Saturday, 31 January 2009


It amazes me sometimes how easy it is to get me out of a bad mood. Well, it’s not easy, it just has to be something unexpected. For instance, if I’m all grumpy you can’t just turn to me and go “Cheer up, mate. Let’s go home and watch Doctor Who”. That will sound like you’re TRYING to make me happy and that will make me more grumpy and I’ll probably tut and roll my eyes and think about lots of ways I’d like to kick your teeth out, you patronising, yet kind, bastard.

I was in a prick of a mood yesterday. The night before, I had behaved like a total moron for absolutely no reason whatsoever. King of Everything went out drinking. King of Everything love drinking so that was all good. Then Johnny had to leave to go to his gig in the centre of London but I feel that King of Everything still have some drinking to do and so I go along with him. Yep. That’s what I do with my Friday night off. I go to a comedy club. Luckily, the club is an excellent one but because of mine and several other members of the audience’s behaviour I won’t name it. As soon as we got there you could just tell that this was not this club’s regular kind of audience. They were basically a bunch of very arrogant, coked-up teenagers. Not all of them, obviously, but enough of them. The first act, Rob Collins, went on and did a great job but you could tell he was working hard and he wasn’t enjoying it. Neither was I because while Rob was on several punters were at the bar having a little shout at one another. That’s when the Scary-Man took over. I took one look at the guy making the most noise, walked over to him and told him to keep his mouth shut. Not “Excuse me, can you keep the noise down, please?” No. There was none of that for me because the Scary-Man was in charge now and the Scary-Man has no manners and likes beer more than I do.

During the interval he came up to me and explained that he’d try to keep his friend quiet for the rest of the show. You’d have thought that that would have been enough for me but it wasn’t. I told him that it wasn’t his friend I had a problem with, it was him. Then he faced up to me. He got far too close and said “Do you think you’re funny?” He had obviously mistaken me for a comedian. Ironically, this never happens when I’m working. The Scary-Man then forced me to face up to him. I told him that I wasn’t working here, I’m not part of the club and it was simply me telling him to shut up. No-one else asking him to be quiet, just me. After much facing-upping, he then said “All I see is a bloke with a Northern Irish accent who I’m going to punch if he says one more word to me”. He wasn’t stupid, this guy. That was exactly who I was. I thought that I’d best not say another word because I find fighting very tricky and fidgety. Then the Scary-Man spoke on my behalf. I told him to fuck off out of my face (sounds good but not when you feel wee-wee coming out a bit). Surprisingly, he did fuck off out of my face. But what the fuck was all that about? I’m not Mr. Big-Fight Man. I’m a scaredy type of person. That wasn’t even my argument. I looked for it myself and, besides, Angus who runs the gig was doing a great job of handling the idiots himself. If that had have been a gig that I was actually working at I doubt I would have said a word but, for some insane reason, I decided to pretend to be a hard nutter in front of a dickhead. I’ve had better nights.

When I woke up yesterday I felt terrible. What an embarrassing prick. That feeling stayed with me the whole way to my gig that night. My gig was in Chester and I was travelling by coach. That feeling picked the right trip to join me on. It was long, cramped and boring. I couldn’t concentrate on any of the DVD’s, podcasts, books and magazines I had brought because I was thinking of my behaviour the night before. Then I arrived four long, boring, freezing cold hours too early for my gig and by the time I got onstage the audience were restless and chatty. It was a good gig but I had to work at it and I was in no mood to deal with a chatty audience. I was dreading the six hour journey home.

Then right by the bus stop, as I stood freezing all of my brass monkey’s balls off waiting for my return coach to London, I saw a hedgehog. It scurried around some hedges (as it should do) and then ran across the park grass. It was lovely. I then came to the conclusion that I am 40 and I’ve never seen a hedgehog. It came from nowhere, it was exciting and it totally made me happy. I forgot all about Scary-Man and his idiotic ways all because of a little spiky animal. Hedgehogs are excellent and, now, I want one. If one can bring me that amount of joy after seeing it for one minute, imagine how constantly happy I’d be if I owned one? Let’s face it, considering my behaviour on Friday night, it might be in everyone’s best interest for me to own one. If anyone is selling any of their old hedgehogs, please let me know.

I’ve just arrived back home. It’s 7.27am. I haven’t slept. Night night.

Friday, 30 January 2009


Drinking is great. It makes everything you do excusable. Been rude at a dinner party? That's OK, you've had a few drinks. Started a big fight? Well, you've had a skin full, I'm not surprised. Raped and murdered everyone you've ever heard of and then watched The Cowards on BBC4? OK, you've had enough. Booze can get you off with nearly anything. Generally, I love people who drink. Not alcoholics, they're probably not a lot of laughs but people who like to go to pubs and hang out. My favourite people all like hanging out in pubs drinking and it's pretty much the way that I've got to know and love anyone that I've ever got to know and love. Of, course some people don't like people who drink and that is exactly the way I feel about people who like football.

There's nothing much worse than getting to know someone, really liking them and their company and then finding out that they love football. Something just goes in my gut when that happens. It's like I'm all of a sudden completely disappointed in them. I thought they were clever and they weren't. They were a big, thick, pig-ignorant, violent, baby-stealing, animal-fucking, shed-painting football fan. There is nothing much worse than that but there is NOTHING worse than football. It's a terrible idea and, in case some people have forgotten, only a game. Only a game. A game that somehow, unfathomably, has found it's way onto television. I hate sitting in the same room as someone who's playing a video game (is that what they're called nowadays? Is nowadays still a word?) yet millions of brainless idiots all over the world pay money to sit at home, go to the pub or, God forbid, go to a football ground and watch other people play a game that they like but don't play themselves. It doesn't make sense. Why would you want to do that? How could you want to do that? Surely, playing the game can only be better than watching it. Why are these people wasting their time? And their use of the word "we" is very questionable. "We" didn't win because, you fat prick, "we" weren't playing. Professional football players were. Professional football players from somewhere other than the town they're representing were playing. So even if by "We" they meant "Liverpool", they were still wrong because Juanitos Cuarlingdelaguarlos is from Portugal not Kirby. And apart from anything else, it's dull. Very, very dull. It's slow, repetitive and looooooooooooooooooooooong. The culture linked to football is so utterly repugnant that you would think that anyone who actually truly loved footsie would have nothing to do with it because of what goes with it. Violence, racism, gang warfare and shamelessly painting your face like the "slow" adult who ruins a child's birthday party is enough to avoid this horrible part of this country's culture without actually having to plough through a tedious fucking football match too. And that's how I feel when people I like say things like "Did you catch the score today?" Maybe that's how they feel when I say things like "Who's your favourite Sontaran?" I hope so.

Last night I had none of that. I went out drinking with REAL MEN. REAL MEN who don't like sport (except for Bennett and Dan, and even Dan doesn't like it that much) and instead of wasting our precious time on this planet shouting at men who play a game better than we do we concentrated firmly on Karaoke. There were girls there too so don't think we're weird or anything. King of Everything duetted together but neither of us can remember what we sang. Now that's the mark of a dignified evening.

I'm writing this while watching Snuffbox. Why can't all the BBC's comedies be like this? If you haven't seen it then I would like nothing more than to force you to watch it. You will thank me.

Thursday, 29 January 2009


I've been using Twitter a lot this week. If you haven't discovered it, don't worry. It's a bit like discovering your local yoga centre. Lots of people use it but, really, what's the point? Twitter is a micro-blogging site which means that people get an account there and basically write thousands of "Facebook status updates" every day and keep us all well informed about every single minute thing that they get up to. It's like being right beside these people all day, every day. Fucking nightmare.

Celebrities use Twitter to show that they're just ordinary people like you or...well, not me but you. John Cleese will let you know when he's washing his car, Jonathan Ross will tell you what type of cigar he's currently smoking and John Leslie will constantly remind you that he will still work for food.

The celebrity that I came across almost immediately after joining was James Dreyfuss. I'm not a big fan of James Dreyfuss but his every day notices of castings, celebrity dinners and not being able to quite finish a sudoku were rivettingly dull and I have followed his life ever since. If you don't know James Dreyfuss then you have my greatest admiration. He was in Gimmee, Gimmee, Gimmee and, if you don't hate him enough already, The Thin Blue Line. Sorry for reminding you if you've forgotten he ever existed. Of course, just because I don't like James doesn't mean I'd be nasty to his face (I'm a coward) but, luckily, my Dad would.Two years ago I took my parents to see Cabaret in Shaftsbury Avenue. I thought I'd slightly impress them by getting front row tickets and making them think that somehow the job I do actually makes me some money. We sat down and waited for the show to begin, my Dad handed me the programme. I played the usual game of seeing which members of the cast weren't in The Bill when I saw James Dreyfuss' painful face and thought "Fuck. That's this show ruined then". I didn't point it out to my parents because there was no need for all of us to be depressed before the thing had even started. Then the thing started. James Dreyfuss played the MC, which meant that he was first on stage. He walked straight to the edge of the stage itself and looked directly at us. We were in the front row. James was as near to me as I am (if I was your computer) to you. He breathed in to deliever the opening line. Then my Dad said in a loud, I'm-so-not-aware-of-where-I-am voice "Michael, there's that man you hate". James gulped and went red. "I know", I replied to Dad. "But I wasn't going to tell him". The first few rows that heard it giggled, James regained composure and the show went on. Well, at least he knows now.

