Michael Legge's Glorious 100th Blog!

Welcome to my 100^th Glorious Blog! I’ve done more than 100 but I’m officially saying that my blog really started with “2 Days To Go….” on the 26^th of July, the very first of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival blogs. I like blogging. I think more people should do it mainly because it’s fun, it helps you realise that your life is nowhere near as good as it should be and you might get some material out of it. So far I haven’t but you might. Plus I love people leaving comments on the blog. I’m trying to figure out what I can do with my blog on a slightly more professional level but if that meant sacrificing Johnny Candon’s songs and poetry, not to mention the rudeness, that he leaves then it might not be worth it. So thanks for that, everyone. And, as it’s my 100^th blog I felt that it was fitting to look back over the very best bits of the last 100 blogs in this, my 100^th Blog Compilation:

Cunt. Edinburgh Fringe. Fucking cunt. Fucking This fucking Belongs To fucking Lionel Richie. Fucking stupid cunts. I’m shit in The Clock Hour. Cunt. Crying Pregnant Bastard. Balls in a cup of cunts. Toilet. The “c” word. I’m 40 now. CUNT!!!!! A nutter tried to cut my hair in Glasgow. I am using the word cunt. Gypsys are moving in. Shitty shit cunts. Los Quattros Cunts. Young people in the park think I’m an arsehole. TV is shit. CUNT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have deep, penetrative sex with Famke Janssen. Doug Stanhope fans are beyond simple. Cunt. Doctor Who. BrendAn Burns being a penis. Wispas. Leicester is the hub of piss, etc.

That’s sort of everything I’ve ever said in a nutshell, I think. No doubt from now on I’ll be a lot more deep, meaningful and intelligent with my blogs. I mean, the first 100 are like a trial run, aren’t they? I wasn’t really blogging but from now on I will be.

Leicester is the hub of piss, I’ve decided. It has nothing to offer anyone and I’m very impressed and disappointed that anyone has decided to live there of their own free will. Three different Internet cafes were tried yesterday on my quest to cut and paste my blog from my memory stick. The first two claiming that they don’t have Microsoft Word. That’s like an Internet café saying they don’t have electricity or computers to me. The third one had Word but the person who was in charge asked the most bizarre question. I said I’d like to go online and he came back with “Online on a computer?” After a while I think its safe to assume that Leicester is taking the piss. That said, I feel as it’s my 100^th Blog I should say something much more positive about the town so, please, let me try. There are two positive things about Leicester city. One is the shoeshine man in the centre of town whose sign reads “I will heel you, I can save your sole, I will even dye for you” and the second is that Leicester had nothing to do with the shooting of Abraham Lincoln. There. That’s pretty much it.

I’ll admit it. Last night’s gig was what you might consider a much more traditional Christmas gig, in so much as there were a bunch of shouty pricks in. I didn’t have a good one. That said, I don’t totally feel like I had a bad one either. A bunch of arses from British Gas decided that they would be the stars of the night and, unsurprisingly, they were witless, drunk and ugly. I really liked the rest of the audience, partly because they were very nice and seemed to like my bit but much more because they fucking hated the ugly bastards from British Gas. It was one of those gigs that happens at this time of year. I didn’t do what I wanted to do. I wanted to do Sean Lock’s material but instead I stupidly did my own and even then I did a lot less of that than I could have due to dealing with the idiots. At one point I got heckled with “You don’t work at British Gas”, surely the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me but at the end of the day I felt slightly like I was taking one for the team. The gas people were much nicer during Paul Chowdry’s set due to a mix of my incredibly humble sacrifice and Paul being way better than me. He was very, very funny. I’m glad he’s trying a new direction. Not that I can in any way complain about this weekend because generally it was lovely. The staff there are very kind and attentive and the shows have been good. I didn’t get any Wispas but show manager Kimberley did leave out some Rockys. I like them. What a shame that the town itself is….well, I think I’ve said it before.

Here’s to the next 100 blogs and thank you very, very much for your time. I’ve got LOADS of gigs this week so I should be very angry indeed. Stay tuned.  

Religion.

Last night was the second of the Christmas shows in Leicester and it was fantastic. I can't remember the last time that I felt so relaxed and confident onstage, especially at this violently drunk time of year. I even patrickmonaghaned an extra five minutes over my time even though it felt like I'd only been onstage for ten minutes total. I realise that's pretty selfish of me and disrespectful of my fellow performers but fuck them, I was having a good time. I think everyone had a good gig last night. Jason Wood out-camped Christmas, Paul Chowdry proved that racism isn't funny with all his racist jokes and thank God that Brendan Riley was compering otherwise we wouldn't know were all the homosexuals in the building were. It turns out nearly every man sitting near the front was a "gay boy". His Gaydar certainly is second to none although strangely didn't go off at all when in the dressing room with Jason which can only lead me to believe that Jason is in complete denial about his heterosexuality. All in all, it's great to be doing nice gigs with nice people although I'm very aware that its early days as far as Christmas gigs go. I'll get mine soon no doubt. Especially if you believe in Karma as right after the gig Paul Chowdry and I spent five minutes laughing at and taking photos of a car accident. We're awful people.

I'm now sick of God. Two nights ago I was having a drink with the very bubbly Ron Vaudry who started talking about religion. I agreed with him that it's not only ridiculous but that it's also a very socially dangerous thing. I thought cheery Ron and I were on the same page but then he started to say things like "You see, Jesus was a philosopher", which made something in my mind scream it's head off. Its 2008, everyone. Don't you think that believing in this on any level has now gone well beyond the patience of rational, forward thinking people? Jesus wasn't a philosopher because Jesus never existed. Never. Ever. Just like Moses and Allah and Thor and Spock never existed. The very fact that in 2008 this STILL has to be pointed out to people is terrifying to me. We wait until unspeakable horror happens, like a bomb going off, before we arrest people who are doing things in the name of their god but why? Why wait. Anyone going into any church, synagogue, mosque or Games Workshop should immediately be arrested for living inside a daydream. At the very least put the fucking nutters in an asylum. What's the difference between people who go around wearing plastic bags and claiming that this is "their" train station and someone who goes around wearing a small dead man nailed to wood and worshipping a universe inventing ghost? I tell you what the difference is, if that first guy sorted himself out a bit then maybe he COULD own that train station and yet he's the one who'll be carted off to the funny farm first. And the funny farm isn't even a very funny farm. There's no cows slipping on banana skins or pigs calling other pigs "gay boy", it's a series of injections and electrotherapy mixed with brightly coloured pills and Melody FM. So, basically, my new year's resolution, which is starting today, is to argue with anyone who even so much as looks like they might be religious. They had the last several thousand years, they fucked it up because they can't grow up. Don't you think it's the turn of the people who don't believe in magic? And if you are religious just have a think for a minute. Think about it. How can what you believe really exist? Just think about it for a while and I'm convinced you'll come to the conclusion that it can't exist, I'm sure of it because you're a lot smarter than you think. Anyway, that was all Ron Vaudry's fault, the joyful bastard.

On the same day as my religious experience I travelled upon a National Express coach, surely all the proof we need that there is no God. It was cramped, it was smelly and everyone on it looked odd. It was like they hadn't quite formed yet. The worst one was the driver who had tattoos of skulls on fire and a woman with blood coming out of her tit on one arm and on the other just one that said I Miss You, Mum. What a tribute. She must have been lovely. Not only did he look bizarre but he sang the whole fucking way to Leicester constantly turning to a passenger near him and saying "Don't you know that one?" Of course she doesn't know that one. No one knows that one because the words and tunes coming out of your broken mouth have never been put in that spastic an order before. More annoying than him was the lady sitting in front of me who not only shouted while using her phone but put it on speaker-phone so we could all hear the other shouting prick she was talking to. Once again it was up to me to ask her to speak a little quieter but all she did was give me information that I already knew. She said "You don't even know me", which is true but irrelevant and after three times of asking her to be quiet and her saying that, I finally said "Yes, I do know you. You're that annoying fucker on the bus" which made some people near me laugh out loud. She hung up, put her phone on vibrate and never answered it again for the rest of the journey. I hate the bus but I hate the bus because people who go on buses are cunts. If they'd just stick them in the same asylum as religious people I might start to get a bit happier. Hey-Ho.

