December 31st, 2009
First I would like to apologise to anyone who reads my blog for the complete lack of updating in recent weeks. This is due to the fact that I have been working hard for ComComedy and also directing a show – not because ridiculous things have stopped happening to me, or that I have stopped my useless commentary. A mere break. Hopefully I will be more reliable in the new year. And write a play, buy a house, go to India, get a puppy, and quit my day job. In no particular order.
So I thought I would briefly go into my first experience as a director – I directed a street panto that was performed outside in Primrose Gardens throughout December to some very excited children and some (potentially less) excited and exceedingly cold grown-ups. As it happens we pulled it off – the reviews were great and the feedback was excellent. However, I found being a director a lonely job, especially when you have been thrown into the role and really have no idea what you’re doing.
The main problem with it is that no-one really likes you. As an actor you spend all your time thinking about who in the cast is eligible of your attention and/or a useful contact for future work and taking every possible moment to chat them up whilst ignoring the slightly odd and fairly motley crew (backstage people). As a crew member you spend a lot of time drinking, frolicking and making odd costumes such as spaghetti yetti out of mop heads with other crew members and the rest of the time staring at the actors and making them feel uncomfortable.
The cast don’t overly want to socialise with the director because they disagree with most of the decisions you’ve made. In addition you’ve spent the whole weekend bossing them about without breaks and telling them that their concerns about this or that (being wheeled in on a trolley in in a giant, but not quite big enough to stand up in, dark box and appearing in a magical puff of smoke with very little cue for example) are not worthy, without actually finding a solution. The crew don’t want to socialise you because you are one who has insisted on having a real fish in a bag as a prop which they will have to catch prior to each show and the reason they have to spend hours sourcing props in the 99p shop.
Add to this is the fact that some of the cast were in fact my friends, flatmate, boyfriend’s flatmate and indeed boyfriend who are not used to thinking of me as an authority figure; I ended up hanging around like a lemon in breaks and after rehearsal drinks with no friends, staring awkwardly at my phone or drinking way too fast.
So would I do it again? I think so. But I’ve learned two things. Firstly probably not to work with friends – it’s very awkward bollocking them for not turning up to a rehearsal (in the full knowledge that their excuse is a lie) and then trying to have a meaningful conversation about Strictly Come Dancing around the kettle later on. However, the relationships between them are excellent on stage and you know they’re going to do a good job. Secondly, all the awkwardness seems to go away as soon as the show goes up and the audience likes it. You’re not in charge anymore (they can say what they like and you can’t do anything about it), people like you and all is well with the world.
Happy new year!
Tags: ComComedy, Director
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November 3rd, 2009
My physiotherapist (for the stab and horse riding injuries I will surely discuss another time) was talking about the wonderful Pride and Prejudice (TV version) with Mr Colin Firth Darcy this morning. He’s from South Africa and loves the ‘britishness’ of it all. I love it too. It wasn’t that long ago that women were sipping tea, wearing frilly dresses and eating cucumber sandwiches. What happened? Emily Pankhurst, that’s what happened. Boo her. If it wasn’t for her and her merry band of feminists I would have all the time in the world to write majestic comedy under a sudonym and would have overcome my fear of playing the piano in public. In addition I would have a handsome man providing for me and riding around on a stallion. I would be far more buxom than I am and much prettier due to having regular amounts of food and sleep and not putting my skin through the trauma of the germ ridden pollution of the tube on a daily basis.
Take last Friday for example. I got up at 6am in order to reply to emails and redraft a script for a reading next week. Then, having done the minimum that could be considered acceptable in terms of grooming I head out into Canary Wharf to do my proper job. Which isn’t funny (for me anyway). At lunchtime I go to meet two actors to try them out for the Shoot on Saturday. One is an ex bodyguard who is used to being shot at in Columbia, and the other is wearing sandals and socks (I think/hope to get into character). We read the script and laugh a lot. I then put my semi-serious work face on and go back in. Afternoon non-fag break involves going to the toilet with iPhone and sending call times for the weekend. After work I head into Camden to pick up pink hair, false eyelashes and neon face paint for the DJ sketch all the while humping my laptop three sets of clothes (I never know where I’m sleeping) and a million other things I seem to need these days. Bikram yoga, 42 degree heat (because despite being welcomed with open arms into the world of men as far as paying your way is concerned, women are not welcomed into the world of it being OK to have beer guts and flabby arses). Head home, sweating, inglorious – my flat mates are having a sword fight (with real swords in preparation for the ComComedy launch night) in the living room. I decide to take refuge at the boyfriend’s – he is ironing sparkly studs onto a dance belt – ‘do you think it’s worth going right up the g-string bit babes?’. Not at all civilised, and at no point did I have a cup of tea and look into the middle distance in a dreamy way saying ‘I think I’ll tell Giles we’ll have a cold supper tonight’.
