Olympics Preview

So anyway, the good news is that I am NOT pregnant after all.
I’m quite relieved about this as I was worried about taking responsibility for a child when I am not currently working (all that much).
I did some research and it turns out that the cider I’d started regularly consuming contains an additional 50 calories per pint in comparison to my normal tipple of lager.
That explains everything.
Goodbye cider…you’re dumped.
It’s not you..it’s me.
I didn’t apply for any Olympic tickets, principally because the Olympics are rubbish.
Rubbish? Why?
I’ll tell you why.
First of all, I can’t stand the swimming events due to a childhood trauma.
Aged 10, I qualified for the 50m breaststroke in the West Lothian Swimming Championships.
This sounds mildly impressive, but there weren’t very many good swimmers in my Primary 6 class in South Queensferry Primary School, and just having the ability to swim at all made me a hot favourite to secure a place in the glittering final held in Bathgate, the jewel in West Lothian’s crown.
The deafening cacophony of hundreds of schoolchildren screaming their partisan support in the pool complex was terrifying to a sensitive young boy like me.
The race itself is now a blur, but I remember clearly that everyone else had finished the 2 lengths of the race before I had completed my first length.
That solo length of shame was the most humiliating experience of my life (up till that point…it doesn’t even make the Top 10 now.).
The final indignity was one of the officials shouting at me to hurry up as he wanted to start the next race.
Hopefully these days they have a minimum qualifying time to achieve before you are allowed to compete in the final.
But let me borrow your DVD of “Great Swimming Races” and I might change my mind about the whole thing.
What? You don’t have one..? I didn’t think so….
Ok, that was quite a convoluted reason for disliking swimming competitions…I’ll keep the others succinct.
The javelin?
You see someone throw it, then you see what could be the same stock footage, which has been used for the last 20 Olympics , of a javelin flying through the air and landing.
Dull.
Do you have a “Great Javelin Throws” DVD? No, I didn’t think so…
Table tennis?
Now I actually quite like this sport, but the constant accompaniment of squeaking footwear renders it completely unwatchable.
Badminton and Squash also fall victim to the aforementioned “squeak syndrome”.
Judo?
A scuffle outside a pub on a Saturday night is much more entertaining, (and easier to judge)
Do you have a “Great Judo Fights” DVD? No, I didn’t think so…

Basketball?
Too easy to score.
It’s like playing golf with a hole the size of a dustbin lid. I’m not going to extend this metaphor.

3000m Steeplechase.
The most ludicrous event of the whole Games.
A water jump? Why?
Do you have a “Great Steeplechase Races” DVD? No, I didn’t think so…

Marathon?
Would be more entertaining if fancy dress was compulsory.

Tennis?
if it’s in the Olympics, which it shouldn’t really be anyway, it should have to adhere to “Jim’s Rules”, ie you only get one serve and you only get to sit down and eat a banana after you’ve you’ve played a set.
It’s ridiculous that you have these poor bastards running 26 miles without stopping in one event while you have the pampered tennis players sitting down every five minutes to have a rest and some elevenses….

To be continued….

The Land of Concrete Cows

So anyway, there's a possibility of contract work, but it's in Milton Keynes.
Ok Milton Keynes isn't exactly Barcelona...I know that.
However, I won't be able to turn it down if I get offered it, as I need to do something to reverse the exlusively outward movement of cash from Jim Park Inc.
They've got concrete cows there and everything.
It would probably be a positive thing for the comedy angle though..more clubs..more possibilities...
Talking of comedy, I had a blast at the "Jo Caulfield Comedy Collective" night at The Stand...and good to see a big crowd along for the first night.
Other news...Aberdeen has a rival for the title of "World's Worst Fish And Chip Shop".
I thought the one round the corner from me was way out on its own, but I was shocked and stunned to find out that it has a north-east rival.
Microwaving items which had been already deep-fried, was certainly an unusual touch, and the batter on my fish was approximately an inch thick.
I don't know what surprised me more...was it seeing a deep fried king rib (haven't seen one for ages), or was it seeing one of my party order it.
I was up there playing terrible golf on fantastic golf courses.
I'd compare it to hiring a vintage Les Paul guitar for the weekend and spending the allotted time playing "3 Blind Mice" (badly) on the fucking E string.
I lost all 3 matches for the third year running.
I can't believe I was seriously thinking of turning pro 4 years ago.
What happened?
In other news, I bought 4 new wheel covers for my car, and was down to 3 within one day.
This almost reduced me to tears, but not quite.
Milton Keynes.
It's not the end of the world.
The money's good?

Good Afternoon

I thought I'd rip off the "Do Not Resuscitate" notice from the end of my blog's bed and write a new entry.
So anyway, I was in Ireland last weekend for the glorious wedding of Padraig & Muireann.
I've known Padraig for 6 years since he beat off opposition to win a role in the acclaimed 2005 Fringe show, "Park's Circus".
There may only have been one other applicant, (who, I was advised by a number of independent sources, was a complete cnut), but this should in no way detract from Padraig's achievement in convincing Tony and I that he was the man for the show ; and what an asset he was.
The weekend got off to a difficult start as I couldn't find my wallet.
I decided to go to the airport anyway, resigning myself to reinforcing Scottish stereotypes by borrowing hundreds of pounds off other people at the wedding.
My last hope was that I'd left it in my local shop...and it turns out that I had (even though I gave a ludicrously wrong description of its appearance to the shop assistant).
No free drinks or food on the plane though ...and 2.5 euros for a cup of tea with the dreaded UHT milk...scandalous.
The wedding was great...Muireann was beautiful...Padraig was just about but not quite as beautiful...the sun shone...there was a tsunami of champagne and guinness...hilarious speeches...songs...dancing...fantastic food.
In Ireland they adhere to the "If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing" mentality, and the next day there was the Day 2 party.
We had an eclectic mix singers, musicians, dancers...funny comedians and also me talking about kissing hen's arseholes and stuff like that. (I kept on repeating "I don't know if this is appropriate" through my set)
I hardly saw anyone smoking all weekend ; I seem to remember a lot of weddings I've attended as smoking festivals.
I remember as a smoker, smoking more than I usually did, and then also seeing people who didn't usually smoke at all just deciding to have a couple of ciggies since it was a wedding.
It really does seem to be on the way out...and as I approach my 4th month of abstinence, I think I've finally beaten the addiction.
I'm currently in the Filmhouse Bar trying to write jokes for my appearance in the inaugural "Jo Caulfield's Comedy Collective" show which starts at the Edinburgh Stand on Wed 1st June.
I'm really looking forward to it...it's going to be a bit different.
There's a man called "Hugh Carr" on his mobile phone in here...it's like some Shakespearian actor appearing on stage...his voice booming round the bar...everybody has stopped talking and are craning their heads to check who this Foghorn Leghorn personification is.
In some ways I admire his dedication to the art of lack of self-awareness....
As I said earlier, if it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing.
The gigs are going well but there's not enough of them and sorties down to England are very expensive for the journeyman stand-up...what to do...what to do?
I'm also working on a show about Golf...hopefully giving it some runouts during the Fringe.

