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