*Puts a finger to your lips*
Don’t talk, just listen.
*Puts a finger to your lips*
Don’t talk, just listen.
I call this the scotch egg gate, but it could easily be referred to as just another conversation between my boyfriend and I.
I suppose this argument stands out in my mind because it’s made me question my own gluttony (which, up until this point, I’ve had nothing but respect for) and it also only happened 40 minutes ago and I’m now just killing time before bed. I could just go to sleep but, if I forget all boundaries of social decency, I can’t do that because I’m currently in that weird limbo of being very gassy and needing a poo but also not so much in need of a poo that I can actually have one. Ladies, if that phrase disgusts you, you really need to look in a mirror because the woman staring back has probably dealt with something similar.
Seriously, all women are constipated. That’s just a fact of life. It’s actually quite depressing when you sit down and think of all the ways a woman’s body hates her. Take myself for instance. It’s bad enough when my period arrives but when it does my body also takes it upon itself to shit non-stop. I’m talking like Mt. Snowdon size craps. Think fecal matter hemorrhaging out of one end while at the front I’M BLEEDING! I mean, really, what did I do to deserve such horror? All men have to go through is baldness (which actually, considering how awful my boyfriend would look bald, is pretty shitty). Oh, and they die younger, cause of heart problems and all that. But still – massive period shits! WTF?!
Anyway, where was I before I started talking about my bowels? (A phrase I say on a weekly basis BTW) Oh yes, the scotch egg. So basically we had just had a Thai curry before we entered the pub and I said to Him that I quite fancied a dessert of some kind. A perfectly reasonable statement. So we go the bar and they have these massive scotch eggs on offer.
Now a thing you need to know about me is that I bloody love scotch eggs. Mini versions (AKA party eggs) are my favourite but I do also enjoy a fancy GASTRO PUB version when the occasion is right. If it were up to me, I would hide mini scotch eggs all around my home and place of work so that I could pick them up throughout my daily travels as a ‘keep going’ snack. Of course, everyone would hate me if I did that because eggs (annoyingly) smell really bad. Let my current fart situation be testament to that.
So I’m famous for loving scotch eggs. That’s a thing of mine. Which means when I say ‘oh yeaaaah, a scotch egg’ at 7pm after I’ve been out for Thai, I’m CLEARLY making satire out of myself. I don’t actually want a scotch egg.
Now imagine my amazement when two drinks later He appears we a scotch egg and the excuse “oh I needed to meet the card limit”. Meet the card limit? Mate, I now have to eat a pound of sausage, breadcrumbs, and egg on a full stomach!
(Real time update: as I reach this sentence I’ve just come back from the toilet. The bowels have been evacuated, you can all breath a sigh of relief. My arse has.)
And it’s not like I could have just let that scotch egg just go to waste. That would be grossly out of character. People would think I was dying and go through a process of grief. Or call MI5 and report an impostor – costing taxpayers money! So I had to eat nearly the entire thing – barring some of the actual egg itself (but to be fair it’s the sausage casing where the real love and devotion have gone into the craft). I even dropped some of it on the floor in a food-drunk inebriation and then put the egg droppings in a pint glass.
Bar staff look at you very judgmentally when they find bits of egg in your empty glass. Sorry I’m not cool enough to not drop my gastro pub egg on the floor. Sorry my working-class roots are showing, sir!
Anyway, my boyfriend is now home and he keeps telling me that writing this blog is pointless and that despite committing over 700 words to this piece that nothing has actually been said. Other than I ate a scotch egg and felt very full. This is indeed correct but who’s more easily judged – the writer of the nothing or the reader of the nothing? *puts on philosophical beard and strokes it while making ‘hmmm’ noise*
I’m totally joking, of course I’m to blame. Me and Jenny Lawson – who is such a master of saying too much that she makes you feel like you can do the same in your blog. SPOILER: You totally can’t because your loved one will sit next to you in the bed making disapproving air noises through his nose.
Speaking of disapproving air… *insert final fart joke here*
‘I can’t wait to get back to London and write down all my Fringe recommendations,” I said to myself half way through our Fringe run.
Two, maybe even three weeks later, here we are and not a review in sight. To my fellow Fringe performers, I am sorry. Honestly, I did plan on telling everyone how amazing Alison Thea-Skot’s show was and how I nearly cried during Alice Fraser’s set but… Fringe fatigue, you understand.