Here Comes The Summer

So anyway, I had a bit of a health scare 3 weeks ago.
It turns out I'm completely fine and I came through my medical MOT last Wednesday with flying colours.
I can't help wondering whether I would have made it onto the front page of "Chortle".
Probably not...it would have to have been a relatively slow news day in the world of comedy.
Obviously I'm glad that I didn't of course..
One of the benefits of having a health scare is that it panics you into making big lifestyle changes that you are
likely to keep.
I didn't drink for 3 weeks...ate incredibly healthily...charged up mountains and all that kind of thing.
I've lost a stone and feel fitter than I have done for ages.
I haven't smoked for 3 months either.
It's interesting how quickly my alcohol tolerance has now deserted me.
To celebrate my medical news, I went to Chris's birthday drinks at the Stand on Thursday.
I had 4 pints and was absolutely out my face, talking slurred shite to all and sundry.
I can't even remember what I was talking about most of the time.
I'm now on my way to Manchester to visit my wacky brother.
I've managed to get a couple of gigs to coincide with my trip.
I've got a spot tonight at the "Lass O Gowrie" comedy night, and another tomorrow night on Toby Hadoke's "New Stuff" night at the Comedy Store.
I've done a couple of Red Raws in the last month trying out some new ideas.
It's nervy doing a whole set of untested stuff, but I reckon it's the only way to really check if it works.
Bookends new bits with bankers doesn't quite expose it to the uncomfortable glare of reality.
Although, in saying that, if doing hundreds of gigs has taught me one thing, it's to shamelessly mug my idiotic stage persona to milk laughs out of the most crap and awful pieces of material.
It's a survival strategy learnt from dying spectacularly on one's hole of an evening's comedying.
And of course, Red Raw is primarily a new act night, so it's generally a fairly sympathetic audience.

After my (cough) "performance" , quite a few people came up to my afterwards to say how much they enjoyed the show, prompting the hard-bitten comedians present to laugh and kindly inform me, that all these people were assuming that my ramshackle nonsense was my first ever gig.
I couldn't really argue against this.
But hey, a laugh is a laugh.
I then came under a sustained micky take form these aforementioned comedians, which I genuinely found highly amusing.
However, in a scene reminscent of Muhammad Ali bouncing off the ropes to knock out George Foreman and reclaim the World Heavyweight title in 1974, I began to return fire.
I have to say that for one comic, the teddy was thrown out the pram with such ferocity that it had to be admitted to the Edinburgh Rpyal Infirmary with severe concussion.
I think it's hilarious that in a profession in which "taking the piss" is such a fundemental aspect, some comedy people can be very touchy.
In case you're interested, my new material subjects covered were ; Norman Wisdom's gravestone, being mistaken for a waxwork dummy, imaging the volcano supporting Edinburgh Castle erupting during the Festival Fireworks Concert, and talking sheep in Peebles.

London trip

As I headed down to London on the train from Edinburgh, on two occasions I spontaneously burst out laughing while reading the paper.
I find that when you do this, you can sense the other people in the carriage are putting you on a period of "nutter watch" ; as lone laughers can be unsettling.
The bits that got me going were....
An article in the Guardian on Simon Pegg in which he references political correctness in the 1980s, recalling an anecdote about someone getting fired from a feminist theatre company for saying "Shall I be mother?" when they were pouring the tea.
The other guffaw was caused by the "Q&A" feature on Patrick Stewart.
When asked "What was your most embarrassing moment?".
He mentions shouting out "What trumpets that?" too early (a page too early to be precise) during a speech Eric Porter was making in the role of King Lear in a production staged in Cornwall.
Porter was just pausing.
The kicker is that Stewart did the same thing on two consecutive nights.
I kind of had a giggling fit imagining the look on Eric Porter's face when it happened a second time.
I remember him as a very stern, brooding actor...(certainly, most of the characters he played fitted this description).
Apparently he never forgave Stewart for this.
No matter what line Patrick shouted out, this was still going to be a funny story.
But "What trumpets that?" is just such a ridiculous line, that it really soups up the funny in this tale.
I've almost got a temptation now to actually go and see a production of King Lear and shout out that line in the wrong place as a tribute to Patrick Stewart for making me cackle with laughter on the East Coast Line for a good 10 minutes.
But obviously, that would be wrong.

I had a couple of gigs on Saturday at Sohoho Comedy and the late show at the Comedy Store.
There were 3 hours between the gigs though, so I had quite a bit of time to kill.
It's difficult finding something to do on your tod in the West End of London on a Saturday night.
The pubs and restaurants are jammed, so there's not really anywhere you can just grab a seat and chill out for a couple of hours.
And Piccadilly Circus is total mayhem.
In all seriousness, I felt more isolated wandering around Piccadilly Circus on my own on a Saturday night, than when I
was lost up a mountain on my own overnight last year.
I found it an unremittingly grim experience.
The Sohoho gig was decent and very enjoyable, but I had a real cracker at the Comedy Store, which I celebrated by quaffing a few pints in the immediate aftermath.
This was all fine and dandy ; but crashing out in the hostel and then having to continually get up repeatedly in the middle of the night, and make the journey to the gents to process the late flurry of pints was something of a pain.
It's not all glamour.
I decided to get moving early on Sunday and got to Piccadilly Tube station at 7.30am
Apart from a couple of people coming up the escalator as I headed down, the station was completely deserted.
It was surreal in comparison with the heaving mass of humanity who were there the night before.
As I sat on the empty platform, I saw a mouse scurrying along towards me.
It stopped briefly, acknowledged my presence, and then ran off down the tunnel.
I thought about writing a poem based on this experience but I had a sore head and didn't feel up to it.

Coining it in...

