My eyes were really full of sleep this morning. I can only assume its some sort of bodily attempt to keep them shut in order to gain even more slumber. I’ve got to do the Comedy Club 4 Kids in a few hours though so that sleep needed to be dealt with. I don’t get why its called ‘sleep’, because its not sleep. Its just things that appear while you sleep. Thats that same as if any symptoms that occurred while doing anything were just called the same name as whatever caused them. Its lazy, these things have proper names. You don’t see warnings on bottles saying ‘Bleach may occur if you drink bleach.’ Or people saying ‘I’ve gone completely wanking due to vigorous wanking’. Sleep does have two actual names. I know this because I wikipedia’d it and everything they say on wikipedia is clearly true. Even when its been listed by liars. The two other names for sleep are Gound and Rheum. I like the latter, purely because you can say the sentence ‘I’ve had so much sleep I’ve got extra rheum’ or when pointing to someone else’s gound ‘here’s the guest rheum’. Maybe I’ll keep all my rheum and put it in a bottle to sell on ebay as ‘Bottled Sleep’.
I think I’m tired today because last night’s gig felt like actual work. The venue itself was amazing. After turning off the road towards the hotel, you then have to drive through 5 minutes of grounds before getting to the actual Hanbury Manor Marriott. By that I don’t mean they’ve put tons of coffee remenants on the floor. I’m talking acres of land. The main building is incredible and absolutely huge, complete with swimming pool several restaurants and golf club for the golf course behind it. I’ll be honest, I completely felt like I shouldn’t really be there. I have an odd instinct with these sort of places that its only a matter of time before someone spots I’m there and I have to be removed by security because ‘there is some urchin loitering the property’. John Mann, who very kindly booked me for the gig, warned me not to use a certain swear word beginning with c, but other than that he said that the crowd of mostly golf members would be very nice and chatty, despite how they looked. A crowd of about 30-40 of them gathered in the golf club bar surrounded by trophies and pictures of past captains. I couldn’t understand why Captain Nelson, Captain Kirk or any other famous captains weren’t there, but apparently it was something to do with golf. John expertly compered the first half and as he brought me on my mind raced as to what on earth I could relate to these people. They wouldn’t understand what it’s like only having £10.50 to last me till next month. The first few mins lasted ok, as I made a joke about my lack of golf knowledge and how I thought Tiger Woods was just somewhere you shouldn’t ramble. Then pointed out some of the plaques on the wall with the names of winners of certain tournaments. One was called Fourball Knockout (the tournament that is, not the winner) and there was much mileage on the possibilities of a game where you disable two men at once. Oh the hilarity. Then for some reason the light laughter and mild staring I was getting suddenly stopped and was replaced by sympathetic smiles and no sound whatsoever. I couldn’t quite work out what I’d done, although I assumed it was the moment where they realised I probably shouldn’t be allowed on the premises. Very weird and so I soldiered on for my 25 minutes, to nothing, unprofessionally telling them they’d been starey at the end. I shouldn’t have done that at all, but I felt it must be known. John very kindly got me some free grub and I sat to watch the second half where John had some great stuff at the top and then Nick Revell stormed it. It was entirely playable, I just didn’t play it.
I think I have an innate fear of performing to very rich people. Last year I did a gig in a barn in the Cotswalds. When I say barn, it was bigger than most houses. If Jesus had been born in it, the Three Wise Men wouldn’t have bothered with gifts as it would have been clear he didn’t need them. As I arrived I was handed a list of things I couldn’t joke about, including the Tory party and Janet Street Porter. Inside was full of Lords, Ladies, David Cameron and Janet Street Porter, precisely all the people I’d been brought up to hate. I didn’t really know what to do and rambled on for 15 minutes while the clientele wondered what on earth funk music was and why I would live in Finsbury Park. Then Ray Peacock went on and told them they were all cunts and they loved it. Not sure why this seems to bother me (not Ray’s storming, the rich people bit) but its probably because I don’t really get them either. Maybe I need to play a few rounds of golf and not care that anything I do is killing third world children or destroying the country’s finances. I’m sure that helps.
After the kids show I’m heading to my friend Louise’s wedding reception in Chatham, taking Mr Brendan Pappy’s and his lovely wife. I am going to insist he does 200 sketches by himself on the journey there, or he’ll have to get out and walk. Layla’s still a bit too ill to come along which is a shame as I’m sure it’ll be good fun. Although it is held in a Fort and if she’s not there it does mean I can run around and pretend I’m a knight or in the Famous Five. Actually just the former, the latter may spurt uneccessary racism and sexism. Also I may discover some evil plot and have to ruin things. First though, a audience of 6-11 year olds. Lets hope they don’t love golf and hate me.