Now the Fringe is over and my well intentioned blog post is about as useful as Cameron’s refugee comments. However, if there’s one thing the Fringe taught me, it’s that nothing in life can’t be solved with a good joke (and a large donation at the end of a show).
I won’t lie to you, I was pretty disappointed when I saw that my jokes had failed to pick up that shiny best joke award. I mean, what is this? A competition based on merit? Unbelievable.
As an improviser, not only was I creating new jokes every night but I was doing it on the spot too. Like some kind of joke robot, I had transcended the human body and reached a humour field beyond our mere mortal comprehension. Not that I’m bragging or anything.
How do you create jokes in improv comedy? Well, if you’ve seen Who’s Line is it Anyway, you’ll know that improv (specifcally short-form improv, don’t worry about the technical terms though. It’s all just pratting around) is made up of games. One of the hardest games known to improvisers is… 185. The rules to this challenge are simple, the audience shout out a word and you have the make a bar joke on the lines of: “185 (things) walk into a bar and…”
I don’t want to say I rocked this game but it’s essentially an excuse to use puns so… it was like butter and jam my friends. Here are the five top 185 jokes of mine that should have definitely gotten me the top crown (and again remember, that the subject of all these jokes was chosen by other people. Any offense is on their heads):
By the way, yes I will be capitalizing all the puns. Please imagine the look of joy on my face as I yelled them at a room full of people. A cross between manically insane and smug.
Also, you’ll notice in that joke that chairs are talking. This is very meta (I don’t know what Meta means but I assume it can be applied to chairs talking) and therefore makes me ABSTRACT and COOL.
Oh wait, I just remembered what meta means. This is meta, not the talking chairs thing. My point on being cool still stands.
Also, the audience gave us a really long subject here so the rhythm is kind off but I think you’ll all agree that by powering through that I am a comic hero.
Now the audience did not get this joke until a mouthed out ‘it’s a Savile joke’ – at which point they still didn’t laugh and just looked disgusted. But this just shows how daring I am or maybe that I’ve just become a bit of a twat. One of the two.
Okay so most of my jokes were about sex but our show was at 1am. I was giving the people what they wanted!
And now finally, my best joke that (like the Savile one) might be a bit too inappropriate is…
Now I know what you’re thinking. ‘Well it’s not politically correct but at least she didn’t do an illustration of it‘. And to you reader I say – you don’t know me at all!
What can I say? I love puns.
Okay so there’s three days to Edinburgh, time to think about packing. Have I got enough socks? Underwear? Shit, I don’t have enough underwear. Why do I only have eight pairs of knickers? I bet the rest are at Jack’s – being in a relationship is a real knickers juggling act. Okay, I’ll just buy more knickers. And socks, I really don’t have enough socks and it would be nice to have a matching pair again. Maybe I’ll go to H&M or into town to the big Primark… actually, scratch that. Never Primark. And actually, I’m too tired to shop. But I’ll definitely get round to it. Tomorrow.
Okay, only two days to Edinburgh. Time for a BIG wash. Should I separate lights from darks? No, that’s too much of a faff. Just throw it all in together. That’ll do. Now I’ll just put in the washing stuff and… we’re out of powder. And conditioner. Great – off to the shop. Now do I buy a cheap powder and a nice fabric softner or do I go for one of those ‘all in one’ tablets. Hmm… I feel like the tablets are a rip off. OH! This washing gel is on offer, Jack uses this. But does it need softner too? I know Jack doesn’t use fabric softner but he’s hardly a domestic goddess, so how does he smell? Have I ever found his clothes lacking in flowery odour? Can’t actually remember the last time I smelt him. Does he even have a scent? God, what if I’m dating an odourless person? Fuck it, I’ll get the gel.
Right, the day before I set off to Edinburgh. I’m in H&M, things are getting done. OoOoooOooo those flares are nice! I’ve always thought I would look good in flares – fuck it, I’ll get them. Size 14, play it safe. I bet they won’t fit though, just because the universe is a knob like that. Might as well get some tops to go with them. Oh! I can get that feminist t-shirt I saw last time. Maybe this vaguely French one too? Oh and definitely this black top with moons on it. I like moons. Hmm… actually, maybe I shouldn’t get the French one. Am I a big enough spender for three new tops? No, I’m not. Put it back.
Now should I get a hoodie? They’re not really my style but I guess one would be useful. Hmm… £15, for something I’m not even fussed about. I bet Primark will have one cheaper. Yeah, never say never to Primark. I’ll go while I’m up there. Maybe… Oh shit! Socks and knickers! Just quickly shove them in my basket at the till. Great. Very productive. Excellent shopping trip.
