May 7th, Wednesday. Gig No.30, Italian gig, Blue Posts

Life has it’s way of helping lend a little perspective when you need it. I had such a shit set tonight, I left and started walking down the road fuming with myself. Then suddenly to my right I saw an 8ft security guard dragging a violent drunk woman along the floor out of McDonald’s. See? It all felt so much better. No matter how bad things get in life, most of us can safely say we’ve never been so drunk we actually got thrown out of a McDonald’s. (Actually I once got thrown out of a Walkabouts. Sober. That’s 10 times worse)

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

May 6th, Tuesday. Gig No.29, Bear Funny, Pub on the Green, London Fields

Another gig with 'Bear' in the title. Bears seem to be quite popular amongst the comedy promoting community. Maybe they all had a meeting and decided that from now on, all comedy clubs must have the word 'Bear' in the title. Naturally comedy is full of rebels so only one or two have actually complied. I get the feeling I'm going to piss off another couple of promoters with this opening paragraph. (Please don’t get pissed off, I've written it in service of a larger point. And in case anyone‘s interested, there‘s only one other gig with 'Bear' in the title, and that’s just a coincidence. There’s a lot more comedy clubs names with the word 'Comedy' in it. Now THATS a fucking liberty.)

That's the problem with this blog. It's public. Promoters are reading it. I am pissing people off, and getting less gigs as a result. So what do I do? Do I be honest, and say what I really think? That would be more interesting for the readers. Or do I turn this into a sanitised bullshit rag, giving 5 star reviews to shithole clubs, buttering up promoters to win favour and an extra gig or two?

Well. This challenge is all about doing 365 gigs in 1 year. I need all the gigs I can get. That is the primary goal. I am doing a gigging challenge, not a blogging challenge. Keeping you lot interested is not the goal. And, lets face it, you’re not on my side. You don't want to read about one's unbridled success. You want to read about the fuck ups, the arguments, the needle infested toilets that I have to crawl through just to get one more mark on my Blue Peter thermometer, one more notch on my gig sex bed post. (I have no idea what that means). The cocks we have to suck to get ahead in this business - you would not fucking believe. Oh, the HORROR, the HORROR. (That's an Apocalypse Now reference. Ironically I've shaved my hair off so actually look like Brando in it. I’m fat now too. A fat gut and a bald head. You can smell the self loathing. Now I know why he made necklaces out of people's ears)

So, from now on, believe nothing you read. Everything here is a lie. Every promoter I meet is a comedy love God, and all their gigs are like fucking Vegas. Tonights gig, what can I say. I walked in there and they swept me up on a golden throne, carried me along in triumphant fanfare, in a glorious procession of naked adulation, with hundreds of giggling servant girls showering me with chocolate nipples.

No it didn't. Honestly? It was a nice little room actually. In a pub next to a large park with some cool multi leveled outdoor decking for food and sunshine. The room again principally made up of other acts, but a decent space and a supportive vibe. I hope I'm allowed back, as it's an ideal room for experimentation. I really do need to experiment a lot for a while, and find a way to make what I'm doing work properly. If the promoter thinks I was too weird, don’t worry, I can dial it down - one is perfectly capable of being normal. Now I'm off to chop the ears off dead people.

Gig No.29 done. Promoter Andy Quirk

May 5th, Monday. Gig No.28, Hideaway, Archway

This is the REAL gig no.28. Will the real gig no.28 stand up? I repeat, will the real Gig No.28 please stand up?

Yes. Last nights gig didn't count. I walk off after one joke. I don't want anyone questioning the validity of this challenge, so I'm scratching it. This one counts though. I over ran my 5 minute slot! There’s no doubt I did this slot. We started with just other acts in the audience but then all the real punters decided to start walking in half way through each of my routines. I made them all sit in the front row by way of punishment. I needed a gig like tonight, the last two were depressing. I had fun, even though I was still all over the place. Still avoiding doing the act properly! My blog entries are going to be a lot shorter for the next couple of weeks as I need to find somewhere to live. I have to manage my priorities. One of them being: 'Make house out of cardboard box'.

To compensate, below are some pics another act took of me on stage. I am shocked. I have a massive belly and a mullet. I need to straighten myself the fuck out. I'm losing it. In fact, I'm shaving my hair off the moment I post this. Then going to the gym. Check the next entry for my new skinhead. Don't expect the gut to be gone after one session, I'm not 18 yrs old any more. I'm 35. It'll take oooh, at least 6 years. Laters

Gig No.28. MC Joe Grant, who is getting sick of the sight of me.