I had to abandon my loose-change-carrying fitness regime due to treacherous conditions underfoot throughout December ; but I’m now very much up and walking again.
I carried £70 worth of change 2 miles today, including up and down Dundas Street.
It left me feeling sleepy afterwards and my back was aching slightly, but “no pain, no gain” and all that sort of thing.
In addition, psychologically, it feels good to get a cash payment at the end of the workout.
It’s as if I’m not only avoiding gym membership fees, but am getting paid to do my alternative workout.
Of course, I realise that it’s my money to begin with, but it seems to assume a different status when it is magically transformed into cash.
I don’t know how I managed to accumulate such vast piles of loose change.
I definitely didn't rob any charity collections...well, I certainly don't remember doing so?
It’s ridiculous…I don’t know where it all came from.
By the time I’ve finished carrying it all to the bank, I will be greasing up and appearing in my nearest “Mr Universe” heat.
I won’t win, but as is the case with comedy competitions, it’s all about taking part.
I walked past one of these slightly dodgy looking “cash loans/cheques cashed etc” emporiums today on the way to work. It hadn’t opened yet, but there was a queue of about 15 people waiting outside, looking a bit down on their luck. It all looked very grim, and reminded me of old black and white photos documenting the Great Depression in America in the 1930s.
As well as feeling physically uncomfortable carrying a rucksack full of loose change, seeing this depressing scene made me feel a bit guilty. Although, in fairness, it’s looking increasingly likely that I’ll be back to being a “full-time” comedian next month, so I’ll probably need my converted cash to supplement the haphazard comedy earnings.
I’m definitely vulnerable to attack though when I'm carrying this burden.
I'm like a wildebeast with a torn hamstring shuffling across the plains.
It’s hard enough walking with a rucksack full of loose change, so running is right out, and I tend to avoid walking along the canal paths, or break dancing on harbour walls.
It’s all about being aware and adapting accordingly.
In other news, I reckon I’m now saving approximately £100 a month by giving the deli shops a body swerve and making my own deluxe sandwiches.
I’m not saving money overall though…I’ve been splashing out buying snow shovels, various gardening tools, more than one lifetime’s supply of dvd box sets and comedy stuff on Amazon.
You know, stuff that’s ultimately a little bit more rewarding than a sandwich.
The other benefit of making your own sandwiches is that you avoid the temptation of buying a jumbo-sized bag of
kettle crisps to supplement your lunch sandwich.
I find crisps difficult to resist when I can see them fluttering their eyelashes at me from behind the counter.
But now that I don’t see them, I don’t think about them.
So that’s about 1500 calories a week saved in one fell swoop.
I’m scared to weigh myself though, in case crushing disappointment acts as the catalyst to an outburst of comfort binge eating.
I thought I was doing really well in the first week of the year by not eating between meals, exercising regularly and doing a lot of long walks.
However, I was surprised to see I’d put on 3 pounds.
The moral of the story seemed to be that not eating between meals and exercise are good things, but if your meals are dustbin lid size portions, then you are still going to put on weight.
So anyway, it’s all about “portion control” now.
This had better work.

Happy New Year

Whenever I was in an Art Gallery as a child, I was always more impressed by the picture frames than anything else on display.
From my perspective, the actual paintings were upstaged by their intricately, carved golden frames.
I can’t remember if I actually thought they were made of real gold , but this is a distinct possibility.
Around the same time, I remember watching some heist action film on television, and being totally confused when I saw
the robbers cut out the paintings from the frames with stanley knives, rolling them up and then make their escape whilst leaving the frames in situ.
One one level, I could present this as a touching tale, illustrating how an innocent child can find beauty in an unexpected source.
Alternatively, you could present this as a demonstration of an early indicator of my somewhat confused and idiotic view of the world.
I’m sure Picasso and Dali would be raging if they found out that I was more impressed by their painting’s frames than the work itself.
To make matters worse, it was likely the case that neither of these artists had any input in the actual selection of frames
for their paintings at Kelvingrove Art Gallery.
It would have been an interesting finish to this anecdote if I went on how to describe what a talented painter and artist I have gone on to become in later life.
Alas, I remain completely useless at arts and crafts, to this day.
Although, it is still one of my remaining ambitions in life, to present an exhibition of picture frames during the Edinburgh Festival.
It would be a dream come true.
It would to a certain extent, mitigate the disappointment I felt when the tv series “You’ve Been Framed!” appeared on our screens.
I didn’t want to see people falling off hammocks or kittens playing a piano, I wanted to see a documentary on picture frames.

Coincidentally, I remember at school there used to be great big fights between all the boys called John against all the boys whose proper name was John but who were in practice referred to as "Jack".
It was as if the Jacks were seen as a threat by the rest of the Johns to the integrity and survival of the John forename.
I always got on ok with the James and Jimmys, but found the Jamies a bit odd.

Now is the winter of my 2-man tent

So anyway, I was reading the Guardian "Film & Music" section.
There was an article on Eli Wallach, best known for playing the part of "Tuco Martinez",
the "Ugly" in "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly" spaghetti western.
Spaghetti westerns exert a strange power over me.
If I stumble across one on the telly while channel hopping, I will always watch it...even though I am likely to know the screenplay off by heart.
They are curious films, in that often some of the characters speak in English to other characters who are speaking Italian, but have been overdubbed in English.
Often the actors involved didn't understand any of the language that the other actors in their scene were speaking.
It must have just been a case of waiting for the other actor to stop speaking then get your line in.
I think this works in the films favour though, and gives the action that unique stylised stilted feel, which all we spaghetti western lovers know and love.
Genius.
Anyway, Eli is 95 years young and still working in the film industry.
David Coleman would describe this as "quite remarkable!".
I was intrigued to read on and discover that he is also a prolific composer, writing some "50 operas, including mini-operas for children and full-scale works in the grandest tradition".
He also collaborated with Tim Rice on the musical "Blondel", which was a "resounding success'.
I was amazed at this secret hinterland of the scheming "Tuco" from "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly".
But then I discovered that in skipping from column to column in the article, I'd failed to notice that the Eli Wallach article had ended and the column I was currently reading was a memorial article to the late classical composer Stephen Oliver.
It just goes to show that folding a newspaper in a certain way can cause hilarious misunderstandings.
This was definitely the closest my life resembled an episode of a traditional sitcom yesterday.
Last evening I answered a knock at my door to find a slightly dodgy looking young man wearing a rucksack.
He was displaying something in his right hand which was obviously purporting to be some sort of official id.
The first thing I noticed was that it didn't have a photo on it, which is quite unusual for an id card.
On closer inspection it was just a piece of cardboard with writing on it.
I couldn't make out exactly what it said.
I inquired what he was wanting, and he replied "I'm selling things".
I then said that I was on the phone to someone in America (I wasn't, and I truly have no idea why I said that rather than just say that I wasn't interested in buying any "things")
He didn't say what the things were, but asked if he could come back later and I just said "no".
This was definitely the closest my life resembled and episode of "The League of Gentlemen" yesterday.