The boyfriend in his ever tactful way remarked the other day that my arm muscles were protruding from my top in a manly way. My co-writer is calling me a ball-buster. Get me a time machine. Now. However, knowing my luck it would transport me down into the scullery where I would be furiously putting wet things through a mangle.
Tags: ComComedy, Emily Pankhurst
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October 16th, 2009
Generally I feel that being a woman allows me a distinct advantage. Apart from a monthly cycle of pain wrought with uncontrollable emotion, comparable weakness in most physical activity and an extreme empathy which means I can’t walk past a charity worker or homeless person without emptying my pockets and signing up to a direct debit that is. In the world of comedy and writing anyway being a woman is normally a definite bonus. This is mainly because there aren’t many. I would say that probably about 5 percent of the London Comedy Writers are women, if that. In addition to the advantage of the very few numbers of women in the group, we can add the standard personality traits of the average male comedy writer. I won’t list them as it may be offensive, but I will say that it means that, despite being disgusting, unwashed and poorly dressed after a day at the bank, I get very well treated indeed at every meeting – like a rare species of bird.
Speaking of birds (dead ones, not rare ones) brings me to a recent time on a ComComedy shoot when the tables turned, and my being female was most certainly a disadvantage. There were two women on the shoot – me and a rather beautiful actress called Kate. The other fifteen or so crew and hangers-on were all men (boys). So the thoughtless writer of the sketch in question had ended his script with the mid-flight explosion of a couple of pigeons. Silly Mark Leeson. So we aimed to have a splattering of blood (ketchup) on the face of the actor as he visualised the bird exploding above him. I said that blowing ketchup into Mark’s face sounded like fun, and nominated myself for the task. My mission was to blow a straw full of ketchup into Mark’s face at the same time as throwing a handful of feathers at him whilst keeping out of shot and avoiding his rather posh coat. Easy. This was my moment, pulse racing, beads of sweat forming on my brow. And ‘ACTION’. Oh dear. I managed to blow the ketchup onto his shoulder (posh coat and continuity ruined) and throw the feathers in the air. I think he moved his face, but I was ridiculed for my girly lack of ability at aiming condiments. Boo. I would like to say that most of them have been aiming something else (wee) out of a tube for their whole lives at a hole far greater than the size of a mans face, and, in my experience, seem to miss a lot of the time. So there. After various attempts we decided that actually a better way would be to make a tennis ball sized patty of feathers and ketchup and throw them at the actors faces at the time of the supposed explosion. The boyfriend had one patty and I had the other and we each had an actor’s face to throw it at. Of course boyfriend managed to splat Mark perfectly in a very true to life pigeon explosion kind of way. My patty did hit Kate in the face, but not really with the force of a real life explosion and it kind of rolled onto her shoulder. There are two reasons for this, both of which relate to my being female. The first is that I didn’t really want to injure Kate with my pigeon patty. The second is that I’m not as sporty as the boyfriend and was worried about the accuracy of my throw at speed. I was ribbed about this, and will inevitably get the blame if they can’t edit a decent pigeon explosion out of the takes that we did.
The moral of the story is, whilst it might seem fun to volunteer to splat someone with ketchup on camera, with great power comes great responsibility, and only a man (or potentially a very skilled athlete type woman) can do it well.
