The Seedy Side of Royal Leamington Spa

For a change I thought I'd show you the real Royal Leamington Spa - the side of this quaint, Regency town in quaint old middle England that visitors don't know exists.

All the decay, tumbleweed and dereliction. The many bits of this tourist town that the council's vast income from tax, parking charges and other sources does not reach.

The flaking paint, crumbling buildings, faded glory.



My good mood continues unabated (I thoroughly enjoyed taking these pictures, although I am deliberately not publishing images of the countless mentalists, vagrants, druggies and alkies who comprise the denizens of the badlands of downtown Leamington).

I am getting into the Christmas spirit and trying to enjoy myself in moderation. Never easy for me!

The Festive Season is always wondrously fun but also hugely dangerous. This point was more than adequately illustrated at a Christmas party in a hotel near Leamington the other Friday when I got trolleyed and, for reasons unknown, started swinging from a thick, wooden beam high above the dance floor.



I was achieving tremendous height with my swings when the inevitable happened - I lost my grip and took off like an Exocet missile some eight foot above the dance floor. When I finally hit ground, it was onto my back with a sickening thud. By God, I felt that. Instant agony.

The people around thought I had broken my back and, indeed, it seemed absolutely miraculous that I got up. The next morning, I found myself wrapped in bruises: back, arms, ribs, wrist, you name it. I was a mess.

Later when I heard accounts of my trajectory and the enormous crack that my bonehouse took as it smashed into the none-too-pliable dance floor, it seemed incredible that I had not ended up in hospital (I like to put it down to the John Paul II rosary beads in my pocket bringing divine intercession, as occurred with him and the swerving bullet).



Why was I so totally out of my head? I had been all right at the same event on two previous years.

Well, I suppose my old mate Mike Knapp's funeral that day had upset me far more than I had expected or would have admitted.

Michael Geoffrey Knapp (10 May 1961 - 29 November 2007) - as writ on the service sheet - was cremated at South West Middlesex Crematorium. The chapel was packed with family, friends and old colleagues from Express Newspapers.

It was an emotional and memorable service, although I'd say not because of the 'humanist celebrant' who was, I felt, as dry as a bone. (Think, ticket collector).

Mike's old friend Dave Paul spoke very movingly, as did Mike's dad and brother. It was very hard not to be tearful.

Like me, Mike was a 1961 baby and, afterwards, at the wake overlooking The Thames at The Bell Inn in Hampton, I pondered how and why he had been taken so young.

When I first knew him in 1988, I would never have imagined he would have died before me.














I liked Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep, the poem read at the funeral (although the humanist did not, in my view, do it justice):

In those quiet moments in the still of the night
Remember to rejoice and celebrate life
Do not think of me gone and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on the grain
I am the gentle autumn's rain
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in flight
I am the soft stars that shine
You will hear my gentle voice
and remember to rejoice
Never give up your fight
and remember always
to Celebrate Life....



Seemed so apposite. I guess Mike Knapp enjoyed his life and checked out with few regrets.




I have been finding it very hard to make the time to write this journal. In the week since Mike's funeral, life has been a little bit of a social whirl.

With my flatmate Attila, I went to a surprisingly entertaining (and hilarious) gathering of video game makers at the Royal Pump Rooms in Leamington. It was nice to him to get me in and the booze was only a quid a beer.



Also in Leamington, I led a seasonal booze-up of colleagues which turned out great, as more and more youngsters arrived to party. It ran from 5.30pm in the White Horse to past 3am in Kelseys. Wisely, I knocked off at around 1.15am in the Robbins Wells (and for once gave the Big K a miss).

A great craic, and I caught up with my photographer friend Jason Tilley (see Images of India) who dropped by for a chat and ended up crashing on my sofa.



On the Friday night, I met my dear friend Brian in London, which was looking particularly Christmassy and beautiful.

We met at the Coach and Horses in Soho (now rebranded as 'Norman's Coach and Horses' with four to five quid-a-piece sandwiches - what would Jeffrey Barnard have made of it?) Otherwise, it was mercifully similar to its former state.



