirit of the Fringe.

I gigged in Glasgow last night and when I got back to Edinburgh arranged to meet Robin Ince at a bar called Medina. When I got there Robin had decided he didn't want to stay because some of the bigger boys were looking at him funny or something. Fine. We'll find another pub. This wasn't as easy as you might think in Edinburgh. It was Saturday night, after all, and every bar was rammed. Finally we found a bar that was near our flat. Hooray for us. We got booze and sat down. What a mistake.

Robin had an entourage with him. Two delightful women who I was never introduced to and one massive cock who I also was never introduced to. I didn't need to be introduced to him. He was loud, annoying, a focus-stealing little bitch in a very quiet bar. I pretty much spotted him immediately. His name is Abie and he is a comedian. I know, I know. He's a tool already.

He was being loud and talking about his sunglasses. It was an important issue he was discussing at us, should he wear them on his head or just keep them dangling on the neck of his t-shirt? Mo' sunglasses, mo' problems, eh? I thought I could throw in a little joke at this point, just to lighten the "God, this guy is a prick" mood. "I think having sunglasses in Scotland is an affront to God", I said. "You don't get it.", he bored. "I'm Irish". You're right, Abie. Why would I get that? Oh, and what the fuck does that even mean? And that was the beginning of the end of mine and Abie's friendship.

Closing time was 1 o'clock but I knew another bar even nearer the flat. Brilliant. When we arrived we arranged some seats and I said I'd buy a round. Abie wanted a glass of water. Does this man have a redeeming feature? I soon discovered that he did not.

A glass of water is free. I didn't have to put my hand in my wallet to make sure that Abie was properly hydrated but just because I didn't pay for it doesn't mean that he doesn't need to thank me. He didn't thank me. In fact, not only did he not thank me he pushed me out of the way to get his water from the bar. I really don't like this guy now. I will hate him later.

We turn from the bar to take our seats that we had gathered together when we arrived. Abie had other plans. He arranged more seats in a different part of the bar. Fine. We'll sit there. I sat beside Abie. Lucky me. When I sat down he moved his seat round so he had his back to me and therefore blocking not only me but also Sarah Bennetto and James Dowdeswell from the table. The rude cunt. Don't get me wrong, I love Robin too but I am very willing to share him. By this stage, Abie had already fucked off James by saying how crap everything is in the Fringe. James asked him several times what it was that Abie liked at the Fringe. Abie kept ignoring the question. Good. He's now pissed off two people he's just met. He's a charmer.

Eventually, Robin pops out to do some light shopping which leaves Abie with no focus for his ridiculous mouth to yap at. Sadly, he turns to us. Sarah was in the middle of a story which Abie, the fucking tool, feels confident to interrupt. Sarah tells him that she's in the middle of a story and continues. This is now Abie's cue to start playing air guitar. Honestly. A fucking grown man is playing air guitar while adults are talking. Sarah asks him to stop because it's distracting to which he replies "Just ignore me. Go on with your little story". What a fucking cunt. For fuck's sake, Abie, no-one wants to hear Sarah's story but there's no need to be rude. Sarah was too polite to say anything but I'm old and see no reason to be polite to rude people anymore. "Stop it now", I said. I wish I could remember how I put him down but I can't. He just smiled sarcastically and said "Everyone's a comedian". "Not everyone", I said sternly. Then Abie did my little favourite: he started talking in a Northern Irish accent.

I was now so angry that I really didn't know what to say to the guy. "Racist" was the only thing I could manage.

"Racist?" said Abie. "You lot call us Mexicans".

Yeah, it doesn't make any sense to me either but I went along with it.

"What do you mean?", I sighed.

"Well, if we in the south of Ireland are Mexicans then that makes you Texas".

"Will you stop trying out new material on me, Abie?"

"That material is tried and tested", he said without irony.

What an absolute sack. He talks in material. What a fucking awful, awful prick. I went to the toilet to have an angry piss.

When I get back I see that Abie has taken my seat. Robin has returned and, quite wisely, has decided to join our side of the table. Abie won't be stopped though. He'll just take my seat. That was it for me. I needed to tell him what I thought of him. And I did. And I enjoyed it. But did the self-admiring little fucknut feel embarrassed and leave? Fuck no. It's Abie! Abie has so little clue that he's disliked that even when you tell him he's a cunt he assumes you love him. I asked him if anyone has said that he is rude before. The egotistical bollock just rolled his eyes and said "Yes". He said it like it happens every day. He said it like it happens every day and it's so BOOOOOORING.

Robin stepped in to defuse the situation and I was fine with that. I had told Abie what I thought of him and how rude he'd been and he, to be fair, had apologised. The eye rolling thing made his apology worthless, of course, and he didn't apologise to Sarah for being rude to her. He should. And he should take up drinking. At least if you're going to be a total cunt all your life, have an excuse for it.

In a way, I should thank Abie because he has genuinely put me off the festival and made me so angry that my blog will probably be a bit better now. But he's a cunt so I won't.

