I go to an event at the high-class Groucho Club in London (sponsored by Durex).

Posted on by Alex

“I am very glad you could make it,” says the Host.

It is nice to be made to feel welcome and at ease. I am not very good at feeling at ease. I have already had two pints of special strong ‘at ease’ beer before arriving, in order to increase my at easeness, which has sort of helped except that I am now sweating and a bit on the back foot after getting the wrong door on the way in.

“Here is somebody to meet,” says the Host. “This is the renowned journalist who repeatedly and tenaciously harried the Houses of Parliament with Freedom of Information requests, eventually forcing the authorities to concede details that led to the exposure of the expenses scandal, causing the biggest shake-up in the British political system for several decades and redefining the relationships between the Westminster establishment and the public.”

“Hullo, I – er – write a blog. About Norfolk,” I reply, after a bit of a pause.

A waiter refills my wine glass, which has emptied itself already.

“I travelled all the way from there to get here,” I add impressively, deciding that in the absence of any achievements whatsoever in my life, I will be ‘man who has made the most effort to attend.’ Another man joins in. It transpires that he has travelled from Glasgow. I shoo him away. Fortunately at this point the Host shushes everybody to make a short speech, and the lady from Durex says a few words about Durexes.

My glass has magically refilled itself, as a waitress approaches with weird-looking snacks. I take one and study it warily. Fortunately she then turns to offer one to plain-speaking celebrity food critic Jay Rayner, so I am able to wait to see whether he enjoys it or whether he spits it out onto the floor crying ‘yuk yuk this is terrible it is too salty and lacks a basic balance of flavours’ before I commit myself to mine, as my glass is refilled again and another man arrives to refill my glass.

After my glass is refilled again I do some networking with TV’s David Mitchell, which entails him standing at the other side of the room chatting to his friends whilst I lean on the bar getting my glass refilled and thinking ‘that is TV’s David Mitchell over there.’ But I am starting to think that it might be a good idea not to particularly speak to anybody else, especially after the mild criticisms that I have good-naturedly ventured about the comedic content of Private Eye magazine to somebody who, it transpires, writes Private Eye magazine. The barman and serving people are sympathetic to my nerves and refill my glass several times to help put me at my ease a bit more.

All too soon it is time to go, or it is time for me to go, anyway – which is almost the same thing but not quite. The lady from Durex gives me a big bulging bag with ‘DUREX’ written on the side in big letters. I give her a ‘do I need to take this and carry it outside and down the road and on the late train full of drunks?’ look. She gives me a ‘yes you need to take this and carry it outside and down the road and on the late train full of drunks’ smile.

I carry it awkwardly outside.

“Hahaha – you got enough in there, mate?” shout a crowd of youths. They are jealous that they do not move in my celebrity social circle.

The heat from the spotlights surprises me.

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I have not been in front of an audience this large for over a decade.

I had forgotten the sense of disorientation that sweeps in when you first walk out. The naked exposure that comes from being the focus of attention under those powerful lights. Regular gig-goers probably don’t appreciate that the man on stage can really see nothing of them – certainly to start off with, anyway. A few dim faces in the front row, some shadows – but that’s it. That’s why musicians like dry ice so much – it lessens the exposure. That, and the psychological barrier of a mic stand.

It takes me a few seconds to adjust. I feel vaguely undressed in this situation without an actual guitar in my hand. Again – more psychology. But I tell myself that there is nothing to be afraid of.

In many ways this is my natural habitat.

“And a big hand, ladies, gentlemen and children… for our willing volunteer!!!” cries Bippo the Clown.

But in so many ways it is not.

There is a small ripple of applause around the big top. Bippo the Clown is unsatisfied with this, and calls for more, which he gets. Bippo the Clown always gets what he wants.

I cannot say that I am a particularly circusey person, although I have been once before when I was about 5 years old. Having volunteered to bring the Toddler and her friend this afternoon to see what it was all about, I resolve that one day, in some way, she shall pay.

It is a very good circus. There is a man who spins plates, another man who walks along a wire, and a girl who does all sorts of lithe things on a flying trapeze. The animals all look happy and healthy and not like they are trained with electric prods. They give performances of varying competence. The Shetland pony walks around the ring and then stands on a stool, which is very clever for a Shetland pony, and makes all the children go ‘aaaah’. At the lower end there is a small terrier who unfortunately brings to mind the time when Short Tony insisted that his dogg could do tricks.

I resolve to mention this to Short Tony when I get home. If a career change is required, he will be able to join the circus with his dogg.

The clown rubs my stomach. He is desperate to find something amusing about me, so he is clutching at straws to imply some imagined rotundity.

At times like this you basically have two choices. You can stand at the back and snarl, or you can throw yourself into things and be a good sport for everybody’s entertainment. I am getting used to the spotlights now, and see the children’s faces ringside.

