June 18th, Wednesday. Gig No.55, Heavenly, Green pub

Tonight was a bit of a wake up call. I get to the gig late, do my set, go through the motions, then piss off upstairs to watch Spain get knocked out of the World Cup. Delicious. Then I bump into two guys I know from my early days on the circuit. They’re in a sketch group, and have become very successful. On telly and everything. They’re doing a set in a comedy club next door and get me in so I can watch. And their stuff was fantastic. Inventive, unpredictable, fluid, clever stuff. Their final bit was genuinely brilliant. And these guys are (slightly) younger than me. And started doing comedy at around the same time. Fuck.

My first thought was: I need to be in a sketch group. There’s a freedom about it, less pressure, more scope for interesting ideas. But then my second thought was, who’d want to be in one with me? I’d just be the overbearingly obvious star of the group, and would make everyone else look bad in comparison. Every night I’d get all the big laughs, and slowly their bitterness would erode all good will, consume us all and ruin everything. We’d be like the Commitments. I’d be the amazingly talented twat singer, and the others would turn on each other and FOOKIN’ implode.

YA GOTTA , YA GOTTA, YA GOTTA TR--Y A LITTLE TENDERNESSSSS!!

Take your own advice kids.

The second thing I was thinking was, I need to stop going through the motions. (Taken literally, that sounds revolting. ‘Going through the motions’. Sounds like I‘m literally picking through my own bowel movements. I‘d have to shit on a newspaper and acquire some kind of makeshift combing device. Why? Maybe, like a WW2 POW, I‘m shitting out my gold teeth to use in exchange for the forged passport papers I need for my imminent escape. I‘ll have to pretend to be some sort of peasant, on account of the fact I have no fucking teeth.) I’ve taken my eye off the ball. These guys have been working on their craft, they are making art, and are professionals. They’re growing, and creating interesting comedy. Me? I’ve been doing the bare minimum. ‘Gig No52 done. 53 done. 54. 55 ooooh fuck oh yeah, I need to try and be good too’. I want to make really good comedy like them. Interesting, original funny as balls comedy. I won’t do that doing absolutely no work on it outside of gigs, and just turning up, doing my 5 spot and ticking off the gig on my wall chart.

Wall chart:


I need to actually sit down every day and write, work new stuff, figure it out, practice. Actually go to work and devote all my energies onto the act. This is it. Like the little athsmatic kid in The Goonies would say: ‘This is OUR time!’ (Meaning, this is MY time. I’m not mental, I don’t have two personalities. Anyway, yes, I was in the Goonies.)

I wonder what would have happened if the Goonies were in a WW2 POW camp. Dr Josef Mengele is about to round up the gang for his grotesque experiments. They are being chased around the camp by the Italian camp guards the Fratellis, and they are just about to scoop the kids up when!! Sloth and Chunk come to the rescue!!! Sloth clunks the Fratellis skulls together, pulls up the camp fence perimeter and gets the kids out under his legs. Chunk is last. “You’re coming!! Come with us!! No!! No!!” The music swells. (There’s a violin troupe in the camp) Sloth looks at Chunk, with a sweet tenderness not seen since Hitler saw his first concentration camp. “SLOTH LOVES CHUNK!” “NO!!! NOOOO!!!” (This is stirring stuff, I’m crying my eyes out here) The kids escape from the camp and they all make safe passage through neutral territories aided by the French resistance. (If you haven’t seen the Goonies, you’re probably thinking I’ve gone batshit mental. If you have seen it, you’re thinking the same thing.)

Maybe I have gone batshit mental. (I alluded to it in the last blog, that was a joke, this time I'm definitely worried) I guess the relentless nature of this challenge has been such that I’ve switched off from it. I don’t think about it. I turn up to the gigs, tick them off and switch off - straight away. Don’t think about it at all. That’s what trauma victims do. I’m sure there’s a term for it in psychology books. Hold on, let me Google it..Let me think.. Um..Trauma detachment? Lets see.. Dissociation!! That’s it! I fall into a fugue state of detachment from reality. That’s what I do. It’s my coping mechanism. Gigs are so relentless, trying to do 365 gigs in a year is so traumatically stressful, I am mentally fragmenting my current reality out of my conscious experience. I fall into a temporary amnesia. Every gig I do, I am not really there. I am somewhere else. (That’s lucky really, tonight I was shit.) IT WASN’T ME. It was my ‘other’ self, the detached uninvolved me who is an empty emotionless droid going through the motions. Sifting through his own shit with a fine tooth comb.

Ok, thats enough. What I’m trying to say is, I need to stop doing the bare minimum and start focusing on really making this act work. No more fucking about. This it it. This is OUR TIME. (Divergent dual personalities take turns to suck on asthma pump. Swap own teeth for passport papers.)

