Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Olfactory Nemesis

One of the eternal joys of living where I do are the myriad smells that waft through my window... I have spent all of today sitting on my bed working and being alternately assaulted with either pot or fried chicken. If anyone were to come in to say hello to me today they'd probably want to sit me down and give me a stern talking to about not abusing my body with such gay abandon. The constancy of the smells means I'm pretty immune to both - or that I'm already so stoned that there isn't even a chicken smell at all, it's just that I've now got perma-munchies. One would assume that owning your own fast food outlet and being a bit of a pot head would be a vicious cycle leading to very little profit and an ever expanding waist line.

God bless the Old Kent Road for letting a straight laced obsessive from Somerset experience both weed and food addiction without ever needing to leave her bed. Huzzah.

The last day of August eh? Who saw that coming - obviously except for calendar makers and people who haven't just spent the last month with their head rammed firmly up their netherchute - eh? Tomorrow will be September which is traditionally my favourite month of the year. I love September for a lot of reasons:

1) I like autumn weather - it is always what it's meant to be. British summer is never right, British winter is rarely snowy picture book style. But Autumn... Autumn we get bloody right. We ship in just the right number of leaves, we know how to have windy chill without being too pissy rainy... it's just bliss.

2) My birthday falls in September and I've got big plans for being 25 this year. This year is going to blow people's minds. Oh yeah.

3) September is stationary month. September is the month where you can go to WHSmith and happily pile all kinds of books, files, rulers, calculators and erasers into your basket and not feel bad about it one bit. Obviously, if you're no longer in some form of education then you're going to need a pretty good reason and this year I have one;

My latest comedy notebook is full. I need a new one. I am very fussy about which book I have for my comedy. The last one I've had has not been as productive as I would have liked so I'm going to have to think long and hard about which one I go with this time... and tomorrow I get to go and scour the shelves and find my perfect match. I might even treat myself to a new pen to match it. Obviously, gone are the days when I can justify a 101 Dalmations pencil case and sit worrying about whether tins or zip ups are going to be in fashion this year, but I can still have some fun...

I love stationary. I can think of no better way to start the month than by buying some excellently ruled paper and maybe a new slot in for my filofax. Think big people. We're on our way.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

In All Your Wisdom

Today has been a day for sleeping and not really a lot else... sleep all morning, wake briefly to have an ill advised pint, sleep some more... watch a bizarre TV show about a sad dwarf who is honing his drag act, and now back to bed to probably sleep again. This is surely not the life an intelligent being is supposed to lead. Tomorrow will be for accomplishing things... tomorrow will see much achievement. The sort of achievements that people write about in books using gold pens.

Before I go to sleep I am going to rearrange some of my bedroom furniture however... I always do my rearranging at night (not a euphemism), I don't think I've ever hefted furniture in daylight. I'm not sure why I do it... this time it's a boredom thing - I like change, I need things to be different every once in a while or I start getting itchy feet. Moving a book case might just keep me from leaving the country on a whim. Perhaps.

Having slept all day, this feels like the perfect night for an adventure to begin in... if some sort of demon climbed in through my window right now and told me I was the key to a big mystery that held the fate of a kingdom of people in it's grasp, I would be downright thrilled. I'm wearing skinny jeans though which is an issue, as I don't really feel they're appropriate for an adventure - leggings, yes... some kind of innapropriate night dress that will tear on things and make me look wild, yes... but skinny jeans, stripey slippers and a jumper? Not so much. David Bowie would take one look and wander off for a better heroine.

What with it being only 117 sleeps until Christmas (yes, that's right - in the absence of Edinburgh to think about I'm planning Christmas instead), now would be about the right time to travel to a distant land and do something epic only to return on Christmas Eve and find my stocking has still been laid out as per usual. Then I will have the sort of magical shower that heroines have in films - you know, the kind that not only washes you but also applies eyeliner and lip gloss and buys you a great outift - and come down for Christmas dinner in time for the first snow fall of the day. Perhaps a baby will be born too. Maybe my baby? My baby as I'm obviously pregnant by some Prince I met on my travel. Only the baby will be a little bit cursed and so we're leaving the door open for a sequel.

I must say I'm excited. I'm probably (genuinely/embarassingly) going to change my clothes now before I start moving furniture just in case I need to be ready for my silhouette shot against some New Zealand mountain as I turn and mourn the home I left behind. It'll be about the same point that I start learning a poignant lesson. If any of you want to come along, I strongly advise you get down to the Old Kent Road now because I won't be asking the owl to wait when it turns up with my message.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Have a Drumstick

I'm sitting with real internet access for the first time in a month, listening to The Byrds, working out how soon I can realistically move out of London and hoping this second cup of tea doesn't mean we have to make a pit stop in the first 5 minutes of the impending journey back down home.

The Edinburgh Fringe is over (for me at least) and to be honest I'm pretty pleased. I am utterly exhausted - I really don't think I could have dealt with much more in this 4 weeks without just tearing off all my clothes and screaming at the rain "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" - if you've never been to the Fringe before, this doesn't mean I've had a horrendously eventful Fringe, this is just how everyone feels at the end. It's the amalgamation of highly strung people, caustic reviewers and expensive food in a very wet but beautiful city.

Ok, after a brief pause (which you didn't even notice because of my subtle use of the return key) I have now spilt most of my tea down my front which means I am confident I won't need to stop excruciatingly frequently (unless I want to wring out my jumper). The Byrds have also finished so I do need to find myself some different music to listen to. Hold on. Ok, Crosby Stills and Nash have stepped up to the plate for a wee while.

I think the rest of this week will be largely made up of my duvet and a West Wing box set until I feel like I have a firm enough hold on myself to leave the house and work out what I'm going to do with the next few months... it feels like everything has been building up to the festival and now that it's been and gone I have to sort of start a new plan. This new plan is probably going to begin with finding a new way to get money into the bank. That's probably essential if I want to live anywhere and eat some stuff.

Of course, I might abandon that plan almost instantly. A much nicer plan would be to just start singing to people in the street and making statues out of clay. Or discovering something very important so that people are pleased with me and tell me I've done enough for this life time and can have a break now. That'd be pretty cool too. However, of all the things I definitely know about myself, I certainly know I am not someone who will discover something important. I'll trip over something important and swear at it for a while before kicking it and walking away, then a week later my friend will turn up in lovely clothes and I'll say "Where did you get those clothes from?" and they'll say, "Oh, see that thing over there? With the dent in it from being kicked? It's really important. I got loads of money for it." and then I'll feel like an idiot.

