July 11th - 31st, Gigs 69 - 79. The Gigshank Redemption

Erm. Hello. It's been a long while hasn't it. Sorry about that. Why have I been gone so long? Well, to my shame, I've been in prison.

Eh?

Let me explain: I’ve been slacking off. Not with the gigs. I’ve been keeping up with the gigs, I’m on target. Promise. (Dunno why I’m making promises. I’ve broken more promises than a fruit machine addict with four kids. And, by 'on target' I really mean ‘behind already by about a month and a half’). No. This fucking blog. This absolute arseache of a blog. Since I’ve moved I’ve had no unlimited wireless internet at home. I can’t afford a new package right now. And I still haven’t figured out how to steal/siphon off other people’s internet like Richie and Eddie stealing the next door neighbours gas. GAS MAN!!! GAS MAN!! GAS MAN!!! (If you don't get this reference, GET OUT OF MY LIFE) So I have to travel to internet cafes or the library just to go online. What a fucking arseache. So I’ve been putting off the blogs. But I have to do Edinburgh. So I have to get these blogs done. I have to clear all accounts. So I looked at my wall chart and counted how many blogs I need to catch up on.

Eleven.

Fucking ELEVEN.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am genuinely a broken man. 11 blogs to catch up on. ELEVEN. I feel like I’ve been given a life sentence. I feel like this:

So how the hell am I gonna catch up with this shit? Easy. 11 blogs - that's a prison sentence. I’ve been sent down for life. I’VE GOT ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

"Cause I've got all the time in the world
All my life for you, girl
Now the timin' is right
Baby, we've got all night!"

* A lesser known classic by seminal Irish Rock Band 'The Boyzone'

July 11th, Friday. Gig No.69, Dog House, Kennington

I will not talk about the gigs. I will talk the hard time I’ve suffered as I write this blog. This first post - my first five years in jail. The hardest five years.

The Doghouse! How apt. I’m in right in it. This gig, I was taken there in a prison bus handcuffed to all the other acts. As we entered, we were lined up in a dark room in front of the promoter warden. She starts talking about “Discipline, and the Bible”.

One act pipes up.

“When do we go on?”

One of the promoter warden's guards starts screaming at him

“YOU GO ON WHEN WE SAY YOU GO ON! YOU
PISS WHEN WE SAY YOU PISS! YOU SHIT
WHEN WE SAY YOU SHIT! YOU SLEEP
WHEN WE SAY YOU SLEEP! YOU MAGGOT-
DICK MOTHERFUCKER!”

Then he rams his club into the acts belly, sending him collapsing to the floor in a wheezing, asthmatic mess.

Oh. It’s gonna be one of them gigs.

(Your enjoyment of this blog will depend entirely on having watched the Shawshank Redemption. If you’ve not seen it and want to find this blog funny, you’d better go watch it pronto.)

Gig No.69 done. Promoter warden So Ying Pang (“Rule number one: No blaspheming. I'll not have the Lord's name taken in vain in my gig”.)

14th July, Monday. Gig No.70, Hideaway, Tufnell Park

The acts upstairs walk down into this dingy basement bar, cuffed in chains, each of us barely suppressing our private terror. The punters are taking bets on which of us will crack first.

Joe Grant, the horrible promoter, motions to one of his stinking little minions:

"Delouse that piece of shit! Next man in!"

He flings a huge scoop of delousing powder in my face. I collapse in a heap on the floor, coughing and spluttering in a heaving shitty mess.

Oh. It’s gonna be one of them gigs.

Gig No.70 done. Promoter/weasel Joe Grant

July 15th, Tuesday. Gig No. 71, TNT, Kentish Town

Next, we are shoved into the Infirmary. The MC Jake Pickford is in a white coat, bored expression, a pair of white rubber gloves, and a big pen light slash forward anal probe.

"SQUAT!!"

I bend over. Mr Pickford puts the penlight in his teeth, and has a good root around in my shitpipe. I don't argue back.

(I don't remember this scene in the actual film, have I imagined it?)

Gig No. 72 done. MC/Anus Dr Jake Pickford

July 17th, Thursday. Gigs No. 72 + 73, Rascals, Stag’s Head + Genesis Cinema, Whitechapel

Ah, mama mi. They say your first two years in prison are the hardest. They don't lie. I spend the next two years/gigs being serenaded and courted by 'The Sisters'. John Talbot (Bogs) and Sammy Tuitalifalinoa'a (Rooster). The Bull Queers. Two vile men rapists* hell bent on turning me into the prison fairy.

The first night was the toughest. The Sisters taunted me with their creepy vibes:

"Fishee fishee fisheeee...You're
gonna like it here, new fish. A
whooole lot...Make you wish your
daddies never dicked your
mommies...You takin' this down, new
fish?"

The next day. The showers. Talbot stands next to me, naked as the baby he kidnapped. He sizes me up like a fresh loaf. (Don't ask) He makes a pass at me. I rebuff him, turning my back. (Probably not the best of ideas, as this gives him the ideal opportunity to sneak a peak at my cheeky bottom).

Sammy and John, the Sisters, then proceed to chase me for two years, two long years, until that fateful day when Talbot tries to force me to suck him off:

"Now I'm gonna open my fly, and
you're gonna swallow what I give
you to swallow. And when you
do mine, you gonna swallow
Rooster's. You done broke his nose,
so he ought to have somethin' to
show for it."

Only to be told I'll bite down on his yoghurt slinger harder than Jaws wolfing down some chum.

Bogs steps back.

To Rooster: "We're gonna need a bigger boat"

*this is definitely a joke. They are not, I repeat not, prison fairy rapists

Gig No. 72 + Gig No. 73 done. MC/Promoter John Talbot + MC/Promoter Sammy Tuitalifalinoa'a - The 'Sisters'. 'The Bull Queers'

18th July, Friday. Gig No. 74, Theatre Royal Comedy Club, Windsor

Head Guard James Lillis is talking about his financial problems while we're tarmacing the roof. (We do comedy mainly, but occasionally we'll be required to do other jobs for stage time in return). He starts talking about his wife. I stop tarmacing and stand up.

"Do you trust your wife?"

He turns to me. He asks me to repeat myself.

"Do you trust your wife?"

He grabs me and surges toward the edge of the roof. I quickly tell him all sorts of practical financial advice and win the tarmac crew some free beer. Then I tell em I fucked his wife.

Gig No. 74 done. MC/Promoter/Head guard James Lillis and other assorted loonies

21st July, Monday. Gig No. 75, Rhythm Factory, Aldgate

I am doing less comedy and more accounting for all the other acts. They all bring their receipts in to the gig and queue up as I legally shelter all their cash and help them avoid tax. Weirdly, Gary Barlow is in the queue. I didn't know he's started doing comedy? Jimmy Carr is there too, but the promoter tells him to piss off

Gig No. 75 done, MC/Promoter Geoff Alderman

24th July, Thursday. Gig No. 76, G+B Comedy, Camden

An new inmate/act tells me a story that an inmate/comedian at another prison/gig claimed responsibility for doing the 365 challenge! He can prove my innocence (This whole Shawshank thing is getting a bit weird/implausible. Fuck it. Lets drag this shit out to the bitter end.) If someone else is doing this challenge, I can stop writing this fucking blog!!!

I go to the warden. I tell him my story:

"I am trapped in a never ending blog nightmare, and if another act is doing the 365 challenge, I can finally stop writing it and you can release me from prison!!"

