Arsehole.

It amazes me sometimes how easy it is to get me out of a bad mood. Well, it’s not easy, it just has to be something unexpected. For instance, if I’m all grumpy you can’t just turn to me and go “Cheer up, mate. Let’s go home and watch Doctor Who”. That will sound like you’re TRYING to make me happy and that will make me more grumpy and I’ll probably tut and roll my eyes and think about lots of ways I’d like to kick your teeth out, you patronising, yet kind, bastard.

I was in a prick of a mood yesterday. The night before, I had behaved like a total moron for absolutely no reason whatsoever. King of Everything went out drinking. King of Everything love drinking so that was all good. Then Johnny had to leave to go to his gig in the centre of London but I feel that King of Everything still have some drinking to do and so I go along with him. Yep. That’s what I do with my Friday night off. I go to a comedy club. Luckily, the club is an excellent one but because of mine and several other members of the audience’s behaviour I won’t name it. As soon as we got there you could just tell that this was not this club’s regular kind of audience. They were basically a bunch of very arrogant, coked-up teenagers. Not all of them, obviously, but enough of them. The first act, Rob Collins, went on and did a great job but you could tell he was working hard and he wasn’t enjoying it. Neither was I because while Rob was on several punters were at the bar having a little shout at one another. That’s when the Scary-Man took over. I took one look at the guy making the most noise, walked over to him and told him to keep his mouth shut. Not “Excuse me, can you keep the noise down, please?” No. There was none of that for me because the Scary-Man was in charge now and the Scary-Man has no manners and likes beer more than I do.

During the interval he came up to me and explained that he’d try to keep his friend quiet for the rest of the show. You’d have thought that that would have been enough for me but it wasn’t. I told him that it wasn’t his friend I had a problem with, it was him. Then he faced up to me. He got far too close and said “Do you think you’re funny?” He had obviously mistaken me for a comedian. Ironically, this never happens when I’m working. The Scary-Man then forced me to face up to him. I told him that I wasn’t working here, I’m not part of the club and it was simply me telling him to shut up. No-one else asking him to be quiet, just me. After much facing-upping, he then said “All I see is a bloke with a Northern Irish accent who I’m going to punch if he says one more word to me”. He wasn’t stupid, this guy. That was exactly who I was. I thought that I’d best not say another word because I find fighting very tricky and fidgety. Then the Scary-Man spoke on my behalf. I told him to fuck off out of my face (sounds good but not when you feel wee-wee coming out a bit). Surprisingly, he did fuck off out of my face. But what the fuck was all that about? I’m not Mr. Big-Fight Man. I’m a scaredy type of person. That wasn’t even my argument. I looked for it myself and, besides, Angus who runs the gig was doing a great job of handling the idiots himself. If that had have been a gig that I was actually working at I doubt I would have said a word but, for some insane reason, I decided to pretend to be a hard nutter in front of a dickhead. I’ve had better nights.

When I woke up yesterday I felt terrible. What an embarrassing prick. That feeling stayed with me the whole way to my gig that night. My gig was in Chester and I was travelling by coach. That feeling picked the right trip to join me on. It was long, cramped and boring. I couldn’t concentrate on any of the DVD’s, podcasts, books and magazines I had brought because I was thinking of my behaviour the night before. Then I arrived four long, boring, freezing cold hours too early for my gig and by the time I got onstage the audience were restless and chatty. It was a good gig but I had to work at it and I was in no mood to deal with a chatty audience. I was dreading the six hour journey home.

Then right by the bus stop, as I stood freezing all of my brass monkey’s balls off waiting for my return coach to London, I saw a hedgehog. It scurried around some hedges (as it should do) and then ran across the park grass. It was lovely. I then came to the conclusion that I am 40 and I’ve never seen a hedgehog. It came from nowhere, it was exciting and it totally made me happy. I forgot all about Scary-Man and his idiotic ways all because of a little spiky animal. Hedgehogs are excellent and, now, I want one. If one can bring me that amount of joy after seeing it for one minute, imagine how constantly happy I’d be if I owned one? Let’s face it, considering my behaviour on Friday night, it might be in everyone’s best interest for me to own one. If anyone is selling any of their old hedgehogs, please let me know.

I’ve just arrived back home. It’s 7.27am. I haven’t slept. Night night.