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Desperate for the stars of attention and the attention of the stars, next generation’s celebrities and the generation after that’s has-beens vie for the people’s prestige. Britain’s skies sing a merry dance while its middle-classes sing a merry dance. But in my Lutton Place flat, all is amiss.
The legends assemble every other morning for breakfast at The Southern. A tight-knit group of David Trent (black pudding), James Acaster (pancakes) and Nish Kumar (nothing, had cereal). But there is a snake amongst them. An unwanted prankster (onion rings). They sit in silence, pondering whether to bring it up. Already, back in Lutton Place, he has shown them his bottom. He has swapped the entire contents of their wardrobes. He has purchased flat vagina wipes. Wetting the shower room floor as regularly as he sets the smoke alarm off, his sense of personal boundaries is matched only by his ability to remember his keys. With the sense of humour and body-consciousness of a Scary Movie, he has made their Edinburghs significantly harder than any three that reads like a four. His incessant squealing and techno-stretching sessions have made the flat sound like a spinning class for cats. He has also used all of their toothbrushes to clean his ears and they don’t even know it yet.
He is me.
I regret nothing.
Go and see their shows to atone for my sins. Also, do go and watch WitTank (boarding-school idiocy), Ivo Graham (post-uni mumblings), Mike Wozniak (pure showbusiness), Liam Williams (dark wordsmithery), Alfie Brown (hirsute opinion), Iain Stirling (Scottish person).
Tom Rosenthal, Pleasance Courtyard, 8.15pm (0131 556 6550)
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