Smiling casually at a group of men in top hat and vests, I step over threads of electrical cables as if I was walking into my own bathtub. The sign on the fence commands “Artists Only.” Stretching my maroon leather jacket sleeve over my green “trader” wristband, I try to look “artisty-y.” Whatever that means.
As with all aspects of Port Eliot Festival, being behind-the-scenes proves as magical and fascinating to me as being a member of the audience. As I scurry past the open main stage door I hear peels of laughter from black T-shirt crew members and see a Technicolor afro hug a tiny white man. Yellow and red circus tent lines punctuate the black stage floor.
From between makeshift tents, commercial vans, and common cars I find a sinewy, grossly tanned man seated on a fold-out chair in the middle of the path. He’s wearing no shirt and sunning his leathery skin like a rattler in Arizona. The troll under the bridge? I muse wearily. Like a billy goat, I bay, “You have a nice spot in this sunshine!” “Yes, best in the house!” spreads a slick smile below jet-black shades. “Um, yah, lucky you! [nervous giggle]. So…do you know where Alex Edelman is?” His smile curls a bit more, the Grinch that stole my comedic Christmas. “What wants to know?” “I’m just an American, and he’s American, so….me.” Silence. The snake waits. Slowly, he lifts his hand toward a tent to his left, barely straightening his finger. “Sure. He’s in there.”
I mumble thank-you, turn on my heel, and burst through squeaky plastic doors, nearly ploughing into a blond girl and the less-tall-than-I-expected comedian, Alex Edelman. They are mid-conversation: She leans toward him, chastising in a low voice. I hear the words, “you should have…” before the conversation cuts due to my rude interference. I stumble, stutter, breathless. I try to introduce myself.
“Hi! Alex. MynameisEmilyIjustsawyouperformIownacompanythathelpsAmericansintheUKand [sucking breath] I’vealwaysthoughtaboutdoingstandupcomedyand [sharpexhale] youwereGREAT!” I reach out to shake his hand. His limp forearm jiggles. The blond, who I presume is the girlfriend Alex joked about lovingly onstage rolls her eyes and disappears (took his virginity when he was 26, lucky bloke). Alex runs his hands through his hair, looking shell-shocked. He stares at me. I smile like a pre-teen circa a 2001 N’Sync concert. What am I doing here?! we both wonder.
[I later learned I wasn't correct in my assumption about this mysterious blond. It was, in fact, Sara Pascoe and she wasn't, in fact, chastising! Check out Alex's comments below].
I decided to sneak backstage at Port Eliot after randomly witnessing Alex’s performance, a very American stand-up comedy show. Before moving to the UK I always considered doing stand-up but never had the balls. Practicing in front of friends was always a failure, but maybe it’s because I only practiced in front of friends who were, basically, failures. I wondered if my token Americanism might sound better from UK mics. So when I heard the audience chuckling in Alex’s set, which was completely unaltered to a British audience, using words like “bathroom” and culturally presumptive stories about Texas, I thought I might have a chance. Plus, he was an American in the UK—maybe he was interested in my Plymouth Primer? My reviewers claimed it funny…
And, to be fair, the Carling in my belly created a fire in my soul. I felt daring. Now, my boldness feels foolish.
I prod Alex, desperately searching for some semblance of interest. “I was surprised to hear so many American terms in your set?”
“Yah…” he trails off, lost in thought, eventually coming back to me (I haven’t breathed). “I don’t change anything for international shows. I’m actually practicing a new set right now…” In a shocking burst of energy he steps to a table littered by discarded coffee cups and a kettle. A folded white paper sits next to puddles of spilled water. He stares at the print-out which I determine to be his script notes, forgetting me completely. He thinks I’m a freak! I decide. Must legitimize!
“I wrote this book,” I practically scream, pulling a newly signed copy from my bag like Harry Potter brandishes his wand. “It’s really funny! I mean, that’s what people say.” Alex stares at the book like it’s written in Chinese. “It’s for Americans in the UK,” I whisper.
“I live in New York,” he says.
“Oh…well…it’s still funny.”
He grabs the book from my outstretched hand. “Cool, thanks, I’ll try to take a look at it. Yah, I’ll read it, okay. Thanks a lot.” His back turns, setting the book set on table and diverting his eyes to the script.
My brain explodes. Mayday! Mayday! I did NOT just GIFT my book to HIM! Oh. My. God. That book is worth £15! It’s a signed copy! He doesn’t even LIVE in the UK! He isn’t even talking to me! He won’t even read it! Who is this guy, what am I thinking, I’m practically bleeding money here. What do I do, I can’t just TAKE IT BACK?! This is NOT funny.
So I say, “Great! Okay, so, cool. Yah, here’s my card, you have my details, take a look and get in touch! You were great, thanks again, good luck. I like your T-shirt! Okay, see ya’ later!”
I don’t think Alex looks at me as he mumbles goodbye. I flee like a refugee. My heart pounds, straining my leather jacket. I cannot believe that I just gave my book to Alex Edelman. I won’t even give my book to my grandmother! Here I am, someone who came out of their mother’s womb saying “I want” and “No,” and yet I am incapable of setting a boundary with this hilarious yet relatively undiscovered comedian. Render me dumbfounded. I walk away in a daze, find a concert to disappear into, and tell no one. Until I write this story, of course.
One time, at Port Eliot Festival 2015, I enticed a comedian to unwittingly steal my book. He became a comedic criminal. It was a crime of comedy, a coup de comédie... A really ridiculous incident. Port Eliot 2015, people: The saga continues.
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