Let's begin with how stupid I am. It's getting worse. Not knowing how insects procreate is one thing but on Thursday night I hosted the Celebrity Pub Quiz at The Hob, Forest Hill and was pretty alarmed at what I learned.
I learned that I have never heard of the £2 coin.
I'm not quite sure how I've avoided the £2 coin but I've done it pretty successfully. One of the questions in the quiz was something like "Dave had £3 coins and a £2 coin and a 50 pence piece. How many £1.50 puzzle games can he buy?" Yes, it sounds a pretty remedial question anyway. It was part of a category called "Are You Smarter Than a 10 Year Old?". I am not because a 10 year old would not question a £2 coin like I did.
I asked Emma, who runs the gig, what the question meant. I mean, if Dave has three pound coins and two pound coins....well, that's just not good grammar, I thought. But Emma pointed out that it was 3 pound coins and a £2 coin. Then I decided to come across as thick.
"What's a £2 coin?", I said.
An hour went by as she stared at me with a level of pity mainly reserved for a really old animal that needs to be put down. She then showed me a £2 coin. I've never seen one. They must be new.
They're not new. They've been in circulation since 1998. I'm 11 years behind the rest of Britain. Now everywhere I go I see the £2 coin. It's on Train Ticket machines and snack dispensers and peep shows. The whole country has gone £2 crazy!
I MUST have seen a £2 coin before. I MUST have! How can a man avoid a fucking coin? This obviously means that I have a problem keeping memories and there may be something wrong with my brain. That's fine. I'd rather be broken than be thick. I'm bored of being thick. I've been thick for ages. I really hope that one half of my brain has just shut down and I'm slowly dying because I don't think I can take any more of this me being thick thing. It's depressing.
Speaking of depressing, on Friday night I performed, for the first time, in front of Jim Davidson. He was standing at the back of Jongleurs in Glasgow being racist and hating women, I assume, with his bouncer who stands beside him making sure that no-one gets in to Jim Davidson. I'm very wary a big, evil mainstream stands at the back of a gig watching us 41 year old youngsters riffing some political vitriol and changing some minds because they often go to comedy clubs to steal jokes. That is naughty. But Jim didn't write a single thing down during his stay which is even worse. Imagine not being good enough to be nicked by Jim Davidson. Embarrassing.
Luckily, the fucking awful cunt only caught the very end of the show so we didn't feel too bad about walking on stage and risking entertaining Jim Davidson. Plus Mandy Knight was in her last five minutes when he arrived and I doubt there's many of her gags about being fucked up the arse that Jim could use during his many, big-hearted gigs for our troops that he does every fucking day. I was compering so if you ever see Jim Davidson on stage thanking three comedians and then saying goodnight, he got that from me.
The weekend in Glasgow was great. I spent most of my time being all drunk. The few sober moments were spent doing the actual gigs and watching The Awful Balloon of Captain Twat (I honestly can't remember the name of the new Terry Gilliam film) and really enjoyed it. I tried to see Up (which I just know I will loathe) but it was sold out. The Awful Balloon of Captain Twat was the only thing on and I'm really glad I saw it. I'm long past the spectacle of Terry Gilliam's films. I love his imagination but his characters and stories are dull. This film is patchy but very enjoyable. Tom Waits is fantastic. I sat in the freezing cold cinema thinking what a wonderful film it was until 5 minutes from the end when Colin Farrell was on top of Lily Cole and forcing her to the ground. I remembered. I'm supposed to be boycotting this film. Terry Gilliam is one of the many, many Hollywood cunts who signed the petition asking for rapist Roman Polanski's release from prison because he is old and his wife died in the 60's. Good to see I have morals if not a memory.
£2 coins. Rape. It's all the same to me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 9 November 2009
Friday, 6 November 2009
Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey.
For all those concerned, Jerk was great yesterday. There were so many fireworks that she stopped hearing them after a while. Of course, she was chillaxing while taking hits from da bong. Well, Rescue Remedy anyway. It's great. It makes dogs very mellow. I thought I'd give it a try myself but the taste made me furious. I'm the same with Radox. The smell just irritates me and I get all cross and I can't relax. Then I light some candles but that just makes things worse because now I'm grumpy and sitting in the smelly dark.
