Court Jester

So anyway right, I did this gig at the Royal Court Theatre, London, in aid of the charity One Parent Families. I found myself sharing a dressing room with my old friend Silky, Greg Burns, and... Sir Ian McKellen, the latter of whom I managed to bore within a minute.

Greg and I were discussing whether or not anyone was likely to be doing topical material, and I said that I certainly wouldn't, as I try to keep my patter to a minimum, since every time I open my mouth, shit comes out, and oh look some shit just came out then. Sir Ian stood up and made a run for it.

We didn't see him again until an hour or so later, when he realised he'd mislaid his mobile. We set about looking for it, all of us too polite to suggest the obvious course of action: for one of us to ring it (and thereby have Sir Ian's mobile number on our phone - you would store it, wouldn't you?! And then probably show off to your mates by texting him when you were pissed). When someone eventually suggested that course of action, Sir Ian confessed that he couldn't remember his number anyway. I imagine when you're that famous, you must have to change your mobile phone number once a week.

I also met Jo Brand, who was headlining. She was as far removed as It's possible to be from her dark, prickly stage persona. One of the nicest, most down-to-earth comics I've ever met. Quite happy to listen to whatever anyone around her had to say, no matter how banal, with an interested look on her face, and no attempt to judge, or out-funny anyone. Her set was terrific, as was that of Miranda Hart, whom I hadn't seen for ages. I'd never seen her do standup before, and she was extremely splendid; her awkward posh persona the perfect vehicle for her observations about the pretentious middle classes.

Silky was also marvellous, with a very laidback routine, containing the classic joke, "what happens when a Londoner f**ks a Scouser? Birmingham"

My set went okay. Most of the words came out in the right order, people laughed in the right places, and I remained in control of my bowels throughout. It was a buttock-clenching experience, with one part of my brain going "crap, what's the next line?" and another part going "ooh - look at you on stage at the Royal Court!", and a third part of it going "musn't forget to pick up some more milk", and then the other two bits rounding on the third bit and screaming "SHUT UP!"

Then Monday, I played Nice Mum at the Etc Theatre, trying out new bits of my one man show. The Lincoln song went down well, but the inner monologue about whether or not to help a homeless girl in floods of tears was a big sweaty flabby disaster. Still, that's what red pens are for...