Cats, cats, cats...

... the flat is full of cats. Well, two anyway. Bron has finally made the final commitment to living here and moved her mogs in. Our new additions are;

BINX

Petite black cat with friendly demeanour and an air of assured modesty. Purrs readily and loves a tickle. Has a few duelling scars to boast of (blind in one eye and chunk missing from ear) courtesy of a car accident (they should never have let her drive). If asked, however, she will tell you she picked them up in a bar fight with some sailors in Shanghai.

KITTY

Great, adorable lump of a cat. He really does weigh an awful lot, I've nearly put my back out twice trying to lift him. Much maligned and misunderstood, especially by his owner (to say Bron prefers Binx is like saying that people with lungs prefer oxygen), all he really wants is to be held and loved. Starved of affection, he nonetheless has much love to give. Usually in the form of a sloppy headbutt.

They are both settling in just fine, have discovered and are utilising the litter tray (thank god) and are getting along with us all. Kitty was a bit stressed initially (he spent his first few hours here under the coffee table mewling) but has since realised that, having never had as much attention in any of his nine lives, he is onto a sweet deal.

So what else... the play was much fun on Thursday, the players making good use of a tiny stage and quite barren set. The two leads were excellent, the direction sharp, blah blah critical bollocks blah. I could prattle on and on but I don't want to bore you. Let's just say I enjoyed it.

Quiet weekend really. The last improv workshop on Saturday was fun and featured lots of cake. I was meant to be gigging on Saturday night but it was cancelled (shakes fist defiantly at the world before realising futility of the gesture and weeping a little - blows nose, feels better). I compered a gig on Sunday in Newcastle which was hard work to say the least. Here is some unexaggerated banter from the night;

Comic (just onstage) - Good evening! (to punter on front row) Hi mate, what's your name?

Punter - Look mate, I'm here to see the headliner and I'm not in the fucking mood, so why don't you just get on with it and LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

Talk about a tough crowd. Sheesh. Still, I did spend a few hours after the gig being entertained by four very accomodating young ladies, before heading off for the night train. Rock and roll.

Not much doing yesterday. Or today for that matter. Not gigging again until Thursday, so I'll spend the time till then alternating between playing with the cats and hoping some cash comes in before the rent goes out at the end of the month.

Peace. X

Turned out better than I expected...

... on Tuesday night. My gig at Harper Adams College near Stoke, a traditionally quite tough room from what I've heard, was actually quite a good laugh. Which is, y'know, kind of the point and stuff.

I'd heard fearsome things, like how the crowd will take a pint of beer to the stage and then refuse to listen until the comic has downed it in one. Real "dance, monkey boy, dance" stuff. But my only real complaints were as follows;

i) The layout was weird. Loads of seats off to the sides, and then just two big leather sofas in front of the stage, which were occupied by big strapping lads in rugby shirts, one of whom was sporting a very fetching black eye. Not at all intimidating.

ii) In keeping with a lot of college/uni gigs, there was no compere, meaning I hit them completely cold. I did the business anyway though and got them laughing straight away. I'm quite good at this, you know.

iii) They were an odd crowd in that they would piss themselves laughing and even applauded me a few times for some pretty throw-away comments and lines, but then I would get quite muted responses for some of my jokes that are usually big hitters. In the balance of things, it all evened out and I still seemed to be having a good gig, but it did throw me a little.

iv) Harper Adams is an agricultural college. The place was half uni campus, half farm, meaning everything there smelt ever so slightly of straw.

Other than that, it was a fun night and the drive there with the Bronster was cool too, even though we did witness some scally lad break into someone's car and make off with a bag which the owner had left on the seat (not the smartest of moves in this day and age). We left a note on the windshield with our details and then went on our merry way. Bron did eye me in that way that only a woman can when she is about to test your manhood before asking, "Why didn't you chase after that kid?"

I used to do karate and as such people expect me to still be quite handy. I get out of breath, however, walking to the fridge and back. I am quite clearly not the lean, toned fighting machine of my youth but this fact was brushed aside by Bron with an expectant flash of her eyes. I then proceeded to point out to her, with as much subtlety as I could muster, that I have no intention of meeting my fate on the business end of a scally's penknife for the sake of a stranger's property. Besides, even if I had caught and collared him, the little shit would have probably done me for assault.

