Bonus mould blog

I’ve been requested by one of my fans to write a bonus blog about demoulding. OK. I’ll give it my best shot.

Two days ago I noticed black mould creeping up the wall underneath my sink. “Right”, I said, “next time I go to the shops I’m getting some mould cleaner”. Two days passed. I still hadn’t bought any. And in those two days, my fear of black mould began to creep into my psyche like..well...black mould. Black mould is dangerous toxic shit, and if you breathe it in for long enough, you’ll have health problems like Tiny Tim. You’ll need proper medical care and a serious drug program if you’re going to get over it. A big christmas chicken from Mr Scrooge won’t cut it. So two days passed, and fuck it. I bit the bullet. I bought some mould cleaner, some sponges, plastic gloves and one of the those scrubbing sponges on a stick. “I’m going to deal with this. I can’t rely on Mr Scrooge for outdated medical care”

I got home with my bag of assorted mould weaponry, and went to work. Mould war. Lets do this. The first thing I did, I sprayed the mould with the cleaner. Instructions: Spray liberally, then wait five minutes. Mmm. Five minutes. Just enough time for a quick poo. I take a book into the toilet and kill five minutes. (It took 6 minutes, but who’s counting?) I pull my trousers up and make for my kitchen. An lo!! The black mould HAS DISAPPEARED. All of it - gone! Like invisible ink! Amazing stuff. Suddenly, I no longer have black mould. I no longer have that noxious lung nemesis infecting my clean air. My anxieties melt away and all is restored in Joe Hunter’s miserable little universe. And there did end one’s amazing mould adventures.

There.

Regretting asking me already eh? (If you feel like you've just wasted two minutes of your life reading this, how do you think I feel having spent 10 minutes writing it?)

Evil mould

Blog INTERMISSION

Blog INTERMISSION

Er, hiya! How’s it going? Alright? Cool. Me? Yeah, I’m er, good! Cool. Where have I been? Nowhere! Honest!

OK thats bollocks.

You want the truth? Ok. I’ll tell you the truth. Er, I’ve been in China! Yeah! Been um..training as a sleeper assassination agent. Yeah...Just waiting for my first mission now!

OK thats bollocks.

You want the truth? Ok. I’ll tell you the truth. Erm..I’ve been in South America! Yeah! River Plate signed me a striker and I’ve been banging in the goals but then my family got kidnapped and I’ve come back home because it’s safer.

OK thats bollocks.

I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!! I CAN’T TAKE THIS SHIT!! I CAN’T STAND THE LIES!!!

You want the truth? OK, heres the truth. Erm... I’ve been in Mexico! No this is the truth this time. Mexico. For real. Why? You know that bit in Born on the Fourth of July when Tom Cruise fucks off to Mexico to drink tequila and sleep with whores to get over his disillusion with the war? Well that was me after Edinburgh. Yes. Edinburgh was my Vietnam. I very much see myself like a modern day Ron Kovic. You might think it would be crass to compare myself with a man who lost his legs. But I’m going to do it anyway. When I got back from Edinburgh, I lost my legs. My comedy legs. I spent the first month in September doing gigs with missing limb syndrome, scratching an itch that wasn’t there. Convinced I was still OK and I’d left all the bad shit back in the war. Then slowly I realised I really had lost my legs, and fucked off to Mexico. If you still think this analogy is crass, you have NO idea was Edinburgh was like. YOU WEREN’T THERE MAN!!!! YOU WEREN’T FUCKING THERE!! There are real war veterans right now, all over the world, with missing limbs, all saying the same thing: ‘I might have no legs, but man...At least I’ve never had to do three weeks in Edinburgh during Festival month’. (OK, it’s getting crass. All donations to this edition of this blog will go to Poppies. Not the charity, I have developed a private heroin factory to ease the pain of my stumps.)

Edinburgh burned me out. I’ll cover that when the time comes. Then September. And October. And November. Amd December. Oh, Christ. So much blog to catch up on.

