Thursday, 11 August 2011

Day Seven: Ha ha this-a-way, my oh my.

So dedicated am I to this blog that I waited until 2am to post as the blogspot website was down. I've been watching clips of Michael Barrymore's My Kind Of People. I found a video of Susan Boyle in her younger days wearing a fetching salmon pink jacket. Barrymore kissed her at the end. Never been kissed, my arse. Never been kissed by a man who's never invited straight men to their house, drugged them and then found them floating in their pool like a peppermint tea bag. More like.

Finished my day-job work this afternoon blah blah. I am now off-duty. Amen.

I left the house to see Nick Doody this afternoon on the Free Fringe. For free, it was bloody good. He was talking about the extra bank holiday and a woman in the audience said that her boss wouldn't give her the day off. She was an archeologist. "Couldn't it wait?" he replied. Very quick. The room was pretty much full and that was without being listed in the Fringe guide and without flyering. People were there by word of mouth or through Twitter. They were a lovely audience as well. I was jealous of the warmth he received.

The rain started again, so it's back on with the rape-proof. I met up with Toby and Sandra for a Chinese. It was an all you can eat buffet. I didn't indulge too much but treated myself to afters. I was a little thrown by the fruit salad being next to the actual salad. I guess it was a salad section but I was put off by lettuce being in the same section as pineapple. I also saw a man with three chicken wings on a plate in one hand and some chocolate ice cream in the other. That's either specific dietary requirements or it's bulimia.

I managed to laugh hard again today when Toby was recalling the story of his mum farting really loudly as she got into the cab last night. Sandra is liable to wetting herself when she laughs. We nearly lost her on Cockburn Street. Good time had by all.

There was no point flyering for Gagstro (yesssssss!) as the streets were empty due to the heavy rain. The bar itself was busy as Scotland were playing Denmark. I announced the stand-up as "Award winning comedy starting in fifteen minutes". I have been in a couple of shitty finals and Mark Stephenson, our guest today has been the runner-up in two big comps in the last 12 months. 

I'm happy to say that tonight was better than last night but the background noise coming from the bar was fucking ridiculous. So distracting. Unless you are in the front two rows, you can't hear fuck all. I'm not particularly loud on the mic so it's frustrating when I look out and see people at the back talking probably because they can't hear. Another problem with the venue is the lighting. I shouldn't be able to see my audience but I can. Fucking stupid.

My material went down ok, I got a bit of support when I started slagging off Harry Potter with a kid in the front row. But disaster struck. When no one laughed at a punch-line that ends "Paul Daniel's Wizbit", I asked if there was anyone in the room that remembered it. Silence. I got a few laughs by saying, "Did I imagine a big yellow dancing cone with stripy legs?" No one knew! I've thought since, that I may see if I can get a chat with Paul Daniels as he's doing a show here and ask him about it, I may be able to get a bit more material out of it. 

The Skype joke needs work but I think it's a goody. Haven't tried my Einstein/Palestine (hmmm... having written Einstein and Palestine down for the first time, is there a pun there with the endings of those two names?) since the other day when it got nothing.

Tagline: Unrecognisable whilst smiling. The glasses are doing well to cover up the eyes. I nearly made my face bleed last night by rubbing the mascara from my eyes until I realised it wan't mascara, it was the dark circles underneath. Also sporting a Hitler fringe-thing.

After Gagstro, I went down to another gig to do a spot. The room was dead and it looked like I'd been drafted in as the token vagina-owner. I thought that I might try an entirely clean five minutes but they didn't seem too bothered. Instead, I bantered with two girls who had the giggles. One was wearing a halter-neck top thing. She didn't have a coat with her. Mad girl. She needs a rape-proof. Weirdly though, even though I did a few shitty jokes. Three separate people came up to me and said that they liked my stuff. I gave them a flyer and wished them well.

I'm yet to get a decent laugh yet. I've been playing to really quiet rooms. Listeners, not laughers. It's getting a bit soul destroying now. This must be what it's like to be *insert name of comic who I shouldn't list in case they google themselves and find me slagging them off*. I'm not quite at the stage where I'm questioning the last two years of my life like: "Shit. Was I ever funny? Am I one of those crazy ones who thinks they get laughs?" 

I thought of a riot gag that needs shortening:
I watched the looting of a Currys. Bloody sales reps were running down the road forcing the looters to sign up for the extended warranties.

Meh. It's alright. Relies on people actually still buying stuff from Currys. Dixons has closed now I think.

On my way home, I bought a crepe from a caravan. I wonder where you can buy those plates they use. Maybe I could just use my entire hob. It's not used for anything else after all.

When I got in, I flicked the kettle on and then my flat mate ran past me holding her mouth and then threw up right in front of me. She was devastated. I asked her if she was ill and she managed to say through her sicky hair that she may have had too much wine. "Oh well. As long as you're not contagious, I don't mind." There's a stomach bug going round and I don't want it. She asked me how to clean sick off a carpet. Ah, innocent youth. Having thrown up in most places including my own handbag and onto a railway track, I said that a cloth with some kitchen spray would do it. She kept apologising but I imagine she was more embarrassed than anything. She kept saying, "I don't want to be that kind of flat mate." I told her that vomiting is an impulse; pulling down your knickers, crouching and then pissing on the doorstep is not.

Tomorrow, I'm going to start arranging lunch and coffee with my comedy compadres. Work is out of the way. I am free at last. Free to speak to Paul Daniel's about his Wizbit.

Tagline: So popular was the Pink Floyd guitarist's anus, they named a road after it.

 Tagline: So popular was the anus of Wide Awake Club's Tommy, they named a road after it. This road leads to Strachan's Growler.

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