On a more positive note, Pete Harris and his utterly beautiful wife came to see King of Everything yesterday. It was lovely to see him as Johnny and I both love him for being a great guy and thank him for pretty much starting off our careers. He said some lovely things about the show and we both felt like we'd had the stamp of approval from someone who knows. Pete started up the brilliant Screaming Blue Murder comedy clubs in the 90's and isn't always as positive about what he see's in the world of comedy. He likes us. That's very, very good.

Thursday, 20 August 2009

Hospital Chase.

Let's start with pretty ordinary Edinburgh stuff. Firstly, our last two shows have been a bit crappy. We've got laughs and enough people in to watch us but Johnny and I have been....shit. Well, not as good as we can be anyway. Believe it or not, Johnny and I have a self-indulgence line but we crossed it badly over the last two. What a pair of cunts. But, we made sure we did this in front of our peers. Stewart Lee returned to see the show this time with Bridget Christie. Johnny and I love both of them but we couldn't help but think we bored the arse off them. Then today we had Collings and Herrin in, our favourite podcast double act. We love them. We love them to bits and we showed that love by being a pair of dicks in front of them. Excellent. There were other comics in the audience too. Andre Vincent was one of them. NEVER fuck up in front of Andre. I await his opinion with incredible fear. We really need to sort that out. This review is too kind:

Edinburgh is full of wank. It's just wank, wank, wank. Fucking tedious 48hr comedy shows, cunting wankers doing shows up Arthur's Seat and the last two King of Everythings. And last night I did a show which by all rights should have been wank. And maybe it was. Twitter Comedy Club is a one-off show run by the hard-working Tiernan Douieb at The GRV Cube, the venue that is home to King of Everything. Well, it was nice to see what that room looked like full but the gig was certainly....something. About 400 stand-ups had 4 minutes each to tell jokes that were then written down and put on Twitter. It didn't work but that doesn't mean it wasn't funny. The backdrop to the gig was a screen that had projected on to it so that we could see all the comments from and to @twittercomedyclub. I quickly figured out that I could have fun with this by heckling other acts from the back of the room without opening my mouth. I told Matt Green to do his Crunchy Nut Corn Flake material and informed the audience that I was masturbating in my seat. It passed the time until I was introduced on stage where I soon discovered that the Chortle Award is sooooooooo right. I am DEFINITELY funnier off stage.

One thing That I forgot to blog about was my recent meeting with Evening Standard reviewer Bruce Dessau. I met him at Brooke's Bar. He seemed very nice but our intro wasn't great.He said "Are you the grumpy blogger?" Well, it's not a great rap-name but I'll take it. He said that he saw a blog where I slagged him off. I don't remember ever mentioning him in my blog but he whipped out his iPhone and proved that I had by showing it to me. Who says critics are insecure? My point, in the blog, that he had spent two much time focusing on Janeane Garofolo's death at Latitude and not enough praising Ed Byrne for his incredible performance afterwards. He disagreed. Then he read his own review and said "Actually, yeah, maybe". That is a huge backdown for a critic surely? We had a bit of a laugh about it and, before leaving, he said "Don't say anything bad about me in your blog". I replied "No. I'll just call you a cunt to your face."

And now today....

What did you do today? Shopping? Looking after the kids? Went to work, came home, drank a bottle of wine and hated yourself to sleep? Not me. I did something really exciting. I sneaked someone out of hospital.

My friend is in hospital following a car accident that left her with a fractured skull and some swelling of the brain. She is bored beyond belief and loves the Fringe so much that it is next to killing her being in Edinburgh and not at the fringe. She has to stay in hospital so that she can be tested every day to see if the damage to her brain is serious or not. She looks and acts fine but these things have to be treated very seriously. Sitting all day in hospital is making her unhappy and I just decided "Fuck it", let's go into town. We got ready, walked outside and jumped in a cab. I promised her a small walk around the Pleasance, dinner at David Bann's Restaurant and any show she wanted to see. She immediately said that she had to see Rob Heeney's Rom.Com show at The Free Fringe. If those Doctors wanted to find out if she has brain damage or not surely now they realise what a terrible condition she is in.

I've seen shows. Here's some I recommend: Richard Herring's Hitler Moustache is incredible, Sarah Millican's Typical Woman is hilarious and punchy and Rob Heeney's Rom.Com is funny, charming and (I don't really know how he does this) relaxing. Especially if you have brain damage.

By the way, how great is this? I saw autographs of the stars of Monkey in a pub.



Wednesday, 19 August 2009

Positively Great.

I'm in a great mood. It's kind of why I didn't blog yesterday. I'm actually happy up here at the moment and no-one wants to read about that. I know I don't really want to write about it but, fuck it, here goes.

First things first: My friend was due to start a play two weeks ago here in Edinburgh. She was playing the part of Lady MacBeth in some play I've forgotten the name of but, two days before the play was due to open, got hit by a taxi. I was told a few stories about how she was after the accident, none of them were good. Like a big coward, I avoided going to see her because I really didn't want to see my friend in pain or in a different mental state than I know her to be in. BUT....she was fine. Fine might not be the word because she still has a lot of tests and therapy to go through but she acted like she normally does and she looked like she normally does. That all made me happy. I think we all fear that a random accident might take away the thing from a friend that makes you want to shag them and I'm glad that hasn't happened here.

