Rob's Googlesearch Adventure

Why did I go looking?

What did I expect to find?

Am I fucking idiot? Yes!

For ages now I’ve been meaning to send my ex an email. We were together for 4 ½ years, living together for most of that, and split up last summer. I moved out a year ago this week, and she’s been on my mind.

You see, after we sold our flat early this year, we’d made an agreement to split the money from the sale of our furniture. Since the sale of the flat I haven’t heard from her. I didn’t want to hassle her for my half as I knew she had a new boyfriend. But what with the year anniversary I started missing the futon my parents bought us.

So I .... and this is the bit where you all go, “NO!” .... decided to Google search her.

I don’t know why. I wish I hadn’t. As do you. Yes, you did warn me, but it was too late.

Don’t get me wrong; splitting up was completely the right thing to do, but after 4 years living with someone you are bound to miss their company.

If I’m honest, we should never have even stayed together. You see, after three months together she travelled the world for six months and I waited for her return. After two weeks of arguing we should have broken up, but a part of me insisted we stay together, “That would be like the past six months have been wasted. Fuck that ... why not waste the next four years instead”

Funnily enough, recently I have been talking about her onstage in a bitter way, but that’s only a device to mask the fact that I haven’t written enough good new jokes to drop the ones I wrote about her when we were together.

I thought I was completely over her. A friend of mine reckons you’re over your ex when it stops being painful (mentally not physically) enough to start wanking about them, but that hasn’t happened yet, so maybe not.

Anyway... Google found her for me, albeit on the third page of searches (yes, I did keep clicking). An article for the magazine she used to work for with the headline, “Honeymoon challenge”

Basically three journos were tasked with sourcing her perfect honeymoon (well; as perfect as it could be with the me-placement). Honeymoon? That means she’s married? And it was from August. Seriously? Exactly a year since we split? Surely her tears are barely dry yet.

I’m not sure exactly how I feel, suffice to say I didn't get much sleep last night and felt the need to write about my confused feelings. After my brother’s divorce ten years ago a similar thing happened to him and he quoted the words of Alanis Morrisette, “It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced”. I think the only Alanis words that would comfort me right now would be, “go down on you in the theater”* but each to their own. Ah, the tears of a clown.

Weirdly my two closest friends have also found themselves in the exact same position over the past few years. – long-term exes married within a year.

Both really struggled with their self-esteem for ages, then one chose to deal with it by becoming a number one commercial radio DJ whilst the other settled for an HBO comedy special in the States.

So I’m not that bitter. I wish her only happiness. And anyway, who gives a fuck ... my career’s clearly about to finally take off!

I do miss my futon though.

*I kept “theatre” spelt “theater” as that’s how Alanis would spell it.

First person piece for The Isle Of Man Examiner

The life of a circuit comedian is an anonymous one. You trawl the UK, turning up at clubs of varying size, professionalism and suitability – from packed West End theatres staffed by experts, to empty canteens in student unions where you’re greeted with, “You don’t actually NEED a microphone do you?”- to tell your jokes, scrounge free drinks, and disappear into the night.

The best you can hope for is that the next day someone might say to the person next to them at work, “The one with brown hair was funny. I can’t remember any of his jokes …. or his name. He was from the Isle Of Wight.”

But every comic seems to have that one place where they can pull a crowd. There can be a variety of reasons; they once had an amazing gig there, were a resident compere, or, as has happened to me on the island, are the only comedian to come from there.

I found this out when I did two nights at The Cornerhouse, a pub which had NEVER put comedy on before. I had no idea what to expect, so was chuffed and surprised to find the pub full.

I’d performed to Manx audiences before; a couple of ill-advised corporate things when I was very new, the group at my Edinburgh show who draped the three legs over the front of their seats (“We thought you’d be rubbish, but you weren’t”), and, most bizarrely, the entire Marown Football Club in a nightclub in the Alpine ski resort of Val Thorens. 30 of them in an audience of less than 80. Mad!

Myself and landlord Ady thought I would be performing a version of my Edinburgh show.

Yeah .. we “thought”. What actually happened - on BOTH nights - was that whenever I started a routine I was mercilessly heckled.
And not the sort of heckles you’d get in clubs. Personal stuff.
Not "get off you're rubbish", more like, "Your mum's been having an affair with the guy from EB Christian’s for 10 years"
I got weird requests for stories too, "Tell them about when we robbed those empty bottles from Downwards to get the deposits back"
I'm not sure I've ever had so much fun on stage - being able to respond with embarrassing stories from my audience's past.

