Another slightly rushed blog I’m afraid today. I have an audition in a few hours that I spent most of last night writing for and should probably still be writing on now but I’m dong this instead. If it appears I don’t have enough material I might just read this out and then show them some of the fuzzy snake pictures. They haven’t failed so far, I don’t see why they should now. I’m hoping that eventually I’ll get given my own, slightly crap version of Tony Hart’s (RIP) Hartbeat where all I do is draw the same fuzzy snake over and over again but sometimes in pastels, sometimes in chalk and sometimes, just for a laugh, in actual snakes that I’ve stuck felt to. I often think sticking felt to snakes might be a good idea anyway. Especially dangerous ones, as firstly people would find them that bit more lovable if they could be stroked and secondly, as precaution against them, people would just have to put a layer of Velcro along all their surfaces. In the morning you’d come down to find a viper stuck to the doormat and then you could just twat it with a spade and add it to your collage.
I was meant to be doing a really really good gig at the Bloomsbury Theatre tonight but its been cancelled. Despite the line-up of Richard Herring, Robin Ince, Paul Tonkinson, Kevin Dewsbury and Andrew Bird people just hadn’t bought many tickets. It was for charity too, for the association MIND. I can only assume that people don’t like mentalists anymore. Maybe we get too many of them on programs such as Britain’s Got A TV Vehicle For That Dick Piers Morgan and other shows, so now we just take them for granted. Why should we donate money to help these people when if we leave them be they’ll turn up on telly on a Saturday night and shout at a dog while attempting to juggle old sea mines that have never exploded. Well we should, not least because now that no one has I’ll probably never get the chance to perform at the Bloomsbury again. I was a little bit petrified and very excited about it and now I just feel resentment for everyone that didn’t buy a ticket. Yes that means you. What do you mean you don’t even live nearby? What do you mean you mean you don’t what a theatre is and you don’t have any currency with which to buy such things? Who are you? Why are you waving your arms like that? Why is your hair on fire?
So this now means I have a whole week with no gigs till Saturday. I have got lots of other stuff to do but I fear that my craving to gig will overwhelm me and I might start doing routines for people on buses and in public places. Its highly likely that all the energy I was saving for tonight’s gig will accidentally be released in the tiny audition room this afternoon and you will hear on the news that a small explosion took place near Waterloo. The diagnosis will be that a small, bearded man just started saying ‘Welcome Ladies and Gentleman to The Bloomsbury Theatre’ over and over again and shaking until finally he just combusted. There would be tiny bits of beard and diabetes all over the Thames and people walking late at night would sometimes hear whispering of some of my one-liners in the breeze.
Before the gig was cancelled I wrote some answers to this and was pitted head to head against the Tonks. Despite writing this all in 5 minutes and talking absolute nonsense I still beat Paul. I was going to laugh in his face and do some victory dances this evening, but now I’ll never get the chance. He probably doesn’t really care either, but I feel fully under oath to be as bad a winner as possible. Anyway, have a read, Paul’s answers are great too, even though I laid the smackdown: