Everyone @ Chortle

It's signature show, "Invite Them Up", ended last night.

My show, "The Second Show" (in every sense) was, as I've discussed before, once paired with it on the lineup.

I wanted to go back to say goodbye.

In addition to the professional history, Rififi had been, in some sense, my bar; I'd often found it easy to meet women there.

And I was gonna go back. But I was heavily caffeinated and almost completely unfooded, so first I had to eat.

After which, I felt great. And no longer wanted to go to "Invite Them Up"

They'd never used me on the show. Why should I wander around their goodbye party looking like a needy outsider?

. . . well . . .

To say goodbye to the club?

Fortunately, something told me to check out was being said about the room's farewell or the web. Turns out, it isn't closing so soon after all.

So, I stayed home and went to sleep.

(And feel secure in stating that nobody noticed I wasn't there.)

I haven't posted in a bit - in fact I've deleted my blog posts than I have added, but I'm not going to dwell on that one (basically I got into trouble for being a bit critical of someone I did a gig for. Whoops - tactless me. Well I didn't know anyone ever reads this rubbish...)

I've been too busy to post blogs, spending time in a luxury hotel in Cornwall, celebrating mu mum's birthday. It was the hotel my folks had their wedding reception in. Aw. And my, it's a beauty. I had the privilege to be able to stay overnight there, and it's my favourite hotel ever. It's called The Nare Hotel and you can see a picture here (http://www.thenare.com/).

Mmm, afternoon tea with scones, a swim in one of their two pools, a soak in their outside hot-tub overlooking the sea, a fancy three-course meal with G&T before and brandy after, a frame of snooker on the finest (and largest) billiard table I've played on... and all in a location that screamed of Agatha Christie novels. They had a study, a drawing-room, a billiard-room, a giant stone dog outside small enough to life but large enough to cave someone's head in if one had a wish to... murder.

And now I'm home, and manically trying to cram in writing a musical, a sitcom pitch, and some jokes for Miranda Hart's TV pilot before I have a few days off, but not in the luxury of a five-star hotel... No. It'll be in an NHS hospital, as I have my wisdom teeth out tomorrow. I'm actually looking forward to it - but only because it'll mean the end of people responding to the news I'm having the procedure by saying, "Urgh! You'll be in such pain - my mate had it done and his mouth exploded." If you're one of the several dozen people who told me about your dodgy wisdom tooth extraction experience, YOU WERE NOT HELPING!

Fat Tuesday got cancelled tonight for the first time in over 18 months for no real reason. There's no big footie game on, there's no national holiday or anything like that. In fact my only conclusion is that someone has organised a big special event or party and invited everyone except me. To be fair, while that would be a large amount of rejection to deal with, I am so hungover today that I wouldn't have minded too much, although they could have at least had the courtesy to forewarn me so that I wouldn't have to leave my house or pay any cancellation fees out of my own pocket. A pocket that already only had about 4p and some moths in it.

The gig was listed in the London Lite today as the recommended gig and that once again made little to no difference. According to one very annoying punter tonight the reason we were empty was because the poster at the bar was out of date. Apparently, that means I don't know how to run a gig and really need to sort that out if I expect people to come along. I did point out that we had sold out every gig since September till tonight, that the email list of 800 people and Facebook group of 550 people and all the listings were generally more important than posters and that this genuinely was a freak occurrence. I also wanted to point out that why, when there were only five audience members in the room, one of them had to be a complete and utter dickhead. However I refrained from this only in the hope that she will turn up again on a night where the posters are wrong (as they often are) and the place is packed. Then I will have a pre-transcribed script with all of her previous words on and I will make her eat it.

The problem is, overall its me who looks like the idiot. That punter had never been before, and neither had three of the acts, so how were they to know that our gig ever does well? Its the most cliched phrase in the comedy world when you say 'you should have been at the last gig', and as I said them tonight I knew I had automatically lost 5% of dignity. Despite the fact I know I am telling the truth as I tried to explain to one of the acts who had travelled a fair distance to be there, I felt like a big liar. I suppose its like that method where the police stick all the culprits of a crime in a room together and observe them. The one who isn't panicking and looking nervous is the criminal. Everyone else is too worried that they might be found guilty without having done anything. To be fair my situation is not really anything like that, especially when they get wrongly accused and there's a film with a Baldwin in or something. I think crime suspects are on the whole, much worse off.

I don't mind paying out of my pocket for the acts either especially as I said it here which means by complaining about it I should indeed print that off and eat my own words too:

http://www.timeout.com/london/comedy/features/2855/Tiernan_Douieb-interview.html

The problem is at the mo, I am very broke and so I quite selfishly hope that if this happens the acts will just go, 'no it's fine' which a lot of them who are nice do. Its not fair to ask that though, something I realise as a working comic. Although I'm usually the goon who says 'no its fine' and therefore loses either way. I reckon after tonight though I may have to put some small print when I email people. I'll fit in fee stuff with some copy and pasted mortgage blurb so no one bothers to check it.

But it genuinely is a great and popular gig until tonight, so fingers crossed for the next one in two weeks time. At least I can rest my hangover away. This is an unjustified hangover as well. I didn't drink enough last night at the much fun Chortle awards to constitute this much pain. I fear this is the harshness of being older. I think my liver hates me. It was worth it though, as last night was really good and although I find something quite odd about mingling with comedy people outside of Edinburgh, it was great to catch up with some people. I was a tad sad Fat Tuesday didn't win the small club award, but it went to a deserved winner with Falling Down With Laughter. I say deserved but as they are on the same night as us I have never been. In fact it means Alexis and Sy who run it are our main rivals. Double in fact - tonight my FT cohort Georgie pointed out that Alexis' name is an amalgamation of both mine and Georgie's names (his real name being Alex). Alexis, I fear you might actually be my real arch nemesis and we may have to dual.

Well done to all the peoples who won last night. Thanks to Arthur Smith it was a wonderfully funny and brief awards ceremony in the best of ways and although people joked about it the nominations are hella important. That and you can never argue with a free bar. Well unless you are my liver of course.

Right now back to re-cooperation and watching the car crash of a show that is Lilly Allen pretending to be interesting.....

btw as stolen from my brother's blog, this is amazingly funny, although possibly a bit racist. Hmmm.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZA1NoOOoaNw

a friend has thrown away a bag full of items I'd stored at his apartment.

Lost was, I believe, the digital voice recorder showing the development of "Me and Hitler", which I was not able to workshop in front of an audience.

I talked ideas into the voice recorder only twice, then, opening night -- which was recorded on the device -- was a disaster.

Night two was spectacular and most of that performance, I think, was also on the recorder.

The third night earned the show its first 4-star review.

Ironically, the same guy who threw the stuff away probably still has the only remaining recording of the show, a video of its last night in Edinburgh, which was -- unusual for the run but good for symmetry -- quite bad.

And is now the only direct evidence through which history, should it ever be interested, will remember "Me and Hitler".

I'm not generally a financially attentive person but, since October, I've been keeping a complete record of everything I spend, creating daily averages and other instructive elements which have helped me tremendously as I've rebounded from the $400 that magically disappeared from my bank account around that time

Also in October, I got this new laptop to replace the one stolen in Camden Town and having been left without a backup -- my own fault -- I determined that, in the future, I would use my Gmail account as a web-based home for my important documents.

So, last night, during a commercial break in the Oscars, I was in Gmail, updating my record of expenditures, when it suddenly disappeared.

I clicked back, I clicked forward -- nothing. The records had vanished.

Best I can figure is that my cursor had gone astray and I'd accidentally clicked "discard draft".

And (subsequent research has shown) there is an "undo discard" button".

But only available immediately after the event.

So, by the time I realized what had probably happened, there was nothing that could be done about it.

There had been no "are you sure you want to delete this?" dialogue. The discarded draft had not been sent to the trash folder. It was simply, irretrievably gone and by design.

This was the way they had set it up, an intensely stupid (and unnecessary) decision by a company -- Google -- that wants us to trust them with our important docs.

And it's not just the loss of work -- and resulting disinclination to continue monitoring my financial health -- that upsets me. I was also using the accounting as a stealth diary, including things that would remind me of the way I'd spent my days.

