On the run from Andi Peters following a misunderstanding about cruises, Melissa begrudgingly agrees to follow her friend Joanne (and Joanne’s 17th century throwback ‘life partner’ Fax) to the Edinburgh Fringe. While leafleting for Fax’s dreadful stand up show about faith healing and vegans, Melissa endures the highs and lows of pretentious student plays, ‘street typing’, and the knowledge that her shop has been left in the hands of someone who doesn’t understand tills…
Crap Comedy is the follow up to the 2018 novel Crap Holiday. Read it here.
2: Andi Peters
I only manage to get up the stairs by the power of self-pity. I am very tired.
There’s a box waiting for me when I get home. This is strange, I haven’t ordered anything. Nope, it’s definitely addressed to me, and there’s a note from Tony downstairs to say he signed for it. I never said he could do that. Oh God, I’m going to have to go acknowledge him now or something aren’t I? I’m going to have to go downstairs with a bunch of flowers and say ‘Thank you for taking my package Tony!’ and then Tony will probably say ‘That’s OK, you can take my package any time! Har har!’
I don’t know why I have Tony pegged as a sex pest now, just because he signed for a parcel. I only see him when he’s getting his ramblers’ club magazine out of his postbox. Let’s put it down to being tired and dealing with Saif, who has the intellect of a Rolo.
If I were optimistic, I’d be excited at the thought of a mystery present. I am not optimistic. It’s probably a bomb or a box of piss. I rack my brains trying to remember if I’ve bought anything recently, but nothing comes to mind. It isn’t an Amazon box, so it’s probably no good checking Amazon. Also, it doesn’t sound like it’s a single paperclip in a two-foot square box, so it’s probably not Amazon.
I don’t want to deal with this. I just wanted to crawl into the living room with a bottle of vodka and watch QV…
Oh fucking hell.
I stare at the box as if a) this is somehow the box’s fault, and b) I can make the box go back to wherever it came from, which I’m guessing is a warehouse in Milton Keynes.
The problem with the shopping channels is that they’re so relaxing to watch on an evening after a hard day slaving/hiding in the back room at the Co-op. That would be OK if it weren’t for me deciding to watch it after half a bottle of Courvoisier. Sometimes Andi Peters is on there selling pies, and if Andi Peters says they’re good pies, they are good pies. Shame they’re about 80 quid. Most of the time, though, it’s some nonsense no one needs, especially not me.
I try not to think about the last time this happened but it’s no good. I need to berate myself.
I go into the kitchen and glare at the REDDYCHEF, which is sitting on my worktop taking up space and laughing at me, like a big red bastard. I’ve just realised that they’ve probably spelled it like that because it’s red. This knowledge does nothing to improve my mood.
‘Well fucking congratulations,’ I mutter at the REDDYCHEF. ‘You now have a sister or brother, Fucking congratulations.’
The REDDYCHEF smirks back at me, because it knows it’s done fuck all to improve my life since I agreed to let it squat in my kitchen. Oh God. If this keeps happening I’m going to end up destitute on the streets and giving sexual favours for pasta makers and thigh toners. And I don’t even know what I’ve bought.
I might as well get it over with; I’m not going to be able to relax until I see what I’ve wasted my money on this time. My money’s on kitchen equipment or the Andi Peters pies. I kind of hope it’s the pies, because at least then I can eat them. And Andi Peters says they are nice pies. I’m rooting for the pies now.
OK, if it’s pies then I’ll consider this a happy ending. Please be pies. I’ve spent all day dealing with Saif and his nonsense, and I’ve been ordered to go and eat food that Fax has failed to cook properly, so I deserve pies. Knowing me though, it will turn out to be an oven that only cooks asparagus.
I peek inside the box. Pies aren’t made of metal. Apparently I have bought a ‘YoNanas!’. They added the exclamation mark, I didn’t.
‘Turn any fruit into soft serve!’
Further inspection reveals that ‘the banana is a healthy choice for the young and the old. Your YoNanas maker will turn those over-ripe bananas into a delicious and creamy treat that looks and tastes like soft serve ice cream’.
So it’s… a thing that… freezes bananas? Wait no, I have to have pre-frozen bananas. And then this thing… mushes them up a bit and somehow that’s chocolate Häagen-Dazs. Jesus, they’d love this at Slimming World. All the fun of ice cream with none of the fun of ice cream.
I don’t even really like bananas.
For want of anything better to do, I put the YoNanas in the middle of the living room floor. Then I sit down and glare at it for five minutes. Then I remember I have some vodka, so I drink some of that. Then I feel a bit better. Briefly consider writing to Andi Peters to complain that I have bought a YoNanas and not pies, but I’m not sure Andi Peters would be able to do anything about it.
I compose a letter anyway, on the back of a phone bill.
‘Dear Mr Peters,
‘I am writing to complain about your shoddy lack of customer care. As the Prime Minister of QVC, you should have known that I didn’t really want to buy a YoNanas, and you should have sent me something I did want, such as your delicious pies.
‘There really should be safeguards in place for such an event. Not that I’m blaming you personally, I’m sure you never wanted me to buy the YoNanas. This needs to be reviewed though, because what if I buy another YoNanas, and I don’t even want this one.
‘Maybe you should send a man round to check people really want the things they’re buying, and to offer them pies instead. Everyone likes pies. Look, I really wish I’d bought those pies Andi, please help me…’
After half an hour spent composing a fictional letter to Andi Peters, it occurs to me that I’m still in my coat, clutching a bottle of vodka, glaring at a YoNanas, and mentally telling Andi Peters off. This is not how I intended to spend my evening.