LEICESTER BIGOT

THIS IRISH bloke walks into a bar in Leicester, ambles up to the counter and orders a pint of lager for which he is charged #1.28. Bemused, he says to the barman: I m sorry, but I could have sworn you just said #1.28. That s right, a pint of Fosters costs #1.28 in here, the barman replies. Pleasantly gobsmacked, the Irish bloke hands over the cash and settles down to watch a couple of rugby matches on the big screen, agog at the notion that the change from the #20 note he s just broken will pay for another 14 pints. Several hours later, he participates in the Leicester Mercury Comedian Of The Year competition at the Y Theatre situated just around the corner and is beaten by a teenage whelp from Manchester who doesn t drink. The moral of this story? Selling everything you own and moving lock, stock and barrel to Leicester is the first step along the path to true happiness.
Of course some readers might be of the opinion that drinking the best part of a gallon of beer shortly before performing stand-up comedy is not conducive to giving good gig. Generally, they d be right, although some of the funniest routines I ve ever seen have been delivered by comedians who were pie-eyed, stoned or, on one memorable occasion, tripping on acid. Nevertheless, I generally lower an absolute maximum of four pre-show pints (#5.12!) and then drink nothing else until after I m finished. Except shorts. And maybe some of the finest wines known to humanity.
The reasons for this are more to do with fear of cirrhosis than any ridiculous sense of professionalism or responsibility. Countless women will tell you that whether it s on stage or in the sack, the Glendenning performance is rarely impaired by booze. Why? Because I m invariably inept in both fields whether sober or sozzled. Nevertheless, despite being more tiddly than usual in Leicester (you try killing six hours in England s answer to Limerick without drinking a pint an hour), I must have done something right, as the following day s edition of the local rag said that I contributed a strong, confident set which maintained the bill s excellent standard.
Strong and confident! Not bad for a chap who s as physically, mentally and morally spineless as the average Fianna Fail back-bencher. Either I d delivered a blistering set of uproarious, cutting-edge gagsmithery or, I suspect, managed to pick up the microphone stand without grimacing, before moving it to the side of the stage in a manner that suggested I wasn t prepared to tolerate any guff from it. Unless you use one on a regular basis, you have no idea how infuriating such a seemingly uncomplicated piece of equipment can be. Whatever the reason for my reviewer s bland platitudes, I can now die safe in the knowledge that I will spend all eternity resting in peace under a headstone that reads: Here lies Barry Glendenning: he didn t set standards, he maintained them. A gushing epitaph of under-achievement if ever there was one.
The Leicester experience was also unique in that it was the first time I d ever been booed on-stage. I ve been booed off in the past, but this was definitely ground-breaking. By announcing that I was the only London-based comic on the six-strong bill, the compere managed to incur the crowd s wrath on my behalf before they d even laid eyes on me, with the result that I walked on to a chorus of booing and hissing. Obviously I could appreciate where they were coming from, as everyone everywhere particularly in London, ironically hates a Londoner. Thankfully, as soon as I d reassured the punters that I was actually Irish and consequently blessed with a God-given right to dislike the inhabitants of their capital city even more than they do, things calmed down. Indeed, everything went absolutely swimmingly until shortly before the end of my set, when I finished with some ill-advised remarks on the aesthetic qualities of the city s female population.
Speaking as a neutral, I think it s really unfair that the sports media dismiss Leicester City s football as boring and unattractive, I mused with faux sincerity, pausing only to bask in the warmth of the tumultuous applause which marked the assembled throng s appreciation of my footballing expertise. Because having been talking to some of the women here today, I think it s fair to say that boring, unattractive football is the very least of this city s problems.
So how did I sleep in Leicester that evening? Alone again, naturally.