So.
Last night Team #GOLD minus our Huw, who was plum tuckered out, went to see our pal, Michael Hughes in his show “Mickey and Judy” (it is fabs…he is accompanied by the amazing Doug Price). 
After the show we went out for a drink and were lamenting the initial fight to get or obtain a review, then the reading of said review, and then the eventual rejoicing about and/or the railing against the reviews…because now is the waiting time…and you JUST never know what the fuck you are gonna end up with. You can be doing a show that you feel just great about and then someone who doesn’t like your gig can just blow the shit out of the water…and Edinburgh is ALL ABOUT reviews. AND how many stars you get…out of 5. The difference between a 4 and 5 is big and the difference between a 3 and 4 is a chasm too wide to see over or into. 
A fucking chasm.
So, I was sipping my nightly Scotch (because in Scotland I am clearly a bit of drinker…but just one people…I got shit to do) and there are about 10 of us gathered in a freezing cold courtyard (I wore my flip flops yesterday because it was hot and then the “HAR” came in…that is what the Edinburghers (don’t kill me if that is wrong) call this mist that comes in from the Firth and  creeps over the buildings…imagine “The Fog” from the Stephen King novel…minus the killer ghosts…I hope) and it was COLD COLD COLD. 
Rob, my producer, started to tell the story of a once famous British comedian who came to the Fringe for years…and he started out with amazing 5 star reviews and then about 5 years later got a 1 star review…which is just indescribable and turns my insides to liquid just thinking about it…and the comedian went and got a big star made and cut the middle out of it ,stuck his face through it and wore it for the rest of the festival and called himself “A Star” performer…he spun that shit review…we all smiled, laughed quietly and hoped to the sweet lord that this would never be any of us.
Then there was a pause and a lull…as can happen after a tale…and then Rob spoke into the silence…”Sad story though, really, he committed suicide a couple years later…”
All movement stopped…all conversation ceased…all drinks paused midway to mouth …all heads turned.
Maybe the “Har” did have killer ghosts in it ..who were demon storytellers…sent to scare the living effng shit out of you…and body snatched my producer.
THAT is what I am going with.

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