That night it was the annual party at my club, the Colony Room, which was celebrating its 59th birthday, so we adjourned there.

It seemed even more wild than usual. One member had brought in his hound; another was staggering around, hopelessly drunk (like me in years past).



It was very great to see the gaffer, Michael, who is the life and soul of the Col. I am looking forward to next year's bash, the 60th. I remember the 50th and it was an amazing night.



Brian and I had a nightcap at The French House which is a timeless public house, virtually unchanged since it was home from home to the exiled French in the Second World War.

Knocking back numerous half-pints of Guinness (the French House does not sell pints), the atmosphere of that place was tangible.

I almost could picture the wartime French haunting their old haunt.













I did my last poetry gig of the year, at PureAndGoodAndRight, now in the vaults of the Robbins Well, Leamington.

As often happens with pre-Christmas gigs, there was a poor turn-out, so I took the opportunity to workshop a couple of new poems hot off the press (I'd written one on the train from Lewes to the gig).



They were very much work in progress but listening to the reaction of the small crowd was useful.

The atmosphere was good and the headliner, Ash Dickinson, was excellent. He certainly didn't let the dearth of punters put him off, enthusiastically performing two sets. Another great night!



Now I am gearing up for Christmas. I have two more days in Leamington Spa before heading south for the season.

I am still trying to plough through the New Oxford Book of English Verse, and have just read Andrew Marvell (1621 - 1678), a poet I know and particularly like. So it is definitely looking up.

And I am very pleased that my long article about the poetry scene plus my review of a CD of William Blake poems set to music has been published on the centre pages of The Stage, the ever-interesting actors' and performers' newspaper.



Somehow I don't feel ready for Christmas. This year is not quite complete.

Indeed I do not even like to reflect on the year because I have failed in so much of what I resolved to do in 2007.

Nevertheless, my spirits are high. Even though I still ache all over - nine whole days after my spectacular Christmas party crash!

It is 11.30pm and I am checking this blog before emailing you all about it and an update of Oliver's Poetry.

A crescent, almost UFO-esque moon is to my right. A bit of magic in the night. But bitterly cold on the street.

Edinburgh Nights / Joe's Comedy Madhouse

Edinburgh Nights

Edinburgh Garret 10pm. It is the perfect summer's night in Edinburgh - The City of Dreams. The night sky is a deep, deep blue, tinged with green, yellow and red at its edges. Fireworks are exploding behind the castle. The Firth of Forth looks serene in the far distance, from my room, the Edinburgh Garret, at the very top of this great granite building, off George Street.

I am at the Edinburgh Fringe - probably the greatest festival in the world - for my 10th year with The Stage newspaper.

I never tire of this trip - it always gives me a thrill to be here in August. From where I am typing, I have a wondrous view over the rooftops of Edinburgh, down to the docks at Leith and the Firth of Forth. It is a special place, my favourite and highest garret.

When I am in Edinburgh, I very quickly fall into a very different routine from in the Leamington Garret or Lewes Garret, where I tend to get up early - between 5.20am and 7am - and go to bed between 10am and midnight.

Over the years in Edinburgh, I have generally gone to bed between 3am and 5am and risen between 9am and midday. Reviewing comedy in this magical place, your times shift attending shows in the wee hours of the morning and quaffing the night away.

That is not to say that I do not also enjoy the days in Edinburgh: talking to my fellow reviewers in the Stage Flat (rather like a peaceful version of Big Brother - for critics), walking up and down the hills at great speed, bumping into all sorts of comedy people whom I have not seen for yonks, and soaking up the incredibly rich atmosphere. It is when the sun goes down, however, that Edinburgh truly becomes the City of Dreams for me. I love the buzz around the Pleasance Courtyard and in the Assembly Rooms bar at night. Nothing compares to it.

