Friday, 31 October 2008

Guess What The Internet Cafe I'm In Is Full Of?

I'm in Newcastle where they are having their local Festival of Rain, obviously. I don't think I've ever been here when it isn't raining and night time. Even now at 11am it's night time. I came up on the train which was a lot of fun for about 20 minutes because there were 12 teenage Hasidic Jews permanently getting moved around because they kept pretending that they didn't know the seats they were sitting in were reserved. It was funny because people were obviously annoyed but didn't say anything because if you did you'd appear racist even though they were being cheeky little bastards. Religious minority or not they were being rude. Eventually three of them sat by me which was fine while I was watching The Deadly Assassin, a brilliant Tom Baker story, but as soon as I got my book out to do a spot of reading they stopped laughing, joking and being teenagers and turned into the big starey-eyed people. The book I was reading was God Is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens.

I'm a bit worried about the flat that I'm staying in. The Hyena in Newcastle always puts up comedians in a quite nice flat about 10 minutes away from the gig. It's always been fine to stay in but when I arrived yesterday it was obvious that it hadn't been cleaned since the week before. I kept getting creeped out about lying in bed that night. Just the thought that I could be lying in Tony Hendricks' dried sweat or Ron Vaudry's tears made the hairs on the back of my neck vomit. It was (sort of) cleaned while I was at the gig so my mind is somewhat at rest. The gig was great although not everyone agreed with me. In fact, I was the only one on the bill who seemed to like it. Hey-ho. I'm not sure how this weekend is going to turn out. Maybe I'll tell you why tomorrow. I'm in an internet cafe FULL of cunts so I'd best go.

Thursday, 30 October 2008

Happy Now, BBC?

Well, he's gone. The BBC wouldn't let one little abusive phone call lie and as a result he's walked out the door. And why wouldn't he? He's got a huge career far outside the BBC, he doesn't need them and his thousands of fans will probably follow him to what ever it is he'll do next. Just five more stories and he's out. He should have stayed for at least a few of the Steven Moffatt episodes, though.

I'm obviously a huge fan of David Tennant's Doctor but, as a fan, I'm extremely proud of him for quitting because of Manuelgate. He's probably the most respected actor who works for the BBC so this show of solidarity for Ross and Brand will surely influence others to do the same. I imagine Karen Taylor, David Walliams and the entire cast of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps are all handing in their resignations right now and swearing never to work on TV ever again. I'm imagining it and urge you to do the same. It's a lovely thought and makes my toilet bits go funny. I love my toilet bits. Anyway, well done Russell Brand for basically telling the BBC to go fuck themselves. They've shown no support for the two performers who's only fault was to do something that wasn't in anyway funny. Christ, if that was their remit BBC3 would be a blank screen permanently. The BBC say that they've given in to public pressure. What public pressure? The Daily Mail are angry; that's a GOOD thing. The Prime Minister is outraged; erm, doesn't he have something more important to be doing? And 18,000 people have contacted the BBC to air their disgust at two men-children acting exactly like men-children. It's only 18,000 people. That's only twice The Late Edition's audience, it's nothing. And they're not people anyway. The moment you write to the BBC complaining about something that you haven't even heard is the moment you become a fucking idiot. So, it's only 18,000 fucking idiots that have made the BBC do what they wanted. Maybe I should be sending my scripts to 18,000 fucking idiots in the UK instead one great, big fucking idiot at the BBC?

I went to see Robin Ince's School for Gifted Children last night. I'll be honest, I went thinking I'd be on because during the day I spoke to Tim from The Scotsman newspaper about Manuelgate and had such a nice rant I felt it needed to be said on stage. You know, before I forget it or the story becomes old. But when I got there I saw loads of comedians so chickened out of pushing myself forward. I like Robin Ince's shows. Firstly, because he is a genuinely brilliant comedian and secondly, for no other reason. And last night Robin was superb, just completely at his best. School for Gifted Children is a very random show filled with random comedians and random scientists. I enjoyed the comedians, Wil Hodgson and Richard Sandling were very funny and it was great to see Dave Gorman doing stand up after years away from it. Would have been nice if he'd returned to the stand up arena and was a bit shit but, no, he couldn't even give us that. The comedians were good but, and I tried my best, the two scientists bored my arse's teeth of a hind-leg's donkey. At one point, one of them burst out laughing at a graph. I was never good at school and this reminded me why. I'm able to learn things if Magnus Pyke teaches it, I'm pretty much lost with everyone else. The highlight for me though was seeing Andrew Collins who I have a big girly crush on. He's very funny, despite what he says, and I genuinely gave an audible wow to his Mitford punchline when everyone else in the room was stoney silent.

Right. Off to Newcastle now. Bets on that David Tennant regenerates into Russell Brand.

Wednesday, 29 October 2008

Do You Have Andrew Sachs Phone Number?

I take back everything I said about Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand. They were RIGHT to abuse Andrew Sachs over his whore granddaughter. I want to phone Slut Sachs myself and go into detail about how I fucked her granddad and see how she likes it. It was a brilliant thing to do and if I could only ever ask Messrs. Ross and Brand two questions they would be why didn't you go further with your horrible, cuntish phonecall and what does Messrs mean? It was a brilliant thing to do, I wish I'd done it myself and those two sacks of useless shit should be knighted because... they really pissed off Loose Women. Anyone who can upset those pointless, whining, Dinner-Ladies-With-A-TV-Show, thick as pig shit, embarrassing wankers is a hero worthy of an X-Factor charity record in my eye's book. There is no such thing as feminism while Loose Women stalk the Earth. How can you say anything that Ross & Brand have done is offensive when you a) feel the need to tell the nation how lovely Will Young's bum is and then filling the time with 15 minutes of giggling, b) discuss the credit crunch and how it has stopped your husband handing over his credit card when you demand it then fill the time with 15 minutes of giggling and c) are Linda Bellingham?

Not that Loose Women are the only ones upset over this DEEPLY IMPORTANT WORLD-SHATTERING STORY, BBC's Breakfast have had more comments from the thick public over this than any other story ever. 9/11? Never heard of it, but did you hear about Manuel's voicemail? I'm up in arms! Even chilled-out, sugar-sweet, peace-loving light entertainer Jim Jeffries is offended by Manuelgate which is a bit like Darth Vader being outraged at Ewoks for throwing stones at stormtroopers. All I'm saying is that if all these human beings and a comedian have been shocked and agitated by two dickheads haven't the two dickheads done us all a great favour? I'm very proud of them and of the BBC for not firing them (yet). In fact, the BBC should fire anyone who hasn't phoned Andrew Sachs to tell him they'd fucked his granddaughter. That should get rid of Tess Daly.

I had a lie down yesterday. A real lie down, like a proper old person. I had a terrible headache that genuinely came on during the white noise of Loose Women and I felt drained for the rest of the day. I like a lie down but as I was on my own all day yesterday I failed in getting all the sympathy that I needed to make me stop pretending I was iller than I was. Don't get me wrong, occasionally the dog would poke her nose in my eye but it's not the same as Mum making me an egg-beat-up-in-a-cup and putting Bagpuss on. That's the cure for EVERYTHING. I'm still ill now so, Mum, if you're reading this; sorry about the swearing, can you pop round? I'm poorly.