So. That's what's happening? Feel informed? No, me neither.

Monday, August 22, 2011

When There's Silence

So... I didn't blog for the last two days - I know this doesn't matter to anyone else but it kind of matters to me because this was supposed to be a little challenge I set myself and when I don't get it done I feel annoyed. The last two days I've just been too fuzzy headed and distracted with Fringe issues to get it done. Today I've got a two and a half hour rehearsal to reshape the play and fix some of the problems that have crept in to Ink over last two weeks. I'm hoping after today I'll be a lot more my old self. Whiny Laura is not something people should have to deal with for 24 hours a day. This morning I managed to be rude to two people before I was even conscious (I feel this is an achievement - they may not) - this probably needs to change.

It's the last week of the Fringe and I'm ready to let my hair down. Bring the noise. Bring it loudly.

I've actually been thinking about my birthday today - I went to see Craig Campbell at The Stand (definitely heavily recommended) the other day and whilst watching him I suddenly noticed that I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday next month. He was wearing a pair of shoes that were like little rubber gloves for your feet, made from wet suit material with flexibility and awesome toe pockets. I want a pair so badly you can't even imagine it.

I hate shoes - I loathe wearing shoes - I severely detest wearing any form of shoe. I tend to wear flip flops so I feel less like I'm wearing shoes... sadly, these are cream crackering my knees and hips because they make you walk weirdly. So! I think Mr Campbell's foot apparallel might just be the answer to my problems. I might even thank him when I get them - unless that would just be confusing and he'll then think that I think he's bought me a birthday present and then I'll look a bit mental.

However, if he was pleased about me liking his shoes and having got a pair of my own then we might be able to hang out together after that. I will admit he's a tad more outdoorsy than I am so I might have to get into slightly better shape to be able to keep up. A little. (Note: this is a lot funnier if you know who he is).

This evening I'm going out to party a little bit (read, a lot) and the rest of the week will flow by in a happy haze of "nearly over-ness" in which I will have no worries. Huzzah!

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Sometimes You've Got To Please

Sitting there with her pony tail high,
Wonder how she'd look with my fork in her eye.
Glossy brown mane, laid over her shoulder
Wonder how she'd look lying under a boulder.

Sexy kitten heels and legs that go for miles,
She's giving them the look and the cute little smiles,
I'm trying to play along, but all the while,
I'm thinking of a rumour that begins with piles....

It's not that I'm jealous, I just I want to kill her,
Trying to decide between flambee or grill her,
Or bathe her in acid, or drop her on her head,
I'm really not choosy, so long as she's dead.

Sitting there with her bright baby blues,
I'm sidling up to add a sweet purple bruise,
Even when she laughs, her stomach stays flat,
There's a strong chance my left foot is aiming for her...

It's not that I'm jealous, I just want to kill her,
Choking someone on their own breasts is really quite a skill, a
Quick death or slow; I'm really not fussy
Just help me get rid of this faux fur skank hussy.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Weird Things That Have Happened Today

Weird things that have happened/ I have done today:

1. Got a bad review and laughed instead of cried (it's difficult to explain this without sounding like a bitter shrew why I was so amused but one day I promise I went. Let's just say being described as an "adept bimbo" has probably been the highlight of my Fringe thus far.)

2. Been praised by a strange man on the mile for being brave enough to move out of my parents house. He held my hand whilst stroking my wrist and told me I was very small 6 times and then started stopping passers by to show them how small I was. Then he asked where I was from and when I said Somerset he said I was very brave for being in Edinburgh and away from my home. I'd forgotten quite how severely I can attract a crazy person during the Fringe. Sigh.

3. I've licked half an orange that fell on the floor. My friend (the Welsh one) is having a bad day and then he dropped his orange on the floor so I very quickly licked all the dirt off it and then he could still eat it. I'm not sure whether I got more germs from #2 or #3 but it's safe to say I should get some jabs.

4. An old man offered me a ticket to see the Tattoo with him because his girlfriend has had to go into hospital for an emergency hip operation. I find this idea funny enough that I don't need to embellish it.

So, there you go. That is one day. One day of this shit. I just wanted to give a quick idea of how sometimes I just wonder what it would be like to have a normal life.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Laura Lexx on Men

At this point I feel it's only fair to point out I'm not sure if I really will be talking about men in this blog but I was in the kitchen trying to work out what to write about and I thought of this title and then thought I would like to turn it into a picture book. I find the idea of just touring the world and finding different men to stand on and then taking a picture very funny. Some could find inventive ways of letting me stand on them, some could not know until the second we took the picture and some people could be blissfully unaware I was even standing on them. Obviously, if there's a famous landmark in the vicinity I'm happy to get that in the picture too so that there's some context but actually it's not very important.

So men, eh? Don't they taste like shit and never fill you up? Eh?

Oh, wait no I think that's aeroplane food actually. Men must be something else. Who cares.

I don't have a problem with men which might turn out to be a massive flaw in this post somewhere along the line. I mean, I have a problem with some men; they're dickheads. But then, equally, I also find a lot of women really twatty. If it makes either gender feel better I dislike children a whole heap more than either of them. With the exception of my nephew Bobber. I feel like children remain quite genderless until teenage years... before that crappy pants can have a peepee stick or a half chewed drumstick in them and they're still awful and not something I want to deal with.

Grown up men I quite like. Especially ones with beards; I'm a grand fan of a good beard. It's my dream to get engaged to a man with a beard so thick he can hide my ring in it and I'll have to forage around in there first before he can propose. He'll turn to me across the dinner table and say;

"Have I got some corn beef in my beard?"

And then I'll have a look and all of a sudden I'll pull out this amazing ring and we'll get married and live happily ever after. Instead of wearing his ring on his finger he might use it to put his beard in a pony tail. That would amuse me greatly and our children would always ask if they could hang off the pony tail. They'd get a beating for that and taught to respect other people's follicles.

I'm in a good place with men at the moment; it's just me and a collective of men all hanging out at Disney land together having an absolute blast. I wish the collective term for a group of men was a beard of men. I think it just sounds right... it sounds like they would all be log cutters and hang out with beer glasses with handles on them smoking cigars. Incidentally, I also love cigar smoke... I think perhaps what I need to do is go and look for a husband in 18th Century Russia. I don't speak Russian so it would be even more likely they'd marry me because I wouldn't have something "smart" to say every time they spoke.

