The performers create a gallery of stock character types ranging from duelling young bucks to gay aristocrats. Bathos is one of their best tactics, pricking Victorian bombast with a cleverly timed 21st century rejoinder. Some witty parodies of physical theatre add an extra layer to their consistently inventive and off the wall-skits.
Pretty good, I think. The boys will be pleased...
Next, it seems that I am to be plagued by All Aboard this year, as Caro of Three Weeks sung a heart-warming and terrifyingly sexual lounge-singer-style rendition of Rolf Harris's Two Little Boys in Cloisters yesterday. I had repaired to the pub quite early as I was convinced—correctly, as it turned out—that only alcohol would be able to still the incredibly bad shakes (that were even rmarked on by the bar staff) which made it quite impossible to work.
After a string of the usual suspects, I was delighted to see the arrival of my old flatmates, David and Claire, who moved south, with their two sons, a year ago. David is, in fact, Caro's brother so when the lady herself arrived we almost had the old flat back together for the first time in many years (only Steve, married and living in Haywards Heath, was missing). Much fun was had by all and I think that the bar staff were slightly bemused at our silliness. It was an entirely unexpected treat.
David and Claire returned to their temporary abode and Caro and I wandered up to peruse the bars to see if there was anyone that we knew. Having done the rounds of various bars (Underbelly, Spiegeltent, Pleasance Brooke's and Gilded Library), we concluded that, bar a brief conversation with a PR and Christopher Richardson (who, until this year, ran the Pleasance), no one was deserving of our sparkling wit; Caro, having not slept since Sunday morning, decided to go home. I, foolishly, did not and repaired to the GB Loft Bar to drink and chat with... well... anyone. The Fringe is good for that.
Later on, Macca arrived and more booze was drunk. Then I met up with an old friend of mine. Just after the Fringe last year, her boyfriend of 8 years was drowned when his boat capsized near Iceland, and young Jacqui still hasn't really got over it, really. Although, I think that she was starting to by the end of the evening...
One of the things that has made it difficult for her to move on is the fact that, because she and Jim weren't married, she has been stuck with a massive Inheritance Tax Bill.
But who cares? Death duties are only taxing luck, eh?
UPDATE: Fame and fortune beckon as I get mentioned in the gossip section of the Three Weeks eDaily!
The solution, when you have been awake for sixty odd hours, is not to go straight to bed, but to go out and get a bit drunk in venue bars first. This is what I did last night. And today? Fresh as a daisy. Well, almost.
I didn't plan this, obviously. My lovely brother (he is lovely, and if you ever meet him you will totally agree with me on this) and his lovely wife (she's lovely too) were in town and it was my only opportunity to see them, so I struggled (at that point, yes, I just wanted to collapse) out to have a drink with them. I had been awake for so long, and not eaten a great deal and the aforementioned drinks went straight to my head.
After a while, my brother and his wife had to leave, but whilst we'd been out we had run into Chris Mounsey, an inveterate Fringer, and so once they left, and given that I was half-cut, it was not long before one or both of us had suggested heading to the GildedSpiegelUdderDome, as we're calling it here at ThreeWeeks. What? We ARE.
So I stayed up late again. Drinking and talking to lovely people. Some of whom were involved in the 'Midnight Cowboy' show, one of whom was Alex Donald, another of whom was Simon Amstell. Yes, yes, I am dropping a name, there, actually. Because Simon Amstell is kind of famous.
Hmm, "inveterate Fringer" is obviously the Three Weeks euphemism for "drunken, freeloading bastard who always seems to be in the damn bars that you thought you were going to avoid him in"...