Couple of gigs on the coast since last we spoke.

I always look forward to going to 'the seaside', and always end up disappointed. I think it's because I always compare it to Blackpool. A lot of people take the piss out of Blackpool and do it down, but I have to say, I take people and places as I find them and I fucking love Blackpool. Had some of the best and worst days of my life there, and any place that can run you through every emotion and still put pretty lights on at the end of the day is okay by me.

So the first place I compared to Blackpool was Sandgate, in Kent. There is literally nothing there. I arrived for my gig two hours early thinking I'd be able to have a wander about on the sea front and ended up just sitting in my car, staring at the sea and wishing time away. I was that bored I bought FHM. That just made it worse to be honest.

Anyway, the time arrived for me to go to the gig. Sometimes you walk into a gig and think it's going to be lovely, the room is all set out nice and there's a microphone and stage and lights, and the audience are seated in front of it and facing the right way, and you know that your job is going to be fine unless you personally fuck it up. Other times, like in Sandgate on Thursday, you walk in and think "You have got to be shitting me".

How we got through that gig on Thursday defies all logic. There was a microphone. That was it. None of the other aforementioned plus points for good gigs were met.

I headlined (or rather I had to wait the longest with the dread of going on), and blagged it for 35 minutes. Proper blagged it though, literally not a word of material, the first ten minutes involved me finding and plugging in a light so that the 'audience' could actually see me, and the rest of my time relied predominantly on the drunkest man in the room (and that was saying something) facilitating my piss-taking.

Sometimes gigs are hard work because the audience aren't really laughing too much, and you are constantly trying to kick start them, sometimes gigs are easy because the audience are laughing at everything and you can relax. On this night, the audience were laughing at everything and yet it was still hard work, I'm not sure I can explain it, but I really worked my bollocks off on Thursday whilst outwardly appearing to be just fucking about.

By the grace of god it all went well, and everybody was happy at the 'gig', but I think it has taken about five years off my life. I was exhausted as I drove home, and had a real dull headache (but that may have been because I had a go on some poppers the night before in an attempt to look cool...Little Raji James who used to be on Eastenders told me off for this because apparently they lower your blood pressure but that's a good thing for somebody like me surely?).

Last night was Jokers Comedy Club at Southend-on-sea, and I was comparing.

Southend is far more comparable to Blackpool, and I got the satisfaction of seeing a row of arcades all lit up on the front. Didn't go in them - but just seeing them made me feel happy enough.

The gig is at the Cliff's Pavillion, which also houses a big beautiful theatre as well as the function bar room where they do the comedy. At the moment the tour of The Rocky Horror Show is playing in the main theatre.

For many years in my teens, I was obsessed with The Rocky Horror Show. It's still one of my very very favourites, it's an astounding piece of work in all of it's forms, and as I walked through the dressed up masses in the main foyer last night, I sort of wished I was going to watch it with them. So much so that I even bought some merchandise from the stall and spent a bit of time hanging around and looking at all the costumes and stuff.

Well...I say that...I've made that sound far less lecherous than it was. I noticed a really weird thing last night. When I have been to see Rocky Horror in the past, I have always been kind of immune to the people dressed up, there's so many of them and you're off to see the show and you just don't really notice. Last night, as I was very much an outsider I suddenly noticed that the whole place was full of beautiful ladies in just their underwear, and it took on a whole different feel. And they were all so friendly. How I ever got downstairs to the gig is beyond me, it played utter havoc with my libido.

So, onto the gig.

There's always the feeling in rooms like that, that the audience aren't going to be comedy savvy. In fact, without meaning to generalise (which means I am about to), whenever I go to do gigs in Essex I feel that. As though the audience simply don't know how to be an audience. Jokers Southend has been running for twenty years now, so as an audience they 'get' it. Well, most of them do. Safe to say, that if there's a person there who doesn't, I'll fucking find them.

Two hundred and fifty people, all up for a great night, I find the solitary humourless cunt in the room. In his defence he made it easier for me by sitting right at the front, his all black get up capped with dyed (I assume) black hair diluting his fifty-one years of age and his arm around his much younger pretty blonde girlfriend.

How could I not?

I chatted with his girlfriend first, and she was lovely and giggly and totally entered into the spirit of things. In my head I thought ahead to how much fun I could have with them as the night went on, a couple with a massive age difference, not giving a fuck what other people thought, sat at the front and taking my teasing with grace and humour, whilst the whole rest of the room laughed along.

Then I started speaking to him.

I knew instantly that something wasn't right. It took the rest of the room a little longer to realise, but eventually we were all on board together. The first give away to me was the fact that he simply would not make eye-contact with me. The second clue was the fact that he was not cracking a smile. Like, at all. The rest of his table were falling about laughing, but he was having none of it. As it got more and more awkward, his girlfriend gave me the most apologetic eyes I think I have ever seen, and I wanted to scoop her up and save her.

The thing was, I was going pretty easy on the dude. I wasn't even properly taking the piss, my teasing was 'gentle' to say the least, but the more he didn't play, the more the devil on my shoulder was encouraging me to push it further. In a complete turn around of character I showed admirable restraint, in the second part of the show I made no more than passing reference to him. I said to him "You really don't like me do you?", he said "Well, it just gets boring doesn't it?", I said "Yes...yes it does...".

It doesn't though. Not to me. I was lying. I like the awkward situations.

But on this occasion, I did leave him be. He'd gone by the third part of the show. The rest of his table stayed and had a great night, but his girlfriend departed with him. I felt for her, she'd been having a laugh but had to leave with sulky-probably leather-pants.

I really hate it when somebody gets the hump with me onstage when I genuinely wasn't meaning any harm.

Sometimes there are proper cunts in the audience and they get what they deserve, and I will go full tilt on slamming them down without any conscience about it, but this bloke just...well...took himself too seriously. He could have left that gig a hero, with all the audience thinking he was fantastic and big enough to take it on the chin and give as good as he got, but instead there was just a feeling that he put a bit of a dampener on it. I don't know, maybe I'm being harsh, I guess it's people's right to react however they do, and I don't know what's going on for him in his life or what sort of day he has had or whatever, but the very front table of a comedy club isn't perhaps the best place to plonk yourself if you're not up for a laugh.

I spoke to some of the people who had been with him after the show, and they put my mind at rest, and I sent a message with them for him and the girlfriend with them. I really wish he hadn't left. I didn't like that.

Other than that, the gig was a fucking belter - I may have made the sulky bloke thing sound like it was the whole story of the gig, but it was a very small part of it. Had a lovely night, and spent some time with Topping & Butch who I have never met before. Fucking top blokes - and a really brilliant act. I thought I would hate their act, but I really really liked it.

Tell you what though, you know when you have spent the evening socialising with a couple of gay fellas, and as the night wears on you start doing gay jokes and teasing them in a childish way, and then when you leave the gig and are driving home you notice that they are in the car behind you so you start waving and beeping your horn and doing immature gay signals out of your window, and then the car behind you overtakes you and it isn't them after all but two hard knock blokes?

That's fucking awkward isn't it?

Particularly when you are in Chelmsford...

The fact that I am writing this now would imply I survived it.

Bracknell Comedy Cellar for me tonight for a one-off Saturday gig, I practically live at that place now. Then tomorrow I am off up to Durham to do a gig as a favour to underdog Chortle finalist Ed Gamble at his Cool Fun Comedy Night. A fucking favour! To Durham. It's almost fucking Scotland. It better be sunny. Not driving all that way without the car roof down...

I don't really know why yesterday felt so rubbish. It should have been good.

I had to go and do some ADR on Doctor Who in the early afternoon.

There are several different ideas as to what ADR actually stands for, and nobody seems to know - not even the people who are in charge of it. The top two suggestions are Automated Dialogue Replacement and Additional Dialogue Recording. The constant is Dialogue - and I suppose that is the most relevant. I had to go into a recording studio and speak an additional line four times. Yes, you heard it right - an additional line...taking my line count in Doctor Who up to four (or it might be five), which would surely warrant an action figure or trading card of me? If you need an image to set the scene, it was like that bit at the beginning of Mrs Doubtfire where Robin Williams is doing the voices for the cartoon with a big screen in front of him - just imagine me instead of Robin Williams and an episode of Doctor Who instead of the cartoon. I recorded the lines and then I was released back into the wild.

The bit of the episode that I saw only showed my back, but let me tell you, I did some fucking brilliant back acting in that bit. My manager assures me I have the best back in showbusiness, and thinking about it, people always seem much happier when seeing the back of me.

As the whole ADR process was over and done with in about twenty minutes, I had the rest of the afternoon to kill in London and what better way to spend it than telephoning little Raji James who used to be on Eastenders but ruined it and getting him to come and entertain me?

I wanted to go into Soho and get ripped off at a sex show. I thought it would have been good to pose as touristy people and get charged three hundred quid for a glass of Coke, and then get into bother for not paying and that, but Raji steadfastly refused to play. My logic was that they wouldn't kill us, but Raji countered that they would do "everything but...". I thought Soho was the sort of place where it was acceptable to do "everything but...", Raji however, would not be swayed, so we ended up in a restaraunt on Tottenham Court Road, moaning about our careers and drinking coffee like adults.

At the moment Raji is being in charge of producing my podcast. I would do it myself but I am not very good at computers, and wouldn't know where to start. Raji sent me over some information about it today but, to be honest, there were too many words in it that I simply didn't understand and I stopped reading after about a paragraph, so I have rather cleverly put it all down to him to sort out. I may even let him just do the podcast himself under my name. I'm only mentioning the podcast as I figure that if I say publicly that it is imminent, then I will have to do it. Plus, as I have told you that Raji is reluctantly in charge of it, if it doesn't happen people will assume it is his fault. I can be devilishly manipulative sometimes me...

So, onto the Fopp gig.

It just didn't work for me last night, there were some rather awkward internal politics going on which I attempted to stay out of, and the lights were fucked as usual, and in all I really didn't enjoy it last night. It probably showed. Also, as a note to myself, I have really got to stop taking my shirt off onstage, and perhaps more importantly, I have really got to stop physically fighting members of the audience. As if having my bare chested body flattening him into the ground wasn't enough, the lad on stage last night ended up with broken glasses too. I would like to go on the record here to say that he threw the first punch, so it was all technically me defending myself and so cannot be held accountable for the accident in any way.

I think one of the other problems last night was the fact that a lot of the audience were there because they had got wind of the fact that Stephen Merchant was on, and I certainly felt from the beginning like they didn't want to have their time wasted by the fat lad with no top on, they just wanted the bloke off the telly. I have long since abandoned any attempt to do material whilst compering that gig as I am the resident compere there, and whilst this is usually fine, last night I got the distinct impression that the majority of the audience were staring at me and thinking "What ARE you doing? You're just fucking about! Put the bloke off Extras on!".

This throws up problems for everybody, not least of all Stephen himself, because he was only down at the gig to do a low-key try-out show, and having a room full of expectant people doesn't really lend itself to that. He had a great gig though, although he didn't seem to think so, and it was really cool to see him doing stand up again after a five or so year absence. I have no idea what he has been up to in his sabbattical. He told me he'd had his kitchen done, but that shouldn't have taken that long surely?

So after the first interval, there was a distinct feeling in the room that the show was missing the celebrity factor, but cometh the hour cometh the man and little Raji James etc stepped up to the plate and performed his legendary impression (still available on YouTube). I don't care that everybody else (including Raji) is bored shitless of this impression, until the day I am (which simply won't happen) I shall continue to make him do it to uncomfortable silence in front of paying audiences. It will never...ever...not be funny to me.

Rob Deering headlined the show in all his brilliance, and even humoured my request that he do his impression of the baddie bloke from Men In Black (I like making people do obscure impressions) - which truly needs to be seen to be believed, and everybody went home happy I think. Well, except for me, but I will take one for the team from time to time.

And that was that. The Fopp show changes it's format now, as we are having Edinburgh Previews on there for the next few, and I'll probably try harder at the next one.

And before I forget - some of you may recall from this blog when I was up at the fringe in August in my lost previous life, that I became obsessed with an audience member at the Free Beer Show called Lawrence Diamond. It's back in the August entries, I would link to it but really can't be arsed to scroll back, but if you can be then it is there somewhere. I was mainly enamoured with his name as any right thinking person would be, and made him a Tshirt at one of the final Free Beer Shows. Last night he showed up at Fopp wearing the Tshirt - there it was in big black letters for all to see.

"I'm Lawrence Diamond and I love Ray Peacock".

So no matter how much the audience disliked me last night, I could kid myself that I had at least one fan there.

So...

Friday evening I did the Boat Show at the Tattersall Castle which isn't a castle at all but, as the name of the gig suggests, a boat.

Boats have one of two influences on me, they either knock me sick or send me to sleep. Matter of fact that rule can be applied to most things in my life, like girls and stuff, but let's stick with boats for the time being.

When I was younger my family used to have a boat called the Brenrickian (cleverly amalgamating my real name, Ian, with the names of my parents - and that served as a great name until my brother was born and ruined it with his stupid new name), which would be hauled up to the lake district most weekends for water-skiing and just general driving around Ullswater in. When I sat down in the green room at Fridays gig, that familiar water lulling from my distant youth came back to me and I started to feel drowsy.

There is no worse feeling before going onstage than fatigue, twice as bad when you are the compere (as I was on Friday) and you think ahead to just how long it will be before you can go home and get the sleep that will cure you. Whilst the audience sit a few feet from you, anticipation of the show ahead giddying their senses, all you can think about is "fuck, I've got to go on, then come off, then go back, then come off, then go back, then come off, then go back, then come off, then go back, then come off, then go on and close the show, then come off, then get the tube, then pick up my car, then drive back to Hertfordshire..." - and that doesn't even take into account the time one may need to spend with groupies and stuff...

One of the best ways of being snapped out of the tiredness is to be told before you go on for the first time that the first act hasn't arrived and isn't picking up their phone. This is especially effective when you are playing a new club that you haven't played before and so are already a little nervy about whether or not your brilliant style of comedy will be best suited to the hundreds of London people gathered. To think you may have to fill the first section of the show on your own is enough to spark anybody into life.

As it turns out, the first act did arrive after I had been onstage for about ten minutes so there wasn't anything to worry about and the show went as nicely as it could.

The reason I am telling you about this though is, during my thinking time on the tube back, I made a bit of a discovery about myself when I compere. Well, I say discovery, it was more of an observation really, but it did feel like something was clicking into place. I worked out what I do when I am compering.

My approach to compering, as anyone who has seen me do it will confirm, is apparently very haphazard. I don't fanny about trying to work out a way of doing my material - I certainly don't do the thing that lots of comperes do and just slice up my act into three segments, I fuck about a fair bit, and to (I believe) my credit, I always try to set the room into an applicable mood for the act I am introducing (assuming I know their stuff) and set the microphone stand to the right height for them. These last things, incidentally, are known as stage-craft - and there are more than a few comedians out there who might consider getting to grips with it but anyhow...

Despite the (very deliberate) outward appearance of not really knowing what I am doing, subconsciously I appear to have been working to a theory.

On Friday (before recognising the equation) I went on, talked with the audience, pinpointed a man named Dorian, took the piss out of his name (which he defended, saying it was derivative of ancient greeks), brought on the first act, returned after the first break and pretended that I had been online and found out about the name Dorian (when in actual fact I had spent the first interval writing a fictional essay about the name, whilst my fellow comedians bitched and gossipped), read out my work, brought the second act on, and then after the second break came on and did seven minutes of material.

Somewhere in there I was harangued into taking my tshirt off by a very sexy yet forcefull young hen night too.

So here's what I worked out. Here is what I (up until now, subconsciously) do.

In the first section I find things out. I go on, no material, have a chat, find something out. This is normally volunteered without duress by an audience member.

In the second section, I go back on, and with the information I have gathered earlier, do something that could not possibly have been pre-planned. Even if this isn't the funniest thing in the world, it makes an audience credit you with being able to think on your feet, and flatters them into believing that you are tailoring the show specifically for them.

In the third section, having established the trust bond with them, I do material. The third section of compering shows is always the easiest I ever find 'selling' my material.

The second section however is the most important one - some comperes may tell you that the first section is the most important because it is your first impression on the audience that will count, but that is utter bollocks. That counts for fuck all. The first section is where you do your homework - it is the second that really establishes you.

I have always felt (and I mean always - going right back to the old Big And Daft shows) that what an audience likes more than anything in the world is to feel as though what they are watching is unique, that it only applies to them and on this particular night. That is why people like to see heckling battles, or see people fuck up or forget where they were up to, it makes the money they have paid seem worth it, because that money wouldn't have got them the same show on any other night. It is why Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson would fake corpsing and forgetting lines in the Bottom live shows, it is why I 'enjoy' onstage deaths almost as much as I do the supreme gigs. In a sense it can't fail, because even if the 'comedy' aspect of it doesn't hit, you still provide the audience with the whole schadenfreude thing, and whether they realise it at the time or not, they get the same rush from that as they would from something that is just balls out funny.

I was slightly worried that the fact that I had pinpointed my method so precisely on Friday would mean that I could no longer do it. I had a compering gig on Saturday in London which would prove to be the proof in the pudding, but when I arrived I was told by the staff (eventually) that the show had been cancelled earlier. You'd think somebody would have thought they should perhaps tell the fucking compere, particularly given that his whole weekend had been altered for the gig and he would have been in Leeds had it not been for the fact he was meant to be compering in London, and he also had come out of his house at half time during a very exciting rugby match and missed the second half (when his team went on to lose because, he is convinced, they lost his support from afar) to do a hundred mile round trip for a gig that had already been fucking cancelled, wouldn't you?

Sunday I went up north to watch a special rugby league match which was the St Helens 1996 team versus a Legends team in aid of a player called Steve Prescott who used to play for Saints who has been ill. It was cool - very very good - not taken seriously by anyone involved, lots of cheating and fucking about, and there were shirts from every other rugby league club at Knowsley Road (Saints' ground) yesterday. I'm really not sure you would find that in any other sport. I'm often reminded of why I am very proud of my association with rugby league.

And that's that - I'm off tonight, and then tomorrow I have to go back and do some more work on Doctor Who somewhere in London, and then tomorrow night it is Fopp again at the store on Tottenham Court Road, and if you are in the London area I would seriously advise you to come, because it is an extraordinary secret special bill. Incidentally, my theory of compering does not come into effect at the Fopp nights. I really do just play that one by ear.

And yes, I really did just drop the word schadenfreude into this entry, to make myself look clever...here is a link to it on dictionary.com in case it threw you.

I have done three gigs in the last two days that, remarkably, passed without event.

First up I was in Coventry (or Birmigham as I like to say)doing a set at Carey's - I went on, did a set, they laughed, I came off again.

Then it was up to Leeds (via Manchester to complete the trinity) where I did the Original Oak followed by The Library. Two gigs on the same night, which as we know I don't like to do, but both were lovely - went on, they laughed, came off again.

So there is literally nothing to tell you about them other than that.

In between stage time I made the following discoveries;

1. Driving around with your car roof down is cool. However, it does make your lips go very dry, and it does make other drivers sneer at you, and it does make you get a sun tan without realising it. I don't like getting sun on me, I personally don't think it suits me. I have also discovered that black cars need to be cleaned at least twice a fucking week when you do as much driving as me.

2. The limited edition Jabba the Hutt model/figure thing that has recently been released is far bigger than you would even imagine it to be. It is certainly too big, in it's boxed state, to fit into the back of a convertible car. That is why there is random Star Wars packaging litter currently being blown around Sheffield Meadowhall car park.

3. My factory installed car radio is practically impossible to get replaced with an Ipod compatible radio, regardless of how much money you offer. On a related note, the staff I met at the following branches of Halfords - Stevenage, St Albans, Watford - were as useless and unhelpful as I have personally ever seen anywhere ever.

4. My friend Sarah, who runs Yew Tree Youth Theatre in Wakefield, has special powers. Whilst visiting her on my travels yesterday, a small child emerged on her driveway with a big stick. Having been in umpteen situations with children hanging about in front of my house, I have found that the best course of action is to close the curtains, turn up the tv, and just hope they go away without breaking any windows. Sarah had a very different tack to get rid of him. He said "I have a stick - it's a real one". Sarah said "Where did you get it from?". He said "in that wood". Sarah said "Are you going to show it to your mum?". He said "yes". Sarah said "Are you going to show her now?" . He said "Yes" and left. Without meaning to bang on in a Star Wars vein it was like witnessing a real life Jedi mind trick, and I was naturally impressed beyond all reason.

5. On stage references to Kevin Smith films only work with student audiences, not with normal people.

6. Katherine from The Comedy Company is a brilliant poet. She sent me the following 'poem' yesterday:

There was a young man called Ray,
who likes to lead young girls astray,
he gets into tussle's,
whilst flexing his muscles,
just to prove to us all he's not gay.

She said I couldn't put it on my blog because she is 'not ready to be published', but I think some people need nudging to fulfill their potential and have made the executive decision to go ahead and print. Actually, that said, she did send me another one that was rubbish, so perhaps the one about me was just a fluke and she is right about not being ready. Ah well, too late now.

7. Mat Reid is a brilliant compere and an all round great lad but I strongly suspect he is in comedy mainly for the pussy. Watching him survey the predominantly young, attractive, female audience at the Original Oak was like seeing a lion perusing a herd of antelope. I don't know why he doesn't just marry it. How stupid he must have felt when I went on and they all fell for me instead. His exuberance and youthful looks are no match for the mature, dark charm that I exude.

8. Simply being in Doctor Who is enough to warrant autograph requests from students. It is of no importance that the part you play won't be aired till episode ten and is little more than a very brief cameo, they still want you to sign bus tickets.

And that's me - no rest for the wicked with a full weekend ahead in London for me. I shall report back as and when the mood takes me but till then...x

After reading the article about Jim Jeffries getting punched by an audience member at the Manchester Comedy Store, I think I have come to the conclusion that all of us comedians should get smacked once in a while. It's always good to feel like you are pushing buttons that certain people would rather not have pushed.

I'm not talking about challenging people's perceptions or preconceptions about difficult issues, that would be the easy/arty/wanky way of discussing it, I actually mean literally just for the sake of it. Just for a bit of demonic mischief. There is nothing better than being physically attacked to remind you that you are alive (unless the attack kills you I suppose, then it would be more of a means to and end).