We got a good review in Chortle. There's little worse than anyone getting a three star review and saying the depressing words "but it reads like a four". If you are up here and anyone says that to you, punch their fucking heads in. They are worse than paedophiles and rapists. They disgust me and they should be shot. is a three star review and it DOES read like a four so fuck off.

Then I heard some very positive things about our show from Stewart Lee and a lovely plug from Phill Jupitus. They're on TV and their opinion means more than everyone else's because of that. Plus they're very funny. Phill was in town to record two of his excellent The Perfect 10 podcasts with Phil Wilding. I went along to the recording at the beautiful Cameo Cinema and after the recording they showed Blazing Saddles in full on the big screen. Do you have any idea how happy that made me? I was pretty much delirious throughout it. It is just a fantastic film that revels in utter stupidity. If King of Everything ever made a film it would be like that. But, obviously, much, much shitter. I went there with my good friend Ros and my new friend Leanne and, after Blazing Saddles, we "danced" away to Phill & Phil's DJ set. A great day finished as all great days should. Drunkenly dancing to the Pet Shop Boys.

There is no gossip or scandal up here in Edinburgh this year. Nothing at all. I was in the loo yesterday at The GRV and overheard one of Superclump saying "After this, let's get out of here and sink some mojitos". That's as bad as Edinburgh has got this year. Not scandalous but certainly punchable.

Monday, 17 August 2009

My Ever Changing Moods.

What a difference a day makes. I couldn't have been more depressed yesterday morning. Really questioning why I'm up here. Then when I got to the show Johnny turned up hungover and exhausted. Then we were told only 10 people had bought tickets for the show. I was very fucked off by now and just assumed that the day was going to be a disaster.

The show started and when we got out there we saw 25 people in the audience. Still not big numbers but actually 25 looks OK in our little room. Somehow, even though the depression and the hangover, the show was great. Really loved it. Johnny and I laughed the whole way through it. I mean, the audience did too but fuck it, we decided to muck about and just enjoy ourselves. We need to be fed up and in pain more often.

The first sketch in our show highlights the incompetence of staff at O'Brien's Sandwich Shops, something Johnny and I discovered during a previous Edinburgh Festival. Gordon Southern walked into the venue halfway through this sketch. He was late but the fact that he was carrying an O'Brien's Sandwich Shop bag gave us a clue as to why. Good to see the useless fucks haven't changed.

I've realised that I don't know that many people up here this year. A lot of my usuals have decided not to piss away £10,000 on a ridiculous whim of one day, maybe one day, getting a line on The Katy Brand Show. I respect those people greatly. The cunts. So what do you do all day when you don't know that many people? Well, luckily, I've been busy. But in the bit of free time I have there is nothing I like better than reading other show's blurbs and press quotes. Cunts aren't always easy to spot right away but a quick glance at their ego-bomb of a poster/leaflet should be all the information you need that this person is to be avoided. And shot.

The ones I hate the most are "joke" press quotes. There are actual cunts at this festival with "I gave them a standing ovation" - Stephen Hawking and "Oh no, he's wet the bed again" - Dan's Mum. Oh, Dan march, you and your press quotes. Anyhoo, my favourite one is for Jim Jeffries: "Better than Jesus" - The Scotsman. The humble comedian simply making it clear that he is better than a fictional character. You've got to read the Fringe Brochure too. It's full of madness. One show is blurbed: "Why doesn't Britain have it's own Jon Stewart? It does - you just haven't discovered her yet". Well, what a bunch of lazt cunts we've all been, eh? Oh, and like Jon Stewart himself she too is on around tea-time at Peter Buckley Hill's Free Fringe.

Speaking of posters, why do comedians have to swear so badly? It's terrible. By that, I mean comedians up here are bad at swearing. They put a swear word in the title of their show and then, for some utterly unfathomable reason, asterisk out their own swearing. Your show is called Fuckonomics, Gordillo, not F**konomics. Grow a f**king spine, t**t. If you don't want to swear then don't but for fuck's sake don't cover it up if you do. NO-ONE is offending by the spelling of a swear word. It's the word itself that still upsets people in the year 2009. Some comics even censor their swearing in their own blogs. What the fun is the point of that? The silly, funning wallies.

Yes, yesterday was great. After the show, Johnny and I went for a drink with a really nice bunch of friends, one of whom is the excellent Martin White. It is now that I'd like to proudly announce the worst act in Edinburgh this year. Martin and I have decided to form a "tribute" act to Kit & The Widow called Cunt & Your Mum. If anyone would like to book us then please contact us immediately. Right now. Don't delay. I see us equally at home on Nicholas Parsons' Happy Hour or getting bottled off at Spank! Please get in touch. Cunt & Your Mum must have it's day.

I said cunt a lot in this blog.


Sunday, 16 August 2009

Old School.

