Latest news with #Comedy
News.com.au
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- News.com.au
‘Too woke': Star rages after being cut from ‘And Just Like That'
Bobby Lee thinks wokeness is to blame for his exit from And Just Like That, the New York Post reports. The comedian, 53, spoke to Entertainment Weekly at San Diego Comic-Con over the weekend about why he wasn't asked to reprise his role as Jackie Nee, Carrie's (Sarah Jessica Parker) podcast co-host, on the third season of the show. 'Some of the woke elements of the show, they got rid of, and I think I was a part of that,' Lee stated. 'I think Sara [Ramirez] didn't come back and some other people,' he added. 'They tried to put minorities in, and — I don't know. I never saw the show.' Lee departed AJLT between Seasons 2 and 3, as did Ramirez, who played Miranda's (Cynthia Nixon) non-binary love interest Che Díaz, and Karen Pittman, who played Dr. Nya Wallace. Season 2 wrapped up Carrie's podcast storyline, which allowed the show to write off Lee and Ramirez. 'Number one, I don't even know why they asked,' Lee told EW about being cast in the HBO Max series. 'And I was super scared to do it. Because it wasn't my brand, really. You know what I mean? But I did it. I walked through the fear.' Lee added that getting to work with Parker, 60, was a highlight of the experience. 'Sarah Jessica Parker is the nicest person I've ever met. She made me feel so at ease,' he shared. 'I like everyone on there. It was fun. I never have bad blood with anybody. You know what I mean? I am nice. I show up on time.' Lee previously revealed that working on the Sex and the City reboot pushed him to get sober. 'I was in Hawaii and I was blackout drunk and my agent called and said, 'They need you in New York,'' he recalled on Rachel Bilson's Broad Ideas podcast in 2023. 'This is one of the reasons why I'm sober … On the plane, I thought, 'I'm just gonna get sh*t faced,' so I was in a blackout when we landed in New York.' Lee said that he learned he was expected to film AJLT that day when he realised that his driver wasn't taking him to his hotel. 'I remember going and being so high and drunk,' Lee revealed. 'When I was reading the script, I couldn't even understand what the f*ck it was even saying. It was a nightmare. I remember thinking, 'This is never going to happen again — I have to get sober.'' New episodes of And Just Like That stream Thursdays at 11am AEST on HBO Max.
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Bob Odenkirk thinks he was 'too hard' on 'SNL' as young writer: 'This show could be better'
The "Nobody 2" star also tells EW he "would love that opportunity" when asked if there's a chance he'll host the season 51 premiere. Bob Odenkirk has found new respect for Saturday Night Live after leaving the show. While discussing Nobody 2 at San Diego Comic-Con 2025, the actor tells Entertainment Weekly that he has gained a better perspective on SNL in the years since he finished his tenure as a writer, which lasted from 1987 to 1991. Although he's previously said that he had a less-than-stellar view of SNL while he worked there, he now realizes that he judged the show too harshly. "I was too hard on the show," he says. "I had a lot of attitude when I got hired there, like, 'This show could be better, this show could be Monty Python, this should be more cutting edge, this should be more dangerous.' And I was frustrated by it not representing purely my point of view. I wanted it to be me, my show." Odenkirk now understands that his desire to personally transform the entire voice of SNL was foolhardy. "It's not my show! It's a show that is shared by everyone who's in that cast, and everyone who's in that writing staff, and it's shared by generations, and not one generation," he says. He continues, "Everybody in America watches it, and it's a reference point for everyone. I think the 50th just made me more aware [than] ever of the amazing work that's been done there." The Better Call Saul star also thinks that he got to write boundary-pushing comedy on a later project. "I think Mr. Show, the show I did with David Cross, I consider my effort to do something edgy and new and try to blast through some barriers and go to another level," he says. Odenkirk also admits that he didn't fully appreciate how SNL's lightning-fast weekly schedule makes its production