Yes, I've only lost February, but it was an important month -- the return to New York, adventures in Notting Hill/Shepherd's Bush with Elise, Valentine's Day, a trip to Bristol . . .

Moments were lost along with the numbers.

But, hey -- doesn't Google keep this stuff on their servers for, like, months, in case the government needs them or something?

Well, yeah.

Unfortunately, it seems they won't go to the trouble of getting me my own important file.

There's not even a "contact us" link anywhere in Gmail.

So, my inclination is to stop using all Google products.

I was a big rooter -- I use Google Desktop, Picassa image software, Google Pack, Google Updater and other Google implements in addition to Gmail. It will be hard to avoid the search engine completely, but the rest of those things can be discarded.

And my eyeballs will, to the extent I can manage it, no longer be available to view the ads they sell.

But most eyeballs will remain where they are.

And I will not feel better about the loss.

In this blog.

I did it with intent, but not with intent to hurt anyone, so I stripped out any identifying information. No one could possibly have known who I was talking about.

As a result, I was able to be over-the-top in my emotional reactions to what may not have actually been grievous affronts as well as my attacks against the (anonymous) person in question.

But that was fine. As I said, no one could possibly have known who I was talking about.

-- Except the person I was talking about --

(Geez. I never imagined these people actually read this thing.)

He was hurt and I am very sorry.

Of course, he expressed this hurt anonymously, so I don't even know if he was really the person I meant. But I do know (learned yesterday) that a good writer -- who once told a friend of mine he wouldn't come to a party if I was there -- reads this thing.

Holy crap, it seems the readership of this blog is some kind of Dickensian collection of ghosts from my past.

I guess I have made an impact in this world.

The only question is whether that impact has caused anything more than a bruise.

Saturday night:
Smiling Pizza in Park Slope. Not gourmet, just a classic street slice. Biting into and tasting it was close to rapturous.

Sunday afternoon:
A major chef's version of a Philly cheesesteak in Greenwich Village. Cheesy, oniony, moist, doughy, meaty, mouth-filling, totally satisfying goodness.

and

Grey's Papaya hot dog. The blend of the bun, the beef, the mustard and the tomatoey onions -- perfection. And practically free.

and

A new barbecue place just south of Harlem. Pulled pork so tender it basically melted in your mouth. Kind of like Gentile brisket.

Monday evening:
Wendy's chili. Almost no one knows how great this is -- and from a major fast food chain! People always fight me when I recommend this, then return to praise me. Now a staggering $1.29, up from 99¢.

Tuesday night:
The wonton soup from the Chinese take-out place on the ground floor of the building in which I live. I'd missed it.

Wednesday:
My friend Alan's homemade chicken soup. Soft, perfect matzoh balls. Later, spaghetti with tender Jewish brisket in the sauce. And black and white cookies! (My father and sister always loved them but I didn't. I do now.)

Today:
A friend and I couldn't wait for the refurbished KFC to open in this ghetto/up and coming hipster hamlet. They were working on it forever but it didn't open 'til just after I left for Edinburgh. Shiny and still so new that the staff hasn't given up yet. "Original Recipe" was actually somewhat crispy but you could taste all the subtle spicing of the original that's missing in the "Extra Crispy". It may not have the 11 herbs and spices they claim, but it's damn good. (And here, you can get it with mashed potatoes and gravy.)

I'm currently in the process of putting in a new light fitting in our bedroom. The large problem with this is that I have little to know clue how to do it, but due to sometimes being driven by a false sense of manliness, I have decided to try anyway I actually started just before my gig last night, with only 30 minutes before I had to leave. This meant that far from being clever and man-like, I just tore a light of the wall, left dust everywhere and my girlfriend alone in a house with no lights in any of the rooms. Just call me Mr DIY.

I had my first experience of witnessing first hand the effect of the Arts Council's recent decision to cut lots of funding on Saturday. A truly lovely gig in Boston, Lincolnshire at the Blackfriars Art Centre is to be no more as of April, because the Arts Council have decided that the venue no longer needs its £50k of funding anymore. I can only assume they came to this conclusion whilst drunk, but the venue has managed to survive without funding for the last two years by some helpful private sponsorship. Sadly it can only survive this way for another month and will then be turned into flats, or something far less useful. What will happen then is that a massive culture shaped hole will appear in the little town of Boston, as Blackfriars was the prime venue for theatre, dance and comedy and without it, local residents will have to travel miles to see that sort of entertainment. Ultimately what will probably happen is many of them won't bother and just boost ratings for terrible reality TV and simultaneously numbing their brain.

I had read quite a lot about this recent situation through the papers, but until now, I hadn't experienced it first hand, as a lot of comedy gigs are buildings that aren't Arts Council funded. I had to abandon a survey from Equity about it because doing comedy rather than a touring theatre production meant I wasn't able to reply to most of the questions. But it does affect comedy because these are the sort of venues comedians tour their solo shows, the sort of venues that provide that much needed, packed out, once a month show that allows residents of these areas to see acts they wouldn't otherwise get a chance to see.

There has been a recent turn around due to Equity and many actors and performers protesting, but for a lot of venues its still too late. In the recent cuts in December, lots of venues were informed with only 18 days notice that their funding would be partially or entirely cut, meaning shows were cancelled last minute and venues closed down within a month. In the midst of this, the head of the ACE has received a pay increase of £70k, an amount that could save one to two of the theaters at risk. Dodgy? I thinks so. I can only imagine the head of ACE stroking a white cat and cackling in his limo. Another case of the government feeding the pockets of the rich while depriving everyone else.

The question that was being asked before was whether or not, with decisions like this, the Arts Council should be in charge of arts funding at all, or if that responsibility should be passed to someone with a bit of care for the venues they deal with. The announcement on Jan 29th about the ACE's re-think of its funds is a slight sigh of relief, but who's to say that it isn't only a matter of time before we are left with a handful of theaters around the country and a nation whose idea of live entertainment is getting to see the Dancing on Ice live show, or perhaps seeing someone happy-slapped in front of you.

Sorry that was all a bit of a serious blog, and to be fair not quite as in detail as some of the areas should be, hence why I don't write for the Times or Guardian or something. In other news, Belfast was lovely, despite once again stepping on stage after the comedian has spent ages doing anti-English material. Thank god for a Celtic first name. I think it gave me about three minutes of grace.
Also I discovered that my last blog received loads of hits because of my mention about Nuts TV and I used the words 'Topless Model' and 'Naked Girls'. I'm aware that this may mean that many of my readers where porn browsers and were probably disappointed with my diatribe, screaming 'where are the tits?' or something but I like the blog count so those words may appear every blog from now on. Incidentally, here's that Nuts TV clip:

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/the-comedy-club-tiernan/3560069217

There Will Be Blood was one of the taglines of Saw IV. And I've got to say, There Will Be Blood, the just-released filum with Daniel Day Lewis, isn't doesn't fit in the Saw franchise one bit. There are no bizarre death-based mutilating contraptions, unless you count an oil derrick. And how can anything called Derrick be that frightening?

I rated There Will Be Blood 8/10 on the IMDB (incidentally, my Facebook profile page now imports my IMDB movie ratings, so you can now judge my cinematic taste - I still defend that National Treasure is a good film...). Of that 8/10, that's 10/10 for Daniel Day Lewis, and 6/10 for the film as a whole. It's nominated for Best Film at the Oscars, and so it should - it kept me captivated, but I did come out wondering if there were a film of Daniel Day Lewis reading the phone-book, would it be mesmerising? I suspect it would.

He's an amazing actor, and I found myself watching There Will Be Blood (every time I say that I sing that Maroon 5 song in my head) focusing on him every time he was on screen. Even if a new character appears, and all we can see is the back of DDL's head, the audience are looking at him to see what intense acting nugget he'll pull out of the bag for us now...

I'm probably doing the story of the film a disservice, but it is a tad long, and one-note, but without June-6th-1944-Lewis (a pat on the back if you get that), it'd be nothing. He scares me more than any other actor. And yet if I were to see him in the street, I'd still be tempted to do my best Inspector Morse impression and yell, "Lewiiiss!"

Saw a comic Monday night who always says nice things but never uses me on any of his shows. He was part of a big-deal offering and was just terrible.

He'll be in a (somewhat) meaningful comedy festival soon, actually chosen by the curators, which is mystifying to me. Regardless, later this year, he will likely continue his tradition of having no impact in Edinburgh, which is as it should be.

