Hi, folks,

I've a new digital camera that I bought with the ill gotten gains of my endowment policy. I'm trying to take an interesting photo every day. Barring that, just a photo. And I'll write about it.

Today's photo is this:

It's the board outside of the Jekyll and Hyde Pub in Hanover Street where Rick and I run Heresy every Thursday. This week, Rick is off down in Liverpool so I'm doing what's being called "compairing" apparently. I'm looking forward to seeing Greame Alexander.

Sadly, the gig was pulled so these two great performances were missed by the public. The bar was pretty quiet by the time I got there to set things up. It's a combination of some big football game or other and Fresher's Week at the Uni. I'm guessing that all the cool students are getting blootered on 50p vodka and heroin. Very few of them are going to drop by Heresy. Even fewer of the young girls will be enticed by my offer to take them down the basement for a good time. For which they'll pay £3.

Even if that's very good value for money.

Instead I shot the breeze with the other acts. Some who had travelled over twenty minutes to be here. Our marketing for the gig really needs a kick up the pants over the next few weeks. We've got a board inside the venue now! Yes, it is impressive.

And it's nice to see your name on a board. Even if you're only compairing.

After another exciting day of hitting the refresh button on the job websites I decided to go for a walk in Rouken Glen Park in the evening. I've not been there for ages despite cycling past it for weeks and driving past it on the way into town for years. As a bribe for going to church on Sundays my dad used to take my brother, sister and I down to the play park every week. I can't really remember how good a play area it was at the time. My only memory was that there was a climbing frame in the shape of a helicopter to play in. The person who designed it hadn't really taken practical ergonomics into account however. It was nearly impossible to climb into the cockpit area without contorting your body around a badly placed support frame. Then to get out again you had to fall out through a gap at the bottom and smack your head on it. That was the law. Probably.

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I seemed to remember that there was a 'witches hat' at one point. They don't exist anymore because some stupid kids went and got killed on them and ruined it for everyone. The dead idiots. How best to describe a 'hat' though? A climbing frame cone ran down from a central pole that spun around in an arc. There was a chance then as you tried to jump on, it would arc upwards and smack you in the face. Or possibly shear the top of your skull off. But if you were good, then you leapt on and had the big kids try and push you off. And kill you.

Honestly, kids these days with their knives and guns. They don't know what real danger is.

Instead of going to the play park (apparently there is something suspicious or 'wrong' about a thirty year old man going to the play park on his own and having a go on the monkey bars) I went for a walk out past the boating pond and round the nature trail than runs up to the golf course. There were a few people out walking their dogs but after a few minutes I found a quieter track and wandered away from everyone. Whenever I find myself in secluded spots like this I like to play one of my favourite games which is called 'would this be a good place to hide in case of a zombie invasion?'. Rouken Glen scores poorly on this. Although it is an enclosed area which means that by closing the gates you would only need to clear out existing zombies, there is little or no refuge or natural resources other than wood. However if you were being chased by a pack of the undead it would be a good place to try and loose them without getting too lost yourself. I give it a 4.

As I walked round the end of the trail and back towards the pond I was reminded of one time I was here with my dad. My uncle had given me an old toy sailboat of his to play with. It was a foot long wooden yacht with a small sail on it. I think this was a good toy in the Sixties. My dad suggested we give it a trial and we drove down to sail it across the pond. I was about six at the time which excuses me, but my dad would have been about forty at the time and has no such explanation: as we put the boat in the water and gave it a gentle push, I asked "How are we going to get the boat back?" My dad simply looked at me and said "I have no idea".

I never saw it again.

I've spent all of today stuck in front of the internet job hunting and playing poker. The two are very similar in that they both taunt me with the promise of riches but leave me poorer and that I am doing both on the internet.

I used a website called jobserve to do my job hunting on. It's served me well in the past as it's a collection of all the IT jobs agencies have pooled into one place. However in the past weeks they have either been advertising jobs at ridiculously low wages (£10 an hour? Piss off) or required skills I have never heard of never mind have.

