I’ve done a lot of walking today. There is a chance that had I walked anymore that I’d have had to buy the rights off of the Proclaimers to their most famous hit, and sing it proudly as I marched back from Holloway. It would have involve some odd stares and possibly violence directed towards me, but thems the rules. The reason for walking? Well today has been a day of errands. I like to pronounce it ‘err-ands’ just to confuse others as to the meaning of my sentence. I suggest you do it too. Imagine how annoying my last sentence would have been if it’d read ‘today has been a day of err-ands’. You would wonder why I’d left it unfinished, and more importantly, what on earth I was talking about. Anyway, errands involved heading back to the hospital for a check up on how I’m getting on with the pump. I will probably have to go back again next week too and if end up there even more often than that I’ll be bloody inpatient. Arf. Anyway, most things pump wise are pretty good, aside from realising that when I take the (WARNING SLIGHTLY GRIM BIT) cannula out every three days, the plaster that its attached with hurts like fuckery. I asked what can be done about such things and the answer was ‘not a lot’, followed by suggestions that it may be to do with me being a rather hirsute chap. I’m not sure how I feel about combating that aspect of my physique for a small amount of pain every three days. I like being fluffy and I would fear that removing my tum of hair would make me less funny. Like a belly based Sampson. However, I will see how it goes at next plaster removal and if its too bad I may have to wax myself down and get like a slippery eel. This conversation was then followed with me telling the reception staff to change my address to that of my parents, only for them to inform me the only address they have is for one I was born at, and haven’t lived at for 28 years. Its nice to know the NHS are on top of things. Despite the nurses and doctors being ace, there is a reason why its in my phone at the Shittington Hospital. Although I will have to change that as I keep forgetting and can never find it in my address book.
I have also had my hair cut which today entailed a conversation about reasons why I shouldn’t go to Bulgaria and then I went and got all angry at my GP. So all in all, well done me. This productivity today counter acts me spending last night, my night off, at a comedy gig. If I’d spent today lolling around, then I worry that last night’s venture would appear to be somewhat of a busman’s holiday in that respect. Not that busmen actually go on holiday’s that require them driving buses necessarily. In fact the chances are, thanks to insurance and other health and safety factors, that most busmen probably aren’t allowed to drive buses on holiday. Nor, should I point out, that last night was in anyway a chore. No far from it. I had a very good reason to be there and that was because I went to watch fellow ex-Kent student, the lovely and funny Laura Lexx do a set. Considering she has only been going a very short amount of time she is ridiculously likable on stage and I urge other comics to join me in dissuading her from continuing for selfish purposes of us retaining more gigs. Its nice that she was good too as there is nothing more awkward than going for a drink with someone who has just bombed, so well done her for being considerate about the rest of my evening flowing by that tad bit easier.
Apart from Laura and one act called Rosie something who was ace, the other four acts I saw gave me shuddering memories of the open spot circuit I used to be part of only 4 or 5 years ago. It was oddly comforting in a way, knowing that I no longer have to gigs in the middle of pubs, where punters wonder in for free, talk all the way through you and then just as you maintain some sort of decorum, the next act comes on and says ‘so…I’m single’ and then proceeds to spout their life problems at all, because they couldn’t afford to get a therapist. The night itself was called Comedy Bin, which I can’t help but feel demeans all who were there. Comedy Bin? You are already stating the night will be rubbish. Why not just call it ‘Evening of Shit’, or ‘Life You’ll Never Get Back’ cos that’d encourage the punters just as well. Its amazing the lack of care that goes into these sorts of events and then people are curious as to why they encourage acts who are already dead behind the eyes and talk about rape and masturbation as often as possible to ensure they have an outlet now and don’t get arrested when they leave instead. The open mic scene is tough because no one seems to think it through before setting up a gig. One day I will endeavour to write some sort of rules about this sort of thing and hand out a manifesto like a comedic Jerry Maguire. Or more likely, I’ll worry about competition for Fat Tuesday and not bother.
Ok to be fair, I felt hugely like a smug bastard sitting there and it wasn’t nice. Watching act after act and thinking ‘you could rewrite this like this and this like this’ and accidentally sighing when someone was really bad. I hated myself more when I met a brand new act at the bar and he asked me if I was on and I said no, and I explained it was my one night off. He asked how long I’d been doing comedy and I told him and then he said he knew who I was. All the while I was saying words and hearing them come out of my mouth in the style of a big headed twat. I hope it didn’t come across like that, but it probably did. I think its because I spent the first two years of my career solidly doing those sorts of gigs and never thinking I would escape. I hadn’t really thought about it since, but being there yesterday gave me such a nice sense of satisfaction that my career definitely has moved on. Yes, I have gone from being a poor open spot, to a poorly paid act who now unnecessarily patronises open spots. This my friends, is Hollywood.
Luckily Laura was on early before I could do any more harm and we reconvened to elsewhere and discussed Santa’s who played Paddington, bleeding elfs, beedogs.com (which you should all go to right now) and this:
Oh and if you get a minute, check out Laura’s ace blog at:
I’m now going to spend today contemplating what I would look like hairless. I’m thinking, possibly a giant baby. I may just deal with the pain rather than risk being kidnapped by an angry mum outside Tesco’s. Saying that, it’d be a pretty easy pick up method. Oh dear god. Being a smug bastard and now contemplating pulling by dressing up as a 2 year old. Something very wrong has happened. I blame the pump. (Only 2 more weeks and 2 days of this so I’m using it while I can).