Over the past two days Johnny and I have been filming some of our sketches for Green Ink Productions. It's been a lot of fun. Fun. I remember that.

This Edinburgh has not been the laugh it was last year, for me. I don't know enough people up here this year, our shows are only attracting small audiences (albeit nice ones) and I'm not overly sure why I'm up here. I think it's purely for the sake of it and that might be a huge mistake. Don't get me wrong, our show is good (although it was pretty shit yesterday until about half-way through) but having a good show without PR and relying only on flyering and word-of-mouth can be frustrating and depressing. Still, I've been doing other gigs and really been enjoying them for the most part. I've got a new stand-up routine which is working better every time I do it now and I'm really loving doing it. That plus the filming over the last two days has been a welcome distraction to the reality of Edinburgh.

We filmed two sketches on Friday in a primary school. It is very strange to be in a primary school when you're 41, it's even quite creepy. I know I'm not a paedophile but by just setting foot in that place I couldn't help but feel that I was one.

The filming went really well despite all the interruptions. We were walked in on by overly polite teachers and fucking pig-rude cleaners every 10 minutes or so plus Johnny went mad. The thing is, this Edinburgh Festival has been busy so pretty much as soon as we leave the flat in the morning(ish) we don't get back until 5am when we're all exhausted and drunk. For the filming, we had to be up at 8am. There is no 8am during the Edinburgh Festival. This 8am was shoved down our throats. We were tired and being tired effects different people in different ways. For me, tiredness makes me grumpy and quiet but for Johnny it makes him horny and giggly. At more than one point we had to stop filming so Johnny, 36, could laugh and point at his own proud erection. No doubt Pacino is the same when he's on set.

The absolute worst thing about this years festival for me is that it keeps getting in the way of blogging. I'm going to remedy that as of today. A blog a day until the end of the festival. I still haven't grumped about flyerers, performer's quotes on their posters and young comedians all sharing the same haircut. I will though. By the way, I saw two shows yesterday. That's not like me. Two Episodes of MASH are really good and Jeanene Garofolo was....well, let's just say that you're very lucky that last night was her last show. I would hate to think that you might accidentally stumble into it. Fucking awful.

Friday, 14 August 2009

Gay Shame.

I turned 41 on Wednesday and what better way to celebrate than in the company of total and utter fucking useless cunts?

Lots of really nice friends came to help me celebrate at Brooke's Bar, my favourite Edinburgh Festival bar, but as I have no say over who comes into a public bar four of the biggest fuck-nuts you could ever have the misfortune to breath the same air as walked in. They came in with Paul Foot, the fantastic comedian, and sat down on two sofas near where I was standing. I was talking with Paul Sinha and very much enjoying my night. I'd had some lovely presents, people had bought me drinks and now I was chatting with one of my favourite people. Paul clocked the four wankers immediately. Well, one of them anyway.He was in his early twenties, fresh faced and a cunt. Probably the biggest cunt I have seen in a long, long time. But Paul, the fucking idiot, fancied him.

"Look at him", said Paul. I was told to look and I did so. Then, because I looked, the fucking idiot and I made eye contact for a half second. Apparently, this is how a fight starts now.

I went back to my conversation with Paul but I could feel the fucking idiot continuing to stare at me. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye. It was getting uncomfortable. I looked back just to make sure that he was staring at me. He was. Back to the Paul chat, I thought, but now the fucking idiot is staring and putting on a big, fake, "see enough?" grin. This was now very uncomfortable. I'm 41 and I shouldn't be picked on by the young. Paul commented that the fucking idiot was staring but, of course, by now I knew this. I looked over again and now him and the three other cunts he was with were staring at me with the same ridiculous grins. Paul suggested we move. Good idea. I'm 41 and I'm mature enough to not let this get to me. They are dicks but I can show I'm the better man by just walking away. But before that I asked "What the fuck are you looking at?"

They started saying some crap about me staring at them. I had stared at no-one. Paul said "Look" and I looked. That was it. Paul is gay so I can understand why he might be interested in a man. I'm straight so it held no interest for me. The four pricks were also gay but they obviously thought that it was 1973 and being a homosexual was outrageous, brave and individual. It's 2009 and being gay means that you are attracted to people of the same gender. AND THAT IS FUCKING IT. How boring can you get? Cunts who would think for a second that a man in an actors bar in a theatre festival talking to a gay man would in any way at all be slightly repulsed, shocked or even interested in someone just because they're gay. The fucking heterophobic pricks.

After a brief argument that I had no chance of winning (after all, all four of them were tragically FABULOUS), Paul and I walked away and stood elsewhere. Then after about a minute one of them got up to talk to us. "I'm sorry about my friend", he said. "He's very drunk. I said it was OK and hoped that would be that. "I said sorry, OK?", he shouted.

This I did not get. I'd already been pretty nice about it, accepted the apology AND moved away from the trouble but now this cunt was just giving me shit to my face. "Stop starting a fight", I said. That seemed to work because the cunt fucked off.

Paul Foot, a lovely man who I'm a huge fan of, came over a few minutes later to see if everything was OK and to explain that the four cunts were actually really nice. That explanation holds no water at all because it's very clear that they were not nice. They are horrible, aggressive and intensely backward in their thinking.