I have watched everything that I brought with me. I've watched all of series four of Doctor Who (which is fantastic but bookended with the two worst episodes ever made), Superbad and Doctor No. This means I have nothing to do, which means I will have to venture out into Leicester. Leicester, the city with nothing. Wish me luck. Again.

Johnny Candon says Hi.

Fucking Leicester.

I don't know how long this blog will be because I'm writing it in the world's most annoying internet cafe. I've been here once before and the person in charge of the very small establishment had a cleft lip. Nothing annoying about that except that he was only three feet away from me the entire time and he spent the whole of my hour whistling. It was if he wanted to prove how shit it was to have a cleft lip. Now I'm here again and although Cleft Lipman (that's his real name) is not here he's been replaced by an obviously deaf man who can't hear that his fucking Duffy CD is skipping. He is a cunt.

The internet cafe is in the town of Leicester. I've been here lots of times and had lots of good gigs here but I've never had a good time here while not gigging. The days are long in Leicester. There is genuinely nothing to do. Want to eat? Sorry, all the restaurants have closed. Want to go to the cinema? Fine, you'll need two long bus journeys to get there. Do you want to blow your own brains out? We don't have guns shops like fancy London, you'll just have to hang yourself. Rope must be the most sought after High Street item in Leicester. Last night I did the first of my christmas gigs and it went fine. When you do a christmas gig there's always an almighty fear that you will get kicked to death by an entire table of Claire's Accessories' employees on their christmas night out but last night they were as quiet as dead mute monks on a sponsored silence in space. At least they were for the first half. I had the easiest time because I compered, therefore I could interact so much easier with the audience plus I'm a lot more comfortable compering anyway. They liked me, so that was nice. But it wasn't so simple for the acts. First on was Def Jam comedian Tony Hendrix who turned up with barely seconds to white up before going onstage. The audience paid attention and were very polite but, boy howdy, were they quiet. That said Tony managed a good couple of laughs and a few rounds of applause especially when he remembered to do his hilarious Chalky White impression. Then Ron Vaudry, surely anyone's idea of Festive Fun, went on to more of the same but he did make fun of how quiet the audience were and was extremely funny. So during the interval we all sat in the dressing room comfortably knowing that the people downstairs were quiet but nice. Unfortunately, we didn't know that during the interval they were all getting Screaming Lessons. Like I said, it was OK for me because I was only on for 10 minutes but they just couldn't stop screaming their heads off and fucking around during Jason Wood's set. He could barely hear himself mince up there. It was a close shave for me but I'm doing a set tonight and tomorrow. God help me.

I'd write more but this place is a tit. I really wanted to write about God and National Express Coaches today, the two big topics of our age. I will tomorrow. Somewhere else, of course.

Celebrity Drugtakers.

Yesterday I saw the least likely thing I thought possible at Lewisham's Woodlands Health Centre. I went there to pick up a letter that Muki had to take to Lewisham Hospital and if you had told me that Porny the Raping Unicorn was in there kicking pictures of Neil Diamond into a barrel I couldn't have been as surprised as the thing I actually did see when I walked through the door. Woodlands Health Centre is a general meeting place for deeply angry, heavily tattooed, shouting mothers who have to carry their babies because the baby-buggy they also have to wheel around is full of cigarette ash. It's a fucking hole, in other words. It was certainly not the kind of place you'd expect to see the sort of thing that I saw while there yesterday. You see, the thing that I saw there was Lenny Kravitz.

Now, I can't be 100% sure it was him but I'm really not sure that it wasn't. Maybe it's another sign of my senility but the man looked like Lenny Kravitz, he had an American accent and he dressed like a camp bollock. I was trying very hard to hear what he came in for. I know it was a prescription but I don't know what for. I'm assuming talent pills. I know you probably think I'm joshing about a man who looked a little bit like Lenny Kravitz but this guy was his fucking double, so much so that I'd say I'm 90% sure it was him. Lenny Kravitz, rock star, picking up his NHS prescription from a health centre in Lewisham. It's the most rebellious thing he's ever done. I now like to think that when he sings Are You Gonna Go My Way? that his way is Lewisham.

Then I escorted Muki to Lewisham Hospital for tests to start the next part of her treatment. In there I realised how tough it must be for famous people when they have to wait in an NHS waiting room. I mean they come along just like any of us to be treated equally but as soon as their big, fat, famous name gets called out everyone stares at them, not giving our beloved celebrities the space they need and deserve in their private lives. I realised this while overhearing the name Rose West being called. That woman really didn't want to stand up and take her turn but did so in a way that said "See? I'm not even her". Lenny and Rose in one day! Brilliant! All I'm saying is that hospitals and health centres are THE place for our A-List celebs to hang out and be outrageous. Heat Magazine is wasting it's time going to Nobo or freezing their balls off outside The Ivy. I'm going to go to the hospital every day from now on! You never know what celebrity you might see. Probably Jade Goody.

I am over the moon with joy to hear that Michael McIntyre's DVD has become the fastest selling DVD by a debut stand-up comic in the history of everything ever that's ever happened before ever. Last week it was Frankie Boyle who had achieved what most people thought impossible and couldn't give a shit about but this week Michael beat him. And why? BECAUSE OF THE COVER. I'm telling you, there's no way that any DVD (or any thing, for that matter) holds as much unadulterated happiness as the picture that Michael chose for the cover. I'd like to think that his rise in sales is down purely to me saying that I like him now and therefore everyone now feels comfortable buying McIntyre product but really it's the cover. When I saw it on the shelf at Sainsbury's it was like watching the Wizard of Oz in one second flat. Dara O'Brian, Michael McIntyre, Frankie Boyle. In other words; Black & White, Colour, Black & White. Well done, Michael. That photo of you deserves everything it gets. I LOVE IT! 

I stayed at home last night. The first night in weeks that I've done that. Of course, it wasn't just me sitting on the sofa getting dirty looks from Jerk while I scream at Celebrity Juice, those days seem very far away at the moment. Instead it was me, Jerk and The Kulhans. In many ways it's safer being with them all at once, that way my Father-In- Law doesn't say something uncomfortable like Quim or Feltching and we can act like mature grown adults and play a spot of cards. The spot of cards that we played was a game called Uno. It's a game based on numbers and primary colours to teach very young children how to understand numbers and how to gamble. You might think that this was an immature game to play for five grown adults but The Kulhans play it like it's a championship game of Chess or a members only club's Bridge Evening. It took fucking ages. And I lost. The fucking cheating cunts. It's a fucking little kids game anyway so I don't even care about losing because it's just for kids and it just proves that I'm more mature than them times a million. I quickly went to bed, in a huff, and watched Doctor Who. I've woken up now and packed my bags along with my brand new Doctor Who Series Four boxset that will accompany me on my trip to Leicester. Pretty much the worst city in the UK with only crappy, crappy Season Four for entertainment. Wish me luck.

Does This Thing Work?

Today, readers, I am hungover. I feel absolutely awful and to be honest I really didn't have that much to drink. That's the worst part because it could mean something that I don't really like to think about. It could mean that somehow, someway, I'm getting older. I've always thought that age wouldn't happen to me, it's the sort of thing that happens to OTHER people. You know, OLDER people. I thought I was immune to it and carried on my desperately immature life, wallowing in an arrested development, thinking that aging in any way was never going to come my way. But lately I've noticed that things knacker me. Not things like exercising or hard work, I'm sure they would knacker me but I have absolutely no proof. I mean little things like standing up, walking to the DVD shelf, thinking or screaming at the telly. All things that I love but now slightly fear because they can exhaust me. It's a terrifying ordeal I'm going through. Last friday I got knackered drinking a bottle of Lucozade, that shouldn't happen surely? But last night really did tire me out. I went out for a few drinks with the writer Bennett Arron who very kindly lent me £20. Now that I've described him as "writer" I think we're evens. He lent me £20 simply because either I can't remember my PIN number or the bank hasn't sent me a new one. I can't figure out which. Which means that I'm either senile or just one of those annoying, fumbly types of old people that can't figure out anything new like banks, computers, TV remotes or stairs. After kindly giving me £20 (see how it's changed to giving?) I declared that I would go to the bar and get us our first drink of the evening. Bennett asked for anything but Kroenenbourg and his face looked confused and full of pity when I returned with two pints of it. That's how an old person's mind works. It doesn't. And mine is old and broken, friends. As we didn't have any dominoes to amuse me the rest of the evening was spent with the two of us quizzing each other on our knowledge of 80's pop, surely our generations equivilent to talking about the war. "Eeeh, in them days it were all Tight Fit and Owen Paul around here. And The Skids, they had the real eggs". Bennett and I have an enormously pointless knowledge of 80's trivia and can spend hours trying to baffle one another with questions like "Hi-Ho Silver" was the theme tune to what TV series and who sang it? That would take an hour in itself. What I'm trying to say is, if you think you're very knowledgable about the 80's then don't come out drinking with me and Bennett, we'll beat you every time! And if you don't know the 80's then still don't come out with us, we're THAT tedious. God, I'm rambling. Is this a sign of aging too? I'm going to lie down.

