Hello...
Just coming off the wagon. With that I mean, I'm not goint to be doing that many stand-up gigs in the next few weeks. With not that many I actually mean quite a lot, starting again on the 22nd of February. Then a few weeks of all-out giggery (and acting in a kick-ass production of quite a brilliant play, if I may say so). It's weird to have had a couple of days rest after two weeks of stand-up. It does take over your life a bit, and you (or I, at least) get a bit addicted to the sheer visceral higs of it. That's why, over the last couple of days, I've been a tad down. Ah well. If I forgot anyone, I'd like to thank them here, for two weeks of brilliant gigs. Please contact me if you liked them!
Last night I spent a night in, catching up on BBC Four I liked to be patronised in elaborate ways than just shiny lights and faux-aspiration, thank you. One of these programmes contained the least convincing noddy-shots of all time. It was the one about the British Novel, presented by a man looking like Phil Mitchell, who talked to a lady, a slight bit shorter than himself. As noddy-shots are usually shot after the interviewee has left, Phil had to look down onto the camera, raising his eyebrows unconvincingly and pulling a face like the baby Jesus had come down from on high, declaring him Uncle of the Lord. By which I mean he looked patronising, fearful and impressed while simultaneously bored. That also meant that he couldn't be Phil Mitchell, for these are far too many emotions for Soap Opera-viewers to stomach in one look. Sophie's Choice has nothing on this man.
You may notice I still harbour some resentment against Meryl Streep for ruining my coach journey to Brighton, a month ago. I don't care. Let her apologise to me first! And give me some of her money. To paraphrase a famous phrase and make it about me: t'was ever Dutch. If you didn´t get that one, you probably are Dutch.
The Dutch don´t think they´re thrifty. But they are.
You see, I´ve been having problems writing, and it's been going on for a number of years now. Mainly, because in my head, negation is far more important than validation. I've got quite a good critical faculty, when it comes to other people's work. But when it comes to my own work, the main word in my head is: No. Anything that I can come up with, I eventually lose faith in. In performance that can be solved by complicating the performance itself, so the notion stays fresh. But in writing, it's pretty solid. I can read essays I wrote no more than a year ago and I'm gobsmacked by their utter stupidity and am left with feelings of utter contempt I normally leave for members of the third reich, molluscs and viruses.
This genuine sense of hatred could be based on one of two things. One; I am an intellectual so am painfully aware of my own faults and lackings of knowledge and too much of a perfectionist to appreciate my own basically good ideas. Two; I am a dickhead. Now, either of these ideas would be valid, and the first is the most logical, so most realistic. Yet, my sympathies lie with number two. But I also think I'm a dickhead for proclaiming myself to be a dickhead without rime or reason. This would render me a multidimensional meta-dickhead, a thing to be feared and loved throughout the sweeps and chasms of the Universe, much like the Queen.
When rehearsing Stoppard, we often fall upon a meta-theatrical moment; and some of us have started doing the meta-dance. A woozy flurry of movement away from the stage into the dark realms of theory. But ultimately, without value. That's what I love about Stoppard.
I love him so much, I think his name should be a catch-all noun. Like Thingy. Or a swearword; 'Have you seen him tonight, all drunk to the gizzards on bluff-juice?' 'Yeah, what a total flipping Stoppard he is, isn't he?' 'What a Stoppard.' Or a catch-all word. Like Smurf. 'Have you Stopparded my Stoppard?' 'No, you're Stoppard has Stopparded my Stoppard.' 'Oh, you Stoppard!' (Everybody laughs).
You are probably aware that I'm now in the library, wasting time to write an essay and not wanting to commit to it. You are my procrastination. I'll never achieve anything and my hopes in both comedy and academia will die in the dust. And you'll stand there, laughing. You'll be the death of me. I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?
Nah... I'm far too brilliant for that.
For more information, I direct you to the title of this piece.
P.S. Yesterday, a lecturer thought that it would be a good idea to, after my death, donate my full skeleton to the RSC for the role of Yorick. As a piece of wordplay that was a. funny, b. violent, or c. determining that I will only be successful after death, rendering me a genius by proxy. Haha, I am funny.
More loveliness to follow. If you have been. (L)
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