Gig No.55 done. MC/promoter Njambi McGrath

June 16th, Monday. Gig No. 54, Hideaway, Archway

Let’s talk about expectations. And the inevitable ego shrivelling disappointments they bring. At most gigs lately, I’ve been doing fairly well. (Horrible statement. What an absolute twat. My apologies to all. I promise after this, I will punish myself for such disgusting, gross immodesty by going into hiding as an albino monk, and spend months weeping naked in a dark lonely room as I whip my back with a silver claw) So tonight, with a pretty boisterous and energetic front row, I sort of, well, expected to do well. How wrong can a man be. How fucking wrong can a miserable sack of shit possibly be. Wrong?? I was more wrong than when the Captain of that ferry said ‘They won’t mind if I get off the boat and go home will they? After all, I’m just a Captain, why do they need me?’. Or that time when I decided wiped my cock on the curtains during the Queen’s speech at Christmas. Oh, wait a minute. That’s a different kind of ‘wrong’.

But there’s nothing wrong with being optimistic I hear some of you say. (Yes, I can hear what you’re saying*. Not only am I a comedian, I’m also a practicing psychic. If the comedy doesn’t work out, I will spend the rest of my days in a shitty tent, waving my scrawny fingers over a cheap mystical orb and proclaiming people’s futures by reading teabags. And you, reader 12, yes, you. I know EXACTLY what you‘re thinking about. Don‘t even go there. I will know where you are when you do it. Put the gloves away, and the crotchless underpants, and get back in the van. Go home to your wife and kids. Nurture them. Love them. Get back in touch with your better humanity. And don‘t read my blog ever again you dirty, dirty bastard.) There’s a difference between expectations and optimism. Optimism is good. It’s healthy. There’s no harm in fostering beliefs that things will generally maybe work out alright in the long run. That you’ll do well at this gig and that gig. That if you try this bit of material out it might lead to something interesting and new. Or if you’re not a comedian, that yes, you’ll probably get that promotion in 10 yrs if you knuckle down, you will get that little pay rise and the golden Rolex watch. Your lessers will probably not overtake you. You will not be overlooked continuously until you are in your late 50s, and probably won’t be forcibly retired and die before your time a broken man at the wasted, mediocre life you’ve just led. Yeah. Optimism is a good thing. (But most of the time, you’ll be fucking wrong. Shove that imaginary Rolex up their arse and leave the job now, before it’s too late. Cash in your redundancy money, go to Cuba and become the limbo dancer you were born to be.)

Optimism is plucky, it’s hopeful. It gives you vitality and drive, and the courage to plunge forward in the face of your obvious shortcomings. (Thus the England team go to Brazil with no expense spared, carrying plane loads of experts and super analysts, plus 22 moron ball kickers, all travelling in earnest to Rio in full optimism that they will go far in their collective search for World glory. What utter arseholes they all are)

Expectations are different. Expectations are fucking mental. Expectations, well, EXPECT.
They’re a demand. A demand to the Universe. They’re you saying ‘I EXPECT this to happen, this MUST happen. And if it doesn’t, I will grab the nearest tangible object and go on a crazed hammer attack’. Expectations are irrational. They’re what anger is about. When you actually poke through your anger logic, at the root you will find a set of unreasonable expectations and demands. Thus, when Luis Suarez decides to bite someone’s face, at the root of his anger is the expectation: “All players not wearing the same shirt as me should politely step aside and allow me to walk the ball into the goal. Or at the very least not be too touchy feely when they tackle me.” See? MENTAL. As if the biting isn’t mental enough.

And for my expectation of doing well? At the root: “I should do well at this gig, cause I did well at my last gig.” That’s bollocks. Every gig is completely different. The audience is different, the room is different, the levels of drunkenness are different.. Expecting one gig to go as well as your last gig is about as logical as wiping your penis on a mango to make the flies in your mind go away. (“THE FLIES, THE FLIES!!!”)

The lesson? Don’t write blogs. Before I wrote this one, I was a normal bloke. In just 500 words, I’ve become a self flagellating albino monk psychic tea bag reader, wiping his nob on mangoes. That’s nuts. I’d better be careful or I will genuinely go mental. Oooh look! A mango! Zzzzip.

*I’m pretty sure I’ve written that joke or similar somewhere before in this blog. But I can’t be arsed trawling through the tons of shit I’ve written. If I have written it before, and you know where, write it on a postcard, get a 1st class stamp, address it to the Queen, draw a penis and some curtains on it, and shove it up your arse

Gig No.54 done. MC Calum Ross

June 15th, Sunday. Gig No. 53, Big Nose Comedy, Kilburn

Those of you more inclined toward pedantry and anal retentiveness will have noticed a four day gap between this gig and the last gig. Have I broken the rules? Technically, no. I am not allowed to take three days off in a row. But, if a gig gets pulled, I can start again from day one, which was Friday. Lovely stuff. The World Cup opening game pays dividends: The Thursday gig gets pulled, and I get an extra day off. Should I be taking days off, you ask. No I shouldn’t. I’ve been seriously slacking off. I have a lot of catching up to do. If I fall too far behind, I will make a real rod for my back. (Another fucking stupid phrase. Who makes fishing rods and sticks them to their own backs?? I’m not having that. Bollocks)

Tonight’s gig, handily, is just 10 minutes from my new pad. Yes, I have a new pad! Finally, I have found somewhere suitable to live. It’s all looking rather good from here on in. Now I have my own base headquarters, I can concentrate fully on world domination. My very own Hitler’s bunker if you will. 53 gigs done. So, I’ve invaded Poland, started a barney with the French, and am now marshalling Air Command to prepare a bombing campaign over England. As Churchill said, it is not the end of the beginning. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is not even the beginning of the beginning. It is half way through the beginning before the beginning, just after the beginning of the beginning before the real beginning. Or some shit like that. He was pissed as a fart. Or as Hitler said: “SCHNELL!! SCHNELL!!”

