In cricket, the British Empire’s best export (other than every single rudiment of civilization that the entire human race can lay claim to including Pyramids, curry and karate), once a batsman passes 89 runs he enters the Nervous Nineties. Less famously, this term is also used by nonagenarians, with bad hips, that live in icy parts of the country.
Meeting Phil made me particularly nervous, not because he asked me to deliver to Slough, but because I thought he was invented. Ever since starting Comedy Sale, I’ve dreaded making a delivery to some place, only to discover an internet pranktwat has decided to get some Lulz, by sending me off on a wild goose trek (pace Adam and Joe).
When I received an invitation to meet someone in Slough next to a taxidermised dog, the trickled anxieties coalesced into a flood of dread. Would I be stuffed like Station Jim, a railway station’s best friend? No. Phil is a real, really nice, person. Not only did he pay me money, that enables me to eat and drink and pay for my iPhone, he also gave me a delightful prezzie.
408 to go.