Sometimes, you'll write something down quickly without considering how it might be
interpreted out of context. My favourite example of this was spotted a few
years back, whilst flicking through Glyn’s diary.
(He’d authorized my browsing by the way. I wasn’t being nosy.)
We were in the midst of planning a rehearsal schedule, when he asked me to crosscheck some dates in his diary while he popped to the loo. As I leafed through the pages, my eyes were drawn to a fortnight in July that was blank except for one entry: ‘Cock Fun Day’.
I felt the blind panic of a man who’d stumbled across something he wasn’t meant to see. The mental image those three words painted was horrendous. Setting aside time for yourself was all well and good, but this was ridiculous.
What the Hell was Cock Fun Day? The mind boggled. Was it an annual event? Whatever it was, it warranted its own title, plus a clearing of the diary for a week either side of it.
When I questioned him on the subject, his face went blank. He said he couldn’t remember what Cock Fun Day meant, which was convenient. Then suddenly it came to him (no pun intended): a colleague had invited him to an event she'd organised at The Cock Pub in Hitchin. He’d jotted it down in his diary, without considering the onanistic undercurrent.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. Last night, after we'd finished packing up Mostly Comedy, Glyn left a note on his desk at the theatre, saying “Nick money’. He either wanted to remind himself to pay a member of staff with that name, or he’s planning to carry out a criminal act.
Think of the Cock Fun Day he’ll have if he gets away with it.
(He’d authorized my browsing by the way. I wasn’t being nosy.)
We were in the midst of planning a rehearsal schedule, when he asked me to crosscheck some dates in his diary while he popped to the loo. As I leafed through the pages, my eyes were drawn to a fortnight in July that was blank except for one entry: ‘Cock Fun Day’.
I felt the blind panic of a man who’d stumbled across something he wasn’t meant to see. The mental image those three words painted was horrendous. Setting aside time for yourself was all well and good, but this was ridiculous.
What the Hell was Cock Fun Day? The mind boggled. Was it an annual event? Whatever it was, it warranted its own title, plus a clearing of the diary for a week either side of it.
When I questioned him on the subject, his face went blank. He said he couldn’t remember what Cock Fun Day meant, which was convenient. Then suddenly it came to him (no pun intended): a colleague had invited him to an event she'd organised at The Cock Pub in Hitchin. He’d jotted it down in his diary, without considering the onanistic undercurrent.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. Last night, after we'd finished packing up Mostly Comedy, Glyn left a note on his desk at the theatre, saying “Nick money’. He either wanted to remind himself to pay a member of staff with that name, or he’s planning to carry out a criminal act.
Think of the Cock Fun Day he’ll have if he gets away with it.