Saturday, 30 April 2011

The Thrill of The Chase.

Yesterday, Robin Ince and I brought our Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire show to the Machynlleth Comedy Festival, a completely secret comedy festival in a secret town somewhere secret. No one I spoke to knew how to pronounce Machynlleth (Myclunkclick being one of my favourite attempts at it) and no one knew where it was. It was definitely somewhere in North Wales or in Central Wales or in Wales. Or maybe England. It didn’t really matter where it was, the main thing was that Robin and I were travelling 5 hours on a train to do a gig where we would spend more getting there than we would earn. It isn’t cheap staying at “the best hotel in Machynlleth” (it tragically, tragically was the best hotel in Machynlleth) nor is it cheap going on the stupidly long train journey.

Not just any train journey. No. It was a loud train journey. It’s not often that Robin and I are surrounded by women and this is not how I ever fantasised about that concept (I’ve always fantasised about Robin crying in a corner while the ladies brush my lovely hair and throw their shoes at him). I don’t mean to be rude but I think Welsh women are the loudest noise on the planet and these particular ones were ear-bleedingly terrifying. Hey, guys, I’m all about equality but is displaying all the very worst traits of arsehole men really what Emily Davison wanted? All I’m saying is that if ANY woman sits on a train and drinks a litre of something blue she should have the vote taken away from her. It’s not like she’s going to use it.

For two and a half hours, these screaming, foundation-caked efforts filled the carriage with their charming tales of fucking. Golly gee whizz, these ladies loved cock and got loads and loads of it. From their gentle banter, I can only assume that the two and a half hours spent with me and Robin are the only two and a half hours they have ever spent in their entire lives not getting spit-roasted, bukkaked or gangishly banged. At one point, they played a game. The rules were simple: one lady would name a gentleman that they all knew and the others then confided as to whether or not they had fucked him. Alan did well. Robin or Michael didn’t get a mention.

The two ladies next to us talked of an argument one of them had with a bitch. “She’s a bitch, that one. She called me a slapper, that bitch”, the lady deafeningly whispered. “I can’t help it if he fancied me”. No. But surely he could?

This journey wasn’t helped by the fact that, 10 minutes outside Machynlleth, I looked out the window at the beautiful scenery and saw a sheep stuck on a barbwire fence. It was horrible. It’s wooly coat had got tangled in the wire and it was clearly stressed out. But we were on a train speeding past and I couldn’t save this lovely animal like I normally would do. Poor Gary (that’s what I called the sheep). He’ll be the first Gary I couldn’t rescue. You know, like I did with Gary the seagull, Gary the Michelle from Richmond and Gary the ladybird (I never told you about Gary the ladybird. He nearly drowned). I SAVED ALL THEIR LIVES. But Gary the sheep…Poor Gary. I felt like Indiana Jones when he thought Marion had blown up. There was just nothing I could do. I might as well go drinking with a monkey.

To say the least, I got off the train completely stressed. We’re throwing money away on a gig, the train was made of solid noise (although it really was funny seeing how disgusted Robin looked when a woman sprayed half a can of deodorant on her tits) and Gary the sheep was in trouble. Then Muki rang to say she’d lost her house keys and couldn’t get in. Jerk was inside getting agitated that she could see Muki through the window but Muki wasn’t coming in. Stupid Muki. I was in Machynlleth and couldn’t really let her in. MORE STRESS! Still, I could now just leave Muki to sort that problem out herself and I’ll just get to the hotel and de-stress before the gig. It’s bound to be a relaxing hotel. I mean. It’s “the best hotel in Machynlleth”.

I’ve never been to a hotel where the receptionist has said “Would you like a key?” before.

Bad food and a lack of vegan booze followed. Luckily the gig was excellent. It took me a while to get into it (I was worried about Gary, OK?) but when I did I loved it. Really lovely audience who were angry about local government, Donald Trump and public spending. I was angry about Mrs. Brown’s Boys.

It was great afterwards too. Lots of nice people to hang out with and watch on stage at the festival showcase show. Nick Helm, Ed Gamble and Pappy’s were fun. Not as much fun as Josie Long’s disbelief that Billy Bragg and Boris Johnson are friends. They really are. It’s true. Her utter disappointment will comfort me in my dotage.

I woke this morning and thought of Gary. He was the only sheep in a field of cows and he’s caught on barbwire. How often have we all felt like that? Has someone saved him? Is he OK? I remembered last night’s gig and as I lay in bed I noticed there was a painting of three dogs on the wall. One looked like Jerk. Awww. It’s not such a bad place, old Machynlleth. It was a fun night and luckily enough people came and we might make a small profit.

Robin and I got on the train home and I saw Gary. The only sheep in a field of cows was now happily grazing by a river and free. Some Gary’s don’t need me. Some Gary’s are special. I couldn’t be happier.

Then I saw a sheep chasing a squirrel. ADORABLE! It’s definitely never going to get any better than that ever. A sunny spring day watching a sheep chase a squirrel up a hill. Lovely. Maybe this is how it feels to be truly content and happy.

