Man o' Wash

Another apology is due to the delay in bloggage however I have a good excuse. I have been becoming a man.

Yesterday I hopped on a tram...by myself....and went to Port Melbourne. I'd never been to Port Melbourne before but any area with the word Port in its name must be rough, tough and ready to molesterise a naive mid-thirties Kiwi boy in  blue and yellow track pants, black and white blazer and a yellow and brown striped beany. I even had my yellow sneakers on that have been a staple of every childrens show at the Bruce Mason since they began in 1967.

God knows what Aussie Rules team I was supporting with those colours. I think black and white means I support the Pies, yellow and brown the Hawks and blue and yellow the Sad Cowards of Wooloongadoomadingo. The reason for my brave odyssey was to visit the manly mecca of Bunnings Warehouse to buy a hose attachment for a washing machine!

I was installing a washing machine! I was buying a hose! I was a man!

On the walk from the tram stop to Bunnings I passed a field with lots of big men playing footie. They were all wearing lots of bright colours so I fitted right in. I stood at the side and shrieked whenever I thought anyone did anything good and they all looked at me like they wanted me to join in so they could gently introduce me to their wonderful game of marks, speccys and hand passing. Alas, I couldn't stay as I had a hose to buy.

Bunnings was the size of Asburton. After 15 minutes of wandering around fingering tools to make it look as though I belonged there I found the plumbing department which was the size of Rolleston, town of the future. 15 minutes into my future I still couldn't find the hose I wanted amongst the 20,000 other hoses so I pulled out my tired, broken and flaccid hose and asked a nice man for a new one, just like this one but not busted and leaky.

He was delightful. He even delayed going off to help another man find a smoke detector to save the life of his family because he saw me looking forlorn and teary with my saggy hose in my hand. I love Bunnings Warehouse! I hope that other man found his smoke detector. I'd hate to think he and all his family perished in a blaze in Digeridolongwoolmarumba just to enable me to wash my delicates in the privacy of my own home.

Here is a photo of the installed NEC NWTL656.

Beautiful isn't she. I'd better be careful or this could turn into a blog about washing machines and KFC.

I even had to switch the drainage hose over from one side to the other. When I first fired it up I knew there was a leak cause water spurted out into my eye from the cold tap. I swapped hoses and then water spurted into my eye from the hot tap. That's when I realised I needed a new hose. This site was very useful.

A big thank you to Kerry and Kerry's friend Dervla for selling us her washing machine at mates rates even though we only met her for the first time. A big thank you to Matt and Theo for bringing the washing machine into the city. A big thank you to Monique for having us over to her lovely place for a lovely party so we could make all the connections to secure the washing machine. A big big thank you to Cal and Chris for letting us stay at their house, lending us half the contents of their house and bringing half the contents of their house into the city. You know who your real friends are when they lend you whitewear.

Right, because you have waited so long for a post I'm going to throw in a bonus, 25% extra bit of bloggage for free. I wrote this bit about my first Aussie Rules game, (which Cal and Chris generously provided wee radios for to listen to the commentary), and emailed it to Christchurch's most popular daily newspaper The Press in the hope they might take me on as an amusing weekly Melbourne columnist. Sort of like the bastard love child of Jim Hopkins and Joe Bennett. They haven't replied to me so you will now reap the benefit. To think of all the crosswords I photocopied from The Press at The Court Theatre and they haven't even replied. It could be because it's a bit shit, I'll leave it up to you.

Aussie Rules for Dummies

When I move to a new place I like to crouch in the bushes like David Attenborough and observe the locals doing local things. I moved to London in the summer once and observed the locals swarming onto Clapham Common to shed their clothes and devour an avalanche of lager and KFC before staggering back underground like a trail of sozzled red ants singing ‘God Save the Queen’. It was a terrifying spectacle.

Last week I moved to Melbourne and observed the locals doing the most local thing a local Melbournian can do in a stadium named after the national airline of Abu Dhabi. I went to my first Aussie Rules game at Etihad Stadium.

I’ve always believed that if the sport or game has a country in its name then you need to be a native of that country to have any hope of understanding the rules. American Football, Gaelic Football, French cricket and Hungary Hungary Hippos to name a few.  I still can’t say I understand Aussie Rules or ‘footie’ however after watching a game surrounded by 30,000 rabid Victorians I can certainly appreciate it.

