Thursday, 30 April 2009

What Happened Next...

I really did ask for it. There I was on the most boring train journey I’ve ever been on (if everyone being quiet and not being a cunt is boring) wishing that something would happen and it did. A family of a million children got on and generally caused havoc for the rest of the journey. I tried to write a blog on the train, thinking that was very modern, but the noise these little bastards were making was too much and I gave up. But the noise they made continued.

Luckily, I had an ally. The man sitting across from me made eye contact with me every minute or so and we both raised our eyebrows as if to say “Wouldn’t it be great if they would just fuck off?” We didn’t speak about it, in fact we didn’t speak at all. We didn’t need to plus we understood train etiquette fully and speaking to one another isn’t allowed. At least these little fuckers were only disturbing me from reading Doctor Who Magazine and watching Family Guy, the man across from me was doing actual work. He had his laptop and blackberry and papers and files. He was VERY important and very busy. They were getting on my nerves but he must have wanted to break their necks. I sat back in the hope that this would happen.

It never did. He was too reserved and too immersed in train etiquette to murder a group of children. So we both sat there and thought about saying something. We thought and we thought and we thought and we did NOTHING. I didn’t know the family, I hadn’t met them before and I hadn’t done a background check on them (I should have) but I had a pretty good idea that anything I would say to them would erupt into a riot of HOW DARE YOU!

Then I realised that it wasn’t really the children that were getting on my nerves. It was “Mummy”, “Granny” and “Other Woman” constantly telling this swarm of crayons and Ribena to sit down, behave and shut up. They were just so aggressive and their voices were constant. The kids I could ignore but the adults were an impossibility. All three had that horrible, shrill, glass-splintering Scottish accent that feels like a punishment no matter it’s saying. I love the Scottish accent but everywhere you go in the UK all accents can be split easily in two. One is nice, the other is ear rape. Liverpool is a perfect example. I love the accent but a lot of the time you meet the shrill version. The version that forces it’s needley-cock into your ear, fucks it, cums on your brain and threatens you to never call the police. You know. THAT accent. Well, these bastards had the Scottish version of that. Like their father was a Highland farmer and their mother was helium. THAT accent. Fucking awful.

I had sighed and huffed and even raised my voice on the phone to say that I was in a carriage full of cunts but nothing happened. They continued with their noise. Don’t do that, Hannah. Leave Riannah alone, Elsie. Stop touching him, Colin. Stop. Don’t. Sit. Quiet. On and on and on. Then the man across from me sighed. It was the first time he had audibly reacted to what was going on and one of the Three Witches darted a look at him.

The word hero gets bandied about all too easily these days but I really do think that it suits me. I saw the look given to the man but I also saw the look the man gave the woman. It was a look of apology, as if to say “Sorry, I’ll have more patience from now on”. Don’t worry, man, I thought, I’ll be impatient enough for both of us. I turned to “Mummy” and said “This has actually been going on for a while now. Can you please keep the noise down now?” Not rude but firm. “Mummy” didn’t see it that way. She saw it as a fatal punch to her children’s kidneys.

“How dare you”, she said. Yeah, I was right. “They’re only children”

Now, I have heard this way too many times on trains. They’re only children? NO. They’re only YOUR children and if you can’t control them then have the decency to not make them other people’s problems. Sure, it must be tough looking after a bunch of kids but I’m pretty sure she knew that before she had them. I’m sure that anyone who has unprotected sex thinks about the inconvenience that they may or may not be making to commuters in the future. It certainly stops me from cumming too quickly. I have a bit of sympathy with the situation but, if it goes on too long, how much sympathy are you supposed to give? I’m not Jesus McGee, for fucks sake. But it wasn’t the children that was annoying me. It was her. So I told her.

“I’m not talking about the children. I’m talking about you”, I said.

This baffled her, her friends and even silenced her kids. Surely this was a good thing. I explained that most of the loud noises were coming from her and her friends, it had been going on for an hour and if they can’t control their kids or themselves then maybe they should consider the other people on the train and stand in the vestibule. (Is that how you spell vestibule?) It sounds crap but I know that if I was upsetting people on a train with my kids I’d feel that I had no choice but to fuck off.

“Yeah”, she said. “It’s easy to see you haven’t got children”. Well, I’ve got a copy of Doctor Who magazine in front of me and I’m playing cartoons on my laptop so surely it’s sketchy at least as to wither or not I have children. “We’re not moving. Get used to it”, she said defiantly. It was then that I noticed that the man across from me had packed his stuff away and was about to move. “Good try, mate”, he said to me. “Some people are just too ignorant. If they’re not moving, I will”. He was given a (small) tirade of abuse from the Three Witches so I said “OK. I’ll come with you” The Three Witches were happy that they had won but I was happy that this obviously shy and reserved business man had spoken his mind to some very rude people. The two of us moved carriage and sat together talking about what a horrible journey it had been. We laughed about it. Let them have their carriage. We’re in the quiet carriage now, no-one around plus we’re having a laugh. Let’s call it a draw.

The train then stopped at Motherwell and two insane drunks got on and sat right across from us. They screamed the whole way to Glasgow.

Fortunately, this made us laugh all the more. We were destined to have a shit train journey no matter where we sat. There was nothing we could do about it. Plus it was fun trying to figure out what the drunks were trying to say to one another. It was mainly the word “What?” over and over again.

That bloke was called Ryan. He said he’s coming to The Stand in Edinburgh to see me on Friday. It’s exciting to have a date.

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

I Tried But They Beat Me.

I hate Dan Antopolski. His incredible performance on Sunday night was supposed to influence me but so far I've come up with nothing. I fucking hate him. I'm having a completely blank brain day. I'm totally blogless. I'm even writing this on a train to Glasgow. Surely a train would be full of awful bastards that would get all my blood going all Rottweillerish but EVERY SINGLE FUCKER on this train is quiet and well behaved. They're not even screaming their pointless lives down their mobiles at their fat friends. Even the baby in the arms of the woman two seats away from me is quietly sleeping. I hope it has a nightmare about the Easter Bunny being shot and raped, the selfish little fucker. Why isn't anyone thinking about me today?

Is this how comedy writers live with themselves? It's a constant struggle to get anything made so you make ends meet any way you can, even if it means writing for The Justin Lee Collins Show or coming up with cheesy links for Ben Shephard on The Xtra Factor. Surely the only way that you can avoid the welcoming taste of a gun in your mouth is to only write for these things when you've got writer's block?

Well, that's this blog fucked now. As soon as I started writing a family of CUNTS came and sat right next to me. No doubt my blog wouldn't have been overly insightful on the life of a comedy writer that only writes for things that they hate but I'd have given it a go. That has been ruined by these fuckwits that cannot control their many, many children. Bad parents are the closest we have to real zombies. They actually look dead. They just sit there hoping that we will save them by cutting off their heads. They don't hear their children screaming, they don't see them smearing their bogies on a window and they obviously don't smell them when they shit themselves. These children have killed them.

Or so it would appear. At some point a bad parent obviously let's their little mistake get away with something that they shouldn't be doing. That's when the rest of society should be allowed to grab that person by the eyelids and drag them over a field of broken glass. Yeah, they've fucked up their own lives but why fuck up ours too? I'm a very relaxed, good natured, calm sort of soul but even I think that children should be kept in a dark room until they're old enough to understand "Sit down and shut up and fuck off". But these idiots right across from me RIGHT now cannot cope with their little mistakes because of their lack of discipline from Day 1. Now the children know just how to work the parents. They make noise and the parents give in. They make more noise and the parents give up. They do whatever the fuck they want and the parents just fade to grey. "Mummy" is just opening a second bag of sugar coated sugar for her little gremlins while "Granny" is singing a lullaby, probably to herself.

Why paedophiles find these bastards attractive is beyond me. They're awful. And now I'm in a mood. Be careful what you wish for.

Tuesday, 28 April 2009

A Short Blog About Dan.

I saw Dan Antopolski on Sunday night and I think it might well have been one of the best performances by a comedian I've ever seen.

This blog will be a lot different from the last one. And most of the others. Dan hasn't got another screaming version of himself in his eyes when he's on stage. He's got the look of a man who has written a lot of truly great material and knows it and loves it. I've long been a big fan of Dan's but Sunday night's performance was just so perfect that I, not for the first time, have no choice but to question what the fuck I'm doing. He started off with a proper joke. You know? A joke. He didn't ask how people were or say how great it was to be here, he did a joke instead. It was as if he understood why he was there or something. There just wasn't any fat to his 30 minutes and, to rub it in further, it's all pretty new material. The fucking cunt.

