My morning started with a minor setback. I’d incurred a 25p library fine from Westminster libraries. I’ve accrued a few of these in the last couple of years after a 12-year stretch from 2008 when I didn’t have a single fine. I put this down to two things: 1) These days I’m signed up to four different boroughs and currently have over 30 library books to manage and return on time, and 2) my deteriorating eyesight. What I thought was a book that needed to be renewed today did in fact need to be renewed yesterday.
Admin-wise, I have all the renewals logged in a physical diary and on a wall calendar, except that the wall almanac (an underused word) has no means to hang it up by. I don’t seem to have too much luck with diaries and calendars. My sibling bought me a 2023 diary which I’ve already started using for next year’s gig bookings. But I discovered that by early February, the diary regularly features missing weeks, meaning I’m having to draw the actual week views in. It’s bizarre and time consuming. Having decided this is not the way to go into next year, I’ve bought a replacement. In fact, I’ve bought two diaries, just as I did for 2022. One has all the life admin, library book renewals, appointments, etc, while the other is specifically for gigs.
It’s a rare Saturday morning trip to the Back-Up café for me. I’m 48-hours on from a haircut. I was in and out of the Stockwell barbers within 12 minutes, which when you’ve gone in with a BOUFFANT, is always suspicious. It’s a bit like ordering a sandwich in a café. You don’t want it to arrive too quickly. When it does, you think to yourself, ‘Well, I could’ve made this if it was that easy’. I’m not a big sandwich guy. I like bread, but preferably in its toast format, you know. So, when I do order a sandwich, I want to be kept waiting a while before it's delivered. Every bite I take, I want to be thinking, ‘Yeah, I couldn’t have made this’.
I’ve just switched tables after taking this shot – the latte delivered by one of the waitresses here – owing to having made the same mistake of sitting at the same rocky table I was at last time I was here. That’s not conducive to focused writing. Last time I countered the wobbling by putting excess weight on my left elbow.
I’m still not feeling fully recovered after being waylaid by whatever has done me in a fortnight ago. I did the usual LFTs, convinced at one point I’d fallen foul of it, owing to the migraine that just wouldn’t shift. All the tests were clear but it’s proving to be a slow road back.
Double-Denim, as suspected, doesn’t remember my name so the breakthrough of two weeks ago, in which we exchanged names and discovered we were born just 4 months apart, has amounted to nothing. I don’t see how we have another conversation again where we do the name swap. I’m reluctant to address him by his name again given he’s forgotten mine.
Now off my pills for the first time in nearly five years, I have to admit, while I’m doing well, and am aiming to see it through, I’m certainly feeling it. I’m anxiety-free so that’s a big plus. I think the last few years, perhaps via the pills initially, I’ve changed a great deal in that respect which is a hard thing to do when you’re older.
One of the reasons I returned to stand-up was because I actually thought the pills would help initially. They’d made me nerveless in every area of my life and I wondered if I could presume they would also mean I was now invincible enough to the extent I could also walk on stage in front of what at times has been up to audiences of 400 people and do it, or would the stage fright break through, but from early on, I’d conquered those nerves.
The idea to come off the pills was two-fold. Having done over 100 shows this year, there were starting to be many nights where I’d get up the following morning to find that my new routine of being out and coming back late from a gig had meant I’d forgotten to take the small dose of pills I was still on. I started to look at what impact, if any, that was having on me. Concluding it wasn’t and with my GP on a lengthy post-pandemic sabbatical (the poor man looked shattered the last time I saw him), I decided to take matters into my own hands. It was now or never. If I’d discussed the matter with my GP, they would’ve told me, as they have done regularly, to stay on them.
I’d worked hard to rebuild, I’d made progress on the comedy circuit, I’d finished podcasting which I genuinely hated doing almost from the start, and I had made some new friends. Now was the time to put everything to the test. There’d be no GP to put doubt in my mind. So far, it’s paid off, but yes, I’m having to work a little harder to combat the melancholy when it comes and it does come in gentle waves. Last weekend was a tough one but being unwell probably played a part in that. The running will probably become even more important now, as much as that replaced podcasting in being my least favourite thing to do. It’s about getting in front of that gloom when it comes and focusing on the progress. The running does that better than anything.
One old friend did say to me earlier this week to make sure I don’t make things harder for myself than they need to be, but I do remember them also recommending I get some electric shock treatment back in 2011 when it was starting to be, briefly, a thing, to treat people like me.
On Thursday night, I had my first gig in a week owing to my illness. I left the flat having broken my pint glass from which I’ve been guzzling water for the last eight and a half years. I had to put my glasses on to ensure I swept up every bit of glass. I really don’t trust my eyes anymore. Even on Thursday, my second consecutive run of the week, with the light fading, I again ran into the low hanging branches of the same tree that put me in A&E in the summer of 2021, though thankfully as I was winding down the run, it wasn’t at full pelt like last year. This tree, which is a major staging post at both the start and end of my run, is a constant problem.
