April 29th, Tuesday. Gigs No. 22 + 23, Big Red, Deptford + Party Piece, Euston

Two gigs! On tube strike day! It's a miracle!! Praise the Lord hallelujah!! Like FUCK it was a miracle. It was pure dogged arse graft. I worked my bollocks off getting to these gigs. It took me three hours to get to the first gig. THREE HOURS. I managed to get into Paddington by train but then thats when the real work starts. I really should have brought the hiking gear, cause I had to trek through central London like a yak man. It was searing hot, the streets were rammed with people and traffic jams, as congested as my colon after a BBQ meat feast. And with all that, I had to herd the goats.

I somehow managed to get to the gig on time. Deptford. For me, the exact opposite end of London. I'm North West, Deptford is South East. The Big Red bus, as I've written about before. Ironic as I had to get there in fucking several of them. This time, the truck (Gigs in a truck, I wrote about it before in my other blog posts. Fucking read it you lazy shit) was full. With women. Lots and lots of women. All having just eaten pizza. (It's a pizza restaurant. Not some strange weird coincidence where 30 different people all happened to have pizza that night). Yes, I could smell the pizza. It's like in the old Roman Colosseum, apparently the vast crowds of poor people all had bad breath and it would all collectively surge onto the main floor like shitty wind. It's a wonder they managed to fight the tigers at all. Maximus Decimus Meridius would have done his speech like a weedy asthmatic.

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, COUGH, COUGH, commander of the Armies of the North, COUGH, General of the Felix Legions, COUGH, and loyal servant to the TRUE emperor, Marcus Aurelius. COUGH COUGH. Father to a murdered son, COUGH, husband to a murdered wife, COUGH. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next. COUGH.”

Not quite got the same gravitas eh? I often think about people in the past and their teeth hygeine. Usually when I watch period films and see characters frenching each other. Really?? Robin Hood and Maid Marian lived in the WOODS. In the 12 century or some shit. (I don’t fucking know, I’m not a History teacher. Piss off.) Their teeth must have looked like pigeon roadkill. Strips of leaves and dead squirrel hanging off their yellow teeth. Kiss? FUCK THAT.

Anyway, I got on first in the truck, then dashed off to do the spot in Euston. It was relatively easy to get there, as the Northern line was actually running. I get there, anticipating a room full of eager little beavers. It was full of men. All men. Horrible stinking little pervert men. Not one single female. The first gig was full of women, this one full of men. There’s a metaphor here, but I can’t be assed finding it. OK, I’ll try: Tonight was like...ah, fuck it. CAN’T BE ASSED. I’ve got two more gigs tonight, and one more tube strike hell to battle. I’m off to to milk my goats.

Gigs No 22+23 done. MCs Ruth Bruce and Hjalmar Tjan

April 28th, Monday. Gig No 21. Soho Comedy Club, Leicester Square

Due to unforeseen circumstances at the weekend (I stayed in bed doing fuck all) it only occurred to me this morning that I didn't have a gig lined up. And, horror of horrors, I realise I am perilously close to forfeiting this godforsaken bet. I have gone two nights in a row without doing a gig, and if I don’t do one tonight, I will fail the task and bring shame on myself and my own self imposed comedy honour code. This is in itself ironic, as most comics have no honour. We will sell our own grandmothers for a quality gags and TV work. In fact, before he was famous, you could acquire Jimmy Carr's grandmother for 10 gags. 10 good gags and a Gonk.

In the olden days in the Far East, Samurai warriors would gut themselves to death if they had failed their missions and shamed their code. They'd walk out into the wilderness somewhere, slice open their bellies and bleed silently in anguished shame. They did so because they were deeply honourable men, and could not live with their failures. Personally, I think they were cunts. I have no problems in this area. I can live with it. As I said, I have no honour. (Check out my thriving new online business Ebay Grannies.) I balk at such extremities. Part of the honour of life is having the courage to deal with your mistakes, to atone for your errors and become a better, stronger person for the experience. Saying that I will probably exile myself. Simon Douglass’ flat will need painting and I'm fucked if I'm gonna do it. I will go on the run. I’ll stay in flea pit hotels and live on beans on toast til that fucker cares no more.

In March, I popped over to his place to discuss the bet and no sooner had I set foot inside his door when he suddenly started showing me jobs that needed doing. Let me take my fucking coat off. Showing me damp in his bathroom before I could even catch my wanker's breath. (I'm a heavy breather, I call it wanker's breath.) Knowing how keen he is to see me fail, I suspect he has planted some kind of bug on me to monitor my movements. He's probably tracking my fingers on this keyboard right now. (I get my revenge by masturbating. I bet he gets confused when he sees my right hand whizzing up and down like a hand held party sparkler. Small pleasures. Revenge that is.)

So, enough with the wank gags. Today is serious. It's an emergency. I HAVE to find a gig today, or perish. I send out an SOS distress call on Facebook to find a gig. I feel like Jack Bauer. The clock is ticking. I have to find a gig, or the terrorists will release the toxic nerve gas into the city water supply, and millions of people's faces will melt off like grilled cheese. My daughter has also been kidnapped, but fuck her, she’s a tool. She's always getting kidnapped, and consistently makes worse decisions than a dog with a nail gun. (You might query the feasibility of this joke, as dogs don't have opposable thumbs. You're probably right. Somewhere along the line in the last million years, dogs had a choice between having opposable thumbs and balls. Guess what they chose? Knowing what they can do with their balls, it’s the sensible decision. Their blessing is also their curse.) Alas, the good gent David Mulholland had a spot at his club at the Round Table. Excellent. Disaster averted, toxic nerve gas removed, faces intact. But don’t drink any tap water for a coupla days, just in case.

Now I have a tube strike to beat. Somehow, I have to get to Deptford from Uxbridge. I am bringing hiking boots, a portable gas fire and a tent. And a pick axe. If you work for London Underground, don’t approach me, I'm dangerous.

Gig No.21 done. Promoter and MC David Mulholland
(The gig was very nice, and somehow amidst the strike managed to find an audience!)

April 25th, Friday. Gig No.20, Comedy Cottage, Redhill

After last nights toilet trauma, anticipation of tonight's gig didn't start too well. I looked in my diary and thought “Where the fuck is Redhill??” I asked another act and he said “Ah, Redhill. Coming just out of the bottom of London” Coming out of the bottom of London?? Ah, shit. Another toilet. Perhaps. The directions weren't too encouraging either. “When you come out of the station, head across the road and make straight for McDonald's. Take a right past McDonald's, and keep walking til you get to Poundland..” Wow. This is getting worse. I head out to the gig with a heavy heart. And a double decker drill, in case I get trapped in any toilets. Or if there is a DIY emergency in the middle of town, involving three distressed swimwear models and a really tricky shelf bracket. You never know! Optimism, that's my natural default.

As I get there, I see a Sainsburys. I walk in, and it’s EXACTLY like my own Sainsburys! I mean IDENTICAL. The layout is exactly the same. All the aisles are in the same places. (I'm even sure one of the shelf stackers works in the one in Hayes? Either he’s a twin or they're building clones. Now that would be creepy as hell. Mindless cloned droids working in stores all over the country, stacking cans of petit pois and stringy cheese) I found it all extremely weird. Dotted in towns all over the country are supermarkets that are all identical. Not just supermarkets - pubs, coffee shops, shopping malls. What kind of weird, sterile world are we building? Everywhere you go is a replication of somewhere you've been before. Everywhere is the same. I think if the place is exactly the same and you feel like you've been there before, your brain shuts down, you stop thinking and go into safe mode. You become a shopping Zombie. Which is ideal for supermarkets, cause they want what's in your wallet. But not ideal for their staff, cause you want their brains. (Maybe that's why they’re building clones?) They’re getting like gambling dens and casinos - they're all set up so that people lose track of time. There are no clocks and hours go by before you realise it's daytime and you've got nowhere to live cause the house has robbed all your gear. You don’t even own the clothes you walked in with. They chuck you out onto the street bollock naked with a lollipop up your arse. Fuckin fruit machines.