Tags: ketchup, pigeon
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October 2nd, 2009
Today’s blog is to be about toilet roll. Since moving to London seven years ago toilet roll has been a bone of contention in almost every flatshare I have been part of as well as those I have witnessed. First there is the issue of changing the roll. There are the flatmates (this complaint has been made about the boyfriend by his flatmate) who just rest the roll on top of the toilet roll holder rather than bother to take off the empty roll and replace it. Annoying, but not too bad. Then there are also those who never buy loo roll. Furthermore, I have had first hand experience of those who steal loo roll.
Upon the break up of relationship number one I was evicted and had to find an emergency flat. New Years’ Day, as I’m sure you can imagine, is not a prime day for property renting, so I ended up living in a very shabby flat in the bad end of Elephant and Castle with a bunch of nameless illegal immigrants (and single). What a great start to a year. Such was their fear of being caught by the authorities, I was instructed, by letter under my door, to slide the rent money under one of their doors each month. In cash. In an unmarked envelope. Each time I opened my door to get a cup of tea or use the bathroom, they would all scurry back into their rooms and slam their doors. This did not affect me in a major way since I was at drama school and rarely there. The only slight problem was that there was no living room, so when a man who lived opposite me started stalking me and banging on my window, I had nowhere to go and no one to speak to so to hide under my bed and wait for the moment to pass. It was their toilet roll habits however that made me want to leave. Their system was that each of them took their own loo roll to the toilet each time they went, and removed it when they had done their business. I found it exceedingly difficult to get into that habit and was regularly caught short. My solution therefore was to be magnanimous and leave my loo roll in there for everyone to use. However, when I returned later that morning to relieve myself, the loo roll had gone. Not just the paper, the whole roll. This kept happening. Someone was hoarding it. Bastards. The old system was reinstated and I left shortly after, stalker hanging off his balcony staring at me intently whilst me and my mum loaded the car.
My current flatmate never buys loo roll. I have been leading an extremely busy existence of late and am rarely home before midnight at which point I cook a bag of pasta, mix in some mayonnaise, salt and pepper, wolf it down and head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. No loo roll. Ever. On arrival at an open mic night the other day (well done Gareth, you were awesome by the way), I headed straight for the toilet having come straight from work. It was like heaven. There was an abundance of rolls – different colours and sizes lining the room. Whilst staring in awe I remember that I have none at home and resolve to take one of theirs. I’m not proud of it, and I suppose it makes me as bad as the illegal immigrants, but by the time I got out of the night there would be no shops open, and I’ll bring them one next time I go (maybe). I got my just deserts however because as I was coming out of the toilet with the stolen loo roll hidden in my armpit, not very discretely but discretely enough to quickly dash to my bag and put it in, someone tapped me on the back. ‘Oh shit. I’ve been caught’ . I turn around, trying to make a face of pure innocence and it’s not a policeman, nope, its a guy I haven’t seen for ten years who wants to catch up in depth, the toilet roll all the while slipping down from under my arm eventually creating a cancerous bulge at my waist. I got away with it though, I think. Or he was too polite to mention the cancer.
Either way, the moral of the story this week is don’t steal loo roll. Not from your flatmates or public places. It will end badly.
Tags: flatshare, loo roll
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September 24th, 2009
The topic this week is bruises. And scabs and scars and general bumps. Now, the boyfriend says I’m a Tomboy, but I think I’m particularly unfortunate. When will there be a day when I stop having scabby knees and scars everywhere and can join this race of women who can wear tights more than once and buy shoes based on their design as opposed to their level of practicality for jumping fences?
