Back on the road (for three days at least) and had decided to do
these few gigs on my own without a tour manager (Giles hadn't been
available for the middle one anyway). I assumed I'd be OK given that it
was only three gigs. But I was reminded of why I'd decided I didn't want
to do this alone any more. The drive to Manchester took over five hours
and I was pretty tired by the time I pulled up outside the sliding
doors (do you remember that film?) of the Frog and Bucket garage.
Three years ago I had come a cropper driving through this gate and pranged my car.
I was concerned that this might happen again, though luckily my new car
has parking sensors which would make this more difficult. I waited
outside the gates for someone to come and let me in. It took a while but
finally the familiar face of Colin appeared. It was a bit off that he
had come out into the street and not through the gate I was waiting at,
but I assumed there was a side door. The gates stayed shut for a bit
longer than I'd have expected, but then opened up. I drove in and parked
up. When I was getting out of the car Colin arrived to tell me I'd
driven into the wrong garage. The other door that I had thought was the
right one had opened coincidentally. I was parked in a tight space and
had to execute a 34 point turn to get out of the space, but still didn't
bump anything. Am I doomed to do something stupid every time I arrive
at this club?
Then I got into the right garage and pulled up
behind the back door of the club. There was another car in front of me,
so I was slightly blocking some of the cars in the garage. But that
seemed to be OK.
A few minutes later I was called back to the
garage to move forwards a bit to let two of the cars out. That was all
fine and once they were gone I took the opportunity to turn my car
around so that I could drive straight out. I am not great at reversing,
but also pretty poor at working in three dimensions inside my head. It
took me a while to work out how to get the car around. My car goes in
reverse, but my brain doesn't. All the time I was convinced I would hear
the sound of grinding metal, but before long my car was in the right
place and facing in the right direction.
But as I prepared for the
show I was again asked to move the car as someone else was trying to
get into the garage. I backed the car right up to the other car and
there was plenty of room to get a car into the available space (though I
wouldn't have liked to try and negotiate it). I went back to the
dressing room and was againa disturbed to be told that the man who had
been getting his car in had pranged it against the pillar. This was his
fault, not mine as I'd left room, though I sympathised with him as I am a
shit driver too. But they wanted me to move my car out of the garage so
that he could extricate himself. So all my hard work had been for
nothing and I now risked more damage to my car by having to so extra
manoeuvres. I drove out easily enough and then waited for the car to
move so I could get back in again. I waited for about ten minutes, with
the man walking around his car and opening the boot. Finally he
disappeared without moving his car. I had given up my excellent position
for nothing and now (unless I wanted to reverse into the garage, which
was not happening) was going to be back facing the wrong way with no
room to turn.
Having been so happy with my work thus far it would
be typical if I pranged the car as I got back into the garage, but
luckily there would only be one accident tonight and I got in fine. It
had been an unwelcome stress before the gig and I was already knackered
from the drive.
Having done the show last week I hadn't run
through any of it in my head and nearly forgot the first line, but aside
from a few tired stumbles it was a good show. I have played the Frog
and Bucket every year with my Fringe show (I think) since 2005. Eight
years and nine shows since this day where I bumped into Chris Addison in the shopping centre.
I've had more fun at this venue, both on stage and off than almost any
other. One particular highlight was Jason Cook getting me drunk to
perform at his late night gig. But things have changed since those heady
naughty mid-noughty days and neither I nor the people working there
were keen to make a night of it. I headed back to my hotel (relieved to
have reversed out of the garage without incident). I think I might have
been lucky. The men who arrived just after me were told that the room
they had booked had been given to someone else, due to their late check
in. They were understandably angry about that and the staff tried to
find them alternative accommodation (though when I left it the best that
was on offer was a hotel at the airport). I had a glass of wine in the
bar on my own, feeling like a travelling salesman, which I realised I
really am. Tours used to be as much about the Bacchanalian frenzy after
the show, but now it's just about doing the job and then going to bed.
That's not at all a bad thing in many ways, though the Me2 inside me
lamented how things had changed. Me1 just missed his wife (and so did
Me2 if he was honest) and wished he was at home.
I can't moan
about my job (and I am not doing), because it was a great pleasure
performing this show in one of the best clubs in the country to one of
the most comedy literate crowds you can hope for and in many ways my
life is much better for knowing this is a job and concentrating on what
happens on stage rather than off it. But as I eventually sat alone in
the empty bar I did raise a little toast to my lost youth. And I know I
am happier now - that day I met Chris Addison I was in a state of mild
despair and I can enjoy the solitude now when back then it would have
filled me with dread. I guess I am just astonished by how quickly those
years have passed and how the 38 year old me and the 46 year old me live
on different continents. Neither of us would swap places with the
other.
