At Least Kris Kristofferson was Hungover…

Today is one of those days where I think, “bloody humans”, but for no particular reason beyond a pointless fug in my head and general moodiness. It started about 9am. I woke up, fortunately for you I have no memory of the dream I had. The night before, Tim Minchin had bitten into a man-faced mouse while demonstrating how to cut meat following Euclidian rules. The geometry of the meat was impressive, but I missed my plane.
Back to Sunday morning, I woke up and noticed a pain somewhere between my shoulder and sternum. “that’ll be cancer”, I thought. Always aware of dramatic irony, I presume that with my intake of things rarely being healthier, save for the Jelly Babies and cookies, now is the time that the tumour must be forming. Also, I have only recently been to the doctor about my insomnia, so I can’t return for at least ten months for fear they will judge me to be a timewaster. Better to die of this new tumour than be judged a hypochondriac.
Then, I looked at Twitter, when am I going to give that up? I read a few newspaper articles on the cut-price Royal Mail thievery, Theresa May seemingly saying “facts have nothing to do with it” and a Paul McCartney interview set in his windmill. It was one of the better windmill based interviews I have read recently, but the rest veered between joyless and hateful. Recently reading that the “nationalised” East Coast line has made £200 million, yet when the franchise comes up they are not allowed to bid for it has fired up my lust for nationalised industry.
Then I had writer’s block, a ludicrous lumpiness of thoughts that makes coming up with the only three lines I require to finish a script quite impossible. I typed something out that was considerably under par, a loose collection of verbs, nouns and adjectives that just won’t do but the shame of allowing anyone else to see it will force my mind into action in a desperate bid to defend its reputation.
Meanwhile, Twitter seemed to be flooded with outrage over one thing and another, an interview with a filmstar about journals of toplessness in newsagents, an editorial decision by a science magazine, I wasn’t even tempted to join in the daily pun feed, despite it being
Zoological Smiths sings.
“we know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of their periodical fits of morality”
Thomas Babington Macaulay was fortunate to live in a time when our fits of ridiculous morality were not hourly. We are fortunate to live in a time where we can constantly be wielding a sense of umbrage.
Once in this mood, it is best I stay inside or just stand on a stage shouting out my frustrations while an audience debate whether this is a character comedian or a siege.
Unfortunately, to get from home to the stage I must see people on the way. They are normal people, nice people, some probably do charity work and others are returning from places where they have offered love or kindness, but I do not entertain these thoughts.
Every overheard sentence or sartorial oddity has the potential to make me twitchy and scowlish. Why are they talking so loudly about something that should, at best, be shamefully whispered about? What kind of animal would invest in such shoes? That tattoo is looking at me. Shane Richie is smiling at me too much in his pantomime poster. When will all these mobile phones stop whistling?
(At this point, I had a sudden change of mood and two hundred words flowed out, then my computer went awry, and I lost them. So my suddenly reclaimed good mood became precarious, but it is still there. This is sort of what was written next…)
These thoughts are quite uncalled for, unnecessary and wasting my time, they are also making my scalp twitch. If you have not experienced scalp twitchiness it is most disconcerting, as if your brain is shifting uncomfortably within.
But hang on, I have biscuits.
And now I look out of the window, and the sun has just come through near Didcot, and it is setting between the now cold cooling towers. And the child on the seat opposite is telling her dad to “stick his bum out” for no reason that I can tell, something to do with the automatic door. And that tumour, I think it is just a muscle strain from showing off too hard when I was playing Birmingham.
I am on my way to do a gig with two friends, and the venue might have a toaster so we can have crumpets, and I might shout about these things, and now I have written myself out of my bad mood. Sorry for wasting your time.

I am on tour, sometimes on my own, sometimes with Grace Petrie and Josie Long – Sheffield, Havant, Bath, Colchester, Finchley, Nottingham all soon, plus Christmas science gigs with Brian Cox, Lee Mack, Alexei Sayle, Alice Roberts etc etc, all stuff HERE

Cosmic Genome has October update incl Josie, Jim Al-Khalili, Mark Miodownik, and the usual Dawkins, Goldacres, Czerskis etc HERE

 

 

 

 

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