I was in the unusual situation of having a gig at 3 o clock in the morning at an Oxford Ball. In fact I would also be doing a gig at 8 o clock in the evening almost 300 miles away in Kendal. This as it turned out, was nothing. All the other acts on this morning had come from doing a Friday night gig elsewhere. One of the comics had come up from a venue in Portsmouth and had a gig in Newport in Wales at lunchtime and was then returning to Portsmouth for another show.
I still felt pretty hardcore, but was mainly concerned about where I would be sleeping and whether I would get enough rest to be able to do the necessary drive and performances.
But for the moment I was at an Oxford Ball, which was, as so much seems to be at the moment, a disconcerting experience where I was forced to confront my past. The last time I had been to an Oxford Ball must have been 19 or 20 years ago and it was most strange to be stepping back into this world as an old man, at times feeling like only a few months had passed, before catching my reflection in the mirror and falling to my knees and screaming at God, "When did I grow old?"
Back in the day going to an Oxford Ball was a slight thrill. I could never had afforded to pay to go to one - these things are well expensive - but then, as now, I got in to perform some comedy skit. As a student my payment was free entry for me and a friend (which was a pretty decent exchange) - this time I was alone and getting paid. Though I had free entry for myself and idly wondered whether I might have fun. My main memories from last time include trying to kiss pretty girls in ball gowns in the early hours of the morning and I timed it right, being able to hook up with girls who had got drunk and fallen out with their official date and were thus in the emotionally susceptible state to snog a stranger. What a charming young man I was. It worked up to a fashion and as it only involved kissing I don't feel too bad about it.
But I didn't think that such behaviour would be appropriate for the 40 year old me. The girls were now half my age and looked so young and sweet, with hearts made from sugar glass. It all just reminded me of the death of my youth and made my own throughly tenderised heart ache, which at least was something. I thought my heart would never feel anything again.
I am deliberately over-egging this pudding. I felt slightly unsettled to be thrust back into the past and very much like an outsider - which was only right. I was here to work and that is all I was interested in doing. I was going to get straight in my car once I was done and head for some unpleasant motorway Travelodge.
The kids seemed to he having a fine old time, though I was slightly disappointed by the lack of options for entertainment. Perhaps my memory is rose tinted or my expectations dulled by experience, but I remember balls being full of event and wonder, yet there was very little to do here. If I had paid the no doubt exorbitant entrance fee I might have felt gipped. But maybe not if I was 20 and getting drunk. I decided to try and have a kip in the dressing room (which was some student's room) before my gig.
You can't go back.
The gig itself was fun and the big marquee was packed with students who were pretty well behaved given the late hour. I was able to use my local knowledge to rile them a little, claiming I didn't even remember this college existing (it was Worcester - and I don't think I ever came in here when I was a student). I also berated the men who had dressed in top hats, which seemed to be ludicrously pandering to the Oxbridge image of privilege, though I guess they were already at a ball, so what the hey? I don't think anyone ever wore top hats back in the 80s balls I went to. But maybe I have just forgotten. The balls are more likely to attract the wealthy and posh and (possibly) clueless students, who are not worried about how they might be perceived and they are amongst their own. But to the other non-Oxbridge comics such dress must have confirmed their worst prejudices. But then I had to put up with that reverse snobbery for a long time and have to try and hide my Oxford roots from my fellow performers. Now I don't care about it. I am proud to have got into this University, and know that it was down to ability (to do exams, rather than necessarily being massively intelligent) and nothing to do with coming from a posh background. Though I was lucky, I know, before the inevitable lunatic comments in the guestbook start up, that I was lucky to go to a nice comprehensive in the countryside and to have middle class parents. There is some way to go before everything is fair in this country, but things are moving in the right direction and I hope that in twenty years time the intake of the university will be more based on merit. It was certainly a big deal for non public school people of my generation to get to Oxbridge and I hope that things have improved and will improve to be more inclusive.
You wouldn't have thought it as an outsider today though!
I had a lot of fun doing the gig though, which I had not had high hopes for, given the time I was going on and the inevitable inebriation of the audience. But as soon as I was done I was off.
I managed a few hours disturbed sleep in a Travelodge, before wearily driving up the M6 to the Lake District.
There are harder jobs I know, but today was quite full on. But in the end after a brief nap at my Kendal hotel, I had a cracking night here too. I was doing the last "Oh Fuck, I'm 40" show (slightly truncated so it would fit into one half), along with a second half of what I have got so far for "The Headmaster's Son". It was like handing the baton over between the two shows. I was sad to see the first one go and really made the most of enjoying myself, pleased to do the material justice, but I was happy to see that the new show is coming along so well already. With five weeks to go it definitely feels like it has the potential to be something special, though that might be as much to do with the leaps and bounds I am still making as a performer as it is to do with the material. I am really looking forward to knocking it into shape. If I can get all the elements I want into it then I think it might be a special show. I am slightly buzzing with anticipation about it, which is an excellent sign.
I enjoyed mocking the people of Kendal for their invention of the mint cake, but claimed they were resting on their laurels, thinking having invented two types of mint cake was enough for one town - one with white sugar and one with brown - how about lemon mint cake? I asked them. I just thought of that off the top of my head. But I did them a disservice because they also have a chocolate mint cake. They don't, however, have a mint cake museum and I told them they were in danger of losing ground to Keswick in the war to be the best town in the Lake District starting with Ke. Keswick has a Pencil Museum after all. They only have pencils, but they have made the most to them. Kendal is sitting back thinking it's enough to have made a cake made out of mint, that isn't even a cake, more like a bar. The Kendalese idiots. I liked them nonetheless and will reserve my Cumbrian wrath for the people of Carlisle who I am still unable to forgive for their sins.
I am glad every day is not quite as packed as this, though I might be a lot wealthier if it was (if the driving didn't kill me), but it is on days like today that I feel that I am a comedian. That that is my job. And that it is a proper and difficult job.
I ate too many biscuits though.
