The final two Talking Cock gigs of 2012 tonight and tomorrow and the last two that I will have to drive to myself because from February on I will have a tour manager. Time will tell if he turns out to be as arrogant as Simon Streeting or as reliable as Reliable Pete. I wonder what made up attributes I will give him. But that's for another time.
Tonight I was at the Greenham Arts Centre in Newbury and my wife asked me to drive carefully. I was glad she'd reminded me of that. I was going to drive carelessly. This is why it's worth getting married all you gay bachelors. It could save your life. I joked that I was like the aged cop, one day away from retirement. Just gotta get through these last two drives. She hates it when I joke about this kind of stuff and I can sort of see her point. But she should have checked to see if I was an idiot before she married me (I gave her plenty of clues). So I put my head round the door and told her to remember my face when I was gone and then looked terrified as if I was about to crash and die. She didn't find it amusing, but what she didn't understand is that doing this meant I had to drive safely, because it would be too cruel to allow this to be her final sight of me. And in any case my insurance isn't sorted yet and there's no way I am giving Ian Scottish-Widows the satisfaction of not having to pay out. The Mayan prophecy can do its worst. I am not going anywhere. Even if I am the only one left. I will also save the life of Ian Scottish-Widows so he can't welch on the deal. I'd better also save my wife or there will be no one for Ian Scottish-Widows to pay out to. And also Ian Scottish-Widows wife, because I don't want him to be lonely and it would be too ironic if he himself was a widower. And I'd need to save everyone who works at the Ferrero Rocher factory too and enough people to keep the basic infrastructure of the country going. Fuck it, I might as well save everyone with my short-term survival instinct (once the insurance is in place I can live life like Captain Scarlett). Though I might accidentally on purpose fail to save David Cameron, the massive Murdoch-arse-rimming prick. Seriously, why aren't we rising up in rebellion against this self-centred corrupt government?
Where was I?
The upshot is that I negotiated the drive to Newbury and back safely. The gig was slightly low key. I had played this small venue with the same show back in July, but I still got 70 or so people in and it seemed to OK. Plus I got to have a curry in the adjoining Indian restaurant as part of my rider. So I am a winner. Little did the theatre know that I'd have done the gig for nothing if I'd known there was a free curry. I will work for food.
It was a cold night and the car windows had iced up a little bit and as it is wont to do my sat nav took me down tiny country lanes. I hate driving on these, especially late at night and even more especially when there might be ice around. But I remembered what my wife had said and drove carefully. If I hadn't married her I would be dead now. That's probably true regardless of her sage advice. She is my saviour. I just don't know what she gets out of the deal.
Finally I arrived in an actual town and stopped to get some petrol. It was only 10.30 but the man in the shop had already locked the door and I had to pay at the window. Perhaps this tiny village is a hotspot of armed robbery.
The lady behind me in the queue asked if I was Richard Herring and as I am I said that I was (and if you're that bloke who looks like me, but isn't me, but says that he is me, stop doing that. Only say you're Richard Herring if you are and most of you aren't). I told her I'd been gigging in Newbury and she seemed surprised as she was local and didn't know I'd been on. She was just returning with her family from seeing Stewart Francis at the Reading Hexagon (I suspect she meant the great Canadian comic, though secretly hoped it might be the crush a grape Crackerjack one - I hope
that this video will be all that remains of human civilisation in a hundred thousand years time and alien historians are forced to try and work out what kind of creatures we were based solely on that performance). She said they'd have come to see me if they'd known. The Hexagon is a lovely big venue and not one that I get to play any more. For a moment I felt a bit envious and embarrassed and considered the state of my career. But then I remembered that I got a free curry tonight. Did Stewart Francis get a free curry? No he didn't. Did Stu Francis get a free curry? I hope so. If you own a curry restaurant and Stu Francis comes in then give him a free curry. But only if he can sing that song and get the same dancers to accompany him. If I win the Euro lottery I am going to pay to make that happen and give Stu Francis enough money to get a curry every day for the rest of his life. But Stewart Francis is getting nothing.
I got home safely to my wife. I've just got one more day in this driving myself job and then I can enjoy a happy retirement. Nothing can possibly go wrong.
