April 29th, Tuesday. Gigs No. 22 + 23, Big Red, Deptford + Party Piece, Euston

Two gigs! On tube strike day! It's a miracle!! Praise the Lord hallelujah!! Like FUCK it was a miracle. It was pure dogged arse graft. I worked my bollocks off getting to these gigs. It took me three hours to get to the first gig. THREE HOURS. I managed to get into Paddington by train but then thats when the real work starts. I really should have brought the hiking gear, cause I had to trek through central London like a yak man. It was searing hot, the streets were rammed with people and traffic jams, as congested as my colon after a BBQ meat feast. And with all that, I had to herd the goats.

I somehow managed to get to the gig on time. Deptford. For me, the exact opposite end of London. I'm North West, Deptford is South East. The Big Red bus, as I've written about before. Ironic as I had to get there in fucking several of them. This time, the truck (Gigs in a truck, I wrote about it before in my other blog posts. Fucking read it you lazy shit) was full. With women. Lots and lots of women. All having just eaten pizza. (It's a pizza restaurant. Not some strange weird coincidence where 30 different people all happened to have pizza that night). Yes, I could smell the pizza. It's like in the old Roman Colosseum, apparently the vast crowds of poor people all had bad breath and it would all collectively surge onto the main floor like shitty wind. It's a wonder they managed to fight the tigers at all. Maximus Decimus Meridius would have done his speech like a weedy asthmatic.

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, COUGH, COUGH, commander of the Armies of the North, COUGH, General of the Felix Legions, COUGH, and loyal servant to the TRUE emperor, Marcus Aurelius. COUGH COUGH. Father to a murdered son, COUGH, husband to a murdered wife, COUGH. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next. COUGH.”

Not quite got the same gravitas eh? I often think about people in the past and their teeth hygeine. Usually when I watch period films and see characters frenching each other. Really?? Robin Hood and Maid Marian lived in the WOODS. In the 12 century or some shit. (I don’t fucking know, I’m not a History teacher. Piss off.) Their teeth must have looked like pigeon roadkill. Strips of leaves and dead squirrel hanging off their yellow teeth. Kiss? FUCK THAT.

Anyway, I got on first in the truck, then dashed off to do the spot in Euston. It was relatively easy to get there, as the Northern line was actually running. I get there, anticipating a room full of eager little beavers. It was full of men. All men. Horrible stinking little pervert men. Not one single female. The first gig was full of women, this one full of men. There’s a metaphor here, but I can’t be assed finding it. OK, I’ll try: Tonight was like...ah, fuck it. CAN’T BE ASSED. I’ve got two more gigs tonight, and one more tube strike hell to battle. I’m off to to milk my goats.

Gigs No 22+23 done. MCs Ruth Bruce and Hjalmar Tjan

April 28th, Monday. Gig No 21. Soho Comedy Club, Leicester Square

Due to unforeseen circumstances at the weekend (I stayed in bed doing fuck all) it only occurred to me this morning that I didn't have a gig lined up. And, horror of horrors, I realise I am perilously close to forfeiting this godforsaken bet. I have gone two nights in a row without doing a gig, and if I don’t do one tonight, I will fail the task and bring shame on myself and my own self imposed comedy honour code. This is in itself ironic, as most comics have no honour. We will sell our own grandmothers for a quality gags and TV work. In fact, before he was famous, you could acquire Jimmy Carr's grandmother for 10 gags. 10 good gags and a Gonk.

In the olden days in the Far East, Samurai warriors would gut themselves to death if they had failed their missions and shamed their code. They'd walk out into the wilderness somewhere, slice open their bellies and bleed silently in anguished shame. They did so because they were deeply honourable men, and could not live with their failures. Personally, I think they were cunts. I have no problems in this area. I can live with it. As I said, I have no honour. (Check out my thriving new online business Ebay Grannies.) I balk at such extremities. Part of the honour of life is having the courage to deal with your mistakes, to atone for your errors and become a better, stronger person for the experience. Saying that I will probably exile myself. Simon Douglass’ flat will need painting and I'm fucked if I'm gonna do it. I will go on the run. I’ll stay in flea pit hotels and live on beans on toast til that fucker cares no more.

In March, I popped over to his place to discuss the bet and no sooner had I set foot inside his door when he suddenly started showing me jobs that needed doing. Let me take my fucking coat off. Showing me damp in his bathroom before I could even catch my wanker's breath. (I'm a heavy breather, I call it wanker's breath.) Knowing how keen he is to see me fail, I suspect he has planted some kind of bug on me to monitor my movements. He's probably tracking my fingers on this keyboard right now. (I get my revenge by masturbating. I bet he gets confused when he sees my right hand whizzing up and down like a hand held party sparkler. Small pleasures. Revenge that is.)

