It's OK. It's not your fault, but it's time for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe to fuck off (In the nicest possible way)!

Let's face it, comedians are horrible.  They're all seventeen years old, want to tell us about girls, and are desperate to follow that shining example, Jack Whitehall, into career of being on TV for no apparent reason.  They're not all like that, but they are mostly superficial, vacuous, self obsessed twats, whatever age, or flavour of comedy they choose to perform.  I'm saying they, but  I mean we.  I hate myself, and you.  I hate you and me, and comedy, and reviewers.   This your fault.  Your fault!  Whoever you are?  Oh right.  You're a reviewer.  Well, then you're a massive c**t then aren't you!

Hello!  That wasn't me, that bit above this.  This is just an example of the kind of conversation that will be taking place right now in the (Not so) VIP Brooke's Bar in the Pleasance Dome (Potterow), Edinburgh, which (in case you find yourself going there), is sort of next to a giant upside down purple cow in which men make shapes out of their penises for money, like some sort of sex-Lego.  I'm not good with words.

Anyway, what I'm saying is, I imagine 90% of the participants in the Edinburgh Festival Fringe's comedy fraternity pretty much follow the same emotional curve each year.  I've said curve, but actually, it's really rather more direct.  A kind of straight line, or more of a plummet from liking yourself, your friends, and your fellow performers, to gradually hating them, to finally commencing the inevitable High Street killing spree. 

You'll know it's about to happen, but you won't be able to stop it.  You'll  steal a scythe from a poor guy flyering for a really rather good, 4 star one-man show, based on the works of Sir Terry Pratchett.  You'll make your way to one the make-shift High Street stages, and politely watch a reasonably well performed bit of Hamlet, until it reaches a well acted and satisfying conclusion.  You'll wait patiently for the cast of a not at all ironic student musical to gather upon the stage, before you begin your entirely wilful and premeditated attack on the teenaged bastards.  That's right, bastards.  Your scythe is made of cardboard.  That isn't any less vicious.  In fact it's considerably worse on the victims.  Have you ever tried to kill a drama student with a blunt piece of cardboard?  Let me tell you, it's time consuming.  You have to flyer for your show at 5PM, it's not like time isn't an issue.  However, it's pleasing work.  More pleasing than comedy.  After all, they've had loads of promiscuous consensual sex with each other.  You haven't. (You've haven't had sex at all I mean.  I don't why I put consensual in there).  Anyhow.  They deserve to die, because they enjoyed themselves.  They had no other expectation from the Fringe other than to get drunk and do it to each other.  They didn't want to be an E4 presenter like you.  Like the 35 year old, balding, loser that's you.

So the next day you accept the two stars that Three Weeks gave you for your killing spree.  You prepare the quotes for your poster " Decent flourishes, but no real edge", "Underwhelming finale", "Surreal, but not in a good way", and you head off to The Brooke's bar to spend some quality time, with the people you hate most in the world.  The people who got  four stars from Broadway Baby.

 Here's a graph:

The thing is, this year that wasn't me.  I only did one week.  The 3rd - 10th August.  People were happy, I was happy.  My self-worth and overall wellbeing declined, but only for a bit.  On August 10th I trekked to the LZ, jumped on a Huey and got my ass extracted.  (Yes, it's like a Vietnam reference.  I think I got these words from watching Tour of Duty when I was twelve.  I feel that 'Nam' is a fitting metaphor for the Fringe, as we're obviously in a war we can't win).  So, anyway, now my graph looks like this:

It was...  I can't  believe I'm saying this.  It was nice.  I enjoyed being in Edinburgh.  It was a nice place to be.  Comedians are nice people.  People are nice people.  I think I'm happy.

NB. If you're in Edinburgh, by the time you read this you won't be happy.  You'll be treading around the bloodied student corpses on the High Street screaming "Oh, the humanity", whilst deep down inside knowing that their deaths were necessary in order to stop Glee* ever happening again.  Enjoy!

*It's not ironic, they just want you to think that.

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