I'm too excited about King of Everything. We've done very little work, yet Johnny and I are sure that we're going to have a very enjoyable Edinburgh. The little amount of work we've done is fine because the ideas for the show keep on coming. The bit I'm working on today will feature Johnny and I singing "I Know Him So Well" totally straight. No mucking about, just us singing as best we can plus some choreography properly taught to us by a proper real dance instructor. That should be worth the price alone. Or not. Who knows? We've also got a Ouija board with some letters missing, Iggy Pop being addicted to insurance and finding out what happened to all the school friends we used to bully. Yeah, sketch shows sound shit in synopsis form but we think it's all funny. And we find NOTHING funny, so that must mean it's the funniest thing in the world. Still, the fact that we haven't done any real graft on it could be our Achilles heel. No point in worrying about that though, I wouldn't be surprised if they brought back the Perrier just for us or Phil Nicholl, BrendAn Burns and whoever the fuck won it last year were forced to gives us their If.comedy prizes. But like I say, we've done very little so we might not win that many awards. We'll see.
I'm very glad I'm all positive about King of Everything because I'm feeling shit about my own solo show which, I fear, may never happen. You, on the other hand, may fear it will. People are different. I'm having more than a few teething problems with it mainly because I'm feeling surrounded by nice people all of a sudden. The show's about how I have a terrible habit of being really nice to people I can't stand but being round too many nice people recently has slightly put me off. I fucking hate nice people.Even this weekend at The Comedy Cafe I was surrounded by fucking stupid pointless niceness. The staff are always lovely there but you'd have thought there would be at least one cunt on the bill just to help me get all angry. But there fucking wasn't. The nice awful bastards. Mind you, the open spot, Rob Tarbuck, mistook me for Drew Barr so he can suck my funny third ball. Rob was, of course, in the paid half-spot slot but he thought I was Drew Barr so he's a fucking open-spot to me now. But, he was a really nice open-spot so that doesn't help. Then last night in Alton they took niceness to a new level. You might not like this next bit. It's disgusting.
On my way to Alton I sat looking through my new material, making re-writes to make sure I had it perfect for the gig. HA HA HA! Only joking. On my way to Alton I needed a piss but the two loos on the train had committed suicide so I had to wait until I got to Alton station. The loo in Alton was in mourning for the two suicide toilets and, although I was bursting, I thought I coould hold on until I got to the gig. I was wrong. Five minutes into my walk I decided that I had to pee and I had to pee NOW. I started to feel urine seep into my nostrils. I really hoped that I wouldn't have to lower myself to pissing in the street. I'm 40. I shouldn't be pissing in the street. My cock started to cry so I thought I'd best rid myself of what little dignity I have left and walked into a very dark street and stood behind some bins. As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared. Well, I don't know if he was a shopkeeper or not but he was a punter who had been to Alton before. I know this because, while I was pissing, he waved at me and shouted "I'm coming to see you again tonight". It was nice that he was so keen on coming to the gig but I'd rather that he'd run me over in a racist lorry than saw me make tinkle. My tinkle froze in embarrassment and I continued on my journey.
When I got there I went straight to the toilet. Hooray! It was empty. Now for a slap-up piss! It was a lovely piss. A lovely piss that I felt I'd earned. I savoured every delighful moment of it and quickly forgot about the horrible piss-bin-waving-racist lorry incident of earlier. I felt so good just standing there pissing that surely I couldn't be happier than I was right there, right then in that beautiful, blissful state of relief. I could, actually. I could fart. I farted. It felt great. Then as if by magic, another fucking shopkeeper appeared. What the fuck is it with these shopkeepers (or whatever it is they do for a living)? He walked out of the cubicle, laughed and said "Bloody hell, was that you? Better get it out before you go onstage, eh?" For fuck's sake.I was dreading the gig. I compered the night without anyone in the small, brilliant audience mentioning my urine or gas. Two of them had every right to bring it up but they didn't. Because they're nice. That's what a nice person does. A nice person never mentions seeing you piss behind a bin but they also don't help me write about horrible people that I'm nice to. Hang on. I AM horrible people that I'm nice to. Hmmmm....interesting angle. Thanks, Alton. You're nice.
As if that wasn't enough niceness for one night, Cole Parker drove me (very nearly) all the way home AND gave me his ventolin after I lost mine. HE GAVE ME HIS MEDICINE. That is a whole level of niceness that I can't even fathom. I wouldn't give anyone my Wispa never mind my medicine but that's because I am horrible and everyone else in the world is nice. God, I really think I've made a break through with this blog.....sniff.....
By the way, King of Everything should be making a few podcasts this week. We might need your help. You're nice. You can't refuse!!!