Then I get to the gig. And. Ahem. It's different! Nice different though, set in a nice little theatre. Most of the shows seemed to be 80's tribute band shows and psychic mediums. And most of the people there were older than Noah. This theatre was an Ark of middle of the road entertainment. And vermin scum who shaft grieving people with cold reading tricks and shiny lights. But the gig itself was refreshing. One of those rare gigs I do that are well run and have proper set ups. You know, like a proper comedy club. A sound engineer, decent seating arrangement, a stage, lighting. And paying punters up for a good night of comedy. Always fun to do those. It got decidedly less fun when I got out my double decker drill though. Apparently the people of Redhill don't do veiled threats and power tools. But if I pretend I'm talking to their dead loved ones and give them false hope - THAT'S FINE. (I hate psychic mediums, can you tell?)

Gig No. 20 done. MC and lovely lady Sajeela Kershi


Poster:

April 24th, Thursday. Gig No.19. Audley Cellar Bar, Mayfair

What's the most interesting thing that happened tonight? Well, you couldn't make it up. My cousin came down with me tonight, and before the gig we decided to treat ourselves to an Ed's shake. Classic. That stuff goes down your throat like, well, like an Ed's shake. If you drink a nice drink, like, say, a good cappuccino or a cold beer, that's your analogy. “That stuff went down like an Ed's shake”. Then have 10 more. (10 more cold beers. You can’t have 10 more Ed's shakes. You’ll shit like a Giraffe.)

So we've sat and ordered our shakes. “Just popping to the toilet” I said. I approach the disabled toilet and stop. “No, remember what happened last time” and pull away immediately. (What happened last time? You don’t want to know. Long story short, I sort of got into a screaming match with a man who had a colostomy bag. Don't ask me any more. Ask no questions, I tell no lies) I pull away, and make for the men's toilet, like a good citizen. I lock the door and do my business. (Pee pee, in case you were wondering. It’s got no relevance to the story but writing is all about details.) Wash my hands, all done. What happens? It ain't rocket science. If you haven’t realised by now the lock broke and I got stuck in the toilet, don’t apply for any rocket science courses any time soon, you have less chance of going to the moon than a shitting giraffe. (He had too many milkshakes)

Yes, I got locked in the toilet. The spring snapped inside the lock, the handle came loose. The bar was still jammed between the lock base and the door frame and I have no handle to unravel the bar. (I'm struggling to describe the nature of the malfunction, I’m not an expert in door locks. I'm Googling it now - Apparently it was a Privacy slide bolt with indicator release. How can I describe what happened? OK: IT FUCKING BROKE. IT SNAPPED OFF AND TRAPPED ME IN THE TOILET.) As I realised the gravity of the situation - the gig was starting in just half an hour - I started to panic. Visions of waiting for hours until the fire brigade come along and smash the door down and people filming me being helped out of the toilet/rubble crying and videos being uploaded all over the internet flash through my brain. I pulled the door handle in anger. And it snapped off. FUCKING GREAT NOW I CAN’T EVEN PULL THE DOOR OPEN LET ALONE UNLOCK IT.

I started banging the door hard. Then I took the decision to call my cousin who was at the time slurping on a world class strawberry shake. (He’s 34 years old, a father of one and an absolute twonk) He answered, and I actually said these words: “Greg, I'm locked in the toilet. Get the big guy to come over and kick the door down”. (I didn't ask Greg cause he’s got a 'bad back'. What fucking use is he) The big guy came round and started trying to turn the lock. The lock is going round and round like a washing machine, fucking useless. “THERE'S NO POINT TRYING TO TURN THE LOCK, JUST KICK THE DOOR DOWN!”. To further my indignity, the toilet was so small, to make space for the door about to be potentially kicked in, I had to stand on the toilet. I am dressed smartly in suit jacket with slicked back hair and good boots, now I'm standing on a toilet, half squatting cause the ceiling was too low. Thank you LIFE. “JUST KICK THE DOOR DOWN!! STOP TURNING THE LOCK”. The lock handle is still twirling round and round and I'm getting seriously irritated, a grown man in a suit standing on a microscopic toilet wondering who the fuck is laughing at me. Greg, apparently. He said “You've made my day. That’s the funniest thing you’ll do all night”. Thanks Greg. You must come to one of my comedy nights again. Keep slurping on your shake you fucking twonk.

The strange thing was, I learnt something about myself tonight. I learnt that I have a deep psychological scar around being locked in toilets. When I was about 3 I once got locked in my Grandad's upstairs toilet. I couldn't unlock the door. If you think Eds toilet was microscopic, this one was smaller than a monkey cage. (In fact, I think it WAS a monkey cage. That would explain why Grandad kept feeding me fruit). I basically panicked and started crying and screaming, scared shitless at being hemmed in and trapped. My Grandad had to spend ages trying to detach the lock from the door, using all manner of tools (All while keeping me well stocked in bananas) I think in the end he actually had to use a big fuck off drill to get through. This might well have affected me a lot more deeply than previously thought, as when I realised that I was trapped in this concrete toilet behind a well sealed thick wooden door with no air or space, a surge of real fear went through me. The memories flashed back. OK, fear of being trapped in small spaces is hardly irrational (Especially if you’re obese and you own a Fiat Uno). But it was only a couple of days ago I was thinking about the Victor Meldrew scene when he got buried neck deep in his own mulch. It’s that feeling of being totally immobilised and trapped that really gives me the willies. (That’s why I never let fat girls go on top) Not being able to free myself and being stuck, hemmed in. Really truly horrible feeling. Anyway, long and short of it is, every time I see a small toilet, I have panic attacks.

And thinking about it, all of this is actually a really good metaphor for my struggles with comedy. I am ‘trapped’ in the infernal toilet of comedy...No wait, I am trapped in a prison/toilet of my own limited abilities...I want to leave the toilet. The toilet is my own poverty ridden tedious life. No wait, let me start again.

My life is a toilet. I am skint, trapped by my own poverty. I have no real job skills, no real way out. I am locked in. My only way out is to unlock the door. The lock on the door, is my comedy. It is the little tiny shiny key to my freedom. If I unlock my comedy and open the toilet door, I can burst out into the open and experience that freedom and liberation that comes with success. But. When I try to turn the lock/do comedy, the lock snaps off. I am left stuck in the toilet. I call this, the Prison of Personal Ineptitude. (Initials PPI, not to be confused with Payment Protection Insurance. There is no protection from personal ineptitude. If you have this disease, you’re stuck with it until you find a way out of it) If I can learn to do comedy without snapping it off, maybe, just maybe, I can escape this claustrophobic nightmare. But not tonight. I did the gig and snapped the lock again. Fuck it.

P.s. The big man kicked the door in. I was freed at last. And guess what - they let us have the shakes on the house! A free Ed's shake, it all turned out good again. Until I did the gig. I paid for that one.

Gig No.19 done. Again, I forgot to take a pic. My apologies. I definitely did the gig, you can ask my cousin Greg. He was there. For now, here’s a picture of a toilet

April 23rd, Wednesday. Gig No.18, Bear Funny, Finsbury pub

I'm going to be a little cheeky here. I'm not going to write much. I have a lot to do today, and it doesn't entail writing for you fucks. What can I say about tonight's gig? Well, I was pissed off all the way home. I went on second last, and pretty much the whole audience pissed off by the time I got on. The last few stragglers all lined up the front row. Credit to them, they stuck it out. But when I did my act, most of them all had really arrogant, patronising looks on their faces. (One comic looking bored). Real fucking annoying. They didn't really get what I was doing.