Ok, crass analogies over with, lets talk about the gig. Before I did the gig, I needed a poo. So I used the pub toilet. Here it is:

You’ll have noticed one or two minor flaws with the arrangement. Main one being, THERE’S NO WHERE TO PUT YOUR KNESS. I wonder what they were thinking with they installed this. I’ve never had such an uncomfortable shit in my life. (Except the time I had that all you can eat buffet). I literally had to poo sideways. I don’t know if you’ve ever pooed sideways before, but it is rather discombobulating. An awkward detour in one’s bid for world domination. If I actually tried to push my knees into this small space, it would have lifted my bottom up high over the toilet bowl. Aiming for the toilet would have been a real mission. Much like when the German bombers came swooping over London. Yes, my bottom is like a German bomber during the Battle of Britain, and the toilet is London. (This is fucking horrible, this needs to stop right here. This is going nowhere nice.)

The gig had walk in spots, and the promoters very kindly put me on. Very kindly, in light of one’s crass persuasion tactics: ‘If you have trouble finding space for me, bear in mind I am doing 365 gigs in one year, and if I don’t perform tonight, I fail the whole challenge’. Emotional blackmail. Works every time. The day it doesn’t work, I will lead the promoter and I into a separate room, and shoot them in the face. Shoot myself, and the other comics will us carry us round the back and burn our bodies in a ditch.

Gig No.53 done. MC /Promoter Eshaan Akbar

June 11th, Wednesday. Gig No.52, Old School Yard, London Bridge

The only thing I can remember about this gig is that I did really well. But how can I write blogs about how good I was? That’s the tricky thing. You can’t sit there writing about how sha-mazing you were. What if the other acts who were there read this? They’ll think I’m a fucking bellend. So when I do well, I have to think of something else to write about. But this gig happened last week (Yes, I know, I’m slacking off) and all I remember is how gloriously good I was. Sorry, did I just say that out loud? (Technically I didn’t, I typed it out onto a keyboard in a premeditated fashion and patiently uploaded it into my blog, despite multiple opportunities to delete it. If I actually said it out loud, essentially to myself, I’d be fucking mental. Wait a minute, let me try it.. Yes. I look mental. I’m the only one here, and I’m frankly shitting myself. I’m like Jack Nicolson in the Shining. ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY. ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY. Wait a minute..I see Twins..) Lets move on. This is getting just a little bit too creepy.

When you do well in stand up, it goes to your head. You think you’ve cracked it. You think: “That’s it, I know exactly what I need to do now. From now on, the people will finally get what I am doing. My genius is ahead of it’s time, but now the world will catch on. From here on in it will be a staggering rise to glory and fame. I will become an international juggernaut.” Then you go and do another gig, and make a prick of yourself. A first class wally. Comedy’s like that. It has a way of balancing out your ego with regular smidgens of horrific indignity. So I’m dreading the next gig, naturally. Yeah. Thinking about it, that’s also what happens. On one level, your ego has gone bat shit mental, piss drunk on the glory, and on another level, you’re thinking ‘Oh, fuck. The next gig is gonna be pants’. So much so, you find yourself actually dreading doing well. This is why most comedians have had mental illness problems. If psychiatrists wanted to study comedians, they’d be scratching their heads forever. Scratching until bone had worn away. Their craniums would look like inverted gun shot fodder, blasted off, their exposed brains still confused and bewildered by the sick twisted mind of the stand up comic.

So yes, I did well. And my ego has blown up like a helium inflated Femidom. Suck on one of them, you’ll laugh like a drain. (Laugh like a drain? What the FUCK does that mean. I have not once walked past a drain and found it laughing. Cracking up and giggling away like it’s heard a quality nob gag. We need to do something about our clichés in this country. Laugh like a drain? That makes me cry like a toilet U bend.) My ego is like a genetically modified chicken, fattened up for consumption by it’s owners insecurities. Yes, the ego is like a KFC bucket for your own self doubt. And we all know what we feel like when we’ve eaten a KFC bucket. We feel sick. Sick with the grease and fat churning in our guts. Nauseous, bloated, and disgusted with ourselves. I fucking hate it when I have a good gig.

Gig No.52 done. MC/Promoter Brian Chimombo

June 9th, Monday. Gig No.51, Rhythm Factory, Aldgate

OK. This one’s about Rik Mayall.

