Hard to believe how fast the first seven performances of Talking Cock have flown by. Their speed will doubtless only be matched by the slowness of the final seven gigs of the run. Tonight's fly-past was considerably higher and quieter. They use different planes every night I believe, but it made me think that Edinburgh had escaped disaster by a matter of feet last night - at least I had shown my true mettle by ducking and being scared. I like to think that if I am ever in a disaster I would be a hero: leaping to the aid of the injured, valiantly disarming the gun-toting maniac with my bare hands, suckling a baby with my spontaneously lactating nipples. But I suspect that I would just be cowering under a chair and praying to a God I don't believe in to save me. We'll see.
I have settled into a routine where already most days are the same, though today things were a bit thrown out by a couple of interviews in the morning that had me zigzagging across town before heading to the Stand for the podcast show. I have become a bit obsessed with finding the most efficient route from the Meadows to the Stand, which might sound like an easy walk, but every route I can find is beset with bottle-necks of tourists or crowds of shoppers, all of whom seem to have lost the ability to stand or walk in a way that allows anyone to get by. North Bridge is always clogged and the steps up the Mound can come to a complete standstill as people look at the little stalls that line the narrow pavement. The road outside the station has the double whammy of commuters mixed with tourists queuing to get one of the many open topped bus trips. It's a nightmare, but I have tried to turn it into a 3D video game with a sprinkle of Escape from Colditz which I am now obsessed with.
The quietest way off the high ground is definitely down the News Steps which are hidden away and a wonderful secret (though not so wonderful on the way up as they're quite a steep climb), but that does plonk you right down by the station and the bus queues. If I am heading to the gym and there aren't too many commuters around then there is a neat short cut which avoids the spacially unaware tourists, down through the station and then along the walkway by M&S, up some steps which bring you out on that backroad where Ewan McGregor nearly gets run over at the start of Trainspotting. It's a bit of a detour for the Stand though. I am open to any suggested secret routes to avoid the scum that is humanity, although I am enjoying trying to wheedle out this stuff myself.
You might find this boring. And you are right to. But this is what day to day life is here.
I was feeling better today, but more tired and seriously wondering if I've reached the point where two shows a day is too much of an ask (and semi-seriously questioning) if coming to the Fringe is something I should carry on doing at all. My only way through it all does seem to be to cut myself off from almost everything else entirely. I have been a dull boy for the first week at least.
There are temporary loos set up backstage at the Udderbelly and I made the mistake of trying to use the sink in one to wash my hands tonight. My hands only dirtied by touching my clean and fragrant penis, were showered in warm water that smelled faintly of sewage. I only had a couple of minutes until show time and had to find another loo to wash my hands after trying to wash my hands. I will risk the germs from my own genitals and urine from now on - they haven't killed me yet.
It was another sell out (but only due to the two for one ticket offer). As the venue is over 100 more seats than last year's, a couple of sell outs means 200 sales that I wouldn't have had in a smaller venue, which helps to go some way to making up for the lower sales in the first few shows. But I am still down on last year and unless the word of mouth spreads fast I think there will be more quiet nights to come. The Olympics is making it quiet in the venue, but noisy outside.
I had my first extra gig tonight, heading down to the Caves to do Set List, which delights and upsets me in equal measure. I wasn't on top form physically or mentally, but managed to get some laughs through a slightly babbling contribution. It really is like a dream, both in the sense that it's an recurring dream I have to be on stage without a script, but also because the stream of consciousness that spews out of your mouth seems to come from the same unknowable place that makes your dreams. They should have a resident psychiatrist to evaluate the comedians' states of mind and maybe a policeman on hand to arrest anyone who might be a potential killer or sex pest. Though I hope they don't do that as I fear I might be the first one imprisoned in this comedic Minority Report. Tonight I was annoyed as I nearly found some great stuff in the subjects, but my brain fogged a bit by tiredness and illness and the one beer I had necked before I went on, was just a beat or two behind. My brain spewed out its stuff, some of it awful comedically, some of it awful humanitarianly. I felt a bit sick afterwards, but it was maybe better than I thought.
But this is why the gig is so addictive, because there is the genuine possibility of failure and shame. Having done it well before doesn't mean you'll be good again. It's a fascinating exploration of comedy and self and one that will keep me coming back I think, until I say something so horrible that my career is immediately ended.
I found the way to get back to my flat to avoid the crowds was to wait until 1am. Hardly anyone around at all.
Latest Metro column here - will be familiar to regular readers of the blog! But how satisfying to print in a medium where the people involved might actually see it!
