Pete and me have been very diet conscious on this tour. He thinks he has lost over a stone in weight (and he was never a fat man), whilst I have lost a few pounds. In hindsight we should have done a pre tour and post tour weigh in, when we stepped on to some scales together in our pants in front of a cheering crowd. I will suggest we do that at the end, but it might look a bit weird given we didn't do it at the start. Pete might think I just want to stand in my pants with him on a big scale while people cheer. But I don't want that and I am not sexually excited by the thought of it. And anyone who says I am is lying.
We have hardly drunk at all in the last two months on the road, but last night we had headed to the hotel bar. I had a pint of Guinness and a double whisky which is pretty much the most I have drunk in a single night since my 43rd birthday (I have largely abstained from alcohol even since I started drinking it again). I wasn't hungover this morning exactly, but even this small amount of booze once again impacted upon my day. I was tired and craving junk food (oh now you know it's called junk food you massive twat) and a little bit irritable.
The sun just made me hurt a bit and the arrival in Runcorn did not do much to lift my mood. I walked around the town a bit looking for somewhere to have a coffee. It's a small town and there weren't any coffee franchises that I could see and not much going on. This is the town where "Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps" is set and I have to say that that programme glamorises the area and that the reality is even less funny than the programme. I passed a derelict theatre or nightclub that had the words "Fuck the Police" graffitied in big letters high up on a wall. I felt a bit sorry for the police. What if they saw that? They'd be most upset. I thought someone should try and cover it up, but none of the locals seemed concerned. Almost like they wanted the police to cry. If you can't scrawl something pleasant don't scrawl anything at all.
I had hoped to work again, but was too exhausted and cursed my stupidity for drinking last night when I was already wiped out from the relentless tour schedule. Instead I dicked around on Twitter, causing mischief and mayhem in my irritable state, slagging off the town I was about to appear in. I was only joking, but as always on Twitter not everyone understands that. I also got an email from the Nottingham Playhouse who were annoyed that I had called them evil on stage for charging so much for me to sell merchandise. This unsettled me a bit as although I was trying to make a point that their pricing structure was a bit self-defeating, I had thought I was obviously joking by comparing them to the Sheriff of Nottingham, just as I had been joking when I had blamed the audience for the closure of the Tales of Robin Hood. There might have been some truth in my annoyance in both cases, but I hadn't meant to upset anyone. Hopefully that will blow over as it would be a shame for everyone if my outspoken mock-anger meant I didn't get booked there again. But I still think it is worth them addressing the issue. They wanted to make it clear that they are a charity and that the money they receive from the merchandise goes to pay their staff, though I did point out that if the commission is so great that the act will lose money if he or she sells merchandise then everyone loses out. But sorry Nottingham Playhouse. I shall compare you to Robin Hood from now on. Not cos you steal from the rich to give to the poor. Oh no, I've just made things worse. God damn me with my trying to make jokes about everything. That's not going to do me any good is it?
But the aggrevation didn't make me feel any better and unsettled me a bit. It's horrible to think that people think you're a dick, even if you are (and I am). I already had the depressant of alcohol working its magic on me and didn't need more grief. And I was steeling myself for another lowish turn-out. After a good run of good sales this little run of five gigs has been a bit of a down turn. It's just the way the die falls and four of the last five gigs have been in new places for me. Tomorrow in Colchester I have sold out a 300 seater venue (which will be a good way to go into the Easter break) but tonight the theatre would be only a little over a third full.
But the Brindley theatre turned out to be a delight. The theatre was modern and nicely proportioned and as far as I could see no one had written "Fuck the Police" on it - nor had they written "Well done to the police, doing a great job in difficult circumstances!" but you can't have everything. Hopefully someone will do that though.
I am joking again. Too late, that's another theatre off my 2012 tour list!
The theatre had provided me and Pete with sandwiches, which is always a nice gesture, but they had also given us two massive home made scones packed with cream. In my delicate state I was delighted to scoff mine (and then later the half of Pete's that he didn't want). I felt bloated and fat and worried that I would puke up when I did the cycling in the show, but it was a lovely treat (even if it will mean that the end of tour in our pants weigh-in might be something of a disappointment). It led to a Twitter discussion about whether scone was pronounced "scone" or "scone", though some people claimed "scone". This went on for some time and amused me greatly and helped banish the blues a little bit. I don't know how we didn't get scone trending. But perhaps it was because Twitter took into account the different pronunciations.
And the show went well. I don't know where the 150 non-chavs had come from, because they hadn't been apparent when I had been walking around the town, but they had risked coming out of their hiding places to be here. I had met a man in my hotel who had travelled by motor-bike from Belfast to see the show (I am guessing there might have been a ferry involved somewhere too). I was flattered by the commitment. I would have loved to have come to Ireland (North and South) with the show, but it didn't work out this time. The same is true of Liverpool, though I hoped Runcorn might be close enough for some of the Liverpudlians to make the trip. I don't know what I have done to all these theatres that they don't want to book me... oh hold on.
Gosh I could do with five nights off. And the cream from those scones should keep me going through the harsh regime of the health farm. Colchester tomorrow, performing in an ex-church, the day before Good Friday. Nothing can possibly go wrong.
