Saturday, 28 February 2009

Waddle and Hun.

I’ve been waddling a lot over the past 24 hours. The bottom of my back hurts and as soon as I get up its stiff so to start walking I have to waddle. When I was about 8, there was a man who waddled about in my home town of Newtownards. He was pretty old and waddled like a duck everywhere he went. My friends and I thought he was very curious. Why would a man choose to waddle around town like a duck? We were told that he couldn’t help it. This just confused us more and we decided to figure out why he had to waddle. We knew very little about how the body worked but we did know that he was old so, to us, the reason he waddled was obvious: He was shot in the dick during the war.

That was a story we came up with and it was a story we believed. It was the only conclusion we could come to. After a while though he went from the man who got shot in the dick during the war to the man who got shot in the dick by Hitler during the war. It was the kind of thing Hitler would definitely do because he was a baddie. You have to be pretty bad to shoot someone in the dick, although to be very fair to Hitler (he’s not here to defend himself), he may have been aiming for his ball. Hitler only had one and hated anyone who had more than one. Anytime we saw the man who waddled we looked at him with quiet respect because, after all, he was a war hero. To defend our country he was willing to sacrifice his own dick. The Hun didn’t stand a chance because that man’s dick was in the way. They say that, in war, out there somewhere there’s a bullet with your name on it but that evil Nazi bastard had the only bullet in WWII with “that man’s dick” written on it. I loathe Hitler. The thing is, we were only 8 so any respect for a man who got shot in the dick wasn’t ever going to last. About a week, I think, we gave him. Then respect turned to mocking and laughter. That stupid fucking idiot got his dick shot, the dickless fucking idiot, and so on. I regret that now.

As I waddled past some kids near the train station yesterday I thought that they might take one look at me and give the same diagnosis. I have become the man who got shot in the dick during the war (probably by Saddam Hussein though, I’m not THAT old). If I saw the man who got shot in the dick by Hitler during the war right now I would immediately apologise to him. Hopefully, he would see me waddling and relate to my pain and even see a kindred spirit to connect with while all 8 year old children on Earth laugh at us both. Let that be a lesson to all of us.

Mind you, some words can be too nice, too, can’t they? I mean ridiculously nice. Almost thoughtlessly nice. When Dan Mersh and I returned from Dublin on Thursday we saw someone near us reading OK! Magazine. It was full of pictures of Jade Goody. Jade’s story is utterly tragic (although no more tragic than any other person dying) and making the wedding as public as this means more money to leave to her kids. A very sensible move. But OK! wanted to be really nice about the day. Quite rightly. They wrote about how beautiful her dress was and how positive she appeared which is great. Then, and Dan and I could have got this wrong, we could have sworn we saw the sentence “Her dream wedding”. The page turned and that was that. I wish her all the best in what must be a terrifying time but, my God, that can’t have been her dream wedding. I can’t imagine that any little girl dreamed and hoped that one day she’d have to rush her wedding due to terminal illness, spring her husband from jail for the day and be joined by her two kids that aren’t his. No little girl dreams of that. But then Jade’s Fucking Awful Nightmare Wedding isn’t going to sell and it doesn’t sound as nice. Since then I’ve seen “Jade’s Dream Wedding” written in The Scotsman and MSN News. It’s just a stupid phrase given the circumstances. All the best to her though. Can’t imagine much worse than what she’s going through.

I saw Ian Brown in Starbucks yesterday. We said hello to each other with our eyebrows. I really didn’t expect Ian Brown to be a Starbucks kind of guy. Then, just before leaving, in popped Mick Jones from The Clash. The Starbucks in Holland Park is the most rock n’ roll coffee shop I’ve been to. I once saw Willie Rushton, Tim Rice, Ronnie Wood and Jimmy White in the same Wetherspoons but the Starbucks was even better. Actually, I’ve just thought about it. No way was it better.

By the way, Jongleurs Camden and I will be performing a rough, half hour, work-in-progress version of King of Everything at the Hen and Chickens in Islington on the 8th and 15th March. Please make sure it is completely sold out. Remember, I’m a war hero. I don’t want Saddam Hussein to have taken my dick for nothing.

I just knew that one day I’d write that sentence.

Friday, 27 February 2009

I Hate Martin.

Horne and Corden; a brand new sketch show starting soon on BBC3.

Sorry. I really did want to start this blog a lot more positively but I just saw that sentence and thought if I’m going to be depressed all day then you should be too. Sorry again. The last couple of days in Dublin were fantastic. King of Everything wrote new material, figured out a better way of writing together and finally got round to making its stage debut. The show was very good but, obviously, not without its flaws. I forgot a line, some gags didn’t work and the CD player decided to break just as it was needed. On the plus side, our ten minute spot extended to nearly twenty minutes, although the act on after us might not have thought of that as a plus. I really must thank our director, Dan Mersh, as his input so far has been invaluable and I’d like to say that Johnny Candon and I owe him a lot. I’d like to say that but I can’t because Johnny Candon no longer exists. The man is alive and well but Dan and I decided to change his name from Johnny Candon to Jongleurs Camden and we hope that you will only think of him as that too from now on and forever. It will definitely help his career now that he has the same name as a comedy club and that is all that Dan and I were thinking of when we kindly renamed him. Please change his details accordingly on your mobile phone now.

Besides working, it was mainly boozy in Dublin. We did a lot of bar hopping and generally it was fun. Dublin is, unsurprisingly, a good drinking town. On Wednesday we all woke up just a little bit hazy and hungover. That wasn’t a good way of feeling that particular Wednesday because that particular Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. For those who don’t know what Ash Wednesday is it’s a Holy Day of Obligation were the insane put ash on their actual foreheads and walk around proudly showing it off as if it was totally normal. Just being hungover and seeing EVERYONE you passed having a smear of black shit on their heads was just too weird to take in. It actually looked like every single person you saw had had the exact same accident just happen to them. Like they all had accidentally bumped their heads on the same fireplace or had all put their heads in a fire to light their cigarettes and didn’t check their reflections afterwards. They looked liked dicks. God must hate them. I don’t though because I’m much more forgiving than God plus they all made me laugh a lot. Thanks for that, weirdos.

I arrived back in London yesterday evening and went straight to a gig in the city and then off to one in Covent Garden. Both went OK despite my head being broken thanks to the Dublin booze. I quite like doing two gigs in one night but maybe not so much when I’m feeling like I only have half a pint of blood in me. The gigs were part of The Funny Side… empire and had the same bill playing at both of them. Poor Greg Burns had to watch me twice, but to be fair I watched him once so now we’re evens. As crap as I felt, Greg found it very easy to persuade me out to The Phoenix Bar for more totally unneeded beer. I’m glad I went really because, via Greg, I met some really nice people and A FUCKING CUNT.

Martin is the manager of The Phoenix Bar and a total evil fuckwit. If you know him, punch him. If you don’t know him, find out who he is and punch him. I got a round of drinks in. Greg wanted a brandy. He was given a drink that looked like whisky, smelled like whisky and, I think this is the important bit, tasted like whisky. But no, it was brandy. The fact that it was whisky from a bottle with the word whisky on it didn’t seem to matter to manager Martin. I asked for a brandy and, to him, I got a brandy. No amount of reason or fact was going to change Martin’s mind. In the end, Greg went up and bought himself a brandy and the whisky was poured into the sink. This just got on my goat’s nerve’s wick a bit and I decided that I must have a word with Martin. I was even relatively friendly about it. Then he said “I told him and now I’m telling you, you’re not getting you’re money back” to which I replied that I thought he was being a prick. He asked if I wanted to be barred and when I said “yes, please” he mumbled and walked away. The truth is that I would love a law to be put in place that meant my entry to The Phoenix Bar was illegal. Maybe those photos of people all round the bar itself are people who Martin has previously barred. That would explain why they’re up there. It’s not like any of them are in the least bit remotely famous.

When I got home I saw my Chortle Award. It does exist and it wasn’t a wind up. Omid Djalili was right after all. I looked at Chortle’s footage of the night and I’m particularly glad that my carefully prepared acceptance statement was read out (a single word “cunts”) and was thought of as unfunny by so many. By the way, Richard Herring was robbed blind. I haven’t seen Tim Michin’s show or indeed Tim Michin’s act, in fact I absolutely refuse to even spell his name correctly, but there is no way that it was better than The Headmaster’s Son. Mind you, Zoe Gardner’s Fault was even better than that and it wasn’t even nominated so really Zoe was the one who was robbed blind. Fuck you, Steve Bennett, you wouldn’t know a fucking decent on-stage comedian if they came up and fucked you just to get a three star review. That said, when it comes to off-stage comedians your taste is immaculate.

