Lord Sugar was a bit more sparse on his football tweets, but spookily his scorelines updated a good three minutes before the BBC website. And I wondered if rather than reporting the scores, Lord Alan is creating the scores. Once he types in what has happened, it then happens. He sits in his massive undersea base made of unsold nail files and dials up the internet on his clunky Amstrad phone and whatever he tweets becomes truth.
You'd think if this was the case that his own team, Spurs, would be doing a lot better in the league, but perhaps he is just a very fair-minded man who would get no pleasure from such a sham or maybe he was only granted his power with the heart-breaking caveat that he would have no dominion over any game involving Spurs. If he was a clever man he could still get round this by manipulating the results of the team's main rivals. But he isn't a very clever man, clearly (or why hasn't he done that?) or the mysterious forces that govern his power to influence events somehow punish him if he tries to use his power for selfishness.
Either that or the BBC site is just really bad at updating football scores. I think it's more likely that Lord Alan Sugar has the Medusa touch.
But as Lord Alan Ian Sugar was not so hot on football updates today I had the chance to get some work done, rattling off a Metro column about Ted Rogers and putting together a treatment for a new TV comedy drama idea.
The second Norwich Playhouse gig had been added late, due to the Saturday sell-out and we only had about 100 in, but they were just as good a crowd, possibly better as there were some odd murmuring half-hecklers last night, one of whom sounded like a bassoon rather than a human. He refused to repeat his wood-wind-like comment and I speculated (due to the part of the show I was at) that he was the ghost of all the sperm that I had ever spilled on the ground come back to ask me why I had not used them to create a baby. I compared it to Hamlet. Though in actuality I think this would have been a much stronger opening than having the ghost of a father. I might re-write the whole play with Hamlet being haunted by the ghost of his unborn children, an amorphous, ectoplasm like mass made up of billions of sperm. It would drive him crazy and certainly lead him to ask, "To wank, or not to wank, that is the question."
I am not saying that I am better than Shakespeare.
We drank in the theatre bar after the show with the theatre staff, something that barely happens anywhere anymore. Usually either I or the crew are keen to get home after a show, but both nights in Norwich we've had a very enjoyable drink and chat. The theatre bar ceiling is covered with 3D (upside-down) representations of various UK landmarks like the Tower of London and Stonehenge. But I have been delighted to see that the Cerne Abbas Giant (once the poster-boy of my show and the book) is included (though his cock has been made a little bigger than it is in actuality and thankfully only in 2D).
It seemed apt that he was almost exactly over my head and made me love Norwich even more than I did before. It's a rare UK town with its own character and vibe. If I was plonked down in most city centres in the UK and wasn't allowed to talk to anyone it would probably take me a while to work out where I was, but Norwich retains a unique spirit and the citizens are also less inclined to conform.
Great to spend some time here.
And only 20 more shows to go on the tour, not that I am counting down and slightly sighing at how slowly the total seems to be getting depleted.
