In the morning, I see Penny &
Michael off (by, um, walking them down the hallway) as they prepare to return
to Leeds. They, well brought up the both of them, ask if I slept well. Yes,
comes the reply, until Claire’s phone alarm went off at 5:00, and seeing it
wasn’t Becca (blond) in the bed opposite me in the early morning gloom, but
someone with a black bob, my first hazy thought was that it must be Ross Noble.
Then I woke up…
‘Aunty & Me’ (Alan
Davies)
Assembly Rooms – 14:35-16:35
A black comedy, featuring
a mostly silent lady (Marcia Warren) with a tendency to put a blanket over her
head in uncomfortable situations, and a nephew (Alan Davies, badly shorn), with
a tendency to try to hurry her along to the cemetery with poisoned butterscotch
pudding. He had arrived at her flat having received a letter from ‘your dying
aunt’ (though admitted, when she was found to be still breathing, that at the
speed he reads it could just as easily 
have been ‘yodelling’). He is expecting a
tearful deathbed farewell and stirring eulogy delivery is all he will be
required for. But the old gel refuses to die. Or to make use of any of his
handy euthanasia contraptions, even the one handily rigged with a choice of
mortal coil shuffle-off routes – opt for either an electric shock delivered
through the bedpost, or a smart blow to the head. Frustration, resignation and
boredom play out before us, as the nephew finds himself staying long enough to
witness the changing of the seasons. All the seasons…
Much of this play has
already been cooed over in the press. The bleak lonely humour. Alan’s po-faced
delivery, devoid of knowing comedic smugness. His partner’s excellent
twitchingly expressive visage. That this is the first Alan Davies Edinburgh
acting job since his 80’s student days[1],
and ooh, hasn’t he done well. Oh, and the ‘surprise’ ending. But there are
other elements that shouldn’t be ignored. The nifty blackouts at the play’s
start, punctuating every wry one-liner and the passing of time. How sweet it
was, allowing the growing affection between the pair to be demonstrated with
pathos as well as laughter. The flat’s window opened just in time to catch the
‘badly kicked’ football lobbed up from the ‘street’ below. And the ending, the
nephew illuminated in the easy-chair alone, with a shower of glitter falling
onto the stage and the double spot-light combining to make a silver heart
hanging above his face. Worthy of the fuss, worthy of your time, worthy of your
affection…
Walking down Blair Street, heading for the Underbelly (yet
another venue that has the feel of a badly converted slaughterhouse), we are
approached by two New Zealanders. (Actually, they just catch us up. We keep
walking, which is slightly rude, but this is counter-balanced by my turning to
talk to them so as I’m now going backwards down the hill, risking physical
injury so as to be told just how good both boys are at their jobs.) We are offered
free tickets for this evening’s Folk The World extravaganza. Which takes place,
I am assured, in a badly converted slaughterhouse. Though this one has great
wall-hanging torture potential. See you there then…
Alex & Lawry &
Richard’s Friendly Inn Of Comedy
Smirnoff Underbelly – 17:55-18:50
Things didn’t begin well.
The three boys introduce themselves with a ‘Charlie’s Angels’ beginning, their
roles for the next hour laid out for them by a pre-taped Bosley, before leaving
the stage to Alex Zane. Only then does Claire realise she’d made the compere
(and not a barman) fetch her a glass of water minutes earlier. Although it was
his fault for being behind 
the bar, as he says (having his place taken
by a monkey in the promotional literature can’t have helped either though; how
was she supposed to recognise him?), he still mocks her for it, and, when she
replies to his questions, for being small-voiced. This does not endear him to
her. Though one of the three Germans in the room fares far worse – Volker has
such a strong accent, he sounds as though he’s introduced himself as being
called Fucker. Much mileage is eked from this[2].
