The problem with Edinburgh

Edinburgh. Why do comics do it? We almost invariably lose money. Even if you don’t pay for your venue, the cost of accommodation is astronomical — I’ve met Edinburgh natives who pay their annual mortgage with the rent for August. You could conceptualise it as a loss-leader; but there are 1,333 comedy shows this year, and a loss-leader that can’t lead to anything is just a loss.

Yet comics still go up. Partly because, for three weeks, there’s the thrill of having a real job: instead of travelling for gigs, you’re at the same place at the same time every day. Partly because comedy is a serious business in Edinburgh: you wander around spotting your face on posters, and can almost imagine you are some kind of a big deal — and perhaps, for those three weeks, you are. But mostly because it makes you a better performer. Doing an hour-long show every day is like training at altitude — your first gig back on the circuit, when you only do 20 minutes, is always the easiest gig of the year.

The problem with the Edinburgh hour was summed up by Ade Edmondson: ‘I find [stand-up] dull as an art form. Twenty minutes is all right… but then I wish they’d bring on the spoon-bender or the dancers… I mean, two boiled eggs, that’s enough. You don’t need four boiled eggs, do you?’ An hour of even the best comedian can feel like four boiled eggs — and comedians know this. We talk about the ‘40-minute lull’, when the audience seems unable to take any more comedy. (There’s a reason why comedy clubs, which rely on returning trade, book comics for 20 to 30 minutes.) I can’t find any research explaining why it should come at 40 minutes — my own theory is that you’re primed by the memory of school lessons — but the effect exists.