To put it bluntly, I’m a comedy whore.
I’ve always been a massive fan of British Comedy, whether stand-up, sketch show or sitcom. I was often pretty snobby about what I liked, but now I reckon it’d be easier to name what I hated, rather than list everything I like.
Over the past year I’ve been making a concerted effort to go and see more live comedy. I’ve really been restricting myself to more well-known comedians, as I feel guilty dragging other people to indulge in my own whims. Still, it’s been pretty good going. I’ve seen some excellent shows (Sean Lock, Josie Long) which left me gasping for air at the end; and some mediocre shows (Jason Manford; Frankie Boyle*) which weren’t quite worth the ticket price, but its a pleasant way to spend an evening.
Tonight, I had the pleasure of Mark Watson entertaining me at the Hexagon, and disappointed I was not. Such a brilliant evening, from the typing to the audience as people were filling the seats, to the threat of being chased, I spent the whole evening giggling like a loon. Mark’s bumbling demeanour is so incredibly endearing and watchable, so it’s no real surprise that he has a loyal following of “Watsonians” over on his blog
He’s now been steadily blogging everyday for a year now, which I’ve been avidly following and a very lovely little community has built up around it. I wouldn’t say I’m part of it (I’m too chronically shy to commit myself to anything like that) but because both he and his fans just seem SO NICE. I did something I wouldn’t ordinarily do.
I tweeted him.
To my utter fear and amusement, Mark mentioned this when starting the second half. I had basically said that I very much needed a wee, but since Mark had threatened to chase people who get up during the performance, I tweeted him to say would it be perverse if I saved up said wee, in the hope of being chased.
Clearly eager to set up a chase, he refused to reveal my identity, until the very end of the show. I had managed to not get up and wee, since that would be very embarassing indeed. While he mentioned he was impressed and disappointed that I had made it through, my flatmate started flailing her hands in my general direction, leading to a very public grilling on my need for the conveniences and various attempts from the audience and Mark to scare me/laugh me into weeing.
Redfaced from embarassment rather than holding back a flood of urine, the show ended. I weed, queued and met Mark, who dutifully signed my book, posed for a photo and was generally just as lovely as I had presumed. Besides, if I hadn’t have thought he’d be so nice, I never would have drawn attention to myself, or my useless bladder.
*Possible blog topic. Not that the internet hasn’t already commented on him before…