Well, the last two nights have been slightly bizarre on the work front. It´s been a quiet time of late, and what with Easter just round the corner – a notorious barren spell, and the exchange rate, some shows can be a battle.
First up I did a club that I´d never worked before whereby I got saddled with the late spot. By the time I got on the audience had thought better of it and the one remaining party, who were celebrating a birthday, I actually knew as they had been in “The Cumberland” that afternoon. Moments before I went on I was informed that I was only required to do “Half a show” - so I could be paid half the money, which turned out just as well as the stage turned out to be a bit on the wee side which left me a little limited in the tearing about and waving me arms about like a loon stakes (a vital ingredient in any show I think you´ll agree) and generally stuck to the more ´stationary` characters. Unfortunately “Billy Conolly´s” thunder was stolen when the punch line to his joke was delivered with some force by one of my “friends” in the front row and when (still in character) I berated him for making me look an arse, he proffered some words of regret. The first time ever that a member of my audience has apologised to me for me being rubbish, the remainder of the performance was littered with intakes of breath whilst I barged into the screen (behind which I get changed), kicked over my glass of water and trod on my guitar. I came off to the sound of my own feet and was damn lucky to get the full “half fee” in the end.
First up I did a club that I´d never worked before whereby I got saddled with the late spot. By the time I got on the audience had thought better of it and the one remaining party, who were celebrating a birthday, I actually knew as they had been in “The Cumberland” that afternoon. Moments before I went on I was informed that I was only required to do “Half a show” - so I could be paid half the money, which turned out just as well as the stage turned out to be a bit on the wee side which left me a little limited in the tearing about and waving me arms about like a loon stakes (a vital ingredient in any show I think you´ll agree) and generally stuck to the more ´stationary` characters. Unfortunately “Billy Conolly´s” thunder was stolen when the punch line to his joke was delivered with some force by one of my “friends” in the front row and when (still in character) I berated him for making me look an arse, he proffered some words of regret. The first time ever that a member of my audience has apologised to me for me being rubbish, the remainder of the performance was littered with intakes of breath whilst I barged into the screen (behind which I get changed), kicked over my glass of water and trod on my guitar. I came off to the sound of my own feet and was damn lucky to get the full “half fee” in the end.
Then last night I went on to two middle aged men sat at different tables (who judging by the thick spectacles and long coats had turned up a couple of hours early for the stripper), who upped and went after about 10 minutes, (presumably because I didn´t get me jugs out). A group of about 3 couples who were busy entertaining each other at the back and a couple sat at a table directly under the television (which they were watching). On a lighter note, John the scouse sound and lighting man was celebrating his birthday. He plays the cameo of Andy Pitkin in a Little Britain sketch whereby I propel him from the cellar in a wheelchair and the script demands that I force-feed him a rancid drink pre prepared by the evil Carlos, - a wide eyed, flaming nostrilled Anglo Spanish maniac Sheffield United supporter. This drink is usually secreted amongst some of the audience sat at the front, but, as there were none, the female duo, due on next were seconded from their safe haven at the bar, plonked in a couple of seats and pretended to enjoy themselves. (cheers girls). The piercing silence was broken as I introduced “Michael Jackson” when a young couple (where did they come from?) started shrieking at one another with all the ferocity of a 70`s McEnroe line call query. I´d like to think it was them who cleared the place, because as I emerged for the final time from behind the screen to take my bow I was gamely clapped by the club´s sole inhabitants – “Deb ´n` Her” (thanks again girls) and “Jonny Flash” the photographer who had presumably been sent in to record the incident for police records.
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