He looks at me. He has no fucking clue what I'm talking about. He's just a comedy promoter. I'm just some act he's booked to do 5 minutes.

"We must take his deposition and go to the court of appeals!! I can be a free man!!"

He looks at me like I've smeared myself in shit. He says, er, I'll be on in 5 minutes. He smiles at me like I'm carrying a knife.

What??

"How can you be so OBTUSE?"

"WHAT?? What did you call me?"

"Obtuse! Is it deliberate?"

He goes APESHIT.

"Don't ever mention this shit to me again!!"

He presses an intercom. (No idea why he has an intercom)

"Get in here! NOW! "

His burly guards storm in

"Solitary! A month!"

A MONTH??

"What's the matter with you?? It's my
chance to get out, don't you see
that? It's my life! Don't you
understand it's my life???"

I am dragged kicking and screaming into solitary, thrown into the darkness and I collapse, crying like a baby.

Gig No. 76 done, MC/Promoter/Warden Kyle Wallace

25th July, Friday. Gig No. 77, T Bird Bar, Finsbury Park

After two months in the hole, I come out of solitary. I sit on the floor, leaning against a wall, staring at the other walls. My imaginary friend, Red, an articulate, well spoken Basset Hound, sits beside me. We have a deep conversation about life and I fuck off. But not before I give him instructions to meet me in Mexico. Which is perturbing to my friend Red, as he doesn't have a passport. He's a fucking Basset Hound. He has a worried look on his face.

"He's talkin funny..." (Told you he was articulate)

Gig No. 78 done. MC/Promoter Marilyn Muruako

28th July, Monday. Gig No. 78, Hideaway, Tufnell Park

Red the Morgan Freeman Basset Hound is worried about me. I'm talking funny, and I've started wearing the wardens shoes:

"I have had some long nights in
stir. Alone in the dark with
nothing but your thoughts, time can
draw out like a blade...

That was the longest night of my
life... "

Stop banging on you moaning little cunt

Gig No. 78 done. MC/Rapist Joe Grant

July 31st, Thursday Gig No. 79, Wickham Arms, New Cross

That's it!!! I'VE ESCAPED!!! YEEEE HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

How did I escape? Long story short, I dug a hole in the wall of this gig and robbed the promoter. He wasn't happy, and neither was the pub. Still, fuck em.

Red gets paroled from the prison of my subconscious mind. He books his tickets to Mexico.

Red, the Morgan Freeman Basset Hound:

"I find I am so excited I can barely
sit still or hold a thought in my
head. I think it is the excitement
only a free man can feel, a free
man at the start of a long journey
whose conclusion is uncertain...

I hope I can make it across the
border...

I hope to see my friend
and shake his hand...

I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been
in my dreams...

I hope..."

At last. Mammoth blog done!! All I have to do now is chill out, relax, and enjopy my hard earned freedom. And do my Edinburgh blog. Oh, wait a minute. Oh, fuck.

Gig No. 79 done. Promoter/Mc Douglas Layton

 

July 2nd – July 11th 2014. Gigs No. 64, 65, 66, 67, 68. The Great Joe Hunter Laughter Famine

I’ve hit the skids. This is it. My Great Depression. My Great Laughter Potato Famine. Every single time I go on stage, I die on my arsehole. Laughter poverty. It’s the worst disease there is.

You know what a laughter famine is like? You know when a depression comes - A great crash comes, and people are unemployed. The unemployed have no wage and cannot buy things, which causes more businesses to go bankrupt and creates more unemployment? That’s exactly what it’s like. You get no laughs at one gig and have no confidence to do your jokes at your next gig, which causes more laughter voids and creates more lack of confidence. In the end, you are a broken man, travelling in an old mobile wooden shack, ruminating on the hardships of life, travelling to a new land in search of hope, dignity and a future.

Gig No. 64, Wednesday 2nd July, Old School Yard.

This is where the whole famine started. Front row, 3 girls. All three of them couldn’t stand to look at me. Literally look at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at me. Even when I talked to them. I literally couldn’t do my act. Impossible to do your act when the audience won’t even look at you. Got off.

Gig No. 64 done. MC/Promoter Brian Chimombo


Gig No. 65, Thursday 3rd July, Battersea Barge

Oh, me. I followed a rather attractive Spanish Burlesque act who got her knockers out (Saving her modesty with tasteful nipple twirlers) and as I walked out they immediately took a disliking to me. Course they did. I FOLLOWED SOMEONE WHO GOT HER TITS OUT. Actually it wasn’t that kind of crowd. Not a pervy sex club. A gig on a barge. A good gig, a joyful, up for it audience. I have no excuses. I died on my hole.

Gig No. 65 done. Promoter Paul L Martin


Gig No. 66, Fri 4th July, Tottenham Chances

Now, after two rotten gigs, I’m going on with low self esteem and little confidence. Apologetic. They pick up on that, and assume I’m shit. One bloke decides to walk off right in front of the stage halfway through one of my bits. (By bits I mean jokes, not my genitals)

Gig N. 66 done. Promoter Jason Why


Gig. No. 67, Mon 7th July, Hideaway

More laughter void. I have a little Facebook rant to blow off steam. Someone suggests at the next gig I do, I say to myself: ‘I don’t give a SHIT if I die on my arse”. I resolve to try it.

Gig 67 done. MC Stephanie Laing


Gig No. 68, Thur 10th July, Pegasus

So. I try it. “I don’t give a shit if I die on my arse”. And I die on my arse. But, strangely, I feel OK about it. Maybe the Famine has turned a corner. Light at the end of the tunnel. The rains have fallen on the lands, and the seeds are finally beginning to grow. A new dawn, the smell of spring. A butterfly fluttering it’s wings in the dew fresh morn. It better not fly near me, I'll kill it.

Gig No. 68 done. MCs Matt Smith and Gary Knightley


I’ll end with a quote from the Grapes of Wrath:

“Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten. And the failure hangs over the State like a great sorrow. ...and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.”

How this applies to my comedy journey? Fuck if I know. He’s talking about angry grapes. Fuck is he on about? He’s mental. Let me try another quote:

“For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man—when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it.”

Yes Steinbeck. You’re right. When everything crashes around you, as long as you keep stepping forward, you’ll come out the other side. Step forward and keep going. Keep going and maybe, just maybe, you’ll outrun the angry grapes.

July 1st, Tuesday. Gig No. 63, Bear Jokes, London Fields

This gig is in Hackney. Walking along the high street, I liked the vibe. Theatres, cafes, arts venues. A nice, cool, chilled out vibe. Even the pigeons were chilled out:



Then I walked past the Hackney Empire. Wow. That brought back memories. Back in the day, in my mid 20s, I decided to do stand up. This was it. This was my thing. So I went to check out some comedy. Which happened to be an early heat of the Hackney Empire awards. What I remember most about that gig was how nervous it made me. Watching the acts perform in front of a huge black backdrop, (A vast macro cosmic void of nothingness) with an audience comprised mainly of other acts and judges (A vast macro cosmic void of twats), it struck me how incredibly vulnerable you are up there as a performer. That made me extremely nervous. I remember my knees shaking as I walked out. What the FUCK have I let myself in for.

