This is unfair to Stewart Lee. He's a comedian and I laughed and therefore both sides of the normal performer/audience member contract were filled to a surprisingly adequate degree. I stopped thinking about how much I should be thinking about it after I got lost, Inception-style, between levels 6 and 7 of post-modern self-reflexive meaning. Whatever. I'm not a clever person.
I am, however, getting a little bit Second Life in my advancing years. I had taken my book with me to get it all signed and that - God knows why, never meet your heroes, they'll look at you with their sad eyes and forget you forever and you live with that imbalance which, if you are the monolith of arrogance that I am, is tricky - and as I perambulated through the power of trembling to the Stewart Lee, my mind started to do a glitch, and this happened:
SL: Who should I sign it to?
Me: Can you sign it to Jul...er...
SL: *stares in silence*
Me: ..er, JRME please?
SL: Sorry? J...
Me: JRME. The letters. Um...
SL: *with disdain* What... is that text-speak for Jeremy, or something?
Me: *as single tear rolls down cheek* Pretty much, yeah. Thanks.
Then I ran away. I didn't say "Great show". I didn't say "No, it's actually the initials of my internet nom de plume, under which I write many informative articles about TV shows that you'll never in a million years watch." I didn't even say "I'm so, so sorry."
What's up with that? Am I now more JRME than I am Jules? Should I worry? Or be happy? Or stop gazing at my navel? Yes, that one.
So, anyway, look! It's Fist Of Fun! Full half hour of it!