3 Minutes

Got to do the best 3 minutes of my Edinburgh show for the Chortle Fast Fringe Show tonight. 3 minutes is a rather short amount of time. They say that an audience knows whether they like you or not within the first 30 seconds of stage time, which may well be true. So possibly three minutes is a nice amount in which they can really decide whether or not you are worth watching an hour of in Edinburgh. Three minutes of a song is good enough and boiling an egg. Then again three minutes of sex is usually annoying. Unless its bad sex then it all becomes much better because its over faster. If I only had three minutes to live it wouldn’t feel like very long at all. Unless its because I’m falling off a very high cliff. In which case those three minutes of free falling might feel like forever. Luckily I won’t be falling off a cliff or partaking in bad sex although I can’t help but feel doing either of those things at the Leicester Square Theatre would make my act rather memorable and therefore possibly entice people to come to my Edinburgh show. Instead I am just going to spend today working out what three minutes to do only to then have all the timing ruined tonight if anyone laughs. I’d better hope no one does.

My day off was great yesterday. I’m sad I don’t have another one for a while. I did some productive things, like go through my wardrobe. Not into Narnia. I’ve tried that before and my wardrobe doesn’t have a door at the back. I have a feeling Ikea don’t make them so such things can happen. Or perhaps you have to look for the right one in the store. The ASLAN flatpack cupboard or the TUMNUS. I remember once being introduced on stage as ‘Mr Tumnus has let himself go.’ Good times. No, I was just chucking out old clothes. Ones that had holes in and I mean holes that weren’t the necessary ones to put your head, arms or legs in. There were some heartbreaking moments, like chucking my faithful Ninja Tunes Xen Mate hoodie. Its time had come. The black colour had become a worn grey and it was more holey than the Pope. We had some good times together though me and that hoodie. It had been with me through several winters. It was the hoodie that had provided warmth after a night of clubbing mania, and on the 6am tube home. It had been round most of Europe with me, and now, I’ve repaid it but throwing it in a bin bag. I couldn’t help but feel that maybe they should have some sort of old clothes home where they are cared for and put on low temperature washes with lots of softener. Other gems that re-appeared were my Tribal hip-hop jeans which are the baggiest item of clothing I own. I like to still believe that I can dress like a small rapper but the truth is those jeans just make me look like I have serious piles. Still I’ve kept them incase I ever want to go out and about looking as though I have serious piles. Combining them with my Timberlands makes things all a bit better, and give me that edge that make people look at me and say, ‘that dude is so gangsta, or so lumberjack. But we can’t tell which.’

After some cathartic material destruction, me and Layla ate more food than we should have done and watched Three Colours: White. We hadn’t seen any of the Three Colours Trilogy until recently and we are slowly going through them in order. Blue was amazing. Depressing and touching all at once, like a suicidal pervert. White however was really good, but completely baffling. I really have no idea what the ending of White means. Now I know that apparently you need to watch Red for it all to make sense , but I like to think that I shouldn’t need the third film to understand it. I love and hate French films (yes I know White is Polish film geeks). They are always beautifully acted and filmed, but at the same time often have an element of story that leaves me feeling horribly confused. Much like the French themselves. Whenever I have been to France there has always been something they’ve done to make me feel like they know something I don’t. Often it appears what they know is that I have no clue what they are saying so they’re happy to rip me off and put meat in my veggie meal.

I didn’t watch the tennis yesterday. This is mostly because I really couldn’t give a fuck. I’m sure that I am a part-Nihilist, but I can’t cope with watching players get all stressed about winning a trophy that in a year’s time will be up for grabs again. And then a year after that will be up for grabs yet again. And then again and again. Playing for it seems futile in a sense. Its the same with football leagues and all the other sports. What I would like to see is a big ‘be all and end all’ tournament, where its the last time anyone can ever win that type of trophy or league and players would really have to step it up. If they didn’t they would never be allowed to play that sport again. It could be like a slightly toned down ‘Running Man’. I think that would actually make it more exciting. I just can’t get hyped up about Wimbledon knowing it just happens every annul. Even if this year they do have a roof. Still can’t understand the excitement at that either. I’ve had a roof for years. It’s really nothing that special.

Must get working on my three minutes. Its not like they need work. Its more that I need to work out exactly what three minutes is. I do know what three minutes is. Its a measure of time. What I need to know is how many jokes equal three minutes. Yes, I know its three minutes worth. God, you’re good at winding me up today.

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