Edinburgh is a delightful city. Every thing is made out of castle. Cobbled streets invoke all kinds of wonderous imagery, of garroted prostitutes, catch-me-if-you-can messages smeared in blood and baffled coppers. Delightful.

I want to say ‘Alright guv-mor’ to everyone I meet. I want to introduce myself as the ‘umble chimney sweep’. It doesn’t matter that this is not London, and I am not Oliver Twist. In my head, everyone talks funny, and I am waiting for 40 lashings for my big fat gob.

I was feeling very smug with my ‘lack of jet lag’. Oh, how adaptable I am! I am soooo adaptable. Yet there I was, at 4.30 in the morning. On a park bench writing. It’s hard to look sophisticated when your lips are blue. It’s also hard when you are wearing ‘sensible walking shoes’- read ‘cheap sneakers’ that make me look like a dad from the 80′s.

My jet lagged heart is being a dick. It has the energy to send blood shooting around my veins at an alarming rate, yet the rest of my body can’t even be bothered to be vertical.

I thought at 4.30am I would be alone on the streets of Edinburgh. I wish I was. I thought I saw 2 gangly transvestites fighting for a corner. But upon closer inspection, these angry ‘trannies’ were just women who’s throat box lubrication had eroded away by whiskey.

I was disappointed. I had always dreamed of forming an unlikely friendship with a Scottish tranny, who I thought was teaching life lessons to- but it turned out that she actually taught me lessons. She taught me so much. And we are both richer for the experience.

There are some strange noises in this city. I was awoken to hear the crazed chanting of a group of indecipherable lunatics. The people of Scotland are mad. They don’t even speak english. It took a full minute of smugness to realise the chanting was in Maori. The native language of New Zealand. Half of me wanted to run down and join them. The other half couldn’t be assed with the stairs on the return journey.

Pigeons look the same over here. I wonder if I put them in a blender- would the contents flow down the plug hole clockwise, or anti clockwise?  They sound different though.  For a while I though there were wild monkeys in the street.  It turns out pigeons have Scottish accents.

I have seen two shows already. “Autistic-Woman-In-Childbirth-While-Lamenting-The-Loss-Of-Her-Childhood-Dog-And-Subsequent-Innoccence-The-Musical” and Steve Hughes. I like Steve Hughes. He’s the dodgy Irish uncle I always wanted, but never had. I was stupid enough to answer an audience question. This resulted in my accent exposing myself as a kiwi. My inability to respond to any stimulus also exposed my jet lag/social retardation.

So here I am.  Hi Sarah, nice to meet you? Do you have a producer?
No.
A publicist?
No.
A clue?
No. I just thought I’d wing it. What’s the worst that can happen? I am here with no illusions of grandeur. I am here to do my thing, watch shit, learn shit, drink shit, and meet people who sound like they are in the most charming soap opera on the planet- Coronationdale Farm. It sounds good to me. I am ready to make unwanted eye contact with strangers, and have them break my horsey spirit as they deny my flyer.

Come and see my show if you like your comedy a bit twisted, dark and silly. If you like the odd ditty about the ‘Dead Dad’s Club’, and racial tirades against Vegans. If you don’t, there are 3,000 other fishes in the sea, and I am sure you will find a musical about the ovulation of any type of oppressed sector of society.