At the same show, I ran into a comic who's supposedly something of a "friend". He has, however, made it clear through his actions that I'm not one of the "cool kids" and has kept an arm's distance when insecurity made him feel his status could be put in doubt (though he's never really been in any danger).

Monday, he hung out with the bigger boys and didn't even take a moment to come over to talk to me during a lengthy intermission, though I hadn't seen him in a very long time.

He's had success in major media but, fortunately, good, old American ageism has put a stop to that.

He will never be more than he is now, which is as it should be.

while a band, The Highland Shatners, was setting up. It was a distracting environment -- noisy, among other things -- but I thought I was generating comedy at a very high level, though I accepted the fact that some of the crowd probably wouldn't get that I wasn't simply yelling.

Still, afterward, I began to fear that I hadn't been got and maybe wasn't as good as I started out to be, especially since it appeared the main guy in the band didn't think I'd been particularly helpful to his cause. Yes, two friendly hecklers -- at least one of them drunk -- came over to tell me they'd enjoyed me, but that did nothing to convince me I had been alright.

Then, a woman -- just an ordinary, non-drunk, ordinary woman -- came up to me and said I'd been hilariously funny or unbelievably funny or something like that -- maybe she even said something stronger. And I believed her, remembering how I'd originally felt while on stage.

You know what she said?

She said I was convulsive.

And I don't think she meant I was having some kind of fit. She meant (I think) that I induced convulsive laughter.

After that, it was a good night.

i'll say this much for the soho area i'm in, they do their damndest to keep the streets clean, it's gotta be pretty expensive, they got street and sidewalk cleaners going 24-7, taxes, taxes, taxes, and as we've already established with the last blog, in light of certain "upheavals" they need to...this a dangerous area for me, not because of the vomiting, or the endless bars and temptation to drink, which to be honest i have none, or the signs posted on the telephone poles saying "mind your possesions,this is a crime area", or the hooker transvestites, who i getting to know by name, "hi ed", "hi sheena", no...it's not only an area for cool theatre, wicked night life, but the two nemesis's (is that a word? i have no spellcheck when i'm using this laptop, does it often seem like you're reading the end of flowers for algernon?), anyway, my two GREAT temptations, vintage guitar shops and bookstores are everywhere around here...can't be going to london for two weeks, make thousands of dollars and come home in debt, that ain't gonna fly with the wife, but there are at least 10, and i'm not exaggerating, 10 stunning bookstores, between my apartment and the venue, and i'm only 4 blocks away, it's like satan himself is binding these beautys and sticking them in the window...and another thing to add to this whole dilemma, rock and roll has not died over here, yes they love their euro-beat and rap but in addition not as opposed, there is a billion new bands being touted to the kids, so there is all these books on the rock...yeesh, get me outa here, all the bookstore people are getting to know me by name, "hi ed", "hi simon", "sell enough cd's for that one ed?", "the kid's gotta eat simon", "no drooling on the tashens ed", "'nuff said simon"... so, not to brag, you probably figured the gigs have been going pretty good over here, i haven't bitched and that's always a pretty good sign, but saturday's gig was what i like to define as a "new level gig" where, no one is as surprised as me, when it goes not only flawlessly but it hits some kind of new mastery level for me...the show, "the terrorism of everyday life" had some script changes and new songs added that both the director, kate valentine, and i were pretty confident in, but it's been tweaked a bit, and credit has to be given to saturday's audience who were sharp, attentive, and ultra responsive...you have to feel lucky to keep on growing like this...it'd be nice if there was a hot shit reviewer in that night, although it'll probably happen the night i trip over my own dick, my guitar explodes, i lose my voice, the p.a. shorts out, i get in a fist fight with a grandmother in the audience, my pants rip, the toilet overflows to the first four rows, the audience comes in too drunk after a football game and thinks it's karaoke, keeps chanting, "boy george, do hungry like the wolf, thompson twins! pour some sugar on me!" i get tased by a bobby, creditors from local bookstores start coming in and demanding payment, the video screen behind me stops playing my video and only shows benny hill reruns, all the pent up tension that usually manifests itself in that weird performance that is bigger than life and a force of nature, instead produces tomato size boils on my face and head, that continue to enlarge until they explode on the audience---this will be the performance the reviewer will see, and the producer, james seabright, who is the politest fucking englishman you ever did see, will tell me afterwards, as the police are there trying to clean up the chaos and aftermath, "sorry ed, the reviewer was here, we'll have to wait for tomorrows review"...and sure enough, on the front page of the arts section, biggest paper in london, "GREATEST SHOW EVER TO HIT WEST END!!", and now the management team comes in and says we've got to produce this every night...i'm wrapped in bandages from my head to my toes, i look like the invisible man, and it becomes a huge sensation over here, kids line up for my show covered in bandages, "mummy rock" they call it, "it's boiling over" they say..."how did you arrive at this genius show hamell?" they'll ask. "it all happened organically"... roll over lester bangs, and tell tchaikovsky the news.

i haven't seen the daylight. the sleeping is, at best, incremental, and emphasis on mental, tempermental, experimental, and for my sanity, detrimental. my computer crashed last night depriving me the ability to write the valentines day prose piece i had so intended to write to my wife, which meant i had to go out at 4am and the soho area that i'm housed in was rockin', but they were drunk, crazy drunk, not drunk like you see in nyc drunk, no, not tipsy, or silly, or staggering, we're talking people wretching, heaving, puke on every corner, this was a committed drunk, a serious effort to leave a part of one guts on a staked claim not unlike terratorial pissings... simon, that's MY corner, don't you see my bile there? sniff it, it's mine!...now i've had three great shows in a row, houses full hanging on my every word, new material, songs about tasers added and going over gang buster, so i can't complain, i've never been one to sleep worth a shit anyway, and if i never saw the daylight again it'd be no great shakes, although it means that i can't get into book stores because they're not open then, and if you know me you know i NEED my bookstores... but it is wild to see these 20 something year old girls with their short skirts and their 300 pound, (that's 600 dollar) boots, and their hair with the latest mod cut sorta nestled in their main guy's arms and just at one point lean over and fucking HURL, major league projectile vomiting, then go back to snuggling with their honey...i was ankle deep in semi-digested meat pie from my doorway to the payphone...why? you might ask was i using a payphone? well...the cellphone i have over here is mucho expensive to call home, (the usa), and there's no phone in my flat, so the theatre, (who couldn't, by the way, be any nicer, see? theatres now! not them nasty rock and roll bars i've been doing for years where they say, hey, turn the fucking lights out when you leave!),lets me use their phone prior to the gig but of course the wife wants the gig update after the gig, or at least i want to talk to her about it whether she wants to hear it or not, poor thing, and so there i was, wading through porridge like streets to get to a phone booth and thinking wow! you don't see these things in the states too much anymore, and look how cute! little red, english phone booths, and look, no one's puked inside that one, i'm going to be safe in there, and i stood and made my phone call and the urine like stink permeated my nostrils as if someone had wrapped me in a week old ammoniated diaper...it was unbelievable, see the usa is a relatively new country, i know we like to think we're king shit and all, the world's laws don't apply to us, but we're babys man, history will tell the tale, they might yank george bush and his daddy out of bed, haul them downtown in a rickshaw and hang them for war crimes, you might see it in your lifetime, but anyway back to my phonebooth...they have had centuries to piss in this booth, churchill probably took a whizz in this sucker, the queen squatted and blasted one out, but, it's valentines day and all and i was bound and determined i was going to leave a message, told the wife how much i loved her and needed her and then sloshed back to my apartment...you gotta hand it to these english, they know how to fucking party. happy valentines day! burp...

I'm writing this entry from a funny little wi-fi zone in Stanstead airport, on my way to  truly lovely gig in Belfast. There's little else to do in Stanstead airport, it being the most meagre of London's flight zones (City is an exception because although small it caters for the business man and is more well equipped for bored travellers), and so this tiny area of specially designed seats for person plus laptop is rammed full of people pretending to look important on their flashy machines. There is man next to me reclining in a way that can only say 'I'm a hugely important city boy. any decisions I make could change the entire British Stock Market. What a shame I have no friends and live in tragic solitude.' I expected him to be doing very important things on his shiny new computer, but a quick glance over and I can see that he is also plying on Scrabulous. My opinion of him has immediately gone up in estimation.

