I went crazy last night with indulgence. Crazier than I’ve been in a long time. I don’t remember when I last felt like this, certainly it was before my heart surgery.

At a party last night, I gobbled up pizza and ice cream. Even BEER. I could hardly sleep and when I did, it was nearly impossible to wake up. I’m still slow. And dumb. Even a sip of coffee was nearly impossible to assimilate.

UK comics like drugs but I don’t have their fortitude (if that’s what it is). Yet in my hangin’ out all night days, back in aught-five, I used to wake up (in Bruntsfield, I think) feeling like this every day. And I had to rush ‘cross town to make my early morning show, which was on around 1pm.

No time to shower, crumpled clothes from machine-hogging by others, I would show up, encrusted with lifestyle, and do a show for the clueless throngs (yes, throngs) who’d turn up at the Canons’ Gait during those frugality-swept, early Free Fringe years.

I’d work through my torpor and filth and make them love me.

I called them Jew-haters and made them sing “Dayenu.”

By the conclusion, I felt good. Maybe they did too. Then I’d clean up for my important show, to less people, at a paid venue. Which I still owe dough.


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