So, after twenty four years of living next door to Alice I moved out of London. Actually that was six months ago. The move worked out, so much so that my wife is starting to say it was all her idea.
There's nothing I miss about London, the few times I have gone back since I have wondered how I managed to live there. I'm a visitor now, dazed and bewildered, even double checking the Tube map. I'll be standing on the wrong side of the escalator next.
So much for the happy. I've had a cold and lost my voice. Gigs that would normally be easy have been a croaky struggle, and in this pre-World Cup period most gigs are a bit muted anyway. I'm lucky to be working, even if it is in some, er, interesting places.
I did a wedding. Please, if you're getting married, don't have a comedian on. The room will be all wrong, the guests will have other things on their minds, the disco will have to be stopped to allow the 'funny man' to do his bit, and the comic will get flashed by a speed camera on his way home. That the Best Man stresses too much the 'I' in, 'Well, I thought you were funny' will not help!
In my experience stopping an audience from doing the Woops Upside Your Head dance so that someone they don't know can prattle on in a dark corner of the room is not a good idea for anyone.
Of course no-one held a gun to my head, but if you're offered money for anything when you have a gap in your diary you can't really say no, even if you know that no amount of money will make it enjoyable. It's best all round not to be asked.
Worst part of the night, going miles out of my way to find an Esso station to fill up, the acne experiment serving would only let me have one England World Cup medal. Next time I'm going to BP, if only to pour diesel all over the front of the forecourt and the flower beds to see how they like it.
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