Sunday, July 29, 2012


Things I Remember From My Last 12 Edinburgh Festivals
2001. My first Edinburgh Festival. I still remember stepping off the train at Waverley Station and being SO excited to see a man in full Highland dress: the tartan kilt, the sporran, the bagpipes, the lot … Yes, I’d just seen my first real American Tourist.
2002. Loved seeing my posters displayed around the city… Didn’t love seeing a drunk man urinating on my face outside The Gilded Balloon.
2003. I shared a three bedroom flat with a mime artist and a fire eater… it was very quiet but very hot.
2004. Excited. My show received 5 stars. 1 from the Guardian, 1 from The Scotsman, 1 from the Observer, 1 from the...yeah, yeah, you get the joke.
2005. I was introduced to a top TV Producer who, in-between sniffs, said he loved my comedy and he’d really like to work with me in the future… which should have been flattering but this coked-up wanker didn’t remember he’d sacked me from a TV show the previous month.
2006. Yeah! I’m thrilled. The Scottish papers have started calling me a Fringe Favourite. I feel loved. Bless them.
2007. WTF? I’m devastated. The Scottish papers have started calling me a Fringe Veteran. I feel 100 years old. Fuck them.
2008. Parents visited the Festival. They wanted to stay at the Holiday Inn because Holiday Inn offers a choice of 5 different pillow types: soft, firm, non-allergenic, eiderdown, or duck feathers. But it was too expensive so they stayed at Travel Lodge, where they only had the choice of 2 pillows: stained with semen or stained with blood.
2009. The critics said my show lacked direction. I did it in Glasgow. Boom! (If you half close your eyes and squint that’s almost a joke. Oh, fuck off...) 
2010. All I remember was the ever-changing weather. It was hot. It was cold. It was sunny. It was raining. It was like the whole city was going through the menopause.
2011. My most successful Edinburgh Festival yet. I didn’t go.
2012. My agent thinks I’ve gone mental. I have a special Fringe offer: buy a ticket for my show, send me a photo of it, and I’ll take you to Lord Bodo’s bar on York Place, and I’ll get you a beer. My agent thinks this is financial suicide. Maybe it is - but it sure beats drinking alone.

Published on (1st August 2012)

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