I can't recommend Dan Antopolski enough right now. If you're going to see any comedy this week, check the listings and find out where he's performing. You won't be disappointed. Well, you might be but that will only PROVE that you're an idiot. You see, after Dan got off stage I turned into crawly bum-lick uber-fan and told him that he must just be on cloud 9 knowing that his material is just THAT GOOD. No. Not really. Because he said that it still doesn't quite work in some places. I was baffled. Well, I was baffled for about 4 seconds. I'm not saying that Dan is a genius but he is definitely a superb, intelligent, original comedian and that can land you in all sorts of trouble (I imagine) with audiences. If you're not laughing at how thick Northerners are or pointing at your cock or claiming that women are fat and gay for having periods or hating the French or being 40 and still saying the word "spaz" or declaring that vegetarians and homosexuals are the same thing and they're both shit then you're going to upset a certain type of audience. But then, that type of audience should be upset. We're living in a time when huge chunks of the nation are astonished by a woman who can carry a tune even though she isn't particularly pretty.It's not like she's a deformed circus freak, she just looks like a grown up Hamble from Play School. And it's not like looks and talent are in any way linked but, fuck facts, that's how a certain type of audience see it. So, of course he won't appeal to everyone if he insists on being good. It's like putting Zelig on instead of Ant & Dec's Saturday Landfill. I know it's better, you know it's better but them? Jesus Christ! The fact that Dan, and several comics like him, don't pander to that is wonderful to watch and like a clip round the ear to me. A clip round the ear I really, really need. Must. Try. Harder.

Sunday, 26 April 2009

Save Vernon.

Do you think Vernon Kay is aware of himself? In a way, I hope he isn't. It would be a nightmare dark and horrible enough to shatter the human mind to realise that you were, in fact, Vernon Kay. I certainly wouldn't wish being Vernon Kay on anyone.

I've just finished watching the opening 45 seconds of Beat The Star, Vernon Kay's ITV programme about people clapping while two other people play games. One is an ordinary man who works in a sugar factory in Yorkshire, the other is a famous celebrity that no-one in the world has ever heard of. The point of the show is this: whoever wins wins. It's not complex, thus Vernon Kay is our host.

I could only watch it briefly but still feel I can give an accurate account of Vernon. Yes, he looks like a Stepford TV Presenter but behind those mechanical, dead eyes is a tiny scream. A scream for help. A scream that is begging us all to remember when Vernon wanted to interview Morrissey or play the new single by Black Box Recorder while occasionally reminding us how good The La's were. He wants us to remember that when he started he wore jeans and had a stupid young haircut and didn't care if one of his laces was undone because he was more interested in talking to Richard Ashcroft. He wants us to remember that but we can't. We can't because it happened all too briefly. T4 told him to get a slightly better haircut and introduce a billion episodes of Friends and host ridiculously cheap balls ups like Cunt Island or Arsehole Castle. He didn't want to but T4 beat him and beat him and beat him until he said yes.

They demanded that he appear wholesome, clean-cut and, most importantly, mentally backward and after more beatings he complied. Soon ITV ran out of people to beat up so they asked Vernon Kay to host Family Fortunes, a game show that anyone who wanted to just play indie music and interview ex-members of The Stone Roses would definitely never want to do. But ITV beat him and beat him and beat him until he said yes. The Elders of Television found Vernon an equally beaten woman called Tess and forced them to marry. Neither wanted to marry the other and who could blame them? But the elders punched them and kicked them and battered them until they said "I do". Then when Vernon thought he could take no more, ITV laughed, wiped it's crusty, warty, bleeding cock on his hair and gave him Beat The Star.

He didn't want to do it but he had been so beaten, so damaged, so raped by ITV that he had no choice. He would do as they wished because he knew what would happen if he didn't. He was given a proper haircut, a nice suit and shoes that he had to keep laced while the cameras were on. They gave him a TV smile, a TV walk and a TV cheeky way of not being able to talk properly. He was perfect for Beat The Star. It was what he hosted and what had been done to him. A constant reminder. That's why, when he's telling us that we're in for a great hour of entertainment, we can look into his mechanical, dead eyes and see that screaming indie Vernon going mad in the prison that is himself.

Either that, or he really is a bellend. It's just a theory. And the stuff about him being beaten? That's just symbolism. In reality, TV companies simply offered him contracts for lots of money that he decided was much more important that things that he actually liked. That's all. I'm stopping giving Vernon Kay a second thought right........NOW.

Saturday, 25 April 2009


I gigged in Swindon yesterday. I've gigged there twice before. The last time I did it was just over a year ago and I sort of got mugged by a gang of 11 year old children. It was the most pathetic mugging of all time as they didn't get anything and one of them, although holding a Stanley Knife, was wearing a Spongebob hat.

Although I've been there twice I have never looked around the town. I've never been there long enough. It's always turn up, do the gig, get mugged by children and leave. Yesterday was different because I had to get there a couple of hours early. If I got there any later than 5.30 my train fare would go up from £36 to £107. No. I don't get it either. I have travelled all over this country of ours (if you're reading this in the UK) and I have been to some right landfills but I think Swindon might just be the new champion. I think Swindon might just be....The Worst Place in Britain.

Fuck you, Portsmouth. Roll over, Nottingham. Close but no cigar, Leicester. Swindon has arrived and has taken the crown from all of you. It's like Wetherspoon's had built a city inside an Aldi in a big skip of the dead. Within 15 minutes of being there I saw three arguments, one bottle chucking and two seperate groups of police running like the clappers. Every building I passed was a theme pub or a boarded up shop. Pretty much everyone in the centre of the town wore track suits and baseball caps (how the FUCK did baseball caps catch on over here?). Mind you, the area all around the Library was very quiet. Barely anyone there. Make of that what you will. I was very worried about the gig.

It was in the Wyvern Theatre which was a really nice venue, surprisingly. The only problem was that you had to climb up loads of steps to get to it. I don't mind climbing steps, I'm not that lazy, it's just when I got to the top I discovered that I now had a better view of Swindon. No-one wants that.

The venue was a lot bigger than I was expecting and the staff were very friendly despite me initially wanting to kill one of them. One of the stage managers showed me to the Green Room where I could hang out and relax before the show. I could have relaxed if he hadn't joined me, sat beside me and started playing an unplugged bass guitar. It was more annoying than one and a half Cordens (that's now a standardised measurement of annoyance). Worse still, he was playing SLAP BASS, surely the worst musical form ever created. It was what Level 42 did, for fuck's sake. I was in a place that scared me with a Mark King wannabe. I wasn't happy.

Turned out that the Slap Bass man was really nice once he put down his Devil's Instrument. And the gig was lovely. That REALLY shocked me. It was over three quarters full and the audience were great even though they all seem to be related to each other and fucking each other. I suppose living in Swindon that incest would be the least of your problems.

So, it all turned out well. Well, it did until I started my three hour journey home. Any other comedians feel like shooting themselves in the hair during those long, lonely, boring, scary, drunk train journey's home?

Friday, 24 April 2009

Fucking Edinburgh Fucking Fringe.

It has started.

The evil that is the Edinburgh Fringe Festival has truly begun. The deadline to get into the Fringe Brochure was two days ago and like any performer worth a damn I waited until the last day to even begin submitting my entry. Getting into the Fringe Brochure isn't quite as prestigious as it sounds. It's just a massive list of every show on at the festival and to get the information of your show's name, time, venue and your show's description into this Holy List then you have to fill out the world's most mind-numbingly dull form. It's a really, really long online form that just gets more pointless the further on it gets. My favourite part is probably the question "Are you eligible for a Fringe First Award?" I have no idea what a Fringe First Award is but I said Yes because I am a whore and love winning prizes. The online form then immediately told me, in big red letters, that I was NOT eligible for a Fringe First Award. If they knew that, why the fuck did they ask? Did they just want to remind me that I'm not good enough for an award? Do they just like to see me beg?

It's not all about filling out a long, tedious form though. There's also the fun, exciting money part. It costs £377.20 to put the words King of Everything plus a 37 word description into the Fringe Brochure. But to do that you have to register as a performer. That costs £10. In other words, you have to pay them just so you can pay them. Fuck that, I pondered. Luckily, the incompetent fucks at the Fringe Brochure website were having server problems so I had to phone to register. A bored man on the other end of the line asked me how I would like to pay the £10 performers fee and I told him "Fictionally". This confused him, mainly because he was happy sleeping in his bored bubble, so I explained that I wasn't going to pay to pay. He told me that everyone had to pay the £10 performers fee and I retorted with a very witty "Bugger off". He was quiet for a minute and then finally said "That's fair enough. I'll wave the fee and that'll be our little secret". That was very nice of him but fuck the secret. I got off paying £10! I want to tell everyone! HA HA HA! The Fringe Brochure Nazi's thought they could get the better of Michael D. Legge, well they can't! You poor suckers who ended up paying £387.20 just to put your crappy play or performance poetry or cunting comedy show into the brochure while I not only stood up to these corporate bastards that are ruining the fringe but I only paid a paltry £377.20 into the bargain. Fuck you, Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I WON'T be ripped off.

Now all I have to do is pay for the venue, my accommodation, flyers, posters, people to hand out the flyers, people to put up the posters, Steve Bennett for a good review, our entry into the Five Pound Fringe brochure, a PR person, people to actually come to see the show, drinks for cunts at The Library Bar nearly every fucking night and food for a month. If I have time I will try to write a show but that is hardly important right now.

