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.