Mid-afternoon on Friday August 27th and slowly I begin to regain consciousness as my liver complains like a three year old deprived of chocolate.

Oh god, I think to myself, last night was only a taster, tonight is the main event!

Pain shoots across the centre of my skull as I grab a beer from the fridge and gulp down three aspirins. Hair of the dog, right? The only true cure. Get with the program soldier, we go over the top tonight.

Of course, it was my own fault. Inman's conspiracy rants can be captivating and the only train time I had memorised was the last one back to Dunfermline.

So when I walked into Waverley Station at around 10:30 the previous night I realised I had just under an hour to kill. Fuck it, I thought to myself, might as well go and catch a bit of Doug's show.

The place had been packed, if I recall, and I had no problem gaining entry - by this time the lady at the door was familiar with who I was, although she probably had no idea why she was letting me in to these gigs for free. Neither do I, for that matter, but when there's a good groove going it seems dumb to stop dancing to it, and I waltzed into the venue without any objection.

Maybe I should try this technique elsewhere, I thought to myself. Just a slight tilt of the head followed by a grin of vague recognition, and in you slip like a necessary piece of the furniture.

"Twisting the strangle grip won't give no mercy! Feeling those tendons rip, torn up and mean!"

Ouch! That was my mobile phone and it's not good during hangovers. Somehow it seemed funny at the time to use Judas Priest as a ring tone, but during times of suffering it just seems unnecessarily painful.

"Hi Mortimer, it's Con," says the voice from the earpiece, "what's the plan?"

Con!? Plan!? I'm confused and have no idea who this is until eventually the English accent triggers off a brain cell on recognition duty. It's the Truffle Shuffle - some guy from the internet who has travelled up from London to come see Doug's show.

"We should be in town late afternoon," I explain, "how about we meet in the City Cafe at around 8 pm? I have no idea what Doug is doing but I'm supposed to call at the door when I arrive."

"Alright mate," says the voice, "we'll see you there." - Click.

8 pm. City Cafe. Doug's taking a nap before the show, so Melanie and I grab a beer and sit at a table outside to witness the passing mayhem.

"Mortimer?" queries a voice to my right.

"Yeah," I reply to the Greek dude who has just extended his hand in introduction. It's the Shuffle and he's accompanied by a pretty looking female.

"This is Marsali," he explains, "she's the friend I'm staying with in Edinburgh."

"Friend!?" I query, as I momentarily lapse into an atavistic state of singledom. She's cute for sure, but I have to behave myself now that I'm attached.

"Pull up a chair," I say, "and come join us."

They do, and they turn out to be good people.

There's always a danger of meeting someone you've spoken to over the internet - that they might turn out to be assholes or worse still, Mark Hayden (the world's worst stand-up comic). Fortunately however, on this occasion, this wasn't the case as both the Shuffle and Marsali prove to be intelligent and thought-provoking company.

10:15 pm and it's time to make moves. Melanie and I are on the guest list so I tell both our new friends to go get themselves a decent seat. I'm not bothered if I sit or stand, after all, when you're getting in for free it hardly seems fair to take from paying clientele. Nevertheless, Doug or Hennigan had other plans and to my surprise we were ushered to the venue like royalty by the kindly Angela (one of the show's events organisers).

With any table up for the taking I grab one large enough to seat my friends as I spot Brian English in the corner setting up camera. Brian's a cool guy and has been filming a documentary on Doug for the last two years. He's also been filming on a number of extremely drunken occasions and one cringes at the thought of what horrors he's captured on camera. One is reminded of the Live Floor Show incident over a year ago where my friend Kieron and I were twisted beyond all comprehension - an event that Doug admits he still has trouble remembering what country he was in at the time.

"Last time I saw you you were hammered," remarks Brian.

"Yes," I reply, "please destroy the footage."

So Marsali and the Shuffle - along with my good friends Graeme and Richard - join us at the table as The Tron packs full of comedy hungry punters. There is no room to move as the place begins to resemble a Turkish Bath for smokers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Doug Stanhope!"