It is funny to read the crap job descriptions thought. An agency has taken on a contract it is finding difficult to shift (like in Glengarry Glen Ross) and is trying to be super creative in dressing it up. The one I've just read described itself as "conveniently based near Glasgow airport". Which means it's in Hillington Industrial Estate. A place where no public transport runs and is scary and crap. Another favourite is "based in the east of Glasgow" which means Bellshill Business Park. Again, it's nowhere near a bus stop, anywhere to eat or to walk at lunchtime. The only entertainment to be had is to walk along the tiny pavements waiting for massive lorries to stop and ask you the way to places (there are no road signs or street numbers in these purpose built mazes) and then to lie and say it's somewhere really difficult for a 20 ton truck to reverse out of. Then you run away and hide.

I found out after dinner that poker at Andy's had been cancelled. A few people had pulled out in the afternoon so there would only have been five of us playing. I would have still played with five – statistically I am the second best player of the regulars and number one wasn't going to be there – I could have walked off with a cool £35, a massive and much needed win. Andy suggested we head down the casino to play at the £11 buy in there.

I've played down at the casino once before with mixed results. Andy signed myself and Peter in which meant we both got a free £10 bet on the roulette. I bet black (thanks Wesley Snipes), he bet white. An instant £10 profit which we spent at the bar. This might be a good system for getting drunk quite cheaply – just sign in two tramps every half hour and split the winnings! Oh, and soft drinks are free. If I'm in town with half an hour to kill I will pop down and read a book.

Unfortunately you have to behave yourself at the proper poker, something my technique doesn't work for. My strategy is to annoy people so much that they loose concentration or simply don't want to play poker with me any more. Plus people there are usually much better at poker than me and that's no fun. The atmosphere in the casino is a bit depressing as well. I'm not really much of a gambler, £10 is my limit and that's on a game that I have a slight influence on over at least ninety minutes of playing time – a pretty reasonable return. I was shocked to see the amount people were piling onto the roulette wheel. What they need is an unbeatable system. I think my one with the tramps is it.

I received a slightly worrying phone call the other day. The couple who are renting my flat have asked if they can move out early as they are expecting a baby. So in four weeks the income that I got from my place will have dried up completely. This presents something of a problem as nearly five months on, I still have no job and I am skint. And after the problems with my kitchen (I had to get a new boiler installed which meant pulling up half the floorboards and not having a space to fit the washing machine back into) last year, I don't have the resources to bring it up to scratch for a new tenant.

However, I'm choosing to look at this news as an exciting challenge which I'm going to call "how low will I sink" which will be a lot of fun. I've decided to move back into the flat myself rather than find a flat share. So I need to have at least a couple of hundred quid in my bank account by the end of June.

This move will either be the making or breaking of me. Before I moved out to travel around Australia, I had lived on my own for about five years and my bad habits had a tendency to spiral dangerously out of control – i.e. to sit in on my own and quietly go mental. Since then I was able to semi-train myself back into respectability, particularly in the hostels when complete strangers could wander into your room when you were contemplating the cosmos. Or having a wank. Not me obviously, other people in the hostel.

So I'll have my own place again but without all the things I used to have. When I left I carted tons of books, videos, CDs and DVDs up to my parents loft. I also gave away a ton of stuff as well to people who wanted it. When I move back in I'll have two lamps, some clothes and my MP3 stereo. I think that should be good for me. Sky One shows repeats of Stargate SG1 all day long. I am hooked on this excellent and underrated show. Though it is not as good as Farscape.

I also find it unbelievable but I really want to have a job which has been an alien concept for to me for so long. My days at the moment are either sitting on the internet looking for work or going out cycling over the moors. Today I basically spoke to my dad and sister and went out of the house for about twenty minutes. That's clearly not healthy. The most exciting thing about tomorrow is going to play poker at Andy's (actually I remember now, I did play poker today – I won $2.44, nice!). I think my sister will be coming along to play as well. This allows me to give her a "driving lesson" and at the same time now have to pay £3 for the bus. I am a genius.