“Now – our volunteer is going to be our new clown!!!” cries Bippo the Clown.

“What?!?” I snarl.

At the back of my mind is the nagging thought that we are half way through the circus and there have yet to be any custard pies.

“Now – I want you to do exactly what I do,” exclaims Bippo the Clown, running front of stage and jumping around like a loon.

The audience goes wild with laughter. I stare around the auditorium. There is a short pause. I trot front of stage and jump around like a loon’s awkward younger brother.

The crowd laughs sporadically, apart from the LTLP, who is hooting like an owl in a BMW.

“That was very good,” lies Bippo the Clown.

I shrug, modestly. Clowning is clearly in my blood. It is good to have made a contribution to everybody’s day, and now I will sit down and resume eating my jelly babies.

“Would you like to see some more?” cries Bippo the Clown.

I am overwhelmed by beef.

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Beef!!!

I stare at the open fridge, shaking my head at its beefy abundance. The immense joint looms over me, crowding the shelf, blocking the light. The other groceries look on resentfully.

I do not quite know whose idea it was to purchase so much beef for Valentine’s Day, especially since the LTLP is not eating much at the moment. I try to push past the beef to investigate lunch options, but it is stubborn and thwarts my progress. It is obstinate beef. I sigh, and make myself a beef sandwich.

The beef is still tasty and moist, as befits the best rib roasts. It is not as if I do not love beef sandwiches, but I have had a beef sandwich every day now since the year 47 b.c. and if I am not careful I will turn into a beef. The beef is lasting longer than a Robbie Williams medley although, to be fair, it displays fewer nervous tics.

I make my sandwich, liberally piling on the horseradish. I consider putting off the task of getting the beef back into the fridge, but I will have to do it sooner or later, so I wrap it back up in the foil and wrestle it into the scullery. The beef resists, but I eventually get it back on to the shelf and heave the fridge door shut with my shoulder, wedging a chair up against it until the bashing noises have ceased.

Returning to the kitchen, I place my sandwich upon a plate – one of the dainty floral ones that my Auntie Margery gave me. I catch sight of the car outside the kitchen window. I read somewhere that you could convert diesel engines to run on beef. (NB note to self it was either this or cooking oil, check before publishing).

If I could get the car to run on beef then that would solve quite a few problems, although I would have to be careful when driving further afield as there are not many butchers’ shops on the motorway network. (So far. It is new technology, and thus one of those paradoxes of supply and demand).

We would not have had to invade Iraq. Although Argentina would be an attractive target, again.

And Aberdeen would have its second oil boom. But with beef.

I should probably check whether it IS beef that you can convert your car to run on, and not cooking oil, before I get too excited. But the possibilities are awesome.

I eat my beef sandwich.

Valentine’s Day.

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Two years ago, I wrote a brief summary of how I had managed to maintain romance etc. etc. on Valentine’s Day throughout the years.

Last year, it went a bit wrong after a little silliness in the Village Pub. That was not my fault, apart from the bits of it that were my fault, so no blame can really be attached to me. I am determined to get it right this year.

We sit at the dining table.

Dinner is beef. Beef is one of the most romantic meals that there is; there is something primal about the red juices that ooze from the flesh, plus a cow has udders which are basically breasts. I carve the beef. There is a nagging feeling that perhaps somebody might have gone a little over the top on the beef purchase, viz the size of joint (see picture), but then it is Valentine’s Day, and a Sunday and all, and to worry about beef size would be the action of a tightwad.

Actually, I have got more interested in Valentine’s Day as I have got older. I KNOW that it is just a commercial card-selling fake festival, and I KNOW that it is really for young people, and I KNOW that the original aim was more to be all mysterious and anonymous with a distant object of affection who you hoped might one day reciprocate. There are people that go on and on about the fact that if you need a specific ‘day’ to celebrate romance then by definition that is rubbish.

But when all is said and done, I defy anybody to say that it is really a bad thing to be prompted to dedicate some time and effort, to have some special time set aside, to be able to sit down for a wonderful meal and wine with somebody with whom – whilst you might not be feeling the first hot flush of a relationship – you’ve spent some of the best years of your life.

“Could you pass the horseradish please?” asks Short Tony.

I pass the horseradish. The beef – even when I have finished carving – still looks alarmingly substantial. I worry about space in the fridge and what I will do with all this beef. The LTLP and Mrs Short Tony sip their drinks in silence.

“Been in the Village Pub for a few pints, I must admit,” admits Short Tony.

“I had a couple in the Social Club,” I co-admit.

Some beef

Fig 1: Beef.

“Did he get you anything lavish this year then?” the LTLP asks Mrs Short Tony, with the relentlessly optimistic air of Jan Moir’s agent pitching a short lifestyle piece to ‘Leather Bears’ magazine.

There is a bit more silence. We eat our beef.