Tug of Love

Last night, two men fought over me. Or, more accurately, sulked.

I finally went out for a bit of Edinburgh gaying. Wherever I went, there were these two guys sat together. I got talking to them, and they turned out to be old friends, rather than boyfriends, and we got to talking, and drinking and talking.

Mike was an archivist from the Lake District. Peter, the more Irish one, said he'd been sucked off on Calton Hill by Gerry, the Big Brother gay. But nearly everyone I meet in Scotland's had him. There was a guy stood next to us, dancing in only a pair of tasselled leather trousers. He had a lot of muscles and no expression. He's out every night apparently, off his tits. He works in a store selling bodybuilding powder, and likes himself as much as he hates everyone else.

I forgot about Scotland's relaxed licensing laws, and suddenly it was half past four. Mike announced that he was annoyed. "We both fancy you," he said, despondently.

I pointed out that this wasn't necessarily a problem, but Pete was horrified. "Oh god no! We're just mates. We've never done... that - not even in Gran Canaria."

This was not perhaps the best time to start asking about the difference between circuit diagrams in series and in parallel, but I was very drunk and trying to make a point. Eventually, they started sketching out a rota at a cab rank, and I started to laugh.

Mike didn't think it was funny, at all. They were still rowing when they got in the cab. I always like it when men call. But never before have two men argued over who's going to call me first. And yet, at the same time, I'm sweetly convinced I'll never hear from either of them.

The sound of no hands clapping

Audiences are funny things - our play's been ticking along quite nicely, with audiences building gently towards 30 (which ain't shabby for the fringe), and then suddenly on Saturday night... six.

Luckily, they were a nice six and laughed loads, but still... six. This isn't the worst - everyone in our venue's still talking about the cast who played their hearts out to an audience of one... until halfway through, when he stood up and walked out. In dark moments, I try and imagine the looks on everyone's faces - did he meet their eyes as he left? Did they plead silently for him to stay? Did they carry on the play after he left? Or did they wait till he was out of earshot and then quietly peter out?

Last night, we had 36, which was enormously reassuring. Including, wonderfully, the staff of James Bond magazine (which, rather marvellously appears to be called Kiss Kiss Bang Bang). I now possess a picture of the magazine's editor standing outside the Pinewood water tank, and, more valuably, the reassurance that my show is factually accurate.

I'm falling in love with our audiences. If I had my way, I'd invite my favourite audience members back at the end - I rather think they'd like each other. They'd include the sweet lesbian couple who laughed like drains, the giggling film students, and the drunk girl with pink hair who suddenly shouted out "Fucking hell! I'd forgotten about the bagpipes!".

Token Gay Play

"Morning, sugar!" smirked Jesus in an LA drawl. Christ was wearing only a pair of tight jeans, and was rather lounging on the cross in a way that showed off his six pack. But that's the fringe this year - get your top off and you'll get the gays.

You see, it ain't the fringe unless you go and see a token gay play. They're invariably mediocre, but packed - cos all the marys turn up dutifully to anything with a hunk on the flyer.

This is open to abuse - I was most tempted by a flyer which showed four naked studs up against a wall. "It's called Borstal Boy!" I glowed, excited by the prospect of bad boy japery in naughty school.

"Borstal Boy?" my friend Helen narrowed her eyes. "But that's Brendan Behan's play about his agonised youth and the IRA." And thus, not much bumming.

This year's must-see gay play is called Butch, and is the story of a pocket gay who wants to be a muscle mary. It's almost charming, but it misjudged the audience's sympathy badly. We've got a certain amount of time for a muscly man walking around with his top off, but not if he's constantly whining, "Oh, I'm so scrawny... I wish I could put on weight... Why am I so thin?"

Transformers

Giant robot cars go smashy smashy. Clearly, the most entertaining film ever made, and I was on the point of tears throughout.

Perhaps I should explain my curious emotional reaction. Years ago, I was taking my finals, and suddenly stopped having emotions. People react to finals differently, but everyone goes a little potty. So, I became a weirdly serene being.

Except that, there was this one car advert on at the time. A car with really good brakes would come round a hill and not run over a deer. Every time I saw it, I'd be in floods and floods of tears.

To this day, there's nothing like a nicely filmed bit of ABS and decent suspension to make my lip quiver.

So, you can imagine the effect Transformers had on me. Yeah.

Flyering God

It's no longer good enough to just hand out a flyer in Edinburgh – suddenly, you've got to really BELIEVE in the show. It's like there's suddenly 15,000 new religions in town.

Wherever you go, a wide-eyed student pounces on you – and delivers a sermon to go with his flyer. To you, it may just be another flyer with a picture of a scowling comedian, but to them he's the comedy messiah.