Tuesday, 28 October 2008

The Last Resort.

To be very fair, what IS funny about phoning a 78 year old man to laugh about the many ways you fucked his grandaughter? I don't want to sound like a party-pooper but that just seems like a very cuntish thing to do. Who would have thought it of cheeky, chirpy rapist Russell Brand and, the worlds's oldest child, Jonathan Ross? Perhaps, as bad as this is, this will be the end of the new Brucey-Tarby-Lynchy crew that has arose over the last couple of years. That happy, back-slapping, aren't-we-great-big-showbiz-mates wankery that is Brand, Ross, David Fucking Walliams and Ricky Fucking Fucking Gervais is just vomit inducing and embarrassing. Did Filthy, Rich & Catflap teach them nothing? To be fair, I actually think Russell Brand is the least offensive out of the four and it's a shame that this idiotic prank was played by him and not Walliams. Let's face it, Ricky Gervais wouldn't give a fuck if he'd done it but Walliams probably couldn't show his face at Sir Elton's next Let's Give The Poor All My Old Frocks charity do. And if he wasn't there then he'd be pointless and have to kill himself, which is excellent. So, the only one who's really going to look bad in this is Jonathan Ross. I mean, he's nearly 50 and he decided to egg on another grown man to phone up Manuel and say "I fucked your grandaughter". Why don't you egg your own brother on to get a fucking proper job, Jonathan? Not that anything bad will happen to him, he's too popular, but it would be a laugh if he got fired. At least Angus Deayton had the dignity to blow coke up a prostitute's arse.

By the way, if you don't know the story, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand phoned up actor Andrew Sachs and left horrible messages on the subject of grandaughter fucking on his answering machine. That's that cleared up.

The last few days have been dull as fuck, really. I've either been putting crap in boxes or putting crap on eBay (anyone want to buy a Boba Fett Pez dispenser?) and generally clearing out my crappy house (which is being Foxyed as I write this). I saw Bennett Arron and his family on sunday which was the dictionary definition of pleasant. I started writing on our play last week and so far it only consists of transcripts of actual arguments Bennett and I have really had. Probably should have shown him the scripts before I blogged that but hey-ho, it's all looking good. Did you watch Dead Set last night? I did. It's good.

Sunday, 26 October 2008

You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby.


Last night's gig in Southampton was pretty good. The audience were quite quiet but still seemed to enjoy the gig, as did I. It was great to see Otiz Cannelloni, he's one of my all-time favourite comedians which is exactly why he's not internationally famous. My fault. Sorry. Sadly, I missed Micky Flanagan, who I'm sure got the very best out of the audience, but I had to rush back to the train and the last two episodes of The Krotons. It's good, The Krotons. You should watch it.

Then when I got home I stupidly watched X-Factor. What a prick I am. I've got a really busy day today which is a shame because I really wanted to lay in to some cunt off that ridiculous programme even though I'm not allowed to because his wife's all dead. He's an awful human being who should be fucking ashamed of himself. How he can even hear the band playing over the noise of his wife doing cartwheels in her grave is a chart-topping miracle. Awful man. Still, isn't that picture up there the greatest photo you've ever seen?





Saturday, 25 October 2008

Will Do Fuck All For Food.

I was told yesterday that I would have to do 40 minutes of warm-up right at the beginning of recording a non-broadcast Sky One pilot for a TV show called Sell Me The Money. 40 minutes of warming up an audience just seemed insane, way too long for an audience who had come all that way to see Keith Chegwin, so I called my agent to query it. She didn't really know what to do as the comedy industry isn't really her bag so I turned up fully prepared to do 40 minutes at the top plus fill in the several breaks that they would have. I'd be earning my money, in other words. Anyway, when I got there I was given a dressing room (unheard of practically for warm-ups), as much food and drink as I could force into my pockets and I ended up doing three minutes of warm-up in total. Don't get me wrong, I got into this job to work and be challenged but ending up doing fuck all came as a lovely surprise. And everyone there was lovely too. Mark, the floor manager from 8 Out Of 10 Cats was there and I met the producer Zoe, who went to the same school as me. It was a 2 hour recording so they had to give me something to do so I became basically a contestant on the show (is that a downgrade or an upgrade from warm-up, I'm still not sure) which simply meant screaming my fucking head off, something I was planning anyway.

The format of the show is for contestants to ask other contestants if they know the answer to certain questions. Of course they might be lying when they say they know the right answer as money's involved. The highlights for me were a cheery, red-faced, fun-loving man called Mark saying that his recent holiday in Poland was "a bit Anne Frank" and a woman saying she knew the answer to What is Britain's Most Famous Heart Surgery Hospital because her father went there and he's still with us at the ripe old age of 94 (the evil bitch was lying). All in all, not the evening I'd anticipated.

My new iPod Touch is fantastic. There I was in my luxurious dressing room full of mineral water, fresh fruit and Cadbury's Buttons listening to The Collings and Herrin Podcast very loudly (I've backlogged three to get through, that makes me very happy) and annoying people in the next dressing room with the noise. They kept walking out of their dressing room because they thought there was a tannoy announcement. Maybe I could have closed my door but the new iPod Touch is a very cutting edge piece of tecnology so I wanted everyone to enjoy it. It has a speaker on the side now! I'm off to Southampton tonight and on the way I intend to laugh in the face of cutting edge technology by watching a Patrick Troughton era Doctor Who on the way. Fuck you, the future!

Friday, 24 October 2008

Unhelpful, Unfunny and Going To Hell.

Yesterday I saw something fantastic, sad and hilarious all in the space of about 10 seconds. As I walked out of Ladywell Fields with Jerk I was lucky enough to spot a woman who must have been in her early fifties riding a skateboard. I bought a skateboard about 9 years ago and the sage-like Natalie Haynes told me that I'd give it a few trys, be pathetic at it then never go near it again. Her sage-like wisdom proved to be annoyingly spot on, the fucking sage. So, seeing this 50+ woman skating happily by reminded me of my patheticness. Then, as if to make me feel not so bad about myself, she fell off. The 2% of me that isn't a cunt dragged the rest of me to her aid but by the time I got there everything that I'd just seen hit me and, therefore, I started to laugh. When someone is in pain and really needs help it's best not to offer it while laughing your face off, I discovered. Initially the very nice lady ignored my laughter as I helped her up but soon asked me to leave her alone. I tried to help, I tried to be a good citizen but, at the age of 40, seeing someone fall still makes me laugh and I ended up being a cunt. My good deed for the day was actually evil.

I nearly had two great gigs last night courtesy of The Funny Side. The first gig was The Funny Side of The City and was full of office workers, very nice office workers. They were great fun and gave me plenty of room to muck about. I tried out a new joke which seemed to work although it's really hard to tell because the audience were so giving that you can't quite gauge new stuff properly. Why can't these lovely audiences give us comedians a chance to work out new material fairly, the selfish cunts? Next I was off to The Funny Side of Covent Garden which was much quiter than The City and, to be honest, I didn't fancy my chances. As it turned out the gig was great. For about 17 minutes. Lots of mucking about and general fun was followed by this awful cunt who just kept shouting crap. She claimed she was married to a Northern Irish man so she could say what she liked to me. The audience disagreed, which was nice, but The Cunt had left such a weird atmosphere in the room that I just decided to leave. Shame, because it was great up until then. Afterwards, a woman came up to me and said "I thought you were really funny. I really enjoyed your performance. You should have smashed her fucking head in". It's nice to get positive feedback. Then the worst post-gig thing happened, The Cunt came up to me to apologise. Instead of just going away and blowing her own face off the stupid bitch came up to me to say sorry. It goes without saying that I told her to fuck right off. It goes without sayinger that in reality I sheepishly grinned and said that it was all OK. I hate me sometimes.

