Edinburgh: Day 2. Or something similar.

August 3, 2011

Another night on a sofa. But we’ll get to that later.

We’ll start where we left yesterday. At yesterday. After spending a day stuck in the house I decided a walk was in order. With no knowledge of the town I was in (having been practically house bound since arrival) I thought there is only one place I new the direction to.

Our venue.

TheSpace@Symposium Hall.

I knew the directions because I spent days and hours designing the map on the back of our flyer (a delicious piece of A6 card that makes me proud of myself (a rarity))

Anyway. I journeyed. 30 minutes from our house, up roady hills and down roady hills and past roady restaurant eventually to Hill Square.

I even took a photo. But it had just turned midnight, so it’s not really worth posting…

Going Large at McDonald's isn't really worth it either, but it doesn't stop me.

It was at this point in my tired, bed deprived, sofa based (we’ll get to that) state that the thought really hit me about where I was.

But I was in a tired, bed deprived, sofa based state and so the thought was lost in the ether of stars and the glare of the KFC opposite. It’s almost romantic, if you find the boneless banquet an aphrodisiac.

So, I made to return home and sleep on a sofa. But we’ll get to that later.

I get home and fall asleep on a sofa. I told you we’d get here eventually.

Day 1 complete. Or so we thought. Correctly. Because I slept quite well.

I really liked the floor... Honest.

As for Day 2 (which is the point of this post) it was spent finding my bearings and taking the occasional photo. I don’t even know how the one I’m uploading turned out because I took it on the fly and haven’t looked since. But I like surprises so it’s on here anyway.

There was a secret, secondary aim to the wandering and that was to collect the flyers, posters and t-shirts for Coal Head, Toadstool Mouth and Other Stories. It required patience, conversation and being nice to people.

All in a days work.


The box was heavy. My arms were – and indeed still are – dead but I did the half hour journey in just over an hour and a half and looked manly while doing so… So manly.

And that is where I’ll finish today’s blog. With a picture of a shirt and poster. Modelled by another lovely cast member. Containing one of the cast members from yesterday.  All designed by me.

The thumb is because my design is brilliant.



Edinburgh: A month in days. Day 1.

August 2, 2011

Starting from the 1st of August, I have a month spent in the lovely scottish city of Edinburgh.

You may ask why, but if you do you must not be aware of me or my life. And more importantly, you’re not following me on Twitter, which you should be.

But I’ll pander to your ignorance. Ryan is producing a show for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The show is called “Coal Head, Toadstool Mouth and Other Stories” and while I’ve spent alot of time in the cyber world selling it to everyone who wants to come (which you should, and you should check out the poster I designed and find out where and when later on…) this blog is a more personal account of what is, basically, a holiday for me.

"I'm looking for a good way to spend an evening between 8:30 and 9:30..."

Because Edinburgh is a lovely city (the view from the balcony I’m sat next to proves this) and I could do with the practice of writing about my life everyday.

The eagle eyed reader will notice that this blog is being posted on the 2nd of August but says Day 1 in the title.

The stalker eared reader will also be aware that I’m only actually in Edinburgh until the 28th, even though my opening paragraph says a month et al.

I call you pedantic and must insist you stop talking about these flaws in my blog.

Since arriving in Edinburgh yesterday afternoon, I’ve already had lots of tea, stared at lots of emails and spent slightly too much money on alcohol. I blame that on a cast members birthday. I must vow to be better behaved with my wallet or I won’t be able to afford the train back.

I predict day 10 of this blog is when I start to worry about this train-affording-issue. I could solve this by booking a ticket now but, honestly, where’s the fun?

The brightness of the outside shrouds our hard work.

So, here I sit, at one end of the productivity centre of which a picture is currently being taken of. I don’t trust the camera person, but we’ll see how the photo turns out – it’ll probably be the picture above this paragraph in a web based chronological paradox. Here’s hoping the photo’s a gooden.

As it happens, in the brief respite where that not-so-decent photo was taken I also found a photo from the train ride yesterday, which I feel sums up the people I’m in Scotland with. Or atleast two of them.

And that’s what I’ll finish day 1 with. Enjoy. And expect more.

There was a smell which caused this. A bad smell. But a good photograph.

Women are Perverts.

September 18, 2010

So, I’ve spent the last week squatting with three lovely girls. They’ve made me tea, they’ve let me eat their food and they’ve forced me to shower, all in return for chips, Scott Pilgrim novels and nectarines. Bargin.

