My weekend was full of Michael Legge-esque, typical annoyance. The gigs were good but, you know, I find it hard to avoid shit.
I went up to Preston on a National Express coach so I have no one to blame but myself. To cut a long story short, I started to loath the fact that I had to share air with the other people on the bus. Then when I got to Preston I noticed it was closed. An odd town. Full of beautiful Victorian architecture that's obscured either by pound shops or empty buildings that used to be pound shops. Also, on the second night of the gigs, I got heckled by someone who was clearly mentally ill. No, he wasn't a "character". He wasn't the funniest one in the office or even an aggressive prick. He was mentally ill. Lucky he was sitting at the front and shouting otherwise I might have missed him. It's hard to put a person with mental illness down but, somehow, I found several ways to do it before just ignoring him. Then during Stuart Hudson's brilliant set the man took exception to one of his jokes and starts shouting a lot. The audience and staff were very patient with him. He calmed down and Stuart finished his set but during the interval the man started upsetting other punters and was asked to leave. His friends said they would look after him and they all left. There. All over, no harm done.
Just before I brought on the final act, Steve Harris, the man came back and took his seat at the front. I knew this wasn't going to go well but he calmed down and, because we were running late, I just brought Steve on. The audience loved Steve. So did the man who constantly interrupted and shouted. I had tried to be reasonable with him, doorstaff tried to be reasonable with him and the audience tried to be reasonable with him. None of this had worked so Steve tried a different approach. He started a fight with him. Well, it worked.
The man left, the show went on and I was happy. Normally I get the brunt of difficult situations so I was very happy that Stuart and Steve had decided to take some of the burden off my shoulders. Nice. Safe to go to the toilet then.
I mean, nothing bad ever happens in the toilet. It's a haven of safety where nothing awkward or embarrassing ever happens.
As soon as I had my beautiful penis cradled in my hand in preparation of expelling urine, a gentleman walked past and said well done on the show. That was nice. I started pissing. He immediately slipped and fell to the floor. Straight on his back. Right in front of me. And now he was going red and was gasping for air. He's obviously winded himself. Oh, shit. I had to help him.
But I can't. I'm pissing.
He looked right at me. "I've fallen", he must have thought. "But that man will surely help".
But I can't. I'm pissing.
His face is getting redder now and his gasping is being interrupted with a cough that sounds like a small dog is trapped in his neck. He's foaming at the mouth. This might actually be very serious. Christ almighty, Legge. Help that man!
I want to. But I can't. I'm having a wee-wee.
Once I start pissing I can't just stop. It has to run it's course. My penis doesn't have an off switch. My penis can only be turned on (you heard me). Oh, for fuck's sake. He's holding his hand out for me now. He's desperate. Well...maybe if I...stretch over a bit I can use my one free hand to help him? No. It's no use. I understand that this man is in pain and cannot breath but squirming and begging isn't going to help. He's just going to have to wait until I've finished. I'm sorry but if I go to him and save his life I will have to wee on him. I'm not pissing on this man. I don't even know him. If he'll just shut up then I can concentrate on pissing and I'll be finished quicker. And I have to tap-tap at the end. I always tap-tap. If I have to explain to the club manager that there's a dead body in the loo I don't want to do it with a little round pee stain on my trousers.
I finish just in time to see him enter his purple phase. I get him up and just tell him to breath normally through his nose and to remain calm. I have no knowledge about these things but it seemed to work. He's fine. He's breathing. He's standing up. He's returned to just red. Phew.
Now that he knows he's fine he feels he can now give me a bollocking. He was very, very angry. But I pleaded a good case: "I didn't want to wee on you". He burst out laughing (and coughing) and shook my hand. He even offered a drink.
I'm definitely not going to help anyone ever again. I made a friend and got booze.
Actually I never took the booze. I ran away.