Why isn't October the 8th month of the year?

I'd parked my car in the Marchmont area of Edinburgh, and approached a ticket machine to buy a parking ticket.
On the machine I noticed that there were 3 parking tickets stuck on to it.
These tickets were yet to expire and had been attached to the machine by kindly motorists, who hoped that they would possibly
be re-used by people about to buy a ticket.
I found this sight strangely moving.
It was a nice bit of philanthropy in the midst of the usual I'm-all-right-jack urban mentality.
Something of a polite insurrection against the ridiculous parking charges now in force.
We were sticking it to the man.
I would have taken a picture of it, but I'd deliberately left my phone at home as an exercise in non-connectivity, to combat my
OCD internet excesses.
Anyway, I quite liked the way it was in the old days when people announced their phone number when they answered the phone.
Not only do I still do this, but when people knock on my door, I open it and then announce my address.
It's called "doing it right", ok?
Also, why don't they show old episodes of "Tomorrow's World".
It's be fascinating to see some of the ridiculous predictions and new technologies that they featured.
I wouldn't be surprised if the BBC had scrubbed them all.
Of course, they never predicted the rise of the Internet though. The idiots.
I remember being taken to Art Galleries as a young child and always being more impressed by the ornate golden frames than the paintings themselves.
I was baffled watching a heist film in which robbers cut round the painting with a knife, stealing it but leaving the frame in situ.
I thought they were mental, but apparently it was me who was in fact mental. So there you go.
Why has K2 got such a boring name for a mountain?
Has anyone ever had a pencil and kept using it until it was just a little pointed cone?
I was down in London traveling on a bus with the atheist slogan on the side, ie "There probably isn't a God, so just enjoy your life!".
I was quite comfortable traveling on such a bus, but would feel a greater sense of unease if the same slogan was written down the side of a plane I was traveling on.
I know it's irrational.
If you're worried about the threat of Iran developing a nuclear bomb, then I find it helps relax if you think of the Iranian Prime Minister as Mr Claypole from "Rent-A-Ghost".
I have gone 5 weeks without smoking, so my latest stopping smoking venture is going well.
As a reward for this achievement, I've treated myself to a reverse lipo-suction operation, and have had 2 kilos of goose fat pumped into my midriff (on the NHS, of course).
It's a good look.
My other idea is a show, with alternate endings to famous films.
eg Steve McQueen jumps over the wire in his motor bike and escapes in "The Great Escape" ;
President Charles De Gaulle gets his head blown off in "The Day of the Jackal" (ok, or maybe just gets his hat shot off...at least that would be funnier)
"Thelma and Louise" fly away like "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" but then get shot down by Tom Cruise in his fighter jet;
The Nazis capture all the Von Trapps at the end of "The Sound of Music";
James Stewart rushes in to the house at the end and catches his wife in bed with Mr Potter on Xmas Day in "It's A Wonderful Life"
"Billy Liar" ; Tom Courtenay GETS ON THE TRAIN and goes off with Julie Christie...why wouldn't you, you idiot!
etc etc
"Raiders of the Lost Ark" they open the Ark and a big jack-in-the-box thing springs out which looks like Hitler.
Right, that's enough, I'm going to lie down now and hum to myself for a few hours.

Good Afternoon.

I haven't written anything in this blog for ages.
However, as I'm languishing indoors with some kind of flu bug, I might as well take the opportunity to regale you with some fresh shite.
The Fringe came and went ; the usual cocktail of highs and lows, the usual emotion-themed rollercoaster.
In summary, I felt we put a pretty good show on.
It had all looked a bit worrying after Traverse-gate. (our first proper preview)
But anyway it's hats off to the Edinburgh Evening News for giving us not one, but two, bad reviews.
The first was one was our first preview at a free gig in a pub. They failed to mention that it was a preview, slagged us off and put a big 1/4 page photo of us alongside the review.
Marvelous.
Tragically, neither of the reviews made it onto the internet.
Other than that we had a fairly typical mix of good and bad press coverage.
As of last year, it was a great honour and pleasure to again be part of The Stand's Fringe programme.
We had to work a bit harder for the audiences this year, compared to the 2009 sellout-fest.

I've just finished doing a little Scottish tour organised by the Gilded Balloon supporting Hattie Hayridge.
I was very flattered to be asked to do it, and I was obviously very keen not to make an arse of things.
I'm really happy with the way all the gigs went, and Hattie and Viv were a delight to work with.
All the gigs were on huge expansive stages which were totally crying out for some expressive, dance-based stand-up.
Maybe next time.

For some unknown reason, the film "The Naked Prey" came into my mind.
I remember watching it on television as a kid and being quite shocked.
The story concerns a group of British people on safari in Africa, going around shooting elephants for their ivory.
Some tribesmen appear and hint that they'd like some gifts as a payment for using their land to pursue elephant atrocities.
The safari leader tells them to piss off.
This turns out to be a bad move, as the tribesmen return and take out their vengeance on the hunting party.

It's the inventiveness of the executions which stuck in my head as a kid.
For one bloke a crowd of women dress him up like a chicken, chase after him, then dozens of them stab him with little pointy sticks.
Another is covered in clay then roasted alive in a spit over a campfire...
Then another is tied to the ground and a snake is scared by flames and then bites him in the face...
The rest of the film is about the surviving safari member being given a sporting chance to run away and then be hunted down..
(he was in favour of giving the tribesman a present at the beginning, so they are more lenient with him)

To my surprise, the whole film is on youtube.
It's disappeared from tv showings, that's for sure.
I think I was 8 when I watched it on tv.

I'm now suffering from some delayed Fringe-Flu lurgae type thing.
It's an injustice.