I don't see that there's anything particularly wrong with enjoying being single. It's not like I have the sort of lifestyle that sees me bringing a different man home every night - one of the best outcomes of body dysmorphia is that it can seriously inhibit your slaggishness. I don't like being single because I like sleeping around; I like being single because I like having great relationships with guys that don't get all messed up with emotions.

It has been a severely long time since I met a bloke that made me want all the crap that comes with a relationship; all the bits that I want, I can get without needing to be nice to them on a regular basis. Relationships are like eating pic n mix without a bag; they're hard to hold on to, you don't enjoy the sweets as much and you get half way through and wish you hadn't bothered. Just use a bag! Then, you can close the bag when you've had enough for one day and stop before you're sick. Also, there's a good chance you'll put the bag down somewhere and find it again a few weeks later and be really pleased with yourself because you'd totally forgotten you bought them.

Obviously, if you get the chance to eat pic n mix out of a beard you should never turn it down. That is very important.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The King You Want To Meet

This afternoon I'm doing Comedy Club 4 Kids at the Edinburgh Fringe... I began my day by watching Despicable Me to get myself into the right frame of mind and now I'm staring out the window at a sea gull on the lamp post who is staring right back - the sea gull, not the lamp post. The sea gull isn't really helping me work out exactly how to whip these children into a comedic frenzy but I do appreciate his efforts.

Had an absolutely amazing night watching The Wrestling last night - it was probably the best thing I've ever seen. I'm 100% certain I watched Fringe History last night. Comedians vs Wrestlers in a 90 minute bout of energy, sweat and hilarity. Andrew Maxwell absolutely stole the show as the commentator for the Goodies - he had the 800 seater venue all chanting "Fair Play! Decency!" for the vast majority of the show while he layered joke after joke about the importance of rule abiding. Sounds weird - was weird. Absolutely brilliant.

After the show, we all hit the pavement and tried to work out where to go next. After a bit of chattering and some strenuous attempts by Pleasance Staff to stop us disturbing the residents, we were joined by a few of the celebs from the wrestling and decided to go off to Brooke's bar, which houses all the cool people you could want to meet. I say "we", I'm not telling the whole truth... I went home to bed.

The Fringe is my annual reminder that I just cannot handle the schmoozing side of comedy and "show business". Not that I really believe my life even vaguely resembles show business. But, then perhaps that's because I go home to bed instead of trying to make friends with people I think will be useful.

The Swede (see blog - "Our House") and I decided that there was nothing we would enjoy less than standing awkwardly in a bar attempting to find things to say to people off the telly. I fear this may be the downfall of my career... I just quite like the friends I've already got. In that situation, you're one of two types of people;

Someone people want to talk to.
Someone no one wants to talk to.

I would most definitely have been in the latter category last night. I expect if you're brimming with confidence and can find a smooth way to strike up a chat with anybody then it wouldn't matter. But I'm not sure I'd ever be very good at that; I'd probably wind up standing by a wall all evening trying to smile at people and hoping no one asked who had let me in.

Self promotion and publicity is rubbish; if you don't do it, you get no where. But if you do do it, everyone thinks you're a prick for how you got somewhere. How on earth do you win? Clearly, I can't answer that question as I'm sitting in my pyjamas trying to work out if there's a way to get sellotape into a house without leaving to go and buy it. There is not much evidence of the word winner stamped anywhere on this person. Hell, I struggle to even say what I want to say to people I do know, let alone complete strangers who experience the fanzone version of speed dating every time they leave the house. I think this is why I spend so much of my time constructing chatter for people who won't really talk back; blogs, plays, stand-up... it saves having to keep putting in those awkward pauses where people notice conversation is not exactly 'flowing'. My conversation leaks. I think that's fair to say.

If you're worrying that the point to this blog is that I think I'm better than people who tag along to things and try and make friends with famous people, it isn't. I don't look down on them at all; I'm jealous to the max. Not jealous of the nights out they must have, but just jealous of the stories they can return home with. Stories where they accidentally got chatting to Jimmy McHellafunny and he took an instant liking to them so they all went and bought donkeys and fed them popping candy while smoking sparklers. These are always great stories... these are stories about proper comedians who will be excellent 60 years olds reminiscing about the golden years. Not stories start with "So, I went home and watched a film with Bill Pullman in it..." and those stories that do are narrated by someone you've never heard of.

Starting tomorrow I might make a conscious effort to be incredibly cool and rock and roll. I'll wear even more eyeliner, invest in some hair spray and I'll go out drinking alone and meet the clown Rolling Stones of my generation. I'll build an encyclopaedia of anecdotes about drinking cider through my eyes while someone with 5* reviews brushes my hair and invites me to go to Morocco. I will be great. I will be incredible. You just wait.

Note: You might be waiting a while. Sorry.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

High Apple Pie

I feel very mellow this morning; it's possibly the effects of having replaced tea with honey and lemon in hot water... where all the caffeine used to be raging around my system I know have a very gentle bee-juice induced cosy feeling. It's not doing anything for my throat sadly and I still sound like an angry male football fan whenever I speak. I just opened the curtains and it's an almost beautiful day outside. I'm qualifying this statement because, in Edinburgh, a beautiful day is where you can see a small amount of blue sky behind the clouds and you're not going to get thoroughly soaked by the day - just a little bit, so it's OK.

It might sound a little mad, but I'm beginning to get a good idea into my head of what next year's Edinburgh shows will be... we're only 1/3 of the way through this year and yet there's a little nugget of an idea that's taken hold in my mind and the more people I tell about it the more they think it would be lovely. I'm thinking it might just be time to branch out into some children's theatre... it's the natural progression from topical drama about the British Media I believe.

Yesterday I had three very different shows to deal with and I realised that marketing is a trick that, if mastered, can set you up for the rest of your life... and if you can't quite get it right you feel like you're going slightly crazy. Ink yesterday happened in front of the strangest audience of the run so far; a moderate number of absolutely silent, stock still people sat before us and just stared at the events as they unfolded. No laughs, no nods, no sign of human interaction at all... and then I disappeared off to do Quiz In My Pants and performed to 80 people with an absolutely electric atmosphere. We'd got Tom Green as one of our guests on the show and once the audience found this out, the level of energy was insane. Later on that night I played to about 8 people in a roughly 100 seater, at midnight in a room above a nightclub... the ups and downs of this career could quite easily send you round the bend I swear.

