Time to go

It's the last day. I don't think I'll get to write on here again as I'll be too busy entertaining my small and utterly exhausting half-sister, who's heading up with my dad today. Last time I saw her she and her friend ended up kind of beating me up. She's six.

I don't think I'll write a lengthy goodbye. Bobbin the cat is enormously happy that I've made it to my fifty-fifth post (a perfect number in Bobbin's opinion as it's made entirely from 5s) and I think that's ending enough.

Perhaps I'll end it the way I end my show:

The sunlight's fading on today (It's midday, so not quite accurate, but a nice image)
I haven't got much else to say (I have, but I haven't got time)
I think I'll go and make a sandwich and some tea ( and I'm actually going to have custard for breakfast. It's all I've got left).

Hope you had fun with my blog. I did.
I'm thinking about moving it over to Myspace - my page, btw, is www.myspace.com/ruthpickett

Come and be my friend.

Ruth x

Bloody hell, it's late. I have to pack up my things.

Yo pack up now and give a brother room (Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince)
Although I'm not anyone's brother; and I'm not making room for anyone's brother.

I decided, on a whim, to book a train ticket home tomorrow at 7pm - instead of the one I had booked for Wednesday. I need to go home. The result of this is that tonight is my last night in Edinburgh. I'm in my flat right now and probably won't head back into town - which means I probably won't get to say goodbye to a lot of people...it's a similar weird anticlimax to when you finish school or university - people just seem to drift off (a bit like some people did in my show)

So - nearly over (Still one show to do). Apparently my dad is coming up tomorrow. Don't leave it 'til the last minute or anything, dad.

I guess I've had a good time overall. I met some lovely people and apparently made a couple of fans (and a couple of enemies as well). One would think that paying £8 for a show you didn't love too much wouldn't be quite enough to provoke the kind of rage and vitriol one occasionally sees on the 'edfringe' forums, but there we are.

I met someone today who was possibly the world's most public-school man I have ever met. He was wearing one of those awful 'rugger' shirts and spent about an hour discussing all the people who went to his prep-school (with someone else who had been to the same prep school...hoo bloody rah).

I went a bit quiet while he was talking because I was trying to surpress my deep-seated rage towards the whole over-priveledged public school system. People often assume, when they a) find out I went to Cambridge, and b) Find out I am from Yorkshire but don't have a Yorkshire accent, that I was privately educated. I wasn't.
It's bullshit. I despise the public school system and the fact that rich twats can pay to get their stupid little simpering offspring into a good university by throwing as priveledged an education as they can at them.

I do understand why some people choose to send their children to private school - if they're clever but would have the shit kicked out of them at their local hell-hole; but the whole boarding school / sucking off the house master / living in a country house of a school with a gym and its own fucking planetarium / let's all bum eachother and then have a game of fucking lacrosse (fucking and lacrosse combined - it's a special public school game) makes me want to puke all over their stupid little schoolboy hats.

I hope that man doesn't read this. He might arrange to have me killed.

Sorry I get a bit opinionated sometimes. It's late and I've not eaten properly for 30 days.

Love to everyone, and bye for now.

Ruth x

Hello.
I've started a post and realised that if I carry on it will make me late for my show. Pah.
I was speaking to Richard Hirst (shit, I hope I spelt his name right, he'll be cross with me if I didn't), Bumblelion's friend with the floral shirts last night. We talked briefly about what we were doing in the August of 1992, and I said that I think I was in the Isle of Mann, wearing horrendous floral leggings that at the time I thought were an excellent idea.
And today I found a photo.



Is it any wonder that none of the boys would hold my hand in the playground? Whoever thought that leggings (with socks over the top) and a massive t-shirt four sizes too big (with matching headband) were a good idea?
No stylish designer outfits for me! I was a child of the eighties! I had hand-me-downs, horrendous t-shirts, and cheap trainers from Clark's.

Better go. Very well done to Josie for her win. She is ace and her show is ace.
See you later funsters x

I had a lovely show today, which was nice for me, but doesn't make for good reading. People are usually more interested in reading about a crisis. Maybe I should make one up.

A man went mad and ate his own leg
Someone threw a hedgehog at me
My shoes clashed with my outfit

That's enough for now. I've been quoted on the front page of Chortle two days in a row now...I'm not sure whether that means that the powers that be like me or don't - as both the quotations used were rather self-depreciating. Yesterday it was "Everyone acts like a twat sometimes (I know I do)" and today "I'm winning on the number of posts on the Fringe blogs. Does that make me the winner? Or a massive loser?"
It either means they like what I'm writing; or they're saying, "Yes, we agree, you are a bit rubbish"

I pretty much have nothing left to talk about now. I feel as though my brain has been stripped of almost all thoughts and all that's left is a tiny voice saying "buy more coffee".

I haven't been drunk enough this festival. Every time I buy alchohol, Bumblelion sneaks over and drinks it. He's been pissed as a newt all month.
In fact, I think I saw him getting pissed with a newt at one point.

Bumblelion, bumblelion
Doesn't know how to use an iron
Doesn't live in fictional Zion
Bumble, Bumblelion

If anyone has a spare train ticket back to London on Tuesday...please let me know. My stupid ticket isn't until Wednesday and I'm dying to go home.

Ruth x

I miss my guitar. I always stupidly leave it in my dressing room and then wish I had it when I get back to my room. I have a load of old song ideas on my computer and now I really want to make them into proper songs.
Fuck, there's a whole album's worth...Some of them are pretty crap though.