So, enough with the wank gags. Today is serious. It's an emergency. I HAVE to find a gig today, or perish. I send out an SOS distress call on Facebook to find a gig. I feel like Jack Bauer. The clock is ticking. I have to find a gig, or the terrorists will release the toxic nerve gas into the city water supply, and millions of people's faces will melt off like grilled cheese. My daughter has also been kidnapped, but fuck her, she’s a tool. She's always getting kidnapped, and consistently makes worse decisions than a dog with a nail gun. (You might query the feasibility of this joke, as dogs don't have opposable thumbs. You're probably right. Somewhere along the line in the last million years, dogs had a choice between having opposable thumbs and balls. Guess what they chose? Knowing what they can do with their balls, it’s the sensible decision. Their blessing is also their curse.) Alas, the good gent David Mulholland had a spot at his club at the Round Table. Excellent. Disaster averted, toxic nerve gas removed, faces intact. But don’t drink any tap water for a coupla days, just in case.

Now I have a tube strike to beat. Somehow, I have to get to Deptford from Uxbridge. I am bringing hiking boots, a portable gas fire and a tent. And a pick axe. If you work for London Underground, don’t approach me, I'm dangerous.

Gig No.21 done. Promoter and MC David Mulholland
(The gig was very nice, and somehow amidst the strike managed to find an audience!)

April 25th, Friday. Gig No.20, Comedy Cottage, Redhill

After last nights toilet trauma, anticipation of tonight's gig didn't start too well. I looked in my diary and thought “Where the fuck is Redhill??” I asked another act and he said “Ah, Redhill. Coming just out of the bottom of London” Coming out of the bottom of London?? Ah, shit. Another toilet. Perhaps. The directions weren't too encouraging either. “When you come out of the station, head across the road and make straight for McDonald's. Take a right past McDonald's, and keep walking til you get to Poundland..” Wow. This is getting worse. I head out to the gig with a heavy heart. And a double decker drill, in case I get trapped in any toilets. Or if there is a DIY emergency in the middle of town, involving three distressed swimwear models and a really tricky shelf bracket. You never know! Optimism, that's my natural default.

As I get there, I see a Sainsburys. I walk in, and it’s EXACTLY like my own Sainsburys! I mean IDENTICAL. The layout is exactly the same. All the aisles are in the same places. (I'm even sure one of the shelf stackers works in the one in Hayes? Either he’s a twin or they're building clones. Now that would be creepy as hell. Mindless cloned droids working in stores all over the country, stacking cans of petit pois and stringy cheese) I found it all extremely weird. Dotted in towns all over the country are supermarkets that are all identical. Not just supermarkets - pubs, coffee shops, shopping malls. What kind of weird, sterile world are we building? Everywhere you go is a replication of somewhere you've been before. Everywhere is the same. I think if the place is exactly the same and you feel like you've been there before, your brain shuts down, you stop thinking and go into safe mode. You become a shopping Zombie. Which is ideal for supermarkets, cause they want what's in your wallet. But not ideal for their staff, cause you want their brains. (Maybe that's why they’re building clones?) They’re getting like gambling dens and casinos - they're all set up so that people lose track of time. There are no clocks and hours go by before you realise it's daytime and you've got nowhere to live cause the house has robbed all your gear. You don’t even own the clothes you walked in with. They chuck you out onto the street bollock naked with a lollipop up your arse. Fuckin fruit machines.

Then I get to the gig. And. Ahem. It's different! Nice different though, set in a nice little theatre. Most of the shows seemed to be 80's tribute band shows and psychic mediums. And most of the people there were older than Noah. This theatre was an Ark of middle of the road entertainment. And vermin scum who shaft grieving people with cold reading tricks and shiny lights. But the gig itself was refreshing. One of those rare gigs I do that are well run and have proper set ups. You know, like a proper comedy club. A sound engineer, decent seating arrangement, a stage, lighting. And paying punters up for a good night of comedy. Always fun to do those. It got decidedly less fun when I got out my double decker drill though. Apparently the people of Redhill don't do veiled threats and power tools. But if I pretend I'm talking to their dead loved ones and give them false hope - THAT'S FINE. (I hate psychic mediums, can you tell?)

