Tales of the punexpected

Tim Vine stopped his puns briefly, taking a moment under the warm stage lights, to mop his brow with a handkerchief and looked down at the slightly crumpled note of paper he pulled from the left pocket of his suit jacket.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we’re very lucky to have him here. Would you join me in welcoming this man to the stage. He’s a Graphic designer and he is Mr Michael Reid!”
The surrounding audience in the darkness cheered and clapped as a few of them looked round for the next named guest. The comedian had already invited two random members of the audience up on to the small stage individually in the Pleasance Cabaret bar. He’d interviewed them, questioned them and joked with them and now it was my turn.
Upon entering the Cabaret bar and taking our seats in the audience before the show we had all found strips of paper, forms to fill out, lying on our seats and stools, waiting for us. Ka and myself took our seats in the third row, not wanting to venture too close to the stage as you risked getting picked out for interrogation that way.
The forms asked simply for your name, your occupation and a situation you’d been in recently or not so recently that could be deemed to have been ridiculous. I filled out my form, as did others, not thinking much of it but struggling at first to think of any slightly ridiculous situations until the more recent misadventure in the supermarket popped into my head. The recent supermarket misadventure in particular being the one where I couldn’t find my wife anywhere and ended up having to get her name announced over the tannoy. Shrugging, I handed my form up to the compere as he dived around the audience collecting other shruggingly filled out forms before he disappeared backstage, through the slim doors at the side of the stage on which two stools stood, with two microphones perched on each, alongside a table of props.
After around five minutes Tim Vine, the English comedian famous for his daft jokes, fast one-liners and non stop puns, eventually emerged from between the curtains at the back of the stage, greeted with applause by the gathered Fringe crowd and immediately launched into his usual barrage of jokes. It was only the second day of the Edinburgh Fringe so this would have most probably been a mere warm up act for him since he is performing his chat show act for the entirety of August.
As everyone cheered me up on to the stage the comedian greeted me with a big shake of the hand and invited me to sit on the second stool, where the previous two guests had sat. The first had been a red faced, mumbling mechanic whose story had centred around him giving someone a new wheel on their car and neglecting to tighten the wheel nuts, thus causing some embarrassment to his garage and getting himself a written warning when the wheel spun off a some point in the unfortunate customer’s journey home. Thankfully no one died, so it was okay to make light of it. Until the customer had been revealed to be a woman, of course, as this caused some upset from the audience much to Tim Vine’s surprise and wasted no time in accusing the audience of being sexist.
The second guest had been a wee lady, an accountant, from the best hotel in Edinburgh, apparently. Her Dad was polish and after some discussion, a discussion which seemed to inadvertently confuse the lady, it was revealed to her that this in fact made her half polish. This lady’s story involved a milk run in her local town when she was younger and a truck hitting and dragging the finishing line rope along with it bringing the flag pole down on to her head. Tim Vine shrugged views this as definite proof, if any were needed, as to her being polish.
During the accountant lady’s tale a young girl got up and left her seat, presumably to either visit the bar, the loo or just to escape. Tim Vine gave her a little mention as she escaped insisting that if you don’t like the stories you can always just sit through them, the show didn’t last too long.
There was no escape for me though as Tim Vine called me up on stage.
At first it felt fine, sitting up there. You can’t really see the audience as the only light in the room comes from the strong, warm, bright stage lights hanging overhead casting the rest of the room in darkness making you barely able to see beyond the first two rows of the audience. Beyond those first smiling rows there was only darkness, so my safe seat on the third row together with Ka, who had let out a fairly audible groan as I was called up, were shrouded in shadow before me.