Please don't sleep with any of them, Paul Foot. You are better than that.

It couldn't ruin the night totally, of course. It was generally great fun drinking with my friends and, even though King of Everything had to be cancelled that day due to an electrical problem, I was still pretty cheery. I'm loving the show at the moment.We're getting small audiences but each one has been nice, supportive and a lot of fun. Plus the weather has been great. I'm always in a good mood in Edinburgh when the weather is nice and it has been since we arrived.

Of course, it's raining now...

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Sisters (Are Doing It For The Chippendales).

Women are fucking awful. They're fucking idiots. Don't they realise that the rise of feminism meant that they were taken seriously as intelligent beings? They were given the vote because their opinion mattered. Well, fuck their opinion, they shouldn't be allowed to vote because they're idiots. The only reason there are now two BNP candidates sitting in the European Parliament is because every woman in Britain voted them in.

Two nights ago I bumped into Mickey Flanagan and we went in to the Gilded Balloon for a beer. The bar room was completely full but the bar itself was totally empty. I got served and sorted in just over a minute and I'm grateful because I couldn't have lasted another second in that crowded room. Absolutely packed. Rammed. With women. Screaming, screaming women.

The "ladies" had come into the bar to get a glimpse of The Chippendales, six men who loathe themselves. These women didn't so much party like it's 1999 than screamed like it was 9/11. Their shrill whoops and cheers for six vain, pointless, ugly, frightened-of-their-own-soul strippers raped my eardrums while I watched the barman sigh his contempt. Then more women ran into the room. And then more. And more again. All running to see these idiots showing off that their one and only skill is that they know how to take their own trousers off.

This is the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. What the fuck are The Chippendale's doing here? What next? Spearmint-Rhino at Peter Buckley Hill's Free Fringe? And what are those screaming, badly-dressed, make-up-caked women doing here? I mean, I understand why they've come to see The Chippendales. They're thick. But surely to know that The Chippendales are on at The Edinburgh Fringe Festival then you've got to have heard of The Edinburgh Fringe Festival. There's no way that these walking-holes would have the first clue about fringe theatre. It's depressing.

But it only lasted a minute for me. But it was enough for me to hate all women. They should all be shot dead. Well, not Sarah Millican. She's really nice. And not my Mum, she would never scream at a male stripper. Bjork's good too. But the rest of womenkind can fuck off. Famke Jannssen can stay too. But that's it. And Carrie Fisher. And Stella Duffy, Chrissie Hynde, Kim Deal, Siouxsie Sioux, Patti Smith, Delia Derbyshire (even though she's dead), Tigs, Tracey Emin, Michelle Yeoh, Josie Long, Miranda Sawyer...alright, there's loads. But not that lot who watched The Chippendales. They were the worst things my eyes have ever been dissappointed by. Drunk, loud and ugly. That's not feminism. That's just being a man. And ALL men are cunts.

This was supposed to be about flyerers who bully other flyerers but I got upset about The Chippendales. Tomorrow maybe? The show's still going well. We even have an ending now. Now to learn the thing.

Monday, 10 August 2009


The last two days have been brilliant. A lot of fun can be had in Edinburgh despite the people, places and objects up here. Don't get me wrong, there have been times when I wanted to indulge in a spot of casual genocide but generally the last two days have been just great.

I had an excellent Edinburgh NO on Saturday. I'm pretty convinced that if you want anything up here, anything at all, you can't get it. You're not allowed it. They will not provide that service. NO. Johnny and I are still a bit uncomfortable about the ending of the show so we had to do a quick re-write. That meant getting a pen. Pretty simple. But not up here. We walked all the way down South Bridge and could not find a shop that sold a pen. We looked everywhere. Even in a chemists, which we both admitted later was just stupid. Then we found a newsagents near Nicholson Square. They're bound to have pens. Unfortunately, my mouth went all broke when I asked for the pen. "Can I have a red pen, please?", I said. "Sorry. A blue pen, I mean". What a dick. Why did I say red pen? No-one writes with a red pen. It looks too angry and also it looks like whatever it is you're writing is probably quite stupid. No-one uses a red pen for actual writing. A red pen is rubbish. It was a blue pen I wanted. A blue pen is perfect for writing with. It's taken seriously as an ink colour but, at the same time, it isn't as formal and boring as black ink. Perfect for writing comedy, really. Yes, it was a blue pen I wanted not a red one. I said red but I meant blue. I have no idea why I asked for a red pen because it was a blue pen I definitely wanted and that's why I quickly rectified the situation by requesting a blue pen right after the red pen fuck-up. The lady handed me a pen. It was black.