I've got a few new bits of pieces of stand-up which I'm trying to batter into shape.
I was trying to find a way of using my experience at the waxworks museum in Amsterdam.
I was in a "politicians" section and saw Margaret Thatcher.
I was quite transfixed by the Thatcher model (not in a sexual way) and just stared at her for quite a while.
As I moved away, I became aware of a gasp behind me.
And (I swear to god this is true), behind me was a Dutch man who thought I was a waxwork dummy, and was startled when
I suddenly moved.
(he established this through acting out a dummy coming to life)
Unfortunately, he didn't speak English (I know..in Holland??? bizarre!), so I wasn't able to discover who he thought I was.
Denis Thatcher?
Another European political leader? Charles De Gaulle?
Anyway, I started telling this story at a gig recently, and people seemed to be liking it, but it didn't really go anywhere.
Like a broken down bus.

Fringe Magnet

It's fair to say that after the first couple of "The Silence of the Trams 2" previews, I was seriously considering renting a Cessna 206 six-seater light aircraft, inviting the rest of the cast to join me, then flying it into the Scottish Parliament building.
It just seemed appropriate.
Of course I would do it at night when there was no-one working in the building.
I wouldn't want to be accused of having a selfish disregard for other peoples' lives.
It's just the symbolism I was interested in.
Anyway, after the wreckage of the Illicit Still and Traverse previews we had a cracking one in Burntisland, and another
at Stand 1 last Monday to an unexpectedly big crowd.
All of a sudden we were cock hoop!
It's such a fickle business.
Apart from last Saturday where we had a very low-energy, cold audience that you get every now and then at a Fringe comedy show, it's been ticking along nicely.
Yesterday a man who had apparently been drinking came down and sat beside me, hesitated, then asked if I knew of a nearby
"mortuary".
I immediately worried that this was some kind of obtuse threat to my well-being.
But he seemed quite non-threatening, so I explained that I thought there was one in the Cowgate.
I didn't ask him why he was looking for a mortuary, or even make a joke saying the one at Cowgate is in the "dead centre" of Edinburgh.
He went way quite happy with my information.
Shortly afterwards, I was approached by incredibly grumpy-looking, elderly American tourists.
"Can you tell me where the tourist office is?" said the man, with a cheeriness reminiscent of the way Clint Eastwood asked his soon to be victims if they're "feeling lucky, punk?"
I started giving them directions which were quite complicated, given their current position.
I realised half-way through my speech that he'd mentally switched off.
He waited for a pause then said "Thank you" and headed off.
Surely he needed to run through what I'd just told him, to make sure he'd got it.
I felt like I'd been buzzered off on a kind of "Giving Directions X Factor" show.
I think the hotel that they book into are going to have a tricky time keeping these 2 happy.
As usual I am rapidly losing weight during the Fringe ; as usual I will put it back on after the Fringe as I become
Mr Creosote for a few days.

Hello again

There's been a bit of a layoff on the blog writing.
This is mainly due to working on computers during the day and consequently feeling uninspired to start typing on a different computer, at the end of the day, as Alan Hansen might say.
It seems all wrong on a number of different levels.
Anyway, I am feeling quite smug because I haven't smoked for 6 days.
No matter how fucking ridiculous and unwarranted the smugness is, I still am.
It's totally pathetic...
How many times have I been down this road?
I have by now now fully paved the road to hell with my good intentions, and am just concentrating on routine maintenance work these days.
I have no credibility in this area, and you are completely within your rights to sneer and guffaw in my general direction.
I deserve it.
This latest health stint is on the back of being a bit ill for the last week.
Emerging from a good prolonged bout of illness always represents an ideal opportunity to embark on a half-hearted new health regime.
I did 4 nights at The Stand last week, each night feeling awful, and genuinely concerned that I might faint on stage with the heat.
I had a really good run of shows though. There's obviously something intrinsically funny about appearing ill and slightly out of sorts.
Re the coffin nails, I was doing quite well, Oct 2009 - March 2010, not a single gasper.
The stress involved in doing a show at The Stand in Edinburgh then driving through to Glasgow to do a solo show at the Comedy Festival ended in a reckless couple of sneaky fags, and I've been back as an occasional puffer ever since.
I will obviously just have to avoid any unnecessary stress for the rest of my life.
I have also been giving thought to quitting booze as well.
I got rather drunk last week and crashed my bike on the way home.
I was ok but my bike was seriously injured.
The handlebars are now at a 45 degree angle to the front wheel.
Unless I manage to adjust them I will be unable to ever get anywhere on my bike and will just have to content myself with cycling in a small circle.
I could say that I'm hilariously satirising my life?
At least it'll still be good exercise.
I was really mad with myself the next day. I should have moved on from participating in this sort of fucked up behaviour.
Maybe I should just give up cycling.
The World Cup group stage was turgid crap, but the knockout matches have been excellent.
I think in future I'll just start watching it when it gets to the last 16, and avoid the preamble.
I felt sorry for Ghana last night.
The handball thing left a bad taste in the mouth.
The problem is that there is no real disincentive for the man on the line at that stage of the game to not punch the ball away.
He gets sent off, but the match is over anyway, so being reduced to 10 men is a meaningless sanction.
He gives away a penalty, but that's better than a goal and certain elimination.
I can't think of any other sport where you could deliberately cheat like that and ultimately secure victory for your team.
It's true that most players would probably have done the same thing ; although not if it had happened early on in the game, rather than the last minute of extra time.
Did anyone honestly think that Ghana were going to stand a chance in the penalty kicks?
Psychologically they were shot to pieces because they knew they'd missed a golden opportunity.
FIFA know that seeing someone who's just cheated and been sent off, being carried off shoulder high in triumph by his team mates, is a PR disaster for football, and they'll feel that a rule tweak may be required.
Mark Lawrenson continues to drive me insane with his whiney drivel, closely followed by Mick McCarthy and Chris Coleman, while Alan Hansen has really perfected his "clubhouse bore" persona.
Do they have jobs for life at the BBC?
Mind you, if you ever want to cheer yourself up, search on Twitter for "Mark Lawrenson" and "Alan Hansen" during a match broadcast, and be comforted in the knowledge that you are far from alone in considering them annoying bellends.