so difficult. "It's a bigger challenge than I thought it was when I worked there," he explains. "When I worked there I was 25, I was like, 'C'mon, dammit! We can do better! This is easy!' And it literally was the years since I've left that I went, 'Wait a second, that show is almost impossible to do at all.'" Additionally, when asked if he'd consider hosting the show during its upcoming 51st season, Odenkirk responds strongly in the affirmative. "I would love that opportunity," he says. "I have mad respect for the effort of that show, and I would dream of being able to host."Though he's never hosted the show before, Odenkirk says that it remains within the realm of possibility. "There's been conversation about it," he explains. "They don't have me locked out. I'm friends with everybody there, and I know so many of the writers, and I know so many of the actors. It's just part of my life." Watch EW's full livestream of Friday's Comic-Con interviews above. Check out more of . Read the original article on Entertainment Weekly Solve the daily Crossword
The Guardian
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘I spent a month sleeping in a cupboard': comedians on the true cost of the Fringe
Fringe festivals have always been cash guzzlers, not only for punters but for the performers, whose show costs far outstrip their earnings – and that's not including the money needed to eat, drink and find somewhere to crash. This is just how fringe festivals work. The performers have to pay to book their own venues, and rely on ticket sales to claw back their investment, all in a highly competitive market, with tickets for hundreds of shows a night going on sale. Spiralling costs certainly make performing at fringe festivals seem elitist. But are they really only vanity projects for middle-class comedians bankrolled by their savings, or worse still, the bank of Mum and Dad? Or is living on a diet of Pot Noodles and top-and-tailing with a total stranger all part of the charm? In solidarity with these increasingly cash-strapped performers, I had initially wanted to go to Edinburgh to see if I could attend the world's largest fringe festival without spending a single penny. Unfortunately, things I don't understand, such as 'production times', 'print deadlines' and, erm, 'the passage of time' mean it's not possible for me to attend this year's Edinburgh and have the piece published before it starts. So instead, to test the waters, I've been instructed to head to the Brighton fringe (which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year) with no money to see how long I can survive. I'll also meet working comedians there, who will tell me all about the realities of putting on a show. As for me: although I'm obviously hilarious on paper, I've got no experience as a standup comic, so I'm never going to make any money telling jokes. But can I earn a day's wage handing out flyers and helping out comedians with their day-to-day? I'm about to find out … If you've never been to Brighton, let me sum it up in a word: hilly. I walk (thankfully downhill) past a variety of cafes offering croissants, cakes and full Englishes that make me drool like Homer Simpson. But with no money, I can't even afford a sausage roll from Greggs. I'm stopping at the Theatre Royal to meet the fringe crew and ask them about the difference between a festival and a fringe festival. Brighton fringe and Brighton festival take place at the same time, and it's the same in Edinburgh. I also wonder if they'll have any biscuits. 'A fringe festival means we are an open-access festival, so anyone can take part,' says Brighton fringe festival director Amy Keogh over tea, but disappointingly no Rich Tea. 'We have 819 different shows this year. We don't curate, programme or commission. People have complete creative freedom. Brighton fringe is a charity, so we're not profiting in any way.' 'The fringe attracts up-and-coming comedians trying out new material, but they have to pay to hire the venues. It's a bottom-up approach,' explains Brighton arts marketer Caz Slota. 