You know what's lacking at this here Festival Fringe? Forgiveness. That's what. Good old-fashioned, out-of-style, ridiculous, uncynical, dare-I-say "Christian" forgiveness.
I read a review lately for David Whitney; in this year's show he addresses his head butting an audience member some Fringes ago. The reviewer begins by saying they intend to make fair judgment of his efforts, despite the original offence being "unforgivable".
Why is it unforgivable to nut someone in the face? Silly, yes. Unpleasant, certainly. Worthy of censure, even jail time, if you're so minded. But unforgivable? I hear the word "unforgivable" a lot these days, mostly from so-called liberals describing actions they view as illiberal. I was brought up, conservatively, to believe that nothing is unforgivable. I certainly can't fail to forgive what, to a performer, is perfectly understandable. For every 200 punters there's one that needs a nutting. I'm not saying they should get it, but they need it.
In my ten years of comedy bottom-feeding I have been a right twat to people on occasion, and they have been a right twat back. My one golden rule these days is to let people off if they ask to be let off. Sometimes even if they don't. And if I can't remember what a load of ill-will was all about anyway, then I assume that it was probably my fault. If you're reading this and we once made each other unhappy, and it was more than a year ago, you're forgiven. Maybe you haven't forgiven me, but that's your crappy problem.
Maybe forgiveness is the preserve of the spiritually rich. Maybe my loving family and happy home means I don't need to cavil over bones any more. Or maybe I'm just getting too old to keep anger fresh. In any case, you don't seem to get much forgiveness from people who have it all.
Last year I did a small, free show. I won't say where, but the building in question is Scotland's only multi-storey toilet; seized three years ago by forces loyal to the Laughing Horse Festival Army. Like most of the ground fought over lately in this senseless, senseless war it was, of course, tactically worthless but had to be occupied so that it didn't fall into the hands of Peter Buckley Hill's Shining Path of Fun, which had just set up entertainments in the function room of the Cat and Prostitute on Frederick Street, the stock room of Nicholson Street Tesco Metro and the Leith Abbatoir. None of this is important. I'm just recreating a fog of war.
At my penultimate performance, a group of unpleasant people walked in and proceeded to ruin the show. When I asked them politely to leave, one man threatened to beat me up but contented himself with throwing beer at me and then running away. He left his cussing girlfriend behind. I explained to her as best I could, as I poured my pint of cider over her head, that he had effectively left her to even the score in this game of make-someone-damp. Even though what was happening might be unpleasant, I hoped she understood that it was by no means unjust.
I carried on with the show and, at the end of it, the attendant arrived. You might think that, getting to run such a fortress of a convenience; commanding an army not just of people selling Chup-a-Chups and squirts of aftershave but also entertainers, hot dog stands and barkeeps in each of its cistern-studded chambers, this man would be full of holy light. Anyone who has had the good fortune to rise through the ranks of toilet stewardship to such a level of command should know that it is good to have the power of a titan; awful ever to use it. That one who rules such a Sauron's tower of a khazi must temper the sceptered sway of their plunger. I thought the bloke would be reasonable, and wise, and most of all forgiving, as the Bible says a king must be.
He was given good counsel. Unusually, everyone - the nasty people, me, the witnesses - had a broadly similar account of what had happened. The audience filled our friend in on the man's clear threat of violence. But the Toilet King said that if a comedian in his convenience is threatened, even attacked, then they should "just take it on the chin; it comes with the territory." He added, magisterially, "I don't care about you; I don't care about any of you. I just care about my customers." He then banished me from his sulphurous kingdom, effectively for not submitting to being beaten up and drenched with beer while trying to entertain his customers in a big toilet for free.
Now, that's a pretty rum thing, and unjust too, so I was upset by it at the time. Yet it was also a stupid, tiny thing, borne of frayed nerves and bad instincts. And anyway, people change. I'm sure the nasty people now see that they were wrong. I'm sure the King of Urea understands you can't always back the customer who wants to beat up the hapless free act, however many goldfish bowls of Sex on the Beach he has bought from you. I have long forgiven all of them, because, frankly, I have other things to be cross about.
And yet I learned yesterday that I am, like Clint Eastwood's quarry, unforgiven. I am STILL banished from the Kingdom of Relief. Alas! My friend must find another act for his variety show and I must not darken the establishment's many cubicle doors. I don't yearn to smell the inside of his palace again, but I really do crave forgiveness from the Toilet King. Without forgiveness we cannot move on. We are forced to re-examine old slights. Even blog about them. Maybe even blog about them in a whacky lavatorial style.
Ah, comedy. You play a storming gig and nobody remembers you. You have a pointless to-do with liquids and nobody forgets. Or forgives.
Well, go in peace. It'll soon be over. 'Til then love, entertain and forgive one another.
Liam Mullone: A Land for F*ckwits @ The Stand