I had a second visit to the doctors in a week yesterday. My feet are being completely childish. They are refusing to accept my blood circulation which means I can't take any salt for a while and have to put my feet up as often as I can. I'm so fine with this. I don't like salt (especially Radox Bath Salt) and I love doing fuck not nothing. Unfortunately, my examination went on a lot longer than I thought and I was late for a voiceover that I was doing in central London. I ran all the way to the train station (which did me no good. It hurt my feet and I look like a twat when I run) and got to the studio two minutes early. I'm so obsessed with being on time that being two minutes early is actually late to me.
When I arrived I was given a script. One of the lines I had to say was "I want a good sports package". This would test my acting ability to it's limits. I sat down with the three other people who were also recording their voices to sell broadband and telly. The first person I met was Elizabeth (I think) who looked like a tiny wee hippy chick but had the voice of a dominatrix. She was nice. The second was Russell Tovey, the actor who plays the werewolf in Being Human. He was also in an episode of Doctor Who. a really shit episode of Doctor Who but it still impressed me. I introduced myself to him with a very uncomplicated "Hello. I'm Michael". "Michael Legge?", he replied.
This made me so happy that my feet cured themselves and I started elevating about three inches off my seat. Russell Tovey, the actor I wanted to be the next Doctor, knows who I am. This is very exciting. He's probably read my blog, right? I mean, who doesn't? Perhaps he's one of the intimate few who subscribe to Precious Little. No. I know what it is. He's seen me on Street-Cred Sudoku four years ago. That show meant a hell of a lot to a hell of a lot. Anyway, he had seen my name on the list at reception when he arrived and he was all excited because he has a friend called Michael Legge who was in Angela's Ashes and is the bane of my fucking life. I deflate easily and as I was crumpling to the ground I was introduced to the third person at our table. Her name was Lucy. Lucy Gaskell. Lucy Gaskell who played the part of Kathy Nightingale in Blink, widely considered to be the best ever episode of Doctor Who (not mine, though I think it's excellent). Fuck Russell and his imposter Michael Legge. Lucy was in a proper Doctor Who, not a children's episode.
FUCKING BRILLIANT! This could only be beaten by Sally Sparrow turning up. Or an angry statue.
The voiceover was tricky. They wanted me to be shouty, friendly, aggressive and happy. I tried to point out that you can't be all four at once but they were having none of it. Every take was greeted with "Can you be lighter next time, Michael?" or "More firm and direct. Punch the words". It wasn't the words I wanted to punch. Luckily, Lucy from BLINK had gone. She had done her work in as many takes as me but at least she looked like it didn't bother her. Elizabeth (I think) did it in two takes. I think her voice was making the guy at the sound desk horny and he couldn't take anymore. Which left just me and Russell. I'm glad Russell asked me to go first because otherwise how would he know that the original Michael Legge is completely incompetent at reading out loud.
He was very nice though.
After Jerk had calmed down last night, I went to host the excellent Celebrity Pub Quiz at The Hob, Forest Hill. At the corner of the bar I saw a man who looked the absolute double of Nicholas Briggs, the man who does the voices of the Daleks and Cybermen in new Doctor Who. I turned to Emma, who runs the gig, and said "Wow. That man is the absolute double of Nicholas Briggs, the man who does the voices of the Daleks and Cybermen in new Doctor Who". Emma made her excuses and walked away.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I had a second visit to the doctors in a week yesterday. My feet are being completely childish. They are refusing to accept my blood circulation which means I can't take any salt for a while and have to put my feet up as often as I can. I'm so fine with this. I don't like salt (especially Radox Bath Salt) and I love doing fuck not nothing. Unfortunately, my examination went on a lot longer than I thought and I was late for a voiceover that I was doing in central London. I ran all the way to the train station (which did me no good. It hurt my feet and I look like a twat when I run) and got to the studio two minutes early. I'm so obsessed with being on time that being two minutes early is actually late to me.
When I arrived I was given a script. One of the lines I had to say was "I want a good sports package". This would test my acting ability to it's limits. I sat down with the three other people who were also recording their voices to sell broadband and telly. The first person I met was Elizabeth (I think) who looked like a tiny wee hippy chick but had the voice of a dominatrix. She was nice. The second was Russell Tovey, the actor who plays the werewolf in Being Human. He was also in an episode of Doctor Who. a really shit episode of Doctor Who but it still impressed me. I introduced myself to him with a very uncomplicated "Hello. I'm Michael". "Michael Legge?", he replied.
