I managed to do stuff unrelated to the show today a little bit. Mostly it was to do with looking at the motorbike I brought down in the van and being told that it’s never going to be worth fixing. I said I was going to walk it out of the shop tomorrow, but that was down to forgetting that I’ve agreed to invigilate exams for the next few days at Imperial College Business School. I hope they don’t mind waiting until Sunday. They’ll have to.
Everything is corroded. It was outside too long. The forks, all the mechanisms, the brakes, everything. Disappointing, really. I’m still not averse to the idea of getting it back on the road, just because it’s the first off the belt. Suzuki might want to have the first one. There might be a deal to be struck. There might be value in the 00000000001 serial number.
Meantime Jack and I had the largest ever audience for Christmas Carol. And there were a loads of suits in the audience. But everyone seemed to get it. Apart from one aloof group. The joy of Ebenezer is that if someone comes to me with a concern about their comfort, or their expectations, it’s not my concern. “Mister Scrooge, I’m cold.” “You’re lucky to have clothes. There are plenty of candles. Candies give warmth. What’s wrong with you??” I try to avoid these conversations if they feel genuine, as Scrooge is a customer service nightmare. We discovered tonight that the show works for more people than we thought it did. It’s a spread. I wouldn’t wish it every night. But it’s manageable. And the arseholes tonight all worked for the same company, and were talking from the moment they arrived. They were too bovine to allow themselves fun. Their supervisors were there making sure they didn’t admit they were people. It was whatever passes for a Christmas party in hell. Their hellish demonic supervisors had negotiated a much cheaper price per head than the rest of the audience present, because they told me as if it were a lot. They were egregious, unpleasant, oblivious, entitled, socially fucked arseholes. I was thrilled they left as soon as they’d eaten. I’d only have reluctantly fished their heads out of a puddle of shit had they been drowning in it. If I’d been drowning in it, they’d have casually put their foot on my head and tried to make it look like it was accidental.
I didn’t want to write about the show tonight. But I didn’t write all day and now it’s almost 3am. I’m dayjobbing tomorrow and it’s late. I’ll try and sleep now, but every other word I write is taking away from sleep. If I wasn’t so stubborn I’d just leave it and say that 466 words is close enough to my notional minimum. In fact… Night all.