Many years ago, when Manford was fresh on the comedy circuit, I booked our works night out at a Liverpool comedy club. He was compering, as an unknown, and our party happened to have front row seats. Anyway, my very evident bosom became the running joke of his act, and after the show I happened to bump into him in the cloakroom. We had a drink, and he missed his nightbus home to Manchester, as we were getting on famously. He rang round for a hotel room, to which we retired for the night, and a good time was had by all. Short of actual sex, as neither of us had a condom, and, mystifyingly, we couldn't procure one from any of the distinctly prudish toilet vending machines. We left without exchanging numbers, but I was quite taken, and embarrassingly, I called the venue when he was next in town, only to be sheepishly told by him that he now had a girlfriend
This is where it gets excruciating...
Not to be turned down lightly, I persuaded a friend of mine having a hen night that the comedy club was just the place to hold it, on a night that he was appearing. The dress code, as you might imagine, was distinctly slutty.
Again, we wangled front row seats, and he began his act.
Then he noticed me right in front of him, fixing him with the steely glare of a woman scorned. Dressed as a bunny girl. Corset, fishnets, little rabbit ears, the lot...
Faced with the frankly terrifying prospect of being stalked by a demented bunny, he froze in front of the audience and utterly corpsed .
It totally fucked up his act.
I don't do things like that any more.