'The festival operates a more traditional top-down approach, where the venues book established acts and pay them in advance.' Brighton fringe coordinator Sarah French adds: 'We offer bursaries and the option to pay in instalments. We want to create a space where people can be creative and experimental.' The Brighton fringe gang have kindly lined up some comedians to talk to me about the least funny subject of all time: money. I take a seat at the back of the theatre to begin my comedian speed dating, while secretly hoping one of them will take pity on me and buy me a packet of peanuts. Ollie Yates, 28, works as a tree surgeon and is staying with their parents a 30-minute cycle away. Their show, Everyone's Dating Ollie, uses clowning to explore 'how ridiculous polyamory is in the world of modern dating'. 'I was lucky enough to win a £120 bursary,' they say. 'The venue costs £25 a night. I'm doing eight shows. With food, I might just about break even. I'm just here to see what happens.' 'I do this purely for the fun,' says Brad Jon Kane, who lives in nearby Hove and works as a pastry chef. He describes his show, Please Slow Down, as 'a series of slow, low-energy characters, like a cowboy vicar, a mime act and a substitute teacher. The shows are free, then I offer an optional bucket,' he says. 'Once I become a bit more of a name, I'll probably start charging. But I just love a good crowd.' Brighton-based cabaret act Pearl & Dean, both in their early 50s, met at teacher training college. 'The tradition of camp nonsense harks back to when gay people couldn't be out in the 70s. Like our costumes, our marriage is very much lavender,' Marsha Dean says. Their All Aboard! evening has won best new show at this year's Brighton. Even though it's a sellout, they only expect to break even. Unlike Ollie and Brad, Pearl & Dean will also be performing at Edinburgh this year. 'Back in 1994, I took out my third student loan to do Edinburgh,' Peter Pearl remembers. 'I spent £3,000 on accommodation, venue hire, food, travel and publicity, but still had an absolute ball.' With my stomach rumbling, I wonder if there's an ingenious way to make a quick buck flyering at Brighton. Flyering is discouraged for environmental reasons, but it's permitted here in the SpiegelGardens performance venue, where they sell drinks and – yes – food. I head over with my new comedian friends to meet Brighton-based 49-year-old NHS drag performer Sister Brandy Bex, who describes her show as 'a daft, chaotic, comedy cabaret' and has agreed to employ me to flyer on a zero hours, paid-by-performance contract. 'Brighton fringe is the best,' she says, handing me her sandwich board, which disappointingly has no actual sandwiches. 'I take four weeks off work and get totally involved. I did a comedy course during the pandemic and thought: wouldn't it be good to have a nurse character and take the piss out of the NHS?' By day, Bex works as a nurse. But performing at Brighton doesn't come cheap. 'I have to pay the other performers in my cabaret,' she says. 'The year before last, I lost £1,600. Last year, I lost a grand. This year I'll lose maybe £200. So I'm doing better every year.' Back to my flyering job, I ask what exactly I'll have to do. 'Flyering is great for chatting to people,' she continues. A bursary helped pay for her 2,000 flyers. Unfortunately, I'm not great at chatting to people. I'm also so hungry that I skive off to tuck into some pizza crusts I find on a paper plate in the bin. I get busted. It's a case for instant dismissal. Revel Puck Circus have their own tent at Brighton (and also at this year's Edinburgh), featuring 'high-wire walkers, teeterboarders, daring aerial skill and the only female wheel of death in the UK'. Crikey. 'We've got the tent and the props, but the real wow factor comes with the heartwarming moments, like when I get to fly over the audience' says French-Canadian acrobat Arielle. 'Everyone is just so friendly and natural,' adds fellow aerialist Imani from London. 'So we do our best to spread the love.' The circus tours six months of the year, so unlike the comedians I've spoken to, performers such as Arielle and Imani enjoy full-time employment on a proper salary. I've always secretly fancied running away with the circus, but as I'm strapped into a harness and winched into the air to see if I'd make a good acrobat, I'm not sure I've got the head for heights. I spend the rest of the day seeing what else Brighton has to offer: a couple of loose chips on a tray in McDonald's and a bowl of discarded onion rings in Wetherspoons. Ollie Yates kindly puts me on the guest list to their show, but I feel guilty I can't even