Wednesday, 25 February 2009

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I'm very pleased to say that this blog won a Chortle Award last night. I got it for Best Off-Stage Contribution. I'm not big on awards or forcing competition on an already very competitive occupation but this is very nice indeed. It's not heavily sponsored by a mortgage company and its just nice to think that at least some part of this industry thinks that I'm funny. Off-stage.

As if to prove that I'm not funny on-stage, the debut performance of King of Everything at The International Bar in Dublin last night was pulled at the last minute. It was gutting. Not that we were down to do the whole show, just 10 minutes, but we dragged our director, Dan Mersh, all the way to Dublin to see a little of what we could do and it was all for nothing. Bumfuck. We did some work on a couple of sketches and links and thought, fucking stupidly, that it was all going to go well. Then hardly anyone turned up. Only 9 people in a venue that holds 2,500. Well, it holds 60 but what's the fucking difference if no-one bothers to turn up? Stupid, lazy, Irish bastards. I fucking hate Dublin now. That said, the lovely people of Dublin are getting a second chance to let me down tonight because King of Everything are performing their REAL debut at the same venue. No doubt we'll sell out to a bunch of lovely comedy-appreciating sexy people, unlike last night's ugly bunch of lumpy fucks who stayed at home watching BBC3 and crying into their piss and basically doing everything they can to secure that I remained off-stage. The very arena that I win awards in.

So far, I've avoided getting into a big stupid fight here in Dublin, mainly because Dubliners are friendly (although they can't be arsed putting their potatoes down for five seconds to come out to comedy, the alcoholic, shamrock-shagging, leprahaun pricks). I'm glad about that because in my last 24 hours in London I managed to get into three big stupid fights. One when asking a little girl to kindly stop screaming in an internet cafe (the little girl was fine about it but her wheezing, red-faced, furious mother reckoned that I'm a durt-ee wankah). One was with a man who was keen to support his dog's raping of mine (he's only playing. With his cock). The most up to date one was with a teenager. I don't mind fighting with teenagers because every teenager in the world is King Bellend and deserves the kicking that they're permenently about to get. I was gigging in Alton and during Tom Wrigglesworth's excellent set two "18" year old lads were talking so I politely asked them to keep it down. One of them didn't like that and decided to stare at me. This child was under that mad impression that all grown adults are terrified of kids because they can stab us with their hoodies and happy slap us right up. Well, that's ridiculous. They're smaller than us. We can destroy them. Let's destroy them! He stared at me for quite a long time trying to intimidate me, if being stared at by a tinier version of Ray Quinn is intimidating to anyone then there's no way they should ever be out of the house. Eventually I turned to him and said "What?". He shrugged, looked away and started texting. A minute later he was back to giving me his bad-ass stare. That's when I pointed my finger in his face and told him to fuck off. He deflated in front of me and, for a second, I felt like I had just bullied that little boy who hid in shit in Schindler's List. Then I remembered he was a cunt.

None such rudeness in Dublin. All's well despite the lack of last night's show. We even had a brilliant Irish moment. We went to Johnny's local pub called The Village Inn. After a couple of drinks one of the staff came up to us with three cups of soup and said "HERE". It was the rudest act of kindness I have ever witnessed.

Here's to tonight's second attempt at a debut or an underlining confirmation of my award.

Monday, 23 February 2009

Avert Your Eyes.

Good fucking God. I don’t really have time for blogging today as King of Everything is making its (quite short) stage debut tomorrow night at The International Bar in Dublin, but I have just been sent a link that I feel I must share with you.

It was sent to me by a fine gentleman and much nicer person than me. He probably would not put the link on his blog in the hope that readers of his blog can share in its total and awful pointlessness. He would not want the people behind this link to think that his opinion of them was low. I, on the other hand, am compelled to do this. This might be the worst comedy I have ever seen. I got to 2 minutes and 22 seconds into the thing. Please try and do better than I did and let me know how you feel afterwards.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you….The Shop:

Sunday, 22 February 2009

Let Me Entertain You. Pur-leeeease!

On my way to a gig in Bow last night I bumped into someone who had seen me on stage a few times. She was very friendly and said nice things. She then said how much she liked my blog. That made me feel great. She quickly ruined my good feeling, of course, by leaving with the statement (which was actually a question) “Why are you so angry all the time?”

Well, Fuckface, the answer is simple. Look around you. Everywhere you go in life you are surrounded by arseholes. In London, they say, you are never more than six feet away from a rat at any time. The thing is, all of those rats are never more than two feet away from an absolute arsehole at any time. I’m very happy for you if you find everything fucking brilliant but I can’t. The shit that we have to put up with on a day to day basis is tolerated for reasons that I just cannot fathom or ignore. Why is there an oven in the river near my house? Why is someone screaming down their mobile phone on a train? Why is this woman angry with me just because I asked her daughter to be quiet in an internet café (this just happened 20 minutes ago)? Why is there a representative from Talk Talk at my front door telling me about a great new communications package including fast-speed broadband, cheap phone calls and great, great on-demand movies at 8.30 at fucking night? Why are police horses allowed to shit wherever the fuck they want and I’m not? Why is there NOTHING on TV? Why when I think I’ve got the hang of Sainsbury’s randomness do they change their entire shop around? Why is the tube late? Why is the tube so expensive? Why is the tube crowded? Why is the tube crowded with arseholes? Why is the tube in the tunnel for 10 minutes? Why doesn’t the tube driver know? Why doesn’t the tube driver turn up the volume on the tannoy so we can all clearly hear that he doesn’t know why we’re in a tunnel for 10 minutes? Why? Why? WHY?

Anyway, that’s why. Thanks for asking.

If the human race could simply fuck off, I’d be a lot happier. I just don’t see the point in them and I don’t see how they add to life. The good thing about this is that it now means I’m not “grumpy”. According to Liam Mullone’s excellent blog I am, in fact, a “Libertarian”. That means I’m still me but somehow just a little bit sexier.

A better way to clearly answer her question would be to take her to my gig in Bow last night. I like Bow. It’s never popular with many comedians but generally I like it. But not last night. The line-up was fantastic; Andrew Bird, Bennett Arron and Ben Norris, all great comedians. They were all exceptionally funny last night. What a shame the audience were too busy talking to notice there was such a good show on right in front of them. The front five tables seemed interested in the show. They laughed in all the right places, applauded when they especially liked something and, you know, had the good time that they paid for. The others actually paid money (and it’s not that cheap to get in) to sit and scream at their badly dressed, thick as fuck friends. I managed to say some of my very best feedlines on stage before asking the morons to keep talking to a minimum, which is a polite way of saying How fucking thick are you? Don’t you even realise there’s a show that you fucking paid for going on in front of you right now? Don’t you know how to actually conduct yourself in a public place, you fucking, fucking, FUCKING morons? Honestly, it was as if they hadn’t gone anywhere to learn how to whisper.

The door staff constantly asked people to be quiet but not all the staff were as helpful. I loved how they decided to bring out two birthday-candlelit cakes out just as I was introducing the open spot. The open spot was a very nice man called Pardis Parker (great name) who did a quick 10-minute slot. The audience were silent for him and listened throughout. Now, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but of all last night’s acts to give your undivided attention to perhaps this wasn’t the one. I’m sure he’d have done fine if the audience had watched any of the show before him but they just hadn’t. The audience were now very quiet. Quieter than they had been all night. Probably quieter than they had been their whole noisy lives. You could have heard a pin drop. Well, you certainly would have noticed a laugh if the audience had given one. The good news was that they were listening. Great! Let’s bring on Ben Norris! Then the audience went back to talking loudly. They obviously felt that they had given the show a chance and that was it. Not that Ben, or any of the other acts, didn’t get laughs. They all did. Just from selected audience members who laughed but then stopped laughing quickly to ask the table next to them to stop talking. Fucking pointless.

Anyway, that’s why. Thanks for asking.

Just in case you think I’m being over dramatic about a crap night then let me assure you I’m not. Bennett Arron said that he preferred the gig, in the same venue, the night before. Bennett was threatened with a kicking the night before. That should give you some idea about last night.

