Hitler was born today.
Norris McWhirter died today.
Draw your own conclusions.
Was Norris struck down by the CNPS gods in order to persuade me to go ahead with my plan to learn the Guinness Book of Records (a plan I had previously rejected when I realised that it would be impossible and drive me more mental than CNPS)? I picked up my Guinness Book of Records and took it with me to Greenwich to look at before the gig.
It was weird to return to Greenwich so soon after the Marathon. My legs still ached (though not as badly as yesterday), though at least none of my body was a different colour than I am used to.
There were no sandwiches at the Greenwich Theatre or food of any kind, giving the Greenwich Theatre a sandwich rating of -1. So instead I went to Pizza Express, which was much nicer anyway.
After my meal, I hobbled up to the Cutty Sark, which I had been one of the high points of the Marathon (great crowds, I was still feeling full of running), but this time it made me feel a bit sick. The Marathon is a hard thing to relive in your memory without being overcome with the pain and torment. And yet already a small voice in my head is saying "Why not try and do it next year and see if you can beat four hours?"
Then a big voice is shouting, "Fuck off!"
And the small voice says, "You don't intimidate me, just because you are louder than me."
And the big voice says, "You come here and say that."
And the small voice says, "No, you come here."
And the big voice says, "But you're so small that I don't know where you are. And in any case we are both just imaginary."
And the small voice says, "Ha ha!"
The gig was well attended and great fun, though I felt a bit wobbly at times, as a result of the race. I forgot a few bits and there were a couple of arrogant mistakes on the technical side of things, but it was generally a really fun and relaxed show.
It didn't register with me at all that this was the last time that I am likely to do it. I think I was just concentrating on trying to remember what came next, as well as not collapsing because of my aching lower limbs.
But it wasn't until running back on for my bow that I really remembered how much my legs hurt. Being on stage is the cure for all ills. I thinkn doctors should just force their patients to perform in a theatre and however serious their condition, for the time of the show at least they would recover and be well.
It's the end of a largely genital-based two year period in my life and I suppose it is something of a relief that it is over. But I never get bored of the show in all that time. I was still finding new stuff in it right to the end.
As if to emphasise this end I go to Inverness tomorrow to slay the Loch Ness Monster (perhaps also symbolically the Cock Ness Monster after all) for the new show.
I hope I kill it. I want to take that smug smile off of its stupid face.