EDINBURGH FRINGE DAY 2 ABANDON ALL HOPE!

I remember the last time I did a show in Glasgow. I was backstage at The Stand, pacing before going on, when I spotted something behind the curtain: a little stainless steel cross on a chain with the words:

“Abandon All Hope.”

No explanation. No context. Just hanging there. Was it religious? A warning? A joke? Maybe all three. I’ve often thought about getting one for The Comedy Cellar.

..Abandon all hope. Day Two was one of those nights you felt like you might.

Anyone who knows me knows I’ve had a tough time at the Fringe over the years. And if you know the backstory, you’ll know why.

Last night, I was on the bus heading to the gig and I thought to myself: It’s alright. God’s with me. My wee granny will put in a good word.

An hour later, I met my partner. She pulled a small medallion cross from her pocket — said she’d found it on the street walking to the show — and said, “I think this is meant for you.” Then she tucked it into my shirt pocket — close to my heart — for when I was on stage.

what is Meant for you won't go by you

Say what you want about fate, faith or Fringe madness, but I felt something in that moment someone, somewhere, was watching over me. Well… besides my partner, obviously.

Now. Day Two.

After a sold-out opening night — people getting turned away at the door — we walked into what might’ve been one of the flattest rooms we’ve ever faced.

I was hosting Gary Lynch, George Anderson, Simon Kay, and Liam Jackson — lads I gig with most nights — and collectively, this was probably the worst we’ve ever done.

The room was small, stiff, and weirdly quiet. Two Americans in the front — lovely people, genuinely generous at the end — but they just sat there like they were watching a tax seminar. Polite. But unshakeable.

Jokes that have been bulletproof all year? Just… Silence it was like shouting punchlines into a fridge, ironically that would have been nice giving that the air con was fucked. Its the kind of venue — freezing or boiling, never in between. And this one was boiling.

“What do you want to hear? What should I say? Please… insult me. Call me an asshole. Just something. Let me feel something from you.”– Liam Jackson ( reacting to silence on stage )

That was probably the only laugh of the night. Peak Fringe despair. Hilarious in hindsight. Brutal in real time.

Its day four as we speak, or is it day three? I'm SO confused

either way here I am writing about day TWO.

Time has collapsed. We’re all going to lose our minds within a week.

Scotland’s under Storm Flores — a full-on Amber Weller warning. Which basically means sun, wind, hail, and someone in a vest sunbathing.

And me? I’m 41.

Sixteen years ago, you’d have seen me out until 5am, on the dancefloor or up a lamppost.

Now?

I wake up and do nerve flosses to loosen my neck before coffee. I’ve reached the age where I go to charity shops for fashion. Saw an old fella in a tidy shirt the other day and thought:

thats a nice shirt, how long do you have left?...

Honestly… this Fringe has made it clear — I don’t need it anymore. I love the gigs. I love the comics. I love the crowd when they’re up for it. But the rest? The buzz, the scramble, the identity politics of performance…I’ve outgrown it.

New acts arrive yelling “FRINGE!!”I’m standing there like: “…fringe.”

And that’s fine.

The Fringe is a yo-yo. Some nights are electric. Some nights are twelve silent people in a sweatbox giving you money out of pity.

Still… everything comes full circle.

That medallion.That moment of grace.That strange, quiet crowd. And somehow… still loving it all.

it all makes me think, Don’t abandon hope. Embrace it.

As I say at the end of every show: God bless. careful not to get stuck up a tree in the wind.

Right — I’m off to floss my nerves and do a wee stretch. Catch ye tomorrow. Or yesterday. Who knows.

RSVPs for tonight are looking quite good so get in early for a seat its first come first served.

RSVP