Everyone @ Chortle

I have spent a stupid amount of time this week trying to put all of my CD collection onto itunes so that my choices for portable music listening will be extended beyond that of a mere mortal's selection. This is a tiresome process because a) I have a sh*teload of CDs, and b) regardless of the advances in technology it is one of the slowest processes known to humankind. Its slower than waiting to buy parking permits at the council town hall, or that crap bit of the M1 when they reduce it to one lane at 3am in the morning leaving queues of lorry drivers and comedians filled with sadness. When Steve Jobs gets up and does his lovely talks about clever Apple products I suspect he has never once thought of just spending a week making itunes a bit faster and allowing obsessive ipod users like myself a bit more time in their lives.

The worst thing about all of this, is that after three days of solid music copying - I have now managed to get into a groove whereby I can do many other things and copy CDs, see who cant multi-task now ladies? - my i-pod broke. Not only did it break, but it waited until half an hour before it was to be used as the Fat Tuesday play list before it froze then repeatedly mocked me with a little lit-up apple sign while I frantically pressed all the few buttons it has in hope of resuscitating it back to life.

I remember that a few years ago I saw most of Dan Clark's brilliant show about losing his i-pod. At the time there was a cynical part of me thinking that I would easily cope without one as I had done most of my life. Who can't handle hearing music everywhere they go? Well, me actually. Suddenly a tube journey I made yesterday was the most boring trip of my life. The gym, already unbearable even with the aid of my own music, became even worse as all I can hear are the grunts of muscle-heads and fat people alike working out while some euro-pop dance trash that sounds like a child accidentally created it using 16 beat on a Casio keyboard, plays over the tannoy.

When did this dependency happen? I didn't used to trawl my Sony Sports Walkman everywhere, although that may have been because it weighed as much as a brick and its difficult to turn a tape over when your on a treadmill. Its not just the i-pod though. I was perfectly capable of using a map or reading from the AA directions to get to gigs until I got a satnav at Christmas. Having a Nintendo Wii means I barely leave the house. I barely speak to anyone thanks to email and the Internet. I've become a recluse thanks to technology and yet if it was all to be taken away I'd suddenly find myself bored and unable to do anything.

Perhaps the Luddites were right, we should have smashed all the machines. Little chance of that now, as even holding a meeting to discuss such things would require the use of mobile phones and email rendering all arguments void. No turning back now I guess. Soon we'll be spoon fed by a giant floating food machine, our muscles will be exercised with small electrodes while we remain prostrate and we will spend our lives living in tiny cubicles never seeing another human except for their Facebook profile, from which we can press a button and our DNA will be combined for test tube cloning/breeding. Or not.

Either way I have only until next Monday when I have a four hour train ride to Edinburgh to work out what to do about lack of personal music system which scares me more that my over-imagination. Better dig out that Sony Sports Walkman.....

at my assertion that I could have, if I'd wanted to, gone to Harvard.

I was a grade-skipper and a high scorer on standardized tests. I just didn't have the grades 'cause I was lazy or maybe just otherwise-oriented. (While schoolwork was not my thing, I liked the equally educational activity called "watching TV".)

She compared the simple change in attitude this academic accomplishment would have required to her being able to be queen if she'd been born an heir to the throne.

What is it with you Brits? It's not all class or luck of the draw.

Can't we be responsible for our own failures and, by extension, for our own potential success?

(Of course, I was only upset 'cause I feared she thought I wasn't smart enough to go to Harvard, which would be something like not being a born monarch. But since that's preposterous, I really feared she thought I was too coarse to have gone to a cultivated, ivy-league place.

But that's British-thinking, too. Plenty of coarse people go to ivy league universities. We're talking about America, dammit.)

An enjoyable evening, which could have gone either way - Storytellers Club followed by a BBC party thing. Storytellers Club intimidated me a little cos I'm most comfortable telling made-up jokes, but it was a lovely club, a lovely audience, and I made the most of it by telling a true story about a time I went to Holland to meet a young lady. Anyway, I stitched about 4 stories together, and I reckon I've got a few bits I can crowbar into this year's Edinburgh show, so I'm chuffed with that.

Then dropped in on the way home to a BBC launch do, plugging a new live night they're doing. And it was nice in that there were lots of people I knew there from different places - a guy from uni, comedians from the circuit, various producers I'd worked with on different things, some writers I holed up with for a week a couple of years ago, some actors I'd written something for once, a good three or four people I've know idea how I met...

And yet I felt that odd conflict over writer/comedian. Because...

Writers, some writers at least, seem to relish meeting up, because writing can be such a lonely job. So it can be nice to catch up, bond, gossip, moan, etc. But...

Comedians, some comedians at least, don't like networking or hobnobbing - it's a bit too 'industry' for comics, who seem to just stick to people they know.

I still can't decide which I'm more of, so given that I'm a 50/50 split of writer/comedian, I found myself last night relishing the chance to be there, and then finding I didn't want to network. Paul the writer really enjoyed himself; Paul the comedian was socially awkward from the minute he got there and kept trying to leave, until Paul the writer convinced him to stay. (I should say at this point that I haven't got a split personality, and neither have I.)

(My American readers will be particularly interested in this account of a day in my life in swinging London, which will no doubt fuel their unattractive professional and personal envy.)

Tuesday, January 29
London

Woke up on couch.
Remained on couch.
Did laptop stuff without sitting up. (It was on my chest.)
Played Scrabulous.
Listened to music
Ate smoked salmon.
Ate ice cream.
Drank wine.
Made 4 hard-boiled eggs
Washed towels.
Watched 3 episodes of "House".
Went back to sleep on couch

Aggregate time off couch: Possibly not even a half-hour. (Sometimes, I sat up, though.)

Now, it's the dawn (10:24 am) of a bright new day, Who knows what wonders it will hold?

Yesterday, Elise and I walked around Chiswick.

We looked at antiques and had a lovely, somewhat Italian meal at which we shared a half-bottle of quite good red wine.

It was, I said happily, very civilized.

But, frankly, I was pretending it was Sunday. It was a great Sunday thing to do and the street would've been chock-a-block with couples, also doing Sunday. (I know this, 'cause I walked there a few weeks ago, alone.)

