Saturday, 26 March 2011

Friday 25th March 2011: Arundel Good, Trains Bad

I'm still pretty much as ill as I was the last couple of days. I have become a bit less melodramatic than in the last blog, though, which is probably a good sign. Even though I genuinely meant it. Melodrama and honesty are dangerous to the comedy blog, I feel. Even if they do make up most of the content.

After sleeping well, for a change, I went to campus to do some Erasmus-admin I had been putting off for a while now. The campus was eerily empty, especially on a beautiful sunny day such as this. The buildings were largely abandoned and the few people who were there looked a bit lost. It's a shame in a way, that universities close over the spring, just when it stops being cold and miserable. It was quietly fascinating though, and a near-empty university campus does resemble my ideal place in the world. I don't know what that says about me. Actually, I do know what that says about me. It's pretty obvious. And I'm about 35% sure that I like that. I printed the necessary documents, had them signed and sent off to Amsterdam. Apparently I'm doing 72 ECTS credits here, 12 more than usual per academic year. Hopefully I'll be able to use all of my courses towards the degree.

I then planned to spend rest of the night hiding away in my cave (house) watching Anna Nicole on iPlayer (the opera with libretto written by Richard Thomas, of Jerry Springer The Opera fame; which I have translated in turn. So NOT what you're thinking!) and getting some sleep.

It was nearly 7 when I was called by a fellow comic whether I wanted to do a gig in Arundel. I said yes, overenthusiastically, and got on the bill. I slammed a lemsip, took some food with me, and raced to the train station.

I got there in time for the train, but it being Friday night, it was a bit busy. I could only sit near a table, another man opposite to me, me reading yesterday's Guardian which someone left on the table. I don't like British trains, partly because they like to point out my physical inadequacies. I always have to fold my legs over in a way that both limits blood flow to the toes or ram my shins into the chair in front of me, balancing on the seat. When I can, I hang my feet into the isle, being careful not to obstruct other passengers or, comically, have them trip over my feet. Some people like that kind of humour. They tend to be either five or in their late thirties. And overall shit human beings. Especially the ones that should know better, you know. The five-year olds (didn't see that coming did you? Boom!).

At Shoreham 7000000 children entered the train, just as I was trying to have a quiet-enough phonecall with the promotor, being so loud it drowned out direct, loud speaking straight into the receiver of my phone. Even more weirdly, they left the train at the next stop, less then two minutes later. Odd. Can someone explain?

At Arundel, the promotor picked me up. I had been to Arundel once before, seeing the castle, but merely driving through the town and not even getting out of the car. So I'm not even sure whether I could say to have actually been there. But I can now. The gig was in a place called the Arundel Jailhouse, which was set in an actual former gaol (good word, innit?). The mic was in front of an open cell door. I met up with the other comics on the bill as well as the compère, Andrea (She is good. That's all you need to know).

The gig itself went fine enough. The crowd was chatty, rowdy at times, but they seemed to have calmed down sufficiently by the time I went on. I could do ten minutes, which was lovely, so I could take the time. I could fit in a new bit which went well enough, but needs different context. But around the half-way point, I could feel my voice getting weaker, turning into a painful rasp by the end (which did lend some drama to the final joke. Always helps). So it was good I didn't do 15. There was one special moment, though. I was pausing, in an attempt to give the next bit some more gravitas. Then there was this voice to my right. A man and a lady had been touching each other up throughout the gig. Then, this brilliant man chose that exact pause to tell his lady partner: "you want to go back to my flat, we'll have some sex". Most of the audience heard that, straight away, but I could still milk it (huhuh!) for an even bigger laugh. I shook his hand and told him I couldn't have come up with anything more brilliant. The rest of the gig was a breeze. Other than some mid-punchline heckling from a couple of very honest ladies, whom I slammed down with maybe a bit too much passive-aggressive zeal If you're wondering, yes, it exists. That's how I deal with hecklers. I thank them for their contributions and then tell them that their thoughts might not have been that interesting to begin with and certainly not when ruining a joke. Ah well.* But no, it was a very good night. The other acts were brilliant, and I admire Sarah Hendrickx and her brilliant dealing with some dicky remarks from the crowd as well as being non-stop hilarious whilst doing so.