afford the £10 ticket. Defeated, I take the train home, and think about what a nice vibe Brighton has. Bursaries help with the costs, and everyone helps each other out – something, I'm told, that happens far less in the competitive climate of Edinburgh. My rubbish experiment may be over, but I'm already beginning to understand the financial difficulties comedians face at fringe festivals. No one I spoke to expected to walk away with a profit – simply breaking even seems rare. Brighton tends to attract local comedians, saving them the need to rent somewhere to stay, but spiralling accommodation costs at Edinburgh risks alienating all but the richest comics, as I find out when I chat to comedians performing at this year's fringe. Matt Forde, who brings his show, Defying Calamity, to Edinburgh in August, recently gave evidence in parliament about how hard it is for working-class comedians to break into comedy. 'The reason why Edinburgh is so important, as opposed to, say, Camden, Brighton, Glasgow or Leicester, is that people from all over the world can put on a show and be discovered,' he tells me. 'It has the potential to make careers, but it's so expensive it's not just the working-class comedians who are getting shut out – so are middle-class comedians. If you don't intervene financially, Edinburgh is just going to become more elitist. Then comedy on telly becomes more elitist.' 'The trickiest part is striking a balance between trying to save money and remembering you have to live,' says Glenn Moore, who is bringing his show, Please Sir, Glenn I Have Some Moore?, to Edinburgh. 'I once spent the month sleeping in a cupboard. Another time, I stayed with 15 other people in a three-bedroom flat, sharing a bed with two of them, with about an inch of free space. One of my bed pals was someone I'd never met and haven't seen since.' 'This will be my first time in Scotland,' says US comic Zainab Johnson, who brings her show, Toxically Optimistic, to Edinburgh. 'I searched Airbnb. Flats were listed for over £8,000. I hadn't even looked for flights. As a vegan, I was also warned that I might not enjoy the food. As my show is called Toxically Optimistic, instead of focusing on the negatives, I'm going to lean into the positives. I'll get to see a beautiful country I've never been to. As a black Muslim woman, I look forward to hopefully making people laugh who look nothing like me. If there's no good food, that at least cuts my expenses.' 'My first fringe, I was in my early 20s and properly broke,' says Kate Dolan, set to perform her show The Critic. 'I was in a puppet show. We stayed in a flat, an hour's bus journey away. I shared a bed with another woman, the lads were on the floor, and the puppets had their own room. I'm still a bit of a Del Boy. This year, I'm renting a room, making my own props and will happily eat Pot Noodles for a month.' 'Pursuing an accountancy qualification was potentially the worst decision I could make,' says James Trickey, whose show is fittingly called Don't Count on Me. 'Not because it was immensely dull, but because it made me all too aware of the financial irresponsibility.' 'My first three runs at Edinburgh came while I was working as a locum GP,' says Paul Sinha, of show 2 Sinha Lifetime. 'There was simply no way the contract for a junior hospital doctor was ever going to be elastic enough to allow four consecutive weeks away from the frontline. My first solo show in 2004 was a misjudged affair. After three years as a GP, I'd saved up enough for a 11.15pm slot in one of the hottest rooms in Edinburgh. It wasn't an especially notable show, nobody came, and I lost £5,000. Thanks to medicine, I could just afford miserable failure. But the vast majority are not so lucky.' All this leaves me wondering what the solution might be. One reason accommodation at Edinburgh is even dearer this year is that Oasis and AC/DC are playing the city slap bang in the middle of the festival. Last year, the Marriott hotel advertised a job as a live-in breakfast jester to amuse guests over their Corn Flakes. The position was paid and came with free accommodation. It seems a funny idea, but I also wonder if this sort of thing makes a mockery of comedians, pitching them as performing monkeys who will do anything for money. Then again, I'm a man couldn't even cut it for a day in Brighton. So what do I know?
