Ralph the Wonder Llama

Not, perhaps, what you might be thinking. However, in a sort of Coals to Newcastle sort of way it struck me as faintly ironic to learn that the Indian Consulate has followed an apparent trend of outsourcing their visa processing, in their case to vfs global. Nothing inherently wrong with that – now one can fill in the forms online (which are confusing and badly explained, but still) and even pay in advance, theoretically reducing the time spent in the queue. Theoretically. Claire had to wait for two hours for her appointment, and it, being the busier London, was timed.

This morning, having done all this, and even booked my ‘appointment’ – a specific day, rather than a time – I went along to the visa centre for opening time at 08:30. When I asked the security guy about the appointment system he said “Oh, we see anyone at any time, it doesn’t matter.” Hmm. Apparently the online system has somewhat over-reached reality. Never mind, I was first in line. I had neglected to complete one or two details that somehow hadn’t quite made it from the online record onto the printed version to date and sign, but never mind that either.

“You are coming here to collect?”

“Yes. Can I pick it up this afternoon?”

“Oh no, it will be 2-3 working days. Minimum. You can track your application online with this number.”, the officer said, handing me one third of the receipt.

I’ll be back in a week, then. The Consulate returned them the same afternoon. Still, it’s at least good to know that this shiny new service with all its online efficiency is such good value for money. Oh, except that this year the visa is nearly 25% more expensive than last, having added on the outsourcing company’s fee.

La, and indeed, la.

Last Sunday saw the last bit of Fringeing for this year – and in fact, if all goes to plan, for several years. What better way to go out, then, than with Fringe repeat offender Otis Lee Crenshaw, that faux country redneck outlaw day-release programme alter ego of the one and only Rich Hall. Sold out ages ago, we got tickets for this on a whim some weeks earlier, the Sunday being perfect as a Bank Holiday non-school night.

I’ve seen OLC before and in truth, this is a winning formula that sees little need for change, except in terms of the actual set list. The general concept is the same: Otis sings wry, cruelly funny songs about the myriad ways in which life can be less than satisfactory; Otis takes the front row to the cleaners in a manner that seems at the same time savage and unmalicious – Paul the unlicensed renegade accountant takes particular stick, quite rightly really, bloody charlatan that he clearly was, and the mixed up family group on the other side are vaguely accused of all sorts of nefarious shenanigans. Indeed. Through it all, the audience is captive to this community-release comic chanteur. Laughs were always guaranteed, and no-one goes home disappointed. Except perhaps Paul.

Laugh of the night perhaps goes to his guitarist, though. Having misheard Otis ask for cigarettes in a shared childhood anecdote, he goes off on a story about a risque and potentially dodgy relationship with the man whose grass he used to cut, who would often treat him to fresh lemonade and gave extra money for shoulder rubs. Cue the eventual punchline of the misheard word and the resulting confession rendered entirely unnecessary, and his receipt of a glass of R Whites in the band’s next round of beers from the bar. Marvellous.

So, as always, I’ve done my random show, my minor show, my friend-of-JJ’s show, and the final two cast-iron guaranteed end-to-end laughter big name shows. Here’s to the Fringe. I’ll miss it.

A very quick word on this as I have to get to bed. Basically Russell Howard is now my official favourite comedian. I’ve seen him in each of the past three years here, going from accidental show to the pleasance cabaret bar to the assembly rooms, teh last two tickets bought as soon as they were out.

I trudged through the inevitable heavy rain to get to George St – Edinburgh has come to resemble teh stage set of a dodgy Kevin Costner film. Surely the seas must be empty by now? Anyway, after minimal fuss the man himself bounded on stage, all high-energy, enthusiasm and boundless charm. The man seems to specialise in generating waves of feelgoodness, and even when there’s a butt to his jokes, it’s never done with malice – he’s the most humane comic I’ve ever seen. Genuinely, helplessly funny, soon enough he’s made your eyes leak, your face hurt and your throat ache. Genius. I can but urge you to see him at any opportunity. Best show so far, with only Otis Lee Crenshaw to come on Sunday. beat that, redneck!

