THE BLOG

F*** Pascha!

07/04/2015 16:40 BST | Updated 07/06/2015 10:59 BST

As I'm in the middle of writing and practising for my second solo show for the Camden Fringe this year, I should not be thinking about holidays. But last night I booked a flight to Ibiza. To go a month before my show. And now all I can think about are the hot beaches and amazing clubs and what outfits to wear each night. And of course the company I'll be with. My partner in crime. Who you may know as Povs. The crazy American comedian who I did my double hander with at Edinburgh Festival in 2012.

In my defence we have been planning to go to Ibiza for years. And last night was the time to book. (Even though I was in bed with a sticking hangover and had vowed that morning I would never go or drink again).

The thing is, when Povs and I plan something, we seem to create a story to come home with. From dancing in the cinema while the dramatic music is playing before the film begins. To pretending to be two Germans in the middle of Nottingham city after a gig with our stalker turning up to watch us! (We really did have a stalker!) And that's only 0.1% of the adventures we have managed to conjure up together!

The most memorable night out was when we had planned to go to Pasha for months on end. So we finally got tickets and went on our merry way "fisting on a bus" there.

When we got to the que we were bitterly disappointed to find a que of what looked like 15 year old chavs drinking bottles of Smirnoff Ice and talking about Peter Andre. We knew instantly we did not want to go in. But we had spent £25 on our tickets! What were we to do? Two normal people would have sold the tickets to the kids in the Que. But not us. We jumped on the tube to hit another club. Once we got to the door man, with no plan but to get in with our Pascha tickets, we decided to convince the door men (and ourselves) we were at Pascha. It worked! Once we got in with the incorrect tickets, we had a blast, including being recognised by two guys seeing us from doing a comedy gig somewhere.

When 5am hit and it was time to leave, we waited at Waterloo station for the tubes to open. At this point we had met two very random people, one of which called me Helen of Troy and the other claiming to be out with is grandmother with dementia. After squeezing myself into the locked up toilets and stealing some plastic flowers, I proposed to my new fan and told him to call me Helen forever. With that I was engaged to a stranger, eating a Big Mac with a grandma and was enjoying watching Povs run around the station like the Tasmania Devil.

So before we even go to Ibiza, I know we will return with 500 photos, 100 stories, 2 hangovers and 0 STD's. I can't wait!

(Tickets for my Camden comedy solo show are out June 1st!)