Hooray, hooray, hooray. To all the people who called or emailed to check I wasn’t dead; a big thank you. I’m fine. Prose just happens to form itself more regularly when you’re a bit down. When you’re happy you tend to just enjoy it and not formulate vaunting/clichéd/boring/inspired descriptions in your head.

The most emotionally intense moments in my life, rather depressingly, have always been darts related. Save from seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland with my girlfriend on our one-year anniversary, nothing brings a lump to the throat more than trying to describe the experiences of playing university darts. Last night, in the Brooke’s bar, the Edinburgh-wide search for a darts board ended. It was the best fun I’ve had thus far for two reasons:

Reason One: Viney hit a TON EIGHTY only nine darts in to practise. Fucking quality mate.

Reason Two: I hit a 157 out-shot at about 2.30am. That’s treble twenty, treble nineteen, double top. Unprecidented!

The best moments in Edinburgh seem to happen when you’re not being a comedian, not being a part of the whole circus. While playing darts we were like Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption: walking in a prison yard but for all the world we had the look of free men. For those couple of hours we weren’t comedians, we weren’t being reviewed, judged or conversing with someone who constantly looks away to try and find a more important person to talk to, we were merely titans of the game; two heavyweights battling for supremacy.

Vine 5 – Robins 3

Edinburgh 2 – Robins 3

Also, the show was a corking copper-bottomed belter. At 6.30 we’d sold 6 tickets and one of them was press. So I got of my arse and papered, begged, comped and walked people in. By 7.20 the venue was packed. What am I paying all this money for again?!

If comedians ran the world eh?

Carl was great, I was great, life is great.

Edinburgh 2 – Robins 4

Get in!

Yesterday I almost went home. I’d been at the fringe for almost five days without a decent gig. No/low numbers, a borderline death at Spank and a conviction that the comedy Gods were taking a month to simply kick me in the balls lead me to the conclusion that it was better to pack it in and get on the train. I called Jon Richardson and he let me talk at him for about half an hour. My main point was how ludicrous it is to be paying huge sums of money to do difficult gigs that make me feel like shit. It’s the sort of opinion I’ve heard from old pro’s who gave up on Edinburgh long ago. The sort of opinion I secretly scoffed at, smirking at the old hacks as soon as they’d left the dressing room. But yesterday, for the first time, I felt the kind of pain that can ruin any comedian. It’s HARD. It’s hard to make a room of people laugh for 40 minutes. For all the reviewers, critics and snobbery, when it comes down to it this job is hard. Turning up to a rowdy pub in Northampton on a Tuesday night and ripping the tits out of the gig is hard. It’s not something I’ve done, but something I’ve seen done by someone who got a sneering two-star review yesterday. There are countless examples of this, but it might be nice if every so often someone on the other side of the fence from the comedians said “you know what, I can’t imagine what it’s like to do what you do, but I bet it’s hard sometimes”.

The counter argument to that is, of course, that this job is a piece of piss. Rock up to a venue, do your jokes, get paid, go home, sleep in the next day. And that’s true. When this job’s easy, it’s fucking easy. When it’s hard, it’s heartbreaking.

The show was good. It was very good. Carl opened and I went on second. I wrote the title of each of my bits down, read them out and whenever someone stopped me I told that story. I like this technique and may well do it again. It seems to be a nice mix of structure and uncertainty. Whilst I’m always doing material, each gig is totally different, and I learn new things about the stories by doing them in a different order.

That’s what I struggle with. Getting bored of doing the same stuff, or knowing what will happen before it does. But yet the total anarchy of, say, Phil Kay, is too risky for me at the moment. So I struck a nice balance.

Phil Kay. I saw his show last night, the late show, not the greatest hits show. In an industry where risky, edgy, rule-breaking comedy is marketed so cynically that any amount of risk has long ago been factored out, this man is surely the greatest risk taker, if not the only risk taker in Edinburgh. The fact that every night he risks imperfection makes his performance the closest thing to perfection we have. “Better to risk it all than risk nothing” he throws in to a song that started with an audience members name and ended ten minutes later with him resting his head on a man’s shoulder and me with tears in my eyes. You can scoff: “Ah Phil, the last time I saw him he died on his arse”. Well FUCK YOU. Every time he walks on stage he knows it could go wrong. Would you, or I, ever dare leave our fate solely to our talent? No. We leave it to publicists, agents and marketing. We preview, some spend years constructing a lie that we can sell for one month of the year.

That said, I’m not about to step on stage with only my bare arse to dig me out of a hole. But we all need a Mr Vertigo.

I got glum yesterday, which is understandable but not adviseable. I listened to Bon Iver and dwelled on the negatives.