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Golden Retrievers' Paddle Boarding Mayhem With Dad Is Pure Comedy Gold
Golden Retrievers' Paddle Boarding Mayhem With Dad Is Pure Comedy Gold originally appeared on Parade Pets. Dogs, such as Golden Retrievers, like to be part of the action. Whether walking through city streets, playing in a park, or spending a day at the beach, these outgoing and sociable dogs are always down for having a good time. Their extroverted, eager-to-please, and loyal traits make them one of the most popular family dogs in the U.S. So, it's no surprise they also enjoy a perfect summer day out on the water. Sunshine, a soft breeze, and your dogs right by your side on a paddle board sounds idyllic. But for one dad and his two Golden Retrievers, that peaceful picture quickly turned into a floating comedy show. Take a look at the chaos unfolding in this video from July 15: Gamja and Chip didn't need to be asked twice, or maybe even once, before jumping aboard for an adventure. At first, things seemed to go smoothly as Dad helped them onto the paddle board. But in Golden Retriever form, their playful energy didn't stay contained for seconds, these pups were moving around the board and right between 'Appa's' legs. He did his best to maintain balance, but the inevitable happened, and he took a splashy tumble into the water. True to their breed's devoted nature, both Goldens jumped in right after him, making sure their favorite human was okay. Undeterred, Dad climbed back up and gave it another go. But these glorious goofballs had other plans, and round two ended the same way with another unplanned dip. Sure, it may not have been the calm afternoon he had in mind, but it delivered a whole lot of laughs. 🐶SIGN UP to get 'pawsitivity' delivered right to your inbox with inspiring & entertaining stories about our furry & feathered friends🐾🐾 Fans couldn't get enough. One commented, 'The way he was so close to not falling off, LOL.' Another added, 'So adorable! My dream is to take my girl to see the beach for the first time!' Golden Retrievers are known for their love of water, and their enthusiasm often leads to moments just like this, filled with pure, unfiltered joy and a bit of chaos mixed in. Life with dogs isn't always neat, but it's always better with them by our side, especially when they're making memories that'll keep us laughing for years to come. Golden Retrievers' Paddle Boarding Mayhem With Dad Is Pure Comedy Gold first appeared on Parade Pets on Jul 27, 2025 This story was originally reported by Parade Pets on Jul 27, 2025, where it first appeared. Solve the daily Crossword
The Guardian
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘I spent a month sleeping in a cupboard': comedians on the true cost of the Fringe
Fringe festivals have always been cash guzzlers, not only for punters but for the performers, whose show costs far outstrip their earnings – and that's not including the money needed to eat, drink and find somewhere to crash. This is just how fringe festivals work. The performers have to pay to book their own venues, and rely on ticket sales to claw back their investment, all in a highly competitive market, with tickets for hundreds of shows a night going on sale. Spiralling costs certainly make performing at fringe festivals seem elitist. But are they really only vanity projects for middle-class comedians bankrolled by their savings, or worse still, the bank of Mum and Dad? Or is living on a diet of Pot Noodles and top-and-tailing with a total stranger all part of the charm? In solidarity with these increasingly cash-strapped performers, I had initially wanted to go to Edinburgh to see if I could attend the world's largest fringe festival without spending a single penny. Unfortunately, things I don't understand, such as 'production times', 'print deadlines' and, erm, 'the passage of time' mean it's not possible for me to attend this year's Edinburgh and have the piece published before it starts. So instead, to test the waters, I've been instructed to head to the Brighton fringe (which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year) with no money to see how long I can survive. I'll also meet working comedians there, who will tell me all about the realities of putting on a show. As for me: although I'm obviously hilarious on paper, I've got no experience as a standup comic, so I'm never going to make any money telling jokes. But can I earn a day's wage handing out flyers and helping out comedians with their day-to-day? I'm about to find out … If you've never been to Brighton, let me sum it up in a word: hilly. I walk (thankfully downhill) past a variety of cafes offering croissants, cakes and full Englishes that make me drool like Homer Simpson. But with no money, I can't even afford a sausage roll from Greggs. I'm stopping at the Theatre Royal to meet the fringe crew and ask them about the difference between a festival and a fringe festival. Brighton fringe and Brighton festival take place at the same time, and it's the same in Edinburgh. I also wonder if they'll have any biscuits. 