Monday 16th October 2006

Today was a long and truly odd one, a shining example of how this crazy non-job really can put you in strange situations.

I got up very early and had breakfast in the hotel in York, having decided to go back to Liverpool and collect my camera for the gig in annoyingly close-to-York Harrogate tonight. I had a feeling it would be worth while, and if the show tonight turns out to be a cracker and I didn’t film it, I’d not enjoy it at all and would probably look back on it with resentment.

I got to York station and found myself waiting for the model railway exhibition to open. There’s a small and attractive looking building which is part of the station proper which houses a model railway shop and a huge working example that you can pay £4 to see. It was 8.50am, and I waited around for it to open at nine, my proper train not being until half past. I love model railways and one day want a house big enough to dedicate one big room or the attic to my own set, in which I would spend hour upon hour. These are my life objectives now: Set up Global Hangover. Get novel published. Release a stand-up DVD. Retire. Build train set in attic.

So back to Liverpool. Pleasant journey, got some Global Hangover sketches done, back to the flat, tried to catch up with this time-wasting Blog a bit (sorry I’ve been behind recently) and then an afternoon train back out to Leeds, with the camera, to try and get a train to Harrogate.

You might be amazed how much I find to boringly moan about train stations, but Leeds really is a nightmare. There are seventeen platforms, but some of them are hidden away in obscure locations, and all are divided into sections, so you get platforms 16a, 16b, 16c, etc. This means there are about 678 possible places for your train to be.

I arrived on Platform 16c and, predictably, by connection to Harrogate was on 1a. Couldn’t have been on 17 for all the tea in China could it? So I traipse over there, find it’s delayed, then cancelled, and so we have to go back to 12c where some little rattler was waiting, pile on, wait for ages, be told there’s a points failure, all get off, sit about on the platform, and set off about two hours later. I was getting really late and had wanted to go to my hotel in Harrogate, have a rest, a shower, prepare, and then go to the theatre. As it happened it was a rush straight to the theatre with my bags, feeling all sweaty.

We walked into the auditorium (Gordon Southern on with me again tonight) and found not only a beautiful old theatre that seats about 1,800 people, but also the stage brilliantly set to resemble a 1950’s council house. It had a kitchen, and you could walk up some stairs to the bedroom. It was for a production of Little Voice (that film with Jane Tesco Horrocks) and really was a joy to behold. Even the taps had running water! Myself, Gordon, Dan Atkinson who was Mcing, and Toby the promoter ran amok thinking of stuff we could do during the show that could incorporate this set. Comedians with a new toy to play with… we are childish.

The stage curtain was quite glitzy when lowered, with plenty of stage to stand on in front of it, and so we hit upon a plan for it to be lowered as the audience came in, for Dan to compare in front of it, introduce me to the stage, at which point the curtain would rise to reveal this house, and I’d be asleep in the bed upstairs! We were certain this would be the best idea and greatest entrance ever. Well I was.

So the show started, Dan comparing, and me lying in a bed upstairs on the set listening to their laughter but not being able to see them. It was at this point I started to think it wasn’t the greatest comic idea of all time, and would actually just look rather odd. But still I lay under the covers, which was very hot considering there were stage lights right above me. I’d also taken off my shoes. I was about to walk out in front of hundreds of people, and here I was lying in a bed with my shoes off.

So Dan does ten minutes and says “Now please welcome, Stanley McHale!� at which point the curtain dramatically rises to show this fantastic house, and if you looked closely, a figure asleep (using his acting skills) in the bed upstairs. I lay there thinking ‘you’ve not thought this through, McHale.’ So I just kept my eyes shut, thinking that if I was motionless for ages it might become funny. But there were no laughs coming from the audience.

I pretended to wake up, again using my acting skills, and looked at the sea of people staring at me. I thought it would be crap to do a comedy ‘surprise’ face at the audience, but found myself doing one anyway, to not one laugh, got out of the bed pretending to feel sleepy, stretched, walked down the stairs sluggishly, and onto the stage. The microphone and stand were out in front of me, and I strolled towards it thinking ‘oh God, what can I say? This better work, this better work’, stood there by the mic for a moment before saying “These Monday gigs are a killer.�

No laugh. Rightly.

“And look, I’ve taken my shoes off!� I continued. “I thought, I better not get into bed with my shoes on, but the mistake I’ve made there is confusing going to bed with getting into a bed on a set in a theatre in front of lots of people. I’d be rubbish in this play.� I walked over to the kitchen door. “At the end of the performance I’d be locking up. Better safe than sorry.�

Not a peep from the audience, again rightly.

I went back to the front of the stage. “Odd start to a comedy night. This is obviously not my house, but the set for the play Little Voice. Is Jane Horrocks staring in it?�

I was worried now. One audience member confirmed she was not.

“Oh right. I met Jane Horrocks once, and it’s all true, she does have a very little voice… But on the other hand an enormous arse.�

This got a laugh, of sorts. I’d gone to the lowest common denominator out of panic. The next ten minutes were a struggle but I won them over. I realised my mistake. They thought the house thing was all part of my routine, and were puzzled by it. I think they probably thought I take it with me everywhere I go.

The gig turned out to be really successful, even after the dreadful start, and I will have some footage to take from the tape. But Boy-o-Boy, what a way to start. Who’s stupid idea was the bed? Oh. That’s right.

Playing in front of a theatre audience is a treat for circuit comics more used to the clubs, you can pretend to be famous for half an hour or so and I enjoyed that. After the show I went by myself for a drink in that chain bar the Pitcher And Piano. A woman approached me who had obviously been in the audience and asked if I wanted to join her husband and two friends, seeing as I was on my own. I did and asked the two lads what they did for a living. The first was a dry stone waller. I crumbled, feeling humbled by the fact he does an ancient, brilliant, proper trade, and I pretend to be asleep in a bed on the set of Little Voice. I asked the other man what he did “It better be really superficial, I feel like an idiot now.� He was a forester and game keeper. I felt like the stupidest person alive to be a comedian, faced with people who have really decent, hard working jobs.

I asked if I could come and do a days dry stone walling, followed by a days foresting? It was agreed. And I will.

And so that’s a day in the life. Start with looking at a model railway exhibit at 9am. Spend all day on trains. Make the worst comedy entrance of all time on the set of Little Voice. Agree to do a spot of dry stone walling.

I walked to my hotel in the rain wondering if I’m really lucky or a compete fool? Probably both.

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