Unfortunately, I got up too late on Sunday and Elise wouldn't have gotten to West London much before dark, so Sunday was postponed.

Then, Monday dawned gray and foggy, not sunny like it was on Sunday, and I knew it was gonna be tough pretending it was the glorious day I had missed. But it was my fault I'd missed it. I've been hiding in slumber instead of facing the days and suddenly a day had come that I wanted to face and I wasn't ready.

So, I decided to make yesterday, gray as it was, the best make-up Sunday I could muster. I got up way early and was able to meet Elise around eleven, only about a half-hour later than planned. We had a great day, despite the Monday-like absence of men from the streetscape (and anyway, if it had been Sunday, we wouldn't've gotten the half-price coupon from the newspaper that enabled us to afford the subjectively expensive, Zizzi, where, as I said, we had wine and everything, and were ever so civilized).

I liked this living. I simply wasn't gonna hide from the day anymore.

And in tribute to my new approach to life, last night I decided to have wine with dinner, at home.

I prepared some pasta and was about to dine when I suddenly dropped a bottle of olive oil on the kitchen floor, smashing it to smithereens and covering the floor with an oil slick that would make the Exxon Valdez turn green with envy.

Still, despite my despair, I ate my pasta in terrible home-made sauce. (The oil's last culinary gift to the world was not a good one.)

And I drank my wine, fighting to remain civilized.

(Day is done.)

Early this morning, I awoke, fully capable of meeting the day rather than missing it.

But I went back to sleep, desperate to hide in slumber.

And now it's the afternoon.

I'm still lying where I sleep.

And the oil and glass are still on the kitchen floor below me.

who's out of town and had promised to put something together at a London venue for that very night. Elise, who runs a good gig for newer comics called "Ship of Fools", got some acts together and we did the show, just acts performing for acts, so that the venue would feel there were people in, buying drinks, etc., and not look unkindly at my out-of-town friend if he wants to do a show there in the future.

One of the acts Elise gathered was that night to do his first "proper" gig, as he called it. In his blog, he complained that it had not been a proper gig but that the two paying audience members at a show the next night meant that gig was a "proper" one.

I don't know. That bothered me.

Not the fact that he was looking forward to and prizing his first appearance in front of a "real" audience. That's natural.

But his dismissal of the legitimacy of a room foll of people sitting there listening to what he had to say. That bothered me.

This was my response to his posts:

It seems to me you are defining "proper" gig in a way that only a non-pro would.

I admit I feel a bit put out by your distinction, since I ran the im-proper -- by your lights -- gig on Thursday. But the truth is, a show is a show is a show. You didn't know all those people on Thursday and they sat listening to you attentively, so they were a "real" audience, no more different from your 2-civilian Friday "crowd" than a given audience ever is from another one. (One night a Red Cross function, another composed of visitors from Leeds, another in a place frequented by students, etc.)

"Ah," you say, "but on Friday, TWO PEOPLE paid money to see the show."

Well, okay. But there are plenty of people who'll tell you you still didn't play a "proper"gig since nobody paid YOU any money.

The truth is, those people -- and you -- are wrong. In modern comedy, "professional " is defined by professional-level ability and experience and not, as in the case of a "professional bricklayer", the simple act of being paid.

Someone told me recently about a relatively new comic who was bragging about his importance/success by parsing, in every way possible, the value of his occasional paying gigs. What could mark this fellow as an amateur more than this pathetic reach for validation?

On the other hand, some years back in L.A, virtually the entirety of the live-performance scene for many of the best comics, and not just new ones, was unpaid . The shows were open to the public but were frequently free and were seven times out of ten (ballpark figure) attended only by other comics.

Even the high-profile, prestige shows that drew civilians usually didn't result in any cash crossing the palm of anyone other than the organizer

Yet these were some of the finest comic talents in L.A. and many of them like Zach Galifianakis, are now -- in a time where the comedy audience is considerably bigger -- becoming names. Were none of their gigs "proper" until the scene grew more favorable or they grew sufficiently known. Over a period of YEARS?

Maybe you'd feel better about the "improper" gigs if you realized they really are not attended only by comics -- they're attended by people who self-identify as comedians. In reality, how many of them are in any meaningful sense?

Really, these crowds are full of ambitious comedy fans, some of whom will be or are comics but others who aren't and never will be. FANS! the very soul of a proper audience. (Feel better?)

Fact is, if you had said you didn't "feel" like the Thursday show was a real gig or you "felt" the Friday one was, I wouldn't have put fingertips to keyboard. But when you write "is" or "isn't" -- well, right there's where I get mad. (I think I've just quoted the Tex Avery cartoon, "Uncle Tom's Cabana".)

Good luck with the laugh-making and here's hoping some day soon you're not so concerned about which of your performances is at a proper gig. At that point, they probably will be.

Its all back in full swing this week with gigs left, right and centre. Of the UK that is, in just seven days I've been to the North, Midlands, London and Wales for comedy purposes. Obviously for comedy purposes I might add, as I'd like to re-iterate that there would be little to no chance of me ever visiting any of these venues for the sheer fun of it.

Its been a mixed bag of gigs too. None were amazing, but at the same time none were particularly bad. Wherever they were let down, I feel I can confidentially say it was to do with either the venue or crowd, but not me. Had a tough crowd to MC in a student venue full of science geeks. That wasn't the (main) problem, but lack of monitors past the front of the stage meant that two thirds of the crowd couldn't hear a word. That and they were science geeks. Regardless of what defence you may give science geeks they are inherently social misfits. They have to be otherwise they wouldn't spend enough time in their labs curing aids and cancer and instead would be out shagging and drinking. In the end we have to be grateful that they have no friends.

Then there was the lovely Welsh gig that started with a bunch of people who didn't want to have any crowd response until they'd had enough booze. Luckily enough, after taking a 'bullet for the team' for the first 15 minutes, they opened up and it became lovely, not least because I endured my favorite and most polite heckle of all time from an 80 year old man who called me a 'doughnut'. I was so thrown by the mildness of that insult and the fact I hadn't understood a single word of the welsh sentence that had preceded it, that I had to just compliment the man on his sugary baked goods based cuss.

