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