And if it is going to happen, then where better than onstage in front of loads of other people? It's at the very least preferable to getting jumped on in a deserted street in the middle of the night.

I've noticed recently that there is an increase in 'threatening' behaviour, and I realise that this may seem rich coming from a man who squared up to somebody who was physically knocking people out of the way on the tube the other week, but that is exactly what I mean. That bloke was using his size and strength to intimidate people to the point of physical contact, and all just because they were walking up the wrong side of the stairs, but as soon as somebody actually stood up to them, he backed down.

At Fopp last week, Russell Kane was becoming increasingly concerned onstage with a man at the front who was being 'threatening', supposedly as a 'joke' to fluster Russell (which is pretty easy with one as neurotic as Mr Kane). He retained his comedic composure but it was quite clear to anyone that knows the man that his fragile nerves were flipping inside. It's all well and good getting out of these situations with words, and most admirable too, but the problem is that often the protagonist in these cases will only actually understand every fifth word being spoken to them, and anything above three syllables is in danger of winding them up even further, such is the nature of their stock.

I've had a few onstage attacks. In perspective to the amount of gigs I have actually done the percentage is paltry, but they were all exciting in their own way, and I've never been one to shy away from pushing confrontations. Not in a brave way and not quite in an 'encouraging it' way, but I have never caved in when threatened, I've always been one for standing up to the people who talk with their fists.

My Jedi reflexes have got me out of them every time. I don't have many skills, and it is no doubt as a result of many wasted hours on the Playstation, but my reflexes are exceptionally fast, I rarely don't see something coming. Just ask Bethany Black who fell at my feet whilst playing "Buzz" on the PS2 the other week. I was once driving along Blackpool front and said to the passenger in my car that the wheel of the car in front was about to fall off, about three seconds before it actually did, and it is rare should I drop something I am holding that I won't have caught it before it hits the ground.

At a gig in Watford that I used to run many many years ago a man got up very quickly and threw a punch at me - his fist only connecting with the wall behind me as I dropped fast out of it's trajectory before wrapping my arms around his waist and flinging him away. At a gig in Leeds, again many years ago, a disgruntled heckler ran at me after the show as I was leaving the building and swung a punch. Again I ducked it successfully, forgetting that my girlfriend was walking behind me, and her reactions were not as quick as mine. I would of course rather have taken the punch than have her receive it, but the thing about my fast reactions is, they are completely involuntary. I've dodged the bullet before I even realise a shot was fired. This isn't me showing off - the fact of the matter is, it's essentially an accident.

Which leads us nicely onto the best story I have of me being attacked onstage.

And this, I may tell you, is the coolest fucking thing I have ever done, but - I am big enough to tell you - it was a complete accident.

I started my comedy career by running a gig in North Finchley at the Torrington Arms. It was a really cool pub, and has sadly since been converted into a Starbucks. The function room out the back where the gig took place is now an Indian restauraunt, but back when I was running the gig it was the proper place to be for entertainment in Finchley. There was the Big And Daft Comedy Nite on the Saturday (this is in the pre-team days, when B.A.D was just the company name I used) and Los Pacaminos would play the Sunday nights (which was, and perhaps still is, the secret name of Paul Young and his band).

I would book the gig, and compere it. I hold my hands up that I had literally no idea what a compere was at that stage, and thought I could just go on and wing it as I often still do with compering now, but back then I properly didn't have the comedic tools at my disposal to get away with it. What I was good at however, was dealing with hecklers.

The night in question was the first ever gig, and so by default, my first ever gig proper. It was a pretty rowdy gig, mostly good natured as the North Finchley community liked to join in - particularly because most of them knew me by nature of the fact that I was working behind the bar at the Tally Ho pub down the road.

One gentleman at the back of the audience that evening however, was not so good natured. He'd never been in the Tally Ho. He didn't like me. Especially when my putdowns to his heckling got more and more personal. The more I got the better of him, the nastier and more threatening his shouting became.

I have since learned that the time to worry about vicious hecklers is when they go quiet.

At the time I took the period of grace as a relief, and went about my compering duties, chatting far more pleasantly to some folk down the front and setting up the mic stand to bring on the first act.

Events went into slow-motion. This is how I know that my reflexes are not a conscious skill, my brain slowed down time without being asked before I even knew there was a problem.

I noticed a glisten through the stage lights, and glanced up to get dreaded confirmation of what I already feared.

A pint glass. On it's way to my head.

My first fucking gig this was don't forget - glassed at my first fucking gig.

Without being asked, my hand shot up to deflect it and I turned my head away from the missile. Coolest thing I ever did - but an accident. As my hand went up to knock the pint glass out of the way...

I caught it.

It landed perfectly in my palm.

You could have heard a fucking pin drop in that room, which was just as alien a feeling as having a pint pot thrown at you in that particular function room. You'd think I would perhaps be exhilerated, or celebrate my own brilliance, but I was just confused. I didn't really know how I had done it, and I certainly didn't know what I was meant to do next. I looked down at the glass in my (shaking) hand, placed it slowly on the table to the side of me and said "Right ladies and gentleman, it's time for your first act of the evening..." and that was the moment the silence broke. The room erupted like I am yet to see a room erupt again, some big blokes at the back bundled the thrower out of the doors and apparently he didn't fare very well outside (none of this pussy pressing charges nonsense), and I was an accidental hero for the remainder of the evening.

So, I can be cool sometimes. And rather than continue to refer to it as accidental cool, I think I may start labelling it as effortless cool.

And to all of you who have read this entry and taken it as a challenge...bring it on. I'll get a front page on Chortle if it kills me.

Unlike normal human beings, when I have a rubbish day I have the luxury of being able to come on here and have a whinge about it. However, unlike normal human beings, it doesn't take much for me to classify something as a rubbish day. Often, as in cases like today, it is for hardly any reason at all.

The malaise started in the early hours of Friday morning. I went to my local Tescos (because I do exciting things like that, I just literally think "Know what? It's 4am and I'm going to just go to the supermarket - and I don't even need anything"), and returned with a copy of Total Film magazine.

I don't buy specific magazines (with the exception of Rugby League World) on a regular basis, I just tend to pick and choose as the mood takes me, such is the impulsiveness of my existence, and this particular tome was purchased simply because it had some old Star Wars pictures inside it, but as I flicked through it I found myself becoming increasingly uneasy. I was finding that their reviews of movies I had seen where in direct contradiction to what I had thought about the films.

For example, the other week at the cinema I watched TMNT and then The Hills Have Eyes 2 on the same night. Other than the Star Wars marathons which don't really count as they are all the same thing, I'd never watched back to back movies at the cinema before, and the idea of watching two such disparate films in tone and content back-to-back was too good a chance to miss. It meant I had to have two hotdogs, and if you have seen the beginning of The Hills Have Eyes 2 you will know that having a ketchup soaked hotdog is perhaps the last thing you want to be dealing with, but it was worth it because, in my own way, I really enjoyed both flicks.

So imagine my unease when I found out this morning that I was wrong.

Such a stupid thing to get upset about, I am aware, but there we go. It was that feeling you get when you say you like something and then somebody says "oh noooo". And, don't get me wrong, people have every right to say "oh noooo", indeed, I have been the person saying "oh noooo" on plenty of occasions, but it really isn't nice to feel as though what you feel is incorrect and you may be...well...out of touch.

Anyway.

Then I got myself in a bit of a weird one because I remembered something from ages ago that a TV Producer said to me in a casting that hadn't made sense to me at the time, but then this morning it fell into place as I realised what had happened.

We had been discussing my blog in the meeting, and he had said that he found it "pulled no punches". A little further into the discussion and he was saying that I came across as "ruthless" and "harsh".