I shed a few tears today. True. An odd thing. For a 35 year old man to shed tears for a 56 year old man he never knew. But Rik Mayall meant a lot to me. When the tears came, I felt an uncomfortable embarrassment at myself for being so fucking weird. Like some strange, creepy little fanboy weeping in the bins outside Madonna’s house. But man. Did I love him as a kid. 13, 14, 15 yrs of age, Rik Mayall was my idol.

Initially, I spent the whole day in shock. Shock, but no real emotional gut punch. Just a bit stunned. Detached. But later on, something happened. Reading through the Facebook newsfeed on my phone on the way home after my gig, I found myself being really surprised at the sheer volume, message after message after message, of real genuine sadness at his death. Other comedians, people of the same generation as me, they loved him when they were kids too. I wasn't the only one. And then one said it: “There are precious few celebrities that can die and leave me feeling as genuinely upset as I do right now” That was it. ‘Genuinely upset.’ That phrase hit me. I got a lump in my throat and choked up. I had a long, isolated half an hour walk home from the station at midnight and spent the whole time crying.

Why would a grown man cry for a bloke who did fart and nob gags on the telly?

The best way I can explain it is with Toy Story 3. At the end of Toy Story 3, Andy is all grown up. He hasn’t played with Woody and Buzz and the gang for years and he is taking them to a little girl down the road. She is shy, so he brings the toys out and begins to play with them to entice her and make her comfortable. He introduces her to each of them, explaining who they are and what they’re like. Suddenly he starts to relive his own memories. He mentally brings them to life again. And it hits him: He loved these toys. When he was child, they brought him so much joy. He’d forgotten how much they’d meant to him. And that was me tonight.

My teenage years were my war years. They were frankly shit. I didn’t enjoy school, in fact I hated it. Home life at that time was tougher than it's ever been before or since. And puberty hit me. I was a lanky, spotty wall of piss with big clunky hearing aids and no fucking clue who I was. All of this coalesced into a maudlin depression that lasted for about three years. But the one thing that always cheered me up? Bottom. Richie and Eddie kicking seven shades of shit out of each other. I would come home from another crap day at school, lock myself in my room and gorge myself on it. That delirious, endless procession of farts and flying fists, and Eddie smashing Richie’s bollocks with a cricket bat. I loved it. I loved these two grown adult men acting like complete bellends. I loved the slapstick, the anarchy. The sheer fucking stupidity. And above all I loved, loved, loved Rik Mayall. That face. Those big bulging beady eyes, the nostrils, the energy, his loose limbed, propulsive, mincing physicality. He was a human cartoon. I just fell in love with him. And so the following years I came to seek out and devour everything he did. The Young Ones, the Comic Strips, Filthy Rich and Catflaps, Kevin Turvey. I found a kindred spirit here. I could utterly relate to this goon. For those three years, at my most gawky and vulnerable and impressionable, he was my hero. Rik bloody Mayall.

Then as I got older, I grew out of Rik. I moved on. I became a young adult and discovered new influences and found enjoyment and escape in different things. The years went by and Rik became a sort of vague memory of the past. In my mind, he faded like the dusty abandoned toys in Andy’s cardboard box. But scrolling down that newsfeed, and seeing how much he meant to people, it all came flooding back. Through those awkward, painful teenage years, he was my go to man when I needed to block out a shitty day. He would cheer me up. Always. That means something. I loved the old bastard. The tears streamed down my face.

I’ll leave you with my favourite real life memory:

1995. I'm 16 years old. I manage to secure tickets to see a live recording of Bottom series 3 at the BBC TV studios. YES!! The seats we got were amazing. Front row, slap bang right in front of the living room set. THAT living room set! The Bottom living room! And the first scene? Nothing could have prepared me for it. The first two minutes of the episode had been pre recorded as they involved Eddie setting fire to Richie’s balls. The way sitcom recording worked then is, they showed the pre recorded scene for us, the audience, to watch and record our laughs. And then it was synchronized just so that as the pre recorded scene finished, it would seamlessly cut right into the live action right in front of us. So, Richie crashes down the stairs with his balls on fire. He bursts into the living room. Frantically searches for something to put it out. And he sees it. The goldfish bowl on the table. He leaps onto the table on his knees and grabs it. And there, right in front of my stunned eyes, was my comedy hero, in that Bottom living room, on all fours on the table, FUCKING a goldfish bowl. Literally fucking it. Fucking it with a commitment no other human being in their right mind could ever agree to. Heaven. Absolute heaven.

*At the end of the recording, as people started filing out, Rik was talking to a technician just 10 yards away from me. Everyone was leaving, but I’m still there, not moving, taking it all in. Standing there staring at Rik. There he is. The man himself! And then: He suddenly catches me staring at him. He sees this young kid standing there, literally grinning from ear to ear. He gives me a little smile and a cheeky little wink. What a great bloke. He had no idea what a creepy little shit I was.

Thank you Rik. Thank you for helping a young, gawky, melancholic gimp be a bit happier and making him want to grow up to be a comedian too.



