Then come the towns, Winnemucca, NV, 400 miles from, well nowhere really. When I checked into the casino they proudly told me the show would be sold out as there was a rodeo in town. Oh good, cowboys and a liberal Brit partial to vegan food (though on the road, pescatarian is as good as it gets), a match made in heaven. Oh, how they would love my jokes about the inadequacy of the American healthcare system and my call to arms against guns in the U.S. I think, to be honest, we surprised each other, as we jibed one another and thankfully they let me win the jostle. So much so, that I sold more CD’s than any other night! I love to think of these cowboys driving across the plains in their pick up trucks listening to a recording of a Brit making jokes at the expense of Republicans and Fox News.

I did see snow, but thankfully not on the road, the nearest I got to bad weather was in Idaho where the fog meant I could see just one car in front of me and no further and certainly could not make any sense of the “scenic view” that I was being persistently promised by roadside signs. My stop there was Nampa, which I was to learn was not a Native American, but North American Meat Packing Association…hmm…there goes the vegan diet in that town.

I was made to feel doubly at home in Nampa and Salem as the shows took place in cinema’s, so for once, my twin career of film director and comedian were beautifully fused. I considered a discussion about the merits of Fellini and Godard when I hit the stage, but stuck with my set instead. I think it was  a good choice.

It started with my first ever journey on an American Greyhound bus. Now I’ve been on busses all over Brazil, Morocco and a lot of Europe but nothing quite as “third world” as this, where the driver sits behind a cage, rather like an off license in south London (liquor store to my American friends), or where the receptionist would sit in one of those charming hostels for the homeless in a 1970′s movie. Hopefully, this is the nearest I’ll ever get to being transported on a prison bus. I’m relieved to say we weren’t shackled. We stopped off in San Bernadino for a stretch of the legs and to use the restroom – except we were all screamed at by security for attempting to do so. Yes, the security had guns – this is America, so we were all herded rather aggressively back onto the bus. Apparently, they had timed the cleaning of the restrooms to co-incide with our scheduled arrival and obviously wanted to keep them clean, so no-one from our bus was allowed in. I of course was desperate for a pee and hoped my charming English accent could persuade the security guard that we were uncomfortable having been crammed together in pens for so long, to which he radio’d for back up and I scampered back onto the bus to find my seat had now someone sitting in it, staring straight ahead. I braved the blue lagoon at the back of the bus, which was really a metallic hole with…well blue liquid of some sort residing at the bottom of the endless well. Thankfully, I did not confuse it with a jacuzzi and jump in, otherwise I would have been ripe for an audition in the blue man group once I arrived in Vegas. Of course, the only person who wished to engage in conversation with me had a recognizable whiff of alcohol on him. He was particularly intrigued by my winter coat and where I had acquired it.
“Rome”, I told him. Which sounded odd as we were hurtling through the Mojave desert, ah, those days when one just decided to spend five quid on a plane ticket to a European destination on a quick weekend escape from London.

The bus driver decided as we had been robbed of our planned rest stop, that he would stop 80 minutes outside of Vegas. As we got off the bus, I couldn’t help thinking of Richard Attenborough in the Great Escape when the Nazi’s told them to stretch their legs before shooting them all with machine guns. It’s funny how as we walked around in the desert mainly in silence exchanging knowing glances and raising eyebrows with other human beings, realizing whether we liked it or not, we were in this together. I didn’t want to look back at the bus, as I expect they were hosing down our seats with disinfectant. Not long after, the towering hotels of the Vegas strip started to appear in the distance and a strange thing started to occur, passengers who had been sitting mostly in silence for five hours started to talk to one another, introductions made, pleasantries exchanged, we were nearly there. Even I decided it was time to attempt a conversation with the young hoodie from San Bernadino who had plonked himself in my seat. So, what do you do in San Bernadino then? “I’m English, I’m traveling the world by bus”. Of course, the baseball cap and basketball shoes should have been the give away.

So, Vegas…downtown Vegas, now how to get to the aptly named Terribles Hotel. By now, we Greyhound travelers were a community of misfits, I teamed up with a guy named Wade from Oxnard as we split a cab to our destinations, he was in town to place bets on the March Madness basketball games. He looked like a rapper, with his Detroit baseball cap and gold chains, baggy jeans and over sized t-shirt. Nothing incongruous, to be sitting with an Englishman living in Silverlake. We split the bill, wished each other luck and both sighed that the 4-5 mile taxi ride was more expensive than the Greyhound ticket from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.