Fast forward to present day, and I am walking to Bear Jokes to perform gig number 63 of my challenge. I am not nervous. When I started stand up I would get nervous the moment I booked my first gig several months away, and those nerves would stay with me every waking moment until my hair fell out. Now, I don’t get nervous at all (Bollocks. But the truth doesn’t serve my joke.) Until I saw this:



The function room upstairs has been hired out (Yes, pubs always drop the comedy if they get actual paying customers wanting to give cash for the room. They drop you like a hot sack of shit) so the comedy night has been demoted and moved downstairs. And when I saw this sign, I honestly thought we’d be performing in the actual toilet. Why did this make me nervous? I can’t ‘go’ when people are watching. (It wasn’t really worth it was it?)

But no, we aren’t in the Unisex toilet. (It’s not actually a Unisex toilet, it’s a women’s toilet that’s been temporarily transformed into a Unisex toilet cause it’s the only way to get to the function room in the basement. Great. To get into the gig, you have to walk past a row of shitting women.) A rather tough little gig. A lot of work needing to be done with a girl in front who works in a Camping shop. (She heckles me. Me: ‘Go sell some fucking tents’. It’s all very good natured.)

What did I get from the sudden contrast of the memory of nerves when I first decided to do comedy, to where I am now? Basically: Existential futility. Why do I fucking bother. Nine years later and I’m doing a gig down the road for free on a Tuesday night in a basement that stinks of disinfectant and shit.

Ah, only kidding. It’s a nice gig and a decent room. The lady who sells tents was very nice too and we even swapped telephone numbers. No we didn't. Anyone wanna buy an IPHONE? I need the money to go camping.

Gig No. 63 done. MC/Promoter Andy Quirk

June 29th, Sunday. Gig No.62, Bottom Fest, Rik Mayall tribute night, Purple Turtle

A one off night, hundreds of Rik Mayall fans watching Rik stuff on a big screen, with a couple of acts on in between. Me, following the King, on HIS day, to perform for a load of his hardcore fans. Shat myself? Fuck yes. Like Richie did when Eddie electrocuted him with the cattle prod. Did my five minutes. A pleasure and a privilege.

Gig No 62 done. Promoter Mick Wood

June 28th, Saturday. Gig No. 61, Monkey Business, Sir Richard Steele pub, Belsize Park

A few weeks ago at a gig I walked on stage feeling really relaxed for some reason. And all I did was smile and I got a big laugh. They liked me instantly. Then afterwards, one of the acts said to me that ‘You have instantaneous likeability’. That stuck in my head. It stuck in my head and made me overly conscious of it. And now, every time I make my entrance, that weighs on my mind and I feel pressure. So I'm not relaxed. It’s made me overly conscious of the ‘likeability’ when I walk on stage, and it's become a mental albatross. Once it became a conscious thing, it made me feel uncomfortable, like I had to replicate it. It makes me worry about not replicating it. It's become a thing.

It's weird. It’s like when you fail to get an erection one time with a girl. It's so embarrassing, you worry about not getting one the next time you sleep her. And when you do get her back in your room, (Or dungeon, whatever you’re in to) your anxiety about it kills your erection. And it becomes a thing. Before you know it, you're actually impotent. You can’t get an erection with women at all. Every time you see a naked girl on your bed/torture rack, your penis shrivels up like wet cling film. Then you start to question your sexuality. You worry that you might be a homosexual. So you dabble in gay sex, and threesomes with young Moroccan men. And with them you don’t have any anxiety about getting erections, so you convince yourself you are indeed gay, and spend rest of your life in a loving partnership with a nice man called Donald. You live in a quiet cul de sac in Surrey, where you grow geraniums and dress up in leather bondage gear and cock and ball torture kits. Well, that’s what my entrances are like.

Those first few seconds on stage are actually crucial. They are key. If you don’t seem relaxed, and you’re uncomfortable, that transmits immediately to the audience that you have no faith in yourself and thus are probably not very good. And they lose belief in you. They have to believe you’ll be funny. If they don’t believe it, they won’t laugh. Even if your stuff is really good, proven funny, repeatedly, if on a particular night you walk on looking hesitant and awkward, they’ll think you’ll be shit and sit there, staring at you like a group of tired, pissed off haemophiliacs.

That’s part of the job. Convincing the audience you are funny. I’ve seen very, very good acts with superb material slightly hesitate when they started, or not quite commit with any conviction to their material, the audience lost faith, and they died like an anxiety fuelled penis . Conversely if someone sees a super confident young act with slick, well rehearsed delivery and who follows all the right patterns in their writing so it ‘sounds’ like stand up, and it is delivered with commitment and conviction, the audience will become subliminally convinced they are funny. Thus, we have J**k W*******l. As funny as anal bleeding, but rehearses his act so well doesn’t he? (His favourite method is to go off on a big rant that goes on forever, and then at the end round it off with a climax. He does this a lot. Audiences instinctively give a round of applause, essentially because he’s remembered a big rant and rehearsed it really well. It’s a con. J**k W*******l is to comedy what Andy Coulson is to phone calls.)

So anyway, that is my note to self: Stop over thinking about your likeability and learn to commit with conviction to what you’re doing. And con people into thinking you’re funny.

Gig No. 61 done. MC/Promoter Martin Besserman

June 27th, Friday. Gig No. 60, T Bird Bar, Finsbury Park

Gig went fairly well. Tried some new stuff. Tried an old joke I did years ago but didn’t do again. Now I remember why. Cause it hurts when I do it. Physically. It really fucking hurts. I probably deserve it really, cause it takes the piss out of epileptics. (You can see where this is going already eh? Wankers)

Basically, the joke is this:

Julius Caesar. Did you know he was epileptic? That’s ironic isn’t it? He was the most powerful man in the known world, commanded the largest army in the world. Yet he couldn’t even command his own body

“I came, I saw, I conq...” SUDDEN MASSIVE FIT ON THE FLOOR

Yes. I threw myself on the floor and had a rather convincing fit. Even one of the punters came up to me afterwards and said she thought it was real. Too real. Well, I woke up the next morning covered in fucking bruises, so yes, it was real. I’ve done it about three times now, and every time I get bruises. Bruises on my ankles, knees and elbows. I look like a model for one of those domestic abuse posters. (Imagine, you embark on a career as a model, and the only work you can get is for domestic abuse posters. Or brittle bone disease.) Here’s the one on my elbow:



So I am retiring this joke. As I finished onstage, I retired it. But I said something curious. I said: “That is the first and last time I’m ever performing that joke, so you have witnessed something special”. Or something to that effect. “The first time”? Why did I say that was the first time I said it. It isn’t. As I said, I’ve performed it maybe three times. But the last two times years and years ago. It was one of the first jokes I wrote. I accidentally kicked a woman’s leg in the front row when I first did it. She was really REALLY angry with me. She came up to me after the show to complain that it was deeply offensive to epileptics. I argued that I had tested it to AN ACTUAL EPILEPTIC and he thought it was funny. (Though to be fair, he has a chillingly sick sense of humour. He came round our house once and showed us a website of dead people dressed up as characters from South Park and laughed like a drain. It still disturbs me) Anyway, I retired it. I apologised for kicking her in the leg - you know, assaulting her - and to all epileptics vicariously through this sanctimonious witch. (She wasn’t pissed off for epileptics, she was pissed off for her leg. To be fair though, she probably had a big bruise too. See, I’m not the only one who gets hurt doing this joke. The audience gets hurt too)

So I retired it after her, I retired it after the second time when I woke up with more bruises than someone with a congential bone disorder, and now I’ve retired it again, this time for good. But with a lie. Why did I lie? It wasn’t the first time I performed it. I’ve done it before. The lie just popped out. Onstage. Afterwards, when I spoke about it to an act, he asked if that was really the first time I performed it, and without any time to think, I said “Yes”. I MAINTAINED THE LIE. Why the fuck did I do that? Why is it even worth lying about? The lie popped out impulsively, and suddenly I was forced to maintain it. I bet that’s how compulsive liars and con men start. With an innocent lie. The lie gets reinforced in some way, and they’re obliged to maintain it. Then another lie is need to prop up that lie. Then another. And another. Before you know it, 5 years later, you have no idea who you are. You’re on the run from the police, you have several false identities, and you’re plotting to fake your own death by pretending to die in a canoe. Then escape to Peru to live a new life as a peasant. Well.

