A Neurotic in London

I can’t believe that I’ve actually made it and you know what? It was so easy! Definitely not worth the ever so slight panic attack I had yesterday. BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE OH MY GOD WHAT AM I DOING I’M GOING TO GET LOST I MIGHT SUFFOCATE ON THE TUBE I CAN’T EVEN ACT THEY’LL ALL LAUGH AT ME I PROBABLY CAN’T EVEN READ I AM MUCH HAPPIER IN THE SPAR BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE.

Now, I can’t yet speak for the acting and people laughing at me (I’m in London for a wee summer school at RADA), but the journey really was easy peasy lemon squeezy. I calmed down somewhat after a vodka at the pub my friend was working in and then calmed down some more when I got on the KNIGHT BUS (take it away Earl) and had my very own bed. I actually calmed down so much that my tummy started rumbling; having neglected to eat that day, I found that I was pretty damn hungry. But no matter, I just dreamt of the fry up I would get when I arrived and fell asleep going over my lines. I didn’t even panic when I woke up and found myself in London. It seemed like such a short journey that I think my psyche has been tricked into thinking that Glasgow is incredibly near. That I could probably walk there.

TAKE THAT YOU NEUROTIC SON OF A BITCH PSYCHE!

And as for the dreaded Tube, I found it within seconds, although I did walk straight past it at first thinking that it couldn’t possibly be a station because of all the shops inside: that the sign saying “Victoria Station” on the building was in actual fact lying and that it really was just a shopping centre. But I realised my mistake pretty quickly, went back and it was then that I was met with another confused Scottish person:

“‘scuse me? Do you know if this is the station? Jist disnae look like one wi all the shops!”

“That’s what I thought, but I think it is!”

“Alright, cheers pal.”

But then he proceeded to walk in the opposite direction so he either didn’t trust me or completely misunderstood me.

I went in though and sure enough, it was both the station and the underground. I found the line I was meant to be on, managed to use my Oyster card, and didn’t fall down the escalator. I was then confidently waiting for the tube, until it turned up and I started questioning whether or not it was actually the right one. I had one leg in and one leg out, barricading the doorway, before turning to a stranger and imploring them for answers. It was just my luck that this stranger was absolutely roaring drunk.

“Sorrrry. I’m so druuunk. I thiiink – hic – this is the right one.”

She then took the initiative to ask someone who was not roaring drunk and yes, it was the right one.

Then I got off and my halls were a mere ten minute walk away and even though I’m not allowed in them until two o’ clock, I was able to leave my suitcase there – there was someone there at eight o’ clock on a Sunday morning! Then I found a nice little cafe down the road (OK YOU GOT ME IT’S STARBUCKS. I promise I’ll be more adventurous when I’ve settled in a bit and do not smell of bus.) and so here I am, drinking a big cup of tea and about to read my play for the third time just to make sure that I really know what it’s about.

I’ll let you know how tomorrow at the school goes.

If I don’t have another panic attack and die that it is.

P.s. It is absolutely pissing it down. I thought the weather in England was meant to be better than in Scotland? I did not sign up (or pack) for this.

Edinburgh Fringe, Baby

I wish the Fringe wasn’t so popular – it would seriously help my street rage. I don’t know if it’s because I’m from the country or what, but whenever I’m sharing a pavement with more than one person, a complete monster takes over. Seriously, I scare myself. Ugh. Get OUT of my way. WHY are you walking so slowly? People have places to go, you know. GET OFF THE PAVEMENT JACKASS!!! Oh God, he’s only got one leg. I’m going to hell for sure.

But yeah, other than the street rage, the Fringe is pretty great.

I was there last weekend and I had a swell time…despite being horrendously embarrassed by both my family and friends. Instead of street rage, my Dad suffers from restaurant rage…serious restaurant rage.

“Could I have some olive oil and balsamic vinegar, please?”

Time Frame of two seconds.

“WHERE, is my OLIVE oil and BALSAMIC vinegar?”

“Dad, please calm down…it’ll be here soon, they have to phone down to the kitchen…”

“Phone? PHONE? What, can they not use their legs?”

Dad frantically looks around, while I hide my head in my risotto.

“RIGHT I’m going to go and say something. DISGRACEFUL.”

“NO, Dad, no, please let me…oh look here it is now!”

I wipe the sweat off my forehead as a nice lady lays down the oil and balsamic vinegar.

“You’re lucky”, says Dad in a jovial, but not-so-jovial tone, “I was away to complain”.

That poor girl had no idea how lucky she was.

Anyway, enough about rage. I kicked off the weekend by seeing the one man show, Churchill by the lovely and extremely talented Pip Utton. I met him a couple of years ago. His show was before mine and when he came off stage, I was in the dressing room getting ready. I saw a man, all grey curls and cheeky blue eyes, looking at me in the mirror. I laughed and said, “What?” to which he replied, “I just LOVE watching women put on make-up. The concentration” before skipping away up the stairs.

That was Pip.

The show he did back then was Charles Dickens, and Churchill had the same effect on me as it did. I was desperate to ask Charles Dickens about why he fell in love with Nell, and what was wrong with his first wife before I realised that it was Pip, and not Mr Dickens and so I wouldn’t be able to ask those questions. The question I had for Churchill was how, HOW, can your favourite animal not be cats?!

“I don’t like dogs because they look up at you and I don’t like cats because they look down on you. Pigs know they’re your equal. They look you straight in the eye and always seem to be smiling. I like that in an animal I’m going to kill.”

Oh alright, fair enough.

The next day, my friends and I ventured out to see what we could scrounge in the field of free shows. The first show we saw was an improvisation comedy which was pretty funny, although if anyone doesn’t like audience participation, I would advise you not to go. I’m not a big fan – you go to see a show, not be in it – and so I usually head for a spot near the back to avoid such humiliations, but we were late and I had to sit stuck out on the edge. Perfect audience participation location. I could see her looking at me even though I was finding a spot on the wall extremely fascinating and, sure enough, “Tell me, what’s your name and what do you do?”

Fuck.

Having failed to think up a lie about my life in three seconds, I replied, telling her my name and that I study English Literature. Queue funny, funny jokes about what I expect I’m going to do with my life…but no, the jokes didn’t come. What kind of comedy is this? Maybe just saying English Literature was a good enough joke in itself. There were a few chuckles from the audience.

Hmm…

After seeing a few other shows, and having a snooze in one, my friends and I decided that it would be a good idea to have some fish and chips in the meadows. Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it? Fresh fish, crispy chips, sunny meadows, good group of friends hanging out…be like something out of One Tree Hill…

Try The Inbeweeners.

It started raining, our bums were wet, our chips were soggy, the fish was disgusting and we were egging our friend on to down some lime, lemonade…and vodka. “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!”

British youth at it’s best.

But we then decided to splash out at night and actually pay for a show. The Human Jukebox. It was about a guy who could supposedly play any tune – that’s what it said on the leaflet – and so of course people went there, ready to give him really obscure suggestions to try and catch him out. It did catch him out and when people realised that there wouldn’t be a show unless they COPPED ON and gave him some well known songs…well, they did exactly that. And he was a pretty talented guy. And funny. Well worth the £9.50. And girls, if you’re anything like me, you will find him extremely sexy. A short ish, bald guy with glasses, and questionable dress sense, multi-tasking like crazy? Oooooooft. It’s getting hot in here.

The next morning, however, my trip came to an end and it was time to say goodbye to the jugglers and hipsters; the buskers and fortune tellers; the tourists and aggravated locals; get another subway and board the bus home. Then get off that bus because it was broken and into another.

Don’t get me started on my bus rage.