I think possibly the touring is getting to me. Something went very wrong with my guts last night and my flatulence woke my girlfriend - not because of the sound, but because of the smell. She then woke me up attempting to waft away the offending odour (to no avail for this stink was made of stronger stuff) and I have to say that much as I adore my own farts, these ones were unpleasant even to me. And had filled the whole room and showed no sign of wishing to disipate. I believe I may have commented on this phenomenon before but it is most unnerving and odd to create farts that refuse to die. My girlfriend had no option to retire to another room (although I thought she was unduly critical of my part in this nocturnal swamp creation as I had been asleep throughout) and I was left to wallow in the disaster of my own making. And it was so awful that it was very hard to get back to sleep again. I wondered if it would be possible to gas yourself to death with your own farts, though apparently
it is not. I think a lot of Christians would be feeling quite smug if I had passed away in the night in a cloud of sulphur. But I would be happy too, because I would be the man who farted himself to death and that is a fitting end for a comedian.
Amazed and appalled by the awesome power of my intestines I awoke, after not enough sleep, to await the arrival of Andrew Collins who would be coming over to record
Podcast 158 and also podcast 160 for future release. I felt perky enough to begin with, but my energy levels dropped by the end of the first recording and I was concerned that I might not be able to power on through. Perhaps it would have been better to use my second of only two days off in the last month to relax, but I have my fussy band of podcast listeners to keep happy. And anyway in a way chatting with my funny little friend Andrew Collings is a form of relaxation. He certainly sends me to sleep with his stories.
Andrew had to rush off for important BBC work (he's getting an awful lot of proper work at the moment and none of it is with me, the man who made him what he is - even if what he is is a laughing stock). I decided to have a go at constructing my snooker table, which has been sitting in the basement for a couple of weeks. If you told the 12 year old me that he would one day be able to buy his own snooker table, but that having done so he wouldn't have built it the second he had a chance, he would have howled in disbelief. But I am cooler than the 12 year old me, if equally pre-pubescent and anyway I've had too much on.
I am not very adept when it comes to even the most basic handyman jobs and was a little worried that I might fuck up the building of the table (even if this only involved screwing together the table legs and securing the pockets). I followed the diagrams carefully, as every time I do something like this I manage to get an important component upside down. Luckily the only bit that might be confusing had a bag for the balls and triangles on it and I was thus able to look at the picture and make sure it was the corresponding way up. I had made the legs (though not attached them) by the time that I was supposed to be going out with my girlfriend. I looked at the diagram on the next page to discover that in this one the bag was the other way up. The motherfuckers who had put the instructions together had made an error in their drawing which meant I now had to unscrew all the screws that I had given myself blisters getting as tight as possible and turn the whole thing around. Perhaps they thought I would be smart enough to notice that the flat bit of the legs was at the other end, so common sense would dictate which way up the bag should go. But I have no common sense. I only have the ability to make it the same as a diagram. I was never going to finish the table off tonight.
It was only when I was out with my girlfriend that I realised how little R & R I have had this month. I have been eating healthily most of the time, hardly drinking and doing my show. Tonight we had Mexican food, a cocktail and a beer and then went to the cinema and had a ludicrously overpriced scoop of ice cream whilst we watched Submarine. It felt alien to be having fun like this, but it was also genuinely lovely, partly because it was all such a treat. Plus we had gone to the cinema in the W12 centre, rather than the new one in the Westfield and it was like a ghost town. Usually on a Friday when I have been here before the queues and the noise in the foyer are massive. But we were almost the only people here. It's sad in a way that this little shopping centre is being neglected because of the new one, but I appreciated the lack of people. The film was enjoyable, with some really great stuff in it, though perhaps ultimately not quite as satisfying as it might have been, but good to see leads who are ordinary kids, not gorgeous or pouting, just normal. And it was an assured debut from the Richard Ayoade.
We then went home and watched "Hot Tub Time Machine" which was pretty shit. But still, you can't have everything.
And if you enjoy this website, please reward the man who makes it all possible, the incredible hobbit king Rob Sedgebeer who is running the London Marathon on Sunday.
Sponsor him here. Bung him a quid or two - all for excellent causes.
