Saturday, 4 August 2007

Crap gig

I was at LSE tonight for a gig, which was not terrible, but definitely not great. More bad than good, at least in my books, enough to warrant me writing about it here, which is unusual, because I don't want my readerless blog to become some sort of cathartic gig diary. Anyways, I know any number of things could have contributed to my half death tonight, maybe I came across as nervous, I haven't been on last in ages etc etc... but it is frustrating when my warm-up gags, cheap digs at racial sterotypes that open my set, storm it, but then the minute I try and tell any sort of story it goes quiet. No heckles, just... expectant looks like baby birds... urging me to tell a knob gag. I can't really write a set of one-liners, because I have no way of making it sound natural. And besides, I got into stand-up because I love telling and writing stories.

Whatever, despite my sitting here with a Carlsberg, a thing of hummus and a Muller Rice (Raspberry), I'm not going to beat myself up about a quiet audience. I also know there's an audience for my odd stories. I've been reviewed, man. Or the young indie kid who came up to me at The Good Ship after my set and said 'You really made me laugh!' and in that moment I knew: 'Ha Kindred spirit! You drew pictures of the X-Men on lined paper when you were a kid too!'

Sorry if this sounds a bit self-pitying or like the journal I would have kept in drama school, but, uh, I totally can't find that journal.

(This picture has basically nothing to do with anything, but it came up on google image search under "bad gig" and it's also a fairly striking visual, n'est ce pas?)


So to make up for that whine, I'll tell you this:

I was going to the gym in Swiss Cottage a couple days ago, which is a new, glass building with big automatic doors. I walk up to the doors, and nothing happens. They don't slide open as usual. I even try to prise them apart with my fingers, as if that'll be effective, but nada.

And my first thought is: this is exactly like that Simpsons episode where Bart sells his soul to Milhouse and then freaky things start happening, like the Kwik-E-Mart door not opening ... (although I always thought sliding doors worked because you stepped on some kinda button under the welcome mat, not that they subscribed to a particular faith system). It actually freaked me out for a second, because I thought - ok, I'll just go through the other entrance, but I'll also have to ask the front desk if there's a problem with the sliding doors. And if they say, no, nothing's wrong with them, then I have no soul.

Where could I have sold my soul? Who knows? Sometimes I do things in my sleep - not like sleepwalking, but in that groggy half-awake, half dreaming state. What if it was like that, like when you get a glass of water half asleep, and in the morning you don't know where it came from? Or like, when you're half asleep, half awake and you burn down an orphanage?

Maybe I sold my soul.

Maybe I never had a soul.

But then the lady at the front desk said, yes, there was a problem with the doors, and I was relieved. I just can't deal with losing my soul, because it's really one of the few things left I can sell - and I just bought my bike, after all. My soul is like my nest egg.


Question time!

Who are my favourite American comedians at the moment?

Jen Kirkman
Maria Bamford
Patton Oswalt

How excited am I for Vancouver?

Quite, I'm gonna eat fish and chips on the beach every day!

And how excited am I for Edinburgh?

SUPER EXCITED! I'm gonna eat deep-fried haggis every day!


Madam Miaow said...

I both sympathise and empathise. But quiet doesn't always mean they're not appreciating it. As long as their sitting in rapt attention, then it works.

If not, then back to the nob gags.

Madam Miaow said...

Aargh! I do know how to spell and punctuate "they're".