In years past, I have experienced some extraordinary Edinburgh nights. I remember remonstrating at half past midnight in the street with four comedians to try to persuade them to go ahead with their show so I could review it. They conceded eventually and the show became one long conversation between them and me as they constantly drew me into their work.

I recall bumping into the great Jerry Sadowitz very late one night and going for a meal at 5am with him at possibly the only restaurant open at that hour in Edinburgh where he regaled me with dirty gags. And, on other occasions, singing and dancing the night away with the locals at Fingers Piano Bar. The nights have it in the great city at this superb festival. This is what I wrote after my first Edinburgh Night this year:

Edinburgh Garret, Saturday, 5, August. An amazing night - and the view from where I am writing is brilliant, a stunning sky, land and seascrape. I hit the town in a big way last night, checking out the Assembly Rooms and the Pleasance Courtyard, before flowing down the hill to the Holyrood Tavern for my annual feast of madness at Brian and Vicky (Krysstal) Damage's Pear-Shaped at Midnight.

Earlier in the evening, I had seen an Israeli comedian doing a Siberian character act badly while being outwitted by the small and intelligent audience at a free venue. So, a chaotic evening of comedy with some great new acts seemed like a breath of fresh air.

The club is held in the back room of the pub where Brian Damage (pictured below) and Vicky met in the millennium year when they both had shows there as well as one of my favourite acts the Comedy Referee Ivan Steward. Despite their age difference, Brian and Vicky fell in love and married and have happily been promoting shows there since. They also became a double act and have over the years perfected their performance together.

Their warm-up is a surefire hit, regardless of how small an audience is or how hard to please. The show is a straight transfer of what they do in London: a random bunch of comedians who have rolled up on the night. The good, the bad, and downright ugly of comedy. Somehow with the bread of Brian and Krysstal (Vicky's stage name) between the jam of these acts, the show nearly always works. The show I attended last night was the first of this year's run of Pear Shaped at Midnight.

First act up was Karl Edrik, a strapping big lad with some good material. He showed promise but needs to work on his delivery. Next I have to confess I went up and performed a poem written for the Oliver's Poetry website.

Then Fringe stalwart Peter Buckley Hill appeared wild and wonderful with a satiric song lampooning the raw ambition of many Fringe performers. Buckley Hill has done much for the Fringe, promoting more than 50 free shows this year, and remains a Rebel Within.

Caroline Clifford (pictured) - a pretty girl clad in something akin to DDR Communist Party garb - was a very funny act; the storyboard sequence at the end being particularly strong. She could have a great future in comedy.

Dave Howarth had some good gags, and Ginger and Black - unsurprisingly a flame-haired woman and black guy - were outstanding. The send-up of Eminem's Stan was absolutely brilliant. They need to develop a lot more material but have genuine star potential. (But please change that embarrassing name).

Man mountain Rennay was also good. The line in one routine that 'all weddings are gay' won a particularly big laugh. Tiffany, who looked like a model, gave what appeared to be a slightly sozzled performance, ranting about a range of subjects including boyfriends. It was not polished but had its moments.

Rich Sandley performed well with some strong material. Having patiently waited a long time to go on, Judy Batalion was excellent. Her routine about her mother and technology was particularly outstanding. She has great stage presence as well as a winning smile. Phil Kline was laconic and amusing in an anarchic sort of way, rounding off a first-rate evening.

It did not matter that when you took away the comics, reviewer and camera crew, the audience comprised just two people. Indeed it was undoubtedly a finer evening for it. I got back to the Edinburgh Garret at 3.30am, exhausted but happy.

Well, that was Friday night. The other nights so far have proved as eventful. A topic of conversation in the Stage flat was the planned boycott of the visiting Israeli Army Cricket Team. One of the reviewers had picked up a leaflet from a Scottish Palestinian group claiming the visiting side's hands were still warm with murder; their fingers saturated with blood. We have all been urged to boycott the event.

'How can you boycott something you had no intention of attending in the first place?' I asked, amazed that Israelis played cricket at all. Besides, it seemed to me that the tour should be encouraged as cricket will surely be a moderating and civilising influence on the Israelis.