                    * If you're reading this, ladies at the back, I do apologise for the intensity of the put-down. I saw you giggling uncomfortably about 20 sec afterwards, so, er, sorry. **

                   ** No audience remembers comedians after they've left the stage. So they won't have remembered my difficult to spell-name, the gig, or, indeed, the entire mid-nineties. So we can be rude about them here! Eh?

Then, after leaving in the second interval (it being the country, and trains just stopping at some point), the promotor thanked me by more than reimbursing the train journey, as well as providing me with a lovely bottle of wine. First paid gig? Can we go that far already? Yeah, I suppose so! Whahoo!

I got to the station 10 mins before the train to Ford would leave, where I had to change trains to Brighton. I cursed myself for not bringing a coat, and going for the hoodie-scarf combo I've been rockin' round da crib for the past few days (what? This is the way I speak), mainly because it had been too hot for the coat in Brighton when I left for the gig. Or I was just high on lemsip at the time. So I was cold for ten minutes, awaiting the train. Trains in the UK tend to arrive JUST in time, if they do. So I got on, tired, and lay down on an empty three-seat-bit. Only after hearing the tannoy announcement I realised I had to get off quickly, to catch my Brighton train. The train stopped, and I waited for the buttons to light up, so I could push the -open doors- one. This didn't happen, and I started pushing it regardless. I suddenly remembered the man at Burgess Hill in November, so I ran to the next carriage, whose lights also weren't on. The carriage after that just closed its doors. In my face. Arse. I was still on the train, and had to wait for the next stop. That stop, luckily, was also on the route the Southampton to Brighton takes, so when I got there, I immediately ran to the other platform, through the subway. I only ran too fast, and my mp3-player* fell out of my pocket onto the ground as I was running down, so I made that running-backwards kind of stopping dogs tend to do when the realised they'd forgotten something.

                    * This mp3-player is NOT an ipod, since I didn't (and still don't, to be honest) have the money for it. My friend Patrick once looked at it, in fascination as if it was some kind of ancient forerunner of a modern device, like a Babylonian credit card.

Still, I was annoyed. I quickly moved on to the platform, where, again, the train doors shut before my eyes. I asked the man who was standing there whether this was the last train. It wasn't, luckily. So I sat down, panting, and again cursing myself for not getting out at Ford, I would have been on the train home within minutes. And I cursed my scarf-hoodie combo for being too cold. And my non-ipod mp3-player for being subject to the laws of gravity. But mostly myself, for being a douche. But then again, in 20 minutes, I would be on a train.

Then, two minutes later, the tannoy told us that due to a signalling problem, my train would be delayed for another 20 minutes. I was afraid it would get cancelled, but the same man from the station told me it would definitely run, or I would get a free taxi. So no freezing to death, at least not tonight. Which is a crap thing to write in a blog, I know, since you can't write a blog about freezing to death. You might be able to tweet tho.* @StephenFry Frostbite has caused feet to break clean off lol. But can now finally juggle ankles #Swings+Roundabouts, #Bucketlist.

                 * I've been thinking about setting up a twitter account. Good/Bad idea? Also, I've got a title to continue this blog even when I'm back in NL, for those 9 months when I'm finishing my degree there. Comic in Exile. Is it shit or is it good?

I still was angry. Probably angrier than usual on a train station. I did feel like just shouting at someone just to get the frustration off my chest. I genuinely turned 68 when I saw another group of young people, this time with a girl wearing nothing but a top and miniskirt. I wanted to go up to her and shout: 'You stupid bastard! You stupid, vain, self-deluded bastard! You insane egomaniacal cretin!' in her face, until she would understand what a total moron she was. And all her friends as well, by association. Especially after they took the one non-freezing spot in the station, the smelly waiting area, for themselves. I hate teenagers. They are evil. But so is all mankind, so we're all doomed. In short, it was a good thing my train arrived 15 minutes after it was supposed to leave (but five minutes before what they had anticipated), otherwise I would have had a column in the Telegraph by now.