May 4th, Sunday. Gig No.28, Unit 4 Sports Bar, Essex

Tonight, I walked off stage after 30 seconds. This definitely wasn't my gig. These weren't my people. A small sports bar in Essex, a load of pissed up illiterates in football shirts all standing at the bar, and a microphone stand on the floor right in front of them. It wasn't a comedy club, it was death row. I did my first joke, and went down like a lead balloon. The bloke standing right in front of me wasn't even bothering to look at me, talking to his mate standing next to him. (Yes, they were standing. Absolutely no attempt at seating arrangement. A show just started in the middle of the pub floor). So the first joke died, the room went silent. I looked down at my set list. And the life sucked out of me. They were never in a million years gonna go for this shit. And in that moment there was no fucking way I was prepared to degrade myself for this lot. “This ain't my gig. You’re not even listening”. I put the microphone back in the stand, and walked off. Muttering “Fuck this gig” to myself, pissed off. Walked off, walked out.

When you've just had a really bad gig, you get depressed for a long time. Unless you're brave enough to go out and do another gig straight away. It almost always isn't anywhere near as bad. But I don't usually do that. I'm a brittle boned comic. After a gig like Fridays I usually disappear from comedy for months and dwell on it until my castrated self belief regrows itself. Hence, I started this challenge. This time, obviously, the gig after the bad gig was even worse. My train journey home was about as fun as genital herpes. As I'm dwelling morosely on the death of my dream, in the distance I saw a red sky setting on the Olympic observation tower. Ah! A visual metaphor: Another grandiose dream setting into the dusk. Then I saw a field with some sheep in it. Another metaphor! Like the precious years of youth flushed away in pursuit of a cherished vagary - a load of sexually malleable animals going to waste in a shitty field. (I'll lay off the metaphors from now on, promise)

Every once in a while, a delusional person gets hit with a jolt of reality. This jolt breaks through the wall of their denial, the mental illness melts away and they experience a clarity they never had before. Once they realise how truly delusional they’d been, a depression kicks in, as the joyful, comforting fantasy world they’d created no longer exists. All that is left is the cold hard snap of reality, and a shell shocked, bug eyed gimp staring back in a mirror. That's what dying on your arse is like. You spend years fantasising that you are a man with a future, who has in his hands a precious destiny, then one bad gig in an Essex sports bar later, and there you are dribbling in a white hospital sheet, bare arse hanging out as you wheel your med stand up and down the ward. Muttering to yourself “FUCK this gig”.

I was thinking on the train last night about how all comics must loathe themselves deep down to put themselves through this shit. It's not healthy at all. After sending an apology to the promoter later on he very kindly said not to worry and keep on gigging. He did say that he was surprised, as he's never seen that before either gigging or promoting. True. I've never seen it before either. Act goes on, tells one joke. Then just suddenly walks off. As I said, at the moment, I am feeling a bit brittle. After the awfulness of Friday, when I looked down at my stuff, in that moment I just knew this would not be a good experience. I just wasn't willing in that moment to put myself through that. Not very professional, I know. Doing stand up, you do have to accept the risk that you will once in a while make a complete cunt of yourself. It IS degrading at times. That's what we put ourselves up for. That's the risk we take. I find that extremely hard. Sometimes, there is some part of me that won't allow it. There has to be a better way. A way to do it with dignity. A way for me to act like a prize bonehead in front of strangers without compromising my self respect. No there isn't. If you want to be a comedian, you have to let go of your dignity. Them's the rules.

Tonight was as close as I could possibly get to quitting. Three awful gigs, Wednesdays, Fridays and tonights. Then walking off after 30 seconds. This is as low as it gets. The whole thing is teetering on the edge of total collapse. All it will take to nudge me over the cliff is one tiny little whisper of air. So damn close. But not yet.

Glory or breakdown I said. I think tonight definitely fell into one of those brackets. They should just be grateful I didn't start smearing the walls in shit.

(Technically does this count as a gig? Well I travelled for 2 hours to Essex. I performed a bit - One joke - of comedy to an audience. It counts. Simon agrees. If you don't agree, please PM me or comment below and state why. I will genuinely consider scratching this gig off.)

Gig No.28 done. MC Freddie Jarvis, a nice bloke.

May 2nd, Friday. Gig No.27, Gits and Shiggles, Islington pub

I've just physically lived through a universal nightmare. You know the one. You get up on stage in front of the whole school, and your pants fall off. And they all laugh. You're fucking humiliated, and you will now fear public speaking for the rest of your life. Yes kids. I'm living through this shit for real.

