Sunday, 18 January 2009

Should Do Better.

I haven't been writing much about gigs lately. That's because they've been going well and who wants to read about that? Not me, mate. I've been feeling slightly more confident about improvising on stage and trying out new ideas. Then this weekend happened and I feel rusty like I haven't gigged in months. Either that or I'm shit. It's a possibility. I compered The Boat Show on friday night and I was so bog standard I started to bore myself. Mind you, there was one great moment. A woman in the audience said her friend had seen me before and thought that I had ruined the show. It's nice to get heckled from a previous gig. I stank the room out at the Komedia, Brighton one night in 2001 so if anyone wants to come along to the Comedy Cafe this coming weekend to remind me of that, well, I'll be happy to see you. You cunt. Don't get me wrong, The Boat Show gig was good but it's normally great, I just wasn't on form. Hey-ho. Then last night happened. Two shows, one at the 99 Club in Islington and one at East Dulwich Comedy in, obviously, Forest Hill. They were both good gigs that I was pretty atrocious at. I couldn't focus and just blabbed out my, god help us, material. I should have been on form and I wasn't. Johnny Candon and I spent the day together and maybe, in a way, that's related to me being a bit off on stage. Who knows. There was a great moment at East Dulwich though. I asked an 18 year old Canadian lad seated at the front what he was doing in London and it turned out he was here for his uncle's funeral. The atmosphere went very cold as I backed my way out of this comedy black hole. I turned to a lady also at the front and said, in a very let's-hope-the-gig-starts-turning-around-soon way, Hello. She immediately said "Leave me alone. I'm his Aunt". Fucking hell.
The East Dulwich gig wasn't helped by the presence of Daniel Kitson. I'm more than used to doing gigs with comics who are better than me but Daniel is just a bit incredibly special that it slightly makes me sick to do a gig knowing he's anywhere near. If you have never seen him then I highly advise that you never do. There are so few comics that good that you'll be spoiled and may never go to Jongleurs Cardiff again (even if you could). Luckily, he left the second I was about to go on. The c-c-c-cunt. As much as I didn't want him there, him leaving put me in a huff as I approached the stage. Still, the gig was OK really. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. It's not like anyone died. Except that fells's Uncle and that woman's husband.
The train journey between the two gigs last night was very nostalgic for me. On the Northern Line tube some fat, walking testicles were drinking heavily and singing loudly. I like drinking and singing but, for some reason, I wasn't too happy with this happening in front of me on the train. Especially as the song they were singing finished with the line " fuck the Pope and fuck the I.R.A." I think it's from Rent. As a Northern Irish man living in London for nearly 20 years, it's been a while since I've heard a song based around the subject of Pope and I.R.A love making. And, as I'm going back to Newtownards tomorrow, it's certainly put me in the mood for my trip. In a way, I was proud that our once world-beating terrorists aren't totally forgotten in favour of Bomb Du Jour Al Queda. The men singing were so utterly shaven headed, tattooed, England shirt wearing, thick, good old British boys that they won't even acknowledge non-whites when it comes to current terrorism. Good for them for sticking to their wanker principals.
Johnny and I didn't exactly finish writing King of Everything this weekend. A couple of ideas is probably the best we got from our meeting that consisted mainly of drinking and walking round Zavvi. Still, we've got loads of time. That's an excuse I'm going to be hearing a lot more of. 

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