“Fancy some 5 star Irish standup comedy?” This is my standard opening line to mostly groups of laughing women with colourful alcoholic beverages in hand. They scope out the flyer, a photo of me surrounded in roses and my follow up line is: “It’s about the disaster of my love life, but don’t worry it’s funny!” Cue their giggles, and I walk away with a smile, hating myself, as well as that bloody poster- but that’s what the PR woman said. “Sexy sells!” she yells. Not what I envisaged my career to be, when I was coming up in the grimy London club circuit. Making people laugh for an hour was the vision, and at this Fringe festival it seems to be working.
For Ireland’s Olympic gold medal bout, a fellow Irish comedian has organised for us all to get together at an Irish pub to cheer on boxer Kellie Harrington. It’s the closest we can all get, to feeling at home. When we say to each other '“How’s it going?” we really mean it this time. I get homesick, yes for my daughter, but for the familiarity of our people too and the way we talk. We are an enigma to some British people here. I am honest about how it’s going: “I’m sleeping loads, not going to watch shows yet, just looking after myself, it’s a long month.” Most people are the same. Danny is kindly organising day hikes and sea swims and I’m happy to get involved.
The fight is tense but Kellie is in control and some of us are screaming along, others are confused: “Are we winning?” We are. Kellie is an artist, switching from south paw to orthodox stance seamlessly, confusing her opponent and I really don’t know which is her preferred stance. “There’s just too much going on!” I hear a comedian scream, and I look to the packed bar to see police officers, in the middle of the second round, approach a gentlemen. He calmly walks out with them and I get a glimpse of the handcuffs on his front. We finish the fight. Gold medal for Ireland. The word gets round. He wasn’t such a gentleman after all. He has been on the run for a year, having murdered his wife.
It is 2am by the time they let my daughter and her mother through passport control. She sprints for me and I am so happy to hold her, hug her and carry her even if she is too big for that now. The early hours do not stop her from her story telling bonanza and they are both beautifully brown and tanned sticking out in the damp Edinburgh night. It’s an hour drive to my Aunts mansion, we stay in the west wing and I am just happy we are together. Tomorrow it’s my daughter’s birthday, we make gluten free cupcakes. I’ve cut sugar and wheat out of my life. Guess what- I’m feeling a lot better.
The famous football journalist Guillem Ballague is posing for a photo and I ask him for a selfie- like a child. He comes to my show and he loves it. He wants to meet for coffee about some work we could do together. I love his books, his story telling and his punditry. His Maradona biography was one source of reference for me in a piece I wrote for the Irish Times. A Friday night show is intense with drunken cockneys. The audience is nervous of them, it’s on the edge, they could start slagging off the Irish comic. I keep them onside for a show that is on edge for the whole hour. It becomes one of my favourite shows ever.
The reviews come in, no one has anything bad to say and on the self worth scale measured in Edinburgh Fringe’s review star system, I’m not doing too bad. Fours and Fives, enough to use to promote the next show. I meet a reviewer who tells me the process of how artists are nominated for awards. As I suspected, it’s quite frankly, a load of bollox. My daughter leaves and that’s all I care about. I spend an evening stapling good reviews to flyers for brilliant sketch group Grubby Little Mitts. We drink cups of tea and I feel like I have friends. I go home after another meal alone in a Malaysian restaurant. The noodles were spicy, the beer was cold. Then I come home, and I wrote to you.
Enjoying your posts! Thank you. Look forward to seeing your show next time you are in Cork!