May 28th, Wednesday. Gig No. 42, Pear Shaped, Fitzrovia

I really ought to write my blog entries the night I do the gig. It is now Friday and I can’t remember anything I did. Oh yes, wait a minute. I needed a poo before the show started, but the loos were not suitable. (We covered horrible toilets yesterday. These ones aren‘t as bad, but still weren‘t up to my high standards i.e. No puddles of piss on the seats). So I asked the young lady who co runs the gig with her husband, Krysstal, what time the gig started. I had roughly 20 minutes. “Mmm. There’s a good toilet in the University library” I thought to myself. “If I walk briskly, I might just make it”. Yes. I walked for 10 minutes, past several pubs and public toilets, just to use that really clean, rarely used toilet on the 2nd floor of the University library building. Is that normal? Probably not. But, you know what, it’s a cracking toilet. Really well maintained. And definitely no piss on the seats.

The gig is proudly billed as ‘London’s 2nd worst Comedy Club’. By it’s own promoters. Only in comedy would you get such downbeat self promotion. You’d never catch McDonald’s doing that. ‘McDonald’s... Eat our shitty burgers. Voted worst food in the entire Universe. Containing 75% genetically modified pig tumours and 20% Asbestos. I’M LLOVIN IT’. I’m pretty sure Pear Shaped’s acts are mainly comprised of genetically modified pig tumours. But in comedy, that’s allowed. It’s FUNNY. The gig is shambolic, unpretentious, and self consciously twee. And one in which I always die on my arse. Every single time. But I like it. I like the promoters, and I know loads of good acts who have a soft spot for the place. I’m glad I didn’t do well. Why break with tradition?

Gig No. 43 done. Resident Mandolin instrumentalist (Yes) Al Mandolino

May 27th, Tuesday. Gig No. 41, TNT, Kentish Town

Lets start with the toilet. I walked into the toilet in this venue, and was immediately stealth attacked by a horrendously awful smell. I thought I was having a stroke. What was the smell? No1s? No2s? No. The smell, I can only describe it as: Pure, concentrated male B.O. Yes. Like they’d harnessed the cumulative smells of a 1000 unwashed convicts in a maximum security prison wing and unleashed it into this tiny, airless little shit pit. Appalling. You should have seen my eyes. You’d think I was chopping fucking onions.

The guy in there taking a piss was weird. He was shoving cocaine up his nose at the same time. Cocaine is an expensive drug, it seems churlish to take the risk of snorting off a paper wrap when you’re pissing in a trough. Patience, dear fellow. Who said men can’t multi task? I can rub my tummy while circling my head with my other hand but this guy’s taking it to a whole other level. Operating a micturating penis while shovelling white powder up his nose - the man’s got talent. What disturbs me considering the smell was that he actually wanted to sniff something really hard in that particular environment. Maybe the cocaine had numbed his sinuses enough to cope with it. If you snort enough cocaine, you can bury your nose in the bum of a mountain goat and still come up smiling. (Cue very confused mountain goat.)

The gig was fun though. A packed room, and laughing punters. Most acts did very well. There was a girl dressed as a strawberry. Don’t ask me why. She just decided that was the night to go out dressed as as fruit. As you do. I wasn’t surprised. I’ve seen all kind of shit at gigs. Nothing throws me any more. A man could turn up dressed as a magical Faun (half man half goat) and go skipping around offering his bottom to cocaine crazed toilet botherers and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Actually, that’s already happened.

Gig highly recommended. Just don’t go to the toilet. Next time, I’m wearing a catheter.

(p.s. For legal reasons, I would like to stress that the venue were not aware of drug use on the premises, and he was neither a comic or an audience member. In fact, I made it all up. The Faun bit was definitely true though.)

Gig No.41 done. MC Jake Pickford. And girl dressed as strawberry.

May 25th, Sunday. Gig No.40. Hideaway, Open Mic mixed night

Two nights off, Friday + Saturday, to search for a home. Sunday spent searching still, then it suddenly occured to me: OH SHIT. I HAVE TO DO A GIG OR I FAIL THE TASK. This form of panic is becoming a regular thing.

A few panicky poo messages on FB/Twitter eventually yeild some results. The results were: Go FUCKING DO A GIG

Thanks kids.

A young gent had a suggestion for me: Go to a mixed open mic night in Hideaway. Ah shit. I’ve done that venue about 6 times now. It’s getting old. But this time, it will be full of ‘deep’ soulful troubadours singing their shitty Myspace music. (Terrible thing to say, but I’m in a bad mood and these cunts can swivel)

Sorry that’s a bit harsh. Actually they were all very talented. Well. There was this one guy. No, we’re not going there. I don’t want to take the piss out of other acts who have the courage to pursue their dreams and express themselves on front of others. All I’m saying is, you can't always expect to find the next Ed Sheeran at every open mic music night. In fact, one Ed Sheeran is one more than we needed in the first fucking place. So every time you don't discover the next Ed Sheeran, that is a victory for all humanity. (Honestly, I've never listened to his music, I'm just victimising him because I don't like his face.)

So anyway, I was the first comic on. The previous five acts were all music acts doing pretty heavy, soulful stuff. Stuff about love and heartbreak. About your dyin’ dog and being tied to a radiator. (I don’t know, I wasn’t fucking listening) So what the fuck were they thinking when I came on and started bellydancing? It’s not that kind of room Joe! That's the thing. When five music acts in a row go on, you are in a ‘music’ kind of state. To suddenly snap from ‘Blues about my dyin’ woman’ to ‘LOOK AT MY BELLYDANCE’ - It’s uncomfortable. People weren’t necessarily in a ‘comedy’ mood. Lets never speak of this again.

Gig No.40 done. MC/Promoter Colin Devaney, awesome singer

May 22nd, Thursday. Gigs No. 38 + 39, Hava Na Giggle, JW3, + Monkey Business, The Oxford

The first gig. Finchley road, JW3 Jewish Arts centre. This week it is being BSL signed, and they have a Palantypist (A nice young lady typist subtitles live onto a big screen). Why? It is Deaf Awareness week. Funny that. I’m actually deaf, and I wasn’t even aware of it. It took me to get booked for a gig with two sign language interpreters, a Palantypist, and a big fuck off screen projecting subtitles for it to finally register in my rotting brain.

So, he audience were a mix of Deaf people, the local Jewish community, and my GP. Watching the subtitles on the screen, I became concerned that the Deaf people would realise I don’t have any jokes. And..

Wait a minute.

What?

Go back a bit.

Eh?

Go back a bit.

Stop interrupting me, I’m trying to write my blog. Go back to what?

Back to that bit about the audience.

