Over in Edinburgh for a couple of days and I've already been given 6,000 leaflets for 370 shows. Everywhere you go people are handing out leaflets. It's like the world leafleting championships, writes Kevin Kildea
Edinburgh can be like buying a lottery ticket, whether you're going to a show or putting one on. There are winners and losers. Everybody's trying to get their show noticed: the colourful poster fighting for attention on a wall covered in colourful posters.
A comedian told me about the material he had produced to give his show maximum exposure. Him: "Yes, I've got leaflets and posters - two sizes - and T-shirts and pens and pencils and mouse mats and key rings and badges and erasers and . . . that's it." Me: "What's the show about?" There was a silence as he stared at me and his merchandise-based enthusiasm faded. Him: "Damn. I knew I forgot something."
There are a thousand stories covering the spectrum of success and failure. From the dirty littered streets to the looming illuminated castle above the city I bring you two of the hundreds of fairy tales of this magical (or hellish) city.
Once upon a time there were two acts. Act No 1 and Act No 2 (not their real names) arrived at the Edinbunndermurgy Festival (not its real name). Act No 1, whom we'll call Lord Light as I've received some sponsorship money from the Scottish electricity board, is in one of the bigger comedy venues. Act No 2, whom we'll call Quasimodo McSmelly as I was unable to raise any money on the backside of this man, is at a smaller venue.
Lord Light is with a huge agency called the Biggest Act. The people behind him are big players, so his show is advertised everywhere. He's on buses, he's on the sides of buildings, he's on television. They've even cut a deal with churches, so he's on spires, and have arranged for Lord Light's picture to replace Queen Elizabeth's on Scottish banknotes during the festival.
Lord Light also has a PR team working on his behalf: their press contacts mean you can read about him in the newspapers, from what sort of festival he's having to what sort of fruit he doesn't like. And they've employed a band of sleep publicists, who visit every householder in Edinburgh in the night to whisper in their ears: "Lord Light is the one to see."
The Big Act agency has spent ?100,000 on Lord Light's show (called I'm The One). If he sells out his venue for the entire run he will earn enough money to owe them 50,000. In contrast, Quasimodo McSmelly is promoting himself. He can afford to put up 25 posters on cheaper sites in less prominent areas. This has cost him 250.
He goes ballistic when he sees the size of the posters, however: they're like postcards. When he gets closer he realises he was looking at six together. Individually they are the size of stamps. He goes even more ballistic when he finds out that the "less prominent" sites are in Glasgow. He goes really ballistic when he finds out he's not really human but a man-made rocket full of explosives (but that's another story).
Quasimodo McSmelly is sleeping on the floor of a house, sharing it with a group of rich students who are putting on I'm Doing A Show In Edinburgh Because I Don't Know What To Do With My Arts Degree And I Think I Might Go To Italy For A Year.
The nearest thing he has to publicity is a drunken old guy who lives on the streets and follows him around, shouting: "Are ya dooin ae shoo aboot arseholes, are yae? Are yae? Because yae look like an arsehole!"
He's playing in a venue that holds one person: himself. His audience has to sit outside and look in at him. He is making no money. He has no money to put an ad in the paper, so in an effort to generate publicity he puts an ad in Buy & Sell, offering to swap tickets to his Edinburgh show (called Quasimodo's Back!) for a pair of round-the-world airline tickets (Quasimodo is overly optimistic in every department).
Both acts lose a fortune. Lord Light will be back next year with bigger posters. Quasimodo will be back with bigger delusions. Enjoy the show.