This made me so happy that my feet cured themselves and I started elevating about three inches off my seat. Russell Tovey, the actor I wanted to be the next Doctor, knows who I am. This is very exciting. He's probably read my blog, right? I mean, who doesn't? Perhaps he's one of the intimate few who subscribe to Precious Little. No. I know what it is. He's seen me on Street-Cred Sudoku four years ago. That show meant a hell of a lot to a hell of a lot. Anyway, he had seen my name on the list at reception when he arrived and he was all excited because he has a friend called Michael Legge who was in Angela's Ashes and is the bane of my fucking life. I deflate easily and as I was crumpling to the ground I was introduced to the third person at our table. Her name was Lucy. Lucy Gaskell. Lucy Gaskell who played the part of Kathy Nightingale in Blink, widely considered to be the best ever episode of Doctor Who (not mine, though I think it's excellent). Fuck Russell and his imposter Michael Legge. Lucy was in a proper Doctor Who, not a children's episode.
FUCKING BRILLIANT! This could only be beaten by Sally Sparrow turning up. Or an angry statue.
The voiceover was tricky. They wanted me to be shouty, friendly, aggressive and happy. I tried to point out that you can't be all four at once but they were having none of it. Every take was greeted with "Can you be lighter next time, Michael?" or "More firm and direct. Punch the words". It wasn't the words I wanted to punch. Luckily, Lucy from BLINK had gone. She had done her work in as many takes as me but at least she looked like it didn't bother her. Elizabeth (I think) did it in two takes. I think her voice was making the guy at the sound desk horny and he couldn't take anymore. Which left just me and Russell. I'm glad Russell asked me to go first because otherwise how would he know that the original Michael Legge is completely incompetent at reading out loud.
He was very nice though.
After Jerk had calmed down last night, I went to host the excellent Celebrity Pub Quiz at The Hob, Forest Hill. At the corner of the bar I saw a man who looked the absolute double of Nicholas Briggs, the man who does the voices of the Daleks and Cybermen in new Doctor Who. I turned to Emma, who runs the gig, and said "Wow. That man is the absolute double of Nicholas Briggs, the man who does the voices of the Daleks and Cybermen in new Doctor Who". Emma made her excuses and walked away.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Fawkes Off.
I don't like today. November the 5th is always a shit day, especially the last four of them.
It should be good. You should be lighting sparklers and eating toffee apples (although they are vomit inducing) and watching V For Vendetta. That sounds like fun. But then fireworks are involved and that's when the fun ends. God, I hate fireworks.
I've always hated fireworks. Firstly, they play havoc with your memory. Every single fucking tedious year a nearby firework display promises excitement and wonder and every single fucking tedious year I believe them. Stupid Legge. Firework displays are only half-interesting for the first three minutes then you soon catch on as to how repetitive it all is. Yes, yes, yes. Whizzy red, poppy blue then massive sparkly gold. And repeat until it's all over. Oh, and maybe a catherine wheel that you won't be able to see because everyone has brought there entire family to show you how fertile they all are. Very impressive.
But it's the noise that gets me. The noise of both the fireworks and the people watching. How the fuck can you still oooooooh at something you also saw 25 seconds ago? For the 18th time? Plus they go bang. Who can find BANG fun?
Plus they just used to scare me. When I was a kid I talked and talked about going to a firework display so much that my parents, knowing fully well that I would hate it, gave in and took me to one. As soon as we got there I started screaming to be taken home. The noise was terrifying and I got it inside my head that one of the fireworks would land on me and I would go up in flames. I preferred indoor fireworks like The Snake. At least it would only slowly and gently put you to sleep (forever) with it's fumes, it wouldn't melt your eyes to your anorak hood (I really thought that).
And they terrify the crap out of Jerk. She shakes like she's on the top of an old washing machine when a firework goes off. She shat on the living room floor on Monday night. I think I now know what happened.
So, please, if you must let a firework off tonight at least put a sock over it to muffle the noise. As I write about 50 have gone off and Jerk is practically standing on me and vibrating my face. Guy Fawkes would be turning in his grave if he knew what you were doing to Jerk, I imagine.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
It should be good. You should be lighting sparklers and eating toffee apples (although they are vomit inducing) and watching V For Vendetta. That sounds like fun. But then fireworks are involved and that's when the fun ends. God, I hate fireworks.
I've always hated fireworks. Firstly, they play havoc with your memory. Every single fucking tedious year a nearby firework display promises excitement and wonder and every single fucking tedious year I believe them. Stupid Legge. Firework displays are only half-interesting for the first three minutes then you soon catch on as to how repetitive it all is. Yes, yes, yes. Whizzy red, poppy blue then massive sparkly gold. And repeat until it's all over. Oh, and maybe a catherine wheel that you won't be able to see because everyone has brought there entire family to show you how fertile they all are. Very impressive.
