For Will Self, the nation’s most celebrated arch- miserablist, a profane, dog-eyed scribbler whose pathologically sour wit and literary leanings warm tortured hearts everywhere, the third Monday in January is not Blue, but Lugubrious.
Self arrived on the Komedia stage in a flat cap and overcoat looking every bit the depressed raconteur. He was flanked, and then interviewed, by his former Suffolk housemate Matthew De Abaitua who, in his flat cap and wax jacket, appeared more like a suicidal banker on the run than a fellow novelist.
The duo dead-panned their way through Self’s life story, beginning with nature’s abyss – pre-natal depression and an early addiction to Valium – before entering existential misery and a black roll-neck jumper at only seven years old. After, it was the fineries of Stephen Fry’s peculiar strain of introspective depression regularly aired on national TV and Bill Clinton’s dubious humanitarian voyages that always finish with him handing over mineral water to thankful locals.
The evening finished with a game of “gratitude list”: eager punters sharing their problems, receiving Self’s gloomy advice plus gifts bought from Somerfield. The set-up suited Self’s sharp, meandering mind and added an air of unpredictability to proceedings.
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