Gig #3 - Findhorn
OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!!
My legs hurt.
FIVE bloody hours travelling. I can't believe how LONG that took!
So yeah, we arrived, after a fashion. The gig was, rather surprisingly, in a hippy spiritualist community hall surrounded by a park for tiny multicoloured cardboard caravans. Very quaint, very rural, so very NOT Dylan you would expect him to burst into flames as soon as he set one scuffed and grubby shoe on the fluffy white gravel.
The venue had a cafe, which was an absolute godsend because it was serving coffee which served to keep me awake for the rest of the evening. Dylan arrived early, and once more we were the only muppets there. This time I didn't even bother looking up as I had the feeling that he didn't really want to be bothered pre-show and at this point I didn't feel it was worth breaking his concentration to randomly gawp and squeak at him like I had done last time. Instead, I tried to fall asleep at the table outside the cafe while he got himself a drink or six and settled down in a corner with his back to everyone. I feel he should have a sign for such times to hang off the back of his neck. "Comic at work - do not disturb."
As other folks began to arrive, a few did approach him as he ferried to and from the bar for more drinks - I overheard him trying to pay the barmaid, only to find they refused his money and he asked in a rather surprised tone "Aren't you going to let me pay for anything?" Bless him. One group of girls got an autograph, another had her boyfriend's t-shirt signed (a very fun t-shirt that had "I'm eating scrambled egg with a comb from a shoe" written on it) and while I sat and palpitated in a corner with another coffee, I asked Vanessa to talk to these folks and ask how he was with them. Apparently he didn't mind BUT he said it would be better to speak to him afterwards.
And suddenly the world became a bright and happy place full of hope and music and happiness, and I no longer recognised it. "Who are you?" I said. "I am Optimism," said the new bright thing in the world. "We haven't met." It smiled and shook me warmly by the hand. My heart melted like butter left to close to a malfunctioning nuclear reactor by a careless Sellarfield tea lady.
Fortunately, that kind of rubbish is easily countered by listening to an hour or so of Dylan's stand up, and a good thing too or I might very well have gone mad and started questioning the very basis of my existance, changed my name to Moonbeam Honeyblossom and moved in with the crystal-fondling hemp-humping locals (no offence is meant to anyone from Findhorn, it really is a lovely place and I admire anyone who has the imagination and balls to turn their home into a garden gnome sanctuary.)
Dylan's set was slightly different to the routine on the 21st. Obviously, he did the essential 'catering to the locals', and hats off to him for that. Some bits were chopped and changed, some bits were dropped, some bits were added, but the overall effect was a smoother and more cohesive routine than a few days ago. He only lost his place once and generally all the sections were coming together and flowing incredibly well and it was actually quite lovely to see how he had benefitted from these little gigs. He was was playing with the material and tweaking it and it's quite a fantastic process to observe.
One bit that really did make me hug myself was when he decribed himself hashing the material out at home asking himself "which sounds funnier, 'chicken' or 'duck'?" Yes, it really does work like that. My last spate was: "Hey, you're a chef. I need weird-sounding foodstuffs. Go!"
The show ended. He did an encore without even leaving the stage (we wouldn't stop clapping, so he just pretended to go away and come back.) Then we all began to file out. I dashed to the loo and then came back to ask the stage manager where we should go if we wanted to speak to Dylan. Wewere escorted out the the little outdoor cafe with the other hopefuls. I curled up in a ball at one of the tables and inhaled a cigarette whole. Then I ate the filter.
He came. He signed. He conquered. He politely refused photos.
I stood up. I shuffled a bit. I dug out my comedy notes for something to sign.
He looked at me. I looked at him. I stepped closer and launched myself, rather disjointedly at first into my "thank you so much, I do stand up comedy because of you, you are such an inspiration". Blah blah blah. It sounded a lot more concise in my head. My voice wasn't doing what I wanted it to do and I was going to have to take it out back later and give it a damned good thrashing for showing me up like that.
He seemed pleased, and he shook my hand with a firm warmness that put Optimism's limp-wristed effort to shame. Optimism is great, but it pales in comparrison to Actualisation.
He asked me how it was going. I said it was actually going really well and summarised it as "simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilirating experience of my entire life." He asked me a few other bits and pieces, like what I did for a living in the meantime and where I was working the circuit and I told him I was just starting in Manchester venues with the Laughing Cows - he knows who we are now! - while working in a hotel "doing a crap job for crap pay, but I put up with it because they let me ignore people and write comedy material all day". He said it was all about paying bills. I said I was living on lentils and mouldy cheese, but it was all proving to be a suitable kick up the backside. "Well that's what it's all about when you're starting out," he said. "Crap jobs and lentils and mouldy cheese. You can have good cheese when you're older. Who needs expensive mouldy cheese when you're young?"
He signed my little notebook, so now in between my rough LJ entry on the Pride gig and some random rant about jobs and stuff, I have the following scrawled sideways across the page:
To Liz
Best of luck with it all
Dylan Moran
Shortly afterwards, he headed for his car, but not before turning back to call out "Good luck to you Liz!" over his shoulder.
The man himself has wished me good luck on my comedy career. I am truly blessed. *dies happy*
BEST BIRTHDAY EVERRRRR!
And then Vanessa stole his wine glass because he'd left it on the table and disappeared to the car. She kept the glass. I drank the wine. Dylan has good taste.
