Gig #2 - Falkirk
Today was the first of several warm-up gigs by Dylan Moran in preparation for the 'What It Is' Tour later this year. We had to go. So we went. We went EARLY because I'm rubbish at loitering around the flat with nothing to do. So we got a train to Falkirk, which is a lovely place. Very quaint, lots of houses that look like something from a Lilliput Lane colection. There was absolutley NOBODY about, presumably because at the first sign of dusk all the locals board themselves up in their houses to hide from roving beasties and marauding English folk invading their town to see comedy shows. Not that I blame them.
First thing first, we decided to case the joint and try and find exactly where this place was where we were supposed to be going, before holing up in a pub until showtime. As we traversed the car park, by way of the hospital and the council offices ("Is that it? No, it's not. I thought it was up here. So did I. Bollocks, lets go back the way we came." etc etc) and descended down some little concrete steps, we saw a building that might well be it, so we headed over to investigate.
It was at this point that we saw a sign. A sign that we were definitely in the right place. A sign far better than the little blue aluminium triangle on the wall.
The sign came in the form of a man. A scruffy-haired unshaven man emerging fround around the side of the building, crossing the car park, headed straight for us. The man, our sign from the heavens, was wearing along black coat and a blue shirt, and faded jeans.
I panicked. Normally, in these circumstances, I would have done something wiley and clever. I considered grabbing Vanessa and hiding in a bush, but it was too late. We were out in the open and he had already seen us. Furthermore, Vanessa hadn't noticed him and was blithely informing me that she thought this was the right place. I responded with something blase about how we could probably go to the pub now. My mind, unsurprisingly, not entirely focussed on the conversation in hand.
We were busted. He knew why we were there. He had to. As he drew closer, I made eye contact with him, despite my best intentions, and he had probably clocked that I recognised him. I looked away, but my mind was already awash. If I ignored him NOW, it would almost be rude. It would be like saying "Well, I'm willing to listen to you talk for a couple of hours, but I refuse to acknowledge your presence in a car park. I mean ANYONE can walk across a patch of tarmac in a public place, what makes you so special?" I looked away. Vanessa still hadn't twigged. Christ knows how.
He got closer and closer and my universe shrank to that ever decreasing stretch of tarmac between us. I looked up again, and once more he looked right at me. Unable to do anything else, I smiled. "Hi," I said. My first word to The Man Himself. He waved to us and said hi back.
Thus, he continued on his way, and we continued on ours. Ours was now pretty much a pointless journey as he had answered my question. His, as it turned out, was to go to Asda to buy a magazine. This I know because we passed him again on his way back down the hill as we returned to town to find a pub to have a stiff drink.
It occured to me after that I could have said something else, something far wittier. Like "Well fancy seeing you here." Or I could have asked him for directions.
And Vanessa, my equally-Moran-obsessed friend, as it turns out, very nearly asked me "Why did you just say hi to that bloke?" Fortunately, she too finally noticed him just in the nick of time. But she has just told me that mid-conversation as we crossed that infinite car park, as I watched Dylan get closer and closer, she nearly asked me "should we ask that guy if this is the place?"
The show was great; a lovely intimate affair, small venue, very laid back. We were allowed to take drinks in and everything. Dylan's material was fresh, most of the stuff from the Liverpool gig plus a lot of new bits. That Jam Line, fellow mafia may like to know, has now been incorporated into the 'women' joke fully. Score!
First thing first, we decided to case the joint and try and find exactly where this place was where we were supposed to be going, before holing up in a pub until showtime. As we traversed the car park, by way of the hospital and the council offices ("Is that it? No, it's not. I thought it was up here. So did I. Bollocks, lets go back the way we came." etc etc) and descended down some little concrete steps, we saw a building that might well be it, so we headed over to investigate.
It was at this point that we saw a sign. A sign that we were definitely in the right place. A sign far better than the little blue aluminium triangle on the wall.
The sign came in the form of a man. A scruffy-haired unshaven man emerging fround around the side of the building, crossing the car park, headed straight for us. The man, our sign from the heavens, was wearing along black coat and a blue shirt, and faded jeans.
I panicked. Normally, in these circumstances, I would have done something wiley and clever. I considered grabbing Vanessa and hiding in a bush, but it was too late. We were out in the open and he had already seen us. Furthermore, Vanessa hadn't noticed him and was blithely informing me that she thought this was the right place. I responded with something blase about how we could probably go to the pub now. My mind, unsurprisingly, not entirely focussed on the conversation in hand.
We were busted. He knew why we were there. He had to. As he drew closer, I made eye contact with him, despite my best intentions, and he had probably clocked that I recognised him. I looked away, but my mind was already awash. If I ignored him NOW, it would almost be rude. It would be like saying "Well, I'm willing to listen to you talk for a couple of hours, but I refuse to acknowledge your presence in a car park. I mean ANYONE can walk across a patch of tarmac in a public place, what makes you so special?" I looked away. Vanessa still hadn't twigged. Christ knows how.
He got closer and closer and my universe shrank to that ever decreasing stretch of tarmac between us. I looked up again, and once more he looked right at me. Unable to do anything else, I smiled. "Hi," I said. My first word to The Man Himself. He waved to us and said hi back.
Thus, he continued on his way, and we continued on ours. Ours was now pretty much a pointless journey as he had answered my question. His, as it turned out, was to go to Asda to buy a magazine. This I know because we passed him again on his way back down the hill as we returned to town to find a pub to have a stiff drink.
It occured to me after that I could have said something else, something far wittier. Like "Well fancy seeing you here." Or I could have asked him for directions.
And Vanessa, my equally-Moran-obsessed friend, as it turns out, very nearly asked me "Why did you just say hi to that bloke?" Fortunately, she too finally noticed him just in the nick of time. But she has just told me that mid-conversation as we crossed that infinite car park, as I watched Dylan get closer and closer, she nearly asked me "should we ask that guy if this is the place?"
The show was great; a lovely intimate affair, small venue, very laid back. We were allowed to take drinks in and everything. Dylan's material was fresh, most of the stuff from the Liverpool gig plus a lot of new bits. That Jam Line, fellow mafia may like to know, has now been incorporated into the 'women' joke fully. Score!