I had come home early (about 2am) this morning, planning to go to sleep and hopefully not feel so knackered when I awoke, but Sarah Kendall was home and merry and we drank Pimms and diet lemonade for two hours, which was not what the doctor ordered. Unless it was a doctor who had gone mentally ill or was being sponsored by Pimms, which I think would provide him with a conflict of interest. It was fun, laughing and chatting and writing up sick fake messages from Justin's mum on the noticeboard informing him of a terrible disease that he would have inherited from her, due to some despicable act that she had committed 35 years ago, which I cannot describe in a family blog. It was even sicker than the rom-com film we came up with earlier in the Fringe, which follows all the cliches of the genre, until the last reel, where the couple seem to be about to get together, but the man freaks out and brutally attacks the leading lady, leaving her paralysed. This amuses us merely because it would be so wrong and ridiculous and would alienate everyone. But it would be funny to spend all that money making a film that mixed genres and which no-one would like. Yet in a way, wouldn't it be true art?
No.
Anyway, after more sick shenanigans with my twisted Antipodean flatmate, I went to bed, much drunker than I had meant to be, much later than I had intended.
Yet even I was surprised when I finally woke up to find it was 2.45pm. Even for me this was an impressive bout of laziness, showing just how tired I had been. I had slept for almost 11 hours.
And yet I was now probably more tired than before. I felt that if I went to sleep again I was in danger of falling into hibernation and not waking up for months. Some students might find me in November, behind the towels in the airing cupboard in a cardboard box with "Richard" written on my shell in Tippex.
I zombied round the house til showtime, making the mistake of having a large dinner, which made me even more tired and then stumbled up to the venue, my limbs feeling heavy, my brain numb. It wasn't a good sign for the show.
Every other night I have got stuck in to helping the crew with the changeover - things have nearly always been running late and there's chairs to move and sweeping to do and I am not so grand that I won't help facilitate this changeover. Today, however, I felt I should save my energy for the show and the idea of carrying stacks of chairs the necessary 12 metres was too much for me.
As I stood behind the door waiting for the audience to file in I found it hard to believe that this was going to be anything other than a lacklustre show, where frazzled connections in my brain led to mistakes and those frightening seconds where one forgets what one is meant to talk about next.
Where I wait is a little antechamber between two of the venues, which is almost like a cave. It has some spaces set away from the corridor that must have been used for storage in soem ancient time when this building was first in use and water drips from the ceiling and thin stalactites have even formed in these recesses. The staff of the Underbelly have decorated these alcoves with plastic skellingtons, some hanging from the ceiling, some pierced through the chest with broom handles, one smoking a cigar. Each day the positions slightly change as if the skellingtons have come to life and moved around of their own accord. Perhaps that is what has happened. Perhaps they are the real skellingtons of some Scotch people, squashed flat and plasticated by the dense atmosphere of these spooky man-made caverns.
As it turned out the show was one of the best for ages. Thankfully the audience were totally up for it from the start and with the room full again I rode on the waves of laughter, it lifted me and I found some reserve of energy and concentration and it was one of those magic shows where everyone came with me on the journey. The funny bits were funny, the thought-provoking bits provoked thoughts, the tragic bits made people express sympathy, the dirty bits made people groan with displeasure. I don't know quite how I have managed it in the time, but this is a really special show and every time I do it another loose thread is tied up, another link forged between the pieces of the chain. I think I am most pleased with the emotional honesty of the piece. I talk about quite personal moments, but I don't feel that I am exploiting myself or my life or having to falsify my feelings on stage. Though I am more than ready to leave town now (indeed I did 80% of my packing this afternoon), I am far from bored with the show. I am glad I get to do it again in London so soon. Please do come along if you can. There are gigs in Brighton and Manchester coming up too and hopefully a tour in the new year. Every time I mention a London run I get aggrieved comments from people elsewhere in the country asking why I don't ever come to them. Which annoys me as I spent two draining and slightly miserable months (personally, not doing the show) going round the vast majority of the UK and I have just spent the last month in Scotland. If you live in the North East then you may have a point, but over the last three years I have done many more gigs outside of London than in.
After the show I was engulfed by tiredness again and thought about going home to bed, but after a coffee and some ice cream and a brief rest up at the flat I managed to make it out to the Perrier party (just as Opal Fruits will always be Opal Fruits, the Perrier shall always be the Perrier).
A couple of free drinks and my energy returned. People won awards. Nice to see Arthur Smith acknowledged, nicer still that he didn't bother to turn up. I am still at a loss to see how there can be an award for the spirit of the fringe at all. Surely awards are against the spirit of the Fringe. Especially awards provided by finance companies and baby killing food manufacturers.
I was gratified to see that Tom Basden from the Barclays adverts won the finance-backed newcomer award. But this year
I was not yet drunk enough to shout out "Barclays!" as he received his accolade.
I drank and ate and laughed with friends old and new, but decided not to stay out too late and made my way home. I felt an odd air of melancholy, not I think, associated with the Fringe or the awards, but perhaps with a personal feeling that things need to change a little for me. I am not sure what it's about. I have time to think about it on holiday.
Sarah Kendall rolled in drunk just after me, but this time she did not persuade me to stay up drinking more. I went to bed.
One more show to go. This is the one that competes with Gervais. Let's hope that I get so many people that it is him who finds himself performing to an empty stadium!