What the Jewish community and Deaf people?

No, after that.

The GP?

YES!!! THE GP. WHY IS YOUR GP IN THE FUCKING AUDIENCE??

Oh, that. Well. Er, I used to live locally in Kilburn, and my GPs practice was near this venue. He is also Jewish, so I am assuming he is here as an upstanding member of the local community.

Ok..What was that like? Having your GP in the audience?

What was it like? FUCKING WEIRD.

As I stood on stage, I had a sign language interpreter standing next to me signing as I spoke. A Palantypist was projecting every word that was coming out of my mouth. Onto a big fuck off screen for everyone to read.

BUT THAT WASN'T AS WEIRD AS DOING COMEDY TO A MAN WHO’D FORCED ME TO SHIT IN A TUBE

Yes, HE MADE ME SHIT IN A TUBE. One soggy November afternoon, I had the great misfortune to walk into a Chinese buffet and order myself an 'all you can eat' in a box. £4.50 and you could shove everything you possibly could into a shitty little container. Egg fried rice, fried chicken wings, sweet and sour pork balls, ribs, prawn, the lot. All shoved into one square, mushy MSG pulp. I ate that and shat like a diabetic for 6 months. (I have no idea what diabetics shit like like, it just sounds TRUE) Seriously though. I had food poisoning and some virus in my gut for months. Weight was dropping off me at an alarming rate. At one point, I was thinner than Cara Delvigne (But still considerably more attractive). Honestly, I convinced myself I had cancer. I felt sick and nauseous all the time. At one point I panicked and thought I had blood in my stool, but then realised it was just Gaviscon. Gaviscon is pink, and when you digest to much of it, you produce a distinctly alarming looking poo. (Too much information? Imagine how my GP felt)

So naturally I made a few trips to the surgery. We tried to establish what it was. We tried tests. We tried antibiotics. And we tried sending me away to shit in a tube. It was humiliating. Nothing is worse than being sent out of a doctor's office with a fucking Biohazard bag. (Yes, it says ‘Biohazard’ on the bag. Yes, I felt like I was in the Dustin Hoffman film Outbreak. Only in this film, I was the virus monkey host. And I had to spoon the shit into the tube by myself. The doctor wanted fucking nothing to do with it.)

Anyway, yes, that is far too much information for you lot. I am just laying out some context for you. This is the history between me and this GP. And he is now sitting in front of me watching me do a bellydance to a Deaf/Jewish audience. Evidently back to good health, considering the gut I’d put back on. Thankfully, the antibiotics worked, and I never ate a Chinese all you can eat buffet in a plastic box ever again. MSG can fuck off. NEVER again will I have to spoon my own shit into a biohazard bag.

So it was a unique gig, to say the least. Then I had to quickly run over to Kentish town to do gig number two. Just made it in time, went on last. Promoter Martin very kindly shoved me on quick. Handy. Two gigs in one night, a productive night. I’m just grateful no one weird turned up to the second gig. Like, I dunno, an old Headmaster, ex girlfriend or disgruntled boss. It's coming, I know it is. It's coming.

Gigs No 38+39 done. MC/Promoter Gareth Berliner, and MC/Promoter Martin Besserman

May 21st, Wednesday. Gig No.37, Wednesday. Old School Yard, Borough

Old School Yard again. Turned up early, first one there. Go down to the basement, and there’s all this commotion. In a side room, behind closed doors, the sounds of some kind of party. I decide to take a peek through the cracks of the door. (Like a good little pervert) It’s a Karaoke party! As far as I could tell, four girls were in there. Singing ABBA. Badly. Really badly. I mean I’m tone deaf but this took the piss. They sound like ducks having kinky sex games with tantric bondage whips.

QUACK!! QUAAAAACK! QUAAAACK!! QUAAACK QUACK QUAAAAACK!!!

(You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life)

QUACK!! QUAAAAACK! QUAAAACK!! QUAAACK QUACK QUAAAAACK!!!

(See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen)

OK. I really am running out of shit to write.

Karaoke has always scared me. Doing stand up is logically more scary but as I said, I’m tone deaf. And a bit damaged. It’s an area of real fear. The idea of getting up and murdering The Cheeky Song in front of a load of stunned punters brings me out in a cold, clammy sweat.

My Dad did Karaoke once. We were on holiday in Menorca, and, flushed with holiday spirit (Vodka and Red Bull), he got up and sang Mack The Knife. Mack the Knife!! Him!! My Dad looks dangerous enough as it is. He is a thick necked, bullheaded, stocky, hard drinking cockney boozer. And Mack the Knife is about stabbing. The whole bar shat themselves. Mouths agape. Just what you want on a night out innit? A fucking murder ballad. Whats worse, not only was his singing worse than mine, HE STARTED MIMING STABBING. I fucking shit you not. He started miming stabbing someone, then TWISTING THE KNIFE IN THE WOUND. With RELISH. This is in a Mediterranean bar with a load of paunchy middle aged holiday makers with Hawaiian shirts and sunburnt noses. All wondering what fucking insane hell they had walked into. I literally had to leave. I couldn’t watch. The man was scaring ME, and he’d never touch a hair on my head. My Dad should never be allowed anywhere near a Karaoke machine again. Or a knife. Tell you what though, I knew right then where I got my miming skills from. Fuck me, the detail, the intensity. You really felt he was actually stabbing someone. (While crooning. A crooning mime murder ballad act. Simon Cowell won’t know whats fucking hit him. Especially if someone finally clumps the bastard)

On a sidewalk, blue Sunday mornin'
Lies a body just ooozin' life

(STAB)

Some, someone's sneakin' 'round a corner
could that someone be Old Mack the Knife?

(STAB. STAB. TWIST. STAB.)

Gig No.37 done. Promoter Brian Chimombo

May 19th, Monday. Gig No.36, Hideaway, Tufnell park

I’m really falling behind on this blog. I'm procrastinating. It’s such a drag. Procrastination has been the bane of my existence. I procrastinate on everything. I even have impending homelessness looming over me, and I’m burying my head in the sand like an ostrich. I don’t want to deal with it. I’m hoping if I bury my head in the sand a sparkling new flat will magic itself around me like a Dolby surround sound advert. Though I suspect when I pull my head out, I’ll find myself being fingered by a shifty estate agent.

OK, so lets deal with this. Monday night's gig. (I am writing this on Thursday). The gig went OK.

Phew, thank fuck. Job done.

Here’s a pic of some bees I saw on the way to the gig. And a beekeeper.