But it's the noise that gets me. The noise of both the fireworks and the people watching. How the fuck can you still oooooooh at something you also saw 25 seconds ago? For the 18th time? Plus they go bang. Who can find BANG fun?
Plus they just used to scare me. When I was a kid I talked and talked about going to a firework display so much that my parents, knowing fully well that I would hate it, gave in and took me to one. As soon as we got there I started screaming to be taken home. The noise was terrifying and I got it inside my head that one of the fireworks would land on me and I would go up in flames. I preferred indoor fireworks like The Snake. At least it would only slowly and gently put you to sleep (forever) with it's fumes, it wouldn't melt your eyes to your anorak hood (I really thought that).
And they terrify the crap out of Jerk. She shakes like she's on the top of an old washing machine when a firework goes off. She shat on the living room floor on Monday night. I think I now know what happened.
So, please, if you must let a firework off tonight at least put a sock over it to muffle the noise. As I write about 50 have gone off and Jerk is practically standing on me and vibrating my face. Guy Fawkes would be turning in his grave if he knew what you were doing to Jerk, I imagine.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
The Joy of Joy.
Life is beautiful. Not the fucking shitty existence thing that we have to drag ourselves through every pitiful day until the warm, welcoming embrace of the grave. That's awful. I mean the TV series. It's just incredible. I've been staying in slightly more than I usually would recently and have watched a lot of TV. It goes without saying that animals behaving naturally in their own environment crushes anything stupid comedy writers could ever create. Why can't we just have TV like this instead of continually giving money to programmes that we KNOW are terrible but will commission a second series to anyway?
You never say "How the hell did they do that?" while watching How Not To Live Your Life. Why, maybe, but never How. I love Life so much but of course I can't watch it without getting upset that some cunt with a very large Hi-Definition TV is enjoying it more than me. Or even worse, the cunt isn't watching it. He's watching How Not To Live Your Life in Hi-Definition instead. God, I hate him. He's fictional and a bellend. Look, my point is that Life is beautiful.
And sometimes, only rarely obviously, life is beautiful too. Little moments that just lift you and con you into believing that it's all going to be OK. It's a bastard in the long run but short-term happiness is better than no happiness, I suppose. Like pretending to be Mick Talbot from The Style Council last week. I didn't make that happen but it was joyous to see how happy "I" made someone. Or seeing how big, full and close the moon was last night. That was just incredible. Did you see it? Or getting free tea-bags in the post! (I got post! And some of the post was free tea-bags!) Or when your mate emails you and tells you he's bought you tickets to see Robyn Hitchcock and Graham Coxon.That happened to me just now. Lovely! Or giving a complete stranger your travelcard that you're finished with and they actually thank you instead of looking at you like you are sick. Or finding a fiver. Or finding the heating on when you get home. Or watching Life. Yeah, they missed two wasps fucking (so far) but seeing 40,000 bats in flight is just breathtaking and watching Hyenas getting revenge on Lions is incredible. It's just the best TV show ever.
Anyway, I had a lovely "lovely moment" yesterday. I walked past Anvil. There they were, Lips and Robb Reiner, standing outside a record company office on Wardour Street enjoying a cigarette and laughing and joking and being mates. I'm glad they're mates. They look very happy together.
I walked past them to a pub off Oxford Street where I met The Trap for a very important Los Quattros Cvnts drink meeting. I think it's coming together now. We have about five sketches done and a couple of links. Think we need about five more and we've got a show. I hope. It was a really good meeting. We came up with a new character that actually woke me up with laughter this morning just thinking about it. That's a good sign right?
Anyway, watch Life. It's very good. Oh, and The Thick Of It. Everything else is shit, by the way.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
You never say "How the hell did they do that?" while watching How Not To Live Your Life. Why, maybe, but never How. I love Life so much but of course I can't watch it without getting upset that some cunt with a very large Hi-Definition TV is enjoying it more than me. Or even worse, the cunt isn't watching it. He's watching How Not To Live Your Life in Hi-Definition instead. God, I hate him. He's fictional and a bellend. Look, my point is that Life is beautiful.
