Friday night’s gig has been washed clean now. I did the Bearcat Comedy Club in Twickenham and it was fantastic. Whatever it was I did wrong the night before got made right. I’m so glad it did too because I was a right miserable shit yesterday. I had one of those days where I was feeling down so lots of other things decided to get on my nerves to go along with it. Jerk rolled in mud in the park, my Freeview box froze and then, worst of all, I stubbed my toe. Stubbing your toe is the worst thing that can happen to anyone. It is the greatest amount of pain that the human body can endure and I had to endure it. I hate enduring pain. It’s in my top 5 least favourite things to endure. That woman who gave birth to eight children recently has no idea what pain really is and Fritzl’s daughter could teach me nothing about suffering. Honestly, it was agony for about seven annoying seconds. You must think me terribly brave.
Last night went great and I felt brilliant about it. Really, really happy. So happy in fact that I decided to accept all things that were said to me as fact. When I got off stage Omid Djalili congratulated me on my Chortle Best Compere nomination. I thanked him. Let’s face it. Who knows more about comedy? Omid Djalili or Steve Bennett? So, I’ve accepted the nomination. Please vote for me. It might be tricky to vote for me but please, please do it anyway. Then I was told that I had taken my act to a new level by the promoter. That’s also not true but, yeah, I guess I have done. Thanks! Then a man called me a genius. Well, who am I to argue with a man who wears a plastic Viking hat? A GENIUS. That’s who.
My great mood was only made better (and secretly worse) by Rob Brydon’s fantastic set. What a great night. Then I left the club. Then it went wrong.
Trains after 10pm are generally horrible but last night I think I picked a doozy. The carriage I chose had two sets of awful wankers in it. The first group were made up of about 8 rejects from Skins. They even dressed like the teenagers on Skins thus proving how deeply uncool they were. They all shared one 2 litre bottle of cider (which was quaint and reminded me of my youth) and played loud music out of an iPod attached to speakers. I asked them to switch it off. They acted like Harry Enfield’s Kevin, but even less funny, and turned the music down. I didn’t want them to turn the music down. I wanted it switched off. Glasvegas are shit. They just are. I DON’T want to ever hear them. So, I asked them to switch it off again and they gave a really strong argument in “We’re only listening to it”. I know they were only listening. Trouble was, so was I. So, this time I asked them to switch it off in a fairly loud and stern voice. That’s when the other group started up.
The other group were even worse. They were made up of about 10 embarrassingly posh rugby fans who were pissed beyond comprehension. “Leave them alone” said this excruciating posh and thick dollop of terrible. She wore a rugby shirt. With the collar up. God, that must be the worst look. You just scream prick when you dress like that. “We’re listening to that”, she reasoned. I pointed out something that the fucking cunt may not have noticed; this is a train. Not everyone on the train wants to hear Glasvegas, talk to teenagers or look at a load ball-aches who like “the rugger”. So, all the rugby fans told the Skins that it was OK to play their music as loud as they wanted. Skins said thanks and blasted that awful band for all that their little speakers were worth. That was really stupid. As you know, I am a calm and reasonable human being who only has love for his fellow man. Some people aren’t like that. One of them was on the train. He went up to the Skins. Grabbed their iPod. Walked down to the Rugby arses and repeatedly stood on the iPod until it broke. He then sat back down.
There was barely a word out of anyone for the rest of the journey. I smugly put my iPod headphones on and went back to being in a good mood.
That is what it takes for people to behave on a train these days. We. Are. Fucked.
Had lots of weird dreams last night. One was about having sex with Elizabeth Sladen (as she is now, not in the ‘70’s), one was about sneaking on to a boat to America and another, very weirdly, was about Anthony King being a cab driver. Still, it was nice to see him. No cheese before bed for a while for me.
My first preview of my solo show at the Leicester Comedy Festival has been cancelled. I’m gutted but it’s really for the best. Sorry.