IT STOPS NOW. I’M COMING CLEAN. I HAVE PERFORMED THIS JOKE BEFORE AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS ABOUT IT.

“I've got to break free
I want to break free, yeah
I want, I want, I want, I want to BREAK free...”

AND I LIED ABOUT IT. I DO CARE SLIGHTLY WHO KNOWS ABOUT THIS, CAUSE IT’S FUCKING WEIRD.

“Save me, save me, save me
I can't face this life alone
Save me, save me, save me...
I'm naked and I'm far from home...”*

*Queen lyrics. Always good for a laugh

Gig No. 60 done. MC Gwilum Argos

*Picture to be uploaded as I forgot to take it. Will get it sorted ASAP

Meanwhile, here is a picture of a Chihuahua that sat on my lap at Hideaway last week:


This brings to mind one of my first Facebook statuses all those years ago:

“Joe..is forcing himself on a Pekingese Chihuahua”

This time, a Chihuahua is forcing itself on me

*Chihuahua is really hard to spell, I had to Google it. I also had to Google "Is it illegal to sexually assault a Chihuahua". Funny how a minor spell check search can wind up. (*Deletes History)

** I'm enjoying getting some use out of the *star button. I shall have to find ways to make use of it more often:

"Joe Hunter is the new star of comedy" *****

*That's going on my poster

**And so is my Chihuahua

June 25th, Wednesday. Gigs No. 58+59, Square Tavern + Pear Shaped, Warren Street

Obese people. Honestly, I have no idea how they do it. How do they live with all that weight. I’m slightly over weight myself right now, and I’m struggling. Before I set out for these gigs tonight I had a rather over large sausage and fried egg baguette. Jesus. The pain. The sickness. The sausages.

Never eat a sausage and fried egg before you do two gigs. (I say 'sausage' but I mean sausageS, plural. Several sausages in fact. If there was just one sausage in it, there wouldn't be a problem. It's the multitude of sausages that is the problem.) You feel heavy, nauseous, unwell. Not up for bouncing around doing comedy at all. But the heaviness though. Most of all, it was the heaviness. It even hurts to bend over to tie my shoelaces. It’s exhausting. And it occurred to me, obese people feel like this ALL THE TIME. How on earth do they do it? I’m not judging, it’s a hard life. I couldn’t do it. Fat people aren’t lazy. Carrying all that weight, it’s harder than hod carrying. Working on a building site is a piece of piss compared to getting out of bed and tying your shoelaces when you’re carrying 18 stone. Lugging it around up and down the high street in high heat. It’s a job.

I really do need to go on a diet. I am hurtling ceaselessly towards the tragic inevitability of moobs. They cannot, and will not, EVER happen. If I grow moobs, I shall be forced to resign from my post as a fully paid up member of the Alpha Male club. One of which I’m a very proud member. Not only am I a member, I am very high up in that chain of esteemed Alpha Males. For we are a select and exclusive group of Real Men. We are dominant and magnificent paragons of the Masculine Ideal. We are coveted by women every where. At night, the women cry, ‘But where are all the good men?’ And we say, we are here. FIND US. We are rare, and we are hard to find, but we are.here. Do not despair. We are the Real Men you crave. But that’s all fucked if I grow tits.

Gigs No. 58+59 done. Promoter Clare Plested


And Brian Damage

June 22nd, Sunday. Gig No. 57, Compass Comedy, Ickenham

I booked this gig cause I lived in Uxbridge. ‘Ooh, look, it’s only one stop away. I won’t have to do that tediously long train journey to do a gig that night. Delicious.’ Then I moved. And I had to do that tediously long train journey to do a gig that night. Fuck sake.

It wasn’t the only reason I booked this gig. Also, it is a decent gig in a nice new venue. A theatre, no less. But not in the actual theatre. In the foyer, by the tea shop. Where you buy tea and biscuits. Not how I envisaged my future as a child. I thought I’d be in big theatres by now, wowing audiences all over the world with my unique interpretations of the flawed tragic heroes of Shakespeare and Marlowe. I used to read biographies of the great British stage actors, like Gielgud, Burton, Sir Ralph Richardson, Sir Lawrence Olivier. One particular quote has stuck with me all these years. A reviewer, critiquing Olivier’s performance of Richard III: “Tonight, Olivier shook hands with greatness”. How grand, I thought. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to shake hands with greatness. But tonight, I had to settle for the woman who sells the tea.

The technician there had red eye contacts. Like the Devil’s eye contacts. Creepy shit. He was nursing his baby. Thus adding to the whole general all round creepiness.The other day a guy’s got Regan on his back, this time a someone's actually made himself look possessed while nursing the head of a innocent babe. Am I missing something? I feel like I’m a comedy Wicker Man, and about to embark on some kind of occult kidnap. I’ll have to keep eyes at the back of my head. Which would of course make every thing seem even more delirious and strange. Like some kind of LSD infused fairground of the undead. Me, walking around with eyes on the back of my head. Laughing red eyed demons cackling at me as they nurse babies, amorous old tea ladies offering biscuits and enticing me into their saucy lair. Not really what I expected of Ickenham to be honest.

I have too many blogs to catch up on, I’m off. Here’s a pic of my pay packet for this gig:


This time next year, I’ll be a millionaire. No I won’t, I’ll be hanging around alleys offering to pleasure old men for snacks. I'll won't be 'shaking hands with greatness' that night.

Gig No. 57 done. Promoter Sian Doughty

June 20th, Friday. Gig no.56, Ye Olde Rose and Crown Pub, Walthamstow

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June 18th, Wednesday. Gig No.55, Heavenly, Green pub

Tonight was a bit of a wake up call. I get to the gig late, do my set, go through the motions, then piss off upstairs to watch Spain get knocked out of the World Cup. Delicious. Then I bump into two guys I know from my early days on the circuit. They’re in a sketch group, and have become very successful. On telly and everything. They’re doing a set in a comedy club next door and get me in so I can watch. And their stuff was fantastic. Inventive, unpredictable, fluid, clever stuff. Their final bit was genuinely brilliant. And these guys are (slightly) younger than me. And started doing comedy at around the same time. Fuck.

My first thought was: I need to be in a sketch group. There’s a freedom about it, less pressure, more scope for interesting ideas. But then my second thought was, who’d want to be in one with me? I’d just be the overbearingly obvious star of the group, and would make everyone else look bad in comparison. Every night I’d get all the big laughs, and slowly their bitterness would erode all good will, consume us all and ruin everything. We’d be like the Commitments. I’d be the amazingly talented twat singer, and the others would turn on each other and FOOKIN’ implode.