Alex, personable and chatty, manages not to offend anyone else, and does a
sterling job of compering without seeming to have any material whatsoever. He
seems far more sure of himself onstage than Richard, the Friendly Inn-er
without the rubbery face, who is loath to tailor his pre-rehearsed stream of
story-puns to the room. Despite having some good jokes in there (he’d trodden
on a cat on the way up here – “Meiow” it had exclaimed, “Mesorry” he had
replied), they are slightly crushed by his slow pacing and under-confidence.
Still. At least he wasn’t malingering under the belief that 
comedic status can be assured by the
wearing of nasty clothes. Which is the trap Lawry falls into. (Or, if you
prefer, the hole he digs for himself.) His first character guise is as a
hopelessly unfunny end-of-peer gag merchant, who seems convinced that being
able to pull out a string of knotted hankies from the arse of your trousers is
hilarious, and that he’ll garner ironic laughter (‘see what we used to laugh
at! what a clown!’) with such a post-modern creation. It is a relief when our
compere returns, and continues in his attempt to bond with the sparsely
populated room. One audience member, when asked what he does for a living,
claims not to know. He just checks his email for instruction each day, and goes
where he is sent. Alex is intrigued. He asks us to guess what the man actually
does (even if he doesn’t know, his more knowledgeable girlfriend is here), 
and that we all put a pound into a kitty
for the winner. I, unemployed once more, ask for special dispensation to only
contribute 20p. Alex agrees, but only lets me utter the first syllable of my
guess. “Fir…”[3] is my
contribution. I do not win. The man is a communications consultant. The woman
who suggested BT Engineer comes closest, and makes £17.20. We are all, compere
included, slightly jealous. But the hour is not yet over. There is more to
come…
Lawry returns with a
slightly more successful persona – the Milk Tray man. Whom I warm to mostly on
the grounds of his also having noticed the one glaring flaw in Forrest Gump’s
idealogy: if life really is like a box of chocolates, and you never know what
you’re gonna get, how do you explain the helpfully illustrated contents listing
inside each confectionary container? He finishes on a Milk Tray rap, Cypress
Hill style, which impresses as much for its meter and rhyme scheme as the
chocolatey lyrics. His third and final character of the show is Derek Wetherby,
a paranormal investigator who managed to make me laugh but once with his
exorcism suggestion of yelling “bugger off!” at pesky spooks. As a finale, we get the three of them
dancing to the Ghostbusters theme-tune, Alex & Richard in skellington
jumpsuits… Now that was funny. Though for entirely the wrong reasons. Two boys
in their twenties wearing snug Hallowe’en costumes intended for the under-12’s
doing E17 style backing dancing…ahaha…we can see your VPL…
The Jerry Springer Opera badges (CHICK WITH
A DICK!) currently adorning the more discerning members of the populace (CRACK
WHORE!) are edged with a warning that they are “NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN UNDER
36 MONTHS”. Because there is a “SHARP POINT PRESENT”. The slogan SLUT JUNKY,
mind, that’s fine…
Andy Zaltzman Unveils
The 2002 Catapult Of Truth
Pleasance Over The
Road – 19:30-20:30
I passed Andy Parsons on
the way in, and swiftly establish that both of us are fully capable of stern
written protests if the show does not feature an actual catapult clearly
emblazoned with the word TRUTH – on the handle or the strap, we don’t mind –
and a demonstration thereof. But because proceedings are running late (and I’d
left but five minutes to get between this venue and the next one), of the two
of us it is only Parsons who gets to see if we need to be causing Trading
Standards trouble. (All I saw was the Catapult Of Truth brought out onstage 
by a trained technician – John Oliver, in
a lab-coat, holding a misshapen coat-hanger adorned with a sock for ping-back
power – and Andy writing on plastic balls.) I can’t give away the ending, cos I
didn’t get to see it, but I’m sure it was at least slightly spectacular. One
befitting of a man (sarcasm boy!) with a roving satirical eye, whose stage
decoration consists of an ‘Edinburgh Welcomes…’ sign, and one lone string of
flags[4].
