"Hopefully I'll be alright," murmurs Tom Wrigglesworth with cheery uncertainty. "I've been in training for several weeks, doing my own version of Rocky, going in the steam room, swimming quite a lot. I just know for a fact that if I was as unfit as I used to be there's no way I'd be able to do an hour. It's easy to get out of breath when you're screaming about something."

Tonight, a select Brighton crowd (or as many as can squeeze into the confines of Upstairs At Three And Ten) will get to see Wrigglesworth take one of his final shots at perfecting his debut Edinburgh solo show.

"The common relief of the Edinburgh Festival is that you can experiment," says the Yorkshire-man whose stream-of-consciousness style has been compared to the expansive, professorial ramblings of Daniel Kitson.

A ranting denouncement of "all this stuff that's supposed to help us out but doesn't at all," it arrives two years after he dumped his job as an electronics geek to concentrate on comedy.

"It's more of a problem when you've got to earn a living out of weekend clubs," says Wriggleworth. "I did the Hyena in Newcastle and it was brutal. You can't let your foot off the gas for a second before they start booing."

Fortunately, his grounding at open mic nights ("inspired by people who were brilliant but inspired to have a go by people who were rubbish") has thickened his skin.

He almost admits to crying on the train home after one early gig in Croydon where "after about seven minutes I thought, ****, I've actually died. I'm definitely dead.' After that it was all long, drawn-out stories. If they hadn't been laughing before then they weren't going to start now."

In fact, the debacle came as a result of promoters assuming Wrigglesworth could thrive on any stage following his triumph on Channel 4's So You Think You're Funny? contest in 2003. He joined an illustrious list of previous winners - including Peter Kay, Rhona Cameron and Dylan Moran - all of whom only realised their potential several years later.

"What happens with these new act awards is that you get a leg up the ladder of comedy, which is what the award is for," he says. "But all it means is that you're good for five minutes. It still takes ages to become presentable as a solo act. Anything can be brilliant for five minutes, but extend it out and you think, there's nothing here'.

"Because I'd won that, they said you'll be fine'. It's a rod for your own back because you're bound to **** up eventually- there's always going to be moments where you've been pushed too far."

Such baptisms of fire were crucial in the progression which has allowed him to create a show fit for his three-week stint north of the border.

"It was hard but I looked at the audience and, without being rude - which I'm about to be - realised I'd probably be more upset if I'd made them laugh.

"They were absolute knuckle-draggers - it was a desperately stupid, neanderthal crowd. Although you're really gutted they booed you off, you also think if they'd loved me,' I don't know if it's sour grapes or whatever, but you do take a bit of solace in that."

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