Then lastly, last night a hot sweaty stuffy room, with a gig that ran on far too long and a crowd that had drunk too much and were too tired by the time myself and the final act got on stage. I could also be slightly bitchy and say that the crowd horrifically cackled loudly at the first super hack comic (names shall not be named) only to enjoy anyone more wordy slightly less, but as I say, that would be unnecessarily mean.

I've managed to convince myself that on all of those occasions it wasn't my fault I didn't enjoy the gigs as much as I should've done. Its amazing how comedy is one of the few jobs where the customer isn't always right, and it can be variables other than the performer that ruin the show. Mario Joyner who has been supporting Chris Rock on his tour had a lovely bit of material about this, explaining how you wouldn't have a pilot blaming the people at the back for a bumpy ride etc.

A lot of people say this and sometimes its indisputable - see http://blogs.chortle.co.uk/tiernan/2007/10/ for post 'I hate Students' as a prime example - but most other times I cant help but have a nagging feeling I could have done something about it if I was a more experienced comic. I tend to leave a gig thinking if I'd just said that, done this or approached it like that, there must have been a way to make that crowd seem less like the undead on a sponsored sleep/mute-a-thon. I've seen top acts grapple with a crowd or room difficulties until suddenly the gig is theirs, and its a great thing to witness. I'd like to mention that this has happened to me once or twice, but I also find myself slipping into the mind frame that the gig is already lost and so I have to do my job and abandon ship. I'm hoping that the willpower to became a comedy vigilante appears with time.

Of course, then on rare occasion I witness the acts I've seen save gigs, suffer at the hands of a stubborn arsed crowd and revert back to the original thought that people are shit and I really should live in a cave with my Nintendo Wii, I-pod and a good book. I've just read that last statement back to myself and wonder if I am a grumpy 80 year old man trapped inside the body of a 27 year old. Of course if I am then it means that by right I can call people 'doughnuts', which makes it all worthwhile.

Also this week have bumped into fellow humour merchants all over the place. From the tube and random service stations on the M1 (not that unlikely considering how often we frequent such areas) to a busy shop and my local hospital. Are they following me to check that I'm not doing non-comedy things on the side like undercover comedy police? Worrying that I might be indulging in other culture or just being miserable? Or perhaps they are just being normal people and once again I've had a tad too much sugar and have become over imaginative again. Not to self, get Ribena light next time.....

Shaved, exfoliated my face and generally thought I looked beautiful before I left the house tonight.

But when I got back just now, I noticed dry, caked-up exfoliating shit and/or shaving cream disturbingly visible all over both my ears.

But they pretty much loved me at the gig.

Even though I looked like that.

Yet if I had for some reason been self-conscious about something inconsequential, I would have undone my set, even if I had, essentially, looked great

Which just goes to show you.

american guy comes in and is a little annoying, maybe.

after he leaves, the egyptian owner starts telling me and elise about americans and how they always announce themselves as american without first being asked and are a little arrogant and whatever. i don't know why he doesn't seem to realize i'm an american, but even though i want to, now i can't identify myself as american or i'll prove he's right about americans always announcing themselves, so i just listen.

he's not a bad guy and his point is to take people as they are, not because of national origin.

but he told an interesting story -- he's lived in england for 25 years, his kids have been raised here and he has relatives in america. a nephew, i think, came to visit him and was, in every way the guy could identify, an american. the nephew went out to a club and made a big deal about how he's american and got punched in the head. so, the cafe owner told him, just say you're egyptian.

but that shows how immigrants here are different from immigrants in america. people come to america to be americans. people seem come to places like england and, to a greater extent, stay what they were.

of course, my father says not as much americanizing in america anymore but i think he's mistaken.

and brits will prob tell me i'm wrong about here.

(i wish i was invited to the avalon party tonight.)

The £6 fake leather shoes I bought didn't mix well with a walk through the backstreets of Shepherd's Bush and I'm in pain.

I'm not sure if it's worse than the pain that I felt the other day when I learned that some of that recent criticism I got about being unshaven and stuff like that probably originated with the critic's mother.

Or the pain of being called a "funny, little man". (Okay. Maybe that was just discomfort.)

Ok, I'm going to try putting a video on here. It's a little thing I made a few months ago, but just got around to putting a new soundtrack on, as apparently I can't legally use actual music that was on in the shops at the time so I had to put some general apple loop thing on it. Ooh, look at me, I can make videos with a soundtrack
I just ate a whole bag of ginger flavoured brown rice pseudo-sweets and now I feel a bit ill.

Save The Rhino gig at The Comedy Store last night. I think it was actually a gig for someone called Dave The Rhino, but they spelt it wrong. A fine bill it was, present company excluded - Adam Buxton, Tom Basden, Dan Clark, Jack Whitehall, Vicky Frango, John Fothergill, and headlining Noel Fielding from The Mighty Boosh. What was odd about seeing him there was the way it crossed from comedy to rock 'n' roll. The front two rows were full of teenage girls, who went all gooey whenever he happened to mention the words 'genitalia' or 'naked'. Noel backstage related how at the Boosh's gig at Brixton Academy, a TV exec noted the same thing, telling him it was akin to Beatlemania. Noel said to her, "Great - so does this mean I can make a programme with you?" "No," she replied. Fickle, telly.

Speaking of which, I notice on www.chortle.co.uk today the new BBC3 line-up is announced. They mention 5 new shows (Trexx 'n' Flipside, Scallywagga, The Wrong Door, The Wall, Coming of Age), and it's satisfying to know that I've been involved in writing, rewriting or script-editing 3 of those 5 (the 1st three listed above). Trexx 'n' Flipside is a sitcom about two rappers, Scallywagga is sketch show set in the north, and The Wrong Door (which will probably change its title) is a CGI-based sketch show. You can see why they asked me - I'm a hiphop expert, I'm from the north, and I'm partly computer-generated. Oh no that's right, I'm none of those things. Anyway, them three all have Kerensic jokes hidden in them somewhere. So if the new season on BBC3 is rubbish... well then don't blame me cos it was probably the actors mucking it up. If it's good though, then remember, you read it here first.

