Friday, 19 December 2008

I See Wrong People.

When you’re bored out of your mind, as I am in Southampton, any tiny little change of the day will excite you more than it should. Yesterday, I was doing my usual shuffling around the main shopping area, hoping that a brand new Doctor Who DVD or a Robyn Hitchcock CD had been released that I didn’t know about, when I saw Ross Noble. I really like Ross a lot even though I don’t know him very well, but just seeing a friendly face in the middle of all the joylessness and depression that is Christmas was just what I needed. So much so that I immediately shouted “Thank fuck it’s you” and held my hand out to shake his. It was around this time that I realised that this complete stranger was not Ross Noble. I don’t know who he was but I do know he was scared. I apologised. That just made him confused and angry while he mumbled something. I felt really awkward and my brain, something I never rely on, searched for something positive to say while we parted company. He was wearing a Frank Zappa t-shirt and, as I quite like Frank Zappa, I cheerily said “Nice T-Shirt”. The stranger then said “Fucking whatever” as we both walked away. It was then that my brain processed the actual picture of Zappa on the guy’s t-shirt. It was a picture of Frank Zappa going to the toilet. Let’s all just think about that for a moment. Yesterday, I went up to a complete stranger, swore at him and then told him how much I like pictures of men shitting. Still, I thought, at least I’ll never see him again. I spent the next hour walking around shops and making eye contact with him a further four times, each time I looked friendlier and he looked more furious. I then made a firm commitment to return to my hotel room.

I’m glad I did. My hotel room was great yesterday. After a pretty non-descript gig the night before (although the audience LOVED my new Jesus bringing back a prostitute from the dead to have sex with her bit) and embarrassing myself in front of unRoss Noble, it was great to finally start work on my solo show. That lasted five seconds but I did write a new sketch for the me and Johnny Candon show (that’s just the working title). I think I’m going to enjoy writing this. It be childish. Plus something great happened while I was out. I don’t like my room being cleaned when I stay in a hotel so I always put the Do Not Disturb sign up. I just hate the way maids come in and move my stuff, change the heating and find my corpses. But yesterday the sign must have fallen off so when I got back the maid had done a brilliant job of tidying without messing with my belongings. When I stay in a hotel I act like a cunt, throwing crap everywhere and very quickly making the room completely uninhabitable, just like I do at home. Maybe the fact that I’m now in a much nicer room, even though I haven’t moved, was all the inspiration I needed to start working. In fact, yesterday I listened to the new demo that The Raymond and Mr. Timpkins’ Review made of their radio pilot. It’s terrific but that won't stop me from making lengthy notes, criticisms and rude comments about it to their stupid faces. Please feel free to send me anything you have written or made. My feedback is always honest and will make you cry. I also started writing another me and Johnny sketch around midnight last night but I was pissed and, now that I’ve finally read it, it’s awful. It’s still staying in though. We have to get BBC3’s interest, you see.

I listened to lots of R.E.M. yesterday. Just in case you were wondering. I liked them when they were good. Fuck me, I should be a music journalist. That was great.

Last night’s gig was a bit better. A pretty nice audience who really enjoyed the show, shame I wasn’t quite in the mood. I got back to the hotel and felt a bit weary and empty. This may have a lot to do with a Channel 4 talking heads programme that I horribly managed to catch the end of. Don’t know what it was called but it was about early sexual experiences, it was balls and it featured every evil careerist cocksucker going; McGuinness, McIntyre, Fritzl. They were all there. Does anyone really want to hear Robert Webb poshing on about the first time he poshly fingered some champagne-filled minor royal at his over-privileged coke-fuelled end-of-term posh ball? Posh it up all you want, Robert, it’s still rape. Kevin Bishop also had an opinion on the subject but no-one could listen to it, surely? That said, embarrassingly, I once did a talking heads show that was nearly as bad but nowhere near as egotistical. Plus I called Richard Blackwood a cunt on it. I may have mentioned that before. Anyway, it was a really embarrassing show. I suppose I could have watched Louis Theroux on the other side but he’s friends with Toilet and if Toilet’s ignoring me then I’m ignoring Louis Theroux. That’s how I roll. I roll really stupidly.

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