Gig No. 20 done. MC and lovely lady Sajeela Kershi


Poster:

April 24th, Thursday. Gig No.19. Audley Cellar Bar, Mayfair

What's the most interesting thing that happened tonight? Well, you couldn't make it up. My cousin came down with me tonight, and before the gig we decided to treat ourselves to an Ed's shake. Classic. That stuff goes down your throat like, well, like an Ed's shake. If you drink a nice drink, like, say, a good cappuccino or a cold beer, that's your analogy. “That stuff went down like an Ed's shake”. Then have 10 more. (10 more cold beers. You can’t have 10 more Ed's shakes. You’ll shit like a Giraffe.)

So we've sat and ordered our shakes. “Just popping to the toilet” I said. I approach the disabled toilet and stop. “No, remember what happened last time” and pull away immediately. (What happened last time? You don’t want to know. Long story short, I sort of got into a screaming match with a man who had a colostomy bag. Don't ask me any more. Ask no questions, I tell no lies) I pull away, and make for the men's toilet, like a good citizen. I lock the door and do my business. (Pee pee, in case you were wondering. It’s got no relevance to the story but writing is all about details.) Wash my hands, all done. What happens? It ain't rocket science. If you haven’t realised by now the lock broke and I got stuck in the toilet, don’t apply for any rocket science courses any time soon, you have less chance of going to the moon than a shitting giraffe. (He had too many milkshakes)

Yes, I got locked in the toilet. The spring snapped inside the lock, the handle came loose. The bar was still jammed between the lock base and the door frame and I have no handle to unravel the bar. (I'm struggling to describe the nature of the malfunction, I’m not an expert in door locks. I'm Googling it now - Apparently it was a Privacy slide bolt with indicator release. How can I describe what happened? OK: IT FUCKING BROKE. IT SNAPPED OFF AND TRAPPED ME IN THE TOILET.) As I realised the gravity of the situation - the gig was starting in just half an hour - I started to panic. Visions of waiting for hours until the fire brigade come along and smash the door down and people filming me being helped out of the toilet/rubble crying and videos being uploaded all over the internet flash through my brain. I pulled the door handle in anger. And it snapped off. FUCKING GREAT NOW I CAN’T EVEN PULL THE DOOR OPEN LET ALONE UNLOCK IT.

I started banging the door hard. Then I took the decision to call my cousin who was at the time slurping on a world class strawberry shake. (He’s 34 years old, a father of one and an absolute twonk) He answered, and I actually said these words: “Greg, I'm locked in the toilet. Get the big guy to come over and kick the door down”. (I didn't ask Greg cause he’s got a 'bad back'. What fucking use is he) The big guy came round and started trying to turn the lock. The lock is going round and round like a washing machine, fucking useless. “THERE'S NO POINT TRYING TO TURN THE LOCK, JUST KICK THE DOOR DOWN!”. To further my indignity, the toilet was so small, to make space for the door about to be potentially kicked in, I had to stand on the toilet. I am dressed smartly in suit jacket with slicked back hair and good boots, now I'm standing on a toilet, half squatting cause the ceiling was too low. Thank you LIFE. “JUST KICK THE DOOR DOWN!! STOP TURNING THE LOCK”. The lock handle is still twirling round and round and I'm getting seriously irritated, a grown man in a suit standing on a microscopic toilet wondering who the fuck is laughing at me. Greg, apparently. He said “You've made my day. That’s the funniest thing you’ll do all night”. Thanks Greg. You must come to one of my comedy nights again. Keep slurping on your shake you fucking twonk.

The strange thing was, I learnt something about myself tonight. I learnt that I have a deep psychological scar around being locked in toilets. When I was about 3 I once got locked in my Grandad's upstairs toilet. I couldn't unlock the door. If you think Eds toilet was microscopic, this one was smaller than a monkey cage. (In fact, I think it WAS a monkey cage. That would explain why Grandad kept feeding me fruit). I basically panicked and started crying and screaming, scared shitless at being hemmed in and trapped. My Grandad had to spend ages trying to detach the lock from the door, using all manner of tools (All while keeping me well stocked in bananas) I think in the end he actually had to use a big fuck off drill to get through. This might well have affected me a lot more deeply than previously thought, as when I realised that I was trapped in this concrete toilet behind a well sealed thick wooden door with no air or space, a surge of real fear went through me. The memories flashed back. OK, fear of being trapped in small spaces is hardly irrational (Especially if you’re obese and you own a Fiat Uno). But it was only a couple of days ago I was thinking about the Victor Meldrew scene when he got buried neck deep in his own mulch. It’s that feeling of being totally immobilised and trapped that really gives me the willies. (That’s why I never let fat girls go on top) Not being able to free myself and being stuck, hemmed in. Really truly horrible feeling. Anyway, long and short of it is, every time I see a small toilet, I have panic attacks.