So think of this as an Intermission. Like they had in old fashioned moves. Like they had in Kubricks’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. That film’s very similar to my blog. The film is a meditative masterpiece set in the ancient past and not too distant future, ultimately a speculation on a possible final evolutionary step for mankind. Moving beyond the physical and the technological, toward the metaphysical and the transcendental. The dark monoliths gently nudging humanity toward perfect knowledge and transendental rebirth.

And my blog... Well..er...it’s got monkeys in it?



So yeah. Thats what this is. An intermission. Sometimes films/blogs are so intense you need breaks. But now, coming soon in a browser near you, part two of my 365 challenge is coming. Be warned. It’s gonna get freaky.



(Me, arriving home on the train from Edinburgh)

July 11th - 31st, Gigs 69 - 79. The Gigshank Redemption

Erm. Hello. It's been a long while hasn't it. Sorry about that. Why have I been gone so long? Well, to my shame, I've been in prison.

Eh?

Let me explain: I’ve been slacking off. Not with the gigs. I’ve been keeping up with the gigs, I’m on target. Promise. (Dunno why I’m making promises. I’ve broken more promises than a fruit machine addict with four kids. And, by 'on target' I really mean ‘behind already by about a month and a half’). No. This fucking blog. This absolute arseache of a blog. Since I’ve moved I’ve had no unlimited wireless internet at home. I can’t afford a new package right now. And I still haven’t figured out how to steal/siphon off other people’s internet like Richie and Eddie stealing the next door neighbours gas. GAS MAN!!! GAS MAN!! GAS MAN!!! (If you don't get this reference, GET OUT OF MY LIFE) So I have to travel to internet cafes or the library just to go online. What a fucking arseache. So I’ve been putting off the blogs. But I have to do Edinburgh. So I have to get these blogs done. I have to clear all accounts. So I looked at my wall chart and counted how many blogs I need to catch up on.

Eleven.

Fucking ELEVEN.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am genuinely a broken man. 11 blogs to catch up on. ELEVEN. I feel like I’ve been given a life sentence. I feel like this:

So how the hell am I gonna catch up with this shit? Easy. 11 blogs - that's a prison sentence. I’ve been sent down for life. I’VE GOT ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

"Cause I've got all the time in the world
All my life for you, girl
Now the timin' is right
Baby, we've got all night!"

* A lesser known classic by seminal Irish Rock Band 'The Boyzone'

July 11th, Friday. Gig No.69, Dog House, Kennington

I will not talk about the gigs. I will talk the hard time I’ve suffered as I write this blog. This first post - my first five years in jail. The hardest five years.

The Doghouse! How apt. I’m in right in it. This gig, I was taken there in a prison bus handcuffed to all the other acts. As we entered, we were lined up in a dark room in front of the promoter warden. She starts talking about “Discipline, and the Bible”.

One act pipes up.

“When do we go on?”

One of the promoter warden's guards starts screaming at him

“YOU GO ON WHEN WE SAY YOU GO ON! YOU
PISS WHEN WE SAY YOU PISS! YOU SHIT
WHEN WE SAY YOU SHIT! YOU SLEEP
WHEN WE SAY YOU SLEEP! YOU MAGGOT-
DICK MOTHERFUCKER!”

Then he rams his club into the acts belly, sending him collapsing to the floor in a wheezing, asthmatic mess.

Oh. It’s gonna be one of them gigs.

(Your enjoyment of this blog will depend entirely on having watched the Shawshank Redemption. If you’ve not seen it and want to find this blog funny, you’d better go watch it pronto.)

Gig No.69 done. Promoter warden So Ying Pang (“Rule number one: No blaspheming. I'll not have the Lord's name taken in vain in my gig”.)

14th July, Monday. Gig No.70, Hideaway, Tufnell Park

The acts upstairs walk down into this dingy basement bar, cuffed in chains, each of us barely suppressing our private terror. The punters are taking bets on which of us will crack first.

Joe Grant, the horrible promoter, motions to one of his stinking little minions:

"Delouse that piece of shit! Next man in!"

He flings a huge scoop of delousing powder in my face. I collapse in a heap on the floor, coughing and spluttering in a heaving shitty mess.

Oh. It’s gonna be one of them gigs.