Tim Vine introduced me to the audience once more and raised an eyebrow, or two, when I gave the audience a ‘hello, how are you doing?’.
Tim then asked about my job and upon mention of the words graphic designer a man in the second row on the right of the audience got up and left his seat, making his way to the doors. Tim Vine immediately caught on to this and mused over whether the man had something against graphic designers.
Tim wondered whether he’d said to his wife; “This is fine. I’ll come and see this show. But if someone even mentions the words graphic design I’m outta here. I’m drawing the line at that!”. Tim (notice how we’re on first name terms now!), then asked about the job, what it entails and where it was based, making sure is wasn’t in ‘Ayrshire’ to which I said I was pretty (sure) to which he replied “is it?”. I nodded, defending Glasgow even though I was sitting in a crowd, which was most probably made up of a good percentage of Edinburgh folk.
Tim then got me to go through the whole supermarket tannoy story (seen here) and noticed, as some do, that I sometimes, when a little nervous or excited, or on stage with a famous comedian, tend to repeat myself or get a little too enthusiastic about certain points in a story.
“So, I searched the length and breadth of the supermarket, twice, three, four times…”
Tim asked if I done most things three or four times.
Even as I told my story I realised it wasn’t very funny or interesting at all, not the way I was telling it anyway, and I was probably making a very boring chat show. I finished my story with the tannoy announcement and the rather shocked and embarrassed Ka making her way to the checkouts to meet her husband. Tim seemed to quite enjoy the tale launching off into a few of his supermarket puns, obviously ready and in mind as soon as he’d seen my note come through the backstage door and then, after a few more questions, asked for Ka to come to the stage. There was no movement in the darkness where the third row should have been. I looked into the shadows behind the first two rows looking for Ka to make and move but she didn’t. She had disowned me with embarrassment.
Apparently at some point in the next few moments Ka did put her hand up, but I never seen it, although Tim Vine definitely knew she was sitting there, in the third row, as he was willing her on to the stage with his eyes.
Just when I thought all hope was lost, and Ka had finally died of mortification, someone did jump up on to the stage. It was the girl who’d went to the loo during the earlier story.
“I’m Kelly-Ann!” she told us. “My name’s Kelly-Ann!”. Tim and I looked round at one another with surprise and then back at her.
“Well, this wasn’t planned at all”, Tim stated, wide eyed. “Was it 2 for the price of 1 that day?”
Tim Vine welcomed two others up on to the stage after me, a nurse, who kept claiming that not killing people was a good thing, and a teacher. As much as I thought my story was hardly exciting and pretty boring, as I recited it on stage, I am now quite happy and content with the fact that the two following guests’ stories were worse. The nurse’s story involved her losing a hat to the ocean whilst on a ferry and the teacher’s involved him dressing up as a turtle for one of his kids’ school plays. At least losing your wife in a supermarket and then getting her name called over the tannoy is vaguely humorous and a suitably daft for a Tim Vine show.
After the show finished Tim disappeared, back behind the curtains, at the rear of the stage, to the applause and cheers from the audience. As the lights came back up, everyone started making their way out the Pleasance cabaret bar, following the exit signs (they’re on the way out aren’t they?) through the double doors through which we had previously entered. After a few moments a familiar voice echoed out through the stage speakers.
“Would the wife of the Graphic Designer please make herself known to the stage”.
The shambling crowd all laughed as they made their way, looking round at Ka and myself as we followed among the crowd, but unfortunately Ka was too embarrassed or affronted to hang around any longer and we headed for the Pleasance courtyard.
It hadn’t occurred to me until afterwards that maybe, just maybe, Tim Vine had been wanting us to go to the stage to collect a best story or show contribution award?!
Or maybe not.