Love and kisses (but not physically, since I'm still flu-ey)

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Thursday 24th March: The last couple of days - From Nice to Worse

Like all humans, I'm always annoyed and terrified when people say 'I've good news and bad news.' It scares the living bumjuice out of me. Because whatever people will say, the most important relevant and life-changing thing, obviously, is always the shit thing. Beats whatever good news hands down nearly all the time. Not just that, the bad thing is usually SO bad, that its badness needs to be cushioned to soften the blow. It just is that bad. So now, since I have failed to post a blog every single day (for reasons of business and, well, you'll see), this will be a bullet points-based survey of GOOD and BAD things going on in my life since Sunday.


In our weekly chat on skype, my mum had told me she had gone to IKEA to buy a picture frame, so she could hang up one of the posters of the Top Banana comedy night (you know, the one with the review) in the stairway at home. She stole it after the gig, after jumping up and down every time she saw my name on some paper in the streets of Brighton. This was such a genuinely sweet gesture, I didn't really know what to say about it at the time. Come to think of it, I still don't. So: thanks again! :-)

I saw a fox in the garden. A living one, curled up and asleep on the grass. The cat, who normally makes its home on top of the scary shed had moved to the wall at the back of the neighbours' garden. My house mate was distinctly unimpressed, though. In London, she said, they were all over the place. A pest even. Disgusting animals. I don't care. Foxes are ace.

OK, it's already going down the 'yes, but'-road on the second one in the list. I am aware of that. But it will get far worse, that's my promise to all you misery-lovers out there. You know who you are, laughing at that man, crying in that corner, you.

I eventually went to the Uni Library in a feeble attempt to get some reading done. I ended up writing the last blog, in a corner with some coffee. I love libraries. As a child I used to have a kind of secret spot where I could hide with some books. I finally have the same thing in the Sussex library. I am telling no-one where it is. You shall not know of it! Wha! I am so evil. If self-defeating.
I was reading Freud (you have to, don't you) in that lovely corner of mine, until it got dark and all the lights started to go out around me, one by one. I played with the idea of just falling asleep there and not going back home, but soon, my innate rationality took over, and I left. And it did look slightly terrifying. I have not once had to spend an entire night in the library (it is possible, so I might) but with all the movement-sensitive lights going out one by one, leaving me in total darkness, I felt, you know, not that great.

On Monday morning, I was awoken by a buzzing noise. But not my phone. A huge bumblebee had decided to sleep next to my head, and I made that stupid -whahiaeheiyaheya- sound racist 5-year olds make when pretending to be indians (as in cowboys AND ____, I'm not mental). Eventually, I got a newspaper, made the insect crawl on top of it and (after it fell off a couple of times, I'm not sure about its current mental state) let it fly out into the wonderfully bright morning sky.

Btw: if you're going to see any comedian in the near future, go and see Nick Helm. He was amazing at I.O.U. on Monday night. Through my sleepless nights, my one source of happiness has been his voice singing the sentence 'He makes you look fat' over and over and over in my tired brain. You could replace the phrase: 'one source of happiness' with 'the incessant shouty maddening repetitive draining refrain bouncing around my cortex for a full night' and it still works. But I do agree that's more my fault than his. The man is amazing.

I had a gig on Wednesday night in Camden. This went quite well, even though very few people were there. But I nearly didn't do it. Luckily, Doctor Theatre was there to help out. But when I got home, he had left me. What am I talking about?