I'm being immature and stupid, with no real jokes, trying to get away with it. I'm a chancer who has no business being on stage. But they just think: 'He's really immature and stupid, with no real jokes, trying to get away with it. He’s got no business being on stage!' But THAT'S the joke! My act is the joke! How DARE these people patronise me! The thing is, I don’t think I am performing it properly yet. It’s not conspiratorial enough. (Or rehearsed enough. Think pianist walking out into a concerto and banging the keys like Mighty Joe Young after a really uncomfortable enema). I still need to work on it. But when something's not quite working, how long do you persist with it? When do you call it a day? Some ideas take a long long time to click into gear. But some ideas won’t ever click into gear. There’s no real way of knowing. All I know is when I think of dropping it and doing a regular ‘Hey guys isn't bread funny’ act, it depresses me. I reckon 90% of acts these days are straight men/women doing conversational acts. Straight man talking funny. I don’t want to be straight man talking funny. I want to be weird man talking bollocks. Weird child man talking bollocks, and running off before the promoters lynch me.

Anyway, I’m off, as I said - today is gonna be a short one. I wonder if Ronnie Corbett says that to himself in the mirror?

Gig No.18 done. MC Gary Sansome

April 22nd, Tuesday. Gig No. 17, We Are Funny, Dirty Dicks

There’s an issue lately with my photos. Theoretically they are here to serve as ‘proof’ that I have actually done the gigs. But the last two I have posted pics of empty seats and a squirrel in a bin. And low and behold, one or two people have questioned my integrity. How DARE they. To think, as if I would go to all the trouble of telling everyone I know that I am doing a challenge like this, only to start manufacturing stories about this gig and that gig, waxing lyrical about shit that’s only happening in my diseased brain. Some fantastic nutter leading a Walter Mitty double life through the pixelated fantasy land that is the internet. What kind of bellend would I have to be to do that?? As if.

Saying that, every time I’m on a date with a young lady, I tell more lies than Richard Nixon. They walk away thinking “Wow. He seems nice. He’s rich, he’s successful, and really really modest. He definitely wouldn't hire some goons to break into my flat and bug my phones. I might see him again!” The next week she meets a magically intuitive man with amazing insight. He seems incredibly tuned into her. They have so much in common! She watches X Factor and Gogglebox, he too watches X Factor and Gogglebox! She takes dance classes, he too takes dance classes! She likes horses, he too likes horses! He seems to be her twin! He seems to be almost spiritually aligned to her deepest passions, it’s amazing, he even finishes her sentences, he mirrors her soul! He just ‘gets’ her! He UNDERSTANDS her. But, in actuality, what he only understands is lies. Lies and state of the art surveillance hardware. Her flat has more bugs than a Bacterial Disease Clinic. Botulism doesn't come close to this fuck.

That aside, how DARE you question my integrity. I'm doing this thing to become the best stand up I can be, if I were to stop gigging but spend the whole year writing fake blog entries that would be MENTAL. I'm not doing this to become a blogging Queen. This isn't the fake moon landings. I'm not Neil Armstrong in a mocked up moon studio, pretending to be in space just cause I told everyone I would be going to the moon. I'm not trying to beat the Russians. There are no Russian comedians doing a 365 gigs in a year challenge. As far as I know. If there is, I will beat that COMMIE FUCK.

If you try to get to the moon, but fail, there is no shame in it. But if you try to get to the moon, fail, then construct a complex, large scale hoax to cover up your failings, and dupe everyone you care about along the way, then you need help. You need more help than that bloke who dressed as Batman to get his kids back. Give me some credit eh? Anyway, I'm off to monitor some phone calls. My latest squeeze has a cracking flat.

Gig No.17 done. Ironically the promoter was unable to take a picture with me, so I got another act called Toby to take a picture of me on stage to prove my moon landings are real. But, he cocked up. Boy, did he cock up:

First one, blurry


Second one, blurry again


Third time lucky? FOR FUCK SAKE


This is the bellend who took them (Toby French), so if you need proof that I did this gig, hunt him down. Make his life HELL

April 21st, Monday. Gig No 16, Hideaway Bar

So it was with heavy heart I set out this evening onto depressingly silent empty streets, the grey miserable skies and rain tumblin’ on ma head. The rest of the nation are sat indoors, recovering from sugar withdrawals and chocolate loaded colons and here I am, heading out into the arsehole of London for a gig.

I’ve just had a really nice, chilled out weekend off. It’s funny, 2000 yrs has turned one man’s immense suffering into a cracking holiday weekend. 2000 years will do that. If before he died Mandela was hung on a cross there would be world wide outrage and wars, then time would pass and before you know it they’re having bank holidays and eating Holographic Curly Wurlys in space, to celebrate the anniversary of Holy Mandela‘s crucifixion. (It’s a sad testament to humanity that I can’t think of one single living prophet like great human to illustrate this joke.)

I fancifully considered not doing the gig. But then remembered I’ve already missed two evenings in a row, and if I miss another I start work tomorrow painting Simon Dougie’s flat. For those of you who don’t know/haven’t bothered reading the 365 challenge contract page, Simon D is the ruthless maggot who took the opportunity to profiteer from the failure of my dream. Safe to say, we won‘t be having any Bank Holidays for him. (P.s. It’s his birthday today, please send him cake. And lace it with ritalin and rat shit.)

I get to the gig and yes, low and behold, there’s no audience. And why should there be? You’ve just had an extended 4 day weekend, you got pissed up on Friday and Saturday, ate more eggs than a Komodo dragon on Sunday, and Monday is your chance to relax and enjoy the novelty of a Monday off. So why on earth would you go: “I know! Instead of chilling out and enjoying a satisfying night in, lets go out into the rain and find a basement room in an empty pub and watch about 15 low level open mic acts perform in a void!” (Sorry acts who were there, I don’t mean it. The joke doesn’t work as well if I say you’re all comedy superstars and you’re doing the best shit thats ever been done in the history of comedy. Needless to say, of course you are superstars and yes, the shit you did tonight made me laugh inside til I had borderline rectal prolapse. Dont take it personally if you didn’t hear me actually laughing though. I’ve seen too much comedy and I’m too jaded. Even if Jim Carrey himself came out bollock naked and started doing an impression of Jesus hung on a cross while trying to eat an easter egg with his feet - I would still sit there with a thin anaemic smile, privately wondering if comedy has made me dead inside.) So, the Easter weekend began with the crucifixion of Jesus, and ended with the ressurection of my comedy challenge. It didn’t exactly come back to life though. Onward we go.

Gig No.16. The front row.

April 18th, Friday. Gig No.15, Ye Olde Rose and Crown

Fucking hell. Ups and downs! Tonight, your esteemed blogger made an absolute scatty twonk of himself. He started well, then he got distracted, lost his momentum, and gradually disintegrated like pair of cardboard underpants.

What did I get distracted by? The room was bright as fuck, and the front row had two old men who looked as if they had that smiling disease you see on bus stop posters. Big headshots of forlorn, sad looking souls who can’t smile. Terrible affliction, but you don’t want it in your front row. I tried to do my act but they looked so gloomy and broken it threw me. They looked like eunuchs. Like their children had died in a potato famine. What kind of lives have they led? One was in his mid fifties but the other one - fuck me. He looked like he’d seen action in the Boer war. His face was etched with two lifetimes of desexed misery. When he was my age The Queen was called Victoria and the women he fancied still wore gussets made out of weeds. I bet he reminisces about scoring pussy in saloon bars and playing billiards like a mad dog. He was an anachronism. His favourite act was probably Blackface from the 30s. I should have started singing “Mammy” and doing jazz hands. What was this cunt doing here?