On the bill

Last weekend I was a ladybird for the night. Ka and myself were picked up by Vicki, taxi driven by her dad, and transported into town for a work’s night out. The Ladybird room were going to the Stand Comedy Club after a bite to eat in the newly refurbished Strata cocktail bar and restaurant in Glasgow’s Queen Street. Vicki’s Dad, a friendly liverpudlian with a rather nice convertible Astra of some sort, dropped us off in sunny George Square where we met Gillian who had been hanging around street corners for around half an hour, waiting on us turning up. From there we walked down Queen Street, through the shoppers heading for their trains, buses or cars home and headed towards number 45, past what used to be the Rock Garden bar, the fat face shop and the weird shop with all the gothic necklaces, beads, pipes and bongs in the window.
The last time Ka and myself had passed the Strata bar it had been all shut up, the windows all coated with a messy layer of whitewash. At the time I’d assumed that it had fallen as another victim of this all consuming recession so I was rather surprised to hear that Strata was to be the Ladybird room’s meeting place to kick start the night.

I swung the door open for the three ladies, feeling a little uncomfortable in Amy’s place. Amy, one of the current Ladybirds, had been unable to attend, so Ka and Vicki immediately thought of me to take her place. A kind act of charity considering I’d been moaning at Ka for the past few weeks after discovering the Ladybirds’ plans to visit Glasgow’s West End Comedy Club. I’d been annoying Ka for years to go along with me and check the place out one night and due to reasons unknown, especially to myself, I’d never got around to it. It was even mooted as a possible location for a birthday night out, but again, that never happened (violins please!). So, hearing my woes Vicki agreed with Ka that it would be a good idea to allow myself to accompany them in Amy’s place.
A husband at the work night out.
Not every man’s idea for a night out but it wasn’t so bad as I wasn’t to be the only bloke. We were meeting David, the Ladybird room’s teacher, who had just finished for his summer break the week before and had been, as it turned out, on the sauce since his last day on the Wednesday. In fact, as Vicki, Gillian and Ka led myself upstairs to the tabled area in the lively, rather swanky, new look Strata, we found David sitting back, behind a table, smiling contentedly as he sipped from a colourful daiquiri, his first tipple following the night before.
So the girls started with a cocktail, Ka going non alcoholic, of course, and I settled with a pint whilst we ordered up our meals. The gathered workers started gabbing about work, which I happily found myself fully capable of following many insightful conversations at home with the Mrs. As surprising as it may seem to Ka, I do actually pay attention to the many wonderful, varied tales and goings on produced by the Early Learning Unit. Conversations then went on to David’s night outs since finishing for the summer, his latest puke, the dropping of his iPod from a second floor window, the John Barrowman gig of the previous week attended by Ka and myself and the one song of Tori Amos’ that we all actually remember (Cornflake Girl). A spectacularly cheap bill was then paid, just after David revealed that his choice of Strata for the night was no spur of the moment decision. All meals were half price for the month. This was the first time I’d met David properly and I liked the way he was thinking. Vicki I’d met on various, previous occasions, mostly when I’d been picking Ka up from nights out and Gillian I’d met before but hadn’t really got to know until sitting at dinner with her that night in Strata.
As time was getting on, and David and Vicki fretted about not wanting to end up in the front rows in the Stand, we decided to make a move and after gulping down another pint I followed the Ladybird’s downstairs and back out into the sunny, dry evening to grab a black cab bound for Woodlands Road.
As the cab pulled up David, and some of the others, panicked. A massive queue had already formed, snaking from the small, cellar like entrance of the comedy club. We may have lost our chance for a quiet, secluded, seated position at the back of the room, out of sight from the comedians and out of harms way. We followed the steadily moving queue through the small playground of the old secondary school, down the steps and into the cellar where we were greeted by a colourful, cosy atmosphere surrounded by posters advertising all kinds of crazy acts and comedians, some recognisable, some promising and others just plain bonkers. We already had our tickets sorted so simply handed them over and made our way through the double doors to the main room.
A large open bar filled the left corner of the dimly lit room, whilst the stage stood to the right, a small, raised platform around the centre of the wall upon which a single microphone stood tall, waiting. Facing chairs surrounded the small stage with a multitude of small, round, candlelit tables, most of which were still empty, surprisingly enough, considering the amount of people that had been moving through the entrance doors before us.
The girls picked our seats around a small table at the back of the crowd of tightly packed tables. A safe table, plenty of distance between us and the front of the audience, so we were not slagged off by whomever was to take the stage. Another plus point, the others pointed out, was that this table was also near the toilets. Unsure why this was relevant I was beginning to wonder who I was out with, the Ladybirds or the Old dears?
During the first hour the kitty was made and more drinks were ordered as the ticket holders piled in through the doors behind us, the latecomers struggling for seats. Some of the latecomers consisted of women, dressed for their night out, but obviously also late for their night out. These women hung around suggestively, giving lots of huffs, puffs and vocal complaints about the lack of seats whenever I happened to turn around. Eventually I ended up receiving many an evil look as it slowly sunk in that I wasn’t giving my seat up for anyone, no matter how glamorous they considered themselves or how often they flicked their hair or fiddled with their bra straps.
Eventually the excitable, but not unfunny, compere hit the stage, almost immediately picking out faces from the front rows, only gently slagging them off, and obviously sussing out who was with who for the comedians that were to follow. An entertaining Scots guy was first up, followed by a weird Irish guy that based his routine on Bible stories, a second irish guy was next, and the funniest of the night, followed by a Canadian.
You’d think that as the night went on, and the more drinks that were consumed, the laughs would get louder. The fourth act proved this wrong. Unfortunately myself and the gathered crowd had either drank too much and missed the Canadian’s funny points or just got bored. You’ll notice, of course, that I cannot now remember any of the featured comedians names which could well contribute to the theory of ‘I just drank too much’ and after another few rounds in Oran Mor’s brasserie bar and a slow, oddly stomach churning taxi journey home, I fulfilled that theory with the wrong end of my body down my bathroom’s toilet seat.
Personally I blame Strata’s cut price food myself.