After that Greg Burns took me to one of his favourite toilets. It was a pretty crowded toilet that had stopped being a toilet and was now a bar. It was full of drunk office workers and charged whatever the fuck it liked for soda water. I liked it. It had very odd lighting that showed up all our agespots. Luckily, Greg had seemingly blacked up beforehand so we couldn't see his. It was a nice way to end the generally pretty good night, if you don't count The Cunt. Then something utterly brilliant happened. I got on the train to go home and sat on the only free seat in the carriage. I soon found out that I was surrounded by about 12 archeologists who were all talking passionately about a set of stone tools they'd found. They were all young, very chatty and used brilliant scientific phrases like "Of course it's older than that, you belgian twat". I'm not educated in such matters so Lord only knows what it means. After declaring that a tool they'd been studying was perhaps 2.5 million years old another passenger on the train chipped in to remind us all that we are all going to hell because Jesus' Dad think we're all arseholes (not his words). A brilliant argument erupted with pissed scientists shouting at a loud, drunken christian. "We have proof because it's detailed in the geologic calendar, you prick", "There is only one calendar and that is the word of God". Those sentences were actually thrown about in what will probably be my favourite train journey ever. It was like watching The Argument Channel, which sadly doesn't exist.

Thursday, 23 October 2008

Will Work For Food.

God, I did nothing yesterday. Absolutely fuck all. Not a blinking thing. And it took ages to do nothing yesterday. 24 flipping hours. But I managed it. I didn't watch telly or put the broken microwave in the shed or re-arrange my Daleks. Instead I did nothing. I mean, I walked the dog but that hardly counts as anything. Nothing funny happened there unless you find the sight of me picking up dogshit with a plastic bag that subsequently rips and the shit falls flat on the top of my shoe funny, and I seriously doubt that you do. And I suppose I went to they post office with loads of things I've flogged on eBay only to be told when I got there that I "KNOW THE POST OFFICE CLOSES EARLY ON WEDNESDAY'S DUE TO THE CLEARLY MARKED SIGN", but the thought of me struggling all the way there and back with parcels is hardly amusing. And, yes, I went to the hospital with Muki but that's a very serious subject indeed and I hardly think anyone would be giggling at the mere thought of me listening to serious medical procedure but straining to keep a straight face because the surgeon looks EXACTLY like Steve Martin in The Man With Two Brains and his name is Loic. So, yes, yes, I did DO stuff yesterday. But nothing really. Nothing that is going to move my career on.

When you're having a day were you're feeling like you're not moving your career on the sure-fire cure is to go and warm-up an audience for a top rated Channel 4 comedy programme. The joy that you feel just knowing that you've got an audience focussed, laughing and in the mood for a good night and then step off to the side so that people with real careers in comedy can take it from there really freezes the cockles of my heart. Luckily, 8 Out of 10 Cats is a lot of fun to do warm up for. Normally, you go out there to a bunch of cunts who think you're a cunt and then you behave like a cunt thus making them act even more like cunts until the famous cunts turn up. It's a pretty crappy job. But, as I've said before, 8/10 is set up like a real gig and the audience are there for comedy only, not stars. Just as well, really. Tonight's guests were Jim Jeffries and a woman called Olivia. The big surprise of the night, for me, was to discover that James Corden is not a complete and utter prick. I've never seen Gavin and Stacey but I'm fully prepared to say it's crap because it looks crap and everyone likes it and when I've seen James on TV he looks desperate. Not last night. He was a lot of fun mainly because he looked like he couldn't believe he was being paid to have a laugh. He looked like he was enjoying it so much that no matter what he said I'd have laughed. As it was, the things he said were funny. So, that was a turn up for the books. I'm still not going to watch Gavin and Stacey though. It looks crap and everyone likes it. Dangerous. I don't know too much about the 30 minute TV version of 8/10 but the 17 hour live version is definitely a lot of fun and if they could just show five hours of Sean Lock Going Mental outtakes I'd be very happy. Oh, and Charlie Brooker was there too. I think I'm scared of him a bit.

I had some friends turn up too, which was very nice. Jamie and Marisa were there as was comedy promoter Jon Briley who very kindly thanked me for the tickets. It's not like I charged him!!! Well, there'd be no point, I wouldn't get the money for 8 months. We had some drinks and watched some successful people swan around successfully. I just thought, yes I'm at the BBC and that is fun just in itself (every time you go to the toilet you think, Wow, Kenneth Kendall might have vomited here) and, yes, I'm getting free booze and I'm in a room with nice people (Zeppotron are excellent) but, really, where is my career going? Then I look over to see Jim Jeffries getting the phone number of some beautiful woman who wants to meet up with him in L.A. Down booze, get coat, leave.

Wednesday, 22 October 2008

Mel is a Very Underrated Character.

I'm so overjoyed and full of happiness after hearing that Peter Kay's embarrassing song didn't make it to number one in the young person's pop hit parade. I know number two is still very successful but I'm sure it must be killing the fat cunt (he could be as skinny as a rake, he'd still be a big fat cunt) that he didn't make it to the top. He's probably spent the past few days crying his fat cunty eyes out, shouting at his house staff, throwing comfort-pies down his throat and threatening to make another Paddy McGuinness. The only thing that must be keeping that smug prick from blowing up his own brains is the fact that he got higher in the charts than a real, non-drag X-Factor contestant. He even tried to have a rub-your-nose-in-it dig at him. He said "Leon Jackson is a Scottish Michael Buble". That's because he is, you fuck-wit. He IS a Scottish Michael Buble. Just like the sea is a wet land or mountains are snowy hills or Peter Kay is a fat cunt. All of those statements are obvious and pointless, but at least one of them is fun to say.

Tuesday is quickly becoming my favourite day of the week because tuesday is the day Foxy comes round. I like knowing someone called Foxy because it immediately makes me a little bit cooler by association. So far, I haven't introduced Foxy to anyone I know but it's going to be a great moment for me when it happens. "Dave, this is Foxy". Brilliant. Because I'm incapable of looking after myself, I've hired Foxy to come round once a week and tidy up my house. I realise automatically that makes me a wanker but I'd rather be a wanker than a wanker that lives in his own shit. Foxy is very nice and does an excellent job and the only thing better than Foxy turning up is her leaving. As soon as she's out the door I go around staring in awe at the real colour of things in my house. My fridge is white! I had no idea. For about two days after being Foxyed, I don't touch a fucking thing in my house or if I do I clean it immediately and, get this, put it back where it was. Amazing. Because my living room is now clean I feel like I've been given an extra room in the house to laze around in. Because my kitchen has nearly half the amount of rats living in it now, I can cook food in it instead of shouting at it and ordering a pizza. And shitting out of a window? No, Sir. Lord Hoity-Toity's like myself use the "toilet" that I found once the stack of Melody Makers, Select and Razzle had been bulldozed out of my bathroom. It's lovely. Thank you, Foxy.

