Oh yes Michael Legge, I see your game now. Get me really drunk so that I again wake up really early, despite being in one of the quietest hotels yet (all I heard from next door was the politest ever controlled sneeze at about 8am - though it could have been the loudest ever ptuff of an orgasm) and then by the time I've got back to Wolverhampton, even though all sense says that I am going in the wrong direction I am pretty much too fucked up to tie my own shoe laces, let alone then perform in an award nominated show and then write an award nominated blog. Then you can just roll in with your stupid sketch shows and fledgling yet somehow award winning blog and take all the baubles and accolades that belong to me.
Very clever. Perhaps a little bit too clever. No actually, thinking about it, just exactly clever enough.
But it didn't work because although I was very tired, so tired that I don't really remember driving 100 miles south, which makes me think my car was borne aloft by a flock of flying comedy pixies whose only role in life is to ensure that cutting edge, slightly self-indulgent comedy is performed in front of the 150 people who want to see it.
"Don't Drive Tired" said the electronic sign above the motorway - then what am I supposed to do? I have to get to my gig and none of the service stations will let me park in their car park for more than 2 hours, presumably in case I end up spending too much in their ridiculously expensive establishments. Should I just stop the car where I was, in the middle lane of the motorway and have a sleep? No, of course I shouldn't. So give me some constructive advice, you motherfucking useless electronic sign. Pretend you're in LA Story and then pretend that that is actually a good film, rather than the first step to the artistic suicide that was Pink Panther II - the Pissing on the Dead Face of Peter Sellers and the Anal Rape of His Skellington, as I believe it is called.
I somehow drifted through the day though it felt a bit unreal and I realised as I began the show that my voice was cracking due to all the shouting I had done in the Bumper bar (thus a night there without a fight had actually done me more physical damage than the night with one). I made a couple of minor errors and nearly forgot where I was a couple time, as one of the segments of my divided mind tried to work out how I could change an upcoming section where I say the word "realistically" too many times - managed to substitute one of them for an actually. Will try to hone the rest down over the next couple of performances. I have got to the stage where such minor concerns are all I have left.
My favourite moment of the show tonight was seeing the disbelieving face of a lady in the audience as I explained I was staying in the worst hotel in what is surely the worst town in the world. She was aghast at my chutzpah and yet amused by my astonishing rudeness and arrogance all in one. I actually like Wolverhampton. I mean, as much as such a thing is possible. But her aghast, yet happy face was one of the loveliest works of art that I have crafted with my ridiculous and pointless art. And yes my jokes about wanking are art. What you going to do about it? Look aghast and yet amused? In that case you're just playing into my hands. That is what I like.
Despite Legge's subtle sabotage the gig was OK and I definitely was in the best dressing room of my career thus far - it had a whirlpool bath in it for me's sake, not that I used it. It was really intended for the star of whatever was on in the big venue, but no one was on there. One day I will be officially in this dressing room. One of my remaining ambitions is to play the big room in Wolverhampton and for it to be full, mainly because of
this experience. I was a step closer to that after only 6 years. At this rate by the year 2067 I will have fulfilled my dream. I am determined. All I have left is to fill the big venue at Wolverhampton (after just having had a whirlpool bath) and to play one gig at a sold out Hammersmith Apollo. Luckily both things are so far away that I will have to keep working and not sleeping and travelling on a magic carpet to achieve these ends. So there will be plenty more crap for you all to enjoy.
The Wolverhampton crew are big readers of the blog and twitter and listeners to the podcast and had pulled out the stops to make my backstage experience as luxurious as possible. It was no five M&S sandwiches, but they did provide a salmon salad (which I didn't eat cos I had brought my own chicken noodle one) and other bits and pieces, including a yoghurt - not that I like those any more than the average person.
But certainly their artist (and I am a fucking artist, how dare you suggest otherwise?) was second to none. I was treated like a king, who could have a whirlpool bath if he liked. A dirty king.
Thanks to Rich and Michelle from the audience who saw me trudging back to my hotel and invited me into a quiet bar for a drink. They were charming and affable company and I hope they have beautiful babies together. But they got me drunk enough to write this ridiculous late night entry. I am better at blogging drunk, than podcasting drunk.
Luckily for Michael Legge's limited plans to be the best blogger/comedian in England there is a loud nightclub opposite my cold room which is playing "Girls just want to have fun" at top volume at the moment. Maybe Morpheus and Bacchus shall combine and I shall overcome such distractions. Or maybe we're going to need a whole lot of pixies to get me to Glasgow tomorrow.
Ridiculously I am enjoying this tour more than ever. There seems to be nothing that they can throw at me to make it awful. Because the awful things only make it better. But get back to me after Wolverhampton to Glasgow and Glasgow to Manchester.
I am at least still alive. But this may change.
