What a lot of fun yesterday was. A full day of fun. Lovely.
Seriously, I have nothing to complain about so you might as well read something else. You won't like this.
I left the house much earlier than normal to go into London's exciting West End to have my photograph taken by Edward Moore (www.edshots.co.uk). I love London. You just never know who you might see. I saw thousands of people. Didn't recognise any of them except for Sally Phillips. She's famous but she takes the tube. Sally keeps it real, people. I decided to choose a setting for my photograph that would be appropriate to me as an artiste and one that would reflect the man himself. I went to the pub.
I love the pub. Who doesn't love the pub? It's full of interesting characters and there's always a buzz. Except yesterday. There was only one man in the pub when we walked in. It was so utterly quiet that I got all too self-concious about having my photograph taken. Not that the man and the barmaid were just staring. They weren't. They didn't look once at what was going on. I mean, for fuck's sake. There is something interesting happening in the pub. LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! Nah, they didn't give a fat shit about me and my beautiful face being photographed. They didn't even look up when the manager told us to stop taking pics. We weren't allowed so had to pack up and leave. She told us that if she let us take photos in the pub, Samuel Smith would regard that as a sackable offence.
Dear Samuel Smith, I might still use the photos that were taken in your pub but please don't fire the Manager who clearly told us not to. She did her job brilliantly. Instead, why not fire the bored blonde girl who worked behind the bar who told us that we could take photos and who obviously hates her chosen occupation. Thanks.
We just went to another pub and finished what we started. Even though we were told not to. Ha! I'll never learn!
I will learn. I looked at the photos. I have learned that I'm really quite, quite repugnant on the eye. Poor Edward who had to look at me. He's probably all upset now.
It was a lot of fun hanging out with Edward, drinking beer and posing, but soon I was off to do something totally stupid. I'm too busy to get to Hitchin this week to record Precious Little so I thought it would be a good idea to record our very first ever live podcast in the centre of London. In a pub. Right by the toilet. In front of no-one. We announced our venue on Twitter but were filled with confidence that not a single person would turn up. Mainly because no-one knows who we are but partly because we announced it on Twitter after we had started recording it. It is probably my favourite podcast so far, although I haven't heard it and probably never will. I was a bit drunk by the time we started recording and that just made me giddy. And very loud. I've never screamed "WHAT'S WROOOOONG!" in public before. I can't even really remember what we talked about but I remember it mainly being about how I'm going to go round the pub selling home-made copies of the new Collings & Herrin CD for a pound (which I didn't really mean) and repeatedly saying Olivia Lee is a bukkake- in-a-car park, cum-covered, useless whore (which I meant). Might be worth avoiding but it was a lot of fun spoiled only by Mr. A McHaffie of Scotland who ruined everything by actually turning up 20 minutes before we finished and being our audience. At least he brought me a copy of Barbara Windsor's autobiography. For some reason.
After a few more drinks (during which I almost deleted the podcast) I was off to Brockley for more more drinks with my lovely friend John Voce. We chatted about the budget, the Vatican paedophile cover up and other things we knew nothing about but mainly we talked about how much we hate anyone who never came to see our show, The Conversation, in Edinburgh 2004. You fucking cunts. It was a brilliant show and you missed it, you stupid arseholes who we hate. And the one star review we got in Chortle? It can go fuck itself. It was written by a child, anyway. A cunt child. So, if you didn't see our show then you're a cunt and we hate you, is that understood? Good.
Our joyful vitriol was almost ruined when we were interrupted by two very, very pissed people who wanted to share our table. And our conversation.
The best way to describe them would be "loaded and thick". I think that's fair. They had a driver waiting for them outside as they drank in the pub and had come all the way from Essex. Why go drinking in Brockley if you live in Essex? Simple: "We were another pub round here watching Justin Lee Collins".
I hated them even more but this would soon change.
Justin Lee Collins was bizarrely doing a show called Good Times at a pub called The Brockley Jack. I don't know why either. They absolutely love Justin Lee Collins. I don't know why either. But hang on, if he's doing a show at The Brockley Jack and it's on now and you have tickets to see it, why aren't you there?
"I watched a bit of it", said Danny. "But I got bored and went for a fag in the bog. They chucked me out."
I love Danny, who showed me his driver's license just to prove he really is called Danny. I don't know why either.
Now, I don't have time to tell you why I hate Olivia Lee today so it'll have to wait until the next one. It's a good reason though and one I'm sure you'll agree with. Carry on.