And soon to be a mad reclusive one who only eats tuna and rice at that. It will be all I can afford.

Hello to the ten people who are reading this blog. I’ve posted up three entries in quick sucession but realised that myspace has set them up in the wrong order. Don’t work, you are not travelling backwards in time.

It’s the computer

As well as an invitation to a kicking last night, I also got an invitation to Chris’s daughter’s christening today. More specifically the reception afterwards. Which is better, obviously.

After having nearly missed it due to the clock change to British summer time I turned up to see that nearly every comic who had been at last night’s show was there. They already had ample time to turn the altercation into "The Ballard of David Heffron – Knife Fighter". Which I shamefully (although not too shamefully) played up to by gently reminding Des and Andy that, if they gave me any more cheek, I knew where they both lived.

"That is both true and disturbing," said Des.

Whenever anyone new arrived and asked about what happened I decided to let someone who hadn’t been there tell the story. It’s defiantly much more impressive than the one I have related.

The bit when I treatened to stab one of them with a broken bottle was quite impressive. Although the section about me running up the alleyway like a massive jessie didn’t have the same ring.

I mentioned what happened to my dad later on. He’s pretty much of the same school of thought as myself. I just don’t have the killer instinct to put someone down and make sure they don’t get back up again in a hurry. My idea of fighting is a kind of double headlock where you both try and punch each other while jumping out of the other punch, making you look like a self hating crab.

My dad’s recommendation – kick them in the bollocks and run. A wise man.

Feeling at a bit of a loose end I decided to pop up to the gig at The State Bar to catch up with Peter and whoever was .. the Comedy Festival, it looked like the people of Glasgow might have been a bit comedy-ed out. There were about twenty in the room plus the acts. The State has been turning numbers around big style recently so I’m sure this is a temporary blip. Everyone had been having a good turn – there were a few heckles thrown up but they were all batted away easily. Big Chris has become such a great compere that he can heap abuse on someone in such a good natured and friendly way that it’s almost a privilege to be chatted to.

We’d just come back from the second break and an act went on to try out some newer stuff in a short five minute spot. However the audience were no longer in the mood for some whimsy from a laid back, well spoken man who looks a bit like a crofter and some of the guys at the back started getting a bit chatty.

I hate people talking during a set. It’s worse that not laughing in many ways. At least when they’re not laughing they are still listening and there’s a chance that you can win them back. When they’re talking, they’ve abandoned you altogether.
I was sitting near the chatters so I "sssshed" them a bit. There were three guys in the booth, one looked up and made a face that said "alright" but which I new meant "I’ll be quiet for exactly five seconds then start talking again". Which he promptly did.

Then the headliner came on and because the energy had slightly gone from the room had to work really hard to bring the audience back. The morons in the booth didn’t even listen to his and kept chatting. I was getting uncharacteristically angry with them by now and went over and whispered "guys can you stop talking? I’m trying to listen to this."

One of them shrugged and decided he had enough, grabbed his cigarettes and went out for a smoke. The other two kept on talking. Now need to go to the toilet I whispered "guys, shut the fuck up" to them. This turned out to be a mistake.

At the end of the show one of them – a short, shaved head, ball of drunk - came up to me and started to, I’ll say, "demonstrate" with me. Accusing his smoking friend of being the one who was talking, that I had been talking, and of me disrespecting him.

I’d had a couple of Budvar’s by this point and for the first time in my life, really, decided to stand up to someone.

"Look, I heard you talking during the headliner," I stated.

"You were talking too, don’t give me any of your fucking cheek," was the baldie’s response.

At this point, Jay decided to step in between us to calm things down. Presumably thinking they wouldn’t hit a woman. I wasn’t so sure.

They started to defend themselves to her but kept saying loudly enough for me to hear "it’s your pal that’s got the problem."

So I thought it would be a good idea to just say "goodnight" to them in the cheekiest voice possible.

Then blow them a kiss. Second mistake.

