I love comedy. It can build you up and it can knock you down. Last night, headliner, solid 40 minutes in front of an attention-deficit disorder crowd, constantly able to find some way of dealing with them and constantly being funny. Not necessarily very funny, but in the moment and making 'em laugh.

I listened to the spoken bits of my material as I walked to the railway station and I was smiling so much that I must have been radiating gay vibes - some gay student lad, kind of leaned out of his in-group, walking past, to flirt in my face. I didn't react. It was weird.

Anyway, I'm the big-man, the big headliner in Taunton. I am their king. They like me. I could have done more...

Then tonight, without guitar, I drop into the basement of a bar in London's West End - pretty much one which shares a sewer with the dressing room where Connie Fisher of the Sound Of Music probably does her poos. I do 10 minutes, it's not going especially well, the principal reviewer for Chortle is in. I feel a fool.

I leave. I'm an open spot again.

My career progression comes full circle.

Still, if I'm going to get reviewed, it's probably best that I first consider my own performance to be shit. Then if the review is shit, I can be like "told you so" and if it's in any way positive, then I can be like "wow"... of course no review would be preferable.

The shitty thing is that I'll probably be peeved if there is no review. I almost need to be some reviewer's bitch. I'm weird.