Anyhoo... In the post has arrived a DVD from the Comedy Store of my gig there last Friday. I watched it. It's good. I rock. I just hope the management at the Store agrees. Fingers crossed.

Not much doing yesterday, except in the evening when, trusty guitar in hand, I recorded a song on my four track and got Bron, who has a sweet folk rock style singing voice among her many assets, to croon on it. It sounds pretty good, you know. What a talented house I live in.

We then went shopping. Not fascinating in of itself, but there is something quite superbly bohemian about doing something as mundane as going round the supermarket, but doing it at midnight.

Off to see a play tonight (get me with the culture) - an amateur production of "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (sic?) are Dead", starring some of Bron's former students. I studied that play for A Level English, so it should evoke many a memory of being a tortured, confused teenager. Oh happy days.

Peace. X

Protesting for Free Speech...

... in Manchester last night - that's right, yours truly was getting political on yo' ass. Last night was the first night of Jerry Springer - The Opera in Manchester last night and rumour was that Christian Voice would turn up to try and spoil the party, so a bunch of comics and writers, myself included, turned up to do a counter protest outside the theatre.

We numbered about 16 and were waving banners saying such things as, "Free Speech - I'm a Believer!", "Down with Protests", and my personal favourite, "For one night only - Much Ado about NOTHING!". Only about 8 Christian protesters turned up in the end, which was a bit of a shame, but we still gave it our all, singing and chanting and having a laugh. We were almost universally applauded by the punters queueing to get in, with the exception of one spectacular fuckwit who, in a textbook example of missing the bleeding point, saw fit to scream, "EVER HEARD OF FREEDOM OF SPEECH?". What was really lovely was having two of the crew from the show walk past and say, "If only there were more people like you", to us. There were news cameras and reporters there too, and we managed to make the papers and radio. Check this out.

I did feel a bit bad for some of the Christian supporters, to be honest. We found out that they were not Christian Voice as we thought, just local believers. One girl had hand written 300 postcards to distribute among the crowd. I went a bit far jeering at them to be honest - after the show had started, I bellowed, "How many people did you stop going in? How many minds did you change?". When one of them shrugged, I shouted, "You've wasted your time!". Whether or not I agree with their protest, they have the right to make it and I was in danger of crushing just what I sought to protect.

Still, it's only a show. Get over it, losers.

Well, what have I been up to... the improv workshop on Friday was a great success. What was I worrying about? (thinks - phew I got away with that) It was a bit weird having a load of school kids calling me "sir", though. My dad is a teacher and it was one of those unsettling "I'm turning into my father" moments. Still, I'm now a fully fledged member of ComedySportz, Bron's improv troupe. Check out my website (www.clik.to/benschofield) and look on the news page for the link to their website.

On Friday evening I did two gigs in London, one in East Dulwich to 20 or so youths with their icy, judgemental stares (it actually turned out ot be quite a nice gig) and one to two or three hundred pissheads at the Comedy Store's late show. The gig went well, I think. It was late and I was tired but I gave it my all. I'll have to wait until I see the recording. I did manage to get Rich, my mate I was staying with in London, on the guest list. He felt like Jack the Biscuit, sauntering in with a girl on each arm. The young ladies in question were hugely impressed and Rich thought he was well in. Right up to the point when one of them puked all over his jacket.

On Saturday I headlined a gig to 150 or so students at Manchester Uni, which was nice, and then spent Sunday mostly watching football. Such is my exciting life.

Off to Stoke tonight, to another student gig that several comics have reliably informed me is a notorious bear pit.

Wish me luck. Will report tomorrow.

Peace. X

A week of strange contrasts...

... especially with regards to the gigs I've done recently.

Friday in Bradford was lovely. It was actually held in the Gods bar of the Alhambra theatre, as opposed to the studio theatre next door where it is usually held. Kathy, the sound and light tech, had changed all the light bulbs to red and green ones, which gave the room a suitably bohemian, nightclub-esque vibe (good work that woman). Thanks to the Alhambra's glass facade, I could actually see the light from across Centenary Square as I walked to the gig, shining like a big showbiz beacon. The crowd was in good form too, becoming very vocal in their support of my rant in the second half about the inequities of interior design. A good time was had by all, especially comic Kevin Hayes who got into a hilariously inappropriate dialogue about religion with a Catholic lady in the crowd. It was also nice to see Dave Holmes, an old musician friend of mine, in the audience.

