Tales From the Edinburgh Fringe: It Continues

It’s raining here. Always raining. Except when it’s not, and there are two minutes of sunshine before it inevitably rains again (soooo predictable Edinburgh). You spend a lot of time throwing soggy flyers at people. Or speaking to your mum who always asks, ‘is it raining there? It’s not in Bristol.’

I spoke to some Icelandic men yesterday who told me that they have an app in Iceland which works out if you are related to someone, just in case you want to date them.

Tales From the Fringe: It Starts

So after spending two weeks at The Edinburgh Fringe in 2015, and nearly losing my mind, I am back here again for an entire month with my show ‘It’s Better to Lie Than to Tell the Truth and End up Alone in a Ditch Crying.’

I am up here with To The Moon, a theatre production company, and staying in a lovely house with some lovely female solo performers (and like 2 boys, but they don’t smell). (More info on To The Moon and the awesome female solo shows they have brought up here ) (too many brackets Ellen, this is upsetting for people who understand grammar).

A Open Letter to The Men in White Vans, who Beep or Shout at Me Whilst I am Out Running,

A Open Letter to The Men in White Vans, who Beep or Shout at Me Whilst I am Out Running,

To all the men in white vans who shout or beep their horns at me when I am out running, please stop trying to give me running advice.

I know as amateur sports coaches you can’t help but openly pass comment on my running gait as I jog past you at the traffic lights, but I want you to know I have already done a gait analysis and I know guys, my feet have been found wanting.

Not that I don’t appreciate your effort, but I know advice doesn’t always come for free, and before long you will be charging me for all the times I have sprinted past your vehicles, listening to the latest episode of This American Life, whilst you check out my legs to see if my ankles are rolling. And then when you shout at me I feel so rude at having to ignore you, because I know all you are trying to do is recommend good insoles for my pronating feet.

Home Decor for Idiots

I have spent the last two weeks transforming my dour little flat, which previously smelt of boys and despair, into a totally fabulous urban hang out space in which to meditate and write poetry.

Religious Iconography corner!

Pillows!

Bunch of crap!

A cat tile!

Check out how many fucking books I have read!

More crap!

Using a mixture of pinterest, ebay, alcohol and enthusiasm, I have transformed my home into the a chic abode, and when friends come round for afternoon tea and a slice of my famous home made aubergine scone muffin they are all like, ‘Ellen, this place is amazing! How did you have time to do all this, bake exceptional scone muffins AND darn up costumes for the local youth theatres version of Titus Andronicus?’

I am like, ‘because I am fabulous.’

An Open Letter to Ellen Degeneres

Dear Ellen,

Firstly, big fan – I use to watch your sitcom in the 90’s, and whilst I was too young to get all the jokes, I assumed since we had the same name it was a template for how my life would turn out, that the TV, rather than being a box presenting me with Friday night fiction, was actually a window into my future.

It seemed I had much to look forward to – low stake whimsical adventures, getting my heart broken by Laura Dern, voicing a fish in a pixar movie and eventually marrying someone from Ally McBeal (I had my fingers crossed for Gil Bellows, or worse come to worse, Jon Bon Jovi.)

But I was wrong, Ellen and would even go so far as to say I was mislead. As it turns out life is a cruel bitch, Laura Dern never returns phone calls, fish can’t talk and Gil Bellows has a forehead you could balance cheese on, which just isn’t my bag.

I felt like a failure Ellen. I felt like the Danny Devito to your Arnold Schwarzenegger. The Billy Baldwin to your Alec. The Will Arnett to your Amy Poehler.

Showboating

You think what you hated most about the party, though you would be hard pressed to settle on just one thing, was the endless parade of new couples.

They showboated their untested relationships as they walked around the room, smirking as if their lives were complete now this person had decided to put the weight of their arm, on the back of their neck.

They seem to drip with each other, melt into each other, screaming to their exes and estranged parents, ‘see I told you I was loveable,’ and once in a while they would summon you over, invite you into their private world, to drop hints about their new possessions, new sleeping arrangements and all the new vulnerabilities they had shared that morning. You would smile, nod, remember how lovely it had been at the start, then look for an exit.

Japanese Bunny

She looked so sad next to the well dressed bunny.

Decoding Boys Body Language

Cosmopolitan magazine has been a consistent source of wisdom for women up and down the country for the last hundred years. It has been the mother figure who taught us how to wear shoes, the sister who taught us what his text message really means, and the best friend who made us feel like we were never quite good enough because we didn’t have thigh gap or a job in PR.

From awkward teenage years to awkward adult years, it has always been there with a shit free gift and stock images of pretty women eating yogurt in their underwear, BUT their most valuable asset has always been their innate ability to decode boy behaviour. They have spent years solving mysteries like

– Why do men make us cry ?

– What’s a penis?

– Why can’t men ask for directions?

– And what is up with football?

Breeding

What is the end game of a date? Please tell me, I am an urban legend, and have forgotten about sex. I keep getting invited in for coffee and when they open up cupboards devoid of caffeinated beverages and I ask why they lied, their expectant smiles turn upside down.