Of course, only I could see the negative side to all this. WHY did I see a sheep chase a squirrel TODAY? My life is full of crushing disappointment and flaky psoriasis but today I’m reeling from a lovely gig, a picture of Jerk, a non-lost key chat with Muki and a freed Gary (Don’t. I’m well aware of what I’ve been saying). Even the news today is good because apparently nothing happened yesterday other than a lovely wedding. I wonder how it would have been reported if Wills was gay and met a man and fell blissfully in love with him and yesterday was Britain’s first Royal Civil Ceremony. Might not have got in all the papers, I reckon. Well, it’s just been great and a sheep and a squirrel made me happy.


ps. We have a BRILLIANT line up at the next Los Quattros Cvnts on Wednesday the 4th of May at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square (where it's less than £4 a pint but it's still central London). Our special guests are CHRIS ADDISON and CATIE WILKINS. It'll be a great night and, as usual, get there early to secure a seat. Doors 7.30 pm, show starts 8pm. Admission is £8 or £6 with the secret password which I will publicly tell you is "Mrs. Brown's BAFTA".

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Friday, 29 April 2011

Royally Shafted.

I feel sorry for these two young people. A wedding day should be the happiest day of your life but how can it be when it's clear you're being forced into doing something that you just don't want to do. Oh, they'll go along with it because it's expected of them but they can't be happy. No one would be happy in their position. It might be every hopeless romantic's dream to get married in Westminster Abbey but that's how it should remain: a dream. The reality for Kate and Wills today is a nightmare turned real like a bad dream made of actual stuff. After the wedding everyone always goes to the pub just before the reception. They'll have to buy everyone a drink. Have you seen central London pub prices these days? It's a MINIMUM of £4 a pint practically wherever you go and when you get married and everyone has made the effort to turn up and buy you a present and said how lovely you look then YOU CAN'T GET OUT OF IT. Your highnesses, it's your round.

This has been bugging me for the last few weeks. And it's not just central London, this £4 a pint evil is creeping everywhere. The thing is, people are acting like nothing has happened. Like it's perfectly normal to charge over £4 for a pint of lager. You see people in pubs everywhere smiling and laughing and chatting and behaving like they haven't just been raped which they most certainly have been. Do you know how much it costs to make a pint of lager? 7p. EVERYTHING costs 7p to make, Beer, Bounty bars, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm finding it impossible to enjoy a pint when I've just £4 and NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE! Is everyone rich now? I could buy Viva La Vida by Coldplay on iTunes for less than the price of a pint and, yes, I know that's a terrible example but I'm all angry and can't think straight. I mean, are we just going to sit there and accept this? We are. We are, of course, we are. I'm too weak to say no. If I don't drink beer then every single thing in the entire world is Viva La Vida by Coldplay.

Oh, I'll buy my neccessary beer but I'm not going to enjoy it. I'll sit there in the pub looking at the smiling damned all around me blissfully ignorant of the fact that they'll wake up the next morning and look in their wallets and say "Fuck. How much did I spend last night? I only had a few pints. I can't have spent that much. I must have been mugged". YOU WERE MUGGED, YOU DICK. Don't you remember? You went into the bar last night and queued up for 15 minutes waiting on your mugger to stop ignoring you. Do you remember? Yeah? Do you remember when your mugger actually mugged someone else before you even though you had been stood there a good 12 minutes before this latest victim turned up? Do you remember when you mugger turned to you with eyes of steel and viciously said "What can I get you?" You said two pints of lager but somehow your mugger managed to get nearly a tenner out of your wallet and you said nothing because it was such a shock you realised you were lucky to get away with your life and there's no way that you're going to say anything about getting salted crisps instead of the salted nuts you asked for. If you haven't the will to stand up to your mugger over a £4 pint then you're just going to have to admit you have no nuts.

The multi-million dollar film Iron Man is currently on sale at for £3.89. Keep that in mind when next drinking your £4 pint. A film that cost MILLIONS OF DOLLARS to make costs less than your drink that is 97% water. At the same website you can buy David Bowie's Hunky Dory, one of the greatest albums ever made. Of course, you could give £4 to Oxfam. They're always giving fresh water to some village or other for about £4 a month. It would make you feel good. Or you could sponsor a child in an 8 mile sponsored walk. Forcing a child to walk a mile for 50p is as good a bargain as I can think of. Or you could go to a Samuel Smith's pub and get upset for cheaper. Your mind will break after the spiralling thought of "It only costs £2.30 for a pint here. They make it themselves. Why is it so cheap and everywhere else is so expensive? How can they afford to serve beer for 2/3 of an Iron Man DVD but the others can't? Why does my leg hurt? Why can't I kiss men in here?" I love Samuel Smith's pubs and The John Snow kiss embarrassment was a nightmare for me. I'd stand up for the right of any gay couple to kiss in public but if Samuel Smith's pubs closed down due to that furore I was ready to murder John Barrowman himself. Hmmm...I might have been ready to do that before The John Snow kiss embarrassment.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm surprised that there hasn't been more of a public outcry. I mean, it's Britain, for fuck's sake. We love a drink. There's a recession on. How can we drink away our money problems if we can't afford to? And non-Londoners can wipe that smug look off their faces too. There are LOADS of bars in Manchester, Glasgow, Cardiff, Birmingham, Newcastle and Liverp...well, not Liverpool, that are just as expensive as London. This is supposed to be a great day that makes Britain proud. A happy, glorious day for all of us. But getting married in the centre of London where it's completely normal to pay OVER £4 a pint? I don't know how the royals can afford it.

