The fine flapjacks of the tor

I just bought Dr Who magazine in Hull, what can be going on? I haven't seen much of the all new Dr Who, this is not due to a dislike of the returning to a revamped higher budget childhood, just that I am very rarely in on a Saturday night. The reason for purchasing the Dr Who magazine was a burst of beatific nostalgia as it comes with a free facsimile copy of the Making of Dr Who. As a child, I believed this was the greatest book ever written. I am now sitting on a train travelling through Grantham revisiting brief plot descriptions of Claws of Axos and looking at photos of elaborate weeds come to terrifying life. Takin' Over the Asylum, an early TV outing for David Tennant, has just been released on DVD and I recommend it highly. The first near victim of the foul world of TV focus groups, this series was a very funny and occasionally horribly sad story of the attempt to run a hospital radio station in an asylum. Apparently the BBC tried to bury it, it became a surprise success, won BAFTAs, and then it was buried. I shall not holler on a box again about the unseemly and thick-headed world of TV and the imagination free socialites who run it, though I have heard that the new phrase of rejection is – "really at the moment we're looking for aspirational shows, you know, like Gavin and Stacey" ie. What was the last show that ended up being a surprising success, well whatever it was we must make as many copycat series as possible.

I am told that I am currently screaming like a banshee in the trailer for new BBC2 sitcom Lab Rats. Lab Rats, written by Chris Addison and Carl Cooper, also had an awkward birth, but will soon be found on BBC2 after some shenanigans. Fortunately I don't watch too much TV so I haven't yet been confronted by my bewigged and ridiculous shape shouting and screaming.

I was wary of this year's Glastonbury festival but found it to be the most inspirational Glastonbury I have been to. The Book Club performance was a little shabby, mainly due to the combination of spotlights and factor 50 creating gloopy, toxic sweat that dripped into my eyes making it almost impossible to read Crabs on the Rampage with any aplomb. My Sunday on the comedy stage was one of my favourite gigs of the year, a pretty full tent made up of people who seemed in tune with my gleeful spewing about Stephen Green's bankruptcy (it won't happen, some lunatic zealots will save him) and my childish interpretation of US foreign policy. I was somewhat confused after the gig as I felt no need to self-flagellate. Though I had the odd tongue tied flashback to the organic plum wine I consumed the night before, for some reason the phrase 'cross of Christ' kept coming out as 'the Christ of cross ', I left the stage content. This made me feel alien and arrogant for failing to find some sense of failure.
There was a general serenity across the fields, some years there seem to be those who bring a stag night feel of ugly boisterousness to the noodle bars and cider buses, but I saw none of that. British Sea Power and Massive Attack were both excellent. The Imagined Village left me pumped up in a way that I did not expect from listening to multicultural English folk. The band is a splendid venture in an age that may be marked by cynicism and small Englander mentality, they should be paid to play in every town square and at every election. The Left Field offered up further bursts of eloquent and emotive passion from union leaders as well as Billy Bragg and Tony Benn. Leonard Cohen and Neil Diamond both looked joyful as they looked out on the heaving farmland they were playing on, while Billy Bragg's clising set at the Left Field was punchy, funny and included the beautiful Tank Park Salute.
I spent the Sunday night in Marcus Brigstocke's magical camper van listening to a torrid and drunk argument between Maxine and Ed which was happening outside a neighbouring van . It seems that Maxine had fallen over and everyone had laughed at her and it was all Ed's fault. The vocabulary was limited but volatile. Between the two phrases repeatedly used it was a mere 5 words, and it was the only ugly incident I witnessed at this festival. And now off to The Boosh festival and Guilfest for another weekend of organic plum wine and tent-side discussions about the possibilities of a secular world.

10:54 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

and now the work begins

I have finally finished my first draft of my Skins script, it is now ready to be judged by a roomful of people eagerly waiting their mid-afternoon doughnuts. I try to stop myself self-critiquing the draft in my email, but I have an annoying habit of pointing out that I know things aren't perfect and maybe that middle section is too short and the opening is too flabby and the dialogue of the drunk girl is wrong and so it goes on. I manage to avoid it, well, mostly avoid it. On Wednesday there was a readthrough of the first three scripts in Bristol. I will divulge nothing but was entertained to discover that one of the new youths is the son of a comedian that I both know and like.

