The magnetic grip of apathy and grumpiness almost prevented me from escaping Salford, but the fact that the BBC was also there acted as a Richard Herring repellent, proving the greater force, ejecting me like a shot from a sling. And I was soon on the road to Lancaster and feeling considerably happier. I think Salford might have been built on an ancient Native American burial ground. It's just a theory. There's a one in a hundred chance that I am wrong.
So far the solitude has not been getting to me and I am (with some notable exceptions) enjoying the driving. I have some writing to do and am finding it hard to get time to do that (or record the audio version of this blog - sorry audiophiles, though what you do with audio makes me sick), but I am having fun in spite of this.
There's a lot of time for introspection and also a lot of time sitting around in dressing rooms waiting for the show to begin, which, as I've noted before does lead to looking at myself (or Me2) in the mirror. So I have been looking outward and inward. Inward is less depressing as it turns out.
A few years back I wrote about noticing the greying of my hair in dressing room mirrors, but the harsh lighting points up all imperfections and the ravages of time.
For a man who thinks so much about getting old and dying I am in surprising denial that it is actually ever going to happen to me. And I am surprised that the reflection I am looking at now not only has more grey hair, but also wrinkles around the eyes and bags as well. It's still like I assume that all mirrors in the world are the mirrors of Dorian Grey and that they show the image of what I would like if I was nearly 45, but miraculously my actual face is still 23, like my mind (who am I kidding? My mind never got that old). But my face is melting, like a super-slowed down version of the man at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade or a Morcock (a Morlock, but with more cocks) being left behind by the Time Machine. The Nazi man was lucky that it all happened for him in seconds - that he didn't get a chance to have to confront his own mortality and the death of his youth and slow journey to that ward of screaming open mouthed, hollow-eyed, old people that I accidentally chanced across before Christmas. Life does a reasonable job of speeding up the last few decades of life, but it's in no way fast enough. For the first time, in the dressing rooms of this tour, I am getting a view of the old man that I am about to become. But just like the thirty-something idiot who thought he was old because he had a few grey hairs, I will fail to grasp what remains of my youth and just look back in a few times wishing that that was still the extent of my problems. I wish I could live in the moment. I am always at least five years behind the moment. I enjoy the moment five years later, in hindsight, from afar, but I'd love to be able to enjoy the moment, in the moment. I am a man trapped in his own future.
The Lancaster Grand is a beautiful old theatre and after last night's minor difficulties it was great to be back with an enthusiastic and helpful and friendly crew. My tech came out to the car without being asked to grab my stuff, a jolly Father Christmas cousin was the stage manager, giving me the thumbs up from the wings when it was time to go on and the front of house staff clearly had real pride and love for their theatre. I think the front of house manager was even wearing a DJ, which was in keeping with the age of the building and a lovely touch. Unlike last night I was by no means sold out (though I think we shifted about 200 tickets, which is great for a town I've never been to), but that seemed to make no difference to the staff. The atmosphere relaxed me, made me happy and want to do a good show. And I didn't even mind that a miscalculation on my part meant I paid them much too great a percentage for the merch I sold. If the people at the theatre are like this nothing like that matters. Some of the bigger venues take a much bigger cut and do so grumpily and grudgingly. Tonight I was happy to make a tiny accidental investment in a brilliant theatre. The people of Lancaster are very lucky.
On getting back to the hotel I was somewhat surprised to discover that I was on the front page of tomorrow's Metro. It was a teaser for my new column rather than a headline disclosing discovery of my awful secret crimes (still a secret - Phew), but in
the column I reveal that I am getting married in April (sorry I kept it from you all - but as some of you suspected we got engaged in Thailand) so the front page splash made it look like this was news (which I imagine will leave most of the Metro readership non-plussed). Yes, I've made the perfect move. Hooking a beautiful woman just as my looks are about to go. And there's no way out for her. Ha ha ha. Oh apart from killing me.
After having loads of photos taken at the Lowry the other day I was surprised to see that the front page shot was of me, leering in a creepy manner with a Hitler moustache (the image I am expecting them to use when the full extent of my crimes comes to light). But you can't have everything. Some people announce their marriage in the Times, but not many get paid (admittedly not much) to have the announcement made on the front page of a national newspaper. A free newspaper. I am classy.
And if you want to find out what devastating effect this revelation has had on Me2, then you can tune into
Frame 9 of Me1 vs Me2 snooker. I think it's definitely the best of this series yet, but that might not be saying too much. It's (potentially) the podcast of Olympic champion (s).
