To my extra shame I was one of only four from thirteen acts that did not survive the six minutes. Nine people survived the gong, but I got gonged off after three minutes or something... I was terrible though and the gongage was entirely fair. I will do a full post mortem, but if you don't mind, I'll do that in private and not bore you with how I felt and looked nervous and never really managed to gain my confidence back when the audience smelt my fear...
To my extra extra shame... the passenger/co-driver I took to Leicester was Dave Gibson. He was/is excellent and to the credit of the audience, he won the night overall. As it should have been I thought, enough to restore my faith in audience voting. I died on that stage, had I been voting I'd have red carded me too and he should have won and he did, but imagine how weird that was for him, and shameful for me when he had to be kind and nice and all that on the way home...
Dave is either super cool or super nice or both coz he did zero gloating and I'd have been on top of the world and not able to hide it, had I been in his shoes. I'd have been nice too, but I think I'd have been too overjoyed not to let it show at least a bit. Not so cool...
I'm proper embarrassed so I am. We got on really well on the way up there, despite his trains all being cancelled on the way to meet me in Walthamstow, so we set off half hour later than planned. Then between us, navigation errors led us really out of the way ... A1(M) not M1 for fair a bit, then the recovery route through Luton, meaning we didn't get to Leicester until 9pm (planned arrival 8pm). Despite all that, I thought we got on jolly well.
As I say, the way home was a little more awkward, well it should have been and wasn't really. It was only awkward in as much that I was gutted with myself and felt bad for him to have to be nice to me. He offered to split the driving on the way home and by then, I was well up for that, this was no time to be a martyr. When we got low on fuel only 20 or so miles down the M1, we stopped at Services, he gave me his winnings for petrol and I let him take over from there. He did point out that I was very trusting and he might not even have a driving licence. Trusting and Lazy we agreed upon. He was better at driving than me as well as comedy. GIT.
I'm sure we both just wanted to get out of that flipping car as soon as humanly possible. If for no other reason (ha ha) than it was very late. It was not to be, the M1 was closed at junction 11 and this meant a long delay and a detour via Luton again and Darnstable or somewhere, which he dealt with very well. When the conversation wained, I shared one of my more recent dating disaster stories to pass the time, and he reciprocated with one of his, so that was nice...
He drove us all the way back down to Archway where he hopped out to muddle his way back to Kensal Green via night bus and I was glad the car was mine and I was somewhere I knew! I did say he could drive as close to home as he wanted and I'd happily find my way back from there, but probably with the lateness of the hour and a keen ardour to get away from someone with dating stories and apparent lack of comedy ability such as mine, he did the decent thing and got out at the first available night bus stop that we came to.
I drove myself home and here we are at 4am, with me nursing a large glass of rosé - thinking best post this all now or I'll never find the right time. Back on the horse for me. Well moose. I shall (probably) have a stab at the Amused Moose tomorrow. It can't do any harm. there isn't a six hour round trip or a gong involved and who knows maybe I'll get a laugh or two.
They said the hideous death would come and it did. I think I did ok to get to gig 31* before it happened, but it was a stinker. It makes Downstairs at the King's Head, my other most memorable badden seem like a peach. Yes, I even got the no-one except the person who has to get back to London with me wants to talk to me treatment too... Spikey Mike had this to say : "Thanks for driving Dave up though." Honestly, that was all he could muster. My big 'in' with the Midlands comedy scene is on hold then it would seem.
*Yep I'm up to 31 gigs, I got on at the Camden Head last night and that was a terrible night of comedy, in which I didn't do great, but I did ok to a small, tired and unforgiving audience. Going by the overall unpleasant air of the evening, my ok spot made me feel pretty good about things. When a punter tells you after the gig, you were one of the only funny ones other than the compere, then that is a pretty good compliment. Tonight the audience were much more forgiving and I just sucked.
No blog pictures today and no blog funnies just a horrible night of comedy learning. Anyone with an ounce of comedy knowhow says "There will come a time in comedy - when YOU WILL DIE - (whoever you are), but don't panic that is just the way it goes." They mean it. They don't mean you will have tricky gigs. They mean: "YOU WILL DIE." I did and yet strangely, coz its a comedy, I get to live again...
Happy days!?!? 3 gigs in a week. A mixed bag to be fair, but yay me for taking part and I'm properly into my thirties ... in more ways than one.