Gig No.70 done. Promoter/weasel Joe Grant

July 15th, Tuesday. Gig No. 71, TNT, Kentish Town

Next, we are shoved into the Infirmary. The MC Jake Pickford is in a white coat, bored expression, a pair of white rubber gloves, and a big pen light slash forward anal probe.

"SQUAT!!"

I bend over. Mr Pickford puts the penlight in his teeth, and has a good root around in my shitpipe. I don't argue back.

(I don't remember this scene in the actual film, have I imagined it?)

Gig No. 72 done. MC/Anus Dr Jake Pickford

July 17th, Thursday. Gigs No. 72 + 73, Rascals, Stag’s Head + Genesis Cinema, Whitechapel

Ah, mama mi. They say your first two years in prison are the hardest. They don't lie. I spend the next two years/gigs being serenaded and courted by 'The Sisters'. John Talbot (Bogs) and Sammy Tuitalifalinoa'a (Rooster). The Bull Queers. Two vile men rapists* hell bent on turning me into the prison fairy.

The first night was the toughest. The Sisters taunted me with their creepy vibes:

"Fishee fishee fisheeee...You're
gonna like it here, new fish. A
whooole lot...Make you wish your
daddies never dicked your
mommies...You takin' this down, new
fish?"

The next day. The showers. Talbot stands next to me, naked as the baby he kidnapped. He sizes me up like a fresh loaf. (Don't ask) He makes a pass at me. I rebuff him, turning my back. (Probably not the best of ideas, as this gives him the ideal opportunity to sneak a peak at my cheeky bottom).

Sammy and John, the Sisters, then proceed to chase me for two years, two long years, until that fateful day when Talbot tries to force me to suck him off:

"Now I'm gonna open my fly, and
you're gonna swallow what I give
you to swallow. And when you
do mine, you gonna swallow
Rooster's. You done broke his nose,
so he ought to have somethin' to
show for it."

Only to be told I'll bite down on his yoghurt slinger harder than Jaws wolfing down some chum.

Bogs steps back.

To Rooster: "We're gonna need a bigger boat"

*this is definitely a joke. They are not, I repeat not, prison fairy rapists

Gig No. 72 + Gig No. 73 done. MC/Promoter John Talbot + MC/Promoter Sammy Tuitalifalinoa'a - The 'Sisters'. 'The Bull Queers'

18th July, Friday. Gig No. 74, Theatre Royal Comedy Club, Windsor

Head Guard James Lillis is talking about his financial problems while we're tarmacing the roof. (We do comedy mainly, but occasionally we'll be required to do other jobs for stage time in return). He starts talking about his wife. I stop tarmacing and stand up.

"Do you trust your wife?"

He turns to me. He asks me to repeat myself.

"Do you trust your wife?"

He grabs me and surges toward the edge of the roof. I quickly tell him all sorts of practical financial advice and win the tarmac crew some free beer. Then I tell em I fucked his wife.

Gig No. 74 done. MC/Promoter/Head guard James Lillis and other assorted loonies

21st July, Monday. Gig No. 75, Rhythm Factory, Aldgate

I am doing less comedy and more accounting for all the other acts. They all bring their receipts in to the gig and queue up as I legally shelter all their cash and help them avoid tax. Weirdly, Gary Barlow is in the queue. I didn't know he's started doing comedy? Jimmy Carr is there too, but the promoter tells him to piss off

Gig No. 75 done, MC/Promoter Geoff Alderman

24th July, Thursday. Gig No. 76, G+B Comedy, Camden

An new inmate/act tells me a story that an inmate/comedian at another prison/gig claimed responsibility for doing the 365 challenge! He can prove my innocence (This whole Shawshank thing is getting a bit weird/implausible. Fuck it. Lets drag this shit out to the bitter end.) If someone else is doing this challenge, I can stop writing this fucking blog!!!

I go to the warden. I tell him my story:

"I am trapped in a never ending blog nightmare, and if another act is doing the 365 challenge, I can finally stop writing it and you can release me from prison!!"

He looks at me. He has no fucking clue what I'm talking about. He's just a comedy promoter. I'm just some act he's booked to do 5 minutes.

"We must take his deposition and go to the court of appeals!! I can be a free man!!"

