Khoi's Spectacular 40-Yard Screamer Blog Entry

2 weeks into the new decade and not a single blog entry? Tut tut, me.

Well, what can I say. I begun the new year the same way I was born, wailing, crying and pining to be back where I belong. In this case I mean Bristol, not...my mother's womb.

Obvs.

Urgh...I need to get the creative juices going again. Come on. I was naive to think that not doing anything remotely creative or academic during the Christmas holidays would not have a detrimental effect on my general mental being. Right now, holding a pen is challenging enough...ahh, I remember those days from primary school. That unfamiliar feeling of work when you come back from a summer holiday and where the even the basic things like read, write and speak is an alien concept. Mmm.

I wish I wasn't so observant and careful sometimes. A bit of spontaneity is nice to go with. For example, I was supposed to board a train to return to lovely Bristol last Friday, at around 7 ish. But I didn't take account of the horrid Birmingham traffic at that point in time, and so, with one glimpse at the road, decided to stay home until Sunday.

Now I'm guessing most of you are still waiting for the punchline, but that's the whole story. And that proves my point; that's the extreme level of spontaneity I can handle in my brain. And even then I spent the next few hours worrying about possibly non-existent consequences. Try jacking up the situation and I'd be standing there, splashing around and spluttering in a sea of doubt.

Like I'm living a horribly linear storyline and where unexpected actions are not allowed. I would mention Phoenix Wright, because it is horribly linear, but at the same time, it's fucking brilliant as well. Buy it.

This also coincides with my drinking habits, where I can safely say I'm probably No.1 Contender for the World's Worst Drinker title, which is currently being held a by house brick (if WWE is to be believed). Most people who've gone out drinking with me would nod their heads vigorously until their heads fell off in agreement with that statement. And I say "gone drinking out with me"; I think I meant more like "gone out with Khoi who has one drink and then sits back and watches the mayhem unfold around him".

Makes me sound like a referee of sorts. Maybe I should bring a whistle along to the pub next time. Just a thought.

On a completely unrelated subject, I've recieved a rather interesting looking event on Facebook, which is inviting me to watch and possibly perform at UWE's Open Mic Comedy Night.

Now.

There's a part of me that's shouting "DO IT, DO IT, DO IT, DO IT" whilst jumping up and down excitedly like it wanted to be a fucking cloud when it grew up. But once again, another part of me, the wiser and more sensible side of me, the one smoking a pipe and listening to 50's jazz, going "Whoa there, Khoi, let's calm down a bit there".

And he's talking to me again at this very moment, merely mentioned a few words.

Slow, agonising, death.

That's the thing that flashes right in my eyes when stand-up comedy is mentioned. How does one cope with it, when you hit the audience with a punchline, and where you realise that a motionless sock would've got more applause.

I don't know, but it seems like I'm going to have to live a little, just to see what dying on stage would be like.

Ironic...don'tcha think?