Now, when you are in these casting situations as a performer, you kind of want to give a good account of yourself and come across as likeable and what-have-you, so at the time I just figured that I should try and prove otherwise if this was the image this dude had gotten of me from this, and went about the rest of our meeting being as charming and amiable as I could be and all was left well, but afterwards I started to get a little concerned that somebody could judge me that way from this.

I mean, I know I have my moments, but I think I'm for the most part relatively open and fair on here, and I couldn't work out why a persons general overview of me from this would be that I was ruthless or harsh or both.

Then this morning it clicked into place.

I typed "Ray Peacock blog" into Google and it all made sense.

See, the year before I started this one, I did a blog online written as the "character" of Ray Peacock. It was an interesting experiment to write in character, I was essentially forcing myself to write new material and fictional situations on a daily basis, and sometimes linking the fictional characters existence into real life situations, I thought it would be a cool thing for anybody that had seen me live - almost like a deleted scene in addition to what they had seen at gigs.

It basically gave 'him' an existence beyond the stage, and was equally helpful for me in making him a more developed character for that years (2005)fringe show Ray Peacock & son . It had started well and I had been committed to it, before falling off dramatically when I actually got up there as is so easy to do when dealing with the distractions that August in Edinburgh throws up (despite the fact that, like this one, that had been the whole fucking point of starting it). The last post had been on August 6th 2005 promising to get back on track the following day which for one reason or another I never did, but there were a shitload of entries before then, and as it was in character, and I didn't care as to how ugly I came across (not like the shallow and vain me now - have you seen that new picture of me on MySpace? How fucking gorgeous have I been photoshopped into being?) I think it would be fair to say that it's overriding image was pretty ruthless and harsh.

I mean, I must stress, it was funny - having read a lot of it this morning I would go as far to say that it was really fucking funny, but to an outside eye...

Yep...ruthless and harsh.

It was funny though I assure you. Well I thought it was. That said, I liked TMNT and The Hills Have Eyes 2...

So I am presuming he had read the wrong blog, and fearing that others may have done the same, I went through it this morning and deleted the lot. I've saved it like, if anybody was desperate to read it again I can send you a copy, but the idea that people would see me onstage now and then go look me up on the net and find that, with no knowledge that it was tongue in cheek or a character or anything...well...best to get rid of it and I did.

But it made me pissed off with myself that I may have cost myself a job with it in some way, and the mood continued from there. I hadn't slept for over 24 hours, and every time I tried to the kid from next door kept coming round and knocking on my front door because his football had come over again, and then my weekends plans were completely decimated by the fact that my gig on Sunday was cancelled today (when did clubs start basing whether a show would go ahead on advance ticket sales? Didn't it used to be that people just turned up to comedy? I don't think I have ever bought advanced tickets for a run of the mill gig), and then Saints were on telly but it was a rubbish game (if it's any less than brilliant I sulk because I stupidly allow myself to really look forward to watching the live games on TV), and so on and so forth.

I just have a general sense of unease about me, and over next to nothing too, but there we go, ain't that just me?

I really should try and fucking sleep.

And I haven't got a gig till next Wednesday now so it's only going to get worse. You might want to not read this blog for a bit, I wouldn't want to drag you down with me.

That would be ruthless and harsh, which of course I am not.

Not all the time anyway.

At my time of life (early twenties - shut up), the question of children starts getting bandied about the place with alarming regularity.

Such a difficult one to answer too, since my (real) early twenties I have been fervently against even the mention of children, let alone the thought of bringing them kicking and shitting into the world. I've had my moments of weakness, don't get me wrong, when the idea hasn't been quite as abhorrent as usual, only yesterday on the tube into London for example, I became momentarily enamoured on seeing a babe in arms and found myself staring.

It was like a rag doll (and I say 'it' not to be rude, but rather because I couldn't decipher which one 'it' was), utterly fast asleep, contentedly oblivious to all around it, and resting it's head on the chest of it's proud mother.

Come to think of it, it's more likely that it was the chest I was staring and smiling at.

I'll never know, as by the time I was wandering around Forbidden Planet half an hour later, accumulating more shit I can't really afford, the memory had been all but forgotten. Let's say that the fact that my first port of call when I reach the capital is always Forbidden Planet and it's undeniable ability to extract cash from me is reason enough for me to continue to hold off reproduction for a long time to come yet.

I'm not particularly good with children. I can vividly remember that I used to be. The primary reason for one of my first girlfriend's falling head over heals for me was that she saw me animatedly telling a bedtime to story to the infants of a mutual friend. I pretended afterwards that I didn't realise she was secretly watching through the crack of the door, but I'd clocked her as soon as she arrived and proceeded to show off, performing the story far more for her benefit than it ever was for the kids, and slyly using it in my romantic pursuit to portray myself as a 'catch'. Once she saw how much I went to Forbidden Planet, that idea fell away sharpish. Amazing can turn into annoying very quickly around me.

The most contact I have had with children since then is my insistence on sticking my tongue out at them in Asda when they are staring at my long hair whilst their parents aren't looking. On a particularly good day I will then go on to see said parents telling the child off for sticking their tongue out in imitation. That's if they're not crying by that point because a hairy 'stranger' has scared them.

The reason I mention all this is because I wish to discuss the ocassional trend of children being at comedy clubs.

Last weekend at Bracknell, Katherine from the Comedy Company (three mentions and counting K), was discussing with the venue about what age limit should be put on shows, arriving at (I think) sixteen. We were trying to decide whether that would be any different with Scott Capurro, or someone of that ilk, being on that evening, as his act can stray (or positively charge) into far more sensitive areas of people's consciousness, without warning and certainly without pulling punches.

I started to think about when I had first been aware of what would pass as post-mainstream comedy. I'd always been a fan of Les Dawson as a youngster, and Cannon & Ball were firm favourites too (still am a major fan), but the first 'cool' comedy I was into was, like many others of my generation, The Young Ones. The first stand up of post-mainstream comedy I saw was Rik Mayall at the now obliterated Davenport theatre in Stockport. To this day, my all time favourite live performance bar none.

Now, The Young Ones was first on televison when I was nine or ten years old, and I saw Rik Mayall live for the first time when I was fourteen. With the demonic qualities I have been known to display as an adult I am perhaps not the best example when arguing a case for minors watching 'adult' comedy, but I've not killed anyone or anything that I can recall, so the damage has been limited to a refusal to surrender immaturity at the very most. I don't think it's that big a deal for younger teens to watch 'our' comedy.

However, like Jim Davidson with the disabled, where it becomes an issue for the comedian is when you are confronted with these youngsters in your audience.

It's happened to me a few times as a stand-up, it happened regularly when I was in Big And Daft, but that was, in all fairness, about as close to a family show as could be with a little bit of swearing (mostly from either myself or the "beer and ladies" obsessed puppet alter-egos that we used to operate). Whenever there have been kids in when I have been doing stand-up, I have always addressed it onstage, usually to the parents of the kids, and usually receiving the phrase "they hear worse at home". If that is the case, then they should perhaps have a visit from social services because I have been known to push everything that little bit further when there's youngsters in the audience, partly out of a rebellious streak, partly out of indignance and partly because the rest of the audience will normally be feeling a touch uneasy at the presence of youths and if they see the performer onstage not giving a fuck then they (usually) relax some.

At Fopp on Tuesday there was a whole new challenge. Kids without their parents. Two lads, around twelve or thirteen, supremely confident to the point that Russell Kane and I were believing they were taking the piss by having photos taken with us before the show, and sat, of course, right at the front.