Stepping out afterwards, impossibly the rain is heavier. But it doesn’t matter. Even this weather can’t dampen the mood just generated. Uber-win!

August in Edinburgh is, of course, all about the various festivals and especially the Fringe. Last weekend my estimable friend Claire came to visit for the weekend. Originally this was to have been a planning and booking session for our trip to India in late September, but since we were well ahead of the game on that score, we could generally enjoy ourselves in town. Claire always seems to bring good weather – I suspect her of being some sort of minor sun goddess, since she has the same effect on Edinburgh as I do on that other Tropical Paradise™, Donegal. Sure enough, we weren’t to get wet all weekend. Well, one of us anyway…

Friday night, after a quick pint in the Guildford Arms, we headed for dinner at the Gurkha Brigade, a charming little Nepalese restaurant near the top of Leith Walk. We had decided to eat in homage to our holiday, and jolly fine it was too. Ims and Narendra’s place is barely 50 miles from teh border with Nepal, and since they do a mixture of North Indian and Nepalese food it was a fitting feed.

Saturday we hit the Fringe. On JJ’s recommendation we went to see The Rules of Drama and Suspense with Bronya and Siony at Sweet Teviot Place, having taken in a sunny ale in the Udderbelly Pasture. I’m sure I’ve seen Briony (real name) before in an improv thing at the Bedlam which JJ joined in. Very good, very funny and well crafted I thought. Win!

Then we headed down to the Pleasance to see what we could see, and hit upon the idea of seeing Scratch Improv’s show based on cuttings from the Fringe Programme, including a mini-opera in three parts called Napoleon: Exit Stage Left Chased by Rabbits. All very good, especially one woman who teased one of her fellow comedians about his transparently parlous knowledge of the short man himself. Win!

Then it was home for take away pizza from la favorita before heading out late for the midnight Best of the Fest at the Assembly Rooms. A mixed bag, obviously, but we had a very funny large north american guy, and Brandon Burns, last year’s not-the-Perriers-any-more winner, whose entire act was sidetracked by a man in a pink jumper and a subsequent sauntering contest. marvellous. Win!

We just had time to fit in a stroll through Princes St Gardens on Sunday, looking at the Hard Rain exhibit on the way. I like Dylan but I’ve never been his hugest fan, but this was very moving. The photography combined with his words was extremely powerful, well worth a look:

And that was that. A weekend gone in a flash. Sure enough, as I walked home from seeing Claire onto her train…it started to rain again. Lose!

Ah, the Great British music festival. A tradition almost as synonymous with the Great British “summer” as rubbish weather, dodgy food, and lukewarm flat Tennent’s. Yet there is another way. One can choose to head to leafy Oxfordshire, in the heart of the English countryside, where one is surely guaranteed the finest things that a pastoral idyll can provide.

Maybe. Or maybe not. As I left Edinburgh in the early morning light of Thursday 7 August, I wondered to myself whether this really was such a great idea after all. I could tell you it was raining. Better, perhaps, to say that the 06:04 from Edinburgh Waverley to Bathgate took until 06:25 to make it as far as Edinburgh Haymarket, such was the ‘speed’ at which the train was forced to tiptoe its way through the flooded mile of Princes Street Gardens. Not, it is safe to say, an auspicious start.

As I teamed up with the Mathesons, knowing grins were exchanged. There was, this summer, an inevitability about this, perhaps, almost as crushing as if it had actually, rather than metaphorically, been raining spanners. Arse.

Never mind. We are British. We Cope. We Persevere. We wear hi-tech waterproof clothing and a fine layer of stoicism. We will not be beaten.

As we headed towards Cropredy, after a doomed attempt to find Banbury Tesco, the sun actually shone and the roads were actually clear. Things were looking up. Cropredy is a very civilised affair where one is allowed to pitch tent right next to one’s car. The fields have security, regularly maintained toilets, neatly marked off residential corridors, lighting, the works. Some even have showers, for those that can be arsed. We pitched in the dry (myself in record time thanks to a pop-up tent kindly loaned by Donald and Adele, much to the chagrin of the bloke next door), had a beer, and set off to make merry:

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I have some catching up to do. I’ve been so busy lately, social gadfly that I am, that I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it. It’s been all I can do to keep up with life’s little practicalities like shopping and laundry. Anyway, I’m here now, and over the next couple of nights I’ll try to get up to date. I’ll have to, ‘cos I’m not going to get a spare minute this weekend, I can tell you.

