I spent Sunday largely resting after a long Saturday. I was appearing on another pro night, this time in Folkestone. Inevitably I got lost, briefly, once I arrived in the seaside town, and then I got lost trying to find my way out of the venue. My navigation skills continue to be shocking. I’d even forgotten how to find my way back to the dressing room at one point.
The MC at Saturday’s gig was very funny, and it was a very strong bill. I was wearing my customary multiple layers and really should’ve shed a couple when I heard the opening act talking about how hot it was on stage with all the lights. Once I was up there, right away, once I’d got the audience onside with my low energy act, I had to deal with that heat. It wasn’t easy. Every show throws up that challenge when you’re on the mic where you grasp the enormity of what you’re doing and the potential for humiliation if you fail to maintain your nerve.
I do find it disorientating being on brightly lit stages where you can’t see the audience. It makes trying to nail down my position on stage a little tricky, knowing where to look, but I’m getting better at it. I think it’s like being a TV weather forecaster. You have the green screen behind you and you just point roughly to where you know a particular region is. I don’t even know if that analogy works.
Sunday of course featured the very surreal 7-0 battering of Man United. That team has been the bane of my life as a Liverpool supporter. They seared their way into my head as a boy when they denied Liverpool the treble with their surprise 2-1 win in the FA Cup Final in Jubilee year (the one year I’d love to have experienced as an adult) and two years later in the ’79 FA Cup semi-finals, a tie that continues to fascinate me, historical kit obsessive that I am, as both sides wore change strips. Then of course, there was the ’85 FA Cup semi-final, which like ’79, went to a replay.
United won all three of those FA Cup ties (the FA Cup in those days was huge, bigger than the league and the old European Cup) and by ’85, the relationship between the two sets of supporters, once cordial, had become toxic. The first ’85 semi-final, at Goodison Park (I think) is notorious for the frightening level of violence between the fans. Jim Beglin, the old Liverpool left-back who played in that tie as a young player establishing himself in the side, recently told the story of picking up the ball for a throw-in, only to find himself spat at by a multitude of United fans. Shocked, Beglin, only wearing a short-sleeved shirt, says he just wasn’t able to clean all the phlegm from his shirt and had to play the rest of the match in that filthy state.
Yesterday I thought United were the better team in the closing stages of the first half, and even though Liverpool added six in the second half, I don’t think it was a great performance. That sounds picky. It was a good performance, but not a great one. It was just a freak game and a Liverpool side playing almost from memory, one last hurrah for what remains of Klopp’s great team. Still, 7-0 against United…I was so happy with that that I ended up doing something I rarely do these days: I was unable to sleep last night so through the night I caught up on some Irish football shows (the Irish despite not having a top league cover English football better than we do) just to see what they were saying about this stunning result.
I have four gigs this week, hoping to finally debut my new set later this week if I can get enough rehearsal time in.
I had an 8.5k run this morning, the first couple of kilometres of which were f***ing freezing. When is this spring coming? This is just a ridiculously cold winter, unrelenting.
Meantime, my aunt has charged me with trying to sell these huge elasticated denim jeans online. If you have a hernia, these might be the right jeans for you.
As for THE café, Seb K is still in Portugal. On Friday, his understudy, the café’s first English barman in its near 30-year history, was serving up lukewarm coffees. I had to ask for a side jug of warm milk which always seems like a breach of etiquette. I did wonder whether the owner had instructed the barman to serve me a warm rather than hot latte to cut down on my latte-nursing teams, which usually average anything between 45 minutes and an hour. Lukewarm coffee for continentals doesn’t work. I like my lattes like I like my flats, hot. And I got my latte like I usually get my flats, lukewarm.
The Headman of SW8 and his partner/husband are having another row. The always non-plussed partner, as they get ready to leave, asked the Head Man, “Do you want any money for this?” which is something of a catchphrase for him.
“I thought you were paying for them,” replies the unimpressed larger-headed partner of the relationship, and from there, it all kicks off again.
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