One of my friends starts her comedy routine with “what is a 45 year old doing attempting stand-up?” She wouldn’t know, being 52. Well, sorry – I beat her, I’m 62 and attempted stand-up at the Edinburgh Fringe this year for the first time in my brand new comedy career.
Accommodation and transport all sorted, I just had to worry about packing. That capsule wardrobe always seems to elude me and I ended up with stonking great case of impractical stuff.
Our flat was amazing – the only thing missing was the promised Wifi! Two dongles later (whatever they are) and we are moved to a new, more connected flat. Shame no cafetiere; wondered whether it was a bit of a waste buying my M&S ground coffee. Sadly the Pound Shop was fresh out of cafetieres. Glad I brought the peanut butter, though.
On the first morning felt as if I had arrived at Glastonbury at midnight with no torch, phone that worked, tent or wellies. I was that prepared. Not that it was wet and nor were we camping! First task – the flyers. Obviously got it very wrong (although felt quite engaging) as I seemed to end up collecting more of other people’s flyers than I had handed out of my own. People seemed sympathetic to the idea that if they really didn’t want the flyer they could use it for picking teeth or propping up the wobbly table in the café. I did, eventually, devise quite an effective technique, though. Walk parallel to target without making eye contact (almost impossible anyway), then turn suddenly on suspect with little jump, talk non-stop while smiling continually and looking him/her straight in the eye. Never failed.
But flyers were nothing, my real anxiety was my performance – the actual reason I went to Edinburgh in the first place. I can’t believe I really did this. Most of my Surrey Mum friends have found joining a book club exciting enough. Why the hell did I agree to this? Still if Jeremy Paxman and Nancy Dell'olio can do it – so could I. I am only talking about five bloody minutes in someone else’s show. Not a full hour of 'moi'.
I wasn't so happy with my first performance. My friend’s show went well. She was very focused, it was her first time at the Fringe too; she has thrown every effort into promotion and production. I know not to interrupt her when she is “in the zone”. Not sure that I’ll ever be in the zone. Still it can only get better I tell myself as I dash off to another show.
The object is to fit in as many shows as you possibly can. Nobody overruns. That would be very inconsiderate to the next performer; but the trick is to target shows that you want to see in a similar area without thinking you can cross from one side of town to the other; unless of course you are into teleporting. Even the ever-present, ever-patient taxis haven’t learned to do that yet.
At a discussion group entitled 'Breaking down Barriers: Women at the Fringe' hosted by the Fringe Society I learned that 90% of people believe women are not funny. Oh help. It was imperative not to read reviews…chance would be a fine thing. And you could make a show about anything at all…even an ingrown toe nail.
I became the very proud owner of a Promoter Pass. I wore my blue ribbon tag like a mayoral chain around my neck. It got me into many shows and although there was a definite hierarchy of neckwear, it was decidedly better than nothing. It seemed that even eating alone in a restaurant wearing said adornment somehow elevated you from sad lonesome tourist to middle-aged promoter with a purpose.
I must say that by day four in same jeans I did feel decidedly like a middle-aged promoter with bags under her eyes. It was not the wine – some taken admittedly each night – but the late nights and continual bombardment of the senses with sights and sounds.
Another problem did present itself – a ripped big toe nail requiring treatment and antibiotics. There was no time to spend four hours in A & E. It became a feat (ha-ha) of huge achievement to find someone who could advise and indeed prescribe medication. It wasn’t helped by all the walking/running required between venues; however, the drugs soon kicked in and taking them with a glass of wine didn’t seem to matter at all.
My performance improved – at least I thought so. One man told me how disappointed he was when he first saw me. Oh dear, I know I’m not tall, blonde and under 25 but he was referring to my armful of tattoos. I thought it would make me more edgy – not quite so much ya ya from Surrey. He was very relieved to discover I had ordered it from Amazon for £2.99. Amazing what they sell! I could see if they could ghost write my next script.
Next? Am I mad? No, just smitten. What a fantastic experience – both as voyeur and performer. When I rang the letting agent to say how impressed we were with the flat she offered an even better deal for next year. How could I resist? How about that big toe nail as a show?
Pictured: Our impression of Vicky's feet in recovery…
