It’s 2012. I never did write a traditional “summary of the year 2011″ so I thought now’s as good a time as any…it’s only 13 days late and that’s hardly anything. Unless you’re a celebrity marriage, but I don’t see Kim Kardashian round here so I’m going to do it. I actually like these things as a chance to reflect back on where I was last year (doing my MA, skint, panicking) and where I am now (well, I’ve finished my MA…).

So, first we had:

January

I was getting into the groove of life as a vegan, with great plans to write up a polemic about the experience. Initially I said I’d stick to it for six months, then a year and now here we are, still dairy-free and coping well. It’s pretty typical of me to only be able to deal with the idea of something if I give myself tiny tasks with short deadlines which I just keep pushing back. Some would say that’s the mark of high intelligence. They would be lonely people.

It was also my birthday, which was one of my favourites so far – just the whole day spent having a lovely time and then drinking in the evening. It took many birthdays for me to realise the thing I like doing most is having a nice time.

February

I don’t really remember February. I know I did some work for Generation Science, and did some fun gigs like The Ghost of William Shatner (part of Let’s Get Lyrical) but other than that…  I probably ate quite a bit of Chinese food. I do that as default. If I’m never sure what I was doing, it was eating Chinese food.

March

I went on Radio Scotland’s Comedy Cafe talking about Electric Tales and re-remembered I have a voice which sounds like someone’s hiding a double chin in my vocal chords. Had a heart-thumping ride back from an Inverness gig in snow so bad they shut the road behind us. Re-remembered I am not brave.

Ate Chinese food.

April

I won the Twitter Category of the See Me Creative Writing competition and got a lovely lunch, some lovely Amazon vouchers and wee quote from Mark Thomas saying my writing was “great, just great.” Considered dying happy but there was more Chinese food to eat.

Worked at the Science Festival, telling stories to dribbly small people. Lost my voice, blamed dribbly small people.

May

Spent some time at MamDad’s, ostensibly to work on my Major Project for uni. Unfortunately, I had timed it with them getting the house torn down and re-built seven times a day (or getting something done to the wall, I forget) and it mainly involved some reading, eating lollies and (if memories serves) eating Chinese food. It was very lovely. At the end of the month I went to Uist for five days with Generation Science. Turns out, the Outer Hebrides are very far away and the windiest place on the planet. Good times were had with good people.

June

This was the month when I had in my diary that I wanted the first draft of my Major Project to be done and dusted, so I could spend July editing and filling in research gaps. Ha! I also would like to be able to read books by touching them and have a concentration span which stretches to more than one episode of Dr Who. Mainly this month was spent thinking how nice it would be to be a writer during the day, punctuated by waking up sweating during the night.

July

I have very few talents, but I am good at ideas. I discovered this month that I can present my ideas in a convincing enough way that I can fool anyone (well, myself) into thinking that these ideas probably don’t need any more work and are so brilliant, I can sit back and eat noodles til the deadline comes. One positive reaction from my mentor to my chapter plan later, and the noodle-dreams came true. NOTE: DO NOT TRUST THE NOODLES, THEY LIE.

August

Well, I live in Edinburgh and it was August, so clearly the main point was I didn’t sleep and drank Irn Bru for breakfast. I worked at the Book Festival (which I love with all my noodled heart), handed in my Major Project, did a kid’s show at The Stand, wrote The List‘s festival newsletter, handed in my supporting essay and life-plan-thing, performed at Story Shop, cried when I got my Major Project results and Amanda Palmer told me I was funny. The End.

September

Wandered round in a daze. MamDad came up so had a kinda mini-holiday thing. Ate Chinese food IN A CARAVAN, then went back to daze.

October

Went to Abu Dhabi as a kind-of PA to Tom ‘Dr Bunhead’ Pringle. I don’t think I could be counted as a proper PA as I look rubbish in pencil skirts, have wayward hair and had too many swearing competitions with my boss (I won). Saw many amazing things and met very awesome people AND I was sick on the world’s fastest rollercoaster (sorry Matt Pritchard). I loved this job very much. It involved a lot of buffets and sunshine.