Read over the last post and was distressed to find it didn't adequately communicate that, at that point, I hadn't showered or engaged in any hygiene-maintaining activity for three or four days, yet was still unobjectionable enough to be cuddled with (almost) no complaint. (I love winter.)

Oh, well, Turning to other matters, I mentioned here some months ago that I was developing a TV project with a name act. However, I didn't tell you that, for neurotic reasons, I let the momentum flag.

As of yesterday, too much time had passed to comfortably call and restart the process, but I saw in Time Out that my once-collaborator was performing in South London last night, so -- all clean and shiny -- I went to the gig with Elise and sat attentively, making no move toward my lapsed collaborator.

I watched the show for a while and, suddenly, the comic in question was kissing me on the head. We caught up briefly, then he moved toward his companions. but I did not follow. In fact, I didn't walk over to talk, even during the next break. I just sat talking to Elise.

And shortly, the name comedian came over to where we were sitting and began to talk to me again.

After the show, I spoke to the other comics on the bill, not turning away from them, even when the act I'd come to see occasionally interjected. Finally, he asked me when we were going to resume work on the project. (I hadn't brought it up at all.)

We will very likely be meeting on Wednesday.

Sometimes, I know just what to do.

(Sometimes, I even do it.)

I have been truly struggling to get out of bed this past week. I was wondering if these past few weeks have been where I finally catch up on sleep from last Edinburgh as its my first real break since. More realistically though I think its a combination of weather and the fact that I have had no reason to most days, and even when I did, it wasn't to do something until after midday. What also may be hindering my alertness could be that even when I've had gigs, I've decided to play Wii until 3am once I've got home. There is something comforting about doing this that reminds me of being a student again. Now all I need to do is drink every night of the week, pretend that I know lots of things when I don't and maintain a sheltered social life and it'll almost be the same.

Part of my need for sleep may well be caused by the stress of last week's Fat Tuesday gig. As luck would have it we had been mentioned in half a ton of papers and on the radio. We had one hell of a line-up too. So I shouldn't have been surprised when ticket demand for the gig suddenly became quite high, and consequently it became over crowded to an uncomfortable level. Most club promoters would probably be very pleased that their club had become this popular, but I just found it overly stressful and was unable to enjoy the gig. Thanks to Ticketmaster being hugely unhelpful we can only 'reserve' tickets via email which doesn't really work except with a small crowd. Even with turning away all people on the night, all the phone calls the venue had been getting and a further 60 people on email, we still had to turn away people that had reserved because they had got there too late to get a seat.

The gig was great and all the acts stormed it. Despite this though, health and safety was a constant issue ( I kindly asked the crowd 'not to start a fire please') and even with the hordes I made very little profit. The bar (who are very supportive of Fat Tuesday) are now nagging us to do the show in the larger room downstairs. However, they have little knowledge of comedy clubs and do not realise that a room with a big bar alongside the side will really never work. Also, I don't want to run a bigger gig and not just because I'm lazy. The reason acts like doing it and our audiences regularly come back is because its small and intimate. Whether there is 20 or 90 people in the room has an energy to it. So what do we do? Sell out and become a bigger club? The pros of this would be that we'd get more dosh and could get even better acts. The cons of course would be that when we don't sell enough tickets then the room becomes tough to play.

Aside from this I hate running a club. Things like the numbers issue is annoying. General booking politics are annoying The amount of emails I get from open spots who have been going for a week, have three minutes of material and want to do a 20 set at FT are annoying. But the pay off of a great night is priceless. I love MCing it too. Its my gig and I can confidently say I know exactly how to play it. Lastly, and most importantly, we've been running for 3 and a half years now, a lot of hard work has gone into making it a good gig, and I don't trust anyone else to do it!

Ultimately I'll probably change nothing and complain again when it all goes wrong. Ho hum.

Our kittens have found the furry hot water bottle that my girlfriends mum got her for Christmas and they are licking and cleaning it as though its another cat. Is it possible for a cat to be mentally ill or deluded?

Rushed out to avoid interaction with my host on Thursday morning, so was unshowered and otherwise physically untended to all day.

Then, I pretty much slept all day and into the night on Friday to make up for my unrested Thursday and take advantage of the fact that my host was not around

Yesterday, a guest came by and after rushing to do the dishes and some additional cleaning to get ready for her. I was left without time to shower before her arrival.

Luckily, I was apparently tolerable to be around, although my friend did ask me at a certain point if I'd been eating onions. (My olfactory sins may have been somewhat made up for by the fact that I looked generally slender -- meaning not too fat -- yesterday, at least while standing up.)

Now, I've only just woken up after an overlong sleep meant to combat the draining interruptions caused by sleep apnea, a guy hammering on the other side of the wall at 9:15 am, and the toxic smell of the leather couch I sleep on.

I wonder if my host has used some kind of poisonous leather cleaner on it, killing me and clouding my brain while I sleep. Or maybe the couch is just doggy from interaction with me.

In any event, my mouth feels like it needs some serious dentistry, its neediness enhanced by the pains of toxic supersleep.

I think I better rip open that new packet of supermarket floss and start the torturous, lonely rehab that may, if I'm lucky, eventually bring me back into the lower reaches of the world inhabited by most others -- maybe even you.

(I don't know if I've ever "professionally" used that disreputable open before) that, some days, every little thing matters, has an effect on your life, is critical to getting what you want (or whatever)?

But other times, you go through days (or weeks or months) where nothing happens that fundamentally changes the nature of your existence -- March 13th might as well be November 3rd.

These last few days have felt like animation in-betweens; mere fillers between the key poses that are life's pivotal moments. My relationships are static, my creative endeavors not quite poised to explode.

It's quite a change from last week, when I felt on the verge of romantic loss.

But just 'cause things are stable doesn't mean the disaster I feared isn't coming.

Nothing bad has happened in this period of interchangeable days.

But neither has anything good.

Bizarre day, when the only words you say to anyone all day are the 30 minutes you're on stage. I worked from home, writing, didn't speak to anyone on the phone, my housemates were out. I drove to Clacton-on-Sea - a long old way, did the gig, battling with a 43rd birthday most of it. Then drove home, got in, and just saw my housemate for about two minutes during which she told me how her day was, and when I started to tell her how my day was, she just went to bed. How frustrating. Grr to her.