Apologies to Nicky - a friend of mine I used to work with in Bradford - who I said I might meet before the gig. I forgot to call her. I am a terrible person. Please forgive me. Oh, lovely love...

Saturday I went to the improv workshop in the afternoon. I need the practice, as tomorrow I am doing my first paid show as an improviser! It's a show/workshop for a load of kids in Blackpool (mustn't swear, mustn't swear...). I'm quite flattered to have been asked by Bron to participate, although I must question why. I've narrowed it down to three possibilities;

i) She genuinely feels I am talented and developed enough as an improviser to do the business.

ii) She cannot bear to be apart from me at any time.

iii) I was the only person available.

I suspect the latter.

Either way, I'm looking forward to everything about it except the early start to get to Blackpool. I've every confidence it will be fine. *

On Saturday night we went to a party to celebrate the birthday of Bron's friend Rachel. A fun time was had, but I did drink quite possibly the most foul cocktail ever concocted, as presented to me by the hostess. I then spent the next few minutes doing a delicate balancing act between concentrating on not vomiting and assuring my poisoner (sorry Rachel) that the brew in question was not in fact "fucking gorgeous" but was more akin to having one's mouth raped with an aniseed cock. We left about midnight, due to Bron's innards being uncomfortably rearranged by the bass from the music.

On Sunday night I did a college gig in Leeds, in a room more akin to warehouse space than a concert hall. Still, add a hundred or so pissed up students and it turned into quite a fun night, barring a really shit, whistling sound system. I'm rock'n'roll, sure, but I prefer to perform without feedback.

On Monday I went to the birthday do (yes, another) of Dan Nightingale, the shiny headed wonder boy of Northern stand-up. It was held at the Frog and Bucket comedy club. Frankly, I think it is a bit sad for a load of comics to go out drinking at a comedy club, but comedy is one of those industries with a strong social scene built in and in can quite easily begin to dominate one's life if left unchecked. Besides, the Frog is free in on a Monday, so maybe I should shut up complaining.

Anyway, it was fun night, featuring a motley crew of faces from the Manchester comedy scene assembled on the balcony bitching about the show (as is our want). I even treated myself to some chicken goujons and curly fries, such was the air of gleeful abandon.

Then a real tale of two gigs. Tuesday night I did a rip roaring 40 minute set to two hundred students in Cardiff, one of those joyous, life affirming gigs that reminds me why I love this job. Then last night I compered a gig in Sheffield to fifteen or so terrified looking 20-50 somethings. They were in fact nice people and the gig picked up as the night went on, but it was a little like wading through porridge in places. That's the thing with small crowds - you can never really get them on a roll in the same way that you can with a bigger crowd. The laughter from a big crowd is like waves, and you can practically surf on it, adjusting your timing to it's ebb and flow. But smaller crowds tend to laugh in short bursts, then become suddenly silent again, which makes timing hard, nigh on impossible sometimes. All you can do is smile sweetly and keep hitting them with your gags. It's like laying on a comedic buffet and inviting people to pick out the bits they like.

Yesterday day we took a trip to Liverpool to visit the Beatles museum. It was a really good day (I've seen an actually pair of round lense spectacles as worn by Lennon - worth about £1,000,000, apparently). I had to shepherd poor Bron round as the museum is full of dummies, which she is utterly terrified of, but other than that, and a brief altercation with regard to a sandwich (don't ask), it was really cool.

Today is a day off (and relax...) so I'll get some admin done. Maybe get round to putting up those Led Zep posters...

Peace. X

* God, I'm so unbelievably, mind crushingly fucking nervous. Oh shit, I swore. Oh bugger, I did it again. Crap. Bollocks. Piss. Etc...

A good night's sleep last night...

... for the first time in weeks, for reasons I cannot explain - I was just utterly spent last night. I slept really heavily, one of those sleeps where you wake up feeling like someone has dumped a ton of gravel on you during the night. Really quietly so as not to wake you, obviously.