Oh. Oh, yeah.

ps. We have a BRILLIANT line up at the next Los Quattros Cvnts on Wednesday the 4th of May at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square (where it's less than £4 a pint but it's still central London). Our special guests are CHRIS ADDISON and CATIE WILKINS. It'll be a great night and, as usual, get there early to secure a seat. Doors 7.30 pm, show starts 8pm. Admission is £8 or £6 with the secret password which I will publicly tell you is "Mrs. Brown's BAFTA".

ps Kindle owners might like to now that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:

Wednesday, 27 April 2011


“Anger is anenergy” sang butter salesman John Lydon and he’s right.

Anger is an infectious energy like when someone yawns and then you automatically yawn too or a baby makes a funny little noise and you repeat it back to them just to show the baby you’re learning from it instead of the other way round. It’s exactly like that but with more swearing and red faces and pointing. Sometimes you can see people being angry and you get swept up in the same feeling whether you believe in what they’re furious about or not. Last week’s anger on Twitter and beyond (but not very far beyond) over the Funny Women competition charging £15 to play their gigs was a good example of fury without that much thought.

I mean, yeah, it’s bad that they now charge £15. Performers should never have to pay to play. Plus the response by Funny Women to the anger was patronising and insulting and rightly caused more anger but amongst all the fury no one ever just said “Well, it is a competition and judging art in this way might be a completely reprehensible thing to do anyway so why are we only getting angry with Funny Women now? What lack of faith in yourself do you have by entering a talent contest instead of working on your act? I know that a lot of people say ‘Well, it’s good exposure’ but if it’s PR you’re after then fucking pay for it like everyone else does. £15 is nothing, you egotistical prick. Not that you should ever pay to play. Not ever. And I mean surely there are better ways to raise money for cancer charities than using segregation to fight sexism. Anyway, when it comes to fighting sexism why the fuck are we beginning with the UK comedy circuit? Is raising awareness of the amount of forced labour or forced prostitution that goes on globally not quite as important as Pippa Evans not getting booked at Highlight but bloody KevOrkian does and that’s not even fair because she’s been on Fast and Loose and everything? Mind you, Funny Women are dealing with sex issues outside the comedy circuit and they’re important. Breast cancer, ovarian cancer and challenging sex-object culture are all important issues so maybe it’s good thing, eh? No. Someone just said 15 quid again. I’m furious”.

But it’s a healthy thing to see people being angry and standing up for a cause and, of course, I’m the King of getting angry over the trivial without seeing the bigger picture. But I vow to improve on this. No more leaping in with all fists flying until I’ve thought everything through. No more shouting until I’ve heard it from all sides. No more hissy-fitting until I know the facts.

Last week, on a train, I overheard a man who was angry. He was angry but he had all the facts and therefore was a pleasure and an education to listen to. It was like listening to Mark Thomas or Carl Sagan. He knew things that we didn’t, because we just don’t care to look, but if we only knew we’d be amazed. The truth is out there.
“They can do what they want because they’re the ones in charge”, said the loud, overweight, knackered looking truth-teller to his bored friend. His friend might well have been bored but there was something about the way this Guardian of Facts screamed that made me take notice of him. “They can do what they fucking want and no one will do anything about it. It’s criminal”.

Wow! This man may be cunningly disguised as a massive oaf but he’s got the inside scoop. He knows about the government or the media or the mafia or the internet or…I don’t know, but he does. He knows about THEY and THEY can do whatever THEY want. THEY are criminal and this Angel of Light has shone his beacon and exposed the whole damn dirty lot.

“Do you know how much it costs to make one of these? 7p. How can you charge 80p for something that costs 7?”

My God! He’s right. He went on to say that the 7p included everything. “The packaging, the chocolate, the coconut”, he said while pointing to his half eaten Bounty and my eyes opened for the very first time in my life. I’ve been asleep but now I’m awake and I’m out of the dream and, unlike the rest of you, I’m living in reality. BOUNTY IS A FUCKING RIP-OFF. It’s a rip-off and I too have willingly funded this evil (before I was vegan, obviously) but we’re through the looking glass, people. FUCK YOU, BOUNTY! You’ve STOLEN 73p off us for the last time. Not only has this Sweet Prince of Honesty shown us the truth, he’s also given us the recipe: chocolate, coconut and a wrapper. We need never bow down to our paradise-based slave drivers ever again. This Gentleman of Purity shouted at great length about the same thing over and over and over again for ages and bloody ages and soon Bounty just didn’t exist for me anymore. I vowed then and there to follow my new principled Knight of Integrity to the very end.