And what about the room. Bright? It was like a fucking airport proctology room. Fingers had fucked more arses in there than Pentonville. The old geezer, you could see blackheads he’d pinched in the 60s. The other one spent the whole time stroking his chin. Body language 101: If someone has a look of concern on their face, and they are stroking their chin, that means: YOU AREN’T DOING VERY WELL. I addressed it and he tried to stop, but as I carried on he couldn’t help himself. His hands kept gravitating towards his chin. Either he was very very concerned about what I was doing, or had some kind of rare flaky chin disease.

To be fair they were nice about it, and I jest about their ages and gloomy dispositions. The audience were nice. It was me that was entirely to blame. I’m so up and down at the moment. I’m about as consistent as microwaved custard. In theory the constant gigging will enable me to get over that hurdle but it is pretty discombobulating. You fluctuate from one extreme emotion to another every single day. That’s what stand up is like: Bi Polar disease. That’s got to take it’s toll, right? Learning to detach from both good and bad experiences is key. I have to go now, it’s the weekend. I’ve got shit to do

Gig No.15 done. Actually, I completely forgot to take a picture this time so instead here’s a pic of a squirrel in a bin

April 17th, Thursday. Gig No.14, Gagged and Bound, Camden

I won't lie. At one point this afternoon I lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling in deliciously depressive miserablism. How the fuck am I going to do this challenge? Things aren't going as well as planned. A lot of the gigs are fairly dispiriting. Most promoters are good and run decent spaces but audiences are a bit thin on the ground. (I don't understand that expression. What's thin on the ground? Roadkill?) Most of all, I'm not satisfied with how my new act is going. (Did I mention, I am building a new act. If I didn't mention that, it's probably because I know most of you would insist on coming to a gig cause you want to to see me at my worst. But that's a good sign - You can handle me at my worst, so you definitely deserve me at my best! Ooo la la. I'm going to start dressing up as Marilyn Monroe) I just lay there on the couch, pissed off, fed up, thinking of dropping the new act. Actually considering digging out all the old stuff that worked and rehashing it all into a serviceable, workable set, that gets solid, if not spectacular, laughs. In a word, material that when I do it, a little piece inside of me dies. Not all material you do that actually works makes you feel good about yourself. Sometimes it feels too cheap, too easy. Like you're cheating. It's like a magic trick, it looks good when you do it, but underneath you know it's all a sham. McDonald's is a good example. It’s nice when you stuff your gob with chicken nuggets and big macs, but when you walk out of there you hate yourself. That's what I was going to do tonight. McDonald's comedy. (No, I wasn't going to dress up as Ronald McDonald. I told you already, I'm Marilyn Monroe. To keep us both happy, when you come, I may dress as both.) Not the stuff I wanted to do. The new stuff. What is the new stuff? Basically, the new stuff is all the really stupid, childish stuff that I really enjoy doing. I enjoy being stupid and childish. I enjoy being a reckless imbecile, running around acting like a fucking tool. Its FUN. That what I want my act to be. Fun. I don't want to do McDonald's comedy. And I don't need to change the world either come to think of it. The world gets on fine without me. (Well, the world is turning into a toilet. Mainly because of McDonald's. But there you go. I’d love to do something about it but I haven’t been elected to world wide totalitarian dictatorship just yet. When I am, I’ll be a nice dictator. I will sort the environment out, make sure everyone is nice to each other, and everyone can have whatever haircuts they like. If anyone disobeys, I will have them gutted like pigs. I will kill their friends. I will kill their families. I will kill their families friends and their friends families. I will kill their families friends families. I will kill them all.) Many acts are spreading the message in far more capable ways than me. I'm not interested in lecturing or enlightening people. I just want to have a fucking good time. Sometimes, simply cheering people up is the best thing you can do. I enjoy seeing people laugh. I've always enjoyed it. Watching sitcoms like Fools and Horses and Red Dwarf as a kid and seeing my family laugh like drains - I loved that. I remember every time Trigger called Rodney Dave or the Cat smashed Lister with a spade I'd always look over and see them cracking up, faces beetroot red with mirth. (Well my Dad’s face had more to do a rare alcoholic skin condition) I'd get a real kick out of it. I'd love to do that myself. I wonder sometimes if stand up is a bit meaningless and stupid but it's not. People work hard, they have kids to bring up, bills to pay. Comedy is probably one of the healthiest means we have of taking a break from the daily grind. People drink booze, take Valium, tour sex shops and buy blow up sheep. Or they can go to a comedy night and watch comedians. Talk about booze, Valium, fucking blow up sheep. Do it, or enjoy it vicariously through pervert others. That's the choice we all have. (This realisation actually depresses me more) As for stand ups, when we fuck blow up sheep, we’re not enjoying it. We're thinking how much we hate ourselves, disgusted at the men we've become, and then, suddenly, realising: “One day, this will cheer up an audience member who's really down about life!” And that perks us up immediately. (So much so we pop the sheep. See? I'm seriously childish). Anyway, I didn't do the McDonald's magic act. I didn't need it. Tonight's gig was huge fun. We had a real audience, and it was run with love. The promoters went out of their way to make the gig as fun and well run as possible. As for me, yes, I was childish and stupid. And there’s no shame in it. We don't all have to be edgy and dangerous comic philosophers. In the words of my hero Stan Laurel: “What we were trying to do was make people laugh in as many ways as we could, without trying to make a point or get into deep meaning”. If that's good enough for Stan, it’s good enough for me.

Gig No.14 done. Co promoter and gent Kyle Wallace

April 16th, Wednesday. Gig No.13, Heavenly, Green pub

OK, now it’s getting depressing. 13 gigs in, and I’m sick and tired of this shit. I look like Paula Radcliffe when she pulled out of that race, broken and crying on the kerb. (No, I don’t look that bad, though I did take a piss in the street.) The open mic level I’m at right now - rock bottom - is throughly weird. Every gig I do it seems, the audience is basically other acts and their friends. Acts doing their acts in front of other acts. How bizarre is that? At night, in secret basement rooms dotted all over London, acts are doing their acts in front of other acts. The whole ‘audience’ are sitting there, bored but intent, going over their own acts in their own minds, looking concerned and nervous as they wait to go on. All to do acts to other acts who’ve seen their acts before. (You wouldn’t get this in any other sphere of life. You don’t get plumbers going to plumbers meetings, going “Right, now I’m going to show you how to decongest a toilet U bend”. The other plumbers all privately sigh in unison, having plumbed a thousand toilet U bends themselves before, going over their plumbing tips in their own minds, saying to themselves “I can plumb better than he can. I hope I don’t forget plumbing tip no.3, they’ll be astonished”) I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve looked in the faces of acts in the seats in front of me, not paying attention. Distant. Clearly waiting to go on, their anxious knees bobbing up and down, forgetting completely that there is an act in front of them NOW. Their face looking like they’re watching a documentary about Romanian orphans. They forget to pretend they’re enjoying it. I don’t do that. When an act onstage looks at me, I have the common courtesy to pretend I’m having fun. Privately I’ve heard all their shit before, in one form or another, and am thinking how can I get out of this weird hellish fever dream. I feel like Jack Nicolson in the Shining, feeling trapped and quietly going murderously insane. (Sometimes I go onstage and repeat ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’ for five solid minutes) But my face belies the truth. If you do your act just to me, you’ll think you’ve cracked it. That’s because I’m a pro. Thats a sign of being a professional act - you make an effort to be a decent audience member. One act when I was on not only failed to look interested, he actually actively rolled his eyes as I was about to go into a bit. This little turd was definitely new, he needs to do more gigs. He needs to practice being an audience member more. I’m thinking of running a course for aspiring open mic audience members, teaching them how to laugh, when to laugh, when to look entertained or even just mildly amused. How to dress, where to sit, how to clap. One day if they do enough gigs, they will be top audience members, maybe even good enough to be audience members at Live At The Apollo. Right, I’m off. I have to prepare for the gig tonight. I’m going to sit in a seat and practice a series of authentic, well timed laughs. Cause that’s the secret to comedy - timing.

