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
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