Hey ho. That’s how it goes sometimes. Sometimes you just get an incredible percentage of thick people in at the one time. I don’t get it and I never will. You pay for a show. The show is on. You sit and watch the show. To me, that’s pretty straight forward. I can only imagine long division or a rubiks cube would kill these people. It’s certainly worth a try.

Don’t let that (or me) put you off going to see live comedy. Thankfully there are still more than enough nice people out there to make up for a one-off night with some arseholes.

Crap! There goes my Libertarian status.

Saturday, 21 February 2009

The Enemy of the World.

Robert Mugabe is a massive dick. I don't normally come off with insightful political comment like that but the man makes me furious. He gets through elections by using threats of violence to secure the outcome, he takes people's farmlands from them, he used to work at Chortle, he once punched a unicorn and now this: Robert Mugabe is refusing to let the BBC look through Zimbabwean television vaults in the hope of finding the remaining lost episodes of Doctor Who. I fucking hate Robert Mugabe. This is by far the worst thing he has ever done.

108 episodes of Doctor Who are still missing after the BBC destroyed master tapes of the programme in the '60's because the BBC are fucking idiots with no soul who keep sending me rejection letters. Since then some episodes have been found in foreign TV vaults and the occassional car boot sale. But, because of his hatred of all white people and Torchwood, probably, Robert Mugabe has decided that he will keep the contents of the vaults secret. There could be Episode four of The Tenth Planet in there, you despot anus.

I know all this because I read The Sun yesterday, a newspaper that I have only just discovered holds the exact same views and opinions that I do. You are right, The Sun. Mugabe is "Worse than Davros". I bet that has sent him in to a wild, violent fury that a British newspaper has bravely stood up to his hate-regime and told him that he is worse than someone who doesn't exist.

Also, in the same newspaper, was an editorial bile by Jon Gaunt. I don't know Jon Gaunt. All that I do know about him is what's been said on the Collings & Herrin Podcast. What I have learned about "Gaunty" since reading his column is that he is a calm and reasonable man who has accepted the horrors of the world and risen above them. That is, until a recent line was crossed and even this gentle soul could not bare to sit back and watch the injustice any longer. He said that you know things are bad in the world when the Pet Shop Boys win a Brit award. How right he is. Like Jon Gaunt, I too do not care about the Credit Crunch, teenage stabbings, international terrorism or any other global disaster. But where are we good, good people to go now that the Pet Shop Boys have won a trophy? Surely this is the darkest day that the human race has yet faced. I'm sure in years to come we will all remember where we were when we heard the news that the Pet Shop Boys have won a Brit. Please, Jesus, if you are there, hear us. We need you now more than ever. Just help Jon Gaunt get through this one thing. There is no hope for any of us now that the record industry has decided to pay tribute to a HOMOSEXUAL and his friend just because they are both brilliantly talented. God, what a horrible world to bring a child into.

I'd like to welcome Amy Kathleen Tetsell to planet Earth. She was born last night at 9pm and is, what I like to consider, the first of the many, many Real Daniel O'Donnell Show children. Congratulations to Margaret and Dan and well done Margaret on being upgraded from crying, pregnant bastard to simply bastard. Congratulations to all three.

Thursday, 19 February 2009

This Band Has Eaten All Our Money and We Don't Mind.

I have the world’s loveliest hangover today. It’s just humming away gently inside my head, more of a lullaby than a headache. It’s there just to remind me that I had a lovely night last night out with friends I hardly ever see. Zoe, Chad, Clare, Jo, Darren,Cat, Dom, Vera, Ally, Chris, Tony, Toria, Jo, Andy (who I just met), Ballyclare Paul, Kathy, Karin, Bob, Charlotte and some others who I don’t know. It was so good. Hooray for all them. And there was booze. Not loads, but enough. And my hangover is a gentle, throbbing reminder that keeping in touch with your friends (actually real, face to face, not Twittering) is something I should be doing more of.
I was invited along to an evening in Kings Cross themed “F*** The Brits”. Now, although I saw the asterisks as cowardly I definitely loved the sentiment behind the title. Imagine my disappointment when I got there and discovered it was just a load of starving indie bands and not some IRA uprising like I hoped. I ironed my balaclava for nothing. I say nothing, I still looked fabulous in it and I certainly turned a few heads. Ha ha ha! Only joking! I was actually really there to see my favourite band in the entire world, 28 Costumes.

You know the way your friend has a band and its shit? Well, I don’t have that problem. My friends’ band is genuinely my favourite band and they are a never ending fountain of great pop hooks, uplifting tunes and plainly exciting, danceable, guitar-driven, feel-good songs. Not in a fucking Wombats way. In a good way. In a 28 Costumes way. Plus, they can break your heart when they feel like it, too. To put it simply; I adore them. It was such a good gig last night and I was over the moon that they had drawn a great crowd to the legendary Water Rats. Normally London venues like this are lucky if half a man and a third of his dog turn up and it was good to see that they did. So did lots of other complete people. You will be doing yourself a big favour if you go to iTunes now and download one of 28 Costumes songs. It will cost you 79p. Imagine that? 79p for happiness? That is a bargain. I recommend one of the tunes from their Electrical Fever EP but all their stuff is excellent really. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than that band your friend is in.

After the band it was back to boozing and two beautiful discoveries. Firstly, although by being at the Water Rats I was therefore f***ing the Brits, I did manage to see one bit of the pointless, middle-of-the-road pop trophy event. It was for best live act. Best live act in 2009. Coldplay? White Lies? Lady Gaga? NO! The winner was Iron Maiden. I’m so proud of them. I was a member of their fan club in 1981, don’t you know? (Don’t let that put you off my love of 28 Costumes, my taste is much more refined since 1981) Secondly, did you know that when the Pixies split up their drummer became a professional magician? It’s true and it’s fantastic. There is a documentary called loudQUIETloud and in it David Lovering appears at several magic shows under the name The Scientific Phenomenalist. Personally, I think he should have called himself The Magic Lovering although that might have given him a totally different audience.

Yeah, it was a simple night of drinking and seeing friends but, really, you can’t get much better than that. Well, you can. Later that night I was asked to leave a waiting room in London Bridge’s train station because it was a women only waiting room. I told the attendant that I was a woman and we both left it at that. She obviously didn’t want to question it and I didn’t want to budge from her incredibly sexist waiting room. For all she knew I was a woman. After all, I still had the balaclava on.

I’m glad this blog is cheerier than yesterdays.

Wednesday, 18 February 2009

The Worst Person In The World.

This world has seen tyranny in its most awful barbaric form brought on by the likes of Hitler, Stalin, Hussein and, hey, George W. Bush, but has this helpless, hopeless planet ever been so abused and destroyed by anyone as evil, black-hearted and manipulative as Stephanie Quilao?

I genuinely think she is this era’s worst human being and should have all breathing rights taken away from her, her family, people she’s actually met and anyone who has the slightest positive thing to say about her. She is worse than Hitler dressed up as Ian Huntley wanking over 9/11 while telling Maddie to be quiet. I’ve mentioned Stephanie Quilao before but never by name. I only know her by her Twitter name. She is….Skinnyjeans.

Now, we all have an opinion on Twitter. Mine is that its one of the most fun and utterly pointless things on the internet, yours might differ. I heard one person describe it as “crap”. So, you know, different strokes and all that, but what Twitter does brilliantly is give arseholes a constant platform (I should know, I am one of those arseholes) to spout about their lives. Most people’s lives are very boring but that will not stop them from telling you about it every 10 seconds on Twitter. Some Twitter people’s lives are really interesting and we Twitter people wait for hours for them to repost just so we can get a glimpse of how fabulous their existence must be. Others, and these are the ones I’m really not mad keen on, have awful lives but feel that they can give you advice on how to improve yours. Enter Skinnjeans.

Ugh, entering Skinnjeans, what a revolting thought. Anyway, Stephanie Quilao aka Skinny jeans is a fitness “expert”. She has a popular blog dedicated to helping you be the best you that you can be. At least, that is what she would have you believe. This is just my opinion, I could be wrong, but I reckon Stephanie Quilao hates Stephanie Quilao as much as I do and therefore dumps her emotional baggage on the weak, stupid and embarrassingly underfit to make them feel as awful about themselves as she so obviously feels about herself. I could be wrong.

I’m not wrong.