To be honest, James is one heck of a great guy compared to others I've discovered on Twitter, or as I like to call it Twatter! Because, SERIOUSLY, that's the best I can come up with. My favourite massive arse that I've discovered there so far is a walking penis by the name of Skinnyjeans. Skinnyjeans has a very strange way of writing, like she's living in an overly Americanised advert for being a really great person. She's utterly kickable. She lets the world know all sorts of annoying flumpty like "Time to rehydrate" and "Every woman is beautiful. They just need to find their own way to let the world and themselves know". What a cunt. Although my favourite thing that she wrote was "At Starbucks. Swallowing is going to be difficult here". Not for her, surely?

In summary; avoid Twitter. I've already become a big Twitter arse. Last night I updated it to let the universe know that I was tidying up. I'm sure millions were captivated by that startling piece of important fluff. That said, Stephen Fry and Charlie Brooker are very funny on it so it's worth it for that. Thanks to Saliwho who pointed me in it's direction.

Wednesday, 28 January 2009

The Kindness of Strangers.

 Yesterday I saw two people arguing in the park. They were both screaming at one another and one was crying. It was a sad sight. It's awful seeing people cry in public because it means that they're so upset, so sad that the world around them has disappeared for them and all that is left is this bad moment in their lives. Being so distraught that the reaction of others doesn't come into the equation. There is no-one there for you when you cry in public because you don't want there to be. And the thing is, if you're a good person and see a complete stranger crying, you will want to comfort them. It's what's in you. It's your humanity. It's your need to take this person away from the pain that is digging into them, to heal them. Two people arguing in the park, but the history that went before, the pain that went before, could a caring hand ever take that away?

Anyway, as I got closer it turns out that the sick-looking bloke had only left his bawling lump of a girlfriend with half a finger of Twix and he'd eaten one and a half himself. What a fucking evil cunt he is. He should be hung. He's worse than a paedophile. I missed the rest of the world's most embarrassing screaming competition but on my way back through the park I did see the bloke again. Sitting alone, looking sad and wiping a lot of blood from his nose.

Here's my latest embarrassing advert that makes me cringe. I actually saw it months ago but it was on TV last night and I could barely watch so I thought I'd share. I don't know how you can feel embarrassed for a cartoon but you will:

Tuesday, 27 January 2009

Chwist Almighty!

Ha ha ha!!! I said "Chwist" because I'm going to write about Jonathan Ross, a man who has a very slight lisp. That is brilliant! I love it when he does something completely, boringly uncontroversial because it always ends up in Britain's equivalent of a newspaper and the headline is always something like "Wossy Nearly Says Piss In Front Of War Hero's Tea". HA HA HA HA HA!!! They called him Wossy because he has a lisp. I love it! That is sooooooooooooooooo imaginative and has been for about 20 years. Wossy! HA HA HA! Brilliant! I wish he was paralysed too because I bet the tabloids would give him an equally hilarious nickname every time he did absolutely fuck all of any interest. Probably "Cwipple" or something". Brilliant!

People who are bored out of their minds are asking for Wossy to be shot dead on live TV again because of a thing he said about a Spanish pensioner. I think he should be Knighted for what he said and given a castle full of money. The man is a saint. He said that his producer should have fucked an old woman. If someone said that to me I'd say something like "Yuk! No way, man. Old women are ugly and leathery. I'm not putting my lovely young penis anywhere near that. Count me out, Sunshine. Hello? Did I miss a meeting?" because I am a big twat. But Sir Wossy doesn't care about age, just love. What he was trying to say was that we should care more for the elderly, take them out on daytrips, visit them occassionally and, yes, if it makes them happy, fuck them. The only reason YOU and your other Nazi friends think it's disgusting is because you don't have the caring, open mind that Jonathan has. He would gladly pick biscuit crumbs out of his pubes for a week if it meant that some lovely old dear got his A-game, a servicing and the "little death" from him. If you have any goodness in you, then you will write to the BBC immediately telling them that you support Jonathan Ross' good work with the elderly in the community and confirm that you too will fuck an old woman in your area, giving details of who, how and what war you will be discussing afterwards. That's all I'm saying.

I saw Frost/Nixon last night. It's excellent. I really wanted to see The Wrestler but was put off when a BAFTA member told me that it was just like Rocky. I love Rocky but I'm happy with Rocky the way it is, I didn't need to see a wrestling version. So I saw Frost/Nixon which is about a man who no-one believed in, even the team behind him. They thought that he had no chance of beating his opponent but in the end showed that, although it wasn't a complete triumph, he'd proven himself and shown the world a different side to the man he was trying to beat. Then he shouts Adrian and it was all over. I can't wait for Frost/Drago.

Monday, 26 January 2009

I Disgust Me.

I'm too excited about King of Everything. We've done very little work, yet Johnny and I are sure that we're going to have a very enjoyable Edinburgh. The little amount of work we've done is fine because the ideas for the show keep on coming. The bit I'm working on today will feature Johnny and I singing "I Know Him So Well" totally straight. No mucking about, just us singing as best we can plus some choreography properly taught to us by a proper real dance instructor. That should be worth the price alone. Or not. Who knows? We've also got a Ouija board with some letters missing, Iggy Pop being addicted to insurance and finding out what happened to all the school friends we used to bully. Yeah, sketch shows sound shit in synopsis form but we think it's all funny. And we find NOTHING funny, so that must mean it's the funniest thing in the world. Still, the fact that we haven't done any real graft on it could be our Achilles heel. No point in worrying about that though, I wouldn't be surprised if they brought back the Perrier just for us or Phil Nicholl, BrendAn Burns and whoever the fuck won it last year were forced to gives us their If.comedy prizes. But like I say, we've done very little so we might not win that many awards. We'll see.

I'm very glad I'm all positive about King of Everything because I'm feeling shit about my own solo show which, I fear, may never happen. You, on the other hand, may fear it will. People are different. I'm having more than a few teething problems with it mainly because I'm feeling surrounded by nice people all of a sudden. The show's about how I have a terrible habit of being really nice to people I can't stand but being round too many nice people recently has slightly put me off. I fucking hate nice people.Even this weekend at The Comedy Cafe I was surrounded by fucking stupid pointless niceness. The staff are always lovely there but you'd have thought there would be at least one cunt on the bill just to help me get all angry. But there fucking wasn't. The nice awful bastards. Mind you, the open spot, Rob Tarbuck, mistook me for Drew Barr so he can suck my funny third ball. Rob was, of course, in the paid half-spot slot but he thought I was Drew Barr so he's a fucking open-spot to me now. But, he was a really nice open-spot so that doesn't help. Then last night in Alton they took niceness to a new level. You might not like this next bit. It's disgusting.

On my way to Alton I sat looking through my new material, making re-writes to make sure I had it perfect for the gig. HA HA HA! Only joking. On my way to Alton I needed a piss but the two loos on the train had committed suicide so I had to wait until I got to Alton station. The loo in Alton was in mourning for the two suicide toilets and, although I was bursting, I thought I coould hold on until I got to the gig. I was wrong. Five minutes into my walk I decided that I had to pee and I had to pee NOW. I started to feel urine seep into my nostrils. I really hoped that I wouldn't have to lower myself to pissing in the street. I'm 40. I shouldn't be pissing in the street. My cock started to cry so I thought I'd best rid myself of what little dignity I have left and walked into a very dark street and stood behind some bins. As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared. Well, I don't know if he was a shopkeeper or not but he was a punter who had been to Alton before. I know this because, while I was pissing, he waved at me and shouted "I'm coming to see you again tonight". It was nice that he was so keen on coming to the gig but I'd rather that he'd run me over in a racist lorry than saw me make tinkle. My tinkle froze in embarrassment and I continued on my journey.

When I got there I went straight to the toilet. Hooray! It was empty. Now for a slap-up piss! It was a lovely piss. A lovely piss that I felt I'd earned. I savoured every delighful moment of it and quickly forgot about the horrible piss-bin-waving-racist lorry incident of earlier. I felt so good just standing there pissing that surely I couldn't be happier than I was right there, right then in that beautiful, blissful state of relief. I could, actually. I could fart. I farted. It felt great. Then as if by magic, another fucking shopkeeper appeared. What the fuck is it with these shopkeepers (or whatever it is they do for a living)? He walked out of the cubicle, laughed and said "Bloody hell, was that you? Better get it out before you go onstage, eh?" For fuck's sake.I was dreading the gig. I compered the night without anyone in the small, brilliant audience mentioning my urine or gas. Two of them had every right to bring it up but they didn't. Because they're nice. That's what a nice person does. A nice person never mentions seeing you piss behind a bin but they also don't help me write about horrible people that I'm nice to. Hang on. I AM horrible people that I'm nice to. Hmmmm....interesting angle. Thanks, Alton. You're nice.