Another grey day in Manchester, the city where the rain is part of the heritage. No wonder so many comedians gather here, the place needs a laugh. It is becoming saturated with comedians now though, certainly South Manchester. Withington, where I live, is curious as its population is comprised of equal parts post grad students, the intellectual/creative/bohemian crowd (of which I, of course, am a member) and your god honest, spit and sawdust, salt of the earth common man. I am loathe to be too pejorative in my description of the latter group, though a number of them do seem to think it acceptable to pop to the shops in their slippers.

Not an awful lot to report. I have secured another gig at the Comedy Store in London (get me folks) next Friday, at the late show which starts at midnight, a notorious bear pit which chews lesser comics up and spits them out like the pretenders and charlatans they are. Fear not. I will prevail. This is what I do.

Yesterday was kind of a fruitful day, in that I didn't spend half of it playing Playstation football, hurling vitriolic abuse at a bunch of indifferent pixellated players, who care little for me, especially as they all cease to exist every time I turn the switch off. I still haven't managed to put up my Led Zeppelin posters though. I may do it now.

Oh dear. In my initial post I promised not to bore you with the ins and outs of my life. But here I am doing it. How sad. How is anyone supposed to believe that I live an exciting showbiz lifestyle if I keep harping on about how drab and dull it is?

Oh, who am I kidding...

Dug is happy because his team, Middlesborough, defeated the mighty Roma last night. They "thrashed" them one nil. I watched the match with him and was an honourary Boro fan for the night. It should have been two nil but Mendieta, the man with the thinnest hair in football, missed a sitter in the second half, sending the ball high and wide and then, for full embarassing effect, falling over with all the inherent grace of a chubby pensioner being hit by a juggernaut.

I am off to Bradford tonight to do my monthly residency at the "Bag of Quips" comedy club. It's fulfilling to think that I did my first ever gig there and now I'm host of the show. It feels like things have come full circle. The only downside is the blunt animosity often displayed by Bradford crowds. The sense of humour in West Yorkshire is famously sarcastic and tough, making for quite a hard room and some pithy heckling. It's been a fun night so far though, so touch wood.

Breaking news... poor Bron has broken down and is stranded in Runcorn. I must go to her aid. Well, I'll give her a ring to help alleviate her boredom until Green Flag arrive.

Until next we meet.

Peace X.

Busy Busy Busy today...

... or at least that's the plan. To be honest, I've been such a slob recently it's starting to lose its charm. The thought of a day spent productively seems like bliss. This is of course peverse and twisted thinking of the foulest order, but I think it none the less.

It's not that I'm short of things to do. My agent and I parted company recently and I have since developed a keen awareness of just how much admin goes into self employment. I therefore need to ring for gigs, do about three months worth of accounts, chase promoters for cash and sort out travel and accomodation for the next few weeks.

Also, on a more frivolous note, I have two very fetching Led Zeppelin posters that I still need to put up.

I'm just so unmotivated at the moment, stuck in one of those awful ruts where you have loads to do but are still bored. Maybe I'm having an early midlife crisis (although technically I've had that already when I grew my hair and went rock*). Maybe I'm coming down with something. Maybe I just need to get laid.

I don't know. Either way I'm at my wit's end with wallowing.

Yesterday was a classic bit of slobbing, truly world class. I did absolutely f*ck all, wasted a whole day of my life on the sofa scratching myself. I only got dressed to go and buy snacks.

The bitch of it is that I used to love days like that. There was a time in my life that I considered it almost a hobby. Now it seems to bore me intensely. Yesterday was so dull that I could practically feel myself getting older, valuable seconds of my life ebbing away, never to be replaced. Well never again, I tell you, NEVER AGAIN!

Until the next time, that is.

Tuesday was a lot of fun. My housemates Bron and Dug and a fellow comic and friend of mine named Chris Tavner and I went to Blackpool for a day trip. The weather was awful (there's a lovely picture of me with my umbrella, broken and buckled by the vicious wind, looking for all the world like a big sewer rat), most of the attractions were shut and the one place that I really wanted to go, Seaworld, cost £9-50 to get in (f*ck that). Despite these setbacks we really had a good time, frolicking on the beach, blowing money on arcade machines and going in the Doctor Who museum (geek heaven - it's frightening how inexplicably excited you can get upon seeing a costume in a glass case that was once worn by Kate O'Mara). Chris did contemplate going for a paddle at one point but I physically restrained him to save him from fatal hypothermia.

