Ed Byrne

Doesn’t Like Things Put On His Head

I would like to vent my spleen in Maxim for a matter I consider to be of great importance: press photographers who insist on making me look a twat.

Now, when you’re a not–very-famous comedian trying to sell gig tickets, snappers are a necessary evil in getting your picture in the paper. It was at the last Edinburgh Fringe Festival, however, when they really started to crawl up the eye of my helmet and lay eggs.

My publicist had organised two press ‘opportunities’ in one day. The first was part of a UNISON campaign to promote good health, which involved me having my picture taken with a doctor and a couple of nurses. We had a reasonable pose with one nurse checking my pulse, one checking my blood pressure and the doctor holding his stethoscope to my heart. Then one of them had an idea and said to the doctor, ‘Put the stethoscope to his head.’ And doc dutifully obliged. This, the snappers agreed, was the shot they were looking for. Why? What is intrinsically entertaining/photogenic/worthwhile about listening to my head? As a comedian I like to think I have some idea about what’s funny and what’s not and I’m fairly sure that putting a stethoscope to somebody’s head is not funny and while I may not be a doctor I'm also fairly certain there is no diagnostic benefit either. The only benefit I can see is it keeps a twat with a camera happy.

Having done that it was then off to the Signet Library where I was performing the draw for the Co operative Insurance Scottish League Cup because the Scottish League Cup like their draws done by mid-level comics with no knowledge of football. After a fairly handy three minutes drawing numbered balls out of a jar it was time to pose for some photos for the press. Myself and a couple of footballers holding the cup, all perfectly fine. I leaned on shoulders, I shook hands, we leaned over the cup. But it was clear that the photographers still hadn’t got a shot that would send them back to their editors with that euphoric sense of pride in a job well done. Then the inevitable: ‘Lads, can you put the cup on Ed’s head?’ They dutifully obliged and the snappers went wild. They banged their hooves off the tops of their magic picture taking boxes; flashbulbs popping like strobes. The cup was on my head, suddenly everything was worthwhile. In opera, it’s not over until the fat lady sings. In photography, it’s not a press shot until something goes on somebody’s fucking head.

On my way home from this double whammy of cranial juxtaposing a relatively rare occurrence occurred: I was recognised in the street. A young Canadian woman asked if I was Ed Byrne and being an honest sort I told her that I was. ‘Do you mind if I get a photo?’ she asked, and I told her I didn’t mind at all. In fact I quite enjoyed the experience. Do you know why? Not just because it was quick, not because it was flattering to be asked. No. Because she didn’t make me wear her handbag as a fucking hat.

Ed is currently touring his ‘Different Class’ tour in the UK. For details go to www.edbyrne.com.