Another reviewer said that the British had taught the Taliban cricket in Afghan prisoner of war camps. 'Well, the Taliban should play the Israelis,' I said.

Incidentally, I persuaded the Stage's team of critics to write a series of Edinburgh Fringe 2006 poems for the Oliver's Poetry website.

They are rather good: Edinburgh Moment, How Many?, Nudity on Stage, Sleep and Ed Cases.

Went out and bought some new shorts and then traipsed off to one of the free venues, Lindsay's, to see the old Joe Comedy Madhouse act Steve Day in his new show, Comprehensive.














Steve Day's performance was excellent and, afterwards, I had a good chat with and comic and comedy writer Mike Belgrave (pictured) in the garden. It was fascinating to hear about the politics of the deaf world, such as when you are allowed to spell deaf with a small d and when with a capital D, something fiercely fought over by militant deaf people.

Having had three pints in the afternoon, I felt tipsy. I cannot drink like I used to when I first came to Edinburgh a decade ago. I no longer have the constitution for it. I started drinking orange juices between shows for my evening shows, all at the Assembly Room, which is conveniently close to the Edinburgh Garret.

Adam Hills was genial and good; Rich Hall was hilarious, as always, but clearly suffering from the smoking ban, and Mike Wilmot's blue show was disappointing. The reviews will be posted on The Stage website. I was back home at 1.30am and slept like a log!

On Sunday, I met a friend for lunch, which was very pleasant - so enjoyable that I shifted my Simon Munnery review to another day. I caught Justin Edwards' comic songs at the Pleasance. They were funny, although not as amusing as his character Jeremy Lion.

For my third and final review of the day, I had plumped for a strange show called Confessions of a Paralysed Porn Star with Sarah-Louise Young (pictured). I had chosen it because I once interviewed Sarah Louise Young when I was Television Editor at the Daily Star. She had struck me as interesting, in charge of her own destiny and making a lot of money.

The C venues are pretty lousy in my view, and this one, in the Carlton Hotel, was no better than usual. The Sarah-Louise turned out not to be the former porn star but a young actress and would-be comedian of the same name who had jumped on the bandwagon. The show was dreadful for reasons I have explained in detail in my review for The Stage, but I did meet a really interesting bunch of people there.

Consequently, I talked and drank the night away at a variety of venues, including a jazz night at the Spiegeltent. It was light by the time I got back to the garret this morning.

Today has been tricky. I wrote up six reviews and filed them to Stage HQ at London Bridge, and felt so drained and tired that I almost did not go to My Dearest Byron, by the Another Midas theatre company, in the C cubed venue, at Brodie's Close. I wanted to report on it for this blog and also our sister site StandupCom Magazine. I enjoyed the show but it was not quite how I remembered Byron's affair with his half-sister.

I disliked the slightly wet way in which Byron was portrayed, although the girl who played Augusta was good. It seemed the production had cut a few corners and I was not sure it had all of their facts spot on. However, full marks for giving it a go and generating interest in Byron.

Afterwards, I went to see Penny Spubbs at the Pleasance, a really hot new female double act comprising Anna Crilly and Katy Wix. It was a great show, although I was tired, and it was so hot in the venue, that I fear I nodded off briefly in one sketch.

I managed to buy an edition of Albert Camus's L'etranger, saving 14 quid by climbing the stairs at Blackwells. It was £18 in the schools section but only £4 in the languages section. When I pointed this out to the staff, they did not look pleased. I shall read it in conjunction with the English one.

At the Gilded Balloon I bumped into my old mucker The Comedy Terrorist, a.k.a. Aaron Barshak, who now has a very long, greying beard, and seemed on good form. We watched Tony Law's show, The Dog of Time, which was excellent. I went straight on into Brendon Burns' concluding show in the Brendon vs. Burnsy trilogy. It was outstanding. Now it is past midnight and I have not even started work on my Edinburgh poem.

