Have you ever had a day where you speak to no-one, until you are not even sure how you talk? Well it's been like that for William Andrews, but instead of a day, it was more than nine years.

After a huge sabbatical and a mighty return to the Fringe last summer, William Andrews is back at the Soho Theatre to carry on where he left off. His show Willy is about finding his feet and his voice again. It's something like a self portrait, daftly creative with canny surprises - a cult idiot wholeheartedly embracing the Willy he always was.

We asked Will to write a few words on us about what it was like to come back to comedy after nearly a 10 year hiatus. This is what he sent us.

I mean....

"What's it like coming back to stand-up after ten years?" *puts foot up on stool* "Well, as I was telling my tutor at my analogy course it's very much like... I don't know what it's like, that's why I took that course." (I can recommend it actually, although I failed badly but Lenny and I remain as friendly as a short car of dust.)

"Back to me, I am old now, so listen close, listen to my slightly spitty words." *Puts foot up on the table, trousers rip at the crotch. Puts foot down and instead leans at a steep angle with my palm flat on the window pane, in the casual style*

"Stand-up is like a bowl of rice," I intone, "but the rice is laughter and the bowl is any place that has a roof and chairs, a mic etc. Actually the rice is audience, the sauce is the laughter. Creamy sauce with a mushroom or two. To cook rice (in this instance) go away for ten years because you doubt your ability so completely you start shouting into cups, you will also need to get mushrooms from the shop. While you are there, buy a chocolate bar, and eat it in the car on your own."

It's at this point I take a moment to bite my bottom lip and look thoughtfully out of the window, despite the blind being half down. It is grey. I'm hoping that to you, sat as you are on a footstool, think I look serious, wise, like someone who knows what he's talking about - what I'm actually thinking is 'did they see my testicles?'. I click my fingers hard for no reason.

"Do you like Jazz?" my voice breaks. I'm floundering. My heart is pretty syncopated at this point but I don't make the connection, instead I remember that I once saw a pony get hit by a digger on the coast road in 1998 and this image suddenly fills my mind. Someone drops a glass in the next door room. It's a relief. "Batter fingers" I say, with a weak laugh. "Don't you mean butter fingers" you say and of course you are right. I'm a fraud.

(At this point the Editor of British Comedy Guide is in what professionals call "Two Minds").

Chapter two. Africa (etc).

Er.

Chapter Five.

Look. If your son or daughter comes to you and says 'I would like to try stand-up', it is your duty as a citizen of the world to punch your child hard in the face. Imagine a world where instead of shrugging when I told my Father I was gonna do a short spot at Sneaky Petes - instead he had kicked me square in the nuts? That world would have been a slightly better world. Just how better we don't know, but what if my mother had viciously elbowed me in my throat when she saw me writing my first Ryanair joke?

Imagine how slightly better it would have gone if my grandmother (God rest her soul) had jammed a fork into my temple when I was, well - born. I mean I some ways I'm glad she didn't (granny too pretty fo' jail) but in other ways I'm not.*checks word count* 545 This. Is. Hard. Like returning to stand-up after ten years. YES! Lenny! I making an analogy!

Coming back to stand-up is a series of false starts and blind alleys. Some bit's are good, some bit's are bad, most of it could be better. It's 'like', writing 1000* words for British Comedy Guide in a hotel room in Glasgow that smells of farts.

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