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
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