UPDATE: My final two nights at the Edinburgh Fringe 2006 were just as memorable. On Tuesday night (8 August ), I went to The Stand to see Simon Munnery who was excellent and did a very funny one-man Sherlock Holmes play. My review is on the Stage website. In the evening, I reviewed La Clique, at the Spiegeltent - a variety/circus show. It was sensational - the most exciting performance I have seen in 10 years at the Fringe, even if I did pay £4.30 for a pint of lager at the bar!

Afterwards I was as high as a kite on the entertainment, and danced to the Aussie reggae band in the second Spiegeltent. The slippery slope! I ended up drinking with Mike Belgrave at the Gilded Balloon, taking a high-speed rickshaw to the Assembly Rooms (which was closed as it was 4am), and then boozing on to nearly 6am at Fingers Piano Bar.

It was a night and a half. I recall fending off a nutter in Fingers (he walked off and fell over) and dancing to American Pie with two girls (perfectly innocently, of course). I went home and took photos from the Edinburgh Garret of a spectacular sunrise. Then I slept until 2pm and got up to continue writing up my reviews.

I had caught up by the early evening on Wednesday (August 9) - my last night. I went to see Boothby Graffoe at the Stand and bumped into the Phil Nichol who was extremely friendly and pleasant. Afterwards, I met my friend Nick Awde, a fellow Stage reviewer, at The Stand and we watched Scott Capurro together. We have very different takes on Scott.



I feel Scott Capurro is squandering his talents. He has gone so over the top that virtually no one is shocked any more. His audiences have dwindled, and appearing at the Stand does not suit him. Somehow Scott needs a smarter-looking venue for his act.

He ended his act by revealing that one of his lovers, a married man with children, had called the other night before a show to say he had tested HIV positive. Even though Scott Capurro said he has had unprotected sex with the guy, he said he was not bothered by the news. He claimed to be was more worried about the impending arrival of a comedy reviewer from The Guardian newspaper.

There is something deeply existential about Scott Capurro's attitude. He does not care about life (or love), so why should he care about death? And why should anyone care about him? I had briefly met Capurro at lunchtime the afternoon before, on stage with him at Lunch with The Hamiltons at the Pleasance Dome (when he won the bow tie tying contest, I got a laugh from the audience by quipping, 'You doing that is so gay!' 'Thank you very much,' he said.)

He seemed like a nice guy on at that level. I do not know if what he said in his act is true. It made me sad all the same.

I went on in the cold night air (the weather had turned) to see Winston Churchill Was Jack The Ripper, by an old Madhouse compere Andrew O'Neill (pictured), at the Underbelly. It was really good. Andrew has improved his material enormously in the last few years.

Afterwards, we went for some surprisingly cheap drinks (£1 a pint) in the pub across the road, and had a lovely chat.

Back to the Edinburgh Garret at 2.30am, and up at 7.30am to pack, write my Edinburgh Fringe poem, Ed Cases, and say my goodbyes to my flatmates and Edinburgh for another year. It has been a classic!

Joe's Comedy Madhouse. (Flashback to Monday, 8 May, 2006)

Lewes - London Bridge train. East Croydon. 6.57am. Wet. I usually sleep on this journey but today I met an old Day-Job colleague and so we talked. She was shocked at what had happened at our former workplace (she had already left).

She had previously told me that she had been bullied there herself - and bailed out some time before me. We agreed we were better off away from that place. She is now worked in health and was going to Gatwick Airport to fly to Manchester for a conference.

After she got off the train, I felt sad. Not because I had told her the truth about our former workplace, but that it reminded me of how un-Christian people running Christian organisations can become.

My former colleague is a marvellous old girl - she was a ‘go-go’ dancer in the 1960s: one of those girls in cages at 'nitespots'. How funny! Who’d have thought she would have ended up working for bishops.

I have my own past as a stand-up comedy promoter and performer, and people keep reminding me of it. The other week I was asked to write a short article related to it for Time Out, and I found myself chatting with Felix – from the Lewes Salsa Class – about it because he has started doing stand-up.