YA GOTTA , YA GOTTA, YA GOTTA TR--Y A LITTLE TENDERNESSSSS!!

Take your own advice kids.

The second thing I was thinking was, I need to stop going through the motions. (Taken literally, that sounds revolting. ‘Going through the motions’. Sounds like I‘m literally picking through my own bowel movements. I‘d have to shit on a newspaper and acquire some kind of makeshift combing device. Why? Maybe, like a WW2 POW, I‘m shitting out my gold teeth to use in exchange for the forged passport papers I need for my imminent escape. I‘ll have to pretend to be some sort of peasant, on account of the fact I have no fucking teeth.) I’ve taken my eye off the ball. These guys have been working on their craft, they are making art, and are professionals. They’re growing, and creating interesting comedy. Me? I’ve been doing the bare minimum. ‘Gig No52 done. 53 done. 54. 55 ooooh fuck oh yeah, I need to try and be good too’. I want to make really good comedy like them. Interesting, original funny as balls comedy. I won’t do that doing absolutely no work on it outside of gigs, and just turning up, doing my 5 spot and ticking off the gig on my wall chart.

Wall chart:


I need to actually sit down every day and write, work new stuff, figure it out, practice. Actually go to work and devote all my energies onto the act. This is it. Like the little athsmatic kid in The Goonies would say: ‘This is OUR time!’ (Meaning, this is MY time. I’m not mental, I don’t have two personalities. Anyway, yes, I was in the Goonies.)

I wonder what would have happened if the Goonies were in a WW2 POW camp. Dr Josef Mengele is about to round up the gang for his grotesque experiments. They are being chased around the camp by the Italian camp guards the Fratellis, and they are just about to scoop the kids up when!! Sloth and Chunk come to the rescue!!! Sloth clunks the Fratellis skulls together, pulls up the camp fence perimeter and gets the kids out under his legs. Chunk is last. “You’re coming!! Come with us!! No!! No!!” The music swells. (There’s a violin troupe in the camp) Sloth looks at Chunk, with a sweet tenderness not seen since Hitler saw his first concentration camp. “SLOTH LOVES CHUNK!” “NO!!! NOOOO!!!” (This is stirring stuff, I’m crying my eyes out here) The kids escape from the camp and they all make safe passage through neutral territories aided by the French resistance. (If you haven’t seen the Goonies, you’re probably thinking I’ve gone batshit mental. If you have seen it, you’re thinking the same thing.)

Maybe I have gone batshit mental. (I alluded to it in the last blog, that was a joke, this time I'm definitely worried) I guess the relentless nature of this challenge has been such that I’ve switched off from it. I don’t think about it. I turn up to the gigs, tick them off and switch off - straight away. Don’t think about it at all. That’s what trauma victims do. I’m sure there’s a term for it in psychology books. Hold on, let me Google it..Let me think.. Um..Trauma detachment? Lets see.. Dissociation!! That’s it! I fall into a fugue state of detachment from reality. That’s what I do. It’s my coping mechanism. Gigs are so relentless, trying to do 365 gigs in a year is so traumatically stressful, I am mentally fragmenting my current reality out of my conscious experience. I fall into a temporary amnesia. Every gig I do, I am not really there. I am somewhere else. (That’s lucky really, tonight I was shit.) IT WASN’T ME. It was my ‘other’ self, the detached uninvolved me who is an empty emotionless droid going through the motions. Sifting through his own shit with a fine tooth comb.

Ok, thats enough. What I’m trying to say is, I need to stop doing the bare minimum and start focusing on really making this act work. No more fucking about. This it it. This is OUR TIME. (Divergent dual personalities take turns to suck on asthma pump. Swap own teeth for passport papers.)

Gig No.55 done. MC/promoter Njambi McGrath

June 16th, Monday. Gig No. 54, Hideaway, Archway

Let’s talk about expectations. And the inevitable ego shrivelling disappointments they bring. At most gigs lately, I’ve been doing fairly well. (Horrible statement. What an absolute twat. My apologies to all. I promise after this, I will punish myself for such disgusting, gross immodesty by going into hiding as an albino monk, and spend months weeping naked in a dark lonely room as I whip my back with a silver claw) So tonight, with a pretty boisterous and energetic front row, I sort of, well, expected to do well. How wrong can a man be. How fucking wrong can a miserable sack of shit possibly be. Wrong?? I was more wrong than when the Captain of that ferry said ‘They won’t mind if I get off the boat and go home will they? After all, I’m just a Captain, why do they need me?’. Or that time when I decided wiped my cock on the curtains during the Queen’s speech at Christmas. Oh, wait a minute. That’s a different kind of ‘wrong’.

But there’s nothing wrong with being optimistic I hear some of you say. (Yes, I can hear what you’re saying*. Not only am I a comedian, I’m also a practicing psychic. If the comedy doesn’t work out, I will spend the rest of my days in a shitty tent, waving my scrawny fingers over a cheap mystical orb and proclaiming people’s futures by reading teabags. And you, reader 12, yes, you. I know EXACTLY what you‘re thinking about. Don‘t even go there. I will know where you are when you do it. Put the gloves away, and the crotchless underpants, and get back in the van. Go home to your wife and kids. Nurture them. Love them. Get back in touch with your better humanity. And don‘t read my blog ever again you dirty, dirty bastard.) There’s a difference between expectations and optimism. Optimism is good. It’s healthy. There’s no harm in fostering beliefs that things will generally maybe work out alright in the long run. That you’ll do well at this gig and that gig. That if you try this bit of material out it might lead to something interesting and new. Or if you’re not a comedian, that yes, you’ll probably get that promotion in 10 yrs if you knuckle down, you will get that little pay rise and the golden Rolex watch. Your lessers will probably not overtake you. You will not be overlooked continuously until you are in your late 50s, and probably won’t be forcibly retired and die before your time a broken man at the wasted, mediocre life you’ve just led. Yeah. Optimism is a good thing. (But most of the time, you’ll be fucking wrong. Shove that imaginary Rolex up their arse and leave the job now, before it’s too late. Cash in your redundancy money, go to Cuba and become the limbo dancer you were born to be.)

Optimism is plucky, it’s hopeful. It gives you vitality and drive, and the courage to plunge forward in the face of your obvious shortcomings. (Thus the England team go to Brazil with no expense spared, carrying plane loads of experts and super analysts, plus 22 moron ball kickers, all travelling in earnest to Rio in full optimism that they will go far in their collective search for World glory. What utter arseholes they all are)

Expectations are different. Expectations are fucking mental. Expectations, well, EXPECT.
They’re a demand. A demand to the Universe. They’re you saying ‘I EXPECT this to happen, this MUST happen. And if it doesn’t, I will grab the nearest tangible object and go on a crazed hammer attack’. Expectations are irrational. They’re what anger is about. When you actually poke through your anger logic, at the root you will find a set of unreasonable expectations and demands. Thus, when Luis Suarez decides to bite someone’s face, at the root of his anger is the expectation: “All players not wearing the same shirt as me should politely step aside and allow me to walk the ball into the goal. Or at the very least not be too touchy feely when they tackle me.” See? MENTAL. As if the biting isn’t mental enough.