I think I might write a story about a worm called Alan Pendlebury.
That was the name of a man my mum used to work with. He had a comb-over and lived in a caravan.

I just watched 'Happiness'. I enjoyed it, but it's pretty sick.

I find it strange that you never see your own face - you only ever see a reflection in a mirror (or a video), not the real thing. Sometimes I don't feel like I'm real... I suppose because I am the centre of my own universe (I don't mean that I'm self-obsessed; I mean that I can only ever know my own consciousness) the people around me are the "real" things in my world - and I am just the voice inside my head and a picture in a mirror.

Jesus, I'm starting to sound insane.
I'm not, by the way.
Well, maybe a bit. But everyone is a bit. It just depends how much you admit it. I'm quite happy.

I keep writing things and then deleting them. I don't think a blog is the best format for all of my thoughts. I'm worrying too much about who might read it...the whole point of a blog is to be honest, but at the moment I'm thinking about sex and it's probably not best to write about that.

Shit, it's 3.30. So much for my early night.

I just made another cup of tea. I wish I could invent a turbo-charging sleep machine that compressed your sleeping power so you only needed half an hour a night. There's too much to do and too little time.

I'm winning on the number of posts on the Fringe blogs.
Does that make me the winner
Or a massive loser?

Here's a list of my top five favourite things, in order:

The boy
Music
Literature
Quirky films
Dancing

See you later weirdos x

Hello! Bobbin the funny little cat here!
I've hacked onto the computer again (Ruth wrote her password in a special book that I've stolen because it also has a photo of Patrick Swayze in it. I licked his face!)

I wanted to write this one because this is the fiftieth post on Ruth's blog - and fifty is a special number because not only does it divide by five (Bobbin's favourite number) it is also the product of 10 and 5 ('product' is a special maths word Bobbin learnt at the finishing school). Five is, obviously, the best number in all the world, and 10 is a nice number because it divides by five and it's made of a blob and a line, like a fat person and a thin person standing next to eachother. Bobbin laughs at fat people. They are wobbly, like jelly! Bobbin likes jelly. Especially strawberry and lemon flavours. They are the best ones.

Bobbin is going now - he needs to do a little widdle and he got in trouble last time he did it on the computer.

Bobbin the cat xxx

I think only one person has got the reference to T.S. Eliot in my show.
It's quite easy to miss - it's a little section from the Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock. I fucking love that poem - I think it's possibly one of the best ever written.

If you've never read it, please do. There's a version of it here:
http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

So, for anyone that's interested, the bit that's in my show is:

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me

'Prufrock' shows an obsessive involvement with the ephemera of life - the little details; in part it's about becoming so self-involved that you're incapable of interaction and communication...it seemed fitting for my show, which is about a lonely girl who clings onto little details and tries to organise things obsessively in order to feel some sense of control...

Yes, I did think about it. It's not just poo jokes.

I play the guitar at the beginning of my show now, instead of having pre-state music. I like doing that.

I might make some little puppets when I get back to London. Pinkleberry and Bumblelion need some new friends.

Bye for now x

I thought I wrote on here last night when I got home.
I was wrong.

I went to bed just before 6. I'm tired.
I still haven't bought any more GOD DAMN coffee.

I have nothing to say right now.
I have started every line with the word
'I'

Apart from this one. It's funny that 'I' is the shortest word in the langage (shorter than 'a' because that's a wider letter).
Maybe that means we're not as important as we think we are.

I have to go. I need to go and get dressed in order to cycle over to a tiny room and masquerade as someone else for an hour.

RP x

It's another inaccurate subject I'm afraid.

What happens to these blogs after Edinburgh finishes? Do they disappear into the ether?

Someone should tell me. I want to know.

I'm off to the So You Think You're Funny party now. I'd actually rather stay here (in my room) and go to bed (exciting), but I'm already dressed for it so I may as well pop along. Even though 'popping along' involves a two-mile cycle ride in 4-inch stilettos and a 1950's skirt.
Maybe I'll wear trainers. Squashed under a bus is never a good look, even if you are wearing Manolos.

Ruth x

What is a windsock actually for?
I know it's basically a little sock that blows in the wind - but why? Surely noone would actually want to measure how much wind there was...why would they want to do that?
You can usually tell by how much your hair is blowing in your face.

Here's a little poem. You can make it into a song if you like, by making up a tune for it in your head:

Windsock windsock
On a little hill-ock
What what what
Are you for
Windsock windsock
You're a bit of a cock
And I don't like you
Any more.

So. Nearly the end of the festival. It's that holiday syndrome of feeling like it's gone quite fast, and also feeling like I've been here FOREVER.
I saw Isabel Fay's show (Magic Steve's Disappearing Act) at the Holyrood Tavern last night. It's fantastic. Go and see it if you get a chance.
Also come and see my show (whoever you are) if you haven't seen it.
Only four more to go...
And go to my show website www.ruthpickett.co.uk/pilkington.htm

I actually can't wait to get back home. I miss London...I miss cycling over the Thames at night (over a bridge; I don't have a magic E.T.-powered flying bike); I miss shops that shut at 7 or 8 instead of 5.30; I miss little Turkish newsagents selling cheap fruit and delicious houmous; and I miss my piano. I have a Bechstein. I love it. I'm pretty rubbish at playing it, but I will practice and get better and then I will be KING OF THE WORLD!

I won't really, I'll just be someone who can play the piano. But it's good to aim high.