So off we went to Susie's to write our ending. Susie's makes the best vegetarian food in Edinburgh. Delicious food that is very, very good for you. Sadly, everything else in the place makes you want to explode with fury. The staff are OK but the clientèle are just arseholes. The place is tiny but the people who eat there decide that it's still big enough for their massive all-terrain 4X4 baby buggies that they force into your rickety wooden chair every single time you're about to take a bite of food. Plus the noise in the place is the most uncomfortable sound you've ever heard. People are constantly moving around in this little place (mainly so they can fuck your chair with a pram) and that means listening to them scraping their rickety wooden chairs across the tiled floor. CONSTANTLY. It's a horrible, shrill, shoulder-tensing sound that means you just can't relax. It's like being shouted at by a million Kristen Schaals.

Our shows on Saturday and Sunday were very good but that ending is still missing. We've re-written it now and the voiceover stuff should be recorded in time for tomorrow's show. It's still good, it just ends a bit weird. The good thing is that we've had great feedback from our audiences. Lots pof people have emailed, Facebooked and Twittered me to say very nice things. I'm really grateful. Even better, some people have waited around afterwards to ask if they can see the foot lump. That brings me a lot of joy.

I've even seen a show. Only one but it's a start. I saw Stewart Lee's If You Prefer A Milder Comedian Just Ask For One at The Stand Comedy Club. It was, as I predicted, annoyingly brilliant. He's a superb comedian who just can't seem to do wrong. I know some people don't like him but those people are fucking idiots. Worse than paedophiles, in my eyes. They should be shot. If you are in any way a good, decent human being then you should make the effort to see his show. I was doing The Stand's Best of Irish, so I was, which is on just before Stewart's show so had a brief chat with him before he went on. Unfortunately, Stewart Lee carries a certain weight with him and all of a sudden absolutely everything you say or think just appears stupid, childish and dull. I am 40 (nearly 41) and yet this man makes me feel like I am a child who hasn't learned how to walk properly yet and only knows how to say about three words. Still, at least he was sitting beside me on a sofa talking. It would be worse if he was sitting in the front row of our show.

On Sunday, Stewart Lee was sitting in the front row of our show. What a thoughtless cunt he is. He knows that I'm an idiot but he finds my idiocy and his superiority over it so amusing that he would actually pay money to experience it further. The fucking prick. I hate Stewart Lee.

His CD "What Would Judas Do?" is also excellent. The fucking, fucking cunt.

A brilliant late night show at The Late Show on Saturday just topped off a really great day for me. It was sold out and the audience were just fantastic. David O'Doherty was on. I've never seen him before and I thought he was absolutely excellent. Paul Sinha closed and was his usual brilliant self, his Edinburgh show should be very worth seeing. Plus I got to meet two friends from the world of Twitter. Nicola and Sarah hung out afterwards for a drink and they were just as charming in real life as they are in 140 characters or less. To be honest, I think they just wanted to see the foot lump.I can't blame them. The foot lump is beautiful.

A lovely ending to a lovely day. Perfect. How could it go wrong now? EASY. On my way home I was lured by the calling of Brooke's Bar. I love that bar and there's pretty much always a friend in there. I sat with Corry Shaw, Michael Fabbri and Marisa Ferguson and remarked upon how great the day had been. One drink later I'm telling two stories I shouldn't have. I still feel really embarrassed about it. If you have any stories about your poo and a cat or your semen and a friends coat then always remember to keep them to yourself.

Let's end on a high. Big congratulations to Niall Browne. He deserves all our praise and respect as he had made an incredible uber-chameleonic, élan ringtone by splicing bits of Marcus Massey's voiceovers together with some "wicked" "beats". It's fantastic and it makes me very happy.

Saturday, 8 August 2009


God, I was in a horrible mood yesterday. We hadn't done any work on our show so it was exactly the same as the previous day's (you know, not finished) and when I got to the venue there was a Youth Dance Company performing in the middle of the road right across from it. These little fuck-nuts should be out watching Skins and getting pregnant not waving their arms around pretending to be the sea while My Heart Will Go On dribbles out of their broken stereo. It never fails to baffle and annoy me that some people think that it's fine to do bits of their show in the street IN FULL FUCKING COSTUME. They don't see it as an invasion (which it fucking is), they see it as a chance to show people what they can do. What they can do is make people want to kick their egotistical half-faces in. Why are they dancing in the street when they could be fucking in a car park? I don't get young people.

The show was good but an even smaller audience than the previous day. Really have to do something about that. That said, once again the small audience were just excellent. Afterwards I got fed up that the show still needs re-writing done (pretty much done now) and couldn't shake the fed up feeling for the rest of the day. This is a very normal party of the fun, excitement and excrement of Edinburgh. Late at night I wandered around on my own listening to The Duckworth-Lewis Method on my iPod and thinking about generally punching Edinburgh it's big prick face. I bumped into John Gordillo who asked me how I was. I spent the next 20 minutes telling him. He will never ask me that question again, the poor cunt.

Feeling much better today, thanks. A few new bits in the show, one of which made Johnny laugh while having a poo. I don't think I've ever laughed while having a poo before. That's now definitely on my to do list.

I can't be too down anyway because Edinburgh might be a skip full of wankers but it does provide you with a chance to make your own entertainment and there's nothing I like better than Leaflet Folding. It's a game I play with my Edinburgh friends every year and the rules are simple. When someone gives you a flyer, you fold it. Enjoy the results.