The main reason for my head being slightly mush at the moment, apart from being a doddering old cunt, is that there are just too many people in my house. Normally, I'm very used to it just being me and the dog but at the moment it's me and an entire family living here. Don't get me wrong, I've done very well out of it. I've been given a brand new microwave and a bed. It's like winning a quiz show in the 70's! Maybe I'll ask them for a Soda Stream next. But the house is full so I kind of hide in one room as I'm the very poster child for social awkwardness. Plus I get too many questions from my American visitors. Constant questions. "How much is a pound?", "Do the tubes run during lunch?", "Is Big Ben real?" And, of course, as friendly as he is I'm trying to avoid being alone with my Father-In-law for fear the conversation will turn to cocksucking, wanking or cunt hair. I'm under a lot of stress and there are NO Wispas left. Please help me.

The X-Man.

Why can't I just admit that I like X-Factor? I openly complain about how shit it is all the time yet watch it every week and I don't even fast forward to get through the awful, awful singing bits. Originally I just watched it for the crying. The crying is brilliant. There's no better form of entertainment than watching some ugly, talentless, ex-drug addict, orphan, got-five-kids, mentally ill blob of useless crying their bones out because they didn't win a sing-song game. It's brilliant. Their faces are priceless when they hear the news, it's like it never crossed their minds once that maybe, JUST MAYBE, they might not win. And the type of music they perform, although varied (you can hear anything from spine-vomiting pop ballads to just plain balls), is beyond dull. And yet I watch it. And yet I love it. And yet I can never admit it. I don't really even admit it to myself, sometimes telling myself that it's just so pathetic you have to watch. So how come I'm quite upset that granny-punching, crack-drinking sprog-machine Rachel has been booted out? She was really good. Imagine going on X-Factor and being able to sing? Well, that's what she did, the mad bastard. In the end she was beaten by JLS, London's loveliest street gang. Are there nicer youths in the whole of the UK? Christ, they're awful and souless. Why can't they mug old money for drug women like Rachel does? At least she has a bit of depth to her. The cunts. Anyway, I'll be looking forward to the next few weeks but telling people that I never watch it. All we have left is Mad Hippy Teenager, Irish Child, Nice Lads, Spanish Tits and Woman left. My money is on Irish Child, he's definitely terrible enough to win. I suppose. I don't really watch it, to be honest.

I've been spending a lot of time with my in-laws. Obviously, I haven't killed them yet mainly because I've been busy. My father-in-law seems to have made a brand new kind of bond with me, though. To be honest, it started last month in Seattle when he boldly claimed that Vice-President Elect Joe Biden thought I was a cocksucker. I have little to no idea what Joe Biden thinks of me but I do know that my Father-In-Law doesn't swear. He's actually a very clean-cut, small town, All-American boy, so you can imagine my surprise when Cocksucker came out of his gentle, down-to-earth mouth. I now realise that he might be a little starved of male companionship and has chosen me to be his bud. His bud he can drink with, laugh with and swear with. Unfortunately, I don't deal well with grown-ups who swear. I know that as a 40-year old that I too, in a way, could be considered a grown up but I'm so staggeringly immature that I don't think you could ever consider me as such. Therefore when a REAL grown-up swears I revert to being 10 and I'm totally shocked by it. My gut reaction is to tell a teacher. Since his arrival in the UK he has sworn a fair bit but ONLY in front of me. Never any other member of his family and yesterday his swearing and my lack of comfort with it hit a peak. Not only did he say that when he used to work in a power plant it was "20% hard work and the rest of the time I sat around stroking myself" while doing the Wank hand gesture he then told me that he saw a car almost collide with another car and, apparently, there was nothing but a RCH in it. When I asked what an RCH was he smiled, winked and said "Red Cunt Hair". After I swallowed all my own sick I laughed, wiped away a tear and said "What are you like?", then immediately booked an appointment with a counsellor. I'll be traumatised for a very long time. I sincerely hope he hasn't ruined the word cunt for me. He'd be a cunt if he has. Oh, there we go. Back to normal.

I Heart Michael McIntyre.

I worked with Hal Cruttenden this past weekend and during the conversation he asked about my blog. I explained what it was like and he, very rightly, looked like it wasn't really his bag especially when I said I'd mentioned Michael McIntyre a couple of times. Hal looked appalled as he very much likes Michael and couldn't see why I'd have anything negative to say about him. I felt bad. Not because of what I'd said about Michael but by Hal's face. He looked like I'd let him down. Hal's a nice man and nice men can easily manipulate you into feeling bad anytime they feel like it just by being nice. Then, this morning, I walked into Sainsburys (or as I like to call it "Insainsburys"! Brilliant! You can have that) and saw the cover of Michael's new DVD, Live and Laughing. All the negative thoughts I had about Michael simply melted away when I saw his beaming grin showbizzing it's way to my eyes and heart. Just look at it. How can anyone begrudge a man when he's THAT happy? His face just screams FUCKING HELL, THEY'VE MADE A DVD OF ME! BRILLIANT! So what if he insults me every time we meet, I can forgive him anything now. Hal was right to make me feel bad and I genuinely love Michael now for all the joy his face on his DVD cover is experiencing. All the very, very best to you, Michael. One day, I hope to be as happy as you look on your DVD cover and if I could buy the cover on it's own then I would.

I am going mad. I've lost too much stuff recently and, as a result, I'm a paranoid mess. I keep thinking I'm going to lose something else at all times. I've lost my iPod, wallet and phone in the space of a month and on saturday night at The Boat Show I lost my coat with all my money and my new iPod Touch in it. I went fucking mental. I mean actually, bona dide, cuckoo-clock mental. At one point I actually tried ringing my iPod to see if I could find it. Now, that's proper mental and no mistake. Poor Paul, who runs the gig, and my brother-in-law Bob had to watch me shout, stomp and do all the world's best swearing because I'd lost something else. Then we found it. It was about two feet away from where I left it. I immediately felt relieved and then utterly embarrassed. Paul and Bob looked at me with all the pity they could muster. It was a shame because the gig had been great and afterwards a lovely audience, who just wanted to say well done to me, experienced me going from being their on-stage friend to a dribbling ball of fury chanting "Where's my fucking coat? Where's my fucking coat?" My apologies to all who witnessed it and many thanks to Paul for his general kindness and for giving me a Wispa.

Getting Wispas from people at gigs is now something I totally expect EVERY TIME. Last night Nobby was kind enough to give me a lovely Wispa that I took home and put into the bag of Wispas that Judy gave me last saturday. How disturbing it was to find out that, in one week, I've gone from nine Wispas in the bag to just one. I'm a greedy bastard. I know someone who'll be going to the gym all week. My friend Carl. He works there.

Orange Bastards.

There is actually a place worse than the Apple Shop and, ironically, it's the Orange Shop. I went there yesterday to buy my in-laws a phone to use during their visit to London and I assumed I could go in there, buy a phone and leave without wanting to kill everyone that's ever lived. What a fucking naive idiot I was. When I walked in I was immediately greeted with open disinterest. The four members of staff were VERY busy. One was talking to a customer who repeated the phrase "Five Mega-Pixels" like he was trying to break the previous world record for most amount of times anyone has ever said "Five Mega-Pixels" (604, Toxteth O'Grady, USA), one was laughing while reading an instruction booklet, one was actually dancing and the other was talking on the phone to a friend or, at the very least, a customer they wanted to fuck. It's simply the polar opposite to the Apple Shop's terrifying warmth and service but I decided to test how long it would take any of them to notice there was a customer needing attention by just standing in the middle of the shop doing absolutely nothing. 18 minutes, as it turns out. 18 minutes of standing alone in the middle of a tiny shop waiting for a shop assistant to wake the fuck up and notice me. Don't get me wrong, I made eye contact with the dancing one but there was no way I wanted to be served by him. So I waited. 18 boring minutes later the woman who was serving Mr. Five Mega-Pixels asked if she could help. I gave her a look as if to say that I very much doubted it but pointed to the phone I wanted to buy anyway. What was her reaction? Was it "Of course, Sir. I'll get that for you right away"? Was it fuck. She said "What do you want that for?" At this point I only wanted that phone so I could force it into her right eye socket but I lied and sarcastically said "Making phonecalls, probably". She stared at me for what felt like a week and then got the phone, gave me the paperwork for it and swiped my card all without saying another word. This was done right by the shop's counter where I stood firmly, never moving, while the dancer permanently bumped into me. I can't imagine I'll ever go back to the Orange Shop but if you're in the mood to feel abused by a bunch of lazy cunts then you can do no better. Five stars.

