He didn’t understand how Noel managed it. The loneliness. He’d forgotten. It was a thousand years and a different body type ago that he’d been doing stand up. Just him, trying to get the audience to laugh, trying to justify being the centre of attention. Just him. He’d hated it.
It was wrong. It was incomplete. He thought he could do it, it had felt like he could do it when he put the blond wig on and got into character. It wasn’t really him - it was Johnny, it wasn’t real. But the illusion shattered the second he glanced to the right to meet Noel’s eye - isn’t it ridiculous that we get to do this? - and he wasn’t there.
He’d fought so hard to be his own person. To prove that he was whole. And he was, most places. At the playground, at cafés, on a trip to Keat’s home in Italy, on the tube, walking on the Heath in April. But not on the stage, not doing comedy, not doing this.
"It’s like I’m missing a limb. A pigeon toed limb."
"But you’re brilliant at it, Julian."
"I hate it."
He threw the wig in the bin. He could buy a new one if Johnny Breeze made his way into the Boosh someday. He didn’t exist until then.