And sometimes, only rarely obviously, life is beautiful too. Little moments that just lift you and con you into believing that it's all going to be OK. It's a bastard in the long run but short-term happiness is better than no happiness, I suppose. Like pretending to be Mick Talbot from The Style Council last week. I didn't make that happen but it was joyous to see how happy "I" made someone. Or seeing how big, full and close the moon was last night. That was just incredible. Did you see it? Or getting free tea-bags in the post! (I got post! And some of the post was free tea-bags!) Or when your mate emails you and tells you he's bought you tickets to see Robyn Hitchcock and Graham Coxon.That happened to me just now. Lovely! Or giving a complete stranger your travelcard that you're finished with and they actually thank you instead of looking at you like you are sick. Or finding a fiver. Or finding the heating on when you get home. Or watching Life. Yeah, they missed two wasps fucking (so far) but seeing 40,000 bats in flight is just breathtaking and watching Hyenas getting revenge on Lions is incredible. It's just the best TV show ever.
Anyway, I had a lovely "lovely moment" yesterday. I walked past Anvil. There they were, Lips and Robb Reiner, standing outside a record company office on Wardour Street enjoying a cigarette and laughing and joking and being mates. I'm glad they're mates. They look very happy together.
I walked past them to a pub off Oxford Street where I met The Trap for a very important Los Quattros Cvnts drink meeting. I think it's coming together now. We have about five sketches done and a couple of links. Think we need about five more and we've got a show. I hope. It was a really good meeting. We came up with a new character that actually woke me up with laughter this morning just thinking about it. That's a good sign right?
Anyway, watch Life. It's very good. Oh, and The Thick Of It. Everything else is shit, by the way.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Talking Crap.
Why did Jerk have to shit on the living room floor the night that Robin Ince came round?
Robin coming to stay is the equivalent of the Vicar coming round. Nothing should go wrong or it will be a total, farcical embarrassment. Why couldn't Jerk shit on the floor when Johnny Candon stayed? Johnny wouldn't have noticed. Or I could have even blamed Johnny. Johnny would definitely take full responsibilty for a shit on the floor because, even if he didn't do it, it's very like something he would do. But not Robin. A shit on the floor is the kind of thing he would clock right away. He's a very clever man. He discovered no God, you know.
Robin was performing at Happy Mondays at The Amersham Arms in New Cross. It's near where I live so I thought I'd go and watch and, as he had gigs in London the next day, he asked to stay. I doubt he'll ask again. Robin didn't turn up until after 10 so I accidentally got drunk with my friend Liz. I'm still enjoying the hangover as I write. It was a very entertaining evening even before the comedy started. Firstly because Liz is great company and secondly because the bar was playing host to a nutter. A real nutter. A great big, taking-over-the-room nutter.
I knew he was nuts straight away. I overheard the conversation he was having with the barmaid (I'm sure they're not called barmaids anymore. I am very old). She said she was from Lewisham and he was totally amazed by that. Amazed by someone who comes from about a quarter of a mile away. Then he took a step closer to me and I couldn't help but notice that he reeked of shit. It was pungent. Horrible. Then he showed me his fist. Not in a violent way or even a sexy way. Just a sort of Hello kind of way. This makes me feel uncomfortable anyway. Why is offering a fist thought of as welcoming? I reluctantly fisted him (is that what you call it?) and quickly sat down with my drink. He pretty much went to every table looking for a conversation to crash. His smell never got him very far though. Eventually he got chucked out in what has to be one of the most gracious pieces of anger I have ever seen:
"What? Are you saying I'm fucking chucked out? Is that what you're fucking telling me? You're actually fucking throwing me out? Fuck off. I ain't being fucking chucked out. I don't give a fuck. Fucking talking to me like that. You fucking throwing me fucking out? You fucking really fucking throwing me fucking out?"
"Yes".
"Fair enough. Bye".
He left. But as he did he mumbled something like "I'm gonna come back 9 million times" which would have been impressive. I then went to watch the comedy so have no idea if he succeeded. I wish him all the best.
I was welcomed at the door by the lovely Tom Searle who runs the gig. Tom is a really nice man and I particularly like how many compliments he gave me for a blog I didn't write. I'm not an idiot. I accepted his compliments. Chris Addison was excellent and rude to some people who needed some rude and Robin Ince was his tediously, normal excellent self. The cunts. The pair of fucking cunts. Anyway, we stayed for a drink or two. I can't remember. I was drunk. We got in a cab and went to my house.
It was the smell that hit me first. Fuck! Have I been burgled by the nutter at The Amersham Arms? No. My house-trained dog decided to break her four-year run of not shitting on the living room floor by shitting on the living room floor. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't hide it. The nearest thing to me was a book but if I covered a shit with a book Robin would actually die. Plus a book can't really cover that fucking stench (unless it's Saturday Night Peter). I mean, I know everyone else's house smells a bit but this was too much.
