The Idiotic Walk

I did a gig in Hatfield last night, it was the gloriously titled University of Hertfordshire.

Now, I’m a bit skint at the mo, and when I got to Hatfield station I figured, instead of a taxi or deciphering the cryptic bus routes I would walk to the gig.

It was raining a lot, but I had a map, and the gig and the station fit on one A4 page - so i figured it wouldn’t be that far. So I set on my journey.

It was that far, and Hatfield has no street signs, maybe they still think it’s the 1940’s. So, one hour, a lot of wrong turnings and a wet tide mark on my jeans up to my knees I finally arrived at the gig.

The other acts were all there and I told them I’d walked, to their amazement “but that’s a long way”. and I found myself saying “yes, I’m an idiot” as opposed to “I’m quite skint and walking is free”. And it’s odd isn’t it how being an idiot is less socially embarrassing than having no money.

It was made worse by the fact that Chris Martin had given Maria from Avalon a lift from the station… and she was on the same train as me.

Bloody me.

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The Hornby Train

Way before I moved to London and way before I started comedy I was having a bit of a lousy time, moved back in to my mum’s, signing on, no direction - the usual.

I hadn’t read a book for bleedin ages and one day decided to get one, i used to read loads. So into the local book shop I went, and for some reason came about with a book about Arsenal.

I don’t really actually like football, but the book looked good, it was called Fever Pitch, by a chap called Nick Hornby, this was about 1998 and I’d never heard of him.

I bloody loved it, and it was the thing that started me thinking about writing (I started to write a kinda novel thing at the age of 18, all I’ll say about it ten years on is it was very, very bad) and got myself back on track and the like.

A few years later I was in London and a bit after that I ended up involved in comedy, then stand up, then etc etc.

So, I’ve always slightly exalted Fever Pitch as what started me off on it all, and over the years I’ve tried to re-read it a few times and have always struggled to get back into it. Though never then trying too hard in case I see it as disappointing and therefore ruining any of the life symmetry i so love.

But, after another spate of reading lots I finally got round to re-reading it again, and loved it… and am currently near the end of re-reading High Fidelity too (which is making me make lists of everything).

I love Hornby’s writing style, and I guess mine is influenced a bit by it. This was confirmed this week when I got a reply from someone about some treatment thing I’d written with the comment “It reads very much like Nick Hornby”

So, there you go, I’m neither original nor subtle.

But I don’t mind

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The Block

I’ve been asked to write a thing, this is always flattering.

The problem is, it’s a thing about Formula One, as in them fast car things.

Why is this a problem? Because I am a huge F1 nut. Ever since I was 9 I’ve been a teeny bit geeky obsessive about it. This should surely mean that I’m happy to be asked to write about it? Well, no. One thing about my F1 obsession is that I’m not very funny about it, I get quite deadly serious.

And the stuff I’m writing has to be funny, it’s what they want. And aside from increasingly obtuse references on the 1990 Tyrrell line up (Jean Alesi and Satoru Nakajima - you think i had to look that up?) I fear I’m failing.

I ended up yesterday watching a video that I bought in a charity shop in Ireland the other week, it was Damon Hill’s 1996 championship year - a kind of behind the scenes documentary. It wasn’t that good. So why did I still find myself welling up when he crossed the line in Japan and his wife was on the pitwall?

I really am pathetic and should go for a walk or something.

But instead I think I’ll just do a few laps on the playstation…

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The Sensible Haircut

Hello, after another lengthly notblog break I am back (again) promising to do this notblog more often… but to be honest, past events dictate it’s likely this’ll be the last you hear from me until at least July.

I have had a haircut, and I’m not sure I like it. This is for several reasons, the first being that I don’t think I like it, simple really - I’m scared I look like a cross between all of the 90’s shitband Menswear and a 40 something female legal secretary from Hatfield.

But secondly, and I fear more importantly, it’s more of a trim than a cut. I don’t get my haircut all that often. Once, maybe twice a year. When I was younger (i.e. last year) I would get all my hair hacked into and have funky cut that I would dislike a bit and leave it until my hair regrew into the fuzzy shaggy mess I’m used to.

I guess I’ve grown up, knowing that I like my hair how I like it, I’ve asked for it how I like it.

I think another problem was the guy cutting my hair was so young, and I think new to this haircutting lark, he did a good job, i don’t dislike his work, just I always think I want a haircutterer that will say “Yeah, you want this…” then a flurry of scissor cutting and I’m suddenly a model in a magazine or something.

The whole haircutting process is a bit of a non-starter for me. I’m quite short sighted, so with glasses off I can’t see my own reflection clearly and I have overwhelming social awkwardity which means that if I’m asked if I like this or that I just say yes, right up until the double mirror showing off at the end.

This also makes conversation hard as I can’t see when he talks, then my head gets all paranoid that the guy hates me cos I’m not responding and I’ll get a bad haircut on puporse.

The worst thing this time was he asked my what I did, and foolishly I said I was a comedian, but because the hairdryer of the person sat next to me was on I had to shout it a bit. I felt like a cunt as he asked me the initial ten questions all comedians get (email me for a full list) and I agreed with him about how great the Boosh were and told him it was nervewracking and where I get my ideas from.

The worst thing was (and this really does make me a smug, self-aggrandising cunt) that he asked me if i wanted to be on telly, and without thinking I told him about a meeting I’d had - now I had only just had this meeting, and unlike most others it’s very exciting as it concerns formula one. But I’ve become that person that tells strangers how well I think I’m doing

I deserve a shit haircut

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The Pizza, Expressed

I am rubbish.

Me and Claire went to a sawnky private viewing at the Tate Modern (oo look at us, actually wasn’t that private or swanky. Needed a special invite thing, but seeming 94 million people had them, and they all had smart clothes on)

Anyhow, afterwards we figured a nice Pizza Express on the South Bank would be a nice thing.

So we went in.

There was no “please wait here to be seated” sign as there normally is in other swanky eateries like Pizza Hut, Beefeater and Harvester so we stepped a bit forward toward the bar where some waiter was talking to someone.

Right behind us, through the swivelly doors came about 9 other people, all from the Tate i think. They stood by the door and another waiter came down asking the various groups what they were after. Various cries of tables for two could be heard.

The waiter sat most of them, but told the last pair that they had to wait. Now what should we do, had we been pushed in ahead of, or did our meandering make it our own fault?

Do we try to push back in?

I thought it would be best (well, not best, but safest) to go outside, walk round the block and come back. The social etiquette version of control + alt + delete and force a restart.

A few minutes later we were back at the correct place and being seated in the noisy upstairs bit and not the nice downstairs bit where all the others went.

We sat at our table for four, not sure wether to sit adjacent or opposite, oh the decisions.

After 15 mins or so I was getting moody, no one had come to serve us, it was very busy. I reckoned we should just up sticks and leave, find another Pizza Express in this crazy town.

As I was actually getting out my phone to google the nearest one. really getting angry, coat was almost on. As I was about to stand up a waiter came to take our order.

I immediately, in a nanosecond, said “Oh lovely, I’ll have capricossa please”

I hate myself

Later, when the Pizza had arrived I was disappointed with the low number of anchovies, I’m in my late twenties, I’ve just developed a taste for them and I want to catch up.

I was actually saying “There are only three on here” when the waiter came up and said “is everything ok”. I smiled and said yes, it was delicious.

You know when I just said I hate myself? I hate myself more now.

And the mystical Pizza Express waiters, they must have microphones on the tables, listening for discontent.

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