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