Just for a laugh

Eat, drink, laugh and dance. No, not another day in S&UN.
That’s what the emailed adverts promised when Ka bought my Valentines present a few weeks back. A comedy night in Jongleurs, the comedy club, which is now situated in the large basement of the Mansion House bar on Glassford Street.
Chandeliers. Comfy back couches. Candle lit tables. Velvet curtains. Large, ornately framed mirrors. Designer retro wallpapers. A large polished bar with shelves of sparkling bottles of many colours decorating the walls behind it. Smiling bar staff. Clipboards, where your name appears only eventually so so a member of staff can clarify whether you belong there.
The Mansion House has it all. Upstairs anyway.
After buying a drink at the bar the waitress with the clipboard informed us the Jongleurs Comedy club was actually in the basement.
When the curtain was drawn back at six to welcome those attending the Comedy night we descended the brightly lit staircase into the darkness below. A large black open plan floor space with many sparsely decorated tables laid out, eight to a table, before the small stage adorned with the Jongleurs logo.
I immediately recognised the hall. It was the same basement hall where S&UN had had their Christmas party night out around four years ago. The club was a Tiger Tiger back then and the basement had been advertised as a Winter Wonderland.
In the large dark open space there was one white plastic tree. Back then the room was filled with round tables for around four or five different companies and the Christmas buffet consisted of each table getting a plate of small, barely filled, sandwiches. Needless to say we made the best of it back then but it didn't bode well for our night ahead on Friday.
Ka and myself were greeted by a rather grumpy maitre’d and asked for a name after which he ran his pen down his clipboard, humming an uncheery tune, turned a page and found us half way down the second. He then led us through the floor to a table of 8 already occupied by 4 others. 4 very young, chirpy, young, loud, and young students. Since the 4 were still awaiting another 2 of their party, Ka and myself took the two seats at the end of the table and within moments were served our free glass of wine, which was part of the deal, by our irish waiter called Eoin. John in Irish, apparently (I thought it was Ian). Before we began sipping from our first, free glass of vino, Ka jumped back up to make a quick visit to the toilets. The mens’ toilets.
I’m not sure why as the womens’ was immediately adjacent.
Apparently the urinals gave it away, not to mention the bloke looking quizzically over at her from his space against the wall.
Not long after Ka made it to the ladies and back again, Eoin delivered our plate of thai curry, also part of the deal (the curry, not Eoin – though I’m sure Ka wouldn’t have objected).
The chicken curry was perfectly adequate, but could have done with a naan bread, and a wee bit longer in the microwave. Another ten seconds wouldn’t have killed them.
The remaining 2 students finally arrived and as their banter continued, the loudest of them, an excitable criminologist with thick black framed spectacles and a colourful jumper, Ka and myself quickly finished our glasses of wine and ordered a bottle.
The comedy didn’t start until half past eight and it was only quarter past six.
It was going to be a long wait.
Especially since I could barely hear what Ka was saying to me from across the table as the criminologist couldn’t believe this was his third night out in a row. It’s a pity he couldn’t have put his gifts for criminology to good use when dressing himself for the evening. His jumper looked like something Noel Edmonds would have wore to a House Party.
A tall bloke named Cole Parker, eventually lept up on to the stage as we approached half eight. Parker introduced himself as our compere for the night. A comedian from down south, Parker, who apparently recently appeared on an ITV show called ‘Show me the Funny’, started the night off telling us there would be three other comedians joining us for the evening.
First up was Philip Differ, a newspaper columnist and stand up whose previous employment included working for the BBC and producing and directing episodes of ‘Only An Excuse?’, ‘Scotch and Wry’ and ‘Chewin the Fat’ not to mention a whole shed lot of jobs on radio throughout the eighties on programmes of similar ilk.
Second up was Patrick Rolink, a big guy with a bigger personality, who is apparently big on the comedy circuit, though I suspect he’s big everywhere.
Last up was a bloke from New Zealand called Andre King, who also turned out to be pretty entertaining, being a fantastic linguist and who finished his act with a Haka, the New Zealanders’ war dance that all the Rugby players in the opposing teams try not to laugh at before they start a match.
All in all, the night was surprisingly entertaining.
Recommended to anyone who fancies a good laugh and a bit of grub.
Just don't hold your breath for a naan bread.