They left the pub in a huff at this point and the other acts were standing around slightly disappointed that things hadn’t kicked off. As the bar had stopped serving I decided it was time for the rest of us to make a move. I was full of the brave pills and was ready to go out and drink more and talk to women. Peter and I headed up the stairs and got to the front door. I started to walk out onto the street before Peter pulled me back in. The three chatters had decided to wait for me across the road and were moving over to the main door pretty sharply. I was then steered back down to the basement and it was suggested that "I give it a few minutes".

I could hear that one of the guys was arguing with the bouncer at the front door. Why, I’m not sure as I guess that the line "can you let us back in so I can batter that dobber" isn’t going to gain you admittance. Some of the other acts were now discussing what to do. I was vocally all for just heading out the door "after all, what are they going to do? Huh,". While my brain was going "no one is going to let me walk out the door, I can appear really tough here".

In the end I just sneaked out the other door and ran up the alleyway beside the pub when they weren’t looking. I toyed with giving the boys a little wave when I got to Sauchiehall Street. But as I was completely on my own at that moment I thought discretion the better part of valour. I also thought that very comic in that room was a coward. Except for Quentin – he wanted to go out and kill them all.

I’m still wondering what would have happened if I’d walked out onto the street not looking. There’s a bit of me that finds it unbelievable that I would come to any harm. Another thinks that I could have defiantly beaten the bald guy if he was on his own. The problem is that I wear glasses, and had my MP3 player in my long coat. If he’d let me put my stuff to one side and promised that his mated wouldn’t weigh in if he was losing, he’d be toast. Particularly as I had an empty beer bottle in my pocket in case things kicked off.
What I really think would happen is that I would have simply ran like a lunatic down the street. As that happened anyway I can write this one off as a no score draw.

William Hague recently suggested that one way to curb the scourge of binge drinking in Britain would be to put 7 pee on the price of a pint. Sorry, William, it would appear that no matter what the price of drink there will be idiots prepared to pay that.

I was in the pub last night at a Christmas get together one of my flatmates had organised for us, our neighbours, ex-flatmates and friends.

A pint of Tennant's was £3.10.

Tennant's.

£3.10.

People were paying £3.10 for a pint of Tennant's. Old Billy Hague doesn't need to worry about binge drinking. This is clearly a sign of the coming apocalypse. None of us will be alive to see out livers rot.

I remember the first time I was in a regular pub and had to shell out over three quid for a pint. I had been working in Edinburgh for a couple of weeks and at lunch John and I would choose a different pub to eat at. On Queen Street was a place called (I think) The Dome which was right beside our office. Every day we would walk past it thinking it looked too posh for us (most things are too posh for me) and try somewhere else. As the job was coming to an end I said we should pop in and give it a try. I should have immediately realised we were in trouble when a waiter greeted us and asked if we would like to be seated for lunch. Instead we sat at the bar and ordered two Stellas.

I tried not to wince when I got hit up for £6.40. Still, I thought, it must be magic larger to be three twenty a pint. I would probably get some kind of super power for downing it. Instead it was just regular Stella. Which is, I'll admit, magical enough.

"John," I said, indicating a bowl of peanuts that had been placed in front of us, "I have just been robbed. I am eating every single one of these peanuts," and scoffed the lot.

No one rips me off. My vengance is swift and terrible.

I was woken up at three this morning for an interview on John Heffron's nowlive.com internet radio show. As the show goes out at 7pm in California I had to set the alarm to get ready for my end. I think it was a well judged move on my part now. I have an additional four new MySapace friend requests now. John's actually one of about three MySpace people I have as friends that I hadn't met before (the other ones being Beck and They Might Be Giants (thought John Linnel signed a mouse mat for me in Glasgow)).

John and I have been screwing up anyone who might search for Heffron and comedy on google for some time now. Though I'm probably messing up his searches more than mine. It was nice to finally meet albeit over the phone.

