Suicide Tuesday

You know despite the fact that only one or two people (maybe because only one or two people) read this thing, it's also nice to forget about the funny and just vent, letting stuff off my chest that would probably grate in person. Thankfully, you lovely folks can gloss over that sort of stuff and I can feel a little bit better about my life, at least for 15 minutes or so.

Well, I'm not exactly on the verge of self-deathination, but I am experiencing a mild comedown from Sunday's exuberance and coupling that with my shit job really isn't filling me with glee. I'm fixating on The One That Got Away and, despite her ignoring my message two weeks ago, am still tempted to ask her out for a drink. It's foolish. I know it's foolish, and will probably end up making me more depressed either way (even if she said yes it could only last two months, then cue tears), but you just can't help but be tempted. Fucking sentimentality and your brain deciding to try and filter out all the not-so-perfect memories to just leave the rose-tinted ones.

Anyway, I'll get past it, now I'll try to see if this inner reflection can result in anything that would make anyone laugh, ever. Nah may as well give up now. I kid.

So maybe I should tell some stories. Which seems odd, given that they're not that new and I've told them out loud so many times, but maybe this whole writing stuff out thing will help with noticing where needs work and so on.

Ok so...the reason I love live comedy. My first ever stand-up gig. Aged 18, and having just returned from Leeds two weeks previously in my clapped-out Y-reg VW Polo (sort-of) estate. It was white. I know you were wondering. Now the car didn't like long drives, as many old cars do not, and Leeds to Dorset is a motherfucker of a drive. It didn't take it too well, especially when the hills hit us at the end of the journey.

So anyway, I'm sat at home, playing an awful lot of Pro Evolution Soccer, as you do. Well, did. It's FIFA now...it's just the superior game nowadays, don't judge me. And I'm on the phone with my friend Jamie talking about our upcoming gig to see Marion & Geoff live. This wasn't a middle-aged double act, this was a live show based on the BBC2 comedy. Give me a cheer if you know Marion and Geoff?!

Yeah not people called that...the show. And yes I'm aware that on a blog I can't hear a cheer, but you know why I'm writing this so why don't you shut up :P

So this was Rob Brydon doing his Keith Barrett character, at the Nuffield in Southampton. Lovely theatre. And so Jamie and I were getting excited about it and he asked me when it was...I'm like "ah it's sometime next week, loads of time, no worries. I'll just check the exact date so you know not to book anything else in..........................so you said you were free tonight, right?"

We both hop into my clapped-out Polo and head to Southampton post-haste. Well, I say post-haste. To be fair we left the house quickly, but as soon as we got into the car, there was definitely no rushing. The clutch was almost gone, but, being 18 and with no other visible means of making it to this gig, by Job we're gonna give it a go!

So we head out past Corfe Castle, via Wareham and Poole and Bournemouth and then reach Ringwood, where the road opens up before the M27 kicks in, taking us the final stages of our journey. We get onto the dual carriageway and are happily cruising...until a large uphill section of road decides to fuck us in the ass. The car did not like this hill. They had some bad beef from years gone by, it seems. And the hill was stronger. The engine is revving as fast as I can make it, the temperature is flying up and passers-by are screaming at me as they drive past, making what I can only describe as very rude hand gestures in my gentlemanly direction.

I'm beginning to feel the pressure now, but I know we can't give up. We've been waiting for this gig for months. So I try to drown out the horrible, horrible people with the radio. I crank it up as a song fades out and the news comes on. We sit through it and try to not let the weight of all the world's problems get us down any further, but then we hear something...."and there is a large tailback between Ringwood and Southampton, approximately two miles of cars moving very slowly"

"Fuck"
"That's us, isn't it?"
"Yeah.....fuck"

Woops!

So we pull over, which was quite frankly necessary to let the poor car cool down, accepting all insults, gestures and thrown rotten fruit from friendly fellow road users, and headed back on our way.

Thankfully for us, the top of the hill wasn't too much further away and we were able to cruise at about 50 the rest of the way to Southampton. Well, I say the rest of the way. We get to the slip road for our turn-off, and what do you know? It's another fucking hill. Not a big one this time, but my poor car wasn't having any of it. We crept up that fucker at about 10 miles per hour, then 5, 2....nothing. I manage to get it onto the hard shoulder and out of harm's way. But it's dead. We have no idea what we're going to do. It's not like we can even get a bus or train from here. We're at the side of the motorway.

So Jamie takes the lead. He gets out of the car, saying nothing, walks calmly around it, then places his hands on the boot and screams "GO GO GO!!" and I slam my foot to the floor, surely providing even less power than his arms were, and we creep, inch by inch, up this hill. Sweat running down Jamie's face - incidentally I should point 0ut at this point that I did in fact weigh about 19 stone at this time in my life - not what you want when pushing an already not-so-feathery car uphill).

We inch onto the plateau of the slip road and I can feel a tiny amout of drive come back to the wheels...Jamie runs around the car and leaps into the passenger seat. We get back onto the road and proceed - at about 12mph - up towards the venue. The rest of the way I was dodging anything I could in order to keep momentum. Just keep moving, is all I'm thinking. I'm not missing this gig. Other cars, traffic lights, mothers with pushchairs...I had not a care in the world except getting into that seat for a giggle.

We finally make it to the venue - somehow without any police interference, and almost apologetically roll into a parking space. We get out of the steaming, weeping, tortured car, turn around and walk away.

We leave the car to lick its wounds as we enjoy one of the best character-based shows I've witnessed to this day, knock back a nice cold pint and head back to the car. Maybe it'll have cooled down and be ok again. Maybe it'll have been stolen. This is Southampton, after all. We get back to the car, make an honestly rather token effort to get it moving and it literally will not move. I realise...I'm with the AA.

"What's that? You'll be here in an hour to tow us home?

"We'll be in the pub."