Eventful weekend

On Friday I set off up North for a weekend walking/camping up in the Highlands.
We were heading to Kinlochewe where the plan was to walk up to the banks of Lochan Fada to camp on Friday and Saturday ; do a couple of mountains on the Saturday, then do Ben Slioch on the Sunday and then head back down.
We decided to take wood up there as there isn't any around at Fada.
The walk up was pretty long (about 10k), and was tougher than I anticipated ; mainly due to my ridiculously heavy rucksack.
I had 8 logs of wood, 3 litres of wine, a tent and various other bits and pieces.
I found the carrying of this weight brutally hard work.
At the best of times I'm more of a "mountain snail" than a "mountain goat", so progress was slow and I found myself in my traditional backmarker role.
I had a map and stuff, and knew that we were camping at the side of the loch, and assumed that when I arrived at the loch it would become obvious where the camp was.
Of course you should never make assumptions of anything in this environment.
My overriding concern was just getting this ridiculous rucksack up the path, and nothing else was really occupying my thoughts.
There were quite exposed parts of the path along the way and a careful crossing of a steam in spate.
These moments would not normally be any cause for concern, but the destabilising effect of carrying a large pack on your back is something you have to be acutely aware of.
A slip at the stream crossing would lead to a virtually certain death as you plunged down the waterfall into the steep gully.
Eventually I reached the loch but became a bit confused as the path seemed to diverge.
At first I took the right turn (this was the correct way), and followed it down towards the loch.
I couldn't see the tents anywhere, so convinced myself that I should walk back up the path and carry on the left fork which headed up the side of the loch.
For about an hour and I half I walked up this path.
There was a series of dips and plateaux, and I kept convincing myself that when I reached the next plateau I'd be able to spot the camp.
I didn't.
I was as knackered as I can ever remember and it was starting to get dark.
No mobile coverage. Shit.
I blew long and hard on my whistle and waited for any response. Nothing.
I then had to take the awful decision that I'd have to take shelter and put up the tent while I still could see what I was doing.
It was a highly stressful time as I fully realised the anxiety that my non-appearance would cause, but there was now no alternative.
The forecast was pretty grim and I'd definitely have perished with exposure without the tent.
It wasn't a good place to camp.
I effectively put the tent up in a bog and was slightly submerged when I clambered into it.
A fog came down and it started pissing with rain.
I worried that the high winds forecast might blow the tent away as pegs in bog ain't that secure.
I didn't sleep..I was cold, wet and knackered but the stress of the situation kept me wired all night.
It's a very lonely and desolate place to hang out.
I just waited for light so I could get moving .
I started off at about 5.30 and began to head back down the side of the loch again.
At about 7.00 I clambered up a slope then saw me old mate Mitch pop up on the horizon.
"Jim?' "Jim Park?" he shouted.
"Yes" I shouted back.
It was very emotional when we met up.
He pretty much thought I was dead and must have fallen off the path.
Like laughter, tears are very infectious...and we both had a greet and a hug.
Then he told me that the mountain rescue were out looking for me.
I was absolutely mortified when he told me this...I hadn't anticipated this at all.
Then the mountain rescue man appeared.
Then over the mountains appeared a huge rescue helicopter.
He seemed slightly bemused when he noticed I was carrying 8 logs on my rucksack.
Must have thought I was a mentalist.
Then a flare was set off to guide the chopper in to land.
It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.
Although I was fine, I was told I had to get on the helicopter and get flown back down to Kinlochewe to report in and see if the police wanted to interview me etc.
2 of our group had headed back down the path in the middle of the night to get to Kinlochewe to dial 999.
I felt terrible about this, because by making this journey, they'd put themselves in a far more dangerous situation than I was in.
The helicopter ride was very exhiliarating ; although there was a sombre reminder of different outcomes when I looked at the stretcher beside my seat.
The rescue team were great though, and assured me that in the circumstances, the right decision had been made to call them out.
I got talking to a bunch of Jehovah's Witnesses out on a day trip, and explained to them what had just been happening.
They didn't miss the opportunity of reminding me of the God stuff, and handed me some leaflets and a magazine to read.
What was weird was that I had never really been in danger, but as as result of all this going on, I was beginning to feel that I'd escaped a near-death situation.
I was all choked up...and there was John and Dave at the rescue centre...looking as relieved as I was embarrassed.
The knowledge that your friends thought you were dead is quite upsetting.
I booked into a hotel, but then decided to re-join the rest of the gang as they'd decided to move camp to lower down.
We had a great night by the camp fire with exotic home-made curries, wine and whisky, then went up Ben Slioch the next day.
It was an unexpectedly sunny, warm day with the most incredible views.
So all's well that ends well, I suppose.
I made a sizeable donation to the rescue team.

Spotted

I bumped into Kenny, the manager of The Stand, last night.
He'd seem me doing my main road walk in Barnton as he passed on his motorbike, and thought that I looked "highly suspicious".
There's no real privacy in Edinburgh. It's a village.
I was thinking that if there was any serious crime committed on Wednesday, within the vicinity of my main road walk, then I could easily find myself to be a suspect.
The "Crimewatch" reconstruction would mention that "a man with a vacant expression wearing a blue waterproof jacket was seen walking alone in the area at approximately the same time as the offence was committed".
The police would be urging this oddball to come forward to "eliminate himself from police inquiries".
I'd be reluctant to do that though, as I'd have to reveal to the nation that I walk along main roads as a recreational activity.
The police would find that alibi so unlikely, that they might stitch me up, thinking that my defence would get thrown out by any jury as incredible ; and I don't mean that in a good way.
I've just got to hope that there wasn't a murder near the Barnton roundabout on Wednesday.
I woke up this morning with the most appalling hangover I've had in years.
I did the usual vows to never drink again, or at least for a while etc etc
But then it dawned on me that alcohol has not passed my lips for 3 days.
What I was experiencing was the after effects of spending 5 hours digging in my garden.
I was aching all over and could hardly get out of bed.
This is what happens when a normally sedentary worker dabbles in hard, manual labour.
I'd imagine that my net-curtain-twitching neighbours found the sight of me digging for 5 hours to be "highly suspicious".
What with the main road walking, and the uncharacteristic, prolonged digging in my back garden, a compelling case is being built up against me.
I finished up quits on the Wednesday night football action.
I won on Inter Milan beating CSKA Moscow, but lost on my bet of Arsenal beating Barcelona.
The Arsenal match was a perfect illustration of why you should always consolidate your winnings if you are in a favourable position on a football match.
Barcelona were leading 2-0.
The match up till that point was like Brazil vs Accrington Stanley reserves.
It's very rare to see a team so comprehensively outplayed as Arsenal were, at this stage of the Champions League.
You could have got 160/1 on Arsenal winning at this point.
The people who betted on Barcelona to win must have felt completely secure about their investment.
But of course, the unpredictable nature of football comes into effect and Arsenal score twice to draw.
They should have been 5 down at half-time ; a draw was a totally ridiculous result, given the balance of play.
Of course, a draw is a great result for bookies.
Relatively few people bet on a draw ; the inclination is to back a winner.

