Don Moses Comedy & Magic Blog

Where do thoughts come from?  I mean why do I think, “God, I hope I don’t say to this lady, that is an ugly baby” or, when I am in church, why do I think “I hope I don’t shout out I object”?  Where do such thoughts come from?
How can I remember the Sunderland promotion winning team from the 1960’s – (it was Montgomery, Irwin, Ashurst, Harvey, Hurley, McNab, Usher, Herd, Sharkey, Crossan and Mulhall, if you are interested) and yet ironically, when the song “Memories” comes on the radio I can’t remember the second line of the lyrics.

As I mentioned in a recent blog, the brain has its’ own agenda on what it cares to remember, and what it will drip feed back to you immediately you put the phone down on a call that required an immediate answer.

Listing that Sunderland team, strangely enough, has brought back memories of how quite appalling, yet incredibly exciting, the football terraces were in the 1960’s.  As a youngster I would have to get to the ground two hours before kick off to get prime spot.  Prime spot was, of course, just in front of the crash barrier, half way up the Roker End (never behind the crash barrier, unless you were the undisputed “pile on” champion of the world).

I also had to arrive completely dehydrated, as once 52,000 people had filled the ground, the chances of toilet visits and safe returns were patchy (not the only thing patchy).  Some fans, who hadn’t planned as well as me, also avoided the toilet visit by rolling up a newspaper and using it as a personal funnel; yes, not the best day for your new suede Hush Puppies.  I was ok in the early days, as I was standing on a cracket *,  I am not sure my dad was as lucky with “the rivers of wee” (a lesser known speech by Enoch Powell).

I was hooked on live football those days.  I couldn’t get enough.  As soon as I was at the correct height for my cracket to allow me a clear view, I was starting to go to games with my friends.  We even went to away games (not Leeds or Millwall we weren’t mental).  We used to get lifts to away games from people we didn’t even know.  There was no cosseted parental behaviour in those days; we even had to ask them if they had any sweets.  They were innocent times, no puppies to see, we were off to the match.

My last full year of watching Sunderland was 1973.  I have been back, but never as regularly as that Cup winning year.  You wouldn’t have read this blog to this point if you did not know the outcome of the Sunderland Leeds game of 1973, so you will remember that little old Sunderland beat the mighty Leeds.  Leeds in the early 70’s were the best and yet most hated football team in the land.  They were a very good but also very dirty team (nothing to do with hotels and girls, innocent times remember).  Their reputation was not helped by Norman “bites your legs” Hunter (parents were very imaginative with middle names in those days). 

My brother (my hero) was at college and bet his whole football team, individually, that Sunderland would beat Leeds.  How clever was he?  Not that clever really, as they were all even bets, and clearly he would have done far better at the bookies, and he did crash my motorbike and then chose not to tell me, as I later found out about it.  No really!  Where are these thoughts coming from?

* Cracket: a Geordie word for a small miner’s stool, which would elevate a four foot two boy to the dizzy height of five foot five at a football match; annoyingly though, it was just short of an unobstructed view).

I once got aroused while watching Carol Vorderman, which was great because usually I only get five letter words in Countdown.  Bad joke I know, but it did make me think about my last blog.  After reading the blog I suddenly had the thought, that I couldn’t do my sums because I am out of practise.  This is how bad I am; when I am around at my Mum’s house, I can’t even beat my Mum at the Countdown numbers game.  I never need to add things up in my daily routines, so I can’t expect to be the male Carol Vorderman.  And if my theory on learning is all to do with motivation, then I will never be a genius with numbers, as surely, the motivation to beat my Mum at Countdown is not enough, as secretly I like it that she wins.

Just looking back at that last blog, it is easy to see what can be done when we are motivated.  For example: I am still enjoying performing both close up magic and stage comedy and magic.  After years of working on my close up act, I can now just grab my bag and rush off to a gig, however, for a stage performance there is a lot of prep.

On the day of a stage gig, I like to get centred for about 2 hours before I set off.  These days, I don’t hold a hair brush to my mouth (microphone style) and pace around the hotel room.  However, I will see if I can list out, on a piece of paper, my running order for the evening.  And if I can’t remember the running order, I make sure I can remember it, by the time I go on stage.

 If I am performing at a company dinner and I need to write in some industry jokes, I will spend time making sure, that on the evening, the audience think this new material is all spontaneous.  I secretly like the fact that I prepare so thoroughly for my stage act.  It is as if this extra preparation justifies the higher fee I will be getting, simply by being on stage.  This homework also assuages the part of my brain which bangs on about old fashioned work ethics.

The motivation comes from, actually not wanting to be too comfortable.  I want to feel slightly nervous before going on stage; I think I would really miss that feeling.

I recently heard that all performers get greedy (not greedy for money, but certainly for career advancement).  For example, if a performer has played to 100 people, they then want to perform to 200.  Then they want to book an Edinburgh show, then want to be on TV. 

But surely, it is the constant journey we all enjoy, not the being on telly.  I mean Carol Vorderman must be itching to get back on the road, doing sums on stage to audiences that just want to drink heavily.  Yes, I wasn’t sure where that blog was going either.

The other day I was working (yes I do know it is not real work, thanks) as the compere at a corporate event in the glittering West End of London (the only part of London to glitter obviously) and I accidentally caught a glimpse of a piece of paper showing how much the band were getting paid.  Now, I am not usually bothered about how much people get paid; see my blog on it’s not about the money.

Anyway, I saw that it was £2,500.  Pretty good money I thought, but then I realised this money had to be split between the seven band members.  As the band started their set, I drank my ice cold water and challenged my mind to work out, how much each band member would be receiving that evening.  This will be a breeze I thought; my mind was quite relaxed as I had already prepared my next ten minutes on stage.  Now, before you eggheads shout out “you idiot, it is £357 and 14 pence each, with two lucky band members getting the extra pennies”, I should point out, I had done a lot of travelling that week so I could have been tired.  But Buddha on a bike, two songs in, and I still couldn’t work it out in my head, even an approximate figure.  The exact figure would have required paper, but surely I could come up with a rough split.  No, nothing; it was like one of those moments when you can’t spell a really simple word, (a word you have used a lot) no matter how hard you try.

This made me think, the brain is an incredible organ.   I mean, how can’t I divide 2500 by 7, and yet, I can remember everyone’s name at an event with 150 guests?  I still do not know how I do this; I just know it comes easily to me on the evenings of the functions.  My wife is very good with faces, I am good with names.  If we are at a party, she spots the face, I ask her where she has seen that person in the past, and I come up with the name; we are like buddy cops.

People often ask me how I can remember so many names.  The only answer I can give is, I want, so much, for the people to have a great time that my sub conscious mind obviously believes this personal touch will help, and so it frees up brain space.  So I guess I am somehow motivated to do it.

This made me think about motivation.  Years ago, I wrote a revision guide for college students.  When I finished it, I distinctly remember thinking it could all be summed up in six words – Just Believe You Can Do It.
My students often used to say, when I presented them with something difficult to study, “Sir (I miss being called Sir), I’ll never learn all that”.   I would say “Are you sure, what about, if I give you 1 million pounds?”  I stopped short of putting my little finger in the corner of my mouth Dr. Evil style, as I didn’t want humour to dilute my point.  They always gave the same reply – “well obviously I would learn it for a million pounds”.  To which I would reply, “So it is only the lack of financial incentives which is stopping you”.  They would say “Look, if you are not giving me a million pounds I am not doing it”.  I was a great teacher huh?

Anyway, the point I am making (in a very bad way) is, I was obviously not interested and therefore not motivated in working out the division of money between the band members, well either that, or I am a bit thick.