Gig No.13 done. MC Sonia Aste

April 15th, Tuesday. Gig No.12. Walk in spot at We Are Funny, Dirty Dicks

Last nights gig was a walk in. There are only 6 spots available. Apparently last week someone got there for 6.30pm to get on the list. They didn’t get on! So, I think to myself “Right, get there for 6, guarantee yourself a spot”. Arrive at 6, quietly smug with myself, twirling my imaginary moustache and cackling like Skeletor from He Man. (If you don’t get the reference, you’re too young for this blog - piss off somewhere else, go watch Hannah Montana or some shit) Then: I see 5 acts all queuing outside. At 6pm. Outside. Queuing. Stand up wasn’t like this in the old days. (Actually, in the old days, you’d have to flyer outside for an hour and a half for five minutes stage time. Good deal I felt. Until I realised I was being exploited like a 12 yr old Cambodian in an underground sweatshop) I am the 6th one there, apparently. Just made it! But when the MC turns up and starts taking our names down, apparently there was a 6th man. 6th MEN actually. Two geezers doing a double act. For fuck sake. Not to worry, the MC lets me know if some acts don’t turn up on time for 7.30pm, they will lose their spot and I will get on. Mmm. Not really in line with my principles that. Oh wait a minute, I don’t have any principles! Of course I’ll wait til 7.30! FUCK EM. I’ve got 365 gigs to do. I don’t care if you are late. I don’t care if you have a good excuse. Even if you spent the last hour saving small children from a house fire - I DON’T GIVE A SHIT. I’m getting on. I don’t care. Funny thing, this challenge. I never had this determination to get on before. I used to run my own club, and I wouldn’t go on. At my own club! I’d book a load of acts, they’d all turn up, and I’d sit there watching, wondering why the fuck I was doing it. Booking your own club and not going on is like romancing a beautiful girl, wining her, dining her, doing all the work, then when you finally get to throw her onto your bed, you call your flatmate and go: “There, she‘s all yours”. (This analogy suggests she has no choice in the matter, which of course she does. It‘s just not a very good analogy. And, possibly, extremely crass.) Someone once said to me, in such sage terms, "Stop being a pussy". That helped a lot. I needed someone brave enough to say that to me. To get me to face the truth, confront my own fears, for my own good. I never booked him again. Prick.
A challenge like this concentrates the mind, galvanizes your priorities, and makes you as ruthless as a Cambodian sweatshop owner. Slash forward low level comedy promoter. I once turned up late-ish to a gig due to unforseen circumstances (I can’t remember why, it was years ago. I’ll make some shit up - I was swinging from a crane 100 ft in the air and swooped down to catch a screaming child who’d fallen from a giant Ferris Wheel. I landed us safely and everyone in the fun fair cried and cheered. Someone gave me a toffee apple and free rides for life) So I get there and the MC said “Its too late. Your spots gone.” What?? I tell him the promoter had not given me his contact number in case of emergency. He shrugs his shoulders as if to say “Tough”. I was fuming. I was pre booked and the promoter offered no contact for acts to get in touch in case of unforseen circumstances (The Spinning Teacups don’t ride themselves. Tip: Never eat toffee apples on the spinning teacups.) Obviously, I couldn’t punch him, so I went the passive aggressive route. I stuck around to see if he was shit. He was. An absolute hack. I’m privately delighted, yet simultaneously disgusted that such a hack would deny a genius such as I. (Delight and disgust traditionally don’t go together well. Except in sexual matters.) There is no real justice in the world. Anyway, that was years ago. (Comics have resentments that fester for years. We’re really the kids that never got round to shooting up our schools. Thats what happens. We fail to get access to guns, the opportunity passes us by, we become adults, we join the comedy circuit.) This time, I was on the other foot. (Weird expression that. ‘I’m on the other foot’. What do people do when they say it, stand on one leg? I might try that at my gig tonight. I’m pathologically drawn to silence.) And when you’re on the other foot, there’s no point in principles. Whats the point in having them if you can’t get ahead? That was my point. Principles get in the way of progress. I’ve already had to do a pay to play gig, now I’ve taken someone else’s spot. This time next week I’ll be employing a Cambodian child to do my bookings. (Anything’s better than the sweatshop, right?) Anyway, that’s quite enough brackets for you today. I’m getting obsessed with brackets. (That’s not a euphemism for boobs, promise.) See? I’d better piss off before I use another one.

Gig No.12 done. MC Alex Martini

April 14th, Monday. Gig No. 11, Hideaway Bar, Archway

Today I write about the frustration of the artist. As an artiste, (yes, I am an ‘artiste’ – when you see me, you may kiss me twice) you have a vision of what you want to create. Before that, you have been inspired by other artists. You grow up as a child subjected to all kinds of weird and wonderful influences. Michaelangelo himself was influenced by the works of Giovanni and Ghiberti (No, neither me. I think he played left back for Arsenal?) Shakepeare by the works of Chaucer and Plutarch (Pluto’s grandad?) and as for me: Bedknobs and Broomsticks, the A Team and Spongebob Squarepants. (Spongebob came out in 1999, which would have made me oooh, around 20 yrs old – the lesson being, it’s never too late for great artists to be inspired by the work of others). My other genuine influences were the great actors like Brando, Olivier and Dyer. The Godfather, Hamlet, and Billy the Limpet. (If you don’t get this reference, you don’t deserve to own a TV) And this brings me the problem of the artist: Expectations. When he is inspired by great works, he develops a taste for what is good. And when he decides to try it himself, he wants to emulate his heroes. He wants to meet the standards set by the great and the good. And for me, the single greatest creative influence of my life is The Beatles. This presents a problem. The Beatles were unanimously the greatest band in the world. A gigantic behemoth that bestrode the entire planet. They had it all: Massive mainstream popularity, universal artistic acclaim, and fucking great haircuts. And, deep down in the darkest recesses of my brain, a part of me, no doubt, is thinking: ‘I want to be as good as them’. And thus, therein lies the problem. You carry around with you a constant niggling frustration with yourself and your work. Your ‘Bellydance’ bit is not as good as Rubber Soul. Your ‘Pull my finger’ routine comes nowhere near Hey Jude. Even Maxwell’s Silver Hammer puts your ‘Talking thumb’ joke to shame. And that’s a pile of shit. You live with a constant frustration. Fear, doubt. Will you ever be good enough? Will you ever create work that you’ll be proud of? Every gig you do, you walk away incredibly dissatisfied, feeling like you’ve eaten the hole in the doughnut. Of course I’ll never be as good as the Beatles, I know that. They were four, and I am one. I’ll be lucky if I can be even as good as Cliff Richard, let alone that lot. (One day I will write a joke as good the Millenium Prayer. That was fucking hilarious) I don’t expect that. I do expect, if I am to do 365 gigs in a year, to start being good. Not good every once in a while, but consistently good. Solid. Like, say, Phil Bardsley who plays for Sunderland. A good solid defender, good enough to play in the Premier league, but not quite good enough to play for the big boys. (Not yet. In a few years I expect to be touring the world, waving babies on the balcony, spitting at fans and walking out of chat shows, disgusted at the Loose Women’s shitty manners.) That’s all I want to be, truth be told. Deep down, I want to be good. Good at what I do. I love people who are really good at what they do. Like, seriously good. That’s what really inspires me. That’s why I loved the Beatles. Because they were damn bloody good. But I can’t control that. All I can do, is put the work in, and let go of the rest. Lennon himself said he was never truly satisfied with any of their songs. And he wrote A Day In The Life. How can I possibly ever be satisfied if he can’t? I’m off to tell a punter to pull my finger.