I got an email today from someone asking if they could set up a Ruth Pickett fansite. Hehe! Obviously there would only be about three people who ever looked at it, but it's vaguely exciting all the same. I do worry that it might encourage stalkers, but still...

Went to the library bar last night. I very briefly met a certain Scottish comic who shall remain nameless, but I got the impression he has rather a high opinion of himself. Whilst flailing my arms about (as I generally do when talking - I find it helps) I accidentally knocked his glass a tiny bit, and spilled a tiny bit of his wine. I apologised profusely and said 'I'm so sorry, I'm really clumsy" and instead of going "It's fine, don't worry" he made rather a big deal of looking annoyed and wiping his jumper (which clearly only had the most miniscule amount of wine on it) and said something about it making his hand sticky.
He then asked what I did, and I said I was doing a show at the Pleasance. He looked surprised and said "Oh. How did you get that venue then?" (which, correct me if I'm wrong, implies that I must be very unimportant and I somehow fluked my way there, which might be true but that's not the point). I said "Well, I'm with Avalon, and they helped sort it out for me". He looked surprised again and said "Oh, you're with Avalon. How did you manage that then?" (which again, I think, implies that I really shouldn't be with them). Maybe it was me being paranoid, but I escaped from the conversation not long after that.

There are some strange people in this world. And I never really get it when people are rude or obnoxious...why would you want to be like that?
Now, obviously, everyone acts like a twat sometimes (I know I do) but I don't mean that - I'm talking about the type of people who deliberately try to belittle people in conversation if they don't think they're very important...Just to get some sad little kick out of a conversational power-trip.

I spoke to someone else last night (another comic who I don't know very well) who said in a quite condesending manner "How's it going? Are you ok?" and I said, "Yeah, you know, fine - up and down" and he said "Yeah, I read some bad reviews".

Who says that? Who just says that to someone they hardly know?

I said, "Yeah, but I've had some good reviews as well, and a lot more good shows than bad. It's hard but I'm enjoying it". He seemed to not be listening and very patronisingly just said 'Yes, well, just stick with it, yeah? You'll get through it. Don't let it get you down".

Maybe he didn't mean it in quite such a patronising way - maybe he was trying to be nice. But if so it was a strange way of showing it.

I'm definitely not thick-skinned enough. I read an article recently on only-children (yes, I'm an only child - what a surprise). Apparently they can be more prone to get upset by criticism - because children with siblings get used to their brothers and sisters being horrible to them all the time, and so develop a tolerance for it - whereas only children don't, and so become mortified if someone is unpleasant to them.
Obviously I don't believe every bit of pop psychology I read - but that's definitely true of me. It's only recently that I've started to learn to ignore people when they are unpleasant.
And then write about them on Chortle.

Sorry - didn't mean this to be a big rant.
I'm actually in quite a good mood. Just blathering on.

Blathering blathering
As you may be gathering
Blathering on and on
Wiffling waffling
A silly little offering
Until all my thoughts are gone.

Which has now happened.
Bye x

Helllo!! Its Bumblelion agayn! Did yoo miss me? Its beene a long tyme sinse I rote on heer! Iyve beene verry bizzy wotching shows and getting a bit drunked! Last nyte I went to the lybree bar and had lotts of glassis of wyne. I wos so drunked that I felloff my littel Bumblelion byke and hadd to flye home insted (I cann do that becos I am a Bumblelion and I have wingz). Butt I kept flying the rong way and I ended up havving to ask a mann in a kebab shopp how too gett home. Butt hee diddunt know - hee just tryed to trap me and mayke me intoo a kebab! Lukkilee I manidged to byte him on the nose and I eskaped.

Now im in the brooks barr wayting for Ruth too come bak from the toylit. Its a bitt funny that noone has nowticed a little Bumblelion tyeping on a lapptopp. They arr orl too bizzy torking about shows and nyoozpayers and silly old things lyke that.

Ryte, Ruth's coming bak now - Iyd better go.

Love Bumblelion x

I just found out that you can apparently get fined £50 for throwing rubbish on the floor in this crazy town. I wonder if you get fined for throwing bits of Edinburgh onto the floor? Eh?
I do like Edinburgh really. It's a pretty city (which rhymes, hoorah).

I did wonder why the streets were so clean (compared to London where you can't walk 10 yards (yards? Why did I just say 'yards'? Have I suddenly become middle aged? I don't even know what a yard is...other than a square area of ground outside a building) without falling over an irritating little child throwing his McDonalds packaging at a tramp.

There was a very small child in my show today - can't have been older than seven or eight - sitting right on the front row. I play a seven year-old child at one point in the show, and I was sitting right in front of the child...I wonder if she thought it was an accurate representation?

I am sure that the clock on my computer has said '18.36' for about 10 minutes now. I just checked the clock on my phone and it said the same thing. What if all the clocks I own have stopped and I miss Tony Law?

That turned out not to be the case - the clock just changed to 18.37
The year of the infamous Suffolk Ham stabber (who ran through the streets of Lowestoft stabbing at bits of ham).
Not really of course. I am a MASSIVE LIAR.
It was actually 1888.

That was the year that Jack the Ripper did his naughty killings. I learnt this at Andrew O'Neill's show, what I did see last night. It was good, although when I tried to talk to him afterwards (he's a friend of mine) this Ripper-obsessed man who had been in the crowd came over and interrupted what I was saying to talk to Andrew...I then had to wait about 10 minutes for their conversation about numerous ripperologists and Lewis Carroll to finish before I could tell Andrew that I really had to go.