No, my underpants didn't actually fall off. But my comedy underpants did. Comedy. That thing I care about and want to be good at. They fell off, and all that was left was my shrivelled pecker of an ego, laid bare for the whole school to laugh at. (My other worst nightmare was being tied to the floor with snakes crawling all over me, but that's not symbolic, I'm just a kinky bastard.)

Firstly let me say I have no complaints about the gig itself. It was a fantastic room, beautiful, well run and nicely set up. If I had one little misgiving it was this: When the MC introduced me, he said "This next act is doing a really interesting little project. He is doing 365 gigs in a year". Now, on the face of it, not a problem. But it was his tone. It was vaguely patronising. The tone. "This next act is doing a really interesting project". It made me sound like a cub scout doing bob a job. No - He made me sound like Chemo boy. Make a Wish project boy. Like a charity case. The subtext here is "This guy wouldn't normally get a gig here, we’re doing him a favour cause he’s special". Thanks. I'm sure it wasn't meant in that way but it sounded shit. I'm going to ask MCs not to mention it at all from now on. At least not before I go on. It has absolutely nothing to do with my act or who I am on stage. Sounds like sour grapes, it's not. I am not blaming the MC for lowering audience expectations. The MC was fine. I am 100% responsible for what followed. But I definitely learned something there, and that is, if you're about to introduce someone on stage, try not make it sound like it's part of a bucket list. (I mistyped bucket list as ‘bucket lust’ Freudian slip? Freud, what a kinky bastard, worse than me. I bet he loved a bit of bucket lust. Whatever the FUCK that is)

Before I dissect in microscopic detail every last aspect of my beautiful humiliation, let me lay forth some back story. My act. There's an idea I have. A premise. The idea is that my character on stage is a psychopath who has no business being on stage. Just really strange, off kilter stand up that offers no punchlines or conclusions. The man is insane and he enjoys his insanity. And the theory is they find the absurdity of the lack of punchlines and weirdness cumulatively funny. This does work a few times, but it's a knife edge. Sometimes they think it's real, that I am actually just a weirdo with no punchlines. But that is actually the joke. The act is the joke. It's anti comedy. But the problem is, because it’s new idea I have no confidence in it. I'm nervous about doing it. I have no conviction. So when things start to go a little bit wrong, I abandon it. I drop character. I do weak little jokes to compensate. Or I outright avoid doing it from the start. I keep backing out of it. Sometimes. Most times. Every once in a while.

Last night, what happened, I immediately started avoiding doing my act by ad libbing about the room looking like a porn set, then tried to ad lib some stuff about the front row. And about them looking like a men's group. It's a new idea, and trying to work it out on stage the last four gigs. They didn't go for it at all. I dropped it, moved on. Did my horse tranquiliser joke. Yes, my only joke. They didn't laugh too much at that either. I am dropping it from now on, it's never really got that big of a response anyway. In any case, it misleads the audience into thinking I have actual jokes. (Don’t want them to get the wrong idea now do we?) Then I started to comment on the lack of response in the room. Then I did another bit that didn't work very well. Then I sighed and said "This is gonna be a long year" which got the biggest laugh. Then I tried to talk to the audience and avoid doing any more bits. They all started to laugh to themselves, looking at each other in bewilderment. ‘What the fuck is this guy doing’. I had no idea what I was doing actually. Actually I do. I was avoiding doing the act I had planned, cause I have no balls. But in doing that, I shot myself in the foot. I let the room affect me. That's the weird thing. They were actually starting to laugh at the absurdity of it. ‘This guy is nuts. He’s shit. He has no jokes’. I had no jokes cause I was avoiding doing an act with no jokes. (Unpick that one if you can. If you manage it, you've got a future in mental health) I said ‘I'm gonna get off’ and they all started to laugh and said No! They wouldn't let me get off. They were laughing at how bad I was, and wouldn't let me off until I told a joke. Bloke in the second row: ‘You've told ONE joke!’ They all laugh hard. That was a key point: What I SHOULD have done, is laughed too, then went “OK” and done a really really weird bit and cackled like a maniac. I should have been obstinate and deliberately did something absolutely devoid of punchlines. But no, I didn't do that. I got weak knees and decided to do a really old ‘joke’ that used to get laugh back in the day. I complied weakly. It got a weak laugh. (Weak knees, weak compliance, weak laughs. My sex life all over again) I apologised pathetically and got off. I don't think they were being unkind, they'd all paid 10 quid each and they wanted gags. They didn't dislike me. Actually I think they wanted me to do well. It was me who didn't give them the opportunity to 'get' my act, cause I fucking abandoned it, again. It will only ever work if I really go for it, balls out. You need thick skin in this business, which is unfortunate cause my skin is as thick as a chocolate flavoured condom.

