Running Up That Road.

There's nothing less dignified than a sweaty Ephgrave running for the train in the rain, after returning to a venue to rescue his neglected umbrella.

That's how the evening played out to me. I zoomed from the gig, after the MC had kindly put me on first so I could leave early, to find I'd mislaid my 'portable shelter'. I contemplated leaving it behind, but a quick peek out of the door made it patently obvious that this would be churlish. To make things worse, the room the gig was in was as tight and rammed as a room could be; I had to go back, having already made a painfully awkward, stumbly exit in the first place.

The location of tonight's slapstick was the Black Dove in Brighton; a pub I've played before, about a year ago. The room has a distinct opium den vibe that adds character to proceedings. It was a shame I had to leave early as it looked like a good line-up. I got talking to a couple of the other acts before I went on, who were very nice. It's intriguing to see how close-knit the Brighton comedy scene is; it has forged a definite identity. I'd like to gig there more often (which is convenient, as I'm back with my new show next month; how fortuitous.)

I picked up a copy of the Brighton Fringe brochure as I stepped off the train; quickly flicking through it as I walked, trying to find my listing. It was reassuring to see it there, and to know there was some semblance of promotion already in place. Glyn kindly put together my flyer for me today, which will go to print next week, making it all more official. I'm looking forward to the run - and to more sprinting, as I wend my way home each night.

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