12.30 Saturday night. The phosphors and the phosphenes are fusing - time to set the computers to standby. I'm on course for six hours flat when the phone rings. Sally(Homer) is tempting me from the other side, she has an innate talent for knowing the whereabouts of a good time. A group of Dutch comedians she's been publicising were having a party and the absurdist Hans Teeuwen would be there. I'm sold so I reset my coordinates for the front door and slip into the night. Entering the destination into my phone I set sail and let Captain GPS guide me to port. This night Cptn GPS had too much cyber-rum and couldn't decide which road to dock. I looked like Pac-Man, pacing back-and-forth, illuminated by the glow of the screen. A cabby came to my rescue with The Knowledge and the Captain walked the plank.
This was Edinburgh Polite Society cordoned by laser wire. A hotel clings to one corner of the avenue a like a defiant carbuncle. At weekends it's pre-marital contents slosh out of the bar, arms locked together for balance, as they serenade the Merchiston curtain-twitchers.
After several attempts on the bell a face from a Breugel canvas beckons me in. In synchronicity his moustache signs his name- Evan(McHugh). Evan's a comedian, the only comedian not of Dutch extraction- he's an Aussie-Scot. I followed him up to the action.
On the stairs I'm introduced to Wilbert (Han's technician)- a dude with rock-roadie-charisma and clothes that screamed out for cowboy boots. We kept scaling the Axminster until we reached the summit. Taking a deep breath I take the plunge. I had crashed a de-briefing session. The room was littered with spent comedians on the come-down from last night performances. They welcomed me warmly with "Hay's" and introduced themselves like a primary class roster.
Hans(Teeuwen) is holding court, squeezing the last laugh out of every vowel, still unable to face the comedown. Hans scats with Bird as Charlie Parker crackles through the laptop's speakers. I'd seen Hans a couple of weeks ago and found his humour a breath of fresh air. In a world where alternative comedy seems to have become paradoxically homogenised it takes someone like Hans to be the prick that bursts the soap bubble.
Wrapped around him, like a freshly plucked feather boa, clung his chick Eva. She'd walked straight off the set of a Renault ad and Han's was not Papa. Eva was the prize of rock gods- half his age, painfully perfect and in full bloom.
Leaning out of the four storey window, infusing the night air with blue smoke was Live Producer Laura (Clarke).
Martijn (Koning) began to obsess over 'touch'. What started out as an innocuous request had turned into a revelatory monster. He kept reading meaning in the images, extrapolating until the frustration welled in his forehead.
Everyone reveled in Martijn's astonishment when the photographs were set to 'slide show'. They gasped and howled as they analysed each other's revealing response to 'touch'. At 5.30 I reversed out of the cab and suggested that Hans should call me if he ever needed my professional services. Eva's purr turned to a growl as she tightened her claws. "What?" she snarled.
I forgot in the cava haze that she was a photographer too - and she had exclusive rights.
