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!)