So...

He was a paedophile and I was the only one who knew. He lay there on his brown-stained mattress absorbing himself into the damp grime that speckled out on the wallpaper in his corner. That wasn’t his granddaughter. My friends and were tired; the exhausting game of football was ended by a fight that broke out nearby; it hadn’t been safe to stay. They were so tired they didn’t want to listen. “He’s ok. He’s just tired like us and he needs to sleep; they both do,’ one of them piped up. I was tired too, but I couldn’t sleep. I knew the truth and they were not listening.

The cats turned all at once like a mandate had been passed down that we were too human to hear. Their soft warm fur that runs down their backs spiked forward; against everything we took to be nice in this world. Their soft sweet faces contorted into rigid mould like a snake ready to swallow an egg. And there was my cat, worst of all, with one of her big innocent pupils gone and replaced with tiny syphilitic white spots. Not Maggie too, and then she bit me and the fleas latched on to my skin. You cannot be sure of a cat’s love, that’s what had made it so lovely. And now it was gone forever. Your arrogance is lost, and they are programmed to hate you. I’d taken nice and lovely for granted once too often

And then he woke up and it was just a dream.

It was told to me from a young age that ‘And then he woke up and it was just a dream’ was the worse ending possible to a story, and I’d agreed. After reading ‘Fight Club’ by Chuck Palahniuk it’s difficult not too agree with his ‘or was it?’ Twist. The book is different to the film; it’s worse. But on Tuesday night I realised that just going ‘right! Bye!’ Is probably worse.

This week I’ve had some pretty terrible dreams - what could they possibly mean? But I learnt a definite reality too: don’t end on new material. No one remembers a strong opening if the rest just loses its way (except Saving Private Ryan.) Maybe the opening isn’t quite the groundbreaking tour-de-force it seems? I had my set pretty much down pat, so I ventured into the unknown of new material, which was fine and necessary. However, it’s difficult to add the requisite flair when you’re desperately trying to remember what you wrote. And, when you’ve desperately remembered everything you wrote, make sure you’re last line isn’t a so…

I had a go at Australians and it was supposed to be a tirade but it was caught up in nerves and fear, and came out like a very, very mild ribbing. And ended with a joke about the Queen and the Oedipus complex, which no one got; probably as it takes quite a long time to make the link between being the Head of the Commonwealth and, therefore, like a mother figure. If only they’d listen - properly fucking listen - so I didn’t have to work harder for the love of something that will just turn on me and ruin everything forever. So…

Err, right! Bye!