I'd better go to bed now. I'm zooing tomorrow and Becki said I could be 'on ferrets' if I stuck around to do the gig on Friday (I texted her to tell her how unappetising the night seemed, so she told me to stick with it and bribed me with small mammal handling.) I shall take the ferret handling as a treat, but not for Friday, for my death in Leicester just now. I hope the blighters don't bite me, that would be a real bitch after the night I've had.
DAVE GIBSON though. Remember that name. A very funny man and a very nice chap!
It happens. My lowest point was gig 18 - at least you got to gig 30 without dying the true death.. The only way now is up. Have fun at the Amused Moose, I won't be doing it this year. I'm going to have to prep for Eastbourne. Did not go to LLWHAC last night. Sleep won out over comedy practice.
ReplyDeleteI'm going up to Derby on 17th August for the gong. Why not email SM for a spot, I'll drive.
ReplyDeleteI think you would find, on keen examination, that even your comedy fiasco was infinitely preferable to my weekend.
ReplyDeleteOn Friday, I went to a stag party with a difference. As I understand matters, and in accordance with every single one of these events that I have ever attended, one starts by going to an Eastern European shit pit (sorry, charming city). You then dress up as a superhero and crawl from bar to bar, until you are so drunk that space and time have lost all meaning. The evening is rounded off by a visit to a lap dancing club, where there is an exotic lady with a bejewelled thong and some hookers for those who are interested. I invariably indulge in a bout of loveless, often very rough, intercourse in a seedy downstairs room. Last time Atul came to watch, and had to endure the horror of watching me ejaculate loudly and forcibly into a miserable Ghanaian woman.
You do this for three days, whereupon your liver is fatty and bloated, there are signs of portal hypertension and rising bilirubin levels, and death is near. You then come home (possibly puking violently at the back of the ‘plane) and take the week off work. Good times.
But Friday was a different matter altogether. There were only eight of us (because the groom is Billy No-Mates), and we had a private room at the Oxford and Cambridge Club. I don’t like the place, and they don’t like me… for reasons that should be plain. Anyway, we started the evening with a competitive wine tasting. That was fine, until the sommelier pointed out to me that it was considered rude to swig wine from the bottle. The cunt. He didn’t like it much when I asked for my dainty wine glass at the table to be substituted for a pint pot – and filled with wine – either.
We then sat down to “Supreme of Guinea Fowl”, which had presumably been put into roast about this time last year. The vegetables had also been cooked for their octogenarian clientele, hence the carrots and mange tout were the same colour, that being dishwater grey. Afterwards, we had toasts to the Queen and the groom, accompanied by a reading of poetry. I wanted to go home and die.
Instead, I decided to recreate my previous experiences and I found a Mexican hooker in Covent Garden. There were acts of unspeakable depravity, and I staggered out into the unforgiving daylight at 7am having sampled her meaty burrito.
When I got home, I found a message on my answering machine from Jessica (the love of my life, who is marrying someone else and who almost drove me to a breakdown). Since her fiancée (a 46 year-old IT guy) is having his oldest female friend as “best man”, she has asked me to be her maid of honour. Of course, I agreed… but how fucked up is that?
I’m glad you didn’t kiss your date. I don’t know what I’d have done…
Keep blogging and better luck with your next gig!
Barry, you know I like you to feel free to express yourself here and I'm generally more than happy to share my blog for your outpourings. They are generally funny, but wtf?
ReplyDeleteThe sooner you and i settle down to make cute little psychotic scientist perverts together the better. Ease up on the mexican hookers. Lets give Winson and Goddard something to think about.
You're right, you know. You are a well-adjusted woman of child-bearing age. We should run away together to Bodmin (although we could drive some of the way) and share a pastie with a Pixie!
ReplyDeleteHmmm. Some finals start today at Imperial. Must put on my serious hat and not smoke while invigilating.
BTW, have you got a private (not work) e-mail?
Yes Barry, I have an email address. How shall I exchange it with you in this oh so public forum ha ha. Any number of passing ne'erdowells could see it?
ReplyDeleteWhat on earth you have to say to me that requires more privacy than is available here, when you seem so free with your opinions and anecdotes - I just don't know, but can hardly wait to find out.
joanneogden@hotmail.com