I’ve only just got up. You know why? Because I went out till late. Yeah that’s right. I did what them youngsters do and went to a club where they played music and then I danced a bit and I had two whole beers. Two beers that’s right. I’m such a maverick. Then I came home all late and got food from a kebab shop, then watched a program about sick orangutans. Yeah. I’m so goddamn cool. That’s what all them young street kids do isn’t it? Even the orangutans program bit. I bet all the kids talk about poor Noddy the orangutan who had lost all his hair through stress. I bet they sit there while in their skinny skinny jeans and converse/adverse/poetic verse shoes and say how sad it was that Bonny got stuck in that tree and then that man had to climb up barefoot and get her down. Yeah. God I’m tired.
I actually enjoyed going out for my brother’s birthday, which was a surprise in a way. I haven’t been properly out at any sort of night-time establishment for some time and have built up a series of reasons to give me the excuse as to why I don’t. These include:
1) being constantly barged by people who seem to not realise that I am there. It doesn’t matter how many drinks I’m carrying, or how close up against a wall I am, I always seem to choose the middle of these people’s path to stand. And so without thought they will barge past me without even a sorry. Well they might say sorry but I wouldn’t know because….
2) the music is so loud I can’t hear myself complain about it. I know its meant to be loud, but I like talking. And I like it when I leave somewhere and the imprint of the bass isn’t still making my head vibrate so violently I look like David Gray on a trampoline.
3) There are rarely any chairs. How are people like me meant to sit down? And on the rare occasion there are chairs, they are covered in people snogging and groping on them. That’s not what chairs are for! Chairs are for sitting! You wouldn’t snog and grope on those disabled seats on a bus would you? Unless you are a disabled couple. Hmm, might’ve dug myself a hole here. Well let me get out of that hole and just say, disabled or not, stop snogging in the chairs when I need a sit down! Bloody kids! I’m waving my fists in the air as I type this. Which I must say makes it difficult to type.
4) All the drinks cost prices that would lead you to expect the cheap watered down beer had been dripped over gold leaf. So not only have you lead me to an establishment where I hate the people, the music and the lack of chairs, I now cant afford to get drunk enough to deal with it. I’d have more fun staying at home, turning my stereo up loud, standing in the middle of my living room and punching my own head.
But despite all that, last night was fun. It was a good venue and my brother played lots of good tunes I liked. Most of them were old school tracks that came out when he was about 9 and so I can only conclude he stole them from me. Had the club been quieter I would have spent a good amount of time being a shitty older brother and trying to take credit for his musical expertise. I can’t really as I am musically inept, but being an older brother, stealing the limelight is very important where ever possible as siblings are there to be demeaned. What I really should have done was walk around with pictures of Corin when he was 4 wearing pants on his head and other ridiculous things and showed them to all the cool people there. Then mentioned awkward childhood stories. That would’ve got him. Instead I had fun and actually danced a bit, which is rare. I took breakdancing classes about 6 years ago and while I thought I knew a fair few moves then, I really didn’t. Worse than that, is now those few moves I thought I knew are completely beyond me due to my lack of strength and health but it doesn’t mean I don’t try as soon as I’ve had beer. More often then not, I actually break something. If not glasses, chairs, and scenery, then my own limbs. What ensued last night was some sort of messy dance of with Suze where there were moments that other clubbers looked at us wondering whether to call an ambulance to stop our seizures or not. After dancing/shaking violently I spent far too long staring at a couple who were in the middle of the dancefloor. I still couldn’t tell you what gender either of them were. It was a bit like watching androgynous clones go at it. They both had short hair and girly boyish figures and both wore girly boyish clothes. I really have no idea. I wanted to go and ask but instead I thought it was more polite to just stare at them relentlessly to try and work it out. I’m sure they didn’t mind. I bet they know they are a visual puzzle and go out together on purpose just to mess with minds. I bet you can hire them for such occasions as birthdays and barmitzvahs.
I had to gig before my outing in a rather posh place called Walton-On-Thames in Surrey. I wouldn’t usually give a whole area a class rating so quickly, but within minutes of driving through there was an Aston Martin showroom and a marina with people’s private boats on it. The only other time I have seen so many Aston Martins and private boats in such a short space of time is in a Bond film. I was hoping that the gig might be filled with Bond girls and roulette tables but instead it was in a big Tudor barn which messed up the whole image. Not that Tudor barns aren’t as exciting as Bond films, but Henry the VIII never bungee jumped onto an enemy base. Instead he just killed wives. If Daniel Craig did that, I don’t think it would go down that well with the critics. The gig was nice, and most of the front row worked in jobs doing IT for banks or insuring banks or generally things that were earning them lots of money while helping to rob the country of its cash flow. Like a backwards Robin Hood I suppose. There was one man though called Colin, who did a slightly different job to everyone else. He said he had been made redundant and was opening up a second hand trouser shop called Uncle Brian’s Trousers. Now I found out later he was lying, but normally I would have guessed for myself quite quickly, but he said it with such stone cold conviction that it threw me. The whole story was so well thought through. I tried to retort, and I failed fairly badly with the best I could do being that children wouldn’t be allowed into his shop due to the name. ‘Kids don’t go into Uncle Brian’s Trousers’. It was weak, and he won by just being stony faced. Apparently he spends his whole Friday thinking of these tales and then sits in the front just so he can tell them. It was like he had used some sort of serial killer mentality to heckling. It was cold, calculated and actually worked. He terrified me and so I quickly went back to insulting people who worked in the banks.
I fear this man turning up again. Although no matter how many gigs I do, I will remember his scary starey face and eyes. I’m worried that I will start receiving emails with cut-up letters from different webpages just saying ‘Uncle Brian’s Trousers’, and then start to receive second hand trousers in the dressing rooms of gigs. If you know a Colin who is very bored and works in IT, and you hear he is going to comedy please warn someone. Maybe the police. It will start with these elaborate well told lies, but soon he’ll be violently beating someone like Lee Mack to death while screaming ‘ I am the King of the Audience’ and no one wants that. Least of all Lee Mack.
Before this blog endeth, a quick note to say that Twitter Comedy has started. The website was up for a full three hours yesterday before it broke. If you ever want to buy a domain name don’t get it from Freedom2Surf. They wouldn’t know a working internet if one hit them in their virtual faces. It should be working again soon. Until then please join the facebook group:
And have a lookie at this Chortle article right here: