19/03/07
Hereford & Leeds -
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I don't know if I am going to have time to finish writing this entry as I am meant to be in Oxford at 9 tonight for the Free Beer Show, so already I am putting a little bit of excitement into this as you now know I am rushing it.
So, let's go over the weekend just passed...
Friday was a jaunt out to Hereford to headline the Comedy Company gig at the Courtyard Theatre. They've have some fucking great gigs the Comedy Company do - they are in charge of the one in Bracknell and the Lawrence Batley Theatre in Huddersfield (both of which I have recently played and lauded as fantastic on this here blog). They are doing something right with their shows, because they're always sold out and always an absolute doddle to enjoy as an act. And they are geographically far apart so it isn't down to the area, and they book me so it's nothing to do with the standard of acts. They're just...dead good (I don't have time to consult a thesaurus).
So Friday in Hereford was a pleasure. As is so often the case there was one table (right at the front) of about 15 lads who were gobby, but even though they went a fair way to disrupt proceedings, I never felt it was malicious. Just a bit too drunk, and a little lacking in awareness that there was another couple of hundred people in the same room running out of patience with their shouting.
I just about contained them, but a win is a win no matter by how many points it is attained.
I've recently gotten very bad at checking my watch before I go on, so am often unprofessionally asking the compere from the stage how long I have done. When I asked compere Maff Brown this on Friday (and he was proper good too, I've only ever seen him at weird gigs but on a proper night he really came into his own), he shouted that I had done twenty. This was at a point when I was almost certain that I had done closer to forty - I had bantered for ages, done a fair chunk of material, and had several glorious heckler battles which I milked for all they were worth, but he was shouting out that all this had happened in a mere twenty fucking minutes. Which turned out to be a lie, but it was one of the only times on a stage I have stood there and thought "shit, I'm only half way through and I am knackered...I don't know what to do now..."
I still did another twenty, and the gig ended with a smashing response, and a lady in the audience urging me to throw a chair at the table of lads at the front. I did consider it, but ultimately common sense prevailed and I left the building carried heroically on the shoulders of the grateful Hereford locals.
I went straight from Hereford to a hotel up North as I was going to Hull the following night for the rugby. I am staying at far too many hotels these days, that cliche of them all looking the same is coming true. The room I stayed at was identical to a room I stayed in just before Christmas in Manchester, literally identical - eerily so, I was having trouble shaking the idea that the time in between had just been a dream and I was actually still in the other room. In my defence, I had just done a long awkward drive and was delirious with fatigue. Either that or I am at the onset of madness.
Can't remember anything about the rugby on Saturday, I am sure Saints won, they usually do. Although, if I had travelled all that way to see them be half-arsed and not win, then I would probably block it out in my head anyway.
They didn't win...happy?
On Sunday, after going to Meadowhall in Sheffield again and getting very upset that I couldn't find any clothes to fit me, and then going to the cinema in Wakefield to watch Ghost Rider (which was okay actually), I trundled up to Leeds to headline Trinity All Saints college.
It wasn't shaping up to be the best gig before I went on. Nothing at all to do with the acts who were all great, but the audience really needed a kick up the arse. I went on and it was all right for a bit as I did some patches of material, but I was also finding myself frustrated that they weren't coming along fully for the ride no matter how playful and cute and charming I was being, so I put the material to one side and had a chat with a lad in the front row called Alex.
The series of events that followed could never have been predicted.
Alex was studying to be a journalist, so he was cheekily condemned for that by yours truly. It transpired he wanted to do sports journalism. I said, and I have no fucking idea why I said this, or where I was going with it, "Tell me a sport and I'll do an impression of it and you can review it".
Now, that's fucking lame isn't it? I mean, that's properly rubbish.
Horse racing was shouted out.
I'm not even going to tell you how it happened (mainly as I can't remember), but ten minutes later Alex was on his hands and knees on the stage as my horse (SeaBiscuit, as suggested by the audience) with me on his back and another two lads in the same position by the side of us getting ready for the inaugral Leeds Comedy Horse Race. It was stupid of me as I was already suffering physically from a pulled muscle in my neck (no idea how that happened) and a sprained wrist from boxing (well, from overplaying Rocky Balboa on the PSP, but it still counts).
The object of the race was first to the edge of the stage. We lost, but I declared it a false start and then had the marvellous idea to make it best of three (or best of five as I originally mooted).
Here is the footage of the first race, apologies as always for quality.
Click here
So the night was coming to life, in the most unlikely fashion.
Race two, and SeaBiscuit started to perform much better:
Click here
An amazing win! Good girl SeaBiscuit...It was all on! That audience had been subdued for the previous two hours, but suddenly they were getting what they really wanted - human horse racing.
The third and final race turned to anarchy, but all that I had to do was reach the end of the stage to be crowned champion. Don't forget that I was already suffering from injuries too, my wrist heavily bandaged beneath my lucky DC sweatband, but sometimes you have to search for the hero inside yourself, search for the secrets you hide...sometimes you've just got to fucking fight for what you want...
Click here
Now that was some fucking dive. I'm 33, the other contestants are still fucking teenagers.
My drive home was utter agony, but the applause and cheers that still rang in my ears were as good a soother as any painkiller.
I'm going to Oxford Now.
Love you
Mr Ray Peacock
Reigning Leeds Comedy Horse Race Champion and still getting away with murder
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