I had an horrendous journey to Street and thought I was going to miss the show. I set out a little late, but then made some poor choices about which route to take (despite my Somerset local knowledge). I was meant to be there by six, but at six I was on the outskirts of Bath in a traffic jam. This wouldn't usually be such a problem, but I had all the equipment and Simon Streeting was travelling separately (not because of his arrogance, or because he's read my diary this week - he hasn't, but because I am staying over with my parents tonight and he wants to get home). So Simon was at the venue with nothing to do and I was lost without him.
I finally got to Glastonbury at about 6.45, which was late, but not a disaster, but then my way was blocked by an accident. Now in quite a panic I blindly headed out for where I thought Street was, only to find myself not arriving in Street. I was panicking, which is always a probelm when you are navigating and driving at the same time. It was as if I hoped that if I just drove in whatever direction felt right then I would magically arrive at the theatre. In fact, at every possible roundabout I encountered I took the wrong exit. I kind of figured that Street would be signposted from Glastonbury, but it wasn't. Leastways not from the stupid direction I was approaching from.
Even more annoyingly I couldn't find my mobile phone. I knew it was somewhere in the car because I'd called Simon Streeting at 6.15 to tell him I'd be there by 6.30. I stopped to look under the seats for the phone, but it wasn't there.
I asked a passing man for directions, but distracted by my own panic and his strange, slow and precise manor of speech I totally forgot to listen to anything he was saying. Especially the bit at the beginning. So I immediately went the wrong way.
I realised I was going wrong, but a man in a pub car park pointed me in the right direction. I got on to a road that had a sign post to Street. Then I arrived at a roundabout that didn't and rather than going straight on as common sense would dictate, I went right.
I hate being late and it was past 7 o clock (the show was supposed to begin at 8) and so I was freaking out so much that I had lost all perception of direction and perspective of everything.
I reasoned I was going the wrong way and turned. I was driving erratically, too fast and I was sweating with panic. This was not good. I might end up arriving at this gig in a box, and I think the people of Street would be justified in asking for their money back if I was too dead to perform. And knowing the shoe loving people of this Somerset town as I do (they're obsessed with shoes. They've even got a shoe museum. If only I had had time to visit) I was sure that respect for the dead wouldn't stop them asking for an immediate refund. Nor would it stop them asking if they could have my shoes, seeing as how I didn't need them anymore, what with my inability to walk. They are a cruel, heartless, but impeccably shod people.
Finally I got into Street and arrived at a mini roundabout that Simon Streeting had mentioned in a previous phone call (when I had a phone. Oh how I missed those days). I was sure he'd said you just had to turn right here. About a mile and a half up the road I reasoned that he might have acutally said left. Damn. I asked a passing man for directions and he was very clear. Back to the roundabout, straight across and then it's about 50 yards up on the right. I remembered to listen.
I set off at quite a lick and heard the undercarriage of my car scraping and banging against the sleeping policemen that line the high street. The sound was so bad that someone about thirty yards away turned to look where it had come from. I went up the correct road and took the first right. But there was no theatre. I pulled into a car park and looked for my phone again. I couldn't find it. I drove further up the road and came to a swimming pool. I dashed in. A woman with a clipboard was talking to another woman. I hopped from foot to foot waiting for her to stop talking. But she didn't. So I just interrupted. As I'd suspected I had turned right too soon. I got back in the car, turned around and went back to the road I'd just turned off. The theatre was right next to that first turn. If my eyes hadn't stopped functioning due to my fear I would have seen it.
I drove up towards the front to the theatre and Simon Streeting was standing waiting for me. I fell out of the car and told him he'd have to back it into the back stage space as I was too flustered. It had just gone 7.15.
To give him his due, Simon Streeting did not behave arrogantly about this at all. Which he'd have been well within his rights to do, as I constantly take the piss out of his poor navigation when he's driving (and comment on how he always chooses the wrong exit from every roundabout). He was calm and unpacked the car and got to getting everything set up in time.
But in a way, isn't not acting arrogantly in this situation, actually more arrogant than acting arrogantly would be? Wasn't his coolness and lack of judgement about my stupidity and bad luck actually a supreme act of vanity?
Yes of course it was. Simon Streeting hasn't universally become known as "the arrogant tour manager" for nothing. It's not as if I'm the kind of person who would falsely attempt to make an unassuming person achieve an undeserved reputation by deliberately misinterpreting his selfless actions as being ultimately selfish.
Ask anyone.
Ask them to sum him up in one word.
They'll say "arrogant".
Or possibly "homosexual".
Those are his two defining qualities.
I choose to define him not by the sexuality that he denies, (I don't think that that is relevent), but by his overwhelming vanity, that must already be clear to anyone who reads this diary regularly.
Simon Streeting, seemingly helpfully rang my mobile so I could locate it. For a moment, from the ringing, it sounded like it was in my pocket. Which would be ridiculous. I had checked there. But of course I was wearing my magic coat in which sunglasses disappear and then rematerialise at will.
But in fact the phone had somehow ended up in the little pocket in the front passenger side door. I don't know how it got there. It wasn't somewhere I would ever put it. I don't know how, but Simon Streeting must have had something to do with this. It's not as if it is possible for me to make a mistake.
The gig went ahead on time (well maybe three minutes late) though I was still a bit flustered and had only got my codpiece on seconds before the start. And it went very well. I had around about 200 people in the crowd and they were well up for it and I even shifted 30 books afterwards. A genius is never recognised in his own home county. Oh bollocks.
I did have time to wolf done the sandwiches before the gig. In fact it was a make your own sandwich arrangement. The theatre had provided some ciabatta buns and some nice ham, cheese and pickle from Sainsburys (all from the special range of stuff which is called "Only the best" or something). This was actually an excellent way of doing things, allowing me to make my sandwiches just how I liked them. And thus Street gets a sandwich rating of 6/10 which is very respectable indeed. Enough for a B grade at A level (and I mean proper A levels from 18 years ago when getting a B was actually quite an achievement).
It was also a really well run venue with an extremely friendly staff, so even if the sandwiches hadn't been of such high quality I would have been very eager to return.
Simon Streeting arrogantly tidied up after the gig, vainly took down all the equipment and put it into my car and then to put the cherry on his cake of contemptuousness he brought my car round to the front of the theatre so it would be easier for me get on my way.
I don't think anyone could read this behaviour in any other way than being pompous and patronising.
I shall be docking his wages accordingly.
