9am being at home for the morning means that the day can begin with a little Thomas the Tank Engine (did Henry get a scarf or Toby get a whistle, I am easily confused these days; so many tales) followed by toast and marmite.
10.10am Leave others to toast and marmite as I can’t find a couple of books I need urgently for the judging of the Royal Society book prize.
10.25 – 11.30am swearing, throaty noises, occasional head-beating (mine and no one else’s)
11.31am Ah there it is (it was God’s Philosophers – perhaps the very fact that god was in the title led to it being eluding me)
11.40am swearing, throaty noises, occasional head-beating (still my head). My agent’s assistant calls to remind me that I am meant to be at BBC7 recording links. I was not aware of this, the forgetfulness of all else but touring has marred my mind.
1.35pm after 12 days away and a brief 13 hour return I have repacked my bad books, my good books and clean things for the next 4 days away. I have removed certain books I have never managed to get to in the show, such as Talisman of Gor and How to Become a Supernatural Lover. Briefly lightened the bag is then re-heavied with copies of my books to sell (corporate whore, though I make no personal profit from sales , I am doing it in the hope my publisher will think there are enough sales to let me have another go).
1.43pm mood swings have been severe enough to make me decide that I should watch the sorbet of daytime television. I watch Doctors and I am anaesthetised.
2.25pm drag backs out of door, swearing limited thanks to edges still dulled by soap.
4.35pm drop things off at Brighton Pavilion. Notice extra chairs added in venue. Fortunately I am not a continuous fool and so think “ah they are checking those chairs fit for Tommy Tiernan who is performing the show after me.
4.55pm sign some autographs for people who are waiting for Alan Carr and Michael McIntyre.
5pm – 6pm watch waves with wife, son and friends. Son is getting faster on pebbles but still fails to throw himself into the waves.
6.05pm break rules while browsing in Waterstones. Unbearable urge to buy some Slavoj Zizek. I would not have last 40 days and nights in the desert, even 40 minutes in a muggy conservatory might have been beyond me.
6.30pm go to Boots for Zantac. Despite my no coffee/alcohol/cigarette life , my heart still burns. Unfortunately the act of going to Boots increases burning. No one needs that choice of shampoos and fragrances. Zantac is in last aisle I find. If I had needed Tena Lady I would have been out in 2 minutes, but this maze of lurid Technicolor non-necessities traps me like a minotaur in an Asda.
6.55pm soundcheck. Extra chairs are gone, they will not be needed until Tommy Tiernan.
8.40pm lots of people buy books. Much space is made in suitcase. Someone has left a donation of many books for me. Spare space made is now filled with Guy N Smith’s Mania, Alvin Toffler’s The Third Wave, the Eco-Spasm report and similar. (oh and the audience was very nice too for the show that finished some minutes earlier).
8.50pm I give my complimentary Asahi beers to Mr and Mrs Joanna Neary. We talk of performance art in a disabled toilet in Birmingham performed by a man with one testicle.
10.10pm off to my friends Mr and Mrs KP. I drink an alcohol free beer.
Midnight very tired and about to go to bed. Just check emails and then, somehow, a review of Scott Capurro’s show by Brian Logan pops up. He declares I just crow-barred in material and was generally rubbish compared to Lembit Opik. I agree I wasn’t great, but I didn’t crowbar in material. I become furious. This is a reminder that drunkenness was not the reason I could be puce with fury in the past, it was the darkness that did it, a sort of version of seasonal adjustment disorder but daylight adjustment disorder that occurs every day. I furiously tweet that “Brian Logan is a lying bag of shit” (or it might have been “sack”). I send him an email questioning him then I lie down and just have horrific fantasies of crossness and violence.
Addendum – later Brian will reply to me. He feels calling him a sack of shit on a public forum (either he follows me or a friend of his does) was a little much. Despite my belief that he hasn’t seen me for years he assures me he has on numerous occasions recently. It ends almost amicably. I still feel his comment was inaccurate. This is all done and dusted until next time I lose my temper late night with a sentence in some paper or other. Considering I am very good at avoiding all press mentions throughout Edinburgh and most of life, I still don’t know how I stumbled on this one.
Perhaps I shouldn’t call people lying sacks of shit on twitter, oh my nature/nurture inherited temper.