THE BLOG

Baked Bean

02/06/2014 12:31 BST | Updated 30/07/2014 10:59 BST

I'm feeling rather bitter this month. Not because I've just turned 31. Not because Leonardo DiCaprio has suddenly got him self engaged, (don't worry ladies, he hasn't really) and not because someone put a baked bean on my pillow as a nasty surprise (Baked beans are the food of the devil).

I'm bitter because Edinburgh festival is only around the corner. I'm bitter because every time I go on Face Book to update my status about a shitty open mic spot I've got coming up, I have to read about the venues and times and excitement of fellow comedians getting themselves ready for a month of splendor.

Oh how I just sit and day dream about the chaos Id cause, the memories Id make and the people Id leave a strong impression on. Whether it's good or bad, I leave my mark when it comes to Edinburgh.

OK, so Ill miss out on the hangovers. Ill miss out on the major come down when it's all over. Ill save myself some cash to finally go on a holiday (going to Chicago's ice pit of hell last March does NOT count as a holiday!!) And I won't be gaining half a stone in weight from all the junk I would consume.

But maybe I want all of that. I want to waste two grand on cheap drinks and burgers. I want to wake up with filthy feet, spilt red wine and crusty mascara from a party I gate-crashed. I somehow even want to gain the extra half a stone at the end of the festival to show how much fun I'd had.

Finances. That's all it's come down too this year. Money is the route of all evil.

So, I've started a new job to save for next year's show. My last role I walked out of after two months because my boss was the ultimate douche bag. Plus he looked like a sweaty baked bean. I don't need to go on.

So the pennies are building, the ideas are written, and the excitement is a year early, but at least I have something to look forward to . And that extra half a stone. But at least I can say I will never look like a baked bean.

Before I go, I just wanted to mention that turning 31 has made me realize one thing. I don't need to mention my age unless asked by a priest or I'm arrested ( me, arrested?? ) . I'm proud to say that I was buying a 50p can of sugary booze in a shop that sounds a bit like Miceland (at this point I know being in Mice land buying 50p drinks is nothing to be proud of) and the lady asked me for I.D. I said I was 31 and her response was "Are you sure?" .. ummm.. Yes, I think I'm sure I know my own age Goon. And even if I was under the age of fresh faced 18 I would surely say I was 21, 25, 28 even!?? Not blimmin 31!

What a douche bag. But least she didnt look like a baked bean.