I'm not all complainy though. The weather is far too excellent for that. Plus I had a lot of fun last night. I was booked into host East Dulwich Comedy and I couldn't help but think that the word host was a strange thing to see from my agent. Compere, yes. Host, no. I'd never been told that I'm hosting anything. Sounds too much like I have to open wine and make hors d'oeuvres rather than sigh and introduce a comedian. But it was host for a reason. I was not going to be compere that night. I don't know if you have an agent but if you do I'm pretty sure that that person will try to get you work in your chosen field; a support role in a play at the Riverside Studios, a support slot on Al Murray's tour, doing a bit of dancing at the English National Ballet. But mine is different. My agent likes to challenge both my skills and my patience. Last night I was booked at East Dulwich Comedy to host...a pub quiz.

It was fantastic. I love pub quizzes anyway but to finally have all the power (the answers) was something that I had always dreamt of even though I hadn't realised. I joked along with the teams and had a blast. There were about 8 teams, most of whom seem to be regulars, and they loved it so much that you couldn't help but get a buzz from their happiness. It's really weird to be joking and getting laughs (obviously) in a place that isn't there for comedy. They're there to win money and prove they're smart. But there was so much room to joke about and, basically, show off that the night just becomes something different from a normal quiz night. If you are a comedian, I heartily recommend that you do it. If you're not a comedian, I heartily recommend that you go to it when Martin Soan is the host. Apparently, he brings props and explosives.

Allow me to once again recommend The Trap Podcast. It's very funny and, if you have bionic hearing, you can hear me on it briefly. See if you can spot me. Plus Adam and Joe's latest podcast is excellent. Joe's impression of Jools Holland in his kitchen is hysterical. Well done, thems.

Wednesday, 22 April 2009

I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now.

What has happened to us as people? Have we lost our trust in our fellow man so much? Can't we accept a random act of kindness without assuming that person wants something from us? When a passing stranger says "Nice day" why do we just assume that they want to sodomise us? And how come when you pick up a child you don't know from school "The Man" makes you sign a register?

I was in the park on Monday with Steve Gribbin. We were walking our dogs and slagging off comedians when we heard a boy cry out for help. He was about 16 years old, crouching in a river and crying. He said he had broken his arm and needed help. Without a second thought for our safety, Steve and I immediately leapt to suspicion. That crying minor was obviously trying to lure us in to the river so he could rob us, smash our skulls in with big rocks and then make love to the dead us's. The thing is, we soon figured out that he was crouching in the river to keep his wrist cold after he had, you know, broken it and not planned to kill two horrible old men. We still kept our distance though, just in case. After all, yeah, he was crying in a river all alone and in pain but he was also a one minute walk from the hospital. From 900 yards away we asked if he could walk. He could. So, we pointed to the hospital that was right behind him. He told us he had left his bike at the skate park where he fell. We told him we'd get it and leave it with the park keeper. He then got out of the river, thanked us and cried his way to the hospital. Steve and I were crowned cunts.

We felt terrible. A poor kid in trouble and we stopped ourselves from helping him because modern life has made us suspicious. This can't go on. It's a very unhealthy way to live life. I decided then and there to never be that person. If someone needs help, I'll help them.

Later that day I made my second trip to the park. I saw one of our many local Cider enthusiasts sitting alone but in full conversation on a park bench. I threw a ball for Jerk and when I looked round I noticed that the man was now lying on the ground. Had he fallen? No. No, he's probably just having a lie down in the sun and...FUCK, I was doing it again. Finding an excuse not to help. Fuck that. I marched over to him. I was going to help him. I would make sure that he was breathing, I would support his head and I would call an ambulance. In short, I would be a hero. Yeah! This helping thing really seems to have it's benefits. It makes me feel all smug and superior. This is my chance to show that I do care. I care for my fellow man. And, hey, if I end up being thanked, praised and adored by passing models then so be it. And if I can...WHAT THE FUCK? By the time I got over to help the fucking stupid tramp, loads of people had already surrounded him and taken care of him. The fucking thoughtless cunts. I could have got in the Lewisham Shopper newspaper, I could have been given the key to the park, that fucking wino might have been a secret billionaire and left me everything in his will. The evil bellends. Well, that is it, world. You had one chance to accept my love and you rejected it. Fuck the lame, the sick and, in his case, the drunk. You've ruined my one simple hope; to get praised for doing very little.

Then, this morning, my hopes for the human race improved. I was in the Post Office and I couldn't help but notice that there was a slightly mad woman in the queue. She was dressed very oddly (headscarf, wellies, a blanket) and she was smiling. There is never a need to smile in Ladywell Post Office so she definitely stood out. She was old looking but, I reckoned, younger than she looked. She also smelled a bit. When she had done what she had to do at the Post Office another member of staff there said hello to her and they had a chat. He asked how she was and seemed very friendly towards her. This made me happy. I'm glad that there is someone out there there that saw past her blanket and saw the person. I'm glad that someone treated her like a person and, for at least a moment, seemed to make her happy. She left and he waved cheerily at her. It was really nice.

Anyway, as soon as she had gone, he got out a can of air freshener, sprayed it in big circles and started laughing at her. There. The human race is back on track.

Speaking of cunts, John Voce and I are performing The Conversation tonight at 8pm at The Funny Side of Covent Garden. It's a show that I love doing, even though I don't do it enough, and would love you to come along. Hope to see you there. You can book here:

Monday, 20 April 2009


It's been 11 years that I have been keeping this secret but I think I'm ready to get it all out in the open.

I have reasonably questionable taste when it comes to films. I love Tron but think The Godfather is dull and overrated. Even after Watchmen, I STILL think that V For Vendetta is the best Alan Moore adaptation. Ang Lee's Hulk is better than The Incredible Hulk. In fact, it's better than Citizen Kane, for fuck's sake. But then, what isn't? Just in case I'm not getting my taste in films through to you clearly enough: The Piano is shit, About A Boy is brilliant. There. Get the picture?

But here's the biggie: I love Godzilla. No-one loves Godzilla. No-one even likes Godzilla. Well, I'm not no-one. I think it's a fantastic film and was reminded of it's glory by Channel Five last night. The story is this, a big monster smashes everything to pieces. That is the sort of plot that I can get my teeth into. A satirical reflection of a paranoid America during the McCarthy era? FUCK OFF. Godzilla punched the Empire State Building and then shat all over Madison Square Garden. Where is that in Milk? NOWHERE. The rise of gay rights throughout the seventies will never be as impressive, inspiring or emotional as a giant lizard knocking the balls out of two submarines. That's not just my opinion, that is a fact. Look it up.

Of course, like all great masterpieces, it is flawed. There are just two things wrong with it, though. The script and the people in it. If they'd just ironed out those two creases in the genius of Godzilla then that film would be regarded as the big scary dinosaur version of The Bicycle Thief. Matthew Broderick, not content with killing two people in a road accident in Northern Ireland in the '80's, now has such a thirst for blood that he must destroy everything that he is in. He does so magnificently here. He plays the part of scientist Nick Tatopoulos who has been brought in by the Pentagon to look at the biggest pile of God-damned lizard faeces that America has ever faced. Every time that he is told about the destruction and mayhem that a monster the size of the Twin Towers has brought to New York he acts like his Nana has told him that she's run out of peas. He couldn't give a fuck. Broderick, when not washing the blood of the innocent off his hands, is an actor with a lot of experience and therefore realised that Jeff Goldblum had pretty much cornered the market in quirky, weirdo scientist and therefore decided to base his character on a bellend. He does so with aplomb. Not that he is solely to blame, his supporting cast turned up on the day of filming and that is the best that you can say about them and the script is something no-one really thought about before saying out loud. There's not one line that follows another and makes sense.

Nick: Audrey? Is that you?

Audrey: It's good to see you, Nick.

Nick: So, you made it?

Audrey: What?

That's the kind of material these people were working with. Maybe Horne and Corden are excellent after all? Maybe we shouldn't be shooting them but just shooting the fuckwits that write their show.

I think what I like most about it though is how it paints Americans as they really are. Strong, resilient and big-animal-killy. There is not a single person in New York that looses it's fucking mind when faced with a monster. Even the tiny chemist shop in Times Square says Fuck You, Buddy A-Hole to Godzilla and stays open to sell pregnancy tests to all those people worried about bringing a baby into this newly massive-lizard dominated world. People are being killed left, right and centre but the main characters in the movie still have time to complain about coffee, make jokes about each other's hair and cry because they haven't got further in their careers (art imitating life for some of the actors, there) and yet....I still love it. It's a big mess but so am I. Maybe I look at Godzilla, breathing fire on soldiers and protecting his eggs, and I just see myself. Badly written, terrible casting and needs editing. But look at the destruction. Fantastic.

Certainly way better than Louis Theroux's latest documentary on BBC1 last night that went in deep to show us that paedophiles are quite strange people. Well, I never! Louis, you're a genius. Can't wait for his next documentary where he reveals that the world is round and he is a cunt. LOOK! Louis says, LOOK! LOOK AT THE PAEDOPHILES! They're all singing The Addams Family Theme and one of them had a drawing of a ballerina in his cell! Yeah, that is somewhat strange but, you know, not quite as strange as the fact that they FUCK CHILDREN. I can't help but think that that's probably the worst thing that they've done. Still, very revealing.