I arrived back in London to play a gig in Shepherd's Bush, I was tired and a little crotchety as I walked down the stairs of the fashionable nightclub which would be swapping drunken skinny rhythmic style for geeks on stage that night. The security fellow suddenly swooped behind me. "What have you got in your bag", he asked with the delicacy of an anvil. "A laptop and a cardigan", I replied. He then spied a bottle of water and grasped it. "You can't take that in there". "I can". This seemed to confuse him. He looked at me, "You can't take water in". "I am going into a bar, so I'll use the bar and then I'll drink this on my way home". I was grumpy and tired enough to say, "Ok, I won't go in, can you just pass a message to the promoter that the last act went home due to a 50 cl bottle of water". Sadly I didn't need to, and I probably wouldn't have, though I felt as if I certainly would. The gig was overrunning, I was meant to be on at 10pm but that's when the second of the three sections began. Fortunately Rich Sandling and Steve Merchant were on, so I watched, enjoyed and felt that I would be too tired to compete with their earlier work. At 11 I got on stage, it was ok, if a little dense and tetchy. Rich Sandling, who travels with a family entourage asked his dad to give me a lift to Euston, which he kindly did.

I don't really remember what I did on Thursday, but I know I ended up at Bury Metro playing to another small crowd. Then I drank wine with Carl Cooper, Lucy Porter and Mick Davis and watched the Micaleff P®ogram. I was great fan of this when I was working in Australia and told my Australian friends that such a thing would probably not make it on to British TV. Two weeks after getting back to London they rang to inform me that it wouldn't make it on Australian TV screens either as Channel 7 had cancelled it.

I continued to write Skins on my journey back to London and then went to a swanky media place for a meeting about Amnesty stuff. I walked through the Hoxton area of London belittling people's beards in my head. I never feel comfortable in media places, there is an air of desperate hipness and perhaps I dislike it because I don't have it. Then to Dorking Halls and then home.

Saturday was the National Secular Society Bye Bye Blasphemy party, which I went along to with Stewart Lee and Darren Hayman. I felt a little odd performing a load of anti-religious nutcase material to a room full of atheists, as if I should really turn it around and perform a load of jokes about why I respect Joseph of Arimithea and enjoy transubstantive wine. Stewart reminded me that there is nothing wrong with comedians playing to an audience of like-minded people. Ian McKellen then read The Love that Dares To Speak Its Name, the last victim of the Blasphemy laws. I ahd never heard a poem with quite so many references to a centurion having sex with Jesus's gaping wounds. I wasn't sure if it was meant to be funny or not, so I put my hand in front of my mouth. Stephen Green complained that the party was not advertised so he could come and picket it and spoil everything and tried to make out it was the cowardly NSS too scared to blaspheme publicly. No Stephen, it was just a party with a theme, sorry you weren't invited. Green is of course invited to the 9 Lessons and Carols for Godless People at the Bloomsbury in December. We can blaspheme for him there if he would like that. He does like to hand out a leaflet of his own making.

Sunday saw me finish off Skins Draft one, but dragged out across day and night due to my inability to just sit and write until I just have to. If only I could be like Graham Greene. Greene got up in the morning, knocked out however many words were required then, even if he was mid-sentence, once he had reached the correct total, he just stopped. This allowed him to spend the rest of the day drinking, playing Russian roulette and having bursts of Catholic guilt.

I took a brief look at Pat Condell's site. Pat has been putting up straight to camera monologues against religion on youtube, sadly, he has proved the point of the evils of religion with the grotesque threats he has received. Most of the threats combine illiteracy with homophobia, anti-Semitism and racism.

Look here if you want to be disturbed by the minds around us - http://patcondell.net/page4/page4.html

Then cheer yourself up by watching some George Carlin. I am writing a piece about him for the New Humanist and so have spent much of the day watching his fabulous stand up, a constant reminder to try harder.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=MeSSwKffj9o

5:46 PM - 8 Comments - 11 Kudos - Add Comment

Jack Klugman’s toupee at 130am

"that's what the future is all about, a decreasing choice of goods sold in an increasing number of geographical locations"

That's a line I tried to make work tonight as I delivered a very bleary eyed set to a tired audience after walking by Shepherd's Bush's proud new shopping emporium in waiting. Thank heavens that those starved of Next trousers by their inability to travel 4 miles can now reach out and touch the cotton hems they require. Steve Merchant was .. me conquering a room with the brilliance of his turn of phrase and hilarious looming physical presence. High and Mighty was shamed by his turn of phrase.

