So, I did do a reading yesterday and nobody, even me, died. I read to a roomful of bemused strangers (and a table of drunk comedians). I think by the very end of it people realised that it was supposed to be funny and there were one or two laughs but generally I think there was surprise and mild consternation that an apparently angry Englishmen was deconstructing a joke he hadn’t told in front of them. Still, it was over in six minutes and I neither stumbled nor stuttered and I remembered to breathe. The mic was quite low and I maintained a John Lydon/Gene Vincent stance, gripping the microphone with such extraordinary force that it actually turned to diamond in my hand. It wasn’t exactly fun. It served very little purpose. It won’t sell a book or garner acclaim. There was no money involved. But it is good for the soul to do these things occasionally. For some reason. And some people were very kind afterwards. There were other acts too. I vaguely recall…
Posted on: Sun, 28 Sep 2014 15:10:51 +0000
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