Last night was fun because I thought I had a gig but then I didn't. That freed up time to have a cup of tea with film-maker Jamie Mathieson. Well, I met up with my mate Jamie but saying all that other shit just makes me sound way more exciting. We discussed Fellini, the idiocy of creating for todays media and the Indiana Jones rape scene in South Park. In fact, it was mainly the Indiana Jones rape scene in South Park. We don't know much about the other two things. Then we went to the pub to see my friend Marissa who is visiting from Edinburgh. Not that we spoke much because she had other friends there and The Trap gentlemen were there so we discussed future Los Quattros Cunts stuff. Well, for a while. Actually, I remember not talking about Los Quattros stuff at all but I do also recall Jeremy and I being quite drunk and defending a lot of Bonnie Langford's Doctor Who work. Hopefully neither of us will remember that and no-one will ever find out. Maybe I should have a break from booze for a while. Not because of health reasons or anything like that. It's just...well, I didn't know that booze could make you see the good in Bonnie Langford. Maybe it's time to clean up and put the bottle down.

Monday, 20 October 2008

It's Over Between Me and Sarah Silverman.

I went to see visiting American comedian Sarah Silverman last night at the Hammersmith Apollo. I got there just in time to see the last 45 minutes of her set which was also the first 45 minutes of her set. Still, at least I knew all the material as it's all in her TV series and DVD. And it was a pinch at £40 a ticket. Luckily we didn't have to sit through a support act because the one that was booked pretended he was ill even though he'd actually missed his plane. All this PLUS we got to see the STARS of Mighty Boosh! I mean, not the star stars but two people who were in some of the episodes. They came on stage to introduce an introduction to a video montage that was brilliantly long and fantastically made no sense. All in all, it was a great night out because Sarah Silverman is the kind of performer who puts her fans first; she gives value for money to the people and doesn't stand on stage spouting racist abuse at them. I wonder why I feel completely Jewed?

Racism and rip-offs aside, it was actually a good night. Not the gig, it was shit and Silverman should hang her head in shame. In a noose. In a volcano. In a bomb. She's a great performer and very funny and her TV show is mostly great but coming over to do a one off huge UK gig that cost loads of money to get into and not do a scrap of fucking work is just embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as she was during her encore which I dearly hope ends up on YouTube, but horribly embarrassing all the same. Anyway, that to one side, it really was a good night because as soon as Sarah Silverman said "Go home" (fucking charming) we legged it to the pub. The pub magically turned itself into a very angry Groucho Club full of comedians who started off thinking that the gig was OK but quickly turned against it like a pack of drunk wolves. Even the lovely Lucy Porter wanted to kick Silverman's face in and she's lovely. I say she's lovely, she introduced me to David Walliams last night. I'll never forgive her for that, the lovely bitch.

The thing is, I was really looking forward to this show, probably more so than I should have. I'm such a big fan that I suppose no matter what she would have done I might have moaned about it but this was such an enormous Fuck You that I feel almost...I don't know...hurt? I was talking about it all weekend and getting very excited about going. I mean, she's huge, it's bound to be brilliant. Then, at the venue itself, seeing other comedians around I just felt such a buzz of something big happening. I mean, if Josh Howie is there to see her then she must be about to do something amazing. In fact, if she hadn't turned up then at least I'd still have that feeling of "great...something exciting happening in comedy". But she did and I don't. I knew every word, every joke. All 45 minutes of it. It wasn't like going to see a TV star it was like going to see a TV show. If the Comic Relief/Dance episode of The Office ever does a one-off gig at the o2 I won't be going. I've learned.

Saturday, 18 October 2008

Takes The Pip.

Last week I stayed in a flat with a ceiling on the floor and this week I'm looking back at that flat with great fondness. The place I'm staying in at Bristol is a construction site. Lovely. Blokes stomping around during the day nailing things and plastering things and generally pouring shit all over luxury's lap. But it does have wi-fi. But the wi-fi doesn't work. Still, it has a power shower. A power shower with chronic asthma and very brown phlegm. To be fair, it has a huge plasma screen TV. It gets ITV, nearly. All in all, a great excuse to get up early and spend the day outdoors.

I went to the zoo yesterday. It was fantastic. And I went book shopping, that was great too. I walked around the Clifton area of Bristol looking at all the beautiful architecture. Basically, I had a lovely day out, something, as a comedian away for the weekend, I never do. Normally, we jolly mirth makers waste our day eating shit food, wanking, going to see the worst film imaginable at the cinema, wanking, crying, wanking and wanking. But yesterday was different and it was made all the nicer by not having a mobile phone. If I can offer you, dear reader, any advice then please leave your phone in a taxi immediately; you won't regret it.

Of course, yesterday wasn't all sunshine and smiles. I fucked up pretty early on by walking into the Apple Shop. I fucking hate Apple with a murdery, blowy-uppy vengeance. People who use Apple computers are generally the world's biggest pricks but they're completely outdone by the megapricks that work in Apple Shops. Firstly, they greet you; the fucking cunts. I don't want to be greeted. I'm not American and if you want me to have a nice day then you can start by not existing. Then they force fun on to you. They shove fun right down your fucking throat. "Hey!", they puke "Just do whatever you want here. Educate yourself on all of our funware". The fucking, fucking, smug, fucking pricks. Microsoft isn't like that. They don't educate anyone on anything close to funware. You can't figure our how to use Vista? WELL, FUCK YOU. And I respect that attitude far more than the happy-clappy, near religious cult of Apple. All I want is an iPod Touch not a fucking friend. As I left, one of their joyous slaves said that he was looking forward to seeing me again. I have a good mind to go back. That would show the cunt.

Last night's gig was great. Everyone did well and I got pretty drunk afterwards. A bit too drunk to be honest because I feel very ropey. Really ropey. I am rope. I honestly feel like I could throw up everything I've ever eaten at any moment. Maybe I'll go to the Apple Shop.

Friday, 17 October 2008

Incommunicado.

I lost my mobile phone. You'd think I'd be really upset by that but I'm not. I'm very happy indeed. I hate that fucking phone, it's awful. I know Orange will just replace it with the exact same model but at least I don't have to use it at all for a few days. It's a Samsung Soul and if Orange ever offer you one claiming it's their equivalent to the iPhone, please just turn them down. It's kind of like the iPhone in as much as it exists on this planet but that's as far as it goes. So I'm in Bristol for the next few days without anyone contacting me and that's just fine. Maybe I'll finally do some work on a script now instead of phoning Johnny Candon to see if it's really legal to ogle the new girl from Sarah Jane's Childless Adventures.

I took the train up to Bristol yesterday and was sat next to an entire family of arseholes. The mum was the worst. She was a hippy Earth mother type, like the mum in About A Boy, who kept shouting at one of her daughters because they wanted some dried banana chips. Apparently she's not allowed any until she's finished reading her book. Surely you can do both at the same time, you fucking annoying hippy cunt were words I never said but continually thought. The other daughter just stared out the window with the saddest look on her face. She just seemed lost. It was like she was thinking "just a few more years and I can leave these wankers". I hope she does. They're awful. The angry daughter kept shouting back at her mum because of the whole banana chip injustice. Mum then said that she really doesn't know why the little girl is always so angry all the time. Well, I don't know the little girl at all but I'd guess she's quite upset because some cunt called her Willow. That's just a hunch. I said Mum was the worst but actually Dad was. He sat there the entire time, not speaking, just photographing his sad, staring daughter. That's a nice creepy.