I spent most of the day travelling to or sitting in Bristol for the reading of three Skins scripts. The new cast of actors young enough to be my children (had I put the effort in somewhat earlier in life) look achingly full of potential. I am nearing the end of my first draft for my effort and thoroughly enjoyed sitting on the train back to Paddington writing a scene that currently floats in the ether of Final draft waiting for connecting plot points.

In a previous blog made a snide comment about glossy gossip magazines full of "cellulite and miscarriage". A fellow blogger suggested that I would have to fight hard to find a word more unfunny than miscarriage. The problem with blogging, much like texting, is you hear a delivery in your head that may be very different in the mental reading of those that see it. I did not wish to belittle the ugly experience of miscarriages, more the way that glossy mags feed off personal horror and demote tragedy to another item to be placed in the trough of pictorial, rail station newsagent consumption.

I have found a sentence in my notebook that says "the foul leather vessel that is Amanda Platell" but I can't remember how she has annoyed me again now.

I went to the Amnesty Media awards on Tuesday, which was brilliantly helmed by Moira Stewart. It's an odd sort of awards as you feel as an audience member that you should applaud the victors, but you remain sombre due to the grotesque stories these winners have highlighted. I continue to notice that I have become more emotional since becoming a father, this situation was made worse by the event's use of Vaughan Williams' Variations on a Theme by Thomas Tallis.

I had to rush from the event to a benefit for MIND on the Tattershall Castle, but the translated words of a woman in the Congo who had been repeatedly raped before seeing two of her children killed followed by a rope being placed around her baby's neck which she was then forced to pull did not put me in the mood for making jokes. The fickle nature of humanity meant that after a few minutes I was rambling and shouting like your average jester. Most of the documentary subjects of the nominees highlighted the use of religion to manipulate an angry mob to commit atrocities. I am not so naïve as to think that the removal of religion would remove vile behaviour, it will be a long battle, possibly a fruitless one, to create a world free of manipulative fundamentalism of any kind. I am still a keen fan of heaping huge funds into education, from parents to schools to pamphleteers, but it seems there is less immediate money there compared to the excitingly buoyant but ludicrously subsidised arms trade. Yes yes, it's late and I'm tired and I am po-faced.

(then as I left the 1.15am train where I had been hammering out this vitriol, a shaven headed man approached me. He told me how much he liked my stand up and so I smiled and continued my journey with a spring in my step. And thus we see the true shallow egotism of the supposedly occasional crusading comedian)

Oh and in case you don't know, I just write these late at night, don't reread them, and only feel the sting of embarrassment some days later

5:34 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Oi Incey

I was hoping to finish my first draft of Skins this weekend, but as I spent most of my journey to Devon surfing on the metal plates of the vestibule area, typing and thinking was relegated while concentrating on not falling over was promoted.

Saturday's gigs at Covent Garden and Gipsy Hill were both fun as I railed and preached and gesticulated with my Vicar's DNA. My live agent had thought that the journey from the west end to south east London would be a doddle, I knew otherwise and was sadly correct. My gig in Gillingham on Sunday was less impressive, a vague collection of half forgotten words spoken to a small group of people in a pub. This is when I realise that I lack that necessary professionalism that means you approach every night with the same showbiz verve and dazzle, but sometimes my brain just seems to be on something else.

On my walk back home, I looked up at the few stars not obscured by the bleed of light from the surrounding towns, but couldn't remember why they twinkle. I seem to recall it is something to do with light travelling through the atmosphere, but can't remember anything specific. Damn this brain and its lack of retention, what's the pint of reading books about twinkling stars and the big bang if I don't have total recall?