The first thing you need to know is that Aussie Rules was invented as a way to keep cricketers fit in the off-season. The game is still often played on modified cricket grounds. Cricketers are obsessed with ‘fine legs’, ‘long legs’ and ‘square legs’ which is the reason why footie players wear obscenely short shorts. Often during the game one player will jump up on the back of another player to catch the ball in the air. This is called a ‘screamer or ‘hanger’ because all the other players will gaze upwards and scream with excitement if they see something hanging from the short shorts of their aerial teammate.

The leaping player is always named Mark. If he successfully catches the ball he is known as ‘Spectacular Mark’. The umpire is also called Mark and whenever a player catches a ball they will scream ‘Mark!’ to get his attention. Mark is a biblical name and Australian Rules is a very biblical game. The final score of the game I saw between Saint Kilda, (even more religious overtones) and Melbourne was 15.10 (100) to 9.11 (65). The numbers in brackets are the scores however what are truly enlightening are the bible references prior. John 15:10 is a congratulatory message from the coach, “If ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love” and Psalms 9:11 asks the team to “Sing praises to the Lord”, for a better result next week.

The very best thing about Aussie Rules though is singing the song of the winning team at the end of the game. St. Kilda’s song is to the tune of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and cleverly changes the line, “Oh how I want to be in that number” to, “Oh how I want to be with St. Kilda”. Brilliant! I’ve decided to support Hawthorn because it sounds like a Hogwarts house. The first line of their song, sung to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, is “We’re a happy team at Hawthorn!” This is my sort of team.

My beautiful Laundromat.

This update comes to you from the Melbourne City Dry Cleaners and Self-Service Laundromat, 244 Russell Street. I’m balancing my laptop on my knee as I sit on a long fake wood veneer bench in front of a row of Speed Queen, Commercial Washers that promise Ultra High Efficiency. One other machine wobbles with anonymous delicates. It was a bit of a walk to get here but it’s a beautiful day and there is something dangerous and sordid about carrying a bag of your soiled undies through a crowded city with all those around you oblivious of the dirty bomb in their midst.

An old American couple has just come in to enquire about the cost benefits of doing the laundry themselves. The Chinese man tells them its half price if you do it yourself but he can do it in an hour. They meander out with the old man who looks like a shrunken Kenny Rogers saying he could spend the hour going to the Fitness First gym across the road. They must have lots of money.

My washing is spinning now so the end is nigh. The anonymous delicates have long since stopped and lie there like a soggy shaggy multicoloured dog in a round window waiting for its owner. Now I have a big call to make. To dry or not to dry? The sign above the row of Speed Queen Driers tells me it costs $2/10 minutes to dry however the average drying time is 30 minutes approximately. I trust the sign as a row of certificates above the Chinese Man tell me that Melbourne City Dry Cleaners and Laundromat have been Highly Recommended in the Australian Achiever Awards every year since 2002, except for 2009. I wonder what happened in 2009.

Near disaster! I decided to throw caution to the wind and invest $4 in 20 minutes of drying but in my exhilaration forgot to take note of the arrows telling me what Speed Queen I was feeding. I’d put my clothes in the bottom drier and as I pressed the start button to my horror the top drier started spinning. I could see the Chinese man grinning out of the corner of my eye. It was probably stupid people like me that made his days of washing and wrinkles worthwhile. The little screen counted down like a James Bond bomb timer and there was nothing I could do to stop it, except for opening the door. I only lost about 30 seconds. I think the Chinese man was impressed with my quick recovery. We haven’t made eye contact but I think he’s thinking about offering me a job. Maybe if I fold my clothes well he will offer me a job. I do need a job.

My washing drying.

The anonymous delicates have been claimed. A young lady is pulling it all out now and I’ve just realised I’m sitting right next to her machine. It’s all a bit uncomfortable actually. I’m trying not to look like a pervert but she probably thinks I’m one of those guys who lurk beside unattended ladies washing to catch a glimpse of damp panties. She’s obviously an experienced Laundromat user as she has put her coins in the right slot. She’s only gone for 10 drying minutes but her load is less substantial than mine. She’s left now, probably to call the cops.

2 minutes to go. I don’t expect it to be completely dry but it will be lighter to carry home. The Chinese man is talking about the World Cup octopus to another customer. Apparently it has escaped death by correctly predicting every game. He wanted Germany to win and so did I. Time to start folding.

Everybody needs good neighbours.

I will warn you in advance that this post will be a bit blue, as in XXXX rated, as in dealing with issues of intercoursual insertion.

