After being waylaid by Saturday’s morning’s Covid booster and enduring an epic 3.5 hour journey home from last night’s gig after trespassers and a tree on the train line combined to mess up my already multiple-changes required route home, I switched my day around. I knew I’d be knackered this morning, and so it proved. I woke up later than normal and managed to step on the battered alarm clock, already running half an hour behind this morning – that’s the alarm clock, not me - and tried to ease myself into the day.
It was a ridiculous trek home. I was on track – excuse the pun – to get back inside an hour and a half after the gig’s early finish. Arriving at Clapham Junction around 2120hrs, seeing there was an issue with my connecting train to Streatham Common (the second of three changes), I checked with one of the platform attendants. They told me about the aforementioned issues but assured me there would be a Streatham Common-bound train and directed me to the correct platform. That train eventually came. I boarded and settled down into my seat. I was still on course to make it home at a decent hour for the post-gig bowl of porridge I’ve come to look forward to and for the second week in a row, I’d listen to Howard Hughes’ Unexplained live on the radio. It’s unusual for me to stream anything on my phone outside of the flat, but I haven’t missed an edition of the radio incarnation of the long-running show since it debuted 6.5 years ago. Listening again isn’t the same. And then the night went seriously wrong.
After Balham, I was expecting to see Streatham Common. Only it was Mitcham Eastfields. I’ve never even been there before. At least not knowingly. I started to suspect I was going the wrong way and disembarked, only to feel I’d ended up travelling back in time to 1953. There was a level crossing I didn’t even know how to negotiate. I had to ask a family walking off the platform how I could get to that other platform. A level crossing is always a sign you’re in the suburbs or sticks. I had three years of it in the mid-00s during an ill-thought out move to a village near Windsor. I hated those three years.
The rain was coming down and both trains that would take me back to Clapham Junction had been cancelled. I was facing a 90-minute wait. Madness. I thought I’d have to bus it back. I tried topping up my Oyster only I didn’t have my bank passwords with me. Who travels with those? There were no shops nearby. The bus I needed, according to Citymapper, was a 25-minute walk away. I had planned to just get to the nearest area I knew of and then start again, but as someone capable of getting lost anywhere, I wasn’t going to risk a 25-minute walk in the middle of nowhere circa-1953. The rain continued to come down. I figured my best chance was to travel further out to Sutton, which though I don’t know, at least I knew was big enough to likely offer a better chance of finding some rail artery that would offer me a way back into my neck of the woods. So, I waited for that train. Only, inevitably, it was delayed. The night was rapidly turning into a nightmare.
Eventually my hunch was right. From Sutton I was able to get to Clapham Junction but further trains to my post code were cancelled. I walked to a bus stop and waited for a bus that would still leave me with a walk at the end of it. But I just wanted to get back by midnight, if I could.
That bus took ages. Of course, it did. It was that kind of night. After finally arriving within 10 minutes of home, I began walking home only at that point, I got caught up in a vicious downpour. The main road was flooded in parts so clearly it wasn’t the first of the night, but I’d missed it. There was no missing it this time. I made a run for it, never easy with a rucksack, but doable. However, I got drenched to the extent it was as if my trousers were strangling my legs. I could barely move with those jeans entwined around my legs, squeezing the life out of them, and about 300 metres from home, I had to stop. It was pointless trying to run through this level of rain. I got home, set about drying my clothes and trainers, and fixed myself the bowl of porridge, reflecting on a night I’ll never forget.
I’ve taken a few pills this weekend to try and shake off the aches caused by the booster, and I should’ve listened to my body when I went for a run this lunchtime. I knew right away this wasn’t going to be one of those runs where within the opening couple of kms I started feeling better. I had to leave the run at 3k which is a pointless run really, but I’ve not been right for the last 48 hours. Hopefully Wednesday will see me feeling back to my lazy running self. I’m fully behind the boosters and have no regrets about getting it. It definitely took something out of me though.
Coming back from the run, I did the bins, as I usually do for the building, and lifting the lids of the bins to check which bins needed putting out, I noticed a few empty Covid-testing boxes. Clearly this thing is on the rise again.
The travelling issues aside, it was another difficult gig last night. It’s been like that for the last four shows now, three of which have had low audience turnout. I’m not convinced that the cost of living is behind poor audience numbers. I think historically, any arts at grassroots level can struggle to attract audiences. Unfortunately, most punters only seem to be interested in big names rather than engaging with comics at the start of their forays in this world and tracking their progress. Last night, of the few in the audience, facially several looked like they’d had strokes. I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps my set might’ve been responsible for those downturned expressions.
Just ten days ago I’d had one of my best gigs ever. Four gigs on, I wouldn’t say it’s a crisis of confidence. Far from it. But I know I can’t keep spending this amount of money on travel costs to have my confidence affected doing poorly attended shows. I made a great decision six months ago to come off most of the bringer nights, now extended to all bringer nights, because I noticed that a handful of comics on those nights, not many, but enough for me to notice, who weren’t improving at all. That told me that they were on the nights for the wrong reasons. It was about money at the bar for the promoters rather than putting on a good strong show for the audience.
Once I came off those shows, that’s when I started making significant improvements. I’m a back-to-the-wall guy. I revel in being the unknown quantity on a night full of better-known and more experienced comics and usually proving myself on those nights. It’s a bit like radio and podcasting, My best audio work was always the live radio shows for Resonance in the mid-2010s. The adrenalin kicked in, there was listener engagement during the show, whereas with podcasting, either side of that, I’ve always found it a drudge.
Still, regardless of whether I do well, it’s unlikely people will know who I am though, even after the gig, as most MCs still don’t get my name right.
I can think of a number of gigs where I’ve had to follow brilliant, well-known on the circuit comics after they’ve done blistering sets and matching them. Being surrounded by quality works better for me, whereas I find that being on bad nights, I don’t know, I switch off. I’ve worked hard to rebuild my life this year after several terrible years, but this new life is still built around not being in the actual flat I don’t like living in. The number of disappointing comedy shows I’ve done recently makes me think, finally, rather than do those kind of shows, I could do with spending nights in the flat, resting, reading, switching off from things, or just finding other things to do that don’t involve gigging all the time. I’m going to make sure I do my best to only do the shows that are well-promoted.
Catching the post-lunchtime flow in the café, I took up a window table, half blinded by the low autumnal sun. There was a sole oyster shell under my table, it’s still there, and I almost turned my ankle on it. First, I trod on the alarm clock, now an oyster. I’m not a big lover of sea food. It’s the piscine smell more than the taste. I just can’t do the smell.
A lazy night indoors tonight beckons with a big Star Wars Football clash the highlight. Hoth host Empire in the derby, knowing anything but a win will hand title rivals Tattooine a record eighth title.
Gigs tomorrow, Wednesday and Thursday and hopefully I can rediscover my stand-up mojo.
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