Apparently last week was not the last night of the Comedy Cave gig in Edinburgh. I know that because last NIGHT was. I was charged with the responsibility of heading up north to Scotland - me? on the A1 again? surely not!? - to tech and MC this most historical of events in Scottish comedy. In fairness, it was a bit simpler than that. I turned up to a pub with a bunch of wires and stuff, set up the gig and then waited to see if we had an audience.
On the positive side, I managed to get an hour's stroll around Edinburgh before the gig, since I arrived early and chose to use my early arrival as an excuse to grab a Starbucks icy beverage and wander up and down the streets of one of my favourite cities. I covered a reasonable area too:
Then it was time for the gig. The comedy gods decided to provide an immense gaggle of pretty young girls - well, a party of 8, at least. One of these young ladies was so outrageously pretty that I suspect I delivered much of my set directly to her. However, they were all so young... well, 18-20, but that's quite young... I had to confess that my primary instinct was to make sure they all got home safely. This got a collective aaaah from them, which is sort of good.
In other news, I still managed to resist the evils of late night shit-eating (where we're talking a metaphoric sort of shit, which can be bought from motorway services). I'm now in the habit of only eating things branded as low-calorie or low-fat. Technically, not eating at all might be better, but I have hungers, and perhaps my appetite will diminish if all I eat is as uninspiring as this. It's certainly easier on the pocket not to be spending £7 on sweets and snacks in the services. My Berwick stop (it's a good way to break the trip from Edinburgh to Newcastle) cost me £2.25 in healthy tuna sandwich.
Bloody night pay
Boycott night pay. That's what I say. If people don't trust you, then don't give them your money. The Berwick Shell station lets you go in and be treated as a human - that's why I go there. The same can be said for the Esso in Musselburgh, if you need a closer-to-Edinburgh stop. Yet a large quantity of the service stations in our land operate a frosty shouting-through-glass-getting-your-goods-through-a-slot service. If I wanted my petrol station to be a vending machine, rather than a shop, then I'd design it with more convenient buttons.