O homem irritado escreve uma carga da merda.

I've said before that it's the little things that make me happy. Things that you don't expect. Like seeing a hedgehog when you're waiting in Chester for the National Express bus back to London at midnight. Last night was no exception and I'm glad because yesterday was quite, quite shitty. I got sworn at by two complete strangers. Actually, that's pretty normal for me. Sigh...

I took Jerk for a walk in the park, the setting for many of my disasters. On my way I crossed the busy Ladywell Road and, halfway across, waiting on the pedestrian island for traffic on the other side to go by. I saw a driver approaching with his arm out the window, like he was riding a bike and wanted to turn right. Didn't know what he was doing but I also didn't care so that was fine. He wasn't slowing down, he was just driving normally with his hand out the window. He got closer and there was no other traffic behind him. Good, I'd soon be crossing that road, eh? NO! He stopped right in front of me and said "I'm letting you across, mate". He said it rather aggressively so I wasn't over flattered by his kind gesture.

"Oh, OK", I said.

"What do you think this meant?", he said talking about his hand out the window.

"It means I'm turning right on a bicycle".

"Fuck off, then".

He drove off but not before I gave him my default insult. I crossed the road and walked into the park. Jerk was very excited because I had brought the ball launcher. It's a long piece of plastic that you can put a tennis ball in and when you fling it the ball is catapulted over a distance I couldn't possibly throw otherwise. About 6 feet. Jerk loves the ball launcher. I love the ball launcher. I tell you who HATES the ball launcher: that fragrant, young lovely who shouted "Don't fucking throw that thing near me".

I wasn't going to throw a ball near her. She was lying on a blanket enjoying the sun. Why would I want to disturb her? My plan, though improvised and not really thought through, was to throw it nowhere near her so that she wouldn't be disturbed at all. It's one of those Good-Dog-owner things that I do. But if she was scared of dogs (something that, to be honest, I'm running out of patience with people) she just needed to say "Excuse me. Do you mind playing with your dog over there as I'm scared of dogs, please?" She didn't. She said "Don't fucking throw that thing near me". No prizes for guessing where I aimed the ball launcher.

There was a man sitting near her but not with her. He wanted to be with her. I could tell by his gallant "She told you not to throw that near her, didn't she?" as he strided towards me. What this man didn't know is that not everyone falls for macho bollocks and that appearing a bit mental wins over brawn any day. "No", I said. "She didn't TELL me to do anything because she CAN'T tell me to do anything. She just swore at me and that's what happens when you swear at people". He stopped and realised that I was either a nutter or I had made a valid and reasonable point. Of course, you was right either way.

So I went to my gig in a foul mood thinking that maybe Lewisham isn't for me anymore. It's now full of cunts so I should probably go so they can make room for more. But on my way home a lovely thing happened. I got on the tube and found a copy of "Via Gospel", a Portuguese religious magazine. It's now my favourite magazine. I can't speak and foreign languages at all but now I have realised that it's much more fun to not really understand what I'm reading. That way the articles have an air of mystery about them. And there were some crackers too. One was about the religious side of Psoriasis and as a "sufferer" I'd probably have got something out of that but, like religion itself, I just couldn't fathom a word. "Susan Boyle nos Simpsons" seemed an interesting read but my favourite article was definitely "Sobre a Parada Gay", a religious celebration of homosexuality which seems very refreshing in this day and age. Good for you, Via Gospel. I will start subscribing to you immediately.

To be honest I was cheered up well before that because the gig was excellent. I'll be honest, dear reader, I never really thought I'd say that about doing impro (or improv) again but it was a genuinely great, fun, really funny gig. I recommend you go and check out the London Improv Players during their weekly residency throughout August at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square every tuesday. Last night it was Tara Flynn, Brendan Dempsey, Rufus Hound and me. I was particularly proud of my tribute to the King of Pop during the improvised song at the end. Everyone made up a very funny verse and then it was my turn. I'm crap at this sort of thing so I chickened out by walking right into the audience and sang She's Out Of My Life VERY passionately. It's called failing big.

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