As if that wasn't enough niceness for one night, Cole Parker drove me (very nearly) all the way home AND gave me his ventolin after I lost mine. HE GAVE ME HIS MEDICINE. That is a whole level of niceness that I can't even fathom. I wouldn't give anyone my Wispa never mind my medicine but that's because I am horrible and everyone else in the world is nice. God, I really think I've made a break through with this blog.....sniff.....

By the way, King of Everything should be making a few podcasts this week. We might need your help. You're nice. You can't refuse!!!

Sunday, 25 January 2009

World's Laziest Blog.

Nothing much has happened to me over the last couple of days. I've done nothing. I should be working but I can't get my head round it at the moment. So, what do you do when you've got nothing to do? You probably sort out your taxes, hit the gym or go swimming? Not me. I have a new hobby and I want you all to have a go at it too. It's called sleeping.

Sleeping is fantastic. You can do it practically anywhere and can be played by one or more people. You can even do it with a dog, and how many activities can you say that about? You're right, three or four. This is pretty much my 2009 sorted now. When I have fuck all to do, I'm going to bed. You can all join me if you like (but you won't like it. I snore and rub a lot). I had a two hour nap in the middle of the day yesterday that didn't get my garden tidied up, my house cleaned or my neighbours apologised to but it did make me feel great. Highly recommended.

My other hobby, though nowhere near as exciting and fun as going to sleep, is re-casting famous films. But not re-casting them with other actors, instead I've re-cast them with other characters from other films. For instance, re-casting Star Wars with Wolverine as Han Solo, Barbarella as Princess Leia, Danny from Withnail and I as Chewbacca, Jay as C-3PO, Silent Bob as R2-D2 and Sandy from Grease as Luke Skywalker. It's a fun game. Sleeping is still my favourite but it's the re-casting of films that is keeping me awake. Time to do something else.

Saturday, 24 January 2009

Oscars, The Grouch.

I avoided seeing the list of nominees for this year's Academy Awards for good reason. Although I love the Oscars, even though I can fully see how pointless it all is, I knew that this year's nominees would upset me more than usual. Then, this morning, I broke and took a look. I was right. Now I'm furious. The fucking arseholes.

How the fuck does Heath Ledger get thrown a supporting actor crumb for the work he's done? He was the STAR of The Dark Knight. He was the main character we watched. How is that not leading actor status? More importantly The Reader, Milk, Frost/Nixon, Benjamin Button and Slumdog Millionaire are clearly not better films that The Dark Knight. I know more about the quality of these films than the Academy does and I haven't even seen them (except one of them). And where was In Bruges? I haven't felt this angry since fucking fucking fucking Gandhi won and E.T. lost. It's balls. And if you disagree then you're a cunt. An awful cunt.

To be honest, I've woke up in a bad mood. Last night I downloaded the latest two Radio Four Friday Night Comedy podcasts because I feel that radio comedy is something I know very little about. I listened to The News Quiz, which is a nostalgia based conversation between a bunch of plummy voiced, horse owning, Gin & Tonic quaffing, out of touch with the human race, awful embarrassments who touch on topical subjects such as Sylvia Plath and maths. At one point it was pointed out to us listeners that Liberal Democrats don't have much charisma. It was if A Kick Up The Eighties had never happened. If you haven't heard The Fucking News Quiz then get this: SANDI TOKSVIG IS THE FUNNIEST ONE ON IT. Just imagine that. Plus, let's be really honest about this now, isn't Jeremy Hardy a God-awful smug prick? He has the most punchable voice I've ever heard and for "an old leftie" he's not half right wing. I've got The Now Show to listen to now. I'm terrified. Surely there must be something good on Radio 4? Well, there will be when King of Everything get on there.

Friday, 23 January 2009

The Littlest Racist.

Christ Almighty, windmills are fucking brilliant. Imagine actually living in a windmill. You’d be the coolest kid in your street if you lived in a windmill. Yeah, you’d never sleep because of the noise and you’d constantly stink of flour (is that what windmills make?) but it would still be completely amazing. Imagine meeting someone you fancied, getting them a bit drunk, taking them out to dinner, watching “Australia” with them and then taking them back to your place for sex. Then you’d be able to say “Yeah, I’ve had sex in a windmill”. Is there any greater feeling known to man than taking a beautiful woman to heaven and back AND making flour at the same time? I agree with you, there isn’t. After all, didn’t Prime Minister Winston Churchill one say “When killing a man, it costs nothing to be polite in a windmill”? I certainly believe he did. Fuck, I love windmills! I’m like Don Quixote. He liked windmills. Or hated them. I can’t remember. All I’m saying is that I think windmills are really pretty good.

I saw about 20 windmills yesterday on my way to Belfast Airport. That’s way more than my usually quota of windmill sightings per day. My previous record, I think, was one and that was still pretty exciting. It was sad to be coming to the end of my short trip to Norn Iron because I’d really had a great time seeing my family and reading about my family’s history. My Great-Uncle Charles who died recently had started to write his memoirs and they turned out to be extremely interesting, very funny and totally insane. At one point he wrote about a travelling entertainer who used to visit his home town of Greyabbey when he was a child. The entertainer was called The Wild Man of Borneo. Basically he was a man in a grass skirt who blacked up and was lead around the town by his “owner” while people in the street shouted abuse and threw crap at him. You must understand, this was before the internet. Or reasoned thinking. It’s a shame his memoirs ended when they did, I was really enjoying them. They finished before the invention of television which I know Charles said was the single biggest change in his life. He was 101 years old. The Wild Man of Borneo is now represented by Joss Jones at Cosmic Management.

My last night in Newtownards was great, ruined only by two complete pricks. My whole family, except my sister Diane sadly, went for dinner and drinks. It was pretty much a full-on repeat of the two previous nights where we all sat around drinking and talking about the past. It was lovely. Dotes turned up which was good because I realised that there were still a few people from our school that we hadn’t slagged off yet. Then another member of my family turned up. I won’t say his real name because I don’t want to embarrass his mum so let’s just call him Danny La Rue. Danny La Rue walked in and as soon as I said hello he responded with “So, London still full of Paki’s then?” I told him that he could join us but if he spoke like that again he was not welcome. He said something really weird. He said “Are you serious?” in a genuinely surprised tone. I’ll be honest, Dear Reader, I didn’t really want to sit drinking with a racist idiot so I said a very firm Yes. He then turned and left to the sound of his own footsteps. Oh, and me saying “Prick”. I’m still very upset by this for a couple of very good reasons. One, he lives in Northern Ireland. There are very few Pakistanis living in Northern Ireland. He has little to no contact with the very people he hates. How does he know he hates people he’s never met? Northern Ireland should be the perfect place for him. No Pakistanis to hate! Now Pakistan, he’d not like it there. Second, Danny La Rue is English and I get a tad miffed hearing words of intolerance coming from an Englishman living in Northern Ireland. I just think it’s, oh I don’t know, a great big fucking insult. Still, it’s good to know that The Wild Man of Borneo might still have an audience even if it is just Danny La Rue. The good news is that Danny La Rue is very young, only 19 I think, and everyone has made mistakes when they’re young (maybe not racist ones though). Hopefully he’ll grow out of it soon before he gets into trouble, the BNP or married to Jade Goody. It was a shame it happened but it only lasted a few seconds and we could have easily gone back to having a lovely night if it wasn’t for the other prick who wouldn’t shut up about it. That prick was me. Sorry to everyone who was there.

It was still a good trip. I found out that I’m not my Dad’s favourite comedian which does sting just a bit. It’s Dave Gorman. His books are pride of place in my Dad’s collection but mine are nowhere to be seen even though they are all widely available inside my own head. Speaking of comedians, seen Jarred Christmas lately? I worked with him last night at the Comedy cafĂ© and he was fantastic. Well done, him.

By the way, this is the second time I’ve written this blog because MySpace crashed on me. I fucking hate MySpace now. MySpace needs to buy me a present.

