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.