And for my expectation of doing well? At the root: “I should do well at this gig, cause I did well at my last gig.” That’s bollocks. Every gig is completely different. The audience is different, the room is different, the levels of drunkenness are different.. Expecting one gig to go as well as your last gig is about as logical as wiping your penis on a mango to make the flies in your mind go away. (“THE FLIES, THE FLIES!!!”)

The lesson? Don’t write blogs. Before I wrote this one, I was a normal bloke. In just 500 words, I’ve become a self flagellating albino monk psychic tea bag reader, wiping his nob on mangoes. That’s nuts. I’d better be careful or I will genuinely go mental. Oooh look! A mango! Zzzzip.

*I’m pretty sure I’ve written that joke or similar somewhere before in this blog. But I can’t be arsed trawling through the tons of shit I’ve written. If I have written it before, and you know where, write it on a postcard, get a 1st class stamp, address it to the Queen, draw a penis and some curtains on it, and shove it up your arse

Gig No.54 done. MC Calum Ross

June 15th, Sunday. Gig No. 53, Big Nose Comedy, Kilburn

Those of you more inclined toward pedantry and anal retentiveness will have noticed a four day gap between this gig and the last gig. Have I broken the rules? Technically, no. I am not allowed to take three days off in a row. But, if a gig gets pulled, I can start again from day one, which was Friday. Lovely stuff. The World Cup opening game pays dividends: The Thursday gig gets pulled, and I get an extra day off. Should I be taking days off, you ask. No I shouldn’t. I’ve been seriously slacking off. I have a lot of catching up to do. If I fall too far behind, I will make a real rod for my back. (Another fucking stupid phrase. Who makes fishing rods and sticks them to their own backs?? I’m not having that. Bollocks)

Tonight’s gig, handily, is just 10 minutes from my new pad. Yes, I have a new pad! Finally, I have found somewhere suitable to live. It’s all looking rather good from here on in. Now I have my own base headquarters, I can concentrate fully on world domination. My very own Hitler’s bunker if you will. 53 gigs done. So, I’ve invaded Poland, started a barney with the French, and am now marshalling Air Command to prepare a bombing campaign over England. As Churchill said, it is not the end of the beginning. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is not even the beginning of the beginning. It is half way through the beginning before the beginning, just after the beginning of the beginning before the real beginning. Or some shit like that. He was pissed as a fart. Or as Hitler said: “SCHNELL!! SCHNELL!!”

Ok, crass analogies over with, lets talk about the gig. Before I did the gig, I needed a poo. So I used the pub toilet. Here it is:

You’ll have noticed one or two minor flaws with the arrangement. Main one being, THERE’S NO WHERE TO PUT YOUR KNESS. I wonder what they were thinking with they installed this. I’ve never had such an uncomfortable shit in my life. (Except the time I had that all you can eat buffet). I literally had to poo sideways. I don’t know if you’ve ever pooed sideways before, but it is rather discombobulating. An awkward detour in one’s bid for world domination. If I actually tried to push my knees into this small space, it would have lifted my bottom up high over the toilet bowl. Aiming for the toilet would have been a real mission. Much like when the German bombers came swooping over London. Yes, my bottom is like a German bomber during the Battle of Britain, and the toilet is London. (This is fucking horrible, this needs to stop right here. This is going nowhere nice.)

The gig had walk in spots, and the promoters very kindly put me on. Very kindly, in light of one’s crass persuasion tactics: ‘If you have trouble finding space for me, bear in mind I am doing 365 gigs in one year, and if I don’t perform tonight, I fail the whole challenge’. Emotional blackmail. Works every time. The day it doesn’t work, I will lead the promoter and I into a separate room, and shoot them in the face. Shoot myself, and the other comics will us carry us round the back and burn our bodies in a ditch.

Gig No.53 done. MC /Promoter Eshaan Akbar

June 11th, Wednesday. Gig No.52, Old School Yard, London Bridge

The only thing I can remember about this gig is that I did really well. But how can I write blogs about how good I was? That’s the tricky thing. You can’t sit there writing about how sha-mazing you were. What if the other acts who were there read this? They’ll think I’m a fucking bellend. So when I do well, I have to think of something else to write about. But this gig happened last week (Yes, I know, I’m slacking off) and all I remember is how gloriously good I was. Sorry, did I just say that out loud? (Technically I didn’t, I typed it out onto a keyboard in a premeditated fashion and patiently uploaded it into my blog, despite multiple opportunities to delete it. If I actually said it out loud, essentially to myself, I’d be fucking mental. Wait a minute, let me try it.. Yes. I look mental. I’m the only one here, and I’m frankly shitting myself. I’m like Jack Nicolson in the Shining. ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY. ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY. Wait a minute..I see Twins..) Lets move on. This is getting just a little bit too creepy.

When you do well in stand up, it goes to your head. You think you’ve cracked it. You think: “That’s it, I know exactly what I need to do now. From now on, the people will finally get what I am doing. My genius is ahead of it’s time, but now the world will catch on. From here on in it will be a staggering rise to glory and fame. I will become an international juggernaut.” Then you go and do another gig, and make a prick of yourself. A first class wally. Comedy’s like that. It has a way of balancing out your ego with regular smidgens of horrific indignity. So I’m dreading the next gig, naturally. Yeah. Thinking about it, that’s also what happens. On one level, your ego has gone bat shit mental, piss drunk on the glory, and on another level, you’re thinking ‘Oh, fuck. The next gig is gonna be pants’. So much so, you find yourself actually dreading doing well. This is why most comedians have had mental illness problems. If psychiatrists wanted to study comedians, they’d be scratching their heads forever. Scratching until bone had worn away. Their craniums would look like inverted gun shot fodder, blasted off, their exposed brains still confused and bewildered by the sick twisted mind of the stand up comic.

So yes, I did well. And my ego has blown up like a helium inflated Femidom. Suck on one of them, you’ll laugh like a drain. (Laugh like a drain? What the FUCK does that mean. I have not once walked past a drain and found it laughing. Cracking up and giggling away like it’s heard a quality nob gag. We need to do something about our clichés in this country. Laugh like a drain? That makes me cry like a toilet U bend.) My ego is like a genetically modified chicken, fattened up for consumption by it’s owners insecurities. Yes, the ego is like a KFC bucket for your own self doubt. And we all know what we feel like when we’ve eaten a KFC bucket. We feel sick. Sick with the grease and fat churning in our guts. Nauseous, bloated, and disgusted with ourselves. I fucking hate it when I have a good gig.

Gig No.52 done. MC/Promoter Brian Chimombo

June 9th, Monday. Gig No.51, Rhythm Factory, Aldgate

OK. This one’s about Rik Mayall.

I shed a few tears today. True. An odd thing. For a 35 year old man to shed tears for a 56 year old man he never knew. But Rik Mayall meant a lot to me. When the tears came, I felt an uncomfortable embarrassment at myself for being so fucking weird. Like some strange, creepy little fanboy weeping in the bins outside Madonna’s house. But man. Did I love him as a kid. 13, 14, 15 yrs of age, Rik Mayall was my idol.

Initially, I spent the whole day in shock. Shock, but no real emotional gut punch. Just a bit stunned. Detached. But later on, something happened. Reading through the Facebook newsfeed on my phone on the way home after my gig, I found myself being really surprised at the sheer volume, message after message after message, of real genuine sadness at his death. Other comedians, people of the same generation as me, they loved him when they were kids too. I wasn't the only one. And then one said it: “There are precious few celebrities that can die and leave me feeling as genuinely upset as I do right now” That was it. ‘Genuinely upset.’ That phrase hit me. I got a lump in my throat and choked up. I had a long, isolated half an hour walk home from the station at midnight and spent the whole time crying.

