I returned home from my four day nap yesterday morning and immediately watched what could turn out to be THE television event of the year. It was incredible. The man looked uncomfortable with the questions, he obviously had no idea what he was talking about and it is no wonder that people protest at everything that he has done. I'm really glad I recorded I Believe In UFO's: Danny Dyer.
It was everything I hoped it would be. Danny fackin' believes in fackin' UFO's and no fackin' mistake, guv, leave it aht, fack off, do yerserlf a fayvah. It's that for an hour. It starts so well. The opening statement from Danny's own mouth is "Every six minutes, someone somewhere see's a UFO". No, they don't. "Every six minutes, an areshole somewhere see's a UFO". Fine, I'll go along with that. Danny then interviews Patrick Moore, a man with decades of experience looking at the night sky. His skills of garnering information from this font of knowledge are incredible and an inspiration.
Danny: "Is there life out there in space?"
Sir Patrick Moore, CBE, HonFRS, FRAS: "Maybe".
Danny: "Sir Patrick. I'll leave you there. You've got the cricket on, obviously. Loves the cricket. You've a glass of wine on the go. Sir, a proper gentleman".
And that was it. Danny can't waste time because Danny has nutters to meet. Crop circle nutters. How the fuck does anyone in 2010 still fall for crop circles? Well, fear not, there's plenty of people who do. Danny's one of them. But at least he shows a little scepticism. "Yeah, I'd look in the paper and see crop circles", he says. "But then I turn the page and look at a pair of tits". Why isn't he fronting more documentaries?
It goes on as you would expect. With twats thinking that every light in the sky is a form of extraterrestrial transport and every YouTube hoax is solid proof that we are being watched. "Is that a guy in a mask? I dunno". YES, IT FUCKING IS AND YOU DO KNOW. YOU FUCKING FILMED IT YOURSELF. The one thing that these lovable eccentrics have to make us unbelievers really question everything is this: dead cattle. Yeah, take that, Mr. Sceptic. I mean, we all know that humans have made it on to the moon and back but we just don't have the technology to kill a cow. Only spacemen from Mars can do that. The universe is infinite and if it's infinite then there is life out there but watch this programme to find out why life on other planets wouldn't give us Earthlings the time of day. We are shit.
My new year's resolution of not getting into arguments on trains will have to go. I travelled to Bournemouth yesterday and sat near some horrible drunk pricks who saw me watching Doctor Who. They started taking the piss out of me which I thought was very brave of them. I mean there's four of them having a go at someone wearing earphones and therefore "can't hear" them. They are heroes. They let a female co-worker sit near them and talk to them and join in with their witty banter while they plied her with wine. All four of them did this because all four of them wanted to fuck her. All I'm saying is, I missed out on a really good argument and I'm just not sure I can do that again. Please forgive me. I nearly got through all of January without an argument but if one like that comes up again I HAVE to take it. Anyway, the cunts knew nothing about Doctor Who. "Darleks" are NOT robots. Stupid cunts.
Then I was charmed by a cab driver who, it turns out, knows the comedy business and how it works inside and out. He asked if I was off work this weekend and I told him that he was taking me to work. I'll be in the venue and out again in no time, I bragged. He asked more questions and once he realised that I was a stand-up comedian he started throwing his knowledge at me. "You're on first then, yeah?", he said. "So, you just starting out in this then?" You'd be forgiven for thinking so if you ever saw my act but I've been going for a stupidly long time. "Right. So you're just doing a little spot are you? What is that? 45 minutes?" Er...no. I'm doing half an hour. "I see. Well, half an hour's not long" Well, cunt, be my guest. Get up there and do half an hour. "So, you go on and then what? A professional goes on after you?". Fuck you. I'm on a bill with Tim Clarke and Junior Simpson. There are no professionals on after me. I started to point out the gentleman's error just as we got to the venue. "That'll be £7. I hope you don't get booed off, eh?". Keep calm, Michael. Just hand him the money and say goodbye. "All the best, mate. I hope your career takes off some day".
LOOK, YOU CUNT. YOU'RE THE BLOKE WHO DROVE THE FUCKING CAREERLESS COMEDIAN TO HIS BOOED-OFF-STAGE GIG SO WHAT DOES THAT MAKE YOU? Other than £7 richer, I mean.
As it turns out the gig was just what I needed. I was utterly self-indulgent throughout, constantly referring to the Bournemouth audience as being very, very old (they weren't) which meant I could repeat everything I had just said to them a bit louder. I like shouting.