But I’ve learnt one very important point about the female kind. They’re perverts. More so than any male friend I own, these girls spend their time glaring at the male form, pointing out their good points, their bad points and informing everyone in the room of how much they want to snog their face. I have only one issue with this.

I don’t mind women being free to perv on guys. Men have been doing it for millenia – oogling and groping and fucking and impregnanting the big hipped, big titted fitty from the cave down the road all for their own sexual perverseness. It sickens me.

Anyone who has watched a film with me knows that I can’t stand kissing. Seeing two people kiss makes me feel violently ill. It’s weird. I’m weird. Get over it. I just put this in here to make the point that I find the sexual nature of most of modern media disgusting. Regardless of gender.

But that’s not my issue. It’s only fair that women get their chance to perv back at men. And, while I don’t want to watch it when they do, they’re free to oogle and grope and fuck and impregnate men as much as we do them. My issue is this.

It’s never me.

I’m not an overly attractive person. I’m average. And that’s only on the good days. No one pervs over me. No one notices me walk past and fans the orgasmic sweat off their face. No one, dispite the rumours, thinks of me instead of their boyfriends during sex. And this irritates me.

It’s not that I even want to be. I just want a chance. Think of the film ‘Hitch’ (which I was made to watch the night I arrived). Long spoilers short, the Fat Guy gets the Hot Girl because he’s funny  and they share interests and he has that boyish charm that no one she’s ever met does.


It doesn’t matter if you can make a girl laugh, doesn’t matter if you can have conversations until 5 in the morning about nothing or farm animals and boyish charm is good only for introductions and the occasional persuasion of making them buy you a drink. But if you don’t have a cute arse, you won’t find love. Atleast not until your late 30s.

My late 30s. When the attrative men have moved on to the attractive younger replacements of you girls and your saggy, used bodies will crawl back to the unattractive people because – “Hey, I want kids one day, right? And he’s not that bad really… He’s got this boyish charm.”

It’s here I  quote from a break-up I had. A sentence said to comfort me but that has haunted me everyday since.

“You’ll be the perfect husband, but you’re just not a good boyfriend for me right now…”

‘Nuff said.

Tonight in Ryan’s Dreams: (So long it gets a blog.)

September 10, 2010

Ryan in play by @jameshamilton. Character lines = ‘Say wot u like’ x50. Wears sheet. Fucks up. Play gets worse. Director helps by talking to actors during performance. Fails. He asks if I have mobile to turn play into modern Art. I don’t. Other fuck ups include all off the buttons being ripped off the lead actresses cardigan, revealing a magnificant corset. We all filter backstage, which in the script is onstage and should be part of the show. Due to fuck up, there is noone on stage, but the play goes on. What do we do? We turn off the stage lights. In the darkness, all the audience hears is darkness. We slide ( literally slide) on stage. Lights come up in an exciting. The cast of 20 jolt to life like a camp man trying to look professional. And so begins THE POWER PLAY. A piece of physical theatre. Which noone expected. Due to the shock of it being awesome, everyone on stages laughs. Embarrassment causes Ryan to wake up.

Analise that, Bitch.

My ego’s bigger than yours.

August 19, 2010

Let’s talk about me. I haven’t done that since my last blog post.

I am pretty awesome, if I’m honest. Here are some reasons why:

Firstly, I’m nice. People can talk to me and, unless i’m having a bad day, i’ll respond. I’ll even act like I care in most cases because, in most cases, I care. If you’re talking about why you’re happy, i’ll be happy for you. If you’re talking about why you’re unhappy, i’ll think long and hard about how, and if, I can help. And If I can I will try my darndest to do so.

Which leads me on to my second point. I’m reliable and efficient. If you give me a task to do, I’ll do it to the best of my ability (Which is pretty high, but we’ll get to that in a bit) and quickly. Ask anyone who’s ask me to do something for them and I doubt any of them will seriously say it was rubbish and late. Ask anyone who’s arranged a meeting with me and they’ll return with a story starting with “Well, he was there when I arrived…”

Not only that, but if needs be i’ll stay long after I have to. Not to finish my own work – that was finished long before – but to help others with theirs, or just keep them company while they do it themself. It doesn’t upset me to be there, but it’ll probably upset them if I left. It’s only logical to stay.

Although, they may ask me to help as – as previously stated – if I put my mind to something, I do it well. Grades in Education aside (they don’t show skill, they’re a pointless exercise in arselicking), the majority of my work is seen to be of a high standard even though I would disagree – perfectionism isn’t a flaw, is it? The remaining minority of work that isn’t high standard is either very old, or meant to be that way for effect.

