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A local gig with a bit of an end of term atmosphere in Hertford tonight, in the county town of my new home and very close to where we would now be living had the vendors not mysteriously pulled out of the sale at the last minute (after we’d paid for the survey etc), the cunts.
My friend Steve was in and found himself sitting behind me in the audience. I don’t know how that is possible, but the camera never lies. It seems Me2 might have taken physical form. Or possibly the me of the past (judging by hair colour) has travelled forward in time in order to see the show I am currently doing and record it, so he doesn’t have to write it. The Lazy prick. I had to work hard on this and I don’t like him sweeping in and taking all the glory without having to lift a finger (except to invent time travel - kudos for that at least).
I was in skittish mood, messing around and showing off my local knowledge by naming local towns (which to be fair I could have done at any time). When I discussed how polite I would be if I wanted to show anyone my genitalia, the woman I picked on was very vociferous in her head shaking indicating that she was not interested in seeing my penis or testicles. Which is fine. That’s what the routine is about - the importance of gaining consent. But it’s hypothetical, there’s no need to be rude. Just because I am 50 and my genitalia is ragged. It’s possible to turn down the offer without being insulting. And it wasn’t an offer anyway. I wouldn’t show her my genitalia unless she was really insistent about her need to see it - perhaps if she thought it could somehow cure a terminal disease. What kind of man wouldn’t show a stranger his penis in those circumstances.
Anyway part way through my final routine the woman who had been so dismissive of my penis (I mean she was right to be as it’s a horrible one, but she couldn’t have known that) put her hand up. I thought maybe she’d reconsidered, or at least wanted to apologise. But she wanted to tell me that her and her husband were the ones who had gazumped me for the nearby house. She was very pleased with herself.
I don’t think she had gazumped me, as the vendor had withdrawn the house from sale and then months later got back in touch to see if we were still interested. But perhaps they had two buyers on the go and were trying to trade us off. If so they fucked that up, because we had another house by then. But anyway, this woman seemed pleased that she’d got the house that we had been two weeks from owning and which we’d paid to have a survey for. I told her it was fine and that the house we had now was much nicer than hers, anyway. We’d been planning to extend the kitchen and I asked if she was going to do the same, but she said they couldn’t afford that. “Oh, I could,†I told her. The audience were delighted. It was a bit weird to have interrupted the show at this point to show off about owning a house that I had nearly owned. And they were pleased that I was quite easily slamming her. I wish I’d said that they could have bought our survey report off us too.
The show felt like a bit of a dream (and not entirely in a good way), but I got through it. My parents-in-law were along to see it and infuriatingly my wife’s dad got his wallet stolen out of his back pocket as he queued at the bar. I am glad we didn’t live in this terrible place!
I don't know how the GDR still had power to influence my emails after the fall of the Berlin Wall, but just in case I am not allowed to email anyone any more I sent out a quick newsletter today.
Here it is. 