This was meant to be a fascinating insight into all things Australian before I suddenly remembered something that happened to me on a bus the week before fleeing Aotearoa with $8.95 still owing on my TradeMe account. I was on the bus going to a recall for a TV commercial aiming to get you to buy a brand of beer that is the official supplier of alcohol to the rugby players in the 2011 Rugby World Cup. This is the official alcoholic beverage the rugby players will ply you with so they can have their wicked way with you once you've passed out because you were asking for it by happening to be in the same bar as them with your ankles exposed.

As usual the recall was not for the part I originally auditioned for. I auditioned for the role of 'Barman' however I was recalled for the role of 'South African Rugby Supporter'. I've never thought I looked particularly South African however someone did who obviously wasn't the director. The director was an Australian who looked like he was trying to force out an ever increasingly large and painful stool after every take I took. My character was dressed as a Springbok with hooves making it hilariously impossible to pick up my bottle of Arse-eken. This director was from the less is more approach to comedy and the less I did the more he looked like he wanted to shove the prop beer bottle up my arse until I passed out so he could have his wicked way with me. After every take he said something like, "Yeah mate, don't do anything OK mate, the comedy comes from not doing anything mate, just like Woody Allen mate, OK mate, fair struth cobber." I took the note and said 'Mazel Tov' after drinking the beer but to no avail. He last comment was, 'Yeah, that was a bit better I suppose' and I left the room before I could improvise a scene about having my wicked way with my stepdaughter,

I didn't get the part.

However, what made it all worth while was the bus ride there. Sitting behind me was a woman who either hadn't heard of or couldn't afford headphones or buds. She was playing one song on her iPod over and over again as loud as possible and it was interferring with my process of finding my inner South African. I was just about to be very brave and cough loudly in her direction when I realised I was hearing what could possibly be the greatest song I will hear this year. It is sung by this fine fellow.

His name is Tremaine Aldon Neverson but you'll know him better by his stage name, Trey Songz. He's very buff and has obviously worked hard to lose a lot of weight judging by the fit of his pants. You'd think with three albums under his belt he would be able to afford to put another hole in his belt to keep his chubby pants up, but maybe it's his message to all the chubby young people that anyone can end up looking like Trey Songz with a bit of effort. I think that's his set-list tattooed on his left pec just in case he forgets where he's at if his pants fall down.

His albums so far are called 'I Gotta Make It', Trey Day' and 'Ready'. He's got another in the pipeline called 'Passion, Pain & Pleasure' which were the three emotions I felt while listening to 'Neighbors Know My Name'. He sings in a very high choirboyish falsetto voice but don't be fooled, Trey Songz is a sexual dynamo whos pants will fall down faster than you can say 'What sort of name is Aldon?' He won't even need to get you drunk to have his wicked way with you because according to this song as soon as he, "go deep, getting it in", the neighbours will be "knock knock knocking on the wall", due to the fact that Trey is "breakin' our new headboard, headboard." The chorus is even more impressive.

I bet the neighbors know my name
Way you screamin', scratchin', yellin'
Bet the neighbors know my name
They be stressin' while we sexin'.

Absolute genius and it only gets better. Trey then invites you to bite the pillow to muffle your screams of orgasmic delight because, "your body's a problem, they call me the problem solver." The pillow doesn't work though as while he's "bangin' on your body" the neighbours are still "bangin' on the wall" and then at least one neighbour looking for a good nights sleep starts "'bangin' on the door."

Trey then reaches his zenith with what is arguably some of the finest most expressive lyrics put to paper since Lennon and McCartney.

Sometimes she call me Trey, sometimes she say Tremaine
When it's all said and done but the neighbors know my name
Sometimes she call me Trigga cause I make her body bust
They might think my name is 'oh shit', I make her cuss.

If Trey's name was Oh Shit, his name would be Oh Shit Songz which from a marketing perspective isn't at all helpful so let's hope not many of his neighbours reach that conclusion. This song has six songwriters, they are listed as Hayes, Patrick; Neverson, Tremaine; Taylor, Troy. I have a feeling Trey may have credited himself twice or another family member has pitched in which is just creepy. He's also had hits with 'LOL Smiley Face' and 'I Invented Sex' and who am I to argue with that bold assertion after listening to 'Neighbors' on loop for 20 minutes. He's an actor as well apparently and appeared as himself in a show called 'When I Was 17', an interview like show where Trey talks about what he did when he was 17.

Thank you mysterious lady on the bus for introducing me to the songs of Trey Songz. I am in awe of Trey Songz. I want to be Trey Songz. I am going out to buy some chubby jeans right now.

Movin' on up.