The past week as per always has been an odd mix of things. After my last blog of the train journey from hell, things went from bad to worse as on arriving home my girlfriend informed me that our car had been broken into. This is immediately annoying, and I mean annoying rather than upsetting. They didn't take anything. Not a thing. This is partly because we are not idiots and don't ever leave anything in the car, but also probably because whatever had been left in the car would have been useless to any thieves. I can't imagine a bunch of crims trying to sell off half a Haribo packet on the black market. I really hope they felt gutted when after making all the effort of breaking into the car they scavenged through, only to realise it really was a huge waste of time, and that perhaps now is the time to go on the straight and narrow and study hard and become an astronaut. I'd love to see that on TV one day. 'After landing on Mars for the first time Dave Criminal had this to say: " Thanks to the owners of the dirty VW Polo who are too stingy to have anything worth stealing, otherwise I wouldn't be here today". It's a nice dream.

All they left was a distinct lack of window and a lot of mess, which meant I couldn't drive it to my gig that night meaning a last minute expensive train dash. It also meant that despite the so-called 24 hour window fixing service, our window is currently gaffer taped onto the car, providing a security risk and a truly horrible noise as you go down the motorway. Lloyd Langford and myself discovered this on our way to Hinckley on Sunday as we tried to talk while what sounded like a giant fly in a can made the most irritating noise on Earth. It reminded me of a much worse version of my brother when he was little and would make those gargling type sounds every time you tried to talk. Those were the times I believed violence was condoned in the household. Although apparently I was wrong.

I hope those failed car thieves get caught and I want them to be served punishment on account of how much time of mine they've wasted and how inconvenient they've made my travelling. I doubt that will even come into account were the police half arsed to do anything more than give us a crime reference number. Fingers crossed for the astronaut outcome then.

Other than being a victim of crime, its been consistently interesting since. A lovely gig at the Museum of London on Thursday, followed immediately by a storming set at the Comedy Cafe on the same night. It was very odd to go from performing in front of ancient axes and swords to a crowd of sedate museum goers, to berating a crowd of city arseholes in a professional club. Made for a great night though, and it was duly celebrated by too much drinking with old friends after. The next day's hangover completely ruining all enjoyment of the previous night. I love the way booze does payback.

Did a short thing for Nuts TV on Monday which was more fun than it should have been. A group of us turned up at the studios as cynical as you could possibly be. We all know the sort of content we expect from Nuts TV, and while half of us were worried we would have to get our moobs out, or something laddish, we also knew we were there to represent our stand-up. Its mad, but as Matt Reed pointed out as we wolfed down free jaffa cakes and pretzels, you wait ages to get on TV, but when you do, there's a hundred and one complaints. There was a lot of stuff we complained about too. the whole thing overran, as TV inevitably does. Then we weren't allowed to leave the studio once we'd entered as the smoke machine would set off the fire alarms all over the building so we were trapped watching the whole thing.

Nevertheless, despite the odds it was really good fun. The crowd were members of the office who had been roped in to watch. On first observation they were the sort of people who dressed as though they should be punched, but as a crowd they were very nice. It was only four minutes of material and everyone looked really good on the screen. Hopefully now we wont just be wedged between 'Topless Girls Playing Wii' and 'Some Model Dancing Naked With Model Friends' as a visual cold shower.

There would be more warbling but I have a plane to board (I love the way that sounds when I read it back). Belfast report to follow......

Finally got over to John Gordillo's yesterday to see the "Richard Donner cut" of "Superman 2".

Andre Vincent was there. Never met him before but I used to see him, in costume, in the lobby of the Assembly Rooms before or after his Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee show. Surprisingly, there was less comforting familiarity to his iconography than those eyeball encounters would have suggested.

Great character he is, though. Likes the right things; a comedy classicist.

I kinda feel like he's now almost a, sort-of, friend. He's fun to listen to and very entertaining talking about other comics.

Of course, that worries me a little, 'cause I'm a bit more ridicule-worthy than a lot of other comics and it strains credulity to think I'll escape the sharpened tongue. On the other hand, I'm not that visible or important, so that may save me.

Still, I was wearing dirty, slightly smelly clothes 'cause I'd accidentally set the dryer to pause rather than dry -- that can't have accrued to the plus column of my aura.

Whatever.

The movie was fun, though still not up to the level of Superman I.

I was socializing normally, rather than staying inside looking at the computer, which is a good thing.

And my farewell hug to Gordillo, while not exactly comfortable, was somewhat less awkward than similar hugs have been in the past. (Note: Not all past hugs were with Gordillo.)

An evening well-spent. And who knows where new acquaintanceships will lead?

Not written for a while so these are from the past three days.... 11th and upwards...Riveting!

13th Feb 2008
OH-EM-GEE! its Valentine's Day tomorrow. I hate Valentine's day its such a drag, I can barely get to my desk with all the sack loads of fan mail. And the roses! Well, I'll just say now lads, don't bother. Its a waste of paper and flowers. Give them to someone else, and I'd best also say now, that I don't read my own fan mail (despite what my publicist says). Yeah just send it all to someone less deserving. Its the right thing to do. Well. Thank God we've sorted that - so no-one's gonna feel embarrassed tomorrow when they come into work and discover no cards or flowers. This is fine, cause this is what I requested. So no embarrassment there at all. None whatsoever.

Talking of V-Day Fun - the plans are shaping up nicely. There seems to be around 10 of us who are coming along. I have selected a bar in Covent Garden and its one where there is an option of wearing COLOURS to signify your relationship status. God is there not enough of that surrounding Facebook? I'm loving the face book invite picture for this event. It shows three women laughing and pointing at a man. Makes us look like hysterical freaks. Excellent. Start as we mean to go on.
Posted by Leanne Diggins at 04:03 0 comments

Tuesday, 12 February 2008

Whats with the mist? Its so depressing, much like the book "The Fog" by James Herbert. I'm so looking forward to when spring has sprung, its gonna be ace.

So, everything seems to be going ok with the dating thing. I have one on Wednesday and one on Friday. Wednesday's is an animal lover. I think animal lovers are the way forward because they have less murdering-tendancies which is always a bonus. Murderers are SUCH nightmares. I'm not sure what the protocal is with this dating malarky. Are you supposed to exclusively date? I think thats silly. I mean look at the Americans I mean, when someone asks them out they say "Sure!" I've seen this countless times.

I dunno, maybe I've watched too much Sex And The City. I watched the entire box set and I have to say it was ok. It gets boring when Carrie says things like "Meanwhile across town, Samantha was getting some monkey loving of her own." When really Samantha is just having sex. She's always talking in riddles is Carrie Bradshaw. Also I dislike that when she walks down Manhatten..... she walks, then jogs, then walks then Jogs all the while clutching her er....clutch bag. Sometimes she turns in a circle whilst gazing up at the sky all in awe-like. It makes me cringe. Imagine if I did that walking down Camden Town. Why, I'd look like a mental case.

I think that about Eastenders too. I don't really watch it much. I stopped watching it when me and my old flat mate Katie, got a bit too into it and would often have the discussion "Minty or Den". (Dirty, not little Den - obviously if it was little Den, he'd win hands down). And then when she chose Minty over Den I thought, right enough of this silliness. CLICK and off went Eastenders, (sort of) forever. But yeah Eastenders. I know the storylines are totally unrealistic as with their large town house homes etc... BUT when they have a dialogue say in someone's house and one of the people in the conversation are just looking out the window and still speaking to the other person who's on the sofa its SO weird.

I mean, imagine if I was chatting to my friend round my house and I just went to the window and gazed out of it forlornly and started saying "I remember when I was 5 and I would go and get an ice cream srewball from the ice cream van and blah blah blah etc" wouldn't my firend think I was really strange? I think so. They should address that. Eastenders, you should address that.
Posted by Leanne Diggins at 03:57 0 comments

Monday, 11 February 2008

I had a jolly weekend starting Friday night in Quinns in Kentish Town Road. Ironically the "Hawley Arms" had no place for an MTV crowd that night. Probably for the best. Lots of fun was had at Quinns and I had sambuca shots for the first time in about a year and a bit. The same thing happened as usual. Watery mouth extreme. I then dropped a glass of Vodka and Cranberry on my foot, it didn't smash, just caused excessive bruising. OUCHY. I did flitting around and then it was time to go.

