Only just over halfway through the tour and I am falling apart. My neck pain is getting worse (and tonight I wondered if it might be partly down to the wobbly headed Stewart Lee impression I do every night - I suppose I should ask him if his neck hurts and clicks all the time), my wrist is also painful from some unspecified twist earlier in the run (not a wanking accident whatever you may be thinking) and my lower back pain had returned. I was again a little bit light-headed during the show tonight, to the point that I wasn't entirely sure if I was speaking actual words. I thought I might just be going "blah blah blah" as my brain went through the script and the audience, perhaps used to my snooker podcasts, thought it was all some kind of experimental theatre.
This is a young man's game. But I can pretend to be a young man at least for the 90 minutes on stage, if I am no longer up to acting like a young man off it.
I am totally falling apart. Who could have predicted that touring a comedy show would be so dangerous?
And it's not just my body that is showing signs of wear and tear. My mind is fraying too. By this stage of the tour it's easy to forget where you are and I live in fear of saying the wrong town name on stage. When I was in Barnsley I kept thinking I was in Bradford (or the other way round, I can't remember) and the more you think about it to try and clarify the situation the more you come to doubt the truth.
Tonight I was in Buxton, but it felt like Derby to me and I wasn't sure how I was going to remember where I was when I was on stage. But luckily my crew, perhaps mindful of comedians mixing up their town with others had kindly printed up a special label for my water bottle saying "Buxton". This was beyond the call of duty and it looked like they'd spent some money designing and printing the label. So thanks to them for that. Every time I forgot where I was I just took a drink of water and bang I remembered. I wish more places would do this. From now on my drink will tell me where I am. Tonight my hotel was in Merlot, which wasn't very convenient for the gig.
The gig had been better attended than I had expected and I noticed that Lee and Herring had been reunited in poster form on the side of the Opera House (he's here in a few days, though he's playing the big venue whilst I was in the still quite large studio theatre). And though it was another longish drive to get here, it was through more incredible countryside, travelling between the districts of lake and peak. I had stopped off at the Westmoreland Farm service station on the M6, the only independently owned service station in the country, which is always a pleasure and foolishly bought bags of aniseed balls and liquorice (my diet is going to shit as I try to stay awake on these long journeys, but hopefully I can pull things back in the month before the wedding). I wonder why there aren't more independent service stations. I would have thought there would be a killing to be made from anyone who was happy to set up a place where food and petrol cost the same as it did everywhere else in the country or just where the customers were given a more personalised and enjoyable experience. But what do I know? I'm only a customer.
I listened to more of my Dickens autobiography audiobook as I drove. I find myself drifting in and out a little bit and it's certainly not ideal for long drives when I am tired, but I am enjoying the bits that my brain is tuning into, if disappointingly it turns out that Dickens was a bit of a dick: arrogant, unwilling to admit he was wrong and a complete git to his wife, certainly when they broke up, refusing to admit any culpability and trying to load the blame on to her. I suspect many people who seem to have a social conscience are in fact only making a show of things to make themselves look good, or at least not as efficient at spotting their own hypocrisy as they are at pointing out everyone else's. It's human nature to want to appear to never be wrong and to try and blame anyone but yourself when things go wrong, but it's a pity when you see someone as sharp as Dickens being so thick when it comes to his own foibles. Dicky Dickens.
I get a few nights at home after Sunday's show at the Warwick Arts Centre, moreso than I realised because a long cancelled Stourbridge gig had reinstated itself in my computer calendar. So hopefully I will get to recuperate and my mind and body can heal themselves a little. But first up my return to Warwick Arts. I wonder
if last year's heckler will be back looking for a fight". He has the advantage of me being crippled by decrepitude. So far no Christian has turned up to object to me rubbishing love on this whole tour. I am disappointed in them and I know Jesus is too.