Then, the other day, I was asked by a friend of my former ex-promoter, Phil Zimmerman (pictured), if I could email details of some of the mad things that happened at my club, Joe's Comedy Madhouse. (He and Phil Zimmerman want to use them to promote a kind of tribute club they have launched).

For your amusement (or not), this is what I have sent them:

1. A drunken Irish couple gatecrashed Joe's Comedy Madhouse and heckled all the time, after having claimed to have just bought the pub in which the gig was being held. When this was quickly proved untrue, they were doused in foam from a fire extinguisher by promoter Joe Wilson and physically thrown out to loud cheers from the audience.

2. A rugby player who turned up with his teammates on a night when a comedy play was being previewed for the Edinburgh Fringe lost his temper with the production. When he was asked him to leave and offered his money back, he punched Joe Wilson in the eye using a box of chocolates which was being handed round as part of the show. A massive brawl erupted - and the rugger buggers were eventually driven out by Joe and the audience, while the acts cowered behind the backdrop!

3. The Comedy Referee, Ivan Steward, once accidentally spat on a man in the front row during his act. Ivan said: 'Sorry, mate, I didn't mean to get you - I was aiming at him!'

4. Dr Luther Coleman, on his first performance at Joe's Comedy Madhouse, jumped into the audience and started groping an attractive woman. He had to be thrown out, but shortly afterwards dived back into the club through a kitchen serving hatch, smashing a great number of glasses. The whole audience rose as one to re-evict him and secure the hatch and door.

5. Chocolate Sandwich - an experimental comedy group relying heavily on vacuum cleaners - once bet a heckler that he had to run around the pub upstairs naked if they could raise £5.70 from the audience for him. The punters coughed up the required funds, and the man immediately removed his clothes and treated the shocked crones in the pub above to his naked form.

6. Jimbo once performed his act at the Madhouse entirely from behind the backdrop, so at no point could the audience see his face. On another occasion, he set fire to his crotch with a candle, and was well ablaze before Joe Wilson extinguished the flames with a pint of lager.

7. Tiger Mortisse, an undertaker character act, did a set on Princess Di a few days after her death. The audience was in tears, though not of laughter.

8. One act caused so much devastation that Joe was forced to close the club that night for safety reasons. The gig had lasted less than five minutes, and nearly all the other comedians had run away.

9. One gig had so many mad acts it lasted for more than four hours. Amazingly some members of the audience were still present at the end of the night, at around 1.30am.

10. The Comedy Terrorist (pictured) did many of his early gigs at the Madhouse, and went straight there after being released from jail. His debut gig was a huge hit, but, as time went on and he became more infamous, his performances were increasingly bizarre.

Peace and Comedy / Heavy Lids

Leamington - London Marylebone train I am feeling very happy today. Yes, really!

Mr Landlord is pleased I am staying another six months. I even managed to get us out of the £25 renewal fee.

My comedy pieces for The Stage are almost finished. I just need to talk to Peter Buckley Hill about his amazing raft of free shows (the veteran comedian Brian Damage telephoned me to give me Peter's number) and catch up with Justin Edward (a.k.a. drunken children's entertainer Jeremy Lion) who forgot to call me last night 'because he was writing some comic songs'. It sounds like something out of Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat.

True, I have not had much sleep and got drenched to the skin bicycling to work this morning but, nonetheless, I sense life is getting better.

For the religious, lighting that votive candle at St. Peter the Apostle church, Leamington Spa, may have made the difference. If so, a match, a quid and a quick prayer before Our Lady has worked a minor intercessionary miracle.

This is what I wrote in the early hours of Wednesday:

Leamington Garret. 12.15am by Big Ken in the misty moonlight. It has been an amazing couple of days. Extraordinarily hot and beautiful. Last night I was exhausted, after getting up incredibly early to get up to go Leamington after my weekend away in Paris.