V-day looms and there's a group of us going out on the lash in Soho on the said night. Don't worry its not going to be SISTERS are DOING IT FOR THEMSELVES stylie. Possibly some shrieking and that type of thing and general drinking and saying things like "Fuck em. They're all bastards." NOOOO! Not at all. I am not a man-hater in the slightest or I wouldn't be back in the dating game again. I really really like men, especially some that I know. I just think that some men are incredibly basic. Thats all. No hate there, just an observation.

So, Saturday was meant to be spent searching for a new sofa and chair and then off to da pub. But whilst in DFS my head started to hurt (probably those freakish sales men) and all of a sudden I got a migrain. They are EVIL. They give me blind spots and slurred speech. WUBBISH. Had to go to my mum's and lie in the dark for 2 hours! Only to be woken by one of my mates informing me that Camden Town was on fire. And it WAS! Bloody hell.

MTV was evacuated and everything! I'm going to look at the aftermath today at lunch although the wreckage is just across the canal from us. Thank you canal.... as scabby as you are, you saved us. The Hawley Arms is done for, apparently tiz to be pulled down. As much as I disliked the EMO extremeness of the place, I wouldn't wish that on the pub. Not nice. And all our photos on the wall will be gone too. :-( boo. The owner Doug had lots of nice things in that pub too cause I remember when we had a karaoke night upstairs in there for MTV and my mate Joel accidently dropped a speaker through one of the tables and it cost us £300 cause it was a one of a kind table, along with most of the other stuff in there too. Boo.

Anyway - before my migrain kicked in we managed to agree on a sofa and sunday morning my pa and I went down to get it. (order it) the salesmen in there are mentalists. If you ask them a simple question like...."So, 12 week delivery time you say, is that the longest it would take?" The response is this... " I've worked here for how long is it? How long is it? Seven years? Hand on heart seven years. It is seven years isn't it? Yeah seven. Hand on heart I've only known one time. No tell a lie, two times when the......." FOR FUCKS SAKE. "YES OR NO?" NOB FACE.

to the train station where I saw Elise off as she left for Bristol to compete in some BBC new media competition. She suggested it was, perhaps, redolent of Noel Coward's "Brief Encounter", so I said maybe it was the train station in "Brief Encounter".

She replied that she didn't think they had a train station in "Brief Encounter", which confused me.

Ahh . . .

So many ways to kiss; so many different varieties of lip movement.

So easy to become labially uptight when you want things to be perfect but fear they'll be not-quite-right.

I mean, I've been harshly assessed within the last few weeks. I don't want to take any risks.

I'm a good kisser.

. . . Usually.

I bet the author whose name was on that book we saw when Elise was looking for something to read on the train didn't think I was a bad kisser. I'd felt guilty about not getting in touch with her after Edinburgh, so, finally, the other day, I went to her website to get her contact information, as she'd said I should.

The contact information was for her agent and her publisher.

Do you think they'll respond well to an apology for taking so long to get in touch? Will they tell me whether or not I was a good kisser?

I kissed Elise goodbye with tender, cautious ineptitude; enough to last through the days of competition, during which time I'll molder in Notting Hill while she becomes the toast of Bristol.

She didn't criticize my effort.

a non-eventful flight over to london....i've been looking for amy winehouse since i got here but her handlers say no, no, no...i've got internet access in the apartment and soon i'll have the phone...tonight it's a run through on the script with the director, tickets have been selling briskly everyone is chipper and psyched, i've written some new bits about sobriety and marriage, added a new song about a taser, tomorrow night is the first performance, 11 performances later it's over to ireland for 3 and homesville-oughta be fairly tight by then huh? got a new idea about a bit with the "keepin' it real" preacher...this was inspired by the scared straight ministry that's going into schools and being tough on the kids about the lord. very military in their approach, yelling, but it's ultimately about love they say...whatever...my kid might miss that special event but anyway, my guy is gonna get down for jesus, tell it like is, could be really funny, cracking me up in my head anyway.also i've yet to hold in my hand a copy of te from edinburgh cd, looking forward to that, and it appears that the dvd is rocking right along, plus ani produces the new record in new orleans in may, one can look forward to a very productive month. i haven't left my apartment since i got here, got myself a good nap, but it's right around the corner from the borderline, the club i used to play here, so i'm familiar with this soho area at least a little, and believe me of all the cities i'm familiar with, and there are several, london is the most intimidating. tough to get around.

Am I reading too much into Jane Eyre? I say 'reading' - 'viewing'. I'm reading a book called The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, which is a good and funny book but revolves largely around characters leaping in and out of the book Jane Eyre, which I haven't read. So I rented the TV series, just as the teenage version of myself used to do for English Lit essays and exams (but only if the York Notes weren't available).

Anyway, early on, Jane Eyre meets a friend in an orphange type place, called Helen. Helen doesn't appear much in the TV version - pretty much the only thing she says is something like: "Well Jane, girls who behave go to heaven, and those who misbehave will go to hell. And it's up to us to last long enough in this life to reach adulthood, so that we can prove ourselves worthy and good people." Something like that, but with a few more 'verily's I imagine. Then Helen dies. Jane grows up, still fondly looking toward Helen's tombstone, which reads 'Helen Burns'. Now for a start that's not a good surname for the tombstone of someone who questioned which way they were going as they walked towards the light. Plus if read it syllabically backwards, 'Helen Burns' becomes 'Burns In Hell'. Not nice, granted. Am I reading too much into this? Is this a hidden message from Charlotte Bronte? Can I track the Holy Grail from this clue? Or am I just a slightly aspergersish wordplay fanatic who reads too much into things? Yes, that's it, yes.

In other news...

- I did a curry and comedy night on Saturday in Surbiton, and the fella I was sat next to - a charming, slightly stocky but very sweet-natured Nigerian fortysomething - turned out to be an Olympic gold-medallist. I've never had dinner with a gold-medallist before. It was quite exciting. He won a gold at Barcelona '92 for heavyweight boxing. He's the heavyweight boxing champion of Nigeria, and the former heavyweight boxing champion of Africa. That's a whole continent. That's quite cool. We should send him to Mugabe - he'd sort him out. Anyway, he doesn't box any more, cos his wife thinks it's a bit violent. Well of course it is. He punches other men professionally. Anyway, he's a gent, and very cool. And I'm not just saying that cos he could bit 7 tonnes of crap out of me.

- Part of my meal last night - up here at Leicester Comedy Festival, from where I write - included jalapenos and chillis. Which were, I'm afraid to say, not evenly distributed around the food. So I moved the jalapenos myself, by hand. Then I realised it was quite late and rubbed my eyes. And my, that hurt. But at first I thought they were aching with tiredness, so I rubbed them some more, really hard. Then screamed with pain. So the lesson here is: there's no 'i' in jalapenos, and equally there should not be jalapenos in your eye. (Yeah, definitely the 'slightly aspergersish wordplay fanatic'...)

Ollie Broadway posted the following response to yesterday's post about my improvised, fast laundering method. My last line had been:
"Nothing can possibly go wrong."

Ollie: Of course you realise that now, in order to satisfy the dramatic tension set up by the final line of this note, something has to go wrong.

Well, that was what I thought too and reality seemed to be providing the satisfying arc when I discovered I had not washed my underwear and needed to go commando. While not normally a major problem, I had decided to enjoy the sun and save money by walking to my destination and did not intend to deprive myself of my sunshine stroll just because my genitalia was unprotected.

BTW, when I say stroll, I should point out that it was a fairly lengthy walk, from the Shepherd's Bush-adjacent section of Notting Hill, past Holland Park to Bayswater, then through Hyde Park toward Victoria, the Vauxhall Bridge and, ultimately, 'round the Kennington Oval toward Peckham (and roast chicken and veg!).

It took a speedy two and a half hours and -- wait, here's the comedic complication -- all that walking sans underpants left me with an irritated penis.

Fortunately, I didn't have to use it.

I'm being made roast chicken, potatoes and vegetables today by a lovely woman who's expecting me at some point this afternoon. A few minutes ago, I realized I did not have any clean clothes.

