Day whatever, I’m here in Edinburgh, still, and I’m wondering what I want to do with my show. I love it, and the audiences have been fine, I’m selling out with very few reviews which is what I told myself I wanted. But now of course I’d like to be reviewed, by someone smart who can explain to me why, on some nights, the audiences play along with my political diatribe and gay sex antics; and then, on other nights, they just fucking stare at me and I wonder, why would you pay to stalk me? It’s creepy, they sit in the front row and observe me, with me silently considering, when will they roll down the window, when will they poke at me with sticks or see how I feed? Are they all here because I’ve been on the telly a few times? Or do they want to see what I’m wearing this year? Or is Phil Nicholl sold out, so they’re settling for me? I consider doing older material, stuff I know works and will whip them up, but this is the show I’ve brought up and this is the show I want them to see.
I go home, slightly dejected, sure that everything must be rewritten immediately, maybe updated to reflect the UN resolutions or Bush’s most recent blunder. I rehearse, I rethink, I reshape, then the next night, the crowd is sold out again, but this time playful and giggly and the entire show flies up, up and out of my hands and takes on a bigger life, one of its own and the ending is as much a suprise to me as it to everyone else. And then I’m a genius, I’ve made the right moves, until the next night when they dedide to be priggish again. And that’s the night Paul Provenza, a comic I so greatly admire, is in the audience. Of course. why couldn’t he come last night? And why didn’t I become a history teacher when I had the chance? Is it too late? I’m greying now, maybe this is an even better time to wear wool and seduce 19 year olds in study hall.
Then I do a late night set, at Spank or with the BBC at the Dome or at the Tron, where they braying masses have not paid to necessarily see me, and the audience are incredible. Boisterous, angry, sure, but that’s why I’m up here: To confront their fear with my own, and see just how explosive we can become. Maybe it’s too late, maybe comedy has become comfortable, my ‘style’ or whatever has become obscelete, like an old handbag. I dunno.
I’m auditioning for Letterman people tonite. Me and everyone else. I have no idea how I’ll start my set, but, knowing me, as I claim to, I’ll professionally shoot myself in the foot. Maybe a kiddie porn gag to just get things going. And that’s both the beginning and the end of my American TV career.
I need a wife. I saw Dr. CocacolaMacdonald’s show at the Hollyroot Tavern last night. He is like a slightly autistic child, dolled up in quickly-applied clown make up, running around in his tropical pants and virtually making up songs with loud instruments and tired back up beats. Hilarious, though there were just 4 of us, with Stewert Lee egging the doctor on. And in the corner, sitting demurely to my left, was the performer’s wife, watching with such beaming pride as her husband made brilliant mockery of musical styles, live performance and the fringe itself. I blushed, with envy for them both.
xx