I'm still going back and forward to the hospital. The thing that I find most worrying about going there is the near total lack of visitors people get during their stay. Muki's had loads but most other people just lie there alone any time I'm there and I'm there a lot. But then, I did strike up some banter with the lady next to Muki in the ward. She started banging a cup on a tray and shouting "Excuse me". I asked her if she needed one of the nurses but no, it was me she wanted to talk to. Apparently she wanted me to stop talking about her. For a second I thought this might be Sajeela Kershi but it wasn't, it was another mad old woman who was letting her medicine talk for her. I explained that I hadn't been talking to her but she insisted that I kept saying her name. Obviously I didn't know the woman's name but she then said "Yes, you do. You're Irish". I'll look her up on the BNP member's list later. But maybe this is what happens when you don't get any visitors, so if you do know someone in hospital please visit them. And if you don't know someone in hospital then visit the woman beside Muki, she's brilliantly mad.

I genuinely felt really fed up after writing yesterday's blog but I'm now glad to say that the amount of nice people involved in comedy has risen to three. Along with Jeremy Limb we can now add the (Carnahan) Darbys. They're nice people who are generous and thoughtful. The rest of us are still cunts. Remember that.

Carnivorous Plant.

Yesterday I may have mentioned in passing that I thought the heckler in BrendAn Burns' viral plug for his new DVD, So I Suppose This Is What Is Thought Of As Offensive Now?, was a plant. I didn't KNOW she was a plant but a couple of things gave it away that she might be. One was her very modern sort of Anti-Acting, barring holding a sign with a picture of a bonsai tree on it she couldn't have given a more convincing performance of Plant Who Was Paid To Sit There And Look Stupid. Also, the fact that she left all on her own seemed very suspicious. I know anytime I'm with people who walk out of BrendAn's shows I always leave with them. Sometimes I even instigate it. But the main thing that gave it away that this person was in fact not a paying punter but a paid plant was the fact that she wrote to another comedian and told him.

I had never heard of Sajeela Kershi before yesterday but, hilariously, she seems furious at me for pointing out something that BrendAn Burns did. Not that I say anything controversial (it's pretty much all me and BrendAn have in common) but I find it extraordinary that the only real complaints I've had about my blog is when I make fun of comedians. Since when has making a joke while pointing out other people wrongs been something that a comedian shouldn't do? And it basically seems like these morons that take offence don't just like certain comedians, they ADORE them. Oh, you CAN'T say that about Stanhope, he's the saviour of mankind! How dare you "attack" Burnsy! He's won an award sponsored by a mortgage company! FUCK OFF. These people are just people. How fucking creepy to raise them any higher. They tell jokes. Well, whoop-di-fucking-do. If only Gandhi had gone around screaming GITFACKED into people's faces then maybe there wouldn't have been all that discrimination in the first place. But no. That bald prick had to go and create social change to make him a greatly honoured figure. What a twat. Sajeela just seemed upset that it was another comedian who pointed out who she really was, thus ruining some other gag later on in BrendAn's show (I presume). But, surely, the only proof that she really was a plant came from her replying to this comedian at length about how he has ruined this show for others. The person who has openly given away the ending is Sajeela. Thanks a lot, Sarjeela! I hope you're proud of yourself. All those fans of BrendAn's that go on YouTube to laugh at how you were made to look like a fucking idiot will have NOTHING TO BELIEVE IN now thanks to your and your thoughtlessness. I hate you and so does BrendAn.

Whether something later on in the show has been "ruined" or not, I think it's fair to say that the viral clip sent out by Universal is pretty deceitful not to mention hugely egotistical. The clip stands alone as an example of BrendAn's stand-up and it shows a woman being offended, BrendAn putting her down and the woman leaving in disgust. That is it. That's all we have to go on. It's now been revealed by Sajeela herself that the woman in the viral clip was a plant, therefore making the clip, as a stand alone piece, pointless, arrogant and embarrassing. I don't know if this was BrendAn's idea and I certainly would like to think it wasn't. I've never seen his hour long shows but have only heard good things about them. I've had many happy times with BrendAn, although after one night in Oxford when he screamed at me and Otis Canneloni to show him our "dark", I went off him. That was just too insane and arrogant. BrendAn then went on stage and spent 10 minutes making fun of a man's spikey hair. Very controversial. He's a comedian doing his job and he is very much loved for it. That is great. That still doesn't mean I can't make fun of him.

By the way, Sajeela didn't just write to the comedian who revealed her name. She wrote to me too. It was just one line; "Is there no honour among comics?" Of course there is. Although it seems that if you want an audience member to get offended for your DVD you have to pay them and even then they squeal.

This blog has actually depressed me. I've rambled, not written what I wanted to and I've repeated myself. Maybe I should pay someone to write my blog for me from now on. I really wanted to write about The Dead Val Kilmers, Jeremy Limb and Chas Early's band. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow. Jeremy Limb is hilarious. If you're going to leave a comment please just let it be something nice about Jeremy. That will make it a lot nicer round here.

Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Saviour Vs. Burnsy.

Firstly, I'd like to thank everyone who emailed or messaged me to congratulate me on the great reviews I was given by The Times for my part in the West End production of Treasure Island. Secondly, I'd like to thank the few people who emailed or messaged me to point out the shit reviews I was given by the Evening Standard for my part in the same show. Thirdly, I'd like to make it clear that there is more than one Michael Legge.

This has happened to me before. Michael Legge is an actor who appeared in the film Angela's Ashes and, as a result of us having the same name, I ended up getting a lot of his fan-mail. Teenage girls, mainly from Spain for some reason, couldn't wait to email me to tell me how cute I was in that film and to ask if I had a girlfriend. Some of them graphically told me the many things they'd like to do to my penis if the chance ever arose. As tittillating as this was I couldn't help but think that these beautiful, young, foreign girls didn't actually mean MY penis. My penis and I were very sad. So as fun as it was to receive sexy messages it was also infuriating to think that this little cunt could fuck any of them while trading on the back of my name. And it is MY name. I had it first. Every teenage, dirty email reminded me spitefully that I was a LOT older than the little cunt from Angela's Ashes and every time these girls described "my" face or body I was heartlessly forced to acknowledge that the prick was also a LOT better looking than me. He even comes from the same county as me. The tool. Sometimes though his agent would email me as he'd been once again asked about his availability in December by the Frog & Bucket or enquiries were made to see if he fancied doing a warm up for ANOTHER Carol Vorderman hosted Sky TV shitquiz. All enquiries that were actually for me. HA! That'll teach him. And now that my name and address has appeared publicly on the BNP member's list he's bound to be getting shit from that too. That'll teach him, eh readers?

