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Dreadful Nonsense

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

Thank the good lord above and below for that. August, it is done and dusted. I have never been more relieved to see September, which is usually the most crap of months, thanks to Festival hangovers and debts. But this year, holy moly, am I glad to see the ninth month.

I think we have been being terribly brave about the whole thing, and ending the month with a visit to Dublin certainly softened the blow of it all, but I think He Who Only… and I missed being at the festival a lot more than we were admitting to each other, and even to ourselves. It’s meant so much, both positively and negatively, to me over the years, and it has quite often been the location for many a defining moment in my life. For example, it was at the Festival this time last year that I plucked up the courage to touch a certainly someone (who only reads this blog to see if he’s mentioned) in a highly inappropriate and intimate manner, and since he’s not objected too strenuously, have continued to do so throughout the past twelve months. An indirect consequence of which I now find myself sitting in the most highly air conditioned room in London, a city in which I’ve intended to live since I was 15 but never quite got around to it before now.

The festival was the first place, if you don’t mind me being so crude, that I first had a nipple playfully bitten by a celebrity. The festival was the first place I ever saw (but did not partake in) the consumption of cocaine. It’s the first (and so far only) place I’ve been tattooed. It’s the first place I’ve chased a television presenter around a building trying to find the last packet of cigarettes in the last working fag machine. It’s the first place I’ve ever had a screaming argument with a friend, after which we didn’t speak for two days. It’s the first place I got a job on a newspaper, a real life actual newspaper. It’s the first place I’ve been given a press pass. It’s the first place I got death threats. It’s the first place I got letters of complaint about me published in a newspaper, and the first place I also got wild congratulations. I’ve met a lot of good people there, I’ve faced a lot of demons there, I’ve drunk an awful lot of alcohol there, and I could buy a small flat in Wales for the money I’ve spent there over the last seven years.

So. Yay. It’s gone, and, as He Who Only… said today, finally now if someone asks us are we going to Edinburgh, we can say “Yes” again. Roll on Fringe Fest 2006.


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