So yes - apparently someone thought Lewis Carroll might be Jack the Ripper. I don't believe that though. He was too busy posing for Victorian Menswear catalogues.

And poking little girls.

Oh no, what have I said

I meant 'painting'. Painting little girls.

There's a page about Lewis Carroll on my website.
http://www.ruthpickett.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/Carroll1.htm

I'm going now. See you later kidrocks x

It's 9.30 in the morning.

Agh.

Today I have my disabled access performance at 1.30pm; the tech for it is at 11am. I went to an Angeleye party last night. It was enjoyable and I danced my proverbial socks off (I wasn't wearing socks, as it happens), but it did mean that I went to sleep at 5am.
I have hence discovered the mathematical equation:
4 hours sleep + porridge = sick

I have also just realised that I forgot to buy coffee again yesterday. SHIT.
If you haven't already gathered from previous comments in this blog, I have a not-insignificant coffee addiction (only real coffee mind, not that instant shite). Yesterday I had a tantrum in my kitchen because there was no coffee left. Today I feel it may escalate to an actual breakdown.

I am quite impressed that I'm actually able to string together sentences at this ludicrous hour of the morning.

(Brief pause where I remembered I had to have a shower and wandered off to do that)

Hello. Back again. I realise I didn't need to tell you that last bit about the shower (in fact, I don't actually NEED to tell you any of this) but I was concerned that some people might see the reference to '9.30' at the beginning of this blog, and then see that it wasn't submitted until 10am, and would either think that I was the slowest typist ever, or that I was lying about the time I started the blog in order to make people more sorry for me. Neither of these is true.

I realise looking back at that last sentence that very few people would actually be anal enough to work out how long I might or might not have spent typing my blog. But I worry about these things.
I'm babbled. That would be the sleep deprivation.
I've just re-read that and realised that I put 'I'm babbled' instead of 'I'm babbling'. It seems appropriate not to delete it.

Help, I need to leave the house and I've got no clothes on

Have to go

Ruth x

Well, check me out
I'm using my laptop and wifi internet in the Pleasance courtyard. People might think I'm a journalist. Although they probably won't - they'll think what they usually think - that I'm a silly twat in a brightly coloured coat.

My coat is very bright. It is red - but the brightest shade of red that you could possibly imagine, without it actually being luminous. Is it luminous or illuminous that isn't a real word? I think it's illuminous.
It's one of those fake words.

It's funny that Dildo is a really old word. I'm not certain how old, but it goes back at least to the 17th century, because Rochester wrote a rude play about 'Signior Dildo' - which featured a sculpture of an enormous cock and lots of ladies simulating masturbation.

Gosh, this has got rather rude. Let's make it more rude with the first few lines of Rochester's "A Ramble in St James's Park":

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St. James's Park
To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St. James has th' honor on 't,
'Tis consecrate to prick and cunt.

---------
Oh dear, someone's phone seems to be accidentally sending me a photo...I wonder what it's of?
Oh no! It was of a horrid man in a scary mask, waving his arms about! He looked like a zombie or a corpse...I don't like it! I'll see if I can put it on here:



I get very upset by that kind of thing.
I am also doubly disturbed because the section of the courtyard I'm sitting in obviously used to be a graveyard. Maybe the souls of the dead have now learnt to communicate via Bluetooth.

Better go now.
Need more caffeine.
Coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee
That's pretty much how my day goes.

Love to one and all x

Words fighting
Inside my head
And the dreadful chatter
Behind me
The incessant hum
Of someone else's life
The hot tears
Streaming
Down my face
As I pray that noone is looking

What is this
Isolated
Strange location
A merry-go-round
Of loss and paranoia
Of solipsistic whispers
Of words falling over and over and
The sound of hope
Dying
In the corner of a darkened room.

I'm eating chocolate covered coffee beans again.
I feel sick.

So, I wonder, who reads this blog? Other comics? Actual punters? Just me and Bumblelion?
I don't know.

It's dark in this room.

I LIVE IN A CUPBOARD! I FLY ABOUT ON A FLYING IRONING BOARD!

Oh crap, I've gone wrong again.

Never eat chocolate coffee beans on an empty stomach.
In fact, don't eat on an empty stomach at all. Use a plate.

Colin was afraid of horses.
Colin was afraid of dwarves.
Colin was absolutely terrified of Shetland Ponies.

Hello. Ruth here. What a surprise!
Not a surprise really - I was being sarcastic.
Who invented sarcasm? Probably Rowan Atkinson in Blackadder.

Hello. This blog appears to be taking the form
Of three line stanzas
For no apparent reason.

I went to see Demitri Martin's show tonight. It was fucking amazing.
The kind of show that makes you love the world again,
just for having someone like him in it.

I am obsessed with this three-line thing now.
Sorry if it's irritating.
Actually - I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry at all.

But I'm going to stop now. I feel it's time.
So. I'm feeling a little trapped in my show at the moment. I feel a bit like I tried, I did it, I've learnt things; and now I want to move on and try something new. I'm not one of those people who likes repeating characters...my attention span is much too short for that.
Having said that, I'm also a perfectionist...but maybe that's something to do with it. There's a part of me that doesn't like the idea that a project or a show or a character can never be complete; finished; 'perfect' - whilstever you keep working on it, you are admitting its imperfections. But by not working on it, it will always be flawed and in the infancy of its potential.
Therein lies the irony.
That's what Shakespeare said about the cupboard he kept his ironing board in.

There is a dog. He is making a noise. He has stopped now.