I'm sure when Einstein said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results he had no idea how much the Edinburgh Fringe would undermine his assertions. Stay here for just 4 days and you will see how the slightest fickle trick of fate will determine how many bums on seats you have seated in front of your masterpiece... was it flyering in a specific spot that worked? Was it my elevator pitch that put them off? Should I keep my hair down when I'm telling people about it? Is it more serious if I've got black trousers on? So many questions... not an answer in sight.

Ah well, I'm off out for Round 9... bonkers.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

You Were Onion On My Mind

Huh, well... it's 6 hours later than I went to bed and I am awake again with breath that smells a lot like an onion and a fierce desire to be full of tea. Happily I have tea.

The thing is, I'm left with the nagging feeling that I eloped with an onion last night. I'm almost certain I remember meeting one at the bar when I left the gig I watched; he had a great tan and a pearl necklace around his middle. I thought the pearl necklace was kind of weird for an onion but he didn't seem to think so - it was a present from his Grandfather who used to be an oyster.

We got chatting and things seemed to be going pretty well. He was quite amusing - I've only ever seen onions make people cry before but this one really had us all in fits of laughter. He explained to me that onions only ever make people cry because of an ancient oniony curse that has existed for centuries on onions of the world - if you harm an onion in any way you will be reduced to tears instantly as you imagine all the onion babies they will never have now because of your actions. It's not very effective though obviously and I told my onion beau this.

I said it didn't work because they were too delicious, he took this as a compliment and we progressed our relationship from there. It was pretty much a perfect evening until we bumped into a red onion as we were heading outside for some fresh air (hanging out with an onion means things get fausty quite quickly). It turns out onions are incredibly racist towards each other and cannot bear to be in the same places. I thought this was quite interesting but I didn't have time to ask whether spring onions were just as bad because they had kicked off into a massive fight.

Thankfully my guy won and I didn't have to witness the horror of his peel being strewn across the street. We headed off to Gretna Green after that and now we are onion and wife forever more. The moral of the story? If you wake up and all you can taste is onion, try and remember what the hell happened so you can write about that instead.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Mr Sand's The Man

It's pretty easy to forget how good not being tired is until you've had a good night's sleep... when you wake up after a solid 9 hours and you've got out of bed before it's occurred to you to be angry about it. More than sleep I prefer not being tired any more but still being in bed - not in a gross, "I'm touching other people" kind of a way - but the sort of awake where you're marvelling at how soft a pillow case can feel against your cheek. I often lie there wondering whether it's down to the cotton, fabric softener or indeed, my cheek. If it is my cheek then I'm going to start hiring myself out to bedding manufacturers so that they can use me to showcase how soft a pillowcase can feel.

Today is a day that's largely going to feature handing damp pieces of paper to people in the streets and hoping they like it enough to come and see my shows over the 700 others that are available to them. Some would call this demoralising - these people have rough cheeks, I am excited. What better way to gauge the success of your flyer and premise than by listening to the apathy and/or snide remarks from people as they casually fold up your flyer and put it into a pocket. Or even worse, just drop it straight onto the floor. The first time you see one of your fliers lying face down in the rain is a pretty brutal moment for any young flyerer. It's like seeing someone sniff something you've given them to eat and then push the plate away whilst smiling at you and sighing.

People react very strangely to flyerers as though it's a pest to be given flyers... you sort of have to wonder why they're at the Fringe if they're not interested in finding out what shows are on. If you've that meticulously planned your day that no amount of flyering can affect your day, can I suggest you get the fuck off the Royal Mile and go and sit in the dark in case you hurt yourself with spontaneity?

If you've never been to the Fringe, the Royal Mile is like running a gauntlet of GCSE Drama students. There are a few stock features that are here every year as different theatre groups try their hand at attracting the masses:

1. Girls in corsets doing a raunchy/transgender version of a traditional play.
2. A lot of people in white face paint standing very still and glumly offering flyers without saying anything.
3. Some blonde people and a violin player trekking up and down playing something with a harmony.
4. Someone pretending to be dead but surrounded by, you've guessed it, flyers...
5. A puppet with a flyer in it's mouth who is now struggling to do anything except cock it's head to one side.

Please don't let yourself think that I'm disparaging in any way about these features; they're as constant and essential as the rain; you start to believe the city couldn't handle the pressure if any of them decided not to come. It's just that once you've seen them a few times it's a bit like watching the same F.R.I.E.N.D.S. episode for the 9th time that week; you're laughing like a Pavlovian dog every time Chandler opens his mouth, and similarly on the mile, you're kicking them in the shins before you've even stopped to consider that they're real people too. It's a vicious cycle; the sort of vicious cycle that's a total highlight to your day.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Up To My Old Tricks

Absolute vocal wreckage has forced me indoors this evening to ponder the monsoon we're currently living in up in Edinburgh. It's quite difficult to describe exactly how much rain there is here... as soon as you step out of the house you can shampoo your hair and wring out your underwear right there in the street. It's not so much that your hair will frizz with the rain, it's that you become so sodden you worry the weight of the water will pull the hair straight out of your head. I'm starting to think that baldness might even be an advantage as it would stop the ends of your soaking hair giving you breast region damp patches where it hangs over your shoulder. These damp patches are often very difficult to explain.

I hate staying in during the Fringe... I find it very, very difficult to not feel like I'm missing out on the best party in the world because I've decided to stay inside instead. However, tonight I have Honey, Lemon and a projector with which to seriously enjoy some David Attenbrough. Oh yeah! Kicking back with a Lemsip... watch out Eminem I'm hot on your coat tails. That would be a much more convincing phrase there if I hadn't used the phrase coat tails and referenced a rapper who hasn't done anything remarkable for... well, a long time.

The trouble is I think I'm finally edging closer to a point where I might slightly know my limitations and I am gearing up for an enormous weekend... my sparring partner from last year's Edinburgh jaunt is coming to town for two nights and I have to bring to my A Game. It's not that I have to bring my A Game, it's that I have to send my A Game away to be polished and then get it back, keep it in bubble wrap and brand new socks under the bed and then keep it out of strong sunlight all weekend. I have to recharge the batteries in my A Game every time I blink. My A Game ought to be renamed my iGame it's that fucking good... I've got serious prep to do. I'm not scared... I know I can handle it. Hell, I can beat this weekend hands down as long as my tongue's sharp enough and I never had a hand without a pint in it. How badly wrong could it go?