I really meant what I said about Godzilla. I love it and, I suppose, I want you to love it too. Please don't bother going outside to enjoy the sun today. The sun gives you cancer whereas Godzilla will only give you stress lumps at best. Please stay in and give it a second chance and when Empire or IMDB or any of those film thingies carry out their 100 Greatest Films Ever please only vote for Godzilla. If nothing else, it will fuck Godfather fans off and that is the only reason I have left to live. Thank you.

Sunday, 19 April 2009


It doesn't take much to put me in a bad mood. Just watching the news, seeing people drop litter or the letters b, b, c and the number three are all just enough to make my brain shit itself with fury. But the last couple of days have been lovely. I've even stopped beating myself up about Wednesday's impro show. It was good and a lot of fun but sometimes it takes me a little while to realise that. One sketch that keeps making me smile was about Celine Dion being such a diva that she demanded, among other things, a grave dug in her dressing room. Even though that was a collective effort between me and three other people, I think I'll steal that and write it up myself. Can't wait for that to not appear on BBC3. Oh, fuck. My brain just dumped in my skull again.

Thursday started off great. I was on my way to see Dan Mersh and Robin Ince for a drink so already I was in a good mood. Then I got a phone call with some great news about this blog (I'll tell you later) and my mood was pretty much all the way up to Marginally Happy. It was also quite a sunny evening and walking through London on a sunny evening is just beautiful. Lucky old me, I thought. Then, just a few feet away from the pub, I saw a man struggling to put on his jacket. He was struggling because he was also holding on to his hat and scarf at the same time. Yeah, it would have been easier to have put them on first but I'm not going to judge the prick, I'm in too good a mood. Basically, while putting on his coat he dropped his hat. While passing I thought I'd just bend down and pick up the hat for him. That's a good deed. This can only make me feel happier. I have helped my fellow man. Anyway, I passed him his hat and his only response was "I did know it was there". He was pissed off because I'd helped him. He got upset because a stranger had decided to lend a hand. And I know what the cunt was really saying: Men can't pick things up for other men. It's gay and gay isn't allowed.

The fucking awful fucking cunt. My mood was slightly down now. But only slightly as I was now walking into a pub, my favourite thing to walk into. As soon as I entered the building I realised that it was so clammy that If I wanted to breathe then I'd better cut up the air into little pieces with a knife and fork. It was muggy, very muggy. No sign of Dan or Robin but perhaps they're upstairs where the air is. As I walked up I clocked a woman looking at me. There's nothing odd in that, I'm very attractive, so I didn't give it a thought. Then I could sense she was following me. "Jesus Christ", I thought. "Yet another person who saw 100 Worst Pop Songs on Channel 4 six years ago wants to get to know The Legge". You'd think I'd be used to fame by now. Anyway, I got to the top of the stairs, saw that the bar was danandrobinless so I turned to go back downstairs. That's when the woman gave me eye contact and a one word question: "Toilet?"

Of course, she could have confused me with my Edinburgh best friend of the same name but I was guessing that she was looking for the loo. I'm afraid that the hat man and now this one-word question had now flattened my good mood so she took the brunt of it. "Toilet what?", I said.

"I'm looking for the toilet"

"Oh, you mean 'Excuse me, can you tell me where the toilet it is, please?'"


"Yeah. It's nice to have caught up. Bye".

That was our full conversation. I'm not sure what has happened to being polite but it does appear to have fucked right off. Luckily, I soon met up with Dan and Robin and after a few bilious attacks on comedy my mood was back to the cheery one before angry hat man.

And it's pretty much been like that ever since. Gigs have been excellent this week. In fact, I'm going to go so far as to say that I love gigs. I did three London shows last night and the running from gig to gig just made the gigs themselves that bit more exciting, plus the gigs were all lovely anyway. I don't know who is in charge of gigs but I must congratulate them because gigs are great. If the person who runs gigs ever wants to book me for more gigs then just give me a call. I'd happily do gigs.

On Friday, I performed at The Funny Side of Covent Garden to a very quiet audience. VERY quiet. Silent, almost. Just before going on the promoter filled me with confidence with his stirring words of "If you storm this I'll build you a statue". Thanks, promoter. He may as well have said "You know your arse? You're going to die on that". The gig turned out to be good though so, you know what? As it's been so good I think I'll now go clubbing. Paul Litchfield and I started our 24 hours of joy together by leaving The Funny Side and heading to Old Street for a night of larging it. We don't know how to large anything but we fucking gave it a go.

Clubbing hasn't changed at all since I was a teenager, it turns out. I'm still standing in a corner, still think it's too loud and still wishing they would play some Marillion. Well, anything other than the seemingly one record that they did play. Paul and I have fond memories of this club in Old Street. We went there a couple of years ago and soon got chatted up by two wheelchair bound girls wearing burlesque clothing. They were lovely but it was definitely weird. One of them's on telly now. That'll fucking teach us. There are a few things very wrong about clubbing. Firstly, it's very unsociable. There were lots of our friends there but you can't really talk because of that record they keep playing. It's also too crowded. Crammed with teenagers and twentysomet...oh, hang on. No, it isn't. It's full of 40 year old's who can't grow up. Plus they have odd rules in clubs. If you go outside to make a phonecall or have a cigarette then you have to queue up again to get back in. Your hand has been stamped, you've paid to get in but FUCK YOU. How dare you take that call from your pregnant wife! How dare you be addicted to nicotine! BACK OF THE QUEUE! And have a nice night.

Then, and this is surely the madness of all nightclubs, the bar closes at 1am but the venue stays open until 3. Who the fuck could stay in a place like this sober? Not me or Paul. We waddled into a cab and do what any pair of lads do when they large it. We went home and watched The Unquiet Dead. Classic.

Yesterday, Paul and I laughed like children pretty much all day. I can't think of the last time I laughed so much and for so long. It started off, slightly hungover-ish, with the funniest clip from YouTube that I have ever seen. I howled ( Don't not watch it. There was only one way to for the day to go now and that would be to kill animals. Luckily, we found a game that helps you do just that. Big Game Hunter might be the most heartless and cruel piece of entertainment I have seen since The Justin Lee Collins Show. It is unbelievable. You are a hunter in the mountain wilderness of North America. You are armed only with a knife, your wits and an unlimited supply of live ammunition. You walk around the forests, past trees and through rivers, over hills and in the shadow of mighty mountains until...what's that in the far off distance? Why not look through the eye-piece attached to your rifle? Oh, look! It's a lovely mountain goat all alone and grazing happily. KILL IT! KILL IT'S FUCKING HEAD IN! Then you shoot it. It's miles from you, offers no threat and you can bravely kill it for your own amusement. Look at this gentleman killing a duck: I like it when he finally kills it and then says "Alright! Adrenalin".

I don't want to write too much about this game so please listen to this weeks The Trap podcast for Paul's full review. It'll be out on Tuesday or Wednesday, I reckon.

So, I'm in a good mood. You must be very happy for me and somewhat let down. Even the last train home, normally an actual breeding ground for cunts, was quiet and empty last night. I was just having one of those days. Lots of laughs, great company, great gigs. Maybe it was the happiest day I'll ever have. Fuck, that's depressing.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

Freeze and Take Over My Position.

I was right about the cat and the duck. They were omens.

I used to be good at improvised comedy. I started off doing it in the early 90's and soon became the funniest man in all of Theatresports. Yeah. My ambition wasn't huge. When it came to being Winston Churchill with a spatula in an aeroplane toilet, I was your man. Can you imagine Trainspotting performed in a Shakespearean style? YOU DON'T HAVE TO! I could do it for you. But that was years ago and, due to lack of practice and lack of talent, the knack to weave solid gold out of someone giving me the suggestion "gynaecologist" seems to have left me.

Last night was fun and terrifying. I was one fourth of the London Improv Players at The Phoenix, just off Oxford Street, along with Brendan Dempsey, Tara Flynn and Rufus Hound. On my way to the gig I became more and more nervous and by the time I got there I was pretty much a wreck. I certainly wasn't given a confidence boost by the venue spelling my name wrong on both signs outside the venue: Tara Legge. That's quite a typo. Not that I complained about it. That would be a block.

Brendan and Tara do improvised comedy a fair bit. They used to perform together in a group in Dublin. They've already clicked comedy-wise so they'll be able to cover all my mistakes. That made me feel a bit better. Plus Rufus has never done this in his life ever ever. Not that that phased him. Rufus is incredibly confident. He might be the most confident man I've met and the thought of going on stage and doing something he's never done before barely caused him to shrug. I bet he's never climbed a mountain before either but take him to Mount Everest and an hour later he'd probably be at the top fucking your girlfriend and her sister. In the bum. He's confident is what I'm saying. All three would cover up my mistakes. And they did. They had to.

At one point, Brendan turned to me and asked why the Pope had suddenly gone on to approve of condoms. Instead of coming up with something witty or inventive, my entire brain just shrugged it's shoulders and said "Don't look at me". My brain is a prick sometimes. So I just sat there and said words. In a stupid accent. Not my own accent, an even stupider one. One that I kept forgetting the more I used it.