Wednesday, 21 January 2009


I haven’t seen Dotes in nine years. Before that I hadn’t seen him in about seven years. There are many people who I know that I wish I could see as infrequently as that but Dotes isn’t one of them. I have no idea why I haven’t seen him in all that time but it’s probably a mixture of not having enough time to see the family when I’m over here and being a big lazy bastard. I met Dotes when I was eight but it wasn’t until we got into secondary school and, more importantly, drinking that we became good mates. One day when we were eighteen we sat under a tree, sheltering from the rain. We sat in silence for ten minutes and then Dotes eventually said "Aaaaaaaaah, Leonard Bernstein". We laughed uncontrollably for hours. Don’t know why. We just did. I’m sure you’ve got a friend who makes you laugh just by mentioning the name of a dead composer and if you don’t then I pity you. You’re living a half life.

So, I met Dotes in Roma’s, a bar that we used to go to pretty much every day and while I walked there I started to get nervous. It’s been nine years. Dotes has proper kids, a proper house and a proper job. When I knew him he had dole money, a snooker cue and The Joshua Tree. He’s all growed up. We’ll have nothing in common. Well, we do have one thing in common. We’re EXACTLY THE SAME. We both think everything is shit and we hate everyone. I think it’s rare in this life to meet one person with that cynical a view of this pain in the arse planet but if you’d gone into Roma’s between 1 and 4.30 pm you’d have seen two of them. Our sense of humour has only darkened with age too. At one point we actually laughed about a boy we used to go to school with blowing his own brains out. Instead of thinking about how someone could be so unhappy they’d got to that level of hopelessness we laughed about how a twat like that managed to get a gun. Besides seeing Dotes himself, it was great to hear how people we once knew have turned out (well, maybe not the twat with the gun). Alfie’s a divorced alcoholic, Mark (a wanker) is now a policeman (what a fucking surprise), Sharon is now bald and Nigel, a girl-avoiding Bananarama fan, is now gay. The last one wasn’t much of a shock.

I had nothing to be worried about. We laughed pretty much the whole time we were together, talking about our stupid lives and the way we stupidly live them. Drinking beer and talking about our fuck-ups and our triumphs but mainly our fuck-ups. Fuck-ups are way more interesting than triumphs even if we actually had triumphs. And who uses the word triumphs anyway? Mark the wanker policeman probably but not me and Dotes. It won’t be nine years before I see Dotes again (it fucking will, says Dotes) and I advise you to go and see a friend you haven’t seen in nine years too. It’s mad and brilliant and totally worth it. It was like the best episode of What Ever Happened to the Likely Lads? that I’ve ever seen. Good on ye.

The rest of the day was taken up with more booze with the family and THAT inauguration. It’s been such a great little trip and its crap that this is my last day already. I’m surrounded by good people and fun times PLUS I’ve shaken the need to find out and Celebrity Big Brother. Has Coolio been kicked to death yet? Don’t know, don’t care! It is 11.40am in my parent’s house. The drinking will start any second.

By the way, Dotes’ real name is Darryl just in case you thought his parents were mental.

Tuesday, 20 January 2009

Norn Iron.

The thing that surprises me most any time I return to Northern Ireland is the amount of Northern Irish accents I hear. It’s almost as if everyone here has one. This shouldn’t really surprise me that much but it always does. I used to hear that accent all the time, wherever I went, right up until I was 20 and now, since moving to London, I barely hear it at all. Even when I speak it’s not a particularly Northern Irishy sound that comes out. I speak in BBC Radio Ulster but pretty much everyone else speaks in an accent that is the real deal. It’s full on, loud and pretty scary. What luck it must have been for those terrorists to have that accent when phoning up their funny little bomb threats. If the I.R.A. had lovely accents like Ardal O'Hanlan would we ever have taken them seriously? No. We'd all be laughing at Father Dougal's funny wee bomb-threaty antics! The I.R.A. are cleverer than that. They chose the right accent to use. Even though it’s a British accent which must surely go against some of the I.R.A.’s own principles. Anyway, it’s odd to hear the accent completely surrounding me again.

My family all have Northern Irish accents and they like to use them, at volume, as much as they can. They talk a lot. Not really my Dad or my brother. Or my Mum. But the others. Well, not really my sister Bernie or my sister Colette (well, sometimes my sister Colette) but definitely my sister Diane. She talks. Lots.

It’s great seeing my family, they’re fun, funny, animated, energetic talkers and it’s lovely to just sit back and watch these accents, names and stories that used to be part of my every day life get thrown back and forth around a room. Sometimes you would swear they were talking about fictional characters because it seems that everyone they know has died in a stupid way and they have a stupid name. "Here, Michael. Remember Mavis Fist? Well, she frightened a horse so it kicked her on to an electric statue and she was kilt". What? "Yeah, and you know Big Aggy Blackturd? Well, he was suffocated by a cloud and he was kilt". They love telling you that people were kilt. Not that everything is morbid here because most conversations were about the past and how we were as kids. It’s very nice. And when the photos get passed round it’s like a history lesson. I’m worried that I’ve forgotten way too many of my dead relatives but it’s both amazing and genuinely touching to hear everyone else in my family talk about lost generations of Legges and Dorrians in such detail. Yesterday I saw a photograph of my great grandfather. I’ve never once thought of him, heard about him or seen a picture of him. I was sure I must have had a great grandfather but it never crossed my mind to find out who he was. It was an incredible picture of a bald man with a huge crashing sea-wave of a moustache. It’s hard to deny the feeling you get right inside your chest when you’re looking at a long dead man who is linked so directly to you. It’s pretty powerful.

Then we all got drunk and talked about babies, Barack Obama, getting mugged and Howard Read. It was a great drunken night. We’ll be doing exactly the same tonight. Good.

Monday, 19 January 2009

The Conversation.

John Voce and I performed our show, The Conversation, last night at The Funny Side of Covent Garden. Not only was it the first time we'd performed it in over a year but it was also the first time John and I had clapped eyes on each other for three months. Not that we actually clapped our eyes, that's nearly impossible we discovered. The "Conversation" that we had on stage was the first actual conversation that we had with one another for that three months. It was a bit weird thinking about that before going on stage but the gig was an absolute blast. Working with John is a total pleasure and doing The Conversation, along with The Real Daniel O'Donnell Show, is pretty much my favourite thing that I do. I don't know why then that I shit myself with worry before going on.

It was a great show and the room was packed full. Our conversation was about a man who found out he was adopted as he was organising a party to celebrate his mother's death. It had a feel-good ending because he was in love with his brother and in finding out he was adopted that meant they weren't related and could have sex. How romantic. Actually, that all sounds shit but it wasn't. There was a lovely five minute chunk in the middle where we discussed all the delicious food that we couldn't enjoy if we knew Hitler had made it. 

I don't know why I don't plug The Conversation or do it more often. It's great but it is completely improvised and, as we all know, improvised comedy is a big, fat shit. Except for The Conversation. It's great.

And that's why I don't talk about good gigs I've done. All that horrible positivity clogging up my lovely bile-ridden blog....

Tomorrow's subject: Why in the name of cunt am I STILL watching fucking Celebrity fucking Big Brother fuck?

Sunday, 18 January 2009

Should Do Better.

I haven't been writing much about gigs lately. That's because they've been going well and who wants to read about that? Not me, mate. I've been feeling slightly more confident about improvising on stage and trying out new ideas. Then this weekend happened and I feel rusty like I haven't gigged in months. Either that or I'm shit. It's a possibility. I compered The Boat Show on friday night and I was so bog standard I started to bore myself. Mind you, there was one great moment. A woman in the audience said her friend had seen me before and thought that I had ruined the show. It's nice to get heckled from a previous gig. I stank the room out at the Komedia, Brighton one night in 2001 so if anyone wants to come along to the Comedy Cafe this coming weekend to remind me of that, well, I'll be happy to see you. You cunt. Don't get me wrong, The Boat Show gig was good but it's normally great, I just wasn't on form. Hey-ho. Then last night happened. Two shows, one at the 99 Club in Islington and one at East Dulwich Comedy in, obviously, Forest Hill. They were both good gigs that I was pretty atrocious at. I couldn't focus and just blabbed out my, god help us, material. I should have been on form and I wasn't. Johnny Candon and I spent the day together and maybe, in a way, that's related to me being a bit off on stage. Who knows. There was a great moment at East Dulwich though. I asked an 18 year old Canadian lad seated at the front what he was doing in London and it turned out he was here for his uncle's funeral. The atmosphere went very cold as I backed my way out of this comedy black hole. I turned to a lady also at the front and said, in a very let's-hope-the-gig-starts-turning-around-soon way, Hello. She immediately said "Leave me alone. I'm his Aunt". Fucking hell.
The East Dulwich gig wasn't helped by the presence of Daniel Kitson. I'm more than used to doing gigs with comics who are better than me but Daniel is just a bit incredibly special that it slightly makes me sick to do a gig knowing he's anywhere near. If you have never seen him then I highly advise that you never do. There are so few comics that good that you'll be spoiled and may never go to Jongleurs Cardiff again (even if you could). Luckily, he left the second I was about to go on. The c-c-c-cunt. As much as I didn't want him there, him leaving put me in a huff as I approached the stage. Still, the gig was OK really. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. It's not like anyone died. Except that fells's Uncle and that woman's husband.
The train journey between the two gigs last night was very nostalgic for me. On the Northern Line tube some fat, walking testicles were drinking heavily and singing loudly. I like drinking and singing but, for some reason, I wasn't too happy with this happening in front of me on the train. Especially as the song they were singing finished with the line " fuck the Pope and fuck the I.R.A." I think it's from Rent. As a Northern Irish man living in London for nearly 20 years, it's been a while since I've heard a song based around the subject of Pope and I.R.A love making. And, as I'm going back to Newtownards tomorrow, it's certainly put me in the mood for my trip. In a way, I was proud that our once world-beating terrorists aren't totally forgotten in favour of Bomb Du Jour Al Queda. The men singing were so utterly shaven headed, tattooed, England shirt wearing, thick, good old British boys that they won't even acknowledge non-whites when it comes to current terrorism. Good for them for sticking to their wanker principals.
Johnny and I didn't exactly finish writing King of Everything this weekend. A couple of ideas is probably the best we got from our meeting that consisted mainly of drinking and walking round Zavvi. Still, we've got loads of time. That's an excuse I'm going to be hearing a lot more of. 