In my first bit of compering I discovered that their parents believed them to be at the cinema on that particular evening, and also managed to make every conceivable paedophilic innuendo (I assure you hand-on-heart, completely by accident) known to mankind their way, much to the delight of the audience who for some reason found my frustration and embarrassment sufficiently amusing to not actually care that these kids were there.

Zoe Lyons and Simon Amstell did sets that discussed wank mags and the tsunami respectively, and everything took on a whole new meaning thanks to our young friends, and the fact that Simon ended his set by encouraging the audience to commit suicide whilst, I assume, inadvertantly looking right at the lads, had me thinking there was a very real possibility of the Fopp night making it onto the front page of one of the Sunday papers this week (Simon also whinged about the fact that the lighting was shit and acted all spoilt and stuff in that charmingly regal way that only he and Paul Foot can get away with - to think there was once a time that young Simon Amstell was going to play the son of the character of Ray Peacock...he missed an opportunity there...all downhill for him after that...not seen him doing much recently).

In the second section of the show I allowed the two lads onto the stage whilst I took a photo of them with the audience cheering. One of them actually said into the mic "What's the deal with airline food" which brought the house down, and I said that if their parents ever found out they had lied about going to the cinema then they could produce that photo and assert that they were actually stars in the West End and modesty had prevented them from revealing it. All very funny, but if we put it into the perspective of reality, I was taking photos of two young teens 'performing' in public. See? There's a little reality check for you...

By the third act I had decided that we were being secretly filmed for one of Ant and Dec's shows, and that these two lads were in actual fact Little Ant and Dec. They really did look like them, and it would have explained a lot. I said that I had used the word 'fuck' far more than usual in order to decimate useable footage if this was the case. My manager said to me in the break that they had "the confidence of rich kids" which was pretty much bang on the money, and got a round of applause when I relayed it to the audience.

It was that sort of night, where my manager's comments were getting claps (only because I sold it well though...don't be getting any ideas about restructuring commission, just read that fucking script I sent you ages ago and sort me out tickets for the Tiger Lillies at the Soho theatre like I asked you to or I'm going to Off The Kerb...well...all right Mirth Control tops...)

We got through it all though, Russell and I signed a poster for them, one of them hugged me (which was far more awkward than you could possibly have just imagined) and the other left MySpace messages for both myself and Russell (mine saying that they were going to come to the next Fopp night but it may be difficult because it is a school night, and Russell's saying that he was great and that they hoped mother didn't find out...I know, I know...has to be deliberate surely?).

So, that's my news. Haven't done gigs, more sort of babysitting with a hint of child abuse in front of a room full of people who swore not to tell.

And there's a sentence I never thought I'd conclude a blog with.

My onstage unpredictability is in danger of becoming predictable.

Perhaps it already has.

Friday night was another compering evening at the Comedy Cellar in Bracknell. Before the gig I was chatting to Katherine from the Comedy Company (that's yet another mention K - people will say we're in love...) about the fact that I couldn't do material as compere there because I've recently done the gig so often. She correctly pointed out that I haven't actually ever really done material there, so that was that excuse out the window, but I am sure that one day that gig will trip me up. So far it has been nothing short of brilliant every time I have done it, and Friday was no exception. But there was still no material in sight from me.

So, here is the story of the onstage events.

Went up and had a little chat about it being Easter and that, then within less than a minute got distracted by a lad in the front row. My sexuality is beyond question as every girl must surely know just by my masculine aura, and because I am secure within it I have no problem in telling you that he was a good looking fucker, all blonde-haired and tanned and tasteful piercings and tatoos. Something within me got childishly jealous of him being blessed with such outstanding features whilst I have been mocked by god with my looks and physique, and given that I have just completed my first week of weight training with little noticeable difference beside bulging biceps and slightly firmer tits/pecs, I wanted him to join me on stage for a series of comparisons for the ladies present.

This very soon turned into a competition, as I found myself onstage without my top off (yet again) with a better looking bloke topless next to me (yet again) to further highlight my physical ridiculousness. So I decided that over the course of the evening myself and Dan (that was his name) would compete against each other to decide who was, and I quote, 'bestest'. I should really start warning these audience members about how fiercely competitive I can be over the most unimportant things.


First up was a race to see who could do the most press-ups in ten seconds. It was originally going to be thirty seconds until I realised that there was little chance I would survive beyond ten. I know this because it is normally around the ten second mark in sexy situations that I start to work out ways to get myself on the bottom - or at the very least behind, so that I am not supporting my ample weight on just my arms.

So, after some fannying about finding an adjudicator in the audience who could fucking count, the press ups began. I did eighteen. Seriously! Fucking eighteen in ten seconds! Have you seen me? And I wasn't even out of breath so my training this week has done some good.

Dan did 19 like a cunt.

I was heartbroken and got the first act on, ironically John Robbins who had been present during my last partial nudity endurance show in Bristol the other week.

After the break came the next challenge, where I had cleverly decided to do something that I was good at to re-address the balance and give me a fighting chance to win.

So we did eating.

Two bags of crisps each, first to finish won the round.

There was mumblings that I fixed it and made it easier for myself by having 'ready salted' whilst giving him a pack of 'salt & vinegar' and a pack of 'cheese & onion', and some people said they saw me empty one of my bags down the back of the stage, but that was probably just people from Dan's table being all strict and trying to make it look like he won when he didn't. And anyway, he fucking cheated by crushing them all up whilst we were doing the pre-match interviews (he thought I didn't notice that) so that he could just pour them into his mouth, but little did he know that he was up against somebody who was well fucking good at eating.

So it was one all, and I brought on headline act Scott Capurro.

Naturally, given Dan's outward appearance he was targetted by Scott throughout as a potential partner, and by the time I got back on the stage at the end of the evening, I announced to the audience that enough was enough.

Dan had played along gamely all night, but unlike some audience members in that situation who can get giddy and start interjecting all the time, Dan merely spoke when he was spoken to. And he was a funny lad too - when I asked him at the beginning of the night if his parents knew about his tattoo he announced that they were dead. Sensing his fib, I asked him how they died and he said 'car crash'. The he left a little pause and said "...and AIDS", which I thought was fucking brilliant comedy timing. So, point is, he had been perfectly splendid (to use a Bracknell word) and we the acts had been borderline cruel to him. I said that the third and decisive challenge between us was cancelled, and that we should just end the show with a hug of solidarity.

And he fucking fell for it too.

As soon as his arms were around me I threw him to the floor, pinning him to the ground for a count of three and then standing to goad him and revel in my winning the competition. Yeah, some people booed and thought it was unfair, but fuck it - he came on my patch and tried to be better than me, just by being all good looking and sitting at the front and that. He learnt a very valuable lesson in that I am simply not to be trusted. Not ever.

In all seriousness, the throw was far more rough than I ever meant it to be, and his head missed a table at the front by all of an inch. He went to ground like the proverbial sack of shit and I fell on top of him, and when he got up it was gingerly. I thought I'd really hurt the lad, and felt awful as it was only meant to be a joke. I checked a couple of times with him that he was okay, and he said he was, but I really should start taking note of these people who tell me that I don't know my own strength (usually after I have physically hurt them in some sort of playful way). It's only a matter of time before I break somebody.

Anyway, sorry Dan. I'll concede that you are the better looking of us, so I guess you win in that department.

Great gig that Bracknell one though - don't know if I mentioned?

Conversely (and most unusually), Saturday at EDComedy was a far more subdued affair. Before the gig, myself and Ron (who is in charge of pressing buttons) were speculating that all the people present were the ones who hadn't gone away for easter, and so were probably lonely and lacking in social skills and more than likey without friendship. It then ocurred to myself and Ron that we were there too - so it was applicable to us also and we were losers too.

