Nov 12, 2009 1
After a poetry gig like that, it begs the question ‘Should I have persisted with rugby as a child?’ despite the fact that I was scared of tackling, slower than the average girl and couldn’t catch a cold. But did get pneumonia when i was ten, possibly twelve? Who gives a shit?
Perhaps if I had gone up on stage and straight away announced that I had fucked every one of the audience members’ grandparents that I would have at least received a response. All be it a negative one. But at least it would have been one – just even the slightest of alteration in facial expression would have been a result. Even possibly from the guy in the front row who couldn’t have resembled Little Britain’s Andy Pipkin any better if he’d tried and had left his wheelchair at the top of the stairs before bounding down them to take his seat right in front of me whilst Lou had his back turned. Every time I looked at his ever glazing over, non-responsive expression I felt like I might aswell have been reading my poems backwards, with a potato in my mouth and from inside a shut, melting whellie bin, in hell.
Perhaps returning to the sausage and mash restaurant where, up until having major bowel surgery in July, I’d previosly spent eight miserably arduous months working as a waiter/toilet cleaner, had meant that my usual feeling of joy, passion and lust for life that I usually get when I walk on stage had upped and fucked off into a pit of the mundane everyday,- that of microwaved mash, Bisto and the minumum wage perhaps…
Ok, so the feeling of self-harming in a luke warm bath whilst masturbating into a handful of broken glass (with the other hand) might sound to me fractionally more appealing and far less painful than both last night’s gig and tonight’s, certainly, but without these the good one’s would no longer be good, presumably. Michael Jackson played to packed stadiums and arenas of screaming, crying, adoring fans for most of his life and, well, need I say more?
Note to self: A set list is always needed; write it before getting to the gig and don’t lose it seconds before walking on stage. (2) Do not ever drink til 3 in the morning the night before a gig. (3) When it appears that you’re going down like a lead balloon before an audience, enjoy it, cherish it, keep pumping it out and revel in their misery. Life is far too long to get upset about what absolutely everyone thinks of your work. (4) don’t have any expectations of anything. Ever. Or to sell any of your £1 books again. You might sell 23 at one gig and get your first publishing offering and then none at the next. Ooh, life’s such a rollercoaster! And (5)
“Stop sulking and blaming the audience and go to bed”.
“Not yet Mother”
..because first I must just state how much I loved Lemn Sissay’s performance. Genuine, funny, energetic, inviting, passionate, and really engaging. A must see if you ever get chance. I just wished I’d done him justice and actually done my job as a support act and warmed the audience up for him rather than increasing their level of verging autistic hostility towards the stage. Thankfully, due to his many years of experience and natural charm and charisma he swung it round and they adored him. I’m certainly pleased I got to see him at the very least.
Goodnight Doctor. x
ps. Xander, thanks very much again for the help with CV editing/printing mallarkey. On reflection, your idea to leave out the list of twenty three swimming certificates that I’d previously included was probably a good idea and even for one’s CV would be regarded as blowing one’s trumpet a little too loudly. I wouldn’t want rejection from potential employers on grounds of being over qualified! If you’re up for a cup of tea today then give us a text. Cheerio, G