And then he opened his second Bounty bar.

I gave up that second. What chance do any of us really have when even this one sacred, honest, loud, pretty much disgusting, jewel of a man can be swayed from his beliefs? I have never felt so alone.

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Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Sarah Jane Must Live.

I'm a Doctor Who fan and today was a great day. Well, up until about 8.30pm anyway. When you're 42 and your favourite TV show is a programme aimed at children you quickly get used to people thinking you're, well, a twat despite the fact that Doctor Who is pretty much the UK's most popular non-talent contest piece of televisual entertainment. It's easily the most popular long running TV series that isn't shit, an achievement that deserves applause. After a bit of shopping in Sainsbury's today I felt like I deserved a reward, Sainsbury's is a trying experience, so I went to WH Smith and bought Planet Of The Spiders.

I took the empty DVD cover to the counter. The cover shows a dashing Jon Pertwee, a troubled but cute Elisabeth Sladen and two massive spiders. The shop assistant took one look at the cover and said "Gross".

SEE? That's what happens when you like Doctor Who. People can't wait to fucking give their pointless and needless opinions on something that has NOTHING TO DO WITH THEM. I mean, what would this shop girl know about quality British sci-fi from the 70's? She's only about 20. "Gross"? You're out of your league, love. Keep your opinions for voting time on Britain's Got A Fat Git Singing or The Ache Factor. "Gross"? How dare you, child? You're 20, you work in WH Smith and you're an idiot. You don't know your Ark In Space from your Eldrad.

"I bet it's good though, eh?", she said next. Too little too late, young lady. I came in here to buy something far above your stupid Beiber filled head and you've insulted me. You can take your fake interest back to your Glee downloads and shove off.

"Aw, man. Jon Pertwee ones was good though", she said.

About 17 months passed between the 20 year old shop assistant from WH Smith's last sentence and me saying "What?" and it felt great. I shook myself back to reality and tried to pretend that this wasn't one of the greatest moments of my entire life. "Yes", I said. " Pertwee is great".

"I used to watch the re-runs back in the day. Did you know they made an American Doctor Who movie?"

DID I KNOW? Yes! But that's not the point. The point is that she knew they made an American movie. Alright, it was sort of Canadiany Americany but she knew it existed and she thought that I, someone who was buying Planet of the Spiders, might not know anything about it. Of course! See, that's the thing about Doctor Who. The assistants often appeared to be stupid compared to the expert but often they knew much, much more than they were given credit for.

"When the Master takes his fingernail off I was like I'm switching off".

A wise move when it came to Doctor Who: The Movie. I stayed at the counter for 10 minutes talking about Doctor Who with this girl and it was fantastic. It is easily the greatest thing that has ever happened to anyone in WH Smith. Mainly we discussed Jon Pertwee and his car and his shirts and The Master. I just never saw any of this coming. Then right at the end she pointed to the picture of Sarah Jane Smith on the cover of my DVD and said "She's the best girl ever".

Sarah Jane has always been The Doctor's most popular companion ever since she first appeared. She was cute and clever and funny and a bit tough and everyone liked her. I adored her when I was 5 and there's something brilliantly exciting about knowing that you can bump into people who are a couple of decades younger than you who get Sarah Jane's appeal too. Of course, much more crucially, the last few years has seen Sarah Jane become hugely popular again to kids on CBBC. That's just how good the character is. She lasted and she is loved and today's sad news just came out of nowhere.

I feel like I've been wrongly dropped off in Aberdeen.

If you don't know much about Elisabeth Sladen's excellent Sarah Jane Smith then I encourage you to watch The Hand of Fear. I think it's her at her best. That said she was great in all classic Doctor Who and her comeback in School Reunuin with David Tennant is one of the best in the new show. Any more comforting thoughts?

Thursday, 14 April 2011

The Twin Dilemma.

All I wanted to do was nap, OK? I'm an old, old man now and a nap in the middle of the day is as important as taking my prescription to Boots or struggling over a toffee (Why do they make them so hard these days? Toffos were really soft in my day. And they were bloody cheaper, Mr. Cameron). Is it so wrong to want to have a nap? Is a nap such a crime now? I wasn't blowing up parliament or kidnapping a baby or putting my little fireman into a dolphin's blowhole. I was just having a nap. But was I allowed? Fuck, no. Peri had to bloody ruin it.