Away from work, I’m funny. I make jokes, I make people laugh. At some point i’ve probably made you laugh. If i’m lucky i’ll make you laugh during the 3 minutes you spend reading this post which would prove this point and the rest of my points.

Personality isn’t everything, and it’s always good to judge people based on looks.

Now, while I’m hardly Bradert Downey Clooneyor, i’m not exactly a troll either. A happy medium. I’d need a bit of photoshopping before i’m on the cover of FHM, but my face wouldn’t become an overnight phenominum for being the ugliest thing since the baby swan mingled with the ducks.

So, there are many points describing why i’m rather nifty. The cliche here is to say “Oh, i’m also modest” but I won’t. Because I’m not. I’m arrogant and brilliant.

And you wouldn’t have it any otherway.

It’s 3AM, it’s time to blog.

August 9, 2010

I spent the day wandering, doing nothing, thinking not much and now I find myself sat at a computer at 3AM listening to music on as low a volume I can before it’s muffled from the sounds of my fan being overworked in the tremendous heat. The thought crossed my mind that if that fan broke, I would burn.

And that’s not hyperbole. The amount of heat my computer pumps out it’s suprising I haven’t got boils over my hands already. If the fan broke my options would be burn a slow and painful death, or turn off the computer. Neither is acceptable.

Secret option number 3 is glue. I could repair the fan. I could do that, right? I’ve fixed phones before. I’ve glued my watch back together. I’ve saved laptops with a bit of pritt stick. I even managed to repair a car with a dobble of blue tac, once. (granted, it was only the ciggerette lighter cap, but fuckoffanddie).

On closer inspection, pouring glue on a machine whose primary function is to spin is probably not the best idea. Bit like putting an olympic athelete in a mermaid costume – great for a bit of night time cos-play but it aint winning any awards for it’s job.

…Did I just imply i’m slightly aroused by fans covered in glue…? Ignore that.

So glue on a fan was a bad idea, but it’s broken how to fix it. Second idea is, ofcourse, the screwdriver/hammer technique. Which in the case of my fragile repair skill is mostly hammer. I fear this, too, will cause more trouble than it stunts. But, if it wasn’t 3AM I’d probably stand a chance…

Alas, it is the early hours, and if the lovely rotating blades to my left do decide to stop, I’ll be fried harder than an omelette. I’ll be grilled harder than a terrorist in a cell with no cameras. I’ll be microwaved harder than the overdone rustlers burger I had for dessert last night. Right now, I am bread. Without that fan, I’m toast.

Someone pass the butter.

Goodbye childhood.

August 3, 2010

So, like the drones of humans, young and old, I got off my lazy arse and saw Toy Story 3. We all know the basic story: Kid grows up, Kid says bye to Toys. Badabing Badaboom. It was one of the best films I’ve ever seen, and the Trilogy will be sitting on my shelf as soon as the Blu-Ray is released.

But it got me thinking. The film was aimed at my age group. I was Andy last year but I didn’t have wild adventures with Woody and Buzz. I didn’t imagine my Piggy bank to be evil (He was to be evil. Still is). And when I left for Uni, my Toys didn’t cry after me. Not because they didn’t care, because they didn’t exist.

If the Series was based on my Toys as a kid, it’d be my Sega Megadrive wheezing in a corner glaring Jealously at the podgy PS1 which sat admiring it’s PS2. They’re not walking around. Lazy fuckers don’t have legs. Nor do the more modern counterparts. The Shiny PS3 sits atop the window sil with the Wii and the 360 proud to be better than that old Rifraf, but saying nothing. Because they’re not Toys.

Littered around them are the smaller things. The now unused Gameboy Colour, still grasping on to that last game of Pokemon Yellow, cowers in the corner with Gameboy Advance. The DS above knows it’ll end up there. The PSP is already on it’s way.

…The list goes on. If I hadn’t ripped apart the old Computers for parts, that old Beast I had as a 8 year old would be oogling my current setup, amazed by it’s flashing blue lights.

The point, if this thing needs a point, is that my childhood isn’t littered with stories of Death By Monkeys, Flying Pigs and Exploding train tracks. It was filled with news of Ram updates, cheat codes and that magical day I first logged on to the internet. Days I’ll never get back.

Apparently, I’m growing up but I can’t metaphorically signify this by playing with a small girl with my old toys, passing on my love, ambitions and imagination. And if I try to pass these onto a small girl online, i’ll get arrested.

Goodbye Childhood.