Yesterday
morning I woke up, got out of bed and fell immediately onto the floor. That was
not my first mistake of the day. That came later when I picked myself up. Why did
I do that? My bedroom carpet is soft and comforting and the floor itself stops
me from falling any further. Only getting up again guarantees more falls. Why
do we fall, Bruce? Because it’s great. Getting up makes us bitter, angry and
pretty likely to seek bloody justice while dressed as a caped gimp.
I lay on the
floor for the greatest second of my life and then made the rash decision to get
up. As I lifted my equivalent of a body, I realised I was in pain. That’s
another stupid thing about getting up: after falling, you don’t really realise
you’re hurt until you start moving. I held on to the wardrobe for support and
as I raised what was left of me from the floor, my knees held their head in their
hands in agony.
I sat on the
bed and looked at the floor. Why would anyone want to be anywhere else other
than the floor? The floor is our only friend. We can lie on it and nothing
worse will ever happen. Next time you fall, think: where is pain and fear and
sadness and wankers? Is it down here on the comfy, fluffy, mothering floor
carpet? Or is it all up there with the delayed trains and the unpaid bills and
the racism and the random American shootings and the Weinsteins and the
hashtags and the Brexit and the fucking constant constant. Christ, when you
fall, that is the floor giving you a way out. That is the floor reminding you
that you are loved and cared for. The floor is freedom. The floor is the only
person who gives a shit about anyone.
And I rejected
it. My one chance at happiness and I said no. I mean, I’ve fallen loads of
times and I’m planning on falling loads more but I bet, eventually, I’ll still
get up again. Because I’m a fucking idiot.
My day was
awful yesterday. Literally every part of it. A disaster. In fact, it was
several disasters. One after the other. And after every disaster, all I could
think about was that warm, beautiful floor. I thought about how lovely it was
when I fell on it. How safe I felt as I lay on top of it. I thought about a
story I once read about a man who was found dead on his living room floor after
lying there alone and forgotten for two years and I envied the jammy cunt.
There are
only a few things that make me completely happy. One of them is writing blog
posts. I can write what I like and I never have to edit it or change it in any
way. Not that I blog any more. I don’t. I gave that up years ago. I also like
Iggy Pop, being vegan and performing my latest show called Jerk. I love it. And
the only thing that yesterday had going for it was that I could perform part of
that show at The Comedy Store at a vegan benefit gig. I mean, that’s the best.
That’s what I live for. That will make the morning fall and everything that
happened after it seem worthwhile. THIS is why I got up from the floor.
I went on
stage and I was terrible.
I haven’t
felt that amateur in a long time. I remembered feedlines and punchlines. Just
not ones that matched up. I tripped over words, forgot where I was, my throat
and mouth got drier and drier to the point that I thought I was going to be
sick. Being sick on stage in front of vegans is a nightmare. They won’t clean
it up as it’s technically an animal product. Instead I just wobbled about on stage,
sweating and nearly being sick while the audience remained polite and
respectful. Oh, yeah. No booing or heckling. They wouldn’t let me die. Bloody
vegans.
I was
bollocks. My beloved show was bollocks in front of a room full of vegans and
animal rights supporters. Floor! Why did I forsake thee?!
Everyone
else on the bill was vegan too but they were funny. I sat in the dressing room
feeling like shit with a bunch of really talented vegan comedians that were
loved and adored by a few hundred like minded people at a GIG I REALLY WANTED
TO BE GOOD AT.
Ever have
one of those moments in life when you think “what am I?” That’s how I felt on
the way home. All I needed was to be good at that gig. That would have made
getting up off the perfect floor worthwhile. Or at least I needed any part of
my shit, shit day yesterday to be good. Anything to justify getting up. But I
had nothing. So when it’s late at night and you’re alone and you’ve rejected a
floor that tried to save you and you didn’t perform well at the only thing you
should be good at… what are you? What am I?
I started
reading the Iggy Pop biography Open Up and Bleed. I couldn’t really concentrate
as I was busy remembering everything that I SHOULD have done at the gig but was
too crap to do. Iggy always cheers me up. His energy, his intellect, his
stupidity. But this was a tough job for him this time. I held the book in my
hand. I even looked at the words. Yet all I could think about was the horror of
my act and the comfort of the floor. That’s not a life. Not being prepared for
a gig you’re looking forward to is bullshit and lying on the floor isn’t going
to improve that. That’s when something in the book caught my eye.
On the 11th
August 1968, The Stooges played a midnight show in a town called Romeo in
Michigan. It was a 15 minute long set and at the end, for the very first time
in his career (but nowhere near the last) Iggy Pop got his dick out on stage.
That was
about 12:15am on the morning of 12th August 1968. Michigan is 5
hours behind the UK. I was born at 5:15am on the 12th August 1968.
Yeah, yeah,
yeah. I had a shit day. I had a gig that I wasn’t that happy with. Boo hoo. I
WAS BORN AT THE SAME TIME AS IGGY POP’S DICK. WHO CAN BE SAD OR FEEL LIFE IS
AGAINST THEM WHEN THAT PERSON AND THE PENIS OF THE GREATEST SHOWMAN OF ALL TIME
WAS EXPOSED TO THE WORLD AT THE EXACT SAME MOMENT?
It really
doesn’t take much to make me happy. Just dates, times and Iggy Pop’s wang. I
HAVE NEVER FELT MORE ALIVE!
The day
started with me on the floor but now I’m standing proud. Because I am Iggy Pop’s
dick. And I hope, in your darkest hours, you will be too.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
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