The Reprieve demonstration about Binyam Mohamed went peacefully, with just a few policeman making sure they got photos of us all just so they'll be a nice new record of those Communist agitators who seem to think that extraordinary rendition and torture are a little bit off. Both Barney the Dinosaur and the actor Kevin Eldon were in attendance. We donned our orange underpants (as previously worn with Bill Bailey outside Lush on Regents Street) and were then led in rousing Barney style song with added barbs by Clive Stafford Smith. We were unable to march down Whitehall to wave at GW Bush in our orange underwear of protest, which was a pity as it would have been enjoyable to have been in court some days later saying, "then m'lud the policeman told me I could go no further and he demanded I took my pants off. There were a couple of Christians in the group, another reminder for Christopher Hitchens that just because you have some faith in the bible, it doesn't mean you are an utter lunatic. I may be an atheist, but I still find Hitchens seems more interested in being cross about religion than anything else. I thought of him in Hay again, smiting the middle-aged lady who could have cycled out of a George Orwell essay in such a bullish manner. Just because you like Jesus (even if he might have been fictional) doesn't mean you have to be a vain sociopath lunatic hankering for war like Stephen Green. I read a degree paper yesterday which quoted Green wearing an ingenious cape of supposed reasonableness – "we should all be free to criticise each others religions in decent, respectful, moderate tones". This is the same Stephen Green who recently described Allah as Satan on Dispatches.

There has been recent spate of men shouting "Incey!" at me when I have walked by pubs, one a day for the last 4 days. I do not know what has brought this on and never know how to react. I attempt a cheery wave and the hobble on, thinking "Incey does not suit me well, I shuffle too much".

(oh and check out reprieve.org and write a letter to your MP if you can about Binyam Mohamed)

5:27 PM - 6 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

all typos caused by train motion

"it's so cool having a French hairdresser, it's every girls dream…and he's gay"
"Never go to Toni and guy they like only know three haircuts"
"I mean, all my floors are like laminate you know"
And so on and so on and so on.
These are the most exciting sentences from the two women behind me on the train from Plymouth. This is one of the great untruths of soaps and dramas, no TV show could quite handle the neverending hours of tedious dialogue that springs forth from us everyday. If only we could ration our conversations, but once you put two people face to face, for some reason there is a necessity to fill each others ears with a multitude of empty statements. Why is it so hard no to talk to a mini cab driver? Why can't we just stare out the window while he listens to Melody FM? Sometimes you see an old couple sitting in a pub. They are saying nothing, just staring into the distance at a ghost that maybe hovering in the gaudy wallpaper. You may look at their octogenarian faces and think, "how sad and how bored are they?" Or have they just learnt that they can be in each other's company without waffling?
Fortunately as I write this Tank Park Salute has muddied the words behind me and I am travelling on one of Britain's best strips of railway, between Newton Abbot and Exeter, a Brunel marvel that teeters towards the sea and then tears through chunks of rock.

My favourite quote concerned the now twentysomethings fond memory of an innocent youth – "I mean, we used to go out in black trousers and a low cut top, not too low cut, but nowadays"

I think it was John Betjeman who once complained about the necessity to have music everywhere, as if people feared the silence, perhaps hearing their own thoughts unfettered by Tina Turner or Westlife. As I ate my Coco Pops in the hotel this morning, I wondered how many people swallowing fried yolks around me were gaining any joy from the carefully manufactured pop that came from the speakers around us.

In my grouchy "but why don't the people want to learn things way", I felt vaguely disappointed as I heard a woman at the newsagent in Paddington saying, "It's ok, I've got the magazines – Now, New, Heat and Grazia". All that glossy cellulite and miscarriage and only two History magazines available. So two magazines that can cover everything that has happened ever and 97 on some beaches and a thong. I wish I could somehow attach a Milton misquote about how they pluck out our eyes and then berate us for being blind, but I don't think I can.

As it is a longish journey I have read both The Guardian and the Daily Mail. The Daily Mail had a free copy of Michael Caine's The Whistle Blower, which was filmed in Cheltenham when I was a schoolboy there. Caine drove by boys walking to school one day and waved, it was one of the most exciting days of the eighties for a boy in Cheltenham. I missed it as I was looking at my shoes. There was little in either paper. The caricature of a columnist Amanda Platell complained of British cynicism towards David Davis. As Platell makes her living ladling out cynical spit I am not sure she is the correct person to now weep over the demise of passion and sincerity.

The Guardian magazine had its usual Bikini fashion shoot, the page 3 for the middlebrow and something dull and concerned about Cornflakes. On the plus side, Miranda Richardson was the subject of the Q & A. She was one of my earlier teenage crushes. In the eighties there was a day where celebrities of the time became shop assistants in Covent Garden to raise money for AIDS charities. You would buy a T shirt then trek from store to store hoping to get Jonathan Ross or Sarah Greene's signature on the back of the shirt. I did no such thing, I merely found the shop with Miranda Richardson in, blushingly got the autograph and departed. That was me as a youth.