I was embarrassed. Even though I know that Robin's flat was once three feet deep in shit after a sewage burst, I still felt awful that he had to witness a turd in my house. I quickly gave him some wine and put on Doctor Who in the hope that he would forget he even saw it.
I'm going to clean it up now.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Robin coming to stay is the equivalent of the Vicar coming round. Nothing should go wrong or it will be a total, farcical embarrassment. Why couldn't Jerk shit on the floor when Johnny Candon stayed? Johnny wouldn't have noticed. Or I could have even blamed Johnny. Johnny would definitely take full responsibilty for a shit on the floor because, even if he didn't do it, it's very like something he would do. But not Robin. A shit on the floor is the kind of thing he would clock right away. He's a very clever man. He discovered no God, you know.
Robin was performing at Happy Mondays at The Amersham Arms in New Cross. It's near where I live so I thought I'd go and watch and, as he had gigs in London the next day, he asked to stay. I doubt he'll ask again. Robin didn't turn up until after 10 so I accidentally got drunk with my friend Liz. I'm still enjoying the hangover as I write. It was a very entertaining evening even before the comedy started. Firstly because Liz is great company and secondly because the bar was playing host to a nutter. A real nutter. A great big, taking-over-the-room nutter.
I knew he was nuts straight away. I overheard the conversation he was having with the barmaid (I'm sure they're not called barmaids anymore. I am very old). She said she was from Lewisham and he was totally amazed by that. Amazed by someone who comes from about a quarter of a mile away. Then he took a step closer to me and I couldn't help but notice that he reeked of shit. It was pungent. Horrible. Then he showed me his fist. Not in a violent way or even a sexy way. Just a sort of Hello kind of way. This makes me feel uncomfortable anyway. Why is offering a fist thought of as welcoming? I reluctantly fisted him (is that what you call it?) and quickly sat down with my drink. He pretty much went to every table looking for a conversation to crash. His smell never got him very far though. Eventually he got chucked out in what has to be one of the most gracious pieces of anger I have ever seen:
"What? Are you saying I'm fucking chucked out? Is that what you're fucking telling me? You're actually fucking throwing me out? Fuck off. I ain't being fucking chucked out. I don't give a fuck. Fucking talking to me like that. You fucking throwing me fucking out? You fucking really fucking throwing me fucking out?"
"Yes".
"Fair enough. Bye".
He left. But as he did he mumbled something like "I'm gonna come back 9 million times" which would have been impressive. I then went to watch the comedy so have no idea if he succeeded. I wish him all the best.
I was welcomed at the door by the lovely Tom Searle who runs the gig. Tom is a really nice man and I particularly like how many compliments he gave me for a blog I didn't write. I'm not an idiot. I accepted his compliments. Chris Addison was excellent and rude to some people who needed some rude and Robin Ince was his tediously, normal excellent self. The cunts. The pair of fucking cunts. Anyway, we stayed for a drink or two. I can't remember. I was drunk. We got in a cab and went to my house.
It was the smell that hit me first. Fuck! Have I been burgled by the nutter at The Amersham Arms? No. My house-trained dog decided to break her four-year run of not shitting on the living room floor by shitting on the living room floor. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't hide it. The nearest thing to me was a book but if I covered a shit with a book Robin would actually die. Plus a book can't really cover that fucking stench (unless it's Saturday Night Peter). I mean, I know everyone else's house smells a bit but this was too much.
I was embarrassed. Even though I know that Robin's flat was once three feet deep in shit after a sewage burst, I still felt awful that he had to witness a turd in my house. I quickly gave him some wine and put on Doctor Who in the hope that he would forget he even saw it.
I'm going to clean it up now.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 2 November 2009
Fairtrade Mocha Is Wasted On The Young.
Why the fuck are children ordering latte's in Starbucks?
Yesterday, I saw a group of girls, aged I'm sure no more than 13, ordering lattes, capuccinos and asking for soya milk. What the fuck has happened to young people? Why aren't they off letting fireworks off in cats arses or nicking from Claire's Accessories or having abortions like I did when I was a little girl? This isn't the first time that I've witnessed the abomination in a coffee shop. It seems like this is what a lot of kids do these days. They go for coffee. And talk. Like pricks.
