I had treated myself to a posh-ish hotel in Cambridge and woke up in my massive double bed in the University Arms, wishing I could sleep in past 9am, but I needed to eat a massive breakfast (as it was included) and get on my way to Stroud in Gloucestershire, a place I have never heard of. I know Stroud in Somerset, which is bizarrely also called Street (though maybe they are two different towns that are just close together), but not this Stroud.
Another day of driving essentially, though I managed a healthy prawn and lentil M&S salad for lunch and no sweets and felt a lot better for it. But was back on autopilot and thankfully made it to Stroud unharmed. The hotel tonight is half the price of the last one and I called The Imperial Hotel though it is unclear which Empire it thinks it is a part of, possibly the Roman. Though the pub bit downstairs is quite swish, a walk up to my room over the threadbare stair carpet, prepared me for the less salubrious surroundings for tonights accommodation. It was a single room, with a single bed, which might well be appropriate for this most un-rock n roll of tours, but even if I am having a ménage a un, I still like to sleep in a double bed and have the option of sprawling. Single beds are depressing for so many reasons. On the wall to the side of the bed was a noticeable hole, as if some enthusiastic Onanist in the throes of self-love has been unable to contain himself and punched out too violently. The TV doesnt work and the light switch by the door does nothing. Its not a terrible room and it is relatively cheap, but its depressing for ones ninth night away from home.
Its a large venue, one of those halls with a high roof and a tall stage that I like the least for doing comedy in. It can seat 400 if they are placed in rows, but I have sold only 100 tickets and so its cabaret style tables my least favourite seating format. Its probably the worst percentage of a theatre filled for this unusually popular tour, but last year it would have been one of those places where only 30 people turned up, so its not a disaster to be in treble figures (more or less). But I am tired and grumpy, with a nearly, but not yet completed script hanging over me and the opening three gags go down to an apathetic response. I feel like its going to be a long night and nearly let my tired head drop and let my irritation take over. But gradually things improve and my truculence and despondence have proved effective tools on this tour and I can make grumpiness work. In fact I feel it might be better than chirpiness. I am a tired old dog, fed up with people expecting me to be puppyish, but still trying to give them a taste of what they expect, before allowing my disdain to get the better of me. Its better than being puppyish. Its funnier. In Scotland earlier in the week I delighted in mocking the Scotch and the towns I was in (particularly Glasgow) something I would have been scared to do even a couple of years ago. But its working. Stroud is one of those nothingy places. They know they are nothing and after minimal resistance start enjoying my rudeness.
And despite early gasps and tuts they start to warm to the theme of offensiveness. As I request a threesome I comment that I had heard the town was full of slappers and looking into the crowd I can see the rumours are right. When I say that anyone willing to have a threesome with me would be like two Mother Theresas (saving the lives of my unborn children), I say that they would hopefully be better looking than that, but I have spent a couple of hours walking round town and so know that they wont be.
Its misanthropic and self-loathing and kind of fun and a gig that I almost sabotaged and threw from the outset starts to get interesting. I mention my shitty hotel room and tell them where I am staying and even the room number.
There are four middle aged people on the table in the front at the middle. Two are a couple and I pick on them and they seem to enjoy it. Their companions are a little older and both women and they look unhappy from the outset. They are, I note, spending most of the show looking at the floor, embarrassed and ashamed as I tell the girl next to them that I imagine her vagina contains a pupating butterfly. As the potato/potarto bit begins they finally give up the ghost and leave. Its actually a moment that turns the gig as I am able to imagine that its the stuff about root vegetables that have proved too much for them. I beg them to stay as Ive got a bit about having sex with Jesuss stigmata, but they dont change their mind. Fair enough. But I cant imagine what they thought they were going to see. I dont like spoiling someones night like this, but its probably best they have gone.
A man has his hand up at this point. He is a polite heckler, who thinks he is at school. What have you got to say? I ask.
Theyre going back to your room to be first in line for the threesome, he quips.
That rare thing, a genuinely witty heckle. Which I am able to acknowledge, before taking the piss out of him for raising his hand.
Two minutes in I had almost decided this show was a lost cause and the crowd were never going to come with me, but a bit of persistence and luck and things have changed round. Despite tiredness causing me to make some uncharacteristic errors, theres plenty of new good stuff and it turns out to be a better than average show.
Then back to the Imperial Hotel to witness a man spectacularly failing to chat up a couple of ladies with the opening line, So are you two mother and daughter? to which the response is a terse, No!.
But the women are polite enough to keep up with the boring conversation about popular music and first records bought that the man seems insistent on having. When he asks what music they currently like, I am surprised and pleased to hear the mum plump for The Killers, whilst her daughter had gone for Abba.
Dont judge too quickly is the moral of todays entry. Apart from in the case of the Imperial Hotel rooms, which I can tell you, as I am sitting in room 201 now, look shit and are shit. Off to see if I can punch another hole in the wall.