The audience at last night's gig at Jesters were very good indeed. Sadly, I was a bit flat. Not awful, just not very lively. Gary Delaney then went on and blew the roof off. He was utterly fantastic. He has jokes. Real jokes. And lots of them. In fact, I think he has the best joke on the circuit. Unfortunately, he never tells it on stage. If you want to hear it, you have to be with him in a car driving past a particular building in London. It's quite a bit of organising to hear a comedian tell one joke but it is very much worth it. After the gig I went to a bar called Mr. Wolf. It's a great bar that has live music and groovy people. It's the kind of cool bar you'd think London would have loads of but actually has none of. Stupid London. I drank too much Jagermeister and, hey presto, I have no phone. I bet today's the day Peter Kay calls me to give me my big break.

Wednesday, 15 October 2008

Slightly Happier Yesterday.

About five minutes after I posted my blog yesterday I found a clip of the new Peter Serafinowicz TV series. It's fantastic and just what I needed to see after the depressing funk Peter Kay personally put me in. Serafinowicz had a great (with a little bit of crap) series on BBC2 last year and no-one watched it because everyone is an idiot, therefore he seems to have taken his new idea to America's Adult Swim. Who can blame him? We have The Kevin Bishop Show, Celebrity Juice and Peter cunting Kay in this country so there's no room for someone like Serafinowicz with his jokes and funny ideas. Maybe now that he's fucked off to America there's room to bring back Three Non-Blondes? Here's that there clip that I saw...

See more funny videos at Funny or Die UK


Seeing that and then reading Richard Herring's blog about working with Daniel Kitson put me in a really good mood yesterday. I looked forward to meeting up with Bennett Arron to talk about our new writing thingy and the hope that we could do it ourselves live, therefore avoiding the dissappointment of telly turning us down or, worse still, making it. I met Bennett at a pub in Charlotte Street and within about ten minutes we'd figured out that our idea could easily be a live show and maybe even, dare I say it, a play. That has made me very excited indeed. I love the thought of making something that doesn't need to be edited or changed by someone else. Yep, it might well fuck up but it will be my fuck up or if it REALLY fucks up then it'll be Bennett's fuck up. It's a win-win situation. Doing this and Los Quattros Cunts should make the next few months pretty good, maybe even exciting. It's nice.

Meeting Bennett in the pub wasn't easy though. Firstly, Bennett arrived wearing the kind of clothes Greg Burns will be wearing in two years (Bennett is just that behind in fashion) and secondly, he's not drinking. He seemed to cope OK with not drinking last night but I'm now not sure that I coped well with it. He was relaxed and very easy going company and that was the problem. Bennett is generally a pretty reserved man but the more booze he drinks the more reserved he becomes. It's quite weird. Quite weird but I've got very used to it over the years and not seeing him do that last night was a bit odd. Luckily, we were joined by Robin Ince who happily had a few drinks while regaling us with incredible stories of all the famous people he's met like Richard Madeley, Robson Jerome and Judy Finnigan. Bizarrely, for someone who's as booky, indie recordy and robinincey as Robin is, he's a fantastic drinker. I've seen him drink a lot quite a few times and I've never seen him drunk. What is wrong with these people? That's the best bit. Robin is bringing atheism to the masses, like some sort of messiah, at a gig he's organised called Nine Lessons and Carols for Godless People at the Hammersmith Apollo on the 21st December. Richard Dawkins, Stewart Lee, Josie Long, Martin White plus more. It's like a great big Book Club with Richard Dawkins instead of Peter Buckley-Hill.

So, in summary, not much happened yesterday but at least I've stopped whining about that fucking stupid talentless sack of shit Peter fucking bastard Kay. So that's an improvement.

Tuesday, 14 October 2008

Bring Back Fox Hunting

Not only is it depressing that Peter Kay's horrifyingly dull Britain's Got The Pop Factor actually got made by Channel 4 (who brought us Father Ted, Brasseye and, admittedly, Star Stories) but it's damn near flatliningly final that the thing is so popular. I've read some good reviews in a couple of the papers and it brought Channel 4 it's biggest audience of the year so far. So can we blame Channel 4 anymore? If people like this level of dung then they deserve it so I'm up for scrapping More 4 and changing it to Britain's Got The Pop Factor 4, a channel dedicated to that one programme. I logged on to Youtube a minute ago and it immediately recommended a clip of BGTPF featuring "the excellent" Dr. Fox. I just feel deflated that this even exists and that Dr. Fox is now in more Channel 4 sit-coms than I ever will be. It's not fair, so-called Dr. Fox. He's not even a real fox.

I'm a bit fed up today. I'm starting to write something with Bennett Arron which will be funny, well put together and never made. I just don't see the point in writing scripts just to send them in to TV companies who insist on a shit-only policy. Not that I'm incapable of writing shit. I bet I could easily write something worse than BGTPF and become famous but would I be happy? Undoubtedly. Look at the massive grin on that pie-eating, smug, running-on-empty, phone-in of a comedian Peter Kay. Think he gives a fuck about quality over fame and fortune? He doesn't give a crap about anything other than lads shouting "Garlic Bread" at him and Nans thinking he's smashing. A bit like an X-Factor contestant.

Can they bring back Vic Reeves Big Night Out again? I think I deserve it. I've been through enough.

Monday, 13 October 2008

Bus.

John Lydon has made a butter advert. Well, that's just fucking it. That's the final sign. We're all fucked on this planet now. How could he do it? He's had about four very successful tours with the Sex Pistols over the last few years, there's no way he needs the money. The stupid, greedy sack of awful. Even when he was on I'm A Celebrity, Well I Was Once, For About Five Minutes it was at least somehow strangely subversive but this is just greed. What a truly awful man. I mean, I could have done that advert. I need the fucking money not him. Ever get the feeling you've been had?

The rest of my time in Liverpool was great. I spent the day on saturday with Chris and his girlfriend Edda just roaming around Lark Lane going to nice cafes and pubs. I even got the chance to do more star-spotting. I saw Lee Mavers from The La's and, fellow Liverpudlian musician, Heidi from off of the Sugababes. She was drinking in a very cool bar called Negresso that's decorated like it's one big masked ball. It looks incredible. Heidi was out with her seemingly nice family and her loud, talentless boyfriend, the presenter Dave Berry. For those who don't know Dave Berry,he used to present some OK stuff on MTV but obviously fucked up by doing barrel-scraping game shows on E4 called things like Would You Fuck Him? It was genuinely great seeing Lee Mavers though because he was with friends, having a laugh and a drink. He seemed very relaxed and happy and not at all the skip full of mental the music press would have you believe. Maybe, just maybe, the reason he didn't want The La's album to be released is not because he sleeps upside down wearing a dress made of screaming every night and actually it's just because he didn't like it.

