Having returned from a Comedy 4 Kids gig where I was told my a 5 year old that I was performing underwater, and about to head to gig where enthusiasm levels could usually only be lower if they were physically lowered into the ground, I can’t say I have much capacity for a blog today. Add this to the fact that whilst there have been several happenings in the last 24 hours that could make it into this blog, few are of any sort of exciting level that would make this anymore than a list of things, which, as we all know, isn’t that exciting. Can’t think of many lists that are exciting in general. Things on lists can be fun, but usually a bit of paper with things written on it, in itself, is not really full on joy building. I suppose Christmas lists used to be good, though it was less the list and more the short lived hope that you may get anything you’ve put on it. This would then only raise expectations so that they could be shattered again but from an even greater drop when the Super NES game is absent while three satsumas and an Atlas for kids sit staring at you with non-existent eyes, praying they’ll be loved instead of seen with contempt. (I’d like to point out here that my parents were never so cruel. In fact Christmases have always been ace, but this is far less fun to write about and so, for the sake of this piece pretend they only ever gave me sticks or rewrapped things I already owned as gifts and that I had to live in a cupboard till I was 12). We made the executive decision about Christmas this year not to do presents. I suggested it and both the parents agreed. My brother will be away so it will just be us three. None of us really want anything and we can’t be bothered with the stress of it all, so on Christmas Day we’ll probably just go for a curry and have a nice day off. I can’t tell you how pleased I was with all of this, until I walked past the West End’s Christmas lights display, and Somerset House’s ice rink with big tree outside and suddenly it felt like the worst choice in the world. Its not. I still stand by this year’s non-Xmas, but will balance it with enough mulled wine to pretend I care, and the annual anger at how many people try to fit on Oxford Street’s pavements at any one point like its some sort of competition for mass stacking of dawdling fuckwits.
The few things that are exciting I can’t really blog about. Some, despite me saying I don’t believe in all that, I am worried about jinxing them. I tell you people all about it, one of you puts a voodoo curse on me, it never happens and then I look like a hopeless dreamer. Which to be fair, is my standard day to day default setting so I’m not that worse off and I do have blog content. The other reason is that I have been temporarily banned as such by a friend from mentioning part of it until something else happens. Well, not to mention it, but merely to omit their name from it, but I like to pretend they have got all dictatory and abused our friendship by destroying my freedom of speech. It also because if I write about it now, I won’t have anything to blog about when it happens. Confused? You should be.
So essentially, what I’m trying to say is that I have nothing to say. Two to three paragraphs have been hacked out describing nothing, giving nothing extra to your day, and yet I’ve sufficiently wasted some of your time. How much time depends on how quick a reader you are. Slow readers, I’m sorry for this being most of your day, but at the same time, sort it out. Stop reading it out aloud too. Especially in that voice. I don’t sound like that.
A very small end note to this non-note, just to say how sad I was to hear on Chortle today about Mackenzie Taylor taking his life on Thursday. If you’re not on the circuit, you may not know Mackenzie, but he suffered from a bipolar schizophrenic disorder and his manic depression caused him to take an overdose. One the occasions I worked with him he was always a lovely, warm and friendly man, very funny to boot too and its a real tragedy. RIP Mackenzie. Truly sad. Heartfelt condolences to his friends and family.