Afterwards I was so pissed off and humiliated I thought about giving up. FUCK this. But that's the really fucking annoying thing about this challenge. It won't let me give up. It's made it impossible. I can't just decide to quit. So many people have been incredibly supportive about it and I can't just go: ‘I'm not doing it any more’. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. I would be SO depressed. (Or relieved? At last, the dream is finally dead and I can move on with my life. I can finally do what everyone else does, and settle down with an average woman, take an average job, drink tea and complain about hedges and slowly mentally decay like an out of date tea bag.) I've given up over lot less than last night. Having a whole room laughing at how shit you are isn't pleasant. It's not party time in Vegas. I'm not doing this cause I enjoy it. I have no desire to punish myself. I'm not some kind of masochistic sex pervert who likes getting strapped up and whipped with chains whilst wearing a giant pink fitted cloth nappy. (Actually, yes I am. Sit on a bucket and cover me in snakes bitch.)

But I can't give up. However, right now, I am taking a long weekend off. Except tomorrow night, I've got a gig in fucking Essex. Oh, shit.

After such a humiliation, I left the room in a hurry and forgot to get a snap taken with the lady who gave me the gig. Fortunately I took a picture of the stage as it was a great space. Not sure this constitutes proof that I did it though. However, as I said before, I would have to be a fucking mental case to make up a gig where I died on my unholy arse. Gig No. 27 done.

May 1st, Thursday. Gig No.26, White Bear pub, Ruislip

I woke up this morning feeling a terrible, sickening dread. A terrible, nauseating fear burning a hole in my gut. Oh, God. What have I let myself in for. Telling my Dad about tonights gig. I must have been insane.
“Who have you invited?”
“Oh, just a few people from my block. A few of the old ladies. Oh, and some blokes from the pub. And Noreen and John. And Denise. And Mum”
Oh, fuck. Everyone then. Fucking everyone.

It's scary enough doing stand up to strangers. But to relatives and blokes who drink in my Dad's pub?? Fucking forget about it. The risks are multiple: Dying on your arse in front of your parents isn't the problem. I can live with that. After all, they were the ones who changed my nappies. (Well my Mum did, you wouldn't see my Dad for dust) They've seen me at my absolute worst. When I was 12, my Mum had to shove a suppositry up my arsehole. Yes, me telling a joke and it not working in front of a roomful of people comes not fucking close to that vicious hell.

Dying on my arse in front of the old ladies who live in my Dad's building. That's a fear. Why? I don't need their approval. But I do visit my Dad a lot, (I’m a good son. Dutiful and loyal, and in any case, how else do I collect my pocket money) and when I do, often they are all in the common room by the lift to his floor and when my Dad's in there he forces me into this double act where he plays the piss taking Dad, and I the long suffering gimp son. We have to go through this shit every fucking time. He'll call me the black sheep of the family or an oily rag, I'll roll my eyes, and all the old biddies will coo like hens and tell him he doesn't know he's born, I am a lovely boy. So, if they see my act, that facade all goes. I die on my arse doing mental shit, the truth will unravel in their eyes and they will all realise that yes, he was right all along, Joe really is an oily rag.

In fact, you can add the blokes who drink in his pub to that scenario too. Every time I see him there, we have to play the act again. Fucking Steptoe and Son. The merciless piss taking, the awkward looks on their faces, knowing the son is playing his role under duress. If they come along and I see their faces sitting in the audience, they will be expecting some extension of our regular double act: “My Dad thinks I’m an oily rag. I’m not an oily rag. Except when I chuck one in his bed” BOOM
Also, it would be a working men’s club type of crowd. They like gags. Blue collar stuff. Jim Davidson types. What the FUCK would they make of me? I don’t do gags. (Read oily rag gag above)

