I have to do one of those odd gigs today. Occasionally you agree to do things that you know will be not fun, but the lure of some cash and the challenge make all logic and self care non-important. I imagine its how those people years ago on the Word felt when they did anything to get on TV. They were massive idiots though and my odd gig is no way as wrong as drinking a pint of my own vomit or walking barefoot in dog shit, like they did. And I don’t think they got paid either. I wonder if they still look back on those incidents and cry and the low level of dignity they managed to reach. The one that liked the fat ladies sweaty armpit has probably had to kill themselves in shame. Oh well, no loss. In comparison to those morons, my gig could be quite lovely. Its to a large group of menswear traders in a posh club in central London. Its the first time ever I’ve been consciously worried about what to wear on stage. I think even if I go as smart as possible or wear all my newest clothes I will still be two seasons behind everyone there. I don’t like being behind season. I don’t even really know what that means.
Another gig to 26 people last night. 26 appears to be the lucky number this week. Its not that lucky in terms of comedy, its relatively unfortunate. After a three hour drive with Andrew O’Neill it was a bit of an anti-climax to walk into a really empty bar in a town that looked like hope and people abandoned it several years ago. Andrew had not brought a script or tangerines but did very well as a passenger by making many a bad pun and helping me write a joke, which was useful. This relative road based punfest was suddenly abandoned as we hit the outskirts of Gillingham in Dorset. If there had ever been an appropriate time for the Specials ‘Ghost Town’ to play, it would have been then. Although the radio was off so whilst appropriate it would also have been terrifying. I get scared enough driving down country roads and I do not need the radio to start playing itself. That would only distract me from avoiding all the zombies and werewolves that obviously hide in country lanes.
The 26 were, like tuesday, lovely, and the gig was a lot more fun than we thought it was going to be. Both myself and Andrew had great sets and generally all 26 of them seemed to enjoy it. Then we tried to leave. Something very odd happens when you have a nice gig in small area – they tend to treat you like some sort of celebrity. I am clearly not a celebrity in any sense of the word but they insisted on wanting us to stay all night and buy us drinks. While I appreciated the sentiment, we had a three hour drive home and I didn’t know who they were and wanted to get in the car in time to listen to Bob Dylan’s Radio Hour which is by far one of the best radio shows ever. I don’t want to ruin it for you, but if you don’t already, tune in and listen to the bizarre facts as told by his voice, which is now so gravely it sounds like a small rodent is physically sandpapering his throat with each warble. They didn’t let us leave though. In fact, one girl in particular told us we weren’t allowed to leave. This scared me a lot. I’ve seen Straw Dogs. I didn’t want that to happen, although if it had, I was fully prepared to push Andrew at them then run away. Always have a back up plan.
This girl wasn’t malicious but she was drunk and overly flirty, demanding that she wanted to marry all of us, in what I can imagine would be some sort of reverse harem. I very much get on with Andrew and the compare Demitris Deech, but co-habiting with them and sharing the same wife I fear would take its toll on our friendships. This isnt even considering having to tell Layla I can’t come home because I have been mass-wed to a drunk lady in Dorset. I think Layla would get quite sad. The woman’s nickname was Crockett, which was never explained. I imagine its perhaps because she had a wild frontier, but I’m not really sure what that means either. She kept the flirting up, while a rather nervous man stood beside her, giving concerned looks like a carer who knows their patient could lash out at any minute. We later discovered this was her boyfriend. I pity him, and I admire his tolerance for staying with someone who really doesn’t give a toss about his relationship. Actually admiration doesn’t come into it, he’s an idiot and he should run away now. Unless of course he can’t because the people of Gillingham have him initiated into their small town cult and he can never leave. God I’m such a countryphobe.
We finally escaped and they didn’t chase us with burning pitchforks or anything, which was nice and always a bonus. Luckily there was 30 minutes of Bob Dylan left on the radio and the theme last night was fruit. It doesn’t get much better than that. Favourite quote ‘ there is a fruit that is a hybrid of a pimello and a tangerine. I don’t know what a pimello is. I like tangerines though, and I don’t know if I want my tangerines mixed with a pimello.’ You go Bob. You go.