I think I might have liked to have gone away for Easter, I've just sat and been jealous of the fact that other people have whilst I have been working, and then I start thinking about where they have gone and who with and all of that, and really feel like I am missing out. Not after sympathy or anything, just saying that I think I would have liked to have gone away.

So the gig was a little subdued - I was still hawking my playfullness from the previous night as an act and they just wanted to see some fucking jokes I think. All the acts did good, and I got them on stage on time and that, and had little moments of fun with some of the audience, but it was nowhere near my finest hour. Always nice to go down there though, if only to see Ron and Emma who run it - always good company.

And that's it - got a few days off now till Fopp on Tuesday night, so am gonna do a bit of reading, playstation and of course, writing. Going to try and get some sleep too - Bethany Black stayed for a couple of nights again, which meant some long, deep conversations until the sun rose. So, I'm starting my Easter break now so I don't have to sit and sulk about what a great time you are having. And I'm going to be doing brilliant things as well - unique showbiz things, proper adventures, things that you would never get to do...

Right, where's that new jigsaw?

Hope you had a nice break x

First off, you will be relieved to know that I came through my training without throwing up yet again.

On the downside, I have a very slight ball-ache (in the left one)and whilst there's every chance I may have just knocked it or something, it is regular enough for me to have already narrowed it down to either a hernia or cancer. So, getting fit is clearly not all it is cracked up to be.

My muscle increase has however also increased my bravery, no more evident than when I was walking upstairs from the tube at Leicester Square this afternoon. A man was barging down the steps telling everyone in his way to fuck off out of the way (we had been shepherded into the incorrect side by the staff), and hitting out with his elbows. When he reached me I tensed up my entire right side and when he attempted to barge me out of the way he came off significantly worse, stumbling a little and banging against the wall. In my peripheral vision I saw him spin around fast to look at me and slightly pull his arm back as though he was going to take a pop.

I glared at him.

There was a beat.

He turned around and carried on down the stairs.

That should have been enough, but I was feeling so strong and tough that I shouted after him, "Yeah, you might well think twice". He cast a brief glance over his shoulder and ran off. I think it's good that there are sort of vigilantes like me protecting normal people like you on the harsh streets of the capital...

Course, I could have just as easily got my fucking head kicked in, he was much bigger than me, but it shows that sometimes merely acting like you're hard is sufficient in order to avoid unneccesary violence.

And if that display of testosterone has upset any of my millions of lady readers then please take into account that straight after the stand off I saved a puppy from a burning building and then did some work for charity or something.

Anyway, I was in London to go and see Kevin Smith do a Q&A thing.

Kevin Smith, if you are unaware, is a writer and film director. The usual quickest way of explaining who he is to folk who can't place him, is he is the bloke that plays "Silent Bob" in "Jay and Silent Bob". If you don't know who they are, then you need to stop reading this and go down to Blockbuster video and rent out any (or preferably all) of the following movies; Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, Dogma, Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back, Jersey Girl & Clerks 2. Kevin Smith wrote and directed all of them, and bar Jersey Girl he features in them all too.

They are exceptional films, every last one of them, and the dude has become something of a hero to me over the years. I have never counted myself as a fanboy (by which I mean a geek) despite my well-known reverential approach to Star Wars, I have never been to conventions and stuff like that, I couldn't sit around and have a discussion about who would win in a fight between Darth Vader and Optimus Prime without saying "It's not real" very early into it, but this is generally the sort of person that becomes enamoured with Mr Smith's movies.

In fact, I witnessed it first hand only this afternoon in the queue whilst listening to the boys stood behind me discussing Red Dwarf and the boys stood in front of me posing that exact hypothetical Vader vs Prime battle with increasing breathlessness. At one point, Kevin Smith's wife Jennifer emerged to give out badges to the people at the front of the queue, and I thought we may lose some of the poor young chaps. If I was in a kind mood I would suggest they were just dumbstruck by the fact that Jennifer was out talking to them, but I fear it had rather more to do with the fact that a woman was that close. A real one too.

Now, I can play the superiority card all I like, but the fact remains that I was one of the people in that queue to go and attend the Q&A, so I must be tarred by association, and anyway, they couldn't all be that flawed as they are clearly as taken with Smith's work as I am, so they must have some credibility about them, but...well...I'm pretty sure I'm not like that.

Please don't let that put you off the movies mind, I assure you that you will like them. You may even decide that Clerks 2 is the most beautiful movie you have ever experienced - it really is that good.

So, onto the Q&A itself. My attendance had come about because I happened upon a MySpace bulletin from Kevin Smith saying he was doing a couple of them in London.

Oh, and whilst I remember, somebody told me recently that my MySpace page has been set to private for a while so I have changed that and you can stop by whenever you wish at www.myspace.com/raypeacock.

The Kevin Smith Q&A's have been on dvd for a while under the title "An Evening with Kevin Smith" - (add them to your shopping trolley in Blockbusters - they're fantastic) so the opportunity to check them out in real life was not going to pass me by. To have seen Tenacious D, Neil Hamburger and Kevin Smith live in the last couple of months is quite an achievement, and one that I thought living this side of the water would simply not happen, but there I was this evening at the theatre, sitting not ten foot away from the dude.

For me as a stand up comedian, it was both inspirational and depressing. Predominantly the former. The man was on stage for three and a half hours - no interval, and working purely off the questions fielded by the audience. So, if we place it into comedic context, that's three and a half fringe shows. And it is as tightly structured and perfectly worded as you would expect from a show that a comic had worked a year on. Yet, this is off the top of his fucking head - he's literally just answering questions, but rarely in less than twenty minute stories. Funny stories too. But I mean, reeeally funny. It's genuinely staggering.

And you start thinking, well is it because I like the guy? Am I just cutting him some slack? Is he just getting away with this because we are fans of him and his work?

Gotta say, hand on heart, it really isn't that.

It's because the man is a natural writer, the performance (whilst pretty much immaculate) is secondary, you are just watching the guy do what comes naturally to him - tell stories. And because he is a writer, the stories build, they go somewhere, they draw you in and call back to other tales from the evening, it's something that many comedians strive to attain and he does it off the cuff. You start to realise as you watch that you really should be working harder as a comic to translate your ideas to the audience, that there are tricks you haven't come close to mastering, that there is a fundamental importance in structure, even if you bury it so deep as to not be noticed, and most importantly, honesty fucking sells it. When Kevin Smith talks, you truly believe that there is no bullshit. He holds little to nothing back.

When I first began writing this blog during the Edinburgh Fringe back in August, as I have said before, being open and honest with what I was writing about was an absolute pre-requisite for me. It meant that I had to be honest about the low points with my fringe show, about my personal state of mind, about my career, most recently even about sex toys. Of course there is stuff that I have withheld about myself on here, as I need to retain some degree of privacy, but broadly speaking I've done my best to be an open book. You may think this could be difficult, but it's made writing it all the more rewarding and, to be honest, easier.

During the Q&A this evening there was a discussion about how, again generally speaking, the most successful folk within the entertainment industry have a degree of mystery about them - they reveal little about themselves and shy away from talking about themselves at any deeper level than is neccesary in promoting whatever they are promoting at the time. But this success is measured with monetary value, not in terms of how they have touched people artistically on a far more profound level. I shudder to think that there may ever have been a time that I was striving to measure my success in pound notes. I have arrived at a place in my life, both privately and professionally, where that really doesn't sit well with me at all. It's very telling that when people talk of the success of people like Jordan or whoever, they can only quantify it with the statement "She's worth a fortune - got millions".