November

Came back for graduation, which I had cleverly timed to coincide with a case of facial herpes. As a result all my grad photos (taken by sexy bum Chris Scott, who this year became a proper resident on my friendship bus), involve my hair hanging limply over my face, like a bassist in a 1995 Nirvana tribute band. Then I went back to Abu Dhabi, for crazy times at their Science Festival. I loved this job very much too. Less sunshine but more buffets. Brilliant workmates. BRILLIANT. (Oh no, now the capitals look sarcastic).

December

It mainly involved looking out of the window to see if it was snowing and then Christmas. I love Christmas. I used to cry whenever I had to go bed on Christmas Day because it was all over for another year. Luckily, this year, I got a vomiting bug, so I was crying because puking makes me weep. Seriously, I have never managed to puke and not cry. Probably a lack of mushroom fried rice in my life. I am fixing that this year.

And so there you go. One year in the life of Ms Sian E Bevan.

Bye!

This blog post comes to you from far away, unless you’re in Abu Dhabi in which case this blog post comes from your doorstep. I’m currently working over here with Edinburgh International Science Festival, helping prepare the Science Communicators who’ll be running events at the very exciting and shiny Abu Dhabi Science Festival. It’s all new, fresh out of the packaging, and involves changing the brains of a whole heap of undergraduates in a series of two day courses (led by Dr Bunhead off of the tele). (I’m just the assistant. There are grown-ups doing the important stuff)

I was having a bit of a flopping-about-stress at the idea of coming over here and leaving the nest and its pile of pending job applications for a short-term contract. It’s pretty amazing to be offered the chance to work abroad but I was still very much in post-postgrad mode: needing direction, stability and some kind of proof that I’m careering towards 30 with a chance of meeting adulthood before my next birthday.

However, turns out when you’re in that kind of funk (and man, have I been in a funk), a bit of distance is actually a useful thing. Issues which seemed overwhelming in Edinburgh shrink to specks on a horizon and ambitions I’d left dusty in a drawer snuck into my suitcase and came along for the ride. Plans are being made, and I’m remembering that Scotland (where my heart will always lie) doesn’t have to be the only place where these plans come to fruition. I like being foreign. I like languages, and cultures and understanding things I didn’t understand before. The possibilities seem endless but, for the first time in a long time, they don’t seem suffocating.

It feels very optimistic over here and that’s rubbed off. Ambitions for the UAE are loudly proclaimed and (mainly because there’s the cash to put money where mouths are) things put into place. Of course, as with any country, there are flaws (I could list, but that’s another blog) but having had a couple of years of depressing funding cuts and unemployment rocketing, it’s been nice trying on a place where anything seems possible.

I’ll be back in bonny Scotland afore long, dusted down and ready to…umm…well, probably get round to doing something, at some point.

S

XXX

However, I had underestimated my superpower: Sidetrack Girl is not foiled by a temporary lack of broadband. Instead, I’ve been distracted by every book in my house, knitting a cover for my laptop charger, learning Arabic (I’m not convinced it’s real) and writing lists to my future self. Oh, and writing a blog when I should be doing…

That’s just it. I’ve got a lot of wee jobs to do but I’m still reeling from the end of university and not entirely sure what I should be doing. I was fully expecting to march straight into a job after the summer but (for reasons to be revealed shortly) I’m just gigging until the end of the month. There are things I should be writing. There are things I should be reading. There’s a house I should be cleaning but…everything seems very far away. It’s like looking at my life through a fog, not quite sure which bits are me and which are just random bumps and shapes.

It’s better than it was. Earlier in the month, confusion was further compounded by a viscous cold. I couldn’t remember what I wanted to write, couldn’t remember how to be funny and barely remembered how to sleep well. And I am a champion sleeper. If sidetracking is my superpower, then sleeping is my Olympic sport. 