I am typing this from the Koru Lounge in Auckland International Airport waiting for my flight to Melbourne. I am using free wifi, drinking free red wine and eating free cheesy pasta surrounded by men furiously thrashing their laptops while drinking coffee, water and ginger beer. What is the point of being a Koru Club member if you don't indulge in the free booze? I just cannot understand these people. There is a whole fridge full of beer and you can help youself. You could even mix youself up a Screaming White Russian Orgasm On The Beach if you wanted. People are strange. If they had free KFC here I would be whipping up my own screaming orgasm but they don't so I'm settling for a semi-on.

It's been ages since my last post and so much has happened. My one-man in tights show played 8 shows to not as many people as I would have liked but I really liked the not many people. They were lovely and increased exponentially as the season went on which means if I had played for another week I could have filled Vector Arena I think. Anyway, the reviews were good and the updates to the show made it heaps better and much more melancholic and gave the character of 'Greg' a much more interesting journey. We also made it onto national television and you can watch it here. I'm particularly proud that my spontaneous forced faun fellatio with a statue of a goat made it to air, it's very Red Shoe Diaries.

So if you're reading this and you are a fringe festival producer or director please fly me to where you are and I'll do the show. I take my pants off during the show and am willing and happy to do this in the audition..or take your pants off...whatever it takes.

I have also completed the moving process and am very nearly in Melbourne. Moving is a horrid experience. Moving while trying to rehearse and rewrite a show is just really dumb. The amount of shit I had took my breath away. Nobody took up my generous offer of my purple dumbbells so I left them downstairs and some lucky tenant nabbed them within the hour. I left the worst vacumm cleaner in the world up for grabs and I pity the fool who takes that. It's like that cursed trampoline that Homer couldn't get rid of in The Simpsons. I bought it in Hamilton while I was there doing 'The Complete History of New Zealand' with Ben Barrington and Mark Hadlow on Ben's recommendation. If you've spent much time in Hamilton you know why all three of us were spending our days buying vacuum cleaners and George Foreman grills. This thing had a 'Turbo Head' which span around really fast. It was marketed as a Kambrook innovation but only served to spit all the stuff you wanted sucked back onto the carpet again. I'm gagging to make very rude comments about that last sentence but will resist because I am in the Koru Lounge surrounded by important people drinking Ginger Beer. The man drinking Ginger Beer is wearing pin-striped dungarees! He is American! I wonder if he is a fringe festival producer? I will take my pants off just in case.

Here is a photo of the empty apartment.

I've just got myself a plate of shaved ham. Resist...resist...

I will miss 2E 2-4 Lorne Street. So many good memories there, especially the time someone's table blew off the balcony of the 30th floor of the monlith to shit next door through the skylight. It's funny how once you've moved all your stuff out the space where you've spent the last six years of your life becomes just another empty apartment. Spaces are just spaces without faces you love.

Fuck...I must me getting drunk. I hope they let me on the plane.

Right-o, I will stop and take a moment to bid farewell to New Zealand until October when I return to direct a play back in the ol' hometown of ChurChur. I promise to get the internet set up asap in Melbourne and will bombard you with insightful musings on all things Aussie.

I'm not going back to spell check this puppy either so I apologise in advance....Australia fair. x

Pictures and Shit

A couple of posts ago I was desperately trying to find the identity of the premature purchaser for my upcoming one-man spectacular, Heroic Faun No. One. I still haven't identified them however you will be pleased to know over the last few days there has been a significant sales spike and tickets sold have shot up to seven. Here is a graph to illustrate the significance of this spike.

We've even got an E-flier. It's E for everything these days. E-commerce, E-tickets, E-by-gum. I remember when E was something you hid in your undies for you and your friend to swallow later in a public toilet, but now it seems you can drop an E before any word and someone will give you $10 million to blow before your bubble bursts. It's probably only a matter of time before someone comes up with E-theatre, where instead of going to live theatre you can just sit at home and watch actors with big parts entering and exiting on your computer screen in your undies while taking E.

Here's the E-flier anyway.

It's pretty hot. We're hoping the gratuitous use of pink will attract the elusive and fickle pink dollar as I don't think my anemic abdomen will cut the gay mustard. This is pretty much exactly what I looked like during the three month high point of my career when I skipped around the background of Narnia. As I just mentioned, it's amazing what they can do with computers these days and after a bit of CGIggery and pokery I ended up looking like this on the big screen.

Truly, truly, truly amazing. On the subject of Narnia I have just stumbled upon this image of a power metal band from Sweden called Narnia and thought I'd share it with you.