A f***ing legend

Driving through Edinburgh’s Grassmarket is not the best place to be at quarter to six on a Friday evening. The roads through the maze that is the Scottish capital are busy at the best of times but rushing through the milling crowds, finishing work, heading home or retreating to the nearest bars and pubs for an after work drink is no mean feat.
The sun was once more shining down upon Scotland on Friday as Ka and myself arrived in Edinburgh, heading through the roads towards the University sector and Nicholson Street where a particularly busy Friday night at the Festival theatre lay.
Before Ka and myself eventually got parked in a cobbled back alley somewhere we found ourselves travelling too far up by the Theatre and on to Pleasance we had had to politely grab a innocent passer by for directions which is probably just as well as we were heading directly for the heart of Holyrood Forest, where we would have probably got stuck, lost and then perhaps shot by a Royal party the next morning enjoying a pre Wedding hunt.
We arrived at the Festival theatre slightly stressed and vaguely dishevelled especially after I’d just changed my shirt, bearing my naked upper half to a couple of laughing women who just happened to be passing in the back alley we’d just parked in. Ka and myself had travelled straight from work so the journey had been ever so slightly rushed.
Crowds and queues circled the entrance to the theatre as we entered the large glass doors, scanning the crowds mingling around the first, ground floor bar, for Colin, Jillian and her sister Claire, the two girls being the main organisers of the night’s event.
Reginald D. Hunter, the brilliantly dry and drawling ‘Have I Got news For You’, ‘8 out of 10 Cats’ and other such panel shows, regular was performing live on stage with guests comedians for the Dave comedy channel. Claire, Jillian’s sister and who is lucky enough to work for the Beeb, managed to get us all tickets including guest passes for the free bar. Yes, you read right. Free bar. Fantastic. If only I hadn’t been driving.
Everyone knows you can’t possibly drink and drive.
Steve Hughes, the Australian comedian who preceded Hunter on stage, talked of billboard signs back in Oz that held the simple warning statement of ‘If you drink and drive, you’re a bloody idiot’.
Hughes replied to these saying, ‘but if you manage to get home, you’re a f***ing legend’.
Considering we were in Edinburgh though, I doubted I would even attempt the title of ‘legend’.
As the show was being filmed for television, Claire had to leave us beforehand to dive back stage and view from the editor’s box, while Ka, Colin, Jillian, Vicki, a mate of Jillian’s, and myself took our seats complete with pints of beer, pints of wine and a coke.
As we talked, filling the waiting time, the older woman sitting at my side, quietly read her book, engrossed. Unfortunately she did not take too kindly to being interupted though as she tutted and growled whenever Colin and the girls had to move past to make a trip to the toilet and then growling again whenever they appeared back to move back down into their seats.
A Newcastle comedian, whose name escapes me, acted as the host and warm up act, quickly identifying the annoying hecklers in the crowd, and introduced the man himself, Reginald D. Hunter, who, after a brief intro, welcomed the first comedian on stage, a German fellow named Henning When. Unfortunately this guy pretty much put us all to sleep, the majority of his act centred on the slightly mistaken idea that us Brits all love After Eights (Who knows, what he was on about, Allo Allo is much funnier).
