ONE OF the main reasons I moved to London was because I had shagged my way through the entire female population of Ireland and had an overwhelming desire to graze carnal pastures new.
Actually, that s a big fat lie. However, I can now take a scissors to the top of this fortnight s column and have the cool Clash-inspired headline, my byline, the smouldering mug shot of me which appears in the top right-hand corner and the first sentence laminated. I will then carry this impressive and well-presented soundbite in my wallet, show it to beautiful English women at opportune moments and convince them to sally forth to the Glendenning love palace where we will engage in lewd acts of depravity which I have hitherto only fantasised about. Like Verbal in The Usual Suspects, I am a man with a plan.
Of course, having padded out the start of this fortnight s column with 140 words of utter irrelevance, I can now truthfully reveal that one of the main reasons I moved to London was because my Antipodean friend and colleague Matthew Hardy convinced me it was a good idea. I have always found the notion of being paid quite well for doing what amounts to bugger all an appealing one, so when Matthew volunteered to pull a few strings and secure me open spots in prestigious clubs around London I was exceptionally grateful.
I had no qualms about the fact that it meant skipping a few queues and setting back the master plans of other up-and-coming comics by a few weeks. After all, if they had any real aspirations towards super-stardom, they would have bought houses in Dublin and invited Matthew Hardy around to watch Sky Sports on the occasion of his last performances at the Laughter Lounge.
A man of his word, the Kookaburra Kid was instrumental in securing me a gig at Up The Creek before my feet had even touched sovereign soil, but no sooner had I removed my worldly goods from the carousel at City Airport than the bollocks absconded. He d written a novel, the swot, and had to travel Down Under to engage in acts of shameless pluggery in an effort to maximise sales of his tome.
His mission well and truly accomplished (he s neck and neck with Hannibal at the moment!), Mr Hardy has just returned to Britain, worked his magic again and as a result, by the time you read this, I will have performed my first stand-up gig at Jongleurs.
That this is a good thing cannot be over-emphasised. Stand-up comedy s answer to Dunne s Stores, Jongleurs boast several large rooms around London and an array of others speckled in such exotic locations as Watford, Leicester and Nottingham. Unlike Dunne s Stores, however, they pay their staff well.
At the time of writing, if my open-spot goes well, I m told I can look forward to regular work along with the opportunity to spend an unhealthy amount of time navel-gazing in hotels such as the Linton Travel Tavern, home to Alan Partridge when last we saw him.
On the other hand, if I make a complete dog s breakfast of my seven-minute shot at this meal ticket of mirth, I ll probably end up working in a hotel such as the Linton Travel Tavern, home to Alan Partridge when last we saw him. Whatever happens, I can assure you you ll read it here first. n
AN OPEN LETTER TO MY OCCASIONAL DRINKING COMPANION AND FELLOW HOT PRESS DIARIST UANEEN FITZSIMONS

Dear Uaneen,

The frenzied pace of your day to day existence is becoming a source of considerable irritation to me. Please stop moving house on a daily basis, attending five gigs a night and missing the end of all of them because you have to present your radio show and No Disco at the same time, commuting twice a day between Cork and Dublin while simultaneously compering gigs in which you appear before bigger and more raucous crowds than I can ever hope to. You re making me look like an excruciating bore!

Your friend,
Barry Glendenning