Edinburgh Festival 2007 - A Tale of Two T-Shirts

Part Two – "Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?"

Fortunately we weren’t blown apart by either my rucksack or by terrorists and were able to stagger to our feet at some point in the next day to see Robin Ince.

When I was younger I was given a book on dinosaurs. I was devastated as it immediately ruined any street cred that I might have had. One can imagine Robin Ince being given the same book and clutching it to him, atremble with anticipation at the knowledge bestowed upon him and the comedy potential just waiting to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.

The idea of a comedy set revolving around science sounds to me (who failed every science subject possible) like a contradiction in terms but he was actually very funny although I might have got a little lost around molecules and atoms. I wish my science teacher had been more like him. I might have actually passed something.

The religion jokes went down well but, Comedians Beware! In Scotland, never mention the words Catholic or Protestant, especially not in the same sentence as previously mild mannered atheist catholics and mild mannered atheist protestants could come to blows down some dark alleyway after the gig.

However, for all Mr Ince seems to know about science, he knows very little about the potential of the common or garden sweat gland. He wore a light grey T-Shirt which was a bad move as it steadily darkened in the requisite areas until he looked like he was wearing a map of the world. Not a good look. He would do well to follow the example of Mr Herring and wear a dark T-shirt. I do hope that Mr Ince has a good change of clothing strategy and decent washing facilities.

I would however recommend going to see Robin Ince. Just don’t sit upwind of him – or Richard Herring for that matter!

The mayhem however didn’t end there. Oh no, it continued until 6am the following morning, although for most of that I was out for the count…………………….

The evening progressed (as these things tend to do) into somewhat of a pub crawl, and after a few hours in this vein, picking up a very drunk Irishman on the way, I decided to head off on my own back to L’s house. After a struggle to get in the front door (not the drink – honest it is a bit stiff after all) I gingerly lowered myself onto the bed. The gingerliness was again not to do with the drink but down to the fact that a couple of years ago L’s ex boyfriend had, on being dumped, decided to take his rage out on the scene of their intimate trysts. As a result the bed was in constant danger of collapse and the slightest movement could have sent it, and its occupant, plummeting to the ground. (OK it’s not six feet in the air but I like plummeting in this context.) After some careful manoeuvring and exhortations to myself not to turn over in the night, I drifted off into blissful sleep.

L and R’s night was however not over by any means. After a much longer pub crawl during which time they managed to lose the Irishman, who by this time was, I believe, paralytic, they headed off home. As they got off the bus at L’s house they realised that they had a new friend. A young lad of 22 stepped off the bus at the same time as them and engaged them in conversation. Neither R nor L have been 22 for quite some time, and maybe he had seen The Graduate, but when asked he was more than keen to give R a piggy back into L’s house in return for a massage. He then produced a video camera and filmed the ensuing action but it was all totally innocent I was assured when I heard the gory details the next morning. The climax (?) was reached when L. suggested that she go and get her camera and take a picture of him. R. advised him to get out while the going was good, and, perhaps not surprisingly, he did.

The next morning (actually mid way towards the afternoon) a very weary R. and L. surfaced.

“Oh you really missed yourself last night”

“Well at least I had a good night’s sleep, and I was very careful not to let the bed collapse”

“Why?”

“Well, you know, the slightest movement and I would have been pitched off with broken bits of wood flying around me.”

“I doubt it” said L. once she had finished laughing at me. “That bed won’t be collapsing any time soon. It’s a new bed”!

Spa Life

Luxury is not something that I do a lot of or something which comes at all naturally to me. An exception occurred at the end of last week when I indulged in a Spa Day. To be truthful it was a “Mini Spa” which I believe is the economy version for people who like to think that they are in with the Hoi Polloi but in reality can’t afford it. The TK Maxx of Spa Life if you like.

Ladies and gents who no doubt lunch lazed around the pool and jacuzzi as we entered, complementary towels and robes strewn casually over poolside deckchairs. I spent most of the time in the jacuzzi alongside a chap reading Bill Bryson’s The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid (Very good choice sir). Let’s be honest I spent ALL my time there because the pool was too cold and the sauna and steam room were too hot.

Our next port of call was the massage room. As I was later to learn, all the rooms have a theme, and the theme of this one was “The Moroccan Room.” Sadly there was no luxury Marrakesh riad or flying carpets but there were a couple of nice ethnic style cushions delicately arranged beside the CD player.

Soft music emanated from the un-ethnic CD player. The sort of music which would probably have a name such as “Moments of Calm” or if we were lucky “Moroccan Moods”. At one point the masseuse left the room and, as if on cue, some cheery banjo music started up from the CD, only to fade out as she re entered. I got the feeling that cheery banjo music wouldn’t have been her thing and the CD player must have known.

I was a little worried about the massage as I have been told that my shoulders are less than relaxed and was afraid of a Dr Gillian McKeith type lecture from a straight laced “school marm” type in a uniform. Fortunately my masseuse said nothing as we started the massage and in fact said next to nothing from then on in. I had thought that she might have told me with some pride what she was doing and with what speciality products she was doing it with, but no explanation came. Presumably clarification does not come with the “Economy” version of the spa experience.

As the time came for the foot scrub to start, a small worry entered my head. I have incredibly tickly feet and was worried that when the foot scrub started it would reduce me to a giggly fit. I had to fight very hard to stop this happening I can tell you. In fact, she must have previously seen the rather ugly state of my feet and when the time came, she dimmed the lights considerably so that she would not have to witness their full horror.

All too soon time was up and our health conscious spa day was over. Fifteen years ago I would have been swimming in the mud at Glastonbury. What a difference a decade and a half makes. Too much health can only be a bad thing however and we did what can be the only natural conclusion – we headed off to McDonalds for a Big Mac.

Here’s to healthy living.