Gig No. 36 done. The two Joes. The worst selfie in the world

May 16th, Friday. Gig No.35, Stand and Deliver, Goodfillas sandwich shop, Dover

That’s right. This gig was in a sandwich shop. In Dover. Two hours drive, all excited about doing a big Friday night out of town gig, and it’s a fucking sandwich shop. Thwarted yet again. MY BIG MOMENT taken away from me. If the Gods are up there, they’re fucking laughing at us. Actually, the punters were too. They really laughed! What a great gig. It was a lovely. That’s the thing about comedy. You never know what kind of surroundings will produce such a fun atmosphere. The crowd were just really up for it. It’s lovely to play a gig where people are actually enthusiastic and up for it. A joy to play. From now on, I’m only playing sandwich shops.

On the drive up I shared company with comics Jim Daly (driving) and Russ Haynes (singing). You never know what a car journey with other comics is going to be like. Most of them are deeply uncomfortable experiences, with each ego maniac comedian present pitched in savage name dropping/act slagging one upmanship. Who can tell the best stories about cunts on the cicruit. And you’re sitting there, thinking ‘These ARE the cunts on the circuit’. What can I say about Jim and Russ? They were WORSE. They were a disgrace to their professions. Slagging off every act you can think of, spreading awful lies and tawdry gossip, they destroyed more reputations in two hours than Operation Yewtree did in 18 months. Actually, no they didn’t. Couldn’t have travelled with two nicer blokes. It was a pleasure to spend a car journey with them. Even when Russ started singing White Cliffs of Dover. Jim joined in, and, caught up in the spirit of it, I piped up too. They stopped singing after that.

Honestly, I have nothing much to write about. I’m running out of shit. I’m worried about this, I have another 10 and a half months of blog to fill. Jesus. I guess I should write a sandwich based Goodfellas.

OK, here we go.

"As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to make sandwiches. To me, being a sandwich maker was better than being President of the United States. Even before I first wandered into the sandwich shop for an after-school job, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. It was there that I knew that I BELONGED..."

Gig No.35 done. Promoter/MC and top bloke Paul Tingey, Jim Daly, Russ Haynes, and some cunt squatting

May 15th, Thursday. Gig No.34, Man Da Laughs, Midlands Hotel, Hendon

The barmaid in this venue is hot. I mean, super sexy. Is it professional to turn up to a venue and start chatting up the bar staff? Most definitely not, but life’s too short, I thought, and sometimes you have to go out there and grab what you want and worry about the consequences later. Then I realised Rolf Harris had the same outlook. Killed my buzz right there. Not to say she was under age. But she’s just a hard working girl putting in her hours. What the fuck does she want with some randy little comic making inappropriate sexual innuendos while she’s trying to get though her shift. Fuck it, I thought. I’ll save the innuendos for another time. Besides, I have a gig to do. Oh, yes, that!

Sometimes, you have to be honest. There were no punters here. Two people. Two blokes who’ve just finished work, and popped in for a couple. And a gig started. They were kind and gracious enough to get into the spirit of it. The acts abandoned the sanctity of the performance space, and moved in front of these poor blokes at the back. The gig was happening everywhere. The whole pub was the performance space. It wasn’t a comedy gig, it was a ‘happening’. It was a happening, and we the performers, were healers - spiritual shamans bringing both performer and audience into a glorious metaphysical union through the joy of laughter. Was it fuck. It’s a gig, it counts. Lets move on.

The 'Happening'


Gig No. 34 done. Me and depraved individual MC Alex Martini

May 12th, Monday. Gig No.33, Rhythm Factory, Aldgate

After a long lazy weekend ruined by the deranged mental witch who lives upstairs (A lunatic mental case in my house share physically assaulted me for trying to dry a plate on the draining board. Don't ask. It's too surreal to even bother explaining. You'll think I'm making it up. Suffice to say, I now never dare try cleaning my kitchen ware, for fear of violent unexplained attacks), it was actually a relief knowing I had a gig coming and could get back into the normal headpsace of dying on my arse and writing blogs about it. Actually I had two gigs. Both in very close proximity in the Aldgate area of London. I would go on first at one, then dash off to the other. But as I’ve said before, things don’t always happen the way you want, do they?

During the day, I had a text from a friend. “Bring your A game tonight boy-o,” she says, “I’m coming to see you!”. Oh, shit. I hate it when people I know come to see me. Especially at this stage of the game, just a month and a bit into the challenge. But this lady friend is 8 months pregnant, and will soon have to forsake her social life for endless nappy changing and floods of baby sick. It’s her last chance to see me for ages. “Cool” (Not cool. I want to do comedy, but I don’t want people to ever watch me. If I could get paid doing stand up comedy in my room room to a recorded laughter track, that’s my ideal job. In fact, I do that anyway. Yes I‘m creepy.) After a bit of banter about her heckling and me calling her a bitch (She’s a sucker for punishment. Is it allowed to call a pregnant woman a bitch? I doubt it)

Then came something suspicious. Thinking she‘s heavily pregnant and it will be night time, I thought I‘d come and meet her at the station and walk her to the gig. “I’ll be there early. Let me know where you are, and I’ll come and meet you”. Silence. Then this: “Actually don’t worry about meeting me - u prepare. I’ve google mapsed it (Yes, she’s illiterate - she can‘t blame the baby on this one) and it’s only down the road from Aldgate east so I will waddle along stuffing my face as I go”. Mmmm. I smell a rat. She doesn’t want me to meet her. Why? I let it go.

Later on that evening, I get to the gig early. The room is fairly empty. I won’t lie. It‘s looking a bit sparse. “Don’t worry,” I said. “My pregnant friend is coming, so that’s two” (I didn’t say that. I wish I did, it’s a good gag). We’re standing around wondering where we are getting punters from, when suddenly I turned round, and 7 of my friends just walked in. Old friends from way way back. (The women are REALLY old) This was a surprise. Then it all made sense. Everything in my mind came together. “Don’t worry about meeting me,” she said. “I’ve google mapsed it and it’s only down the road” Devious cow! She’s PLANNED this. She PLAYED me. It was like that bit at the end of Usual Suspects. It all came together in my head. The lies, the details. The smashed cup. She is not a nice pregnant lady. She is KEYSER SOZE!!

KEYSER SOZE!! KEYSER SOZE!!

So now 7 of my friends are here. (They actually brought food in from another pub, the scumbags) This adds an entirely different complexion to the gig. These people know me. They know me very well. It’s weird being Mr Comedian to people who’ve known you since you were a spotty pubescent nimrod. They seen you at your worst. The real you. They’ve seen you with your pants down. (I’m an ardent flasher) It’s nerve wracking. A new kind of pressure. I am at pains to let them know I am just experimenting and trying new stuff out. “Don’t worry about us, just do your thing.” Do my thing? That’s what I AM worried about. Gah, fuck em. As I said. They knew me when I was a spotty gimp. More importantly, I knew THEM when they were spotty gimps too. I won’t let them intimidate me. It’s WAR.