Gig No.51 done. MC/Promoter Geoff Alderman

June 7th, Friday. Gig No.50, Dog House, Kennington

Lots of weird observations on my way to this gig. But cause it was last Friday I can’t remember them. I really should get back into the habit of writing on the night I have the gig. It’s all getting a bit weird. I’m writing about a gig I did on Friday on Wednesday, pretending it’s Friday. It’s creepy. All I remember from Friday is seeing an extremely attractive blonde hottie on the train with really big lower ear lobes. Like stupidly big. If you just homed in on them and couldn’t see the rest of her you’d think she was a Greco Roman wrestler. I don’t know why that struck me. I guess I’ve always had a thing for girls like that. Not girls with cauliflower ears who look like wrestlers. Really beautiful girls with one glaring physical defect. Is that wrong? I’ve always been attracted to that. Stunning looks, and one stand out imperfection. Like the girl I saw years ago who looked like Cameron Diaz but had Dennis Taylor granny glasses. Or the tall green eyed girl at University with flawless skin and a broken nose. If you look like Charlize Theron but have one leg shorter than the other - Mama Mi!! You’ll drive me fucking crazy. What is that?

Anyway. Enough of my kinky little pecadillos. The other thing I remember is on the way to the gig I nearly got run over by a motability scooter doing 70 mph. Cunt nearly killed me. I’m developing a real personal bug bear with these fucks. Sure, I’ve got no problem with people who have walking impairments being given a lease of life. It’s a fine thing. In fact thinking about it, it’s just what my own Dad needs. (He should never be allowed near one. He’s a maniac. You can’t even put him in charge of an ashtray. Last time I did that I left for 5 minutes and when I came back he was threatening to shove it in someone's face.) But where I draw the line is when they’re driving like they’re in the Daytona 500. They’re too fast. Who in the mobility scooter production meeting actually said: "You know what, pensioners need to be able to get to the post office on time. Lets make sure they can drive 70 miles per hour. Lets get some horsepower under these fucks".

What we need on pavements are speed bumps not bobbies on the beat. Actually we need them too. To keep these nuts in check. They get a little bit of power and they take the fucking piss. And why are the scooters themselves so over the top? Outside my local KFC, I saw one guy whose scooter looked like something out of Star Trek. It actually looked like a flying saucer. It had levels. His was double stacked. Wing mirrors. White, pointed like a speedboat. With St Georges flag motif. Great, a motability kill machine driven by someone who has ties with the English Defence League. He even had a boot for his KFC bucket. What the fucks going on? I nearly had my ankles broken. My foot was five centimetres away from being roadkill. Great, just cause they have walking impairments, I have to have one too. Brilliant. Why don’t we soup the fucking lot of em up, run everyone over and we can do away with pedestrianisation once and for all.

Anyway, enough ranting about the disabled. Tonight was a major milestone: Gig No 50! That’s good isn’t it? Anyone? Anyone? Fuck yourselves. I’m going to find a supermodel who looks like she’s been in a few fights

Gig No.50 done. MC Alex Martini and Promoter So Ying Pang both being unnecessarily lascivious and letting their hands run away with themselves

June 5th, Thursday. Gigs No. 48+49, G+B Camden, The Constitution Pub + Nowhere town, Cuntsville.

Two gigs tonight, and you couldn't get a more marked contrast between quality of gig. Between good, well run little comedy night, and fucking shambles. Lets talk about the good gig first.

Camden G+B. I like doing this club. The promoters love their gig, and they run it with real care. The room is always set up when you arrive, there are posters on the walls of all the acts who are on, the sound check has already been done, and you are welcomed in a warm and friendly manner. You have a well constructed show, and they mix it up by including fun games, magic and even had a plum eating contest. (Don’t ask, just go an check it out). And, best of all, for me they have been really lovely and supportive about my challenge. They even have a countdown of my gigs on my poster on the wall. Thank you Sirs, always a pleasure to play your gig.

Gig No.2. In Nowhere Town, Cuntsville

I had to leave the G+B show early and get to this gig quick. Travelled quite some way. I get there, and, oh, my. The promoter is all over the place. The audience have been ‘chatty’. I survey the room. It is a gig in the actual main bar floor. The punters are merry, and they are naturally very talkative. Fair enough. It’s their night out. But a show has started in the middle of the room, and they’re not interested. It was so bad, one of the acts actually scarpered. Pissed off. They didn't want to work that room. So naturally the MC/promoter seemed very glad I turned up. But that was the last thing I did that he liked.

Before I went on, the MC/Promoter started the final section, and spent the entire time trying and failing to get the room to shut up. He attempted to get the people in the other half of the pub to come and sit down and be quiet, and they ignored him completely. The room just kept chatting away. (Again, I don’t blame the punters. It’s their local pub, it’s their night out. They didn’t know some twat with a microphone would be there hassling them to shut up and stop talking) In the end he gave up and brought me on. There were 5 ladies in the front row. They actually made an effort to pay attention to the show. I tried to do my set. The talking in the bar was endless, and, yes, I allowed myself to get distracted. The incessant talking would not stop. I stuck to my five minutes, but then I blurted something out. This would be my fatal mistake with regards to the MC/promoter. I blurted out, on mic, ‘You need a seperate room! A function room’. I said sorry to the ladies in the front and got off. I didn’t mean anything unkind about what I said, I wasn’t angry and I meant it in the nicest way as possible. I was smiling as I said it. But I said it, on stage, in front of the audience, which I shouldn’t have done. A mistake, for which I should have apologised. I couldn’t do that, cause I got the fuck out of there as quick as I could.