So, I put stuff in the washer with no detergent save the residue that lurks in the machine. I then ran the hot cycle for around ten minutes.

Now, I'm loosening the dirt and hastening he drying process -- simultaneously -- by subjecting the items to a furious 12-minute spin.

I'll dry for 45 minutes, then be off, fresh as a not-too-wilted daisy.

Nothing can possibly go wrong!

hounding me they have been, write a blog for chortle! chuckle? no, chortle. like a fucking guffaw? i ask ...similar they say....hmmm..and someone will, um, care? viral baby, viral...millions of kids across the globe text messaging meaningless bullshit while it all goes up in smoke, hey, i say, put that cellphone on vibrate and stick it up your ass, you get a call and we all win don't we? testing, testing, one two...remember that know your rights/radio clash thing? ages ago right? when it was underground and kinda mysterious? thems were the days...and who makes us, um, chortle, these days? wallowing in dispair, crazy ass fema yelling, "run for your lives", i'm in line at the airport today and the guy in front of me can't get through security because he's trying to carry on shampoo, they're arguing with him, no mr. bin laden, you can't get through with this....santa clause is in guantanemo and with good reason, no obvious source of income that beard and sneaking into fucking people's homes...damn, i'll slap you with an old trout boy, the good ones is gone, hicks, hunter, you don't see that shit anymore...i'm afraid, i'm content, i want to shop...i used to think the government was in some kinda conspiracy, you know, give a giant flat screen tv, that'll shut 'em up, but no way man, people look ahead to the futily of existence and they drug themselves, religion, tv, the information highway, the endless job cycle, don't blame the government, don't blame the individual, there's your fucking joke...there is no one to blame! that's a cruel sense of humor man, that ain't funny at all. where's my goddamn trout? you know lester bangs? if you don't know lester bangs drop what you're doing right now and seek out psychotic reaction and carborator dung, turn off your fucking radiohead record for a minute and check this shit out, i've got nothing to gain by misleading you, i'm just trying to keep the spirit alive, that's why i drop names, there's my spirituality in a fucking nutshell, turn off your fallout boy for a minute or anticipate that trout slap we were talking about earlier--get out that bukowski, early stuff, short stories, poems and post office---feel the blood circulating, how come this isn't funny? this is suipposed to be a goddamn comedy piece! is this guy a comedian or what? no, i'm not a comedian, i'm lenny bruce. (he's not funny either they tell me, jesus reach for the lexapro, double up, it's been a bitch of a winter)...i'm not a musician, i'm hamell on trial... allow me to introduce myself, looking for something, shall we say, completely different? do you want, um, the truth? or do you want the trout? this is all rhetorical, please don't respond to this, i'll tell you advance i won't read it, i'm amazed you do, fucking really amazed, where do find the time, who have i mentioned? hunter thompson, lester bangs, bill hicks, bukowski, joe strummer, jesus by the time you get to them you ain't gonna have any time for me, and, and, and, and, that's okay...this isn't myspace, i'm not looking for friends, but i will share the wealth, testing one, two, is this cyberworld on? what would lester have done now? it'd be all old jazz and folk for him probably huh? and white stripes, he woulda dug the white stripes, and every lou reed record is like a letter from a friend, hey, i'm not saying that every letter you get from a friend is THE GREATEST LETTER I'VE EVER RECIEVED IN MY LIFE!!! but some are better than others, all of them make you feel pretty good, and believe me in these times, feeling pretty good is gonna have to do and anyway better a letter from a friend than some spam mail from the guys in maroon 5 who just want you to try their new song for free because they know if you try it you'll want to buy it, and i got food poisoning from it, soul poisoning, heart and head poisoning, and now i've gotta play a trick on the parents,i gotta play their game to the max because i've got a 6 year old and there's play dates and computer games, and soccer practice and karate practice so we're gonna get some home schooling for anarchists rocking here, read a little chomsky, take skeptical 101, global concerns for the preschooler, you want heavy kid? i'll give you rage against the machine...see what we come up with, okay so this is my first one, we'll see how this goes as i hit london tomorrow, my laptop doesn't like wireless... won't connect for love nor money,it's gonna be hell, writew the blog the publicist says...be more funny it's for the hardy har har site, a gag a thon i can relate, testing one two, who's got the trout?

of instant coffee today. It was dreadful.

I was responding to the sign, on a Shepherd's Bush market stall, that said "Arabic coffee". But I guess I should have asked for it specifically. I threw what I got away.

So, this was to be the nature of my day?

I stepped in dog shit again. Why is there so much dog shit in the street here? How selfish are you guys?

Why, as I asked my audience last night, do Londoners stand next to the door of the tube once inside, blocking the entry of others, even when there's plenty of room in the rest of the car?

Why are your public works so cheap-ass and stingy in execution, costing large sums of money but delivering less than is logical? I saw today that the new Wood Lane tube station is maybe a block from White City station. They're building the new station now, but will there be a connecting element allowing free transfer between the Central and Hammersmith & City lines (easier to do now than at any time in the future)?

I bet not.

These are some things that happened or I thought of as I walked from Notting Hill through Shepherd's Bush to Hammersmith and back in the February sun.

The sun was shining. People were out in front of their houses.

Truly, it was a lovely day

On Friday 1st February 2008, around fifty comics from the UK, Australasia, Ireland and further afield boarded a plane for Miami to attend the international heat of ‘Last Comic Standing’, the popular NBC reality TV programme. This is my account of the whole bizarre trip.

FRIDAY

I, like many of us, had been gigging the night before. We had to be at the airport for an early flight, which meant waking at the ungodly hour of about 6am. In conversion, for a comic that’s like a normal person having to get up at about 2am.
This was my first long-haul flight for some years, so I wasn’t overly impressed to find myself reading a double-page spread in the newspaper about plane crash statistics alongside an article about the Canadian pilot who had to be restrained because halfway through a flight he started speaking to God.
At the airport check-in we got our first glimpse of the other comics who were going to Miami – people that NBC would like me to call ‘The Opposition’ but I would rather refer to as ‘My Mates’. We dribbled through the various checks with the mandatory grumbles echoing around the airport (‘Shoes? Why do they need to check my shoes? Etc etc’).
On the plane we were all spread out, and still didn’t really have an idea of which other fellow comedians were on the trip. I was sat next to a retired couple who were going on a cruise. It was a delight to see their faces as I was greeted by more and more people during the course of the flight. I didn’t let on that there was something going on, I just let them carry on thinking they’d witnessed an amazing coincidence. I read my book for the flight, as the films didn’t work. No in-flight entertainment for nine hours. If I’d paid for my ticket I would have been miffed.

On arrival into America, passport check-in took nearly two hours. Photographs, fingerprints, question after question; my first real brush with the true extent of American paranoia.
We collected our bags and were then met by representatives of NBC (I say representatives, I think the eldest among them was twenty-two.) It’s worth stressing here the general mood of the comics: very tired indeed, slightly bored, hungry, restless and wanting nothing more than to just collapse into the hotel.
Filming began almost immediately. We were frogmarched around the airport, being filmed walking up escalators, down stairs, through doors and then back up some more escalators. Scintillating footage, I think you’d agree. Now we’re becoming downright irate.
At this point we were greeted by the show anchor. Our instructions were to walk down some stairs where she would greet us on camera, and we were to chat, pretend we’d just walked off the plane and generally enthuse.
Not having any choice in the matter, we English trudged down the stairs and the anchor turned around to greet us to reveal: Fearne Cotton. Almost as one, you could hear the collective sigh of ‘Oh for Fuck’s Sake’. It was an emphatically British moment. There followed a heroic parade of moaning and grumbling.
First question to first comic: ‘So you must be pumped being here in the US! How do you feel?’
Answer: ‘Tired. Can we go to the hotel?’
Second question: ‘How do you fancy your chances in the big competition?’
Answer: ‘I’m a lot funnier when I haven’t had to walk around an airport for three hours.’
To meet the various nationalities arriving, Fearne dressed ‘appropriately’ for each country. We English got off lightly with some sort of a chauffeurs hat. A little more crass, dare we say edging towards racist was the traditional Indian costume. Most bizarre sight of the day was the Kiwi comic arriving to be greeted by Fearne dressed…as a sheep.
On the coach on the way to the hotel there were yet more individual interviews where we were, to a man, disruptive, rude about America and Americans, surly and uncooperative. I couldn’t help but feel a little burst of pride.
Finally arriving at the hotel after nearly twenty four hours without sleep, we were informed of the start time for filming and being funny for the following day: Seven O’Clock in the morning.