Yes. I'm ill. I only fell asleep at around 6 last night. I have not spoken today, apart from whispering a bit when I absolutely needed to. Otherwise, this is what I've looked like for the past 3 days:

Yeah. Good, isn't it? That's the kind of look I'm going for. I have decided to throw artistic ambitions to the wind and make a fortune starring in miserable-wonderful adverts. What am I talking about? You know, the adverts where there's two people, one person has an absolutely atrocious life, because they're fundamentally shit as human beings while the other person would be as winning as Charlie Sheen having his balls rubbed by the concept of fortuitousness.* This is all well, good and understood, but here's where it gets tricky. The one defining difference between the infinite misery-jumper (© Chris Morris, 1997) and Charlie Sheen's testes is that one product. If only life was that easy, the post-ironic consumer sighs, and willingly buys into their shit. But hey, who's to blame. It's clearly me, the one without the product. So that's why I'm practicing my sad, unattainable-product-face for Hollywood advert work. But after 10 years of success, I would finally be happy and healthy and rich myself, making me unsuitable for these parts, so I could never work again and by some strange contractual agreement, failures that have become winners, have to pay back all the money they made as failures, which automatically renders them failures again, but without the money, grand mansion or love. Better stay where I am I suppose. 

* Who says all Charlie Sheen jokes have been done before? Boom-boom-booyah!

But no. I've been feeling pretty horrible since Tuesday, where I had either a very intense and sudden onset of flu or an allergic reaction to something or other. It was at work, my left eye felt puffy and looked red, my nose was running, and I generally felt quite disgusting. Apart from that, the work was quite intense and very hard. As a result, the otherwise genuinely lovely boss asked me just to change my attitude and think positively. I suppose he was right. But it does always worry me when people talk about positive thinking as a tool or device. Especially in the workplace. Annoyingly, Barbara Ehrenreich was, at the RSA, far more eloquent about the subject than I can be:

I do always get a nasty taste in my mouth when I hear phrases like: You just have to believe.*  Do you know what I mean? But then again, I am ill, and already had a pretty nasty taste in my mouth to begin with.

* N.B. these italics are not mine. They're already there in those people's voices. I don't know how they do it either. But they do.

All this makes it seem likely that, although some parts of the last couple of days have been incredibly lovely, the negative will still outweigh the positive. If you say that this is just a problem with my attitude I will slap you.

But still, after all that anger, I got this card this morning. It's from my mum, and she sent it just because she thought I'd deserved it and because she loves me.

It made me happy, that's all.

Just a bit, mind, no immediate danger to my professional miserablism.

But still. Life is nice. On balance.
Love you all!


If you've been affected (or afflicted) by any of the issues in this frankly manic-depressive blog entry, please contact your local GP. I'm making more lemsip (I have fully integrated now, I think). X

Sunday, 20 March 2011

Saturday 20th March 2011: Talking Failure #1

Hello. Just saying something very quickly to bring you up to speed. This blog will be a bit longer than the usually. Then I hope to keep one every day, apart from every week. That is because of lessening impact of essays and uni work and intensifying moments of boredom, that usually spark beautiful moments of creative genius and sometimes, a depressing mountain of self-loathing, and NOTHING in between, as yet. This one will hopefully be the first one to actually strike that balance, as well as being quite pragmatic. I start with a thing that actually happened to me last night which will show you that even after quite a complimentary review in a student newspaper, my overall existence is still more of an embarrassment to the human race than anything else.


(FX: fanfare)

Yeah... The best-visited entry of this blog could be followed up by either of two things. One: I would stop, as success had clearly gotten to my head. This would be quite ironic, since that specific blog was the only one not actually written by me. Therefore the greatest number of people to ever visit this blog did so just to read someone else's words. This in itself as well as me not being able to recognise this fact would already be funny. The other way round this short and intense burst of student-newspaper based success would be the very English route of self-deprecation*: I could show all of you that I'm still the pathetic failure I always was.

* Note that the word route in the phrase: "the very English route of self-deprecation" is of French origin, reaffirming the statement of self-deprecatory intent. Oh yeah, I rule. In footnote-form.

