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Friday 11th December 2015

4760/17419

Another night at the Albert Hall. This time I walked from home and was surprised to find I got there in under an hour. Given the weird vagaries of getting from Shepherd’s Bush to this massive tit-shaped theatre stranded equidistantly from three tube stations it often takes me about 40 minutes door to door on public transport. It was a bit late to realise given that there’s only one show left, but it was an enjoyable stroll through some of the most expensive real estate in the country. A lot of the ultra expensive flats alongside the park had their lights out (in a huge block there were only two or three lights on). I wonder if that was because everyone who lives in these places are out on the town enjoying their millions or because in fact no one really lives in these places, either seeing them as investment or a convenient place to stay for the two days a year they are in town. Like a hotel, but one you own and which keeps nicely accruing in value as it sits largely empty. And which you can’t even be bothered to rent out, because the hassle wouldn’t justify that huge amount of money you’d get paid.

It’s always fun finding out who is playing in the big room at the Massive Tit (apparently the design was modelled on one of Queen Victoria’s own breasts - I’ve just made that up, which doesn’t mean it’s true, but it would be good to make that a thing). As I arrived the smokers outside were wearing Santa hats and seemed to consist of thirty-something women in spangly tops and flamboyant men with neatly trimmed beards, who were giddy and happy. I was up against Kylie Minogue. Not for the first time. And so on.

Before our less flamboyant show involving three unfashionably dressed, slightly chubby, unmusical and pedantic nerdy men (me, Phil Wang and Andy Zaltzman) we went up to the very top tier of the Hall to watch a bit of the show. Kylie looked like a tiny ant in red sequins from up here (but apparently from nearer the stage too) and what was remarkable was the sound the 5000 strong audience were making. Everyone was screaming (many of them doubly so) and it was actually quite a disconcerting and terrifying sound. And one that I am unlikely to hear in my own showbiz career. It reminded me of seeing Grumpy Old Women in Cheltenham and the disconcerting and frightening sound of 500 middle-aged women laughing in recognition. Without any male laughs in the mix and with the release from social norms that the show gave the audience, that had been a most unusual sound of joy and pent up frustration. 

Tonight 5000 Kylie fans, just letting themselves go gave me a similar visceral chill. My senses unused to such a sound feared that it was something dangerous, but it was the opposite. It was pure joy. And perhaps the tiny proportion of straight men in attendance was the reason for the happiness. Straight men ruin everyone’s fun. 

Kylie put on a proper show though and every time I heard the music drifting through it was a solid gold hit. It must be great to bring such unfettered happiness to a room full of people who are there to lose themselves in nostalgia or campuses or just pure glitz. 

It made it hard to go to the Elgar Room and try to entertain 100 mildly sizzled comedy fans with some cock jokes. I wondered why anyone would have chosen us over Kylie. Presumably she’d sold out, but now they were in the building they could always slip off and watch her show. Remarkably at least one person came the other way.

I spoke to the man who books our gig about the main hall. They are already booked up with acts until the autumn of 2017, which is interesting in itself as it means that really the only acts that can be booked in are huge stars already who know they will be able to sell 500 tickets in two years time. A new act that might be in a position to do that in 20 months, doesn’t know that now so can’t book themselves in.  But the only way in is to hope that an act that’s in gets ill or Yewtreed or dies. I told him that if that happened I’d be happy to take the space at the last minute and could guarantee him 300 sales. He said that that might be difficult to play. I said I might get 1000 if it was a new show that I said I’d only do once, or if I’d found out I was terminally ill and this was my farewell performance. But sadly in Queen Victoria’s Massive Tit that impressive number would still look tawdry.

I had to accept that it was unlikely that I’d ever play that room in my own right (I am pretty certain that I’ve never been on stage there, even in a charity night). I have pretty much accepted my place on the showbiz ladder will always be on the lower rungs and I am happy enough with that. But I’d love to play a full  Albert Hall or Hammersmith Apollo or Wolverhampton Civic Hall, in my own show once in my career. I like the intimacy of the venues I play, not that I have any choice in it. But there’s something special about getting that number of people in a space like this and whipping them up into a state of ecstasy by wiggling my perfect little bottom (sorry got myself confused with Kylie again). Nothing is impossible and one never knows with this job when you might do something that propels you up to the next level (or down into the depths) and in my heart I know I will always be an acquired taste (though those who like it are loyal and brilliant and appreciated by me and also have much better comedic taste than the stadium filling buffoons). 

Anyway, I suppose every person in the room was on some level dreaming that they were Kylie...

Kylie didn’t return the honour and come and stand at the back of my room once she was off stage (the haughty bitch) and our audience didn’t get whipped up in the same way and none of them dreamed that they were any of us. But it was a fun night, even though it convinced me to move out of comedy and become a diminutive pop princess instead.



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