So instead, dear blog-reader, I shall tell you how my day was. Except I won't, cos my wireless router thing isn't connecting to the internet, so I'll have to write it offline and post it tomorrow. Nice, this conversation lark. It's good to talk.

Well I won't tell you how my day was - I'll tell you instead how my yesternight was, for I went to the ballet for the first time. Twas the Royal Opera House doing The Nutcracker. And what an introduction to the artform it was. If you're going to do something, do it properly, I say. And they certainly did. Now I'm now ballet enthusiast, so the sum total of my review is really that they could all do the tip-toes thing, so 10/10 for that. One of them in particular, playing The Sugarplum Fairy, was very good, by which I mean very bendy and could do the splits on point, and could do lots of spinny things, many many times in a row, and she didn't fall over or wobble or anything. I was well impressed.

It was great to see something with a live orchestra, and equally great to see that the musicians all wore tuxes. Less impressive was that the bloke next to me was clearly some kind of autistic trainee conductor, cos all the through the entire two acts he was waving his arms around like he was swatting wasps, rocking his chair back and forward, humming bits, breathing loudly, laughing at bits that weren't funny (but were I'm sure were musically hilarious) and generally being very distracting in my eye-line. I, being English, said nothing. But boy did I want to lamp him one.

So, a refined evening out. Not my cup of tea, if I'm honest. Twas interesting to do, and I could admire the diligence of the dancers, the wonderful music and the amazing set, but for me I found it difficult to make all these things converge into a show. I didn't really follow the story (although that isn't really the point), and I found myself more looking at the orchestra than at the stage. But most importantly, Zoe enjoyed it, so job done there. It was part of her Christmas present. The other part was goldfish. And unlike the ballet, I could watch the goldfish for hours, without wanting to punch the person next to me for tapping his hand in time to their swimming.

There, I'm glad I got all this off my chest. Maybe tomorrow I'll have a conversation with someone. That would be nice. Call me. (Is that as sad as it sounds?)

West 12 mall, Shepherd's Bush.

Three double Glenlivets have given me the ability to see my life, at present, as a dance of wooing and humoring and apologizing and psyching out allies (and adversaries).

And cowering and hiding and fighting and retreating and accepting and denying.

And rejecting and loving and wanting to be loved and paying the check and having others pay the check and bemoaning the check.

And looking in mirrors and defining myself by the quality of the lighting in the bathroom.


I am far too dependant on others.

I am not free to be myself.

And so I dance.


(And I can't afford another scotch.

Of course, I didn't pay for the ones I drank, anyway.)

I actually felt protected from the possibility that the woman I'm interested in might be interested in another man. But last week at a party, I saw a guy flirt with her and she seemed to like it just fine.

Makes spending time with her even more important,

'Cause if I'm not there, who will be?

On more than one occasion in the past, I talked on stage about how, when developing a romance, men and women go through stages -- 1, 2, 3, etc. But in pursuing my relationships, I d go through Step 1, then 2, then -- 2 again.

Stuck at 2..

Why?

Fear? Timidity? Ineptitude? Inexperience?

Well, I'm more experienced now. And I honestly thought I was moving -- however slowly -- through something that would smoothly progress past 2 to all the numbers that lie ahead.

But I'm stuck at 2.

Again.

(And I've been told about stuff that happens in future seasons of "House" when I'm barely into Step, er, Season 2.)

This week has been my birthday week. You may possibly argue how it might be a whole birthday week when most people only have birthdays for one day? Well my answer to you would be because I am a self indulgent individual who very much enjoys the excuse to have fun all week and not really be productive in any way. Also when you have a normal job it may seem fun and perhaps cheeky to have a day off for your special day, but when you are a self employed comedian it merely becomes a clever disguise for the fact that I have no bookings until the end of January.

I'm not saddened by this though. Well I am a bit, and my bank is especially, but on the plus side I have been keeping myself busy with birthday fun. Whilst 27 may not be old to many people, I feel in particular that it is. In the entertainment world, 27 is ancient. Most famous people make it when they are merely 20 and so by being 27 and still not getting anywhere in particular I feel time is quickly running out which is odd as running is the last thing I feel capable of doing in my old old age. So to make me feel younger my girlfriend bought me a Nintendo Wii for my birthday which made me very quickly get as excited as a 7 year old, and as unproductive as someone who is addicted to playing the Nintendo Wii. Today I am restraining myself in order to get some writing done, and hence the first blog in over a week and a bit.

In between boxing virtual opponents and helping Italian plumbers jump down pipes I have also been out and about. On Friday I went to see comedy legend Chris Rock at the Apollo. Its rare for me to pay to see a stand-up as usually I get my fair share in the week of gigs, and go home not wanting to hear anything remotely funny for a while, but I had been looking forward to seeing Chris Rock live ever since I first heard 'Roll With The New' in 1997. What he did on that show was ground breaking, controversial and full of energy, and I thought it was one of the best shows I had ever heard. I've since watched his shows after that and while I loved 'Bigger and Blacker', I wasn't too fond of his last and more generic show 'Never Scared'. Nevertheless, he had never played in the UK before and has now sold out all 11 dates, so I was hoping it'd be something special. There have been enough great reviews of this show but in my opinion it was and it wasn't. When he first walked on the stage the energy had the hairs on the back of my neck on end. 3000 people applauding a man for merely entering and grabbing the mic was amazing and he immediately treated us with some great banter about being in London and the US Elections. The first hour was excellent with some brilliant material on race issues and a few lines that made me laugh so hard I snorted. Then all of a sudden, everything took a dip, and the last 45 minutes was not too good. The material suddenly went from sharp to bland 'why men and women are different' gags that he has been doing for years. That's not to say he didn't perform it well, but it still felt flat and not the Chris Rock we had paid to see. The whole gig also felt a tad impersonal. In a venue of 3000 plus I didn't expect him to banter with everyone but he literally ignored all shout outs, did a very brief bit at the beginning about London but then filled the rest of the show with US references not everyone knew (how many people here know about Barry Bonds?) and then left with a very abrupt 'I'm gone, thanks'. That finale left everyone feeling a little cold. All it would have taken was a few more acknowledgements of the audience and a 'thanks you were a great crowd' or something to help us differentiate the gig from watching a DVD. Despite this though, I'm very glad I went and the good lines made it more than worth it.