I bet these guys attract a lot of pink dollars. I wonder if they are as good as The Feelers?

Rehearsals start on Tuesday with my director who was Heroic Faun No. Three. He's the guy sitting on the bench behind me reading his newspaper. This is what he does during rehearsals as well in between telling me to, "do it better". I shall refer to him as 'The Wicked Witch of Te Kuiti'. He's no Wicked Witch of the North but I'm sure I can make him lose the plot and toss his e-fliers in anger at least once. I will keep you informed of all theatrical developments.

I am also in the process of moving to Melbourne which is another theatrical development. Like a man with chronic diarrhoea I am continually asking myself, "Where did all this shit come from?" But, my shit could be your shit if you play your cards right. Over the next few posts I will be offering some of my choicest crap up for grabs to anyone who wants to get their hands on my shit. Today's offering is two purple 2.5kg dumbbells.

Come and get them.

There can be only one.

I don't know about you but I love the 80's. It's probably a generational thing in that because I was born in the 70's, my early teenage years took place in the 80's and I will forever associate that decade with teenage pursuits like bunking Burnside High School to drive around Christchurch in my friends dad's Ferrari, writing a 1000 word essay in the Burnside High School library on a Saturday about who I think I am and changing my name to Duckie Dale and dancing with Kirsty Swanson at the Burnside High School prom.

This week the 80's have come back and spun me right round, baby right round, like a record baby, right round, round, round. I've only just realised that this extraordinary congruence of 80's occurrence actually began when I posted my last blog on May 16th however I'll start this story on Wednesday night.

On Wednesday night I had my first ever professional gig as a DJ. It was all set up through a good friend who I shall refer to as Mr Toad. Mr Toad knows a lot of people and knew someone who was organising a big event in Auckland and knew that they needed a DJ and recommended me. What Mr Toad didn't know is that my Technics were all dusty and I hadn't played a record for two years because  both decks needed new styli and whenever I had enough money to buy new styli I spent it on booze and mags instead.

The event was for a big hotel chain and it took place at that big church St Matthews in the City that I mentioned in my post of December 19th last year. It was a big thank you to all their big corporate clients and I was there to play big banging background bangers all night long and crank things up if anyone looked like they wanted to dance while eating their meaty rolls. After forking out $110 on two new Stanton 500 styli and lugging my two turntables, mixer and a box of vinyl to the church I was all ready to go all Oakenfold on them and play a nine hour set of obscure Paradise Garage B-sides and a whole lot of Krautrock.

What I ended up playing was Wham! Rap (Enjoy What You Do) to a lot of bewildered middle-aged Asian men. For some reason I had forgotten that my record collection consists exclusively of music unsuitable for background mood music, except thank God for the double album from St. Germain which was played in it's entirety while I fiddled with the faders and jiggled the record not playing to make it look like I was doing something. After the MD's speech the organiser told me to, "pump it up a bit" so I flopped out 'Dont Stop Till You Get Enough' and pumped it up to slightly intrusive background music level with the expectation that all my Asian admirers would be grabbing their crotches in appreciation.

This didn't happen so I went to my guaranteed party starter '99 Luftballoons' which went down like a lead balloon. How anyone can resist getting juiced up to Nena is beyond me, I mean, just look at her.

She's got her name bedazzled on her tie for heavens sake! Still nothing though. At the lowest moments in my life I have always turned to George Michael for advice and salvation and this was one of those moments. I had a double album of Wham!'s greatest hits at my disposal and now was the time to unleash it. Unfortunately one of the records was bent and unplayable but luckily that was the second record with the dodgy stuff when George's brackets got out of control like 'I'm Your Man (Extended Stimulation)' and 'Blue (Armed With Love)'. Here is a photo of me with George and the other fella.

I thought it was impossible not to shave your derriere to...

Hey everybody take a look at me,
I've got street credibility,
I may not have a job,
But I have a good time,
With the boys that I meet "down on the line"

...until Wednesday night that is. Not a sausage moved and I pulled my fader down in despair and played 'Hungry Like The Wolf' while I died inside.

Moving on. Today I had an audition for a film that I can't tell you too much about even though I didn't sign any confidentiality agreement. I had a few issues with doing this audition as I had to pay money to do it due to the fact that it's an Australian film and the casting director couldn't be arsed coming over. However once I found out who was directing it I was struck dumb by 80's convergence and knew that I had to audition, even if the film was about a tsunami hitting a Queensland town propelling a school of tiger sharks into a suburbian shopping mall where they proceed to eat everyone except the recovering alcoholic shark expert and the woman who used to love him. I can't tell you the real title of the film so let's call it 'Sharks in a Shopping Mall'.