'A fringe festival means we are an open-access festival, so anyone can take part,' says Brighton fringe festival director Amy Keogh over tea, but disappointingly no Rich Tea. 'We have 819 different shows this year. We don't curate, programme or commission. People have complete creative freedom. Brighton fringe is a charity, so we're not profiting in any way.' 'The fringe attracts up-and-coming comedians trying out new material, but they have to pay to hire the venues. It's a bottom-up approach,' explains Brighton arts marketer Caz Slota. 'The festival operates a more traditional top-down approach, where the venues book established acts and pay them in advance.' Brighton fringe coordinator Sarah French adds: 'We offer bursaries and the option to pay in instalments. We want to create a space where people can be creative and experimental.' The Brighton fringe gang have kindly lined up some comedians to talk to me about the least funny subject of all time: money. I take a seat at the back of the theatre to begin my comedian speed dating, while secretly hoping one of them will take pity on me and buy me a packet of peanuts. Ollie Yates, 28, works as a tree surgeon and is staying with their parents a 30-minute cycle away. Their show, Everyone's Dating Ollie, uses clowning to explore 'how ridiculous polyamory is in the world of modern dating'. 'I was lucky enough to win a £120 bursary,' they say. 'The venue costs £25 a night. I'm doing eight shows. With food, I might just about break even. I'm just here to see what happens.' 'I do this purely for the fun,' says Brad Jon Kane, who lives in nearby Hove and works as a pastry chef. He describes his show, Please Slow Down, as 'a series of slow, low-energy characters, like a cowboy vicar, a mime act and a substitute teacher. The shows are free, then I offer an optional bucket,' he says. 'Once I become a bit more of a name, I'll probably start charging. But I just love a good crowd.' Brighton-based cabaret act Pearl & Dean, both in their early 50s, met at teacher training college. 'The tradition of camp nonsense harks back to when gay people couldn't be out in the 70s. Like our costumes, our marriage is very much lavender,' Marsha Dean says. Their All Aboard! evening has won best new show at this year's Brighton. Even though it's a sellout, they only expect to break even. Unlike Ollie and Brad, Pearl & Dean will also be performing at Edinburgh this year. 'Back in 1994, I took out my third student loan to do Edinburgh,' Peter Pearl remembers. 'I spent £3,000 on accommodation, venue hire, food, travel and publicity, but still had an absolute ball.' With my stomach rumbling, I wonder if there's an ingenious way to make a quick buck flyering at Brighton. Flyering is discouraged for environmental reasons, but it's permitted here in the SpiegelGardens performance venue, where they sell drinks and – yes – food. I head over with my new comedian friends to meet Brighton-based 49-year-old NHS drag performer Sister Brandy Bex, who describes her show as 'a daft, chaotic, comedy cabaret' and has agreed to employ me to flyer on a zero hours, paid-by-performance contract. 'Brighton fringe is the best,' she says, handing me her sandwich board, which disappointingly has no actual sandwiches. 'I take four weeks off work and get totally involved. I did a comedy course during the pandemic and thought: wouldn't it be good to have a nurse character and take the piss out of the NHS?' By day, Bex works as a nurse. But performing at Brighton doesn't come cheap. 'I have to pay the other performers in my cabaret,' she says. 'The year before last, I lost £1,600. Last year, I lost a grand. This year I'll lose maybe £200. So I'm doing better every year.' Back to my flyering job, I ask what exactly I'll have to do. 'Flyering is great for chatting to people,' she continues. A bursary helped pay for her 2,000 flyers. Unfortunately, I'm not great at chatting to people. I'm also so hungry that I skive off to tuck into some pizza crusts I find on a paper plate in the bin. I get busted. It's a case for instant dismissal. Revel Puck Circus have their own tent at Brighton (and also at this year's Edinburgh), featuring 'high-wire walkers, teeterboarders, daring aerial skill and the only female wheel of death in the UK'. Crikey. 'We've got the tent and the props, but the real wow factor comes with the heartwarming moments, like when I get to fly over the audience' says French-Canadian acrobat Arielle. 'Everyone is just so friendly and natural,' adds fellow aerialist Imani from London. 