So they’re all in the front row. All of 7 of them. It’s like the line up from Usual Suspects. As I go on, each of them take it in turns to heckle me: “Hand me the keys, you fucking cocksucker!”. Yawn! Heard it. Next! “Gimme the fuckin keys, you fucking cocksucking motherfucker, aaarrrghh!!”. OK, lads, you might might to try speaking actual English. “Hand me the fucking keys, you cocksucker, what the fuck?”

So, I did my set. We did the job. People got killed along the way. Everyone got picked off one by one. The gigs on fire, everybodys dead. (The heckling was FUCKING brutal.) I’m lying on the floor, I’m a goner. Then! I SEE HER!

KEYSER SOZE!!! KEYSER SOZE!!!!

She waddles down the stairs (She’s pregnant, it took a while). Reaches the floor, waddles manacingly up to me.

“How you doing, Hunter?”

“I can’t feel my legs.. KEYSER”

She sparks her cigarette and alights her face. Everything in my mind finally comes together and it all makes sense.

“What time is it?”

“10.30”

I smile, wearily. The smile of a dead man. I gently nod. It’s OK. She lifts her silver automatic and blows me away

And after that.....SHE WAS GONE

Gig No 33. done. Gig No.34 Cancelled. MC and Promoter Geoff Alderman

May 9th, Friday. Gig No.32, Dog House, Kennington

“Masturbating men, groping teenagers, unwanted rubbing”. Yes please, I thought as I opened the paper. But no, it wasn’t an offer. It is an expose on sexual harassment on the tube. I’m not easily shockable, but this article certainly did the hell out of me. Erections rubbing against people’s legs, hands up skirts, men openly masturbating in carriages. I had no idea. It’s a whole new world. The underground is a hotbed of wanton lust and sex. I’m 35 years old, it’s never even occurred to me this shit happens. And where was I reading this? On the train. IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST. Suddenly I'm looking at my surroundings with new eyes. I'm shitting myself. If I’m not careful, someone masturbating loony will start eyeballing me.

How can this happen on the tube?? This is a narrow, self contained, very public area with cameras and lots of people. And yet creeps all over London see this place as some kind of pervert savannah, an open 'seeding' ground for their disgusting sexual pecadillos. The article got even more disturbing. People see some incidences as fairly minor. “But people who commit such crimes may go on to do something more serious. It's a gateway crime to a higher level. Leering may become groping, which might become public masturbation or assault”. What the FUCK. Leering is a gateway drug??? I nearly spat my grape out. (Apple and grape snack pack, it's a good time) Leering is a form of sex attack? Now I'm worried. What's leering? What is the technical definition? I know I've definitely checked women out. Yes, occasionally, I look at women's bottoms. I try not to. I don't look up women's skirts or down their bras. But if a woman has nice buns, I can't help but look. But is that leering? Suddenly I feel like a first class deviant. I'M ON THE GATEWAY DRUG. If I'm not careful I will start spiralling out of control. One minute leering at a woman's bottoms, the next, swinging from the hand rails like a monkey, wanking furiously and flinging jizz on innocent bystanders. I need to get off this shit, and quick.

I check on the definition of leering. “Verb (intransitive) to give an oblique, sneering, or suggestive look or grin”

OK, thank fuck for that. Relief! I don't do THAT. I don’t go round sneering and cackling at women. I'm not Sid James. Or Miggs from Silence of the Lambs. (Remember Miggs, in the cell next to Lecter's - Hannibal whispered in his cell all night and traumatised him so much he swallowed his own tongue. People who speak to me on the phone after a bad gig often befall the same tragic fate.) I'm not them. It's natural to check out attractive women. Natural: Check out attractive women. Unnatural: Sneering at them and rubbing your loins like Miggs. (I wonder what Carry on Silence of the Lambs would have been like. Imagine, Jodie Foster/Barbara Windsor walks tentatively down the dark cell corridor, past a terrifying smorgasboard of deranged pervert murderers in cells: Cell one - A giggling Charles Hawtrey. Two - Bernard Bresslaw, vacant, dead eyed and dribbling, breath of a dead rodent. Cell Three - Sid James/Miggs, “I can smell your cunt!! Hahahahahaha!!” And then, finally, comes the foreboding spider glass cell at the end: Kenneth Williams. The grand beast himself. Actually this sounds like how things actually ended - after the Carry On Films dried up, they all became mental with grief and were put in a home for the clinically insane. They let Jim Dale out for that reboot in the 90s as part of his recovery program. It was so shit he went mental again.)

So what does this have to do with the gig? Fuck all. It's just that the article disconcerted me, and made me overly keen to prove to myself I'm NOT a leering pervert. But the thing is, when you become overly conscious about not behaving a certain way, suddenly your brain starts making you do it. I started imagining things. Like, actually hallucinating. Suddenly women on the tube everywhere had tits like Jayne Mansfield. I’m not lying. EVERY girl I saw after that had gigantic mammaries. They’re bouncing out at me like flesh coloured zeppelins. Boing! Boing! Boing! Boing! I was going insane. I needed to get the fuck out of there. Kennington couldn’t have come fast enough. (‘Couldn’t have come fast enough’. An unfortunate turn of phrase at this particular juncture)

So I arrive at Kennington and dump the paper in the bin. It's time to concentrate. I've had an awful week of gigs, and I need a decent one tonight. Alas, the gig had a big audience of up for it punters, and I managed to get through it OK. Without wanking or jizzing on anyone. I think.

Gig No.32 done. Promoter and birthday girl So Ying Pang

May 8th, Thursday. Gig No. 31, Pegasus, The Flying Horse

Another really bad one. Confidence is gone. Vanished. Worst one yet in terms of on stage backbone. Just stopped halfway through, apologised, and walked off. (Actually, 2nd worst, walked off after 30 seconds on Sunday remember) I don’t know what’s happened. I used to be a good act. Surely I was better than this? There are acts who’ve done 3 gigs who are better than me now. Imagine that. You spend 10 yrs learning to play Foggy Mountain Blues, then the Banjo Kid from Deliverance comes along and fucks your dream into a shitty pipe. Afterwards I felt like I understood Nando Torres. I’m just like him. I used to be good, but now I’m a shell of the player I used to be and the confidence is gone. Every once in a while the confidence will come back and I’ll have a good game but then I have a bad game and it's gone again. It’s an awful downward spiral. Vicious circle. Bad game begets wrecked confidence, wrecked confidence begets bad game. I actually do need a break from gigs to regroup mentally now. I’m having a bad gig and having to go straight back out and do another tough gig, just when I’m still feeling too raw to handle it. Usually you can have a bad gig, go away for two weeks, rebuild your confidence, come back and be steady and sure enough to give yourself a chance. You can’t do this shit without confidence. The relentless nature of constant gigging is stripping it away. I feel like a flayed chicken. Which is why I feel like I understand Nandos. You used to be a good chicken, but then you got thrown onto a Nando’s grill and splayed like Jordan’s legs at a smear test. Sorry, too far? Maybe it’s jokes like that are why I’m so low

Another gig tonight. Fuck it. I genuinely need to go away and write some material.

