One day the world will have to get used to the fact that me and mornings can no longer hang out. Sure we used to be good buddys. I’d get up and morning would be right there, all sunny and happy, birds a singing. Then arm in arm I’d eat my breakfast with morning, and merrily skip to school or work only to reach there, realise I’d been skipping and that’s why people were pointing and laughing. Now though, we just don’t get along. Its like one of those friends you used to have lots of things in common with but over time have moved on, yet they’ve stayed the same. And you’ve realised they are a massive twat. And probably were back then too. Morning is that twat. Sure it has its moments. Holiday morning is a fun fellow, filled with excitement and a tired but enjoyable energy that whilst you’re missing out on sleep, soon you’ll be sleeping somewhere better and hopefully hotter. I like mornings that arrive immediately after nights thanks to staying up without sleep. They’re delirious mornings and counteract the fact that birds are singing with that fact that at that time you are completely off your face and trying to work out how to dance along to morningsong. But normal mornings and total bellends. This morning, for example, could have quite happily been run over by a bus and decapitated with an axe and then eaten by a lion and I wouldn’t have attended its funeral or cared at all. No mourning for this morning. Tee hee hee. Sorry.
There appears to be some sort of trend that occurs, whereby whenever I agree to teach the Comedy 4 Kids workshop at 10am on a Saturday (part of a long list of things I say yes to and hugely regret in terms of sleep deprivation that will occur) all the tube lines I need to get there conspire to ensure my already difficult journey is made harder. Its not usually difficult in terms of journey length or tube access, just in the way that at 9am my legs are not quite coordinated with my brain and I tend to walk like a drunk penguin that’s been kicked in the nads, until all nerve endings begin communicating and my stroll picks up like Verbal Kint’s. But this arduous trek was triple crapped (a new term I made up right now) by both the Victoria and Picadilly lines being suspended just in my part of London. Why not the whole line? Well, they wanted to make sure everyone except me could get where they needed to didn’t they? It has been decided by TFL however that if I want to teach kids comedy they need proof that I will actually go to the lengths of boarding an overground then a bus to get there. Well fuck you TFL because I did it. I have so far, defeated all tube cancelled challenges thrown at me on a Saturday morning. I fully expect them to step up the pace next time by cancelling all tubes and trains and replacing the buses with baths on wheels filled with landmines. If that happens, I will just stay at home.
It doesn’t help that I had a late night last night due to watching the ever excellent Belleruche, Correspondants and the Shadow Orchestra at the Bloomsbury Ballrooms last night. All three were excellent bands, but the evening was slightly scuppered by the fact that I had no one to go with and spent much of it trying to look as inconspicuous as possible at the back of the room with a lollipop and beer. That combination, by the way, both tastes odd, and kills diabetics. Either way, I lose. It wasn’t my fault I was there by myself, I had invited people. Just no one wanted to go. Which probably is my fault as the prospect of hanging out with me probably put some of them off. The lovely Helen Arney who sorted the tickets because she working at the gig as a sexy raven – to try and explain it would get confusing, but lets just say it was a lot of feathers in a sexy way – even gave the plus one to a friend of hers who I could have hung out with, but cancelled as I walked into the venue. I was at my most repellent last night. If I’m by myself at a comedy gig or various other places, I’m ok. I can happily meet people and latch onto a group of unsuspecting victims with some quick banal banter. However at music gigs, I become rubbish. Knowing full well the loud noise renders all chat void, I tend to just feel a bit awkward and kick about until the band gets on. I’ve only been to the Bloomsbury Ballrooms once before and it was to host a very empty Bestival launch party four years ago, dressed a pirate. Again, being the only non-musician and not really doing much of a job considering the fifty people there were already focused on the stage considering there was little else to do, it was much of the same as last night. Milling about at the back, only this time, as a pirate, which oddly made it even harder to talk to people.
I realise this all sounds morose, but I did have fun. Helen kept kindly popping back to get her ‘raven’ on – sorry – and I found a few people to annoy. One was a very hot lady who I enjoyed talking to until the conversation turned to why ‘all birds are evil’, but she had no reasons to back this up. I, beered and lollipopped, couldn’t be arsed with this level of idiocy and we both mutually pulled the sort of face that says ‘I’m going to leave now’ and banter stopped. I also met, again thanks to Helen, the very lovely Jools Constant and his girlfriend Rebbecca. Its odd how after years of gigging on the same comedy circuit, we only meet outside the virtual world at a music gig. Still, they kindly let me join their troupe and the rest of the evening was full of much larks. Belleruche are bloody awesome, and you should buy all their stuff now.
I have already bought their stuff so I’m going to bed before trekking to Essex Uni tonight. From kids to freshers. I dare say it’ll be a challenge to see who’s the sharper audience today.
