Claire goes back to London. Sigh. And then there was one.
Though I mind my own (mostly terrific) company far less ‘n the
fact that I have tickets for two for today, and only guaranteed company for
at-best three shows. Strangely, I have found few takers for my spare
‘children’s poo musical’ ticket…
‘The Mole Who Knew It
Was None Of His Business’
C Too – 11:30-12:20
‘The Mole Who Knew It Was None Of His Business’ I know as a book,
a rock to be relied on in times of Christmas present-buying crisis. (Unsure
what to get a friend? Give them a beautifully illustrated paean to excreta…)
This proves most of the reason for my audience attendance; I 
am curious to see how they manage an
almost hour-long adaptation[1]
of the
book. Of course, there’s also that I’ve been promised a children’s
musical about poo…
‘The Mole Who Knew It Was
None Of His Business’ begins Kenneth Grahame happy, with a contented mole
quietly going about his day – until an animal he is short-sightedly unable to
identify poos on his head, and he is spurred into a whodunit adventure. In
trying to find the culprit, Mole (grey tracksuit, glasses, worrisome headgear) sets
off into the big wide world, coming across several animals who deny
responsibility; eventually, successful identification is made with the help of
not one but two street (street!) flys in large puffa jackets, who point Mole 
towards Poop Doggy Dogg. Aside from the
Mole and the Narrator, most all other parts are brought to life by the same
actor, with subtle use of costume (the hare in a tweedy jacket, the horse a
cowboy’s hat) and accent. All poo, meanwhile, is represented with items no cast
member minds carrying – a string of beads, or brown juggling balls – thankfully
(leading to one toddler heckle of “that’s not poo, that’s a hanky”). Taking
that Springer Opera principle of ‘what could be more entertaining than songs
with swears’ and bringing it to the under-10’s, ‘The Mole Who Knew…’ is
well-done, lightly stuffed with engaging characters, and with a refrain I’m
still humming. It also – and this is the whammy – made the adults happy and
kept their kids’ attention, while never becoming sniggery over its subject
matter. The only Fringe show which ends with the lead character getting in a
revenge poo-on-head, that is not to be avoided.
Leaving, joining the queue for the stone steps leading back up to
Johnston Terrace (slow-moving, as at least half of the walkers were under 3
foot tall, and the steps were mostly the height of their legs), I found myself
behind a boy of around five. “Did you enjoy that?” asked his dad, trying to
avoid humming about poo. By way of an answer, the small child starts to lick
the programme. Specifically, the picture of the irate mole wearing a brown
crown. Indisputably a seal of approval…
Simon Munnery – ‘Noble Thoughts Of A Noble Mind’
The Stand –
14:30-15:30
This is being billed as Munnery’s first Edinburgh in years (ever?)
without a mask of a character to hide behind. Yet when he emerges from behind
his side-door onto the stage, it is clad in orange velvet, face
bucket-obscured. He speaks from beneath it, occasionally through a horn. “How
self indulgent is this?” he asks, happily rhetorical. And so to a show that is
part performance art, part pithy wisdom, part punchline. He does some new
material, warns us of the danger of scissors, does 
some old material. The harmonica is capably wielded.
He ruminates on whether an audience ever blames themselves for a poor gig (“we
were shit tonight…”). A mirror is, literally, held up to the face of art.
Occasionally, the envelope he’s pushing breaks down and refuses to move any
further, but even then, there are laughs as well as bemused silence. For it is
funny, as well as being so dashed peculiar. Halfway through this rum do, Andrew
Bailey gets a segment of stage time to demonstrate his capacious mouth (he can
hold at least five ping-pong balls in there at once you know), how easily a
latex glove can become a stylish hat, and the fun you can have with plastic
tubing. The stage is then returned to the orange one. A necessary interlude,
perhaps, as there isn’t quite enough material to sustain a full hour, but even
the scraps from Munnery’s table are more fattening than many other comic’s
shows, and even when not consistently belly-achingly funny, he is fascinating.
Oh, and a puppet-king.
After, I help Anthony flyer
people for ‘The Seagull’ on the Royal Mile. Pimping for Chekhov in the
afternoon sun, perkily approaching people with the hopeful line “Russian tragic
-comedy?” It is somewhat soul destroying. (If anything can be ‘slightly soul
destroying’.) Very few people are going to be convinced into an amateur
production of a heavyweight playwright solely on the basis of a nicely printed
piece of card, particularly if the person flyering hasn’t actually seen the
play, knows very little about it, and believes its main selling point is “that
boy over there is in it, and he was very good in school productions”. Anthony
goes after lithe young ladies hoping to charm them into attendance. I target
people who look nice, “comfortable”, and at least middle-aged, on the grounds
that they’ll probably have the money/patience/inclination to head for a
Chekhov. We both bee-line for people trapped in queues and at tables. Neither
of us approach the man, leading his three-year old daughter by the hand, who
was wearing a t-shirt which proclaimed him to be a HAPITWAT.
