Gig was a disaster. Me and Martin had a scampi supper before the meat raffle. Now, I can take tartare sauce. But poor greedy Martin's little papier mache belly can't. Was he ill? Bloody hell, it was like Cherie Blair from the Exorcist after a bad prawn bhuna.
Anyway halfway through the set and the material is going well. It's a Carnforth crowd, so they like something a bit more sophisticated. So I was doing a joke about two lesbians, a prize winning turnip and a promordial dwarf when Martin let fly with a stream of vomit like Peter North on his vinegar strokes.
We were out of there in minutes. The contortionist had to limber up and get on stage quick. All the way home on the bus Martin is voming here and chundering there. The bus was fucked.
Martin's a cranky bastard when he is ill. The language!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment