It was off to Scotland last week for some filming in one of my favourite UK cities – Glasgow. I used to be quite scared of Glasgow, as I was once beaten up there back in my Goth days. Nowadays there are new laws protecting Goths from harassment, and I could take my persecutors to court and win damages that I could use to buy loads of cider, black paint, and books by Rimbaud. I assume that Goths could always have taken people to court for beating them up, but it would just be that the Goth element would not be an issue whereas now … it is. God bless Dave Cameron and all who sail in him.
Anyhoo, I was in Glasgow, a far friendlier place nowadays, to do some hidden camera stuff. Things didn't start brilliantly as we were in a Novotel, and in my experience this does not always bode well for comfort or luxury.
"Don't worry," said my production coordinator, "you've got an executive room." You can imagine my excitement at this news. What penthouse pleasure awaited me, I wondered as the weary lift made unsteady progress up to the fifth floor? Well, the answer was … not a lot. I was distinctly underwhelmed by my lodgings and decided to compare my executive room with a bog-standard, non-executive, worker-bee room. I couldn't really see much difference except I had a coffee machine and a separate loo. So much for executive perks. Little wonder that execs raid our pension funds and insider deal like it's going out of fashion. I mean, there wasn't even a trouser press and how is an executive supposed to go to work with unpressed trousers?
I headed out into the Glasgow night and ended up at one of my favourite UK eateries – the Wee Curry Shop. It is what it says on the tin – a curry house that is very, very, wee. It must take about 20 people in total but the food is magnificent. I have to admit to over-indulging on the spice. I love hot food and have little self-control when it's about.
This is not normally a problem, except that I hadn't checked what I was filming the next day. It turned out that I was in prosthetics for three hours to become a watermelon, before squeezing into a tiny display box with only my head sticking out of a very small hole. It would be accurate to say that I was in some discomfort from top to bottom all day. This culminated in the back end of me holding on tight to preserve its dignity while a blind Glaswegian man fondled my watermelon head in a state of confusion.
To make matters more surreal, I started to get a lot of Tweets asking me if I was in Cannes? It turned out that a Psy (the South Korean "Gangnam Style" and now "Gentleman" guy) impersonator was doing the rounds of the celebrity parties, replete with bodyguards, and fooling the great and the not-so-good. I looked at the photographs of the fraudster and had to admit that he was a pretty good likeness to my pre-intermittent fasting self. I can hereby confirm, however, that Psy is not I. I have better things to do with my life ... like sitting in a box pretending to be fruit.