The Walk

I went for a 12 mile walk today.
I walked out to Corstorphine, then across Drumbrae to Barnton, then back into Haymarket.
Why?
No idea...I was a bit cabin feverish after yesterdays glorious weather and felt I needed some fresh air.
Walking along main roads is quite an unusual activity.
I didn't meet anyone else doing it.
I was wondering if I could maybe write a guide on great main road walks in the UK?
It's not very picturesque, and you are forced to inhale the exhaust fumes of thousands of vehicles.
However, if you get bored, you have the opportunity to stop at a bus stop and jump on a bus.
This is not possible when you are hillwalking in the Highlands.
One thing I noticed in the course of my grand walk is that I have a long-standing predilection to stop and look in the windows of fish shops.
I'm not sure why I do this.
The wares on display tend to be pretty constant.
Haddock,Cod,Halibut,Smoked Haddock,Whiting,Sole,Mussels,Prawns and that's about it.
One thing that annoys me looking in fish shop windows is when the fishmonger(s) stare at me while I'm doing it.
It makes me feel uncomfortable, and I probably spend less time looking in the window than I would ideally like.
It's the expression on their faces that gets me.
I imagine that it's a similar expression to one that somebody would do if you walked into their garden and pressed your face against their living room window while they were watching television.
Surely you should welcome people looking at your fish?
They should smile and wave at me...that way I'm more likely to come in and buy a fish.
I've come to the conclusion that I was a fish in a previous life.
This is the only rational explanation as to why I am constantly drawn to look into fish shop windows.
I'm beginning to think that the Fishmongers recognise this and see me as some kind of threat to their livelihood.
Perhaps they fear that I want to steal all their goods so that I can give all my brother and sister fish a decent burial, rather
than allow their bodies to be disgracefully displayed to the public by the evil Fishmonger trade.

Anyway, month 2 of my football betting system got off to a poor start when I bet on Rangers to beat Dundee United last week, but discovered just before kick-off that Walter Smith had slected a virtual reserve team.
Dundee United Won.
I got back on track by backing Liverpool to beat Sunderland.
Last night I hit the jackpot.
I was already backing Bayern Munich to beat Manchester United.
Man U scored after a minute.
I deviated slightly from my system by putting more money on Bayern to win.
I just had a gut instinct that Man U had scored too early and that Bayern could come back and win. (at odds of 8/1 now)
There is a bit of a history of teams scoring first in big games then going on to lose the match...most recently Aston Villa in the league cup final against Man U...
It can slightly discombobulate a team to score so early, and they end up surrendering the momentum of the match.
In the end Bayern won 2-1, and I made £366.70 on the match.
My month 2 situation is now £273 in profit.

Goldfish Bowl

To be involved with either Old Firm club either as a player or a manager, your existence will constantly be referred to by the media
as like "living in a goldfish bowl", in terms of the scrutiny you come under.
Celtic need a new manager now.
I think it would be a good idea to actually appoint a goldfish.
This isn't as idiotic as it sounds.
There are advantages.
For instance, the goldfish would be unlikely to get into bother with the SFA as a consequence of openly criticising match officials.
In a post-match interview, if the goldfish was asked about a controversial penalty in the first half, he'd already have forgotten about it completely, and would have no view to make known.
(yes it will be a male goldfish...the SPL isn't quite ready for a female goldfish manager)
Also, the goldfish can say that he will "take one match at a time" without being regarded as spouting managerspeak cliches.
At press conferences, the media representatives should be forced to throw a ping pong ball into a goldfish bowl before they can ask the manager a question.
The goldfish could also win favour with the hacks by producing a series of quotable, dreadful, fish puns...
"Are you expecting a big crowd at Parkhead on Saturday?"
"Yes, we fully expect to fillet"
"What's your favourite pop group?"
"Fishbone Ash"
The press will love all that sort of stuff and give the goldfish an easy ride in the tabloids.

I gigged at "Hamish's Hoose" in Paisley last night.
It was hard work, and the heckles were coming thick and fast, but I enjoyed the combative nature of the performance.
I always know now when it is going to be quite a tough gig.
I come on and say that I "specialise in impro-VISATIONAL comedy"...I raise my clipboard and shout "thank you very much" before the audience get a chance to respond.
Most of the time this gets a big laugh, as it all comes across as being a bit mental.
I usually have a good gig if they find this bit funny.
Occasionally, it gets nothing, and from that moment I know that it is going to be hard work.
It went ok in the end but a tough gig nonetheless.
It's a great room for comedy though, and it's always a pleasure to do a gig that fellow comedian Chris Scoular promotes.
He's one of the genuine good guys in comedy, and a very funny man as well.
There was a big crowd at the gig, but it was noticeable how dead the rest of Paisley was on a Saturday night.
There were boarded up night clubs and bars that previously had been swarming with hundreds of revellers.
It had a real ghost town feel to it.
I got back at about 3.00am (losing an hour in the process)
Starving.
The only place I could think to go was the kebab joint at Tollcross.
It's weird being in a place like that when you're stone cold sober and everyone else is pissed out of their skulls.
The way alcohol makes everyone shout at each other is a fascinating phenomenon to observe.
Was alcohol ever called the "shouting drug" in its early days?
I was going to order a healthy kebab, but I couldn't stand waiting in this shouty nightmare, so went for the instant option of a large doner.
I haven't had a doner kebab in years.
I have to admit I enjoyed it, but 2000 calories just before bedtime is not ideal preparation, in terms of conditioning, for
a triathlon.