Back home, I’ll pack once I try on these new flares. Hmm… a little hard to get them past the thigh. Have to suck it in a bit to get the zip done up. Christ, this is ridiculous. I am a slim(ish) person, how can I need a size 16? Maybe they’ll stretch. They look good but that is because they’re holding everything in. Maybe I’m just not used to fitted clothing; most of my other trousers do have elastic waists.
Fuck it, I’m sure they’ll wear in and I’ll only wear them when I don’t need to sit down. I’ll just go to all the standing shows.
Now time to pack. After dinner. Yeah, do it after dinner. After this episode of Him & Her. After two episodes. Three. Might as well finish the series if I’m this far gone. Okay, now time to pack! Although I am tired, could I get all this packing done in the morning? Is that too… rebellious? Am I a rebel?
No I’m not, can’t believe I’m even entertaining the thought. Best get all that washing off the clothes horse. What should I take and what should I leave behind? Obviously the tiger onesie is a yes but should I take a jacket? Hmm… I’ll leave that to the spur of the moment. Yes to that, yes to this, no to that, no, no, yes, yes, yes, fuck it yeah, no, yes, yes. I’ll grab that and just tuck this in the side. Should I pack a nice going out dress? No.
Bag looks pretty full now, that’s as good as the packing being done. I’ll leave the rest to morning Heather.
Morning of departure – nothing gets you in the mood for a long day of travel like waking up to the sound of foxes having sex. Why do foxes have sex like that? Why do they sound like babies crying? Hmm… maybe I should ponder these thoughts after I get the rest of my packing done. Thanks a lot, night Heather.
Okay, toiletries packed. Toothbrush packed (haha, screw you toothbrush I bet you thought I would forget you!). Laptop packed WITH charger – boom. Other electricals get shoved in with their chargers. Towel. Sleeping bag – though this doesn’t mean anything if I leave it on the train. Must not leave it on the train. Speaking of train, best pack a book. I am an intellectual.
Shoes are in there. I’ve got my tickets in my bag, the app downloaded on my phone. What else? Oh yes, a jacket! Big decision time, yey or ney to the jacket. I’m going to go with… YES! Shove it in, shove everything in!
And I’m done. The ordeal is complete. All I have to do now is board a train and write it all up in a blog post. Speaking of which, that too is now done. Cracking.
A cool thing about my new job is that I get to write things. I like writing. Writing is really cool and gives my introverted self a chance to go – OH HEY! LOOK AT THIS! AREN’T I SUBTLY HILARIOUS!
That’s what you’re all thinking, right? That I’m hilarious? I’m going to assume yes because, and here’s the best thing of it all, I’m the writer and you’re the reader. Silly reader, you can’t reach into the screen and write a miss massive ‘NO, FUCK OFF’ into the middle of this. Not yet anyway.
*Gives a nervous side eye to Windows 10*
However, part of writing for a living is that you also get edited for a living. Which means wiser people come in and point out what could be done better. No surprise, my grammar usually comes up. My grammar is, by my own admission, pretty shit and most of my professional life involves me trying to hide this. But hey, it’s not my fault that up until college my teachers taught me that you only use a comma when you take a breath*.
*Note, this is not grammar, this is breathing.
Another useful thing about editors is that they tell you when you’re trying TOO DAMN HARD. Again, I’ll hold my hand up and admit to this. I’m often guilty of struggling how to convey my love of something, so therefore compensate by writing utter fangirl nonsense. Such as – Oh it’s the best, the best thing ever. Can you tell I like it CAUSE I JUST KEEP BLABBING ON ABOUT IT!
My editor recently told me that nothing makes people want to dislike something more than someone telling them to like it. People are bratty like that. We all like to make our own minds up and for that we need to REASON not just hear gushing praise.
At one point in my internet career, I tried to create a book reviewing blog. I think I managed two posts before I gave up – why? Because everything I was writing sounded so fake. Like I was being paid to get people to like it – and that I also sucked at this job. I couldn’t understand why my writing sounded so atrocious but now I do. It’s cause I was trying too hard. I spent too much time saying that I liked it, rather than trying to pin point what about the book made me like it.
I think science calls this ‘cause and effect’. Or is that affect? Jesus, grammar is hard.
Anyway, I now believe that if you really love something it will show. Also, that editors are great. All hail those who check for comma errors!