Julie Jay: Ted knocks back the hotel milk pots like a GAA player does shots after a win

This week I attempt to network at a comedy festival while simultaneously wrestling coffee capsules from Ted and running in flip flops

Picture: iStock 

I LOVE hotels. I love the towels, the bed somebody else made, and the kettle to boil your knickers in (according to the young people on TikTok, it’s a thing). When you have a toddler though, a hotel goes from being a piece of luxury to a potential deathtrap, and a pretty claustrophobic one at that.

This week saw us back at Kilkenny Cat Laughs and for a second year in a row, we had Prince Ted in tow. Every year my break away in a lovely Kilkenny hotel is an annual highlight. That said, as much as I love hanging out with comedy’s toughest reviewer in the Marble City - Ted - festivals are a different beast when travelling en famille.

Our hotel is lovely, and upon arrival we are met by a very nice woman who insisted on taking our luggage. And by luggage, I mean the seven tote bags I brought instead of an overnight suitcase. She is so nice that even the line that sends a shiver down any performer’s spine, “You’re in the overflow car park”, somehow doesn’t quite sting as much as it should have.

“Are they trying to tell me my career is dead in the water?” I ponder as I drive up to the C -List car park located approximately 10 feet away from the main hotel. Still, there is no time to ruminate on the possible subtext as Ted announces he needs to be reunited with Ducky immediately, the same Ducky placed in one of my many overstuffed totes. Ted is surprisingly amenable to being put in the buggy as a means to an end and we march off to our weekend abode, confident that we can network and parent simultaneously.

Inside our room, Ted immediately demands to be stripped of his car clothes and while I am procuring a fresh outfit, he sniffs out the milk pots. Before I can stop him he is knocking them back like a GAA player knocks back shots the night of the county final. As he starts to nibble the coffee pod I manage to wrestle it off him before we add ‘caffeine’ to my list of reasons as to why I am a terrible parent.

While I luxuriate on the toilet for coming up to 30 seconds, Ted has managed to open the window and is just about to perch himself on the ledge when thankfully I spot him. There is a whack of Blanket Jackson off the whole thing, especially because he is wearing a T-shirt on his head.

I coax him down with the promise of coffee pods only to declare this, in fact, a lie when I have the window sealed. Ted is about to kick off when he spots the telephone and makes a pretend phone call. At least I presume it’s pretend until I go to take the receiver off him and realise he has been talking gibberish to some unsuspecting staff member for the last three minutes.

Fred is gigging so we head to bed after our somewhat fraught evening meal and I am delighted to say it only takes me approximately four hours to get Ted down (DM me for my bedtime secrets). I collapse at midnight but not before I spot texts from a number of comedians asking if I’m coming out for a sparkling water. As if - those bubbles would keep me awake all night.

The next morning I am up before the boys and ready to get stuck into scrambled eggs someone else has cooked. Breakfast is always my favourite meal in a hotel, and it fills me with notions.  A starter consisting of a fennel shot, freshly squeezed orange juice, and the tiniest little croissant in the world? I don’t mind if I do. Sure, isn’t that how I start every Sunday morning at home?

I tag-team breakfast with Fred so he heads down after me, spending a cheeky one hour and 20 minutes breakfasting. Being the chill wife that I am, I ring Fred nine times over the course of this breakfast slot to remind him to bring up a sausage and toast for Ted, who has started a chant of ‘Sausage! Sausage!’.

When the ninth call goes unanswered, I have no choice but to ring reception. Yes, I am that wife.

Unfortunately, the receptionist is the same one who greeted me yesterday when I was in full-swing chaos and reversing out onto a main road (the only thing that scares me more than reversing is driving forwards). She clearly relays the message because I get a call from Fred moments later.

As I rant and rave about how I’m running late for my one social plan - a coffee with a friend - I realise too late that Fred has had me on speaker, and given he is sitting with numerous comedic peers as I offload, my reputation as a good person is dust.

When Fred finally returns, I leg it for my tea and scone (please don’t tell the diabetes clinic) and get 45 minutes of industry chats before walking as fast as I can in flip flops to pick up Prince Ted outside Fred’s venue. An hour later, we are back with a sleeping Ted in tow (our babysitter cancelled on us for the second year in a row. Cancel on me once, shame on you. Cancel on me twice, shame on me. Cancel on me three times I’m still going to ask you to babysit again next year because childcare options are limited).

The 30 minutes I spend on stage at my one Kilkenny gig are such a joy, I almost feel like myself again. Other workplace anxieties melt away and I don’t want it to end. But when it does, I slip back into mammy mode and take Ted to our room for a bottle and a chat.

The texts come asking if I am heading out, and of course I should be out there, lick-arsing comedic icons, trying to bag myself a sweet support slot. But at this moment the only person I want to hang out with is Ted, on our pristine white sheets, knocking back milk pots and chewing on coffee pods.

Next year, when Harry Styles is spotted at Longitude munching on a Nespresso capsule, just remember who started the trend.