The thing is, I've waited a long time for Peri to knock on my door but I never wanted it to be like this. I'd already messed up badly the time Ace come round to use my toilet. This really happened. Sophie Aldred, who played Ace in Doctor Who alongside Sylvester McCoy's 7th Doctor, was invited by a neighbour to a street party we had in my street a few years ago. I don't remember too much about meeting her because I was so nervous that I had to get completely pissed before I could talk to her. What I do recall is that after chatting for a few minutes she asked if she could just pop into my house and use the loo. I went red and made a few excuses such as "I think there's someone in the already", "Wouldn't you rather use the toilet way over there?" and "We have no toilet" but, as she was getting just as embarrassed as me, I gave in and said yes. She came out a few minutes later and said "Right. Yes. I get it now" and then shuffled off. I don't know what it was in my house that could have spooked her? I mean, how many TARDIS' and K9's is too many?

So I wanted Peri knocking on the door to be much more successful. My neighbour Gloria called yesterday morning and gave me a key to give to her friend, Peri, who was going to be staying with her. Gloria was out for the day so Peri would call at my house sometime after 3 to pick up the key. Great. I'll do some work in the morning and have a nap at 2. I'll be all fresh for Peri.

As 2 o'clock came round I felt knackered. Now is the perfect time. Maybe I can have a little dream of Peri in her Planet of Fire bikini and when I wake up she'll be on her way to make that dream a reality. I settled down about 2.05 and after a few minutes I fell asleep.

Thats when I heard the knock on the door.

Bloody hell! Have I slept that long? I looked at my phone. No. It said 2.12. I've been asleep for about three minutes. Fucking hell! Typical Peri! She never had a clue about time and how it worked. As I'd just fallen asleep and was wakened way too suddenly, I felt groggy. Disorientated. Thick, even. And as I walked confused to the door I heard a mobile phone ringing from outside. I opened the door to greet Peri.

That's not Peri.

Look I'm not saying that the 60-odd year old woman in front of me wasn't nice, I'm just saying that you should never get your hopes up. I can't see Turlough jumping in to save her from drowning although I can imagine Brian Blessed marrying her. Anyway, I handed her the key and noticed that the phone was still ringing. "You going to answer that?", I said. "Could you?", she replied. "I don't know how phones work. I just found it on the train".

This was too much for me. I've had three minutes sleep and now I have to answer someone elses phone? I hate talking to strangers but now I've been rudely woken up to speak to two of them. My baffled eyes and lazy brain looked at the phone flipped up the top of it. It was still ringing. Bum. I'm going to have to think harder. Hang on... It says "Gloria calling".

"Erm...You just found this phone?"

"On a train. Yes".

"And it's not yours?"

"That's right".

"So, this isn't your phone and you just found it and yet somehow your friend Gloria is calling it?"

This was completely insane. I must still be asleep because Peri isn't due to be here until 3 and it's 2.13, it says so on the phone just above "Gloria calling". Plus Peri is young and beautiful and wears very little and I love her and I don't know this woman and she has no phone, she's just found a phone and the phone she found says "Gloria calling" and Gloria is her friend and how does Gloria know what phone Peri has found if it was just random even though Gloria is definitely calling this random phone because it says "Gloria calling"?

"There's more than one Gloria in the world", said Peri.

SHE'S FUCKING RIGHT! It must be one of the other Gloria's calling. I answered and it was a Spanish teacher. A spanish teacher called Gloria! The phone belonged to one of her pupils who had dropped it on the way to Greenwich. All I had to do was take my house slippers off, put my shoes on and walk all the way down to Lewisham Train Station and give it back to her.

I WAS FUCKING ASLEEP A MINUTE AGO. How the fuck did this happen? You can't just wake me up and expect me to fucking help. I'm not a fireman. I keep telling people, I'M NOT A FIREMAN. And all I wanted was a nap. A little sleep. A tiny kip. 40 winks. And yet there I was tired and shuffling down the cold streets of Lewisham to give a phone back to a cack-handed Spaniard....WHO DIDN'T FUCKING TURN UP!

See that nap I wanted? It was too much for the world. The world just couldn't have someone being happy for half an hour and me napping was a breach of the world's code. Has Legge been asleep for 180 seconds? WELL, FUCK HIM. He has to wake up and have a shit time like the rest of us. A day ruined by Peri and all the Gloria's I know.

I had a very busy day yesterday yet the only reason that I had time for this blog is because I had to sit in waiting for Gloria (the Spanish one) to call back. I'm not like Peri, you see. I'm like The Doctor. I see things through to the end. I won't just palm the phone off to the first half-awake, slippered idiot I find. Oh no, I'll make sure the phone is returned to it's rightful owner.

And yes, I have taken a photo of my arse with it.

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Tuesday, 12 April 2011

And When They Shag, They Think Of Me.

You know, when you start off with a little comedy project the most you can hope for is that one or two people might be entertained by it. I've yet to hit those heady heights but sometimes something almost as good happens. I've had a few people tell me that they've stopped eating meat after reading my anti-carnivore rant and that makes me feels great. Equally, I had a few people call me a cunt for not warning them enough about Mrs. Brown's Boys. I suppose saying it was the worst thing on TV just wasn't enough of a warning. I blame myself. Luckily, just yesterday, something beautiful happened.