So, Vegas is about glamour, excitement the shows…and I had one to do…at Lucie’s Lounge, which is about bikers, hard living and hard comedy. When I arrived I cursed the friend who had booked me to this joint which resembled a more downtrodden version of Roadhouse. How the hell was I going to get through this one? Other comedians sympathized with my predicament. Two nights before, I’d just played Flappers in Burbank, a sweet gig where all my jokes were appreciated and the decor and atmosphere were the polar opposite. The comedians were tucking into the free Jack Daniels as I plotted what to do when I hit the stage. As expected, the first comedian got up and was drowned put by the sound of slot machines, pool players and silence. I was sunk. Was it worth even going up there? My head was firmly in my hands as I was introduced as “hope you can understand what this dude is sayin’ cos I can’t tell a fuckin’ word he’s saying”. So, I opened with “this is why I moved 6000 miles! Las Vegas! My dreams have all come true!!” now don’t tell me Americans don’t have irony, because everyone in that club started to laugh and cheer. “God save the Queen!” shouted someone from the audience, to which I retorted “so you’ve heard of Elton John?” The crowd, unbelievably came with me, I even confessed at one point that I had abandoned my set, in favor of making them laugh and they even liked that bit. Sad thing is it’s true. To be honest, this was a big lesson to me, because I was actually so depressed when I entered that club that I wanted to go home, but if I had, I would have missed out on a terrific stage experience. Completely different from the Flappers crowd, but equally worthy – these guys were intrigued to have an Englishman in their presence, they weren’t heckling, they were “helping”…and in a funny way they were, they were stretching me and together we had a fun time. Would I shoot my HBO comedy special at Lucie’s Lounge? Probably not, but I’d go again.

So, back in the hotel room just after midnight in time to set my alarm for 5.25am to get the shuttle to the airport. And yes, it’s true, it’s not New York that never sleeps, it’s Vegas. As I went through the casino at 5.45am, it was still buzzing with people in their evening wear, supping cocktails and nowhere near that last roll of the dice.

And then, Idaho Falls. Perhaps the smallest airport I’ve been to. I asked where the taxi rank was, to which this kind lady, just reeled off a telephone number and a few minutes later along came my ride. We had to pick up his other rides on the way, from the bank and the poor guy who had had his car towed. So, what do I do with my day in Idaho Falls? “There’s not much here to be honest. Most people just ride straight through and go to Yellowstone Park. It’s only an hour away”. Really? Do you spend a lot of time up there? “I would like to. Never been.” Oh, how long have you lived here? “All my life”.
He was right about his first point, I tried walking around the town and there isn’t much to be here to be honest. I even considered an afternoon in Yellowstone, I know a local cab driver who has never been but has ambitions to visit one day, but it’s bloody cold out there. I’ll enjoy the splendor of my opulent roadside motel room, complete with twentieth century dust bunnies.

I arrived at the club, which was a way below freezing 2 minute walk from my room. I was warned not to lick my lips as I wondered outside across the car park in case the moisture forced them to crack.

Inside, I was greeted by a smokey atmosphere that appeared to be Idaho’s replication of the industrial revolution in Britain. Within minutes my throat was tightening and my lungs were full to capacity. I noted that the gentlemen who were attired in cowboy boots and hats had dispensed with ordering pints of beer in favour of yards of ale and the ladies were drinking cocktails the colour of toilet I had to use on the Greyhound bus – electric blue, and I watched with awe as a myriad of different alcoholic beverages were generously poured into their vimto mix.

The other comic, Vince Martin, who I had worked with in Winnemucca, NV, was engaging in a text war with his ex fiance at the bar and becoming increasingly anxious. The host introduced me, “let’s here it for David Conolly, he is the co-host of the iPod, Narcissistic News”, I presume he meant podcast, but it was close enough. I had fun and got through most of the audience’s first yard, but when Vince hit the stage, they were well into their second and trouble lay ahead. It started when a young fella decided he wanted a turn with the mic to espouse his views on America the great. Vince did everything he could as the gig descended into comedy hell. The audience had lost interest in jokes from the stage and had turned to concentrating on more important issues at hand like who to fight with and who was up for fornication.