Here are some Twitter posts that the evil bastard has posted recently: “How about a hydration moment: Go drink a glass of water to help wake up refreshingly :-D”, “My twitter formula: smiling avatar, descriptive bio, actively engage w/ others, ask others something about them, be a source of positivity:)”, “I'm thankful for people who have the ability to forgive and be patient when I am going through a funk or learning lesson :) #thxthrs”.

That is actually how that grown adult communicates. Mind you, she has over 41,000 followers to her Twitter posts so what do I know? Well, obviously, I know that there are over 41,000 fucking idiots in the world but I could have guessed that anyway. She constantly has people replying to her posts thanking her for everything that she’s done for them on the road to making them “better”, ie more like Stephanie Quilao. But what has she done for them? She’s told them to drink water. I’m sorry but if you’re so utterly thick that you can’t recognise thirst and have to be told when to drink then you should only be allowed to drink sand. She’s told them to exercise (not what exercises to do, just exercise). Exercise is important. I know that and I have next to no interest in exercise, does anyone need to be reminded of this? She posts recipes. So, basically, Stephanie Quilao is an overbearing mother and those 41,000 odd people are her helpless, thick as pig blubber children.

OK, she’s not for me. She’s there for other people so I can easily just unsubscribe to her Twitter posts. I can stop being one of the 41,000 odd, odd people. But I can’t. I’m slightly addicted. Not to taking her advice but to reading it. “Let’s cut out the sodas”, “You’re so special so let’s treat you to a glass of cool, cool h20”, “I’m down one more size! How you doing?”. I’d miss all that patronising, manipulative, spiteful, passive aggression on a half hourly basis if I unsubscribed. Maybe this is how all the 41,000 odd, odd fucking odd people started. They laughed at her, then slagged her off, then tried, you know, just one of her recipes, then thanked her, then marched beside her then killed in her glorious name. It’s just a thought.

She is evil. Avoid. Avoid but check her out too. I don’t know how you’re going to do both of those things but I recommend it highly. I hate everything about her. Even her name; Quilao. Sounds too much like a word that is rapidly becoming my word of the week. By the way, want to know her post just 13 hours ago?

“For those who asked, here's a simple "How To Cook Quinoa.””

Thanks to TheSophie and Badger237 and Rob Heeney for pointing out her hate to me.

Tuesday, 17 February 2009

Years of Refusal.

Alright, it was Quinoa. It said Quinola in the recipe. I’ve never heard of Quinoa or Quinola (which doesn’t exist) so I’m afraid I stupidly took Sainsbury’s at its cack-handed word. Wonder why 118 118 didn’t correct my spelling, though? I’ll ask Tom Bell.
My friend has just bought the latest Morrissey album. This makes me very, very happy indeed mainly because he has always hated Morrissey and throughout our friendship has made his feelings about Morrissey clear: he’s a dour, Manchunian, miserable cunt. There’s never been much point in me defending Morrissey either. If you don’t get him, you don’t get him. If you miss the fact that Morrissey is hilarious then, to me, you’re missing out on something very special indeed. But that’s OK. It helps me figure out that you’re an idiot all the quicker. My friend sent me a text telling me that his wife was out for the evening and he was about to buy his first ever Morrissey album. I loved the fact that he’s so embarrassed by coming out of the Moz-closet that he couldn’t do it with anyone else being in the house. I haven’t named my friend because I promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone. I now think of myself as the Harvey Milk of Morrissey fans. I know it’s tough to admit it, to yourself, parents, friends, etc. but you’re honestly not different. You’re just as much a person as anyone else and I am here to support you (camera pulls back to reveal Morrissey fan in a wheelchair).

Then, right after this BOMBSHELL, I found out that Morrissey appeared on The One Show. Is he finally being accepted (I mean, except for the thousands of people who openly accept him)?

Either way, I’m glad. I’m glad that my friend has decided to give in to his deep-rooted Morrissey lust and that the man himself is sitting plugging an album on primetime magazine programmes. All those new ears getting a chance to hear his latest album, so many new fans. Shame it’s not very good. Oh, well.

My feet are very old. Way older than me. They go to sleep early and wake up early. They are slow, forgetful and in constant pain. Yesterday was a horrible day for me and, if they weren’t senile and actually understood what was going on, my feet. I stood up and they immediately started aching. It was terrible. I knew what I had to do. I had to buy slippers. I fucking hate slippers. I’ve always said, to anyone that would listen, that I hate slippers but EVERY FUCKING CHRISTMAS I am swamped in pair upon pair of increasingly ugly slippers. They immediately go into a bag that I take to a charity shop. How I long for just one pair of those disgusting, horrible, beautiful slippers right now. I went to Marks & Spencer yesterday to buy a pair but, when it came to it, I was embarrassed and left empty footed. Foot pain is so extreme. There’s very little I do that doesn’t include my feet coming along with me. Obviously, I could go to the doctor and get them checked out but that is a sign of weakness and I will not be sucked into it. I must live every day in pain and agony and shame. I am a Morrissey fan.

Monday, 16 February 2009

Quinola Assahola.

“Do you actually work here or do you just like the look?”
Those were my angry words, yesterday, to a Sainsbury’s employee. I’m fucking fed up of Sainsbury’s. Every time I go in there now it just gets more and more depressing. The vegetarian section is smaller than the custard section, they don’t sell decent booze and the people who work there are brain shittingly stupid or, and this can be so much worse, friendly.

I wanted to cook a vegetarian sausage stew. I found the recipe in a Sainsbury’s magazine. Part of the recipe called for Quinola. I don’t know what Quinola is. I’ve never heard of Quinola but I really wanted to cook something nice and vegetarian sausage stew sounded great so it was Quinola I had to buy. The thing about not knowing what Quinola is is that you don’t know what section to look in. The TV, crockery, DVD, shampoo and massive, massive custard sections were confidently crossed off my list and I headed to the vegetarian section. Both things in the Sainsbury’s vegetarian section were not Quinola. Let’s think; Quinola looked seed-y. Let’s have a look in the pulses section. Well, for some reason, Sainsbury’s pulses section is made up of mainly Spaghetti Hoops and Power Ranger’s Beanz n’ Sausage Bitez. I fucking hate Sainsbury’s.

I thought, I can’t spend all day in here, I’m going to have to….please, Lord, help me….speak to a member of staff. I looked around to see if I could find the most intelligent-looking member of staff available and, sure enough, Stumpy McAwful was dragging his face around the Nachos section. God, he looked depressed. Wearing a badge that says “Try Something New Today” must be a constant mockery to him. I couldn’t talk to him. I just couldn’t. I KNOW that he doesn’t know where the Quinola is. I can tell just by looking at his face on the floor. It would be a waste of time. Then I actually stooped to texting 118 118.

I love you, 118 118, because you told me that Quinola is a South American cereal grain that can be cooked like rice and is found in the rice section of Sainsbury’s. Excellent. I went straight to the rice section, stepping over any staff member’s faces in the way, confident that the Quinola was mine and I’d be out of this hole pretty damn soon. They didn’t have any. FUCK. I looked at basmati, long grain and fucking, fucking cous cous but there was nothing there with the name Quinola on it. I gave up. I’d found a great recipe, given to me by Sainsbury’s themselves, but could the place actually give me the ingredients? NO! I sighed. I gave up. I’ll cook something else.

Then, something worse than Lion-rape happened to me. A member of staff asked if they could help. This was incredibly unlikely. Unless I needed to know what the floor felt like on my cheek there is no way that this ball of wrongly placed flesh and bone could assist anyone. But at least he asked. That was a step in the right direction. Maybe he had finally got round to reading his badge and thought “Yeah, fuck it. I’ve never been in any way helpful before. I might give it a go”. I liked his spunk. Ok, I thought, let’s see if this kid (he was in his late 50’s) has got the goods. I explained that I was looking for Quinola and immediately I could see his mind packing for a month long holiday in his arse. Quinola baffled me, it might actually kill him. If he was alive, that is.

So, I explained what Quinola was. Then he pointed to where it should be. Basically, he pointed to Sainsbury’s. There was no real definite direction to the end of his pointing finger. No problem, I said, and walked away. He called me back because he was SURE that it was round here somewhere. He looked in all the places I had already looked. Don’t worry, I said, I’ll get something else. NO. He would find it. It had to be here. He spent three minutes looking at the same shelf, mumbling to himself. Look, mate, I’m going. This is a waste of time. It’s not here. Then he said that the thing that got me all cross. “No. No. No, sir. Seriously. There is definitely rice around here somewhere”. We were in the fucking RICE SECTION. We are surrounded by FUCKING RICE. That is rice and that is rice. So is that and that and that. I don’t want rice. I want Quinola.