It was a fun chat we had; we discussed how you pronounced 'Heffron' – John maintains it is more like 'Heff-rin' than the (correct) 'Heff-ron'. However he is an American and we must learn to let these things go. Or they will bomb us. I imagine that is where some of the trouble in Iraq is with some muslims going 'it is pronounced "shee-ite"' and the other muslims going 'no, it is pronounced "shite", ha ha ha. Now we will bomb this marketplace.'

I'm not saying it's responsible for all the problems across there, but no one would deny it is not a contributing factor.

We also talked about who would have more trouble performing in the others country. I speculated that it would be me as John has won "Last Comic Standing" and been on the "Real Men of Comedy Tour" and has an internet radio show – all things with a certain degree of kudos attached. Meanwhile I struggle to get booked in my own country – I do have a 5 star review from an internet magazine, but everyone knows that this is really a fraud and a sham.

John was browsing up my MySpace space while we were talking and noticed that I'm down as being "The Heff" – a name people naturally gravitate towards with out any prompting from me. I've tried a new one – "David 5 Star Heffron" but does not appear to be as catchy or as popular. John claims (though he offered no proof) that he is called the "The Heff" as well and that it has been his AOL sign on since 1996. He then saw the picture of me holding a spear while I said I would fight him for the name. He seemed to be willing to negotiate at this point.

I maintain that as someone who has not deserted the Heffron homeland (yet) I can claim ownership. For all I know John is descended from a Ukrainian family that had their name changed to Heffron by an officious customs officer as they arrived off the boat to Ellis Island. He could could be a Heffwozki for all I know. Admittedly he still can lay a claim to "The Heff" but it doesn't change my argument. Nothing changes my arguments.

However it looks like John will be my ticket to fame and fortune in the US. I would be willing to sign away all claims to the "The Heff" in exchange for appearing on any HBO Comedy Specials he is appearing in. The bonds of Heffron are stronger than you might believe. They are stronger than glue, but not of gravity. So, then, exactly as strong as you might believe.

Had to take a trip back over to Glasgow today to do some more work on my flat. I must be the only landlord in the world who is losing money on a monthly basis. The boiler had broken some months ago – although I only found out about it at the start of July. Thanks to Al Gore and other planet saving do gooders I couldn't just get  new boiler. Oh, no. That's to straight forward. Planet Earth will only be saved if I fit a condensing boiler. What that means is that the whole set up can't stay on the wall where it is, it has to get moved to the other side of the kitchen. This means destroying everything in the kitchen. So far the list of casualties has been:

Flooring – laminate flooring is supposed to be click down and click up (and back down again). It's no such thing. After realising I would need to take up all of it to get to space beside the window, I bought a circular saw and sliced into it thinking that it would be easy, if not beautiful to put back together. I spent three hours trying to replace the boards from a map I had drawn, labelling all the pieces and where they should go. Large tracts of it had expanded after five years of being laid down. It looks horrible. The whole floor will have to be redone. That's going to cost.

Washing machine – the little bit beside the sink where the washing machine was is now full of new water and gas pipes. The machine won't fit in. I'm going to have to carve up the cupboard under the sink so that I get another 3 inches free space without bringing the sink down on top. That'll need a joiner. That's going to cost.

Wall 1 – The space when the original boiler is, is wrecked. The plaster has be pulled out in big chunks and the waste pipe that lead outside means there's a great big hole in the middle of the wall. Once it's been plastered up, it's need repapered and painted. That's going to cost.

Wall 2 – The space when the new boiler is, is wrecked. Plumber had to carve a big hole in the wall to put in the new waste pipe. Plaster, paper and paint. That's going to cost.

Wall 3 – When putting in the new gas pipe and welding it in place, wall paper caught fire in the hall. I'm going to pretend that's not there.

All in all a pretty hefty bill. And because of the Festival, I'm not working. Holy crap. I'm going to be poor again. The bucket at the end of the show better be able to pull in £300 quid a day. So all I need is a full house with every punter paying £7. Easy.