Next up was the man from Oz, Steve Hughes, a tall, rake like, figure with lots of hair a large moustache, under an elegant roman nose, with a liking for heavy metal and beer. Thankfully Hughes was much funnier and woke the audience up again before another of Reg’s mates from London came on stage. Again I can’t remember that particular comedian’s name either, but at least I can safely say it wasn’t the drink to blame. Reg eventually sauntered out on to the stage for his forty minute stint keeping the audience mostly entertained with the exception of a few misfires, including asking for a vote from the Scottish crowd and then an audience member to explain why they vote conservative. As we were in Edinburgh there was at least five people in the crowd, who, unsurprisingly only half volunteered their hand to the air and avoided Reg’s gaze.
Afterwards, as the theatre audience headed out towards the large front glass doors, we headed up to the VIP bar to meet Claire and enjoy a couple of drinks following the show.
Claire had watched some of the camera’s viewpoints being filmed and confirmed that we were in more than a few close up shots of the theatre audience, clapping, laughing and generally looking entertained. Which makes me slightly nervous as I wasn’t wholly entertained to a visible extent all the way through the show. In fact, I’m sure Colin had his head in his hands and Ka was actually dozing at one point during Henning’s stand up about After Eights.
The older woman with the book, who had been sitting beside me throughout the show, actually turned up in the small crowd with the VIP bands and spoke with Henning, obviously a fan of his work, enough of a fan to be dragged her away from her mystery thriller anyway.
After around half an hour in the bar, the comedians started venturing in to join the twenty or so, strong crowd taking advantage of Beeb money booze (and coke). The girls almost immediately circled Steve Hughes, who chatted back whilst Colin and myself watched suspiciously from the side. At one point I interupted a conversation the big Aussie was having with Ka to inform him that ‘he had way too much hair to be talking with my wife’. Hughes laughed, patted me on the arm and continued his conversation with Ka, who was, apparently, to be the new singer in his band.
Reginald D hunter then appeared mingling with the small crowd, relaxed and comfortable after his, well, relaxed and comfortable performance on stage. Our little team eventually encircled the main himself getting some photos and sharing some crazy chatter.
Vicki asked Reg what he preferred to be called, whether it be Reg, Regi, Reginald? Hunter shrugged and smiled back.
“Whatever, man. Call me whatever”.
To which Colin piped in “Baby cakes?”
Reg looked round at Colin with a slight frown as if considering his next answer, or giving the Scottish translator in his brain time to kick in, and then laughed with a shrug.
After seeming comfortable and relaxed in the bar for the past hour or so, after being surrounded by us, must have now been felling to need to escape from our hyper conversation and left to ‘talk with his peeps’ disappearing through a door at the side of the bar, not before telling my wife how ‘elegant’ she looked, leaving us to more of the delicious free wine, vodkas, magners… and coke.
As I drove everyone home, up the pitch black M8, at 2 in the morning, I admitted to myself that you certainly don’t need drink to have a good time, even if there is a free bar... I’ll try to leave the car at home next time though.