‘Nice Mum’
Pleasance Courtyard –
16:30-17:30
Yes. Again. This
time I paid. And stayed. (Because they’re worth it[2].)
Now, thanks to a repeat viewing of the first half[3]
I know the first verse of their ode to the Ladyshave, can “do” the exam paper
material for other people (“volVO!” “PUBLIC!” “quadrilateral!”), and am ever
reminded of the glory of the word “vadge” as a substitute swear word to
conjugate. I also, thanks to a fresh viewing of the second half, never wish to
meet their grandparents, am fully informed as to the mirthful potential
inherent in a puppet cherry family, and am only too aware that the show
features a ‘hilarious’ interactive session loosely based on dire daytime quiz
shows. Am drawn onto the stage with another man from the audience. The easy
joke is made with my name. The other contestant, when asked his moniker, seems
equally unimpressed with the forthcoming “Jonathan necessary on a bicycle”
material. We have to guess various Kwik Save related facts, from a man in a
gaffer tape ‘tache, for the chance to win a netting sash decorated with sweetie
wrappers. The steaks are raised. I lose. Egg prices are not my strong-point.
But the sash was rubbish anyway. They let me keep the receipt with their credit
card details on it, though, the fools. Ahaha.
In the City Bar, at
lunchtime, I ended up sitting near a group of people sharing their “well you
might have played to seven yesterday but the two men in my room fucked off just
leaving the dog” stories. The one woman of the group spitting bile over the
fact that her lean audience were not in the mood to laugh. (“At a Comedy
Festival!”) She wishes them all cancer. Her seated companions try to ignore
this, but it’s a sentiment she repeats. Later, I pass her forlornly flyering on
the Royal Mile. I do not take one (though I do not wish her cancer). I only
wish that, if she still isn’t getting laughs by the end of August, she starts
to wonder whether this is maybe her fault and not that of the audience.
The Best Of Irish Comedy
The Stand – 18:00-19:15
Every day, for a month,
The Stand promises its audience The Best Of Irish Comedy. This, achieved via a
daily revolving line-up, gives this show a lucky-dip feel, and, as with Late
‘n’ Live, a sense the organisers hope that you might return tomorrow[4].
I went in there not knowing who I was about to see, and emerged, having spent
quite a pleasant hour in their company, still unsure of the names of two of
them. For the last act on simply refused to lodge 
in my brain, and I arrived too late to be
introduced to the compere. (Though perhaps, as all I can now remember of him
was that he was diverting but a bit meandery, that’s for the best…) David
O’Doherty, whose name did stick – possibly because he’d been recommended by
Adam Hills yesterday – proved to be just Quite Sweet. (I don’t trust comedians’
counsel any more. They only like the folk they go drinking with.) And no matter
how good the bear-lover man on last, he of the ridiculous beard (huge bushy
gingerness, white-striped down the centre, not even matching his dark hair) had
the temerity to tell me (in a Junior Pilot t-shirt) that I looked ridiculous.
Me! Ha![5]
Who, truly, is swayed into seeing an act on the grounds of their posters?
(“Well I 
didn’t know you were funny until I read two quotes
from the New Zealand Times and looked at your hairdo in full colour but now I’m
convinced…”) Surely they are little more than a needlessly expensive way of
reminding people of your existence, your name, and what you look like in case
they’ve seen you before and can be prompted by the murky stirrings of a dusty
memory…? (Wouldn’t most people be better off investing in a Frankie Goes To
Hollywood style t-shirt declaring: I LOOK LIKE THIS, AND I’M VERY FUNNY…)
Who, truly, will be swayed into seeing Jackie Clune thanks to her
posters? She should count herself lucky I bought my ticket before seeing them…
Jackie Clune – ‘Boy
Crazy’
Assembly Rooms –
20:00-21:00
Proportional representation (I can’t book for 25 boys and see NO
lady jesters) and curiosity 
(last year’s show sounded good) brought
me here. Perhaps foolishly, I was expecting comedy. Sadly, it was not to be.
Yet had I gone in there anticipating some good songs with a couple of funny
lines, I’d have been fine. But she’s not billed as a musician. Jackie Clune –
why yes, Nicole Kidman has let herself go[6]
– is in the comedy section of the listings. And oh dear, but she has nothing
new to say, no fresh perspectives or new ideas, just a nice bluesy singing
voice. Some of my dislike was, admittedly, irrational. I’m resentful of her wearing
so unflattering an outfit (and of myself for noticing, thus reinforcing the
idea that comediennes are judged on their appearance 
as much as their material). But I’m also unimpressed with
the sudden ‘Boy Crazy’ (hetero slut) attitude coming after fifteen Sapphic
years, the accompanying implication that she has Seen The Light and is now
easier for an audience to cope with. And I’m wholly unmoved by the tired
observances of how Men Are Different To Women; the bi-insider knowledge, which
could have been used to great effect, here reduced to jokes about chinos and
men’s vacuity. The one high-point was the Hole B-side -style song with the
through line of “why won’t you fuck me you freak”. Apologies for the evening
should have been directed towards more of us than just the family of the
thirteen year old boy in the front row for the graphic education he was
receiving…
Loitering outside the Gilded Balloon, I find Brett
the Folk The World boy who’d given us the free tickets, commend his use of the
word ‘exponential’ and tell him their band now has a place in my heart as my
favourite New Zealand folk-funk troupe. He doesn’t want my spare Glenn Wool
ticket. But… Noel Fielding, lounging by a pillar in his red snakeskin
shadow-bummer pimp shoes, does. I commend him on his use stage-based of Polos,
and enquire after a possible sponsorship deal. We await the arrival of Julian
and their dandy London friend, and make our way into the Peppermint Lounge.