James Hingley and I have been recording the Precious Little podcast since September 2008 and we've been lucky enough to gather a small but loyal following that we lovingly call Podophiles. It's a podcast where two grown men talk about nothing in particular for an hour, sometimes we manage to stretch fuck all out for even longer. Somehow, these bewildered, lost, even hideous people actually enjoy the nothing that James and I have to say even going so far as to set up listening parties on Twitter and making t-shirts and badges with "I'm a pair of bastards" and "WHAT'S WROOOOOONNNGG???" written on them. These are phrases from the podcast, not just bollocks they've made up themselves. That's how bewildered, lost, even hideous these people really are. They couldn't even think of that themselves. But they are OUR bewildered, lost, even hideous people and we love them. Well, James doesn't but I do. So, imagine my delight when I found out yesterday that two of these shadowy, bent, half-people are getting married. It's the FUCK YOU to Wills and Kate I've been longing to hear.

Last year, a podophile called Barry lost a competition that I held on Precious Little. The prize for losing the competition was two tickets to see me and Andrew Collins. Stupidly, Barry accepted the tickets and PAID MONEY to come all the way down from Manchester to London to watch our equivalent of entertainment. The fucking idiot even PAID MONEY to stay in a hotel that night. In other words, he PAID about £150 to get a ticket worth £8 to see two men who had yet to write their Edinburgh Fringe shows (mine remains unwritten to date). This is the kind of man that listens to Precious Little. He actually won two tickets but couldn't even give the other one away, such is my fame. But after spending money, time and patience on me and Andrew, it was here that Barry met Sarah.

Sarah, equally as disturbed as Barry, had come from some God forsaken cave-hole in Scotland to see the show. She had PAID for her ticket as well as her travel. She had travelled twice as far as Barry, PAID MORE for travel and PAID FOR A TICKET plus she lived in the middle of fuck-not-nowhere. Barry was never going to do any better than this. It was love at first sight.

I have met Sarah and Barry and I am delighted that they are together. I guess that thought just makes me happy: They met via me and because of me two people are much happier than they would have been. Not Barry and Sarah, of course, I mean the two people they might have met if Barry and Sarah hadn't met at my gig. Oh, yes. There are two very lucky people out there living their lives and going about their business blissfully unaware that I have saved them from living with a podophile and having to spend an eternity hearing catchphrases that no-one else gets. Those are two very lucky people.

And, I suppose if I have to, congratulations to Sarah and Barry. Please name your first pet after me. Now, to pair up the rest of them before any normal people find them...

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Monday, 11 April 2011

Basket Case.

I was only just talking about how lovely everything is and how delightfully happy I am. Obviously, the change in the weather makes most people a lot cheerier and, although I look like a ghost's ghost, I really love the sunshine so I certainly carry a tip-top bent. That's how good my mood is. I'd never have said anything as twatty as I certainly carry a tip-top bent but since the sun's come out you will indubitably hear me declare that extraordinary affirmation oft afresh.

Yes, the sun certainly turns me into a completely different kind of cunt. Everything just seems to make me cheery. I just bought Guitar Hero and find it impossible to play but (chuckle) isn't that part of the fun of it all? I had to go to collect my free dry cleaning and (tee hee) there isn't a trace of Michelle from Richmond on it. I shall miss her. Yesterday I was asked if I wouldn't mind helping with the gardening and not only did I say YES but I also actually did some gardening! WHY? Because I thought it might be fun. The sun's rays have positived up my brain and now I think every fucking little thing is great and fun and convivial. I can't even get angry about the IKEA advert. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!!??

Look, it's not like I have a problem with the people in the advert, I certainly don't. They are three incredibly fine and and talented, not to mention hard working, comedians and one of Idiots of Ants but it definitely shows that all people involved in any form of advertising just haven't got a fucking clue. I get it, of course I do. Why get Michael McIntyre or Alan Carr or The Krankees in to plug IKEA's unquestionably shit furniture when all we need is comedy itself? Comedy is HUGE right now, way bigger than the household names that amuse and upset us at primetime Saturday evenings so it makes sense to use hard working, talented, working comedians and one of Idiots of Ants to perform stand up in their ad. It's just...well doing stand up in front of, what is obviously, 12 people is hard enough without also having to do some tidying up at the same time. Still, there are some good points raised in the ad: men or women either are or are not messier than men or women. And thank God IKEA had the forsight and imagination to completely forget gay couples or single people completely. I mean what would the bloody gays know about furniture? And single people who live alone are too hideous for TV so they can fuck off.

See? I'm just not that angry about that ad and I know I should be. It's the sunshine! It's ruined everything. Maybe that's what happened to Chief Idiot at the Guardian, Brian Logan. Even he had nothing to say about the IKEA advert but decided to get paid for not having an opinion anyway and The Guardian decided to print his nothing story too. A slow week for make-up tips, eh, Guardian?