Gig No.11 done. Promoter Joe Grant

April 11th, Friday. Gig No.10, T Bird Bar, Finsbury Park

Mmm. OK. Died on my arse. Went down to total earth shattering, awe inspired silence. Yes I went on 2nd. Yes, it was a dry, quiet, sober room. But I’ve seen enough comedy to know good ideas, good jokes and good acts can always wrestle laughs out of those situations.

Actually thats a complete lie.

I‘ve been monitoring my readership on this blog, and I’ve noticed one major thing: People will click on and read an entry if they’re interested in what I say in the first paragraph, which is displayed on Facebook. And in the last 9 posts, the most popular by far, is the one that began as above. So THAT’S what my readers want! They want me to die on my arse! Not just once in a while, not even all the time, but definitely MORE OFTEN. No one wants to hear about how well my act is going. They want to hear about the pain, the humiliation, the locking myself in a room and burning myself with candlewax. Well fuckers, I’m sorry to report I didn’t die on my arse tonight. I had a serviceable gig - serviceable, not brilliant, but not bad either - and so I won’t be inflicting hideous pain on myself with scented Pomegranate Noir bathroom wicks.
I’m not boasting about this gig, I should stress. I don’t need to boast. I’m a man of many accomplishments, and I’m not such an insecure/weird egomaniac that I need to create an online blog and write about my many achievements and rack up likes on Facebook like a squirrel hoards nuts. (I wonder if squirrels get a little bit arrogant about how many nuts they’ve collected. I bet when they’ve had a good day they’re well annoying. The hubris of squirrels, a theme for our times.) Saying that, I will mention the Spaghetti Bolognese I made the other night. It was, though I say so myself, food made for Dionysian Gods. It had an intoxicatingly delicious, fulsome flavour, and every element came together like lovers entwined in orgiastic appreciation of each other’s trembling flesh. Well, apart from the Ragu. Let the side down slightly. (The God Zeus spat it out. Ungrateful prick.) I make a mean Bolognese, and thats just one food recipe. Imagine what I can do with other things, like golf clubs and toilet ducks. (I could mention the time I cleaned my toilet three weeks ago, I did a smashing job.) Anyway, enough of this drivel. This is my first weekend off of this challenge. 10 gigs done in 11 days. I’m off to reward myself with wine women and song. Oh wait a minute, I don’t drink. Milkshake, women and song. Actually I’m single. Milkshake, self pleasure and song. Oh wait a minute, I sing like a goat. Milkshake, self pleasure and silence. Mmm. Where’s that candlewax?

Gig No.10 done. Promoter Miriam Muruako

April 10th, Thursday. Gig no.9, Freedom Fridge, Torrianos

OK this is gonna be a short one. After a quick hour and a half travelling to this gig I find it is in a dank basement. Nice enough room for comedy, but for allergic asthmatics like me? I could feel the damp and the mold wheedling it’s way into my sinuses immediately and needed to get out of there quick. Thankfully I was on third, so I very gratefully got on and got off and got out. Basements are a concern, a lot of gigs are in basements. A few months ago I slept next to some mold and now all of a sudden I’m a wheezy little asthmatic gimp. I try and rehearse my stuff at home and find myself coughing my guts out. Also, in my act I do quite a lot of screaming and crying so my throat is fucked afterwards. I probably need a voice coach to get me to use my voice properly. But that’s all boring technical stuff, what do you really want to hear about?
“You dying on your arse!” I hear you all shout, cackling in unison
I’ve covered that subject (extensively), so you can all fuck off.
Lets talk about the screaming and crying. I have one or two little bits that call for me to sulk and cry like a child. And inevitably, it ends up with some screaming. I tried one bit for the first time tonight, and it ‘nearly’ went over. Almost. Not quite. It’s always a bit of a risk doing these things. The main risk being, if it doesn’t work, you look a right nob. Secondly, you tear your throat out. Is it worth it? For normal people, no. For a stand up, no. For me? No. But I take it anyway. Why? I’ve got no choice. My creative juices always seem to run off the side of the plate onto the worktop and down onto the floor. (Not sure what the fuck I’m on about here, but lets run with it). Yes, thats what my act is: Gravy.

Anyway, today’s a short one, I’m fucking busy. There’s a big fly in the room, and I have to kill it.

Gig No.9 done. Two of three promoters

April 9th, Wednesday. Gig No.8, Joking Aside, Hysteria Bar

I was supposed to post this earlier today. Woke up this morning and thought to myself:
“Right, get up, do today’s blog entry, have some lunch”
But life doesn’t work that way does it?
I set the laptop up and off we go. But no, wait a minute. My Facebook chatbox keeps disconnecting. (Yes, I logged into Facebook first. It’s a disease. Like heroin addiction, but with more Farmville requests) That’s weird. Click ‘refresh’. Oh, it’s disconnected again. Refresh again. Still disconnecting. GAH, for FUCK sake. Is this something to do with the Windows update yesterday? (Windows operating system, for those less technically literate. I don’t have a 'system' where I update my actual windows. Double glazing is fucking expensive. While we’re on the subject of windows, I like how you can have one side see through, and one side reflective but not see through. If I were a such a way inclined I’d set up a small Double Glazing business and make sure my customer's houses all had the reflective side facing them indoors, and the see through side from outside. Then I’d charge local voyeurs 20p a go to enter my pervert wonderland. Business acumen. I‘ve got it.) I delve into windows updates. Then another thing, and another. Un-installing this, downloading that. Everything that doesn’t work sets me off. I know. “Forget about it”, you’re saying. “Let it go man”, as you pass the doobie on to my other imaginary friends. But I can’t forget about it. I can’t ‘Let it go’. See, this kind of thing.. IT - DRIVES - ME - IN - SANE. Literally INSANE. Not figuratively. Literally. I get so angry I actually start seeing things. At 12:04 I log onto Facebook for a quick check of my messages. Three hours later I’m in full blown phrenic meltdown, away playing soft tennis with some really aggressive fairies. Yes. The frustration fuels such a strong psychiatric need to detach from the source of my trauma that I’m being whisked away into some phantasmagorical Never Never land of mental illness. I THINK I’m 40-love up against a fuming Tinkerbell. But really I’m slumped glassy eyed in my underpants, headbutting the keyboard into oblivion. The whole time I’m sitting there lost in my breakdown a small, tiny vestige of my damaged brain is calling out to me, going:
“Joe! Let it go! Write your blog! Tell them all what a lovely gig you had last night and move on!”
But the rest of me, 98% of dangerously unhinged maniac, bonging his head up and down like a demented Cockatoo:
“I CAN’T LET IT GO! MY FUCKING LAPTOP WON’T LET ME FUCKING CHAT. I WANT MY FUCKING CHAT BACK, AND I WANT IT NOW”
A lone protest of futility, saving the world one minor laptop glitch at a time.
And then, suddenly, I find a solution. A simple solution. An amazingly simple solution. All I needed to do was synchronize the time zones on my laptop. Such a moronically simple solution for such a moronically irrelevant problem. (Problems and morons go hand in hand) Problem solved, moron triumphant. At. Fucking. Last.
Oh, wait a minute. It’s half four. I have to eat. I have to get ready for tonight's gig. And oh, shit, I have to write about last nights gig! Damn.