So, what have I been doing this week as no blogs have been beautifully created? Well, I've been to the hospital a lot, I've been popping home to look after the dog, I've been popping round to visit my family in their hotel (my Mum has a broken foot so can't go anywhere during their visit) and generally seeing that Muki's family aren't getting lost in some East End gun-ridden rape-hole. They haven't. No matter how often I send them there. So, basically, I've had little to no time to myself, which is fine under the circumstances. That said, I had a break on tuesday for an hour and I went to HMV to try to find the Doctor Who Season 4 boxset but, unbelievably, I saw something even betterer. HMV had a DVD section under a massive banner that read: JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS. It was full of DVD's that would be perfect to buy for that special someone this yuletide season. And what DVD's were on display? Jamie Oliver's Turkey Roasting Family Awful? No. Daniel O'Donnell's Chunky Jumper God Fellating Geriatric Flap-Teasing Hootenanny? No. Oh, now I remember. It was.... SO I SUPPOSE THIS IS OFFENSIVE NOW BY BRENDON BURNS. How fucking typically christmassy is that? He's just so festively dangerous and seasonally edgy. He's going to deck your halls with bows of FURY! Can't take it, Santa? Then get back in your grotto. What sort of fucking world do we live in when BrendAn fucking Burns is now a stocking-filler? On the back of the DVD it hilariously says this, "In a world where unaccountability and scapegoating is not only the norm but seemingly admired, one man has the courage to put his hand up and say, 'Hey I make mistakes and here's an hour of them'".To be very fair, the DVD looks incredibly well shot and BrendAn did write it all himself. Even the words coming out of this heckler were written by him: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xq8nG_ZMhA8 

I've had some great gigs this week, too. Most notably at the Covent Garden Comedy Club on saturday which started really sweetly for five minutes but not long after that the audience were ready to happily gang-rape a heckler (a real one, not one from my PR company), which was nice. I'd like to thank Judy for bringing me a bag of Wispas. If anyone else wants to bring me a bag of Wispas then please go ahead. Wispas are great.

The Thud of Blinking.

I’ve complained a lot about the noise that awful people generally make on trains. Loud ringtones, playing music loudly on their phones, raspy breathing, the thud of blinking, etc, and it’s a terrible thing to sit through. You’re on a train, you’ve paid a fortune on the fare and yet nowhere on the ticket does it say that other humans will also be onboard. Humans are the worst. Worse than Klingons in this scribe’s educated opinion. Making noise on a train used to be the most appallingly selfish thing I thought those cunts could ever done do but those cunts have come up with done doing something worse. Done doing exactly the same thing but in a hospital. This utter fuck (I now don’t give a shit what’s wrong with her and I despise what’s keeping her alive-ish) thought it was fine to be in a hospital ward with a) her phone on, b) the ringtone volume set to Paisley, c) the ringtone as the theme to X-Factor and d) her skin not in a suitcase and her face not in a cat that’s on fire. How utterly thoughtless. There are people in agony in that ward. I doubt they need to be loudly reminded that Simon Cowell is a rich bastard and that there is a person in the ward that is just an ordinary, household, common or garden bastard.

Even worse was the idiot in the “Family Room”. The “Family Room” is there for people that the patient doesn’t really want to see. Ever. I’ve spent a lot of time there recently. Yesterday, that room was full of utter cunts; my words, not theirs. They were all deeply Christian, deeply numerous and deeply singing loudly like a pack of mad shit. They continually sang a song called God Has A Son And His Name Is Jesus. At the end of the day, if this is true, then Mary, Mother of God, wasn’t asked to have God’s child and therefore that is RAPE. GOD RAPED A TEENAGE GIRL. Imagine if I had actually said that to them! Then I’d have something to write about in my blog. Sorry.

I did Covent Garden Comedy Club last night and it was fun. The line-up was as good as I’ve worked with in a while. Roger Monkhouse, Seymour Mace and Richard Herring were all excellent. I thought I was OK except at one point where I thought I was going to faint on stage. It was hot and I felt ill. Still, the world’s drunkest man with sick on his shoe bought me a drink that he drank for me so that was good.

Dave was good last night. That episode of I’m Alan Partridge was on. The one with Alien Judge. Excellent. Then I watched the first 25 minutes of Transformers on DVD. Michael Bay is a cup of AIDS. It was Bernie Mac’s swan song robot film. How sad.

Muki Kulhan.

I've been spending the last two days at Guys Hospital visiting Muki. I didn't really think I'd blog about this but I seem to be doing it. Earlier in the year she was diagnosed as having an infestation of carcinoids in her right lung and, although the tumours are benign, there are so many of them that they're attacking her blood stream and the lung had to be removed. She went in on wednesday for tests and on thursday morning when I visited her she seemed cheery, happy and relieved that this was all about to be over. Muki is a pretty much constantly cheery person anyway so that was no surprise even though if it had been me I'd have been crying. The next time I saw her, a few hours later after the operation, she was weak, tired and in pain. Then I did cry. I've always said that men should not cry under any circumstances because it looks ridiculous. I'll forgive a man for crying if one of his parents die but it has to be his Mum, if it's his Dad then he's a flaming whoopsie and should be bricked. Neil Cole once told me that Karen Koren made him cry because she pulled a gig on him. After laughing I should have kicked that spineless cunt to death. I just wasn't ready to see Muki like that. Don't get me wrong, she's very much getting better but for that moment seeing her in pain and whispering for me to help her I just felt completely useless. I doubt that anyone who knows Muki, seeing her not being like Muki, wouldn't feel pretty much the same.

But, like I say, she is getting better. Not only is she getting better but the way she's getting better is amazing. She's in the Critical Care Unit and all around her are men crying, moaning and screaming in pain, which is what I would do. When Muki feels pain she gives a look as if someone has pushed in to a queue in front of her. To say the least, she's very tough.

The operation was totally successful which is the greatest news you can recieve. She's mending well and should be out of the CCU tomorrow, if not tonight. She should be walking by then too. But, for now, they're just trying to control her pain and let her sleep. She finally fell asleep this afternoon while I was telling her about seeing Bennett Arron performing last night so, by the time I get back to the hospital, she should be slightly more alert. The other amazing thing about all this, besides Muki's handling of it, is the members of staff who are making such a personal effort to care for her. I find that quite shocking, really. Considering the "love me, love me" nature of stand up comedy, meeting people like them is a genuine guilty pleasure. It's a pleasure to meet them and their selflessness makes me feel like a cunt. I thank them greatly

Muki will be ready for visitors by the weekend and I'll keep friends updated but (maybe) not on this blog. This blog is about me getting all angry over fuck all and, by God, it should be kept that way. I lost my wallet containing £300 last night. Any other time this blog would be full of furious bile and childish swearing. I'm gigging tonight so normal service will resume tomorrow. Cheers.

Where Are They Now?

All the excitement of Simon Dowd getting in touch after all this time has made me start thinking about what might have happened to other people who have seemingly dissappeared. What ever happened to Veronica McKensie? She was someone I used to gig with a lot years ago and then she just vanished. In my head she's still going around in the year 2008 telling people that no, she isn't Sonique. I hope that's true anyway. And what happened to Sonique? Gina Ryan was another person who just vanished. I think the last time I saw her was 2002 when she used to bravely point out that Posh Spice wasn't particularly all that posh and that Blind Date was well below par. In fact, the last time I spoke to her she told me that she was writing a TV sit-com for Stephen K. Amos to star in. It was called Love Thy Neighbour 2000. I stopped her there and left. So, maybe it's me that's dissappeared, not her. Surely, if I was any good I'd have been on that television by now. Maybe everyone thinks I've given up and left the circuit, which isn't true. I've given up, yes, but I'm still on the circuit.

And Louise Wener. Where's she? I know she's not a comedian but she was around 10 years ago in the band Sleeper and I used to fancy her despite the fact that she looked like my mate Phat Paul. She must be doing something with her life now? Maybe she's left the rat-race altogether and become a new-age traveller, making money from selling her own home-made fucking awful looking jewellery and soon she'll be moving in to the traveller's site that's very noisily being built at the end of my street and she'll see me and want to have sex with me. That was always my fantasy about her. And Sonia Madan from Echobelly? Where is she and does she want to join in with me and Louise? I love day-dreaming.

How come it's only women that dissappear? Ok, it was Simon I was originally talking about (and Andrew Pipe doesn't count) but it seems like it's mainly females who can't get enough of me not knowing them anymore. Anyway, I hope that people I used to gig with and don't see anymore, male or female, have gone on to much better things than the UK Comedy Circuit. That can't be an impossible task. Please give a moments thought to the people I've just mentioned as well as Sally Holloway, Daft Johnny Vader, Mark Rendell, Terry Lynch, Harvey O'Leary, Neville Raven, Steve Postgate, Catherine Tate and all the other people who have a place in my heart but not in my mobile phone.

Various Artists.