Gig No.31 done. Left to right: Promoter/Comic Luke Gretton and MC Matt Smith

May 7th, Wednesday. Gig No.30, Italian gig, Blue Posts

Life has it’s way of helping lend a little perspective when you need it. I had such a shit set tonight, I left and started walking down the road fuming with myself. Then suddenly to my right I saw an 8ft security guard dragging a violent drunk woman along the floor out of McDonald’s. See? It all felt so much better. No matter how bad things get in life, most of us can safely say we’ve never been so drunk we actually got thrown out of a McDonald’s. (Actually I once got thrown out of a Walkabouts. Sober. That’s 10 times worse)

Initially I thought he was going way too far - he was twice her size, so I moved to step in and let him know he’s being a bit heavy handed. Then I heard the bedlam coming out of her mouth:
“GET OFF ME YOU CAAANT!!! DON’T FAAAACKIN’ TOUCH ME YOU DIRRRTY FACKIN CAAAANT!! COME ON THEN!!! YOU FAACKIN’ DIRRRTY CAAAANT!!”
Delightful woman. Almost coquettish in her charms. A shimmering, delectable paragon of delicate femininity.

Why was I shit? Confidence. It was paper thin tonight. So frustrating. I’m all over the place. A wreck. I have the emotional consistency of a traumatised cat. And just as mental. (“Miaow!! Hello! Oooh pamper me, pamper me...DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!! I’LL CLAW YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF!! HISSSSSSS!!! HISSSSSSS!!!”) One night I have the thick hide of an Elephant’s ass. The next my skin is so thin being lightly tickled feels like I’m being scraped by the barnacles of an 18th century Pirate boat. (That’s hard work that one)

I got really nervous about this gig. It was an Italian speaking gig. The whole room, all Italian. The audience Italian. The acts Italian. The language Italian. It couldn’t get more Italian if the chairs were made out of Tiramisu and Spaghetti Bolognese. Is that racist? It can't be, I actually had Bolognese for dinner at 2am. True that. (Weirdly, on the way to the gig, two creepy 45+ yr old men in trendy clothes and fedora hats were trying be playas with some young 15/16 yr old Italian girls on the train. They were giggling and the men got clearly excited that these young girls were actually engaging with them. I looked at them, disgusted, and thought: 'That's me in 10 years'. Jesus.) So, all Italian acts. And two English speaking guest acts. The room was packed and a very decent crowd. The other English speaking act did extremely well, lots of claps. (Italian audiences are lovely, they like to clap a lot. If English audiences clapped after every joke like they do UK comics would turn into a bunch of egomaniac nutbags. Oh, wait a minute, they already are.)

But. I’m doing a new weirdo act to an entirely Italian audience. (They all speak English too, that would be weird if they couldn't. I'm not a fucking mime act. I might have to be though, the jokes I've been writing lately are shit) Thought to myself: Mmm. There’s a high probability I could make a right twunt of myself here. Also, I looked into a mirror before I went on and realised I’d missed about 10 hairs when I shaved my head. Ten lone hairs sticking out. I looked like fucking Catweazel. And that triggered off a downward spiral of fear and self doubt. Shame really. When I do that to myself, overthinking, conjuring worst case scenarios in my head, looking at my face/homemade haircut, my confidence drains away like petrol from my Dad’s neighbour’s car. (He’s a thieving bastard) I started OK, but then I had to go into my new material. It’s tricky enough doing stuff when you’re not on top of it memory wise - You can do a lot of fishing around in your brain for the next line - but also being nervous on top of that can make you look as stuttery and awkward as an urgent war report. Imagine a flinching Kate Adie in a bullet proof vest trying to tell gags while dodging bullets. That's my act.

I really really do have to start finding the time write more for the act. Most of my writing time goes on this blog. I need to write lots of stand up, not a self aggrandising non profit wank column. So less blog, more stand up. Bear with me kids, in a few weeks I’ll make an effort. But for now be content that I am suffering for this art, and that you don’t have to. Just think, I am living through this for you. I AM you. Now FAAACK OFF YOU CAAAAAAANNT!!!!

Gig No.30. Promoter Romina Puma

May 6th, Tuesday. Gig No.29, Bear Funny, Pub on the Green, London Fields

Another gig with 'Bear' in the title. Bears seem to be quite popular amongst the comedy promoting community. Maybe they all had a meeting and decided that from now on, all comedy clubs must have the word 'Bear' in the title. Naturally comedy is full of rebels so only one or two have actually complied. I get the feeling I'm going to piss off another couple of promoters with this opening paragraph. (Please don’t get pissed off, I've written it in service of a larger point. And in case anyone‘s interested, there‘s only one other gig with 'Bear' in the title, and that’s just a coincidence. There’s a lot more comedy clubs names with the word 'Comedy' in it. Now THATS a fucking liberty.)

That's the problem with this blog. It's public. Promoters are reading it. I am pissing people off, and getting less gigs as a result. So what do I do? Do I be honest, and say what I really think? That would be more interesting for the readers. Or do I turn this into a sanitised bullshit rag, giving 5 star reviews to shithole clubs, buttering up promoters to win favour and an extra gig or two?

Well. This challenge is all about doing 365 gigs in 1 year. I need all the gigs I can get. That is the primary goal. I am doing a gigging challenge, not a blogging challenge. Keeping you lot interested is not the goal. And, lets face it, you’re not on my side. You don't want to read about one's unbridled success. You want to read about the fuck ups, the arguments, the needle infested toilets that I have to crawl through just to get one more mark on my Blue Peter thermometer, one more notch on my gig sex bed post. (I have no idea what that means). The cocks we have to suck to get ahead in this business - you would not fucking believe. Oh, the HORROR, the HORROR. (That's an Apocalypse Now reference. Ironically I've shaved my hair off so actually look like Brando in it. I’m fat now too. A fat gut and a bald head. You can smell the self loathing. Now I know why he made necklaces out of people's ears)

So, from now on, believe nothing you read. Everything here is a lie. Every promoter I meet is a comedy love God, and all their gigs are like fucking Vegas. Tonights gig, what can I say. I walked in there and they swept me up on a golden throne, carried me along in triumphant fanfare, in a glorious procession of naked adulation, with hundreds of giggling servant girls showering me with chocolate nipples.

