The Road to Twonkeyland

Picture the scene. You have escaped the August tranquillity of London to the heroin homeland of Edinburgh for a week. It’s festival time and you’re back in the country of your birth. You sit around the Pleasance Courtyard enjoying a few afternoon beers and catching up with old friends.

Someone asks you if your Nan’s dead yet and you start to tell everyone the moving story of her final few minutes. ‘She asked us all to lean a bit closer. For a moment she only manages a light wheeze and then, using her very last bity of energy, she starts to whisper…’

‘SORRY TO INTERRUPT LADS, CAN I INTEREST YOU IN A COMEDY SHOW?’

That’s how it happens at the festival. The pamphleteers. They don’t give a teeny shit. They would interrupt Christ on the cross even if he was busy concentrating on having a pee with people watching. Don’t get me wrong, you can turn this to your advantage. It gives you moral carte blanche to abuse them however you like, get them to sell harder, ask them to tell you a few jokes. Many an afternoon in the Pleasance can turn into some classic comedy and you don’t even have to leave the bar area (that doesn’t, of course, make it a cheap day with those pint prices).

Sometimes you suggest a strategy for the poor helpless pamphleteer. You insist that if they just delicately lay down their leaflet, there would be an absolutely equal chance of us drinkers attending the show (i.e. none) compared to the indignity and annoyance of the hard sell. This is the equivalent of those times you tell the guy with the bucket that no, you will give to a charity of your own choice, thank you very much, and only in your own time (the twelfth of never).

However, you can’t help but occasionally believe your own bullshit. It’s the human condition. So when a bloke walks past chucking a pamphlet on our table with nary a word, by the Gods did we all suddenly pay attention! What is it, is it a play, a comedy? The guy in the pamphlet looked a bit weird. Someone says they think it’s the guy who just dropped it. Surely not, but he’s still in sight and yes, the eyes are the same. He’s leafleting his own show and he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

‘When’s it on? Where do we get tickets?’ It’s on in an hour, and it’s the ‘Free Fringe’ so we better get moving to beat the freeloaders. We down the pints and four of us jump in a taxi.

‘Where you off to lads?’

‘Twonkey’s Castle!!!’

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