The 44th July I have been a part of disappears like a drunken, remorseful lover in the night. My grandma Doris has just completed her 100th July, though I don't think she will realise that.
My voice was croaky and almost non-existent this morning, but I only realised this as I came to order my coffee at breakfast. For the next month illness can hold no dominion. I can't afford to miss a gig. Just as I can't afford to pay £25 a day to have a man operate the explosive pyro that I was hoping to have in the show (plus the cost of the device and charge themselves). Maybe that will be a little extra for the tour.
Newcastle was a surprisingly long two and a half hour drive from Scarborough and I arrived at around about 3, wondering if I should try and sleep more and hope for some recovery or go and have some late lunch. I opted for the latter.
In the short walk to the cafe I was recognised twice by people who addressed me by my full name, which is impressive in a town that I play only once a year in a smallish 170 seater theatre. One of the people who said hello was a busker who simply said "Richard Herring, what is the time?" I told him.
On the way back from my sandwich and coffee I was deep in thought about the end of the show, which I am trying to add some major new arguments to without convoluting what is already a quite satisfactory denouement. It might make the finale cleverer, but will it make it better?
The busker saw me and for the second time this year I was heckled by a man with a guitar in the street (though this time he did not sing). "Smile! " he instructed me, "For God's sake you're a comedian."
I pretended to ignore this dumb remark. Though clearly some people expect that if you make people laugh for a living that you should always be happy and conversely probably believe if they see a comedian and he isn't smiling that in real life he must be miserable and depressive. But what kind of a life would I have if I was smiling or laughing all the time and how would the vast majority of people who have no idea who I am respond to me. I would be carted away pretty quickly.
You wouldn't make this comment about any other profession. If you saw an undertaker smiling when he wasn't working you wouldn't chastise him. If you saw a plumber drinking in a pub you wouldn't ask him why he wasn't fixing a toilet. If you saw a comedian on stage and he was smiling all the way through and laughing at his own jokes you'd probably think (with a few notable exceptions) that he wasn't very good. Part of the job of the comedian is actually not to laugh or smile himself. So it's weird to expect him to be doing so in real life, as it is to think that because of his job he would never be unhappy (the opposite is true most of the time - it's not an easy way to make a living. Not when pyro operators cost £25 for one tiny explosion).
It was doubly odd coming from someone at least ostensibly in the entertainment industry and what in fact was most notable was that the busker had spoken these words. I had been tempted to respond, "Sing! For God's sake you are a busker." At least the guy in York (can't link to the entry on my iPad alas so just search for busker or York - I am now on a proper computer
here it is) had sung his insults at me. And I liked the idea of the busker who had just addressed me having to spend his whole life singing everything he said whilst accompanying himself on his guitar to make sense of his own criticism of me.
I wasn't even depressed I was just thinking.
And thinking is a large part of the job of the comedian.
The irony being that I was thinking about my show, so I actually was working as he accused me of forgetting what my job was in what he assumed was some down time.
The Live Theatre gig was, as always a good one and the staff were helpful and efficient and the crowd very much up for it. Can't quite believe that that is the last preview. Or that I haven't yet managed to address the repairs and rewriting work that is still required - but I have a few days grace. And it works as it is if the worst comes to the worst. I croaked my way through a bit, although my voice bizarrely improved if anything during the course of the performance. And I didn't feel dizzy during or wiped out afterwards, though enjoyed another herbal tea as some of my friends from Viz drank beer around me.
Somehow I have managed to go for 20 days without a drink now.
I was tired enough though and had an early night, and allowed the essentially naked people of Newcastle (who looked very much like a Viz magazine come to life) to get on with their rowdy Saturday night.
I do like it here.