No it didn't. Honestly? It was a nice little room actually. In a pub next to a large park with some cool multi leveled outdoor decking for food and sunshine. The room again principally made up of other acts, but a decent space and a supportive vibe. I hope I'm allowed back, as it's an ideal room for experimentation. I really do need to experiment a lot for a while, and find a way to make what I'm doing work properly. If the promoter thinks I was too weird, don’t worry, I can dial it down - one is perfectly capable of being normal. Now I'm off to chop the ears off dead people.

Gig No.29 done. Promoter Andy Quirk

May 5th, Monday. Gig No.28, Hideaway, Archway

This is the REAL gig no.28. Will the real gig no.28 stand up? I repeat, will the real Gig No.28 please stand up?

Yes. Last nights gig didn't count. I walk off after one joke. I don't want anyone questioning the validity of this challenge, so I'm scratching it. This one counts though. I over ran my 5 minute slot! There’s no doubt I did this slot. We started with just other acts in the audience but then all the real punters decided to start walking in half way through each of my routines. I made them all sit in the front row by way of punishment. I needed a gig like tonight, the last two were depressing. I had fun, even though I was still all over the place. Still avoiding doing the act properly! My blog entries are going to be a lot shorter for the next couple of weeks as I need to find somewhere to live. I have to manage my priorities. One of them being: 'Make house out of cardboard box'.

To compensate, below are some pics another act took of me on stage. I am shocked. I have a massive belly and a mullet. I need to straighten myself the fuck out. I'm losing it. In fact, I'm shaving my hair off the moment I post this. Then going to the gym. Check the next entry for my new skinhead. Don't expect the gut to be gone after one session, I'm not 18 yrs old any more. I'm 35. It'll take oooh, at least 6 years. Laters

Gig No.28. MC Joe Grant, who is getting sick of the sight of me.

May 4th, Sunday. Gig No.28, Unit 4 Sports Bar, Essex

Tonight, I walked off stage after 30 seconds. This definitely wasn't my gig. These weren't my people. A small sports bar in Essex, a load of pissed up illiterates in football shirts all standing at the bar, and a microphone stand on the floor right in front of them. It wasn't a comedy club, it was death row. I did my first joke, and went down like a lead balloon. The bloke standing right in front of me wasn't even bothering to look at me, talking to his mate standing next to him. (Yes, they were standing. Absolutely no attempt at seating arrangement. A show just started in the middle of the pub floor). So the first joke died, the room went silent. I looked down at my set list. And the life sucked out of me. They were never in a million years gonna go for this shit. And in that moment there was no fucking way I was prepared to degrade myself for this lot. “This ain't my gig. You’re not even listening”. I put the microphone back in the stand, and walked off. Muttering “Fuck this gig” to myself, pissed off. Walked off, walked out.

When you've just had a really bad gig, you get depressed for a long time. Unless you're brave enough to go out and do another gig straight away. It almost always isn't anywhere near as bad. But I don't usually do that. I'm a brittle boned comic. After a gig like Fridays I usually disappear from comedy for months and dwell on it until my castrated self belief regrows itself. Hence, I started this challenge. This time, obviously, the gig after the bad gig was even worse. My train journey home was about as fun as genital herpes. As I'm dwelling morosely on the death of my dream, in the distance I saw a red sky setting on the Olympic observation tower. Ah! A visual metaphor: Another grandiose dream setting into the dusk. Then I saw a field with some sheep in it. Another metaphor! Like the precious years of youth flushed away in pursuit of a cherished vagary - a load of sexually malleable animals going to waste in a shitty field. (I'll lay off the metaphors from now on, promise)

Every once in a while, a delusional person gets hit with a jolt of reality. This jolt breaks through the wall of their denial, the mental illness melts away and they experience a clarity they never had before. Once they realise how truly delusional they’d been, a depression kicks in, as the joyful, comforting fantasy world they’d created no longer exists. All that is left is the cold hard snap of reality, and a shell shocked, bug eyed gimp staring back in a mirror. That's what dying on your arse is like. You spend years fantasising that you are a man with a future, who has in his hands a precious destiny, then one bad gig in an Essex sports bar later, and there you are dribbling in a white hospital sheet, bare arse hanging out as you wheel your med stand up and down the ward. Muttering to yourself “FUCK this gig”.

I was thinking on the train last night about how all comics must loathe themselves deep down to put themselves through this shit. It's not healthy at all. After sending an apology to the promoter later on he very kindly said not to worry and keep on gigging. He did say that he was surprised, as he's never seen that before either gigging or promoting. True. I've never seen it before either. Act goes on, tells one joke. Then just suddenly walks off. As I said, at the moment, I am feeling a bit brittle. After the awfulness of Friday, when I looked down at my stuff, in that moment I just knew this would not be a good experience. I just wasn't willing in that moment to put myself through that. Not very professional, I know. Doing stand up, you do have to accept the risk that you will once in a while make a complete cunt of yourself. It IS degrading at times. That's what we put ourselves up for. That's the risk we take. I find that extremely hard. Sometimes, there is some part of me that won't allow it. There has to be a better way. A way to do it with dignity. A way for me to act like a prize bonehead in front of strangers without compromising my self respect. No there isn't. If you want to be a comedian, you have to let go of your dignity. Them's the rules.

Tonight was as close as I could possibly get to quitting. Three awful gigs, Wednesdays, Fridays and tonights. Then walking off after 30 seconds. This is as low as it gets. The whole thing is teetering on the edge of total collapse. All it will take to nudge me over the cliff is one tiny little whisper of air. So damn close. But not yet.

Glory or breakdown I said. I think tonight definitely fell into one of those brackets. They should just be grateful I didn't start smearing the walls in shit.

(Technically does this count as a gig? Well I travelled for 2 hours to Essex. I performed a bit - One joke - of comedy to an audience. It counts. Simon agrees. If you don't agree, please PM me or comment below and state why. I will genuinely consider scratching this gig off.)

Gig No.28 done. MC Freddie Jarvis, a nice bloke.

May 2nd, Friday. Gig No.27, Gits and Shiggles, Islington pub

I've just physically lived through a universal nightmare. You know the one. You get up on stage in front of the whole school, and your pants fall off. And they all laugh. You're fucking humiliated, and you will now fear public speaking for the rest of your life. Yes kids. I'm living through this shit for real.

