18/10/07
A week in words and pictures -
Categories: As a beginner/L-plated comic, all you want to happen is that you become a full-time professional comedian. This wish is without any knowledge of what that entails; it's based in naked, unthinking, unblinking ambition. But sometimes it can grind you down.
I've spent 13 days on the road, and I've never been so happy to be incarcerated in my house. I never want to leave again. Please, should you feel it's possible, send me food parcels.
It started a while back, the first gig I did I filled in for Russell on the Edinburgh & Beyond tour, because he had radio commitments.
Now given that this is a national tour, you'd think it would be treated with a degree of respect by the venues. At the Hull Truck theatre, we had to perform amongst the set for a play called Neville's Island, which involves trees, ponds, twigs, hay, more twigs and rocks. This is Simon checking the mic - you can get a feel for how little like a comedy set the stage seemed. I'll thank you for noticing the BLOODY TREE STUMP centre-stage:
Against the odds, the gig was quite nice actually.
Then onto York for the University Freshers. It's a real one-off treat, that one. 1,200 young minds waiting to be impregnated with comedy for the first time. I like doing freshers gigs because you can do all of the shared 'hack' compering lines, and they think it's your own material. That way, from then on, whenever they go to a comedy gig and hear someone use them they'll whisper 'Thief! that's Dan Atkinson's line!'. If I employ my technique at enough freshers gigs, the lines phenomenologically actually will become mine! Mwa Ha Ha!
Whilst in York I saw this headline for the local paper which made me chuckle: 'Why, it's just what we've always wanted!'
Then onto Wales. Four dates in Wales for Silky. I've done them before, and the gigs are nice. Some of the South Wales towns are depressed, as you'd expect. In researching one of the gigs I found out that Pontypridd Town Council's official line is that their town is 'dying'. Nothing like a bit of PMA, is there?
Narberth is what I really want to write about. Not the town itself, although that is admittedly a bit strange. It's quite hippyish, and there's a lot of English there considering how far west it is, but overall charming. There's a village feel, with permanent bunting. The only problem with permanent bunting is that if you don't change it, it can give the feeling of a broken old fairground.
I also found this mural. Kids really shouldn't be allowed to paint unless they are prodigies. If this was sanctioned then shame on the hippies. It's shit. If it was a clandestine operation, then these kids really need to rethink their graffiti tags.
JELLYFISH DO NOT HAVE EYELASHES.
Anyway. Importantly, whilst there, a long way from anywhere, the only comfort you can expect to have is a decent Bed and Breakfast. And this is where things got really shitty.
I arrived at the B & B, and my initial reaction was 'Ooh, this is a bit cold damp and dirty!'. Because it was.
By the door was this thing, a sort of warning shot across my boughs. It was the size of a small child, and I swear at one point I saw it move. I don't care if it was home-made or bought, I've never felt more like Edward Woodward.
Then things became a little clearer when I clapped my eyes on this little beauty. I've taken a close-up for the sake of the detail, but let me assure you there were millions of these fuckers dotted around:
So. She (being the landlady and having a severe limp) told me that breakfast was at 8am. I said that I was doing a gig and would be back late, so would it be OK to have breakfast a little later. With not a hint of humour in her voice she said 'I'll put you down for the 8:15 sitting then'.
I trudged to my room to sit on the bed and watch the telly, which I had to turn on at a plug on the wall. Then a shower. The shower took about ten minutes. When I came back into my room, the TV had been turned off AT THE PLUG ON THE WALL.
She'd been in my room while I'd showered to turn off the telly. It was at this point that I realised that not only had I not been given any keys: there weren't any keys because there were no locks. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
In a slight daze, I stared mindfully at the dead flies on the windowsill.
I hotfooted it to the gig, then returned for a night in a bed that felt like it had been pissed in (I wouldn't have put it past her to be frank). I set my alarm to get breakfast at 8:15am.
Next morning. 7:30am. She knocks on the door of my room, and then without any warning limps her fetid way in, opens my curtains and says 'time to get up now; I've got things to be getting on with.'
Well now I was ready for anything, so when she sat and watched me eat my breakfast in utter silence it didn't seem in the slightest bit odd.
Here is a picture of the other people with whom I was dining in the breakfast area:
THAT'S RIGHT! NOBODY! This wasn't actually a B & B, just some mad limping Welsh lonely old fucknut in a house that should be condemned.
She then charged me £45 for the privilege of her hospitality (£45! No joke!) and ushered me out the door, presumably so that she could get on with her busy day scraping the mould off cheese and her manky leg.
The worst experience of my days.
After that went up to headline at Edinburgh University which for years has been a formidable gig and this was no exception. Lovely gig, great, intelligent students with a passion for comedy.
I also had the bonus of seeing this poster for an Open-Mic music night. I presume that's meant to be a guitar he's carrying, but if you've never really grown up, it makes for one of the funniest pictures you'll see in a while:
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