Once I had found out that Adam and Joe were returning to 6Music at the beginning of April, I had considered asking the management there if I could co-host one last show today, as I realised I would be back in London this morning. But Michael Legge was already booked and as it turns out I am very glad I didn't push for it. Because I was in no fit state to get up at 7.30am and slept in until 11 and even then was exhausted all day. Once again I am forced to marvel at the unfit, drunken Richard Herring of 2010 who somehow managed to drive back to London almost every Friday night, get up on Saturday morning and then drive off to another gig, all without a tour manager. No wonder I started to feel like I was about to die by the end of it all.
My girlfriend had had a few friends around last night and I had joined the end of the party and had two bottles of beer, once again just trying to see if it's possible for me to have small amounts of alcohol without it affecting me too much the next day. Those two small bottles did give me a minor hangover today and I tried to eat my way out of it, which is, as I have also noted before, the true dietary impact of boozing. I am astonished by how much of a lightweight I have become, but not entirely unhappy about it.
I didn't contact the gym about the realpoo conditioner just yet. I might see if I can talk to them in person about it on Monday, but at least I didn't feel like I was sitting in an invisible cloud of stinking vapour today. I may be over the trauma.
Instead I had one of my tour day off veg outs, playing Yahtzee, listening to York City's match on the radio (we lost to Cambridge, which might affect our play-off hopes, though we're still in the running) and watching rubbish films. I am unable to resist watching any film with Robin Williams in it. A couple of weeks ago I got hooked into the mawkish and embarrassing and slightly morally dubious Bicentennial Man, but today I saw Williams worst offering yet (with the possible exception of Patch Adams, which is as offensive and unpleasant as it is pathetic), "Old Dogs". This one was a broad comedy and one would hope that Williams would excel at that, but the jokes, if we can call them that, had not even bothered to drive all the way to route one and were over played to an extent which almost drove them all the way round past infinity to being funny again. It is breathtakingly bad and one wonders quite how such a terrible script could get to this stage and how actors who are usually all right could perform so appallingly here. It looks like it was dreamed by a child and then written down verbatim. I don't know how I managed to get to the end of it, but somehow I did. And once again I marvel at why millionaire actors would embarrass themselves by appearing in something so useless. Surely it can't be for the money. They all have loads of that. Why don't they just appear in good stuff? It was hard to believe John Travolta had ever been cool. But like a latter day Dick Van Dyke he had at least found work for his wife and his daughter. I'd love to see a film like this, where two childless selfish men in their late middle ages, realise that they made all the right choices, it was good that they kept sleeping around and that all children are cunts. Not because I think that, but just because it would be a surprising breath of fresh air.
Later I watched Kick Arse (as I am going to insist on calling it) which I enjoyed a lot more (but any film was going to seem like Citizen Kane after that awful rubbish. It was funny and stylish and surprising and Nicholas Cage was for the first time in a while really excellent in it. Plus you get to see an 11 year old girl saying "cunt". If the Old Dogs writers had just thought of that then the film would have been vastly improved.
I am hoping the level of exhaustion I am feeling after a relatively light week (only three gigs) is not a bad sign, as from Tuesday onwards I am pretty much gigging every night until Easter. But I am very pleased to have a weekend off and very glad that I made the sensible choice of not letting 6Music that it was feasible for me to do the show this morning.
With all the poo in the hair excitement of yesterday I forgot to mention this confusing and amusing sign that I saw plastered up on the Goldhawk Road. It reads "Bird Missing. If found please Paul" and then hasa phone number. It's just written on a piece of A4 paper with no picture or description of what kind of bird Paul is looking for. Which seems rather hopeful. And are we really supposed to ring Paul every time we see any bird on the off chance that it is the bird he is looking for? Is this a serious request, or is it some kind of strange coded message about drugs or sex that I am too old to understand? Or is Paul a child or very old, unaware of the futility of his request? It's funny and tragic and intriguing and strange in equal measure. Advertising has much power, but I am not sure that in this case Paul will be reunited with his lost bird. It makes me sad. And it also makes me laugh. Sometimes hope is not really enough. What kind of bird is it all Paul? What kind of bird?
Only a week to go to the next Lyric Hammersmith gig. I am going to be in Edinburgh so hosting duties will fall to Chortle best internet podcast losers Proctor and Gamble (or is it Peacock and Gamble) and it's headlined by Al Murray, the pub landlord, with John Maloney and Simon Munnery. That's a pretty awesome line up, so
book here. I will be in Edinburgh that day and it's a busy week on tour for me - all the dates selling well and some of them sold out.
Details here.
And only a few hours left to bid on my twitrelief package, which is already ridiculously highly priced. But if you can beat that your money will be going to great causes and I will chuck in more prizes on top of what is mentioned
Bid here.
