On a dark and stormy night... (a writing exercise)

In most occasions, I tend to try and write specifically about a subject, but on this occasion I don't have one...yet, as I just described to my sister-in-law, I do enjoy using the first line, "On a dark and stormy night..." to meander off into subsequent variations of the theme before reaching the point, in order to jump-start the creative process.

And here's the result.

On a dark and stormy night...

...well, a slightly dark and stormy night, really. In July in the southern hemisphere. And but slightly, I really mean sort-of dusky with a small chance of drizzle.

And when I mean by stormy, really some drizzle with the possibility that your eyes will seem accustomed to the African sun after a few months of the blanket of clouds hanging overcast like a comfort pillow thrown over by an over-protective mother that still loves you despite yelling you a few hours before for leaving your bike out in the yard.

And when I mean drizzle at dusk, I really mean an occasional smattering of one or two droplets descending upon the earth like a few Spartans entering a battle...without their mates, resulting in totally defeat by the Persian horde, that sort of smattering.

And dusk is such a relative term. I would say about 9am, the sun easily penetrating the window like a geriatric peeping Tom with a pace-maker that ticks away like the timepiece in the crocodile that ate Captain Hook's hand from Peter Pan, the old badger ruffling through the plants trying to find a good view up your nose as your bed faces feet first towards the window.

So anyway, on a slightly morning-ish time of the day with a slight smattering of droplets...I discovered you can get Jews on a train far more easily if you charged them half.

The End.

Hanging out with Dad #5heartattackswontstopme

I've been here two months, did a few shows, got into a few interviews and caught up with a few friends and family. But nothing, so far, has been as awe-inspiring as spending time with my Dad.

I wrote a joke back in London about my dad saving me from something when I was very small, which is part of the bigger truth, of the bond between us I missed for so long growing up in a matriarchal home. But now, after 12 years away, I've been relishing the little moments we share together, for as a teenager I never fully appreciated the impact he had on me, and in his twilight years fraught with medical uncertainty for his health, I aim to take the time to enjoy every moment.

In a nutshell...he may be the quiet one at the back you should look out for, but in my life one of the funniest men I've ever known.

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Last week my mom asked that we head off to the cemetery to weed my grandfather's grave. Yuck.

I find this activity lacking in what you might call fun, but not in the convoluted "omg I dnt wnt to b here, ths sxs, Im mssng rgby fr ths!" kind of way, but more of the creepy, "what if we're unlucky enough that Armageddon starts just as we're smack in the middle of a cemetery and grandpa rises up to bite at my ankles?" type.

My dad, being the frail old mentor he is today, shambles forward towards the dishevelled plot with a hoe and declares his intent to dig the weeds out, but like a young Hercules, I braved the fear of grass-cut on my fingers, huffed and puffed, and said, "Dad, why are you so eager to join your father-in-law? Don't worry, I'll take care of this."

Hell yeah, I'm gonna hoe the f*** out of my grandfather's grave.

It ended up being a lesson in humility, as my aged parent instructed me in the art of sinking that iron into the dirt deep enough to reach the wretched roots of weeds so entrenched they could be close enough to the coffin, and the last thing on my mind was to hear the thud of metal against wood thereby disturbing long-deceased Frank's inappropriate slumber.

And being a lazy arse, I bit down on the tiny spurts of protests trying to escape my lips as my back un-exercised back sounded the alarms of pain and discomfort at this seemingly undeserving abuse, while my father pointed out the flaws of bringing children up in the suburbs and not on a farm with "real" work. To be criticised for not finding a wife and settling down with a steady job is one thing, but if a pensioner is giving you lip badly you're using a ground tool like a closet homosexual, that s**t bites deep y'know.

And once those green bastards were lying on a pile on someone else's grave (c'mon, gotta have a little fun), came the task of leveling the ground out in a general order and my dad, the hero, showed me how expertly a geriatric with five heart attacks, two cancers and near-blindness can be using a hoe.

Hell yeah, he levelled the f*** out of his father-in-law's grave.

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Today I took the day out to help my father sort out the contact details for his state pension, which in itself is a ghastly thing for any human being to do, let alone for a gentlemen hitting 7 decades of his life on this planet.

