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Firstly, it was a sell-out, so the staff advised us not to leave any spare seats. However, the seat legs were touching, only leaving sufficient space for the arsecheeks of a toddler. It soon became apparent that, as the show was attended by adults, most of whom were larger than a toddler, someone in each row was going to draw the narrow straw. We bailed to the benches at the back rather than squeeze beside a random stranger and watched in amusement as the losers discovered that they'd won the booby prize.
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| The man in the middle wishes he had no arms |
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| Excuse me while I sit sideways for the duration of the show. |
Thirdly, (I'll get to secondly later) I'd had little sleep, writing up my High Life blog into the wee hours, then up early the same day to give the dogs a long walk (not like the film - we all came home). We'd also dined at The Kelvin beforehand (lovely meal), so my brain was fighting a losing battle between post-prandial soporification and the negligible alerting effects of Coke Zero and Irn-Bru. Essentially, what I am saying is I wanted a nap.
It was a struggle. Pierre is low energy. His observational comedy is in his words, not his actions. When I closed my eyes, they didn't want to open again. The nod-off alert jump freaked me out a couple of times. Which was a shame because he was funny. The set detailed his recent life changes, including his move with the love of his life from Central London to the suburbs.
He's now discovered a kernel of middle age is growing within him, despite only being thirty-five. He now finds himself commenting on the quality of other people's parking despite not having a car. He believes there are two types of people: dishwasher stackers, who know how to fill a dishwasher logically, and dishwasher artistes, who believe randomness is an expression of personality. Like magnets, the two types are mutually attracted to one another, as every relationship must have one of each. He can't blame everything on his autism, though he did admit his publisher was annoyed at him because they wanted to place his self-help book about the condition under Comedian Memoir, and he said 'No'. Flatly refused to budge because it wasn't a memoir, even if that marketing would have made him more money.
I missed some of the other bits, but I did stay focused for his finale, detailing the grand move across London. His fiancée couldn't be present on moving day, and he'd just returned from Melbourne, but rather than rearrange the moving date with the moving company and incur an £8 penalty, he insisted he could do it without her. The tale grew funnier and funnier the longer it went on, as mishap followed mishap. For example, he realised he had become the wierdo on the underground as his treasured frozen steaks defrosted around his neck, multiple tote bags becoming soiled with blood.
Secondly, the preshow music playlist wasn't long enough and repeated randomly. Maybe it was so short because these are the only songs he likes, and therefore, why play others? I was a bit freaked out by this.
Where Were You? by MekonsCome On by Jules Tropicana
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| Kurt Cobain lives? |
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| I understand the image on the left: Pregnant women get to sit. But the one on the right? If you have a puppet (or doll) on your lap, perch against a standing pensioner? Surely not? (Pictured on the Glasgow Subway carriage wall) |
I don't know why I wrote the bits out of order. Perhaps I was trying to mix things up. I don't like it, but won't change it. A few people have commented that they think I'm edging along the Autistic spectrum. I'm beginning to accept that they may be correct.
Pierre was good. Next time, I'd like to see him in the evening. Make it happen, please.
Ticket Price: 2 x £17.50 = £35.00, plus Booking Fee £1.60 = £36.60 from The Stand (on memberpresale).
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