Evidence would suggest the MC/promoter was displeased with what I said. What evidence?

This:

“The last comic of the night (who was double gigging) struggled and blamed the room which I have no issue with except he did it on the mic to the audience which did rankle a tad - a little more experience under his belt (he's on some sort of marathon gig quest thing) should help him deal a little more pro and a little less "dying but it's not my fault".”

Wow!! Shock!! My first review!! Woooooo!!!!

Now. Honestly, when I read this, I was angry at first. I travelled a long way to do that gig. When it came to writing this blog, I WANTED to say: ‘Comics be warned if you want to play this room.‘

I WANTED to say ‘It provides the absolute worst performing conditions you can have, and then if you dare to displease the promoter in any way he will post vindictive shit about you. Even if another act actually leaves because it’s so SHIT and you actually still go on, honouring your commitment.’

But I won’t say that. That’s far too bitter. (I’m not a bitter man. I can let go and forgive. I’ll do that as soon as I’ve finished writing this blog.) Reading it again a couple of days later, I have calmed down. I can see he is just trying to defend something he really cares about. He felt under attack, and wanted to lash out. I get that. It was his first big show and he wanted to be a success. And it wasn’t. He needs something or someone to blame. And he seems to have chosen me. Fine.

As for the issue of never ‘blaming room’. That’s fine too. I am in absolute agreement with that. Too many comics blame rooms when they should be looking at themselves. And believe me, I look at myself. I take responsibility for my set. Even after good sets I walk away with that niggling feeling I could have done better. (I never blame myself when I crash a car though. I always blame the brewery company) As for this gig, yes, I really do need to learn to handle these rooms better. I have a lot to learn. But you know, sometimes, just sometimes, it really is the room. You do have to consider that. Not only do the comics have to take responsibility for themselves, so too do the promoters. An act has an obligation to bring a decent comedy set. And a promoter has an obligation to make a room workable for his acts.

I’ve seen this before: A bad promoter runs a bad gig. An act criticises the gig. The promoter lashes out and says the act needs to ‘stop blaming the room’. That they need to do “a little less "dying but it's not my fault"”. That kind of noxious, sleazy thinking is right up there in George W Bush territory. ‘You’re either with us or against us!’ That is, you’re either a good comic, or a bad comic who blames the room. Bollocks. There’s another option you know - sometimes, just sometimes, the room is not very good.

My advice to comics: Never blame the room. Ever. Seriously. I’m not blaming the room last night. I allowed myself to get distracted by the environment, and I blurted out something I shouldn't have. If you blame a room, you take away the most important thing you have: The ability to learn.

My other advice is. Don’t do this room. It’s a pile of shit.

* I will say that’s just a joke. I’m OK now about it. Promoters reserve the right to dislike me and my act. That's fine. It’s just genuinely too much fun writing shit like this! I will say to be fair to the promoter, it WAS just their first show in that venue. The first one. Naturally there will be teething problems in a new venture. I’m sure they will learn from it. I really hope they find a way to improve the show. I wish them the very best of luck.

Gigs No. 48+49 done.

MC/Promoter Alexander Henry Buchanan-Dunlop (Great gig)


No.2 MC/Promoter (Not so great gig)

June 4th, Wednesday. Gig No. 47, Funny Feckers, Kentish Town

This show is a ‘bringer’. A bringer is basically where you have to bring a friend with you to be allowed to do the show. It is now fairly common practice on the open mic circuit. Also in other arenas of showbiz too. How do you think One Direction get to fill Wembley? Fucking 'fans'?? NO. Friends! Exactly. If they didn't have friends no one would book the cunts.

A lovely old friend of mine from back in my early comedy days very kindly offered her support and came along. Before she came to meet me though, in the afternoon, she said she would be going to see the Book Of Mormon. Oh, shit. That’s a really funny show. If she sees that, she'll have, like, expectations and shit. 'Standards'.

I read The Book Of Mormon’s quotes:

"Money can buy you happiness! If you’re in possession of a ticket, you’ve wisely secured a seat in the premier-class cabin of delirium."

“History is made. The new gold standard for Broadway. The Book of Mormon is on its march into legend.”

"The best musical of this century. So impeccably produced on every level...A celebration of the privilege, for just a couple of hours, of living inside that improbable paradise called a musical comedy."

Jesus fucking Christ. This girl is going to be injecting comedy Heroin. Then coming to see me - fucking anus cream. This adds a rather unpleasant flavour to the whole evening. Pressure. I have to live up to The Book of Mormon. (Not the actual Book Of Mormon. That would be impossible. Their rules are sick. Actually, I don’t drink coffee, smoke or drink so there’s that covered. What else? Oh yes, get married and have children young. That’s never gonna happen. Me? Married with children?? Are they FUCKING mental??)