So, what’s the outcome? Well, I think it’s ok to be a bit shellshocked after university. I was employed pretty quickly after my BA, in a job which was lovely but I hadn’t given myself time to breathe and so I shook it off after a few months and moved to Edinburgh. I need time to adjust to this new life as a grown-up. I need to make even more lists, write a few more stories and then, once the dust has settled, remember that I had plans all along and have all the support I need to make them happen. Well, apart from broadband. But that, like the future, is promised soon

This year, for the first time in years, I’m not reviewing at all. I normally write for The List but time just won’t allow it this year. I know there’s an element of controversy in someone who performs comedy doubling up as a reviewer – is a bad review down to jealousy? Are comedians incapable of seeing a performance objectively, and not through the lens of their own failure? I’ve always been confident that I can assess shows and, as someone who watches comedy all year round and genuinely loves the art form, I’m more qualified than some who put pen to paper over August.

Still, I’ll be free of judgement this Fringe, as I try desperately not to see everything in marks out of five. And, as such, I wanted to write this post and address it to people who might be reviewing for the first time. Or maybe not for the first time: you may have been doing it for years and still be dreadful. I should point out that I do not consider myself to be a brilliant reviewer. There are many who are far better writers than I am, with opportunities such as the Allen Wright award acting as a good barometer of the talent out there.

However, I read a lot of reviews and have noticed in recent years a widening of the gaps between the good, the bad and the downright nonsensical. This is an, entirely personal, list of the things which irritate my eyes when I’m trying to work out which shows to see (or who to be jealous of).

1.  Don’t include yourself in the review unless a) you’re famous  b) it’s particularly pertinent to the review. Saying “I was molested by the comedian as entered the room” is of some interest but “I was very much looking forward to this re-telling of Macbeth and skipped all the way to the theatre after breakfast” is just weird. I’m not your friend and don’t care about your life. I want to know about the performance, not you.

2. If you’re reviewing a night where the line-up changes every time it’s pointless going through each act detailing what they did. There’s a certain Scottish publication (I shall name no names. Unless you ask me when I’m drunk) which incessantly formats its reviews as: One para about the night (including a lame pun), Act 1 said this, Act 2 said this, Act 3 said this, THERE WAS A HEADLINER! THEY WERE THE BEST!, another para about the night (including a slightly different lame pun). That night will never happen like that again, so your review should instead capture the spirit of the evening. What is the event trying to achieve, regardless of who’s performing? What’s the unique selling point? What was the general standard? Use examples from the acts you saw to prove your point, but don’t just write a teenager’s diary about your lovely night out.

3. Which leads to my next point: don’t give away material. There’s no point. You’ll do it wrong. You’ll ruin the material. The marvellous Kate Copstick wrote very sensibly about it after Jerry Sadowitz asked journalists not to quote (and kill) his best lines.

4. Don’t give someone a shit review because you had a bad day or think you’re brilliant at being sarcastic in reviews. Yes, everyone knows that the one star reviews get the most reads, but it’s very obvious when a crapstorm has been delivered for the wrong reasons. Usually, it’s because the review is about you, and not the show (see my first point).

5. Watch the art form you are reviewing all year round. Live. The Lee Evans DVD you got for Christmas doesn’t count as knowing the comedy scene. You should know what a gig feels like. You should know the general industry standard, including the names everyone’s excited about. You should understand the excitement of a gig going brilliantly – and not in the clean-cut, tried and tested, £25 a ticket gigs. Those grimy gigs where magic can happen…they should be a part of your life.

6. Basically, give shows the respect they deserve. Performers get into a lot of debt, risk their dignity, relationships and liver on the chance to prove they have something the world needs to see. Of course, some of them are disasters, who haven’t respected a ticket-buying public through laziness or arrogance but some shit shows are just experiments gone wrong. And, please remember this, without experimentation the Fringe will be a pointless PR exercise, stranded miles from its original purpose. Understand the difference between a show which is just lazy, and a show which valiantly tries and fails. Reflect this in your review.

Here endeth the sermon. Please add in the comments if you violently disagree with anything, or want to add to the list. I promise not to review the comments, but cannot promise I won’t give them a mark out of 5 in my head.

Enjoy the Fringe, you crazy kids – may the Gods of Entertainment smile on you all.

The bed is always there, luring me towards it during the day with the promise of a cosy nap during which I’ll definitely win America’s Next Top Model. At night, the desk is always there, mocking me with the To Do list at its side trembling under the weight of its own responsibility. I’ve been trying recently to work outside the flat to break this cycle of napping and guilt, and to get some sunlight on my haggard skin. Cat guilt normally lures me back and then there we are again.