As a follow up to this, on Saturday I ventured with a few close friends to Ronnie Scott's, the famous London Jazz Club. Once in there a friend on mine remarked that she had recently been to several live jazz gigs which 'must mean I'm getting old'. Bizarrely I seem to agree with her. A few years ago I would never have spent a Saturday night revelling in the softly sung tones of a female jazz vocalist and some amazing trumpet playing, opting more for drum n bass at Fabric or something more club-like. Is this a sign of mellowing out as a person? My music collection has suddenly started including Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Charlie Bird and lots of Nina Simone to name a few, while as I type this I am thoroughly enjoying the horn playing of 4-piece band Portico Quartet.

My music taste has always been, for want of a better term, eclectic. I do hate stating that, as often when people say their music taste is eclectic I find they like to listen to truly sh*t things such as Algerian monks wailing from horseback or Hungarian techno-folk rock. The latter actually exists and it is truly aurally abhorrent. I've never enjoyed that sort of stuff but what I like really does range from funk to rock to hip-hop to classical to blues. Lately however there has suddenly been a lure for jazz, (bar that complete moron Jamie Cullem and his rodent faced ways) and I can only put that down to maybe being old enough to appreciate it. Either that or snobby enough to think I'm old enough to appreciate.

And when you go to Ronnie Scott's you realise the pay-off of liking such a type of music, as its the sort of venue that reeks cool from every corner. It was the sort of venue that it felt prestigious to be in, and when the main band played it was almost like we were trapped in a 30's speak easy. Only there was the absence of smoke. Or gangsters. And it wasn't illegal. And it wasn't the 30's.

So to play along with our surroundings, our table got drunk on cocktails, talked all the way through the final act before proceeding to leave and scoff our faces while food fighting at a cheapo place in China Town, then returning to mine to drink more and play Lego Star Wars on the Nintendo Wii. Maybe I haven't got too old just yet.

I haven't blogged in a week. Partly because I've been too busy to blog, but also cos I haven't been doing anything interesting enough to blog about. Which makes me wonder what I've been so busy with.

Well over the last two days I was busy doing some ageing, and I was very successful at it - in fact I turned from being 28 to being 29 in just one day. Fascinating. Because I'm clinging to my 20s now, I thought I'd have a retrospective birthday this year. Which sounds artsy and arsey, but in fact means two things - 70s night and Laserquest. They were both great - I had every cocktail Flares offered, and I was middle-to-rubbish at Laserquest - but I do now have slightly aching limbs, as I have neither been clubbing nor run around a dark room shooting lasers in nearly a decade. I have decided that in my ongoing search for a form of exercise I actually enjoy, I might try and go to Laserquest more often, cos it's a goodish work-out (40min of running around keeping your wits about you - not too strenuous but we all broke a sweat).

I do now have another form of exercise open to me, as the young-hot-ball-and-chain bought me a bike for my birthday. What a fab pressie. She calls my old bike 'the boneshaker', cos it's 10 years old and made when bikes weighed a ton. You feel every bump in the road, and uphill is a struggle, for even the more seasoned of bike-riders. But no more. I now have a pretty darned swish up-to-date brand new bike. I spose I'd better ride it now. Equally I asked for some teach-yourself-guitar books for Christmas, which I duly received (thank you!), so of course now I have to go through with it, and actually learn guitar. Something I've wanted to do, but once you get the books as a present, you've got to really do it, haven't you? So tomorrow I shall be seen through the streets of Guildford, cycling while strumming a 6-string.

Hello.
I don't suppose I'm welcome here any more...like a errant family member who buggers off for months on end to noone-knows-where, then occasionally surfaces at funerals, only to swipe a few tuna sandwiches and skulk off into the sunset.

I don't much care for tuna sandwiches.

I have been tired of late. Turns out that having a job and trying to be creative don't go too well together...particularly when you spend a large proportion of your life embroiled in the pure evil that is COMMUTING and then spend what little money you did manage to save on SHOES because you're too depressed about the commuting and the tiredness to manage to save...

But anyway.
New York was fabulous, as ever.
I didn't eat as many bagels as I had planned, but I did discover an incredible bakery selling giant sugar-free raisin and ginger rock buns, which sound improbable and terrible but in fact were incredible; and I ate one every day and drank coffee and then got a bus to a stranger's house in New Jersey in order to peruse the contents of her basement, because she had the most amazing collection of 50's clothes ever, bought many lovely dresses, stayed there until 1am drinking wine and making fun of Silvio the obsessive-compulsive dog, then almost got stranded when the bus back to New York didn't arrive, then when it finally arrived spent the journey hiding from the blue-haired psycho boy that I was very afraid was going to stab me.

I realised today that the last time I went on a sunny holiday was 3 1/2 years ago and that was with my parents.
Maybe I should stop spending all my money on shoes and vintage dresses. But where would be the fun in that?

We saw Jerry Lee Lewis (at a gig, not in the street) whilst in New York, which again, was amazing...just astounding to see a legend - and he is still a genius on the piano at 73 or whatever he is.

Last weekend finally saw the arrival of our internet connection...after 3 months... and surprise, it's completely crap. I could go to the video shop and rent a video in the time it takes to load something on YouTube.

So, the plan for 2008 is to get things moving with all things writing related. I have bought myself the world's biggest desk to the recording-studio's amount of equipment I have acquired - and have so far written what I think could be Meatloaf's next big hit.

Poor Meatloaf, named after a rubbish meal.

One-two, one-two, and through and through
The vorpal blades go Snicker-snack.

Bye x

I was more than normally self-conscious yesterday in the presence of the person who'd (yes, I asked) listed my flaws on Saturday. Every move I made was fraught with peril lest it be used to define me downward or play into an already established failing.

Of course, my extra-uptight behavior was both noticed and catalogued but not acknowledged as outside my (already low) norms.

