EDINBURGH FESTIVAL 97; DIARY

It's only three weeks and three days since we set off in the comedy car from Manchester full of hopes, dreams and cheap red plonk. Little did we know that they've got Victoria Wines up here too! Stopping only to collect a job-lot of ceramics ranging from early sixth-form experiments right through to Naomi Wolfe-inspired abstract female forms, we sped from St Helens in fear of the firemen who'd been called to Carmel College after a kilnful of my latest 3-D dreams set off the alarms.

Arriving in the Pleasance courtyard, it was frightening how someone as big and burly as myself could bc reduced to small fry upon entering the deep dark sea of satire where everyone's for sale but souls are left at the door. I found myself in a town where "sell-out" is a good thing, wondering if the comedic Cruft's would ever stick a rosette of recommendation on the posterior of this particular little pooch. At the press launch party at the Gilded Balloon, I couldn't help but feel that wherever I stood was the proverbial comedy kitchen: while all the stars smooched success, I got on with the dirty dishes.

New hope was forthcoming in the friendship of my three flatmates, Adam, Neil and Jex (with four lads sharing, it's always a good sign when one has a name like a household cleaner).

Despite Adam's insomnia filling my dreams with images of Birdy, naked, bunched and sitting on the foot-rail, we settled down to a hedonistic home life where germs would feel they were in Heaven, bin-bags be outlawed and empty bottles fill every conceivable nook and cranny. We made our plans to storm the comedy castle.

Under starter's orders, the comedy thoroughbreds chomped at the bit while the drunken donkey practised his comedy kick. First show under the belt and the real fun began... We were off! Good initial reactions meant that defences were lowered and potential foes became friends. Dave Johns, the father figure of fun, restored all faith in the outdated notion that this game was all about having a laugh. With the Irish contingent sharing my love of the smooth dark stuff, failure soon became a photograph fading fast in the bright lights of brotherly love.

Tommy Tiernan and the red-haired rascal known as Jason Byrne brought with them a pride in being new kids on the block and Dawn Sedgwick, a manager with looks to die for.

My managers Steve and Mary had all my respect but Dawn had poached my heart. It took a visit from my beloved Jennifer to burst the bubble and bring this confused comedy kid back to his satirical senses.

With Perrier nominations announced, the pressure was on. But, unbeknown to the fevered Festival crowd, there was a bigger question on the lips of Johnny Vegas. Forget "Will he, won't he?" It was "Will she, won't she?" There was female nomination afoot and the prize on offer put the Perrier into perspective...

And so, on the evening of the awards, a title was lost but a treasure was found when my beloved Jennifer agreed to be my wife. (Sorry, St Austins, cancel the function suite we booked for 7 September - the availability of free booze and a big band at the Perrier ceremony made it cheaper than throwing a party back home.)

So it's homeward bound to the flat above Mary the Butcher's, where chops from this day forth are free, following press write-ups of the humble abode and neighbouring merchants. My face printed on a beer mat and a wedding secured, it's hard to think that there are any more mountains to conquer - although, as Mount Television teases, I must prepare to climb it with a rope of restraint and a flag of fun to stick in the Head of Light Entertainment.

The future's bright but it ain't orange. It's brown and gold. It's...

Johnny Vegas