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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

We were sitting in the pub in Camden run by a fantastic man from Northern Ireland who has a big thick moustache, a bigger, thicker gut, the biggest, thickest accent you’ve ever heard and a big thick sense of humour entirely unique to himself. The pub is excellent for many reasons, not least because there’s a theatre upstairs that has a tremendous amount of top quality comedy.

We were waiting for some of that comedy to come entertain us, and in the meantime we were finding our own entertainment staring out the window at the Camden Nutjobs walking past.
One man had a fantastic Mohawk made entirely of lego bricks. There’s no good reason for this, and so we applauded him as he passed. I was also tempted to treat the frightening lady who had obviously not been sober once in the last twelve years to a round of applause, but I thought she might fall over if I distracted her from her obvious heavy concentration of putting one foot in front of another.

As we continued to stare out the window, we found ourselves staring at someone we knew (who we’ll call DR), who promptly came in to the pub to say hello, distracting us from the world outside. We had a brief chat about Edinburgh, his Edinburgh show and how close it was to the whole Edinburgh adventure when he casually mentioned he was in America last week. “Oh,” I sighed, looking around the pub to catch more weirdoes in action and not really paying any committed attention to the conversation, “why?” He was, he explained, appearing on Jon Ronson’s radio series.

My head snapped around, my eyes stopped wandering. He had my attention. “You’ve met-” I started, too high pitched. I took a breath, and attempted a lower octave. “You’ve met Jon Ronson, then?” I said in a practiced casual manner that sounded as relaxed a paedophile offering a child some sweets. He Who Only… looked down at his thigh, were my hand was clenched far too tightly, cutting off his blood supply. DR didn’t seem to notice, and carried on with his tale of shooting guns for the radio. “But… Jon Ronson?” I squealed again, as He Who Only… started trying to shake me off for fear of losing a foot. DR looked over at me, and perhaps noted the hysteria induced deathly pallor adorning my face. “Yeah,” he said casually, “I read his book on the way home. It’s good, isn’t it?” And then he left the pub.

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