I only found out because I was checking wikipedia recent deaths for someone to name my snooker arena after (frame 60 is now up in usual places) but Jerleanne Talley, the oldest person in the world died this week. We've lost three oldest people in the world this year already and there are now only two 1800s people left. Can Susannah Mushatt Talley make it to the end of the year? Will there be any 19th Century people left by the time I finish my tour at the end of the month? Will there be any still going at the final performance of this show on 11th September? If you want to get kissed on the mouth by someone from the 19th Century (and you discount those 1900 imposters) then you've got to get a move on. The curse is moving like a forest fire through the dry deadwood of the 1800ers.
Maybe a frame of self-playing snooker was not the best use of my time today. But self-playing snooker is the magic beans that is going to make me a millionaire. You'll see. Doping claims hung over the contest like a stale fart, but the players did their best in the difficult circumstances. Who would have believed this podcast would get to 60 episodes? But now it has, who would argue that it won't get to 600. Hopefully in time they can download all the Mes into a computer and they can continue to play long after my death.
I attempted another run today. I am still astonished by my loss of fitness after what feels like only a short time away from regular exercise. Today I managed a slow two and a half miles, before walking home. I was pleased to have got that far and I felt much better afterwards. I listened to an audio of “Someone Likes Yoghurt†as I ran and walked. I didn't even get to the end of the first half. Man alive, that is a pedantic show. Congratulations to anyone who sat through the whole thing. I quite enjoyed the wilful stupidity and the getting het up about absolutely nothing (though with some nice bits of proper satire about important stuff hidden away in there), but it is relentless. The whole recording is two hours long and I didn't even got to the yoghurt bit of the show on my jaunt, but gave up during the Pope letter bit. It revels in its irritation and I can understand why some people didn't like it (Daily Telegraph Worst Comedy Experience of 2005, but also my best selling DVD ever, so go figure). It's quite something. And not necessarily in a good way. My smugness at having learned the Rudyard Kipling routine quite easily evaporated as I realised how complex, winding and repetitive this thing is. I think I might only have a 90 minute slot at the Leicester Square Theatre for this show, so I won't have to learn it all, but I can easily lose half an hour of fucking about and still get all the routines in I think. Maybe I should have been learning my old shows (and writing a new one) instead of playing snooker. Magic beans, Rich. Don't forget the magic beans.
Still no sign of the apricot stone. Did it slip out today unnoticed like a prisoner escaping unseen from a prison down the sewer. Or has it, as seems most likely, taken root in my bowel. Will I have twigs coming out of my ears and spindling roots coming out of my mouse hole within the year. If the snooker thing doesn't take off financially can I make a living selling my own apricots. That's not a euphemism. Let's hope so. And if it was a magic apricot pit then maybe it will be a tree that I can climb to a giant's castle. So either way it looks pretty certain that by this time next year I will be a millionaire.