Friday, 16 January 2009

Cooling Down.

I'm not too sure why I didn't write more about the Comeidans Annual Christmas Piss-Up but I think it's got more to do with my paranoia than anything else. Not that I'm paranoid of people slagging me off if I slag them off, I think that's a lot of fun. And I'm not scared to point out the foibles of others. Let's face it; Adrian Poynton's new hair-do is weird. It's like it doesn't fit his head or something and I'm not afraid to let that be known. But it's not really worth writing about (or deleting, apparently). I'm much more paranoid, and this is utterly stupid, that people might think I'm copying Richard Herring's Warming Up blog.

I don't read too many blogs, just Richard's, Andrew Collins' and Robin Ince's. They're all very good. Way better than mine, that goes without saying. But it seems like everytime I write something it turns out that Richard Herring has already written something similar (but WAAAAAY better). I write about my pointless addiction to Monopoly, he's addicted to Scrabble. I write about the stupidity of the public when voting for the Top Ten Best Comedians in the UK, he did that the day before. I make a song and dance out of "celebrating" my 100th blog, turns out he celebrated 6 years of daily blogging the day before. That doesn't even count the amount of things I felt I couldn't write because I KNEW he had written about it before. The fucking cunt. And I really wanted a Podcastudio (Chris Martin recommended it to me. You know, the un-famous one) but I can't fucking do that now because Lightnin' Herring got there first. In a way I should feel very happy that myself and Richard think slightly in the same way. Yeah, we have a lot in common, me and Richard. If you put aside success, fame and talent and you'll have to if you want the previous sentence to work. But it's just annoying that the little paranoid man in my head (something Richard Herring has written about a lot) keeps reminding me that "Richard's done that". Well, fuck off, little paranoid man in my head (that I like to think looks like Stewart Lee). I'm going to write this anyway....

I was lucky enough to do one of Nobby Kash's gigs recently in Aldershot. It's a lovely gig with a very supportive and comedy savvy audience. On the bill was an act I've never met before. His name is Paul T. Eyres and after a quick Hello his follow-up sentence to me was "Do you know my friend Kevin Eldon?" Now, I didn't know if I knew his FRIEND Kevin Eldon but I definitely had heard of the famous actor/comedian Kevin Eldon but surely Paul couldn't have meant him? I mean, he clearly said "My friend Kevin Eldon" and not "Kevin Eldon from out of Big Train". Obviously, Paul, a wide-eyed innocent newbie to comedy, wanted to know if we had any friends in common and plucked a name from his address book at random not realising that it was the same name as a famous actor. Either that, or Paul was being a full-on egotistical ballsack whose feeling of self-worth was so minute that he had to prove his credentials by claiming to be friends with the man from that Twix advert years ago. I was very wary of Paul from that moment, even though he knew a fair bit about Peter Davison era Doctor Who. Then on tuesday at the Comeidans Annual Christmas Piss-Up who should walk in the door but Paul T. Eyres. He come to me and said Hello. I introduced him to a few people who he, quite fairly, assumed were all comedians. Charlotte Jo Hanbury pointed out that she was actually an actress. "Oh", said Paul. "Do you know my friend Kevin Eldon?" I howled with laughter. Then did a bit of screaming at him. Then laughed again. To be fair, I really warmed to Paul after that. He went bright red and, thankfully, started to laugh himself. I like him. Paul, you don't need this Kevin Eldon to prove yourself. Fuck him. It's not like Kevin Eldon goes around saying "Do you know my friend Paul T. Eyres?".

What came first? My cack-handed inability to do the simplest thing right or the theme tune to Curb Your Enthusiasm? I must hear that tune 10 times a day in my head thanks to me being an idiot. Yesterday I took Jerk for a walk in the park. If there's one thing that I hate (there's not, there's millions) it's dog owners who don't clean-up their dog's shit. It's disgusting. I mean, you wouldn't let your baby soil it's nappy and then go out and run over a prostitute, would you? I know that's got nothing to do with what I've just written but it's still a very valid point. What I'm saying is that part of loving your dog is being a responsible dog owner at all times. Jerk did a poo yesterday and I cleaned it up. Then she hurt her paw on a stick so I rubbed it, said little goo-goo things to make her feel better and gave her a treat. Then I noticed she was getting too close to a couple of dogs I hadn't seen before so called her away from them (there could be trouble). I called her away because I love her and don't want her getting hurt or her hurting another dog. She ignored me so I called again, this time in my gruff manly get-over-here voice. She heard it and came running. As she came running I had a MASSIVE phlegm attack. An ocean of gob filled my throat and mouth. I hate spitting but felt I had no choice. Jerk came to my right so I gobbed to my left. I gobbed to my left. I gobbed to my left just in time for Jerk to twist round to my left and get a face full of the biggest gob any human has ever produced. Just then a man, who up to now had been invisible, appeared and said "Next time, why don't you just hit it?" Had he seen me picking up shit and nursing her paw? No. He only came along when I spat on it. The fucking wanker. And then the Curb theme starts as he walks away. Was I always like this or did Curb Your Enthusiasm make me like this? Yeah, maybe I'm not only just like Richard Herring I'm also just like Larry David. God, I'm brilliant.

I'm writing this in my pants, listening to Script For A Jester's Tear while a dog continually licks my leg. Yeah, just like Richard Herring and Larry David. 

Thursday, 15 January 2009


Another great human being is taken from us this January or, as I like to call it, Death Month 2000! Poor Khan. He didn’t really mean any harm to anyone except Chekov’s ear and Kirk. But that’s OK. Kirk is a bellend. I don’t know how Khan died (a fuck-up with the Genesis Device?) but I do know that I love him. I felt nothing when Princess Diana died but now I feel utterly compelled to go to Ceti Alpha V and lay a little teddy bear on the ground. It’s what Princess Diana and Khan would have wanted. That and the death of Hadmirahl Kirk and Rio by Duran Duran. I came home pretty drunk last night and, in a noble tribute to Khan, put on Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. I fell asleep after Chekov said “Bot on Ebay” the first time so it wasn’t a great tribute to this once great fictional character from spaces. Patrick McGoohan also died but he can suck the one I’m growing because he isn’t Khan.

And that’s why I don’t write for The Guardian’s Obituaries. There would be more but there’s just been an emergency in the house. See you tomorrow I hope.    

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

Charity Case.

Last night at the Comeidans Annual Christmas Piss-Up was a success. It was great to see so many people turn up and it was extremely nice of all the people who made an effort to come up to me and say thanks for organising it. I'd just like to say that you're welcome and it was Susan Murray who organised it, not me. I can't organise shit these days plus I can spell comedians. Well done, Susan, you did a great job. The thing is, I don't think there was a single person there that I was trying to avoid so that's a great achievement in itself. I had work really early this morning so I left before all the real debauchery started and Dan March turned up. Any stories of last night? I'd like to hear them....

How brilliant is it to have a clearout? I've just got rid of 30 t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, 3 jumpers and a coat. They all went to a charity shop. I love giving things to a charity shop just because I like imagining that maybe someday someone will be walking around completely dressed in my clothes and we'll bump into each other and become friends and have an adventure. Actually, I don't give a fuck about seeing the guy or meeting him or going on a, let's face it, probably costly and annoying, adventure. He's obviously poor so I just don't want to know him, OK. But I like thinking that he's completely decked out in my clothes like my own little tribute act. God, I wish I hadn't deleted Monopoly. I also threw away a million socks which is both happy and sad. In some ways I put those socks out of their misery. As if it wasn't bad enough having my feet in them and occasionally using them to wipe up my sperm, they often lose their partners. They become odd, solo socks that, now that they're single, I try my best to match-up with other single socks that I think will go well with them. But, as you know, when you try match-making it never works and they're better off in the bin where they belong. I can see Sam Mendes making that into a film. Or Pixar. Actually, probably just Pixar. Anyway, that's my advice for the day; just chuck stuff out. You'll have more room for new crap and a poor person can dress up JUST LIKE YOU!

