Standing up to be counted

Every August, the city of Edinburgh hosts the world’s biggest and most diverse arts festival. This year I was happy to be a part of it: poised to steal the show, and bask in the laughter of this famously discerning audience.

Unfortunately, I had little time to sample the many delights on offer, jetting in for one night only (accompanied by my partner, Sinéad), to compete in the semi-finals of ‘So You Think You’re Funny’- a competition for aspiring comedians which has been won (and lost, thankfully) by countless famous names in the past 20 years.
Note for Comics: under no circumstances ever tell a Scottish taxi driver what you do. It brings out a flurry of piss-poor, barely understandable jokes, and just as piss-poor Sean Connery impressions.
I mean, how hard can it be for a Glaswegian to ‘do’ Sean Connery? To be fair to Duncan, he tells us a fine anecdote about meeting 007 in a golf club some years ago. Himself and his friends are having a conversation about sexual conquests, when they spot Sean walking through the bar.
Out of pure devilment, they ask him “Who was your best ride ever?” He smiles, but ignores them. Two hours later, when they’ve forgotten about the whole thing, Mr. Connery walks past their table, spots them, does a quick about turn, leans over and intones – in that great accent – “P***** ****k, 1967 – up the arse.”
Duncan drops Sinéad and myself into town and we alight outside The Gilded Balloon. This is where I’ll be performing later. Just outside, there’s a massive inflatable purple cow which also happens to be a venue.
It’s called the Udderbelly and it’s surreally impressive, as is the sight of an obviously tardy Neil Delamare racing up the street like the daft rabbit from Wonderland. We’ve a couple of hours to kill, and wish to spend them wisely. There’s a massive queue for a comedian called Karen Dunbar. I recognise her name but can’t recall whether she’s any good. Decision’s made when we’re offered a couple of freebies and in we go. Turns out she’s more popular than funny, but she does produce a decent amount of giggles.
Unfortunately, that’s more that can be said for my show. When I say show, I mean seven and a half minutes of comedy gold. I’m on third out of eight and I reckon I should do alright: the first two on stage are good, but I’m confident my material will blow them away. Well, it may be gold but I fail to shine. I can actually hear the audience blinking. Ok, it’s not that bad, but I’ve done better. I never get the crowd on my side and I’m disappointed with my performance. However, even at my best, I doubt if I’d have won.
The eventual winner deserves it; he’s called Jack Whitehall and is a good bet to do well in the finals, although he is up against a top Irish comic, Gar Murran, who won his heat the night before. At least I know I didn’t place last – we weren’t ranked, but I imagine that honour went to the barefoot hippy chick who took it upon herself to crawl across the judges’ laps while imitating a fly (you didn’t have to be there).
The next morning we browse for something must-see-ish and stumble across Andy Warhol the exhibition. It’s easily spotted; the National Gallery’s classical pillars are sheathed in gigantic Campbell’s soup tins. Upon entering, I’m immediately blown away by the amount of Warhol originals they’ve amassed.
“Of course,” I bullshitted to Sinead, “he was famous for his repetition – image after image reproduced almost industrially, reflecting consumer culture without ever commenting upon it. Look at those endless lines of Pop Art coffee mugs, for instance.”
“This is the gift shop you tit.”
I laugh falsely, as Andy no doubt would have. He once said that “Art is whatever you can get away with.” As an aspiring comedian, I feel the same about humour – and shoplifting - so we take a few mugs and enter the exhibition proper.
The first and most arresting sight is a stack of oversized Brillo Pad boxes – 11 of them, about two feet square. “From a private collection,” the legend reads. I can only imagine the type of person who can afford them, or afford to have a big enough cupboard under the sink for that matter. A young mother was busy restraining her two hyper children, who had realised that the boxes were just the right size for climbing on. I wanted to kick them around the place, but they weren’t my kids.
If you haven’t time to see many shows in Edinburgh, head for High Street, where all the promotional action is held. Mini-stages allow performers to advertise their shows in 15-minute snippets. The extent to which you enjoy the manic energy of smiley drama students depends on your hangover, I suppose. Everybody is ‘on’ and it can become tiring. A flamboyant young man hands me a flyer, and gives a sales pitch in an impeccable southern English accent, “It’s a restoration comedy sir, a delightful re-imagining of the Victor Hugo classic, I think you’d like it.” I’m flattered that he’s recognised a fellow aesthete, until I hear him using the same spiel on a shuffling junkie behind me.
I spoke to Eleanor Tiernan, who along with her cousin Niamh, premiered their new play Help! to good reviews in the Gilded Balloon. Brother Tommy is part of the creative team. They’re having a good run and getting decent crowds. Eleanor competed in the ‘So You Think You’re Funny’ two years ago and was part of the Young, Gifted And Green collective last year. She claims she’s not a veteran yet.
“You’ve got to perform here for at least five years before you get that title,” she laughs, “the hardest part is sleeping with all the reviewers.”
She’s wrong; the hardest part is leaving the festival after just one night. Hopefully I’ll get back again, even if I have to set up my own competition. I think I’ll call it ‘So You Thought You Were
Funny’.