He said “What is Quinola?”

Go to the beginning of this blog to find out what I said next before walking away from the floor-faced cunt.

By this time, I was too late to cook and went directly out to the pictures. I saw Milk. Milk is up for all sorts of awards like BAFTAs and Oscars. I can only assume that these nominations are jokes. It’s an awful film. Firstly, its indie by numbers. This scene is grainy and the next scene is over-exposed and the next scene is all silhouettes. Fucking pretentious, unimaginative crap. Secondly, it’s soooooooooo patronising. Gays move to town, people don’t like gays, gays are people too, why can’t the world see that? That’s as deep as you’re going to get?? There are some OK bits in the film but overall it drags, it patronises and it just doesn’t say too much. Harvey Milk’s life was obviously pretty amazing so well done to Gus Van Sant for going way out of his way to make that story dull. I don’t know how he did it. Mind you, I’ve seen his other films so I have a bit of an idea. Also, maybe it might have been nice if there was the occasional gay person in the film. What with it being about equality and all. After the film, I went drinking with real gays. DJ Kev and his civil partner, Marlon. It was nice to see DJ Kev after the five months that the Real Daniel O’Donnell Show has been on hiatus. I miss it. Once I get the hang of King of Everything I think I’ll put some pressure on to get Los Quattros Cunts up and running. Or not.

Gigs this weekend were excellent. Both Friday and Saturday at the Tattershall Castle were excellent. On Valentine’s Night it was FULL of couples and I couldn’t help thinking that a comedy club would be a horrible romantic date. But there were couples everywhere laughing together and having fun so what do I know? I know that I don’t have time to blog about the man on the train on a freezing Saturday night who sat opposite me wearing just a t-shirt and rolled up jeans plus I don’t have time to blog about little Alfie Patten demanding a DNA test. Always tomorrow though. Have a nice day.

Friday, 13 February 2009

250,000,000 Interesting Things About Me.

RULES: Write down 250,000,000 things about you that are revealing, interesting, things you've never told anyone else and, above all, moronically pointless. Then print them out, climb a hill and shove them up your arse.

1. I am quite busy today (shut up, it's true) so these few words are my entire blog. Graham Linehan, creator of Father Ted and the equally brilliant The IT Crowd, sent me a link that he thought I'd like yesterday. I mean, he sent it to me and the other billion people that follow him on Twitter. Graham Linehan does not know I exist. That's my problem and I am dealing with it, in my own way. The link is excellent and it made me laugh a lot yesterday. Let me and my friend, Graham Linehan, now pass that link on to you for your enjoyment. You can thank us both when you see us together but NOT when you see us individually. It may take some time. Anyway, on behalf of me n' G (that's what we'll like to call each other when we're BFF's, probably), click here:

2. I've just had a package sent to my house. It's full of amazinging (that's a typo but I'm refusing to correct it because it looks good) CD's by The Cramps, Funkadelic, Big Star and Charles Bukowski along with a bunch of great compilations. This might get in the way of my hard work today. Thank you, Liz Buckley, for your kindness.

3. I'm going to start work now.

4. Seriously, can we all start stopping these stupid "Interesting Stuff About Me" things now?

5. Please?

6-250,000,000. Thank you.

Thursday, 12 February 2009

I Don't Care If I Fall As Long As Someone Else Picks Up My Gun and Keeps Shooting.

Yesterday was much more like it. It was full of excitement, danger, crime and victory. Yesterday I fare dodged.

Now, I didn’t mean to fare dodge. Honestly. I legitimately bought the wrong ticket to Dovercourt (is there any other type?). I only had an off-peak ticket that I bought because, let’s face it, I didn’t think that Dovercourt would ever have a peak travel time. I got on the train and sat down happily knowing that my ticket was fine for the journey, got my DVD player out and ate a Wispa. All lovely so far. Then, about a minute after the train started moving, an announcement was made. “All Off-Peak tickets and travel cards are not valid on this Journey and Michael Legge is a cunt” is what I heard.

Ah, shit, I thought. I’m going to have to pay a fine and buy another ticket because of this. But then I had this brilliant idea; Don’t pay the fine and don’t buy another ticket! It was foolproof. All I had to do was either hope that the ticket inspector didn’t look at the ticket properly or didn’t care OR argue till I’m blue in the face. I didn’t mind the last one. I like arguing.

This was exciting. I haven’t fare dodged in years. In my youth I did it on purpose due to not having any money at all ever but this was different. This was real anarchy. I have the money but FUCK YOU, National Express Rail, you’re not getting any of it. I am standing up for the little man who cannot afford your inflated train fares, I am defending the honest passenger who doesn’t see improvement in the rail system despite yearly leaps in prices, I am making a stand against the system itself. Besides, it was an honest mistake. I didn’t mean to buy the wrong ticket.

I sat and I sat and I sat. Nothing happened. This is a crap revolution. How can I show The Man that I don’t give a fuck about his rules if he doesn’t even come round and look at my bad ass ticket? I took my Che Guevara beret off and watched Doctor Who. Stupid revolution.

Then, ten minutes before I was due to get off the train, he appeared. Mr. Fucking Ticket Inspector. National Express Rail’s own little jobsworth robot throwing the law into the faces of the innocent. Look at him cheerily looking at tickets, being polite and saying thank you. He’s worse than Pol Pot. The fucking, evil, facist bastard. Well, I am not like the others on this train. I cannot sit by and watch his tyranny without doing something about it. I will not look on my brothers and sisters while they are bound to his chains. I will stand. I will move forward. And, yes, if I die then I shall die with my boots on.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, for the last ten minutes of my train journey I hid in the toilet. It was horrible. I hid to make the point that I didn’t want to pay anymore than £28 to get to Dovercourt and after five seconds in that closet of piss I would glad pay that twice to get out. Thankfully, the revolution will not be televised.

When I got out of the loo the first thing I saw were two Transport Policemen. Fucking hell, I thought, this is going a bit far just because I’m fare dodging. Oh, well. I can’t complain. I am in the wrong and they’re only doing their job, I suppose. Luckily, they were BRITISH Transport Police and did fuck all.

I arrived at the gig. The venue was called Alfresco. I don’t think Alfresco was the right word for this dark, damp basement seeped in piss but who am I to judge? At least it was slightly larger than the toilet I’d just been cowering in. It definitely wasn’t a classy place. I could tell just by looking around. The beer was £1.50, they were playing David Soul ON TAPE and there was a poledancing pole in the corner of the room. Those were the first clues. That said, the people were actually quite nice, there just wasn’t very many of them. 27 of them, in fact. The best thing I can say about my performance is that I got through it. Luckily, I had a second gig in Clacton to put it all right.

I was driven to Clacton by a very lovely man called Ray who told me about the locals all being terrified of a recent UFO sighting that had actually turned out to be a burning plastic bag. I love locals. Locals are thick! The Clacton gig was in a venue called the Geisha Hotel. Yeah. Another classy joint. At least I wouldn’t be playing to 27 people in a basement.

I was walked down to the basement bar to look at the 15 people who made up the audience. Brilliant. Matt Price was compering and we both agreed to just quickly get the gig started and get it over with. Matt did an excellent job but 15 people in a brightly lit room was never going to rock, was it? I went on and mucked about. They were actually slightly better than I expected. Except one of them. His name is Peter. Peter is a cunt. He was a cunt when he woke up yesterday, he was a cunt last night and I am pretty confident he is out there somewhere being a cunt right this minute. He spoke to me like I was totally beneath him. He spoke to EVERYONE like they were beneath him. He rolled his eyes at everything I said, tutted when I made jokes and made horrible comments about how unintelligent you have to be to be a comedian. So, I put him down. This was pretty much the only time I made the room laugh as one, I think. It was clear to all that he was a grade A prick with no clue about how big an arsehole he was. Even the woman he was with laughed when I put him down. Maybe me pointing out his foibles rang a little bell for her, I don’t know. The thing is, Cunt Peter looked like the Fat Controller from Thomas the Tank Engine and I did start to wonder if National Express Rail had sent him to fuck up the gig in revenge for my fare dodging. Eventually, I made him laugh. That made me feel good. And then bad. Why did I want him to laugh? I don’t care about his approval. He is an awful, awful bastard. I hate that I have amused him for one single solitary second (that’s an estimate). I left the gig in a big huff.

