Princess street

A full and frank apology: I apologise for having a three-year-old laptop whose GarageBand application inexplicably crashed during the recording of yesterday’s live podcast, thus plunging it into audio limbo. I must be held responsible for having the laptop – and who else can be held responsible except for Steve Jobs? – and for optimistically thinking it would work, to the extent that I actually said, “It will work.” I also apologise for whatever evil force field keeps interfering with the efficiency of electrical appliances that come into my orbit in this city. This may still be my fault, but it is beyond my limited corporeal control. Perhaps I am going through the change.

I also apologise if I gave the impression that I managed to get to last night’s washing up first, as I had done the previous morning, when I successfully took the rubbish out while other flatmates slept. I did not get to the washing up first. In my defence, it was 2am when I came in after Political Animal, and I deliberately tiptoed to my room in order not to disturb my flatmates. (I even forewent using my electric toothbrush for the same reason. I am considerate.) By the time I came back to the flat after breakfast this morning, much of the washing up was done, so I did as much as I could and dried and put away anything that needed drying and putting away, and washed what was still soaking in the sink, and then dried and put that away. I am naturally sensitive to accusations of laziness, and wish to redress the karmic balance after failing to realise that the dishwasher doesn’t wash dishes after Sunday’s lunch. Anyway, I think the blazing husband-and-wifely row Richard and I had about this very issue, live, onstage, in front of upwards of 60 people in the hamster-powered GRV this afternoon was a useful cathartic experience in this regard. I will endeavour to do better.

The gig was, in many way, a welcome return to form. Not that anybody except the upwards of 60 people (figures seasonally adjusted) who witnessed yesterday’s, live, at the GRV, will ever know how we retreated from form in the first place. But we did, in terms of taste and entertainment value, especially me. Still, now that a platoon of willing nerds have had various cracks at retrieving the lost podcast file – particular, hands-on thanks to Justin, Tony and William – it seems clear that it will never be heard. Let’s move on.

We were bathed in celestial light at the GRV, as you can see, in Gordon’s latest roll of photographs, and hit something resembling a stride, thanks to a long and well considered scripted piece about lane etiquette at the swimming pool from Richard, a long and well considered scripted piece about jacuzzi stimulation from Richard, and a long and well considered scripted description of what he did to the books I bought him for his birthday. As ever, I kept my counsel, and occasionally went into the audience to give them scraps of paper, Have a listen. Thanks to the efforts of Orange Mark – and the inner workings of Richard’s laptop, which works – the podcast is already up to listen to. Two and a half hours after we finished recording it. Not bad.

We arrived back at the flat to find the jovial, well-tailored and reassuring Andre “Vinny” Vincent, who’s in town for a few days and staying with us. As he left the flat, with Tom Wrigglesworth, he was juggling some hats. Maybe he is the spirit of the Fringe? Richard Herring is certainly the spectre.

Advertisement