Ah London on a Saturday night! What joy.
Even as I made my way out to the Soho Theatre, at about 8.30pm, the streets of Shepherd's Bush were full of people swaying from side to side, with unfocused eyes. It was possible that a zombie apocalypse had arrived, but I guess alcohol was a more likely culprit. A girl practically walked into me at the tube station, then staggered on into the night. I thought it was unlikely she was heading home, but she was already too drunk to know where she was. Was it always thus? Probably. I didn't notice before because I was probably too drunk myself.
The final show of the short Soho run went well, though perhaps not as well as last night. Tim Minchin came to see it and I went for a drink with him afterwards (I could only manage two pints so couldn't keep up with the zombies outside). As we left the pub a man grabbed him and shouted "Bill Bailey!" in his face. Tim didn't really respond, so the man just shouted "Bill Bailey" six more times and Tim said, "Yes. I'm Bill Bailey." It's funny how the drunken brain works. The only real connection between the two is that they play the piano, but somehow the man was not only convinced that he was shouting in the face of Bill Bailey (surely unnecessary, Bill Bailey knows who he is anyway) but also that it was worth telling Bill Bailey he was Bill Bailey. But he wasn't Bill Bailey.
Tim, who can effectively make himself invisible by covering up his hair (just a little tip for you Jedward, in case you were getting annoyed by being recognised - oh you weren't) is a mild mannered man and took it all in good heart and think enjoyed the fact that I found the incident so amusing. Outside a couple of other people recognised him, one saying "Are you Tim Minchin?" Tim, mindful of the idiot upstairs pretended he wasn't, but the man turned out to be a decent and reasonable man, so Minchin then had to backtrack and admit that he was Tim Minchin. There was no need to shout Tim Minchin at him seven times as if he was some antipodean version of the Candyman, who is vain enough to have to hear his name seven times before he can interact with you. Another man also expressed admiration for Tim in a polite way. Showing in a straw poll that two thirds of the population are decent people, even when drunk.
Saturday nights in town make me very glad I am not a celebrity. And that I am too old to come into this Hogarthian madness unless I am forced to do so by work.
We headed down to the minicab office, passing four piles of vomit on Dean Street alone. It might have been from one very sick person of course, but I suspect not. I didn't have time to take a sample from each for analysis in my vomit lab at home. I didn't really want Tim to know about my strangers' vomit collection for fear he felt I was weird.
That's nearly all my gigs over for 2011 - just got one more
Lyric Hammersmith gig, next Sunday (great line up, including Peter Serafinowicz and the hit of my Objective show Francesca Martinez and Robin Ince's God-hating Christmas shows. Which is good because in December pretty much every night becomes a Saturday night full of zombies vomiting up their dinner or the contents of their addled mind.