And that has been happening for a week. Sunshine and happiness. Los Quattros Cvnts was excellent last Wednesday even though we had our very first walk-out. To be honest, I'm very proud. She complained that the show was "The most disgusting thing" she's ever seen and demanded her money back. Who would have thought that a show called Los Quattros Cvnts could somehow be offensive to some people? We really should put a warning on the poster or something. But our audience on Wednesday were just fantastic and I thank them for coming down. With all this joy, I was so looking forward to strolling in the park this morning.

And that's when the anger returned.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE! What is wrong with people? We have so little nice weather in this country but you will do your best to ruin it completely. I'm a dog owner who has a responsibility to look after my dog, you're a cunt who decides to throw chicken bones anywhere you fucking feel like because Hey! the sun's out and we should do all our unhealthy eating outside. The park was full of dog owners calling their dogs back from hunting out chicken bones today. Then we have to tell our dogs off for finding the chicken bone that YOU left there. I don't really want to punish my dog. Can't I just punch a picnicker in the face instead? I'd feel so much better. Then I saw 12 empty beer cans.

That was my clue, you see. I spoke to the park keeper about how they look after the park on a sunday. Is there anyone here to stop people throwing shit everywhere? Oh, God, no. We just come along on a Monday or a Tuesday or a Wednesday or whenever and just clean it up. Eventually. You see, Michael, it's the young people. The young people come down here with their pop music and their fizzy drinks and their sew-on patches and their magazines and their long hair (can't tell if they're a boy or a girl some of them) and they just mess the place up. FUCK. OFF. Take a fucking look around. The beer cans are lying on the grass beside paper plates, empty dip containers and plastic forks. Young people have drugs, the internet and constant fucking to keep them busy. This is NOT the work of young people. THIS. IS. A. PICNIC!

No young person would ever go on a picnic. I mean a child, yes, but a young person? No fucking way. How would they fit in all their filming every single thing they do then sticking it on YouTube? It's only grown adults who have given up on life that have fucking picnics. Next time your arse friend says "Ooh, it's lovely out and we were thinking of having a picnic in the park. Oh, do come" don't forget to just tell them to grow the fuck up. Hungry? Go to a restaurant. Better still, stay at home. You are not welcome in the park. Dog owners hate you, people just walking in the park hate you and your fucking frisbee and, Jesus Christ, even wasps hate you. Wasps have brains the size of two grains of sand but even they're clever enough to know that you shouldn't be doing this.

If you do find yourself guilted into going to a picnic in the park with your mentally stunted friends who have more potato salad than dignity then here's a fun game you can play to while away the hours. Instead of praying for rain why not google any crimes that have happened in the park and then read out the grusome details while pointing at the area that they happened. The cheese strings will be tupperwared away in minutes.

The thing is, I probably wouldn't be so grumpy about this if it wasn't for the fact that my local park has been getting a complete overhaul for the last 8 months. It's really looking fantastic and will be beautiful when it's finished. But...what's the point, eh? Why are they even bothering? They're making the river more scenic with more trees and benches round the river bank. Why? So we can get a better view of trolleys in the river and see blue platic bags floating by in a more picturesque setting. There are new pathways and bridges so we can see more fried chicken boxes near, but not actually in, bins and read further of how much a slag Kiera is. A new gazebo is being erected, I assume, as an alternative to using that bothersome public lavatory. Why would they go to all this effort when people just don't care? I saw the film Source Code on Saturday afternoon and the baddie in it hates the human race so much that he designs a bomb to destroy everything so that "we live amongst the rubble" just like we deserve. How crestfallen I was when Jake Gyllenhall stopped him before he got the chance. Still, the film's worth seeing only because Russell Peters gets killed every 8 minutes. I left the park fuming today.

And as I did I thought I saw a man drop litter on the ground and leave it there. I immediately snapped. "Can you pick that up, please?"

The man looked at me like I had two heads. I don't have too heads. Just one massive red one.

"Sorry?", he said.

"Can you pick that up?"

"Pick what up?"

"The rubbish you just threw on the ground".

"I didn't".

"Yes, you did", I smugly argued. "I just saw you".

Erm...but I looked around and couldn't see any trace of rubbish near him. Oh, Lordy. I was so angry that I just wanted an argument. My brain had taken in so much picnic trash that it became spiking and started seeing things that weren't there. I had turned round to a complete stranger and started a fight for no reason whatsoever.

Phew. I'm back.

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Friday, 1 April 2011

Blood Quite Near The Tracks.

This blog will start with something brilliant, then something really horrible, then something brilliant again. Just warning you, that's all.

On Monday, my good friend Jeremy Limb was kind enough to treat me to a day out. It was pretty much the perfect day out for a 42 year old man like me. We went to the Doctor Who Experience in Olympia. It was a lot of fun. We walked into a room filled with props from the TV series and after about two minutes the 11th Doctor appeared in front of us asking for our help. The Doctor asked ME to help him! ME!!! Me and my companion, Jeremy, who's just there for the Dads. He asked us if we could see the TARDIS anywhere but it wasn't there AND THEN IT WAS. The TARDIS doors opened and we got inside and it was really big and we steered it. We steered the fucking TARDIS. What were you doing on Monday? Going to work, were you? Commuting to the office like a good little robot? Well, we were doing something a little more important, thank you very much. Leela and I (I call Jeremy Leela now) steered the TARDIS away from the Starship UK.... into the clutches of The Daleks!