That's just a sample of the exciting things that can happen if you spend your time in the Brooke's bar.

My mum and step-dad came up today. We went to see Bill Bailey at a slightly weird conference centre. I was slightly concerned by the fact that my mum kept talking to herself during the show - saying "Oh dear" just after she laughed (in that funny old-lady-sighing way...even though she's not that old at all) and "yes" every time she agreed with something. When Bill started playing a little tune on one of his keyboards, she asked "Ooh, is he a musician as well?" (the three guitars and two keyboards onstage clearly weren't clue enough).
This would all be fine, and rather entertaining, but it does make me worry that she'll do the same when she comes to see my show tomorrow - and will keep saying "What did she say?" after all the jokes.
She has no idea that she's doing it, that's the trouble.
Hopefully she'll bring her ear trumpet along and then all will be well.

Ah, mums. My mum is hilarious but she is actually insane. Every single time I see her she talks about how the cat has senile dementure and is on death's door.
"Poor Rosie! She'll be dead soon!"
It's one of her three conversation topics - along with how the fat man who lives next door is probably an evil crimelord; and the fact that a child at her school (she's a teacher, not a student in a remedial class) bit someone's arm or ate its own shoes.

Marek Larwood is here. I think I might talk to him. He's nice.

Bye x

Ah hahaha!!! I am Porgblaa! The evil prince of Goblin night - keeper of the Dungeon of Mingledorp and ruler of the Seventh Sphere of Hell!

I have hacked into this blog using my clever Goblin skills; and now I am injecting evil into the Internet, to kill you slowly whilst you read!
That's right - Porgblaa is the most evil creature of all! See my pointy claws and evil Goblin snout! It looks a bit like a banana, I know - but it's not! It's an evil snout - I shoot out globules of pure evil when I sneeze!

See my evil t-shirt! It is the t-shirt of Pri-Maark; formed by weaving together the hair of demons. It was only £1.99, which I thought was pretty reasonable.

Right, I'm bored now. I'm off to play Dungeons and Dragons with Pete from the Chip shop.

Porgblaa xxx

Hello.

I told you I'd be back. Yes!

Sometimes I wish my name was Henry Bumlord.
Other times I'm glad that it's not.

Started walking home from the Dome - in the biggest shower of rain since Doctor Foster went to a popular Midlands town and got trapped in a puddle - to be greeting by that most irritating of sights: that of the bus you need to get already at a bus-stop you know you just won't quite have time to get to, even if you run - so you don't run, you just keep walking, but then the bus remains at the stop for an unusually long time - so long that you think, "Shit, if I'd run, I would have caught it" - so you start to run, at which point the bus fucks off, you arrive at the stop 30 seconds too late and discover there isn't another bus due for half an hour.

I am poor. I cycle and get buses.
I only had 2 pounds so I couldn't get a taxi.

So I walked home.
I walked home in the pissing rain.
And my flat is over 2 miles out of town.
I tried to make up a song to pass the time, but I found that meant I kept not concentrating on where I was going, and hence kept wandering into the road to be almost run over / drowned by Edinburgh's FUCKING INCONSIDERATE drivers splashing their way through their stupid rainy puddle of a city.

I am tired today.

I just threw a soggy piece of cheese across room in an attempt to get it into the bin. It landed in a shoe instead.

I never got onto any of the sports teams at school. I am rubbish at sport.
I particularly hated that stupid craphole of a game 'Netball' - which isn't even a real game, outside of school playgrounds. It is an evil game.
All my friends would go and play 'Netball' at break; running around shouting 'Shoot! Pivot! Goal Attack!' whilst I would gaze sadly at them, they prance in a slightly melancholy fashion over to a deserted part of the playground and write a poem or have a conversation with a goblin.

Goblin Poem - by Christina Plop

Goblin Goblin
Up my food
Eatin chocolate in the nude
Goblin Goblin
Up my tea
In the penetentiary.

Some facts about me:

- I like chicken but I don't like chickens
- My grandad's name was Yusuf Turgut Onac. He was a lovely man whose favourite foodstuff was marmalade and who used to wrap household objects in brown paper and string for no discernible reason.
- I try to be a good person, but at times I find it hard to like the people of Edinburgh, as many of them are a bit ugly and keep trying to run me over
- I am secretly a romantic and an idealist
- I like Keats
- I like Jack but not Meg
- I despise sexism, and get very angry and frustrated when people think it's ok to still hold sexist opinions - eg. 'women aren't as funny as men'.
I think anyone who thinks that is PATHETIC and should ask themselves whether they would ever consider replacing the words 'women' and 'men' in that sentence with 'black people' and 'white people' or 'gay people' and 'straight people' - WHY IS IT OK TO BE SEXIST WHEN IT'S THE GENERAL CONSENSUS THAT ALL OTHER PREJUDICE IS DESPICABLE AND THE SOURCE OF THE MAJORITY OF THE WORLD'S PROBLEMS???
- I like to think the world could be a wonderful place, but then get depressed and think that it's shit.

I'm off now. Time for some water.

Ruth x

It seems this computer has been remembering the 'subjects' that other people have written for their blogs, and is showing them as a drop-down menu when you begin writing.

If I were really bored I might go through everyone's blogs, trying to work out whose is whose.
As it happens I'm not particularly bored - in fact I'm finding it hard to concentrate as I've got some Lidl chicken and cheese waiting for me when I finish this, and I'm quite hungry.