Then, the Hedgehog Moment happened again. As I stomped from the gig I saw the moon glistening on the sea off Clacton bay. It was so beautiful, calm and majestic. I had to stop and look for a while. Who could possibly give Cunt Peter the time of day when something this perfect was right here and free to look at. I was all happy again. I’m loving the moon these days.

I’ve been lucky enough to own Jerk for four years and one day today. Time for a walk. It’s a nice day today, don’t stay inside.

Wednesday, 11 February 2009

The Devil Found Me Work.

Yesterday was very, very dull.

The full moon was the most exciting thing that happened yesterday. Did you see it? It was HUGE. That’s seriously the closest my big face has ever been to the moon. When I saw it it actually made me jump. It looked like someone had hilariously put a fake moon in the sky just to freak us out. It was the real moon but I was freaked out anyway. Wouldn’t it be amazing if someone actually went there?

The other event of yesterday was that I successfully made Vegetable Curry Soup. Unfortunately, while successfully making Vegetable Curry Soup I also unsuccessfully attempted a Vegetable Curry. I think you can see where I went wrong. It was very nice. Very nice. Nice and wet.

And that was it. That was my Tuesday the 10th of February 2009. In the absence of anything happening at all whatsoever, may I take this opportunity to recommend some things to waste your time with? In no time at all, you’ll be having ALL your days like my yesterday. Lucky you, you poor bastard.

PODCASTS: As I plainly can’t make a podcast myself I listen to other people’s. I’ve written about Collings & Herrin pretty much every third blog but I’ve also just got into Phill Jupitus and Phil Wilding’s excellent Perfect 10 and Adam & Joe’s podcast is always brilliant. They’re all funny and free. That’s nice of them. My favourite podcast at the moment though is All Songs Considered. It’s like an Alt. Americana Whispering Bob Harris playing whatever songs he feels like. It’s full of great music and WAY better than real radio. Real radio is terrible. If we keep on supporting free podcasts then sooner or later Chris Moyles will be out of a job. It’s your duty to download these now. To iTunes!

MUSIC: Speaking of music, give Hallo…I Love You a listen. Bedroom electronica at it’s very best. It’s a bit like Tim Ten Yen but more heartfelt. Go to to hear a few songs. Bon Iver’s new Blood Bank EP is excellent too but you’ll have to pay for that if you want to hear it. Or you can nick it, I suppose.

FILM: I have no idea why I’m recommending this film as you will almost certainly hate it. I saw it about three years ago but watched about half of it again yesterday. It’s so stupid. There’s one scene where, over the strains of some very uplifting music, a chef gives a five minute long speech about how it’s OK to want to fuck a fridge. It’s called Wet Hot American Summer. I like it.

FOOD: I keep eating crisps. That can’t be good for me but as a vegetarian it’s as close to tasting the meat that we all secretly crave as you can get. I’ve recently been enjoying Cajun Squirrel flavour. Oh, yes, it SOUNDS disgusting but wait until you taste them. Honestly, it’s like licking the top of a battery.

SHOUTING: I normally shout at the TV (I know I shouldn’t have watched Paris Hilton’s New British Best Moneyslut last night but it was great for strengthening the lungs) but I’m finding it just as much fun to shout at other things these days. People who don’t pick up their dog’s shit, council workers, children on the train, the man in Sainsbury’s who’d never heard of Coconut and the BT Sales Team are all things that I’ve shouted at in the last week. I’m sure you have your favourites too. I’d love to hear about them.

DOING FUCK ALL: It’s pretty easy and has really been taking up a lot of my time lately. You know stuff? Just stop doing that and before you know it you’re playing Doing Fuck All. Sometimes I can do this for an entire day. It gives you an idea of what it must be like to actually be in the Big Brother house but with a welcome drop in the amount of cunts.

There. That should keep you busy. Well, not busy. You don’t have to do much to do any of them. If you do as much of these today as you possibly can then you’ll have some idea of how my day was yesterday. Highly recommended.

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

Bennett Arron wrote a blog about the BAFTA’s yesterday ( and I’ve not much to add to what he said. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed it. Jonathan Ross was a great host and Micky Rourke and Mick Jagger were excellent. In fact, I thought it was a bit wanker free. I mean, it was obviously FULL of wankers but they seemed to rein it in for the night. I think only one got through the net and that was Emma Watson. What a charmingly awful cunt she’s grown up to be. She was only on screen for 9 seconds yet even Kate Winslett must have wanted to punch her pretentious spoilt little face in. Listen to how she reads out the name of the winner. Horrible child:

I was lucky enough to be asked to tell a story at Storytellers at Battersea Arts Centre last night. It was part of Josie Long’s N2o festival that featured separate shows by Jo Neary, Gavin Osborn and more (I think). I’ve done Storytellers before and always had a good time even though it’s quite nerve wrecking. Everyone who does it is a slick and sensitive storyteller and, to be very honest, I’m not. I’m shit. But I do get through it with my own brand of charm and swearing. It’s just so worrying thinking about what to talk about. James Dowdeswell told a great story about his school days and Gavin Osborn sang a terrific song (even though that’s cheating) about lost love. Then it was my turn. I talked about telling children to fuck off. For the last time, I am not Peter Ustinov.

I’m going to be very honest with you now. When I got to Battersea Arts Centre my stomach sank. It was full of crayon-drawn signs indicating quilt-making, collage-making and, Lord help us, dressing up. They actually had a box of dressing up “clothes”. Wherever you looked there were thing to make and do, cut-up, paste, pour glitter on and finger paint. I went to the bar.

The bar was almost as bad. They gave me a pint in a plastic glass? Why? It’s Josie Long’s festival. What is anyone here going to do with a real glass that would be so dangerous? The worst that will happen is that it’ll come back with tinsel glued to it.

I’m a curmudgeon. I think that’s fair to say. If I had my own festival it would be full of stuff that very few people would like. All of Patrick Troughton’s surviving episodes in order, scratching my arse and dog walking is hardly likely to draw a crowd and secure me a following and they did do an amazing job of decorating the place (it GENUINELY looked like a special needs crèche). I realise that it might be a studenty thing and I am very old. I’m 40, for fuck’s sake, and Josie must be….what? 30?

Josie was excellent at Storytellers. It was mainly her presence that made me a bit nervous about doing it. She’s very good at quirky, interesting and sensitive comedy. Stuff I probably wouldn’t have the first clue about. So, me doing a story about telling an 11 year old boy to fuck off didn’t exactly make me look like I was about to rob Ben Moor of his crown. Then Josie went on and told a story about a woman who wasn’t that fussed about being raped twice. I was so relieved.

By the way, the festival has lots of great acts on and it only has two days left. You should go. You can dress up!

Speaking of Josie, I’m watching her dad, Robin Ince, on Never Mind The Buzzcocks right now. He is FANTASTIC in it. Make the effort to seek out that episode.

Sunday, 8 February 2009

I Often Dream Of Trains.

Friday night’s gig has been washed clean now. I did the Bearcat Comedy Club in Twickenham and it was fantastic. Whatever it was I did wrong the night before got made right. I’m so glad it did too because I was a right miserable shit yesterday. I had one of those days where I was feeling down so lots of other things decided to get on my nerves to go along with it. Jerk rolled in mud in the park, my Freeview box froze and then, worst of all, I stubbed my toe. Stubbing your toe is the worst thing that can happen to anyone. It is the greatest amount of pain that the human body can endure and I had to endure it. I hate enduring pain. It’s in my top 5 least favourite things to endure. That woman who gave birth to eight children recently has no idea what pain really is and Fritzl’s daughter could teach me nothing about suffering. Honestly, it was agony for about seven annoying seconds. You must think me terribly brave.

Last night went great and I felt brilliant about it. Really, really happy. So happy in fact that I decided to accept all things that were said to me as fact. When I got off stage Omid Djalili congratulated me on my Chortle Best Compere nomination. I thanked him. Let’s face it. Who knows more about comedy? Omid Djalili or Steve Bennett? So, I’ve accepted the nomination. Please vote for me. It might be tricky to vote for me but please, please do it anyway. Then I was told that I had taken my act to a new level by the promoter. That’s also not true but, yeah, I guess I have done. Thanks! Then a man called me a genius. Well, who am I to argue with a man who wears a plastic Viking hat? A GENIUS. That’s who.

My great mood was only made better (and secretly worse) by Rob Brydon’s fantastic set. What a great night. Then I left the club. Then it went wrong.