Still, I was committed to interviewing the brainy comedian Natalie Haynes for my Edinburgh Fringe preview pieces for The Stage newspaper.

I was not particularly looking forward to it. As a Catholic, I was shocked by her show last year with its apparent support for abortion up to the point of birth and beyond! In the event the interview was not as bad as I thought it would be.

Natalie essentially sounded off her views on manifold subjects, with me very subtly challenging her, something the argumentative always hard to handle. She started talking about her relationships.

She claimed she had dumped a bloke because 'he did not have a favourite square root number'. So, I said: 'Did you ask him if he had a favourite cube root?' 'No,' she replied.

'Did you ask him if he had a favourite prime number?' 'No,' she said. 'Then,' I said, 'you didn’t really give him a fair crack of the whip.'

Natalie Haynes said that after the failure to identify a favourite square root, she just had to walk.

I was really jaded by this point in the conversation but had not hesitation in answering the predictable question of what was my favourite square root number. ‘1.4,’ I said, ‘an f-number and the square root of two. The f-numbers go: 1.4, 2, 2.8, 4, 5.6, 8, 11, 16, 22 et cetera.’ That threw her!

She started talking about Latin but I was too jaded. I had the quotes I needed, so I said ‘Floreat’ (Latin for ‘Let it prosper!’) and called it a day on Natalie Haynes.

After we had said goodbye, the feeling lingered she had been flirting with me.

Tonight has been equally extraordinary. I met a neighbour from the garret – an amazing fact considering we are four floors up in an office block with no other inhabitants.

I was in the Garret preparing to talk a call on my mobile telephone to a very good (and extremely pleasant) Irish comedian called Jason Byrne who is on holiday with his family in the Canaries.


And this is what I wrote in the small hours of Thursday: Leamington Garret. 1.08am. by Big Ken agin a beautiful reddish sky in misty rain.

God, what a knackering, although productive, day. This morning I felt absolutely exhausted when I awoke. Very early, I tried to so some work on my Stage comedy pieces, and then my colleague picked me up and we raced off to Rotherham to see an awesome printing works.

Blimey! Printing has moved on a bit since I last took a close look at press (at the Hull Daily Mail in 1984). The £7million machine that the director of the company showed us was absolutely incredible. It did everything at a tremendous lick. What a beautiful piece of kit.

Got back to the Leamington Garret at around 5.30pm, with terrible back and neckache. I felt so out of it, I had to lie down and slept for 90 minutes, awakening bathed in sweat. 
The comedienne Lucy Porter telephoned me. What an absolutely delightful person she is!

If I had known she was that pleasant, I would have chatted to in the Assembly Rooms performers' bar years ago. 

I really enjoyed chatting with her. Lucy displayed a level of kindness and generosity that one does not detect in many stand-ups.

Afterwards, I should have got straight down to the writing, but I suddenly felt full of beans and desirous of celebrating the Portuguese defeat at the hands of the glorious French. God bless the French! The Jug & Jester Jam Night beckoned.

It was particularly good tonight. Sinead was on great vocal form, a blonde woman did an excellent Sheryl Crowe cover, and the finale, a version of Knocking On Heaven’s Door was outstanding. I love that gig. Brilliant week in, week out.

6.20pm. High Wycombe. One of my mobile telephones (one personal and one Day-Job) has rung in my rucksack and, attempting to fish it out, I stabbed a finger on something sharp. Now it bleeding profusely over the keyboard of my trusty iBook. Oh, dear!

Back to Paris, on Sunday morning I thought of getting up early to visit Rue Albert Camus. Albert Camus, you may remember, is the great French writer who used to own my brown suitcase. Studying the Paris A-Z, it seemed that the street name inscribed in the lid of my case had been renamed Rue Albert Camus in his honour.

Heavy Lids (Flashback to Saturday, 13 May, 2006.
Lewes Garret, writing on my iBook. Beautiful, hot day. 10.26am. Twenty days to go before the launch of Oliver's Poetry and its blog. I don't feel ready. Help! My eyelids feel heavy.