Rob Gilroy: Making A Stand #20
Last week I went on holiday.
It was my first holiday in– Kefalonia, Greece, thanks for asking – it was my first holi– yes, the weather was glorious, we were very fortunate – it was my fir– a package deal – it was my– stop interrupting!
I’m glad you’re interested in my vacationing habits but let me finish before you start bombarding me with questions about factor 30 sun cream.
It was my first holiday in– now what? Sorry? Captain Corelli’s Mandolin? Yes, that is where they filmed it. No I didn’t see Nicholas Cage. Horrible, apparently. I hear Christian Bale and John Hurt were lovely, though.
It was my first– no I haven’t seen Gone in Sixty Seconds – It was– what? Bangkok Dangerous? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll Con Air you in a minute, if you don’t shut up!
Where were we? It was my first holiday in five years. And while that is a particularly depressing thought, don’t start tuning your violins or ordering anti-depressants from Boots just yet.
The reason it’s been five years since I went on holiday is simple – the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
That’s not to say that the festival organisers have conspired to sabotage my Easy Jet flights, it’s just that over the last few years I have taken part in the Fringe in one capacity or another.
Now I’m in the rather odd situation on having just come back off holiday to find that the festival has finished.
And as the dust settles (that’s a metaphor, I’m not suggesting the place was blown up) I’m trying to weigh up if I actually regret not going this year.
Without trying to be blunt: no. I haven’t really missed it.
Yes, I have missed elements of it, but that isn’t to say I’m ruing the day that the holiday comparison site came up trumps.
When I look back at my week abroad and compare that to certain experiences I’ve had at the Fringe, I can honestly say I’ve had the better deal.
For a start, I went on holiday with my long-suffering girlfriend Lucy and two friends, whose names have been changed to protect their security tag curfews.
Let’s call them Pat and Alice.
I was able to enjoy a week in the sun with some great company.
I was, at no point, lost for something to do so wandering helplessly around the Pleasance Courtyard hoping to strike up a conversation with the back of Al Murray’s head.
Neither was I sat in the Mosque Kitchen, sharing a table with a party of five to be seen to look more popular than I am. (Any loners out there remember – it really does work, just don’t try include yourself in it when they split the bill. You’ll only lose out.)
There are other advantages to not being at the Fringe, for instance; at no point during the course of my holiday did I play to a captivated audience of one, stopping twenty minutes in as they stood up and apologised because they had a train to catch.
Instead I drank more than my fair share of Penile Seepage (it’s a cocktail) and danced around on the bar shouting “Yamas Time!”
It’s like Hammer Time, but more Greek.
Did I spend at least three hours every day handing out flyers to people who couldn’t care less that I’d almost made the quarter finals of some comedy competition in Nantwich?
No, I was on the other end of the marketing strategy as I fought off the advances of Greek restaurateurs as they tried to woo me in with their glowing Hellenic charm and promise of a litre-carafe of rose wine. It worked most of the time, to be fair.
Definitely something to keep in mind for the Fringe next year.
Yes, for all the joy and experimenting that the Fringe brings, it also has the ability to throw up some bizarre moments.
Like the time the landlady myself and Lucy were staying with refused to accept we had places to go and a show to perform and instead preferred us to sit with her and drink lumpy alcoholic drinks whilst embarrassingly watching her dance with her equally embarrassed Dalmatian.
Or the time we hid from our landlady and instead of eating the breakfast we had paid for, we chose to sit in our room and spread jam on bread with a library card.
There was no dancing Dalmatian in Kefalonia, the closest we got was a mangy cat that would show a small amount of affection for a large bit of Stamnaki.
Neither did we spread jam with a piece of ID. We could quite happily spread jam (with a knife) by the pool, dodging the occasional beefy wasp.
What I have missed about the Fringe is the chance to write and perform a show I’m passionate about, to a wide-ranging bunch of people who are either as passionate about comedy as I am, or at the very least, Scandanavian and polite enough to sit through it until I’m finished.
I missed the chance to meet and socialise with other people that have this wonderfully silly job and perverse desire to look stupid until somebody laughs.
Mind you; I did keep this up during most of my holiday snaps [see above].
Hilarious at the time, but less funny when you’re trying to put together a loving photo album of memories.
I missed being able to submerge myself in comedy, culture, and tons of interesting people.
I’ve missed the excitement, the buzz and the thrill of going up, followed by the crushing despair, bone-shaking influenza and overwhelming sense of loss when it’s over.
So yes, I missed the Fringe.
So was it worth it? Well yes and no.
No because I missed the chance to do some of the things I absolutely love and yes because I had a brilliant holiday without it, with people I care about.
And furthermore it has only made me want to give it all another go next year.
Besides, all the extra time-off I’ve had has given me plenty of time to work on my dancing Dalmatian act – coming August 2014!