Uh oh, a couple are just having a fucking massive fight on the table next to me in the internet cafe, why didn't i keep my headphones on! She's gone mental because he brought his young daughter out for lunch and they both brought laptops. I think she has a point. There's something depressing about having a child and not wanting to communicate with them so badly that you sit opposite each other looking at computer screens. God... I should say something. She's gone now, taking the child with her, and i heard the whole thing. He's desperate for me to break this silence with some amusing comment. Maybe i could say "women eh?!" that's what a man would say... But it makes no sense... Women eh?! Caring for their kids! Dumb bitches!... That wouldn't wash. I'm just typing as hard and fast as I can, as if each stoke on the keyboard makes things a little bit better. I wonder if he knows I'm writing about him? Proper blazing argument. Quite ironic that she thought bringing a child out for lunch with a laptop was innnaproriate, whereas the flood of docker-tongued obscenities that came out of her mouth were totally fine.

Anyway, as i was going to say, yesterday was an all-round failiure, but I have just totally nailed a pot of tea. A three cup pot of tea that looked at me saying "Drink me...If you dare" well i drank him, i drank him good. I might even get some extra hot water to rub in my crushing defeat.

The guy is still sitting there, I haven't looked up yet, his face must be burning with embarrassment.

Allow me, If you will, to change your life... the next time you make a cup of tea, throw in a bag of earl grey with your normal tea bag. THAT'S RIGHT DOUCHEBAGS, IN THE SAME CUP!. Then sweeten to taste and say thank you to me next time you see me.

He's going now, thank coins. Packing up the laptop that at one time served as a convenient solution to spending time with his daughter. I can imagine the thought process "I need to check my email, but have to go for lunch with a daughter... hmm... if she brought her laptop we'd be bonding...it's the nineties after all!... two birds my friend... Goddamn it George you're a genius... One nil world... One nil". I don't know if he's called George though. Little was he to know old wifey would see it in a different light. "What the fuck are yous doin'? You're a fuckin' idiot, you look like a fuckin' idiot! Starin'at a computer screen with you're fuckin' daughter. It makes me feel sick to look at yous. Come on Jenny, we're goin' home...You fuckin' idiot." WHAMMO

I guess he won't be needing that tuna melt now! Yoink!

Edinburgh 2 - Robins 2

I don’t think the ticket-buying public appreciated the unscheduled change of line-up in our show from John Robins Mk VI to John Robins Mk VII; as not one single person turned up

It was Gordon Brown’s fault. I knew he had it in for me since day one. Handing out credit cards in service stations like they were sweets, son of a...

Jesus. Not one single person. That’s a blow.

Afterwards I “compered” a Launch party. Why people think it’s a good idea to involve comedians when what they need is an announcer I don’t know. Needless to say it wasn’t the great opportunity to plug my show in front of “up to a thousand people”, but a chance to stand in the pouring rain for two hours bringing soft-core strippers / Japanese break-dancers / ‘comedy’ singers on and off a stage in front of thirty to forty chatting, soaked, drunk Spiegel Tent goers to the soundtrack of the combined hubbub of another two hundred identical such people.

Edinburgh 2 – Robins 0

And there I was promising less despair! I didn’t touch a drop though, so maybe 2-1.

Hello! Welcome to the all-new John Robins’ Blog for Edinburgh 2008! Now featuring less despair! Mild amusement! And edited shenanigans!

But that’s not all! I am proud to introduce the all-new John Robins as well!

I had written a far more bleak and self examinatory opening to the blog, but that was before the unveiling of the all new John Robins. By Jon Richardson’s reckoning we’re on the sixth ‘all new John Robins’ or John Robins Mk VII as I refer to him, but this one is here to stay. The others were just inventions, false epiphanies following regrettable incidents, but oh no, not this bad boy!

The old John Robins got very drunk last night and was a total/slight cunt/ass-hat, depending on whose version of events you believe.... In my version I look a lot more handsome, so let’s stick with that one. So, John Robins Mk VII doesn’t drink or rub people up the wrong way. I say try not rubbing people at all! Now that’s the new John Robins talking!

Sorry for writing my name so many times, I’m not entirely comfortable with it myself, but you get the picture.

When I’m sober I’m remarkably self-conscious in company (see last years blog entry concerning the all you can eat Chinese). But alcohol is not the cure, so some new tactic is required. I’ve not tried Red Bull Cola yet so I’m expecting some pretty big things

Our tech today took six minutes, leaving us with two hours and fifty-four minutes to spare. The Baby Belly Three seems nice, but wetter than I’d hoped. In fact, not having water drip on the audience is something I like about most venues. It’s the sort of place you can imagine catching a Victorian disease like rickets or chillblaines. Afterwards Carl and I sat in the C-Soco Urban Garden. They have a skate park and a lot of sand there, which seems needlessly annoying to clean up. I’d go as far as saying that sand and water are the two things I look for least at a comedy gig, but what do I know?

I’m living with professional giggler Mr Matt Forde, incessant wearer of hats Mr Dan Nightingale and the very special Mr Damion Larkin. What more could a man want?!

Much more to follow, this is just to let you know it’s all on.