Vince did his hour, came off stage, grabbed a drink and came to the back of the showroom, “that was horrible”, said Vince in his Oklahoma drawl, “got a long drive tomorrow, but they’re a good crowd in Billings, I’ve had some of my best nights there”

I felt for Vince, we’ve all been through the comic’s nightmare, literally marking your time in front of an audience that couldn’t care less, wishing you were somewhere else.

We aimed to be on the road between eight and nine am, but due to some late night post gig analysis aided by comedy juice in a glass, we didn’t get onto the asphalt until just before noon. Shit!!! Not that traffic was going to be a problem, but snow was threatening to raise it’s beautiful but dangerous head.

We shared the journey with Vince’s two dogs. Vince explained how he was driving home in a thunderstorm and dog ran out in front of him, petrified with and injured leg. He took the dog in, then to the pound hoping the owner would be ringing around looking for it. A few days later, the pound rang up to say there were no takers and that to be honest, the vet had discovered a myriad of problems, so to be honest, it was probably best that….Vince didn’t hear the next bit apparently, he was out of the door and that dog several years was licking his life saving hero as he drove.

Yellowstone was stunning in the snow. Remote, but stunning. We whiled away the hours of exchanging comedy war stories, Vince had done battle in towns where the hotel warned of fines for urine or blood stains, which I know would be some people’s bizarre erotic fantasy, but I don’t think that’s how it was intended. Then we were hungry. One problem, nothing in Yellowstone was open until….May.

We came across a civilization – snow mobiles and closed stores and eventually something that was open, a generic Subway. Ah well. Waiting inside was a young guy in his twenties and a slightly older man who may have been the grandfather of ZZ Top, sporting a long grey beard pretty much to the floor. The young guy prepared for me, I have to say, the best looking sub I’ve ever seen. I complimented him, “you’re good at your job”
“I love this job, been doing it for six years now and three more part time before that. I love making great sandwiches.” I realized that this may have been the most fulfilled human being I have ever met. Rather than allowing me to buy the coca cola sponsored purified water he directed me to drink from the tap “that’s from the mountain streams – you’ll never taste water as pure as that”. And he was right. Delicious.

As we continued on our journey there were signs “beware of bears” we didn’t see any, nor did we see any Buffalo, but we did see some deer and lots of white crosses sticking out of the snow which we came to understand were symbols of motorists losing their lives at that point and sadly the road bereft of cars had a tragically large amount of crosses.

We passed through a Native American reservation. Desolate. Poor. Sporadic trailers exposed to the elements, outside sat broken down cars, presumably driven until they cold drive no more and then abandoned like carcasses from which I imagine parts could be scavenged. I did not envy these people their lifestyle, how they survived in these bleak elements is a mystery to me.

Billings, Montana. Thankfully, a much more luxurious hotel than the “vintage” establishment we experience in Idaho. The opener was local and his schtick was impressions of the neigbourhood dentist – they loved it. Wow! How to follow that. I’d never been to Montana before and hadn’t had time to study the local celebrities, if I’d have known, I would have spent many years perfecting my mimic of everyone’s favourite gas station attendant. Ah well, the cowboys would have to make do with my comedy via the lens of an Englishman in America. Again, fine. And Vince, back on stage 24 hours after a tough crowd in Idaho had one of the finest sets I’ve ever witnessed. Everything hit. He was on fire.

Tonight’s post gig analysis was a little more joyous. We were joined by a young cowboy, who looked and sounded like Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. “So what’s life like in Billings?”
“I ain’t from around here, I live about 200 miles away on my own. People bring me bad horses. I break ‘em in, then I bring ‘em ere and make ‘em someone else’s problem. I dunno though, this mare I got, she’s tough. I reckon if I get her round the ring once tomorrow, someone might take her, but I might just be takin’ her back home. Maybe I’ll have to go and find a ranch and do some cattle work this summer. Loved your jokes. Funny. I’m just a dumb cowboy, I know, but I loved your jokes. Thank you”. If the ten year old boy could see where I was right now!

Another day, another town. Miles City. Miles from anywhere. We stopped off on the way to see Little Bighorn, and the sight of Custor’s last stand. I remember at junior school in England studying this piece of history and all these years later I was looking out at the battlefields and grave yards of the fallen. Now, as I presume then, wide open space as far as the eye could see. Had to ask myself, they were fighting over this? What was Custor hoping to achieve? A luxury hotel? A new shopping mall? There was literally nothing there!