I'm always a fan of people who can handle their banter and the Fringe is a great place to find a collection of them ready to play. Perhaps that's what's so difficult about staying in; you're sure you're missing out on someone who would have had a good 10 minute exchange in them. Perhaps we should have all got together before the Fringe and prepared which nights we were all in and out. That way no one would miss out. Perhaps I'll begin now; here is my call people, this weekend I shall be bringing the noise; feel free to clap along.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Wash Away The Sun

I'd like to say that I woke up to the rain this morning, unfortunately, I walked home in the rain at about 6:30 this morning and now appear to be suffering from some sort of white wine induced jet lag where my mind is insisting we be awake while my body tries to find inventive new ways to be horizontal.

There's a beetle on the living room floor that is stuck on his back, I should go and help him out. It seems sort of right that he's there though... I've got David Bowie playing in the background and outside the window the rain is lashing down while I sit on the sofa and wait for the flyers that should have arrived on Monday morning. What with it being Wednesday afternoon, I'm a little peeved that we've still not seen them.

The beetle and I are very frustrated.

I am frustrated because I have a beautiful show that I badly want people to see, and I've paid for 10,000 invitations to see this show which just aren't materialising. The beetle is frustrated because he hasn't even had that much to drink and this all seems a little embarrassing quite frankly. We're both frustrated because we know that realistically neither of our problems are that bad in the grand scheme of things.

There; I've flipped the beetle now. He's very still. It took a few attempts and I really hope I haven't killed him in my attempts to help him out. Most people with a vague sense of appropriate domesticity would have shooed him out of a window - I've just helped him to help me lose my deposit on the flat.

He's wandered off to the fireplace now... if he comes back with 10,000 flyers I think I'll marry him.

I'm so frustrated at being helpless; it's thoroughly depressing to be completely surrounded by people letting each other down and causing wholly avoidable problems. Can't people just start being better? It'd be quite a simple process... well have a little party where we all get together and say we'll stop giving in to the retarded side of our personalities. Personally I'm willing to stop getting drunk and climbing in things, and I'll do my best to start buying birthday presents on time which is something I've always failed miserably at.

Can the rest of the world just make a quick list of ways to be better and then we'll all sort of have a new year's resolution pact together even though it's August? Thanks. I'd feel a lot better after that. It might be an idea if we all start with promising not to buy any electrical goods on eBay for the foreseeable future? Just let the opportunistic tools have to use their 46 iPhone 4's as coasters for a few years.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Send Me A Postcard

It's a little strange being away at a very jolly festival while back home the city I live in is in complete turmoil. We have no internet in our flat and no television which means it's quite difficult to keep up with everything that's going on and read all the blogs from youth workers and people who understand the real underlying causes behind the riots.

Yesterday I got in touch with my house-mate to find out what was going on in our area (I live in a fairly unpleasant area of South East London) and she replied saying "They're looting the Argos and the Curry's" (both about 100 yards from my front door) "We've brought the recycle bins in."

I'll be honest, I laughed... my amusement was at such a middle class reaction to serious rioting and arson - of course, it's a perfectly sensible course of action and I'd have done the same. But, it gets you thinking that we're thankfully so unused to things like this happening that we have no real idea how to react. Bringing the recycling bin in so that it can't be thrown through your living room window feels a little bit like the height of our powers.

We're not a nation of people who would really know how to start defending ourselves. We've gotten very used to living in a peaceful society and letting the people above us take care of all the nasty bits we're not strong or brave enough to deal with. So, what happens when we question our faith in the police? How do you voice a serious complaint in the law enforcers that will get heard but still sits within the law we want to protect? Do you need to break the law in order to evaluate how well it's being upheld?

Being at a festival surrounded by comedians there's a real mix of left-wing outrage and a desperate scrabble to tweet the funniest joke about it all first. No one seems to know whether we're going to band together on this and say we're all in it together, or pick sides and blame the rioters/police depending on which Chinese whisper we've heard about what. Lots of the more politically active comedians up here are wondering what parts of their shows to redraft... hopefully it'll be the part that they take home and perform for free in the now unfunded youth clubs.

Personally, I'm really glad I'm not there. It seems desperately embarrassing and shameful to me that a large portion of our country's youth has so little identity with the brilliance associated in living here that they can destroy it without even recognising their possession of it.

I'm 24 and have grown up in an incredibly safe Britain in my opinion; I can't recall any civil unrest that's been devastating enough to really alarm me. It's scary though that in the latest year there's suddenly been a spike in the amount of public demonstration and it seems to be escalating... I truly worry this is only the beginning. This is only the announcement of cuts to vital public money, this isn't the evidence of what the cuts will do over the next 5 years when we have yet another generation of people living in communities too poor to include them. I have no answer for the economic situation, but perhaps we should be looking around rather than up for help?

If there's no money around for public services and community support youth clubs then perhaps we should stop trying to purchase convenient solutions to sections of society that have been labelled 'undesirable'. Perhaps now's the time to form community groups because we want to and because we want societies. A community isn't an elite; it's everyone. This just seems to be something we've forgotten in wealthier years when there've been convenient places to sweep people and give them volunteers to motivate them.

Now, if all this seems a little terrifying just remember people aren't born bad. So, make friends with babies.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Funny Tunes

I saw a musical comedy band last night called Dead Cat Bounce, they were brilliant - when they were playing - they had everything; charm, rhythm, the right notes, good jokes, lust inciting moves... when they were playing. As soon as they stopped playing and started to conjure banter from deep within their leopard print trousers my skin started to crawl and I just wanted to dash on stage and start plucking strings for them so they'd have to do another song to shut me up.

Oddly enough, it was only earlier on in the day I'd been chatting with another comedian about people who don't see musical comedy as a legitimate genre. The argument is that when you finish playing a song people naturally clap which means the comedian hasn't earned their rapturous adoration through comedy skills but more through their ability to play music. In my eyes this is ridiculous; even the absolute worst comedian in the world will walk on and off to a half decent applause in any club worth playing. Personally, I don't see any difference between this and a musical comedian who gets a clap at the end of the song.

I've seen two musical comedians this week; the aforementioned feline springers and a musical comedian called Vikki Stone who is playing a solo hour with a backing band. With both shows I was perfectly content to sit and listen to the music and admire the intelligence, structure and the jokes that went into them but I entirely switched off as soon as the performer began talking to me.

