August 11th
Edinburgh is a nice enough place to live, it's sophisticated in some respects, but it also retains some crappy parts of Britishness. One of these things in underwhelming, almost naively ineffective adverts. I'll give you a frexample. There is a poster with a family of four not very good actors staring out of a bus pointing at something. They're pretending they're really having a good time, but their smiles convey as much conviction as a Scientologist trying to come across as likeable. The caption says: "For a great day out, take...the bus."
Eh? Least effective ad ever. Everyone knows that being on a bus is never a great day out. It's generally acknowledged to be the worst possible mode of transport. Below the train but above the shopping trolley. As if a couple will walk passed and say. "Do you know what we haven't taken in a while, darling?....The bus." "Oh, go on, let's."
There is an accompanying ad (this time sans kids) saying "For a great night out, take...the bus." The woman is wearing a dress. The man has pressed chinos on. They're looking their best for...the bus. You don't need to advertise the bus. You either need to take it, or you don't. If you can walk, walk. If it's somewhere further, taxi. Train even. Maybe cycle? Whatever. You know the options. We know about the bus. We didn't forget. We didn't forget the surly drivers, or crying babies, or the smell of piss, or the sinister swarms of school children. You don't need to advertise. It's not going to change perceptions. I'm not going to get on the fucking bus, the reminder that I'm on low income, and think "Right, it's party time." "Remember that amazing night out?" "It was wild. Thank you, the bus." The bus is the bus. We know. What will they advertise next? "Feeling dizzy, tight feeling in the chest...try breathing." "Full bladder?...Give urination a whirl."
Unnecessary.
I spent Saturday grumbling and muttering. I felt whoozy and dizzy and not altogether there. I went to the venue and everything was too loud. I felt nauseous and told the staff that I wasn't doing the gig. Not an easy decision. Saturday night would have meant a good size audience and MONEY! I went home and bought a pizza, a Private Eye and a bottle of lemonade. I drank some lemonade, ate the pizza and read the Private Eye cover to cover and fell asleep. It was one of the nicest evenings I've had since the festival began. That's all I have to say about that day.
Michael is leaving on Monday. Apparently we have to find another person to pay his rent. This is typical Edinburgh nonsense. I have no long how long Hugh, the 80 year old, is staying. Not on the planet I mean. He makes me feel bad. Sometimes I can tell my manner (i.e. cheeky banter and casual swearing) really bothers him. When I told him about the heckler who rode over my punchline said “I'm not heckling, I'm offering advice” and told him that I should have rightfully ripped him a new one. Hugh evn winced at my “Who are you, my mother?” comment. Hugh said. “What you could have said instead was, 'Thank you for the advice, I'll take it on board' and been a bit tongue in cheek.” He's a gentle old chap. “No Hugh, I should have fucked him in the eye socket.” I didn't say that of course, but it crossed my mind. Later I closed my door and the coat hanger thing fell off my door and Hugh said “Are you destroying the house?” He also didn't know where to look when I came into the kitchen just wearing pants and 1pm. He definitely thinks I'm a some nihilistic, senseless, rampaging madman of the modern era. I bet he didn't approve of the cup of tea I made him either.
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