So I love playing on the island. My only regret is that I never got to play the Venue; once the home of the Crescent Leisure Centre’s “fairground”.

I remember at 16 my ambition was to be heckled on the site of the world’s smallest ghost train by an old lady in a rocking chair going, “Come inside to the shoo-ting gallery. It’s great fun” …. while getting squirted in the face by a skunk. I guess you had to be there.

Hopefully I’ll be performing on the island soon; feel free to come along and heckle … but ONLY with deeply personal secrets. Oh yes, and my mum hasn't been having an affair. That was a joke!

Rob's Brighton Shopping Adventure

I like shopping in Brighton. There are loads of decent clothes shops, all very close, all manned by men who like and know their clothes.

There’s one at the top of The Lanes that I seem to have bought from more often than the others. It sells Nicole Farhi, We Are Replay, and DKNY at vastly inflated prices.

I was trying some stuff on in there today when the owner decided to share his wisdom. I’ve always liked how keen he is to help and he once even gave me a discount. But then again, I did have a girlfriend with me then for him to leer over.

“Well?”
“I’m not really sure any of it suits me”
“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?” he huffed, pissed off that I’d wasted his time.

I thought nothing of it and continued to browse. Then I overheard him angrily say to one of his staff, as he folded the shirts, “apparently none of it suited him”. He then mumbled some other stuff, slagging me off for wasting his time, clearly unaware that I hadn't finished shopping.

I didn’t confront him. I didn’t make a fuss. I didn’t tell him what a wanker he was to his fat face.
I simply walked out of the shop, never to return, and took a picture of his shop’s logo for you. I don’t know if the biggest cunt in Brighton has a motto, but next time you’re in his shop trying-not-buying please help make it “it doesn’t suit me”. Try things on, waste his time, then take pride in riling him.

Thanks for your support,
Rob.

Rob's Brighton Adventure - 1

I don’t normally write about the funny things I ad-lib onstage because that’s very showy-offy and because I don’t do it very often. I somehow managed to make myself laugh last night, so thought I’d share.

At Krater Comedy in Brighton, there was a girl celebrating her 21st birthday, demanding attention.
“21 … that means you were born in 1988”
All the over thirties gave an "ooh" as they remembered 1988. The sort of "ooh" they'd associate with Typhoo. I too thought back to 1988
“That means you were born at the same time as Salt n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It’ was in the charts”

Anyone who knows me will tell you how my fucked-up brain works when it comes to music (Push It first charted at the start of June, 1988). Not only had I remembered a song from 1988, but one from the right part of the year. The first time I heard that song was when my brother started singing it to me after he’d heard it on the Chart Show. It was a Saturday, early June, 1988. Rather than revise for my sixth form exams, I was getting my new mini ready for its re-spray.

“Which is funnily enough what they were singing to your mum at the time”

Thank you and goodnight.

Rob's South African Adventure - Day Nine. Thurs #2

Today was the first day hot enough to lie in the sun. However, after less than an hour, Michelle from Parker’s picked me up for an interview with DJ Fresh on Five – their radio, not our TV.

It was in a hotel that had been converted into the “Golf Hotel” for the launch of the new Golf … way to go with the timing of your new car there, VW.

It was really fun as it goes. We played a game called Couch Potato where I had to guess TV theme tunes before a listener. Party Of Five and Grey’s Anatomy. Even a competitive prick like me is glad he lost! Hope it sells us tickets, although God knows if anyone was listening.

The gig went well too. The two local acts, Martin Jonas and Vittorio both stormed it making it hard to follow them, but luckily I’d got drunk so didn’t care too much. I’m assuming I got away with it.

Last week I attempted to sell my CD for 70 Rand (just over a fiver). Joe told me I was selling myself (well my CD) short and to go for 100 Rand.
“If you’d like my CD, it’s just 100 Rand”
“It was 70 last week!” shouted a woman who’d liked me enough to come back, but not to buy one herself. Cheers!

After the gig I took my drunkenness to the next level with Tabitha (luckily she enjoyed the show) and Chris. Everyone keeps giving me shots (because they’re only about 80 pence). Tequila, Jagermeister, weird combinations of random sweet-tasting things. How can I refuse?
There’s also a lovely feeling of buying a big round and it only costing you a fiver … or one CD if I’d managed to sell any.

Tabitha asked me, “Which comic was it on Saturday with the cock-sucking girl?” The danger of writing stuff on the internet, eh. I don’t know his name, by the way.