No, my underpants didn't actually fall off. But my comedy underpants did. Comedy. That thing I care about and want to be good at. They fell off, and all that was left was my shrivelled pecker of an ego, laid bare for the whole school to laugh at. (My other worst nightmare was being tied to the floor with snakes crawling all over me, but that's not symbolic, I'm just a kinky bastard.)

Firstly let me say I have no complaints about the gig itself. It was a fantastic room, beautiful, well run and nicely set up. If I had one little misgiving it was this: When the MC introduced me, he said "This next act is doing a really interesting little project. He is doing 365 gigs in a year". Now, on the face of it, not a problem. But it was his tone. It was vaguely patronising. The tone. "This next act is doing a really interesting project". It made me sound like a cub scout doing bob a job. No - He made me sound like Chemo boy. Make a Wish project boy. Like a charity case. The subtext here is "This guy wouldn't normally get a gig here, we’re doing him a favour cause he’s special". Thanks. I'm sure it wasn't meant in that way but it sounded shit. I'm going to ask MCs not to mention it at all from now on. At least not before I go on. It has absolutely nothing to do with my act or who I am on stage. Sounds like sour grapes, it's not. I am not blaming the MC for lowering audience expectations. The MC was fine. I am 100% responsible for what followed. But I definitely learned something there, and that is, if you're about to introduce someone on stage, try not make it sound like it's part of a bucket list. (I mistyped bucket list as ‘bucket lust’ Freudian slip? Freud, what a kinky bastard, worse than me. I bet he loved a bit of bucket lust. Whatever the FUCK that is)

Before I dissect in microscopic detail every last aspect of my beautiful humiliation, let me lay forth some back story. My act. There's an idea I have. A premise. The idea is that my character on stage is a psychopath who has no business being on stage. Just really strange, off kilter stand up that offers no punchlines or conclusions. The man is insane and he enjoys his insanity. And the theory is they find the absurdity of the lack of punchlines and weirdness cumulatively funny. This does work a few times, but it's a knife edge. Sometimes they think it's real, that I am actually just a weirdo with no punchlines. But that is actually the joke. The act is the joke. It's anti comedy. But the problem is, because it’s new idea I have no confidence in it. I'm nervous about doing it. I have no conviction. So when things start to go a little bit wrong, I abandon it. I drop character. I do weak little jokes to compensate. Or I outright avoid doing it from the start. I keep backing out of it. Sometimes. Most times. Every once in a while.

Last night, what happened, I immediately started avoiding doing my act by ad libbing about the room looking like a porn set, then tried to ad lib some stuff about the front row. And about them looking like a men's group. It's a new idea, and trying to work it out on stage the last four gigs. They didn't go for it at all. I dropped it, moved on. Did my horse tranquiliser joke. Yes, my only joke. They didn't laugh too much at that either. I am dropping it from now on, it's never really got that big of a response anyway. In any case, it misleads the audience into thinking I have actual jokes. (Don’t want them to get the wrong idea now do we?) Then I started to comment on the lack of response in the room. Then I did another bit that didn't work very well. Then I sighed and said "This is gonna be a long year" which got the biggest laugh. Then I tried to talk to the audience and avoid doing any more bits. They all started to laugh to themselves, looking at each other in bewilderment. ‘What the fuck is this guy doing’. I had no idea what I was doing actually. Actually I do. I was avoiding doing the act I had planned, cause I have no balls. But in doing that, I shot myself in the foot. I let the room affect me. That's the weird thing. They were actually starting to laugh at the absurdity of it. ‘This guy is nuts. He’s shit. He has no jokes’. I had no jokes cause I was avoiding doing an act with no jokes. (Unpick that one if you can. If you manage it, you've got a future in mental health) I said ‘I'm gonna get off’ and they all started to laugh and said No! They wouldn't let me get off. They were laughing at how bad I was, and wouldn't let me off until I told a joke. Bloke in the second row: ‘You've told ONE joke!’ They all laugh hard. That was a key point: What I SHOULD have done, is laughed too, then went “OK” and done a really really weird bit and cackled like a maniac. I should have been obstinate and deliberately did something absolutely devoid of punchlines. But no, I didn't do that. I got weak knees and decided to do a really old ‘joke’ that used to get laugh back in the day. I complied weakly. It got a weak laugh. (Weak knees, weak compliance, weak laughs. My sex life all over again) I apologised pathetically and got off. I don't think they were being unkind, they'd all paid 10 quid each and they wanted gags. They didn't dislike me. Actually I think they wanted me to do well. It was me who didn't give them the opportunity to 'get' my act, cause I fucking abandoned it, again. It will only ever work if I really go for it, balls out. You need thick skin in this business, which is unfortunate cause my skin is as thick as a chocolate flavoured condom.

Afterwards I was so pissed off and humiliated I thought about giving up. FUCK this. But that's the really fucking annoying thing about this challenge. It won't let me give up. It's made it impossible. I can't just decide to quit. So many people have been incredibly supportive about it and I can't just go: ‘I'm not doing it any more’. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. I would be SO depressed. (Or relieved? At last, the dream is finally dead and I can move on with my life. I can finally do what everyone else does, and settle down with an average woman, take an average job, drink tea and complain about hedges and slowly mentally decay like an out of date tea bag.) I've given up over lot less than last night. Having a whole room laughing at how shit you are isn't pleasant. It's not party time in Vegas. I'm not doing this cause I enjoy it. I have no desire to punish myself. I'm not some kind of masochistic sex pervert who likes getting strapped up and whipped with chains whilst wearing a giant pink fitted cloth nappy. (Actually, yes I am. Sit on a bucket and cover me in snakes bitch.)

But I can't give up. However, right now, I am taking a long weekend off. Except tomorrow night, I've got a gig in fucking Essex. Oh, shit.

After such a humiliation, I left the room in a hurry and forgot to get a snap taken with the lady who gave me the gig. Fortunately I took a picture of the stage as it was a great space. Not sure this constitutes proof that I did it though. However, as I said before, I would have to be a fucking mental case to make up a gig where I died on my unholy arse. Gig No. 27 done.

May 1st, Thursday. Gig No.26, White Bear pub, Ruislip

I woke up this morning feeling a terrible, sickening dread. A terrible, nauseating fear burning a hole in my gut. Oh, God. What have I let myself in for. Telling my Dad about tonights gig. I must have been insane.
“Who have you invited?”
“Oh, just a few people from my block. A few of the old ladies. Oh, and some blokes from the pub. And Noreen and John. And Denise. And Mum”
Oh, fuck. Everyone then. Fucking everyone.