Number one incident that has given me bruises this week. Said bruises are on my back and arse and I have a bit of a sore wrist. I was stupid enough to lock myself out at the weekend in between a Bikram session and meeting some actors to rehearse them for a shoot. So there I am in my sweat drenched leggings, close to tears on my doorstep when I realise I’ve left the bathroom window unlocked. Excellent. I’ll knock on the neighbours’ door. No reply. One door down a man answers looking a bit rough (but probably not as rough as me given that I’ve just spent an hour and a half on one leg in 42 degree heat). ‘Hi! I’m your next door neighbour but one. Erm…excuse the sweat! Well I was wondering if, well you see I’ve locked myself out and, well, is there any way you could let me through your house to your garden so I can try and see if I can get into my garden to see if I can break in through the bathroom window which I think I may have, probably rather dangerously but I don’t normally do it, don’t worry, I’m sure you’re not, left unlocked?!’. He stands stunned. ‘So if I could just get through?’. ‘Er, well the house is quite messy.’ ‘Oh. Right. Well I promise I won’t look, but I do really need to get in and both my flatmates are on tour and I can’t get the landlady. Please?!’. ‘Er, yea, sure, just don’t look.’ I close my eyes to just a slit and tiptoe through the poor hungover not really my neighbour guy’s house. We get out the back and I realise the scale of the problem. Two fences have to be scaled, and that’s before I tackle the window. Oh well, at least I am in my sports gear. I begin to scramble over the first fence then the second. Quite smug with my progress I turn to look at the non-neighbour who has got a stepladder and is hopping deftly over the fences that way. Annoying. He could have told me. Anyway, by the time he reaches me I am already halfway through the window. Thin half. Face down, legs out. He puts the ladder down underneath me and gets onto the first step. I narrowly miss kicking him in the face. ‘Erm if you could just grab my (sweaty) legs and push, I might just be able to fit through, and slide nicely into the bath without cracking my head open. He grabs my legs and pushes. Poor bloke. My bum’s too big but he doesn’t want to state the obvious. It’s like a great big elephant at the top of the ladder. ‘Maybe you should try it on your back?’ he suggests. I think he means that the bum would be squished by the gravity of my spine and more likely to squeeze through. ‘OK’. I turn over and try again. Nope, but to be honest, was trying less hard for fear of landing on head backwards. After that he went off to get some tools and came back and managed to break the window so that it opened a bit more and I was able to tumble in, head-first, to the space between the sink and the bath. ‘Thanks so much!’. I wave at him from the floor, unable to get up at this point. He has already run away in fear. I will leave a present for him (didn’t catch his name) next time I pass, but I would like to know how I could have avoided those particular bruises…what do elegant women do when locked out? What if I had been wearing tights?
Secondly I have recently acquired an iPhone. This is because I need to check personal emails at work and the company computer blocks them. I am a busy woman and used to multi tasking, in particular multitasking of the walking and texting at the same time variety. So you can imagine my chagrin when I discover that you can’t feel your way round an iPhone key pad – you actually have to look at it. So I give it a go on the way to the boyfriend’s from tescos. Inevitably, about two minutes in I hit a lamp post. With my toe, knee and head. I know, I’m nothing if not thorough. Sodding thing, feel like suing Apple. I get back up to the boyfriends flat and find that my toe has exploded and I am bleeding all over his floor. Also my knee has an egg shaped bruise on it. Fairly happy though as head seems to remain undamaged. Two days later my head scar (from being unfortunately stabbed on the way home a couple of years ago) has flared up Harry-Potter style. I can only accredit that to the iPhone incident. An injury hatrick. That is unless my Portuguese nemesis who stabbed me in the first place is in the near vicinity. Unlikely but possible.
My life is full of such events (getting chased by a prize fighting bull whilst on a horse in Ecuador, falling in a river on a night-hike in Turkey and losing a shoe, the list goes on). I would like to publicly pledge to reduce them significantly and change my fight or flight style wardrobe accordingly to that of a woman who does not suffer such incidents. I will stop my new hobby, ‘anatomy wars’ (a new type of wrestling which serves to equalise the sexes by using unusually pointy parts of the body as weapons), but in return I would like to put it out into the ether that it’s time these things stopped happening to me – I will even nominate a potential receiver of unfortunate events if that helps.
Tags: bruises, tights, unfortunate
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September 17th, 2009
I have just returned from Bestival, so this blog is a Bestival special. In fact, there are probably a few to follow that will have arisen out of this trip.
The theme of the day is patriotism. I’m not especially proud of being British or English. My boss would say that we used to be a great nation and that it all went wrong (Darwin style) at the battle of the Somme. However, I’m not especially proud of some of our pre WW2 history – the slave trade for example. There are some things I love about the collective English personality – the ability to apologise profusely for being bumped into, forming orderly queues and our stock conversation topic of the weather to name but a few. However, you would never catch me cheering ‘Engerland, Engerland, Engerland’ whilst sporting a face painted with the George’s Cross and waiving a big bat. I think the flag has become synonymous with anti-immigration and hooliganism.
