The first Guardian Guide to writing was in the paper today. It looks lovely. I am very excited about mine coming out on Monday. If you want to see it in all its glory then you'll have to buy the paper, but it looks like it should also
turn up on here. It is being publicised as being written by Catherine Tate, although she just wrote the introduction, but I can understand their decision, even if that is slightly annoying. Hope you find it useful (doubtless I will also put it up on the website at some point too).
I was in a weird mood all day, feeling a bit depressed and unsettled. I didn't really understand why - after all I'd had a lovely gig last night- but then I realised that that was probably the reason. I haven't been gigging as much since Edinburgh and had thus forgotten the emotional rollercoaster that this job can take you on. Like some kind of drug (I imagine) comedy gets you high for the night, but then in the morning the downer comes crashing in. I wasn't really planning to do much today, but had intended to get to the gym as my weight seems to be creeping upwards again. But instead I stayed in and ate crisps and chocolate and watched TV with the curtains closed.
I got out at about 5 to go and join the protesters on Shepherd's Bush Grey, who are up in arms at the proposed closure of the brilliant
Ginglik. It's a former public toilet (Wilfred Brambell from Steptoe and Son was once arrested for cottaging here - now that's history), but is now an exceptional club for music, partying and comedy. It's just the kind of place that the Bush needs, yet apparently the council want to fill it with concrete, presumably as part of the gentrification of the area. But there are a hundred eyesores that could be knocked down before this charming and beautiful venue. And given it's all underground anyway I don't really understand the thinking behind this. Anyway I hung around as my fellow concerned locals ate hot dogs and drank beer and were entertained by the likes of Earl Okin. But I wasn't in the mood for too much jollity and headed back home after half an hour or so.
Pathetically my good humour was restored by another fun gig at one of the capital's other unusual venues
The Tattershall Castle, a boat on the Thames near Embankment. It was a lively crowd, with a large group of slightly annoying drama students showing off by trying to see who could laugh the loudest at every joke. Which is a nice problem to have to encounter and at least they were having fun. And they were young and wanting to have fun, so I can't get too annoyed with them, though they were in danger of unbalancing the gig and maybe capsizing the boat as they were rocking around so much. Compere Michael Legge writes about it in his
highly enjoyable and recommended blog, which never pulls any punches (though too many of them are aimed at himself. He actually did a fine job on the night). I suppose when I was a student that I was also guilty of such show-offy exuberance as these students and they were easy to take the piss out of and were unlikely to take umbrage. The twenty minutes passed quickly and I had fun, getting a little bit drunk along the way (terribly unprofessional). But by the time I stepped off the boat my blues had lifted and I enjoyed the rest of my life. And I had consumed enough calories in the course of the day to know that a visit to the gym tomorrow was mandatory! If the hangover doesn't stop me.