Anyhow – Fringe things. Went to The Stand's launch party tonight. Turned up too late to take full advantage of the free bar but remembered one important thing. It's roasting in a packed basement bar in the middle of August. Criminally so. Supposed to be rigging my venue tomorrow, first hing to do is buy a coulpe of fans for the place and have them pointed directly at the stage. If I start leaping around for an hour in anything like last night's heat, I'll die. My kidneys are already sore from the walloping I gave them.

Still my cycling plan is kicking in. Managed to get from mine to The Stand in ten minutes. I am the cycling king. I could win the Tour de France. Given that everyone else has been disqualified.

The official fringe has already started, though I have 3 days to go yet before blast off.

Instead of spending the day crafting the last few jokes into the show I followed up on a text sent by my Melbourne Comedy Festival friend, Dan Willis. He's come up a day earlier than expected to enjoy the luxuries of his studio flat on South Bridge. Git.

I cycled down to meet him at his venue and take a peek round. It's a nice room. Had a good catch up, last time I saw Dan was at the Melbourne Comedy Festival in 2006. As he's slightly more organised than me he went back this year and did the Adelaide Fringe too. Git.

The call came through to catch up with some others at Lindsay's on the north side of town. I offered to give Dan a backie on the bike but after ten metres or so he was crying saying all kinds of things like, "stop, I want to get off" and "I am scared" and "my legs hurt an I think we will die". What a girl. He offered to pay for a taxi but I reckoned I could get to the pub on a bike quicker than a taxi.

Dan wasted time explaining where he wanted to go, but I was off down South Bridge. I made the mistake of waiting at the red lights on Chambers' street – Dan caught up with me, but at least I was able to get my headphones on. I find the noise of traffic and horns distracts me somewhat. I need to drown them out.

Dan over took me as we passed the Royal Mile, but over North Bridge there were a load of busses. I waved and shouted hello as I whizzed past. Then I jumped to the front of the Q at Princess Street, dropped down Leith Way, round the roundabout and was happily waiting for him. Except a man chased me away from chaining my bike outside his house. I pretended I couldn't hear him because of my earphones and was just 'resting' there. Ha ha, I wasn't.

Dan then said hello to all the other acts, as I sat there dying. However, I won. Which means I am best. You are a fool Willis. A taxi riding fool.

Afterwards we had a nice wander about town where we met up with loads of acts that Dan knows and I don't. Excellent. Day t-minus three and already I am drunk and a little bit depressed.

I MUST NOT DRINK.

Alcohol (obviously – not drinking, full stop, I would die).

Well, the Edinburgh Fringe starts for me in just under 4 days. The success of my Melbourne Fringe show to time spent writing it ratio lulled me into the belief that it's always going to be like that.

Spent five or so hours last night writing material for the second half of the show to the extend it is now unrecognisable as it's original premise. To be fair, I think it's now better but now covers and Eddie Izzard-esq ramble of characters and train of thought that starts from Shilpa Shetty and ends up at the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The trick will now be memorising this massive load of waffle. The think I liked about doing Nerd Alert was that it was a true story so I didn't have to memorise it. I struggle with the 20 minute plus sets because they tend to meander more. Always kicking myself for not doing "that bit about so and so".

Still. We'll see. Better get back to it.

Had a half and half gig at The Stand in Glasgow tonight which shows up the basic flaw in my material - structure.

I must have done my "blackdar" line about, oooh, 200 times now and 100 times it's rocked, 100 times it's died on its hole.

Tonight was right on the fence.

I decided to do my set as "high energy David" following some more laid back acts, thinking it would get the audience energy levels back up. Things were going pretty well until the blackdar line. I got the set up all wrong and it made me look like some mad racist. I then took the gamble to mention this fact. It didn't entirely fail, however it didn't win them back either. I noticed a distinct drop in laughs.

I'm annoyed at both myself and the audience for this. Me because, if I were a better comic, it'd be a flawless line. The audience, because I've set up the whole "gran is a fool" concept that I think it's obvious that whatever this fictional old lady says, I think is wrong.

Bah, I'm drunk and tired. Ignore this blog also.

Plus, i'm getting 40 plus hits a day on a blog I hardly post on. Go outside or something.