My brain is having a breakdown today. I got up too early and I've got the me and Johnny show stuff to write up today and hopefully I'll be talking about it all tonight with our director. Yeah, we've got a director. Of course, he might think it's all shit and not want to touch it for fear of death by embarrassment. At least it's got a title now; King Of Everything. What do you think? So, I really need to wake up and do all that. Maybe a Wii Fit would wake me up? I'm scared to go back to the Wii Fit today because yesterday it told me my "Fit Age" was 28 which means that the Wii Fit is broken or the 28 year old they're talking about is broken.

Babbling. Need sleep. Have to work. Need sleep.

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

Birds, Hair and Freida.

Clinging on to the little things in life that make you happy and having a big Darth Vader mug. Yes, that's the only way to get through this life. And even if you don't have a Darth Vader mug, and you're fucking pathetic if you don't, there are still plenty of little things that are almost worth giving a shit about. Today I walked through Ladywell Fields in Lewisham, with Jerk, contemplating the two shows I'm intending on taking to this year's Edinburgh Fringe Festival and hanging myself. Lewisham, at it's very best, can be described as grey. Various shades of grey are pretty much all you see, even in the park. Then out of nowhere comes two incredible flashes of bright green. Believe it or not, Parakeets live in Lewisham. They were set free by an idiot sometime in the 70's and, unlike anything else other than grey in Lewisham, they thrived. It's an incredible sight seeing these exotic, bright coloured, beautiful looking birds taking to Lewisham when it so obviously doesn't deserve them. Anyway, I love them. They're beautiful and I think owners of other exotic animals that they're now bored of should let their pets loose in Lewisham. There's few things I'd like to see more than a Tiger and a Shark walking down Lewisham High Street. They'd show the locals who's who. Except the dead shark.

I had a haircut today just in time for the year's most talked about event of the year this year; The Comeidans Annual Christmas Piss Up. (That's not my typo for once. That's what it says on the invitation) I went to a hairdressers which is very unlike me. I'm a barber man. I decided not to go to my local barber due to lack of faith. The last time I was there he kept talking about "bloody foreigners" and a time before that he told me, with scissors in his hand, that his favourite comedian was Jeff Mirza. No doubt his favourite TV programme is Hitler and his favourite porn star is a big red bell. Suffice to say, I didn't feel safe going there so went to a nearby hairdressers like some sort of nearby girl. The thing is, I didn't sleep last night. My shoulder is hurting due to me sleeping like I'm trying to clean my taint with my eyebrows. When the hairdresser washed my hair it was just so relaxing that I fell asleep. When I was woken up everyone was laughing at me (well both hairdressers) so I must have been snoring. Or worse. I gave the air a sniff and it seemed safe so snoring it must have been. Then I remembered why I don't really like hairdressers. The mirror in front of you is a horrible, spiteful little bastard that underlines all physical faults. My double chin comes with 80% more free, my eyes have physical, emotional and lost baggage and my skin is the colour and texture of Lewisham. I don't look great in hairdresser's mirrors. Still, I'd rather be told I'm a freak of nightmares than reminded of one of Mirza's self-loathing routines. By the way, if you're going to the Comeidans Annual Christmas Piss Up then you're a fucking idiot and I'll see you there. Please say something nice about my hair.

I saw Slumdog Millionaire last night. With the risk of just repeating what Andrew Collin's has already said in his excellent blog, that was just not what I expected. It looked like a big cheery rom-com and it looked insufferably awful. In reality, it's pretty good and utterly depressing, violent and sickening. You'll like it. It's directed by Danny Boyle but, even with that, it's a very good film indeed. He took all the best elements of The Beach and A Life Less Ordinary, put them in a very small bag and ignored them. Good for him. All I'm saying is don't go expecting joy, there isn't any. Well, there sort of is because Freida Pinto is in it and she's beautiful. In amongst all the suffering, poverty, murder and torture in the film I still couldn't get it out of my head that NOTHING of mine will ever be in Freida Pinto, not even my "fun-sized" penis. Andrew Collins doesn't really mention that bit in his blog so I'm glad I managed to bring something new to my mention of the film. Go and see it.

Monday, 12 January 2009


The tables have finally been turned, my friend. This morning I saw the shoe on the other foot right under my nose in front of my face. I was queuing up to buy T/Gel Shampoo for my zombie head at Superdrug and the man in front of me was taking an overly long time to complete his transaction. The shop assistant looked embarrassed because the man talked long and loud in his Eastern European accent about the items he'd brought to the till. It's not really that important that he had an Eastern European accent but, in a way, it is. I personally just think what was being said sounds funnier in very loud broken english. I know that might come across as racist but, fuck it, all I have to do is say sorry and that absolves me of any racist comment I may have said, apparently. (The thing about thick, over-priveleged, hateful penis Prince Harry is that I don't think Sorry is enough. I think it all has to be evened up. He should go on the news with a member of the UK Pakistani community who will turn to Prince Harry and call him a bastard. Actually, even that's not fair. Paki is a derogatory comment used to demean and abuse Asians, not even just Pakistanis most of the time, whereas Prince Harry actually is a bona fide bastard. Yes, he was born within wedlock but...well, you know. So maybe the member of the UK Pakistani community should say something like "Excuse me, Bastard, but your mum is a stupid yacht loving, rugby player fucking, parasitic, over-hyped, dead slag". Only that, in my eyes, can end this racism and bring our two communities together properly. Harry, the ball is in your over-priveleged nazi court.) 

The man couldn't figure out which type of condom to buy so brought four or five different types to the till. His questions ranged from a quite loud "Which one is good and thin?" to an extremely loud "If you like them then I will like them" (which isn't really a question but it made me laugh). All the time the man behind the counter was becoming more uncomfortable and embarrassed by the question's thrown at him, especially in the cheery, friendly, we're-best-buddies-now manner in which they were thrown. There was a time that buying condoms was more embarrassing than being caught naked with your finger in a stolen badger but now, thanks to the mental breakdown of our modern politically correct world, it is us who are confident about talking about what goes on the end of our cocks and the shop assistant's normal smug "I-know-what-you're-after" look has dissappeared. Too bad, Grandad, that's how we are in 2009. We can buy condoms without (or very nearly without) shame and if you don't like it, well fuck you, Mr. Ancient Old Fuddy-Duddy Chemist Man! Admitedly, he was only about 18 but I still enjoyed the tide turn all the same.   

I'm a little bit scared of the recent Volkswagen advert. I find identical twins quite a scary thing anyway but the thought of several people that looked exactly like you is very creepy indeed. Especially when all they want to do is knock your face in. If that happened to me I'd be dead in no time, due to me hating me but loving confrontation. Of course, I fight like a drowning windmill so it would probably take ages afterall. At least that equally creepy Christmas Coca-Cola advert isn't still on. That was very upsetting. If you didn't see it, a very young girl on her own is ice-skating and accidentally bumps into Father Christmas, Jesus' boss, and he hands her two bottles of Coke. Why would he give her TWO bottles of the delicious and evil beverage? There's only one of her. But then a young man bumps into her and she immediately fancies him and what better than Coke to use as an ice-breaker (The Titanic? HA HA HA HA HA HA! Seriously, you can have that). She then hands the young man a Coke and off they go ice-skating together. Time starts moving very quickly and we see the young couple getting married, having a child and becoming middle-aged. The ad finishes with Santa bumping into a woman in her 60's with her grandchild. It's the woman who bumped into him earlier in the advert but she's all old now! The old woman has two Cokes and gives one to Father Christmas. Now, what is that saying? Is it saying, Here's that Coke I owe you, Santa. Or, much more likely, is it saying, My husband's dead now, Santa, fancy a fuck? Either way, it's disgusting! Although, not so much the former. Making a move on Santa right in front of your granddaughter right after your husband's death is still nowhere near as immoral as this advert. Iggy, Iggy, Iggy.....

You know what? I'm not really enjoying 2009. It's less than two weeks old and it's been shit (but with some very nice, fleeting moments). But there is one thing that is bringing me some joy in these awful days and, like everything that is important to me, it is utterly trivial. My friends Anna and Anthony bought me a mug in the shape of Darth Vader's head. It's also about the same size as Darth Vader's head. It's a thing of beauty. Maybe that's what 2009 will be about. Clinging on to the little things in life that make you happy and having a big Darth Vader mug. 

Sunday, 11 January 2009

Do Not Pass Go.

