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I finally managed to cajole the NHS into giving me some dates for the procedure I need to go through to help treat the incurable disease I have, that only paid Substack subscribers and people who were at the gig on Sunday know about.
If you think I am telling the rest of you what it is then you've got another think coming. Cough up and you can read all about it in the previous blog. Or come and see Oh Shit I'm 60! If I last that long.
Anyway, it's all taking place last week. I had thought I was just getting a single injection, but I have to go in on five consecutive days to get pricked by the NHS. If they have any sense of theatre (pun intended) then the needles should get bigger every day culminating with a huge one that is used for rhinoceroses on Friday.
It's great to finally have a date and hopefully it means that all planned holidays and Fringe shows can still go ahead, but I am still a bit unclear on how much I have to isolate and for how long. We had to cancel the Leicester Square Theatre gigs in early July because I won't be able to risk being in a crowded space.
Though maybe we were being over cautious given the usual size of my audiences.
It's nothing to worry about and unlikely to cause me any problems and might give me a fortnight or so where I don't have to look after my own kids and can stay in bed all day. I could do with one of these every six months to be honest.
Mr Dave Dog Faced Boy on Bluesky posted this image of the Me1 vs Me2 Snooker Punani album and stickers. What a gloriously self-indulgent and insane thing that is, even by the standards of a man playing himself at snooker and broadcasting it. I really hope someone finds a copy of this in about 150 years time and struggles to make sense of any of it.
Little did I know, as I did that photoshoot in my attic back in 2020 that one of the photos would become the poster for Can I Have My Ball Back? Yet still I looked at the ball with such intensity. Did one of the Mes know? Is there a predict the future me? I can’t remember now. So many fucking insane ideas realised. How am I not a huge national treasure? No justice!
Self-playing snooker is not over, by the way. The competition only ends with the death of one of the players. It's just proven tricky to play in the tiny space I have and with my daughter now staying up past 8pm. And me being too tired to do anything after that (and if Catie is out, the snooker board is now in a different building so I don't feel I can leave the kids).
I might pass some of the time after the procedure playing snooker if I am not too ill. Maybe another mini tournament.
What my career really needs now is another time-wasting daily project that is certain to never capture the imagination of more than a couple of thousand fucking idiots.
Fucking idiots that I greatly appreciate though.