Last night, I was invited to a party. Oh, yeah. That's how I roll nowadays. I had been there the night before, in a small post-gig drinks thing, without the necessary end-of-run pomp and circumstance. Just some drinks, then I left at about 1, to try and get some much-needed sleep. I was promptly invited for the actual afterparty, on Saturday night, which would take place in the same house. That wouldn't be a problem, I'd take some bottles of wine with me and the good times would doubtlessly roll. So around midnight I left, having learnt to never be too early, since I certainly have been that one annoying person who would turn up at a party 3 hours before it would actually kick off. I put the wine in a bag-for-life and I started cycling towards the aforementioned location, which I would remember, having been there less than 24 hours beforehand.

The short bike ride was uncharacteristically eventful, with a group of 30 or so young people who can't have been younger than 15 but looked about 12, walking past Sainsbury's and stealing a shopping trolley. One of their number had been democratically selected (or plonked in by the mob, depending on your ideological perspective) to take place within that famously unnavigable mode of transportation, and chucked out into the street. Luckily, this young man only shouted a lot but did not harm himself at the quite forcible exit he made from the trolley, which, gathering speed, was rolling in my direction. Fortunately I then remembered I was on a bicycle so I sped up and avoided death, bodily harm and the ridicule of 30 teenagers.

At arriving near where I thought the party would take place, I looked for anything recognisable on the quite similar houses. Unfortunately, nothing was there. All houses looked embarrassingly similar and I couldn't recollect which specific wrought Iron fence I had used to lock my bike onto only a day before. I then remembered that I actually live in the future, so I pulled out my mobile phone and called one of the people that I knew would be there, so they could open the door for me and I wouldn't have to knock on every single door like the socially awkward 10 year old I still actually am and be shunned from every household in the street, at this hour, like some kind of modern day Joseph (but holding a pink bike lock as opposed to a donkey). After considering that sentence, I heard an ominous voice: 'You have not enough credit to call this number.' Yeah... Suppose I'd better head back then.

I cycled back home, embarrassed at my failure. As I crossed the road, I saw something that looked like a fight. Four people huddled up in a corner, shouting at each other. When I stopped to see if I could help (from a safe distance, of course*) the four ran apart, with a man and a woman walking past me, him scolding her in a drunken voice. "Why did you do that?" &c. As no-one had actually been hurt, I just raised my shoulders and left the scene.

* Oh, how hypocrisy the man doth make; he withers like a snowman in a tan salon. - (Booyah!)

Back home, I remembered that, even though my phone based communication had stupidly faltered, I still had facebook. So I decided to wait and see whether someone I knew would turn up on fb chat, providing me with the necessary house number so I could still go to the party. I waited for 45 minutes, and nearly fell asleep twice. Then a friend did come online, having left the party herself minutes before, and she provided me with the house number.

I thanked her, and repeating the number several times in my head (attaching colour, sound and type of woodland animal to it as aide-memoires), I set off again. This time, the now ridiculously familiar ride was notably less ominous, so I could just turn up and it would all be fine.

I got to the door, took the bottle of wine out of my coat pocket (yeah, beat that!), took off my coat and rung the doorbell.

I could hear some commotion coming from downstairs, so I rung again.
I tried knocking. I tried blatantly waiting for someone just to turn up. I even tried looking through the letter-box and saying hello, but I stopped immediately when people walked by who could very reasonably think I was some kind of mental case who got off on molesting letter boxes. With their tongue.Even without sexual connotations you'd have to admit that something like that is indeed pretty sad.

I gave up. Clearly, I wasn't cut out for this. I had failed at the hugely basic concept of going to a place and entering it, without much trouble. You know, like people actually do. But not me. I got home and fell asleep nearly instantly.

Yes. That's the story of how I failed at life yesterday. I'm not proud of it. But it's got it's own uncanny form of beauty.

If you're thinking: 'Hmm. Maybe Jorik is letting small defeats get to him in a slightly unhealthy manner.' You'd be right. I do have a penchant for these kinds of things. But weirdly, they are also the building blocks of comedy. Humour is inherently connected with failure, with loss and with coping with the idea of an imagined future that will never happen. I love failure and I think it's a beautiful way to connect with other people. Most of my comedy is indeed about that very subject.