Paul Sinha.

Andrew Lawrence.

A cunt in a hat.

Some cunt I've never heard of.

A fucking nightmare.

Linda Smith.

Roy Kinnear.

Pa Fub.

Friday, 7 August 2009

My Penis and a Dead Person's Box.

Seriously. When was the last time your cock was rubbed up against a coffin?

Well, that's just the kind of wacky, zany, fucking annoying thing that happens every day at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I found myself right outside my venue, which is in one of Edinburgh's most difficult to get to piss-drenched alleys, when I found myself stuck in the middle of a piss-drenched Gypsy funeral. As they carried the coffin passed they said "Excuse me" and normally I would do what I can to get out of a funeral's way but these cunts just came charging at me and I found myself pinned to a wall and being groped by a cock-hungry pine box.

It wasn't a real funeral, they weren't even real gypsies. It was just a piece of publicity for a show here at the festival. A shame because I'd like to see their funeral for real. That would be nice. These cunts actually think that it's OK to force their fucking tedious, not to mention smelly, show down our throats. Why would anyone buy a ticket after seeing these unwashed half-men jumping down the street firing fake guns and throwing a coffin at one another? Actually, that sounds quite good but, trust me, it looked like a big eye-shit.

The worst thing was that it all happened just before Johnny and I went into our show. Our first show of the run. I was nervous and now thanks to pretend Gypsies I was also furious. But...

The show went really well. We had a small audience but you really couldn't have hand-picked better people. Really lovely. The ending needs to be re-written (or even just written) and some things need tightening up. All in all, though, I haven't a complaint about how yesterday went and I'm very excited about the next 24 shows. I like the show and that's a huge relief.

After the show we celebrated. I went to The Stand launch party which was excellent because we got to see a few minutes each of some great Fringe shows. Paul Sinha is obviously going to have a great year, he was on incredible form last night, and Stewart Lee was being tediously brilliant. It's true. He's so consistently good that he now just comes across as a prick rubbing my nose in it. I'll see his full show on Saturday. I'm looking forward to it and I hate him for that.

As a point of interest, I saw Toilet last night. I saw him the night before too. Like last year, I haven't spoken to him. He needs to make the first move. He didn't, of course. I have a new plan for this year, I think. I am going to try to be near him as much as I can (at all times, if need be) until he says "Hello" to me. Maybe this year Toilet and I can be friends. He can't just pretend that he hasn't seen me for another year, can he? He can, can't he?

Thursday, 6 August 2009

Party Man.

I am hungover so yesterday must have been a bit more Edinburgh.

I saw abortions that slipped through the net exclaiming brilliance about their show by the dozen pretty much wherever I went. More Edinburgh than that though was the amount of bored children dumping their leaflets on our table at the Pleasance Courtyard (or as I like to call it, The UNpleasance Palace of Cuntment). They are hilarious to watch simply because none of them can actually walk. They just shuffle about like walking is something illegal and look around like they've just been beamed on to the planet that second.

Not all are like that because I had the pleasure of meeting our flyerers yesterday. Johnny and I met thjem in the normal way that everyday folk meet everyday folk. You know, by doing a one-off preview of our show in front of them. It was weird to say the least. There were 20 of these lovely, lovely Skins extras making a special effort to watch us and we are very grateful. We needed it. Not sure they did though. Our venue was boiling hot, we haven't finished writing/figuring out the show yet and they had already seen 8 shows that day. They were knackered. Later I found out that the last show they had seen before us was Alistair Barrie's. Well, to misquote Spinal Tap, they were still booing him when we were on.

Oh, but there were drinks last night. I needed them too. I went to two Edinburgh parties, the sort of thing that people would kill for (either to get in or to get out). The Just The Tonic party seemed OK. You got free drinks and there were some very nice people there. And one utter cunt, despite the fact that a sign on the door read "No Dickheads". Then I was off to the Five Pound Fringe party to see our flyerers again. It was an interesting party. I've never been to a party that is just below the 6th layer of hell, hotter than a fire that is on fire and the air is so thick you have to utterly patronise it and give it directions to your lungs. But it was £1.25 a pint. That, to me, is how civilisation should be.

Then it was off to my favourite bar in Edinburgh: Brooke's Bar. It's a great place to hang out during the festival because, luckily, most cunts prefer the Library Bar so Brooke's is normally pretty cunt-free. I hung out with my friend Marisa and the excellent comic Michael Fabbri while pausing to reflect on how damn good looking Corry Shaw is (I think Michael and Corry are an item, if they're not then I'm sorry to have even mentioned it. If they are then FUCKING WELL DONE, MICHAEL, MY SAHN! Ahem...). We talked about Jerk and I immediately felt guilty about leaving her at home. Then someone brought a dog in and I realised it might not be as difficult as I thought to look after Jerk while I'm up here. I'm a fucking idiot.

Our first show is today. It won't be right but it will be good. It won't be right for a few days even, I reckon. That's OK. It's got some great jokes in it and plenty of room to muck about. It'll be interesting these next few days.

