I've just notched up a century of shows for the National Rural Touring Forum.
Not that this impressive record helps sell me to potential promoters on the scheme who insist that I’m too niche for their audience.
I send them the audience survey form comment from Barry in Builth Wells:
I’m going to tell all my mates to go and see him in Mold. I drew the short straw having to come and check it out tonight. You don’t need specialised knowledge of ballet or anything else you might think at all. And I thought it was all bloody hilarious. The rest of my mates just took one look at his flyer and thought “Who wants to go and see that fat poof being weird?
And still some promoters aren't convinced.
‘We’re so thrilled we got you and your show! So thrilled. True, I had to slightly overrule other members of the committee who thought that they may have wanted a Skiffle Band. I told them - you’ll meet them, so don’t say I passed this on - we can have a Skiffle Band any day of the week, but this Madame Galina act is extraordinary!’
See you on the night.
Half an hour or so before the performance I peeped through the green room door to watch the audience arrive. Their faces were set stark against the night ahead. A number of them had brought prizes for the draw: jam, quiche, pheasants. A woman in a purple hessian smock and ruby-sprayed DMs eagerly showed Totty how the silver milk jug shaped like a cow that she was donating played a tune.
‘See, now, how fabulous! "Home, Sweet Home" when it’s tilted.’
I'm pleased to say that the hundredth show went well. There was one moment. The second song in My Tutu's Gone AWOL! happens to be "Home, Sweet Home". As I began it, Kirstie piped up,
'Oh, listen, just like my mooing cow!'
Which won't go in my audience comments file.