As some of you may know, I am trying to write a novel. I have been doing so for nearly 2 years (with initial ideas and sketches being written back in mid-2008, even) and I intend to finish it, of course. I'm about 25000 words in, and since my Uni work has relented a bit,I hope to do a bit more over the next few weeks. I hope to finish it next year, when I am deported back to Holland to finish my degree (sad smiley face). But there will be a party going down before that time, so don't worry (happy smiley face). The location of which I do not know yet, although someone might have to help me with, you know, getting in to the place and such.

The other reason this blog is so unrelentingly obsessed with failure is that my book happened to be about just that. So not the obsession first and the book second. The other way round. Since this can be described as a futile defense against anyone saying I copied this idea off Kathryn Schulz (whose 'Being Wrong: Adventures in the Margin of Error' I intend to read over the Easter break), errrr... yes. That is partly why I'm saying this. I was first Schulz! Feast on that! No, you can't, cos you're an inherently big fat loser. (which must be the most curious criticism she has yet received for her work).

But really, I would really like to say Thank you for bearing with me, Thank you for all the nice reactions to the review and I hope to blog a bit more often, now I actually have the time to do so. Also, I will talk about why I like failure a bit more. Probably.*

* Note the inherent danger of a notorious failure stating his intention to do something a bit more often. This can only go wrong. Ah well. Let's just wait and see what we get.

P.S. Do you fail on occasion? How do you feel about that? Let me know on the comments-section right down here!

Sunday, 13 March 2011

Sunday 13th March 2011: Is a Fool #4


Whilst walking in near total darkness in a part of Brighton I'd never been to before, I thought of an opening to this blog.

Some people just don't deserve to be human. They make mistakes, they flounder, and in the 10k race of life they end up face first in big pile of dogpoo. And rightly so, for these people tend not to listen to basic, simple facts, lose things that are important to the survival of them and others, basically, ruin it for the rest of civilisation who have the right, if not duty, to malign, mock and behave in a violent manner towards for the rest of their short, useless lives. In a word: Failures. I wouldn't have made it in the jungle, I would have been the first to be picked off, by a hippo. Not even as prey, just for a laugh. And it wouldn't even have been funny, just a bit boring really, so the hippos would continue grazing and blaming my shattered corpse for their unamusing dinnershow.

Ok, I lost something again.

I'm not proud of it, nor do I endorse the somewhat over-intense negative portrayal in the above paragraph. But I am a fool, as many of you know.

After having got some books from the library in an attempt to hand in nice and shiny essays this week, I went to a shop near where I live and bought some food. Nothing wrong with that, you might say. Nothing wrong indeed. The next bit is where it got tricky. I put my wallet in my shopping bag, next to the shopping. From then on, I thought of other things. Such as: should I be writing a blog again? Should it be about other things than sheer undiluted ego? Could it be about more universal things than my frankly doomed-to-fail comedy career-dreams? (look at all those hyphens! Pretty huh? Well, get me a booking then! You hyphen-loving comedy booker-type you! Rrr!) Wasn't it nice to see my dog again over skype today? Shouldn't I be thinking of my essays? Nah, can wait. Wait! Wasn't that my shirt I lost 2 weeks ago? No, it wasn't, it was a green binliner. Oh, ok. Hey! That lady has a special bag for plastic bottles! Etc. (James Joyce eat your heart out).

In short: no more wallet.

The worst part of it is, I wasn't aware of the fact, having spent two hours watching iPlayer and only then checking my email, to find an email by a nice, friendly person who apparently found it near the shop I was at only minutes before. She had included her phone number. I called her immediately, and ran out into the street*, checking 700 times for my keys and phone. I walked to where I thought she lived, according to google maps.

Then, me being me, I got lost. I ended up at the other side of the road, near a barbed wire fence (i.e. a fence that is not just an obstruction with pointy bits, but also barbed wire added. I know the expression gilding the lily, but this is just taking the piss), and with nowhere to go, I had to turn back. Hence the first paragraph.