And I'd been so proud of myself in recent days as, in the wake of gentle earlier entreaties to improve my posture, I'd begun walking with hands outside my pockets, despite the fact that my insecurity feels greatly assuaged by the hunch-inducing placement.

Last night, though, as I left my accuser, my hands desperately sought solace within my pockets and I just felt incapable of removing them.

Then, as I headed for the bus, I forced myself to remove them, forming my hands into fists just to keep myself going

I thought that was enough but then, suddenly, somehow, I allowed my fingers to unclasp.

And strode, tall and strong, toward the 94.

Yes, I know I have to shave. But I only have limited time to spend in the bathroom where I'm staying, not as a matter of policy but as a means of staying out of my host's way. Those around me should be grateful I generally get to shower.

Unfortunately, with each day I don't shave, more razors become necessary. Maybe I need to buy some and I don't have the money and even if I do, there'll be hair all over the bathroom and cleaning it up requires even more time I might not have, which means I go still longer without shaving.

So, is it possible I can't take the truth? (I'm not changing the subject, merely being vague.)

I don't think "the truth hurts". It's whatever we're sensitive to that hurts.

Damning truths we don't care about roll off us like water off a duck's back while questionable criticisms that play into our insecurities sting like a face full of mace. (Okay, I admit it. I've never had a face full of mace but I imagine it's not too pleasant.)

I'm pretty sure I do want the people in my life to tell me the truth but I want them to employ a favorable or at least charitable context; to view me through a prism of understanding. If they see my worst aspects in the wrong way, it seems to mean we're not sympatico. Who is this stranger who sees me this way?

So, it's not the awareness of my flaws that stings, it's the lack of understanding.

That notwithstanding, I realize I do need to shave.

Waitin' on money.

Until I get it, I am extremely limited in terms of what I can do.

Basically, I can do nothing.

Yesterday, Elise and I went to Harrod's.

I got on beds and sat in chairs. We looked at meats, vegetables, and cheeses, buying £1.25 worth of "goose ham" -- just enough for each of us to taste it.

Elise asked questions about a camcorder that cost like £1000. Maybe she has enough money to get it it but for me the exchange was just enjoyable consumerist fantasy.

Afterward, Elise ate Kentucky Fried Chicken. I sprang for a Pepsi and ate most of her fries.

She probably thought she was scraping the bottom of the dining barrel and rued her financial straits but to me, she was a rich friend sharing a bit of her wondrous bounty.

1. I have nice eyes,
2. I have a cute nose.
3. My mouth is too small.
3. My tongue is too big and fat, both for my mouth and in general.
4. The bottom part of my face is generally inferior to the top part.
5. My underbite, too-small mouth, and too-fat tongue lead to a reptilian tongue-darting not, apparently, appealing to mammals.
6. My jaw and tongue are unpleasantly reminiscent of someone's grandmother.
7. My posture and general body-type make me look fatter than I am.
8. Goose ham from Harrod's is good.
9. I am not perfect.

It seems I was mistaken about my ability to be air (or air-like) and thus unbeatably comfortable to be around; so comfortable and so like the air (life-sustaining, taken for granted and something through which one can move) that I need not be welcome in an ordinary sense -- simply part of the environment and therefore just right.

In truth, it turns out I have a spiky beard and many positions it is uncomfortable to lean against.

For I am not the air.

Yet this night of planned televiewing became a slumberer's paradise. Because my televiewing partner was as comfortable to be around as I imagine myself to be (but am not).

She was as the air.

A terrible pun to start my first blog of the year, but its the only chance I've had to make the joke since having a week's Xmas hols in Egypt. No one over there got it, and no one over here has paid any attention to me when I've said it as its such an awful play on words that it deserves to be blocked from memory and eradicated from thought from its first mention. However, I like it, so unfortunately all who read this blog will be subjected to it, and hopefully, just hopefully one person might chuckle then feel sad about how their sense of humour is dying.

Happy New Year by the way, which is how this blog should of started. I hope you all feel rested and excited to start the year of 2008 despite the fact it is merely another 365 days leading to the next set and now (apart from birthdays) there are little to no presents involved. As I increase in elderlyness I seem to enjoy New Year's Eve and its oncoming doom less and less. So this year my girlfriend and I made a conceited effort to escape the country and have a much deserved and long awaited week's holiday.

Not having any baring on my girlfriend's half Egyptian origin, its amazing ancient history or the fact that camels look funny, we decided to head to Luxor mainly due to the God of Decisions - my bank account. Oh, and the fact that it was bloody hot over there, and it wasn't and still determinedly isn't, here. Christmas holidays are an increasingly popular way to spend the festive for the British public and we weren't quite early enough to book the destinations we originally aimed for. In retrospect though, in light of recent events, I'm pretty glad we missed out on the decent deals to Kenya, or I might of had a moderately less fun holiday. In fact I know for sure that I enjoy sunbathing and eating much more than being killed mercilessly by the Luo tribe. Just personal preference really.

All in all though we had a really great time. Egypt's history is incredible and I can't compare seeing the Karnack temple to anything else. Walking among 3000 years of history is indescribable, so I wont really try. It is just breathtaking though and it makes me wonder why we haven't learnt anything from it. In ancient times they transported everything by foot, built everything by hand, and used rudimentary tools to create and measure everything, and it has lasted through earthquakes, floods and thousands of fat American tourists leaning on it. Yet nowadays we have all these machines and clever gadgets and yet things fall apart, break down and generally don't last despite precautions, warranties and insurance policies. I'd love to give you a clever example of this right now, but I don't have one. You will just have to trust my cynical opinion and hopefully in the near future a large building will fall down and you will say 'Ah, Tiernan was right'. I'd like to point out right now that I'm not plotting any devious activities to ensure this.

I'd reccommend visiting Karnack to anyone. It was such an overwhelming place that even a phenomenly dire 'Sound and Light' show that involved sitting still watching a lake by the temple as some lights are shined on it and badly written and acted voiceovers tell you the same stories over and over again for 45 minutes instead of anything actually fun, could not dampen my opinion. My friend today did point out that although very little happened in this show, there were sounds and lights and so it was factually not wrong. He said we were lucky it wasn't just a man with a torch and a triangle. He's right and I suppose at the same time, I'm pleased that the Americans haven't invested in it and created a big musical laser extravaganza involving such hits as 'Toot 'n' come over here'. Sorry, no more puns. Promise.