Personally, I prefer a very natural style of comedy. I like people who can convince me that this is the only time they're ever saying this and that they really could just be having a one on one chat with me. I like my stand up very conversational; Carl Donnelly is a master of this for example. When someone's delivery is very performative it switches me off because all of a sudden I can see the strings holding the joke together and drawing you to the punch line.

The thing with stand up is that you have to really work it through to find out where the pauses need to go and how the rhythm of the speech is going to come together... I can't even begin to imagine how you would go about shuffling those pauses around in a song that's fully constructed already. It's not just a case of working out the best rhyme for cock; it's about knowing what chord is going to work best for a joke... choosing eloquence and clarity over standard musical choices... choosing the right instrument for the song in the first place (let alone carting it to each gig)... there's a hell of a lot more than meets the eye.

Music and character comedy scares the crap out of me. Once you've started a song or a piece of scripted character bit, you can't really stop if it's not working... you just have to plough on regardless and suffer the horror - perhaps just picking out a few kind faces in the crowd who are smiling and using them as emotional lifeboats. When I do my normal stand up, if all goes badly then I just have to tell the audience it's going badly, admit that they're not loving me and then do something else - I can't imagine not having that as a get out clause.

Musical comedy can certainly stay; and with as much kudos as any other genre of comedy deserves, but can we please sort out all the bits in between?

Sunday, August 7, 2011

One of My Wetter Days

So, all in all things could have been a lot worse yesterday... both shows happened and the first audience of Ink got treated to a very pacey rendition of the piece. Actually quite excellent. I mean, it's not that there weren't a few hiccoughs... the lights going down before the last two lines of the play probably wasn't exactly what I'd foreseen... but, you know what? We coped. Hells yes.

After that, my body jumped the Fringe schedule ever so slightly and had it's first breakdown at the beginning of week one instead of the start of week two. One minute I was eating a slightly dry sandwich in a restaurant, the next minute I was sobbing into the staler chips. It's not that the people I was having dinner with were uncomfortable, I think it genuinely was that they all suddenly realised they'd needed to go to the loo since we got there. Either way, a bottle of wine and some strawberry laces later and I was feeling like a prize moron. What kind of coping strategy for pressure and fear is weeping?

"Hello Creator of all things, I'm ready for my fight or flight instinct now."

"Ah, yes, Laura... now, we've got something special or you... you're kind of like a test pilot."

"Exciting! What am I getting? Am I getting claws so that I can gouge out the eyes of my attacker? Am I going to have a fearsome roar to scare off everything in a 2 mile radius? Will I be 9 feet tall when provoked, with muscles that bulge fearsomely through the cotton of my feminine sweater?"

"Right, not exactly... what's going to happen is, whenever you're scared - or tired, grumpy, angry, hungry, surprised, disappointed, in love, happy, excited, frustrated - your eyes are going to fill up with water!"

"Oh... cool, can I shoot the water out of eyes and dissolve whatever is annoying me?"

"No, what it's going to do is leak down your face and make everything a bit puffy. You won't be able to speak while this is happening - by all means try but it'll come out like a series of honks. Is that OK?"

"Well, I don't really feel in a position to argue... so is this fight or flight then? Can I run away while this is happening?"

"No, you're going to want to put your head on someone's lap when this happens. It's not really fight or flight - it's more, sort of, try and induce sympathy using dampness."

So, all in all I'm not very impressed with myself today. It helps a bit that Edinburgh is soaked through today so everyone looks like they've been voluntarily waterboarded by a member of Footlights - I don't stand out very much. I'm solving my issue by going for breakfast with Yoda.

Yoda is my comedy chum who is much more successful and funny than I am and so he is very pleasant about patting me on the head a lot and telling me it'll all be fine. For all I know he's just a total sadist who's just enjoying watching the comedy career swallow another naive young soul... but I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on the basis that he is a master of punning. Who can stay mad at someone with a one-liner about cheese greeting habits?

I hope today's lesson involves something about how to market the ability to spontaneously dissolve into orifice leaking in any given situation.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

(In which I am bored of listing Fringe Days) Our House

Well... this is it. There is absolutely no turning back now - I am out the door to do the first show of Ink. Blimey guv'nor it is nerve racking let me tell 'e. To hell with what people think of the show - it's my show, I didn't ask people to see it (well, that's not strictly true if they're somebody I flyered, but I certainly didn't force people to see it). Quite frankly they can all bog off if they don't like it. They can go and see some truly searching physical theatre if they have a problem with our fast paced dialogue and focus on people without melodrama.

Our house is slowly beginning to take shape as a house now which is a lovely feeling - I think we owe it to the plug in air freshener we just bought which is covering the slightly fausty reek of something that may or may not be dead or dying behind the washing machine. Our house consists of 4 of the cast of Ink;

Me (slightly tetchy so far and trying desperately to throw away people's flyers before we end up with a flat that is difficult to walk in without paper cutting your toes off).

The Swede (a beautiful young lady who claims to be Swedish but has olive skin, deep brown eyes and a bushy mane of brunette hair - I am currently sharing a room with her which is not helping with feeling secure about my body being a proper shape. I've taken to putting my pyjamas on in the wardrobe so I don't have to stare wildly at her legs while I'm folding my knee skin into some skinny jeans).

Birdie (a man who is marching us all down to see some swans very early on Wednesday morning. The Swede and I are quite petrified of swans so we're not being as nice to Birdie as we could be. Enough about him until we've survived the dawn swan raid and then I'll give him a proper character assassination).

Music Man (this is our final housemate who knows the words, guitar part and trumpet solo (even if there isn't one) to any song recorded pre 1995. He can sing in the morning, in the evening, walking around - he can even sing one song whilst listening to another. He's delightful. Turns out he also sings in the shower which makes sitting in the lounge for the morning cup of tea rather brilliant).

Having had a lot of responsibility thus far into the Fringe, I have barely been drunk at all - obviously quite different from last year where by this point I had yet to be sober. Last night I got well on my way to merry town for the first time and all of a sudden things started sliding into place and feeling a lot more like we were in Edinburgh... it's honestly not that I have a drinking problem; it's that Edinburgh has a sobriety problem and I strongly believe that "When in Rome..."

