The fuck wits at the evening telegraph

I gotta tell you this before I collapse in a heap in my bed. Tonight was the first showcase I've hosted. The two bands that played were both fabulous. Cougar Bob played first and they played a blinding set. Only forty minutes but God! were they good. Then We had John Dalton and Martin Gregory.
It was better than I had ever dreamt. You know I felt so useless tonight. I'd spent weeks organising this event but on the night I had nothing to do. I had hired Tony to supply the sound system and do the sound engineering. So all I could do was say hello. And "well done". All my work was already done and all I could do was sit back and watch it unfold. There was nothing more I could do.
I was furious today. I picked up the local paper and looked at the events calendar and there was nothing about my night. I phoned the paper. What's happening? I asked. I sent two E-mails and spoke to two different people and still nothing was published. They apologised profusely. But that doesn't get the crowds in. I was so angry I was shaking. Sandra phoned me and I let of a tirade of abuse. Not at her, but at the fuck wits who are supposed to be doing a job, but don't do it. She told me to calm down but I was so angry. It's a good job Sandra is one of my best friends, because she took a whole lot of shit from me this afternoon. I spent weeks organising this. I do everything myself because then I know it's gonna be done. Once I rely on someone else it all fucks up. It's the age old adage, if you want something doing properly, you do it yourself. There is a school of thought that a good manager is able to delegate responsibilty to others. Well I tried that and look what happened. Fuck all. But despite those fuck wits at the Evening Telegraph the evening went well. I gotta sleep. Tomorrow it's me up on stage with Sandra and Simon. God help us.