My drunk wife, Johnny Candon, is still staying with me. Last night was a historic evening in the three nights that he's been at my house in as much as it's the first night that he found his way to bed. Don't get me wrong, he was sleeping on the sofa and breaking the snoring record when I went to bed but when I woke up I realised that the futon in the spare room had been slept in. When I went downstairs I saw Johnny's jeans and t-shirt lying on the sofa. I thought that Johnny either had some water thrown on him or, fucking worse, he's somewhere in my house naked. I immediately shot the dog in case her lovely big brown eyes clapped eyes on his equivalent of a body and got the Rage Virus. Basically, Johnny was in my kitchen in just his pants. The kitchen has been taken into care and shot.
I did a gig that scared me last night. It was Tag Comedy at the Komedia in Brighton where comedians don't do their normal set in the normal order but instead do it in random chunks based on the last comics chosen topic. I shat myself. I'm bad enough on my own without dragging three other comics down to my level too. The first half was really tough, mainly due to my material, talent and awful, awful face. The audience were polite but a bit quiet although that didn't stop Stephen Grant, Lloyd Langford and Ben Norris from being relaxed, confident and extremely funny. Those three cunts are cunts. I was a lot more confident in the second half (damn it, I even enjoyed myself) but really I was just very impressed and inspired by the three others. They were great and, like I say, cunts. I think Lloyd Langford is going to be very famous pretty quickly which is probably a guarantee that his career will do a Brendon any second.
I travelled back to London with Lloyd who told me a great news story about a soldier called Danny James who was found guilty of passing secret information to Iran. apparently, the news report described the soldier as "a text-book fantasist". That made me laugh. Then a big fucker got on the train. He stomped his big fucker body onto the carriage then crashed his big fucker arse on to the seat next to us and smashed his big fucker boots up on to the seat in front of him. He had a big fucker ring through his nose, a big fucker tattoo and a stupid prick beard. He kept looking over and I couldn't help but get the feeling that he was going to be big fucker trouble. Finally, he turned to me and said "Oi, mate". Oh crap, I thought, here it comes. He then offered me his phone and said "Can you take a picture of me?" A bit weird but I agreed and when I said "Say cheese" he replied "Fuck off". I handed back the phone, he thanked me then got off the train. He was creepy, drunk and just plain fucked in the head for even thinking of wanting his photo taken on a smelly late night train. Was this really a moment he wanted to treasure in later big fucker life? I didn't ask.
HAAAAAA!!! I've got the Comedy Cafe tonight but before that my drunk wife and I are going out for some Battersea Beer so the gig later might be interestingly embarrassing. Come along, pissed-men lovers!
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