August 3, 2005
WEDNESDAY 3rd
My very first Edinburgh show is tonight at 9:20pm in The Cavern at The Pleasance. I’ve got so much to do there isn’t time to consider how terrified I am that it will be rotten. I sit and tinker with the show’s many video elements on my computer and my brother Dave agrees to head into town for various props I’ve forgotten. “Why don’t you take my bike?†I offer. “I’d rather walk.†He says witheringly. “It’s like a child’s bike that thingâ€. He’s dissing my bike and giving me a backhand diss about my height too but I can’t get moody with him. He’s too valuable to me right now. When this is all over I’ll find a way to hurt him.
A while later I look up from my computer and it’s 8pm! How did it get to be 8pm for goodness sake? My computer is like a time machine that only goes forward. What’s the point of that? I fear the future. But here it is and suddenly I’m on my bike powering up the giant hill from my flat to Princes Street and then across the North bridge to the Pleasance. I’m soaked with sweat as I prop my bike against the big storage container behind the venue that houses all the props and scenery for the various shows playing at The Cavern. It’s locked and I need to get set up. There’s a show in progress so I figure the key will be with the Cavern staff inside and it’s too late to get in. How am I going to get my stuff out in time? Oh Jesus this is a disaster!
After 10 minutes of pathetic sweaty pacing one of the techies from a neighbouring venue tells me the key holder is sat outside the front of the venue. Obviously. Feeling like a new boy at primary school who has wee’d his pants rather than ask where the toilet is, I unlock the container and unload my gear. Hang on, where’s the frame for my projection screen? It’s not where I left it! It’s been stolen! I’ve heard about this happening to other comics. Someone breaks into the container and that’s it, your show’s stuffed! Oh Jesus, this really is a disaster! Trying not to cry I tell the key holder who says the frame was stored beneath the seating temporarily. OK, I’m fine. Stop crying, everything’s fine.
Jo Caulfield who is on before me, finishes to huge applause and comes off stage. My director David arrives. He’s got 5 other shows at the fringe this year so he’s looking a little fried, but he dives right in to the 10 minute set up with me and suddenly the lights are down and the audience is filing in. The place is about half full, which is great for a preview night I think.
The show is, if not a disaster, certainly no triumph. Glitches in the videos pop up and recently completed chunks of script fall flat. People are laughing, just not that much. This is my biggest fear: that the show will be simply mediocre. I stare past the spotlight into audience during one video section. There’s a middle aged couple directly in front of me. The man is stoney faced. His wife is holding on to his arm with her head rested on his shoulder, smiling slightly. It’s only 20 minutes into the show and they look as if they’re trapped in the longest, dullest play in history. Maybe they are…
I come off stage completely deflated. My director says “well done, that was good†in that breezy way that translates as “wow! That was boring!†I tell him I think it could have gone better. “It was a shy show†he smiles. “That’s what happens with previews. Now you just need to find that aggression again!†Oh Jesus, I think someone may have stolen the aggression! It’s a disaster!
I pack my stuff away and head to the busy courtyard where I see a friend who’s also just come off stage. There were six people in her audience, which is fairly common for previews. She asks about my turnout and I tell her it was pretty good. “Yeah well, you’ve been on TV so you’re bound to get people even if your show’s no good†she explains. Hmm. I honestly hadn’t considered that. I cycle back to the flat wishing I could go home tomorrow. The thought of another 25 shows in a row makes me want to eat my head.