Monday, 28 September 2009

Portsmouth Strikes Again.

It was a strange weekend. Highs and lows. The highs were....Oh. Maybe there weren't any highs.

The Saturday night in Portsmouth had at least one great thing going for it: there weren't any church groups pointing out how satanic STD's are. We had a normal interval just like in the good old days. The audience were OK that night and the show went fine. The highlight was seeing new act Tom Goble who was doing a five-minute open spot. He was fantastic and the audience really liked him. That's nice that is. That was the bit that made the night for me. Especially as what came after him was an act who was so racist, offensive and enjoyed acres of stolen material that I assumed I had died and gone to Hell and then Hell had died and gone to Portsmouth. Basically the act "hilariously" put on a wacky foreign voice and claimed he was an illegal immigrant and came off with jokes like "Ah've beeeen to Eeeeendia. The reel one, not Birmingham" and the audience gave him a standing ovation. It was depressing. Backstage he told a story of what good mates he is with Uncle Jim. He talked about Uncle Jim a lot. Uncle Jim let's gives him gigs. Uncle Jim phones him up. Uncle Jim is great. Uncle Jim is Jim Davison. For fuck's sake.

The most uncomfortable part was that he seemed quite nice and friendly before going on stage. He seemed nice. He was very keen on finding out about the other acts, he was excited about doing the gig and he spoke in a very camp, cheery voice. So much so that when he said that he was getting married soon I totally assumed it was a Civil Ceremony (it's called Positive Sexism. I invented it). But judging from the homophobic embarrassment that came out of his mouth on stage I now take it that he's marrying a woman. You know. Like Michael Barrymore did.

The audience absolutely loved him though so what the hell do I know? I know that as OK as I did, I wasn't ever going to do as well as this guy. That made me a bit depressed. I left the venue as soon as the show ended.

I walked back to the hotel past so many people who were screaming at one another and drinking in the street and flashing their tits at passing cars. This wasn't making me feel any better about anything. Still, I'd be in my room soon and watching some telly. That'll be nice.

It wasn't nice. I ended up watching Bring Back....Fame. That was never going to help, was it? I pulled the bed covers over my head, closed my eyes and dreamt that everyone I knew had won a chance to bootfuck Justin Lee Collins in the kidneys.

When I woke up I couldn't have got out of Portsmouth quick enough. I was glad that it was over. Far from awful gigs but I just wanted to be home. As I left the hotel I couldn't help but notice how much nicer Portsmouth is at 8am on a Sunday. It was then that I saw a pair of pink knickers lying in a hedge. I quickened my pace.

Yesterday was much better. I had lunch with my friends, Tara and Carl, who have just announced their engagement. Congratulations to both of them. I'm very glad they've met because it would be a crime if two damn good looking, great people like them had been wasted on the likes of one of us. We're just not in their league. Then it was off to Alton to perform at the UK's best gig. It's the kind of gig that drives home exactly why you would want to do this fucking crap job for a living. The audience are amazing and continue to outdo themselves every time I play there. It made me happy.

Which is probably why I feel so ill right now. My body isn't used to joy. Stupid fucking Alton.

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1 comment:

sanderson said...

I agree on Alton. That gig is a positive delight.