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