The gig at Comedy Central was easily the best of the three that weekend. Well, it was for me. The audience were fun but didn't have much attention span so as compere I probably got them at their best. Everyone did good though and it was a fine night. Afterwards I had a quick drink with the show runner, Ros (well, I had a drink standing near her while she paid everyone), and jumped in to a cab. It's one of the great things about being a famous comedian; even though you live in London you're still wealthy enough to get a cab all the way home from Liverpool and you'll still have enough left over for booze, drugs and slags. Sadly, I'm not a famous comedian so I got the cab to take me to the National Express station instead.

I don't really know why I thought that this would be a good idea because it's such a shit idea that it could never be a good idea because it's shit. It was a long, depressing journey and not just because I sat next to Des Clark, but mainly due to the fact that this cramped bus full of the thickest people on the planet wound it's way through some of Britain's most crappy crap towns. Chester, Stoke-On-Trent, Birmingham and Farumthia to name just a few and a made up one. And it took FOREVER. I don't have an iPod anymore (don't know if I've mentioned that) and my phone had pretty much no battery left so I had no choice but to either stare blankly out the window or not listen to Des Clark. I decided on the latter and the former. It was too dark to read on the bus so my only real option was to look around to see what other people were doing. Someone three seats in front of me got their laptop out and watched Cheaper By The Dozen twice! They must really hate themselves. The bus had one stop off for people to stretch their legs and kill themselves so Des and I decided to look for a snack. Des is a very successful comedian who headlines clubs all round the country and has his own Five Live radio show therefore the snack machine worked for him. I'm a fat compere so the machine didn't even try for me. I picked a snickers and watched the little swirly thing in the machine push the snickers as far as it could go without letting it drop thus reminding me of my place. It did me a favour really because I didn't really want it, I certainly didn't need it and maybe the next person who buys a snickers there will end up with two and get very excited about it and, in a way, that makes me happy. Then again, they might get two snickers and eat them both really quickly and make themselves sick and, in a way, that makes me laugh.

The bus (let's not dignify it with the word 'coach') finally got in about six, I got home at seven and found myself wide awake again. This really didn't help my jet-lag. I lay on the sofa, put a Colin Baker Doctor Who on and was out like a light. The rest of the day was all a blur and I still feel out of it right now. Went to sleep at midnight last night, woke up at three, watched more Colin Baker then went back to bed at seven. It's really all a bit odd. I actually feel a bit numb. Mind you, I came back all cylinders firing when Britain's Got The Pop Factor came on TV. I watched about 25 minutes of this shit. It's such a cuntload of embarrassment that even the fat sack of scrapped Victoria Wood sketches himself isn't in it much. In fact, he wasn't in any of it that I saw which was only a small mercy. Basically, what this prick is saying is "Hey, don't y'think that them programmes are right daft, mam, and folk in them are a right bunch of knobs and, eeeeeh, d'yer remember Spangles?", which is a bit like saying "Don't you think grass is green?" It's a fully pointless comedy that says nothing that we don't already know and don't give a shit about. In fact, X-Factor is much funnier than Britain's Got The Pop Factor and X-Factor is not funny at all in any way. This is what this rich wanker has the nerve to come back with? He's done fuck all in 5 years except that song that he had absolutely nothing to do with whatsoever and this is how he says "People, I am back"? The person who sends out Channel 4's rejection letters to writers (mainly me) must be the most embarrassed person in the country or, in reality, a fucking moron without taste or shame. The cunt.

I Don't Eat Meat or Anything.

Yay! I slept 11 hours last night! That's bound to have kicked the jet-lag now. I'm staying at my friend Chris' place while he's in Tuscany and not going to see the Last Real Daniel O'Donnell Show. He's in a very nice flat that's right above Ally's place, Chris' bandmate in 28 Costumes. I say very nice, the ceiling is on the floor. That's no place for a ceiling. But, fuck it, he's got wi-fi, so that's good.

I finally started moving around about 4pm yesterday and Ally and I treated ourselves to a slap up meal at a place called The Albert, a down-market Wetherspoons if such a place could exist. It was just about OK but they did the usual vegetarian thing that gets right on my goat's nerves wick. I ordered vegetarian sausage and mash and the man taking the order looked at me like I'd just ordered 9/11 soup and PrincessDianaisdead cake. Apparently, they only put the vegetarian option there to fill up the menu, they don't actually have any of it, that would be well bent. Cunts.

After a quick trip to a bar called The Baltic Fleet, decorated to look like a boat, kind of, we all went to the gig. Me, Ally, his girlfriend Sam and some of their friends that the pig-ignorant fucks never introduced me to. And the gig was a lot better than the previous night. Alex Boardman closed and he was utterly fantastic and very quick with the biting comments about The Wirral. Wherever that is. Plus Janice Phayre dressed up as a vagina. I compered and had a bit of fun with it so I'm now looking forward to tonight's show. Feeling a bit more relaxed about it. And it's important to be relaxed. Especially as right after the gig I'm going to be knocking back a drink, grabbing my bag and getting the National Express back to London. Fucking hell.

Friday, 10 October 2008

I'm Only Not Sleeping.

The horrible thing about taking public transport for me these days is having to witness the amount of fucking bastards who haven't had their iPods stolen. I hate those smug iPod still-having pricks. Yesterday, I sat behind a man who played very loud bhangra music on his as yet nickedless iPod and I wanted to punch his face in for it. Bhangra music is awful, fucking, fucking awful. And every song is the same song and every song is fucking, fucking awful. Jangly music while a woman with one of those swimming clip things on her nose screams her face off, I get it! Some cunt could be listening to bhangra or classical music or fucking Keane on my iPod right now. I hope whoever nicked it can't ever update it and has to listen to my entire Marillion collection FOREVER. That'll make the cheeky little chappie think again about a life of crime.

I arrived in Liverpool about 6 and started drinking with my good friend Ali from the excellent band 28 Costumes (you can hear all their stuff on iTunes or, if you've nicked my iPod, my iPod). Only a few drinks, mind, because I'm a professional and I was working at Comedy Central @ Baby Blue later. That said, I was compering so I didn't feel the pressure to be THAT sober so I had a nice warm little buzz which turned to a nauceous funk when I found out I was actually doing a set instead. There wasn't that many people at the gig and they all seemed a bit cold at the beginning.but compere Dan Willis lept to the challenge and called them all sad, told someone that they had Leukemia and said the words McCann and Madeleine (not in that order) all in the first two minutes. A relaxing atmosphere was cemented (then smashed to fuckery) when the drunk fucker who can't shut up made herself known. Luckily, by the time I went on she had fallen home. The gig was actually pretty good with a lot of the small audience making the room sound pretty full, especially the front row who were a full on comedy crowd just on their own. I always wimp out a bit at this gig for some reason. Last night I did stuff I've always done here and only two new bits but hopefully tonight I won't be so cowardly even though I probably will. Killian Monsoon was good though.

Ali and I then went to a couple of bars where children go to drink, by the looks of things. I love drinking in Liverpool because it's all like one big student bar. You spend hardly any money and you still get drunk. No wonder it's European Capital of Culture. Well done, la's! The big highlight for me last night was meeting Will Sergeant from Echo and The Bunnymen. I nearly got my photo taken with him! Except my phone ran out of battery and, instead of looking like a keen fan, I came across like a cack-handed weirdo who couldn't stop apologising. Very smooth. Then I went to bed about 1 to catch up on a lot of much needed sleep.

