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I've not knowingly seen John Bishop before - he's in a couple of movies - but I decided I ought to see him as I see everyone else, and he might be great. I bought a ticket for my favourite seat, and pinned it on the cork board with the others.
A few weeks later, in Nottingham, I got a phone call, asking me if I was going to see Bishop at the Carbuncle, which led me astutely to assume that I wasn't, at least not on that date. He was doing a set for a tv show (he led us to believe it was Live at the Apollo, but it was actually the ITV equivalent), and so he'd be postponing to 12 April. The date came, without further delays, and that date was itself, apparently, already a postponement.
I went up to the Carbuncle, having watched a movie and two episodes of Battlestar Galactica and read a novel, intending to work there for a few hours. Naturally it's a Darwin College bus that comes along, when I need to shop first so Parkwood would have done. When I want to go straight to Carbuncle I only get Keynes.
The place is more or less empty until 7.15, and I buy another ticket for another comedian, before going in early to the auditorium. At about 7.37 I'm aware of a bell ringing in the distance - and the heat - and after a couple of minutes the manager comes in to tell us we need to evacuate. That's the several hundred for the sell out gig and however many were there for MicMics, which I've missed.
Fortunately there's no rain, it's merely cold. The word is they can't actually turn the alarm off. We have to wait for the fire brigade.
We wait. So does John Bishop, mingling with his audience. Some of the Carbuncle staff have luminous yellow waistcoats. I feel much reassured.
And wait some more.
And at about 8.10 a tender arrives.
Five minutes later a second one arrives - or the first one has yet to find its way into the car park.
It is reassuring to know that if this had been a real fire, then the Kent Fire and Rescue service can leap into action within literally half an hour.
Of course, this pushes the show back, and means I miss the bus by about a minute. Assuming the Unibuses aren't running (and I can't a bus on Sunday that wasn't on the timetable), I have an hour to wait. There are no taxis, and they don't like driving up to the campus on the hill. I am not likely to make last orders, although I am nil by mouth since 10pm due to blood tests. After twenty minutes, I decide to walk.
I can go back up the hill to go down the safeish path, down the hill to find the most direct path or follow the road for the longest path. I choose the second option - and at first I'm please, because it's tarmaced and lit now, but only for the first ten metres. After that it's lit from the other side of the hedge. My memory is its terminus is a waterlogged field, and there is certainly a stream somewhere in the dark. I can't remember where the field led to, and whether this is the route where someone shouted boo from behind a shed.
It is solid ground at the bottom of the hill - but dark, and a culvert is visible, and avoidable. I slow down anyhow. I pass unrecognised street ends, and then spot where I am - Salisbury Road. I'm back to a main road, which I cross, and then down a twitchell to the end of St Stephen's field, which funnels me under the railway. Someone is right behind me, and I'm convinced I'm about to be mugged - they speed up as I speed up, but finally they pass me and I'm safe.
There's a furtive smoker outside Dave's house, but Dave can't be back from the pub yet. I text him as to which is the quickest route across town, and he responds that he's taking the other route. Helpful. So, down to the miniroundabout, through the Westgate and around the ringroad - or cut across town to Debenhams? I decide to cut across town, and for once I don't get drive by abuse at the junction. It does seem to be a virtual zebra, despite the lack of stripes, and a motorists stops to let me cross. The river is high, and I turn right onto Pound Lane, so I avoid hitting the Bell&. There's an incredible dark twitchell between two terraces and I'm onto Westgate Hall car park. The trick is to find the way out - which is actually invisible until you get right up to it. I slip behind St Peter's, and get onto the high street, although at this point it's not called that.
Down past Alberry's, I spot Paul the Taxi, but it's be quicker to walk from here. I ht the ring road, and cross at the convenient side rather using the underpass. A policecar is parked up, facing the wrong direction, but I'd in no mood to worry. It's the final stretch.
The house is in darkness, and I fumble the keys getting in, before dumping the rucksack and the laptop. I strip off and go to the loo. After a moment I wonder about my keys. I can't spot them in my pockets in the trousers, and they're not on the table or at the bottom of the stairs or on the settee or in the lock - as I carefully check without exposing myself to the outside world. I go back to my trousers, and there they are, hiding.
I need a drink. I really, really, need a fucking drink.
Nil by mouth.
I've got to sleep about 3am, which bodes badly for an 8.40 medical appointment. I wake at 7.00, and 7.15 and get up. I have to remember to pee into a specimen jar. This is stupid; most men can't hit a toilet bowl, let alone a jar which is hardly a centimetre wide. I grab a glass and pee into that. What are those black floaters? Soil. I spilt compost over those glasses. I fish out what I can, and hurriedly drink more water in the hope I can get a second sample. Perhaps if I ran a bath I would need to go again? Nothing doing anyway. Ah well. At least my phosphate levels will be fine.
I reach the surgery and I'm seen more or less on time. The nurse finds a vein in record time, and takes what blood she needs. There doesn't seem to be any blood on the cotton wool dressing, so maybe that's all the blood I have gone. I'd better stock up with coffee.
