Talking Crap.

Why did Jerk have to shit on the living room floor the night that Robin Ince came round?

Robin coming to stay is the equivalent of the Vicar coming round. Nothing should go wrong or it will be a total, farcical embarrassment. Why couldn't Jerk shit on the floor when Johnny Candon stayed? Johnny wouldn't have noticed. Or I could have even blamed Johnny. Johnny would definitely take full responsibilty for a shit on the floor because, even if he didn't do it, it's very like something he would do. But not Robin. A shit on the floor is the kind of thing he would clock right away. He's a very clever man. He discovered no God, you know.

Robin was performing at Happy Mondays at The Amersham Arms in New Cross. It's near where I live so I thought I'd go and watch and, as he had gigs in London the next day, he asked to stay. I doubt he'll ask again. Robin didn't turn up until after 10 so I accidentally got drunk with my friend Liz. I'm still enjoying the hangover as I write. It was a very entertaining evening even before the comedy started. Firstly because Liz is great company and secondly because the bar was playing host to a nutter. A real nutter. A great big, taking-over-the-room nutter.

I knew he was nuts straight away. I overheard the conversation he was having with the barmaid (I'm sure they're not called barmaids anymore. I am very old). She said she was from Lewisham and he was totally amazed by that. Amazed by someone who comes from about a quarter of a mile away. Then he took a step closer to me and I couldn't help but notice that he reeked of shit. It was pungent. Horrible. Then he showed me his fist. Not in a violent way or even a sexy way. Just a sort of Hello kind of way. This makes me feel uncomfortable anyway. Why is offering a fist thought of as welcoming? I reluctantly fisted him (is that what you call it?) and quickly sat down with my drink. He pretty much went to every table looking for a conversation to crash. His smell never got him very far though. Eventually he got chucked out in what has to be one of the most gracious pieces of anger I have ever seen:

"What? Are you saying I'm fucking chucked out? Is that what you're fucking telling me? You're actually fucking throwing me out? Fuck off. I ain't being fucking chucked out. I don't give a fuck. Fucking talking to me like that. You fucking throwing me fucking out? You fucking really fucking throwing me fucking out?"

"Yes".

"Fair enough. Bye".

He left. But as he did he mumbled something like "I'm gonna come back 9 million times" which would have been impressive. I then went to watch the comedy so have no idea if he succeeded. I wish him all the best.

I was welcomed at the door by the lovely Tom Searle who runs the gig. Tom is a really nice man and I particularly like how many compliments he gave me for a blog I didn't write. I'm not an idiot. I accepted his compliments. Chris Addison was excellent and rude to some people who needed some rude and Robin Ince was his tediously, normal excellent self. The cunts. The pair of fucking cunts. Anyway, we stayed for a drink or two. I can't remember. I was drunk. We got in a cab and went to my house.

It was the smell that hit me first. Fuck! Have I been burgled by the nutter at The Amersham Arms? No. My house-trained dog decided to break her four-year run of not shitting on the living room floor by shitting on the living room floor. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't hide it. The nearest thing to me was a book but if I covered a shit with a book Robin would actually die. Plus a book can't really cover that fucking stench (unless it's Saturday Night Peter). I mean, I know everyone else's house smells a bit but this was too much.

I was embarrassed. Even though I know that Robin's flat was once three feet deep in shit after a sewage burst, I still felt awful that he had to witness a turd in my house. I quickly gave him some wine and put on Doctor Who in the hope that he would forget he even saw it.

I'm going to clean it up now.

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