Last week I went to the circus. I’d never been to the circus before. The reason most people give for not wanting to go to the circus is that they find clowns a bit scary. I don’t find them scary in the slightest, but I do find them a bit shit. Anyway, there were no clowns at this circus, because it was the Chinese State Circus; instead of clowns, they have Shaolin monks, who are short on gags but pretty good at balancing on the points of spears, smacking the floor with sticks and looking aggressive. Rose, who invited me to go along with her, basically fancies Shaolin monks, and who could blame her, although I can’t imagine you’d want to end up on a date with them at a shit restaurant, because they’d go bloody mental.

Anyway, there was eye candy for the lads, too, in the shape of plate spinning contortionists and an act called “Sensual Silks”, in which a woman in a skimpy outfit swung from the ceiling on a purple scarf and always looked as if she’d smack her head on the scaffolding that was holding the tent up. She didn’t, which is probably why the act is up for a prize at the 2008 Circus Awards. All this action took place in a field near Hampton Court. The big top was far from full. In fact, it felt slightly embarrassing that a world class circus troupe were having to perform to a handful of disinterested people from Surrey, when they’re probably used to entertaining dignitaries from the Orient. Having said that, their forthcoming dates are in Ayr, Stirling and Inverness, so maybe they’re used to it.

Thursday saw me play a gig with Keith at the minuscule 12 Bar club on Denmark Street, and Thursday found it marginally tolerable. I’d not played a gig there since the first Free French gig that smakake put on at the end of 2001, and in that time they’ve moved the balcony back about a foot and a half. It used to be the case that, when you were standing on the stage, you could actually lick the balcony, if that was the kind of thing that lit your candle. But you can’t lick it any more, and people are less able to pour drinks on your head if they consider your act to be poor. Anyway, the evening panned out in such a way that I didn’t have anything to eat, and by the time I got home I was ravenous. So I made myself a sandwich, sat down in front of the Colbert Report, laughed at an inopportune moment, and suddenly found myself unable to breathe.

This has only happened to me once before, it was terrifying then, and it was terrifying this time. I mean, if you were watching me, and you didn’t particularly care whether I lived or died, you could conceivably have found it amusing; me making a wheezing sound, turning a deep shade of crimson and gesturing frantically at my throat while trying to use oesophagal force to try and dislodge whatever had got stuck. Jenny watched me helplessly as I made for the front door, figuring that if I started walking now I might be able to get to Accident and Emergency at the hospital next door before I passed out. As it was, I managed to eject a small piece of wholemeal bread from my system onto the carpet, and I lay on the floor in relief, perspiring slightly. If you’re reading this, Stephen Colbert, leave the comedy until I’ve finished eating, there’s a good chap.

Right now, I’m in Manchester, connected to the internet via my mobile phone which only has any reception when balanced at a particular angle on top of the wardrobe. They do have internet access in this hotel, but at £6 for 60 minutes on the information superhighway I’m refusing to pay on principle, and instead I’m making lots of trips to and from the wardrobe. It’s not that far, though, so don’t worry about me expending too much energy.