So last night I was in the seventh circle of Hull and yet this evening I found myself sitting drinking an espresso outside a café somewhere in the middle of Paris. It was quite a culture shock and something of a mind fuck. My tired brain could not quite compute how this had happened. What an odd life this is.
The Eurostar journey had been uneventful, but when I arrived at the Gare de Nord there was a heavy police presence and certain areas of the station were being taped off. The promoter who was there to guide me to my hotel looked confused and worried, “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said, “I am trying to work out if you are worth being blown up for.”
“I am very good,” I reassured him. I didn’t want him to sacrifice his life for nothing.
He then wondered if there might be a riot going on in the Metro, possibly due to the recent election result, but we never found out what was going on. We were out on to the street and heading for a taxi. He had offered me a ride on the back of his scooter, but I had two biggish bags and didnÂ’t think I wanted to take the chance. And I think that secretly I was hoping I would encounter
my beautiful stylish taxi driver again. If I did, then surely this time I would tell her I loved her and we could start our rightful life together.
Alas a surly French man was in the cab at the head of the queue. I didnÂ’t even fancy him a little bit. Maybe if I had met him at the end of the trip I would have settled for him, but just minutes in he had no chance of attracting my affections and I slightly pity him for hoping otherwise.
He drove aggressively through the bustling streets and I was soon at the hotel. I am staying on the fourth floor and had to enter the smallest, thinnest lift I have ever been in to get there. There was scarcely room for me and my two bags, though the sign boasted that the maximum number of occupants was three people. It would have to be three very thin people, who knew each other very well and if they didnÂ’t they would become pretty intimate by the time theyÂ’d got to even the second floor.
I had my coffee in the evening sunshine and the trip to Hull and possibly the rest of my life up to this point seemed like a strange dream. Paris is so close to us geographically and yet it is like a different planet. Well a different planet according to old rubbish Star Trek where all the planets are inhabited essentially by humans who just dress slightly differently and have marginally different customs. But I love the café culture and just sitting watching the world go by whilst drinking a tiny, impossibly strong cup of coffee. I vowed to get down to work on my Double Act script tomorrow, whilst fuelling myself with caffeine and watching the Gaulish
pomme de terre eating idiots go by.
The gig was in an underground room that apparently Edith Piaf used to perform in. After
my experience in Croatia, I have to admit that I was sceptical about doing an English language set in a non-English speaking country. I had been told most of the audience would be English speakers who were up to date with British references, but as it turned out about half of the audience of around 40 or so were French students who were going to have difficulty keeping up with references to Chicken Cottage, Maxine Carr or acting your age, not your shoe-size.
But I ploughed on regardless, getting past a slightly sticky start and suddenly hooking them in with the material about potatoes not being apples of the ground, which was especial fun to do in front of some actual French people. There were enough English people there to get me through the more esoteric parts of the show, but unsurprisingly this was mainly an audience of people who had no idea who I was, or what to expect, which made it more like a regular stand up gig than a tour show.
The second half started a lot more brightly and I battled through to the bitter end. Luckily my years of performing to tiny crowds stood me in good stead, even though I have been more used to playing to between 100 and 300 more recently.
I went out drinking with some of the British people afterwards and it felt like being on holiday and meeting some of your country folk and forming a temporary friendship based on nothing but your shared nationality. In a good way. Three or four disparate groups of Brits came together and we drank beer and wine in a little French bar. It went very nicely, apart from one conversation about the state of the environment and the nature of evolution which got a bit drunkenly heated. But much more fun than the Holiday Inn in Bolton. Maybe the reward for a difficult gig is a nice social experience. But I drank so much that the prospect of a dayÂ’s writing in the Parisian sun started to look a bit unlikely.
I am back in the same club on Tuesday night, so come along if you’re in town. The promoter is worried that the Manchester United versus Milan football match might dent the audience further. I guess I am lucky that I am not in Milan til the next day – though apparently it’s a big public holiday and he thinks that not that many people will be around. But who cares? I am swanking around on the continent, like the internationally known comedian that I am and life is good.