MySpace still works! I know that pretty much everyone has forgotten that there used to be a time before Facebook when your Nan and her Nan used to hook up with paedophiles the old fashioned way, through Her Majesty's MySpace. They used to get up at 6 in the morning to cycle 5 miles to the nearest Internetium and spend thruppeny half and nine on a big bag of MySpaces with enough left over for a quick Bebo, and there were none of that poking neither. But times have changed. Now it's all new fangled status update this and you've been tagged that. It's good to see that some of us are still old fashioned enough to just get in touch without the add-on that you're making them become a slightly higher ranking zombie. One such person is the lovely Simon Dowd. Simon and I started doing stand up pretty much at the same time 85 years ago and this weekend he got in touch, the first I've heard from him THIS CENTURY. I'm very happy about it too because he was always a big favourite of mine, both as an act and a person. He stopped performing for personal reasons and not because he was shit and moved to America which is shit. Well, it's shit for us because Simon is brilliant. When he MySpaced me I was over the moon. I just felt that he was one of those great people that you know for a while and they just dissappear from your life altogether. Like Mum. (HA HA, that was BRILLIANT. Must remember to use that). Then yesterday, while STILL cleaning my fucking hovel I came across a Screaming Blue Murder Comedy Clubs leaflet from 1999 listing pretty much every gig that Simon and I did for them that year. For Simon, and all nostalgists out there, Dowd compered John Gordillo, Phil Nichol and Susan Murray at The Dog & Fox on Friday 2nd April. Imagine that! That would never happen these days. Susan would be on in the middle for a start.

I really have to make more of an effort to keep my house clean. The garden is trying to attack next doors garden and everytime I open the back door to let Jerk out for a wee I live in fear that she might never come back. Also, anytime I open my back door I'm greeted by the sight of a broken microwave and some shit garden furniture that I put out there months ago and the stupid, lazy, evil, Gypsy-loving council still keep "forgetting" to come and pick it up for recycling. Someone told me that my garden looks white trash with all that crap in it which is deeply offensive. It's racist. And racism was invented by us whites. What's wrong, people with skin colour different to white? Can't think of your own thing? The world has gone horribly wrong when us white people can't even have something like racism to call our own anymore. They'll take our inability to dance away next. Anyway, I'm having a breakdown.

I forgot to say how enjoyable the weekend was at The Comedy Cafe. I loved it. Friday was great and I was fucking appalling on the saturday night. Just about got away with it but that's the best you can say. On the other hand, Julian Dean was excellent. He's my favourite act at the moment. When I came off stage that night the other acts commiserated with me by telling me that the audience were a bunch of ignorant pricks, but it wasn't true. I was a bunch of ignorant pricks. I knew I'd done a crap job and couldn't blame the ugly, ugly audience at all. Then Julian Dean went on and had a great gig, thus proving me right. And him a cunt.

The next day I went for a sunday roast with some friends. I fancied a big roast and as it was sunday I thought a sunday roast would be the perfect meal for me. Then I remembered; I'm a vegetarian. I know they don't have a paedophile's menu at any restaurant probably but if they did I'm pretty sure they'd offer more choice to a man who wants to stick his angry, angry cock into a child than they do to a vegetarian at most places. We went to Masons which is both near me and does vegetarian sunday roasts but, as I'm me, they decided that day to not only scrap the vegetarian roast but to laugh uproariously at the suggestion that there ever was one in the first place. Everyone I was with had a roast. All I was offered was Tagliatelle, a food that I think is boring, un-roast like and a word I refuse to spell properly. Why are we shat on by the world? We don't eat flesh, SO YOU'RE WEIRD. We don't kill animals, THEN YOU GET YOUR MEAL SERVED LAST. We tend to not get colonic cancer, AND THAT'S WHY WE'RE GIVING YOU FUCKING BORING PASTA, YOU SMUG MIGHT-LIVE-A-BIT-LONGER CUNT. Actually, to be fair, a lot of us are cunts. Well, fuck them. I love not eating meat. In fact, I'm sitting down to not eat a big steak in veal fetus sauce right now. By the way, The Smiths have ANOTHER new compilation out right now but for once it's really good. You should buy it no matter what Smiths fans say. "Repackage! Repackage!" Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you've said....

Please Help Them This Christmas.

Poor Patrick Stewart, Julie Walters, Ronan Keating, Nicole Kidman and The Redknapps (whoever they are). They're all so flat broke at the moment that these beloved entertainers have been forced to do a million Nintendo adverts that are never off the telly even when you switch it off. Patrick and Julie play Donkey Kong, or whatever, on a Megabus while The Redknapps have had such a mental breakdown that they each think they're driving a sofa. Nicole, her money wasted on all the botox a girl could wish for, plays Brain Training but it is too little too late and Ronan has regrettably had children. So, you see, this christmas isn't about making sure your elderly neighbours are OK or sending aid to people in Africa, it's all about giving more money to greedy, lazy bastards. This is the kind of thing punk tried to destroy, people. You know, before Johnny Rotten was paid to say "Ever get the feeling you've got lovely butter?" I'm not saying that these stars don't deserve the hundreds of thousands of pounds they got for doing shit all, I'm simply saying that we, the people, should rise up and kill them. Well, if not kill them then make them do something shit. Patrick Stewart has to do a year on Emmerdale, Julie Walters has to do the door at Amused Moose, Ronan Keating has to sing in Boyzone AND Westlife AND Iraq, Nicole Kidman has to prove she's not a robot and The Redknapps have to seriously write out clearly what it is that they do and how they contribute to this planet and then eat themselves. Doing an advert for money is wrong. It's immoral and disgusting. I did that Harvester Advert years ago because I believed in the script. I made "Chef 2" come to life!

Johnny's gone now, everyone. Sobriety can visit my home for a while. I'd very much like to thank Martin White and Caroline Mabey for helping us with some very last minute drinking while we went to see the very lovely Richard Morris host Comedy Circus at The Comedy Bar, Leicester Square. It was a sketch comedy evening and all the extremely talented and experienced performers ended the evening happy that they'd done a great, great show. None of us agreed but we were never asked so hey-ho. That reminds me, whatever happened to Los Quattros Cunts? They were good them.

Please Help.

There's nothing I like better at the moment than Girls. I've gone through a few girls already this week and two days ago Johnny Candon and I were enjoying some Girls on the sofa while patting my dog. Even though I was paying more attention to Girls her tail wagged a lot because she likes a good patting. Girls is a comic book (HA HA! BRILLIANT! You thought I meant me and Johnny had been abducting and raping some women but no, I was talking about a comic. God, you look a right idiot now. You've been totally Legged) by The Luna Brothers about alien women who go around fucking men and killing women. It's a lot less offensive than I just made it sound. I can't recommend it enough. It's way better than the book you're reading right now, trust me. In fact, you wouldn't be reading State of Fear if he hadn't have died anyway so put that shit down and bury your face in Girls. The comic that is, ho ho!

Speaking of laughing at comics that is exactly what I wasn't doing last night. I got home after gigging in time to watch Live at The Apollo on Dave. I used to really like Michael McIntyre. He's a fantastic improviser and why he doesn't want to show that off on telly is beyond me. Instead he does his written material which is basically observation. Not observational comedy, just observation. "When you go to the toilet you have to drop your pants, and you do, don't you? When you breathe you take air into your lungs and then out again and you do, don't you? When you go to bed at night you turn the light off and cry alone in the darkness and I do, don't I?" I'm sure me pointing this out in my blog is a cast-iron guarantee that Michael will go back to his more off-the-cuff style which I like and dump the list-of-things-he's-seen style. He's bound to read this and he's bound to be reasonable enough of a man to accept criticism from a man that mainly compere's other club comics on to a stage stared at by the drunken living dead. And maybe he'll stop putting on a fake Northern Irish accent and asking if he can march up my area every time he sees me. The fat, Ronnie Corbett looking, fame obsessed, cheesey cunt.

The gig at The Comedy Cafe was good though. An unsurprisingly drunk Friday night crowd who surprisingly good fun. I'm looking forward to it again tonight but no Dave when I get back this time. It disturbs my sleep.

Apparently, the utterly brilliant Collings and Herrin podcast is starting to slip lower down the podcast chart of late and I fear it will slip even further soon. Partly because you're a fucking arse who doesn't listen to it but mainly because I'm about to start doing a podcast myself. I can feel Herrin quaking in his pumps right now. It's bound to be a huge success due to my incredible fame and reputation but, alas, one thing stands in the way of my podcasting genius. I don't know how to make a podcast. Loads of comedians do podcasts these days and now that the medium is saturated and starting to lose interest, I think it's a perfect time for me to jump on the spluttering, slow-moving, over-crowded bandwagon. Any help would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, listen to Collings and Herrin. It's great, you can get it on iTunes, it's completely free and all profits go to Madeleine McCann. Thank you.