Andy, dryly, expresses his gratitude to whoever “bunted the fuck out of the
room”, before continuing with his wry cerebral chatter. Some of his pieces
could do with a little more kneading into shape – the long meandery (though
well learnt) monologue about fêtes, for example – and maybe the Catapult
unveiling could come a little earlier (maybe minute 53 instead of 57), but the
key elements are all there. Besides which, it was gratifying to see someone
doing a set (free of pomposity) involving political jokes and social
commentary, not just mocking Dubya and then leaving the World News arena. Oh,
and using phrases like “bunted the fuck out of the room”.
Show highlight for me was
when he played Great World Leaders Top Trumps with a chosen fellow from the
front row; the Queen goes head to head with Hitler over impressiveness of
parades, the latter despot secures a win over Stalin with regards to
comprehensively ruining a moustache style. Andy’s adversary was doing quite well,
had a full hand, until the tide turned (very nicely choreographed this) and his
cards dwindled, until he was left with only one. President Bush. Andy has Osama
bin Laden. The challenge category is Knowledge of Other Countries. His opponent
doesn’t even bother to check the score on his card, just concedes defeat and
hands it over. Aaaah…
I made Claire leave before the end. (Well my mother always
taught me never to be late for a Birthday Party.) Only to discover that
proceedings in the Cavern, THE ROOM WHICH HAS BEEN LEAKING FOR THREE DAYS, have
been held up by a fire alarm, and that Andrew Clover will be starting late
anyway. I apologise to Claire. We make up our own ending to Zaltzman’s show. I
mime twanging imaginary plastic balls into her face, on which are written
several possible truisms – only if she mimes them hitting her in the eyes, then
yes, we can be certain of their verity. Thus do we realise all kippers are
friendly.
No-one approaches us with flyers as we act this out.
Andrew
Clover’s Birthday Party
Pleasance Courtyard – 20:35-21:35
We played musical statues and pass the
parcel (though I didn’t win anyfink) and everyone got sweets which was really
cool and we nearly saw Andrew’s winkie when he dressed up like ginny Mrs Clover
cos his dress was flapping a bit heehee and he’s still a bit sad about the
parties he had when he was little and so he picked on a boy he made wear a
nappy cos his little brother once ruined his birthday but the nappy boy was
okay with it and he gave a heckler a water pistol which stopped him shouting
though people did get wet but I didn’t so I don’t care heehee and lots of
people got given hats and he called one girl ‘the eppy kid’ but she won a
monkey so she didn’t really mind and one boy and girl had to wear rubber panties
with willies on them heehee and people threw pies from on horses that were
people but it was okay cos they had macs on and we all danced to The A-Team and
I don’t think there were many jokes but it didn’t really matter cos it was such
fun it was wicked and at the end we got to let off the party poppers and silly
string and it was brilliant…
And thankyou for having us Andrew
(there now I’ve said it mum can I go now?).
For the next show, I found myself
sitting next to a large-scale Ross Noble. Which was beyond disconcerting. The
man looked just like him, except he had a wider face, bigger torso, thicker
legs, longer hair… It was as though someone had got one of those tracing
compasses (only I seem to have had as a child) and enlarged the real thing. More
likely coincidence than evidence of bad cloning techniques, though I’m still
hoping over the course of his Edinburgh stay he was approached by:
a) fans believing him to be the Northern funster, but tricked by
perspective into running past him for an autograph
b) drunks who truly supposed he had licked the Dalai Lama and
several slurred points to make on the matter
c) enraged anti-geneticists demanding to know which scientist
abused the Natural Laws to facilitate his creation
d) Ross himself, anxious to make use of him onstage somehow
(even if just with a spot of mirror mime).