And thinking about it, all of this is actually a really good metaphor for my struggles with comedy. I am ‘trapped’ in the infernal toilet of comedy...No wait, I am trapped in a prison/toilet of my own limited abilities...I want to leave the toilet. The toilet is my own poverty ridden tedious life. No wait, let me start again.

My life is a toilet. I am skint, trapped by my own poverty. I have no real job skills, no real way out. I am locked in. My only way out is to unlock the door. The lock on the door, is my comedy. It is the little tiny shiny key to my freedom. If I unlock my comedy and open the toilet door, I can burst out into the open and experience that freedom and liberation that comes with success. But. When I try to turn the lock/do comedy, the lock snaps off. I am left stuck in the toilet. I call this, the Prison of Personal Ineptitude. (Initials PPI, not to be confused with Payment Protection Insurance. There is no protection from personal ineptitude. If you have this disease, you’re stuck with it until you find a way out of it) If I can learn to do comedy without snapping it off, maybe, just maybe, I can escape this claustrophobic nightmare. But not tonight. I did the gig and snapped the lock again. Fuck it.

P.s. The big man kicked the door in. I was freed at last. And guess what - they let us have the shakes on the house! A free Ed's shake, it all turned out good again. Until I did the gig. I paid for that one.

Gig No.19 done. Again, I forgot to take a pic. My apologies. I definitely did the gig, you can ask my cousin Greg. He was there. For now, here’s a picture of a toilet

April 23rd, Wednesday. Gig No.18, Bear Funny, Finsbury pub

I'm going to be a little cheeky here. I'm not going to write much. I have a lot to do today, and it doesn't entail writing for you fucks. What can I say about tonight's gig? Well, I was pissed off all the way home. I went on second last, and pretty much the whole audience pissed off by the time I got on. The last few stragglers all lined up the front row. Credit to them, they stuck it out. But when I did my act, most of them all had really arrogant, patronising looks on their faces. (One comic looking bored). Real fucking annoying. They didn't really get what I was doing.

I'm being immature and stupid, with no real jokes, trying to get away with it. I'm a chancer who has no business being on stage. But they just think: 'He's really immature and stupid, with no real jokes, trying to get away with it. He’s got no business being on stage!' But THAT'S the joke! My act is the joke! How DARE these people patronise me! The thing is, I don’t think I am performing it properly yet. It’s not conspiratorial enough. (Or rehearsed enough. Think pianist walking out into a concerto and banging the keys like Mighty Joe Young after a really uncomfortable enema). I still need to work on it. But when something's not quite working, how long do you persist with it? When do you call it a day? Some ideas take a long long time to click into gear. But some ideas won’t ever click into gear. There’s no real way of knowing. All I know is when I think of dropping it and doing a regular ‘Hey guys isn't bread funny’ act, it depresses me. I reckon 90% of acts these days are straight men/women doing conversational acts. Straight man talking funny. I don’t want to be straight man talking funny. I want to be weird man talking bollocks. Weird child man talking bollocks, and running off before the promoters lynch me.

Anyway, I’m off, as I said - today is gonna be a short one. I wonder if Ronnie Corbett says that to himself in the mirror?

Gig No.18 done. MC Gary Sansome

April 22nd, Tuesday. Gig No. 17, We Are Funny, Dirty Dicks

There’s an issue lately with my photos. Theoretically they are here to serve as ‘proof’ that I have actually done the gigs. But the last two I have posted pics of empty seats and a squirrel in a bin. And low and behold, one or two people have questioned my integrity. How DARE they. To think, as if I would go to all the trouble of telling everyone I know that I am doing a challenge like this, only to start manufacturing stories about this gig and that gig, waxing lyrical about shit that’s only happening in my diseased brain. Some fantastic nutter leading a Walter Mitty double life through the pixelated fantasy land that is the internet. What kind of bellend would I have to be to do that?? As if.