Gig no.8 done. Promoter Dominic Tabone

April 8th, Tuesday. Gig No. 7. Big Red, Deptford.

So, after a night or two of deep soul searching and comedy mid life crisis, what did I need tonight?

A gig.. in a BIG RED BUS!!


“A big red bus?” I hear you say. “So?”

BUT ITS A BIG RED BUS!!


But then, it transpires, we’re not doing a gig in a big red bus, we’re doing a gig round the back in:

A BIG BLACK BOX!!


Oh, wait a minute, it’s not a big black box, it‘s A BIG BAD LORRY!!


A big bad lorry, WITH WHEELS!


Wheels, and CHILD SEATS!


And a REALLY DANGEROUS HIGH POWERED GAS HEATER!!


Which turned all the acts into CRAZED GAS POISONED ZOMBIE MANIACS!!


So I’m taking these pictures and thinking to myself, sometimes you need a mental gig to shake off the whole serious business of dying on your arse and wondering what your purpose is in life. This is going to be fun! But then, as the gig was about to start, the lights went out and the lorry drove off. We all blacked out from gas poisoning and the next thing I knew, we’re all in a cellar chained to the walls naked. We’d been kidnapped!! Trying to come to and make sense of what was happening, suddenly it dawned on me. I looked through the whole cellar and realised: Everyone in the room was an open mic comic...They’d been running this lorry gig and kidnapping aspiring young (and over the hill) comedians and forcing them into the slave trade for months! There are comedians working in crack houses, brothels, and strip bars all over the Europe. We were all chained and helpless, covered in pig shit and duck fat. Naked and crying. (One took the opportunity of having an audience and started doing his act. We cried some more.) Somehow I managed to chew through the straps and escape! I didn’t help anyone else escape though, the comedy circuit is dog eat dog and without these fucks around I get more gigs. In any case, Europe probably REALLY needs gimp slaves who do gags, it’s a niche market. Anyway, I managed to run home naked (and somehow found my phone too, ahem) And the lesson? Whenever you have a bad gig, there’s always a worse one round the corner. Oh, and never do gigs that have wheels.

(Seriously though, it was a really fun gig (go check it out) and no one got hurt in the making of this blog)

Gig No.7 done. Promoter and very funny lady Nena Edwards

April 7th. Gig No.6. Nice N Spiky, Regents Pub

Mmm. OK. Died on my arse. Went down to total earth shattering, awe inspired silence. Yes I went on 2nd. Yes, it was a dry, quiet, sober room. But I’ve seen enough comedy to know good ideas, good jokes and good acts can always wrestle laughs out of those situations. (I tried getting laughs by actually wrestling the front row. Headlocks don’t seem to go down too well) I’ll be honest, I’ve had some pretty seriously average gigs since I’ve started, including all the warm up gigs before I started the challenge. I’ve done 17 gigs this year, and I don’t think I did really well at any of them. When I was gigging regularly in the old days I would either go down really well or extremely horribly. (At least I thought I did - but all new acts think they’ve stormed it when they get a laugh. The newer and more naive you are, the bigger the laughs sound in your head - they sound HUGE. They sound like tidal waves of collective hysteria. But as you get more experienced, the sound diminishes, until your ears slowly reacquaint themselves with reality) This time round, I’ve been staggeringly, consistently mediocre. This challenge is getting pretty tough already. Not physically, just having to deal with the psychologically fracturing possibility that I‘ve been deluding myself for oooh, what, 20 years? That I’ve spent half my life lying to myself! When I was a wee boy/pretentious little shit, I was encouraged to pursue my skills in acting and became thoroughly certain I would one day become a substantial and highly successful actor. It would happen. I would one day be lounging on film sets in the Caribbean, dining in 5 star restaurants overlooking Central Park, slurping 500 dollar oysters from flamingo beaks, signing autographs and ordering the masseuse to toss me off. 20 years later, I’m 6 gigs into a stand up comedy challenge and wondering what the fuck happened. Where did my dreams go? They’re being crushed in the onslaught of my own maggoty ineptitude. This challenge was about finally being consistent and dogged enough to push through the barriers and finally actually start fulfilling my potential but what if I didn’t have any potential in the first place? What if I was misled? What if I was overly encouraged by one or two well meaning teachers and, actually, I should have been a shelf stacker? I’m really good at shelf stacking too. I can whip up a tidy shelf like a mad dog, yo. (If you are a teacher, do NOT encourage your kids. Do NOT tell them to reach for the stars. Tell them they are distinctly average and the best they can hope for is stunning pigs or washing dishes for 3p an hour.) I’ve casually and obstinately dismissed all other possibilities for a career for 20 years and bull headedly insisted that I WOULD BE AN ACTOR AND A COMEDIAN, and it would DEFINITELY HAPPEN. NO, I don't want to 'get a trade'. NO, I don't want to 'have a safety net'. NO, I don't want you to 'touch my knee'. (Sorry, wrong flashback) Like Harvey Keitel’s pastor in From Dusk Til Dawn I ask myself, “Am I a fool?” Have I dedicated my whole life to a foolish dream? Then I stock up on some garlic and wooden stakes and go to war with the undead heathen hoardes. I will do anything to protect my hot daughter and my Chinese son. Someone asked me what comedians go through when they die on their arse, well, this is what I go through - Self loathing and existential crisis. Have I blown it? Have I flushed life down the toilet in pursuit of some ridiculous illusive pipe dream, that we can all grow up and become film stars? Maybe failure is it’s way of helping you see the light, through the fog of your own lifelong delusions? I have two options. Stop fannying on about it and keep bludgeoning on through this, or, the last thing I said onstage tonight: “Well I’ve learnt a few things tonight, mainly - give up comedy”. Ironically that got a laugh.

Gig No.6 done. Promoters Clara Electra + Richard Dellow

April 6th, Sunday. Gig No.5. Jam Tree, Clapham

Sometimes, a gig will come along and touch you in the deepest nerve centre of your childhood insecurities. This wasn’t one of em. I’m anticipating one though. It’s coming. Had loads of Beatles paintings on their walls which pleased me immensely. It’s good to know such a small, underrated gem of a band is still getting a mention here and there. In place of anything interesting to write here some nice pics they had on their walls:






Gig No.5 done. Promoter Lenny Sherman.

April 4th, Friday. Gig No.4. Mad About Tottenham Chances. Tottenham Hale

What I‘ve been worried about on the way to this gig: The Saharan sand smog. The papers have been giving reports of such voracity about this spooky Saharan sand dust, I gave serious thought to hiring a camel. Leaving the house I half expected to see travelling nomads, sand dunes, and a vast, sweeping crimson panorama littered with mirages and dried camel shit. The journey was a fair one, Uxbridge to Tottenham, so not unlike Lawrence of Arabia’s 500 mile treks through the Devil’s Cauldron. So, I set out dressed like Lawrence of Arabia, an elegant white Jesus like tunic and a fuck off sword. Tottenham won‘t know whats hit it. Tottenham is a shithole. Much like those you will find in the dessert, when the nomads have had too much goat milk. It’s a whole different life. If you need a shit, dig a hole. Don’t worry, the wind will blow sand over it and it will be gone for ever. Ideal sanitation. They don’t need sewers. I wonder what Nomads make of our ornate porcelain toilet seats and our complex underground sewage system. I bet they crack up talking about it. On the way to the gig, I ran out of water and became dehydrated, so by the time I got to the gig I thought it was a mirage. I crawled onwards, praying for water. And praise be to Allah, it wasn’t a mirage, it was a well. (Some gigs are quite low key). I’ve never done a gig by a well before. This should be interesting. Especially interesting considering the only time Lawrence of Arabia was by a well, Omar Sharif came along and shot his Bedouin. Tafas had a good life.
A couple of weeks ago, I came along to check this venue out and a metal gig was on, so tonight I thought it would be overrun with Goths and dangerous looking metal goons drinking cans of that Brew they call ‘Special’. I wonder what that meeting was like.
“What shall we call this drink?”
“Well, it’s toxic, it’s 80% proof, and 90% of our client base are broken men with no futures. Lets give them hope!”
I saw one Goth with coffin shaped earrings, a coffin signet ring, and a coffin shaped rucksack. Safe to say, she liked coffins. I’ve never understood the appeal of that look. Pasty, deathy white skin, and black lipstick. It looks like they’ve been strangled. Imagine getting pissed and waking up in the morning with her lying prostrate in the bed next to you.
“AHHHHH!! OH MY GO OH MY GOD I’VE KILLED A WOMAN!! SHE’S DEAD, OH MY GOD SHE’S DEAD!!!”
“I’m not dead, I’m a Goth!”
“Oooh! You’re a GOTH!!! I thought you were dead!!”
Anyway, I digress. Alas, there was no metal gig, and just this one. The gig was an interesting experience. A variety night, or shall I say, a ‘mixed ability’ night, with various musicians, singers, poets and comedians all getting up and having a good time. A nice venue, and an enjoyable gig.