Me and Johnny Up a Tree...

My drunk wife, Johnny Candon, is still staying with me. Last night was a historic evening in the three nights that he's been at my house in as much as it's the first night that he found his way to bed. Don't get me wrong, he was sleeping on the sofa and breaking the snoring record when I went to bed but when I woke up I realised that the futon in the spare room had been slept in. When I went downstairs I saw Johnny's jeans and t-shirt lying on the sofa. I thought that Johnny either had some water thrown on him or, fucking worse, he's somewhere in my house naked. I immediately shot the dog in case her lovely big brown eyes clapped eyes on his equivalent of a body and got the Rage Virus. Basically, Johnny was in my kitchen in just his pants. The kitchen has been taken into care and shot.

I did a gig that scared me last night. It was Tag Comedy at the Komedia in Brighton where comedians don't do their normal set in the normal order but instead do it in random chunks based on the last comics chosen topic. I shat myself. I'm bad enough on my own without dragging three other comics down to my level too. The first half was really tough, mainly due to my material, talent and awful, awful face. The audience were polite but a bit quiet although that didn't stop Stephen Grant, Lloyd Langford and Ben Norris from being relaxed, confident and extremely funny. Those three cunts are cunts. I was a lot more confident in the second half (damn it, I even enjoyed myself) but really I was just very impressed and inspired by the three others. They were great and, like I say, cunts. I think Lloyd Langford is going to be very famous pretty quickly which is probably a guarantee that his career will do a Brendon any second. 

I travelled back to London with Lloyd who told me a great news story about a soldier called Danny James who was found guilty of passing secret information to Iran. apparently, the news report described the soldier as "a text-book fantasist". That made me laugh. Then a big fucker got on the train. He stomped his big fucker body onto the carriage then crashed his big fucker arse on to the seat next to us and smashed his big fucker boots up on to the seat in front of him. He had a big fucker ring through his nose, a big fucker tattoo and a stupid prick beard. He kept looking over and I couldn't help but get the feeling that he was going to be big fucker trouble. Finally, he turned to me and said "Oi, mate". Oh crap, I thought, here it comes. He then offered me his phone and said "Can you take a picture of me?" A bit weird but I agreed and when I said "Say cheese" he replied "Fuck off". I handed back the phone, he thanked me then got off the train. He was creepy, drunk and just plain fucked in the head for even thinking of wanting his photo taken on a smelly late night train. Was this really a moment he wanted to treasure in later big fucker life? I didn't ask.

HAAAAAA!!! I've got the Comedy Cafe tonight but before that my drunk wife and I are going out for some Battersea Beer so the gig later might be interestingly embarrassing. Come along, pissed-men lovers!

The Return of Toilet.

I saw Toilet yesterday and he saw me. We passed each other near the Garrick Theatre and neither of us made the effort to say Hello. How long is this going to go on? I must see Toilet about 4 times during the year then practically every day during August in Edinburgh and yet we can't get along like we did when we first met. Toilet, if you're reading this, can't we be friends? I promise I'll be nice. We all promise that I'll be nice. WE want you and me to be friends. There is not one person reading this that doesn't want to see me and Toilet walking merrily hand-in-hand and showing our love to the world. There is only one person stopping that dream come true, Toilet, and that's you. And me. So, what do you say, Toil? Let's start over.

I'm not the only person who saw Toilet yesterday either. My friend saw him on a bus. Apparently even the back of Toilet's head has a stick up it's arse. Sorry, Toilet, that is honestly the last time. I'm going to be nice startiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing NOW.

By the way, have YOU seen Toilet recently? Write and let me know. Seriously, that was really the last time. I'm going to be really very nice as of right now.

Booze has been quite mental over the last two days mainly due to the arrival of Johnny Candon, the Irish man. We've mainly spent the time drinking, reading comics, falling asleep in front of the TV and going to comedy clubs. We went to Comedy Camp to watch Johnny drunkenly die on his arse in front of a gay-friendly audience. Sadly, he did really well and we were all furious. It was also very nice to see Jeremy Limb and Dan Mersh who came out for a drink and a laugh and Bennett Arron who came out for a drink and an argument. Not that I blame him, I've been starting some rows myself lately. I started one with an idiot called Luther on Robin Ince's blog, I started a slight row with Collings and Herrin over how to pronounce the word scabrous (that was basically an ego-driven way of telling you that I was mentioned in their podcast and, yes, a little bit of cum did come out) and last night I started two brilliant arguments that I really enjoyed. They both took place at The Phoenix after a night of glitzy showbiz bar hopping. Well, it started quite glitzy because Johnny and I went to The Groucho Club to meet Jess Robinson and her recently single friend, Oli. We pretty much liked Oli from the word go. He has great taste in telly and seemed generally a fun, funny man. When he told us he was a theatre producer we were very surprised because he wasn't a prick. Well done, Oli. And if you're a single lady then get in touch with him. He's a catch. Then we went to 99 Club at The Round Table and saw the fantastic Caroline Mabey and a man who told us that Jesus took away his £12,000 a day job. I wouldn't have minded but he stank of piss and he touched me. He wasn't Johnny, let me make that clear. After meeting Martin White we went straight to The Funny Side of Covent Garden just in time to completely miss Carey Marx's show then it was off to The Phoenix and two lovely arguments.

The first one was with Roisin Conaty. We're both fans of James Branch's excellent blog but I've stopped reading them since he wrote about going to see Quantum of Solace with his baby. James Branch constantly writes about his child, he's like a female Janey Godley, and normally that would be fine but pretty much nothing boils my blood quite as much as Parent & Baby screenings at the cinema. Want to see a film in the cinema? Fine, KEEP YOUR COCK IN YOUR PANTS. DON'T HAVE A FUCKING BABY AND TAKE A SCREENING AWAY FROM GOOD PEOPLE WHO AREN'T BRINGING SHITTY LITTLE FUCKERS WHO TAKE AIR AND FOOD FROM US INTO THE WORLD. That's my argument. Roisin saw things differently stating that surely it's fair to give them one screening so they can get out of the house with their baby. I reminded her of my original argument that if you want to see a film then you should KEEP YOUR COCK IN YOUR PANTS, etc. The second argument was with everyone else I was with. I love how booze made this an argument that needed to be settled. It got extremely heated with lots of shouting, mainly from me and Johnny. My point was simple; the TV programme Friends is terrible. Everyone disagreed and said that I can't have an opinion on a TV programme if I've only seen 10 episodes. But, like I said at the time, Friends should KEEP YOUR COCK IN YOUR PANTS. The rest of the night is a blank.

A Lovely Evening at Home.

Hey, Kids! What do you get if you cross Who’s Line Is It Anyway with Mock The Week? That’s right! Ball cancer. Or if you’re very cack-handed at crossing two TV programmes that have already ripped off other TV programmes then you get Argumental, Dave first ever home-made fuck up. “Thanks to global warming there are more toxins in the air than there are in Pete Doherty’s whole body”. That’s the opening line in a TV show going out for the first time in November 2008. Has Pete Doherty even left his fucking house this year? Fuck it. “Thanks to global warming the whole planet’s now hotter than a bakery in Pudding Lane”. I mean, if you’re not going to bother then don’t bother big. The thing is, Argumental isn’t THAT bad, in fact it could be quite a good programme given time, but it looks like it’s still at the pilot stage and, God, does it look cheap. Basically, there are four excellent comedians suckered into playing embarrassing parlour games while anyone with half a fucking brain cell squints themselves into a coma trying to fathom how  comics this good come out like this in the “edit”. I mean, I get it. They stand up, John Sergeant farts out a topic to talk about and the chosen performer talks passionately about it and the audience (who were continually looking at the over head monitors instead of what was going on in front of them, maybe the monitors were showing else?) votes for who they thought won the argument. Simple enough but way too loose, because no-one looked like they knew when things should be starting or ending. But it’s not like it was all awful because all the comics got laughs and Jimmy Carr’s stuff about Amy Winehouse was great. But it’s the format, it’s just way too random. This kind of improvisation works on Just A Minute but here it’s just too smug. And it’s filmed on the same set as Give Us A Clue, by the looks of things. Mind, hats off to them considering they were all making it up off the top of their heads  (I wonder what the eight writers involved did?) plus it was worth it when the camera panned the audience and you could see Andre Vincent hiding behind his voting colour. Marcus used to let him on his telly shows proper.