Saturday

Amazingly, we were all in the lobby for seven. Then there was some more waiting around (a feature of the trip, by the way) before we were driven to the location. Then there was more waiting when we got there. A truly American breakfast was served to us, that being stodgy cakes and weak coffee. There was no option for anyone for breakfast except for cakes made of 90% fat.
We waited some more, then it poured with rain drawing a wry smile from those familiar with pathetic fallacy.
Then there was some sort of bloody flag parade, where we were meant to walk behind a flag or something. The whole thing was so disorganised that if it did happen, I certainly missed it.
More waiting. We were told we couldn’t leave the location under pain of expulsion. Now, being in Miami, expulsion from the show seemed the most attractive option so a few of us fucked off in search of a decent cup of tea.
Arriving back from a satisfying cuppa, frustratingly our absence had gone entirely unnoticed. This might be the best place to point out how very much we were as cattle. In the other heats across America, people would have been overexcited at the prospect of being on the TV, coupled with the already nauseating American genetic enthusiasm. They would have been happy just to be there. The fact here was that we’re all working, professional comics already. None of us particularly needs ‘Last Comic Standing’. Granted, to progress would be a good thing for a comedy career in America, but not progressing, well, genuinely, who gives a shit?
The first round auditions were to two of the producers. I got through to the afternoon auditions quite swiftly once I was in there. It was near to lunch, so they were obviously hungry and making those kind of basic mistakes.
Then more waiting, thirty minutes to get a shower and some lunch at the hotel (an impossible timeframe), then work up some more material for the two minute audition in the afternoon. Something I think we were all surprised by was the material. It’s for a US audience, so you have to remove/alter British references, and it’s for a mainstream TV show, so you have to remove blasphemy, swearing and overtly sexual references. It’s fascinating to find, once you’ve done that, how little material you seem to have. A real eye-opener into the majority of material we, as a group, had brought over with us (obviously this wasn’t the case for everyone, but true for myself and a great number with whom I spoke).
For the afternoon auditions we had to do the new two minutes to the judges, a couple of chaps from a show called ’30 Rock’. Never heard of it myself, but I’ve since been told it’s really good. It was a real conveyer belt, one in, one out, next! Next! We were all waiting in a line down a corridor to do our two minutes. I was behind the curtain, primed, ready, poised to do my best two minutes when without telling me, they took a break for coffee and cake. For twenty-five minutes I was like a coiled spring behind the curtain. By the time I went on my legs were jelly and my brain was fried. I managed to give a fairly decent account of myself, and somehow they put me through to the evening show in front of a live audience at the Improv Comedy Club, Miami.
Now we were all exhausted. The ones who hadn’t progressed got to go off and enjoy Miami for the rest of their trip. Hand on heart, I envied them something rotten. I know that sounds ungrateful, but that’s how I felt at the time. I know most of them would have loved to have been in my position, doing the show to the crowd, but by then I was so tired I just wanted to sit on the beach with a cocktail. It’s a bit frustrating knowing that Miami is all around you but you’re trapped. One of the comics pointed out that as we were working for no money and had to do what they said, that effectively made us slaves. Good point well made.

Right. So we had about two hours between the afternoon auditions and the evening show. In that two hours we had to do the following: work up a completely new three minute set for the evening, fill out reams of paperwork about as thick as my thumbnail, shower, eat, do two or more interviews and maybe catch three minutes rest.
The evening show was sold out, a good sign, and the audience were in a good mood, enforced upon them by the compulsory ‘Two drink minimum’ rule that is de rigeur in the US. It wasn’t a bad gig, some acts absolutely ripped the nuts off it, others struggled. I fell somewhere inbetween. Most jokes worked well, I got one reference badly wrong so the joke fell because, simply, they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I was fairly satisfied with the gig but knew absolutely that I wasn’t going through to the next round in Las Vegas. And my honest reaction was relief. I’m really genuinely glad for those who went through, because they did want it, and equally I feel sad for those who really wanted it and didn’t get it. But I got further than I ever dared presume I might, and I was glad that time had been called before it got out of control.
After the show, the first time to relax at all, I ordered a double G & T (which apparently in Miami means ‘hello, I’d like half a pint of neat gin, please). Ended up through exhaustion and booze becoming thoroughly trolleyed. I think everyone did. The following day there were reports of breaking into hotel pools in the dead of night and skinny dipping, among other things.
Without a doubt, that was the most tiring and relentless day of having to Be Funny since the first day I stepped onto the comedy stage.

SUNDAY

More filming. Just when we thought we had a day off, they’d arranged to film us having fun (which is an utter paradox. How much fun can you really have with a camera shoved up your nose?). I got the time wrong so wandered down to the lobby an hour early with a fuming headache and limbs made of clay, to find nobody else about.
The original plan was that we would be filmed mucking about on a boat trip. That fell through because apparently messing about on the river is classed as ‘work’ in the US. As we didn’t have work visas, we couldn’t do that work. So whilst NBC Legal worked on an alternative, we munched our way through an American buffet breakfast that included beef patties. That’s right. Hamburgers for breakfast.
The geniuses at NBC managed to come up with an alternative, which was to take us all for lunch and film us at an eatery called ‘Hooters’, with topless waiting staff. That idea was rounded upon with some force by us, and swiftly screwed up into a ball and hit out of the stadium (A poor US analogy for a dreadful US idea).
We ended up going on a trip about an hour out of Miami to a Gator Park, whizzing about on one of those boats with a massive fan at the back RE Gentle Ben. I ate alligator for lunch, and can report back that it’s chewy and tasteless. I don’t know what I expected, considering the thing is pretty much a bloody dinosaur.
The boat trip was fairly entertaining, and took about an hour. One of our number was in the toilet when the boat left, so missed the trip. The poor girl went all the way to an Alligator Park for a shit then went back home.
Finally, the cameras packed up and left us alone. We were dropped at the hotel, free at last with a few hours to spend in Miami before going home the next morning.
Determined to make the most of it, a number of us headed down to Ocean Drive and Miami Beach. By now of course it was pitch black, but you could get a feel for the Art Deco Architecture. Sat in the open air, on leather sofas, sipping on a Mojito and having a great time. Finally a little bit of what I’d hoped the trip would be about.
Having eaten Alligator for lunch, I wanted to try something new to eat in the evening too. We found a restaurant, and on the menu was an intriguing item named ‘Mahi Mahi’. I asked the waiter what it was and in a broad Latin American accent said ‘well, you know, it’s illegal to kill Dolphin, but…’ Then winked. One thing led to another and I can report back that Dolphin is rather tasty indeed. Highly recommended.
Dinner was followed by a paddle in the sea, some antics with a massive white snake and its handler, who was quite potty. Then back to the hotel with a second wind. I found in my room a bottle of ‘American Champagne’ which isn’t quite up to the French stuff. Someone had ordered it to the wrong room, a mistake of which we took full advantage. Champagne guzzled, world put to rights, then to bed.

MONDAY

Woke up for the first time on the trip ready to enjoy the day, just in time for: the homeward journey. We handed in our receipts to the film crew for claiming back (mine were frighteningly liquid in content). The plane was boarded without incident, then a night flight. We were all knackered, mostly too tired to sleep.
Arrival into Heathrow was at about 5am Tuesday morning. The trip had been worthwhile for meeting and having a laugh with some incredible comics, making new friends and having a peek into the weird world of NBC. I’m so very glad that I went, but I definitely wouldn’t go again.

ADDENDUM

Arriving back into the UK, I didn’t get a moment to rest. Check email, shower, change, then drive straight down to Exeter. I hadn’t slept for coming up to thirty hours, the drive was downright dangerous and the weather terrible. And how many people were at the gig? Six.

The reason it's a slow-moving ship is that our neuroses are intensely compatible and therefore intensely incompatible. We are similarly impeded and, therefore, in a constant dance; one with plenty of motion but stuck in one spot on the dance floor.

