Tonight was definitely my most difficult of the three performances at the Frog and Bucket. A section of the audience took offence at my assertion that I was delighted at the death of John Paul II (even though I was happy because he is in Heaven now, which is surely what he wanted) and my paedophile material (even though I clearly stated that I thought paedophilia was wrong. I don't care how unpopular that opinion makes me. One day, the majority will see that having sex with children is wrong and will start lambasting the Catholic priests who do it, rather than the comedians who dare to question whether such a thing is right). I had fun combatting the fooles who did not understand me, though apparently made things worse for myself because I mistakenly thought the heckling was coming from a table with a stag night on it, who I then laid into ("God hates wasting sperm - and I can see 10 wasted sperm sitting right over there" etc). It is better to attack the people who are hating you already, rather than unnecessarily turning the more positive elements of the room against you. This is something that takes time to learn!
Through bluster and misplaced confidence (though I was slightly thrown for a while) I did manage to win most of the audience round to me. A man took offence when I asked his wife to wank me off. "It's a joke," I told him, "I don't really want her to wank me off. Though if you think about it, that's just as offensive a thing to say. I would of course love your wife to wank me off, who wouldn't. She's gorgeous, but in reality, out of respect to you, I would never ask her to do such a thing." And so on.
It was fun. Horrible fun. The kind of fun that leaves you reeling and feeling slightly dirty afterwards. The best kind of fun.
Stag nights were to the bane of my night, because there was also one staying on my floor at my hotel and I was unfortunate enough to be by the lift. At about 2am I was woken from my slumbers by someone banging on my door. "What?" I cried somewhat annoyed, but there was no response. Whether the men outside thought that I might have been a member of the hen night that was also staying in the hotel (in which case they might have been in for a disappointment had I let them in, though not much of one. By this stage of the evening for lads on a stag night, a mouth's a mouth and the uglier the bird you end up shagging the more kudos you receive over breakfast - "That's her, the fat one with the long hair and the beard. She was filthy.")
For the rest of the night loud voiced drunk men and shrieking women traversed the corridor, meaning I got no real sleep. Although this was not the same stag night that had been at the comedy club I realised that this was nonetheless some kind of cosmic revenge for my misidentification of the heckling culprit earlier on. I paid my price. In lack of sleep. And fear that the men might break into the room and take my honour from me.