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