Comedians in Edinburgh
Getting Chai Lattes (series five)

Originally not aired on 04/09/2023

 

The Edinburgh Fringe is done. Over the last month, I have felt everything, from elated to depressed to incredibly, unrelentingly horny.

 

Day after day I put my art and arteries to the test. I performed 25 shows, ate more than 50 Tunnock's Caramel Wafers and excreted over 100 different bodily fluids.

 

I have so much respect for all the comedians that also completed this journey, and even some of the theatre performers. Finishing a Fringe run is a better achievement than doing most other things – including jobs in the emergency services, and lifelong careers dedicated to feeding the hungry.

 

Some people work in foodbanks, but the Fringe is a moodbank. Middle-class people who – although they have full cupboards – are starved of art all year round that tells them about the perils of ADHD and navigating polyamorous relationships. At the Fringe, finally they can feast.

 

It’s easy to be cynical and think the only reason people do this festival is to get on Richard Osman’s House of Games. Truthfully, people do the Fringe to express themselves, to be heard. And where else can you hear so many different voices? From people who studied Philosophy at Cambridge, to people who studied Classics at Cambridge, the Fringe has everything.

 

I wish I could sit down with all of them and talk about their runs and ask them if they have the email for the producer of World’s Most Dangerous Roads. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time.

 

For a one-off special of my unrecorded podcast, “Comedians In Edinburgh Getting Chai Lattes,” I decided to talk to a comedian that knows this festival back-to-front, and possibly even inside-out, Sam Campbell.

 

A recent winner of the prestigious Edinburgh Comedy Award, Sam is seen as one of hottest stars in comedy right now. He’s been on Taskmaster, just finished his first sell-out tour, and the other day I saw him chatting socially to Dara O’Briain at the Pleasance Courtyard. The guy is a rock-solid, bursting at the waistband, bona fide celebrity.

 

With his current status, it’s easy to forget the years Sam spent in the wilderness, both

artistically and the 18 months he worked as a Cattle Rancher in The Outback. 

 

“Would you say herding cows is like making an audience laugh?” I asked.

 

“No, not really,” Sam replied.

 

Sam started performing comedy when he was just 18 years old, and he is now probably 32. Still possessing the same offbeat originality he’s now praised for, Sam was ignored by the industry in his early years, most likely due to the negative public perception of his father, Alastair Campbell.

 

“Sam,” I said, “just because your dad helped legitimise a bloody war, doesn’t mean you’re not a bloody good comic.”

 

“I think you’re confusing me with Grace Campbell,” he replied.

 

“Who’s Grace Campbell?” I said.

 

“A comedian… Alastair Campbell’s daughter,” he replied.

 

“AKA your sister?”

 

“No.”

 

Was he playing with me? Sam seems to come from the school of thought that says a true comedian is always on. He’s a natural heir to Andy Kauffman, whose regular stunts and blurring of the lines between on stage and off, meant that many questioned whether even his own death was a stunt.

 

In an interview with the comedy reviewer Brian Logan, Sam arranged for his deadpan sidekick Mark Silkox to pose as a fan asking for an autograph. At last year’s Fringe, Sam booked out the 750-seater Pleasance Grand to perform a show that lasted for just 10 minutes, meaning the audience spent longer queueing to get in and out of the venue than they did watching the show.

 

 Was this Grace Campbell invention another one of his pranks?

 

I’d done a lot of research for this interview, so I was determined to push on.

 

“Sam,” I said. “In 2022, your Fringe show, ‘A Show About Me(n)’ explored a string of disastrous relationships you had in your early twenties and your need for male validation, have your views on the male gaze changed at all since then?”

 

“Again, Eric, I think that might be a question for Grace.”

 

He was persevering with the bit, and it irritated me. I get that Sam was being Sam, but after a month of being surrounded by comedians, I just wanted a serious conversation.

 

I decided to broach a topic that I knew he couldn’t joke about.

 

 

“Sam,” I said, “in an article you wrote for the Guardian, you, for the first time, publicly discussed the termination of your pregnancy and the depression that followed… I can’t even imagine the bravery that took to—”

 

“Eric, I have her number if you just wanna call her?”
 

I lost it.

 

“Listen, Sam, can you just drop it? It’s okay to not be funny for five fucking seconds! We’re not on stage. You’re talking to an actual person here, who, believe it or not, cares about you, and cares about what you went through. Now, it’s okay if you don’t want to go into the specifics, but please, PLEASE, tell me that you’re on the path to accepting yourself and your decisions.”

 

He got his phone out and showed me a picture of this “Grace” Campbell that had clearly been mocked up using AI.

 

I downed my chai and left Sam to pick up the bill.

 

I was done with this interview, done with Edinburgh, and done with comedians.

 

See you next year! X

 

Sam’s new show, “Sam Campbell is on Heat” is touring now. Tickets can be found on his website, https://www.disgracecampbell.com/tours

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