Why would a grown man cry for a bloke who did fart and nob gags on the telly?

The best way I can explain it is with Toy Story 3. At the end of Toy Story 3, Andy is all grown up. He hasn’t played with Woody and Buzz and the gang for years and he is taking them to a little girl down the road. She is shy, so he brings the toys out and begins to play with them to entice her and make her comfortable. He introduces her to each of them, explaining who they are and what they’re like. Suddenly he starts to relive his own memories. He mentally brings them to life again. And it hits him: He loved these toys. When he was child, they brought him so much joy. He’d forgotten how much they’d meant to him. And that was me tonight.

My teenage years were my war years. They were frankly shit. I didn’t enjoy school, in fact I hated it. Home life at that time was tougher than it's ever been before or since. And puberty hit me. I was a lanky, spotty wall of piss with big clunky hearing aids and no fucking clue who I was. All of this coalesced into a maudlin depression that lasted for about three years. But the one thing that always cheered me up? Bottom. Richie and Eddie kicking seven shades of shit out of each other. I would come home from another crap day at school, lock myself in my room and gorge myself on it. That delirious, endless procession of farts and flying fists, and Eddie smashing Richie’s bollocks with a cricket bat. I loved it. I loved these two grown adult men acting like complete bellends. I loved the slapstick, the anarchy. The sheer fucking stupidity. And above all I loved, loved, loved Rik Mayall. That face. Those big bulging beady eyes, the nostrils, the energy, his loose limbed, propulsive, mincing physicality. He was a human cartoon. I just fell in love with him. And so the following years I came to seek out and devour everything he did. The Young Ones, the Comic Strips, Filthy Rich and Catflaps, Kevin Turvey. I found a kindred spirit here. I could utterly relate to this goon. For those three years, at my most gawky and vulnerable and impressionable, he was my hero. Rik bloody Mayall.

Then as I got older, I grew out of Rik. I moved on. I became a young adult and discovered new influences and found enjoyment and escape in different things. The years went by and Rik became a sort of vague memory of the past. In my mind, he faded like the dusty abandoned toys in Andy’s cardboard box. But scrolling down that newsfeed, and seeing how much he meant to people, it all came flooding back. Through those awkward, painful teenage years, he was my go to man when I needed to block out a shitty day. He would cheer me up. Always. That means something. I loved the old bastard. The tears streamed down my face.

I’ll leave you with my favourite real life memory:

1995. I'm 16 years old. I manage to secure tickets to see a live recording of Bottom series 3 at the BBC TV studios. YES!! The seats we got were amazing. Front row, slap bang right in front of the living room set. THAT living room set! The Bottom living room! And the first scene? Nothing could have prepared me for it. The first two minutes of the episode had been pre recorded as they involved Eddie setting fire to Richie’s balls. The way sitcom recording worked then is, they showed the pre recorded scene for us, the audience, to watch and record our laughs. And then it was synchronized just so that as the pre recorded scene finished, it would seamlessly cut right into the live action right in front of us. So, Richie crashes down the stairs with his balls on fire. He bursts into the living room. Frantically searches for something to put it out. And he sees it. The goldfish bowl on the table. He leaps onto the table on his knees and grabs it. And there, right in front of my stunned eyes, was my comedy hero, in that Bottom living room, on all fours on the table, FUCKING a goldfish bowl. Literally fucking it. Fucking it with a commitment no other human being in their right mind could ever agree to. Heaven. Absolute heaven.

*At the end of the recording, as people started filing out, Rik was talking to a technician just 10 yards away from me. Everyone was leaving, but I’m still there, not moving, taking it all in. Standing there staring at Rik. There he is. The man himself! And then: He suddenly catches me staring at him. He sees this young kid standing there, literally grinning from ear to ear. He gives me a little smile and a cheeky little wink. What a great bloke. He had no idea what a creepy little shit I was.

Thank you Rik. Thank you for helping a young, gawky, melancholic gimp be a bit happier and making him want to grow up to be a comedian too.



Gig No.51 done. MC/Promoter Geoff Alderman

June 7th, Friday. Gig No.50, Dog House, Kennington

Lots of weird observations on my way to this gig. But cause it was last Friday I can’t remember them. I really should get back into the habit of writing on the night I have the gig. It’s all getting a bit weird. I’m writing about a gig I did on Friday on Wednesday, pretending it’s Friday. It’s creepy. All I remember from Friday is seeing an extremely attractive blonde hottie on the train with really big lower ear lobes. Like stupidly big. If you just homed in on them and couldn’t see the rest of her you’d think she was a Greco Roman wrestler. I don’t know why that struck me. I guess I’ve always had a thing for girls like that. Not girls with cauliflower ears who look like wrestlers. Really beautiful girls with one glaring physical defect. Is that wrong? I’ve always been attracted to that. Stunning looks, and one stand out imperfection. Like the girl I saw years ago who looked like Cameron Diaz but had Dennis Taylor granny glasses. Or the tall green eyed girl at University with flawless skin and a broken nose. If you look like Charlize Theron but have one leg shorter than the other - Mama Mi!! You’ll drive me fucking crazy. What is that?

Anyway. Enough of my kinky little pecadillos. The other thing I remember is on the way to the gig I nearly got run over by a motability scooter doing 70 mph. Cunt nearly killed me. I’m developing a real personal bug bear with these fucks. Sure, I’ve got no problem with people who have walking impairments being given a lease of life. It’s a fine thing. In fact thinking about it, it’s just what my own Dad needs. (He should never be allowed near one. He’s a maniac. You can’t even put him in charge of an ashtray. Last time I did that I left for 5 minutes and when I came back he was threatening to shove it in someone's face.) But where I draw the line is when they’re driving like they’re in the Daytona 500. They’re too fast. Who in the mobility scooter production meeting actually said: "You know what, pensioners need to be able to get to the post office on time. Lets make sure they can drive 70 miles per hour. Lets get some horsepower under these fucks".

What we need on pavements are speed bumps not bobbies on the beat. Actually we need them too. To keep these nuts in check. They get a little bit of power and they take the fucking piss. And why are the scooters themselves so over the top? Outside my local KFC, I saw one guy whose scooter looked like something out of Star Trek. It actually looked like a flying saucer. It had levels. His was double stacked. Wing mirrors. White, pointed like a speedboat. With St Georges flag motif. Great, a motability kill machine driven by someone who has ties with the English Defence League. He even had a boot for his KFC bucket. What the fucks going on? I nearly had my ankles broken. My foot was five centimetres away from being roadkill. Great, just cause they have walking impairments, I have to have one too. Brilliant. Why don’t we soup the fucking lot of em up, run everyone over and we can do away with pedestrianisation once and for all.

Anyway, enough ranting about the disabled. Tonight was a major milestone: Gig No 50! That’s good isn’t it? Anyone? Anyone? Fuck yourselves. I’m going to find a supermodel who looks like she’s been in a few fights

Gig No.50 done. MC Alex Martini and Promoter So Ying Pang both being unnecessarily lascivious and letting their hands run away with themselves

June 5th, Thursday. Gigs No. 48+49, G+B Camden, The Constitution Pub + Nowhere town, Cuntsville.