I AM ideologically opposed to good-looking
people doing comedy. Comedy is one of the few methods open to ugly people for
getting themselves laid.
- Kate Copstick, ‘The Scotsman’, Friday 16
August, beginning her ‘Bizarre Cocktail’ review
Glenn Wool’s Bizarre
Cocktail
Gilded Balloon
Peppermint Lounge – 22:00-23:00
Glenn Wool comes onstage to applause, which he’s used to, and
barks, which he’s not. 
There’s a dog in the room. (Though not
for long.) That’s just the start of his troubles. His penis may have healed –
of which more in a minute – and he may have come to terms with life as a Canadian
in London, but all his nicely worked-up material is about to be rudely
interrupted once more. For there are two girls sitting on the row before us,
drunk, giggly, making up their own jokes. When Glenn mentions Mexico, they feel
obliged to do a Mexican wave. Glenn guesses, correctly, that they were given
free tickets to the show. Asks whether they just woke up in a heap on Cowgate
with the tickets sticking out of their back pockets and thought “yeah”. Decides
to have words with the girl giving away free tickets. (“Ooh, what about the
couple with the dog…”) And suggests that women should be able to sue white wine
for their subsequent behaviour. The girls with the love of waving[7],
when they realise this comment was made on their behalf, appear affronted.
Glenn apologises for inferring they were on anything less than “whiskey and
heroin”.
Beyond these incidences, Wool’s
material was as at Glastonbury (and, no doubt, Late ‘n’ Live[8],
not that I can remember) but seeing him three times in a month I have no cause
for complaint on those grounds; besides which, funniness. 
He is gallingly good at his job. And capable of
exploiting his own misery for our amusement. For a show closer, we get the full
unexpurgated Bizarre Cock Tale. From finding a strange red dot on the end of it
(and vainly trying to convince himself he must have been eating spaghetti with
his pants off), through a visit to the clap clinic (high, so as he could face
it), and the dismay at realising whatever he has, the doctors can’t identify it
(“great, I’m going to get a dick fungus named after me”[9]);
after several painful tests, one crunching sound, and a biopsy, he gets the
dreaded results back, and finds he’s suffering little more than a skin
condition in an unusual place. There are morals in there in all manner of
places…
Then back to George Street, where I swap the company of the
Boosh for that of Scott, a front-of-house friend acquired while queuing at the
Pleasance. (Thus does my rotational coterie of show-buddies continue to expand
in number…)
Scott Capurro
Assembly Rooms –
23:45-00:45
Scott Capurro is playing in the Wild Man room. This, surely,
should be some compensation to him for the late hour he takes to the stage.
Though the latter issue is probably the mildest target to his bitching. He
slates his ex (Fat Matt), his family, inbred villagers and all manner of global
eejits, terrorist groups and the culture of celebrity. Not even pop’s comeback
queens are spared a tongue lashing: “Without botox,
Lulu would be plumbers’ tape in Gap clothing”. Capurro is camp, caustic, horny,
self-deprecating, and with a new range of bitterness. His audience-patter
ranges from sweet patience with latecomers traipsing through to their seats
(mostly just making sure their phones are off) to lewd suggestions involving
the youngest boy in the room. And my abiding image of the night will be the man
proving a literal presentation of an In Yer Face comedian – straddling the
amenable Mexican in the front row to demonstrate a partial tea-bagging[10]
on his head, while gazing at the bleach blond Rob seated behind…
After, Scott and I stick
around in the Assembly Rooms bar. Me attempting to disappear to the toilet with
both our drinks – for Southern Comfort top-ups – in a manner which does not
look suspicious. (“Baby’s got Rohypnol…”) Both of us admiring the glorious
manner in which the man at the table behind ours managed to kick his chair away
in the very act of lowering himself upon it – somehow – and thus ended up
thumping painfully to the floor. Natter natter natter.
When the bar closes we
careen across the city to the Dome’s members bar, where we drink most merrily
amidst the nursing home furnishings. I get a taxi back some time after four.
Already decided I shall not be getting up for the mid-morning Radio4
recording.
Last revised: 22/08/02