Nicky Woolf's Edinburgh Diary: Late-night comedy revues

Comedy at the Fringe is as much about the night-life as the day-life.

Edinburgh is as much about the night-life as the day-life, and it's not just for barflys; most comedians and comedy groups up at the fringe promote their shows by taking part in cabarets and night-time revues. It's a way to perform in front of new audiences and advertise a show, especially for young up-and-coming acts.

Dec Munro is the compère for revue shows Test Tube Comedy and Edinburgh Must-Sees. “At Test Tube we've had some acts that have done very well,” he says. “[Comedian] Tony Law did a set there that went down brilliantly, and literally half the crowd went to see his show after that. That also happened with Nick Sun, and with a beautiful theatre piece called Slow Clap. There is an element of promotion – but obviously it depends how well your material goes down.”

Spank, in a sweat-box of a basement cave at Underbelly, has gained a reputation for being the most raucous of all the late-night revues. There is a moment at the end when performers can make their pitch to the audience – as long as they are naked on the stage.

These late-night revues can be brutal for performers. In front of a drunken audience, it's possible to really strike a chord- if you bomb, you really bomb. “The audiences at some of the late-night places can be... testing,” says Munro. Because they're all wasted? “Yeah.”

Mark Cooper Jones is one quarter of sketch comedy act Wit Tank, regulars at Spank and other places; tonight, they are due to play another, Live at the Electric. “The experience is brilliant. Its lots of fun. It depends on the kind of act you are; we're quite a loud, shouty group. You have to shout over the top of the audience sometimes, but it's a laugh”

“It can get bad,” he continues. “I've seen people tank before, if they can't get on top of the crowd. You've got a bear pit in front of you, and if you have a weak beginning... it can be horrible.”

“Do you know the Scott Capurro story?” Munro asks. This tale has entered Edinburgh festival lore. Comedian Scott Capurro, having bombed on stage at the Gilded Balloon's Late and Live, was forced by a baying crowd to urinate on his own jumper and shoes, live on stage. In a surreal twist, Jimmy Carr, who was performing after him, had to mop it up before he could perform his act. “Arguably,” says Munro, “that's not the best way to promote your show...”

These are the kind of laughs comedians at the Fringe would die for. Photograph: Getty Images

Nicky Woolf is a writer for the Guardian based in the US. He tweets @NickyWoolf.

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Listening to recordings from the Antarctic, I felt I could hear the earth groan

The Science Hour on the BBC World Service.

A weekend of listening to the radio news ­revealed nothing but sounds of the sucker-punched going through their pockets in a panic and repeating, “I thought you had the keys.” So, never was talk of “a perfectly flat area of just whiteness” more alluring. The oldest Antarctic ice yet recorded was recently found. “For millions of years,” the presenter Roland Pease assured listeners  (25 June, 9am), “snow has been falling, snow on snow, all the while trapping bubbles of air and other chemical traces of climate . . . insights into the ice ages and warm periods of the past.” How was this ice located? “The finding part is pretty easy – you just go there and start shovelling, and ice comes up,” the lead geologist, Jaakko Putkonen, said.

There it was, buried under a layer of dirt “in barren wastelands” high in the middle of Antarctica. An “incredibly mountainous and remote and . . . quite hideous region, really”, Pease said, though it was sounding pretty good to me. The world dissolved into a single, depthless tone. Then Pease mentioned the surprising fizzing of this ancient ice – trapped air bubbles whooshing as they melt. Which is perhaps the thing you least expect about ice regions and ice caps and glaciers: the cacophony. Thuds and moans. Air that folds and refolds like the waving of gigantic flags. Iced water sleeping-dragonishly slurping and turning.

On Friday Greenpeace posted a video of the pianist Ludovico Einaudi giving a haunting performance on a floating platform to mark an imminent meeting of the OSPAR Commission, as it decided on a proposal to safeguard 10 per cent of the Arctic Ocean. Einaudi looked occasionally stunned by the groaning around him. A passing glacier popped and boomed like the armies of Mordor, ice calving from its side, causing mini-tsunamis. When last year I spent some time at the remote Eqi Glacier in Greenland, close to the ice cap, local people certainly spoke of the ice as if it were living: “It’s quiet today,” delivered as though gazing at the fractious contents of a Moses basket.

“This huge cake of ice, basically flat”, Putkonen said, perhaps longing for a moment of deep-space silence, for peaceful detachment. He wasn’t the only one being forced to reappraise a landscape very differently.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 30 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit lies