Comedy and Comedic Dimensions

Wedged somewhere in between the cocktail party, the news report, the Dulwich Day, and some other miscellaneous training we managed to sneak in a small comedy night. So small in fact that we sold out the Comedy Club in Piccadilly, London's Premier Venue, and snared a line-up worthy entertaining the queen... or at the very least, a mid-level-ranking cousin of the Queen.

Beforehand, I had to race to the doctors for a general health check. Visiting a nurse in the UK is a frustrating experience to begin with, but when you're anxious to get back out the door in 5 minutes flat, challenges such as the passive aggressive indifference of receptionist really does manage to get on your tits. As if to rub salt into the wounds, I had my height and weight confirmed. 171.5 cms.

Me: How high is that then nurse?
Nurse: Errrr that's just over 5 foot 7.
Me: Sorry?
Nurse: 5 foot 7
Me: Are you sure? I've always said 5 foot 9

Wasting a further 5 minutes that I didn't have, we both checked the imperial measurement. The sad news is, I'm definitely 5 foot 7. That really is small. Next up was my weight. 79kg. Not bad I thought, considering I'm now in fairly decent shape. Which didn't really set me up well for the next comment 'according to the BMI, that puts you just under the Obese category' - Apparently my ideal weight is 67.5 kilo's. Who weighs this much? 12 kilo would be akin to losing a leg. Who devised the BMI? Bronte the anorexia-suffering regular on A Current Affair? Outraged, I questioned if Johnny Wilkinson, tipping the scales at approx 90kg, would be considered obese, bearing in mind his body fat totals around 6%. Apparently he would be. Ridiculous.

Now in a foul mood after being branded short and fat, and incredibly late, I needed the comedy to cheer me up. And so after checking the time at every single tube stop on the way in to town, an awesome night's entertainment unfolded. With my Jules (My Flatmate... before you ask who the female was) and I scoring awesome seats despite walking in late. Russell Howard was trying out some new, and very good, material. Jarred Christmas was as loud and foul-mouthed as ever... and had me in stitches with his microphone twirl after a bad pun. Benny Boot was awkwardly hilarious, maintaining a heroin-chic that I actually confused for him being smashed early in his set. Lloyd Langford was superb, and confirmed my theory that jokes are funnier when you tell them in a Welsh accent. Our very own Chris Martin came on to rapturous applause from his home crowd. I still managed to laugh despite having already seen the same material delivered in the same location wearing the same clothing on youtube. His mate Carl Donnelly was superb before Matt Grantham did his best Dave Hughes impression (except he was funny) before Jack Whitehall wrapped up the night that had people making comparisons to Russell Brand, the major difference being that Jack actually managed to throw in a couple of gags (several very funny ones) instead of relying on tight jeans, appearances in The Sun, and a wacky hairstyle that he dries from the back. The sooner Brand takes up smack again and overdoses the better.

I broke with a recent tradition and managed to sink some beers on a school night. 4 pints in total, with no food on board, rendered me absolutely legless by the end of the night. So drunk that I made the fatal mistake of visiting Perfect Fried Chicken @12:30am. It definitely is fried, but that's where the similarities between the food and the store-name finish. Of course, this dinner nor the late bedtime after watching an hours worth of women's cricket (enough to put any exictable male to sleep) came back to haunt me the next day on the half hour run followed by a nets session. Yet again I showed stunning form with the bat that had the locals discussing a possible contract with Surrey, such was my fierce striking of the ball.