The good, the bad and the funky

“Who are they then?” Dave frowned, turning in his chair in the new workplace, the stiflingly hot office with broken down air conditioning.
“Who the hell are the Tom, Tom, Club?” Mum frowned over her spectacles, as she put her book down in the conservatory yesterday.
“Whose the Tom Tom Club then?” Colin frowned, after opening his birthday presents which included a Miles Kane album and a remote controlled Dalek. “Jillian said they something about a bunch of councillors or something?”
“Let’s go see the Tom Tom Club th’night guys” a wee ned laughed, as he passed the O2 ABC on Sauchiehall Street. “Whoever they ur!”
Nobody knows who the Tom Tom Club are. Except from the mixed, happy crowd that occupied Glasgow’s ABC2 club on Wednesday night.
Ka and myself were among them, bopping away to the good, the bad and the funky beats.
The Tom Tom Club are the band formed in 1981 by Talking Heads’ bassist Tina Weymouth and drummer husband Chris Frantz, originally formed as a side project for the two of them which, when Talking Heads split in the late eighties, then became their main project. They were and are an original, new wave, electro pop, rock outfit and very rarely make live appearances in Britain, never mind Scotland, so, being a Talking Heads fan, I bought the tickets a few weeks ago out of sheer curiosity. It was a good gig, more rock than rap.
Cheers went up in the small ABC2 as Billy Sloan walked out on to the stage bringing the DJ’s set to a close around nine, introducing the band on to stage. The band performed till late playing their hits along with their three famous cover versions and one or two surprises from the Talking Heads catalogue, including a fantastic ‘Psycho Killer’ to finish off, making a lot of the gathered fans very happy, some exceptionally so. One lassie headbanged her way through the gig, making me suspect she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and was actually supposed to be in the SECC, watching Iron Maiden and was just too drunk to realise. Her sweaty hair swung and spun around her head into surrounding members of the audience before us, one of which was a pretty tall guy in a red T-shirt. This guy was not popular either as he kept letting off the most horrendous smelling farts, ruining the following five minutes of the gig for us standing behind him with his offending gases. Gawd knows what he’d been eating.
On my way up to the ABC to get the tickets, before the gig, leaving Ka sitting outside Bar Bhudda in the dying sunshine, I passed by the Tom Tom Club as they ambled down Sauchiehall Street together, presumably for a bite to eat. As I was running I’d already past the small motley crew before I realised that it was actually them and it was with considerable excitement that I arrived back down at the bar, tickets in pockets, to hurriedly ask Ka if she’d seen them.
“Seen who?” Ka frowned.
“The Tom Tom Club!” I gesticulated urgently, people frowning, looking up from their drinks from surrounding tables. “They must have passed right by!”
“Oh, is that who they were?” Ka nodded in realisation, recognising the description I gave her. A couple from Newcastle, sitting at the table alongside us, nodded knowingly.
“We’re going too” the rather boring looking couple nodded. Following a brief conversation with the couple from Newcastle (who originated from Glasgow, according to Ka, but had been living down south for nine years) a bird sh*t on me. The second ‘sh*tty’ situation in a week and the second bird poo I have received on Sauchiehall Street.
Anyway, following the gig, some members of the Tom Tom Club came out to mingle with the crowd.
As Ka and myself left we passed Victoria Clamp, the singer who accompanies Tina on vocal duties. I interrupted the conversation she was having with two other blokes to thank her for the show which she politely nodded and thanked me for, looking a little disturbed at the same time as she seemed to have been accosted by a strange, shivery looking bloke who apparently didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night.
Before the show had started I’d also shook Frankie Boyle’s hand. Ka had been in the loo when I suddenly noticed a familiar, heavily bearded, bespectacled, face minding his own business, supping a pint with his bespectacled wife in the quiet, but steadily busying crowd before the stage. As Ka eventually emerged from the loo I led her up towards the bar but took a slight detour by the controversial, Scottish comedian. Ka sighed and rolled her eyes, again not realising, wondering who it was I’d met now. It was not until after my cheery ‘pleased to meet you’ and friendly handshake that Ka’s eyes recognised the bearded man before her.
Boyle had seemed happy enough, and polite enough, to acknowledge the recognition, shifting his pint to his other hand for the handshake which he greeted with a smile and a nod.
You hear horror stories of people meeting celebrities in the street and being given unfriendly replies to hellos or, if you’ve really got the balls, autograph requests. For instance there was more than a few stories of innocent, excited bystanders greeting Billy Connelly and being given a rude and rather severe “f**k off!” in return.
I’ll never understand that myself. Being rich and famous is surely a privilege and being recognised in the street is surely expected to come hand in hand with such a chosen career, so why be rude in such a fashion to the people that keep you in the job? Okay, you might be having a bad day, but there’s no need for bad language surely? If you were to see someone famous in the street and start slinging insults at them, their work or their latest movies, I’m sure a “f**k off!” would be justified, but if you’re simply saying hello, surely a simple nod would suffice.
Boyle obviously understands this and is quite willing to shake the hands of a passing concert goers, happy after a few pints. Either that or he is now treasuring any pleasantries he can get after the criticism he got for slagging off Jordan’s kid.

Frankie’s wife frowned as the strange, smiling bloke walked off to the bar, towing his own wife behind.
“Who was that then?”
Frankie looked round at her and shrugged.
“No f***in’ idea” he hummed with a slight shake of the head taking another sip from his pint. “Just another to**er”.
His wife sighed with a nod as she took another drink from her vodka and coke.
“So” she frowned again, as she looked round towards the stage. “What’s this band called again?”