I was thrilled to arrive at the next location to bare witness to the Montana Taxidermist’s convention. What a treat to see a an expert so skillfully stuff a deer’s head. The image will linger with me for many years to come. The town was about the size of the village where I grew up in England, the main difference being the cowboy saloons and the rodeo ring – don’t know why they didn’t have them in Fulbourn, I always thought that was an oversight.

My trip finished more or less where I started, Las Vegas. My wife, Hannah, joined me for the welcome back to the wilderness and we managed to get a deal (isn’t there always a deal in Vegas?!!) at the Wynn, perhaps one of the most opulent hotels I have ever stayed in. Every now and again, I do manage somehow to taste a little bit of luxury, but you know what, I do envy that subway sandwich guy in Yellowstone, somehow he’d worked out the meaning of life, I’m still looking.

http://soundcloud.com/narcissisticnews/olympic-sex

So what else does a comedian need in his bag of tricks? Jokes? Stop heckling me in my head. No, a podcast. You knew that was coming right? Of course you did, everyone has one these days. Well now, so do I. I’ve teamed up with funny lady, Kacey Arnold, as we discuss in a rip roaringly hysterical way, the important things in life, well mainly us really, hence the title “Narcissistic News”. Richard Gardner told me I had to do this, so out of spite I made him produce it. Ha. That’ll teach him to come up with ideas!

This week we discuss the things in life that really concern us, like mosquito’s and an obese woman who has decided the only way to lose weight is by having sex with her ex husband. Her Ex!?! What a weird and wonderful world we live in – makes my job a lot easier.

Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think. Tweet me: David_Conolly.

http://soundcloud.com/narcissisticnews/sexercise

So, here I am , after a 24 hour journey at God knows what time of day/morning/night, jet lagged to hell, sitting in a beautiful villa on the Cap D’Antibes on the French Riviera. Texas will have to wait for this liberal to tell his jokes another day.

It seems, my career has hit another level, one step closer to the unreachable dream and another closer to bankruptcy. It is that odd dichotomy, that professionally I am pretty close to where I want to be and yet my bank account couldn’t be further from where I’d  ever want it to plummet. I’ve been very lucky, a friend has provided a friend with a villa, family a flight, another friend a car and another friend some cash for teaching Improv to comics. I’ve got enough for breakfast every day and then will be relying on the opulent parties for sustanence, so in other words, the morning baguette should get me through to evening canapes and lobster. It really is that ridiculous. I don’t think I’m alone, it’s my fifth time at the festival and it’s always amazed me that the car parks which have classical music and are carpeted also double for dressing rooms as people swap their day clothes for evening attire. I’m not sure if there is a kitchen, but there are certainly nearby beach showers – you could live in these car parks and for price of parking there, you probably should!

In 2004, Hannah and me arrived with a splash for MOTHERS & DAUGHTERS, we flew the whole cast in on SleazyJet five pound tickets and stayed in a trailer park. The British press loved this and followed us around, comparing us to Brad Pitt and his spouse at the time, Jennifer Aniston (ah, poor Jen, whatever happened to her?). Their hotel bill it turned out, was bigger than the budget for our entire movie. When it came to the premier, I was trying to make my way down the red carpet but was held back by Jesus – well Jim Caviezel, with his arms outstretched and a phalanx of papparazi, the news crew following me loved it, as I panicked and couldn’t work out how to get into the cinema and why help, when it makes good TV. Cut to me sitting on the steps of the cinema, having not got into the world premier of a movie I had co-directed and written…and starred in. Apparently, it made a funny story on the news as my friends and family informed me from home. As Charlie Sheen would say: “winning”.

So, here I am again, Cannes 2012, perhaps the most glamorous place on the planet for the next 10 days, where dreams can be made and broken with a French twist. Last time I was here in 2009, I walked around the Palais with Reiko Aylesworth, who is in our movie – and we realized, all the hard work, the sweat, the tears, the long hours hoping to get that perfect shot, the talent, the hundreds of experts working for for a single goal, memories of mixing sound into the early hours – was that a double breath, or have we just got tired ears now? Is that footstep too quiet? Too loud,  and this….is what it all comes down to: booths full of posters and Sales Agents hoping to entice buyers, not dissimilar to a Morrocan souk, “here buy my film, what do you want, I got horror, I got comedy, I’ve got nuns with guns, look at poster I give you good price, what country you buy for?”  George Clooney likened AFM to selling shoes. Well, at least we’re in the shop again. Come on then Cannes 2012, please buy my flip flops.