With a shining zeal you'll be asked about your kind of comedy and assured, “Great – he's just like Josie Long and Robin Ince, but really cutting edge and aggressive. Especially for a Canadian.” And he probably has a big gold calf too.

It can take minutes to get away from each chugging limpet, and the cumulative effect is draining. I watched a couple sat at the Pleasance bar having a row – constantly having to break off and smile politely as the latest show was flogged to them.

Of course, I'm shit at flyering - I just end up yelping at tourists, and the other day I told someone our show was a musical. Faced with another afternoon of torment, I invented "horizontal flyering". I went and hid in a gay sauna. It wasn't a complete waste - I took some flyers with me, so maybe I've convinced a couple of charming strangers to come.

Apparently...

There's a heatwave in London. None of that in Edinburgh, thank you very much. While people in London strip down and complain about air conditioning, festival goers are frantically buying coats and venue staff have donned cagouls. Of course, the locals are unaffected, pottering happily around in t-shirt and shorts, sparing the occasional pitying glance for bedraggled actresses, sniffing miserably at bus stops in their sodden ponchos.

More play stuff

.... And the Festival's finally started. Even we've got an audience.

We've got past the grimness of the second night - we started with an audience of two, but had reached double figures ten minutes in - and last night we had a crowd of 27, and our first walk outs.

We actually adored our walk-outs. Ten minutes in they shook their heads sadly, nodded grimly, and slipped away so quietly no-one noticed. Bless 'em.

Of course, ten minutes later we had our first drunk stumble-in. Somehow he slipped past the venue staff to stagger in, wheezing and tottering, before collapsing uncertainly across the back row, where he lay panting like a trapped whale for a few minutes before waking up, blinking, belching softly and leaving.

The Festival suddenly has people – rather than just performers flyering each other hysterically. It's been a whole day since I've had a free ticket shoved at me by an old man clad in a feather boa.

Now that there are people, a venue's character really emerges. The Stand, for instance, is a small comedy club that's made itself the home of amiable late night comedy on the fringe. It's always crowded, but has a friendly, pubby atmosphere. People don't mind standing – especially not if it's next to someone famous.

The Assembly's a different beast entirely. It's got an excellent programme, but the venue has an airport-like love of tedious queues, eagerly policed by students with searchlights and attack dogs. The other day we were trying to find the end of the queue for the excellent Robin Ince (through the main hall, along the corridor, round the corner, second left, up the stairs). Rick went the wrong way and ended up in the theatre itself. Which was completely empty.

The Pleasance is the funkiest – this year they've decorated their courtyard with thousands of plastic windmills.

Second Day Slump

Actually, it didn't go so bad last night. Our audience just about scraped into double figures, and seemed to like it.

But then, as we valiantly tramped out of our venue, we got stampeded by the crowd desperate to see "Chav! It's a musical innit" and I suddenly felt rather depressed.

Apparently the morning after the first night is always the worst, and god, it's been grim. I've spent it on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, reading a biography of Edward VIIth, and have decided I'm just too low to see a play about lesbian ballroom dancing.

Actually, I just don't want to see anything, in case it has a bigger audience than we get, and I get plunged into more misery and trying to solve the question of whether King Edward really did undertake remarkable social reforms under the cunning disguise of boozing and dames.

I'm also faced with having to be a pretend audience member for the next few nights until the Festival properly starts. It's not only slightly dishonest, it's very boring. Is there anything worse than having to pretend to laugh at your own jokes?

We're all treading around each other a little quietly today. Lots of brave smiles and "it could be worse". Rick points out that we could be doing Huis Clos in Polish. "Bet it gets more people than us," I sigh.

It is Kate who cheers me up. "Oh. We've been invited to a venue party. It's a student theatre, so there'll be lots of vulnerable young student actors."

Flyering

BAD FLYERING STORY: A softly spoken Canadian comedian tried giving a flyer to a drunk Scotsman. Who stood up, started shouting, "You call that selling? That's rubbish..." and then continued shouting until the Canadian walked away in quiet tears.

GOOD FLYERING STORY: The Student Theatre group who have sent all their boys out flyering only in kilts. Thank you. I actually went up and asked them for a flyer.

Edinburghed

Well, in the last week I've

- helped my folks fit a staircase
- shagged a management trainer (insert filthy joke about 360 degree feedback)
- started reading Perry Mason again (never trust the caretaker!)
- caught a sleeper train to Edinburgh
- spent more time flyering than is strictly amusing
- while wearing a Dinner Jacket
- and I haven't got a Scottish husband yet
- but hey, it's my annual fix of Vodka and Diet IrnBru
- and this year, i'm staying in a proper flat, rather than above a gay sauna. I miss the disco, the smell of chlorine, and the towels.

In good news, I'm about to see the first night of my Edinburgh show. We've sold four tickets. If any of the four of you are reading this - laugh, really, really loudly.