Still, the gig didn't last forever and the others were funny and, chances are, no one even noticed I was there. That's all good. Not that I had done spectacularly badly, I just know I hadn't done that well. I knew by the honesty of Miles Jupp who was bravely in the audience. Normally, no matter how badly you did someone will say something that seems postive. Something like "Well done" or "Good stuff" or, much more horribly, "Did you enjoy that?" but Miles is a good man, a nice man, an HONEST man. He said "You should do some workshops". I haven't slept since.

He's right, of course. I'd love to keep doing impro with these guys so I'd better get better. Plus I've got The Conversation, the improvised two-hander I do with John Voce, this coming Wednesday. If someone can please teach me how to be funny then for the love of humanity don't keep it to yourself.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Auf Wiedersehen, Pets.

According to, seeing a dead duck and a dead cat in a dream means "Sorry, there are no matches for your request" but what does it mean when you see a dead duck and a dead cat in a canal? Surely this is an omen? I've got a gig that I'm very nervous about tonight and I can only assume that seeing these two animals face down and floating in a canal means that I'm actually going to drown on stage. That'll be a first for me and, more horribly, a last.

They weren't that far from each other in the canal. Cats and ducks don't really get on, if my cartoons are right, so I can only assume that it must have been a fight to the death. The duck stood no chance against the sharp claws and teeth of the vicious ginger bastard but, after the slaying was over, the canal, surely a ducks second best friend after the humble pond, stood up for it's deceased web-footed pal and destroyed the cat with it's cunning water. Or, and I think this is the most likely option, the cat and the duck had fallen in love but they know all too well that society would not let them have their happiness. It was an unlikely romance but it blossomed. Sure, one liked sleeping by the radiator and the other liked stale bread but look at Peter Andre and Katie Price. She's obsessed with body image and fame and he is mental flavoured soup yet, somehow, they managed to look past that and fall head over bank account in love. But would people give Mallard and Whiskers the same amount of respect just because they were different? NO! (and not just in Edinburgh) Can you imagine having to constantly explain to your friends why you're fucking a duck? Can you? Will you? Are you? Are you imagining it right now? Well, that's what is must have been like for Whiskers every day. And have you ever tried to explain your cat-fucking fetish to another duck? It's hard, believe me. And pointless. I'll never get those wasted hours back.

I feel sorry for the duck and the cat I saw face down dead in a canal yesterday but at least now they're free. I hope there is an animal Heaven where they're finally accepted and allowed to be themselves (even though all cats are protestants and all protestants go to hell). It did make me think that two unrelated animals dead right in front of me is Jesus' way of saying tonight's gig is going to be tough.

I'm doing an impro show. Impro show's are extremely hard. I'm shitting myself. If you like the thought of paying to watch me shit myself on stage then this has to be the show for you. I'm on with Brendan Dempsey, Tara Flynn and Rufus Hound, all of whom will be covering up my mistakes and any odours I leave in the room. You can find out about it here:

I sat through a full half hour of Red Fucking Dwarf last night. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting much but I did think it was going to be slightly better than the under-written episode of Rent-A-Ghost that Dave supplied us with. Luckily, I came to my senses and didn't watch the other two episodes. I watched Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle instead and it was his best one so far. The bursting of the oh-so precious Bill Hicks bubble is a joy to behold. Excellent.

Monday, 13 April 2009

More NO!

Edinburgh's insistence on saying NO to everything hit a beautiful peak on Saturday afternoon. I just wanted to go to the pictures. That's all. I stupidly thought that the building that advertised lots of films and called itself a cinema might be just the place so I headed there. On the way, I made a very important phone call to Dan Mersh to discuss a Radio 4 project (Dan and I are planning on listening to Radio 4) but as soon as Dan picked up the phone Edinburgh screamed NO!

Three fire engines screamed their very loudest past me so Dan and I couldn't hear what each other was saying. When they eventually passed I started complaining to Dan about how you can't do a fucking thing in this town without them all saying NO immediately and en masse. Dan got some schadenfreude giggles out of my shitty predicament but encouraged me with a fuck-it-you'll-be-home-tomorrow attitude. So what if I'd just been to the King of Everything venue to check it out only to find it closed, so what if the housekeeping lady at the hotel asked me if I wanted fresh towels and when I said yes she told me she hadn't got any, so what if every cash point I went to was enjoying Broken Cash Point Day. Big deal. Just go to the cinema and relax with a good film. But as I approached the cinema I found out where the screaming fire engines had been heading to.

Fucking great. All I want to do is see a film but Edinburgh would rather burn down a building than let that happen. Well, I wasn't taking NO for an answer not this time. I knew that there was a fire in the upper part of the building but I walked into the building anyway. I didn't care. I wanted to see a film and I have every right to go into a public cinema if I so desire. I didn't go upstairs, obviously. I just sulked around the lobby looking at my watch and huffing to myself. I had to enter the building on principle but I thought going upstairs might be a bit much as I hate being on fire. It was now past the time for the film to start (well, the ads and trailers anyway). I huffed some more. Andy White turned up. I had arranged to meet him at the cinema to see The Damned United at 1.15. It was now 1.30 but I thought, as the building was on fire, I probably won't complain about him being late. Then a child walked up the stairs. "THERE'S A FIRE UP THERE!" are just five of the many, many words that I didn't shout at this kid as he made his way upstairs to certain death. Then a few other kids followed him. THEY ARE INSANE. THEY WILL DIE. But, if it's a choice between doing nothing and burning to death then I'm up for a bit of flaming agony. We both followed them. We followed them knowing that this would be the last thing we would ever do.

Anyway, turns out there was no fire but no-one wanted to say anything. I mean why would they? You'd only go and do something stupid like go to the cinema that wasn't on fire. Fucking awful people. Of course, just because we were mere feet away from seeing the film doesn't mean that there wasn't time for one more quick wee NO before we go in. REGULAR TICKETS: £5.50, GOLD CLASS TICKETS: £9.50. Well, we're not flashy folk. We'll go regular, please. NO! There are only Gold Class Tickets for this screening. This means that our seats aren't crawling with cockroaches and have a hole that you can put your drink in plus you can watch the film on a "luxury screen". You know, a screen that's not on fire.

The Damned United was very good but very different from the book. The book has lots of lovely spiralling paranoia and the film has lots of cheeky. It's a lot lighter.

I'm not saying Edinburgh is a bad place. It's far from it. I love it to pieces, in fact, and occasionally something good happens there that you don't expect. About 100 feet away from my hotel I saw a small, mobile petting farm. They had two sheep and four pigs. Just there. In the street. I know I'm not the first comedian to go away for the weekend to spend too much time touching a pig but it was all lovely. I demand a petting farm every time I gig from now on. If Tony Gerrard is allowed a so-called "ramp" then I think promoters can cater for my little whims too.

I had two gigs on Saturday and that meant that, basically, Edinburgh was saying NO to me seeing Doctor Who. Well FUCK YOU, Edinburgh, because the staff at Jongleurs were lovely and they let Andy and I iPlayer it in between the two shows. It was completely and utterly, phenomenally OK. There was a spaceman and an easter egg and sand and monsters and a flying bus. Sometimes I forget that my favourite thing is made for children and not me. I absolutely love David Tennant but, you know what, it's time for him to go. He looks bored. Not as bored as the HUGE man sitting in the front row for the late gig. He was angry, serious and very, very bored. Why he sat at the front is a total mystery but he HATED me, he didn't care for Andy White, he sat through Richard Morton with daggers for eyes and surely he was going to leave during the interval? I mean, why would he stay if he hated this? I know he's from Edinburgh but you don't have to go to all that trouble to say NO! Anyway, the interval came and went, which is more than can be said for him.

He was still there at part two. He started to become more and more obvious to me. I'd tell a joke, people would laugh, he would stare. CUNT! What's his problem? I was up there for 10 minutes and although the room liked me I didn't care about anyone except Grumpy. Nothing from him. NOTHING. NO! NO! NO! I'm from Edinburgh and Edinburgh says NO!!!!!! I gave up. Fuck him. He's the last acts problem now. I'll do one more gag and bring him on. I did the gag and.....GRUMPY LAUGHED. He finally cracked. I was overjoyed and made a big thing out of it. The thing is, I didn't realise that the rest of the room had clocked Grumpy too and when he laughed, everyone cheered. His wife looked like she was going to cry. Finally, the big stone lump that had swept her off her feet all those years ago has smiled. I was happy for him. There's no point in sitting in the front row of a comedy club and pretending that nothing makes you laugh. He only came across as weird and when he laughed he suddenly became one of us. We were happy and so was he. Anyway, I then brought Brian Higgins on. That'll teach him.

Lots of comedians came down to the gig and we did do lots of drinkying. Unlike Jesus, I did not rise much on Easter Sunday. I pretty much slept all day yesterday. Did anything happen?

