Oh God I’m tired. Stupidly stupidly tired. Yes the first part of tired inducing circumstances was my fault. I didn’t need to stay out drinking with Jim and local Wolverhampton peoples in a particularly empty Walkabout bar on a Monday night. I know that as you read back that sentence you will realise just how impossible it must have been turn down an offer as glamorous as that though. We all know that the Walkabout is a hive of high class activity and only the finest clientele. Yes indeed. I am one lucky man. Its at this point I wish there was a smiley for sarcasm. It may well be that the normal smiley is in fact sarcastic. I’ve often stared at his little beady eyes and wide grin, knowing full well that as he closes an email from someone who’s acquaintance will never promote to actual friendship levels on account of their insistent need to add smileys to everything, that once, his little face was on acid tabs and at raves everywhere. He can’t just be smiling in a friendly way. He’s off his tits and he’s taking the piss out of us. Not that he has tits. He’s just a face. And that’s where my theory falls apart.
Part two of Operation: Let’s Make Tiernan Tired Beyond Reason (Or LMTTBR for short) is all the hotel’s fault. I'm not a fussy person and I would definitely say I've slept in worse places. The key word however is sleep which is what my morning has severly lacked in. I didn’t know that my room was conveniently placed right next to the bus terminal and that in the understanding of this the hotel decided not to put in any double glazing or effort at sound blocking at all. Maybe in Wolverhampton hearing the loud roar of a bus engine at 5.30am is some sort of luxury? Perhaps those staying in lesser hotels are hindered by the lack of overly noisey public transport. I’m sure they stand, complaining to the receptionist asking ‘why oh why could we not get a room with a beautiful view of the 76 and all its fucking loud fucking noise? ‘ Except they don’t because its FUCKING LOUD FUCKING NOISE and anyone who would have any kind of establishment where people might hope to sleep ever would at least have thicker windows. Although I’m starting to wonder if they do want people to have a good slumber at the Britannia Hotel, that’s what its called Britannia. It pretends to represent the entire Britannia nation by playing some sort of fire alarm test every 35 minutes directly into my room starting at 6am this morning. Yes I’m glad they test it and I haven’t burnt to death, but I’m sure if it worked at 6am, it would also work at 6.35am, 7.10am etc etc and can only assume the health and safety officer has severe paranoia that requires him to constantly check fire prevention equipment for the customers’ protection, not realising that his own safety is under threat from my and my angry fists.
It must be harder for Jim as I was asking him yesterday about things in the States and the nice places he’s been too and its only a matter of weeks since he was in a lovely hotel in Vegas. Now mere weeks later he’s here, in this place, in Wolverhampton. This career is full of peaks and troughs. Sadly we appear to be staying in a trough. I won’t criticise Wolverhampton itself though. Last night’s gig was bloody lovely. About 350 people on a Monday which is great and they were all ace and spent quite a bit of time buying us both drinks after which, I assume, is a sure sign they had a good night. The only thing that topped the gig itself was the stage manager rather oddly leading a huge bouncer called Corda into our Green Room and announcing that as they were ‘aware of Jim’s work, Corda will be on hand to prevent any trouble.’ I think they assumed that ever since he was punched in the face at the Manchester Comedy Store, that it was some sort of regular occurrence at his gigs. It’s a hilarious thought, but I can’t imagine Jim would enjoy his career much or indeed tour, if that was the case. Anyway we were assured that despite his bulk, Corda could move pretty damn fast and was trained to dislocate every bone in someone’s body. It’s a shame that there was no violence as that’s something I’d like to see. Somebody reduced to wriggling like a worm as they had been reduced to human jelly. Its an odd choice of martial art or self defence I must say, especially as he insisted it was every bone. Surely once you’d got their legs or arms, you wouldn’t then need to go through each and every vertebrae and all the fingers and toes etc? Unless of course he suffers from some sort of OCD completeism which didn’t seem likely. Anyway, if you are in the Wolverhampton area and want to see such a thing occur then I suggest you attend a gig at the Civic Halls and attempt to punch one of the acts. Please report back, although without the use of any of your fingers this may be tough.
Slight change of pace tonight with Fat Tuesday headlined by the excellent Josie Long who I haven’t seen in ages, so I think it’ll be ace. Its sold out so you can’t come. Gutted. Although not as gutted at the health and safety officer will be if I hear that fire alarm one more time….