Only today’s different. The presence of The Boy (now snoring gently and hugging Chamomile) is comforting. I don’t need to go to bed, I just like knowing that it’s there. This is the culmination of a few days of realisation…I actually do like writing. Strip away the whining, the tantrums and gasp of deadlines pressing down on the acne of my inadequacies and you’re left with…writing. Doing the thing I’ve wanted to do since I was wee (alongside being an Air Traffic Controller, but that was quite short-lived). I’ve realised over the past few days that writing is (and I don’t want to frighten the ponies but it’s) more fun than fannying about on Facebook. Bloody hell.

Anyway, onwards. I’d written on my To Do list (now only mildly vibrating to the rhythm of The Boy’s rumbling) that I had to write a blog today and getting it ticked off will make me happier. Ticks mean control and control means proper sleep and proper sleep means not bursting into tears at adverts. Right?

Let’s see what this bitch can do when we put her in fourth gear, shall we?

Anyway, I’m currently working at my Mamdad’s house, in an effort to get more done away from the beautiful distractions of Edinburgh. Unfortunately, after 29 years as an only child, I find myself competing for parental affections with their new baby: a sexy black Wii. In the spirit of understanding, I have duly become overly competitive and replaced the Burgh with step aerobics on a small board which seems determined to remind me I’m overweight. It’s the meanest little brother a girl ever had and if it wasn’t for the Kung Fu game I would have told my parents it was me or the Wii by now.

One of the things I’m doing while I’m here is preparing for the next edition of Electric Tales, at The Stand on May 10th. The line-up is incredible: Jo Caulfield, Joe Heenan, The Creative Martyrs, Gordon Alexander and James Spence. AND it’s only £4. AND it’s everything I love about performance: the chance for people to try different material, or a different approach to their material in a way that the audience may never have seen before.

I’ve been asked recently about our no reading rule. The rule is, as you may have guessed, performers aren’t allowed to make reading the main part of their act. Notes are allowed, particularly if performing in character, but we’re not a spoken word night. Now, I go to a lot of spoken word nights. They’re nice. Some are brilliant (some are dreadful, but there are also bad Take That songs). We are not, however, a spoken word night and, for me, one of the things which separates spoken word from storytelling and comedy is that sheaf of paper clutched in a shaking hand.

Writers are not, necessarily, performers. Storytellers and comedians, necessarily, are. Their task is to engage the audience, maybe react to the audience. They may have to change tack if things go wrong, show control by dealing with the unexpected and draw on the atmosphere which they’re presented with. They present an idea and ask the audience to go with it, taking them gently by the paw. With many spoken word nights I find myself looking at the ceiling, at my feet or (if it’s dreadful) at my watch and letting the story drift into my head. If it’s good, I’ll wander round the world created by the author, planting my own images and characters inspired by their words. The author points the way, and allows the listener to explore it, where a storyteller or comedian stomps ahead and leads the way.

When I was thinking about starting up Electric Tales, I wanted it to be a unique experience. This wouldn’t be full of things you could see anywhere else, or read online. I wanted to give performers from the cabaret, storytelling, literary and comedy scene a chance to see where their performances could take them, and see how much their art forms overlap. Every audience has the opportunity to see something which wouldn’t ever happen in quite the same way again and, with reading, it felt as though an element of engagement was missing. This works brilliantly at nights designed for it – where everyone is settled in for a night of listening and looking forward to the tales. At Electric Tales, we want the audience on the edge of their seats – with no idea what style is coming next. Where anyone can be eyeballed, where the punters can become part of the story. Fundamentally, we’re about making people laugh. That’s a hell of lot easier when you’re not stuck reading a piece of paper.

So, that’s the reason. Long wasn’t it? And you thought it was just because I hate watching people read. To be honest, I really used to but, over the past couple of years I’ve seen it done well enough times to recover from the teeth-gritting of yester-year. Most recently, at the fabulous Illicit Ink night, I saw Tracey S. Rosenberg‘s reading her version of  The Little Match Girl. It was everything spoken word should be – engaging, beautifully paced and, as a testament to her powers, I didn’t look at the ceiling, floor or my watch. See? I AM capable of growing up and changing when presented with talent.

