On Unicyclists, Culpability, and the Odd Transience of Entertainment

Last night 300 people carried my husband around on their shoulders chanting WATSON WATSON WATSON. I had mixed feelings. I mean, I like him and everything, it’s just odd when the rest of the world seems to be even more enthusiastic about the man you’re married to than you are.  Oh, listen, I like him.  I think he’s pretty bloody cool. He definitely is pretty bloody cool. I’m carrying his child.  You’ve got to at least think someone’s above average on the scale of humanity to voluntarily do that.  Unless things aren’t going very well and you’re getting paid a lot of money by a barren lady.

My ambivalence towards the 24 hour shows is deep rooted.  On the one hand, they’re a joyous celebration of everything wonderful about the fringe and the people who come to it, as has been well documented. On the other hand, it’s pretty shit to watch the person you love half kill themselves in the name of entertainment.  In the old days, when smoking was still allowed in the Ace Dome, arseholes who have hopefully now at least got a really bad cough (that’ll show them) blew smoke continuously in Mark’s face for the entire 36 hours of the show. His voice seized up, he started to get dizzy, he looked visibly shaky.  It was like being married to a less famous, less tragic Roy Castle. 

And people’s desire for entertainment gets wildly out of control when they have nothing else keeping them awake. ‘Let’s torment a dog! Let’s send three men to have sex with Denise Van Outen! Let’s burn down the Pleasance!’ It’s all a bit Lord of the Flies, and only one man’s getting the shit for murdering Piggy when everyone else goes home.

At the end of the final ever show last night, the crowd bayed for Mark to take off all his clothes and ride on the shoulders of another naked man while the second naked man unicycled. A hoot for everyone.  Even I can see that is quite a hoot.  But if they did come crashing down from their hilarious unicyling antics, who goes to intensive care with a naked, broken man with bits of unicycle up his arse? Bloody me, that’s who.  And so I’m torn, between the splendid joy of naked unicycling men, and the desire to be mostly at home with my excellent husband, just sort of hanging out with the cat, really.

In conclusion, it’s quite hard being married to someone with an intense, restless desire to entertain.  No wonder Bruce Forsythe has been through so many wives.  In a tiny, Fringe-scale way, I’m a bit like Mrs Forsythe.  I might write her an email.  Mostly I’d just say how it’s just a bit crappy to share my fine husband with a lot of other people, some of whom will write shitty things about him, and judge him, and make him feel really quite low, while others will carry him round on their shoulders shouting WATSON WATSON WATSON.  Confusing, alarming, but very, very cool.