There is a tiny child standing near me. It's wearing a hideous pair of floral leggings - the kind I used to think were a really good idea back in the late eighties (when I was about 7) - only a bit smaller as this child looks about two.

Good lord, the weather is shit today. Fortunately I have with me my MASSIVE Paul Smith umbrella, which I love, as it's pretty and i bought it in New York.

Oh pah, I can't concentrate. I need some tasty chicken.
I'll do a bit more later.

Ruth x

Hello! I'm Bobbin, the funny little cat! I live and work in 'Past Caring' - a charity / junk shop, with my best friend Jennifer Bun.

Bobbin did a Sudoku competition this morning! He was especially good at filling in all the numbers! Bobbin's favourite number is the number FIVE (see www.ruthpickett.co.uk/pilkington_bobbin.htm for details of Bobbin's 'Theory of Five') so he put the number five in all the little boxes! It was so much fun!
Some of those other serious people seemed to be writing boring old 'normal' numbers (silly ones that didn't divide by five) - Bobbin laughed at them! Then did a little wee in a corner.

Bobbin is off to eat some jelly now.

Bobbin xxx

Who is Sue Doku? And why did she invent such a stupid boring game?
Got up at 10am today (well, actually, woke up at 10am; got up at 10.30 after spending half an hour shouting "No, I won't do it! I won't get up! No!"

The reason for my having to get up at this frankly ungodly hour was to compete in a Sudoku contest as a feature for the Times (I am still convinced that it was all a cruel joke just to get some unsuspecting comedians out of bed before midday, and won't be featured at all).

- As an aside - There is a very strange old man in a green t-shirt grinning at me and clutching an empty glass. I've just noticed him. He's making me uncomfortable. Ooh, he's leaving now. Shit, maybe he has super-zoom vision, like a hawk, and can read what I'm writing. Crap.
I'll be looking over my shoulder as I walk home tonight. I say 'walk' - I actually live so far away that it is almost impossible to walk there without dying of old age first.

Anyway - the Sudoku. Stephen Grant appeared to be some sort of pro - he actually knew the names of all the different levels - 'Fiendish', 'Horrid', 'Withered' and so on. It was all quite serious.

I don't like Sudoku, so I got Bobbin, the funny little cat from my show, to fill it in for me. He's a big fan of the number five, so I have a feeling he may have just written '5' in all the boxes - he did finish it suspiciously quickly; and when I glanced over I think I saw him doing a drawing of Patrick Swayze and some jelly, so I'm not sure whether we'll win.

Still, we'll probably beat Colin from Colin and Fergus. It's a fairly well-known fact that Fergus is the brain of the duo, whilst Colin is more of a hunter-gatherer. This unfortunately means that when Colin gets detached for his compradre he's basically a moron - only capable of blurting out monosyllabic words such as 'meat' and 'rope' whilst rubbing himself against animals and walls.

I am eating a tasty mango. It's a big one. Nice.

Oh no, the strange grinning man in the green t-shirt is back. He looks a bit like Rod Hull with a beard. Although isn't he dead?

Better go, I think he's plotting how to murder me.

Ruth x

Check me out! Three pages of blog and counting! Not bad for someone who doesn't actually like blogs.

Just a quick one - I wondered momentarily whether Richard Herring's name REALLY Richard Herring? Is that a real name?
To curb my curiousity, I googled the name, and yes - apparently it is a real name. Here, for example, is "Mr Herring's homepage" - possibly the dullest website ever to be made (nothing to do with Richard Herring).
http://edweb.tusd.k12.az.us/dherring/
You'd think with a surname like Herring, you'd at least make an effort to be vaguely jovial or entertaining (I'm still talking about 'Mr Herring'; not Richard Herring) - but no. This man is possibly the dullest man I have ever cyber-spacically stumbled upon. This is how he starts his biography:

"I lived my entire life until I was eighteen in the same house".
This implies, does it not, that he NEVER ACTUALLY LEFT THE HOUSE.

And his biography is ludicrously short! It's basically "I stayed inside my house until I was eighteen. Then I studied engineering for a bit, gave up engineering, took up engineering again, gave up engineering again, got married and had a child. The end"

He also seems to have assembled a random series of totally unconnected photographs (which are clearly not of the same child), which I imagine he has stolen off the internet, in a vain attempt to make his life seem in some way exciting or eventful.

I love the internet. You can make such wonderfully presumptuous assertions about people you will never meet.

Better go. Might have a bath tonight. With lots of nice bubbles.

Lovely bubble
More than double-y
Comfort-ubble
Than a pile of rubble.

That's my poem about bubbles and rubble.
Bye xxx

When I was nine I wrote a poem / story (ie a Dr Zeuss-esque rhyming tale) called 'Big is best' - about a small dog called Harry McLarry, who wanted to be big.

I like poems. I like stories. I don't, however, like the boy on the computer next to me, who I think just did a fart. In fact he definitely just did a fart; I'm just trying to pass it off in my head as a possibility rather than a fact, so I'm not quite so appalled by it. He has a Pleasance necklace on (not really a necklace - one of those shoelace things with the ID passes on - you know what I mean). Is this the sort of person the Pleasance employs - someone who farts whilst surrepticiously checking porn forums (my supposition)?

So - today it was back to the show - which is not at all like Back to the Future - although if I were in Johnny Sweet and Joe Thomas's show 'The Future', I would be able to say 'So - back to the Future'. In fact; I imagine that's why they called it that - so they could entertain themselves by saying that over and over and over.

My dress is small. It was designed for someone smaller than me, but I don't give a damn! I wear it anyway.

