Plane and Simple

At Gatwick Airport yesterday there was a woman going through security with her husband, who, quite possibly, was one of the most stupid people I have ever overheard. I would hazard a guess that she was in her 60’s and spoke with an accent that meant she was no doubt at least upper middle to upper class. This guess was further certified by her sensible cardigan complimented with the worst sort of compliment, weird flowery trousers with no definable shape, and she was being led by her husband, dressed in suit jacket and the sort of patterned jumper that would epileptics seize up. It had taken a while to get to security, as once again, Easyjet had decided to be anything but easy and had opened all the check in desks for all flights. This led to mass confusion, very long queues and generally upset people. It was as though they had sat down, worked out exactly what the easiest way for people to proceed through the airport process was, wrote it on some paper and got several people in suits to shit all over it. What Easyjet have demonstrated for the umpteen billionth time is that they like to provide the exact opposite of customer service, cackling in glee as people once again lose time that they will never get back. When this fiasco had finally been completed I joined the overly long queue only to stand behind the idiot woman. As we approached the security desk she got more and more exasperated at the signs that asked you to prepare for the x-ray machines. The first simply read ‘remove your belts’, which caused her to gasp and then say to her husband ‘belts? Why on earth must we remove our belts? What has the world come to? Belts? What damage could belts do?’ completely failing to remember that some belts have metal bits on. Then the next sign asking to take keys and change and put them inside your jackets. ‘Oh now its keys!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t understand this at all. Why don’t they just take everything off you? Ludicrous! Why on earth do they want keys? You have to put them in jacket? What is all this?’ Then when asked to take jackets off a similar rant occurred, followed by mass confusion as to why to had to take give your bags in to go through the machine and yet take out certain items from your bag (ie liquids). ‘Why take them out when they have to scan the whole bag? Just stupid. The world has gone mad.’ This bizarre upset at the way in which airports function continued all the way until we reached the security gate, where the woman held up the whole queue because she wouldn’t put her handbag through the machine. According to her it wasn’t ‘hand luggage’ because it was a ‘hand bag’. I was tempted to shout that she wasn’t a ‘human being’ she was an ‘old bag’, and violently push her out of the way, but instead I did as the whole queue did and sighed and looked at her with some disgust. I won’t lie, I’ve often complained about the needing to discard bottles of water, or occasionally having to take my shoes off, but never have I not questioned the removal of metal items as they’ll set off the alarm. Its the most obvious thing that you could do. And yet as this woman finally conceded giving her bag to the security officer and then setting the alarm off three times because she hadn’t removed her wallet with keys attached, she stumbled off with hubby shouting about how ‘I bet that’s all those bloody terrorists’ fault.’ I quietly hoped her plane exploded.

After the festival Edinburgh loses all its mental drunk performers dressed up as animals, pirates and other tedious costumes and within the space of two weeks they are replaced with mental drunk students dressed up as animals, pirates and other tedious costumes. I pity Edinburgh, it appears unable to escape the wrath of boozy twats. It felt far too soon to be going back yesterday. The hotel I was staying at was oddly at the end of the road of the flat I had been living in for the month and then I had to take the same stroll down Nicholson Street and towards the Pleasance (which is part of Edinburgh University) as I had done a few times in August. It was very much like Groundhog Day just without Bill Murray, a groundhog, or jokes. It was nothing like Groundhog Day. The Pleasance looks particularly odd during non-festival times. For a start there are cars parked in the Courtyard. You can’t park cars there during August, or you’ll run over a flyerer. They should park cars there in August. I didn’t feel all too well anyway after the flight and general post-Bestival tiredness and so I anticipated that I would make a massive shambles of the gig. I’d previously spent 45 minutes in my hotel room trying to work out what to talk about and instead just watched Scottish news to hear sad tales about redundancies at a rocket test factory in the Western Isles. I love how that news would never be on in London as there are actual things going on that need priority. To be fair front page of The Scotsman was ‘Man Fires Shotgun at OAP’s Door’, which sounded severe and I wondered whether the ‘Man’ knew they had a doorbell he could’ve just pressed. Stupid man. In the end the gig was really really bloody lovely. Nicely MC’d by Ro Campbell, I walked on and just fired 35 minutes of material out of my head. I linked things that I haven’t linked in such ways before, berated some American student’s for not understanding things and won another diabetic top trumps session, which it has since been said, I should not really be proud about. It was bloody awesome and I finally felt back on the set game after my not too great sets at Bestival. Nice to know my brain makes material come out of my mouth when I don’t expect it too. Then I strolled home via the Tesco’s I spent much of the Fringe in, bought two cakes and a milkshake and passed out at the hotel. Score.

Couple of nights off now which is brilliant. Must sort Fat Tuesday crap out and some other admin bits, such as diary filling and other useful things. Yawn yawn yawn. None of those things make for happy blog reading so I will endeavour to do at least something retarded everyday just for you starting with today. I’ll finish this blog then see how flammable my t-shirt is whilst still wearing it. Don’t say I don’t love you all.