My legs hurt.
FIVE bloody hours travelling. I can't believe how LONG that took!
So yeah, we arrived, after a fashion. The gig was, rather surprisingly, in a hippy spiritualist community hall surrounded by a park for tiny multicoloured cardboard caravans. Very quaint, very rural, so very NOT Dylan you would expect him to burst into flames as soon as he set one scuffed and grubby shoe on the fluffy white gravel.
The venue had a cafe, which was an absolute godsend because it was serving coffee which served to keep me awake for the rest of the evening. Dylan arrived early, and once more we were the only muppets there. This time I didn't even bother looking up as I had the feeling that he didn't really want to be bothered pre-show and at this point I didn't feel it was worth breaking his concentration to randomly gawp and squeak at him like I had done last time. Instead, I tried to fall asleep at the table outside the cafe while he got himself a drink or six and settled down in a corner with his back to everyone. I feel he should have a sign for such times to hang off the back of his neck. "Comic at work - do not disturb."
As other folks began to arrive, a few did approach him as he ferried to and from the bar for more drinks - I overheard him trying to pay the barmaid, only to find they refused his money and he asked in a rather surprised tone "Aren't you going to let me pay for anything?" Bless him. One group of girls got an autograph, another had her boyfriend's t-shirt signed (a very fun t-shirt that had "I'm eating scrambled egg with a comb from a shoe" written on it) and while I sat and palpitated in a corner with another coffee, I asked Vanessa to talk to these folks and ask how he was with them. Apparently he didn't mind BUT he said it would be better to speak to him afterwards.
And suddenly the world became a bright and happy place full of hope and music and happiness, and I no longer recognised it. "Who are you?" I said. "I am Optimism," said the new bright thing in the world. "We haven't met." It smiled and shook me warmly by the hand. My heart melted like butter left to close to a malfunctioning nuclear reactor by a careless Sellarfield tea lady.
Fortunately, that kind of rubbish is easily countered by listening to an hour or so of Dylan's stand up, and a good thing too or I might very well have gone mad and started questioning the very basis of my existance, changed my name to Moonbeam Honeyblossom and moved in with the crystal-fondling hemp-humping locals (no offence is meant to anyone from Findhorn, it really is a lovely place and I admire anyone who has the imagination and balls to turn their home into a garden gnome sanctuary.)
Dylan's set was slightly different to the routine on the 21st. Obviously, he did the essential 'catering to the locals', and hats off to him for that. Some bits were chopped and changed, some bits were dropped, some bits were added, but the overall effect was a smoother and more cohesive routine than a few days ago. He only lost his place once and generally all the sections were coming together and flowing incredibly well and it was actually quite lovely to see how he had benefitted from these little gigs. He was was playing with the material and tweaking it and it's quite a fantastic process to observe.
One bit that really did make me hug myself was when he decribed himself hashing the material out at home asking himself "which sounds funnier, 'chicken' or 'duck'?" Yes, it really does work like that. My last spate was: "Hey, you're a chef. I need weird-sounding foodstuffs. Go!"
The show ended. He did an encore without even leaving the stage (we wouldn't stop clapping, so he just pretended to go away and come back.) Then we all began to file out. I dashed to the loo and then came back to ask the stage manager where we should go if we wanted to speak to Dylan. Wewere escorted out the the little outdoor cafe with the other hopefuls. I curled up in a ball at one of the tables and inhaled a cigarette whole. Then I ate the filter.
He came. He signed. He conquered. He politely refused photos.
I stood up. I shuffled a bit. I dug out my comedy notes for something to sign.
He looked at me. I looked at him. I stepped closer and launched myself, rather disjointedly at first into my "thank you so much, I do stand up comedy because of you, you are such an inspiration". Blah blah blah. It sounded a lot more concise in my head. My voice wasn't doing what I wanted it to do and I was going to have to take it out back later and give it a damned good thrashing for showing me up like that.
He seemed pleased, and he shook my hand with a firm warmness that put Optimism's limp-wristed effort to shame. Optimism is great, but it pales in comparrison to Actualisation.
He asked me how it was going. I said it was actually going really well and summarised it as "simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilirating experience of my entire life." He asked me a few other bits and pieces, like what I did for a living in the meantime and where I was working the circuit and I told him I was just starting in Manchester venues with the Laughing Cows - he knows who we are now! - while working in a hotel "doing a crap job for crap pay, but I put up with it because they let me ignore people and write comedy material all day". He said it was all about paying bills. I said I was living on lentils and mouldy cheese, but it was all proving to be a suitable kick up the backside. "Well that's what it's all about when you're starting out," he said. "Crap jobs and lentils and mouldy cheese. You can have good cheese when you're older. Who needs expensive mouldy cheese when you're young?"
He signed my little notebook, so now in between my rough LJ entry on the Pride gig and some random rant about jobs and stuff, I have the following scrawled sideways across the page:
To Liz
Best of luck with it all
Dylan Moran
Shortly afterwards, he headed for his car, but not before turning back to call out "Good luck to you Liz!" over his shoulder.
The man himself has wished me good luck on my comedy career. I am truly blessed. *dies happy*
BEST BIRTHDAY EVERRRRR!
And then Vanessa stole his wine glass because he'd left it on the table and disappeared to the car. She kept the glass. I drank the wine. Dylan has good taste.