Wednesday, 5 August 2009

Day Zero.

It has begun.

And by that I mean Edinburgh's classic ability to say NO to anything you want. Would the bank let me withdraw my own money? NO. Ok, did the bank clerk know where there might be another bank around here? There was one pretty much next door but NO. Then when I finally was allowed the money that belonged to me so that I could give it to the Landlady of my flat did she turn up? NO. Would she be very late? NO (she was). Then did she meet us a the flat? NO, she couldn't. We had to meet her near some bins and hand over £1600. Boy, that was a classy moment. Still, that means we now have the keys to the flat, right? NO. She'll bring them along later. Later was 10pm.

That wasn't the end of the world, though. We had one set of keys between four of us for now, at least we could get in the flat if we wanted. Great. A quiet night in watching TV before the madness of the festival begins. Did the TV work? NO.

Why would it? It's the mystery of Edinburgh.

Only saw a few people in garish make-up and dressed like a prostitute-bomb (actors, I think they're called) yesterday. But today is the first real day of the Festival so there should be wave upon wave of excited but soon to be spiritually-demolished idiots begging for everyone's attention today. Johnny was very happy yesterday because Day Zero is his favourite day in Edinburgh. You can safely walk down the street without arseholes constantly bombarding you with tedium and you can drink early without worrying about your show. We went to The Pear Tree, a popular Edinburgh bar, that was pretty much Festival-free. Only a few comics there like Richard Sandling, Eric, Lewis Shaffer and Lloyd Langford and it was very nice to see them all too. Soon, going to a normal pub will be next to impossible but yesterday The Pear Tree was a real pub full of real people. When we arrived there a man was walking and vomiting at the same time. Now, that's real.

It's our tech run and mini-preview today. Yeah, I'm happily nervous.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

Michael "Scratch" Legge.

I decided to have a little break from blogging just so I could store up bile for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, of which I'm currently on my way. I shouldn't really have stopped blogging because things have happened this week. Stupid things.

Firstly, I've upset people again. That's normally fine but for the first time I'm getting guilt trips about it. Someone wrote to me and called me a bully. That's not true but it sort of stung. She wrote to me because I thought that a website ( was funny. It is very funny. But by laughing at it I didn't think that I was bullying him, I just thought that there was a man who's ego was big enough to have it turned right round and shown to him. You can't describe yourself as élan and not expect a grown adult to think that you're taking the piss.Then Marcus himself wrote to me and I genuinely felt bad. I've laughed at his way of describing himself, how important he feels Egg Card voiceovers are and his velvet suit. Who the hell am I to judge someone? Well, Marcus told me. I am a sad little man who needs to get a hobby. Perhaps horse riding, violin playing or fast driving like he does. He was completely right of course. Looking up websites of pretentious actors isn't a good use of anyone's time and it is pretty pathetic of me. He is right. I am a sad little man. Then I read Josh Widdicombe's blog and thought fuck it, I'm right. (

I am genuinely upset about upsetting people. Or maybe I'm upset that they're upset? Either way, it doesn't feel good. Last week I had to change the name of one of my blogs because it was, you know, libellous and it upset the person it was about. That was really stupid of me. Still, that wasn't the worst thing I've ever done. Apparently the worst thing I've ever done is defend BrendAn Burns. I got a record 18 complaints! 18 angry people who are furious with me for being quite nice to someone. Well, I've upset enough people and I can't afford to upset any more. BRENDaN BURNS IS A BIG WALLY. There, readers, please come back.

Then I upset the one human being in this world that means more to me than anyone: Jerk. She's not strictly human but she is great and I didn't upset her as much as nearly kill her.

She cut the back of her leg when out running in the park. It was a small cut but there was a lot of blood coming out. She doesn't need the vet, I said like a fucking idiot, I'll patch her up myself. When I got home I got all sorts of anti-septic ointments out and cleaned her up. Then I put a bandage on her. I put it round her leg like it was a layer of very tight skin. Fuck knows why I thought putting it on that tight would be good for her. Oh, yeah. I'm a fucking idiot. Anyway, within an hour her paw had swollen to about four times it's normal size. Honestly, it looked like Jerk was wearing one of those hilarious animal paw slippers. I must have repeated the words "I've killed the fucking dog" 300 times on my way to the vet. Luckily the vet is a professional and gave her pills and bandaged her properly. He did let his professionalism slip just once though. When I told him what I'd done he just laughed and said "Twat".

How am I going to enjoy Edinburgh if I'm scared of upsetting people? I hope I can shake this feeling because there are a million actors, jugglers and cunting, cunting comedians on their way there right now and I MUST hate them. It is my duty. Every single day for four weeks some grinning, bouncing, 12-year old vegetable is going to hand me a flyer for their fucking Improv-a-thon or Pinter for Kids or some such diabolical Christ-Fuck of a production that should be put in a metal box and dumped in the sea. Then the sea should be blown up. I can't spend a month pretending to be quite nice to people who are clearly an affront to man and an embarrassment to their parents.

Four weeks. Four fucking weeks.