Back home at 1.30am, but couldn't go to bed because I had to scan and email off a rental agreement for the flat we're hopefully moving into. We are leaving London behind til September while the house is done up. Not too far out of London, but somewhere where the rental is a bit more reasonable. I had forgotten about all the credit checks and proof that you will be able to pay the rent that come with renting. Smash the fucking state renters. Smash it.
With all the renovation, a wedding to organise and a tour going on we might have taken on a bit too much. But why not do all these stressful things at once. If you're going to be stressed anyway, hey?
As I am not going to be home much I thought I should use the morning to pack our possessions away so the builders can start making a mess. Even though most of the boxes are just going upstairs it felt odd to be packing away my life. Though I spent most of the time trying to work out how to make the tape gun work (I pretty much used it in every conceivable way apart from the correct one) so I could seal up the boxes. Forget the Boy With Tape On His Face, I came up with a new comedy character, The Stupid Man with Tape on Everything But His Face.
The forms we'd sent through had to be resent as pages had gone missing or not been signed. Just to ensure that enough time was wasted to risk me being late for my gig. Oh how I had mocked the toilet paper salesmen. Oh how I wished I had been able to change places with them now. Not because I needed toilet paper - I'm not saying that - just the life of a toilet paper salesman is predictable and uncomplicated and the only thing that keeps them awake at night is the fear that a competitor will find a way to add an extra ply to the toilet roll, making all their stock redundant or in need of being doubled over.
And little more than 12 hours after I'd got home (time spent sleeping and packing) I was having to head off out on the road again, this time the relatively short jaunt to Brighton. No time for a snooker podcast, although I am hoping to get one in the can on Tuesday - but after that who knows?
I was back at the Komedia where last year
Reliable Pete and me had had a contretemps with the lady guarding the back door (by law they are not allowed to open it for loading or unloading after 8pm, which is a problem as you have to park at the back and so either have to lug your gear right round the block or move your vehicle to the front and park illegally as you load up there). I was aware as I loaded in with the help of a friendly staff member that it was going to be difficult getting all this stuff out on my own. I couldn't leave it unguarded at the front as I went round to get the car. I might have to take a leaf out of Reliable Pete's book and just go through the door anyway. It added a frisson of excitement to the night. I could scarcely concentrate on the show for all the jeopardy.
The show went well. I called a man a philistine for not enjoying my teenage poem as I usually do. Afterwards his girlfriend tweeted me to tell me that he had had to ask her what a philistine was. If only I had heard that at the time. Priceless.
The staff had been lovely tonight - it's now impossible to tell if that's because they were just lovely people or whether news has spread amongst theatre staff that Richard Herring is ready to dish the dirt on slightly unfriendly theatre staff. They were though all doing their own jobs as I came to take my stuff downstairs. I had to do it in two or three goes, but my plan was to pay homage to Reliable Pete by going through the back door at least once, even if I was told I couldn't.
I got down to the ground floor hoping that no one would be on guard, but a young man was sitting on the stool that the angry woman had been in last year. He was looking at his mobile phone and not really paying attention. Ha ha, the young idiot. This was my chance.
I walked past him and to be honest, it should have been clear where I was headed, but he didn't pay any attention until my hand was almost on the bar to open the door. I kept my head down, pretending I didn't know any better (but I knew what I was doing). He saw me at the door and began to address me in a somewhat brusque and rude tone, which I thought was inappropriate. He could have politely pointed out the sign, but it was more like, "Oi, what do you think you're doing?" I decided that I could pretend that I didn't think he was talking to me, with good reason - after all, you'd expect a little bit of respect to be directed towards the performer who was, if only indirectly, paying his wages.
I opened the door and went out to the car. The young man followed me, angry at having been ignored. He came out on to the street. It's my understanding that the no exit rule is there in order not to disturb the neighbours, but the man was a bit cross and didn't seemed bothered by that. "Didn't you hear me?" he aggressively stated, I told you you couldn't go out that door. Why did you ignore me?"
"Oh sorry," I innocently replied, "I didn't realise you were talking to me."
He was not convinced by this, "You did realise," he countered.
"Yes, I did," I said, "Sorry about that."
"You're a prick!" he said.
Which was a bit rude, but not entirely inaccurate. I could have countered that if he'd being paying attention he could have stopped me, or that maybe his original interjection could have been a bit more polite or indeed that I had indirectly paid his wages. Bit I didn't, because I may be a prick, but I am not that much of a prick. It made me laugh that I had been called a prick. I had deliberately flouted the rule that he had the thankless task of enforcing. But then again no one had offered to assist me in getting my stuff out, or waiting with it whilst I brought the car round. I would suggest that if the Komedia is forced to have this rule that it should instruct its staff to be ready to help. This must happen almost every night. Which is why the young man was so ready to call me a prick and why the woman last year got cross so fast. The poor sods sitting on the door are not to blame here. It's a difficult situation but one that I think management could sort out quite easily to the satisfaction of all parties.
The aggrieved and swearing doorman then shut the fire door so I couldn't get in to pull my stunt again. So I had to navigate Brighton's complicated one way system and park on double yellow lines and then head back upstairs for my next two loads. I asked for help and was given it, having to pass the angry doorman on our way out (though he didn't provide any more expletives and this time it was he who pretended to ignore me). Ah the tiny pleasures and pains of touring.
