Luckily yesterday wasn’t boring at all. Not like the day before. How could it be boring? I had hundreds of old and pointless emails to go through.
I changed my email address at the beginning of the year (email@example.com, if anyone’s interested) but, even though I sent an email out to everyone in my old Hotmail address book, lots of people are still writing to my old Hotmail address. The dozy fuckers. It was a long and laborious task looking through them all and most of them seemed to be concerned about the size of my very small penis. I also got some from my Mum who likes to send emails when she’s on holiday so she can brag about how hot it is where she is and talk about how cheap wine is where she is and show how concerned she is about the size of my very small penis. She’s very considerate and creepy. My favourite of all my Hotmail “lost” emails was from my sister Colette. She sent it in March to congratulate me on my Chuckles Award.
Yesterday was full of excitement like that. I had a lovely hour long train journey too that was just as riveting. You know when you get on a train and the train guard gets on the PA and acts all cheery and jokey sometimes? You know how that’s lovely for about a second and then rapidly makes you want to rip off your own balls and throw them at him? Well, imagine that for an entire fucking hour. The cunt would NOT get off the PA, so delighted was he that we were all getting a four-day weekend and how much he hoped we all had a grrrrrreat time. I fucking hate that man. What made it worse was that people around me were laughing, smiling and saying “He’s always like this”. THAT’S NOT A GOOD THING. “Take it easy this weekend, folks. Four days of frolicking. I sincerely hope that wherever you are a lot of lovely sunshine comes your way”. I half expected the fuck to launch into “Bring Me Sunshine” and to remind us to tip the waitress. He’s a train guard not a fucking cheesy cheese man.
Yeah, I said what you’re all thinking.
The train journey wasn’t all bad because at least, in amongst the insanity, I managed to see the best newspaper headline I’m likely to see for quite a while. It was in London Lite (I think) and it read “Tweed: Please Make My Jade a Wax Dummy”. So moving.
I fucked up a whole gig all by myself last night. Before bringing on the excellent Gary Delaney, I mucked about with the audience a lot and they liked my banter, I thought. Then before bringing on Nat Lutseema I mucked about again but they now wanted to join in. I say they, I mean a man who couldn’t speak wanted to join in. I tried to understand him but couldn’t. Unfortunately, I gave him loads of room and time and the audience started to drift. Mucking about will get them back. NO IT WON’T. They’re scared of you now, you big prick. The room’s gone all funny and it’s YOUR FAULT. I did my oldest joke (pretty much), got a laugh and brought Nat on. The room was weird now and it was all my fault. I could have ignored the man who couldn’t talk but my stupidity, once again, got the better of me. Nat was very good but the audience just sat and stared. Why would they do anything else? I had put them off comedy for life. I’d made them hate comedy. I HAD BROKEN COMEDY. I’m very sorry.
The last act was Micky Flanagan who did what I should have done but didn’t/couldn’t. He ignored the man who couldn’t talk, then eventually calmly explained that the man who couldn’t talk had to shut up and then did a series of excellent jokes. Like a flash cunt. Comedy is now fixed again. For now.
I’ve just arrived in Edinburgh for the first of two nights. The WiFi in my hotel room is suffering from that quaint old Edinburgh tradition of saying “NO!”. If you’re reading this then my WiFi is finally working or you’re standing right behind me.