I remember being 18 years old and my friend telling me that he took a girl out for dinner the night before. This was so utterly alien to me. Why on Earth would you pay money to take a girl for dinner? I mean, you'd have to sit there and talk. Like pricks. I was 18 years old when that happened. I couldn't grasp the concept of interesting dialogue between like-minded people yet I was allowed to vote, drink and rent Kentucky Fried Movie legally. I know it's a cliche to say that kids are growing up faster these days but what the fuck is going on? I'm 41 and I don't like coffee shops. They're like libraries, churches or an unloved relatives smelly house as far as I'm concerned. Places that you are dragged to, not ones that you organise to meet your friends in right after Swap Shop (is that still on?).
When I'm writing with someone and they say that we should meet for a coffee to discuss the script I, and to be fair they, always assume we'll be meeting in a pub and drinking. We might even discuss the script. But we NEVER meet in a coffee shop because coffee shops are for grown-ups and squares not cool-assed overgrown man-children like me.
The thing is, I'm 41 and I don't know what a latte is. I have no idea. It could be wasp-cum for all I know. And that's my problem. That's it right there. I'm 41 fat, ridiculous years old and forcing myself into a state of arrested development yet I get grumpy when I see 13 year old girls streamling themselves through life with complete confidence and ease.
Plus, when I finally got served I realised I'd spent so much time grumping about coffee kids that I didn't know what I wanted and took ages looking at the menu and then ordered what I always order and then answered every one of the Starbucks assistant's 500 questions incorrectly and fumbled over giving her the right change. She asked if the drink was for here or to go. I didn't know. I just didn't know.
As I left I saw the girls texting and talking about X-Factor. That made me slightly happier. They're normal after all. Except one. The one who lept up because she forgot to but a newspaper. Jesus fucking Christ.
That happened at the Starbucks at Kings Cross. I was on my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little number 8 and it turned out to be the most enjoyable one to date. Making it, I mean. Listening to it will be a chore. I was very hyper (you know, annoying) when it came to start recording so that might explain the incredible childishness that gave birth to a brand new character called Sad Hippo who I then shot ten minutes later. We now have a new, new character called Ghost Hippo who can never die or be written out EVER. Yeah, that DOES sound shit, you're right, but it completely entertained me for the whole recording. Mainly because of the look of incredible pity that James gave me throughout. Even more fun than recording the podcast was reading all the tweets on Twitter from the Precious Little podcast listening group. A small but dedicated group of extremely lovely people from Scotland, England, America, Canada and Australia press play on Precious Little at the same time then go on Twitter to debate and point out my stupidity as it happens. This has made me very happy and I'm very grateful to all who got involved. I think my favourite part was reading how Andy McHaffie tried to convince Shannon in California that Dalek is pronounced and spelled Darleks. At one point he wrote to her: "No. That's just the BBC's opinion. It's Darlek". Sadly, James and I never came up with anything quite so funny as that on the podcast. Which is James' fault.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Yesterday, I saw a group of girls, aged I'm sure no more than 13, ordering lattes, capuccinos and asking for soya milk. What the fuck has happened to young people? Why aren't they off letting fireworks off in cats arses or nicking from Claire's Accessories or having abortions like I did when I was a little girl? This isn't the first time that I've witnessed the abomination in a coffee shop. It seems like this is what a lot of kids do these days. They go for coffee. And talk. Like pricks.
I remember being 18 years old and my friend telling me that he took a girl out for dinner the night before. This was so utterly alien to me. Why on Earth would you pay money to take a girl for dinner? I mean, you'd have to sit there and talk. Like pricks. I was 18 years old when that happened. I couldn't grasp the concept of interesting dialogue between like-minded people yet I was allowed to vote, drink and rent Kentucky Fried Movie legally. I know it's a cliche to say that kids are growing up faster these days but what the fuck is going on? I'm 41 and I don't like coffee shops. They're like libraries, churches or an unloved relatives smelly house as far as I'm concerned. Places that you are dragged to, not ones that you organise to meet your friends in right after Swap Shop (is that still on?).
When I'm writing with someone and they say that we should meet for a coffee to discuss the script I, and to be fair they, always assume we'll be meeting in a pub and drinking. We might even discuss the script. But we NEVER meet in a coffee shop because coffee shops are for grown-ups and squares not cool-assed overgrown man-children like me.
The thing is, I'm 41 and I don't know what a latte is. I have no idea. It could be wasp-cum for all I know. And that's my problem. That's it right there. I'm 41 fat, ridiculous years old and forcing myself into a state of arrested development yet I get grumpy when I see 13 year old girls streamling themselves through life with complete confidence and ease.