Two gigs tonight, and you couldn't get a more marked contrast between quality of gig. Between good, well run little comedy night, and fucking shambles. Lets talk about the good gig first.

Camden G+B. I like doing this club. The promoters love their gig, and they run it with real care. The room is always set up when you arrive, there are posters on the walls of all the acts who are on, the sound check has already been done, and you are welcomed in a warm and friendly manner. You have a well constructed show, and they mix it up by including fun games, magic and even had a plum eating contest. (Don’t ask, just go an check it out). And, best of all, for me they have been really lovely and supportive about my challenge. They even have a countdown of my gigs on my poster on the wall. Thank you Sirs, always a pleasure to play your gig.

Gig No.2. In Nowhere Town, Cuntsville

I had to leave the G+B show early and get to this gig quick. Travelled quite some way. I get there, and, oh, my. The promoter is all over the place. The audience have been ‘chatty’. I survey the room. It is a gig in the actual main bar floor. The punters are merry, and they are naturally very talkative. Fair enough. It’s their night out. But a show has started in the middle of the room, and they’re not interested. It was so bad, one of the acts actually scarpered. Pissed off. They didn't want to work that room. So naturally the MC/promoter seemed very glad I turned up. But that was the last thing I did that he liked.

Before I went on, the MC/Promoter started the final section, and spent the entire time trying and failing to get the room to shut up. He attempted to get the people in the other half of the pub to come and sit down and be quiet, and they ignored him completely. The room just kept chatting away. (Again, I don’t blame the punters. It’s their local pub, it’s their night out. They didn’t know some twat with a microphone would be there hassling them to shut up and stop talking) In the end he gave up and brought me on. There were 5 ladies in the front row. They actually made an effort to pay attention to the show. I tried to do my set. The talking in the bar was endless, and, yes, I allowed myself to get distracted. The incessant talking would not stop. I stuck to my five minutes, but then I blurted something out. This would be my fatal mistake with regards to the MC/promoter. I blurted out, on mic, ‘You need a seperate room! A function room’. I said sorry to the ladies in the front and got off. I didn’t mean anything unkind about what I said, I wasn’t angry and I meant it in the nicest way as possible. I was smiling as I said it. But I said it, on stage, in front of the audience, which I shouldn’t have done. A mistake, for which I should have apologised. I couldn’t do that, cause I got the fuck out of there as quick as I could.

Evidence would suggest the MC/promoter was displeased with what I said. What evidence?

This:

“The last comic of the night (who was double gigging) struggled and blamed the room which I have no issue with except he did it on the mic to the audience which did rankle a tad - a little more experience under his belt (he's on some sort of marathon gig quest thing) should help him deal a little more pro and a little less "dying but it's not my fault".”

Wow!! Shock!! My first review!! Woooooo!!!!

Now. Honestly, when I read this, I was angry at first. I travelled a long way to do that gig. When it came to writing this blog, I WANTED to say: ‘Comics be warned if you want to play this room.‘

I WANTED to say ‘It provides the absolute worst performing conditions you can have, and then if you dare to displease the promoter in any way he will post vindictive shit about you. Even if another act actually leaves because it’s so SHIT and you actually still go on, honouring your commitment.’

But I won’t say that. That’s far too bitter. (I’m not a bitter man. I can let go and forgive. I’ll do that as soon as I’ve finished writing this blog.) Reading it again a couple of days later, I have calmed down. I can see he is just trying to defend something he really cares about. He felt under attack, and wanted to lash out. I get that. It was his first big show and he wanted to be a success. And it wasn’t. He needs something or someone to blame. And he seems to have chosen me. Fine.

As for the issue of never ‘blaming room’. That’s fine too. I am in absolute agreement with that. Too many comics blame rooms when they should be looking at themselves. And believe me, I look at myself. I take responsibility for my set. Even after good sets I walk away with that niggling feeling I could have done better. (I never blame myself when I crash a car though. I always blame the brewery company) As for this gig, yes, I really do need to learn to handle these rooms better. I have a lot to learn. But you know, sometimes, just sometimes, it really is the room. You do have to consider that. Not only do the comics have to take responsibility for themselves, so too do the promoters. An act has an obligation to bring a decent comedy set. And a promoter has an obligation to make a room workable for his acts.

I’ve seen this before: A bad promoter runs a bad gig. An act criticises the gig. The promoter lashes out and says the act needs to ‘stop blaming the room’. That they need to do “a little less "dying but it's not my fault"”. That kind of noxious, sleazy thinking is right up there in George W Bush territory. ‘You’re either with us or against us!’ That is, you’re either a good comic, or a bad comic who blames the room. Bollocks. There’s another option you know - sometimes, just sometimes, the room is not very good.

My advice to comics: Never blame the room. Ever. Seriously. I’m not blaming the room last night. I allowed myself to get distracted by the environment, and I blurted out something I shouldn't have. If you blame a room, you take away the most important thing you have: The ability to learn.

My other advice is. Don’t do this room. It’s a pile of shit.

* I will say that’s just a joke. I’m OK now about it. Promoters reserve the right to dislike me and my act. That's fine. It’s just genuinely too much fun writing shit like this! I will say to be fair to the promoter, it WAS just their first show in that venue. The first one. Naturally there will be teething problems in a new venture. I’m sure they will learn from it. I really hope they find a way to improve the show. I wish them the very best of luck.

Gigs No. 48+49 done.

MC/Promoter Alexander Henry Buchanan-Dunlop (Great gig)


No.2 MC/Promoter (Not so great gig)

June 4th, Wednesday. Gig No. 47, Funny Feckers, Kentish Town

This show is a ‘bringer’. A bringer is basically where you have to bring a friend with you to be allowed to do the show. It is now fairly common practice on the open mic circuit. Also in other arenas of showbiz too. How do you think One Direction get to fill Wembley? Fucking 'fans'?? NO. Friends! Exactly. If they didn't have friends no one would book the cunts.

A lovely old friend of mine from back in my early comedy days very kindly offered her support and came along. Before she came to meet me though, in the afternoon, she said she would be going to see the Book Of Mormon. Oh, shit. That’s a really funny show. If she sees that, she'll have, like, expectations and shit. 'Standards'.

I read The Book Of Mormon’s quotes:

"Money can buy you happiness! If you’re in possession of a ticket, you’ve wisely secured a seat in the premier-class cabin of delirium."

“History is made. The new gold standard for Broadway. The Book of Mormon is on its march into legend.”

"The best musical of this century. So impeccably produced on every level...A celebration of the privilege, for just a couple of hours, of living inside that improbable paradise called a musical comedy."

Jesus fucking Christ. This girl is going to be injecting comedy Heroin. Then coming to see me - fucking anus cream. This adds a rather unpleasant flavour to the whole evening. Pressure. I have to live up to The Book of Mormon. (Not the actual Book Of Mormon. That would be impossible. Their rules are sick. Actually, I don’t drink coffee, smoke or drink so there’s that covered. What else? Oh yes, get married and have children young. That’s never gonna happen. Me? Married with children?? Are they FUCKING mental??)

As it turns out the gig was a lot of fun, it had a great atmosphere and the crowd were loving the show. A good gig. Fuck the Book Of Mormon, we all rocked. I have two more blogs to write this weekend to catch up, so I’m cutting this one short. Big thank you to Christina Martin for making the evening loads of fun and providing much appreciated support

Gig No.47 done. MC and Promoter Mr Wes Dalton