On the evening I went to a local comedy club to watch and was beset by a problem that is occuring in my life far too often. In short, I was mistaken for another comic.

Now, I don't want to sound precious here (moi?) but my look is pretty distinctive, in real life if not just the comedy world. Why then does this keep happening? Not so long back I was mistaken for Chris Brooker, my housemate, fellow comic and fellow big bearded hairy bloke, at another gig I went to just to watch. A punter pumped my hand and said, "Hey, you're a comic aren't you, I've seen you on stage. Man, you are really funny!"

Naturally, I smugly agreed internally, but externally replied with a falsely modest, "Oh, thank you".

He then p*ssed on his chips. "You're called... Chris, aren't you?! Chris Brooker!"

I shot him a look that could have melted a bank vault door and spat, "No", from between clenched teeth, before scurrying off to nurse my wounded ego.

Now, Chris Brooker is a fine comic and I have no issue with the comparison, but it is quite upsetting to find the praise you were soaking up so proudly was actually directed elsewhere. It's the self esteem equivalent of being killed by friendly fire.

But on Tuesday, there was a comic performing called 80's Luke (which I hope for his sake is a stage name). Now he's a lovely bloke and all, but his resemblance to me begins and ends with him being a fat bloke with a beard and glasses. This however was enough for the punter who came up to congratulate me on my performance. When I pointed out, as politely as I could, that I had not been on that night, he insisted that I had and got quite aggressive upon my repeated denial.

I would like to get something straight, once and for all. It's a matter of pecking order. I do not look like Chris Brooker or 80's Luke. They look like ME.

Egos, folks. Very volatile. Handle with care.

Peace X.

*Yes, believe it or not, I used to have short hair and wear pastel colours. Despite having always been a rocker at heart, I had a real stick up my *rse as a teenager and in my early twenties about not having to define myself by the way I look. I was watching "The Big Lebowski" with a mate a few years back though and had a sudden epiphany. I sat bolt upright in my chair and exclaimed, "I wanna look like The Dude!". So now I do and, I might add, it suits me well. I am gorgeous. I have it on good authority.

COLDNESS ENGULFS ME...

...for reasons I will explain in good time, but in the meantime hello.

What an interesting few days!

On Thursday I went to the gig my housemate Chris runs in Crewe and did 10-15 minutes of brand spanking new material for my one-man show... and it all worked! I had a lovely time and it filled me with joy because;

i) It's always nice when a gig goes well

ii) I've been feeling really down about how i'm struggling to write of late, so to do some new stuff and have it go down well feels a bit like finding my mojo again (i've not lost it, it was here, in my pocket, all along)

iii) None of the new material was blue or rude. It's not that I have any issue with naughty jokes (in fact my set is quite "scatalogically cerebral" as one reviewer put it, which I interpret as meaning that I tell knob gags, but clever ones - either that or I have really intelligent poo), it's just that a large chunk of my set is sex based and I want more material that I know is funny (i.e. it will make a bunch of stag parties laugh on a wet weekend in Barnsley) but that I could do in front of more reserved crowds without seeming like some brutish ogre. Maybe I'm going soft. I don't know, but that meant something to me somehow. Basically, I have no issue with rudeness in humour, but it was nice to remind myself I don't rely on it to get laughs.

I then did a very nice gig at a hotel in Daventry on Friday. I thought it was going to be a nightmare as the organisers had set the gig up, let about 200 punters in and then buggered off. The "show must go on" spirit prevailed however and the other comics and I teamed up to sort out lights/sound/music etc, and a cracking gig was had by all. The drive back was fraught with fog and blizzard based danger, but I got back in one piece.

Saturday was was a little odder. After having had no confirmation from the promoter for my gig in the evening, I rang him to find that I was double booked and that the other comic had already confirmed. In short, I was out of a job. Grrrr.

Getting over that annoyance, I went to the comedy improv workshops that Bron runs on Saturdays (she is the real talent and brains of the house and the sooner the rest of us realise, the better) only to return home and find that the electricity had gone off. We managed to get the lights working, but the plug sockets and the boiler (which is wired into the mains) were having none of it. The house was like a meat locker, so as Bron and Chris nestled on the sofa in a blanket for a very quiet evening in indeed, I accompanied Dug to a party at the house of Ros, who works at XS Malarkey, a nearby comedy club.

