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