Anyway, I learnt a lot of Egyptian history from all the temples and tombs I visited and despite the odd bit of information (such as the incestuous nature of most Pharaohs at some point marrying their daughters. Much joking about how the residents of Cornwall might be related in origin to Ramses the Third methinks) its a fascinating mix of tales and facts. Aside from this we also braved a camel ride which was nowhere near as funny as they look. I had imagined that riding a camel would be a slightly bumpy end to end laugh of a trip with much spitting and lack of water drinking. Actually its a horrible experience. I now realise that camels are described as the 'ships of the desert' because you are highly likely to get seasick while riding one. Afterwards I walked like a rickets victim for a whole afternoon. I will bear that in mind incase I ever need to use method acting to play a rickets victim in the future.

The only real dampener to the whole week (yes, there had to be some otherwise this would not be my blog) was the constant harrassment from the locals. I have experience such annoyance before in Turkey, Cuba and Mexico, but in Egypt they really step it up a level. What I cant conceive is why the perpertratiors of this awful technique would ever begin to think that obstructing people's ways and attempting to force them to buy things from you, would actually work. Time after time we would tell people politely 'no thanks' and they would continue to run after us with a crap plastic sphinx or something else of reasonably useless potential. The 'no thanks you's' would turn into completely ignoring them, eventually followed by some sort of expletive that they would then feign shock at, as though they hadn't at all been irritating as hell. Surely by now, it must click in all their heads, that they are only losing themselves business and instead they should just allow people to choose which services to take themselves? Unless of course I have it all wrong and it's a clever plan to try and ensure people do not ever return to their city. Perhaps they are the Egyptian equivalent of British Nationals, only instead of skinhead violence they use poor customer relations and bad sales tactics to drive the foreign scum away. It would make sense as its the technique Argos have been using for years.

The other bad thing about the holiday was of course the old cliche that it wasn't long enough. Seven days is not quite enough to re-cooperate from a busy year, and so I can be glad that January is a very quiet month for me. Once again the bank is not quite as happy as me about it, but it will have to deal with it. I'm very content with escaping the horrible cold by sitting in my jammies and playing with all the crappy Egyptian souvenirs I got conned into buying out of guilt.

I've been alone for most of the day.

I generally like being alone.

But in some sense, I feel like that fabled tree that falls in a forest -- without a companion, I simply don't make a noise.

You know, I've not been alone that much lately, so I've been "noisier" than usual. My hijinks have had a witness, my life an audience.

And maybe the person I've been spending so much time with will remain in my life for a long time, sharing my noise and making some noise that only I can hear.

But I'm mindful of the fact that there are people who were in my life for a long time who are no longer around to make me feel noisy. I'm not talking about dead people, I'm talking about people who live in places I used to live or worked at jobs alongside me; people I went to the movies with and shared dreams with and borrowed money from. People I helped write important letters for and stuff like that; things that changed their lives.

They haven't abandoned me. They're where they are and I'm where I am.

But these people whose lives were intertwined with mine are now separate; intertwined with others, with people I don't even know.

Will today's life become another early chapter in my saga or will it furnish a satisfying denouement of some kind? I just don't know.

But I'm glad I probably won't be alone tomorrow.

Our first 'proper' night at The Stoke pub comedy night, and I feel it was a veritable success. Sold out, plus a bit, so that's about 160 audients. I am knackered now - it takes a heck of a lot to run a gig, it seems. Much easier to just turn up, do 20min of jokes, and go home again. But it's worth it I reckon. We had Stuart Goldsmith, who was fab, and popular among the ladies, twould seem. Jenny Lockyer in the middle did some very sweet songs, and clearly went down well cos she sold all her CDs. Check out myspace page for some of her songs. They're the sort that are funny if you listen to the lyrics, but equally just nice to listen to. Aw.

And Tim Vine headlined - meant to do 20min, and he did well over an hour. So I had the dilemma of whether to flash a light at him to summon him off-stage, even though I wanted him to stay up there. So I did, but thankfully he ignored it. But he only ignored it cos I was shining my phone at him, which generally seems to be the modern way of luring an act off-stage. But of course Tim doesn't do the circuit much, so didn't know this. He expected an old-fashioned flash of the venue lights. Anyways, twas a fun one. I shall now sleep for a month, whereupon we'll do it all over again with some different acts.

And a quick plug - I'm on Radio 4 in half an hour, 6:30pm, on 28 Acts in 28 Minutes. I'm number 18. Also on it are Arthur Smith, Marcus Brigstocke, Jimmy Cricket, and 24 others. Or you can listen again on the Radio 4 website, if, as I presume, you read this blog at some other time than within half an hour of me posting it...

we had to go down to the pancake house if we wanted pancakes. Now, you can make' em at home."

That's a funny joke, isn't it?

Elise says it has the shape of a joke but isn't 'cause it makes no sense. I say that's why it's funny -- 'cause there are things you couldn't do before technology that now you can but making pancakes isn't one of 'em.

Of course, her joke assessment came right after she bought me fried rice at a Thai place so she wouldn't sit eating alone while I sat smelling of poverty. Meanwhile, I felt the Orientalized grain was both an extravagance and an insult, a sentiment she deemed ungrateful.

Still, we got through the pain, even after my failed attempts to compare myself to both air and a dog.

Then on the walk back from the Thai place, she waxed nonsensical about the metalwork on the houses looking like funerals and she was funny.

Which proves that my original joke was good.

I have set the tone for the New Year on this, its first day, by largely hiding indoors and not gazing upon it. Also, slumber has, to far too great an extent, been the order of the day and, therefore, the year.

Many say the way you begin the year is the way you will live it. This frightens me as -- apart from the hiding and the falling toward the arms of Morpheus -- during one waking moment, I was laughed at by Elise when I did not particularly wish to be risible.

On the bright side, I've been wearing a new, respectable, button-down shirt.

Perhaps this is how I will dress in the coming months; nicer-looking than ever as I hide from the light and find solace in unconsciousness.