Sunday 7th October
The judicious application of Cheese On Toast on my return from the pub last night meant that I bounced out of bed with nery a wince this morning to get myself over to Stratford East and one of the Stage Combat classes I assist at. On the Central Line I had time to mull over the odd dream I'd been having just before I woke up, in which I'd been decorating my parents' house in France, when my Mum poked what I think was a hanging basket with a stick and a rat dropped out and scurried across the floor. I managed to pick my feet up before he coud bite me on the toe, but instead he jumped up and bit me on the hand, hanging on with his front paws and gnawing at my knuckle while I wondered how to get rid of him. I like to think of dreams as being predictive of the future, mostly because it annoys my more intelligent and pragmatic friends, but also because there have been a number of instances when things I've dreamed about have actually come about. Wondering then what could be signified by being bitten by a rat, I arrived at Stratford Circus.
There are two classes back to back, a beginner class, in which they learn Unarmed Combat (that's Thumping People) and Rapier & Dagger, and an intermediate class which this term is on Broadsword. Both are taught by Janet, who I've been assisting for a year or so and who is one of only two lady teachers in the organisation (both of whom, oddly, are Very Little. I often wonder if there's a connection, you know, in the way that Very Little dogs are always the most aggressive). Stratford differs from the classes I assist at in Drama Schools in that it's open to anyone, so the class is a mixture of actors and real people, and given the nature of the subject, the real people can tend to be, shall we say, quite individual. No, we'll say a bit headmental. In this year's beginner group we apparently have two students who genuinely have 'mental health problems'. The exact nature of the problems are unspecified, but from my observation it appears that one student's condition is that He Is A Robot. Now, I appreciate that part of Startford Circus's remit is to be inclusive and to offer all comers the chance to take part in classes, but I have to question the thinking behind encouraging people with 'mental health problems' to learn how to fight with swords. Still, lets hope I'm proved wrong and that they turn out to be brilliant at it. Rather than to kill people.
From four hours of slinging swords around, a quick change and a tube to Hammersmith to see an evening of comedy at the Lyric. Getting there early and meeting Brian in the pub allowed for the possibility of some beer, then we were thoroughly entertained by Phill Jupitus, Harry Hill and two new lads, one of whom was very good and one of whom largely relied on having Funny Hair. The last time I met Harry Hill he was watching me onstage, dying a slow and painful death in a show at his daughter's school. Afterwards he came over for a chat, and he's a lovey chap and much shorter than you realise. During the show this evening, he asked the audience to name an animal. I immediately shouted 'Penguin!' whereupon he proceeded to make me one out of a coathanger, which I carried home in triumph to add to my growing collection of penguin-related things. In the bar afterwards, I was interviewed by the BBC for The Culture Show, who were asking punters what they thought of the new comedian with the Funny Hair. In truth, I thought he was rubbish, but being by now quite pissed and holding a penguin made from a coathanger I praised his confidence and rapport with the audience and was told by the lovely BBC girl that I sounded like a comedy agent. Nearby, two blonde girls tried blatantly to crack onto Richard Herring, the compere for the evening, who was having none of it, despite most of his material having been about only doing these gigs in order to find women who are prepared to have sex with him.
On the way home, I am thoroughly ashamed to report that I bought and ate a doner kebab. I deserve to be bitten by a rat.
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