Absolutely anything could be happening in the rest of the world at the moment and I wouldn't have a clue... I've not looked at the papers (except the ones I've been hastily gluing together on our living room floor, meaning my fingers are now a slightly grey, gluey colour) and I've not seen hide nor hair of a television since last week... I really hope things are going alright for everybody that's not living knee deep in narcissism and ego stroking. I wonder if, actually, the world progresses at a much faster rate during August when everybody who doesn't really have a proper joke has wandered off and stopped distracting everybody else. A bit like doing the vaccuuming when your housemates have gone to the pub.

"The comedians have gone."
"Shall we sort the recession before they get back?"
"Yeah, could do. We've got 3 weeks."
"Cool, well I'll just finish this cup of tea and then we'll get on."

I think this is a wild overestimation of how much our hilarity distracts the rest of the public but I think just for today I'm allowed to live firmly placed in my own rectum. My ongoing nightmare for the past 3 months is that someone will come and review the show and give me my very own Bridget Jones scenario and say;

"This play is ridiculous. The whole idea is bananas. What on earth were you thinking?"

As long as one audience comes to see it and doesn't do that then I'll know that it's just down to personal taste... there's a lot riding on today. Hell, if all goes to pot at least we have an air freshener and a house that can simultaneously sing, seduce and wow a pile of swans.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Edinburgh Fringe Day 4 - In The Jingle Jangle Morning

It feels like Christmas Eve... like the original Christmas Eve, where it was less about opening presents and more about trying to squeeze a doomed child out of a donkey battered vagina and then keep it safe from a maniacal tyrant.

That's a fairly good summation of how I'm feeling on the day before the shows kick off.

It's like I have twins; I have QimP - thd golden child with no worries, no panic about his future, absolute confidence in his temperament... and then I have Ink; Ink has colic, has the aura of the beautiful about her but needs taming and likes to sneak out of her bedroom window and then return a few hours later smiling coyly and refusing to accept grounding as anything that might faze her. I love Ink; she is going to be the jewel in the crown of my life to date... once I've beaten the crap out of her and made her sit still for 3 weeks so people can get to know her.

The weather in Edinburgh seems to be playing some sort of "take it in turns game" of being solidly pissy for 12 hours and then blazing us with sunshine and wind so that we have no idea whether it's safe to leave the house in our clothes. I've found it's best to dress like a confused, layered eskimo who desperately needs a wife.

To make matters intensely more frustrating my delightful digestive system has just entirely ceased to work. It's less than ideal... I haven't been hungry for about 36 hours now and am occasionally throwing a rice cake in only for my stomach to look at me ambivalently and then make a mental note not to return it for at least a week. I'm not even sure what to begin doing about it now... do I take an old woman approach and swallow a series of weird animals in the hope of something kicking into life? Or do I just pretend it's all fine and watch myself begin to expand like some sort of asp? Of course, the third option is to just be as stubborn as my tummy and tell it that if it won't be hungry then I won't eat... unfortunately, as much as I anthropomorphise my body parts I occasionally have to concede that we're all connected and that it'll bite me on the ass eventually - flexible.

So am I going to get a really good night's sleep tonight in preparation for the realisation of the last 20 years' dreams? Am I heck. We're off out for a cast meal out and I've decided (in the last 9 seconds) to find out if red wine will do anything to induce labour on my rice cake baby (I am fully gross I realise but at this point I'm more concerned with health and brilliance than a future husband so just avert your eyes if you are offended). Then I am off to see a friend's show at The Gilded Balloon at 11pm, after which I will return home and continue gluing pieces of newspaper together... what a life! Wouldn't have it any other way.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Edinburgh Fringe Day 3 - Comedian Goes Camping!

Today I have been to Glasgow, more specifically to Loch Lomond, because I am going to be on the cover of a magazine. Don’t worry I haven’t sold out and gone all Vogue on you dear readers… I am to be the cover girl of the November issue (naturally, printed in September) of… Practical Caravan Magazine.

Oh yeah!

Do you need a cara that is both a van and practical? To you need a van with some pre cara that is practical? Are you practical but homeless? Because, as of today… I can help you.

It turns out being a model is slightly less glamorous than being a comedian if I’m honest. I spent a large portion of my day sitting with my faux husband pretending to eat breakfast with him. We ate a lot of breakfast. Dry breakfast because the milk bottle was too big for the picture and looked weird apparently… this worries me that caravan users might get a little bunged up due to eating large amounts of dry cereal. We also poured much coffee from an empty caffetiere and looked entirely happy about it.

It has been entirely important to look happy all day. Even when just staring into the distance I had to smile as though this was the happiest I’d ever been. For me, this is the most basic flaw in the Practical Caravan approach to photography. I’ve seen a lot of campers and caravanners in my life and they rarely, if ever, beam at you incessantly as though there was nowhere else they would like to be. In fact, they often look a little glum. And damp. Today, we were all damp.

In case I had any aspirations to be the next Kidd sister, it turns out I probably don’t have the stature to be a proper model. I can hear the shocked tone in which you are reading. My fake husband was so much taller than me that we actually had to cart the steps to the caravan around with me to stand on so that I didn’t look like a midget that had been kidnapped and taken to Scotland. It was rather embarrassing to have to keep climbing off and moving my little steps every time the camera man asked us to shuffle a little to the left or the right.

I love the ethos of camping… it’s like a little two fingers up to the rest of civilisation. “I like shit.” That’s basically what you’re saying if you go camping… you’re saying, “Yes, we can have all the mod cons and whistles and bells and etcs etcs but I would rather sit under a large coat in the rain with my loved ones.”

Camping forces you to interact, it forces people to make do with each other and the world badly needs this. No problem couldn’t be solved by putting the instigators into a tent and leaving them next to a lake for 2 weeks with a camping stove and no tin opener for the ravioli. I know for a fact Paul Gascoigne agrees with me on this point.

Back in Edinburgh, the forces of the Fringe have been rumbling on without me… we are no only 36 hours away (ish) from our first show of Ink. It’s all coming together nicely and I am insanely excited. In fact, I’m so excited that I’m off to sew some crosswords into a jacket. Intrigued? You should be…

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Edinburgh Fringe Day 2 - Of Mice and Friends

So... the sun is out, I've been incredibly productive and up until about 30 minutes ago I had no alcohol in my system. I'll be honest, it's not been the most obvious start to the Fringe... I suppose this is what happens when you grow up a bit and have responsibilities to some people who have gathered to re enact the script you have written at 3am.

