No one should be reading this thinking, "Jesus, get the press out of Crimea; there's a flat in Islington that needs some attention." Stand down, fans. I'm just a tad grumpy due to the lack of caffeine and freedom. Probably going to pen a song about how I relate to Mandela in a bit.
Why am I locked in a flat in Islington? I stayed over here last night after getting back in from a gig at roughly 3am and not being able to get back to Brighton. I'm lucky that I have amazing friends in London who will always let me in at an obscure hour to stay on a sofa. Unfortunately this morning a small key mishap means I'm stuck in my wonderful friend's flat until she gets home tonight.
This is my comedy reality. Some people might watch Apollo or Roadshow and think: "Cor, I'd like to do that. Comedy looks great."
It is great.
It's also fucking horrible.
In the last 2 days I have travelled 1,022 miles for the pleasure of performing to a grand total of 58 people.
That's a lot of miles and not a lot of people. That's what comedy is actually like sometimes.
That's 17.5 miles per person I've played to. I could have driven all the way to Romania (I've checked) and stopped every 17.5 miles and told my jokes to a person and it would have been the same.
I could have gone to Madrid for the same amount of miles. I could have gone to Frankfurt and back, to Warsaw or to Stockholm. I didn't. I went to Carmarthen and St Helens.
When you put it down on paper like that, it is a sickness. Stand-up comedy addiction is a sickness: I COULD HAVE GONE TO MADRID. But I didn't, and, given the options again, I would do exactly what I did again because even for 18 and 40 people over two nights and 1,022 miles; it was worth it.
So, just in case you're ever looking at those TV shows and thinking, "I might give that a go..." Don't. Just don't. Don't realise how bloody great it is because it's truly awful.
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