The Fringe
A rest day today. I've mostly been readjusting to the pleasures of sleeping in a real bed and watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles, wondering to what extent I've begun to resemble John Candy. I've also been reflecting upon the past week at the Fringe.
In the past few years, there have been August based events to drag the thoughts of Fringe participants back into the real world, like the passing of Robin Williams, the Olympic Games and the London riots. Moreso than usual this year, I felt fully immersed in the Edinburgh bubble. I suspect part of that was meeting up with a friend who is working as a publicist at the festival. I heard a few tales of the stresses her and many others are under and the desperate clamour for reviews and features.
When you're in the city, you have a greater appreciation for that sort of thing. There are hundreds of comedians, all vying for attention and making sacrifices both in financial terms and in regards to their own wellbeing. Sat here in south east London though, an agent threatening reprecussions if their client's four star review in The Skinny isn't published immediately feels more than a litle odd.
One of the most salient points Brendon Burns made at this year's Chortle conference was regarding the phenomenon of comedians suffering the blues once they return home in September. As he said, they've spent a month in an enviroment where there are giant images of themselves plastered all over town, received critical acclaim in print and in person, before coming back home to the realisation that perhaps none of it matters very much.
I have the creative urge to write an Edinburgh show but I'm dogged by uncertainty. There was a point on Thursday evening where I'd decided I didn't want to do stand-up comedy anymore. In fairness, this tends to happen to me about once a month. I had just been on stage at a gig with 6 punters in the audience where largely the acts were messing around. I came off thinking about precisely how long I'd been saying those some words over and over and how little they reflect the person that I believe myself to be. But I've clung to the same jokes, convinced I won't be funny without them.
I've been doing stand-up a long time. I feel I'm good at what I do, but my limitations will prevent me from going further and achieving more than I have done. But in spite of that, I want to write a show that I can stand behind and be proud of. Something that no-one else but me could have written. And I want it to not completely bankrupt me. I suspect I'll spend the next year dithering about it once more.
In the past few years, there have been August based events to drag the thoughts of Fringe participants back into the real world, like the passing of Robin Williams, the Olympic Games and the London riots. Moreso than usual this year, I felt fully immersed in the Edinburgh bubble. I suspect part of that was meeting up with a friend who is working as a publicist at the festival. I heard a few tales of the stresses her and many others are under and the desperate clamour for reviews and features.
When you're in the city, you have a greater appreciation for that sort of thing. There are hundreds of comedians, all vying for attention and making sacrifices both in financial terms and in regards to their own wellbeing. Sat here in south east London though, an agent threatening reprecussions if their client's four star review in The Skinny isn't published immediately feels more than a litle odd.
One of the most salient points Brendon Burns made at this year's Chortle conference was regarding the phenomenon of comedians suffering the blues once they return home in September. As he said, they've spent a month in an enviroment where there are giant images of themselves plastered all over town, received critical acclaim in print and in person, before coming back home to the realisation that perhaps none of it matters very much.
I have the creative urge to write an Edinburgh show but I'm dogged by uncertainty. There was a point on Thursday evening where I'd decided I didn't want to do stand-up comedy anymore. In fairness, this tends to happen to me about once a month. I had just been on stage at a gig with 6 punters in the audience where largely the acts were messing around. I came off thinking about precisely how long I'd been saying those some words over and over and how little they reflect the person that I believe myself to be. But I've clung to the same jokes, convinced I won't be funny without them.
I've been doing stand-up a long time. I feel I'm good at what I do, but my limitations will prevent me from going further and achieving more than I have done. But in spite of that, I want to write a show that I can stand behind and be proud of. Something that no-one else but me could have written. And I want it to not completely bankrupt me. I suspect I'll spend the next year dithering about it once more.
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