The Wee Small Hours

That look of surprise I've mentioned before? It seems to have matured into the next logical emotions – disgust and hate. Instead of 'I don't want your flier', it's 'Fuck your Festival' t-shirts, and my brother came home from the pub with a face like a burst plum rather than an amusing anecdote. The beast of the festival has grown claws and a snarl.

For me at least, this souring is due to a mixture of sleep deprivation, stress, and the obligation to just keep going. I overheard two girls talking as I walked down South Bridge today. 'I don't feel that drunk!' the American of the pair was shouting at the other. 'But then maybe I won't know 'til tomorrow morning. Like, it's good to just keep drinking at a steady pace but you don't really know how drunk you're getting, right? Then afterwards it's all like errrrr.' She put her hands to her face and shook her head madly from side to side.

This idiot pinned down exactly how I have been experiencing the festival. Like an extended house-party, I have reached a stage where I feel like I have to just stumble through the final dance moves before the sun comes up. Some people have already gone home. The angry neighbours are banging on the walls, telling everyone to SHUT UP because they're trying to sleep. But heaps of people are still out there in the venues and the streets; still buying tickets because they know this is only once a year and have a wild determination to make the most of it and smile through gritted teeth to the end.

Things have lost their sheen, though. You can't get one pound pints at the Tron on Wednesdays; can't avoid the spectacle of people promoting their shows in a last ditch effort for them to be able to put 'sell out 2009' on their crappy fliers next year; can't get to work; can't walk round the bars. A work-mate of mine got an eye infection from face paint, I started crying over the coffee machine because I messed up a cappuccino, and I finally wailed those words I never thought I would say: “I can't wait until this festival is over!”

How sustainable is a feeling of euphoria? How much theatre and comedy can one person take before they just do not care about culture any more? As the rain has moved over the city these past few days, it feels like things are winding down in the same way a washing machine finishes its spin cycle, except with a far dirtier end result. A month is a long time to indulge every bad impulse and humour every douchetard who thinks their play will change the world. People had told me from the outset that the only way to make the most of the festival is to pace yourself and not try to do everything, see everyone, drink whatever the hell just turned up in front of you. I had ignored their warnings and gone cold on the whole idea of performance art. Yesterday I thought I was done.

But then squinting through a haze of lethargy at what felt like my thirtieth midnight comedy act, I realised there is a reason we persevere. These guys were quite literally the 3am junk food binge that comes after drinking – two boys in hot dog costumes doing the worst white rap I have ever heard. They pushed through technical failures, terrible wardrobe and badly-tuned guitars to deliver a show so funny I thought I would vomit on my shoes right there in the front row. A month is a long time, but there is nothing in the world like knowing you can leave the house at any hour, go to any venue and be moved by something extraordinary. I decided to stick around to the end. I hear it has fireworks.