Dan Antopolski – ‘The
Presence’
Pleasance Courtyard –
21:50-22:50
A keyboard of power. An over-expensive temperamental computer. A
saxophone encore. A flying carpet of his own devices. Some shoe porn. AND the
chance to see his foot pretend to be Henry Winkler. So ‘The Presence’ has no
theme to his show (or Mystic Orange as last 
year), beyond Look At My Lovely Toys. So
his loosely linked collection of musings and showing off means he’s ever
increasingly likely to garner lazy reviews utilising adjectives such as ‘zany’,
‘quirky’, ‘offbeat’, ‘madcap’ and – even, wait for it – ‘screwball’. So? He’s
clever without being cocksure, never one to underestimate his audience, and is
self-aware enough to provide a get-out clause for some of his more improper
material, tempering the ‘Wrong Jokes’ with a Fonz-esque “aaay”, arms a-waving,
mischievous smile[5]. Antopolski,
the first male comic I’ve seen discuss tampons at such length, is in no way traditionally
‘observational’ – there are no ‘my wife…’ ‘my dog…’ ‘my drug hell…’ stories
here – just human foibles and much weirdness, him playing around with what we
will laugh at. With some natty gadgets. And the odd riddle…
“What’s blue when wet, and white when
dry?” (pause) “Copper sulphate.”
The set pieces, that Edinburgh is the comedians’ only real forum
for, were my favourites. The living graph, composed of pliable audience members
of varying height, demonstrating Dan’s own theorems as well as man’s
malleability and willingness to succumb to authority (they jumped as ordered!).
The thought scanner he was wearing, which ‘picked 
up’ the mundanities trundling through the
audience’s minds (I’m certain I heard an “I really like cheese”), and which he
let dangle towards the floor, where it ‘picked up’ the thoughts of his trainer.
It was feeling unloved, and said so, until Dan kindly serenaded it on behalf of
his foot, a segment which concluded with a highly passionate bit of sneaker
wearing. And then the finale, where he sang the song of a sick child (whose
friends call him an ‘Airport Case’ – he’s the Terminal One…) dreaming of
escaping the strict confines of his hospital bed, and flying away on a magic
carpet. Which we got to see Dan do. (Actually, it was more of a rug-decorated
table on coasters, with a pair of cross-legged stuffed jeans on it, but when he
was wearing it the magic spell was there…) Scooting around the stage as though
soaring above cities, a Bernie Clifton for the new Millennium…
Fantabulous stage presence
too, by the way…
At the start of the show, engaged in banter (“really?
Manchester? me too! what street? me too!”), Antopoloski had veered towards
someone I thought I recognised, but got distracted before he asked the boy’s
name. After, I make a point of walking past him to leave the room, so as to get
a non-squinty close-up. (“I do know you, don’t I?” “Isabelle! Hello!”) Thus do
I find Anthony, unseen since school. Thus do I find a friend for my Claire-less
festival days…
Flight Of The Conchords
– ‘Folk The World’
The Gilded Balloon
Caves – 23:45-00:45
In yet another dank
high-ceilinged room off Cowgate, a small but appreciative crowd are ignoring
the horrendous pun in the show’s title (‘folk! it sounds a 
bit like fuck! haha!’) and grinning appreciatively
at the mellow musicians onstage before them. Flight Of The Conchords like
kissing girls (and singing about kissing girls), so if we’d like to form an
orderly queue afterwards… They also like tour guides, getting the introduction
they deserve (with a lighting operator who knows what all the buttons do), and
bringing the tone up (or down) by using the word ‘exponential’. My highlight
was the pained ballad which sought to rummage through Frodo’s psyche –
strangely, Peter Jackson decided to use Enya on the ‘Lord Of The Rings’
soundtrack instead[6] – and I can
now tell you without a hint of a blush that they are my new favourite funk-folk
acoustic duo from New Zealand[7].
Let it never be said that Edinburgh doesn’t look after its
drunks. Late-night licensing, venues open until five, bars with apologetic
window notices that they will be closing at but 3a.m. and the glorious
scaffolding mufflers – so incongruous does carpet on a pole seem in the sober
daytime, and how useful it must be for those moving in a haze of booze.