George Bush is currently doing his victory lap of shame around the globe, I believe he will be near Downing Street some time tomorrow afternoon. The government have banned a protest. Reprieve are attempting to organise a demonstration to highlight the plight of Binyam Mohamed. They'll be gathering outside the National Gellery at 3pm.

3:20 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

As the Heron flies

Once a month I walk down the canal to The Three Horseshoes where I perform a new twenty minutes of material. When I first did the gig it was mid-Winter and I slid and fumbled in the dark, occasionally teetering towards to the canal water. Now it is summer, the walk is a charming nature documentary of herons, ducks and middle-aged men smoking their pipes while pondering their painted barges. The danger of this situation is that it will put me in such a good mood I might start whistling on stage like a happy thatcher. Fortunately, the fear of failure provides just enough shadow of paranoia to pull back from such glee. Anyway, they are a very nice audience and I am told that the puddings are very good too. After the gig, Duncan Oakley's fiancée remembered to tell me how awful I was on Streetcred Sudoku, indeed, how awful we all were.

I have been immersed in Skins writing this week, a new series full of new characters is a daunting but adrenalin arousing proposition. The episode I am writing is uite la..te in the series, so I live in fear that, as I finish the first draft, the script editor will ring me up and say, "you know that character that your plot hinges around? Well we've decided that he is going to die of meningitis the episode before". And then it all starts again ( I would like to make it clear that all information I have just written about Skins bears no resemblance to characters written or unwritten as yet).

I have also been giddily preparing the 9 Lessons and Carols for a Godless Christmas show – Mark Thomas seems very excited by it and may even bring a harmonium on the back of a truck. He comes from solid preaching stock so the show should end with a rousing rendition of 19th century brimstone hymns from him.

"Existentialism is less a philosophical than a bad mood" is a quote I enjoyed in a book on Sunday.

On my train journey back from Manchester I was seated opposite an Orthodox Jew who mumbled a prayer while rocking back and forth with increasing velocity throughout the two hour journey. I called my adviser on all things Jewish from the vestibule area to discover what this was about. Bennett informed me that it might be a morning prayer or possibly a travelling prayer. When I am up close to such brainwashed fervour I become a perplexed 21st century man wondering how the enlightenment floundered. If only Alexander the Great hadn't died so young and if only mad Cyril hadn't flayed Hypatia, the last librarian of Alexandria, maybe it would all be different, but they did and it's not. Dave Allen once said that he believed God might prefer atheists, because at least they weren't bothering him all the time.

5:49 AM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Should a Manager Marry a Factory Hand?

I have been very shabby on documenting my life through narcissistic blogs this week due to a combination of travelling around without my computer and writing Skins at any moment that I can steal time on someone else's computer

On Wednesday morning I met up with a very nice TV producer person and discussed an idea for show based around the last series of podcasts. I took my high horse out of the field again and mumbled about how I don't really care about being on TV unless a show can involve footage of Richard Feynman playing the bongos, a look at Victorian taxidermy and some discussion of mythical monsters from the deep. Actually, those weren't my precise words, though the bongo playing did come up in conversation I think back not that far in my past and remember when TV seemed so much more important to me than it does now, though that's not why I did all those talking heads shows. The reason I did all those talking heads shows is that someone asked and I, with my fearful self-employed head and heart clawed for cash. I wish I had learnt some lessons earlier, but it took realising that a BBC3 documentary I had filmed betrayed some of those involved and a hideous appearance on Mock the Week to see the danger in television. Later that day I felt smugly ethical when I turned down doing a test voiceover for a commercial involving a financial institution. I am sure I wouldn't have become the chosen voice of doubloons and insurance anyway, so rather than receive a small fee and then face rejection, I have bought even more hay for high horse to nibble on in my mind.

