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Today I flew to Switzerland for a run of four gigs in various cities,
(all the details are here, my many Swiss based fans). Finally it seemed that my x-list celebrity might have paid off, because as I sat in Starbucks having a muffin (that's right, I was performing cunnilingus on a stranger) and drinking a coffee and writing yesterday's blog, a man in offical BA uniform came over to me.
"Excuse me," he said, "Can I just talk to you for a minute?" I thought that perhaps I was in trouble or that I had been marked down as a terrorist and was about to be shot seven times in the head.
I wanted to scream, "I haven't done anything, leave me alone you fascist" and was readying myself to smack him in the face and run. Because I had convinced myself that I was a terrorist in that split second and I didn't want this infidel to ruin my trip to Valhalla, or wherever it is that these religious twats think they will end up.
Luckily before my punch was formed the man said, "I emailed you a few weeks ago about Oscar Deutsch of the Odeon cinema having a toothbrush moustache. And I saw you at the Leicester Square Theatre and remember, you accused me of wanking over the St Trinians film." It was interesting that he didn't deny it.
It was Robin Broad. He had a name tag on and also I still have his email saved in case his piece of info proves useful. He just wanted to say hello.
I was so bamboozled to be recognised that it didn't strike me that I was flying BA to Switzerland and he'd gone before I could ask if he could get me into the executive lounge or upgraded to First class or something. But as far as I knew he probably loaded the luggage on to the planes or something anyway. And I wouldn't want to use the fact that I am a nationally known comedian to give me an unfair advantage.
Why can't my fan be one of the people on the initial check in desk with the power to give me whatever I so desire? Or at least an upgrade. My fans are all rubbish.
Except that when I got to my flight, I realised Robin Broad was there, checking the boarding passes. Jon Richardson was with me by this point and didn't know I had connections.
"Oooh, hello," I said to Robin, "Fancy seeing you here." Then I chanced my arm, "Any chance of an upgrade?"
"I can't" said Robin, "My manager isn't here."
"Well, a lot of fucking use you turned out to be," I wanted to scream in his stupid, useless fan face. But luckily I didn't because then he said, "But look there's no one sitting in the back row of the plane. You can go there if you like."
"Oh thanks," I told him, smiling as if I had never even imagined shouting insults at him, all nice as pie, like I was a good person. "That's very kind of you."
I could see that Jon Richardson was impressed by my powers to be moved to a similar but slightly more roomy bit of the plane. He was well jealous.
And it proved to be very useful for me. With three seats at my disposal I was able to put my computer on one tray, my editor annotated first draft on another and my drink and sandwich on another and had a little sky office going on and got quite a bit done on the short flight.
When I had got on the woman from the cabin crew who was welcoming everyone said, "Hello Mr Herring. I won't say it!"
What wouldn't she say?
Was she another fan amongst this strange clique of BA employees, or more likely was she resisting saying something along the lines of "There's something a bit fishy going on here"? There was no way of knowing. But because I had been treated like a minor celebrity for thirty seconds of the last twenty years I thought maybe my life was changed and I was the new Jordan.
The first gig in Lausanne was fun, with a small, slightly shockable, but appreciative crowd. The whole city seemed to be shut for a public holiday for Ascension Day of all things. But the mainly English audience seemed to get where I was coming from.
I was stupid to take these gigs so close to my book deadline. Or was I? I ended up getting quite a lot done in the three or so hours that I was able to work. Maybe more than I would have done at home.
All I know is that I saw some Swiss Army Knives in the window of one of the closed shops and it revived my childhood dream to own one. Not that I would use it for anything except opening beer bottles. But the inner child might have to be satisfied anyway. What we can't have as kids we covet as adults. And now I can do whatever I like.
Take that mum!