‘How does this ranting relate to Bestival?’ I hear you ask (if you haven’t dropped off by this point). Well, two-fold really. Firstly, Lily Allen, who I clearly have much more in common with than first thought, sang a song about the BNP (or George Bush, she couldn’t make up her mind) called ‘Fuck You Very Much’. Eloquent. Secondly, it is my theory that this lack of national pride on the part of the camping, ban the bombs Guardian readers has been countered by an all the more palatable (if a little embarrassing, depending on where you’re from) phenomenon – Home Town Patriotism.
This was demonstrated a number times at the Bestival, but there is a particular example involving the boyfriend (yes, next stage) that springs to mind. Our happy band of fancy dress space people were unable to get into the main tent to see La Roux, so we headed for a secondary tent where a slightly questionable DJ was playing. After about five minutes of his set, Boyfriend turned to us and asked ‘what is this shit?’. Space Claire had a look through the programme and answered ‘Kid Carpet’. Then, in one of the most surreal transformations of opinion I have ever witnessed Boyfriend shouts ‘OH MY GOD, KID CARPET, BRIIIIISTOOOOOOOOOL!!!’.We were a little shocked at first, but then found we had a sudden urge to join in, shouting ‘BRISTOL!’ at anyone we met who came from there. So the moral of the Bestival is – embrace your town and support people from there, even if they’re shit. Unless that is if you’re from Bloody Bush (Northumberland), in which case it might be best to keep it shut.
Tags: Bestival, Patriotism
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September 6th, 2009
OK – delayed again (which probably doesn’t help towards my place in the blog competition (why does everything have to be a competition, what happened to ‘don’t phone, it’s just for fun’?)) – it really has been a busy week though – I’ve been to Edinburgh (awesome) and the theatre (Hungarian cabaret) and bikram (twice) and the pub, so forgive me.
The topic this week is jobs. Not just any job though, the kind of jobs that we wannabe creatives have when we’re not being creative. Now I am lucky enough to have a fairly soul destroying, guilt inducing, part-time job in legal, in a bank in Canary Wharf. I have done my time however – previous jobs have included but are not limited to (see I can do the law thing) promoting a plant growing granule system, and a job doing Indian head massage in bars on a ‘pay what you think it’s worth’ basis to pervy men who thought the offer ‘you can massage my other head if you like’ was a) original and b) tempting.
I have only been turned down for two jobs in my life. The first was Sainsburys, where I offered to work any shift, day or night, but was failed on the personality test. I don’t know what that says about me. The second was Harrods. A lot of out of work actors work on the shop floor as agency staff because it’s flexible and reasonably well paid. I attended the group interview where we were told we were lucky to have got to that stage and if we didn’t spend an hour on grooming each morning we might as well leave. An hour? Well I couldn’t just leave. So I duly took my pen and paper and began to write down all the make-up we would be expected to wear every day. Tell me, why would you colour in your eyebrows with a pencil if they’re already a bit on the bushy side? I think they would answer that you are to pluck the unruly hairs and draw them on in a neat line. However, I would counter that eyebrows have a biological point – to keep shit out of your eyes – the bushier the better as far as evolution’s concerned. A pencil line won’t do that. Ask Darwin. Anyway, we then had to stand up and say why we would be an asset to the company. I said that I was friendly and personable with a sense of humour and good time-keeping. The next girl said that she loved make up and had a diploma in it. So did the next. A pattern was emerging. I wasn’t asked back for the next round (there are three).
My very good friend did get accepted. She is glamorous and petite with foundation and lipstick and beautifully sculpted eyebrows. She also has a first in English, an MA in Musical Theatre and can play the shit out of the fiddle. In addition she has a lovely head of curly blonde hair. Everyone is jealous about it. Except Harrods. She arrived at work, having spent her allotted hour on grooming, with pearls in her ears and round her neck and regulation high heels on and was reprimanded, and sent, during paid time, into a side room to straighten her hair. Humiliating. There was another beautiful mixed race model in there doing the same thing. They both said to each other in beautiful unison – ‘why aren’t you allowed curly hair?’. Yay for the bank. I never thought I’d say that. The moral of the story is – don’t shop at, or work at Harrods. They’re hair Nazis. If you’re reading this though you probably won’t pass the grooming test anyway, and you certainly can’t afford to be a customer, so you have learned nothing.