It's 8.30 now. That's nice. Soon it will be nine o'clock; and I will be able to write rude words like 'bum' and 'crap' without being told off by the watershed people.

Why is it called a Watershed? It's nothing to do with water or a shed, as far as I can see.
Answers on a postcard.

Right, time for 'mas cafe' (Spanish for 'Mass in a cafe').
Bye now.
Bye bye.
Bye.

I look a bit like Worzel Gummage today.
I back-combed my hair last night into a big fifties quiff, and now it looks like a big fifties haystack.
I think it's the hair equivalent of a massive hangover.

Still haven't made my porridge. Need to do that.

McRuth x

I just got a nice little message from Chortle about the Boy whose name was Jim. So here's the link, for anyone that's interested:

http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/txt/809.txt

I very much enjoyed my day off yesterday, thank you. Did go to a party last night; but I was very good and didn't really drink, despite the free bar (that's a first) - so that either means I'm getting very old, or I really do care about my show. I think it's the latter.
I hope so.

Hello.

Some of you may have read the slightly opinionated things I said in response to one of my reviews. I decided to take them down in the end - as it felt a bit like having a videotape of me, of one particular day when I was uncharacteristically upset, broadcast to lots of people. It's not really representative of who I am, and I think I might have come across a bit like a child who had a tantrum because someone didn't like the picture they drew.

Although I think I did make some valid points on the art of reviewing in general. And it's a very difficult thing to have to deal with - to have someone come and judge your work, who may only have about 10 minutes to form an opinion and write about you; when their opinion can count for so much in terms of affecting sales and so on. And if they don't 'get' what you're trying to do, it can be so frustrating - but there we are.

Pish.
As Shakespeare might have said.
Did Shakespeare say pish? I'm not sure.

There are some people who say and do exactly what they think and want; and I respect them very much for it. I'm at the beginning of my career so I guess I need to be more careful before I go throwing opinions about the place.

But it's a strange relationship we have with one another - performers / journalists / publicists / promoters - there are certain ways one is supposed to act and certain things one is and is not supposed to say. It's the way of things I know, but at times I still find it odd - because at the end of the day we're all just people - and shouldn't we be judged on what we think and know and feel and how we act; rather than what job we do or how we fit in to this weird hierarchy of society...

Oh pah, it's far too early for me to be making crude hypotheses about the world.

I have a show today. Yey!

Bumblelion has a hangover - he went out on the razz last night and ended up trying to climb Arthur's Seat. He didn't get very far, because he's only 8 inches tall.

I have to go and make porridge now.

Ruth x

Does anyone else know that poem about the boy whose name was Jim?
(There was a boy, his name was Jim, his...something something something...of him) - it was about a boy (whose name was Jim) who got eaten by a Lion.

And the story about Longshanks, Girth and Keen, who were three freaks, who for some reason all lived a forest and enjoyed helping princes (the plural of prince; not the tinned fish company) try to rescue princesses from the clutches of an evil witch...Longshanks had enormously long legs; Girth was so fat that he could drink an entire Ocean - and Keen had really good eyesight...I don't really remember how that helped the prince.
It was a slightly strange story.

Or maybe I misread it, and it was actually about Keane - the popular yet astoundingly mundane 'band' with the chubby and astoundingly uncharismatic leadsinger. If it was, I expect they would have rescued the princess by boring the witch to death with their pointless wailing.

So. Hello. It's my day off today. I slept until three. Yes! I plan to go to Late and Live tonight - just for the dancing though, can't be bothered with the comedy (perhaps not a good attitude for someone doing a month-long comedy show). I have been planning this for several nights now, but I keep coming home and falling asleep instead.

Here are some temporary facts (ie they are liable to change with the passage of time):

I have no new messages.
I am 23.
Bumblelion is doing a little dance.

Time to go now.

Ruth x

Hi there. Don Swisher here. Some of you may be aware of my Lionel Ritchie tribute-site, www.ruthpickett.co.uk/pilkington_donswisher.htm If you're not, then I suggest you take a look. Eventually it's going to be the biggest website in the world (I like everything in my world to be big; that's the reason I love Lionel Ritchie's face) - but at the moment I've only got as far as the second page.

Just thought I'd leave a quick message on here to let fellow Lionel fans know about my exciting re-make of Lionel's classic "Hello" video.
I got a little tired of that silly woman plodding about the place, bashing her stick into everyone and getting all Lionel's attention - so I've cleverly re-mastered the video so that it features me, Don Swisher.
Why not take a look:

www.ruthpickett.co.uk/pilkington_donswisherhello.htm</p>

Yeah!!! Hello!!! Pinkleberry here!!!
In case you don't know who I am...I'm a small plasticine elephant shrew who lives in a box in Ruth Pickett's house.
I first came into being when Ruth had a dream in which I sang a little song about being a Pinkleberry.

I am the stuff that dreams are made on...

And that, by the way, is a quotation from a very famous writer. I forget who - I think it might be Terry Pratchet.
Lovely Terry. He's my friend.

Haha he's not really - I'm a small plasticine elephant shrew and he's a weird old man who writes about wizards.
I like wizards because they have sticks and beards and funny clothes...
Although so do most old men.
Maybe all wizards are just old men who are just trying to spice up their otherwise meaningless lives by pretending to own dragons and live in enchanted forests.
Maybe its all lies.
Maybe life is pointless.