We were ushered into the general waiting room filled with other wrinkled faces to, well, wait...for our chance to fill out a questionnaire that would help to identify his existence, and an old auntie with what could be construed as the oldest "phat ass" I could think of chirped up, "Yes, you can wait here, I can take care of your father for you."

My only response was, "Madam, my dad is a sexy man, I'd be careful if I was you."

A lovely giggle echoed throughout the hall, and my dad's blushing laugh gave me a guilty pleasure, as I hardly get to see him with a smile on his face despite the worries he has, so in a way I was both incredulously selfish for turning the somber situation into a humorous one AND extremely grateful I made his day.

We were required to proceed to his former employer in need of a document proving his employment there, and what followed was a half hour of my dad standing around with his old boss socialising, and that again brought an appreciation for a man that seems to stay at home watching the crappy Portuguese channel my doting mother loves so dearly. And here, I found Mr. De Gouveia in his element, his wit and charm coming to the fore as he dittled around the room like a butterfly telling tales of his current medical problems but with a enthusiasm that I find both endearing and equally proud to see.

In that moment, I realised, I'm glad I made the decision to come back.

Plus...he scored us a free box of chips laced with salt and vinegar. F***ing heaven.

Going Offline: Day 54 - Going Online

I know, I know, ironic huh? Nelson harped on for ages about his addiction to Facebook and wanted to get off it as it was so time-consuming and affected his relationship with other people, his performance in work, and wrote a few short blog-posts bleeding his heart to the wide world of human beings about his fragile ego needing a rest from a virtual fashion show of people's lives.

And then he's back on it.

Well, if you haven't seen by now, I'm in South Africa spending time with la familia, my dad having been ill for so long and me wanting to be around him before time runs out. But since 2 weeks ago, this I can see will impact greatly on my career in the videogames industry, fragile and precarious as it once was before.

And now, I need Facebook...to contact people.

For all my good intentions of shooting the proverbial shit with my dad and the rest of his brood, no one needs a producer in little ol' Cape Town, and I found that out the hard way after 2 months of being strung along by someone. It's time to step up, get off my bum-bum, rewrite my Curriculum Vitae and become a full-fledged rat-race chaser, doing whatever odds and ends necessary to pay for petroleum for a run-down ve-HIC-le that will take me places for work purposes AND for comedic endeavours.

In terms of Facebook, that means being exposed to people again, promoting comedy shows and varying my repertoire, talking to long-lost "pals" and convincing them that I'm a gorgeous good-looking, charming little piece of ass-et that you can't do without.

AND THEN I'll be offline, keeping my head down.

So, you can call me a hypocrite for being weak-minded...OR you can stand-up and say, "Nelson...there's a guy that needs a handyman, I'll send him your number."

Yes, yes you can do that.

But for now, feel free to listen a little to my set at the Chilli Bar Comedy Show happening Thursdays in Soutfield. Go on, do it.

Going Offline - Day 23: All this open space...

So what has happened since my deep and tearful goodbye from the virtuous existence of cyber-stalking my nephews and former loves?

Nothing...nothing's happened.

But I can tell you I feel less than interested about returning to the site on a regular basis to read about what sort of pancake mc-enema someone's had two weeks ago on the coast of Costa Da Whateva with their moronic brood of inter-spacial Martian children hanging from their steel-girdered nipples conversing in an unintelligible language consisting of clicks and farts.

Seriously, I am.

Yesterday, you may not believe this...but as I walked outside the place I live in, I actually...ok, you'll be shocked...I, totally, said hello to a stranger. Would you believe that, a complete stranger, someone I had never met, outside my abode, my safe place previously reserved by me to sit in front of my Dell screen clicking on status updates while eating cookies (not biscuits)...and I said yes to them.

I may be writing this sarcastically, but in reality I was more concerned now with what someone has going on around them at that very moment, which are the real moments we keep losing out on every day sitting in front of our electronic communications devices. I betcha Kirk didn't envisage that when we was strutting through the decks of the Enterprise trying to out-strut Spock.

Which is f***ing insane...Spock's struts are legendary, even his people turn an eyebrow.