Tags: eyebrows, grooming, harrods
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August 28th, 2009
I think most couples have a list of exceptions to the no-cheating rule, you know, film stars, hot identical twins, sports stars etc. The joy of it is that they are completely unobtainable but make you feel like maybe it could happen.
My last relationship came to a heart torturing end when the boy went off to perform in the Thursford Christmas Spectacular – a spectacularly hideous Christmas-fest in a big barn with scary flying animals and more blue rinses than the average morgue. So before the temporarily life destroying news had been delivered to me, I went to Thursford (a horrible pub-free zone in Norfolk and no, I’m not just biased, it really is rubbish) to visit. Good girlfriend. I see the show which includes about a hundred dancers running around giving people heart attacks dressed as the pink panther, and then afterwards I hit the bar, empty except for cast because the old people and children who see this thing don’t drink anything but tea and squash. I sit myself down with a whiskey (medicinal) and wait. In he comes, sweating, arm in arm with two of the most amazing looking dancers I have ever seen, and says ‘Hey babe, meet the twins’. Joy. ‘Oh, hi! Wow! Are you identical?!’ ‘Yep. Wow, I love your outfit’ (hey say in twin style unison). Then, giggling in an extremely cute way extend their hands to shake mine, very hard not to like them. Boo.
More recently (yesterday) the new (annoyingly talented and good looking (please don’t tell him this if you ever meet him)) boy is filming a small role in the new Sherlock Holmes film. So last night I meet Graham and Kenny from LCW and excitedly tell them the news. ‘Yea, I just got a text, apparently Rachel McAdams is really friendly and he’s doing his scene with her and she’s she star of the film’. Kenny says, ‘Who even is she?’ and, in his geekily proud of his phone way, audio searches her on google. ‘Oh my god. Is she the ‘Mean Girls woman’. ‘Yep’. ‘She is totally on my list! The jammy bastard!’. Boo.
So the moral of the story is get yourself an ugly boring banker boyfriend who works all the hours god sends and has neither the looks, time or charisma to meet anyone on his list. And then concentrate on finding people on your list.
Tags: list, rachel mcadams, Thursford, twins
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August 20th, 2009
I used to have a bad habit of getting drunk and taking my clothes off all over the place. However, I have completely overcome that problem and this is thankfully not one of those incidents. I am the innocent party here.
So I was very tired, but completely sober, having spent the evening trying to be a good girlfriend – playing tennis with boy who is much better than me and delights in making me run around like a blue arsed fly, whilst sweating like a pig and simultaneously trying to maintain an attractive air of mystery (it’s still the early stages) and stop myself shouting ‘You shithead! you knew I wouldn’t be able to get that! Wanker!’ because it’s not very ladylike. He was obviously a bit tired too because by the time I came up to bed, he was already in there with the lights off. Now, I’ve come to be suspicious because this boy has a habit of jumping out at me. However, I could see through the dark that he was in the bed so rather than turn the light on, I went in quietly and said ‘Oh good, you’re in bed’ (not in the sexy, ‘now I’m going to give you saucy strip tease and jump you’ way the he retells it, but in a pleased way that I don’t have to be frightened out of my wits when he jumps out of the laundry basket hissing like a vampire). Because it is dark, and he is my boyfriend, I have no qualms in stripping off ready for an amazing night’s sleep after all of that supreme physical exertion. I am down to my very minimal underwear and just about to remove that when I suddenly hear my name ‘er Sarah!’. But it’s not coming from the bed, it’s coming from under the desk. Oh no. So what’s in the bed. Please tell me he’s just made a lump with his pillows under the duvet – I’m sure it’s that, so I sit down on the side of the bed. Nope. It’s his flatmate in the bed. Who now seems to be regretting his decision and is shamefacedly trying to get out of the bed past me without staring at my near nakedness. Boy has come out from under the desk and doesn’t really seem to know what to do. Flatmate manages to escape, very embarrassed, calling from outside ‘I didn’t see anything, I didn’t see anything!’ and I am saying ‘Why was your flatmate in your bed? now he’s seen me in my pants!’. ‘We share everything!’ was his humorous response. Not laughing. Then, ‘Sorry babe, we didn’t think you were going to strip off.’.
