Here Is What I Have Been Doing In Far Too Much Detail

Busy, busy, busy. Ish.

Due to my few-hours afternoon job, I am usually free to lollop around and sleep through the morning every day, but it seems as though the fates have conspired to ensure that this week my mornings have been booked, forcing me out of my lazy stupor. Properly booked in as well, I have a diary and everything. And I wrote the stuff in there to be sure I remembered. I was proud of how grown up I am become but then I remembered that I turn 22 next week so perhaps my pride is more than slightly hubristic. I have far more of a tee-hee-hee mentality than my age can honestly justify. Although I have to counter that by saying I also have a streak of bleak cynicism also. This is now turning into a sell-yourself love ad, which is depressing for many reasons which I have no vested interest in pursuing.

My Monday morning enforced wake-up was due to more training I (and my broadcompadre) was undertaking in order to be fighting fit when the station goes live. I have chosen this phraseology as I enjoy the image of a radio station coming to life and rearing up like the Megazord, from off’ve the Power Rangers (Mighty Morphin’). I have a similar lexical imaginings when it comes to the line “The hills are alive” which conjures up visions of a golem terrorising Austrians, though this is ruined by the arrival of the line “with the sound of music”.

What I have learnt from my two radio training sessions is that people who are in the business of training are cruel people indeed. There is a definite method to the training process, which is to shock and frighten the trainees initially, and then eventually tell them they are great and their show will be brilliant. I resent this emotionally trying method, where the anally retentive radio schedule must be adhered to SIEG HEIL! but then also make sure to be yourself in the show, whilst not forgetting to cater for the community, and for god’s sake don’t forget to press the button when its time for the news and for god’s sake don’t say for god’s sake on the air because people complain more about blasphemy than swearing. Whether that last fact is true across the entire country I’m not sure, but it certainly is the case that in South Wales at least, the people with Ofcom on speed dial are the aged religious watchdogs, quick to do some stomping on any anti-religious broadcast. Jordi Cruijff! It is likely our show may not become a fast favourite among the religious contingent, as every pre-record so far contains off-hand bashing of christian rock (whose initial c was automatically capitalised, but I have gone back to make it lower case, because I am subversive as a U-boat).

My Tuesday was spent taking the puppy to the vet for routine jabs and flea spraying, where he was incredibly well behaved, and if I was a less staunchly serious individual I would describe his conduct as ‘brave’. I was later messed around by the clinic, who arranged an appointment for me to fill out some forms for criminal compensation, sat me in the waiting room, only to tell me 10 minutes later that the doctor wouldn’t be in today. Which I was pleased with, obviously. The meeting was rearranged for Wednesday, and the doctor was stand-offish and unnecessarily curt, harrumph. I am easily displeased.

Today I was awake in order to attend a corporate welcome, where I was reassured I was important, before I was able to grab as many free pens and key-rings as I clandestinely could, before slipping away without anyone noticing. Because I am important.

I was actually in something of a grump as I sat myself at an empty table, only to have the table sporadically and systematically fill up with each new arrival picking the seat furthest away from me. It was then that I fully realised that I can be quite inapproachable, decorated as I am with an intimidating beard and an automatic vacant grimace. The man stood behind the pensions stall seemed to appreciate my social awkwardness, just as I appreciated that he looked like a stretched Gordon Brown (stretched upwards) though I’m sure he realised my tenuous and superficial questioning about pensions was actually a wafer-thin premise to help myself to free pens. It takes a significant amount of social awkwardness to keep me away from free pens.

By my own introspective reckoning I am a social dualist, where, depending on my mood, I can be either Jekyll or Hyde. Although more accurately, I can be either extremely socially confident, or a complete hide-away. Last Friday I managed both within the space of a few hours.

I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to talk about it for fear of looking like a self-aggrandising hubristic tool, but I did an open spot in Cardiff, and it went really well. However it was a prime example of the awkwardness I am capable of.

The Chapter Arts Centre has been recently refurbished, but some sections of it are still being renovated, which is why there was a section just off the room where the comedy was being held that was pitched in complete darkness. After saying a stilted awkward hello to the organiser and noting to myself the good omen that was the opening strains of Desmond Dekker’s 007 (Shanty Town) drifting from the room, I retired to the dark place to wait, which must have looked like a creepy weirdo attempting to be tortured and artistic. It wasn’t. I felt as though since I hadn’t offered to help set up the room during the initial meeting, doing so now would look like a limp gesture, so I hid away. And instead of talking to other human beings, I decided to wait in the dark wrestling with my imagined faux pas. Or my faux-faux pas if you please.

Later I decided to loiter awkwardly just inside the door, where I failed to talk to Iszi Lawrence because the opening gambit that came to mind was “I follow you on twitter” and I decided it would be better just to look suspicious in the corner. Suspicious in the corner is a look, I discovered, I was born to wear, as my thought process of: “she’s tall, I wonder if she’s wearing heels, no she’s wearing two-tone shoes, two-tone shoes are cool, let’s look a the two-tone shoes for a bit” actually left me with a bowed head looking as though I was unashamedly ogling. I would like to take this opportunity to exclaim that I was not. I strive to do my level best never to ogle, and in situations where there are instances of ogling, there is always an abundance of shame.

When stood at the front of the room being funny, a situation where ogling is encouraged (hypocrisy), I was equally enthralled, although the compliment that you are at least as amusing/interesting as your shoes is probably not the sort of praise anyone wants. Some consolation can be taken in the fact that she is being compared to very engrossing shoes, and also in the fact that this entire mess of a paragraph exists only because I can’t find an interesting way to say: “Iszi Lawrence did some jokes, she was really funny”.

She mentioned her podcast at the end of her set (the self-publicising random insult!), which I was glad of because now I have 60+ episodes with which to block out the inane warblings of 11-year-olds choking each other. I think that was the exact reason those podcasts were recorded, and if at the end of my life I have created something that can be used in order to drown out children, then I will be able to donate my usable organs and have the rest of me cremated a happy corpse.

First prize for funny goes to Ben Partridge who doused himself violently with water in order to rouse a reticent crowd, stipulating that if they were unable to laugh at a sodden man, they wouldn’t laugh at anything. They laughed.

Also, my set went really well, did I mention that?