So my flatmate here in Edinburgh was just saying she wants to go home now, she’s done 3 previews of her comedy show and she feels like she’s made her point. I reassured her: You’ve only got 22 more to go, so relax. Pace yourself. She’s edited her show everyday, changed a bit here and there, but it’s rough when you’re on a script. The changes are usually minor, and once the reviews are out it seems pointless to do anything else but the text that’s been reviewed.
I’ve been there. At some point, during this marathon run, you embrace what you’ve written and hold onto it defensively, thinking, well, i’m paying to be here, i’m gonna do what I think is fucking funny, whether or not it makes me look like a cunt. Her show, my flatmate’s piece, is great, I’ve seen it three times and I found it intriguing and hilarious. It’s her baby, she loves it. Making big changes now, before it’s had a chance to find its own audience and sort of grow organically, would be like giving one’s infant a nose job.
I on the other hand am doing stand up, which changes majorly just about every hour of the day. At noon I think it’s great. By four I’m sure it’s menacing and bitter. By showtime, I fucking don’t care and just wanna get on with it.
I rehearse my set constantly, on the street, or while shaving, or while shaving on the street – HOT – and I jiggle and juggle new jokes with scripted material, stirring together what I hope is a different pot of tangy comedy stew every night.
Last night, I’m glad I was well-rehearsed, because some divorced dad from Manchester had his 2 kids for the weekend, and he brought them to my show. James is 14, and Melissa is 16. Oh yes, I know all about them, because they came in late, sat in the front row, and so had to be diddled with. And there’s no way I would’ve felt confident enough to out James and spend time talking with Melissa about her virginal vagina if I didn’t have a memorized block of jokes in on the dock ready to roll out.
They were so naive, so fresh off the bus types, the dad and his two wards, that they almost seemed like plants. Of course no press was in. it was a fresh, lively show, at least, for me, but the press will only come along, I imagine, when I’m playing to palid, sullen locals. Again, that’s the beauty of live performance at the Fringe: You never know what to expect, so expect the 14 year old. I almost followed little James home after, just to make sure he was ok, but i think that would’ve been misinterpreted.
I am so fucking horny btw. Haven’t had sex since monday. It’s hard for me to do the toilet thing here, i torture the locals so often throughout the year with my ‘act’, that oddly i think i’m recognized when i cruise. At least, that’s what I tell myself. That look of disdain on the other naughty boys’ faces couldn’t be personal, right? I’m not a cock block, just a comic perriah, right? They’re not looking past me cuz I’m an old cunt with grey hair and skinny arms, right? it’s cuz I’m ‘dangerous’, RIGHT???
xx