I've deleted Monopoly from my phone. I must play it two or three times a day. Monopoly! Probably the most dull game in the world. Certainly the dullest game to play on your own. I don't learn anything from it, it doesn't test my brain plus, by playing it alone against the phone, I'm only doing it so I can win and nothing else. Plus there is such an obvious way to set it up so that I beat the phone every single time. It's still not the most pointless way that I've wasted my time and that thought is so depressing that it had to go. I deleted it. I'm now completely free of the tyranny of Monopoly. That means I'll now do all the work I swore I was going to do without the ridiculous distraction of a game I don't even like. Definitely. My Edinburgh shows are practically written, despite the fact I have barely written a word, thanks to getting rid of that monopoly monkey on my back. I've still got Wii Fit though to take up some of my time. I didn't use it on friday and when I switched it on yesterday it reminded me that I should have been Wii Fitting the previous day then asked if I'd been busy. What mad fucker thought that passive aggression would be a good factor in a video game? All I'm saying is, Wii Fit, be aware of what I did to Monopoly. Yeah, I'll play you three times a day for six months then delete you out of embarrassment. That'll be a lesson for you.

2009 is proving to be as awful as 2008 already. First Elfie, now I've found out that my Great Uncle Charles died yesterday morning at the age of 101. To be fair, in a way it's not as bad as 2008. The deaths and illnesses of last year happened to people far too young. Both Elfie and Charles had lived great, full lives and, although Elfie had been in some pain, Charles died peacefully in his sleep. I think living to 101 and dying in my sleep sounds really OK to me. Great Uncle Charles was a very funny man indeed who seemed to have an incredible amount of energy about him. I didn't see that much of him these last 10 years and that's a shame because he became a bit of a legend in my home town. Firstly, a few years ago, when he became the poster child for Northern Ireland's Department of Education because he'd enrolled in a PC training class (not bad for someone in their mid-90's). Secondly, because about 10 years ago he went on holiday to South Africa ON HIS OWN and came back with a 40 year old woman who had just left her husband for him. I'd certainly like to think that when I'm in my 90's I can still go off to far away, hot countries and fuck up someone's marriage. Charles also lived in London for a very long time so I've always liked him for that. Now, 2009, if it's not too much trouble, can we have some good news, please?

I'm a bit worried that I might be enjoying Celebrity Big Brother. I find watching Ulrika Jonnsson crying particularly entertaining. Is that so wrong? I missed it last night so maybe that's my new interest in it broken now. I hope so. I've just got rid of Monopoly, I don't need another crap addiction. Still hasn't Lucy Pinder got good teeth?

Friday, 9 January 2009

Celebrity Big Fucking Whoop.

There is a lot to be worried about in the world at the moment. The global economy is spiralling out of control, thousands of jobs are being lost every week and there is constant horrible news of continued insane attack on Gaza by the Israeli troops, or as Frankie Boyle, Steve Hughes and countless other deep thinking, edgy, political comedians call them; The Jews. Is it really the Jews? Somehow I just don’t see Billy Crystal and David Schimmer pointing a gun at anything that isn’t their own head and if Israel really wanted Barbara Streisand it would cost them half their military budget. It’s not worth it, I reckon. Plus, as Johnny Candon said, I don’t think Hannah Chambers would let Josh Howie go at the moment, he’s got Edinburgh this year. It’s a depressing world but there is a small glimmer of hope and that glimmer is, of course, Celebrity Big Brother. You might remember the much talked about race row that sparked last time from Jade Goody’s remarks about everyone in the world being a fat golliwog or something, well this year the noble and caring folk at Channel 4 are taking major steps to ensure that racism does not raise its ugly head in 2009. Yeah, sure, it’s still mainly white people in there but Channel 4 now have a 10 minute delay on the live feed so if anyone says something racist then they can be edited out. It’s OK to be racist as long as we never know about it. After all, if Frankie Boyle shouts “JEW” in a forest and there’s no-one there, does he have a point? Of course he doesn’t. So Channel 4 have cured racism in the world but thank God that they still deem it OK to dress up a dwarf as a knotted pube and force him to sing with Ulrika Jonnsson while a forgotten ghost from A-1, an unemployed whore from SugaRbabes and the main dick from Coolio watch and laugh. Fuck racism, let’s make fun of the disabled. It’s the new black.

Just a very quick one today. Not much happening really. Yesterday had its ups and downs. The up was seeing Karen Bridges, my flat mate 10 years ago, turned up at last night’s Aldershot gig. There was hardly anyone there and I was trying out new material so no doubt Karen is hugely impressed by how far I’ve got in the last 10 years. The down was hearing that my friend Elfie, an Austrian woman in her late 70’s, died on the 2nd January. Elfie was utterly fantastic. Constantly kind and sweet and hilarious when it came to vegetarianism, a concept she just couldn’t fathom. She would offer me ham and when I said I couldn’t eat it she said she totally understood, that’s why she’s only giving me a little bit. I loved staying with her, her mum and her husband, Hermann, a few years ago in Hartsburg. We had some great times drinking in the mountains and finding my inability to ski less and less funny. Hermann and I spent two full days together practically on our own which was odd as he can’t speak English and learning a second language has never crossed my mind, obviously. It’s amazing how well we communicated. Pointing rocks! So, very sad news, but Elfie had a great life with her fantastic fun and welcoming family. The Christmas card she sent this year seems all the more sweet, charming and sad now.

I’m going to spend the day writing things for the me and Johnny show. We’ll be doing previews from February. Will you come along?

Thursday, 8 January 2009

Wii Bitch.

I went to see Avenue Q last night and to my utter disappointment I thoroughly enjoyed it. I don't like musicals very much and as for comedy? Forget it. But this was a comedy musical so I went there with a raincloud over my head (metaphorically), a volcano in my belly (metaphorically) and a gun (real) expecting the worst night of my life since the time Hitler told me he was my real dad after I caught him in bed with my girlfriend on 9/11. Puppets are great, way better than fucking, wanker actors. And I should know because after the show we went to The Players' Theatre Bar which is everything you should be terrified of. It's FULL of diseased animals far worse than actors, they're drama students, surely the worst scum on this planet. Fuck what's happening with Gaza, trying to have a quiet drink while these fuckwits gather round a piano and foghorn out a song to rounds of applause from their fellow sycophantic balls of embarrassment is about as much as the human body and mind can take. One extra on The Bill herself actually took a song from Wicked, held it down, pushed her thumbs in its eyes and screamed the Satanic Rites at it. Then everyone clapped and asked her to pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease sing another. I left. Is there anywhere on this planet that doesn't celebrate and promote dickheads?

Here's my latest recommendation for you. Never ever ever buy a Wii Fit. It's the worst girlfriend you will ever have. Admittedly, the Wii Fit is better looking, more intelligent and less expensive than most women I've been with but it doesn't stop giving you crap. I hadn't used it for a couple of days and when I switched it on it asked where I'd been. "I hope you've been keeping fit in other ways", it awfulled to me. It then reminded me that to keep my maximum fitness level I would have to use the Wii Fit every day. "That's OK, right?", it said and like a spineless pushover I just caved in and pushed A (our equivalent of saying Yes). Now it's telling me that I've put on 1lb in the last week. WHY? You're supposed to use the Wii Fit EVERY SINGLE DAY. How are you putting on weight? Drinking too much? Eating too much? WHICH IS IT, CHUNKY? I WON'T BE IGNORED. It abused me this way for about 10 minutes yesterday but I still agreed to continue with "The Programme". I'm slightly scared to come home these days. Isn't there a Wii Abused User Hotline? I can't just unplug it like so many other girlfriends. I need help.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009

Jazz MAN.

It's incredible what we do to waste time while we're on this ball of fury and fuck-ups called Earth waiting for the welcome, comforting hand of death to blissfully strangle us and end the tedious suffering we drag ourselves through every awful, bastard day (if you've never read my blog before, Greetings). Last night I found myself in a Jazz Club. I don't know why I was in a Jazz Club. I'm not a fan of aural torture or fucking, fucking, fucking arseholes who use the word "scat" when what they mean is "I've forgotten the words, there's a pube in my throat and I'm having a haemorrhage". But my American Friends wanted to visit one of London's many, many famous Jazz Clubs before going back to St. Louis, a place that you can't wank in without hitting a Jazz Club, I discovered. As I had absolutely no idea that London had any, any famous Jazz Clubs I discovered Jazz After Dark in Greek Street online and thought "Fuck it, that'll do". And "Fuck it, that'll do" was the overall vibe of the place itself. Now, I'm no jazz expert but I think we may have discovered the world's worst jazz singer in the business. Firstly, she couldn't sing. I know that's not the be all and end all of being a singer but I still think it's a good starting point. Also, she couldn't remember the words or the tune or how to sit on a stool without cupping her vagina. Not only that but she looked like what a blind, deaf, mute child's drawing of hell might look like. Her wig was the same size as her and her cocktail was twice the size of that. To make matters worse she had got it into her 128 year old head that talking about her sex-drive would make her more appealling to an audience, although why any of the men she claimed to have bedded during "the time the alarm goes off and the time to go to sleep again" would want to go anywhere near her broken, terracotta fanny is beyond me. The person I felt bad for, besides myself, was her pianist. He was called Thomas and he could play brilliantly. Sadly, he was working with a singer that was tired and an electric piano that was completley knackered. It kept breaking down, as did my will to live. Basically, last night I paid a fiver to watch a drag queen dry heave into a microphone while an embarrassed man who looked like Toby Hadoke said "Shall we get the other piano?" on a loop. When the new piano arrived Thomas did a solo instrumental version of "In The Wee Small Hours" (I requested that) and then my friend Heather sang a song with him. It kept Terracotta Nightmare away for at least 15 minutes. It says on Jazz After Dark's website that what we saw was "Not To Be Missed!!!". Jazz After Dark are mistaken. Thomas was great, though.