A few weeks later, in Nottingham, I got a phone call, asking me if I was going to see Bishop at the Carbuncle, which led me astutely to assume that I wasn't, at least not on that date. He was doing a set for a tv show (he led us to believe it was Live at the Apollo, but it was actually the ITV equivalent), and so he'd be postponing to 12 April. The date came, without further delays, and that date was itself, apparently, already a postponement.
I went up to the Carbuncle, having watched a movie and two episodes of Battlestar Galactica and read a novel, intending to work there for a few hours. Naturally it's a Darwin College bus that comes along, when I need to shop first so Parkwood would have done. When I want to go straight to Carbuncle I only get Keynes.
The place is more or less empty until 7.15, and I buy another ticket for another comedian, before going in early to the auditorium. At about 7.37 I'm aware of a bell ringing in the distance - and the heat - and after a couple of minutes the manager comes in to tell us we need to evacuate. That's the several hundred for the sell out gig and however many were there for MicMics, which I've missed.
Fortunately there's no rain, it's merely cold. The word is they can't actually turn the alarm off. We have to wait for the fire brigade.
We wait. So does John Bishop, mingling with his audience. Some of the Carbuncle staff have luminous yellow waistcoats. I feel much reassured.
And wait some more.
And at about 8.10 a tender arrives.
Five minutes later a second one arrives - or the first one has yet to find its way into the car park.
It is reassuring to know that if this had been a real fire, then the Kent Fire and Rescue service can leap into action within literally half an hour.
Of course, this pushes the show back, and means I miss the bus by about a minute. Assuming the Unibuses aren't running (and I can't a bus on Sunday that wasn't on the timetable), I have an hour to wait. There are no taxis, and they don't like driving up to the campus on the hill. I am not likely to make last orders, although I am nil by mouth since 10pm due to blood tests. After twenty minutes, I decide to walk.
I can go back up the hill to go down the safeish path, down the hill to find the most direct path or follow the road for the longest path. I choose the second option - and at first I'm please, because it's tarmaced and lit now, but only for the first ten metres. After that it's lit from the other side of the hedge. My memory is its terminus is a waterlogged field, and there is certainly a stream somewhere in the dark. I can't remember where the field led to, and whether this is the route where someone shouted boo from behind a shed.
It is solid ground at the bottom of the hill - but dark, and a culvert is visible, and avoidable. I slow down anyhow. I pass unrecognised street ends, and then spot where I am - Salisbury Road. I'm back to a main road, which I cross, and then down a twitchell to the end of St Stephen's field, which funnels me under the railway. Someone is right behind me, and I'm convinced I'm about to be mugged - they speed up as I speed up, but finally they pass me and I'm safe.
There's a furtive smoker outside Dave's house, but Dave can't be back from the pub yet. I text him as to which is the quickest route across town, and he responds that he's taking the other route. Helpful. So, down to the miniroundabout, through the Westgate and around the ringroad - or cut across town to Debenhams? I decide to cut across town, and for once I don't get drive by abuse at the junction. It does seem to be a virtual zebra, despite the lack of stripes, and a motorists stops to let me cross. The river is high, and I turn right onto Pound Lane, so I avoid hitting the Bell&. There's an incredible dark twitchell between two terraces and I'm onto Westgate Hall car park. The trick is to find the way out - which is actually invisible until you get right up to it. I slip behind St Peter's, and get onto the high street, although at this point it's not called that.
Down past Alberry's, I spot Paul the Taxi, but it's be quicker to walk from here. I ht the ring road, and cross at the convenient side rather using the underpass. A policecar is parked up, facing the wrong direction, but I'd in no mood to worry. It's the final stretch.
The house is in darkness, and I fumble the keys getting in, before dumping the rucksack and the laptop. I strip off and go to the loo. After a moment I wonder about my keys. I can't spot them in my pockets in the trousers, and they're not on the table or at the bottom of the stairs or on the settee or in the lock - as I carefully check without exposing myself to the outside world. I go back to my trousers, and there they are, hiding.
I need a drink. I really, really, need a fucking drink.
Nil by mouth.
I've got to sleep about 3am, which bodes badly for an 8.40 medical appointment. I wake at 7.00, and 7.15 and get up. I have to remember to pee into a specimen jar. This is stupid; most men can't hit a toilet bowl, let alone a jar which is hardly a centimetre wide. I grab a glass and pee into that. What are those black floaters? Soil. I spilt compost over those glasses. I fish out what I can, and hurriedly drink more water in the hope I can get a second sample. Perhaps if I ran a bath I would need to go again? Nothing doing anyway. Ah well. At least my phosphate levels will be fine.
I reach the surgery and I'm seen more or less on time. The nurse finds a vein in record time, and takes what blood she needs. There doesn't seem to be any blood on the cotton wool dressing, so maybe that's all the blood I have gone. I'd better stock up with coffee.
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