Saturday, 11 April 2009


The Land of NO (Edinburgh) hasn't disappointed so far on this trip. Pretty much anything I wanted in my 16 hours of being here has been denied. The coke machine at the airport took my money but kept my coke (Mark Thomas must be laughing in his grave), the bus going in to the centre of Edinburgh doesn't drop people off in, get this, the centre of Edinburgh, the WiFi in my hotel room is not available in my hotel room, the newsagents right by the hotel closed early just the very second that I arrived at their door.

My favourite NO of yesterday was the hotel room itself. Is there room to swing a very, very small cat in here? NO. I went down to reception to see if I could be moved from my cabin and in to an actual room. The lady at reception said "You'd like a free upgrade? Of course". I was delighted and shocked that I'd got a YES in Edinburgh. Good on you, Thistle Hotel. "Oh, no. We can't do that". There we go. That's the Edinburgh I know.

It actually becomes a game in Edinburgh. I like it when they say NO. It's like they want to keep all the lovely Edinburgh things to themselves and refuse to give any of it away. It's actually slightly disappointing when they say YES. It means you're denied their wonderful of excuse of why they can't provide you with what you want. Years ago during the festival, I tried to persuade Muki to try an Irn-Bru so we went to a newsagents in Nicholson Street. They had every soft drink that's ever existed and some that only appear in dreams but no Irn-Bru. When I asked where their Irn-Bru was the shopkeeper said "We used to sell it but there was never a call for it". Never a call for Irn-Bru in Scotland. Try as they might, that Guinness thing just refuses to take off in Ireland.

The gig was a bit of a NO itself. Well, the first half was anyway. Even before the show started we were warned that one of the Hen Parties had started a fight. When I walked on stage I was pretty much immediately heckled with "Yido" which is both utterly offence and incorrect. Just before bringing on the first act, a man walked right past the stage. This meant him actually having to move tables to get in between the front row and the stage. The aisle in the middle of the room just wasn't for him. I asked him if he was OK but he only replied with staring at me and not talking. He wasn't giving me a hard-man stare, he just forgot how to talk. I think he had drink taken. During the interval there was a cake fight and three parties were thrown out. Bizarrely, the second half was actually pretty good. It totally turned around when most of the cunts had been removed. There might be something in that.

Still, I got a bit drunk afterwards. That was nice. Edinburgh is a great drinking town. Pretty much the one thing they always say YES to is booze. Lovely. Because my mind has gone, I'm now off to City Cafe to sit for hours waiting to be served. It's traditional.

Friday, 10 April 2009

Michael Legge's Exciting Life!

Luckily yesterday wasn’t boring at all. Not like the day before. How could it be boring? I had hundreds of old and pointless emails to go through.

I changed my email address at the beginning of the year (, if anyone’s interested) but, even though I sent an email out to everyone in my old Hotmail address book, lots of people are still writing to my old Hotmail address. The dozy fuckers. It was a long and laborious task looking through them all and most of them seemed to be concerned about the size of my very small penis. I also got some from my Mum who likes to send emails when she’s on holiday so she can brag about how hot it is where she is and talk about how cheap wine is where she is and show how concerned she is about the size of my very small penis. She’s very considerate and creepy. My favourite of all my Hotmail “lost” emails was from my sister Colette. She sent it in March to congratulate me on my Chuckles Award.

Yesterday was full of excitement like that. I had a lovely hour long train journey too that was just as riveting. You know when you get on a train and the train guard gets on the PA and acts all cheery and jokey sometimes? You know how that’s lovely for about a second and then rapidly makes you want to rip off your own balls and throw them at him? Well, imagine that for an entire fucking hour. The cunt would NOT get off the PA, so delighted was he that we were all getting a four-day weekend and how much he hoped we all had a grrrrrreat time. I fucking hate that man. What made it worse was that people around me were laughing, smiling and saying “He’s always like this”. THAT’S NOT A GOOD THING. “Take it easy this weekend, folks. Four days of frolicking. I sincerely hope that wherever you are a lot of lovely sunshine comes your way”. I half expected the fuck to launch into “Bring Me Sunshine” and to remind us to tip the waitress. He’s a train guard not a fucking cheesy cheese man.

Yeah, I said what you’re all thinking.

The train journey wasn’t all bad because at least, in amongst the insanity, I managed to see the best newspaper headline I’m likely to see for quite a while. It was in London Lite (I think) and it read “Tweed: Please Make My Jade a Wax Dummy”. So moving.

I fucked up a whole gig all by myself last night. Before bringing on the excellent Gary Delaney, I mucked about with the audience a lot and they liked my banter, I thought. Then before bringing on Nat Lutseema I mucked about again but they now wanted to join in. I say they, I mean a man who couldn’t speak wanted to join in. I tried to understand him but couldn’t. Unfortunately, I gave him loads of room and time and the audience started to drift. Mucking about will get them back. NO IT WON’T. They’re scared of you now, you big prick. The room’s gone all funny and it’s YOUR FAULT. I did my oldest joke (pretty much), got a laugh and brought Nat on. The room was weird now and it was all my fault. I could have ignored the man who couldn’t talk but my stupidity, once again, got the better of me. Nat was very good but the audience just sat and stared. Why would they do anything else? I had put them off comedy for life. I’d made them hate comedy. I HAD BROKEN COMEDY. I’m very sorry.

The last act was Micky Flanagan who did what I should have done but didn’t/couldn’t. He ignored the man who couldn’t talk, then eventually calmly explained that the man who couldn’t talk had to shut up and then did a series of excellent jokes. Like a flash cunt. Comedy is now fixed again. For now.

I’ve just arrived in Edinburgh for the first of two nights. The WiFi in my hotel room is suffering from that quaint old Edinburgh tradition of saying “NO!”. If you’re reading this then my WiFi is finally working or you’re standing right behind me.

Thursday, 9 April 2009

I Am Bored.

Nothing is happening. Not a fucking thing. In the last 24 hours I've been to Sainsbury's TWICE, to the post office, to the park and on a train and FUCK ALL happened. How am I supposed to keep this blog going if everyone isn't acting like a big bastard all the time?

Mind you, I met an utter wanker the other day that (I think) I forgot to blog about. He was somewhere in his mid-30's and was in the park with his two children. I assume they were his kids because they kept telling him to shut up. He must have been their dad. The man also had a really nice dog. It was a Staffordshire Terrier but it was still nice. The family and dog were playing by the river when I arrived at the park. I kept Jerk on the lead until I was sure that she wasn't going to try to kill the Staffy. She's lovely but, ultimately, violent. The two dogs sniffed each others bumholes and soon became the best of friends. They're so like humans sometimes. Then the two kids saw Jerk and wanted to pet her. Jerk was loving the attention and the kids really seemed to like Jerk and their dog getting on. Then Dad butted in.

"Yours isn't as fast as mine", was his opening gambit to me. If he was talking about cars then he's right. Mine is not as fast as his. I don't have a car and even if I did there's nothing I could do about it as I can't drive. It would be a pointless purchase. BUT if he was talking about dogs then he's a big mental. His dog is short and stumpy and mine is, well, a running dog. I said "Really?" in a pretty cheery way considering my Cunt-O-Meter was going apeshit. He was sure that his dog was faster than mine. He confirmed it several times and, even though he was obviously wrong, I really couldn't care less if his dog could run faster than mine. He then went on to name dogs that his had outrun. Not they types of dog, the NAMES of the dogs. Very odd. Apparently, his stumpy little waddle-dog has outrun Nero, Marky and Archie plus some others that I can't remember. It goes without saying that I was as impressed as anyone else who stopped watching Horne and Corden after the first episode. I felt it was time to leave. He was creeping me out. Even though the kids were having fun with Jerk I thought it best to scarper. The man wasn't all there. Then he challenged me to a race.

Well, not me. My dog. My dog and his funny little stumpy out-of-breath dog. I pretended to laugh but he was deadly serious. I said no and started on my way but he wasn't having any of it. His kids were asking him to be quiet and the atmosphere was tense to say the least. Then something just went "Go on, fuck him" in my head and I accepted the challenge. I have a ball launcher, which is a lot less pervy than it sounds. It's a long piece of plastic that you put a tennis ball in at one end then, when you flick your arm, the ball flies about 100ft away or so. The dog has much further to run to get it. Then the dog is happy. That's how it works. I let both dogs smell the tennis ball, put it in the ball launcher and hoyed it as far away as I could. Jerk went like a bat out of hell and a bat out of hell II: back to hell. Stumpy ran about 8 feet and gave up. The man explained that his dog had been racing dogs all morning and wasn't in the mood and "Come on, kids. Home time". They left. What an odd, odd cretin.

And that's as exciting as it's been this week. I thought I saw Mark E. Smith yesterday but, it turns out, I didn't. Even as I write I'm watching My Super Ex-Girlfriend. I'm really fucking bored, people.

By the way, not that anyone asked but the "winner" of the Rex Boyd photograph was Lizzie Roper. She bid £6.22 for it but has threatened to never pay. She's still getting the photo though. That'll learn her.

Wednesday, 8 April 2009

Mama Cuss.