Plus, when I finally got served I realised I'd spent so much time grumping about coffee kids that I didn't know what I wanted and took ages looking at the menu and then ordered what I always order and then answered every one of the Starbucks assistant's 500 questions incorrectly and fumbled over giving her the right change. She asked if the drink was for here or to go. I didn't know. I just didn't know.
As I left I saw the girls texting and talking about X-Factor. That made me slightly happier. They're normal after all. Except one. The one who lept up because she forgot to but a newspaper. Jesus fucking Christ.
That happened at the Starbucks at Kings Cross. I was on my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little number 8 and it turned out to be the most enjoyable one to date. Making it, I mean. Listening to it will be a chore. I was very hyper (you know, annoying) when it came to start recording so that might explain the incredible childishness that gave birth to a brand new character called Sad Hippo who I then shot ten minutes later. We now have a new, new character called Ghost Hippo who can never die or be written out EVER. Yeah, that DOES sound shit, you're right, but it completely entertained me for the whole recording. Mainly because of the look of incredible pity that James gave me throughout. Even more fun than recording the podcast was reading all the tweets on Twitter from the Precious Little podcast listening group. A small but dedicated group of extremely lovely people from Scotland, England, America, Canada and Australia press play on Precious Little at the same time then go on Twitter to debate and point out my stupidity as it happens. This has made me very happy and I'm very grateful to all who got involved. I think my favourite part was reading how Andy McHaffie tried to convince Shannon in California that Dalek is pronounced and spelled Darleks. At one point he wrote to her: "No. That's just the BBC's opinion. It's Darlek". Sadly, James and I never came up with anything quite so funny as that on the podcast. Which is James' fault.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Sunday, 1 November 2009
I'm The Best Thing.
How could I have forgotten this?
The answer is booze.
On Wednesday night, right after London Comedy Improv, I headed home on the late night Hayes train. I met Muki on the way and soon a man sat right across from us. I noticed he kept staring at me. She noticed he kept staring at me. We felt uncomfortable.
This lasted a good (or awful) 10 minutes before he finally spoke. I can't remember what he said at first, it was something pretty trivial about the train or the weather or the fact that the nights are fair drawing in. But right after that he told me that he saw me at a gig in Finsbury Park and really loved it. He then revealed that he had seen me a lot over the years and was a big fan. He had all my albums.
I don't have any albums.
Every time he saw me had been in the Eighties. I looked confused. He followed my look of confusion with "Oh, I'm a lot older than I look". That wasn't what was confusing me, mainly because he looked a fair bit older than me. The good thing was that, although I was confused, I went along with what he was saying. I never once hesitated in accepting what he was saying. "Finsbury Park?", I said. "That was a while ago".
He seemed pretty happy to have met me and before he got up to leave he finally plucked up the courage to ask the question that was obviously burning on his mind. "Do you still see Paul Weller?"
"I haven't seen him since 1995", I said completely honestly. I'm very glad that I remembered this. I should drink less when I randomly come across other people's fans on late night trains.
Anyway, here's a video of Paul and I in our hay day: My Ever Changing Moods
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
The answer is booze.
On Wednesday night, right after London Comedy Improv, I headed home on the late night Hayes train. I met Muki on the way and soon a man sat right across from us. I noticed he kept staring at me. She noticed he kept staring at me. We felt uncomfortable.
This lasted a good (or awful) 10 minutes before he finally spoke. I can't remember what he said at first, it was something pretty trivial about the train or the weather or the fact that the nights are fair drawing in. But right after that he told me that he saw me at a gig in Finsbury Park and really loved it. He then revealed that he had seen me a lot over the years and was a big fan. He had all my albums.
I don't have any albums.
Every time he saw me had been in the Eighties. I looked confused. He followed my look of confusion with "Oh, I'm a lot older than I look". That wasn't what was confusing me, mainly because he looked a fair bit older than me. The good thing was that, although I was confused, I went along with what he was saying. I never once hesitated in accepting what he was saying. "Finsbury Park?", I said. "That was a while ago".
He seemed pretty happy to have met me and before he got up to leave he finally plucked up the courage to ask the question that was obviously burning on his mind. "Do you still see Paul Weller?"
"I haven't seen him since 1995", I said completely honestly. I'm very glad that I remembered this. I should drink less when I randomly come across other people's fans on late night trains.
Anyway, here's a video of Paul and I in our hay day: My Ever Changing Moods
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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