'So we do our best to spread the love.' The circus tours six months of the year, so unlike the comedians I've spoken to, performers such as Arielle and Imani enjoy full-time employment on a proper salary. I've always secretly fancied running away with the circus, but as I'm strapped into a harness and winched into the air to see if I'd make a good acrobat, I'm not sure I've got the head for heights. I spend the rest of the day seeing what else Brighton has to offer: a couple of loose chips on a tray in McDonald's and a bowl of discarded onion rings in Wetherspoons. Ollie Yates kindly puts me on the guest list to their show, but I feel guilty I can't even afford the £10 ticket. Defeated, I take the train home, and think about what a nice vibe Brighton has. Bursaries help with the costs, and everyone helps each other out – something, I'm told, that happens far less in the competitive climate of Edinburgh. My rubbish experiment may be over, but I'm already beginning to understand the financial difficulties comedians face at fringe festivals. No one I spoke to expected to walk away with a profit – simply breaking even seems rare. Brighton tends to attract local comedians, saving them the need to rent somewhere to stay, but spiralling accommodation costs at Edinburgh risks alienating all but the richest comics, as I find out when I chat to comedians performing at this year's fringe. Matt Forde, who brings his show, Defying Calamity, to Edinburgh in August, recently gave evidence in parliament about how hard it is for working-class comedians to break into comedy. 'The reason why Edinburgh is so important, as opposed to, say, Camden, Brighton, Glasgow or Leicester, is that people from all over the world can put on a show and be discovered,' he tells me. 'It has the potential to make careers, but it's so expensive it's not just the working-class comedians who are getting shut out – so are middle-class comedians. If you don't intervene financially, Edinburgh is just going to become more elitist. Then comedy on telly becomes more elitist.' 'The trickiest part is striking a balance between trying to save money and remembering you have to live,' says Glenn Moore, who is bringing his show, Please Sir, Glenn I Have Some Moore?, to Edinburgh. 'I once spent the month sleeping in a cupboard. Another time, I stayed with 15 other people in a three-bedroom flat, sharing a bed with two of them, with about an inch of free space. One of my bed pals was someone I'd never met and haven't seen since.' 'This will be my first time in Scotland,' says US comic Zainab Johnson, who brings her show, Toxically Optimistic, to Edinburgh. 'I searched Airbnb. Flats were listed for over £8,000. I hadn't even looked for flights. As a vegan, I was also warned that I might not enjoy the food. As my show is called Toxically Optimistic, instead of focusing on the negatives, I'm going to lean into the positives. I'll get to see a beautiful country I've never been to. As a black Muslim woman, I look forward to hopefully making people laugh who look nothing like me. If there's no good food, that at least cuts my expenses.' 'My first fringe, I was in my early 20s and properly broke,' says Kate Dolan, set to perform her show The Critic. 'I was in a puppet show. We stayed in a flat, an hour's bus journey away. I shared a bed with another woman, the lads were on the floor, and the puppets had their own room. I'm still a bit of a Del Boy. This year, I'm renting a room, making my own props and will happily eat Pot Noodles for a month.' 'Pursuing an accountancy qualification was potentially the worst decision I could make,' says James Trickey, whose show is fittingly called Don't Count on Me. 'Not because it was immensely dull, but because it made me all too aware of the financial irresponsibility.' 'My first three runs at Edinburgh came while I was working as a locum GP,' says Paul Sinha, of show 2 Sinha Lifetime. 'There was simply no way the contract for a junior hospital doctor was ever going to be elastic enough to allow four consecutive weeks away from the frontline. My first solo show in 2004 was a misjudged affair. After three years as a GP, I'd saved up enough for a 11.15pm slot in one of the hottest rooms in Edinburgh. It wasn't an especially notable show, nobody came, and I lost £5,000. Thanks to medicine, I could just afford miserable failure. But the vast majority are not so lucky.' All this leaves me wondering what the solution might be. One reason accommodation at Edinburgh is even dearer this year is that Oasis and AC/DC are playing the city slap bang in the middle of the festival. Last year, the Marriott hotel advertised a job as a live-in breakfast jester to amuse guests over their Corn Flakes. The position was paid and came with free accommodation. It seems a funny idea, but I also wonder if this sort of thing makes a mockery of comedians, pitching them as performing monkeys who will do anything for money. Then again, I'm a man couldn't even cut it for a day in Brighton. So what do I know?