With these bus strikes affecting my part of south London, I had to tweak my journey to Thursday’s northeast London gig, jumping on the tube at Stockwell and then getting back on a bus at Finsbury Park. I called my aunt just before the show. She’s had a difficult week, but the potty mouth is as effective as ever, and by the time I went into the venue, I was reeling from her making a reference to anal sex.
She claimed on Friday morning as we reviewed the moment that I had set her up for the rear-end reference. I dispute that. It was her official birthday this week (84, we think, well, we’re not so sure anymore) and next week, the country she grew up in, Spain, faces off against the country she was born in, Morocco, in the last 16 of the World Cup, though it’s worth remembering she regards herself as English despite not having even accumulated 57 words of English in her 57 years in London.
The gig itself saw me on late in the line-up. Two of the female acts blew everyone away with scintillating sets. The first, an American, who I’ve only gigged with once before, had a brilliantly written set. I’m not a laugh out loud guy but it was very funny. I was just admiring how well written it was. She is a writer though. It makes sense. Honestly, being a writer on the circuit is like having a super-power. I have never found writing to be as advantageous as I’m finding it on the circuit.
The second brilliant act of the night was another performer I’ve seen before. Her act is very blue, and she’s just exceptionally funny, one of the funniest performers on the circuit. She did get a laugh out of me. Several in fact. It was more the performing, the uniqueness of the filth, than the writing that I admired. The set was delivered as if it were off the cuff, and indeed, some of it certainly was, with some brilliant crowd work. By the time I got on, well over an hour after these two performers had gone, the adrenalin of earlier, a few nerves, always necessary when doing a good night, had vanished and I could easily have been at home. By that I mean I felt too serene. You need to feel an edge. You’re about to step outside of yourself and into character and I felt that was missing.
The act before me was unusually tall and they can leave the mic stand way too high. The MC adjusted the stand before bringing me on, but hadn’t untangled all the cabling, which at this level, is rarely something that happens. You expect that at an open mic gig where we’re all learning. Now I know how to untangle a mic cable, but the problem here was the stand had become loose and as I tried to untangle the cable, the mic stand was rotating of its own accord, like some carousel. I didn’t panic, I referenced the moment, but it completely stalled the opening moments of my set. I recovered, kind of, and went on to put a decent well-received performance but I wasn’t happy. I could’ve done better. I appreciated the MC afterwards apologising to me for leaving the mic stand in such a way. Like I say, at this level, it doesn’t really happen.
The mic stand certainly didn’t help, but I think not gigging for a week was a factor too. I’m used to being busy on the circuit to stay sharp. But also, being on so late in the line-up, I think I’m so comfortable now at gigs and that might not always be a good thing. Had I gone on earlier, I’d have still had some of that nervous energy and I would’ve done better.
This afternoon, once I get home, the plan is to run through tonight’s set. I’m gigging in Croydon. I’ve done the night before, which was very enjoyable, though its improvised finale, involving all the acts, isn’t really something I’m suited to. I expect to be crap at the improv again tonight, but hopefully off the back of a good set.
I’ll be doing a light rehearsal this afternoon, trying not to think of the budget crackers shortage in London supermarkets right now, before going out for a run around the park during which I’ll be going over the set again. REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT.
While unwell, I finally found something to watch that didn’t involve boxing, the paranormal or the Whitechapel murders and finally gave Downton Abbey a go. It’s been on my mind for over a decade. My cousin’s wife was a big fan of the show in its early years, but with my aversion to ITV, I thought there’s no way those guys can produce a show these days that is as good as the hype surrounding DA. I can’t first name the show like everyone does. It’s just not in me.
My great friend The Space Daddy had once told me that the first series was actually very good. He, like me, laments the fact that great shows often start their decline as early as their second year. Over the last thirty years, great shows that showed these signs early on included formidable classics such as LA Law and NYPD Blue, both Steven Bochco shows.
The success of the first series means a bigger budget for the show, new crew and actors come in, and along the way, some of the magic of the first year is lost. My cousin’s wife assures me that DA sustains its quality for the first three years, which is good to know. I’m almost halfway through the second series and I’m pleased I’ve finally managed to find some TV that can hold my attention. I thought the first series was impressive, at times moving, every bit as good as the epic theme tune, with some classy performances from a fine cast. The second series too is holding my attention and I know I’ll be disappointed when I finish the show.
Better late than never, eh.
I’ll wrap this post up by confirming I’ve just ordered a second latte via a thumbs up exchange with one of the waitresses. I’d rather the thumbs up gesture doesn’t establish itself here as the only way to get that second coffee, but the back-up café is so deep, it’s not easy getting their attention here.
Gripes
This first latte wasn’t hot enough.
Today’s question
Why do people still use Google when there are so many less intrusive, even private, browsers out there?
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