As the son of a fireman, bonfire night has always made me nervous. I’ve always approached it with caution. It’s hard to enjoy a hotdog and pot of peas when your brain is awash with images of burnt hands, singed eyebrows and children wearing eye patches.
Being a comedian is weird. In a normal job you carry over some of your achievements from the previous day, your colleagues remember, you’ve got some credit in the bank, you’ve got respect. Comedy isn’t like that.
Morning, sleep well? I never do. I’m sure I’m not the only one. I’m always surprised when I can’t sleep at night but I shouldn’t be. My days are a relentless rollercoaster of adrenalin and anxiety, trying to plough through a to-do list that never ends. Why do I think I can just do all that and then lay down and gently drift off?
Last week I was ill. I had the flu, not a sympathy sniffle, a proper, full fat flu. It was the first time in ages. I spent three days rolled up in a duvet, hot water bottle on my butt cheeks and a flannel draped across my forehead.
As a father to two daughters I am there first male role model and I’ll be honest that terrifies me. I am their advert for the male species and I don’t think I can handle that sort of pressure. On Christmas Day last year, the eldest witnessed me eating a pringle crumb direct from my own belly button, so I would imagine it’s not going well.
Let’s face it readers, everything is rubbish. It’s just awful isn’t it. We’ve just clawed our way through a global pandemic, now we’ve got a cost of living crisis, ministers who made us look like morons, monkeypox heading our way and Putin has lost the plot.
As the government start to relax the social distancing laws, it looks like we might finally be coming out of this nightmare. The year 2020 will forever be known as the time when your wheelie bin went out more often than you did.
Now it’s not just the conservative government who know how to organize a party, if you’re a parent of young children this is a skill you need to be hot on.