Unsurprisingly perhaps after a rather hectic weekend I was exhausted when I woke up this morning, feeling a bit like I had been punched in the head. Almost immediately I had to do a radio interview for Radio Coventry (or Warwick or something) which I remember nothing about. Hopefully I didn't tell everyone in Warwickshire to go fuck themselves.
I pottered around in Bristol for a while, marveling at how modern half the shopping centre has become, but loving the fact that the other half looks almost exactly the same as it did 30 years ago when I used to come here on Saturday afternoons.
I should have stayed in Bristol longer, but once I had checked out of the hotel I headed straight for Hereford. My sat nav wanted to take me over the Severn Bridge, but I decided to punish the South Wales idiots who have had three lots of speeding fines off me and go the long way round. Yes Wales, that's about a fiver you would have had that you'll now never see. How do you feel about that? Cheg on! Go and eat some seaweed to make up for the disappointment.
I arrived at my Hereford hotel at about 1.30, although it was actually about six miles out of town. Snow was lying on the ground and watching weather reports I am slightly nervous that I might get trapped in Rhyl tomorrow (oh yes, this is the glamorous leg of the tour right here).
There was a teddy bear on my bed and I think the owners might have been hopeful that I might buy it. Instead I punched the fucker in the face. He deserved it.
Look at the picture.
Sales for Hereford (and also Rhyl tomorrow) were disappointingly low, but perhaps the showbiz gods were sending me back to earth with a bump so I don't get too cocky after all the fun of Bristol. I think my tiredness made me extra grumpy, but I didn't want to let down the 100 Hereford idiots who had paid to see me. And four years ago I would have been happy with so many. I had forgotten but I had played this theatre before
back in 2006. I don't know how many I got in that night (my guess is less), but I had a fun night, drinking with the theatre staff afterwards. They even took me on to
a night club.
But four years on it was a different crew working here and there would be no such shenanigans this evening. And whilst everyone was perfectly pleasant it was one of those muted receptions that I had alluded to when discussing the Peterborough gig the other day. Everyone was just there doing their job and was looking forward to going home. There was no rider and not even a kettle or any water in the dressing room (there was a green room, where I retrospectively worked out I could have gone), but it doesn't take much to make me happy and just couple of bottles of water in the dressing room and maybe an orange to put down the toilet and I would have been delighted. There was plenty of toilet paper at least, but I didn't need to do a poo tonight. It's almost like they knew that and were mocking me.
I guess I was a bit weary and sniffy, but I seem to remember last time that I got a meal from the theatre cafe (which is nearly always the case when theatres have such a thing) but when I asked about it I was greeted with blank looks and the news that that was not part of the contract. It surprises me how some venues can be so mean spirited (and this isn't the fault of the staff who as I said were perfectly pleasant - one of the sound guys even burned me some CDs of my exit music which hadn't been working which is above and beyond). But little things can make a big difference. Just a cup of tea and a biscuit would have been enough to make me feel like someone somewhere gave a fuck. Maybe if I had sold more tickets. But then I increasingly wonder how much poor ticket sales are down to the way the theatre is run rather than anything to do with me (I was told afterwards that even the mighty Stewart Lee had sold badly here and had come into the auditorium to do the show!)
As it happened I didn't have to buy my own coffee as some students from the local sixth form college (who let me know they were 3 years old when Fist of Fun was on telly) were coming to interview me and they paid for a drink and a flapjack! They also brought me some Kinder Eggs which was a call back to the old days when I used to joke about those on FOF and when I would get sent dozens of toys through the post. I needed the chocolate as there was no food and the cafe was only serving quiche.
The Happy Hippos are back and I got one that was
a perhaps ill judged tribute to Michael Jackson wearing pink pants.
Or perhaps getting a Happy Hippo made in your honour is the greatest accolade made to man. If they did one with a little toothbrush moustache when I have died then my life would not have been wasted.
I had asked the front of house manager to ensure people were sat as near the front as possible, but when I looked from backstage everyone was clumped together in the middle and the first four rows were empty. That gulf would make it very difficult to engage with the crowd, but I asked them to try and do something about it and the manager came and made an announcement "Richard Herring would prefer it if you moved closer to the front" which I thought made the request seem ominous and might make me seem like a cunt, but kindly about a dozen people moved closer, and I repaid one of them by calling me a paedophile and another by implying I would like to see her vagina.
That's the kind of man I am.
I struggled a bit with tiredness during the show, though the 100 strong crowd were largely supportive and some of the laughs were surprisingly big. I was a little bit tetchy and easily distracted and at one point someone seemed to be using their free glossy programme to reflect light into my eyes (like naughty boys sometimes did with their digital watches in assembly). It was one of the most effective heckles I have ever (literally) seen and completely threw me. I don't think it was deliberate and the man stopped when I asked him to desist and called him a fucker. But I think I was partly in a bad mood because of lack of sleep and maybe also because of the bursting of the bubble of success that I had felt after yesterday's shows.
I bucked up my ideas a bit in the second half and did a lot better. But I started to recall how wearing touring becomes and how quickly.
I got back to my hotel just as the bar was closing, but this time managed to grab a pint of bitter which I drank sitting alone in a corner, reading my kindle and idly tweeting away and complaining about my lot. I felt a bit guilty about the ones I had sent out in the interval and from the frosty reception that the front of house manager gave me I think she might have been told about them. Or maybe she just wanted to go home. But the little things make a difference and can sometimes be enough to convince one not to make a return to a particular venue (I have heard of one big comic who is not going to go back to one of the stadia he played in because they only grudgingly went out to get him a garage bought sandwich at his sold out gig, and he had to share it with his tech guy - for the sake of £2.50 they have denied themselves future revenue).
But then the staff gave me such a good time in 2006 that maybe this balances out. And the Hereford crowd were responsive and appreciative. So I suspect I will return in 2014. Hereford is my Olympics. I can only come once every four years.
Which is an ejaculation rate that would make Father Christmas look smug.
Back to my room to count the comparatively light SCOPE takings (but the individual donation rate was only slightly lower than Bristol) and think about writing my blog, before deciding it was better to do it after some sleep. That was the right decision.
