Just starting to have fun and the bloody thing is ending.
A couple of nice extra curriculars today. I was on Nicholas Parson's Happy Hour this evening, a non-podcast chat show (how quaint) in the Pleasance Cabaret Bar (where we did the second Edinburgh run of This Morning With Richard Not Judy in 96). Parsons unsurprisingly said he was a bit tired before we went on, but it didn't show in the performance. He bantered with his front row, handing out Smarties, managing to get a hug from an attractive opera singer in the front row, lightly taking the piss out his audience and telling some jokes and anecdotes and doing a fantastic Glaswegian impression (even better than my own). And in spite of his worries that my show was a bit spicy for his audience he did a fair few risque jokes himself, alluding to backdoor activities and penises and I believe he even said "fucking" (though in the middle of his slurring Glaswegian bit) and his packed crowd lapped it up.
The interview was lovely too and I got a chance to ask him a few questions, including about his appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. Arthur Haynes had just informed Parsons that he thought it was time for them to go their separate ways before the gig, but Sullivan was effusive after their bit telling Haynes he was working with the best straight man in the business. Parsons was justifiably proud. Nicholas asked me why I hadn't asked him to be on my podcast - I wish that I had, though then again, I am not sure I would want to ask him which animal he would have sex with if he had to. But then again I think he might actually answer quite brilliantly. He is a wonder of the modern age.
And around midnight I headed over to the Counting House to take part in the Malcolm Hardee awards. Not that I had won anything - of course not, I fall between the cracks in the pavement, neither graced by the official Perrier awards or the anarchic Malcolm Hardee ones. But I was in with a shot of walking away with a trophy as I was competing in the Egg Russian Roulette contest. As well as awards there were sets from some of the Fringe's more weird and wonderful acts, including our old pal Rumpel (back on the podcast next Monday and I am considering talking to him for 40 minutes which might be a stretch if last time is anything to go by) and Charlie Chuck and a woman singing "You Can Ring My Bell" whilst ringing a bell that was attached to her pants (she was utterly amazing). It was a celebration of craziness, some fake and some real I think, but you couldn't help getting caught up in the madness and infectious silliness. Perhaps the Malcolm Hardee Awards wear their alternativeness on their sleeves a bit proudly, but perhaps they should be proud. It's important to remember that the Fringe is as much if not more about these more obscure and deranged and artistic acts than it is about stand ups trying to get on telly with safe and formulaic routines. There was little formulaic on display tonight - in fact most of it made little sense. I was certainly the squarest man in the room. I might be the squarest man in the city.
And Malcolm Hardee still manages to bully me from beyond the grave as I was here to smash eggs on my head. Just like a more yolky version of the Deer Hunter I would be facing off against other comedians for the prize, competing in pairs to whittle us down to a single winner. We sat at opposite sides of a table with a box of six eggs, five of which were hard-boiled but one of which was not. We had to smash them against our foreheads in turn and whoever got hit with the albumen of the uncooked egg (I said egg) would lose.
I was up against the Emperor of Edinburgh Arthur Smith in the first round. A man who has also been a ghostly figure at many of my Edinburgh humiliations, but who is my all-time Fringe hero. Unsurprisingly the audience were very much on his side. He was also brave enough to play the game in his regular clothes, whilst I had opted to wear a large yellow splash garment - though my head was too big to tie the necessary bandana around. The first egg for both of us was hard-boiled. I then went to choose my second. I thought the furthest egg away from me looked different than the others, my brain told me it was the uncooked egg, but my hand still chose it. Maybe I felt it was only right to lose or maybe I just wanted it to be over with. I smashed the egg against my forehead and it smashed into a billion gloopy pieces. Even with my anorak of shame I had egg all over my head and arm. I had failed to win yet another Edinburgh trophy (I did win the first Edinburgh Comedians Poker Tournament so I am not without accolades). I left with my dreams broken and egg on my face and on my arm. Malcolm had kicked me in the bollocks once again.
Arthur went on to immediate defeat in the next round and the ultimate champion was Lewis Shaffer, who later told me that he also thought you could spot the real egg as it looked different than the boiled ones.
I watched the awards and then left this little bubble of variety and 80s style Fringe anarchy behind. Whatever happens at the Fringe, whatever changes and whatever becomes fashionable there is room for everything. This was another heaving room of happy punters. There's room for the ghost of Malcolm Hardee and for Nicholas Parsons and for T-shirted 21 year old comics. There's even room for a 45 year old man in a jumper who doesn't really quite fit into any of the holes, except maybe the cock-shaped one.
But I walked home with egg in my hair, enjoying the fact that the only eggs thrown at me in my career have been self-inflicted.
Five more shows to go now.