I, using my specialty -- words -- have been trying to get her to extend her terpsichoreal reach to other parts of the floor. She, in response, has valiantly mustered small but sure actions that nudge our tapping feet a millimeter or two toward the bandstand.

I don't even know if that's the direction we want to be go in but at least it's somewhere and we should arrive on schedule in 2098.

A shameless plug. Short notice I know, but I'm lax.

I'm doing last year's Edinburgh show - an hour's stand-up/multimedia powerpoint comedy thing about the book of Genesis - at the Leicester Comedy Festival on just one more date: Sun 10th Feb. It's the only date I have in the diary to do the Genesis show, so it could be the last chance ever to see it! (This is probably not the case, but for publicity reasons, let us pretend it is.)

Here are the details:

Sunday 10th Feb
Venue: Sparkenhoe Ark Theatre
Entry: £5.00
Doors: 6.00.pm
Start: 7.00.pm
End: 8.00.pm

Paul Kerensa's Genesis is a stand-up comedy whistle-stop tour of the Bible's opening chapter: from Adam’s fig leaf to Joseph’s dreamcoat, via Sodom’s crotchless pants. First of sixty-six annual shows (next year, Exodus). Contains some Phil Collins. **** Chortle, **** Three Weeks, “Ingenious” Evening Standard.

The same details can be seen in a different order on a website here:
http://www.comedy-festival.co.uk/events/show.php?event_id=249&showdate=2008-02-10
and tickets are available here:
http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user/region=gb_midlands&query=detail&event=250348

and/or here:

I'm also doing two other shows that day - compering a daytime benefit gig for a mental health charity, and then a very unusual one in the evening at Hotel de Comedie, which is a gig whereby the acts greet the audience in our actual hotel rooms where we're staying, and we do the entire gig there. I think it's meant to be kooky, with us mucking around with hotel stuff. Though in my case, I'm inclined to do it wrapped up under the sheets, or maybe from in the bath. Heck, if I'm getting the rare chance to do a gig without leaving the hotel room, I'm going to make the most of it.

Do come to the Genesis show if you're nearish Leicester. I will welcome you with open arms and may even reward you with booze.

I believe I know a little more about moving my relation-ship off the rocks of stasis and despair. But it doesn't seem to be a fast-moving ship.

I don't think so.

Yeah, sometimes.

But not like this

I ask myself why I don't just do certain things but I know the answer, which is often simply logistical yet can put a crimp in everything

A song I like comes on and I feel better. How stupid is that?

What's real, the bad feeling or the good?

Oop. My Scrabulous move.

I'm currently sitting on the longest most boring train journey of my life. I've been on longer train journeys across parts of Europe, but they didn't have that sheer dullness that the slow train from Edinburgh to London does. At least as you cross Europe the views are astounding, passing mountains, valleys and general lovely things. The same cannot be said for the painfully grey suicide inducing outskirts of Durham. Its my fault for not checking which was the fast train and which was the slow, subsequently choosing the latter and therefore throwing away a good hour and a half of my life that I could have spent on my own sofa at home instead of sitting bolt upright in a seat that appears to be made of the most uncomfortable materials known to humankind while someone in front of me eats sandwiches that smell of badger sick. This is all made minutely bearable by the addition of free wi-fi on the train and my laptop. Yes, that's right, the future is now.

Despite my misery, its all been for a very worthy reason. I've just spent two lovely nights in Scotland doing the Stand in Edinburgh and Glasgow, both of which are two of the nicest gigs I've ever done. I've always been too lazy to take two days out to trek up Northenest and do the Scottish circuit, but after hearing umpteen million times that the Stand was one of the best clubs in the UK, I thought I really should make the effort. I'm pleased to say that the trip was entirely worth it. Monday night in Edinburgh was truly lovely and rammed full of a up-for-it comedy crowd. It was also great to meet acts who never really head south and only do the Scottish scene. Everyone was really welcoming and it was one of the most enjoyable gigs I've had in a long time. the club kindly booked me into the hotel across the road and so I was able to have a few beers and literally crawl home after which is always a bonus. Tuesday night was a similar experience only with even more audience, and again a really top night.

I'd never been to Edinburgh except for during the festival so it was nice to walk around without being harassed by dickheads on stilts, four hundred flyerers, and people shouting about their new play where Jesus is a doorman of a blues bar and all the women are aliens. Its such a beautiful city and for the first time in ages I was in the right frame of mind to sit down and churn out a ton of writing that I was meant to do ages ago. The downside to this was while I typed I lost count of how many coffees I had been drinking and spent the afternoon and evening buzzing on a caffeine high with scary breath like the weird maths supply teacher that everyone has to endure for three days of the year in their school days. How these people keep being re-hired year in year out when all they do is shout and smell of coffee always worried me at the time.

Glasgow was nice too, which was a surprise after constantly hearing it being used as the butt of many a joke. The central area by the stations was very smart, clean and didn't really look like gangland gun and crack territory. Although it could all be to do with where I visited. Tourists may say the same about London, but then its unlikely they'll have ever visited Tottenham. I was however disappointed by the lack of battered and greasy food. I spent an hour walking around the city this morning in search for a decent fry up and had to finally settle for a mediocre Starbucks panini. There are some stereotypes I wish the city had lived up to.

Its always good to have a bit of a change of scenery and I felt like I needed it, after two rather unfriendly London audiences at my shows on the weekend. I'll never understand why people will pay upwards of £10 to sit in a room and be hostile when I'm sure there's a good job in the police or army that they could take up and get paid to do the same thing without making me feel uncomfortable. Friday was a gig that I have not enjoyed before. A crowd that is encouraged to heckle and shout before the first act is on is never a good sign, and on Friday I did not have my heckle head on and suffered for it. I survived by spending the set thinking about the fact I was going to watch Cloverfield after the gig and what would happen if the dickheads who kept shouting out where to be eaten by a giant monster while I was on stage. I'd like to think that I'd stand there and chuckle. The truth of course is that I would scream a lot before also getting eaten, and actually dying on stage.

The gig on Saturday wasn't much better although this was helped by the fact that none of the big named acts before me had a good night either and so the death of me as the open spot was not quite as stand-out as it would have been otherwise. Again hostile boozed up stag and hen do's who would much rather have been rutting in an alley and fighting things than watching comedy. I tried to stay professional but only lasted 8 minutes instead of 10 and ran away. I was fairly sure that if I was a more experienced comic I could have turned it around a tad, but my thinking was changed when I watched the big club regular acts also suffer at the hands of idiots. The management were lovely and said they enjoyed my stuff and apologised for the crowd, which also perked me up a bit.

But the last two nights have boosted the confidence back up nicely in time for the rest of the month. Thanks Scottish peoples. The rest of February is filled with all sorts of shows including a storytelling night at the Museum of London tomorrow. Museum's at night are generally a bit scary because of all the dead things, but this sounds like it will just be very nice so I'm looking forward to it. Its also free and awesomeness such as Simon Munnery and Will Adamsdale are on, so you should come along. There, you've been told.

All I need now is for this train to pull in at Kings Cross sometime before 2009...

I wanted to help save the world.

I wanted to make up for the last seven years,

I wanted to be a good American.

I wanted to be part of the solution.

But I am not in America. I let my personal concerns dictate my whereabouts rather than the larger concerns that affect us all.

I suppose I could have gotten an absentee ballot but it just seemed so hard. I don't even know what address I'm registered at.

Last year -- perhaps due to bad handwriting -- I wasn't listed at the polling place for my new address. But they also didn't want me at my old polling place, meaning my re-registration probably was pegged to some unknown mystery address.

So, I had to fill out some special ballot that I think they wouldn't even count unless it was needed to settle the election (and they could prove it was legit.)

I mean, where does the state even think I live? Does New York have a special mystery absentee ballots?

Who knows who the best candidate is, anyway? I don't know whether Obama is better than Clinton, only that either of them is better than a Republican. (I suppose it might have helped if I had researched their positions or watched any of the debates.)

I am a bad American. I've tended to my personal needs rather than stepping up to the plate to save the world.

But then again, isn't it American arrogance to think we have the right, ability,or responsibility to save the world? Isn't that what post-imperial Europeans think we should get over?

I am a good American.

(Unless what we do really does matter.)

Damn rocks.

Stuck on 'em.

Didn't see 'em.

Unable to move the ship of my life forward.