I did have to walk through a completely dark alley to the house where my wallet now was, which I'm not very good at. I did the classic, ok, if there's any murderers and scoundrels around, I'll just look bigger than I am, in the same way a puffer fish scares sharks. Sharks are thick, of course, since puffer fish are highly poisonous and even after 300 million years of evolution, puffer fish still have to tell sharks not to eat them using that very basic defensive measure. That's why the bullies in school are usually the thickest kids, and I wasn't allowed to have poisonous stings implanted in my face as a child to defeat them. But it's just evolution, mummy! I pleaded. No it's not, she said, and going back to her work as a genetic engineer, crossing a sea cow with a wasp. ... I seem to have gone out on a limb here. I apologise.

In short: I acted big. But I'm not. I've never been in an actual fight all my life. Don't know why not. I'm quite rubbish at fighting, anyway, my brother always beat me, from age 3 onwards. He wasn't even born yet (COME ON!). But for some reason, I always think I can defend myself in such a situation, that, if I need to, that innate fight-or-flight response comes to my aid and gets me out of trouble and the baddies in A&E. No chance. Fight-or-flight for me is probably flight-or-fail-and-die-bleeding-out-of-my-face-in-an-embarrassing-way, so embarrassing that even the police will go: Nope, too much loser-juice there, not going near it, it might be infectious. Maybe my innate failure could be a sign that predators would avoid, like the bright orange frogs in the central American rain forest. I would just jump around, happy as anything, not being bothered at all by anyone. Survival of the failest. Or something along those lines.

Then again, I would be hunted down by tribesmen and used as failure-based curare for their arrows.


Which is sort of the point, really.

What I´m trying to say is, I got my wallet back, everything was still in there, all cards, my passport, everything. There only were 4p left in it, which had gone (so I might have been burgled! Never put wallet in shopping bag again!) but that's not too bad.

So, in short: Thank you nice person who found my wallet!

As my mum would say: you don't deserve to be so lucky.

As a matter of fact, I do :-)

See ya!

*At this point, in writing this blog, my left Shift key (my favourite, if I'm honest) had fallen clean off. In a rare moment of technological mastery (yeah, take that dad!) I attached it back on. I rule! This last sentence, and the ending you've just read, thereby balance out the hugely negative beginning paragraph making this blog, on balance, still relatively heavily Anti-Jorik biased.

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Wednesday 8th March 2011: Last week and Desperate Questions about Stand-Up (EdFringe and General giggery)

Gosh, hello. I haven't posted in a while, mostly because I've been hugely busy. You know with what. And thank you, everything went really well. So today I'll be writing this blog, as a means of avoiding other work which, frankly, is a bit more deserving than any of you people give it credit for. This does mean that, after next week and several essays handed in (and a new material night, where I'll hopefully be able to try out a new 5 min as well as some other stuff, including my only once-heard and legendary Airport-Rituals list. Will I turn into Jerry Seinfeld? Come along if you're around. Especially if you dig the 90s and are cool. Like me), I will have some time for A. working and B. Stand-up. Henceforth: the following questions:

A QUESTION: I'm looking for more gigs to do. So if you've got some, let me know. I've got  quite a brilliant 10 together (if I say so myself).

ANOTHER QUESTION: I've been thinking about the Edinburgh Fringe this year, and if you want to do a stand-up showcase with someone, or know someone who does, let me know. I'm getting desperate. I would like to do some more than just open spots this year :-).

That's it. I've turned to begging. That's how well my career is doing. Or, rather, I'm undeniably still very new to this sort of thing and don't really how to ask people. Yes, that's it. Shy, rather than shit. Use that as a advertising phrase.

I naturally hate advertisers. My father, who was over from NL with my mum, was talking to me about when he is looking up film reviews or Linux updates, he never sees the pop-up adverts of girls with breasts. Usually, my mum has to ask him whether he likes another cup of tea or prefers to stay and watch more porn. He then tells me emphatically that he doesn't even see those ads in the corners. He is 54 years old.

