Today was Jon's last day in Edinburgh, lucky Jon. We went to the cafe again and then went to Pound-something to get a small suitcase so that he could courier some clothes that I had stupidly packed that I will never wear and despite Jon not bringing underwear, there was little room left in his bag.
As I was queuing, a woman lifted a suitcase and asked me if I worked there. I was upset and replied, "Erm... no." I instantly changed my tone as I didn't want to offend the person stood in front of me who did work there.
I sent Jon packing with two summery dresses, a pair of leggings, two books and a pair of flip-flops - and some things of mine (fnah). I don't know what I was thinking packing flip-flops. At my venue, they are giving away flip-flops with every bottle of Bacardi Breezer. Seems utterly pointless in this town unless there's a call for people who work in swimming baths who also enjoy sugary alcoholic drinks from the early noughties.
It was horrible putting Jon on the train, not only did I feel alone again, I was jealous that he was going to be sleeping in my bed with no one else in the flat very soon.
I wandered down to Bravissimo to spend some vouchers I had received for my birthday last year. The last time I was fitted was when I was 10kgs heavier so I went for a re-measure. The girl in the shop did that sucking through her teeth and tutting thing that make women feel ashamed around their bras. I explained that the bra did fit me at some point during 2009. She looked at the label to see what size it was but couldn't see as it had faded; once again, I felt ashamed to have underwear with faded labels. Bravissimo have made a market in having incorrectly sized bras and specialise in selling bra sizes that don't exist anywhere else. Let's say that Bravissimo have fitted me with a 32F, if I go to Debenhams tomorrow, I will be laughed out of the shop as a dreamer or someone that doesn't know their bra size.
Anyway, I walked out with three bras and a pair of knickers that will only fit me if I wear them over another pair of knickers (you're not allowed to try knickers on unless it's over your knickers). I felt fixed and not alone for five minutes.
Over to Slappers where I started flyering and the skived in the pub pretending that I had an important phone call to make. I played Boggle on my phone for a while and then headed out again to give away the rest of my flyers with personalised calls for everyone but nice this time..."Free stand-up for people in red jumpers." "Free stand-up for bearded people." (And that was just the women).
We had four people in, I would have pulled the gig but the others seemed ok with it. More people came in as the afternoon went on. I was MC'ing and made a lack-lustre attempt at learning about the audience. It ended. We got a pound each. A pound. The least I've received so far.
Mark and I walked to Tescos and bought some food to cook at mine. We talked about our short-term comedy plans. He wants to act more. I don't want to be on stage ever again. Sorted. See you at Christmas for catch-ups.
Onwards to Gagstronomic. Mark flyered in a busier street which brought in more and a better audience. It was possibly the best one we've had tonight. There were pockets of the audience that really went for my material and I saw one guy spit his drink out at my medieval jokes - I think that's a compliment. We got a decent bucket, enough for fags and then some.
You may notice that I am saying less as I move towards the rant. I'll be there in a minute.
Romesh and I went to a BBC gig which was ok I suppose. It was long. I watched in boredom a lot of the time. Some of these comedians do not interest me in the slightest with their tales of gigging here and gigging there. The last guy was Hannibal Burress from a place called America (I think that's how you spell it). He writes for 30 Rock and I had met him briefly yesterday and shook his hand. I've shook the hand that shook the hand of Tina Fey! He was odd. Very quiet and had nothing to say. He was a bit taken aback by me saying that I loved his stuff, like I'd said that he'd stolen my car. In the end, I kind of had to walk away without any definite end to the conversation. Very uncomfortable indeed. I had the opportunity to speak to him tonight but heeded by own warning.
Dane Baptiste, an open mic comic from South London was around. We talked about being the plankton and being ignored. We looked around and every person in the vicinity
And then I came home. Deep breath.
I failed to mention that earlier today, I washed my bedding. I hung it out on the washing line to dry, taking advantage of the wind. It was nearly dry before I left for Gagstro for brought it in and put the duvet cover on the radiator for a final drying session. On my return to the flat, I went to radiator and found a sheet and a duvet, damp and drying on the radiator. Someone (and I fucking know who) had decided that as their duvet wasn't dry yet, they should take mine. I was livid and can feel myself getting more livid still.
I went into my bedroom to decide what to do, put my unstolen bedding onto my bed and came back out. This time, someone (I fucking know who) had removed the sheet and the duvet cover from the radiator. I guess because their guest may have needed something damp to sleep under.
What a fucking piss-take. In 2010, I got a bonus at work, I spent some of it on new bedding. My duvet at home is a 100% Hungarian Goose down king size duvet 10.5 tog. It lies on top of the best mattress I've ever slept on and it is lovely. I really love it. Whilst I've been here in this fucking awful town, I've been sleeping under a 100% polypropylene Ikea duvet 4.5 tog that, according to the Ikea website, costs £2.99. Even reading the word "polypropylene" makes me itch and is probably causing me cancer somewhere in my body. I am under it as I type with no fucking cover on it. Yyyyyyyyyuk. This is fucking bullshit.
Duvet-gate is the third consecutive "-gate" after two nights of drunken shouting and screaming. I haven't been into the living room for weeks now as the last time I went in there, it stank of wine and the tables looked sticky. However, loud and drunken merriment is one thing, you're drunk blah blah blah but actually consciously taking a washed and dried duvet and then replacing it with a wet one and then taking that one too is an act I find so heinous, I can do nothing but cry.
I thought about leaving an aggressive note that read:
To whomever stole my fucking duvet cover,
I had the gumption to wash and dry my bedding this morning so that I could sleep with it tonight, if you chose to wait until later in the day then fuck you. By stealing my clean and dry bedding from the radiator and using it yourself, you are a cunt of the highest order and I'd ask that you leave the duvet cover that has been washed, dried and unused outside my room so that my mother and I have something to sleep under that isn't going send my mother's psoriasis into chronic mode.
Plus another paragraph which I published and then edited out that is way too offensive for internet publication but if you're interested in it (it's pretty funny) then contact me on the twitter and I'll let you know.
But I couldn't find a pen.