I've never seen a comedian run 100 metres in under 10 seconds and I probably never will. But to those who take part in the fringe, the month of August can be as competitive as any Olympic event. Who gets the most critics in? Who had a celebrity in the audience? And who looks best in a tiny pair of Speedos?
If they were handing out medals, who would be on the podium? A gag merchant like Tim Vine bursts from the blocks like Usain Bolt. A powerful all-rounder like Brendon Burns is the Jessica Ennis of the fringe (I've seen his stomach muscles). And Richard Herring has the stamina and prowess of a long-distance runner.
One thing they should give out medals for is the art of subtly steering a conversation in a savage direction. A typical exchange with another fringe comic goes like this: "Nice shoes! You look very well rested. Is it anything to do with having to cancel your shows? Listen, I don't care what anyone writes on your posters, you are funnier than faeces. Lots funnier. Do you want a photograph with me? Think you'll be back next year? Why are you crying and punching yourself?"
Of course comics enjoy spending time together: I don't want to make us sound like a self-obsessed group of bloodthirsty idiots. Some are even vegetarians. But don't be fooled by the smiles on stage. The majority of us would enjoy taking a fellow comic down with a well-aimed javelin. Imagine Zola Budd versus Mary Decker Slaney every single day for a month, and you get the picture.
This year, many comics have been asked by the press: "If your show was an Olympic sport, what would it be?" It's the wrong question, of course: they should be asking what Olympic event would the fringe as a whole be. The answer is Greco-Roman wrestling. No one knows the rules, no one can tell who's winning, but you just sweat and grunt your way through it until you're the last one standing. That's the fringe. And that's how you win. In a leotard, lying on top of a stranger.
• Susan Calman is at the Underbelly on Bristo Square until 27 August.