Right, I'm off.
See you later!
Pinkleberry xxxx

Well, yesterday's musings were a little on the serious side, weren't they?
To make up for that (for those who prefer their blogs on the lighter side of silly) here's a nice post-modern poem

The legend of Mr Bum

Mr Bum
Lived near Cleethorpes
Which is a pretty crap place
All things considered
And, in case you were wondering
Mr Bum
Had considered
All things
Because he was actually
God.


------------------------------
I am tired today. There was a photoshoot early this morning, which meant getting up at the ungodly hour of 10.30, which in Edinburgh time equates to about 6 in the morning. Still, it gave me a little time to go vintage shopping before my show. I bought a very preppy little fifties jumper. Nice.
Not sure what to do with myself this evening.
I do most things with myself; although occasionally I leave myself at home and go out with a man called Tony instead. Tony is a pleasant chap who likes Waterworld. The aquapark in Minehead - not the dreadful film starring Kevin Costner.

Ok - that's enough inane banter for now.
Catch you crazy cats later.
Rufio x

Edinburgh is a place of contradictions. The stunning architecture; the unattractive louts; the shit weather; the fantastic scenery; the delight on people's faces when they love your show; and the sheer unadulterated despair you feel when someone doesn't 'get' it...

It seems that people need to be able to grasp hold of a 'theory' - to understand what your show is 'about' - in order to enjoy and appreciate it. Recently, everyone's Edinburgh show has either a 'theme' or a definitive 'style' - hardly anyone just puts on a show that's purely about what they find funny - without some 'gimmick' to tie it all together.

People do this in life, as well - we seem to need to be able to put things in little boxes in order to feel comfortable with them; to categorise everything. 'Complicated' - if used to describe a person, or a situation, is almost invariably not a compliment: "Oh, it's complicated" always means, "It's difficult and not very enjoyable".

Now, I'm not trying to say that my show is deep or complex; it's not particularly. But it is a bit of a jumble - of styles of comedy (some dark, some juvenile, some realistic, some surreal); and, as Steve Bennett rather cleverly spotted, the fact that it's set in a charity shop is no coincidence.
I love charity shops. I love the unordered, jumbled fragments of other people's lives.

And life is, unless it's really shit and boring - complicated. It doesn't all tie up and you can't always (although countless American high school films would have us believe otherwise) always segregate people into reconisable 'categories'. I've tried a little to go with this theory in my show (although don't get me wrong - I didn't 'theorise' about it whilst I was writing it - that would just be wanky) - that life is a bit of a mish-mash, that doesn't always go to the places you expect it to go...I play Belle and Sebastian alongside Grandmaster Flash and Basement Jaxx (and a rather good Razorlight cover of Outkast).

And I'm a bit like that, I suppose. I like a lot of different music, from Chuck Berry to Eels to N.W.A; I don't just enjoy one style of comedy; I have several different groups of friends; I don't like cliques, I don't have favourites - I like things to be complicated. Things are fucking brilliant when they're complicated. It's another reason I bloody love wordplay - I love how utterly ineffective and insufficient language can be - so much so that we often use the same or a very similar word to mean two completely different things; and I love complexity and contradictions in language - the reason Shakespeare is such a fucking genius is not because of his plots (he nicked the lot, after all) or even his characters; but because of the way he used language in a totally unprecedented and brilliant way.

My show is a character show; but it's sort of a play. It has 6 comedy songs, occasional stand-upy bits, and a little bit of improv. There are good jokes and bad jokes. I know this. I wanted to present a character whose life wasn't always funny but wasn't completely tragic - to explore what might happen if someone was left for 10 years with only their imagination, a guitar and a heap of junk. It's not complete and it's not perfect; but I tried my best and think it's rather lovely. A bit like life, I suppose.

Hello agayn! Bumblelion heer! Ruths been owt verry layte. It wos Isy Suttie's burthdey and Ruth went dansing...shee didunt tayke mee tho! But I dont reely mynde cos apparuntly it wos indee/elektro and I amm more into Soft Rock. Bumblelion liykes Bonnie Tyler! She's howlding owt for a heero til the end ov the nite. I'll bee yoor heero Bonnie Tyler! I am SUPER BUMBLELION! I cann flye and evrything; and I orlways hav a choclit barr in my bagg witch I dont miynd shairing.

I havv a nyce bagg its brawn and i bort it in a shop.
I orlso havv a hatt which is orlso nyce.
Butt I didn't gett my hatt in a shop - I stole it off a tramp. He wos kwite a smorl tramp so the hatt fits mee kwite well.



Ruth sedd she mett a man corled Richard Hersd and he hadd a cullecshun of flooral shurts. I think I wood lyke too meet him cos I lyke shurts. Its hard when yoor a Bumblelion to fynde shurts that fit you - butt if this mann is an ex-pert in shurts then maybee hee will know orl the shurt shopps in Edinbur and wee cann go ther toogether and wee cann be shurt buddies.

Ok Im off now cos im tyred and I wont a biskit

Luve Bumblelion xxx

Ok...so there's something I want to admit.
In my show I mention and on my website / myspace I have created a character called Helen Boobis.
( http://www.ruthpickett.co.uk/pilkington_helenboobis.htm )
It's a funny name...because it sounds like boobies
But in fact, Helen Boobis is a real person - I've never met her, but some people I knew at university knew her, and I always thought it was a funny name and would joke about her relatives (such as her younger brother, Young Bert Boobis, or her gansta-rap uncle, Biggi Boobis)
And now I have stolen her name and made her into a Jason Biggs obsessed weirdo.
So sorry about that, Helen Boobis.