Gig No.4 done. Promoter Jason Why, and I, temporarily disrobed from one’s white tunic

April 3rd, Thursday. Gig No.3. Man Da Laughs, Midlands Hotel, Hendon.

Hey kids. Today, let me teach you about life. I’m a man of the world. I’ve lived. I’ve seen things. I’ve done things. “I SEEN some serious shit!” Bought the t shirt. Bought the t shirt, dyed it, fucked it and shoved it up all my holes. I’m a MAN. Let me teach you today about ups and downs. Up and downs are what life is all about. Ups. Downs. Ups and downs come in all forms. There are varying degrees of up. And varying degrees of down. They are especially fun if they are drugs. But tonight, I think we had what you might call ‘a down’. And no, I didn’t take ketamine. And the lesson is, you have to take them. Take the highs with the lows. (Except with viagra, never mix drugs with a manufactured woody) Cause thats life. As a comedy man, inspiration comes and it goes. Sometimes it comes, and you’re ON. You’re on, you’re clicking, you’re buzzing like a fly on Jesus juice. Everything rocks, it’s all happening, you’re cooking, dashing off Rennaissance masterpieces with a flick, spurting out seminal comedy classics, jizzing goblets of 1000 yr old handcrafted Ming. You’re floating high on golden wind. But when the inspiration isn’t there - sweet mama. You’re like a castrated Shitzu. One miserable, gibbering husk of worthless mongrel meat. Not one worthy thought flickers in your brain. Except one. One, single, humiliating image burning your synapses into oblivion: “YOU...are a talentless sack of shit”. But no. Not even a sack of shit. That’s an insult to sacks of shit. You’re worse. You give sacks of shit a bad name. Two grizzled sacks of shit in an alleyway, when they feel low, when things are about as shit as shit gets for sacks of shit, they always turn to each other say: “We may be sacks of shit, this might be as shit as shit gets for sacks of shit, BUT - at least we’ve never died on our holes in the Midland Hotel in Hendon”

Gig no.3 done. Lets move on. (This is my ‘I’ve just died on my arse’ smile)

April 2nd, Wednesday. Gig No.2. Old School Yard Pub.

Approaching this pub, the name suddenly all made sense - it’s right next to a school yard. But perverts reading this, (two men have signed up and at least one of them definitely is) don’t get too excited, the walls are really high. You can only see in if you can slamdunk a basketball. Paedophile NBA stars like Kobe Bryant, yes, short arses like you - no. Went in, found the basement (I love basements, they remind me of my childhood.) Initially I thought no one turned up, including the promoter. ‘”Here we go” I said aloud to myself, alone in a basement. (The best time to talk to yourself aloud is in a basement. My childhood was such fun, especially at Christmas) Then went upstairs and found they were all there. Thats what you get for being a hissy fit merchant like me. I’m a diva, what can I say. If you want to book me, my list of demands are simple. I want: a neon pink ankle length scarf, quenelle of passion fruit mango mousse and a wank. If you don't give me them, I will go BALLISTIC. This challenge will be a piece of piss.

Anyway, I digress. The gig: I went on second, and I realised I am fundamentally missing something: Punchlines. I need to not only book loads of gigs, travel everywhere to do them, I also need to write some actual jokes. On the way home I tried to think of one. I settled on a small piece where I declare that I am actually a chicken trapped in a man’s body, and have applied for species-reassignment surgery on the NHS. “Yes” you’re thinking, “he needs to write some punchlines.”

Gig No.2 done, photo uploaded. Promoter Brian Chimombo, a lovely man

April 1st, Tuesday. Gig No.1. Walk in spot at Lion’s Den.

Before I write my gig report, a word or two about this challenge. First of all, last night I had nightmares about it. 3am, I lay on my bed in the dark, cowering as the weight of the task bore down on me like a sick, fleshy demon ready gorge on my shrivelled balls. It seems a bit of a task. Too much to think about as a whole. So, to make it easier, I shall approach it like an alcholic. Yes, an alcoholic: I’ll drink like a sub aquatic goat fish until my nipples have yellowed like a pair of out of date cornflakes. No. I’ll take it ONE DAY AT A TIME. Just one day at a time. One day at a time, all I have to do is: Do a gig. Thats it. One gig. For a year. Every day (ish). For twelve consecutive months. Until my hair has fallen out and I've lost all my friends. Right, the gig.

So, as I had no gig booked for this evening, after discussion with medium level semi retired jobbing comic Robin Cousins about our options (As a side bet we have challenged each other to see who can do the most gigs in a month for a 100 quid - nice little earner for me) which amounted to two: One gig that was recording all the acts on audio for internet consumption, and a gig in London that you had to queue up for and even pay 4 quid entrance fee just to get in. Naturally I despise pay to play gigs but the idea of allowing my new material to be disseminated all over the internet was about as appealing as Dappy’s dick. So, as a one off, and as we needed to do a gig on Day one, we chose to pay.

Arrived at half 6. Unfortunately, the queue had started and I needed a shit. I don’t want to get this blog off to such a tawdry, base toilety level but I genuinely did need a big poo and it impacted on my decision making for the next hour. I was torn between rushing off to find a poo toilet somewhere, and sticking. Robin hadn't turned up and I REALLY needed to go. (You shall learn a lot of my magically overactive bowels - just sign up to my emails and you‘ll have regular updates.) But if I left, I’d lose my spot. So I hung on, swinging around like sexually frustrated ape. Consequently I wavered a little, and allowed several little shits to push in the queue. When the doors opened they all surged forward and I lost my spot. Disaster!! The first thing I did, was find a toilet. As I sat on the seat ruminating on current events, I went over my options: I could try and persuade one of the acts to let me have their spot, or, I could have a spaz attack and smash the place up. Not an option, I thought - I’m a gent. Then I finished my poo and decided to go and cry and scream like a child. Lenny Sherman, one of the acts, empathised with me and informed the MC Kate Weston of my tragic predicament. She then went upstairs to see if she could squeeze me on. Then I followed, (I always follow women) and with this came my calling card: The 365 challenge. I told the promoter Mark Rendle that I was doing a 365 Challenge and that THIS would be my first ever gig of the challenge. He looked at me sceptically and went “REALLY? Prove it!”. So, I got my phone out and showed him this blog. (First thing that came up was me looking like a gimp) Then I showed him the all important gig number: 0. Convinced, he let me go on! Disaster averted. So I did the spot, and came off, elated to have done gig no.1! Photo below, gig done. I’m off for a poo.