Rivers in the Underbelly

After a generally lazy day yesterday, we went into Edinburgh last night for a few drinks and to see the crazy American lady that is Joan Rivers. After a few drinks in the grassmarket, including a visit to The Last Drop, we headed to the Underbelly under George IV bridge and the Central Library. The venue itself is a collection of dark, stone walled vaults conencted by spiral stairs and small, poster covered rooms leading into warm, dank, dungeon like rooms ending in a stage which serve as the main arenas. On the way up to the White Belly (the room where Rivers was appearing) I passed Glen Wool and Jimmy Carr on the spiral stairs. Wool we'd seen on his 10 minutes Comedy Gala stint on the Monday night. Rivers arrived from the back of the room, once we were all seated, her craggy, raspy voice immediately echoing throughout the vault as she handed out fans to people and got up on stage only to find her microphone stand fixed at the wrong height. Of course she immediately started complaining as she tried to loosen up the mike to bring it up a little higher and when she found she wasn't strong enough to unscrew it she then looked up at the audience gathered before her and asked for some help in the form of a big, strong...lesbian. From what I could see there were a few definite contenders in the audience but a big, burly man from Bognor Regis eventually got up to help her. She was a complete hoot for the whole hour. The time flew by. She was at her funniest when talking about her supposed life experiences including her recent walk on the Great Wall of Chine for Cancer Research, her dating disasters and her cynical approach to life in general. Really funny and great comedy entertainment from the supposed 75 year old. You can barely tell what age she is now! After another wee drink afterwards we headed out into the streets again to make our way back to the car (which seems to have recovered from its swimming lessons the other night). We walked through E4's Udderbelly and generally took in some of the great Fringe atmosphere which makes Edinburgh such a great, fun place to be at this time of year.

Comedy Gala and rivers

Having a great week this week as I'm not in work! Woohoo! No work, nilch, nada. Wake up, when I wake up, get up, when I get up, do whatever, when I decide what whatever happens to be at the time.
Yesterday included going out for brunch at the local and then heading into the country's capital to check out some of the Fringe and head for the Comedy Gala 2008 in aid of Waverly Care. This was a night in the city's Festival Theatre on Edinburgh's South Bridge Street. A great night of at least twenty comedians getting up on stage and giving either a taste of their own fringe show or just a general outburst of their usual stand up banter for approximately ten minutes each. Each with their own styles, outlooks and moralistic approaches to life the variety of talent made it top class entertainment from the likes of Michael McIntyre, Mark Watson, Jim Jeffries and so many others. McIntyre was the host for the first half of the night and possibly, for me, one of the most entertaining comedians of the lot. Sean Grant and Stephen K Amos were also a great hoot. Definately worth looking out for in the future if not tomorrow when we head back in to Edinburgh for more Fringe fun including an appointment with Joan Rivers at quarter to midnight. hey, the woman might be seventy odd but is still hilairious, or f***ing hilairious as I'm sure she'd put it (followed by a walking stick pulling her off the set of 'Loose Women' by the neck). Looking to head in around five for something else to take us up to the 'witching' hour though and hopefully it will not be p*ssing down with rain tomorrow.
Just before settling down to watch the stupid and fun Kung Fu Panda there we fought our way back to East Kilbride through torrential rain on roads that could be easily mistaken for rivers - and Ka was driving?! Sure, she's a skilled driver now (thanks largely to my Master like teaching) but I do not think she'd expected to be driving a glorified river rapid vehicle before she passed her test. The wee clio seemed to transform into Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on the back roads from Hamilton, swimming through the roads rather than driving. Unfortunately my hands were too busy gripping the side dash to be waving cheerily as any passers by. Unsurprisingly there were few passers by except in other struggling vehicles. The expressway was jam packed, probably due to flooding, so I instructed Ka to take the back road route from Hamilton over the small stoney bridge round the back of St Leonards. Unfortunately this is where the trouble began as each of the roads up to the bridge was a flow of gushing, swirling, flooding water as if ever river and stream surrounding EK had simultaneously burst its banks like some bad Pierce Brosnan disaster movie. However, just like some bad Pierce Brosnan disaster movie, we pressed on against all odds and survived finding the deepest water of all more or less on our doorstep, outside our street on Maxwellton Road. So deep infact the Clio managed to gain another wheel from somewhere as a wheel trim managed to get lodged in our underside. This created a worrying, grating noise, the origins of which of course, we did not know about at the time and made me wonder whether the Clios exhaust had left us and spun off down the Maxwellton river. When we finally came to a stop, with smoke drifting up from under the Clio's bonnet, I did manage to free the newly acquired wheel trim as water dribbled down onto me from the pipes and, (thankfully still attached) exhaust. A journey we hope not to repeat in any way going to and from Edinburgh after going to see a woman called Rivers!