As it turns out the gig was a lot of fun, it had a great atmosphere and the crowd were loving the show. A good gig. Fuck the Book Of Mormon, we all rocked. I have two more blogs to write this weekend to catch up, so I’m cutting this one short. Big thank you to Christina Martin for making the evening loads of fun and providing much appreciated support

Gig No.47 done. MC and Promoter Mr Wes Dalton

June 2nd, Monday. Gig No.46, Hideaway, Tufnell Park

Sometimes in life, you make seemingly innocent choices that have far reaching consequences on your life. Some days you can take a wrong turn, and suddenly find yourself in a place that you could not have possibly have imagined. Today was such a day.

During an afternoon when I should have been looking for somewhere to live, I moseyed on over to Twitter. I hate Twitter. It’s annoying. I’ve got 180 followers. I’ve had this account for 4 years. It’s fucking pitiful. I’ve never really understood it. How do you get followers?? How do you FORCE people to stalk you? So, irritated, on a whim, I wrote a joke:

“If I get 250 followers by midnight tonight, I will insert a banana into my bum and post a picture of it at 12:03am”

It’s just a joke, right?

WRONG.

1 minute after I post it. A message from my friend Christina Martin:

“You in trouble boy. One of my followers with 7000 plus followers just retweeted my retweet of your banana pledge.”

What?

“SEVEN THOUSAND”

WHAT the sweet holy fuck?? But it’s just a joke!

NO. Suddenly, my Twitter page is going APESHIT. PEOPLE ARE RETWEETING MY POST. I get 20 new followers in 20 minutes. Messages are coming in:

“I've never followed anyone before on the promise they'll put a banana up their bottom but there's a first time for everything”

“Worth a follow. I particularly like the fact you've allocated yourself a precise 3 minutes for this feat & photography.”

“follow @JoeHunter_ he's going to do something brilliant”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

200 followers. 208, 213, 221.

I calculated it. ‘I’ve got 6 hours til midnight. If I get this many followers at this (fucking alarming) rate, in 6 hours my arsehole will see more banana peel than a fucking monkey house.

I had no idea it would turn into a thing. IT WAS A JOKE. A horrifying question hits me: Do I actually have to stick it UP my arse?? I’ve promised all these people. They’re following me, they’re spreading the news. (‘Spreading’ Not a word I would normally choose - The horror is infecting my subsoncious to the core). Would it be wrong to short change all these people and not give them what they want?

Christina: “Screw them. If they want to see a banana up an arse let them bend over in front of a mirror and do it themselves”

Good point.

Although I am attracting new followers, am I attracting the right kind of people? THEY WANT TO SEE ME PUT A BANANA UP MY ARSEHOLE.

Wait a minute, if they’re the weird ones for wanting to see it..WHO AM I FOR OFFERING TO FUCKING DO IT

And why did I just choose 250 followers? I had 180. So. I’ve offered to insert myself with solid fruit. For just 70 Twitter followers?? Jesus. Is this how cheaply I regard my own dignity?

I had to get to my gig for the night. (Oh yeah, I had a gig) Which meant I had to get off Twitter for a couple of hours. Thus triggering off a deeply edgy, twitchy evening. I’m travelling on the tube jittering and flinching like a meth head.

Three hours travelling to gig, do gig, come home from gig. Immediately log on. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO FOLLOWERS

NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have to stick a banana up my arse.

In one hour.

OK, fuck it. I’m doing this. If I’m going down, I go down in flames.

“OK, you lot wanted a banana up my arse. Done. Game on. We've got one more hour, lets get this up to 280 and I'll tie a fucking ribbon on it”

I’ll be honest. I had to consider this fact: I had to bare my arse on the internet. It’s gonna be plastered all over the fucking place. I won’t lie. I thought about what I was about to do. And washed my arse. Yes. Gave it a good old flannel. A good scrub. I don’t normally have a dirty arse, but just in case, right? I’m in my bathroom literally washing my arse with an old flannel, wondering what kind of fucking human being I’ve become. I’m 35 years old. I’m supposed to be a respectable grown up by now. But no, I had to go an promise the internet I’d stick a banana up my bum.

How am I going to do this? No choice. I have to get my housemate to take the picture as I expose my sparkling rump. She’s only been here a few months. Poor cow. She works hard, she doesn’t need this shit. To be fair, she pissed herself. I pulled my trousers down in the kitchen and just as I’m about to shove it up my arse, she’s looking RIGHT at me.

“Don’t look!!”

She literally falls to the floor laughing. I mean crying her eyes out. For a good two minutes. I’m glad someones getting some enjoyment out of it.

12:03am. Here we go.


(When you upload the photo, it says 'Insert into post'. 'Insert'. Even Wordpress is fucking laughing at me)

The lesson here is: Don’t promise to stick a banana up your bum for Twitter followers. Under no circumstances. Ever.

