Banana cabaret, bananas behaviour and a bananas match

There aren't that many comedy gigs that you genuinely look forward to playing in London but The Bedford in Balham is one of them. It plays host to Banana Cabaret and I've mentioned the show, the pub and the area in several previous blogs so am not going to go into massive detail here. Suffice to say I was on with (in no particular order) Simon Evans, Tim Clark and Dave Johns. They are all consummate professionals, pretty much bald and if you add me into the occasion I reckon we had the most experienced (if follically challenged) line up in old London town. Our combined time in the business covers (I deduced with the lovely Mirian who curates the show) over ninety years and I don't think a comedy crowd could have been in safer hands. Both nights were a delight and I had the added bonus of being on first so I could scoot off early to hotfoot home on the 10.15pm Kings Lynn via Cambridge service, first stop - Letchworth. Sadly, I missed it by two minutes. This left me hanging around for the 10.36 service via Finsbury park and what appeared to be every town in the South East that wanted to move on its unwanted via rail.

A word about Dave Johns - He tried to convince me on Saturday night that the now World famous "Edwards chord", namely Emaj#9-ish, was in fact Eaug7. After research into Eaug7, I have corrected him via his facebook "fan" page. He might be a very funny man, but HE WILL NEVER TAKE MY CHORD!

Securing a whopper meal (with coffee - I'm classy) before boarding, I settled into a five seat scenario all to myself towards the front of the train and as the doors closed I thought "Maybe this won't be so bad". Wrong. As the train took off an enormous Indian guy slumped across the three seats opposite me, put his feet up on the seat next to me and essentially surrounded me, trapping me at the same time. Fortunately a friend of his got on at the first stop and sat in the seats behind me. This prompted massive Indian bloke to jump up, career towards him, give him some skin ghetto-style, sit down and fall asleep. I had my five seats to myself again and settled into my delicious haute cuisine. Whilst chomping, I began to hear the conversation of the three girls opposite. Well, to be fair, everyone did. They were slagging off their boyfriends and pretty much anyone they knew who wasn't present. It turns out Kim is the biggest slag in the world and Carl ain't wurf it, should you be interested. I wasn't.

These are not the girls in question, but you get the idea.

Everything changed when we went through a tunnel. The "thump" of the pressure change was sufficient to make massive Indian bloke wake up, sit bolt upright and projectile vomit all over the carriage floor. The Shakespearean three bitches upped sticks with a group "Oh that is dis-gus-ting". Pretty much the whole carriage emptied in fact. People moved away from the vomiting giant and the outcome was to leave me for the rest of the journey with ten seats to myself and my nose firmly stuck in my coffee cup. it had become unbearable by Hitchin and I was about to move to the carriage in front when I saw a girl throw up on the platform, smack her boyfriend round the face when he tried to help her and then get on said carriage herself. I decided to grin and bear what I had. Massive Indian had got off in (of course) Stevenage and at least his vomit had already dried up a bit and wasn't shouting at anyone.

On reaching Letchworth all I had to do was vault the technicolor yawn and negotiate the four extremely drunk, extremely posh young men by the door. Problem: The drunkest and poshest was at the front and was too inebriated to operate the door release. Time was of the essence (We had to get off before the train took off again) so I leaned through them and hit the thing myself. As the door opened he rounded on me and accused me of pushing him. I didn't have the time or the inclination to talk to him but even I surprised myself when I said to him

"Get off this train you f&$%£^g posh £$^t and get out of my f*%^&*g way while you're doing it"

It's safe to say he wasn't expecting that and, stunned, he moved aside. Feeling like a combination of Robert De Niro, Al Pacino and Vinnie Jones I strode purposefully to the Arena tavern, boldly retracing the steps that had led to my previous run in with young oafs. I was met by a smiling Bob the landlord and a pub full of middle aged men in denim waistcoats who were the detritus from a "Hamsters" gig at The Plinston Hall over the road. I quickly tired of hearing about ABVs of the perfect real ale and the merits and demerits of various obscure blues guitarists so walked home.

On Saturday the gig was great, I caught the 10.15pm and everything was all right.

...Oh and then I got a cab home before driving over to Steve's pub and stayed up drinking real ale with him and probably talking about obscure blues guitarists, among other things. My tooth fell out while I was there. it's been wonky for ages and I've been loosening it with my tongue for the last week. I tend to only lose teeth during important moments in my life. The first I lost the day after my wife and I split up. The second I lost two and a half years later on the day our Decree Nisi came through. The only thing of significance that's happened with this third one is that Manchester United lost to Manchester City 1-6 in Sunday's remarkable derby. I hope that's not it for this tooth. It's going to cheapen the stories surrounding the necklace I plan to make out of them.

I'm sure these little beauties will look every bit as attractive around my neck as they did in my mouth. The roots are at the bottom, by the way - I'm not a vampire - although saying that I do work similar hours.

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