Days Without Alcohol - 77.
My Mac seems to be operating a bit better at the moment. It is only slightly sluggish now, but I will certainly be taking it in to the shop whenever I get a spare minute. I made an expensive mistake this weekend though, when I forgot to pack my computer power cable. I really have a chance to make some headway with the sit-com given my return to health and my relatively light travel schedule. But I only get a few hours life from the battery, so once I got to Birmingham I had to find a computer shop so I could buy a spare cable. I was expecting this to be £20 max, but it turned out to be £59. Just for a power cable! Still now I have two leads to leave behind when I am rushing out of the house.
And it was worth it in the long run as I did manage to get a few hours of work done and am hopeful that I might finally get my script done by the end of the tour, especially if I can have a similar day tomorrow.
I got to the Derby Assembly rooms tonight, about 90 minutes before I was meant to go on, to find the whole place completely locked up and no sign of life inside. Even the box office in a separate building was closed. I worried that I might be in the wrong city and should be here another night. I was trailing my suitcase, which I had cleverly utilised to carry all my stuff from the hotel a mile away, not wanting to
make the same mistake that I made in Durham and risk weakening myself again. I felt rather conspicuous though as I walked back and forth searching for a stage door or some person who would let me in. I knew, incidentally, that I wasn't playing the main venue, but last time I had been here I had been in a smaller room in the same building and assumed I would be back in there again.
There was a group of young people sitting on a kerb near the theatre, who seemed pretty drunk and lively. The young women amongst them seemed to be having a competition to see who could laugh most like a witch. It was quite annoying and oddly slightly intimidating. I felt a bit vulnerable and irritable and as my thwarted attempts to gain access to the venue continued and the laughter failed to abate, I thought about turning to the gaggle of youngsters and telling them to shut the fuck up. But, of course, I was concerned that such a reaction might prompt them to beat me to death and steal my skateboard and programmes. I could cope with death, but not with the loss of revenue to SCOPE.
It is sad that the scaremongering of the media makes us so scared of groups of young people, though it is better to be safe than sorry. It is more than likely that this was a gang of teenagers who had no money and no option but to sit in this square, drinking alcopops and trying to amuse themselves by seeing who could do the best witch impression. This is the best that Derby has to offer to those who cannot afford the £12 to see my show (or who might not be that keen to watch an old man going through a midlife crisis). I don't think gangs of thugs generally amuse themselves by pretending to be witches. Maybe I am wrong.
Certainly when I was 16 or 17, I spent a fair amount of my time hanging around on benches or street corners with my friends, being too loud, testing the boundaries of society and attempting to be funny in a whole variety of unamusing ways. No doubt our own gaggle of unthreatening, nerdy, weak boys might have seen intimidating to some 40 year old just trying to pass by unmolested.
Luckily I then spotted a sign to the Guildhall, where I was playing and realised I was on across the square in a separate building. The cackling girls continued their contest as I walked away. Perhaps they made it last all night long.
The gig went fine, though it was the most reserved and shockable crowd for a while. I think I managed to keep up the energy despite this. Only a few more days to go now. Aside from being ill this has been a very painless and enjoyable tour.
Then back to my pokey room and single bed to watch a couple more episodes of Seinfeld, before falling into a deep and beautiful sleep. As usual I dreamed of breaking my alcoholic abstinence. Thank goodness the real me has more self control. But who is to say that the real me is the real me? Perhaps the dream me is real and the real me is the dream.
Probably not though. It would be a shame if your dreams were more mundane than your life. To have that little imagination would be depressing. Look back at this entry and consider it as a dream. What a dull brain I would have.
