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Finally we took our daughter into Chelsea Town Hall to register her birth. She had to return to the borough of her birth, a bit like Jesus again. I have perfectly reasonable expectations of her, but if she doesn’t create a new religion based on a personality cult around her I will obviously be disappointed. We had to decide how we wanted our occupations to appear on the form and then sign it with a special ink that never fades (I had to put my own biro away). Some future Herring might access this form and be surprised to find out that his or her ancestors were a comedian and a writer. But then if they chance across this blog (preserved for eternity in the British Library, which will never fall as the librarians have all vowed to fight to the death to protect it) they will know a bit too much about me. Hello future Herring. How is your food? Pill-form? Of course. Have my descendants interbred with aliens yet? I hope so. How does it feel being related to the father of the new Jesus (though of course I am not a blood relation due to that cuckolding God)? I mean you’re probably more impressed that you’re related to the new Jesus. But I brought her up and wiped her arse so that makes me an important historical figure.
I love this connection through time and hope that I will finally get back on TV by featuring on a 2215 episode of “Who Do You Think You Are?” Of course by then my descendants will have access to my death certificate too. If you can travel through time by now don’t come back and tell me how I die. No spoilers. I want to see it for myself.
Phoebe predictably slept through this important moment in her life - the day she officially became herself (though also the day she officially became part of the grid - though I suppose she shows up on hospital computers too). We nearly did as well. My wife was so tired that she got her own birthday wrong (something I also did, when asked to confirm her birthday when we went in to register our intent to get married). It’s been tougher in general this week, though I still mainly blame Princess Anne for disrupting my sleep, but as we’re self-employed we can sometimes sleep in a bit. If we had to get up early every day then I think this would have hit us a lot harder.
Tonight in Didcot I had forgotten to check wikipedia before the show so was forced to drag up Didcot based facts from my subconscious, though predictably went with power stations and railways. It’s hard to talk and formulate a fact at the same time and I was worried that I had misremembered the fact that the cooling towers had been demolished or that there was a railway museum in town. But I chanced my arm and them admitted my situation, which got a laugh and a round of applause. And I could then refer back to it later as I came up with some facts in the second half (and was told via Twitter that the first man to cultivate watercress had come from the town). The show is fun when I can keep it loose around the edges and I am glad to see that the Dave Manager section is changing and developing daily now. By the end of the tour it might have taken on “Someone Likes Yoghurt” like proportions and I might be able to do a full hour on it. But Dave Manager is getting more of a back story. I can’t give too much away here as I don’t want to include spoilers.
The day was soured by the news coming from London about the fire at Battersea Arts Centre. I saw the terrible pictures on Twitter and felt that my past was going up in smoke. I have spent many happy days and nights in the building, done some brilliant and terrible things, both professionally and personally. There were many, many drunken nights in there in my twenties. We rehearsed most of my early plays there and did many previews and did the run through for This Morning With Richard Not Judy there too. And I’ve continued to gig there pretty regularly this century too, including a memorable couple of charity gigs in the town hall (which was also the location for one of the first run-throughs of Excavating Rita -possibly the first time I got naked in that role). Paul Putner texted me to tell me how upset he was feeling and I am sure nearly every comedian and actor in the country was similarly distraught. I realised as I texted him that not only has the BAC been damaged, but the Riverside (where we filmed the second series of TMWRNJ) has also been knocked down for renovation and the BBC itself (where we filmed the first series) has been sold off and redesigned. It’s like someone with a lot of money and some kind of vendetta against the series is trying to wipe it from the face of the earth. Some things have to change and life moves on, but I would be very upset if the Battersea Arts Centre ceased to exist, even though last time I was there I cracked my leg open on a sofa. I am pretty sure I have spilled every possible bodily fluid on the floors of that venue (maybe not faeces, though I definitely once got so drunk and confused that I weed inside the doorway when there was a lock in, so there’s a good chance I’ve shat myself in there and forgotten about it).
I am sure the BAC will rise from the flames. The love for the building will ensure that many benefits and donations are made. If you love live comedy and theatre then please
bung them a fiver here. I have donated. Hopefully that will pay to clean up the wee. Though the fire might have dried it out. It's the only positive thing about the experience.