It pissed me off all the more that I realised while I was watching Argumental that, on BBC2 at the same time, Tom Baker was hosting Have I Got News For You. Balls! I’m very jealous of Chris Addison. He got to sit near The Doctor. FUCKING BRILLIANT.  Basically, that’s all I did last night. Watch telly. Loads of it. Again. Some Kind of Monster, the Metallica documentary was on. That was funny. And improvised. So it can be done.

I’m still spaced out from getting a flu jab yesterday. I didn’t know that a flu jab made you drowsy but, holy shit, the nurse took great delight in letting me know just as the needle went in. She then constantly went good cop/bad cop on me. “Do you need some ventolin for your asthma, Mr. Legge?”  Yes, Please. “Oh. And who told you that you’re asthmatic?” Er…my doctor. “Very good. Glad you got that checked out. What’s your Doctor’s name?” Dr. Groves. “There is no Doctor Groves” Not here, in Belfast. “Belfast have some of the best medical facilities in the UK”. Really? “NO”. All that really happened. And now I’ll NEVER have a flu and I’m VERY scared of nurses.

I’m grumpy and spaced out. That’s what happens when I’ve had a whole day on my own. Even though I felt I needed a night in on my own I’m now a bit starved for company. That will change. Johnny Candon is coming to stay in my house today. Champagne, cocaine, women! We’ll have none of that. Lager, Chips and K-9 is a very strong possibility. Oh, and good luck to John McCain today. Satire is in a bad enough state without a good candidate becoming President. 

Teenagers Get Me Wet.

Right. Let's get the shit out of the way first. All I wanted to do was tie my shoelaces, I don't think that justifies being ridiculed. I got up early this morning to give Jerk a proper big walk so she'll be tired out for the rest of the day and I can get some work done without a wet nose being shoved in my eye every few seconds. All was going well when we chanced upon a small group of teenagers. I've become very paranoid of teenagers in the park recently due to a horrible and frightening experience about a month or so ago. They didn't attack me or abuse me (well, one called me a twat), it was worse than that; I embarrassed myself a little bit in front of them. That can't happen again. It was too traumatic. Then I noticed my shoelace was untied. Well spotted, Legge, you could have tripped on that, fallen, smashed your skull open, died and those teenagers would have laughed at you. I thought it best to tie it before a horrific little bit of embarrassment was once again experienced. So, I simply raised my leg and put my foot on the top of a fence to tie the lace securely and continue with the dog walk, unlaughed at. At least, I thought it was a fence. It wasn't. It was a gate. An unlocked gate. An unlocked gate that swung open as my foot leaned on it and I fell, Del-Boy like, right into a ridiculously deep cunt of a puddle. Boy, was my face red. Mainly due to me desperately scraping my face off so I could never be recognised again. It goes without saying that the youths found this hilarious. While lying in the muddy water (I did lie there just a bit too long, I mean, I didn't think I could fall any further so surely staying in the puddle was the safest place for me to be) listening to the cold, hollow sound of laughter, I did think it would have been nice if that skateboarding lady from last week skated by giving a sort of Nelson Muntz HA-HAA as she glided past my embarrassed, wet, muddy heap. I got up out of the puddle, sighed and continued with this shit, shit life.

Still, at least Dead Set was good. What a totally fantastic TV show. I think Zombies are my favourite bad-guys ever (or at least second to the Myrka). I love how the only agenda they have is to run like fuck and kill you. There's no plan B. It was such a tense, scary and utterly uncomfortable programme but what a shame about the very typical Charlie Brooker cheesey happy ending. He's such a hack. It was a great piece of social commentary, a great horror and, of course, it was very well written really. But now I'm watching a repeat of Ricki Lake on ITV 2 + 1 where everyone is laughing at a fat woman taking a laxative so, calm down everyone, TV is back on schedule.

Forgot to say that the Newcastle weekend was excellent. Especially thursday and saturday. Friday had a big stag-do in that I wasn't in the mood to control so calling them cunts was about all I could muster. There's a surprise. The sound guy walked out during the middle of the show on the friday night after having an argument with the owner of the venue. That was a very silly thing to do, I think. I mean the sound guy knew full well what a complete and utter cunt of a prick of a cunt that the owner of the Hyena is so even speaking to him was a huge mistake. I realise that I may never be booked by the Hyena ever again now (a shame as I love the club) but that doesn't change the fact that the owner is a cunt of a prick of a cunt. He once asked me to do another acts material onstage. That's terrible. I mean, I don't go up to him and tell him how to be a cunt. I have complete trust that he knows how to do it. The same courtesy next time please, sir?

Ava.

I just had a fantastic train journey so I'm warning you now, this might be the cosiest, warmest, fluffiest blog I've ever written. I sat on my seat on the train, thinking how brilliant it was to have a table all to myself, and got my laptop out to watch what I like to think of as Breakfast Doctor Who. Then my entire life was completely ruined forever because some people decided to sit at my table and one of them was...A CHILD. I decided to ignore the evil bastards and get Doctor Who ready. Then the child decided that she wanted to see my computer. She got off her father's lap and sat on the empty seat beside me. Fucking balls, I whimsically pondered. She kept talking to me about the computer and after about a minute it was pretty obvious that I was going to have to make the best of the situation and give her some attention, then she'd get bored by my lack of people skills and fuck right off. But, like all the best buddy movies, we started having a laugh despite my initial want to throw her out the window. We then sat through four complete episodes of The Masque of Mandragora, a 1976 Tom Baker story, together sharing a pair of earphones. She asked questions the whole way through it and filled me in with all the details of the programme that I'd got wrong (apparently everything) and she was, it has to be said, adorably funny. She was utterly engrossed by the Doctor Who story. She got excited by all the running around in corridors, she got upset at the sight of Tim Piggott-Smith ending up in a dungeon, she was scared by the baddies' masks and she actually gasped at the TARDIS dematerialising. I was jealous of her because, as much as I love Doctor Who, it never really makes me do all that. It was pretty obvious that the two of us were entertaining most people around us (except her dad) with our conversation so I didn't mind that she talked the whole way through Doctor Who, or kept holding on to my arm, or wiped her nose on my sleeve (twice) or the fact the she was, I presume, Down's Syndrome. See? I told you this was a fluffy blog. After Doctor Who she still wanted to see more of the computer so I showed her all my pictures of Jerk. There are hundreds of pictures of Jerk on my laptop so I decided to tell her that they were actually all pictures of different dogs that I own, they just look alike. I made up names for the dogs and it became clear to her pretty quickly what I was doing and she started laughing very loudly which made everyone else laugh (except her dad). After a while my imagination ran dry so I started naming the Jerks after friends of mine. It made me giggle a lot to hear a four year old girl say "Can I see John Voce again?" Probably the only female ever to say that. She got hungry and asked her mum for some crisps. She was given a bag of Tayto Cheese & Onion. I went giddy at the sight of them, they're my favourite crisps, they're from Northern Ireland and they're pretty hard to find outside of Ulster. I told her how much I liked them and, although the greedy bitch didn't offer me any, I showed her a photo from my laptop of me and Mr. Tayto. She got really excited that I knew him and made sure that I promised to tell him that Ava really likes him. That's her name, by the way. She and her parents got off at Stevenage and when they were leaving it was all smiles, waves and even hugs from everyone (except her dad) and the train just felt all lovely and mushy from having this fun, funny and very outgoing child on it. Nice.

I'm a bit stupid when it comes to people with Down's Syndrome or any form of special needsness and, because I'm stupid, having a laugh for 2 hours and forty-five minutes on a train with Ava is probably still not going to change that. It's a shame that I'm an idiot because maybe I'd have more fun if I wasn't. Anyway, all the very best to Ava and her family, even her dad. Don't know why he was so grumpy the entire journey. Just because she kept calling me dad the whole time.

Just in case you think I'm all fluffy and lovely now you can rest assured that I'm not. I got back to London, walked to the tube, lemmings bumping into me constantly, people playing loud music on the tube, posters for the latest Peter Kay DVD up and no fucking trains to Ladywell for over an hour and I just thought, well, the worlds only 99.99999999999999999% full of complete and utter cuntshits.

I should have kept this blog until Christmas. Can you re-read this on Christmas day with James Stewart's voice in your head?