Trains after 10pm are generally horrible but last night I think I picked a doozy. The carriage I chose had two sets of awful wankers in it. The first group were made up of about 8 rejects from Skins. They even dressed like the teenagers on Skins thus proving how deeply uncool they were. They all shared one 2 litre bottle of cider (which was quaint and reminded me of my youth) and played loud music out of an iPod attached to speakers. I asked them to switch it off. They acted like Harry Enfield’s Kevin, but even less funny, and turned the music down. I didn’t want them to turn the music down. I wanted it switched off. Glasvegas are shit. They just are. I DON’T want to ever hear them. So, I asked them to switch it off again and they gave a really strong argument in “We’re only listening to it”. I know they were only listening. Trouble was, so was I. So, this time I asked them to switch it off in a fairly loud and stern voice. That’s when the other group started up.

The other group were even worse. They were made up of about 10 embarrassingly posh rugby fans who were pissed beyond comprehension. “Leave them alone” said this excruciating posh and thick dollop of terrible. She wore a rugby shirt. With the collar up. God, that must be the worst look. You just scream prick when you dress like that. “We’re listening to that”, she reasoned. I pointed out something that the fucking cunt may not have noticed; this is a train. Not everyone on the train wants to hear Glasvegas, talk to teenagers or look at a load ball-aches who like “the rugger”. So, all the rugby fans told the Skins that it was OK to play their music as loud as they wanted. Skins said thanks and blasted that awful band for all that their little speakers were worth. That was really stupid. As you know, I am a calm and reasonable human being who only has love for his fellow man. Some people aren’t like that. One of them was on the train. He went up to the Skins. Grabbed their iPod. Walked down to the Rugby arses and repeatedly stood on the iPod until it broke. He then sat back down.

There was barely a word out of anyone for the rest of the journey. I smugly put my iPod headphones on and went back to being in a good mood.

That is what it takes for people to behave on a train these days. We. Are. Fucked.
Had lots of weird dreams last night. One was about having sex with Elizabeth Sladen (as she is now, not in the ‘70’s), one was about sneaking on to a boat to America and another, very weirdly, was about Anthony King being a cab driver. Still, it was nice to see him. No cheese before bed for a while for me.

My first preview of my solo show at the Leicester Comedy Festival has been cancelled. I’m gutted but it’s really for the best. Sorry.

Saturday, 7 February 2009


I’m really fed up today. Fucked off.

Last night I performed so badly at the 99 Club in Leicester Square that I felt utterly amateur. I didn’t know what to do on stage. Absolutely useless. And it wasn’t the audience, sadly I can’t blame them. It was completely me. The show was set up so well by Simon Brodkin, someone who I think just gets better and better every time I see him, so I should have just gone on and done my job. I hadn’t thought about the gig, just walked on and….well, nothing. The audience were great. They laughed at all my jokes. Well, they laughed at all the jokes I could remember and struggled to cough out of my mouth. I did some improvising which turned into a very dull brick wall. The best thing I can say is that I started and finished with laughs but in between was a struggle of my own making. I’m a twat.

When I got off stage both Simon and Matt Kirshen said very nice things about my set. Maybe I’d just imagined I’d had a bad one, eh? Maybe I was being hard on myself. Maybe I shouldn’t judge everything I do against my own phenomenally high standards. Or maybe, just maybe, Simon and Matt are simply two very kind and generous liars. When I left the venue I felt the ghost of comedy punch me in the belly and say “You. Are. Shit.”

Still, afterwards I went to Covent Garden Comedy Club and saw Steve Gribbin have a great gig. There’s nothing better when you’re feeling bad about something than seeing someone else do that something so much better than you. The fucking bastard.

So, not feeling great today then. I think I’ll do some work on King of Everything. That’ll cheer me up. Oh, and Johnny Candon is in Dublin now. Considering he originally left my house on Sunday, that was quite a long trip home.

Friday, 6 February 2009

Nutter, Pt 2.

The other person who is interesting/terrifying in the park is Mr. Boring. That’s not his real name. I don’t know what his real name is but Mr. Boring definitely suits him. And he’s definitely a nutter. He walks his dog every day in the park. Not much wrong with that except that his dog has been dead for a long time and doesn’t really need walking anymore. That doesn’t stop Mr. Boring. He’ll walk his dog, in his head, round the park anyway. That’s not the reason that I call him Mr. Boring. The reason I call him Mr. Boring is because any time that I bump into him its lecture time.

He talks. He talks a lot. And only about tedious things. There’s rarely a time that, when I actually do speak to him, that he hasn’t got another amazing fact about what happens to grass inside a dog’s digestive system. He’ll talk about it for a minimum of 25 minutes. Do you know what happens to grass inside a dog’s digestive system? NOTHING. Not a fucking thing. But, 25 minutes later he’s still talking about it. That’s not all he can natter about. He has a wide range of subjects such as; Why you should only buy scratchcards 10-at-a-time, Why the sea can never destroy Japan, How many women pretended to vote for Obama and How to repair anything Victorian. He’s a font of bollocks. The main reason that I love him though is because of his strange quirk. He was born in London and has lived in London all of his life. He’s now in his late sixties. The thing is, sometimes he talks in a broad Geordie accent. I mean a full-on, Auf Wiedersehn Pet piss-take of a noise. When you ask him why he’s speaking in a Newcastle accent he goes red, denies it, gets angry and storms off. THAT, my friend, is a proper British nutter. We should salute him. A bit.

Now, when I say nutter I obviously mean “incredible excentric”. That’s all the park nutters really are. They don’t harm themselves or other people and they’re not unhappy (except when you point out that they’re not from Newcastle). Yesterday I took a train to Leeds. On my way I was sat near a woman who worked in Mental Health. I knew that she worked in Mental Health by the amount of time she screamed about working in Mental Health down her mobile phone. She was awful. I am now terrified for people who need help in this field because if this bag of ignorant sonic-rape is anything to go by then people in need are fucked. I picked up on a few of the thick-as-pig-shit’s lines as she shouted subtly. Stuff like : “The thing is, if they’re autistic you should just ignore them or they’ll punch you”, “They’re hilarious when they shout all day” and “I could never take any of that lot seriously”. I’m certainly not saying that everyone working in Mental Health is as ridiculous as that heap of crap. Hopefully, this woman is a one off and is now dead. It was a terrifying thing to witness though. What if she is actually in charge somewhere? Someone do something. Now. And don’t think I’m a coward, because I tutted a lot during her phone call and I’m sure if she wasn’t screaming louder than a Metallica bomb she would have heard me.

I had a lovely night in Leeds last night. There were a few highlights that have made me very happy. My hotel had a bunk bed in it. It also had a normal double bed but the bunk bed was just above it and, as I haven’t slept in one in nearly 30 years I thought I’d give it a go. It was great. Well, it was OK. It’s not the same without my brother in the lower bunk kicking my mattress to try to make me fall out of bed. Yeah, growing up in Northern Ireland was tough.

I did two gigs last night for Toby Jones. They were both excellent. The thing is, I think Leeds was having a special “Dress As A Twat” night. Both bars (but not the actual venues) had lots of people in embarrassing fancy dress and being wacky. I fucking hate wacky. I could barely move for Harry Potters, Jokers and Elvis’. In a way, that’s all fine. It’s not my thing but if people want to dress as Harry Potter, The Joker or Elvis then, I suppose, they have every right. But what about the two lads dressed as Hasidic Jews? Isn’t that just in bad taste? Isn’t that EXACTLY like blacking up, wearing a turban or any other form of HIGHlarious racism? I suppose they did look exactly like Hasidic Jews so if actual Hasidic Jews walked in the worst they would think is “Let’s go and say HI!” and then these two lads would be so embarrassed that they’d have to along with it and, by the end of the night, would actually be Hasidic Jews. I know I’ve got drunk many a night and woke up only to find that I’ve joined yet another religion. Men! What are we like?

I met some really nice people at the gigs too. Ben Schofield is very nice as is Hannah who worked on the door at the Library gig. She’s only about 12 but is married with a child. How quaintly Northern! She was a lot of fun but also quite deep. She asked the question “Would you fuck a sad clown to make it happy?” which made us all ponder how far we would go to help those in need. We came to the conclusion that Gordon Southern is, therefore, the kindest man we know.

