30/07/07
A Mystery -
Categories: The following takes place between 8pm and 9.48am.
If last night is anything to go by this Edinburgh is going to be very weird. My plan not to drink for the festival lasted exactly 13 hours. I was at a gathering for the Avalon production team and, feeling not a little nervous and awkward (sober), I hit the Guinness and within literally seconds was suggesting we get shit-faced and find a ‘titty-bar’. I’ve never been to one, and am sure I never will, but there’s nothing better than misogynist bravado to endear you to a group of twentysomethings, eh?! Olver left at about 10pm leaving me with the advice “don’t be a prick”, to which I think I may have replied “I’m not a prick, I’m a brilliant”. The words of a bona fide prick if ever I heard one.
We went on to a late bar called ‘Fingers’. For me there’s very little in life that’s funnier than that – ‘where you at Robins?’ ‘down fingers mate, doing skits and dishing out monkey shines’ – The barman was very cool and refused to serve someone who was wasted, I think that happens all to rarely and hugely increases my liking for a place. After faux breakdancing to the Billy Joel and Van Morrison I’d requested from the resident pianist I decided enough was enough and wandered home at about 1.30.
After listening to Lord of The Rings for approximately 120 seconds I fell asleep. I awoke at 5.38am needing a wee in the way which you only can after sleep. Martin Amis called it the feeling of ‘having a white-hot bowling ball in the pit of your stomach’. Well imagine reaching that stage while asleep and then waking up two hours later. It was hell. No problem though, we’ve been here before, I’ll pop to the old toilet, real easy like. The laws of physics were against me though as my bedroom door is locked, from the outside. The only key that can perform this task is on the table next to my bed yet there is no way of unlocking the door from my side. Immediately another 100ml of burning wee seems to add itself to my now overfull and panicking bladder. What to do? ‘Call Avalon’…It’s 5.30 am, ‘Call the landlord’…I don’t know the number…and it’s 5.30am, ‘kill yourself’…maybe, but think, what would Jack Bauer do? He’d probably go undercover in a Mexican drug cartel, only to find it was his mother in charge of the gang and then have to kill her only to find a rival agent was disguised as her and was carrying his child. There’s no time for any of this, so I piss in the bin. There’s no cool way of saying that sentence, I pissed in the motherfucking bin. It’s not a mesh bin, nor wicker, I am saved by a beautiful plastic, watertight bin. The final twist in the tale was that for about 10 seconds I COULDN’T FUCKING GO! What a time to get stage-fright! Luckily, just as my insides are to start haemorrhaging it’s all good again and I go back to bed.
9.48am. I call Avalon and they send round the letting agent, (I am still stuck in my room, though now in relative comfort). Only over yesterday’s roast Olver and I were discussing the horniness of the Scottish accent. I, personally, don’t see it, I know many do, but for me the accent of a Scottish woman is that of old dears buying shortbread and bemoaning the downfall of the bingo industry. However, I will say this, there is no more comforting sound to hear than that of a Scottish woman saying “help is on it’s way”. It’s the climax of Mrs Doubtfire all over again. There’s very little a 65yr old Scottish woman can’t make alright. Unlocking my door was a piece of cake, which she probably had in her handbag anyway. I had to slip the key under the door so that she can unlock it.
So all is well now in the world of John. I’m drinking tea and listening to Dire Straits like a middle-aged divorcee – That’ll win her back, exactly the right mixture of ‘Calling Elvis’ and working on the Triumph Stag, no, that’s why she left dickhead, it’s a recipe for crying into gin every night for the rest of your forties.
Still have no idea how my door got locked. The only explaination is that someone broke in to play a prank, or like in that excellent joke of Cogs’ “I keep four big Chubb locks on my door, but I only lock two of them, that way any cunt that tries to pick the locks is always locking the other two”.
jx
Comments:
· http://myspace.com/scottishfalsetto Keep it up, and we look forward to seeing your show (if we don't clash, and we manage to blag successfully - trying to stick to our "only pay for serious theatre" resolution, which never lasts long).
See you tomorrow - Kev F
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31/07/07 @ 09:19 
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