Gig No.45 done. Promoter Joe Grant, possibly anticipating the horror of what is to come

June 1st, Sunday. Gig No.45, Hideaway Open Mic night, Tufnell Park

Here’s a first. There was a Greyhound in the audience. An actual Greyhound. A very nervous Greyhound. Who can blame it. (I don’t know what sex it was. Excuse me for not being a massive weirdo and checking) This gig is in a dark basement with strange noises emanating from strange machines while lots of big people all sit facing the same direction with arms crossed in cold, creepy blank eyed silence. This room is weird. I’d better not sit, I’d better stay standing in case I needs to run. Why does my owner keep pushing me down and trying to makes me sit. Why does the blokes who is writing me writes like I’m Gollum. Don’t puts a rabbit in fronts of me I goes fucking mental.

Again it’s the music gig. I’m literally the only comic on. Naturally this makes me more nervous than usual. It’s outside my comfort zone. They say moving outside your comfort zone and forcing yourself to adapt to new situations helps you to grow. Not if you’re doing comedy to a fucking dog.

I really really couldn’t be arsed travelling out to do this gig. Sunday evening, I was THIS close to not doing it. I had to though. I fucking had to. This thing has turned into an Albatross for my neck. Wait. What the FUCK does that mean?? Wait a minute, let me Google it. OK. ‘A burden which some unfortunate person has to carry.’

“This phrase refers to lines from the poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in which the eponymous mariner, who shoots an albatross, is obliged to carry the burden of the bird hung around his neck as a punishment for and reminder of his ill deed.”

OK. Well. It’s a look innit? (Didn’t Lady Gaga wear an Albatross?) Maybe I should have shot the dog. I can wear a Greyhound dog around my neck as a metaphor for this terrible burden I’ve created for myself. You never know, it might catch on. I can flounce around like Quentin Crisp. “Darling, what is that you‘re wearing?? ‘It’s a Greyhound dear! It’s both a fashion AND a metaphor! DO keep up!”

I wonder how PETA would feel about this blog. I’ve killed more animals in it than a Japanese fishing trawler. (“Whales aren’t animals, they’re mammals” I hear you say. Oh piss off to Greenpeace you mug)

Anyway, I have nothing to write about, other than to say though I’d rather not do music gigs, I probably should do more as they really do force you out of your comfort zone and make you grow. They are like comedy viagra, only the 'growth' is permanent.

Gig No. 45 done. Promoter and MC Colin Devaney

May 29th, Thursday. Gigs No.43 + 44, Hilarity In Shoes, Ophelia + Monkey Business

Two gigs. Busy evening.

First gig. Pop down to Dalston to do Hilarity In Shoes. The rules for this club: No rape jokes. No racism, no sexism, no homophobia. I had no idea until the Matt the MC mentioned it when he started the show. For a moment I genuinely panicked. I actually asked myself: ‘Have I got any racist rape jokes??’ Course I fucking haven’t. But if I’d followed the advice of men in my Dad’s pub, I’d have fuckin tons of the stuff. But then I wondered if my bellydancing bit to the girls in the front row was sexist. Am picking on them and embarrassing or bellittling them with my wobbly gut? No. Of course not. I’m making a twat of myself.

The venue for some reason is called Ophelia. Whether that is in reference to the female character in Hamlet I have no idea. You know what happens to Ophelia right? She falls in love with Hamlet, he pretends to go mad and rejects her, then he kills her father. Then she actually goes mad, and drowns in a brook. Just what she would have wanted eh? 500 years later, her name on a pub. In Dalston.

In many ways, my stand up journey has been like Hamlet. (This is gonna be a stretch, but lets give it a crack)

I started this challenge young, hopeful and fresh. Thinking I am one day going to be a King. Then I find out my Uncle has murdered my Dad and married my own Mum. (OK, it falls apart now.) My Uncle is the audience, and the audience has murdered my act. No, wait, Father has been murdered and is in purgatory, so my Father is my act. And my Uncle is my own apathy and self destructive compulsion to keep myself small. And my Mum is..um..oh fuck it.

2nd gig Monkey Business. The pub called the Oxford. (Named after the Shakesepeare conspiracy theorist’s real Shakespeare the Earl of Oxford? OK this is getting fucking stupid now). As soon as I entered the room, the promoter Martin put me on. No time to think. Good. That’s best for a man like me. When I have too much time to think, I work myself into such a funk that I become paralysed by indecision and fear. (Shakespeare scholars would fucking LOVE that line, cause that’s exactly what Hamlet‘s problem was too. This is fucking clever stuff)

The promoter posted a pic of me onstage:


What worries me about this picture, is my shadow. It looks creepy. It makes me look like fucking Nosferatu. THE SHADOW OF THE VAMPYRE. Like I’m about to go slithering around in the dark scaring and biting women. Biting women, now, that’s definitely sexist.

*special thanks to Martin Besserman and Matthew Courtnell for both very kindly offering me walk in spots tonight

Gigs No.43 and No.44 done. MC and Promoter of Hilarity In Shoes Matthew Courtnell and Matt Duwell


MC and Promoter of Monkey Business Martin Besserman