I woke up at 5am. Wide awake. Jet lag is a prick and if anyone has some advice on beating it I'd be very grateful. At 5am I listened to the whole of the latest Collings and Herrin podcast, watched two episodes of The Krotons, deleted lots of stuff from my iTunes in preperation of my new iPod Touch that I hope someone will buy for me (I deleted all the Beatles albums but kept Britney Spears' Toxic) and listened to three Bruce Springsteen albums while playing Uno on my phone. That's the life of the insomniac travelling comedian. In your face, Motley Crue!

Thursday, 9 October 2008

Fin.

It was probably the last ever Real Daniel O'Donnell Show last night and we all really enjoyed it. The sketches weren't exactly rehearsed beforehand so us shitting ourselves might have lent a certain energy to the show. Our guests were all excellent and it was certainly great to finally have Robin Ince on our stage and he was fantastic. I'm very jealous of anyone who can get 10 minutes of well put-together material from something that happened 10 minutes ago. The script editor for Skins is a fucking prick of the highest order and I and you hope he gets run over by a ship very soon.

I'm not sure how I feel about it being the last show. Margaret and Zoe are either busy or pregnant and it's not really the same without them, Muki's going to be under doctor's orders for a while and we're certainly too thick to run the show ourselves plus I'm not sure how keen I am on the Albany any more. It's a great venue and James Wren, who runs it, is a very nice man to deal with but we always run at a loss because the venue hire price is ridiculous and now I'm told that if we're at the venue before 5 o'clock on the day we have to pay for that as well. That's pretty much a fucking insult. We get people in who buy drinks from their bar (when you can fucking find any of the staff) but that's seemingly not enough for the Albany. Although they must make a good few hundred quid from us each show they still want to charge us for turning up early to make sure the show runs well. Why would the show running well matter to them? They've got our money so we can all go fuck ourselves. Thanks for your support. It'll be a shame if we can't go back to the Albany but I'm not paying twice to use the same room. As a mark of defiance against the venue I am now boycotting Clark's until they change their policy. And if they don't, well, it's still all good.

Last night was also the beginning of Los Quattros Cunts which is basically The Trap, me and some unfinished sketches. Although it was all very rough I think it might turn into something very nice indeed. We definitely have some great ideas that we can work on. I think The Two Ronnies' Fork-handles sketch sending one of our sketches a telegram was a bit of a highlight for me and Jeremy's Jamie Gollum was fucking superb. Mainly, though, it was the slagging off of other sketch groups that was the most enjoyable. I liked that. It has to be said that Dan Mersh was fantastic in the show last night so we might get rid of him. And the audience were just perfect, really into it and very supportive. All in all, I'm feeling very positive about this little venture because, at the end of the day, it's all about performing something you care about in a great venue in front of intelligent, caring and supportive people.

I'm off to do some gigs in Liverpool now.

Wednesday, 8 October 2008

I Don't Care Where You Are.

There. I said it. I fucking went there. I really don't care where you are when I want you to be somewhere else. Facebook is a minefield of rampant egotism at the best of times but today's annoyance is basically people declining an invitation. I don't mind that people don't want to come to The Real Daniel O'Donnell Show tonight at the Albany 8pm, that's fine. You're under no obligation. But for fuck sake, you don't need to tell me (or should I say everyone) that you're doing something more interesting. "I'm in Tuscany" Fuck off! "I'm going to see a friend's band" All friend's bands are shit. "It's Yom Kippur" Grow the fuck up, there is no God. Well, I hope you all have a fucking nice time. You can easily say no without giving us your life-story, you know? Bloody stupid Facebook. Oh, and another thing; Women, stop taking photos of yourself for Facebook, it's really creepy. There. That's finally been said.

We did a little bit of rehearsing for Los Quattros Cunts last night. We have a grand total of three (at a push four) sketches that basically have us arguing with each other or arguing with ourselves. I, for one, really like them. They're still only ideas but I think they're really good ideas and hopefully they'll spark us off to do a Los Quattros Cunts show properly very soon. Not that we did much work (although we did more than we have done for months) last night because Jeremy turned up with a full episode of Jokers Wild that needed to be watched and dissected. If you haven't seen this fucking awful pile of 70's chain-smoking piss then you probably never will. So well done, you. It's worth watching for all the wrong reasons and Ray Martine is a joy to avoid. He's like an unfunny Paul Foot or a very funny James Dreyfus, I haven't made up my mind. It was also nice to have a beer with my mates and tell them things that happened in America that I can't really put in my blog. I swatted a priest. I shouldn't have told you that.

I'm really looking forward to tonight because the sketch ideas are pretty good and our guests are great; Martin White, Hils Barker and Robin Ince. I hope Robin's in a really bad mood, he's hilarious when he vents. Plus, it's our last show for a while, at least until Muki is 100% fighting fit (which shouldn't take long). Shame you can't make it. Have fun in Tuscany/at your mate's gig/with your imaginary friend.

Tuesday, 7 October 2008

Fucking BAstards.

Before I tell you about what a bunch of fucking cunts British Airways staff are let me tell you about the wedding I attended on saturday.

It was a lot of fun indeed. The church bit, as all church bits are, was a bit creepy. The priest was quite fun but he went on a lot about bringing the family to church and I'm afraid that I don't quite get that. He was openly trying to persuade Tracy and Mike (the happy couple) to have kids IMMEDIATELY and bring them to church because the first thing a baby should see and understand is a bunch of grown-ups seeing the spiritually serene side of a naked hippy nailed to two pieces of wood. Very odd, but the couple were happy so my opinion means nothing, and that's probably a good thing. The reception started very well indeed (3 black russians) and hit a high when a four-piece bluegrass band started up. The band looked far too indie/alternative and looked incredibly cool next to everyone else. All in all, though, it was fun with booze and all a bit of a laugh. My inner snobbery made me avoid most of the right-wingers which, looking back, is probably pretty stupid because they seemed very sociable and Mike (the happy groom) is a very funny man indeed. I try my best not to think about his politics because they're insane and when I don't think about them he's a charming and witty man to be around. On the other hand, they all hate gays and believe in national service for the under twelve's so maybe my gut reactions right. But Billy Bragg and Boris Johnson get on, so...

The next day I had a little tourist time avoiding rain and discovering that Seattle's many, many bookshops aren't as many, many as people would have me believe. It's a pretty dull city all round, really. Great if you're rich and I'm not really so I was a bit bored. I did go to a fantastic restaurant that night though. It's called The Pink Door and it had trapese artists and arty paintings (as all paintings are) and tattooed staff. I loved it. Then it was off to a jazz club where I met more tattooed people who screamed "FUCK OFF" every time I said I lived in London. It was a lovely evening.

Not a magically brilliant place then, Seattle, but I'll always have one incredible memory of my visit. It was when my father-in-law turned to me and said "Joe Biden says you're a cocksucker". It was a lovely moment and one that I shall treasure.

During my flight back I went to sleep relaxed in the assumption that no-one would steal my iPod. I was way off the mark with that one. To make matters worse I think it was stolen by an elderly alcoholic woman who needed wheelchair assistance. She sat beside me and was an arsehole during the entire flight. Constantly drinking her own booze, eating her own food and asking for water for her own coffee. Who the fuck brings their own coffee on to a flight? This cunt does, that's who. At least now I can proudly say that, yes, I was once robbed by an elderly alocholic woman who needed wheelchair assistance. The fucking old, crippled lush.