There's got to be so much more to this than that.

And this could not be clearer than in what I witnessed during the Kevin Smith Q&A this evening. Here is a bloke who is never going to make a blockbuster movie, because (I assume) he knows that genuine artistic success can never be measured in box office receipts, it is far more profound to be able to stand up in front of a full theatre of people who share a genuine respect and gratitude for what you have created, and for three and a half hours (I'll say it again - three and a half fucking hours) have them hanging on your every word.

Well...

I say "hanging on your every word"...that is, apart from the bit where they are making a 15 second film on a camera phone so they can brag on their blogs that they were in a movie with Kevin Smith.

Not that I would do that.

Not even if you CLICK HERE.

I only had the one line ("hello") - but it's a start. "Silent Bob and Silent Bob" - I'd go watch that...

Hey you.

My Manchester excursion started on Friday morning when I had my first proper training session on the gym. This business of me starting at 'intermediate' level was confirmed as tremendously misguided as the session concluded with me being violently sick. I've not been sick for fucking ages - in fact the last time was at the beginning of the fringe when I followed a load of buffet food with an entire bag of Haribo and paid the price. The lessons I learnt on Friday were a. That I am far from fucking 'intermediate' and b. It is unwise to eat a bag of crisps before embarking upon exercise.

I consoled myself with the fact that, no matter what, it would never be as bad as Friday's session again, and I was right as there was an all round marked improvement during Sunday's one. Wasn't even sick.

Anyhow, onto the Frog and Bucket comedy club.

I made a decision a couple of years ago to no longer play that club, as I really didn't enjoy it the last time I was there. Can't even remember what it was that upset me now, but I get like that from time to time, and make no apologies to anybody that feels this to be pompous in any way. I like to enjoy my job, and don't tend to repeat places that have previously intefered with that. Not always my choice of course, but I pretend to myself it always is. Anyhow, I was sulking with the Frog and Bucket but several assurances later from Lee over the years - who does the bookings and stuff there - that it was much improved, and I decided to give it another go.

I think I would have to concede that it is better than it was, but it was still a weekend of battles.

Friday night's show involved me having a surreal debate with a drunken gentleman in the audience about Jasper Carrott. He'd been piping up for most of the evening, in that charming way that drunk people do (ie. with no consideration for anyone or anything other than their own completely out of control innebriated ego), and I rose to the challenge with gusto, slapping him about (with just my words of course) and trying to decipher just what exactly he was actually on about.

Ten minutes later and here was the difficult bit: Security stepped in and chucked him out.

In fairness, it had been going on all night, but the thing was, I was just getting into my stride with him and the audience were enjoying watching the battle. I'd pretty much decided to abandon material and make his destruction the sole theme of my set, and then suddenly he was taken from me. It threw everything off, and whilst I fully understand the actions of the doormen (who were, I might add, impeccable all weekend), I was quite prepared to deal with him myself, and it upset the balance a little.

My set was all won back by the end, and finished as it should with clapping and cheering and the like, but it was a little niggle for me as I drove back to my mum's house. The other niggle was the behaviour of my SatNav machine.

I have mentioned on here before that it occasionally takes me on little diversions, but this weekend I have finally sussed exactly what it does. If I am nearby to, or passing, somewhere I have recently (ever) been to before on the way to my destination, it takes me on a little nostalgia tour. I'm sure it thinks it is being friendly, but I could have done without a trip to a hotel I stayed at just before Christmas (it tried to take me into the fucking car park but I rumbled it at the roundabout just before) and places I ate at around the same time. I just wanted to get back...

On Saturday night, on my way back down South, it surpassed itself by taking me to fucking Huddersfield rather than the M6 which I had been expecting it to, but we are getting ahead of ourselves...let's go to my second night in Manchester shall we?

Saturday night at the Frog and Bucket, and Dan Nightingale came bounding into the green room announcing that he was confident that the show was going to be much better than the Friday one. All of us had felt a general sneering amongst the audience on the Friday, thanks in no small part to a lady who sat at the very front of the stage with her back to it, looking very unimpressed with proceedings. When I was watching Dan on the Friday, it was very difficult not to be looking at the lady's sulky face - and if she was pulling my focus then god knows what she was doing with the rest of the audience. On Saturday, Dan said he could feel it in the air that this was a better audience.

And to be fair to them, and young Master Nightingale, they were. But fuck they got over-excited about my lightsaber.

I often get a couple of shouts of "turn it on" when I first arrive onstage, and I never, ever do, but most audiences are happy to let it go.

Not this one.

We went from "turn it on" to "what colour is it?" to shouts of "red?", "green?", to me saying there were no batteries in it (which wasn't true), to them shouting "Wookie" at me, to me doing five minutes in just Wookie growls and grunts (which was surprisingly effective in seducing some members of a hen night and lasted much longer than I ever thought possible), to me sitting on the floor in defeat, to someone shouting "Plug it in" (about the lightsabre) to me discussing the inherrent flaws of a "Plug in" lightsabre ("When I left you I was but a learner, now I am the master...now...I need a two prong plug...and then you are fucking dead Obi Wan..."), to me giving up and lighting the fucking thing to a cheer that should only have really come from a Variety Club excursion when seeing a toy lit up...

And that was it.

So, the Frog and Bucket probably was better than it used to be, just not really the place for me to tell my long stories. They don't like to do too much listening.

It was an enjoyable weekend from a social comedy level though. I shot the shit with Dan Nightingale and teased (bullied) him with the other acts about his overrunning, had some great chats with Martin Bigpig about keeping fish and comedy in general (he persuaded me that my recent desire to own tropical fish was worth following up...you couldn't wish to meet a nicer man than Martin, completely lacking in any apparent bitterness that so often accompanies us comedians) and had a bitching session with Seymour Mace about a mutual acquaintance (see previous brackets about bitterness).

The other thing I noticed this weekend at the Frog and Bucket is quite how much your clothes smell when you leave.

You expect cigarette smoke and all that, but because as an act you end up waiting by the kitchen before you go on you get that smell permeating your clothing too. It reminded me of a time I went on a ferry with an ex-girlfriend and we fell asleep on deck next to a massive extractor fan. I really love to fall asleep next to warm blowing air, when I was younger I would take a blanket down the side of my parents house and sit and snooze by the outlet for the tumble drier, but what me and my ex hadn't taken into account when we cuddled up by the ship's exractor fan was the fact that it was extracting from the kitchen and we would spend the rest of the weekend smelling of chips.

And that's exactly how you smell after doing a weekend at the Frog and Bucket so other comedians be warned. I'll still go back though, if they'll have me.

And that's me. Today I went for a casting in London (really enjoyable one too, was a proper laugh, and I avoided the sex shops - I did in Manchester as well - the Frog is on the same road as a sex shop, but I went in it the last time I was in Manchester and it is reeeeally rubbish so walking past it wasn't that massive an achievement to be honest) and now I am going to go downstairs and make some sushi (yep - make it myself - how brilliant am I? I've got a rolling mat and everything. I don't have a headband though - I'm a chef not a twat. This recent hobby perhaps stands in perverse opposition to my previously mentioned desire to own tropical fish, but whatever).

I'm looking for stuff to do tonight, I think sleeping may be a difficulty. I am dreading the fact that I have a training sesh in the morning (gonna stick with intermediate for now, so if I die, remember that it was essentially my choice and swallow your guilt), yet also looking forward to the fact that I am going to "An evening with Kevin Smith" tomorrow night in London.

Yeah, you're right to be jealous. I'll tell you all about it next time.

love x