Catching Up

The poor old blog has been sadly neglected of late. I can't apologise enough.
Anyway, in hindsight my cunning plan of doing a gig in Edinburgh an hour before I did my solo show in Glasgow was
completely mental.
Idiot.
The normal stand-up has been going really nicely, but I wasn't happy with the solo show.
I decided not to include any existing material in it, and just wrote an untested hour of monologue.
Again this was probably more than a little mental.
Because the show had a narrative thread to it, I thought it would work by keeping the script fairly loose.
But on the night I seemed to be using all my energies trying to remember what I was going to say next rather than
breathing life into the story.
I was stressed out bigtime anyway, and that didn't help.
I even decided to smoke a few cigarettes before the show, thereby ruining my glorious 5 months abstinence ;
(back off them again though...I'll probably have to accept there may be an odd lapse every few months)
It was certainly a learning experience, that's for sure.
I was away in the mountains at the weekend with a pal of mine who informed me that the car he was driving used to belong
to someone who was killed in a mountaineering accident this year.
I'm not really superstitious, but the tabloid sub-editor in me could see a good "story" if the two of us managed to fall off a cliff on this trip.
"The Curse of the Car".
I've relaunched the Betfair football betting as an alternative source of income (hopefully).
It's going pretty well at the moment ; I've made £772 profit in March so far.
It's critically important to stick to the rules though.
My policy is to never have a bet "just because I feel like having a bet".
I must only bet on a match where I perceive there is some "value" in the odds.
I must always resist the temptation to make another bet immediately after a losing bet.
I only bet on matches which are live on television and facilitate in-play betting.
The other rule is that if the team I am betting on scores the opening goal, I must immediately lay off on the other team to cover my initial stake.
This means that if my team doesn't win, I don't make any profit, but I don't lose any money.
If my team wins, I make a profit with a deduction on the amount I've laid off against them winning.
You get so many games where a team goes into the lead, dominates the whole game but then loses a late equaliser.
The in-play bet guards against this coupon bustin' possibility.
The last time I got involved with this Befair malarkey, I ended up even over the long term.
I should have been way ahead but made some ridiculous, foolhardy bets chasing after losses.
I'm hoping I can make a decent profit if I stick rigidly to my system.
It doesn't really feel like a particularly honourable job though.
Am I contributing to society in a meaningful way?
Probably not.
Oh well, I'll be attempting to spread the gift of laughter this evening ; it being the best medicine and all that...allegedly.

Really? Well I never...

The first thing I heard when I woke up this morning was some blustering buffoon on a radio phone-in show complaining about the government "squandering millions" on a variety of "white horses".
It's nice to have a good rueful sneer to start the day with.
So I was waiting at a bus stop on Monday and along came a bus. Who'd have thunk it?
Anyway, what made this event slightly more noteworthy was the fact the LED display denoting the number and destination of this particular bus wasn't working.
The bus pulled up at the stop, the doors opened, and the bus driver shouted out "Number 44!".
He did not sound at peace with the world at all.
Having to shout "Number 44" at the top of his voice at every single stop on the route was undoubtedly taking its toll on him.
To make matters worse, after he shouted "Number 44", the woman in front of me in the queue asked him "Is this a 44?".
I found it very amusing that a few of the people at the stop who got on the bus seemed very, very cagey about the whole business.
It was as if they were deeply uncomfortable about getting on a bus without a number and destination clearly visible.
I sensed they thought it might be some kind of trick.
They had the demeanor of a group of chickens boarding a vehicle who'd just noticed that the driver was a fox.
The tailspin in enthusiasm with which the driver shouted "Number 44" at each successive stop on my journey was keeping me entertained big time.
In fact I'd say it's pretty much the funniest bus journey I'd ever been on.
I used my telepathic skills to get people at the bus stops repeatedly ask the driver that it definitely was a "44".
At one point he shouted "Do you think I would just make this up?"
In hindsight, I would have been tempted to bribe the driver and get him to shout out a completely different number at the next stop.
"Number 31!".
At this point I would jump out of my seat screaming "Oh my god! It's a trap! It's a trap! We're all going to die!", and then pretend to faint.
I'd then try to get a hold of the closed circuit tv footage and create a viral phenomenon on youtube.
Oh well, next time.
After my disastrous gig of 2 weeks ago, I had probably as good a gig as I've ever had anywhere at The Stand on Sunday night.
The most important aspect of it for me was that it was the "main support" slot, but the energy level felt like a 5 minute middle-of-the-bill spot.
It was bizarre to have such contrasting gigs at the same venue in a short period of time.

The Tree

I thought I'd better do another blog.
It's maybe not a good idea to leave a shit review on the first page, even if it was penned by my good self.
I'll have to do another one pretty promptly after this one too as I've now referenced the aforementioned "shit review" twice.
Many people have emailed me asking for an update on the tree situation.
Well, what's happened is that a large branch (itself the size of a medium tree) just fell off the big tree one day.
I'm a bit worried in case the whole tree falls down, and I happen to be working in my garden pruning fruit trees.
it could land right on top of me.
The ramifications of such a tragic event would be unthinkable in the world of Scottish Comedy.
Middle-aged, alcoholic women in West Lothian would likely commit mass suicides in a chilling echo of the Jim Jones sect's demise in Guyana.
Anyway, I'm on the case.
The tree must go.
AND it blocks out the late afternoon sun.
However, this is primarily a health and safety issue, and the fact that the tree blocks out the sun and fucks up my TV reception, is purely incidental.

First Gig of 2010

I hadn't gigged since before Xmas, so was a little edgier than usual before last night's gig.
Unfortunately, my debut gig of 2010 was a far from joyful occasion.
I thought it looked a pretty good crowd initially, but it soon became clear from the compere's opening exchanges that the
stage was ring-fenced by a large group of pissed-up, spray-tanned, over-made-up, gobby, middle-aged women from West Lothian.
Scott Agnew went down very well with them, but my gut feeling was that they were really not my demographic and that this might well be a bit of a struggle.
I started off ok, but it soon became clear that I was a little too "out there" (or "not funny" ; whatever is most applicable for "The Friends of Subo" collective's comedy sensibilities).
They spent the rest of my set talking amongst themselves and periodically heckling.
I didn't really handle it all that well, and not having gigged in almost 6 weeks certainly wasn't helping.
There was another strange man who kept shouting out weird random comments from the back.
I couldn't really see him properly because of the lights, but when I clocked him at the interval, my first thought was "is he going to a fancy dress party as a paedophile, or are these his own clothes?" (he had a big bushy beard as well).
That might have helped my cause if I could have seen him properly during my set.
The problem is that the nature of my set encourages people to shout things out (although 99% of the time they don't).
It was an impossible situation, and the ladies succeeded in making the show about them.
More able comedians would have ripped them apart though.
Anyway, it was 15 minutes of pain, and immediately became one of my top 3 "least enjoyable gigs of all-time".
I could criticise the crowd, and call it a large-scale "Cunts Convention", but the other comedians had decent gigs, so I have to take the blame for not being quick enough on my feet to reverse the catastrophic progress of my performance.
Oh well, at least the "Daily Record" weren't in to review it (I don't think so, anyway).
I am feeling a bit wounded, but am trying to channel my genocidal impulses towards the people of West Lothian by throwing myself into writing with a vengeance.