So my question is ‘what did you think would happen?’. If the aim was for me to look stupid, I suppose it did the trick, however, is that worth the fact the the flatmate has now seen me in my pants and will probably never look at me the same way again? Hmm. The moral of this story is, ‘ if you don’t want your flatmate to see your girlfriend in her pants, don’t hide him in your bed at night, especially when she has been good enough to play tennis’.
Tags: boy, pants, tennis
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August 17th, 2009
Apologies for the late blog – I have been laid up with bronchitis, but now on the mend. Apologies also if I have been ignoring you – I have had phone issues – see below. This is a long one, but bear with it – it’s an important message.
The topic of this blog and the next one (going to link because they’re in the same week) is practical jokes. As a result of a clever casting decision for my play, I currently have a man/boy in my life (yes, well done me). However, said boy delights in activities that will, in some way or another, make me look like a complete idiot. On the way home from the pub with some of his friends the other night, man decided it would be hilarious to upend me into a skip on the side of the road whilst his friends took pictures on their mobile phones. Tee hee. It was quite funny actually. However, got home to his house and discovered that my phone was missing. Too late and dark to go out rummaging in a skip, I am resigned to doing it the next morning, the day of my best friend’s wedding. So it’s a boiling hot and I’m walking down the road with a hangover to try and find a skip with a phone in it and my flip-flop decides to break. I limp to the skip, one shoe on and one shoe off and peer inside. Unfortunately there’s a mattress in it and I can’t see underneath. So, with just the one shoe on my foot, in the bright sunshine with passers-by galore, I climb tramp-like into the skip and have a good rummage. No phone. I walk/hobble to the pub we were in and have an exceedingly protracted conversation with a very Polish cleaner who can’t stop looking at my foot whilst simultaneously shaking her head and saying ‘no phone, no phone’. Boo.
On my way home I buy a seven pound phone (which I will never be able to work but am too tight to shell out for something more user friendly) and the T-mobile man very helpfully says, ‘would you like your old number free of charge madam?’ ‘Yes please’. Well that was easy. Having hobbled home I call my mum who says that boy has managed to locate my phone and is picking it up in Camden later. I call to congratulate the boy and tell him of my new phone at which point he says ‘NO, if they give you your number they’ll block the old one and I won’t be able to phone the guy later to get it back’. Shit. LONG CALL TO T-MOBILE, so long that I end up getting dressed for the wedding on the train and smearing mascara all over my forehead.
So boy had called my phone number and an Irish guy picked up. ‘What were you doing in a skip’ says the Irish guy. Good question. Anyway, boy is punished for his behaviour because he has to cycle through torrential rain to get to this guy’s house. ‘Hi, I came for the phone’. ‘What phone is that your talking about’. ‘The phone in the skip’ . ‘Skip? What’s it doing in a skip’. ‘Oh God’. The man’s wife hobbles up behind him. ‘This boy says he’s here for a phone’. ‘To be sure – it’s in your pocket’. He has a feel around. ‘So it is! Well will you look at that. Here you go sonny’. He hands it over. ‘Thanks, thanks very much, erm. I’ll bring you some mushroom pate to say thanks?’ (boy deals in mushroom pate as sideline to acting). ‘Mushroom pate?’. ‘Yes, I’ll bring you some’. ‘What do you want to go putting mushrooms in the pate for?’. ‘Er yea, er, you’re probably right, OK, thanks bye’.
So the good news is that the phone has been recovered but the bad is that for some reason only have half my numbers which are in there twice. If you’re from ‘F’ onwards, you no longer exist. The moral of this story is ‘don’t put your girlfriend in a skip unless you want to cycle through the rain and have a bizarre conversation with an Irishman who suffers with amnesia’.
Next blog explains why not to hide your flatmate in your bed.
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