Letter to a young comedian

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The Stage  28/08/1997 

ARTHUR SMITH 

In January this year my brain received a memo from my liver which read like this: "Dear Brain, I am aware that this is the time when you are deciding whether or not to attend the Edinburgh Festival.

"We have been there together virtually every year since 1977, and I have been as supportive as possible throughout that time. But can't we have a rest for once?

"It is all very well for you, most of your work is done before we arrive, and you are able to spend the three weeks in a state of amused befuddlement. Yet for me it is the busiest time of year. Even working flat out, I can hardly deal with the vast quantities of liquids and substances that you oblige me to process.

"I do not wish to make threats, but there is a general feeling down here that we may go on strike if our request is not met. I speak also on behalf of the heart, the kidneys, the lungs and bowels. We have complete solidarity among the organs, apart from the stomach, for whom the event is a holiday, and the genitals, which are, as ever, maverick.

"Yours etc, Liver."

So it is, this August I find myself in Cornwall - as far away from Edinburgh as you can get, without leaving Britain.

The last time I did not go, I nevertheless wrote and appeared in a show. (Well my voice appeared) and I felt terrible withdrawal symptoms. This year has not been hard at all.

Now, as I sit among the ruins of a cream tea near Lizard Point, I am enjoying reflecting on all the bullshit and the hype of the festival. From this distance it appears as unimportant as you secretly know it is when you are there.

The journos are the guilty parties. Desperately trying to justify this fabulous expense account jolly, they go mad in the attempt to identify significant trends in the world of performance. Weakened by drink and drugs, they get overexcited at things that, come September, seem banal. The PR people play games with them and the lines to London are rich with the sound of barrels being scraped.

One certain sign that what you are about to read is crap is when an article talks about something being 'the new rock'n'roll'. This hoary old phrase immediately announ-ces its author's intellectual impoverishment. I have noticed it only a couple of times this year, most notably in a piece advertising the modishness of hypnotists and magicians.

Down here in Perranporth, they have entertainers every night in the Ponsmere Hotel.

The last two nights had a hypnotist and a magician. It seems that wherever I go, I cannot escape being at the cutting edge of entertainment.

Looking at future events in the Ponsmere I can predict that the next three big things to happen in the world of comedy will be bingo, line dancing and Elvis impersonators.

I do not wish to denigrate this wondrous event. How could I? I have measured out my life in Edinburgh Festivals. They have made me and my liver what I am. They have afforded me an opportunity to experiment artistically and to sleep with trapeze artists.

I applaud the likes of Stewart Lee, Simon Munnery and Richard Herring who use the festival as a place to do something a bit different. And if you say to me: "Yes, but you have got to see Al Murray's pub landlord," then I shall say: "I have. I saw it at the Banana Cabaret in June." And if you say to me: "Shut up you boring old sod, who cares what you think?" Then I shall cry but accept it gracefully.

Well, nurse is coming to clear the tea things away. Later, I hope she may bring me a pasty with some clotted cream. Owen O'Neill is splendid.