Last night I was at a studio recording at the BBC for a pilot of a new comedy show. I recognised a lot of the audience which makes me sound like such a social butterfly (Northern Ireland is a small puddle) and even spotted Brian O’Neill of Fresh Ideas, a blog I read.
One secret handshake in the Crown Bar later and we were yammering on about selling online, the serious lack of Outlook for Macintosh and what he should do about his iPod which has a slightly dodgy battery (in other words, take it to these guys).
Afterwards I retreated to the safety of a stolen booth where the women in our group talked about shoes and the men pretended to be remotely interested in football, as is the done thing.
Football. I honestly don’t get it. I don’t understand the make-up, the T-shirts, the hanging round in gangs, the going to specialist shops, the spending a fortune chasing their chosen pantheon around. If they were trekkies, then they’d be considered weird.
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