Though I started the week determined to enjoy myself and not take the festival too seriously, I am afraid I have been worn down by it and am finding the whole thing slightly depressing. I have to admit that a proportion of this is due to feeling slightly side-lined for the last couple of days. It is annoying that Britcom was scheduled on Monday to Wednesday, when the American contingent didnât arrive until Thursday. And the only gigs I have in the latter part of the week have been two seven minute sets in the small Comedy Works club. I canât do what I do in seven minutes, so am not giving a fair representation of my act, but it doesnât really matter as the club is hardly the hub of the festival. And in reality the gig is actually just a chance for acts to rehearse their short sets for more important gigs and is even introduced as such. So the fact that I have no other gig to do, just rubs the pointlessness of this in my face a bit more.
It irks me that I am bothered by this. I really wanted not to care about the industry side of things, but then the festival is so industry that it is hard to do that, and of course in the end vanity means that I would like my work to be acknowledged, would like there to be interest in me, would like people to know who I am (at the moment I think I am just seen as the strange, quiet Brit who is always on his computer in the hotel lobby).
I have also failed to use the week as a holiday. I have seen as little of the city as I did in the 90s when we were filming all day. Nor have I got much work done. I have been mooching around, feeling intimidated by people and retreating into myself and then feeling bad for wasting more opportunities to have fun.
But never mind.
I did manage to go and see one show this afternoon â Andy Kindlerâs annual lecture about the state of the industry. Because I am not American at least half of this went right over my head, as I had no idea who he was talking about, but the stuff I understood was very enjoyable. Kindler is a likeable stage presence, constantly deconstructing comedy and himself and is thus much more like an act you would see in Britain, rather than the other American acts who are nearly all polished, formulaic and cock sure. It was heartening to see some self deprecation and some criticism of the proclivity of lowest common denominator performers who seem to think it is funny to mock the physically and mentally disabled, seemingly without irony.
I was glad I had got involved in the Festival though, as I have reverted to the 1988 version of myself and been hiding away (though not in the toilets â there has been some progress).
I was still in a bad mood when I went to the Comedy Works tonight though. Thankfully it was the early show and I had a good spot in the middle of the bill, so I thought I might be able to go out on a slight up. Down in the bar I met an American comic who actually took the trouble to come over and say hello, but he was quickly joined by an agent, who found out I was on the bill before one of his acts. âAre you a Brit?â he asked and I told him I was. âOh Fuck!â he shouted, spitting out the words with such venom that I assumed he was joking. But it became apparent that he wasnât as he half-heartedly apologised, without giving me any inkling as to why it was so bad for one of his clients to follow me. I then sat awkwardly as the two men talked about people I didnât know, not wanting to be rude and just walk away, but confused as to why my existence had offended the agent.
I was looking forward to getting my bit out of the way and get back to the hotel to have a last drink with my friends, but then the coordinator of the gig came up to me and told me I was closing, because some of the other acts had other gigs to get to. In this context closing is not a good thing. The audience have to sit through nine other comedians, without a break and itâs a long show, so there is little energy left in the room. I accepted this reluctantly, but it felt like another little slap in the face. The coordinator wasnât even sure who I was, which I wouldnât have minded if ten minutes later he didnât again ask me who I was.
At the start of the show the audience were fired up and everyone was going down well, but to be honest I was quite offended by some of the other acts. One guy did a four minute routine mocking someone at his school who was unable to read. The audience laughed and cheered as he put on a dumb voice and tried to go over a simple line from a book. I waited thinking there must be more to it, there was going to be a sudden flash of brilliance that would turn this around, but apparently this was all it was. Adults laughing at someone who couldnât read. Whilst using the N word here can destroy your career, the word âretardâ causes no embarrassment or protest whatsoever.
Laurence Clarkâs head would explode if he were to come here. I hope they invite him.
As if to illustrate this disparity a black comedian then came on and opened with a joke about seeing an âalbino midgetâ and wondering if that meant he got a wish. It seemed ironic that he couldn't empathise with someone being stereotyped.
Another female comedian overran terribly, whilst bringing the house down, with reactionary material about how great men were and how they just wanted sex and food and could not discuss their feelings and if they did women should tell them to shut up and be a man about it. Again, no irony, no feeling that she was trying to redress the balance for years of sexism in comedy by turning this on men, just a genuine declaration that all men were a certain way and everyone should accept it. As a man who expresses his feelings (a bit too much today) and occasionally thinks about more than sex and food (only occasionally, but thatâs enough) I felt quite offended by the generalisation. And itâs really hard to offend me.
It depressed me that all this stuff was going down brilliantly with the audience, not even a suggestion of disapproval (yet my Riddle of the Sphinx/Heather Mills joke has been greeted with gasps of horror some nights, but maybe thatâs offensive to them because she wasnât born that way, whilst properly mentally and physically disabled people are funny). I am all for pushing back boundaries and discussing all the topics covered above, and maybe I was missing something, but most of these acts seemed to be grown up bullying.
So by the time I was on, I was depressed about the whole idea of stand up comedy, resenting being underused by the Festival and wishing I could go home. I managed to contain most of it and do a solid enough, if underwhelming gig to the tired crowd. But when they groaned at my âTo Be or Not To Beâ bit, some of my anger spilt out and I told them that the joke was cleverer than they were giving it credit for, adding âFuck You Canada!â in a jokey, but aggressive way. They were a little taken aback. But I got to the end and then left the venue, walking back to the hotel feeling cross and unsettled, on the point of hating stand up comedy as an art form.
In the downstairs lobby I got into the lift at the same time as Billy Connolly. I have met him before as we shared the same tour manager in the late 90s, the late, great, Malcolm Kingsnorth, but shyness and respect of his privacy precluded me from saying hello. But in the lift that takes you from the street to the first floor reception (you then have to get another lift up to the rooms) he started questioning out loud why there was this short hop lift and asking how he got to his room. He joked that this first lift was a way of keeping the riff-raff from the streets out of the hotel. In this twenty second trip Billy Connolly was effortlessly more amusing than 90% of the comedians I had seen tonight and he made me laugh and think that comedy was not so bad after all. Like Billy Connolly had been sent like a guardian angel of comedic arts to remind me that being funny could be life-affirming and natural and not filled with hate or arrogance.
I felt a bit better about things as the night progressed and overall itâs been a good festival and I was able to get things in perspective and agree that it was a prestigious thing to have been invited to. I had let things get to me and it wasn't anywhere near as bad as I was making out.
Maybe next year they will give me more to do. You know, unless they read this and decide never to let this ungrateful Brit (Oh Fuck) back into the country.
I am looking forward to coming home. And I am looking forward to the Edinburgh Fringe renewing my faith in the comedy world. Though of course I am forgetting how much that festival screws up my head. Ah well, will make for some entertaining rants for you to read.
