Fringe Day 4: Peamar Buttmite


I decided about ten mins ago to eat a peanut butter and marmite sandwich. Its been recommended a few times and each time I’ve slammed down the thought whilst casting a look at the thought provider as if to say their mind is full of wrong. But then today, I’ve clearly embraced the fringe by its horns, for I took the relative ingredients and placed them on some ‘Best of Both’ Hovis before wolfing down a what appears to be a seriously awesome sandwich. That’s right. A peamar buttmite sarnie. Well done Edinburgh, you’ve given me something good this August. Best of Both is a lie though. It seems its impossible to spread anything on it without whatever spread you are using just sliding around the piece whilst gathering tiny troops of crumbs from the surface but never actually creating an even mix. There was one part of my peamar buttmite sandwich that contained a tiny ball of concentrated saltiness and now all I can taste is the sea. With peanut butter in it. I don’t see, Mr Hovis, how that is the best of both? Never have any point have I been eating either white or brown bread and thought ‘you know what this is missing? A surface area like a whiteboard. That’s what’. Maybe what I’m missing is that when they state ‘both’, one is bread and the other is office stationary equipment? More fool me for not thinking it through perhaps.


Show two last night was fun but not as much fun as the night before. It kicked off with two people in the room who were meant to be in another show, which they exclaimed and then left, which is always good. Then the rest that were left were smilers not laughers. Certain bits just didn’t fall as well as Thursday which totally smacks the phrase ‘first the worst, second the best’ in its face. I did enjoy it, I just left the stage feeling more exhausted than I expected. Then someone put something lovely on Twitter about it and I got all happy again and went drinking. Essentially, what I’m stating is that I need my ego catered to at all times like a huge baby. However my liver would like you not to do that please and so misery equals healthiness. Fingers crossed tonight’s crowd are mediocre and can’t use the internet as I really need sleep.


I saw Keith Farnan’s show yesterday. You should go see it to. Its impossible not to love his hairy Irish face and he has that wonderful blend of talking about very serious things whilst being really silly about them. You leave with knowledge and a huge grin. Perfect combo. Like peanut butter and marmite. He also has a brilliant video at the top that is still making me laugh. Go book tickets now.


This morning I was a guest on Fresh Air radio for an hour with fellow comedian person and co-difficult name holder extraordinaire, Yianni Agisilaou. It was much fun and Yianni is far too good at linking things. He’s like a verbal chain welder. Anyway, I was exhausted and it appears I am much angrier than I thought about the fact that Florence and The Machine does not involve any sort of machine. I mean, to be fair, she says she has a machine and I imagined it to be a bit like Bertha, and it’d be carted onto stage while several men in overalls have to press buttons and music comes out. But no. No machine. Total let down. I bet Marina doesn’t have any diamonds either. And Martha’s Vandellas, well, I don’t even know what a vandella is. I assume its an Italian vandal? I didn’t see any of them when I saw her live, that’s all I’m saying.

I’m doing four shows today, including my own. I’m clearly an idiot.