When you anticipate what a gig will be like, and throw in your Mum and Dad, and relatives and various characters/associates of your Dad, you're imagining a heaving, packed audience brimming with the expectant curiosity of familiar faces. You're imagining acting like a goon to a chilling, stone cold silence and seeing those faces drop to the floor as my mouth dries up like a camel's arsehole. You're under pressure here. You HAVE to be funny. If you die on your arse in front of strangers, thats fine. You leave the gaff and never see them again. You can go home and nurse your fragile ego with junk food and angel cakes until the pain goes away. But if you die on your arse in front of people you have to see again and again and again - that's a living nightmare. Every conversation you have with them will thus forth will be framed with the underlying context that you are shit. They think you're shit. You think they think you're shit. They think you think they think you're shit. You think you're not as shit as they think you are, they think you don't realise you're as shit as they think you are. It tends to slightly befuddle a relationship. It creates tension. Resentment. It's like knowing they saw you do something weird. Like they accidentally saw you sexually fondling a basset hound while dressed as Mary Poppins. You're both pretending it never happened, but you both know it did. You're never the same after that.

Anyway. I know you were all expecting some kind of hilarious calamity to unfold. I'm really sorry to disappoint you all, but fuck all happened. They didn't turn up. It was just my Dad, my Mum and one or two friends. The crowd was nice, and I didn't die on my arse. I just about got away with it. Thankfully, there were no basset hounds in the room this time, and I could just about keep myself in check.

Gig No. 26 done. MC Pete Jee and lovely act Pamela Hilton

April 30th, Wednesday. Gigs 24 + 25, Dirty Dicks + Pear Shaped

When I left the house tonight, I kept my eye out for signs for what this evening would bring. And lo, 5 minutes into my journey, I spot an old man pissing hands free against a defunct public toilet. Yes, hands free, bold as brass. Both hands on hips, spreadeagled, pissing in the wind. Free as a bird. “Ah” I thought. “One of THOSE evenings.”

I've never seen a man piss with such confidence. Heck, I know men who can't piss with other people in the same area code, let alone standing with their geriatric wangs hanging out pissing like Diana’s memorial fountain. The weird thing was, I'm looking at this animal - he must have been about 80 - and when he looked at me I did that whole English thing of looking away, convulsed with embarrassment that I should be caught looking in even the vaguest direction of another human being. He had his prick out in broad daylight! Why am I the one being all repressed and awkward?? He should be fucking ashamed of himself. Though at his age, he probably pisses every two minutes. If I get to his age, I won't give two fucks. I'll be a shrivelled old bellend with nothing to look forward to any more. Women won't touch me and all my friends are dead. So if I need a piss and it's broad daylight, FUCK em.

Then, as I arrive in Paddington, a little old man from Bulgaria (Lets call him Great Uncle Bulgaria) showed me a tube map and asked me how to get to Charing Cross. I suggested he try the Bakerloo line, as I was pretty sure they were actually running a limited service from Queens Park to Elephant. Then, a pretentious Frenchman who was earwigging actually cut in and said that no, he doesn’t think the Bakerloo line was running. His puffy, rosy cheeked face looked annoyingly unconvinced. He then started to monopolise the conversation, giving Great Uncle Bulgaria all manner of whacko transport suggestions. I said I was pretty sure the Bakerloo line was running. But he's having none of it. He just poo poos me. I'm slightly miffed now. I'm a Londoner! I've suffered tube strikes my whole life! Who the FUCK are you. Pretentious Frenchy dismissing the indigenous wildlife who couldn't possibly know anything about how things work in their own fucking city. So, very subtly, I gently steered Uncle Bulgaria away from Frenchy, and confidently marched him towards the Bakerloo line. Which was closed. No it wasn't. (That's a shame, it would have been funny.) But no, it was fine, and he would have no problems getting to Charing Cross. If Frenchy had his way, he'd be somewhere in the underground sewage system, wading around in shit for 40 years. As I triumphantly pointed great Uncle Bulgaria the way to the escalator, the old mutt was so grateful he started to tell me his life story. His fingers lingering just a little bit too long on my arm. He come from Bulgaria he says, and his not in London for long time, and...oh fuck.

By the time I got to the first gig, I'd had enough of old men. They piss in the street, they get lost, they take you hostage and tell you tedious stories of personal hardship. I've got two gigs to do, piss off. It was a big night for me. I had two final gigs to do in my first month, and more importantly, Chelsea were playing in a massive semi final. If you know how that game went for Chelsea, you know how my gigs went for me. Chelsea got buckshot up the arse. So did I. Not the glorious final night of April planned. The second gig, I won't lie, the whole room thought I was a cunt. They looked at me like I'd threatened a baby with a snooker ball in a sock. Fucking philistines. I should have taken a note out of the pissing OAPs book and micturated all over em, hands free. Fuck em.

Gigs No. 24 + 25 done. MCs Alex Martini + Brian Damage