It was a lovely night. I don’t even care about the six hour journey home. Johnny Candon is STILL in London so nothing has changed at all. The only thing that is disturbing me is the picture below. DO NOT LOOK AT IT.

Thursday, 5 February 2009

Nutter, Pt 1.

After the nutter in Sainsbury’s yesterday, I seem to be attracting more of the same. They’re all over the park, nutters. The park is FULL OF THEM. It’s like a mental institution overspill with swings. Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice nutters. They just talk to themselves or wear massive headphones that aren’t connected to anything while singing loudly or they stand there shouting “Fuck off” at the sky. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. I think the sky can be a right prick too sometimes. But a couple of these nutters have turned out to be a fairly major part of my dog walking day.

One is a man that I have affectionately dubbed Naked Arse On Fire Walking Man. Basically he wears only shoes and jeans and walks around the park very quickly and awkwardly like, I dunno, his arse was on fire or something. He also wears sunglasses, no matter how grey and rainy it is, and several big gold medallions. This is how he is every time I see him which is nearly every day. He also talks to himself but, just to make it slightly more glamorous, he talks to himself in Italian. It’s very continental. The thing is, when he sees me he waddles up, talks to Jerk very cheerily in Italian and then, I assume, asks me a question. The thing is, I can’t speak Italian so I never know what the question is. He’ll give me a few seconds to try to work it out but then gives me a “you’re an idiot” look and waddles off again. He then walks round the park in big circles for at least an hour. I’ve seen him several times this week and the snow has not made him dig out his old coat or a nice jumper. He must be freezing. If not, he’s dead but he’s such a nutter that he refuses to accept it. I like him.

This blog was much longer but Facebook made it disappear. I’ll be writing my blogs on a word document from now on and tomorrow I’ll write up the rest of this blog. There’s another nutter I want to tell you about. He’s called Mr. Boring. You don’t want to miss something as exciting as Mr. Boring.

Wednesday, 4 February 2009


I really thought that I'd be starting this blog with the words "Johnny Candon has gone home" but, for the third time this week, that plan has been scuppered. This time he got as far as the airport before his voiceover agent called to see if he can try once more to record his big potato voice saying "Jameson's Whisky. Ah, sure isn't it grand, is it not, B'Jesus". So, he's staying in my house again. For one more night. Again. Not that I mind Johnny himself. Far from it. It's just that I'd really like a night off from boozing and if Johnny is here then that is impossible. Nothing can stop that inevitability. NOTHING. How come "Let's go to the pub" sounds so depressing today. "We've been coming to the same party for 12 years now and in no way is that depressing" springs to mind. Maybe Johnny and I can just stay in tonight and read. Maybe...

The snow is going. Hooray! Didn't everyone go mental over it though? The news certainly did. They called train delays and bus cancellations "Chaos". Dear Boss, can't come to work today because of chaos. Love, employee. I nearly slipped today on some ice on a bridge which I described as "embarrassing" but no doubt the news would have reported it as "disastrous". I think "Chaos" was the word that they used on 7/7 too. Good to know that they can't really tell the difference between a terrorist attack and annoying weather. Plus, what the fuck was the News doing over the past two days showing viewers photos? It's the fucking News not Vision On. I thought the news came to us. We have to send them stuff now? A photo of snow on a twig is actually newsworthy? Maybe it was actually a slow news day when the BBC proudly claimed that they've had more response from pig-stupid morons over the snow than they did over that fire in Hemel Hempstead a couple of years ago. Well, the snow was EVERYWHERE and the fire in Hemel Hempstead was contained in the one place. Hemel Hempstead. And even then it was only in one bit of Hemel Hempstead, sadly.

Another bad thing about the snow is that it encourages a sort of community spirit. That means talking to strangers. When I walk Jerk in the park, people seem to want to communicate so much more than normal. They LOVE to point out the extremely obvious. "Another cold one". Thanks for that, that'll explain all this snow falling. "It's sunny in Jamaica, you know". Fuck right off, stranger. "I am a man and it is snowing". Er...right. Cheers.

I don't like talking to people I don't know. I'm not good at it, I never have been and I never will be. I just never know what to say with small talk. When someone says something like "Bit chilly today" I just tense up and saying something witty and urbane like "Mmm.." and start walking really fast the opposite direction. Today in Sainsbury's I felt like I was in the 15th layer of hell. The little boy who works the till wanted to talk to me. What is so wrong with shutting up? Have people forgotten how to? Has keeping your pie-hole closed become a lost art form? The think is, this spotty, greasy, random-toothed, human mistake could barely speak and yet that's all he wanted to do. He mumbled something about him having a bad time at work but unfortunately I couldn't hear him or care. It was just a long dribble that went something like this; "Mumble... mumble... mumble... three days off a week ...mumble ... mumble... mumble... speak to my union manager... mumble... mumble... mumble... don't know how you can eat vegetarian food... mumble... get paid more than Doreen... mumble... Graham's cousin isn't here". Stuff like that. While putting the groceries into my bag at the speed of light tied to a supersonic jet, I could only offer a series of yes', I sees and reallys. Then just as I was getting my change I clearly heard him say "The police have only given me a written warning anyway. Next, please". I left Sainsbury's briskly.

Don't talk to strangers. And, Strangers, why don't you show the same courtesy? Let's make next week "Button It Month". Just a thought...

Tuesday, 3 February 2009

White Britain.

I don't like snow. Seeing it snowing on Sunday night was just so depressing but waking up on Monday morning knowing that it had all landed and was deep and crisp and even make my stomach put it's head in it's hands. It's a horrible feeling. Waking up and just knowing that there is deep snow outside waiting to trip you up, make you cold and wet and laugh at you. Fucking fluffy, white bastard. You don't even need to look out the window to know there there is snow. Just hearing the hollow, empty, cold sound of children's laughter is enough to tell you that there is no point in living today until that stuff melts. Don't get me wrong, I do think that it's pretty. It looks lovely. But then, I think a shark looks majestic and awesome but that doesn't mean I want to go near one. Especially if its fallen from the sky with the sole purpose of making me slip over. I hate that shark.

So, I spent most of yesterday indoors doing some industrial-level complaining. I can't get my podcastudio to work properly so King of Everything STILL haven't recorded a podcast and there was just no way I was ever even going to think about venturing outside. Jerk had other plans. She spent most of the day picking up every toy she has and giving them to me. It was her way of saying "I don't know why you're not taking me out but I'm fucking bored out of my mind". I had no choice. Outside was a big sack of insanity but that's where I went. Stupid outside.

I put my wellies on (now I know what they're for) and went out with a completely excited and confused Jerk going mental on the lead. None of this stuff on the ground was here yesterday and so she had to run through and eat as much of it as she could. When I let her off the lead in the park she went berserk. Running everywhere, taking as much of the white stuff as she could before any other dog got there first. It was like watching [INSERT NAME OF COMEDIAN HERE] at the [INSERT NAME OF INDUSTRY PARTY HERE]*. There's no doubt about it, I sort of loved the snow for about an hour after that. Jerk was so utterly happy, running around and trying to fathom what all this was. She came home exhausted and invigorated all at the same time. Thanks, snow.

Then it was off to the pub and, afterwards, a really nice chinese restaurant with some friends. Not only were we celebrating Johnny Candon's birthday (yes, he's still in my house. Snow has destroyed Ryanair) but we also celebrated him getting a voiceover job today that means he'll be working with the 8th Doctor on a Jameson's Whisky advert. I say I celebrated Johnny working with a real Doctor Who but, of course, it was all through gritted teeth and I'm seething with jealousy. I hope McGann turns out to be a right cunt and refuses to talk to Johnny. Don't tell him I said that. Anyway, we ate at a nice Chinese restaurant near my house and I came to the conclusion that no matter how mature, respectful and intelligent you are that you become a slightly racist child when you're in a Chinese restaurant. Pretty much everyone at my table (except me because I'm very PC) put on comedy Chinese accents and giggled at the menu. It was like going back to the seventies, you know, when racism was compulsory. Not that anyone said anything horrible, but there was definitely a lot of childishness going on. Very odd. Still, it sort of explains why our Won Ton Soup tasted slightly of piss and phlegm.

Twitter seems to have sneaked up on me and I now seem to be actually using it. I'm a hypocrite. Sorry. Right, I'm off out with Jerk for another round of "WHATHEFUCKISTHISSTUFF?". Ta ta.

* I went for Sean Meo at the Avalon Christmas party. He's probably never even been there but it's still quite a fun game to play.