Comedy post-mortem

Last night I had fun at the club, although the crowd were confusing as ever, laughing when I wouldn't expect them to and sitting in silence when I thought they'd laugh uproariously. I thought my Twitter joke was a winner, but the only laugh it got was a ghostly chuckle from a comedian hiding behind the curtain in the green room. You had to not be there, I guess.


They did laugh at my American War of Independence joke from earlier in the year, showing that a joke may take time to mature, like cheese. Or a rotten egg. And afterwards somebody came up to me in the street, shook my hand and said what a good host I was, which was an unexpected boost to my ego.

There was a chap in the front row with a hat, who I tried to talk to early on, and who wouldn't open up. I played with him for the rest of the evening, but I'm trying to be careful not to spend the whole time on stage stuck in a dialogue with somebody who doesn't want to be part of a conversation ... Something of a struggle sometimes, but I think I've got more of an idea of where I am and what I'm trying to do than at the start of the year. And nobody walked out, which is always nice.

After such a peak, how could anything today compare? Well, I was pessimistic, until I got home this evening and spent 45 minutes driving my virtual motorcycle round and round the virtual Assen MotoGP track, until I'd lapped all 19 computerised opponents. I'm like a modern day Lawnmower Man.

Without some of the better special effects, of course.

As I left the flat for an evening of drinking, I was glad to meet my neighbour coming home. Mostly because I'm glad he had been out, rather than subjected to the constant whine of a simulated 125cc engine and me shouting abuse at the television set. I'm really such a gent.