The Edinburgh Fringe experience

Jimmy Bird shares his...

You've packed three pairs of pants, seven socks, one pair of scruffy jeans, a few whacky tees, your desktop computer, a year's supply of Nutri-Grains and 5,000 flyers cause you forgot to get them delivered to the venue.

With half a tonne on your back you crawl across London on to the train for Edinburgh, a sweaty mess with a dislocated shoulder.

You take your seat next to an elderly lady who intends to share with you her uneventful life story for the next five hours. At around the Peterborough mark you start dabbling with the idea of cracking her neck in one move or smothering her with a pillow...

Eventually you reach Edinburgh, your destination for the next month, you immediately begin the illusions of grandeur as you climb the thousands of steps towards your accommodation, you convince yourself of the inevitable fame and five star galore that will come your way over the next few weeks.

You finally arrive at your flat, a sweaty mess again with fresh spinal damage, you swing open the door find you've paid a grand to live in a run down crack den harbouring numerous comedians you de-friended on Facebook, you're a good half hour walk from your venue and you've got to share a room with that weird smelly guy you met at an open mic gig once.

Then you sprint round to check out your venue, passing the delightful crowds schmoozing outside the Pleasance before arriving at your barely lit cave. There's a 'sound proof' curtain between your room and the drum n bass rave taking place in the adjacent area. Hooray!

Then the best part, the flyering, you stand in the rain for three hours smiling while a steady flow of passers-by spit in your face and suggest where you might want to stick the flyer. You try to stay strong as you watch your flyers being promptly set alight or tossed straight down a drain. You decide it's easier to pay a homeless dude £10 an hour to carry out flyering duties.

Showtime! Boom! The big moment you've been dreaming of all year! If you build it they will come. Ummm nope, no they will not. You take to the stage with the dreaded task of performing an hour of surreal one liners to three Spanish tourists, a drunk guy passed out at the back and an elderly couple sheltering from the rain. Happy days.

Now it's party time, comedians are the new rock stars, it's time for hookers, cocaine and late night anarchy. No. You're sat in a kebab house at midnight with two other comedians who died on their arse and share your tales of defeat.

Then you return to your squat and cuddle up with your bottle of Jack Daniels before weeping into your pillow while the guy on the other bed reads you his five star Chortle review.