I'm very pleased to say that this blog won a Chortle Award last night. I got it for Best Off-Stage Contribution. I'm not big on awards or forcing competition on an already very competitive occupation but this is very nice indeed. It's not heavily sponsored by a mortgage company and its just nice to think that at least some part of this industry thinks that I'm funny. Off-stage.
As if to prove that I'm not funny on-stage, the debut performance of King of Everything at The International Bar in Dublin last night was pulled at the last minute. It was gutting. Not that we were down to do the whole show, just 10 minutes, but we dragged our director, Dan Mersh, all the way to Dublin to see a little of what we could do and it was all for nothing. Bumfuck. We did some work on a couple of sketches and links and thought, fucking stupidly, that it was all going to go well. Then hardly anyone turned up. Only 9 people in a venue that holds 2,500. Well, it holds 60 but what's the fucking difference if no-one bothers to turn up? Stupid, lazy, Irish bastards. I fucking hate Dublin now. That said, the lovely people of Dublin are getting a second chance to let me down tonight because King of Everything are performing their REAL debut at the same venue. No doubt we'll sell out to a bunch of lovely comedy-appreciating sexy people, unlike last night's ugly bunch of lumpy fucks who stayed at home watching BBC3 and crying into their piss and basically doing everything they can to secure that I remained off-stage. The very arena that I win awards in.
So far, I've avoided getting into a big stupid fight here in Dublin, mainly because Dubliners are friendly (although they can't be arsed putting their potatoes down for five seconds to come out to comedy, the alcoholic, shamrock-shagging, leprahaun pricks). I'm glad about that because in my last 24 hours in London I managed to get into three big stupid fights. One when asking a little girl to kindly stop screaming in an internet cafe (the little girl was fine about it but her wheezing, red-faced, furious mother reckoned that I'm a durt-ee wankah). One was with a man who was keen to support his dog's raping of mine (he's only playing. With his cock). The most up to date one was with a teenager. I don't mind fighting with teenagers because every teenager in the world is King Bellend and deserves the kicking that they're permenently about to get. I was gigging in Alton and during Tom Wrigglesworth's excellent set two "18" year old lads were talking so I politely asked them to keep it down. One of them didn't like that and decided to stare at me. This child was under that mad impression that all grown adults are terrified of kids because they can stab us with their hoodies and happy slap us right up. Well, that's ridiculous. They're smaller than us. We can destroy them. Let's destroy them! He stared at me for quite a long time trying to intimidate me, if being stared at by a tinier version of Ray Quinn is intimidating to anyone then there's no way they should ever be out of the house. Eventually I turned to him and said "What?". He shrugged, looked away and started texting. A minute later he was back to giving me his bad-ass stare. That's when I pointed my finger in his face and told him to fuck off. He deflated in front of me and, for a second, I felt like I had just bullied that little boy who hid in shit in Schindler's List. Then I remembered he was a cunt.
None such rudeness in Dublin. All's well despite the lack of last night's show. We even had a brilliant Irish moment. We went to Johnny's local pub called The Village Inn. After a couple of drinks one of the staff came up to us with three cups of soup and said "HERE". It was the rudest act of kindness I have ever witnessed.
Here's to tonight's second attempt at a debut or an underlining confirmation of my award.