Saying that, every time I’m on a date with a young lady, I tell more lies than Richard Nixon. They walk away thinking “Wow. He seems nice. He’s rich, he’s successful, and really really modest. He definitely wouldn't hire some goons to break into my flat and bug my phones. I might see him again!” The next week she meets a magically intuitive man with amazing insight. He seems incredibly tuned into her. They have so much in common! She watches X Factor and Gogglebox, he too watches X Factor and Gogglebox! She takes dance classes, he too takes dance classes! She likes horses, he too likes horses! He seems to be her twin! He seems to be almost spiritually aligned to her deepest passions, it’s amazing, he even finishes her sentences, he mirrors her soul! He just ‘gets’ her! He UNDERSTANDS her. But, in actuality, what he only understands is lies. Lies and state of the art surveillance hardware. Her flat has more bugs than a Bacterial Disease Clinic. Botulism doesn't come close to this fuck.

That aside, how DARE you question my integrity. I'm doing this thing to become the best stand up I can be, if I were to stop gigging but spend the whole year writing fake blog entries that would be MENTAL. I'm not doing this to become a blogging Queen. This isn't the fake moon landings. I'm not Neil Armstrong in a mocked up moon studio, pretending to be in space just cause I told everyone I would be going to the moon. I'm not trying to beat the Russians. There are no Russian comedians doing a 365 gigs in a year challenge. As far as I know. If there is, I will beat that COMMIE FUCK.

If you try to get to the moon, but fail, there is no shame in it. But if you try to get to the moon, fail, then construct a complex, large scale hoax to cover up your failings, and dupe everyone you care about along the way, then you need help. You need more help than that bloke who dressed as Batman to get his kids back. Give me some credit eh? Anyway, I'm off to monitor some phone calls. My latest squeeze has a cracking flat.

Gig No.17 done. Ironically the promoter was unable to take a picture with me, so I got another act called Toby to take a picture of me on stage to prove my moon landings are real. But, he cocked up. Boy, did he cock up:

First one, blurry


Second one, blurry again


Third time lucky? FOR FUCK SAKE


This is the bellend who took them (Toby French), so if you need proof that I did this gig, hunt him down. Make his life HELL

April 21st, Monday. Gig No 16, Hideaway Bar

So it was with heavy heart I set out this evening onto depressingly silent empty streets, the grey miserable skies and rain tumblin’ on ma head. The rest of the nation are sat indoors, recovering from sugar withdrawals and chocolate loaded colons and here I am, heading out into the arsehole of London for a gig.

I’ve just had a really nice, chilled out weekend off. It’s funny, 2000 yrs has turned one man’s immense suffering into a cracking holiday weekend. 2000 years will do that. If before he died Mandela was hung on a cross there would be world wide outrage and wars, then time would pass and before you know it they’re having bank holidays and eating Holographic Curly Wurlys in space, to celebrate the anniversary of Holy Mandela‘s crucifixion. (It’s a sad testament to humanity that I can’t think of one single living prophet like great human to illustrate this joke.)

I fancifully considered not doing the gig. But then remembered I’ve already missed two evenings in a row, and if I miss another I start work tomorrow painting Simon Dougie’s flat. For those of you who don’t know/haven’t bothered reading the 365 challenge contract page, Simon D is the ruthless maggot who took the opportunity to profiteer from the failure of my dream. Safe to say, we won‘t be having any Bank Holidays for him. (P.s. It’s his birthday today, please send him cake. And lace it with ritalin and rat shit.)

I get to the gig and yes, low and behold, there’s no audience. And why should there be? You’ve just had an extended 4 day weekend, you got pissed up on Friday and Saturday, ate more eggs than a Komodo dragon on Sunday, and Monday is your chance to relax and enjoy the novelty of a Monday off. So why on earth would you go: “I know! Instead of chilling out and enjoying a satisfying night in, lets go out into the rain and find a basement room in an empty pub and watch about 15 low level open mic acts perform in a void!” (Sorry acts who were there, I don’t mean it. The joke doesn’t work as well if I say you’re all comedy superstars and you’re doing the best shit thats ever been done in the history of comedy. Needless to say, of course you are superstars and yes, the shit you did tonight made me laugh inside til I had borderline rectal prolapse. Dont take it personally if you didn’t hear me actually laughing though. I’ve seen too much comedy and I’m too jaded. Even if Jim Carrey himself came out bollock naked and started doing an impression of Jesus hung on a cross while trying to eat an easter egg with his feet - I would still sit there with a thin anaemic smile, privately wondering if comedy has made me dead inside.) So, the Easter weekend began with the crucifixion of Jesus, and ended with the ressurection of my comedy challenge. It didn’t exactly come back to life though. Onward we go.

Gig No.16. The front row.