He looks at me like I've smeared myself in shit. He says, er, I'll be on in 5 minutes. He smiles at me like I'm carrying a knife.

What??

"How can you be so OBTUSE?"

"WHAT?? What did you call me?"

"Obtuse! Is it deliberate?"

He goes APESHIT.

"Don't ever mention this shit to me again!!"

He presses an intercom. (No idea why he has an intercom)

"Get in here! NOW! "

His burly guards storm in

"Solitary! A month!"

A MONTH??

"What's the matter with you?? It's my
chance to get out, don't you see
that? It's my life! Don't you
understand it's my life???"

I am dragged kicking and screaming into solitary, thrown into the darkness and I collapse, crying like a baby.

Gig No. 76 done, MC/Promoter/Warden Kyle Wallace

25th July, Friday. Gig No. 77, T Bird Bar, Finsbury Park

After two months in the hole, I come out of solitary. I sit on the floor, leaning against a wall, staring at the other walls. My imaginary friend, Red, an articulate, well spoken Basset Hound, sits beside me. We have a deep conversation about life and I fuck off. But not before I give him instructions to meet me in Mexico. Which is perturbing to my friend Red, as he doesn't have a passport. He's a fucking Basset Hound. He has a worried look on his face.

"He's talkin funny..." (Told you he was articulate)

Gig No. 78 done. MC/Promoter Marilyn Muruako

28th July, Monday. Gig No. 78, Hideaway, Tufnell Park

Red the Morgan Freeman Basset Hound is worried about me. I'm talking funny, and I've started wearing the wardens shoes:

"I have had some long nights in
stir. Alone in the dark with
nothing but your thoughts, time can
draw out like a blade...

That was the longest night of my
life... "

Stop banging on you moaning little cunt

Gig No. 78 done. MC/Rapist Joe Grant

July 31st, Thursday Gig No. 79, Wickham Arms, New Cross

That's it!!! I'VE ESCAPED!!! YEEEE HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

How did I escape? Long story short, I dug a hole in the wall of this gig and robbed the promoter. He wasn't happy, and neither was the pub. Still, fuck em.

Red gets paroled from the prison of my subconscious mind. He books his tickets to Mexico.

Red, the Morgan Freeman Basset Hound:

"I find I am so excited I can barely
sit still or hold a thought in my
head. I think it is the excitement
only a free man can feel, a free
man at the start of a long journey
whose conclusion is uncertain...

I hope I can make it across the
border...

I hope to see my friend
and shake his hand...

I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been
in my dreams...

I hope..."

At last. Mammoth blog done!! All I have to do now is chill out, relax, and enjopy my hard earned freedom. And do my Edinburgh blog. Oh, wait a minute. Oh, fuck.

Gig No. 79 done. Promoter/Mc Douglas Layton

 

July 2nd – July 11th 2014. Gigs No. 64, 65, 66, 67, 68. The Great Joe Hunter Laughter Famine

I’ve hit the skids. This is it. My Great Depression. My Great Laughter Potato Famine. Every single time I go on stage, I die on my arsehole. Laughter poverty. It’s the worst disease there is.

You know what a laughter famine is like? You know when a depression comes - A great crash comes, and people are unemployed. The unemployed have no wage and cannot buy things, which causes more businesses to go bankrupt and creates more unemployment? That’s exactly what it’s like. You get no laughs at one gig and have no confidence to do your jokes at your next gig, which causes more laughter voids and creates more lack of confidence. In the end, you are a broken man, travelling in an old mobile wooden shack, ruminating on the hardships of life, travelling to a new land in search of hope, dignity and a future.

Gig No. 64, Wednesday 2nd July, Old School Yard.

This is where the whole famine started. Front row, 3 girls. All three of them couldn’t stand to look at me. Literally look at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at me. Even when I talked to them. I literally couldn’t do my act. Impossible to do your act when the audience won’t even look at you. Got off.