Anyway, I'm glad I'm not on there. And so far, I'm enjoying it. Here's some recommendations:

• www.tedisreal.com - A funny movie coming out in August with Mark Walhberg and Mila Kunis, and a VERY rude teddy-bear voiced by Family Guy creator Seth McFarlane
• Game of Thrones is back for a second season, and the first two episodes have been gloriously evil and deliciously dirty with a hint of medieval fantasy. Find it.
• Community is midway on it's third season with a turbulent war in the making between Troy and Abed. You can't miss the best friendship group I've never been in myself, duh!
• Pancakes....just simply pancakes, there's not enough of 'em and there's nowhere enough around me to enjoy.

Peace out, lovely amigos, I'm working tonight at the Painted Grin show in Benny's Bar, come down and enjoy!

The Offspring said it best...

The past two performances, involving me in a small speakeasy dungeon that helped little for my burgeoning claustrophobia, and the other in a themed comedy night about "love" where I spilled out a new joke at the beginning and was not helped by the competitiveness of winning £100, made me realise a fundamental flaw in my mental machinery.

I have low self-esteem.

There, I said it, I hate writing these where I sound like I'm looking for pity, and in reality it's exactly what it sounds like. I'm actually yearning for a group of people to raise me up and say, "Don't worry about your self-esteem, everyone has that, what we want is for you to continue trying, please, we want to see more."

Cos, in my head, everyone else gets that.

I usually have phenomenally wonderful ideas about activities to partake in, including creating tiny little webisodes, radio podcasts that involve scripted events, even a sitcom within a sitcom, a photographic makeover involving friends together posing as the Avengers, or just a stand-up routine featuring me ironing a shirt to Queen's "We are the champions".

And inherently, I never do them as I think I'll be crap.

Before I used comedy as a small step in self-therapy, getting out of my shell to do something spectacular that I believed I cold never do, and now with 15 minutes under the belt and a lot of experience with small tiny rooms of willing guinea-pigs eager to hear the ear-candy I spout from my verbal blow-hole I find comedy less theraputic and more of a job.

Which I don't mind, getting paid to make people laugh is amazing...if I got paid.

It take something special now for me to get out of my shell, find a niche target that involves something other than trying to "tell jokes", but I realise my support to go forth and experiment comes only from one source here in London...myself. Me, I, alone.

Don't know how it will be in South Africa, la familia isn't too concerned with how to entertain people and I'm fearful of becoming the younger reject that depends on them for food and shelter. But my instincts say that if I gamble on trying to do comedy there, I will have to REALLY work hard just to avoid the sight of me on the couch writing notes and the first reaction to hear would be, "When are you getting a job?"

Meeting two people I hadn't seen for a while did help me out quite a lot. First, the lovely Sara, with her amazing partner in crime that looks different I see him, Alfred. She's the purveyor of hard work, studying Greek and Latin at university while at the same time also entering the stand-up circuit with both verve and tenacity, and herself supporting stand-up so much she has a blog with recorded interviews and reviews, which you can find here, www.comedyblogedy.com

And Steve Allen, one of the sexiest voices on radio. Why he doesn't have more work and we have to keep listening to Z-list celebrities churning out their babble on L'Oreal adverts is beyond me. His podcast about the news is, to be frank, spectacular, you have to listen. It's so professionally well-edited and funny that I'm equally surprised iTunes hasn't sent a team of engineers to his house to edit his recordings hourly, having breaks inbetween for tea and Jeremy Kyle. His amazing talent can be heard here, www.somenews.co.uk

My point is, is that even with writing a blog-post now in this current state, being brave to hear the ridicule and scorn from my peers about "oh Nelson, stop looking for sympathy." well yes, yes I am, but I don't need sympathy, I need a deadline. I need to be told to produce something different and then it will be scrutinised, reviewed and dissected for me to understand what both people want and what I wish to give, regardless of how sad and weak I feel most days.

So, I'll pick myself up from the hole I've dug in slowly, carry on trying my absolute best, and one day remind the people that helped me out that there's free milk and cookies in the French chalet I'm gifting them with (future fame assured).

FYI, this blog-post is emotionally sponsored by Mr Steve N Allen, www.mrstevenallen.co.uk