Daniel's Mum is parent of the fucking year compared to David's Mum. I saw David's Mum in the street yesterday. She caught my attention by walking in front of me and then crouching down behind a wheelie bin. Odd, I thought. I hardly ever crouch down behind a wheelie bin, I wonder what she's up to? It turned out that she was hiding from a boy who was about 20 feet away. "I can see you, Mum", he said and they both laughed. I smiled. It was nice to see a Mum taking a moment to muck about and have a laugh with her kid. Then she ruined it by talking. "Shit, David", she sagely pondered. "Did you fucking see me?"

"Of course, I did" said unlucky David.

"Fucking easy to see me with my fucking fat arse sticking out", the cheery matriarch declared.

I like swearing. I have nothing against people swearing. I don't think it should necessarily be shouted in the street or any public place. It makes me a little uncomfortable. Even more so, I just don't thinking parent/child swearing should be allowed. I can't swear in front of my parents no matter how often I want to and if you do swear in front of your parents then you're just creepy. Parents aren't people, you know? You can't just swear in front of them. Likewise, I don't expect my parents to swear in front of me. I remember once having to explain an erection joke to my Mum. It was awful. I was red-faced, squirming and wanted to die. That's how your relationship with your Mother should be. Not hiding behind a bin swearing. Horrible.

I think the whole world is completely fucked and it is the fault of children. I spent the day with Bennett Arron and his family on Sunday and he stated an opinion that, I'm sad to say, I agree with. Bennett and I never agree so this is terrifying for me. Parents don't give a shit about disciplining their kids and that's why I can't go on a train without having to tell a child to switch his fucking phone mp3 player off. We went for lunch together in a bar in St. Albans, where Bennett sort-of lives, and at the table next to us was a small but ugly family. The little girl played loud, upsetting music from her phone while her Mum smiled along not once thinking that the other people in the room might have hearing. The Dad said nothing because his skin, hair and clothes were all grey due to him being dead. Sadly, I was with Bennett's family and felt that I would upset his kids if I got up to tell people off for being so incredibly thick. So I sat there and stewed in my own murderous fury. At least Bennett's kids are nice.

They really are. They're lovely. Very polite, very good fun and extremely bright. I am in constant fear for their future as I think they'll stand out a mile in later life due to them not being a pair of fat cunts each. Yasmin is nearly 10 and has formed a genuine sense of humour very early, incredible considering her genes. Xander is a 6 year old sensitive soul and very funny also. Although he loves football, which automatically makes him an utter bellend, he has a fun side to him that almost makes me forgive him for it. Bennett is often saying what a typical BOY Xander is. Football, Power Rangers, battering things, etc. I'm not so sure. After lunch, Xander was asked what he would like to do. It was up to Xander. He could do anything. Play footsie in the park, kill zombies on the Wii, club a seal. WHATEVER HE WANTED. Xander wanted to look round the cathedral.

What a typical, cheeky little tyke. Boys are always mucking about down the cathedral, aren't they? Can't keep them away from the place. Filling their heads full of bygone beliefs and history. The little buggers. After the cathedral (which bored me stupid but Xander was utterly gripped by), Bennett and I decided to go to the comic shop. Xander is bound to love that, the wee scrapper. Xander was indeed excited to go there. That is, until his Mum and sister said that they were going to a new age stones and crystals shop. Xander LOVES new age stones. What six year old trouble-maker doesn't?

At least there wasn't swearing.

I saw Bennett the next night too and, God, did I wish I was still in the boring cathedral. We went to BAFTA to sit through a terminal and pointless discussion about the Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand "fiasco" and its effects on television. Why they didn't discuss the Sex Pistols swearing on the Bill Grundy show I can only guess? Or the invention of fire? Some cunt (and that was his real name) from the Daily Telegraph said that it was unthinkable that these two broadcasters could abuse a man who's parents had fled to the UK to avoid the Nazi's. Yeah, Some Cunt, their son got a crank phone call. I'm sure they wished they'd stayed and faced Hitler. Anyway, the long and the short of it was that six dullards actually thought that this, something the rest of the world has now forgotten about and moved on from, was a strong enough subject to talk about. I left after 20 minutes. Which is slightly longer than that story existed in the press.

Can I recommend a couple of things, please? I'm loving The Trap's podcast (found at and I think I might be in the latest one. I might not, of course. Also, Robin Ince's blog is always excellent and now seems to be exclusively on Facebook. It might not, of course. It's a very informative blog. How else would I know how young Stephen K. Amos (34) and Rhod Gilbert (32) were? Very funny.

Sunday, 5 April 2009

Train in Vain.

I've been pretty lucky this year, gig-wise. I'm working in London a lot more so that has cut down my travelling a lot which is great because the worst part of being a stand-up comedian is being away from home so much. But working in London has it's draw backs too. Late night trains are the natural homes for wankers.

This weekend I played in Cambridge and St. Albans. They're not in London, I know, but at least I was able to get home each night. After Cambridge I was given a lift to my house by Brett Goldstein, an excellent comedian and extremely good company too. The Cambridge night was easy. Gig over. Get in car. Drive home. Easy. Last night in St. Albans wasn't so straight forward. I had to get the train to London, the tube to London Bridge and another train to Lewisham. All three were rammed solid with cunts of the highest order.

The train to London was delayed due to the train company knowing fully well that that would annoy me. Then when it arrived it was delayed further. We sat there for 5 minutes while a man was dragged out of the carriage I was sitting in. He had pissed in the carriage. He kept protesting that it was an accident but how you accidentally get your cock out and piss is beyond me and the staff of First Capital Connect were pretty sceptical too. Perhaps the heavily tattooed man wanted to jot down a little reminder for himself but he didn't have any paper so, as his arms and hands already had little pictures on them, he did what anyone would do; he got his cock out to write on it. Perhaps the note was "Must fix that running tap by the waterfall"? That would be enough to set anyone off. He eventually got off the train but only after a lot of people started shouting at him. The train doors closed and we were finally on our way. Strangely, a woman seated near me said to her friend "They didn't need to kick him off. So what if he pissed?" What an open-minded, forgiving and horrible woman she is.

I've started reading The Damned United. It's a fantastic book that the entire world doesn't want me to read. Every time I open it someone decides that they want to talk to me. This train journey was no exception. I sat next to a man who was reading a book with a dragon and a sword on the cover. He looked like a half-melted ice cream cone and his teeth were all the colours of a very depressed rainbow. He asked how my book was. My first instinct was to kill him but I managed a very stern "It's good" and continued reading. That interested him, he fucking told me, because he had read that fella's book about the old Miner's Strike and it was rotten. This was of no interest to me whatsoever. Who the fuck interrupts someone reading a book to tell them that they don't like the author? Blobby Greyteeth, that's who. I immediately returned to reading and he sarcastically said "Oh. Well. I'll let you get back to your book then" as if I had been the rude, interrupting cunt. I said "Thanks. And let me know how it all works out for the dragon". Prick.

Luckily, the train journey was brief. I was in London in 20 minutes and I ran to the tube. The tube is going to be very crowded and very, very drunk. It'll be horrible. I'll miss Blobby Breyteeth once I get on here. The tube train pulled up and I couldn't believe my luck. There was a practically empty tube carriage. FUCKING BRILLIANT. There were only about 20 people on there and they looked like they were all getting off. FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. I was so happy and excited. For the first time in my life something nearly good had happened. I'll be in a nice, quiet tube carriage late at night and I'll be able to read my book. Bliss. I stood to one side to let the people off. I was happy to do so. I'm getting a seat on a late night tube. I'm happy to do anything. The people exited and I entered my very own tube train carriage. Not a person on it. No-one. Brilliant. Brilliant but odd. I mean, why wouldn't anyone want to....and that's when the smell of vomit said "HIYA!".

I just managed to avoid standing in puke ocean and continued my journey in another carriage. This was much more traditional. Absolutely full of cunts who couldn't talk, they could only shout or sing. There was no point in getting my book out. I find it hard to concentrate on text when 20 men are falling over and singing "That's Not My Name" at the same time.

Then I was off the tube and on to the final part of my journey. London Bridge to Lewisham. Thank God it's nearly over. It wasn't the last train I was getting so there was still a chance that it wouldn't be full. I might get a seat and if I get a seat then I can read and pretend that none of this train shit is happening to me. The train pulled up and my hopes went down. It was rammed. I was "lucky" to get on. Still, it wasn't all bad. At least some enterprising youths, sitting near where I was squashed up against a window, had come up with the bright idea of lifting out the bins, emptying them on the floor and drumming loudly with them. It was like all my childhood 12th of July's had come back to scream at me. It was a joy to listen to for half a fucking hour.

This is what happens in the world of the stand-up comedian. A funny thing happens on our way to the theatre but this is the shit we put up with on the way back. Ironically, I'm about to leave to spend the day in St. Albans. Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo looking forward to the train home.

Saturday, 4 April 2009

Death Through a Lens.

