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