I know I said ages ago that I wouldn't mention gigs here unless they go really badly or something odd happens because it looks like I'm showing off but I've realised that every Pathetic Lot entry is basically me showing off and so I'll mention tonight's. It was in Leeds and as I was walking down to it my legs felt unsteady and exhausted, as if I couldn't support myself, and I felt a bit concerned about having to stand in a hot room for half an hour, performing. Fainting is never cool and it's never happened to me before (because I am cool) and I didn't want it to happen for the first time. I was running a bit late but decided to pop into a pub over the road from The Holy Trinity on Boar Lane where the gig was held for a pint of my new favourite (as of yesterday) summer drink, lager with a lemonade top. This must be a secret gig drink because the sugar and calories seemed to sort me out and I felt far better as I went on.
The gig was fun because I was on last and that meant no strict time constraints, so I opened with five minutes of stuff I'd put together earlier in the day about this apparent heat wave. I hate the media frenzy surrounding warm weather and so I could do it with feeling. It all worked and that's a great feeling for a comic, doing brand new stuff, especially stuff you'd thought of on the drive over, and it working fine - just like old routines that you know well.
The trouble is I'll only ever be able to do this material whenever there's a national 'heat wave', unless I adapt it, and theoretically I may never perform it again, and so I was glad I'd brought my video camera to film the show. My beautiful agent and masseuse, Paula, says I need a DVD stand-up promo so I'm going to stick a camera at the back of the room for the next four or five gigs and then edit it together into a hopefully watchable, if amateurish, little twenty minute package. It's a shame the camera generally just sits on a tripod in the corner of the living room (to the mild suspicion of female visitors) and this could be a very productive way of putting it to use. I'll do several copies of the DVD when I get around to editing it and you'll be able to purchase it for a reasonable (in my eyes) fee if you'd so wish.
After the gig I went for a beer with the compere, Tony, and having now had three beers over the course of the evening, and it being late, I decided to get a hotel instead of face the drive home. I was sat in the bar of The Radisson a few minutes later by myself, listening to a conversation between the Russian/German barmaid and a bloke sitting the other side of the bar close to me with a similar Eastern European accent, whom knew each other. Perhaps work colleagues.
The guy was talking about a night-cap, I think, because I heard him say "And I'll get you cornflakes in the morning." I thought it strange that he should try to be enticing with an offer of probably the blandest of all the cereals.
"What about boiled eggs?" she said, in a lovely way.
"No. Cornflakes."
I smirked at this, the idea of him holding out over what was specifically on offer for breakfast, and seeing as I had some paper in front of me containing tonight's set list for me to run over, I noted it down. I suppose he could have said something worse.
"What about Special K because you are a bit... you know."
Or "What about Bran Flakes, you look a bit blocked up."
So cornflakes was his offer, take it or leave it. It takes a pretty confident man to chat up a girl with a non-wavering cereal-based ultimatum. And she was really pretty, what if he'd set his sights lower?
"Well you can come back but I'm going to kick you out at 6.30am."
"What about 7.30am?"
"Nope. I've made my bed, you sleep in it. 6.30 it is."
Although I thought he was being suicidal, I admired the approach of "I ain't extending to eggs, baby. It's a wheat based product or nothing. Who do you think you are with your eggs? What are we, married?"
I completely disagree with the 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen' approach of 1635, but you've got to respect the self belief of someone who isn't going to budge an inch on the theoretical offer of breakfast. Most men would lie and offer a girl anything she wanted for breakfast, in Venice, if they though it would score points. But not this guy - he was on a romance budget. Oh he likes the girl - but he isn't going to extend to eggs. "What am I, the Sultan of Brunei? It's cornflakes. They've been in the cupboard for a bit - they might even be off - but hey, you stay with me, them's the breaks."
As it turned out, after he left, I got chatting with the barmaid who's a lovely person called Katja. She explained the situation, which wasn't as funny as I imagined, it was a running joke between them because she likes eggs, and after showing her I'd written down their exchange, had to explain myself. I hate telling people I'm a comedian but in this case it was the only reasonable way out - otherwise I would have looked an awful lot creepier than I already did. We had a good laugh and made fun of the stereotypical customers she was to deal with every day. I gave her the address of this site, I hope you're reading Katja! And I'm sorry I've defiantly spelt your name wrong.
I noted down another possible routine about people who try to pay for one beer on a credit or debit card and so it was a fruitful night's work all in all.
Oh - do you want to see some Italy photos? Sarah's just e-mailed them.
This is me at The Hotel De Russie...
And gleefully cracking open a cold beer before Morrissey took the stage...
Sarah outside the Coliseum. These were all taken on her camera and so there are only a few of her.
Also by the Coliseum, there was a bloke dressed as a gladiator taking photos with people for money. I found it amusing that the small detail of the cigarette didn't seem to bother him and so... when in Rome.
An Englishman trying, and failing, to pull off the Rome look.
Federico Fellini, a hero!
Sarah in Piazza Cavour. Did you really need that explanation?
Rome's ace.
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