These blogs are getting shorter. That’s either because less is happening or because I’m home now and didn’t jot everything down. Hmm.
Five's DJ Fresh!

Rob's South African Adventure - Day Seven/Eight - Tues/Weds

Very boring days to be honest.

I walked to the Leaping Frog centre for lunch – almost bloody 45 minutes away – then called for a cab to take me back. Pretty dull day, eh.
The most exciting thing was two myna birds circling and swooping at me on the way there. Pretty scary, actually.
More food and football later. Dull, dull, dull.

Wednesday looked to be shaping up the same way - I think I’ve spoken to SAcabs more than anyone else for the last few days – until Trevor from the club called me at lunchtime.

He took me to Sandton City for lunch. To an authentic Greek restaurant where I ate half a Peri Peri chicken, that most Greek of delicacies. They also sold deep fried Mars Bars!
Trevor showed me the statue of Nelson Mandela in Mandela Square. For some reason they scaled his body but not his head, making him look very odd indeed. Unless, of course, Mandela is 8 feet tall or has an unusually small head

Later on I went to Banjaara; an Indian that Trevor recommended. He asked me to review it against our ones. According to the menu, the Banjaara is a nomadic tribe in North India who wanders from place to place like Gypsies. It is also the name of a chain of restaurants in South Africa with very few Indian staff.

The food’s not too bad. I order a jalfrezi – why can no two menus ever agree on spellings? – and onion bhaji starter.

7 onion bhajis turn up. Big fuckers too! Not like the sort of thing M&S would suggest you have at a party or in the summer. God knows why I felt the need to eat them all, but I did, leaving little space for the curry which was OK, although not a Jalfrezi. And the naan wasn’t actually a naan. It looked like the thin, crispy, pizza base-type garlic bread you sometimes get. Overall 6 out of 10. There you go, Trevor.

I then had a couple of watermelon and chilli Mojitos watching even more football. Looking forward to tomorrow’s gig now. Surely that won’t be dull!

It ain't right, is it?

Trevor, who rescued me

Rob's South African Adventure - Day Six. Monday

I was woken at about 11:30 by a phone call from Chris’s fiancée, Tabitha. "Still up for seeing Soweto?" I love reliable people. I hardly know any back home!

While I waited for them I tried to check my email, but the internet wasn’t working, so I went over to tell Barbara. She got her son, Andrew to check. (BTW my brother’s name is Andrew. This is getting plain creepy now!). He tells me that they’ve used all of their download limit and need to buy some more. Oops. That’ll be me then.

As we headed to Soweto, Tab reassured me about my safety. “Nobody’s going to rob us at gunpoint.” To be honest, I was more concerned with Chris attempting to drive and program the SatNav at the same time.

We arrived in time for some authentic African food. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet featuring such local delicacies as: pap (maize meal), samp (maize rice), and magodo (tripe) - no prizes for guessing which two of those I tried - followed by jelly, ice cream and custard.

Then we headed up to house 8115 in Orlando West. The house where Mandela lived from 1945 until his arrest, and then again, shortly after his release. Our guide, Freedom, tells us that the house has been restored to exactly as it was when Mandela lived here. Really? Then why is there no bed, or kitchen? And I’m guessing those two plasma TVs weren’t there either.

As we took the scenic route home they gave me a fantastic running commentary. For example, there’s a cylindrical building in Hillbrow next to the centre. It was supposed to be flashy apartments for the jet-set, but never quite worked out that way. In fact, so many people have committed suicide by throwing themselves into its hollow centre (It’s built like a giant tube of Polos) that they’re going to fill it full of sand. I’d recommend a big bouncy castle instead

They drop me off at Fourways shopping centre, and for the first time I walk home in the dark. Barbara will kill me .. if someone else doesn’t on the way.

My night was filled with more football. The first half of Newcastle/Middlesbro’ in a Chinese Restaurant at Lonehill, and then, because everywhere closed, the second half in an “authentic Irish” pub called The Brazen Head. The brazen cheek more like; it’s about as Irish as I am … which would be “half”.

I watch the game with a guy called Graham from The Wirral. He clearly relishes the Scouser-overseas persona even though it’s dubious how long he actually lived there. At one point he makes a joke that it’s been so cold in Liverpool that Scousers have had their hands in their OWN pockets. Hilarious! I’ll have to use that .. because ALL Scousers are thieves. Cunt. Although I’m a big fat hypocrite because I let him give me a lift home. I even got his car started for him… and not the way his idea of Scousers would

That’s that. Full of a cold, no plans for tomorrow, waiting to hear from the club.