It's scary enough doing stand up to strangers. But to relatives and blokes who drink in my Dad's pub?? Fucking forget about it. The risks are multiple: Dying on your arse in front of your parents isn't the problem. I can live with that. After all, they were the ones who changed my nappies. (Well my Mum did, you wouldn't see my Dad for dust) They've seen me at my absolute worst. When I was 12, my Mum had to shove a suppositry up my arsehole. Yes, me telling a joke and it not working in front of a roomful of people comes not fucking close to that vicious hell.

Dying on my arse in front of the old ladies who live in my Dad's building. That's a fear. Why? I don't need their approval. But I do visit my Dad a lot, (I’m a good son. Dutiful and loyal, and in any case, how else do I collect my pocket money) and when I do, often they are all in the common room by the lift to his floor and when my Dad's in there he forces me into this double act where he plays the piss taking Dad, and I the long suffering gimp son. We have to go through this shit every fucking time. He'll call me the black sheep of the family or an oily rag, I'll roll my eyes, and all the old biddies will coo like hens and tell him he doesn't know he's born, I am a lovely boy. So, if they see my act, that facade all goes. I die on my arse doing mental shit, the truth will unravel in their eyes and they will all realise that yes, he was right all along, Joe really is an oily rag.

In fact, you can add the blokes who drink in his pub to that scenario too. Every time I see him there, we have to play the act again. Fucking Steptoe and Son. The merciless piss taking, the awkward looks on their faces, knowing the son is playing his role under duress. If they come along and I see their faces sitting in the audience, they will be expecting some extension of our regular double act: “My Dad thinks I’m an oily rag. I’m not an oily rag. Except when I chuck one in his bed” BOOM
Also, it would be a working men’s club type of crowd. They like gags. Blue collar stuff. Jim Davidson types. What the FUCK would they make of me? I don’t do gags. (Read oily rag gag above)

When you anticipate what a gig will be like, and throw in your Mum and Dad, and relatives and various characters/associates of your Dad, you're imagining a heaving, packed audience brimming with the expectant curiosity of familiar faces. You're imagining acting like a goon to a chilling, stone cold silence and seeing those faces drop to the floor as my mouth dries up like a camel's arsehole. You're under pressure here. You HAVE to be funny. If you die on your arse in front of strangers, thats fine. You leave the gaff and never see them again. You can go home and nurse your fragile ego with junk food and angel cakes until the pain goes away. But if you die on your arse in front of people you have to see again and again and again - that's a living nightmare. Every conversation you have with them will thus forth will be framed with the underlying context that you are shit. They think you're shit. You think they think you're shit. They think you think they think you're shit. You think you're not as shit as they think you are, they think you don't realise you're as shit as they think you are. It tends to slightly befuddle a relationship. It creates tension. Resentment. It's like knowing they saw you do something weird. Like they accidentally saw you sexually fondling a basset hound while dressed as Mary Poppins. You're both pretending it never happened, but you both know it did. You're never the same after that.

Anyway. I know you were all expecting some kind of hilarious calamity to unfold. I'm really sorry to disappoint you all, but fuck all happened. They didn't turn up. It was just my Dad, my Mum and one or two friends. The crowd was nice, and I didn't die on my arse. I just about got away with it. Thankfully, there were no basset hounds in the room this time, and I could just about keep myself in check.

Gig No. 26 done. MC Pete Jee and lovely act Pamela Hilton

April 30th, Wednesday. Gigs 24 + 25, Dirty Dicks + Pear Shaped

When I left the house tonight, I kept my eye out for signs for what this evening would bring. And lo, 5 minutes into my journey, I spot an old man pissing hands free against a defunct public toilet. Yes, hands free, bold as brass. Both hands on hips, spreadeagled, pissing in the wind. Free as a bird. “Ah” I thought. “One of THOSE evenings.”

I've never seen a man piss with such confidence. Heck, I know men who can't piss with other people in the same area code, let alone standing with their geriatric wangs hanging out pissing like Diana’s memorial fountain. The weird thing was, I'm looking at this animal - he must have been about 80 - and when he looked at me I did that whole English thing of looking away, convulsed with embarrassment that I should be caught looking in even the vaguest direction of another human being. He had his prick out in broad daylight! Why am I the one being all repressed and awkward?? He should be fucking ashamed of himself. Though at his age, he probably pisses every two minutes. If I get to his age, I won't give two fucks. I'll be a shrivelled old bellend with nothing to look forward to any more. Women won't touch me and all my friends are dead. So if I need a piss and it's broad daylight, FUCK em.

Then, as I arrive in Paddington, a little old man from Bulgaria (Lets call him Great Uncle Bulgaria) showed me a tube map and asked me how to get to Charing Cross. I suggested he try the Bakerloo line, as I was pretty sure they were actually running a limited service from Queens Park to Elephant. Then, a pretentious Frenchman who was earwigging actually cut in and said that no, he doesn’t think the Bakerloo line was running. His puffy, rosy cheeked face looked annoyingly unconvinced. He then started to monopolise the conversation, giving Great Uncle Bulgaria all manner of whacko transport suggestions. I said I was pretty sure the Bakerloo line was running. But he's having none of it. He just poo poos me. I'm slightly miffed now. I'm a Londoner! I've suffered tube strikes my whole life! Who the FUCK are you. Pretentious Frenchy dismissing the indigenous wildlife who couldn't possibly know anything about how things work in their own fucking city. So, very subtly, I gently steered Uncle Bulgaria away from Frenchy, and confidently marched him towards the Bakerloo line. Which was closed. No it wasn't. (That's a shame, it would have been funny.) But no, it was fine, and he would have no problems getting to Charing Cross. If Frenchy had his way, he'd be somewhere in the underground sewage system, wading around in shit for 40 years. As I triumphantly pointed great Uncle Bulgaria the way to the escalator, the old mutt was so grateful he started to tell me his life story. His fingers lingering just a little bit too long on my arm. He come from Bulgaria he says, and his not in London for long time, and...oh fuck.

By the time I got to the first gig, I'd had enough of old men. They piss in the street, they get lost, they take you hostage and tell you tedious stories of personal hardship. I've got two gigs to do, piss off. It was a big night for me. I had two final gigs to do in my first month, and more importantly, Chelsea were playing in a massive semi final. If you know how that game went for Chelsea, you know how my gigs went for me. Chelsea got buckshot up the arse. So did I. Not the glorious final night of April planned. The second gig, I won't lie, the whole room thought I was a cunt. They looked at me like I'd threatened a baby with a snooker ball in a sock. Fucking philistines. I should have taken a note out of the pissing OAPs book and micturated all over em, hands free. Fuck em.

Gigs No. 24 + 25 done. MCs Alex Martini + Brian Damage