Luckily, British Airways staff were there to be annoying and dreadful, so that was good. Once I told them that my iPod had gone missing they asked all the important questions such as "Was it a present?", "How many gigs did it have?" and "Are you sure you had an iPod?". Before threatening to kill everyone, I told them all the info they needed but that didn't stop more staff coming along and asking the same cunting questions. Then, and this was my favourite bit, one blonde, painted shitfuck pulled apart the seat I was sitting on, then the two seats next to it, looked underneath them, checked the overhead locker and filled out a lost & found form. Then when I said "Don't worry, it's only an iPod" she replied "Oh, I thought we were looking for a passport. Let me look again". If they put cunt kicking in the olympics, I'd win gold with her as a target.

So, good to be back. I'm rehearsing Los Quattros Cunts tonight because tomorrow night is the last Real Daniel O'Donnell Show, maybe EVER. So come along. I'm in a foul mood so you'll love it.

Saturday, 4 October 2008

Drinking.

I got tipsy in the daytime yesterday. It was fucking great. Everyone buggered off except me and my new friend Denise so we went to the Beach Cafe (I could pick up the flaw in the bar's name here in grey, rainy Seattle but I'll leave that up to you) and ended up drinking a few black russians. That is a great way to spend an afternoon and I recommend that you do the same today. The waitress was perky, swell and real happy to serve all y'all today, thank you, today, sir, please, thank you but I was in such a good mood that I didn't even want to punch her fucking stupid cheery face in. I did anyway.

Then, after screaming at the premier episode of The Clone Wars, I was off to Wilde Rover, an Irish bar built by an Irishman, designed by an Irishman, run by an Irishman and patronised by rich Americans who swear blind they are Irish because their great-grandmother's neice had a green jumper once. It was actually OK because I was still enjoying the little black russian buzz from earlier but after a few pints of the aul' black stuff and a pint of Guinness (HA HA HA!) I felt compelled to argue with a right-wing christian. Unfortunately, the room I was in was only fucking full of them so I thought I best watch myself because I didn't want to get murdered to death. I did meet one person who hated Sarah Palin and she was enjoyably loud about it but by that time I had been introduced to the only other Irish person in Seattle and we felt obliged to talk to one another. Not because we wanted to, it was just so the other people could see that you can have two of us in the room without a fight happening. After the fight, I left and went back to the hotel to watch the OJ Simpson verdict. I was very happy with it and slept like a fat, drunk baby. God bless America. It took you long enough but you finally got him. Why not try Bin-Laden next? Just a suggestion.

Today's the wedding day. I've now been put in charge of videoing it although I like to think of my role as documentor of the far-right. I'm looking forward to it. I might even have a drink, who knows?

Friday, 3 October 2008

Stars and Stripes and Cunts.

I’m in America. I used to get very excited about coming to America when I was a child but it’s long lost that exciting buzz. The moment you land in the country they may as well tell you that they fucking hate you. As soon as I got raped, or as they call it Stateside “security checked”, I felt like I just didn’t want to be there. You have to give two fingerprints and have a photo taken before they even look at your passport. Basically, you’re guilty of plotting a terrorist attack until proven innocent. Welcome to America and have a nice day.

The flight was good, though. I was in the enviable position of having a free seat next to me. That’s like an upgrade! I had the choice of a million films and only chose ones I’d seen before plus the hilariously shit The Happening. M. Night Shyalaman’s films always have a really interesting twist at the end and The Happening’s interesting twist was that you made it to the end with out kicking the fuck out of the screen. Marky Mark is the lead but frequently gets upstaged by plants and grass. How that utter fuck-wit ever gets work is beyond me and includes lots of blow-jobs. Then I arrived in Seattle, the Birmingham of America (even though they have an actual Birmingham), and drank until it was proper bedtime. Jet lag? Never heard of i…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Yesterday I was very excited to go to Seattle’s Sci-Fi Museum and Hall of Fame. I was told by a fucking idiot that they had a Dalek there so that was as good a reason as any to go. They didn’t have a Dalek. They had Robby the Robot which the fucking idiot thought was a Dalek. Stupid fucking thick American cunt. It had NOTHING about Doctor Who in it at all, proving what a fascist state this country has become. It had props from The Black Hole, Innerspace, Transformers and a cuntload of other useless Sci-Fi balls. It even had the actual Muffit from Battlestar Galactica. Who gives a flying fat shit about any of that? They had a Time Travel and an Inter-Dimensional Travel section but they featured NOTHING from the Doctor. FUCKING FAT AMERICAN CUNTS. I left vowing to one day overthrow this ridiculous place.

Later that night, I watched part of the Vice-presidential debates and decided that the Doctor Who ignoring yankee pricks deserved their fate. Biden waffled and smiled while Palin wore make-up, it was very hard to pick one I hated more. It’s probably Palin though. She “won’t judge homosexuals” but will vote against their rights. If you hate them at least have the balls to say so. Not that she has balls because she is a woman, and trust me, that is as in-depth a political review of Sarah Palin that you will ever get over here. After the debate, CNN ran a poll and 88% of Americans thought that she came across better than they had expected. Of course she fucking did because we all expected her to just stand there shitting herself, then rubbing the shit on her plastic, crying face and then eating her shit and then grabbing her trophy Downe’s Syndrome baby for a last minute you-can’t-hate-me-my-baby-is-this photo opportunity. She’s awful.

I need to get drunk over here or else I’m going to go mad. It’s nice but it would be nicer if I was drunk. I’m going to an Irish bar tonight (glad I came all this way) and tomorrow I’m going to a wedding. There are very nice people getting married on Saturday. I like them a lot but I know I’m going to get drunk and the groom and all his friends are Bush-ites and Jesus heads. Should be fun.

Wednesday, 1 October 2008

Bloggette.

I forgot to say something else about the train down to Margate the other day. There were also some very loud people on there talking about films. One woman declared that her favourite film is Bee Movie. I've never met that woman before, I don't even know her name, but I hate her guts and think she should be imprisoned. After about five minutes of debating film one of the men said how much they loved the film Chinatown. I was very impressed with his choice because I'm a big fan too. He then went on to say that Jackie Chan was "wicked" in it. The thick, thick, THICK cunt. God, I fucking hate him and so do you.

Last night I put some time aside to watch The Mysterious Planet which is the first story in the Doctor Who serial The Trial of a Time Lord. It was fucking awful and I was furious throughout the entire thing and strangely enjoyed the experience. I've long come to the conclusion that Doctor Who is my football. I support it loyally and it routinely lets me down but I keep paying good money for more. I can't stand football, mainly down to the violent nature of the fans but if you saw me screaming my head off at a TV (while alone) because EVERY single fucking cliffhanger has someone saying "Doctor, you will be sentenced to death", its a tad scarier than a Millwall riot and certainly more pathetic. I don't know why they keep saying it, just fucking kill him. It's only Colin Baker. Kill him. Kill him now before he meets Melanie Bush.

I'm off for a few days so blogs might be a bit scarce. Not much to write about anyway. I'll be in America. What's going to annoy me there?