Gig No. 64 done. MC/Promoter Brian Chimombo


Gig No. 65, Thursday 3rd July, Battersea Barge

Oh, me. I followed a rather attractive Spanish Burlesque act who got her knockers out (Saving her modesty with tasteful nipple twirlers) and as I walked out they immediately took a disliking to me. Course they did. I FOLLOWED SOMEONE WHO GOT HER TITS OUT. Actually it wasn’t that kind of crowd. Not a pervy sex club. A gig on a barge. A good gig, a joyful, up for it audience. I have no excuses. I died on my hole.

Gig No. 65 done. Promoter Paul L Martin


Gig No. 66, Fri 4th July, Tottenham Chances

Now, after two rotten gigs, I’m going on with low self esteem and little confidence. Apologetic. They pick up on that, and assume I’m shit. One bloke decides to walk off right in front of the stage halfway through one of my bits. (By bits I mean jokes, not my genitals)

Gig N. 66 done. Promoter Jason Why


Gig. No. 67, Mon 7th July, Hideaway

More laughter void. I have a little Facebook rant to blow off steam. Someone suggests at the next gig I do, I say to myself: ‘I don’t give a SHIT if I die on my arse”. I resolve to try it.

Gig 67 done. MC Stephanie Laing


Gig No. 68, Thur 10th July, Pegasus

So. I try it. “I don’t give a shit if I die on my arse”. And I die on my arse. But, strangely, I feel OK about it. Maybe the Famine has turned a corner. Light at the end of the tunnel. The rains have fallen on the lands, and the seeds are finally beginning to grow. A new dawn, the smell of spring. A butterfly fluttering it’s wings in the dew fresh morn. It better not fly near me, I'll kill it.

Gig No. 68 done. MCs Matt Smith and Gary Knightley


I’ll end with a quote from the Grapes of Wrath:

“Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten. And the failure hangs over the State like a great sorrow. ...and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.”

How this applies to my comedy journey? Fuck if I know. He’s talking about angry grapes. Fuck is he on about? He’s mental. Let me try another quote:

“For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man—when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it.”

Yes Steinbeck. You’re right. When everything crashes around you, as long as you keep stepping forward, you’ll come out the other side. Step forward and keep going. Keep going and maybe, just maybe, you’ll outrun the angry grapes.

July 1st, Tuesday. Gig No. 63, Bear Jokes, London Fields

This gig is in Hackney. Walking along the high street, I liked the vibe. Theatres, cafes, arts venues. A nice, cool, chilled out vibe. Even the pigeons were chilled out:



Then I walked past the Hackney Empire. Wow. That brought back memories. Back in the day, in my mid 20s, I decided to do stand up. This was it. This was my thing. So I went to check out some comedy. Which happened to be an early heat of the Hackney Empire awards. What I remember most about that gig was how nervous it made me. Watching the acts perform in front of a huge black backdrop, (A vast macro cosmic void of nothingness) with an audience comprised mainly of other acts and judges (A vast macro cosmic void of twats), it struck me how incredibly vulnerable you are up there as a performer. That made me extremely nervous. I remember my knees shaking as I walked out. What the FUCK have I let myself in for.

Fast forward to present day, and I am walking to Bear Jokes to perform gig number 63 of my challenge. I am not nervous. When I started stand up I would get nervous the moment I booked my first gig several months away, and those nerves would stay with me every waking moment until my hair fell out. Now, I don’t get nervous at all (Bollocks. But the truth doesn’t serve my joke.) Until I saw this:



The function room upstairs has been hired out (Yes, pubs always drop the comedy if they get actual paying customers wanting to give cash for the room. They drop you like a hot sack of shit) so the comedy night has been demoted and moved downstairs. And when I saw this sign, I honestly thought we’d be performing in the actual toilet. Why did this make me nervous? I can’t ‘go’ when people are watching. (It wasn’t really worth it was it?)

But no, we aren’t in the Unisex toilet. (It’s not actually a Unisex toilet, it’s a women’s toilet that’s been temporarily transformed into a Unisex toilet cause it’s the only way to get to the function room in the basement. Great. To get into the gig, you have to walk past a row of shitting women.) A rather tough little gig. A lot of work needing to be done with a girl in front who works in a Camping shop. (She heckles me. Me: ‘Go sell some fucking tents’. It’s all very good natured.)

