It’s been a weird day, my routine smashed to bits, following on from a very weird night at what was easily one of the strangest shows I’ve ever done.
Last night’s buses were rammed owing to the train strikes, but taken all things into consideration, I got to the Wimbledon venue fairly easily. It’s never been an area I’ve done much in but my third bus of the night left me just around the corner.
I’d got there way too early and like most, I don’t like getting anywhere early. I thought I’d take a little wander, though there wasn’t much to see on what was a quiet road made up of a Co-op and various eateries, but it was so painfully cold, I thought, ‘F*** this being fashionably late business,’ and I just went into the venue ridiculously early. It’s just crazy weather for this time of year. January and February fast-tracked. Even with three pairs of socks, I couldn’t feel my feet last night and my single woolly gloves offered no protection out there. I think my under-the-breath cursing propelled me to the venue last night. Without it, I might’ve given up and turned back home.
I’d disregarded the email sent out by last night’s host saying, and I’m paraphrasing here, that it was a ‘hecklers night’ because technically, most nights are. You turn up for every gig never knowing what some audience member might throw at you. It’s like swimming in the ocean. You have no idea what’s lurking under that water. I’d had the email, not given it a second thought only to learn that last night’s set would have a two-minute grace period before the audience could then heckle you throughout. I’ve not seen this anywhere else. Things were further complicated by the fact with half the acts not getting to the venue on time, I was moved from opening the second set, to opening the actual show. I’ve yet to meet anyone who enjoys opening.
I wouldn’t say it was an uncomfortable night because the heckles were friendly, but it felt more like a Q&A. It meant forgetting chunks of my set to deal with the interruptions and in regard to my own set, it didn’t add anything to what I was doing, though I suppose one or two acts might see things differently.
I’d rather have had the stage minutes, sharpening up after a quiet week now that the circuit is winding down for Christmas. Doing a Gong show would’ve been more straightforward because at least you know what you’re dealing with. If they don’t like you, you get thrown off. The thing is, despite finding it odd, the night itself was a fun night, just not a very useful one for me.
I had a couple of old friends turn up unexpectedly. While it was lovely to see them, and added to the evening for me, at the same time, if friends are coming, you want them to see you doing a proper set in front of a big audience. That wasn’t the case last night. It was the kind of night where people might come along and leave thinking, ‘At least he’s found himself a nice hobby to keep him out of trouble’.
I broke my rule and had a late-night coffee, decaf, in the venue. Typically clumsy, I’d loosened the lid and every time I was taking a sip, unbeknown to me, I was spilling it over my crotch. I have to say, once I realised, it was that cold a night, the spillages actually made me feel the warmest I’ve been all week.
The venue itself, a café, was nice. The ‘hecklers’ were friendly and there was a table of women, among them the café owner I think, who were warm, funny and engaging company, termed by one comic as the ‘comedy committee’ and to be honest, one way the night might work is if this ‘committee’ took on a more prominent role and were part of the show.
Moving on from last night’s weirdness, this morning I took my aunt out for a hot chocolate across the road from her Stockwell flat to road test her new walker. I think it was a success. She can move quicker with the walker and getting across the road is less fraught than on a walking stick. Mind you, she wasn’t quick enough for one driver this morning and as his impatience grew, she stopped a few metres from the crossing’s end to give some choice Spanish words. It was good to see her so unusually upbeat about the walker. It’ll free her up a bit.
My aunt is so well-known and popular in her building. Hanging around with her, I feel like Richie Cunningham to her Fonz. No one’s interested in me. Among those to stop her for a chat were a Colombian woman who used to bring her meals during the early pandemic era when even I was excluded from my aunt’s bubble. There was another Colombian, a cleaner, who chuckled as my potty mouthed aunt showcased that mouth of hers in the communal hallway, while as we returned to the building from the hot chocolate and trip to Iceland, my aunt’s neighbour, an elderly Jewish woman with terminal lung cancer, really made an impression on me as she faces her limited time happy that she has lived a full life and she’s ready to move on. I certainly wouldn't feel like that. I'd already be making plans as to who I was going to be haunting.
Her and my aunt chatted about my aunt’s new walker, and the woman pushed it for a few metres and gave it the big thumb-up. I felt like I was watching a Top Gear for the elderly.
Here in the café, I’m at my second table in the café now. Phil Collins asked if I wanted to move to a single table by the radiator to give two Italian women an extra table for their lunchtime orders. I was happy to move as their sea food-heavy orders started arriving. I really can’t handle the sea food smell.
The Beard and I had some World Cup SMALL talk before I had the chance to move tables, and I was breathing through my mouth as I sought to keep the piscine whiff at bay.
I’m again treble socked today, and I think I’ve got seven tops on. I can’t be sure. What does it matter? I’m still cold. So cold in fact that I’m skipping today’s afternoon run. It’s meant to be warmer tomorrow, a couple of degrees, hopefully enough to make running more comfortable. It’s likely I’ll have to run Friday and Saturday.
The very argumentative SW8 gay couple have arrived in the café. This pair are the gay equivalent of my aunt and uncle. They’ve been together for years and I don’t know how. It’s as if they come here just to fight. By the time their latte and flat white are delivered by Phil Collins, they’re already arguing, this time over the pronunciation of ‘awry’, admittedly one of many English words that can be easy to mispronounce.
The Head Man of SW8, one half of this couple, is definitely my aunt in this relationship. He seems to take everything to heart, while his partner, more laidback, assumes my uncle’s more non-plussed role. Nothing phases him, but boy does he know how to irritate his partner. I must’ve missed something, because The Head Man, fresh from pulling him up on ‘awry’, makes reference to his excessive pillow drooling which can hint at some hidden underlying health issue.
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