I love The Inbetweeners. It's rare that I can even watch a comedy without seeing my own ghost walk out of the room but The Inbetweeners is very funny indeed. Greg Davies is excellent in it. The second series has just started and the first episode of that is just as good as anything in the excellent first series. There. I'm recommending a comedy that I like. The whole world has gone topsy-turvy. Up is Down. North is Grey, etc. It's very cleverly marketed too. It's marketed in a way that will make me hate it without seeing it. And I did. But then I watched an episode last year with my sweary Father-In-Law and loved it. Hey, maybe Gavin & Stacey IS good?

I'm afraid this blog will be very short today because something weird has just come on telly. As I write, Sky News are showing Jade Goody's funeral live on TV. The streets are lined with about 12 or 13 people looking at a hearse filled with flowers in the shape of words and a corpse. I assume at least one of those floral tributes is in the shape of "Sponsored by OK!". This is actually more disgusting then the OK! Jade's Nearly Dead Commemorative Magazine Special. She's not royalty. Why is her funeral on TV? I understand it's the money for the kids thing but I think those kids have a fair amount of cash now. What about leaving the kids with an iota of dignity? That might help them out in later life too. I have written sketch after sketch after sit-com after game show after comedy chat-show and I'm still not on TV. Jade is dead and she still gets a live three-hour special. I hope my agent is reading this.

You have less than an hour (at time of writing) to bid on Rex Boyd: so hurry. Remember all money raised does not go to charity. It all goes to me. My two children that I intend leaving behind will not get a penny, not even from the Sky Funeral channel. Bid now, Rexites!

Thursday, 2 April 2009

Johnny Come Lately.

My husband, Johnny, and I are definitely going through a funny patch. Perhaps we're too close at the moment.

Yesterday, Johnny left his actual wife and child in Dublin to continue being my husband in London. We had a great day doing manly things like playing pool, drinking beer and talking about how many holes real women have (17, we concluded). It was a very macho day being manly, great, tough guys like what we normally are. Then Johnny and I went our separate ways to our gigs, shaking hands as we parted (none of that well bent hugging crap). Johnny agreed to meet me at The Funny Side of Covent Garden after his gig. I waited for him. I waited and waited. Then I waited again. Then I had a drink. Then I waited for Johnny again. He was late. Very late.

I texted him telling him that my phone's battery was about to die like an unmanly man in my hands so he'd better hurry up. I wanted to go home. I have the keys so he needs to meet up with me if he wants to get in. God, why does he always do this every time we go out? The lousy bastard. Why do men do this? They treat us like shit and expect us to just accept it. So, I waited some more for Johnny, thinking about how long I would give him the silent treatment for when he finally turned up. Then it got too close to midnight. I was going to miss, OUR last train. I left. I left without my husband.

My phone died, along with a little bit of me, on the way back home. There was now no way for Johnny to contact me. And, of course, I couldn't contact him. BASTARD! How could he know that I'm not talking to him if I can't text him to let him know? I hate stupid Johnny. I don't know why I pretended to marry him. I sat and stewed on the train thinking of all the fun Johnny was getting up to without me. He was probably drinking with another comedian behind my back. With every passing day of my life I connect more and more with Cheryl Cole. I know EXACTLY how she feels.

I got home, ignored Jerk and immediately plugged my phone in. I'll show the cheating cunt. I'll switch my phone on and listen to all his grovelling messages of apology that he's bound to have left on my voicemail. The little weed. If that spineless shit thinks I'm going to accept his snivelling sorrys then he's got another thing coming. Hmmmm. There were no messages. I see.

Well, I'll leave him another one then. I called him a fucking prick (this is all completely true, by the way. Depressing, isn't it?). I've learned a lot from my man-marriage to Johnny over the years. If you want him to stop ignoring your calls then just abuse him. He gets upset that you're angry with him and grovels immediately. After half an hour there was STILL no reply. I fucking HATE it that he's winning.

I texted him one more time before taking off my make-up and going to bed. It read "Hope you have somewhere to stay tonight. See you tomorrow". HA! That would show him.

FUUUUUUUUUCK! Why is he ignoring me? I stayed in bed reading for another half hour. Finally a cab pulls up outside my house. The cab door opens then slams shut. It's bound to be Johnny. The cunt. Johnny the cunt. I continue reading my magazine in an up-yours-Johnny way, even though he has no idea that I'm doing it. Three minutes after the cab door is slammed closed there is a knock on my door. How did it take that stupid prick three minutes to walk from the cab to my front door? He better not have been drinking.

He HAD been drinking! I didn't answer the door immediately. I finished reading an article about Planet Of The Dead (an article I know Johnny would love to read. HA!) and then finally went downstairs to let him in. I was furious but I played it cool.


Johnny was speechless. Not because I had confronted him on letting me, and our marriage, down but because he was so pissed that all knowledge of speech and language had been tinkled out of him. He literally couldn't talk. He pointed to his phone while both laughing and being deadly serious at the same time. That was his excuse. Pointing at a phone. "Bed!", I said. He nodded and bollocksed himself up the stairs.

I'm worried about me and Johnny. Is this how married we've really become? I sort of laughed it all off when I woke up this morning but after me discussing Sondheim at length this afternoon,us getting our hair done together and Johnny actual declaring "Soho comes alive in Spring", I'm really seeing a softer side to both of us. It might be the romanticest story ever written. Or the tale of two drunks who are spending a stupid amount of time together. Either way, it's really lovely. Lovely and terrifying.

Every word of that is worryingly true. Except the bit about my make-up. I left it on.

Fucking hell. My April Fool's blog might have voodoo qualities. I've never wanted theatre tickets more:

Wednesday, 1 April 2009

James Corden RIP.

I really don't know what to say. James Corden, although I wasn't always a fan, definitely brought a lot of happiness to a lot of people over the last couple of years and I can only assume that this morning's news has come as a shock to the entire comedy community. I know it seems hypocritical, I haven't been very nice about him in my blog, but I feel genuinely sad that his end came in such a tragic and sudden way. I abhor violence so I can only say how disgusted I am by the people who think that kicking one of Britain's fattest entertainers to death is appropriate. I know that they were just warming up for today's G20 riot and who doesn't blame Gavin and Stacey for the global recession? That's not the point. Kicking a man to death can't solve anything. Yeah, maybe if someone had thought of kicking Hitler while he was still a stuggling artist then maybe that nasty WWII wouldn't have happened but comparing James Corden to Hitler isn't completely fair. All I can say is, although I never knew James, I will miss him. He died like he lived, begging people to like him. Matt Horne was also killed but not a single person noticed.


You completely fell for that, you big eejit! James Corden wasn't even kicked to death by a blood thirsty mob. He's very much alive. In fact, yesterday Chortle revealed that Horne & Corden had been commissioned for a second series by BBC3 despite universal slaggings of the show by everyone who's even heard of it. Hang on....Horne & Corden....everyone hates them....BBC3 has recommissioned's April Fool's Day...???? FUCK! I can't believe I fell for it! That's hilarious. God, I'm so gullible. A second series. Ha ha ha ha. That is priceless.

We have some new, deeply depressing regulars in the park. They are druggies. Druggies that hang around our park giving the alcoholics and people who shout a trees a bad name. I don't know what's happened or where they've come from but they seem to just have appeared all of a sudden. I've seen druggies in the park before of course but they're easily frightened. It seems like they've returned, and in greater numbers. I saw one under a bridge with his trousers round his ankles injecting something (probably heroins) into his thigh. Lovely. Don't get me wrong, it must be horrible being addicted to drugs and, yeah, at least they're getting fresh air. I'm just not mad keen on seeing people that shuffle around like The Walking Dead and have so much mucus that they even have to blow their own eyes to get snot out. It's not nice. Plus, now that the druggies have started turning up all the families have disappeared which means that children are not using the park. So, that's good.

Not all children. Over the last few days, I've seen two babies in the park every time I go there. The same two babies, I mean. The same two babies with the same Mums. No matter how awful Daniel's thick as pig shit Mum was she's fucking Parent of the Year compared to these cunts. The first time I saw them, on Sunday, they were sitting on a bench with their babies in prams in front of them. They were smoking cigarettes like they were really, really sure that there was just a bit more nicotine in there somewhere if they just sucked hard enough. They were also drinking but I couldn't figure out what the drink actually was. It looked like a really odd bottle. I got closer. No, it's a really weird can. I got closer. NO! Silly me! It wasn't a bottle or a can that they were drinking from but a zebra-skin glove, obviously. They had a can of something in a zebra-skin glove each and were drinking away, happy in the security that no-one knew that they had a drink problem. Now, I definitely don't know if they have a drink problem but I'm also definitely sure that they have a mental problem. Even drinking mineral water in a glove is surely a lot stranger than drinking a can of special brew uncovered before 10am.

Jerk is getting slightly edgy in the park these days too. She's barked aggressively at two policemen this week. One looked terrified (especially when I "joked" that I had trained her to do that to policemen) but the other just looked at her and shouted back "Shut up, dog", which made me laugh a lot. That's the great thing about the park. It's very interactive. Plus, isn't it good to know that there is a place where Police and druggies can just hang out together. Nice.

Oh, good luck today, G20. I could do with the money. I've only got £2.70 so far for selling off Rex Boyd. Only a couple of days left so get your bids in. You know you want to (OK, I know you don't. Do it anyway).