Back on the road and doing Talking Cock again, slightly concerned that I might start doing it in Norwegian or something. The City Varieties in Leeds is a marvellous old time venue and I'd sold a few tickets, so it looked like being fun.

Being a low key act I have a fairly frugal rider for my gigs. No bowls of blue smarties or baths full of cocaine, just a sandwich for me and Simon Streeting (my arrogant tour manager) and some water, fruit juice, fruit and salad. Some times theatres say they're not going to provide any food, some times they splash out a bit and get me a pizza or a curry or something or better still I can eat in their cafe (see the entry about the Glasgow Tron, one of the best meals I've ever had). Sandwiches can get a bit annoying after a month of touring, so you welcome any change really.

But this was just a one night stand, so a sandwich was going to be fine and just enough to get me through the gig.

I like to eat at least an hour and a half before I perform or I start belching and being sick in the back of my throat, so I asked Simon Streeting to make sure my sandwich was ready for consumption upon my arrival.

However, when I got to the dressing room there was no sandwich. There were some tubs of salad and some fruit and some water and fruit juice, but no sandwiches. I assumed naturally that the sandwiches would be arriving shortly. Simon Streeting was having some technical difficulties and I wanted to do a quick run through to remind myself of this mammoth show.

I got about half way through the run through show and then there was a problem with the film of the hats being thrown in the air. There was only half an hour to go to the performance so I left Simon Streeting to try and sort out what was wrong and thought I'd eat my sandwich. I'd been looking forward to it. I was hungry. Even though I had limited time to the show, I was going to need fuel. I am not a robot. And anyone who says I am and that I only ask for sandwiches so I can sell them the next day at my Android Sandwich Bar is lying.

But the sandwiches weren't in my dressing room. I ate a few grapes, but it wasn't the same. And what use is salad with nothing to accompany it?

I tentatively told Simon Streeting that there were no sandwiches, but he was trying to sort out the glitches in the presentation.

With 15 minutes remaining Simon Streeting arrived in the dressing room to inform me that there were no sandwiches. The theatre wasn't providing them. They had apparently sent the rider back to my management company with the sandwich bit crossed out. Why didn't they want to provide me with a sandwich?

It seemed weird, given they had been happy to go out and buy fruit and salad. Had they felt that two sandwiches was just pushing things too far? Was the extra three pounds of expense (or less if they'd made the sandwiches themselves) just a bridge too far? "Oh we can afford individually packed salad and grapes and bananas, but you're not getting a sandwich, you arrogant comedian!"

This was annoying because a) I was hungry -This hungriness could easily have affected the show. Surely it was within their interests to keep me happy - but mainly b) because out of all the things on the rider, the only bit I actually wanted was the sandwiches, which was quite possibly the cheapest thing on the rider.

I don't want salad. I don't even know why it's down on the list, but I rarely if ever eat it (and certainly am never going to just eat salad if there's nothing else accompanying it) and the fruit is nice, but again, it usually goes uneaten (or Simon Streeting takes it home. I think he uses it to try and impress girls somehow).

I think my management just puts fruit and salad on the rider to make me look more important than I am. Obviously it doesn't make me look very important, but this is still more important than I actually am.

If the theatre had rung me and said, "Look, we're on a tight budget here. Which things on the rider don't you want?" I would have replied "I don't really want any of it, apart from the sandwich. And if two sandwiches is too much for you to afford then just buy me one and Simon Streeting can go hungry. That should curb his arrogance. It will be good for him. If you go to a supermarket you can usually buy a plain egg or cheese sandwich for about 70p. So don't bother buying salad or orange juice. But please get me a sandwich or else I might perish on stage."

Unfortunately they didn't ask me, and someone made an executive decision and decided I would rather have some salad.

Which to be honest is such an unlikely choice that one has to assume that the people at Leeds City Varities were taking the piss out of me.

In my hunger I assumed this was the case. I thought it was at least a bit curmudgeonly of them. I noticed that they'd been chummy enough to put a big book with the flyers of all the acts they'd had in the theatre, which they were requesting me to sign.

Up to this point I had only met one staff member, who had not brought me a sandwich and who was a bit grumpy and uncommunacative. Along with saying something nice I made a sarcastic comment about the cheery faces of the crew.

It was the hunger and the frustration that did it.

Then I met about three other members of the crew who were quite nice to me, and I felt a bit guilty about my rudeness. I thought maybe with a bit of luck they might all read it and think I meant it sincerely.

But then I made the mistake of writing about it on the internet.

So that blew the chances of that.

They were lucky that I didn't put the PS I had thought about doing of "PS. Next time get us a fucking sandwich you tight arses. And don't bother with the salad. I'm not some kind of shitting rabbit."

I managed to resist doing that at least. The gig went well, though I struggled to remember some of it and there were no hats being dropped.

I feel a bit like a prima donna thanks to my behaviour. But just wanting a small sandwich hardly makes me Jennifer Lopez.

More the pity.

Because if it did I would just stay at home and look at my bare arse in the mirror.

I might just do that anyway. I can imagine. And there's nothing Ben Affleck can do to stop me. IN fact I might look at my arse and imagine it's Jennifer Lopez's arse and also imagine that Ben Affleck is hiding in a cupboard looking at my/her arse and he loves looking at it.

This is the true power of the imagination.

NB The fact that the Android Sandwich Bar was shut the day after this gig is merely coincidental.

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