(Thursday) Sneezing like a moron.

Today I finally moved out of my old flat in Sheffield. It was an odd moment when I realised as I drove away that I'd never again live with my old mate Matt Mackay. We've lived together for about four and a half years now and all of that came to an end today. Ruined.

I'm really tired out from lugging all my stuff into a big white van, it's like the time me and Matt moved in our three piece suite.

Furthermore I'm losing credibility with my "fans". Edge081 on YouTube has savaged my "wacky" excitement and enthusiasm for the phrase "How Are We" on this video here. I've tried to come back at him with an eyebrow raising suggestion that actually the "How Are We Videos" are something profound but I don't know if he's* bought it or not.

And finally I'm all set to do one of the toughest and most brutal gong shows in the UK. It's at The Comedy Store this Sunday in Manchester. On average you usually get about 30seconds to a minute before you get "gonged off". It's a bit like the Beat The Frog thing but, like I say, far more brutal. I'm going to open with the piece of material that brought my last jaunt onstage to an end.


*Phone-in fans: check his profile it's got more phone in audio on it. Some of it's quite good.


Lloydd said…
Extract from "I've Been To The Mountaintop", Martin Luther King's last speech:

You know, several years ago, I was in New York City autographing the first book that I had written. And while sitting there autographing books, a demented black woman came up. The only question I heard from her was, "Are you Martin Luther King?"

And I was looking down writing, and I said yes. And the next minute I felt something beating on my chest. Before I knew it I had been stabbed by this demented woman. I was rushed to Harlem Hospital. It was a dark Saturday afternoon. And that blade had gone through, and the X-rays revealed that the tip of the blade was on the edge of my aorta, the main artery. And once that's punctured, you drown in your own blood—that's the end of you.

It came out in the New York Times the next morning, that if I had sneezed, I would have died. Well, about four days later, they allowed me, after the operation, after my chest had been opened, and the blade had been taken out, to move around in the wheel chair in the hospital. They allowed me to read some of the mail that came in, and from all over the states, and the world, kind letters came in. I read a few, but one of them I will never forget. I had received one from the President and the Vice-President. I've forgotten what those telegrams said. I'd received a visit and a letter from the Governor of New York, but I've forgotten what the letter said. But there was another letter that came from a little girl, a young girl who was a student at the White Plains High School. And I looked at that letter, and I'll never forget it. It said simply, "Dear Dr. King: I am a ninth-grade student at the White Plains High School." She said, "While it should not matter, I would like to mention that I am a white girl. I read in the paper of your misfortune, and of your suffering. And I read that if you had sneezed, you would have died. And I'm simply writing you to say that I'm so happy that you didn't sneeze."

And I want to say tonight, I want to say that I am happy that I didn't sneeze. Because if I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1960, when students all over the South started sitting-in at lunch counters. And I knew that as they were sitting in, they were really standing up for the best in the American dream. And taking the whole nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around in 1962, when Negroes in Albany, Georgia, decided to straighten their backs up. And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can't ride your back unless it is bent. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been here in 1963, when the black people of Birmingham, Alabama, aroused the conscience of this nation, and brought into being the Civil Rights Bill. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have had a chance later that year, in August, to try to tell America about a dream that I had had. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been down in Selma, Alabama, been in Memphis to see the community rally around those brothers and sisters who are suffering. I'm so happy that I didn't sneeze.

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