It occurs to me that I have scandalously neglected to blog about the Richard Herring show, The Headmaster’s Son, that Chris and I saw last Thursday.
We both read his blog, which he writes daily, unlike me. I also follow him on Twitter (no guesses as to my username if you want to stalk me). So by the time we arrived in the cultural wasteland that is the Cambridge Leisure Park for a pre-show pizza we were already pretty familiar with the show. And we knew that he was staying in the Travelodge over the road, that the staff were miserable, and that his shower curtain was decorated with the contents of a previous occupant’s nose.
We wondered whether he would be sitting in Pizza Hut in the corner with a small Hawaiian, or in fact any American of any size, constantly tweeting. Nandos seemed a better bet but we didn’t spot him. A later tweet from him indicated that he couldn’t get into Nandos and had a chicken sandwich from Tesco in his hotel room instead. The celebrity life.
I dream that one day I will be famous enough to write a blog and send pointless tweets and eat chicken sandwiches from Tesco. But that day will, I fear, never arrive, since I only eat HP Sauce sandwiches as everyone knows.
The show was sick and perverted and poignant and funny and involved a trumpet. What more could you ask for?
This was the second time I’ve seen Richard Herring live. His second coming, if you like. I’m not saying he’s Jesus. That’s for others to say.
Avaragado’s rating: elderberries