I think at this point I'm supposed to write a review of the show, right? But what's the point? You've all read my previous reviews and anything I say now will just sound lame as though I've lost my objectivity. He's a funny fuck - probably one of the funniest - so go see him if he's in your town (although if subjects like abortion, pornography, drug use and political controversy offend you then I'd recommend you stay at home and knit sweaters). Doug will admit himself that he's more proud of the stories than he is about working them into a routine...so to hell with the review, on with the story. This isn't the fucking Scotsman goddamnit. Nobody's paying me to write this. This is about drunken adventure as much as it is about going to see a comedy show, and when Doug's in town, there's always drunken adventure.

It'd be good to remember the events that transpired after the show that night, but just like so many of the other occasions I've spent in the company of Doug Stanhope, recollection tapers off into insignificance as one becomes preoccupied with living in the moment. This is essentially the key to Doug’s philosophy, caring little for past or future and concentrating solely on the pleasure of the present.

It's sheer hedonism of course, but so fucking what? Anyone who'd rather spend their lives building for a future that never comes, or dwelling on a past that never quite happened the way they'd like to remember it, is a fool whose criticisms are fortified with jealousy. Few people can handle true freedom. Doug and Renee are two who can, and they live each day like it is truly their last.

So the drinks flowed whilst the humour was acquired from whatever quarter it could be found. It didn’t matter if it was some poor bastard in the bar wearing a fluorescent sombrero - or getting my friend Graeme to bite, yet again, over the Pete Townsend kiddy porn incident - if it could generate a chuckle it was all worth the effort.

---

"I'm tempted to get a couple of the girls to go chat up those two guys over there," remarked Doug.

I looked across in the direction he was motioning to see two classic rubberheads completely inebriated on the couch in the corner. They didn't look any older than nineteen and one of them was sporting the most hideous excuse for a moustache I’d ever seen in my life.

"Jesus," I said, "why on earth would you want to do such a thing?"

"To steal their seats," he explained, "the girls could delude them into thinking they'd meet up later with them at a club."

The two guys were completely oblivious to the fact they were being talked about, and looked like a couple of Buckfast drinkers who had long since lost the plot around lunch time. Even if one of the girls could stomach it enough to speak to these clowns, I very much doubted if they were even capable of making it to another club, let alone gain entry.

There are times when you look at other people and suddenly realise just how much of a pro you are at this alcohol game. Observing these two balloons made me feel like I was ready to compete in University Challenge as one of them got out of his seat and staggered uncontrollably towards me.

"I'm fucking drunk," he exclaimed nodding his head back and forward like one of those dogs that idiots put in the back window of their cars, "time for me to ah...leave," he slurred.

Deliberately I exhaled my cigarette smoke in his face and put my hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "You’re looking fine," I said, "have another shot."

DOUG STANHOPE WITH THE LOVELY MARSALI

The chaos continued until it was time for the place to close, at which point Renee decided that we should all go to a club. In my mind there was only one option since it was relatively near and free to get in: Opium.

Doug decided to call it a night, whilst Renee, Angela and Laura were still up for further mayhem. With Graeme also still going at it like a true professional we headed toward the club as we spotted Stanhope leaning out of Hennigan's window with a huge bottle of Champagne in his hand.

"Look what I've found," he cried, as we departed toward the club.

I can't recall if it was five, ten or closer to fifteen minutes before the bouncers got involved and threw Angela and Laura out. Whatever the case there was no arguing with these gorillas. Apparently in a city full of drunken revellers, the idea that one of the girls might sneak half a bottle of beer into a club full of down-and-outs, at 3 o'clock in the morning, is considered an outrage and a blasphemy against the bouncer code of honour.

So the night came to a timely close as we headed back to Graeme's for some much needed sleep, leaving Angela, Laura and Renee to head off to the club across the street. Graeme, of course, wanted to go the scenic route home which took us through a perfect muggers paradise, as we were followed out of the city centre by what turned out to be a lost tourist looking for Waverley Station.

We did however get a wonderful opportunity to behold the new Scottish Parliament building, which at a cost of £431 million to construct (a mere £390 million over budget) looks like a cross between Colditz and a section of prefabricated sheltered housing.

Nice work. The perfect location for a useless cunt such as Jack McConnell. £431 million of tax payers money wasted on NOTHING, and I can't even get away with missing one goddamned council tax payment without them trying to arrest my wages.

George T. Mortimer.

Postscript. I feel kind of obliged to write a review of the show at this point so here it is: Doug Stanhope. Funny fuck. Destined to go down in the annals of comedy history. Five stars. All new material. Great abortion joke. Just go fucking see him.