We went and watched Mark Simmons at the Fringe on a stag do. We’d just downed a bunch of blue VKs to combat the existential crises we were all in. Robin couldn’t look anyone in the eye. To be fair, neither could I. And the thought of being trapped in a basement with a bunch of strangers induced a slow burn panic that made us all want to leave Edinburgh. By the time Mark Simmons stepped on stage the taurine had taken effect and our testosterone was swelling once more. We enjoyed the set. It was funny. Once it was done, everything felt alright again and we were optimistic about the world. But then we had to march off to some axe-throwing alley and I vowed, there and then, to never attend a stag do ever again.

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