2001: My first Edinburgh Festival. I still remember stepping off the train at Waverley and being so excited to see a man in full Highland dress: the tartan kilt, the sporran, the bagpipes, the lot… yes, I’d just seen my first real American Tourist.
2002: Loved seeing my posters displayed around the city… Didn’t love seeing a drunk man urinating on my face outside The Gilded Balloon.
2003: I shared a three bedroom flat with a mime artist and a fire eater… it was very quiet but very hot.
2004: Excited. My show received 5 stars. One from The Guardian, one from The Scotsman, one from The Observer, one from the... yeah, yeah, you get the joke.
2005: I was introduced to a top TV Producer who, in-between sniffs, said he loved my comedy and he’d really like to work with me in the future… which should have been flattering but this coked-up wanker didn’t remember he’d sacked me from a TV show the previous month.
2006: Yeah! I’m thrilled. The Scottish papers have started calling me a 'Fringe favourite'. I feel loved. Bless them.
2007: WTF? I’m devastated. The Scottish papers have started calling me a 'Fringe veteran'. I feel 100 years old. Fuck them.
2008: Parents visited the Festival. They wanted to stay at the Holiday Inn because Holiday Inn offers a choice of five different pillow types: soft, firm, non-allergenic, eiderdown, or duck feathers. But it was too expensive, so they stayed at Travelodge, where they had the choice of only two pillows: stained with semen or stained with blood.
2009: The critics said my show lacked direction. I did it in Glasgow. Boom! (If you half close your eyes and squint that’s almost a joke. Oh, fuck off...)
2010: All I remember was the ever-changing weather. It was hot. It was cold. It was sunny. It was raining. It was like the whole city was going through the menopause.
2011: My most successful Edinburgh Festival yet. I didn’t go.
2012: My agent thinks I’ve gone mental. I have a special Fringe offer: buy a ticket for my show, send me a photo of it, and I’ll take you to Lord Bodo’s bar on York Place and get you a beer. My agent thinks this is financial suicide. Maybe it is — but it sure beats drinking alone.
