The people of Derby had a difficult choice to make tonight. It was either me or the Drifters. We were both playing at the Assembly Rooms. Who would you choose? Hold on, this probably isn't a representative sample?
Derby is the home of "The Drifters and Richard Herring Fan Club", a society for people who love both the 60 year old pop group and the sweary, cock-obsessed comedian and NO ONE ELSE. One in five Derby citizens is a member of this strange organisation and yet the Assembly Rooms had chosen to force them to make a decision tougher than the one Meryl Streep makes in "Sophie's Choice" with much more die consequences. How could they decide between the two things that they loved? But somehow they managed to. And most of them went to see the Drifters. Fair enough. They must all be about 90 years old now, this is the last chance you might get to see them, whilst I am young and have decades of talking about cocks ahead of me. Though I have to say the Drifters are holding up remarkably well for men of their age.
They all look under forty.
I tried to tempt the floating Richard Herring/Drifter fans in by saying I would slip a few of their songs into my set, but the Drifters sensing my victory then declared that they would surreptitiously get cock references into their songs. They would start with "Up on my Cock" and then "Under the Board Walk, I'll be showing you my cock" and then "C'mon on over to my place. C'mon I'll show you my cock." Then "Saturday Night at the Movies, don't care what picture we see. As long as you show me your cock." They seemed to have run out of ideas after their clever subversion of "Up on The Roof".
If the Drifters had any integrity they would only play their new stuff and refuse to play any of the classics. But they're coasting now. Unlike me coming up with new material every single year. I would never trade on past glories. They make me sick. It would be great to see how disappointed their crowd would be if they played none of the classics. Though not as good as if they put a cock in every song.
A couple of hundred people chose me over the Drifters so I guess I can be pleased and this time no one left in the first 30 seconds having realised they were in the wrong hall (as happened when Christ on a Bike was up against a big Christian convention). It's always bitter-sweet when you're getting to the end of a tour. You're happy to let a show go after all this time, but also slightly sad that this is one of the last times you'll be performing a well-crafted routine. Maybe Talking Cock will be back on 2023 for a 20th anniversary special or maybe one day I will do a little season of all my old shows. But if not then there's only the slight anti-climax of a poorly attended gig in Leicester between me and the end of my Cock. It's been a blast, but I don't have time to relax after this final ejaculation. The death of one show means the birth of another. About death. No one said it wasn't confusing.
I had been a bit worried about writing a version of my
"Why Liberals are more racist than Racists" routine for the Metro. I assumed a fair percentage of people would miss the irony or take exception to it on some other level, but only a very few did (you can see a couple of them in the comments section). Most people seemed to get it though and I am glad that I am able to bring complicated and slightly confusing ideas to the readership of this free newspaper. I have been given astonishing freedom with these articles and had pretty much no interference or censorship from the editor. Thanks for all the positive comments about this one!