I then had lunch with Caspar from the New Humanist who sems very excited by the godless Nine Lessons and Carols. I do not want it to turn into a merciless attack on religion, rather a joyous celebration of stars that definitely do exist and get followed by the Hubble telescope, amongst other things. It has really come about because of my annoyance with Stephen Green (the man who wears gull poo) constantly muttering that he thought I was anti-Christmas when I appeared with his powdered face on London Talking. It looks like we have Simon Singh, Stewart Lee, Ben Goldacre, Josie Long, Gavin Osborn, Sue Vale, Peter Buckley Hill and Tim Minchin (if he's not off somewhere else) so far. I am hoping to get Steve Jones (author of Almost Like A Whale) and AC Grayling too, but they have not got back to me yet. Perhaps my email to them made me appear to be a lunatic. I also hope to find a choir prepared to perform for wine and snacks.

Then it was the Skins meeting and then home to watch peak time TV. My wife does not understand why TV makes me so angry and I don't know either. I briefly saw Trinny and Susannah teaching the nation to artfully moon, the rest has been erased from my mind. (I was disgusted the night before to see David Blunkett on the F Word. Everyone has to be a celebrity now, even rancorous ex-home secretaries with a Lothario streak).

And then I went to Barton on Trent and then I had no idea what I was talking about onstage and then I ate some Indian food from the very nice people at the Ropewalk and then I went to bed and then I went to Manchester and then…

Oh and the title of this blog is just one of the many questions answered in a fabulous old book I bought yesterday entitled Real Life Problems and Their Solutions

7:53 AM - 8 Comments - 11 Kudos - Add Comment

and then and then and then

I have come up with another of my grand non-profit making ideas. I am going to attempt to do a 9 lessons and carols for atheists at the Bloomsbury just before Christmas. It may be called Winterval Wonderland. I hope to get some top notch philosophers, comedians, scientists and musicians. As we have more than one good book to choose from there are loads more lessons to choose from.

Kilkenny was interesting and strange and occasionally ended in treble gins.

My first annoyance was getting to security at Luton and being forced to turn back to get a little see-through bag. I had my small shampoo and roll on deodorant out, I just hadn't seen any bags to put them in. Apparently the machines can only detect explosives if there is a thin veil of plastic around your toiletries. Alternatively, freezer bags are so strong that should a crazed zealot decide to detonate suddenly, the just cooked freshness of the terror is kept safely sealed. Pac a macs may save us yet. The reason that I had not seen any bags on my way was because they were hidden behind a door and cost £1 from a magic, terror beating, but corporate enhancing, plastic mould wasting dispenser.

Once that was out of the way and I cooled down from my terrifying outbreak of sarcasm, I meandered to the plane with Lucy Porter.

Kilkenny is a small, pretty town and the festival is so pleasant and well-run that you can't even smell the comedians' egos, an aroma that normally hangs in the air like brimstone at many lesser but more gigantic festivals.

Lee Mack mentioned that the frightening issue of the festival is the strength of the bills (nearly all shows are 3 acts and a compere), "you may sometimes look at a bill in your day to day existence and think, ah well there is one ropy act, but not here". I corrected his outlook, "I look at a bill and think no ropey acts on here, so that must mean the ropey act is me". I realize at festivals such as this that I really just see myself as an amateur after all this time. I watch top notch comics and think, "that's how it should look, the poise, the demeanour, the expert delivery of barbs" and then I think of the shambling man I am. This, I suppose, means I fulfill my role as an Englishman in the world.

The I did a gig with Ardal O Hanlon, then I drank some gin with Josie Long and others, then I was worried by a tall woman who kept asking me to dance, and despite my repeated declaration "no no no no I don't dance" she asked again and again and so I left and watched the embers of Mark Wahlberg's Rock Star while eating my emergency Sesame Snaps then I woke up and then Sunday started…

...Sunday had actually started some time earlier, but I missed some of it. It would be arrogant of me to think Sunday would refuse to start until I was awake, many people had been experiencing Sunday moring for some time...

8:01 PM - 8 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

the briefest yet

I am off to Kilkenny tomorrow morning, so this is very brief, indeed I have little to say.

I spent most of the day writing a script that I will probably look back at on Monday with horror and think, "Why did I send that to the script editor, I am an imbecile?"

The I went to Wellingborough where i didn't think the audience would like me much, and I was right. Despite that, I quite enjoyed it. I  mainly stuck by my guns, though I occasionally reverted to some older, rustier guns in the hope of a bigger laugh. I felt divisive in my choice of words.

8:34 PM - 2 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment