I went to see
Party this afternoon, which is a play written by the multi-talented Tom Basden, featuring himself, Tim Key, Anna Crilly, Jonny Sweet and Katy Wix. It's very funny and enjoyable with lovely performances all round and my absolute guarantee that more than half the people in this show will go on to be major stars of the future, if not all of them. Tim Key,
who cracked my rib last year, was the stand out performance for me. Subtle and masterfully comic and so good in fact that I have decided to spell his name correctly from now on, which was something I vowed never to do after he had harmed me so badly. I think I might be in love with him. But perhaps that was part of his plan. To hurt me so badly first, knowing that that would lead to true devotion eventually. It's worked. But let's not make it all about my future husband Tim, all the others are ace too and the writing's great. You should go.
It reminded me of those Fringes, a decade ago, where I would write a play a year. In fact I've been thinking of doing another one. I think next year I might revive "Christ on a Bike" as my stand up show and also write a new play too. I can't get my scripts on TV, so I might as well just do everything live from now on. I don't have a real idea for a play at the moment, but I've got 12 months to think of one. I think it's the way forward.
Too early to be thinking about next year's Fringe? Not really. I can't stop now. Book your tickets now, just to be sure of getting in.
As you know I ordered more velcro over the phone earlier in the week. I thought I had been careful to explain exactly what I needed, but alas I had forgotten to mention that I required black velcro and alas the velcro that came through the other day was white. I expect they didn't think it really mattered too much, but it was quite important for me.
Yet I didn't have any choice today, as it was Sunday, than to use the white velcro for the moustaches, which wasn't such a disaster. It means that for a day or so punters get an exclusive and special white moustache, and perhaps, in a way, by changing the colour it helps emphasise the change of meaning. Plus, as I pointed out tonight, it would give people the chance to pretend they are an elderly Hitler, something that Hitler himself never got the chance to do. There might be a mixture in future buckets. I have quite a lot of white to get through and can't send at least one of the rolls back now.
After a solid show I found the opera director Stewart Lee waiting for me at the back of the room. He had popped along for a drink. I had been planning an early night, but it seemed rude not to indulge him and raise a little toast to the 22nd anniversary of our first appearance at the Fringe. He was drinking cider, and without him asking, as a little joke, I decided to give it to him straight and bought him a pear one (this is a joke you will only get if you have seen his most excellent show this year), made from 100% pears. He had never had one before. I don't know if he enjoyed it or not. But we had a pleasant chat and it was nice to see the miserable old duffer and reminisce. It did remind me of an incident the other night, when I had been dashing from the Traverse to the Stand to do my gig. I passed a man on Grassmarket who was on the phone. He looked me square in the face and exclaimed, "It's Stewart Lee!" Unsure whether this was a genuine mistake or an attempt at humour I gave the man a filthy and weary look.
"Oooh," said the man to his friend, "Stewart Lee had just totally blanked me."
I didn't go back to tell him his mistake and hope that the news of Stewart Lee's rudeness will now be spreading round the world, though I fancy the man had made a genuine error, which he won't have spotted himself (much like my homosexuality/homophobia mix up the other night), and still in his head be thinking that it is I, not Stew, who is the rude one. When of course, in reality, it is the man himself who was the most out of order for confusing us with such certainty.
Stew was not too concerned about the possible damage to his reputation. We sat and drank fairly anonymously in the quiet beer garden. It was a low key, but enjoyable reunion, for two Fringe old timers, with maybe forty of fifty shows under our ever tightening belts.