What did I get from the sudden contrast of the memory of nerves when I first decided to do comedy, to where I am now? Basically: Existential futility. Why do I fucking bother. Nine years later and I’m doing a gig down the road for free on a Tuesday night in a basement that stinks of disinfectant and shit.

Ah, only kidding. It’s a nice gig and a decent room. The lady who sells tents was very nice too and we even swapped telephone numbers. No we didn't. Anyone wanna buy an IPHONE? I need the money to go camping.

Gig No. 63 done. MC/Promoter Andy Quirk

June 29th, Sunday. Gig No.62, Bottom Fest, Rik Mayall tribute night, Purple Turtle

A one off night, hundreds of Rik Mayall fans watching Rik stuff on a big screen, with a couple of acts on in between. Me, following the King, on HIS day, to perform for a load of his hardcore fans. Shat myself? Fuck yes. Like Richie did when Eddie electrocuted him with the cattle prod. Did my five minutes. A pleasure and a privilege.

Gig No 62 done. Promoter Mick Wood

June 28th, Saturday. Gig No. 61, Monkey Business, Sir Richard Steele pub, Belsize Park

A few weeks ago at a gig I walked on stage feeling really relaxed for some reason. And all I did was smile and I got a big laugh. They liked me instantly. Then afterwards, one of the acts said to me that ‘You have instantaneous likeability’. That stuck in my head. It stuck in my head and made me overly conscious of it. And now, every time I make my entrance, that weighs on my mind and I feel pressure. So I'm not relaxed. It’s made me overly conscious of the ‘likeability’ when I walk on stage, and it's become a mental albatross. Once it became a conscious thing, it made me feel uncomfortable, like I had to replicate it. It makes me worry about not replicating it. It's become a thing.

It's weird. It’s like when you fail to get an erection one time with a girl. It's so embarrassing, you worry about not getting one the next time you sleep her. And when you do get her back in your room, (Or dungeon, whatever you’re in to) your anxiety about it kills your erection. And it becomes a thing. Before you know it, you're actually impotent. You can’t get an erection with women at all. Every time you see a naked girl on your bed/torture rack, your penis shrivels up like wet cling film. Then you start to question your sexuality. You worry that you might be a homosexual. So you dabble in gay sex, and threesomes with young Moroccan men. And with them you don’t have any anxiety about getting erections, so you convince yourself you are indeed gay, and spend rest of your life in a loving partnership with a nice man called Donald. You live in a quiet cul de sac in Surrey, where you grow geraniums and dress up in leather bondage gear and cock and ball torture kits. Well, that’s what my entrances are like.

Those first few seconds on stage are actually crucial. They are key. If you don’t seem relaxed, and you’re uncomfortable, that transmits immediately to the audience that you have no faith in yourself and thus are probably not very good. And they lose belief in you. They have to believe you’ll be funny. If they don’t believe it, they won’t laugh. Even if your stuff is really good, proven funny, repeatedly, if on a particular night you walk on looking hesitant and awkward, they’ll think you’ll be shit and sit there, staring at you like a group of tired, pissed off haemophiliacs.

That’s part of the job. Convincing the audience you are funny. I’ve seen very, very good acts with superb material slightly hesitate when they started, or not quite commit with any conviction to their material, the audience lost faith, and they died like an anxiety fuelled penis . Conversely if someone sees a super confident young act with slick, well rehearsed delivery and who follows all the right patterns in their writing so it ‘sounds’ like stand up, and it is delivered with commitment and conviction, the audience will become subliminally convinced they are funny. Thus, we have J**k W*******l. As funny as anal bleeding, but rehearses his act so well doesn’t he? (His favourite method is to go off on a big rant that goes on forever, and then at the end round it off with a climax. He does this a lot. Audiences instinctively give a round of applause, essentially because he’s remembered a big rant and rehearsed it really well. It’s a con. J**k W*******l is to comedy what Andy Coulson is to phone calls.)

So anyway, that is my note to self: Stop over thinking about your likeability and learn to commit with conviction to what you’re doing. And con people into thinking you’re funny.

Gig No. 61 done. MC/Promoter Martin Besserman