Right, work. And my work I mean beating my father at Wii Fit. And by beating my father, I mean complaining that the console is broken when it decides he’s 10 years younger than me in terms of fitness. Bah.

XXX

I looked back at my diary filled with notes of things I needed to do when the festival ended. Having re-discovered my floor and the concept of concentration, I also found the list of things I was going to write a blog about. So, instead, here’s a summary…

I went to see the fabulous Uncaged Monkeys at the Glasgow Comedy Festival. It was a night of science done all entertaining like, with swoony Brian Cox, bouncy Ben Goldacre and a bajillion other clever people, including Helen Arney. It’s testament to my need for attention that as I was watching it that I was thinking about all the things I wanted to write about. I know. All that intelligence and I was pondering how I could put my own ignorant stamp on it. Luckily for you, I ran out of time so I couldn’t write my life-changing essay on why Simon Singh’s presentation on the God Code could be related to the Oulipo. Instead, I made sure I was up-to-date on Glee. Phew. Jen Lavery wrote a review of the night here – read it, she’s clever.

There was the Funny Women debacle, stirred up by the organisation claiming to promote us poor old females and our never-ending fight against the mean men in comedy. They announced the fact they were going to charge contestants £15 to enter their latest competition. Again, you lucky beasts, before I could whitter on the web about the multiple irritations this situation highlighted, Susan Calman wrote a brilliant piece about it. If you want to read an article I wrote a couple of years ago about Funny Women, then click here good people.

I was also going to write an open letter to a woman who complained about my comedy set because I mentioned epilepsy. I was very irritated about her reaction – apparently the condition (which I have, and she doesn’t) is not something which can be joked about. I had a big rant planned and then realised it could be pretty much summed up with ‘I can say what I want’.

Also, I won the See Me Creative Writing Competition twitter category. We had a lush lunch, met Liz Lochead and I got lovely comments from Mark Thomas and £250 in Amazon vouchers. See? Twitter is a good way to spend my time.

I’ve also written a note saying ‘apples and the inspiration of science’. I have no idea. It was probably a brilliant idea.

And so that’s a few things ticked off the list. My laptop’s dead as a dodo so my online shenanigans have been limited by my patience with using other computers. I will return, dear ones, and then you’re once again in danger of putting up with my pointless opinions in full. Until then, just know that I would definitely have been right.

Happy Monday.

Alas, in the course of a week, all buses bearing that message seem to have developed pompous looking chins and bi-focals. They seem to frown on science and belittle history. They’ve become so much more than two words, sponsored by a sickly charity named There is Hope. Click through to the link offered on the buses and you’ll find a depressingly well-designed website, along with the dubious fact that ‘One in three people believe God will answer their prayers.’

And herein lies my beef. I do (despite appearances) totally understand the importance of prayer for some people – I know people who use it as a kind of meditation to clear their heads, to unburden their guilt or to enter some kind of celestial lottery of hope. But, given current world events, the message ‘Try Praying’ is a grimly obscuring lens through which to view your surroundings.

Natural disasters, war, famine, financial crises – these will be dealt with, maybe even solved, by humanity and the works of science and economics. The solidarity of physical help would be my main wish, had my life been destroyed by events in Japan. Prayers (which have been offered in abundance) are as effective as waving cheerily at the drowning man as breath escapes his lungs. Prayers don’t get answered. It’s brutal, and it may be something you may not wish to hear, but good luck and bad luck and all the beautiful messed up chance in the world do not create an interventionist God. But if you really want something to happen, really really want it to happen so much you’d fall to your knees and close your eyes and clasp your hands…then be your own god. Take action and give practical aid to your fellow man, with the hope that they’ll return the favour when you need it. Encourage others to do the same, instead of luring vulnerable people into putting their faith (pun intended) into a illogical legend.

