Last week of the festival.

My brain, my voice and my food is fried. I have the digestive system of a Jersey cow, the sleeping habits of a shrew and the waistline of Richard Griffiths. I’m losing my tiny mind…

So far I have squeezed into spandex leggings/leotards onstage about sixty-three times. I’ve been singing for an aggregate of a day and a bit. I’ve watched every Harry Potter film the kids own (and I don’t like Harry Potter) as I try to get to sleep, I’ve played Mario Kart dozens of times and I have killed hundreds of zombies on ‘Plants vs. Zombies’. My life has become a strange waking mash-up of ‘Fame’, ‘Spinal Tap’, ‘Cabaret’, ‘Dawn of the Dead’, ‘Gardening Australia’ and a crapload of grimoires. None of these individually is good, let alone blended together…god I need to see a piece of fruit again – what is this, Edinburgh?

In the midst of the musical warlock horror of existence, I have had the good fortune to be nominated for an award, which is terribly nice of them. It’s certainly made my family get off their arses and book to see the show.

I’ve run out of funny. From now until I recover, I will need a full band pumping out a funky groove behind me to be able to spin any sort of wikkid witty riffing. A la the Carole King tribute.

Right. I need an extra nap, my third today, before the Upfront gig. I’m starting to sing Cyndi Lauper songs in my head without the consonants…it works, try it…