Now I'm no longer working nights my sleeping hours are slowly starting to resemble normality. Not to the extent that I'm able to go to sleep bang on time, I've always suffered from insomnia, but I'm certainly not lying awake at night on my days off wondering why I can't sleep. Last night though was an exception. It was the night before my next comedy gig. This one was at a venue called The Comedy Balloon [link to a forum about the Manchester Comedy scene]. A few mates of mine had been there a couple of years back and they'd assured me that it was a pretty small crowd who watched there. It was this that had made me so nervous. Smaller rooms are scary*. You can see the faces of the people who you're failing to make laugh. If there's less than double figures it doesn't feel like a proper gig.
We turned up a little late, finding a parking space turned out to be a total nightmare. There were a seven acts on, in front of about 30 or so people. The layout of the room was a bit odd in that it was quite long, almost like a corridor. The standard of the acts was mixed but there were some great moments in there. It reminded me a little of one of my favourite clubs of old, one that has, in my mind, passed into legend; The Zumeba!
I got up and did my stuff in the second half. I get the feeling I over ran a little bit but I'm not too sure. I did the modern art stuff and it was, as you'd expect, the weakest part of my set. The b#msex joke didn't work too well either, it got a laugh but I think it was an awkward one. I think I'm going to drop it given that it has only ever worked once, even if that one time was a real m#therf#cking roar. I'm not sure, I might try it one last time and then decide its fate.
My modern art material was under-rehearsed when I performed it tonight really. I've chiseled it down a bit now and present the final version of it here for your thoughts. . .
All good art comes from a place deep inside you.
Like urine... hence the term "p#ss artist".
There is of course another thing that comes from deep within you...
And that's sh#t.
This explains modern art.
Currently shit in a metaphorical sense
I predict it will soon be actual, literal, sh#t.
And I don't mean like a little plate of sh#t with perhaps a side clump of cress
No, extra effort like that would ruin the artistic asthetic.
I don't mean a long sh#t with little glasses on it and a shirt.
A little poo person with tiny arms made of matchsticks.
... that'd be mad.
In order to work intellectually it'd have to be pure poo poo.
Untouched by human hand .
The only traditional contribution an artist will make will be the title.
"This one here? The one that's all black? It's called 'Ten pints of Guinness'
Over here in this bucket? 'Dodgy kebab'.
This one? Ah, my favourite; 'Revenge of The Sweetcorn'.
This one? This one's called 'Stockport'".
I think it's on the way to being a little bit like my Gandhi stuff but, unlike that, I'm determined to give it a good shot at acceptance as a stand up bit. Obviously "Stockport" can be replaced with any local periphery town. I'm not going to try this material at my next gong night though.
Any thoughts pop them in the comments section... a part of the blog which about 10% of the readership actually bother to look at. Shame really as there was a great link to a pretty amusing comedy video posted in there yesterday. The link is here. Thanks to Gavin.
*For a good account of why small rooms can be scary read this review here.