So, with a world which feels like its clock is ticking faster than ever before, don’t ostentatiously tell people to try praying. More than ever, it feels as grotesque as telling an depressive to ‘think positive’ as their hand reaches for the fatal gun. If it clears your head to have a chat with whoever-you-think’s-up-there, go ahead but don’t pretend this is truth, when truth is so clearly present everywhere around us. Don’t waste money on adverts and booklets and the unstable promise of ‘answered prayers’ when you could rise up, unclasp your paws, open your eyes and see the practical possibilities of real life and what that money and effort could actually do.

I’ll probably still cringe every time I see that bus (which by next week will no doubt be clutching a copy of the King James and telling me I’m off to the pit of fire) but, as ever, I’m comforted by the possibilities of science, people and the power of Liza Minnelli. Now there’s someone worth asking to protect and guide you.

Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?

Douglas Adams (quoted in the dedication to Richard Dawkin’s The God Delusion)

 

EDIT: Following some messages and questions which I’ve been sent, I should clarify. I am not anti-prayer. That’s as nonsensical as being anti-daydream or against the flashes of porn that appear in your head. On your own time, people, do whatever you will. I am, however, opposed to this particular campaign, which is forcing belief  and riddled with agenda. By going on the website, the ‘how to pray’ section gives the Lord’s Prayer as the place to start. Ah…so it’s that God I should be praying to. It also gives nonsensical examples of answered prayers, and encourages the spread of this message by pressing the issue with ‘friends and family’. It’s as dangerous as telling people that if they wish hard enough, they will walk again/get rich/be ‘saved’ without any need to do anything pro-active. If this site had offered prayer (without the agenda of cultism) as a starting point to clear thought and action, I would have written a very different blog. As it is, I will remain irritated until the campaign ends. Ta.

Anyway, this week has partially involved bestowing knowledge on a variety of tiny children in primary schools around the Central Belt. And when I say bestowing knowledge, I mean getting cheap laughs from making fart noises with an over-sized straw and desperately trying to trick them into remembering some science in amongst all the desperate impressions of enthusiastic seagulls trapped in bins. Who says comedians have a complex need to be loved, whatever the cost? It really isn’t complex.

Very lovely Red Raw in Glasgow on Tuesday night. I hardly ever write about gigs on here, as I think of this more as a writing type blog but I’m realising more and more that all the different parts of my life directly affect what I’m tapping out on my laptop. A good evening’s MC-ing grinds my brain back into thinking quickly, which usually means I get a lot more done the next day. Working with children reminds me of the beauty of literal worldviews and wildly brilliant imaginations. Organising gigs and booking events should, therefore, spark the slug of a secretary who lives in my liver to slither into action. Instead, she tends to panic and hide in my intestines until the deadlines dangle within grasp then pounds on my stomach until the inevitable all-nighter is pulled. She’s a bitch. And a totally separate entity to me.

However, the main thing in my life which influences me is probably the cat. Following the spirit of her tenacity in the face of noisy grouting, ladies and gentlemen, I am off for a nap. May the spirit of Denver be with you all.

S
X

There’s something nice about busy weeks. That cracking-your-knuckles glare at a to do list which teeters on the brink of undoable. Essentially, however, the whole brink thing is an essential part of the niceness. Last week, the to do list which snuck onto my desk was like a randy old man’s groin – it seemed to grow and prod me in the back every time I’d told it to bugger off. Ach well.

In defense of last week, it also contained by birthday (29th – another brink) which was one of the nicest I’d had. Drinks with friends the night before, day of cheapskate loveliness with The Boy and then lunch and seaside with Mamdad on Saturday. I crammed like a loser before and after the special events to elbow a space in the schedule for a guilt-free time, which was totally worth it. I’m definitely a crammer. I’d much rather work a few 13 hour days and have a three day weekend when I’m a grown-up (although, if things continue as they’re going, days off might be something I relish in retirement).

I’m now hurtling through the final taught trimester of my MA, when in theory everything comes together. I should be harder, better, stronger and faster than Daft Punk on steroids and striding forward into a future as a writer. In reality, I’m ok. The ideas are coming, the organisation is coming and, if I can just get enough pennies scraped together to stop the panic, everything will be ok. There’s going to be a lot of to do lists. Some brink-y, some groin-y and some so ridiculous I’ll send them to Hollywood and ask Lindsay Lohan to play the lead.

And so…typing. Typing to the brink of the world.