It's an odd gig, the one between Christmas and New Year. Usually pretty quiet although with enough of the aftermath of Christmas parties to just about make it a chore. Last night was different. It was great. It was in Bath, a beautiful British town that I had never been to before. The venue was incredible, a 150 year old theatre fully restored and beautiful to look at. But best of all, it cancelled. Don't get me wrong, it looked like it would have been great fun to play but all cancelled gigs are waaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than an actual gig. You've got to understand the buzz we comedians feel when we're about to go on stage, adrenalin pumping through our bodies, our minds electric with anticipation, when the owner turns round and says "Sorry, we're going to have to pull it". It's such a high. Sometimes I don't come down from that for days. It's like that was the reason we all got into comedy in the first place. And when the owner says "You'll still get paid", well, that feeling of glory, excitement and semen dribbling down your leg is something the likes of Billy Connolly, Frank Skinner or Ricky Gervais haven't experienced in years. There must be a part of them that misses that wonderous moment. When Ricky's limo turns up at the Royal Albert Hall only to be told by the manager that a football match is on and that's why they haven't sold any tickets but "Don't worry. We'll still pay you". He'd love that. Last night's Bath Komedia gig was cancelled thanks to the incompetence of today's good old British electricians. The power went. Thanks for that.
It was really for the best that the gig cancelled. Firstly, the venue was so utterly perfect for comedy that I was bound to die on my arse and secondly because the hotel I was staying in was broken. The place itself was very nice, a very much above average, modern B&B but the telly was broken and everyone knows that the only thing worse than not having a telly is having a broken telly. I had to be moved to another room because my TV kept switching itself on and off like it was the world's least imaginative poltergeist. Then the second, and final, room I went to had a TV that froze constantly like it was slowly downloading telly. The only channel that worked was Virgin 1, which isn't as good as it sounds. Still, it taught me a lot about When Sports Go Bad. Do you know how many men have died from hitting themselves in the head with their own golf club while trying to putt the ball into a hole eight feet away from them in the last fifty years? One. And he's a fucking idiot. The hotel was OK though. At least it had free WiFi which, as I had my iPod Touch with me, excites me greatly. I was like a proper young person! Hanging out in ma crib downloading tunes from da iTunes, innit. To be honest, I actually downloaded only one tune and it was Mr. Ozio's Flat Beat. I'm getting very nostalgic for shit at the moment. I'll be downloading Stiltskin next.
Of course, thanks to the gig cancellation, I didn't have to stay overnight and got a lift back to my house from Matt Blaize and his, frankly too good for him, girlfriend Fiona. But I did have enough time in my room to catch this nightmare that might actually rival Ewan McGregor's empire of bellendity. If you can, look at this: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=iwmbmJ_WqAU&feature=related
God, don't you feel all dirty?