It's been written and will be directed by Russell Mulcahy who...wait for it....directed the video for 'Hungry Like The Wolf' by Duran Duran. In fact, Russell directed nearly every music video in the 80's including, 'Rio', 'The Reflex', 'Bette Davis Eyes', 'I'm Still Standing', 'True', 'Total Eclipse of the Heart', 'Vienna', 'A Kind of Magic' and 'Video Killed the Radio Star' which was the first music video ever played on MTV in 1981.

But wait...there's more! He also directed one of my favourite films of all time 'Highlander'! Fuckin Highlander! He also directed 'Highlander II' but we won't talk about that. And then as I start this post I realise my last post was titled 'There can't be only one' which was an attempt at a witty variation of Christopher Lambert's immortal line in Highlander! Thank you 80's for guiding me in the right direction to fork out $65 on an audition.

If I don't get the part the film will be dumb so it doesn't matter.

There can't be only one.

This is my 35th posting and now that I've built my follwers up to 12, although I think Beth is following me twice for some reason, it's high time for a gratuitous plug for my show that's coming up. I'm always suspicious when actors want to be my friend because deep down I know they're only being nice to me so at some stage they will have another chum to badger to come and see their solo show about something that happened in their lives that they think other people will give a shit about. They will usually be playing multiple characters. It will usually be a uniquely New Zealand story about New Zealanders that New Zealanders can relate to and reflect our New Zealandness in a uniquely New Zealand way to build New Zealand's cultural identity and make all New Zealanders proud of being New Zealanders and living in New Zealand. If you tick off all those New Zealand boxes you may have a slim chance of getting some funding from Creative New Zealand who, "invest resources in New Zealand arts for the long-term benefit of New Zealanders."

I really want you all to come and see my solo show about something that happened in my life that I think you will give a shit about. I also play multiple characters. Unfortunately Creative New Zealand decided not to invest resources in my art for the long term benefit of this New Zealander so I am unashamedly badgering you. If I was a badger this is how I would have looked when I found out Creative New Zealand weren't giving us any money.

That is an angry Honey Badger. I will be honest and say that often I would rather coat my privates in honey and put an angry Honey Badger down my pants than go and see some theatre. I'm meant to be seeing a show right now but haven't gone because I either lost my tickets or they weren't sent to me in the first place so either I'm not committed enough to go see it or someone else isn't committed enough for me to go see it. If there was nudity and free booze afterwards I definitely would have committed to seeing it however I'm pretty sure this particular show features neither.

My show doesn't have any nudity either although I do wear a very tight pair of green tights so if you come wearing red tinted glasses my bottom half will look like I'm naked with jaundice. My producer...yes I have a real live producer and what's more he's Danish and what's more he's great so I shall refer to him from now on as the Great Dane, has hinted he may have scored us some sponsorship from a boozery so here's hoping there will be free booze as well. Just out of interest the Great Dane's real name is how a pirate would say anus.

So, unconfirmed free booze plus the opportunity to see my cock and balls all scrunched up in tight tights. I bet you're all gagging for it now aren't you. Well, as much as you're all gagging away there's no way you're gagging as much as this mystery person.

 I get emailed these sales reports everyday and until our barrage of advertising kicks in, (a Facebook group and some fliers), you never expect to sell anything. Imagine my excitement when I opened my daily report on April 19th to find the hideous phrase 'No sales data available' had been replaced with 'Standard Concession $20.00 $0.00 $20.00 1 $20.00'. Someone, somewhere at sometime between 6.56am Sunday April 18th and 6.56am Monday 19th April purchased one concession ticket to my show that hadn't even been advertised! As the cheap bastard purchased a concession they are either a member of Equity, a student, a senior citizen, on a community services card or all of the above. My one ticket sold may be to an 81 year old actor majoring in feminist theology with one leg and and a rash. This should narrow it down and help to identify the purchaser but so far I can't think of who it could be.

Can any of you dear readers shed light on this mystery?

Anyway, the promotional campaign has kicked off now so I'm expecting sales to sky-rocket. Flight of the Conchords sold out the Wembley arena (capacity 12,500) twice in 0.2 seconds with no advanced sales so I'm sure  I can sell out The Basement (capacity 100) eight times and maybe pencil in the Vector Arena just in case.

You can buy tickets here.