I really enjoyed doing the run of theatre-based things at Sussex Uni last week. The Masque of Queens was v enjoyable if slightly unhinged, especially the manic run-up to the performance itself, with me nearly losing the King and not being able to find him for a couple of minutes. It turned out he had a massive cold and didn't want to look like a snot-faced plague-victim on a throne. Can't blame him, really. I was v happy to have done it though. Also quite special doing Jonson, and performing 16th Century words in the round, like an overly serious subsidised French actor doing stand-up.

R&G was unequivocally brilliant, joyful and insane. I really loved it, although my knees are still black and blue from increasingly intense sex scenes. And lots of falling about and dying in general. I had to wear a suit for most of the week, which made me look like a burke, I thought; but other people actually seemed to like it. So there you go. I did say some Shakespeare in that play, which can be added to the vain and self-regarding stand-up/writing/acting-cv I'm building up to place on a more developed version of this website in the near future; (N.B.) should any success or interest in my work occur, which is statistically doubtful.

R&G was one of the most fun times I ever had rehearsing for a thing. The atmosphere was really good, I got to know some really nice people and the thing itself worked. Lots of people said really nice things about it, which is good for my humongous ego. There was supposed to be someone reviewing it, so when I find that (or you do, get out of that seat and do something for a change!), I'll post a link in the comments-section. I'm actually quite tempted to maybe do another SUDS play in the summer term (if I've got the time). Ironically, a year ago, I was talking to one of my lecturers in Amsterdam about plays and he said this was his favourite. Should have sent him an invite. Ah well. I'll let him know when I get back.

Talking about getting back: I'm genuinely not looking forward to it, but I've still got nearly half a year in Britain before I have to finish my degree in Damsko. It's quite dispiriting, but at least I won't waste so much time doing nothing as I usually did. Step one: Downloading iPlayer programmes to my laptop, so I won't waste time streaming them. First step on road to recovery; a bit less procrastination.

Speaking of wasting no time (since I'm supposed to be in a rehearsal in, ooh! 40 minutes!), as I said before, my parents were over for the weekend and are currently on their way to boat (They're on a boat) back to Dunkirk, where they'll drive back to NL. We had so much fun, walking around Brighton, drinking coffee, being in restaurants, getting drunk. Few things are as much fun as getting drunk with your parents.

They also accompanied me to the first TopBanana comedy night in the Rose Hill Tavern. Now, if you want to see a good night of comedy that's free and your in Brighton, go and see that one. It was brilliant, and so were the compère (the wonderful Aiden Goatley, who gave me my first successful Brighton spot back in November), the crowd and the other acts on the bill. I was ridiculously nervous, since my parents hadn't seen me do a solo-performance since I was 19, 4 years ago when still at Drama School. I worked in Dutch and, apart from that, was rubbish. Here, not so. The crowd really went for it and I only had to ride the waves. Lots of the subtleties came out as well, which was nice. The only beginner's mistake I made was during the Nigella Lawson-bit, where I held the mic too far from my face. I forgot to bring it up with my head, which hung back, in arrogant Nigella-stylee. Only the tables at the front laughed, I didn't really understand why, so I kept on going. But later, I found out that the mic was simply too far away to register any sound. Stupid mistake, but, for a 30th gig (something like that. I'll find out some other time), not bad at all. So thanks to Bola and everyone there. If another Badger-review turns up, I'll also post it here. Unless it's rubbish, then they're just students who by definition know absolutely nothing (just kidding Lily, I love you and everyone you've ever spoken to).

Next time, I'll begin a restaurant-guide to Brighton, having eaten at 4 different ones over the last 4 days. That'll keep me occupied. Now, I must dash off, or I'll be murdered by people who I believed to be my friends but this tardiness was the final straw. And I'd deserve it.

Love to all.

P.S. Do contact me about gigs, fringe and other stuff! I need this! X