Somehow, mainly by just standing there doing nothing, we defeated the Daleks and found ourselves face to face with the Pandorica that tore a hole in time and space that let in all our enemies. The Daleks, the Cybermen and the Weeping Angels all tried to destroy us but we very cleverly defeated them and sent them spiralling into a black hole. The Doctor was really pleased with me and Leela and praised us for all our good work which, again, felt a lot like just standing there watching. After all this excitement we got to see all the costumes of all 11 Doctors (you can just imagine how incredible the 9th Doctor's costume looks in real life) and hung out in the 80's TARDIS control room. I held hands with the K1 Robot and I have never felt happier in my entire life than I did in that beautiful moment. I couldn't recommend it more to any other 42 year old manchildren.

Because I'd been a good boy all day, Leela and I went to the pub and had a few drinks before going back to real life. Real life turned out to be horrible and messier than I hoped.

Leela went back to her own planet (that's how I like to think of it) and I walked to Hammersmith Tube station. I was on the Piccadilly line platform, my train pulled up, the doors opened and that's when I heard screams behind me. I looked around and saw a woman lying at the bottom of the concrete steps. Now, I'd like to say that I bravely sprung to her aid immediately but I didn't. I paused. Just for a second. There were lots of people much nearer to her than I was. But that one second was coming to a close and still people were just staring at her. "Fine", I thought. "I'll do it".

I ran over and saw a lot of blood coming out of her head. I took my coat off and used it to support her head while I asked one of the staring doing nothing people to get an ambulance. Tube staff appeared pretty quickly and one look on all their faces said all I needed to know. "You deal with it", they said. Great. I know very little about First aid but I know that supporting the head is important. But she was bleeding a lot so while one of the Tube staff ran off to get a First Aid kit I thought it would be best to talk to this woman. I held her hand and asked her to squeeze mine. Nothing happened.

Of course, it was then that I totally understood why everyone just stared at this woman and did nothing. As I held her hand and asked her to give mine a squeeze I thought "Oh, fuck. What if she dies?" These are concrete steps and she's clearly hit her head on them during the fall. That could easily kill someone. Holding this motionless hand was a million miles away from the joy of holding the cold, motionless hand of the K1 Robot. I knelt there talking to her for maybe two minutes before she responded with a groan. That's normal for me but it's the happiest I've ever felt hearing it. I asked the woman her name but she only groaned. I asked her to squeeze my hand but she only groaned. A bit more asking and worrying that she was going to die and finally she squeezed it. YAY!!

I asked her name again a few times (I've got her blood on my hands, jeans, t-shirt and it's completely caked on my coat, the least she could do is tell me her name) and she opened her eyes and said "Michelle".

"That's a great name, Michelle. I'm Michael" I said.

"Well, it's the same name, isn't it?"

That's when I knew everything was OK. We talked for a bit and I vaguely explained what had happened while convincing her to stay still. Then my 15 minutes of being a Doctor was up and paramedics turned up and I let them take over. They took another 10 minutes to look after her before stretchering her away but when they turned up Tube staff said I could go. I couldn't. Her head is on my coat. It's only a coat, I realise, but I need it. It was an interesting 15 minutes. I rarely speak to complete strangers on the tube but it was definitely interesting to meet Michelle who was on her way home to Richmond and was more concerned with her handbag than her head. When she left I went backstage of the London Underground and cleaned up in their solid gold VIP bathroom. They put my coat in a bag and gave me their number. I could call them and they'd let me know how she was. I'm never doing that. When I rescued Gary the seagull and took him to the vet pretty much everyone said "You know they'll probably just put it down". I never checked on Gary for that very reason, I'm sure as hell not doing it for Michelle from Richmond.

So the reason why you DON'T help someone who's had a horrible accident is clear: They might die while you're holding their hand. But what reason would you help that person? Well, I can tell you. There are perks to this job. I had to take my blood soaked coat to a dry cleaners and you can't just give a bloody coat to them without explaining what's happened. I explained. They said that I was lovely and there would be no charge.

Hear that, COWARDS? Save someone's life, get free dry cleaning. Oh, the 9/11 firemen are praised as heroes but I know why they really did it.

ps. Robin Ince and I are performing Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire at the Glasgow Comedy Festival this Saturday. You can buy tickets here:

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Take Five (Slight Return).

I forgot something in yesterday's blog. Something I really shouldn't have forgotten because it might well be my favourite part of Frankenstein. One of the characters in the play is blind. I know this because he says "I am blind" constantly.

What a pathetic way to portray a role. I would NEVER do that. Not in a serious play, anyway.

A real blog is on it's way.

ps. Robin Ince and I are performing Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire at the Glasgow Comedy Festival this Saturday. You can buy tickets here:

Also Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: