Having spent the business end of a fortnight roistering in assorted London dens of iniquity, it was time to get down to the serious business of flat-finding and gig-getting two of the most loathsome and tedious experiences known to man. Both entail the purchase of magazines, the circling and dialling of telephone numbers with biros and no end of long-winded and invariably fruitless dialogues with telephone answering machines.
As I was still sleeping on the sofa in a friend s house in Clapham South, I made accommodation my top priority and bought a copy of Loot, the august London classified ads daily which could buy and sell Buy & Sell ten times over. Always having been a people person, I eschewed the hermit-existence-in-a-bedsit-cupboard option and went instead to the Accommodation Sharing section of the paper. Not being wealthy, female, gay, quiet, vegetarian, religious, a cat lover, a non-smoker or, indeed, a combination of any of the above, simplified the task of whittling down the hundreds of ads contained within to a manageable shortlist of one. I rang the number, left a message with the machine that took my call and set about procuring some gigs.
Whether you re an established veteran or a whelpish upstart, Time Out magazine is essential reading for the discerning comedian about London town. So extensive is its weekly comedy section that newcomers to the scene avail of the detailed roster of venues and promoters to hustle for business, while seasoned lags scan the listings to keep tabs on their own movements and, more importantly, those of their rivals.
I started by ringing the clubs that actively encourage acts to call and tout for business. As a result I ve procured plenty of open-spots, but will have to wait until mid-July before I m performing with any sort of regularity. Nevertheless, it s a lot sooner than some harbingers of comedic doom had predicted when I first arrived here. Since performing at Up the Creek I ve had a couple of other gigs which went well. Everyone laughed in all the right places and both resulted in further bookings.
Of course it hasn t all been work, work, work. A couple of nights ago, while standing in the rain near the notorious homosexual outdoor pursuit centre that is Clapham Common, my particulars were taken by a member of the constabulary who had seen me holding hands with a large black man dressed from head to toe in leather. By way of explanation I should add that I had just realised a long-term fantasy: being one of the first on the scene of a serious road accident.
The man in leather was Gary, who had just been knocked off his motorbike by a taxi and had broken both his legs and an arm. I knew this because the first man to arrive on the scene (a doctor, as luck would have it) told me so, and because the poor fucker s limbs were pointing in directions that no arms or legs were ever meant to point. I never, ever want to see anything like it again as long as I live.
Kneeling beside him, holding his hand and telling him feeble jokes in an attempt to keep his mind off the pain (doctor s orders, I m not completely tactless), I couldn t help but think of Woody Allen s old adage that comedy is tragedy plus time . I suppose it s only fair to wait a few days before I start making fun of Gary s misfortune.
On a lighter note, I got the flat and will have shacked up with two charming young British ladies by the time this issue of Hot Press hits the streets. Needless to say, that they found me to be the nicest person on their shortlist of prospective tenants, can only be seen as a damning indictment of London s burgeoning homeless population. n