On 2 August I took the bus down to the Borders (Innerleithen, to be precise. No, nor had I) to visit the Traquair Fair. Traquair is a country house set in beautiful countryside so verdant and hilly it reminded me a little of the Sussex Downs, or “God’s Country” as it is more commonly known. Ahem. Anyway, I went for the day out with my new friend Sue, with whom I share Ims as a mutual friend. Ims and Narendra had a stall there selling lots of lovely Indian clothes, bags, jewellery, incense and what have you that they’d brought over with them. And, of course, it absolutely pissed it down for a good part of the day. Oh well. I think they did ok on the Sunday anyway. Here am an picture of a man making playing the guitar more difficult by riding a unicycle at the same time. Or possibly the other way round. It wasn’t clear:

Traquair Fair is an annual event and hosts a variety of arts, crafts, live music and a bar selling their very own estate-brewed ale, for which I can personally vouch, having tested it quite carefully, more than once. Noice. We could have done with spending more time there really, especially given the somewhat vertiginous entry fee. Aside from the rain, however, we were on a schedule. We had tickets to see Omar Sosa, at the Jazz Festival back in Edinburgh. Now jazz isn’t normally what I go for, but I’m up for anything once live music-wise, so why not? Sosa is Cuban by birth but African in spirit, and he and his two fellow players created a very original, enthusiastic and joyful mix of jazzy and African-folk inspired pieces that couldn’t fail to charm. Forget ‘jazz’ per se, this was something different again. Suitably classification-defying.

Getting there was an adventure in itself though. We met up with two of Sue’s friends with whom we were going to drive back to town. Unfortunately (especially for George, whose car it was) we broke down when the suspension collapsed on a roundabout some way short of our destination. To cut a long story short, we hitched a ride to the nearest town (I forget where exactly), our saviour calling us a cab on the way. Then we managed to accidentally hijack the cab of the person whose house we’d stopped at, who then appeared and, since we were headed the same way, shared with us. She turned out to be called Cath, and she’s the bookings manager at the Liquid Rooms. We all got on like a house on fire, and we are now on the guest list for anything we want. Blimey.

We were dropped outside the Queen’s Hall fifteen minutes before Sosa was due on, having missed the support act but with enough time to get a drink and find our seats. Amazing. I wouldn’t have given you a bet for us getting there at all at the point when we broke down. And a fabulous gig, too. You’ve gotta love it, huh?

Today I received an email informing me that a photo of mine that had been found on flickr was to be included in the Fifth Edition of Schmap Montreal. They’d asked permission to consider it a few weeks ago but I wasn’t really expecting it to go in. Still, here we are – I now have a credited photo published. Here’s how it would look if you had more money than sense, and there’s always the official schmap online version of the entry.

The picture is of the Montreal Convention Centre, taken on my trip there in 2005 with the Mathesons to visit the Monkberts, and can be seen in full original glory right here, right now:

Multimedia geezer, innit.

I know – nearly half way through August and I haven’t told you anything. Sorry – in my defence I’ve been super-busy and, you’ll be glad to know, having a great time being so. I’ll bring you up to date in the next day or two (I’ll need to, as Claire is visiting this weekend so it’s either tomorrow or Sunday night basically), promise. All terribly exciting.

BUT I just wanted to say that Monday was payday (and therefore yayday) and just a few minutes ago I made the final payment on my mortgage, the one that brings my offset account up to exact parity with my mortgage amount. There’s a screen where one can see the future regular payments which has £7-odd next month and then £0, £0, £0, £0…and how sweet is that? I may yet wait a while before redeeming it on the grounds that until I get that last six months’ work I can’t be sure of anything, but still, it’s a great feeling. My own home. Yes, the one with the leaky roof…

…I may have a sneaky beer to celebrate