‘Late ‘n’ Live’ –
Daniel Kitson, Brendon Burns, Andrew Maxwell, Glenn Wool, Nova Lounge
The Gilded Balloon
Teviot – 01:00-05:00
Now in a school assembly hall (Pros. Arch stage flanked by much
wood panelling), and sponsored by a cigarette company (‘Lighten Up!’ ahaha…),
two décor elements which do little to endear Daniel Kitson to the room. Late
‘n’ Live’s new resident compere declares an overwhelming desire to deck the
walls in sombre colours, dingy the place down a bit, and 
urges us to return tomorrow armed with outsized
black t-shirts with which we can cover up the stately oak. (And grins, knowing
that for every twenty people smiling at the clever mong’s suggestion, there
will be one drunk and willing to do exactly as asked…) He does a bit of banter
(“you’re an architect? what’s your favourite kind of brick?”), fails to repeat
any of the material from his ‘Something’ show, and ignores the heckler
consistently yelling MONKEY.
Now. As I have been
drinking for quite some hours, by around half one my brain decides to shut down
all non-essential bodily tasks, and concentrate on keeping me off the floor and
in an upright position. Consequently, my memory of the next hour or so is two
stages beyond patchy. (But at no point did I start dribbling.) I saw an
inordinately chipper Andrew Maxwell and he made me laugh, not that I can recall
a single thing he said. I saw Brendon Burns, and aside from the ‘goat-fucker’
material (for some reason that always sticks), I remember nothing of his set. Lastly,
I saw Glenn Wool, who says many funny things, and I in my drunkenness attempt
to write them down, knowing full well this is the only way I shall retain a
memory of the night. Sadly, motor skills are also now somewhat beyond me, and
the only legible and intelligible quote in my notebook[8]
is a (wise 
but not altogether uproarious) suggestion
that if and when the West ever does put an embargo on Saudi Arabia, we had better
dig out those plans for a solar-powered car pretty sharpish.
However.
There was one other thing…
Kitson, as a part of his
friendly comic banter, had asked the name of the bald, speccy (Boo Radleys
installation artist type) sitting at a table in the centre of the room. “Helen
Duffy!” was the response. An odd reply (from a man) for anyone to receive, but
particularly for Kitson – Helen Duffy was the first girl he ever fancied.
Kitson tests him. The man knows what was written in his Helen Duffy Valentine.
Kitson becomes slightly concerned[9].
The man is adamant as to his Duffy identity. He is a post-op transsexual (who’s
sticking with his old name), and will not shut the fuck up. Kitson uses words
like ‘fibbery’ and ‘tinker’ in dealing with his heckler. After a while, this
descends to a more abrupt “shut up I’m busy”. Then Brendon comes out. He does
not use words like ‘fibbery’ or ‘tinker’. Helen Duffy goes quiet. For the
moment.
The Helen Duffy saga
culminates some time later in two audience members piling down to the front of
the room in an attempt to strangle the man with his own tie, egged on from
onstage and supervised by security. Who then evict Miss Duffy from the
building. To cheers. Ha.
Comedy and
state-sanctioned violence over, there 
is
an interval, and then live music. (I am spurred into life with what appears to
be a distant vision of Orson Carson tuning up.) This evening, toe-tapping
delights come courtesy of the Nova Lounge – or, as I know them, the Black Liars[10].
(Wheee.) They suffer the ignominy of playing as the hall is tidied up before
them – who wants to provide the soundtrack to Ushers Stacking Chairs? – but
then manage to get people dancing with their lickety-split rock ‘n’ roll
covers. Nova Lounge did ‘No Scrubs’. I believe they might even have mixed it up
with a leetle ‘Jailhouse Rock’. They are like the world’s coolest wedding band.
And I could have danced all night (…or at least until four…) but Claire is
dozily slumping in her seat, so home we go…
Last revised: 20/08/02