The party was fun, but I can honestly say that Ros' city centre apartment, with its cosmopolitan vistas, beamed celings, stylish fittings and working electricity, led me to the the sharp realisation of what an utter sh*thole I live in. I honestly cannot fathom why I live in such squalor.

Oh, wait a minute, it's cheap. That's the reason. Well, the real reason anyway. I have another, grander reason, something to do with me being a artist (because artists are meant to live in squalor, at first at least), but that's just me being a ponce.

Anyway, I had a good time, and spent much of the evening cradling Danny Deegan, another comedian I know, in my huge hairy arms. As he curled up foetally and purred with primeval contentment, I was reminded that sometimes all a man needs is to have another man hold him and tell him everything will be ok.*

Dug and I stumbled back into the flat at about 7-30 in the morning on Sunday, bleary eyed and freezing. The day was largely a write off, though notable for the excellent curry Chris made for us all to use up the now defrosted chicken that was in the now useless freezer.

The electrician came this morning, and has managed to get the heating on again (my hero) and make a few sockets work but will need to come back on Wednesday to finish the job, which apparently may involve tearing up floorboards to get to the necessary wiring. Oh joy. I swear this flat was built by the lowest bidder.

Oh well, off I go for now. The freezer is defrosting and apparently it is all my fault. As usual. Sigh....

* Man Hugs provided at reasonable rates, no questions asked. E-mail for details.

The advantage of BOREDOM...

... is that it inspires me to do crazy things, like post on this here blog.

Sat at home alone listening to some obscenely loud rock music courtesy of The Wildhearts. Bron was with me but she dashed away suddenly an hour ago, late for some class or other, bolting through the door in a blur of purple hair and knitted scarf, like some strange mesh of Cinderella and the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

So, solitude. In fact, it's nice every now and then just to have the run of the flat. I could do anything. I could watch dvds in my jim jams. I could sit brazenly biting my own toenails on the living room sofa. I could run round the house butt naked and growl at things. I won't, but I could, and that's what counts.

A nice day had though. For some reason previous occupiers of this crazy flat of ours have seen fit to use it as an inpromtu storage depot and Bron, who has been systematically slapping our sorry asses into shape since moving in, finally snapped and decided we should load her car with old tvs and such and dump them. So off to the tip we went, followed by a pub lunch to reward ourselves for our proaction.

Bron took the opportunity to fill the space we had made with her stuff. Slowly but surely, she is taking over the whole flat. Left to her own devices, the world itself may be at risk. We can stop her now if we stand together. Before it is too late...

In other news, I've stopped smoking! Not for any namby pamby, "cough cough oh it's a filthy habit how can you cough cough" reasons, but simply for fiscal reasons. It's money better spent on other things. I do enjoy a smoke and I may have the occasional social one...ahem...but it's costing me at least £20-25 a week and I'm a poor impoverished artist.

Bron, of course, is delighted and has, in keeping with her self appointed role of surrogate mother to the whole house, been bombarding me with, "You're doing the right thing", and, "You'll feel the benefit", type platitudes. ALL F*CKING DAY.

Or maybe it wasn't all day. Maybe she barely mentioned it at all. I'm so crabby and wound up at the moment, what with my nicotine abstinence, that she could look at me the wrong way and I'd accuse her of hating/patronising/insulting me. Factor into it that she is in the "sensitive" stage of her womanly cycle and the situation is a veritable powder keg. Earlier, we had a blazing row because I put some boxes down wrong. Or something. Later I had the nerve to suggest some improvements to a form on her computer, which apparently I did with all the subtlety and tact of a professor condescending a half-wit. I thought I was being helpful. Apparently I was just being a tw*t.

Oh well, this is often the way with people you live with. It doesn't matter how much you like them (and Bron and I are the best of friends), quite often familiarity can breed some degree of contempt. The closer you get to someone, the more you tread on each other's toes. If you fly close for long enough, you'll clip wings. And several more tired bullsh*t cliches.

It's ok. I'll make it up to her with a cheese supper on her return. Cheese to Bron is like the elixir of life itself. I swear that if, heaven forbid, she is ever in a coma, all I'd need to bring her round is a really strong parmesan.

Speaking of supper, there's a belly pork joint in the fridge with my name on. Crackling makes everything better...

Peace X