Would you Adam and Eve it, there is also another show on the Fringe this year called Ink... of all the options for a play you could write why on earth would you steal mine? I mean, what's wrong with re enacting Macbeth in more face paint than any before? Could you not have done a retelling of The Clockwork Orange doing something monumental like using a woman? What ever happened to doing Berkoff productions in white sheets with a message about the Afghanistan war? Why did you have to do a piece of new writing and steal the name of my play?

I'm not saying you're selfish, but, I will just put it out there that I wrote my play about 3 years ago and you should have done your research... this is now officially a turf war. I've laid down the gauntlet now feel free to do some mime on it while I slice you up using fliers.

I think I've done a complete marathon on the streets of Edinburgh today; if I'd had the foresight to ask people to give me a few quid prior today then I could have seriously made some dosh for some hungry folk. Unfortunately, today has mainly been sponsored by me tripping over loose paving stones and swearing at slow tourists. Yet again I have been forced into my rant about how pavements should have lanes:

Stopping lane.
Pushchairs and people who are limping.
People who have nowhere in particular to be.
People who dislike other people and just need to be somewhere without having to weave around bumbags, window shoppers and people who don't know where they're going. Oh, and people who are texting.

This rant can also be exchanged for my rant about needing a "locals" lane on roads where a lot of tourists congregate. I can often be heard giving this rant if I've just had to drive to Somerset from London and have had an hour added to my journey by people who want to look at a loosely organised bunch of upright rocks. Stonehenge is just not that interesting folks, keep moving...

But! Back to the present, here we all are (well, possibly not you and I am truly sorry about that) at the Edinburgh Fringe. The flat has been moved into... it smells a little bit and doesn't really have any interesting features except the cast of Ink but it will be home for the next month. We're going to go out for a small beverage tonight but not too many because I am leaving for Glasgow in the morning for a highly amusing mission of which we will speak tomorrow... I promise ;)

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

North of The Border

Now THAT was a long drive... someone ought to give J.R.R. Tolkien a ring and tell him that if he wants to write about an epic journey just narrate the arrival of any comedian with spirit on their journey to the Fringe. We left at 6:38am and I've just sat down on the sofa to try and keep myself awake until a decent hour so I don't end up getting myself some kind of jetlag in wimpy comedian form.

The trip up to Scotland is beautiful and a lot of fun... I rather enjoyed marking the change of County at each point. It was like playing one of the simpler versions of Mario Kart and being very disappointed with the level upgrades.

Service stations are quite disconcerting for the weary traveller on a long trip - you feel like you've been driving for hours but every time you stop and look around you, you're at exactly the same Costa Coffee. It's occurred to me that English Service Stations also give a very false impression of how seriously English people take methods of relieving themselves. I've never before experienced so many different infra red flushes and taps, so many Twister force hand dryers, so many competitions to see how frequently the toilets are checked.

These toilets are checked every 60 minutes - if these toilets are not in the condition you expect them to be in please contact management.

These toilets are checked every 30 minutes - if these toilets are not in the condition you expect them to be in please contact management.

These toilets are checked constantly. If there isn't a small woman in ugly shoes squatting behind the door of your cubicle please contact the manager so we can monitor her ankle tag and find the snivelling bitch and give her back her J Cloth.

Is there really any need for these toilets to be checked quite so regularly? The rest of the service station is quite frankly a dumping ground for common children and baked bean infested trays, why do the toilets need to have a Duchess of Cambridge level of hygiene?

But anywho, arrived in Edinburgh courtesy of a few rounds of "Donald, Where's Your Troosers?" and "On Top of Spaghetti" and now the excitement is fizzing away in my tummy like a drunk rattle snake. How brilliant.   It's hard to describe Edinburgh if you've never been here but it's like someone has created a city that's perfect to write about. You imagine it would always look wet, even if you upped it to Saudi Arabia the walls of the buildings would some how cling to their darkened bricks and mossy outcrops. Arthur's seat looms over one end of the city; proudly displaying people who already have the stamina and thighs to have conquered it. The castle sits in the middle and the winding streets around it with small shops and exciting cafes just don't disappoint... this city was built to make you feel something. Well done Scotland - I'm going to feel you for a month. Now please, be gentle when you're giving something back...

Monday, August 1, 2011

Where Are You John Denver?

So here it is... here is that sweeping feeling of panic and desperation. I was wondering when it would turn up and now here it is... I am leaving for the Fringe today.

So far today I've managed to finish packing, unpack, sort my clothes into 4 piles:

Not Packing
Don't Know Why I Own
Don't Know Why Anyone Would Own

And repack without most of the stuff that I probably need.

Now I'm staring at an overly large suitcase and an enormous pile of newspapers that don't look like they'd fit into any car - let alone the one I'm getting in to go all the way to Scotland. I'm drinking herbal tea in an attempt to rescue my mental state from it's current perch somewhere akin to Kerry Katona. When I was writing a play about a mentalist who obsessively collects newspapers, it certainly didn't occur to me that I'd also have to collect them and then take them on holiday and then show what I had written to a hundred people.

It's not that I'm scared; it's my body that's scared. It sort of sees a suitcase and assumes we're off to Somerset. I'm trying to explain that there won't be an adorable 2 year old there - more like a drunken rabble of harassed comedians and truly irritating street performers.

My body is the one that's wimping out. Last night it tried to kill us so we wouldn't have to go. I had to get up and go and get a drink at about 3am and as I was sipping the water I noticed I couldn't see anything. Which was strange because the lights were on... then I noticed it was because my eyes had stopped walking and we were having to lie on the floor because we weren't upright any more. Now this isn't ideal in any way, we were obviously fine once we'd cooled down on the kitchen floor for half an hour but to be honest I'd just rather my body pulled itself together.

I'm sure Edinburgh will be amazing and there's the outside chance that my parents will spring a surprise visit and come and see all this nonsense I've been faffing about with and then my body will have at least been half right in why we were packing. I'm listening to Eric Clapton's back catalogue in an effort to steady myself for a month of complete nonsense. Eric is renowned for his relaxing tones... I'll hold on to the big guns (Mr Denver) for the drive just in case I start sticking my head out of the window in a blind panic.

The thing is, there's still quite a lot to get done before the show begin... only little things like sorting out the set, lighting, lines etc... but these are all things that I think we perhaps need to think about. If I ever, EVER suggest single handedly directing, producing, writing and performing in a show ever again please just give me a fairly might crack around the head and push me down some stairs. I think it'd be safer for all of us involved.