After things like the panto, empty bars in Brighton and now the fucking awful bloody Jazz Club it may look as if I may have lost my level of standing with my two visitors. When you lose a certain level of standing with people that you like and admire it can hurt. It guts you a little bit. Makes you feel less of a man. So, how do you get yourself back to your former Man of London status? Simple. By being a man and doing a manly thing. The top half of my house isn't as warm as the bottom half. I didn't know why but I thought I'd find out. The heating was on but the radiators were cold. Hmmmm....Looks like I'm going to have to change the water pressure and bleed the radiators. Guess fucking what???? I DID IT! I did it all by myself. I tried to fix something and somehow while trying to fix it I actually fixed it. Did I phone my brother for advice on how to do it? NO! I did it myself! Did I phone my Dad for some help? FUCK NO! He's as bad as me at these things. I felt great fixing the heating. Like a MAN. I even gave my penis a thumbs up and a cheeky wink. I'd have kissed it but I kept hurting myself. This will probably be the last time in my entire life that I do something manly or even something useful so, please, let me enjoy the moment.

Today in the park I overheard a little girl shout at a little boy "Come back here now or you'll never see cheddar again". Kids are definitely tougher these days. That is all.

Tuesday, 6 January 2009

Dallow, Spicer, Pinky, Cubitt.

Brighton is an amazing town. Brighton is fucking awful. I just haven't made up my mind. One one hand, it's full of vegetarian restaurants and trendy bars but on the other handy it's full of vegetarian restaurants and trendy bars. I'm a vegetarian and you'd think I'd be over the moon about going to Brighton with it's wealth of great eateries but the eateries are definitely getting more and more pretentious and impossible to eat in every time I go there. Food For Friends is excellent. Do you know what I had there? A sunday roast. A lovely, vegetarian sunday roast. Nothing wanky or annoying about it and pretty much what a lot of vegetarians crave and most places refuse to do. But Brighton seems to be in a battle with itself to see if it can out-wank the last pretentious brasserie or, God help us, authentic Gumbo cafe. Terre a Terre used to be a favourite of mine in the very early 90's because, quite simply, it was a vegetarian restaurant. I could walk in, look at the menu and have anything I wanted. Then it changed a bit. Started catering for Vegans. That's OK. I can still have pretty much anything on the menu. Then it changed again. Started making gluten-free meals which means putting together foods that don't mix just so they can fill up the plate. Things like Tandoori Spaghetti with an artichoke conduit. That was still OK. I'm sure there's still a few things on the menu for me. Then they changed again and started catering for people who are food-intolerant but like bright colours and stupid names. Dishes started appearing like Plasticine Porcinni Mushrooms on a Dream with a Rocket Salad Drawing and a Rocket. The staff there are equally piss. They say "Are you ready to order?" and when I thoughtlessly said "Yes" they immediately walked away, got on, booked a back-packing holiday in Phuket and fucked off. Eventually someone resembling Velma from Scooby-Doo zombied past to give us their wheat-free wine list which ranged from revolting bottles of Chateau Nightmare made in Greece at £14.95 to beautiful Pinot Grigio's at £45. And fuck all in between. Terre a Terre used to be so good when it wasn't trying to embarrass the entire human race but just slightly impress a few chunky-jumpered Smiths fans. Still, the food was just OK-ish, nowhere near it's former glory, and when it was eaten we were off into the night to big up Brighton's CRAZEEEEEEEEEE bar n' club scene!

I dunno. Maybe the sunday after New Year's isn't the big night out it used to be but Brighton seemed dead to me.

We managed a few bog-standard pubs and one really great looking bar called Heist. It's a tall beautiful looking building thats been painted completely black, inside and out. It looks great. There were people in there too. Everyone from teenage indie kids to 40-somethings desperately clinging on to that one DJ-ing gig they did 6 years ago. I was closer to the latter. It was a trifle hard to have a conversation there but that was OK. It's not like I don't like loud music, I just don't like other people's loud music but the chances of DJ Eyez-Kold playing all of Marillion's Fugazi were pretty slim. Especially after he's just played Foxtrot by Genesis.

I've had many great times in Brighton over the years and this past weekend was fun, stupid and grating all at the same time. It was also freezing. Just walking around The Lanes was like swimming in broken glass sometimes. Not that this bothered Brighton's locals who like wandering around in their trendy clothes and turning blue. Don't their piercings freeze? We had some good food (at Food For Friends), nice booze, walked on the pier, got hypothermia, shopped and laughed. That's nice. We even met a bunch of gay men (who'd a thunk it in Brighton) who had the worst taste in the world. They recommended, to my American friends, that if they did ANYTHING in Brighton then they had to go to a very bland looking pizza place and also check out Pitcher & Piano. I'd have given them so much kudos if they were just winding up tourists but they weren't. They meant it. Hey, at least they haven't gone all prentious. Yet.

I'm in a quandry. Morrissey's new album has been leaked on the internet. Do I download it? Anyone else I couldn't give a shit about and I'd download them in a second but not Morrissey. It'll probably make him cry all over his latest Mexican "assistant". It's not like I won't buy it when it comes out. I will. No matter how shit it is I will buy it. Maybe I'll just download one song...

Sunday, 4 January 2009


Well, it wasn't Johnny. A shame really because I think he would have brought something original to the role plus he might be able to introduce me to Nicola Bryant or Matthew Waterhouse or, at the very least, steal Kameleon from the props room for me. Sadly, Johnny was pipped at the post by Matt Smith, a 26-year old who hasn't even played Jongleurs Bow yet. He's been in a few plays and some TV dramas but nothing quite as high-profile as Doctor Who before. He was probably in The Curse of Steptoe, you know, something like that. To be honest, I'm not offically his biographer but come 2010 I'll probably feel like I am. Last night's Doctor Who Confidential was just amazing. Just as exciting as a lot of the actual Who episodes and better than a lot of them. David Tennant looked so genuine when he talked about how jealous he is of what Matt Smith is about to experience, in fact he looked really pissed off about it. Hearing about a new Doctor is a very exciting time, I remember going mental when I heard that Jon Pertwee was being replaced and immediately hated Tom Baker. I feel I've been robbed of that feeling this time because Matt looks right. Already I can see him playing the part. He looks gothic and dashing and creepy and funny. Lots of people talk with their hands (not just the deaf) but he seems to talk with his fingers like he's playing Air Piano all the time. That's good. That means he's mad. Mad is good in Doctor Who. I'm sure not everyone will be happy with the casting (I know racists now have one thing less to complain about so they must be furious) but I've very excited to see how he turns out. Only four more Tennant episodes left and, you know, one or two of them might be good. Then it's Matt's turn. Then Johnny's. God, I LOVE Doctor Who.

I did my first gig of 2009 last night at Battersea's Jongleurs. After only two weeks of no gigs I was surprised to feel quite as rusty as I was. Maybe I'm always rusty? Anyway, I liked it. An odd audience but they gave me plenty of room to muck about and even a table of hecklers that pretty much refused to shut up turned out to be fun. Plus I was rude. Just plain rude to a lot of people who had paid money to be entertained. They didn't seem to mind and I certainly felt it a pleasure, not a chore, to insult them as much as I could. It just seemed like quite a relaxed gig and when I'm relaxed I'm just a lot better. So, if you ever see me at a gig and I'm rude to you and hurling a tirade of personal abuse it's only because you've done a great job at putting me at my ease. Well done, you stupid cunt.

Saturday, 3 January 2009

It Wasn't a Great Day But At Least It's BEHIND YOU!

Ever have one of those days that was equally shit and brilliant? I had one yesterday. Ladywell Train Station have found it in their hearts to employ someone who suffers from being a major arsehole. His name is Sakesh and I hate him. I've hated him for about five long years for two very good reasons. One, he can't do even the simplest parts of his job right like handing over the correct tickets or handing over the correct tickets in less than 45 minutes. Two, he acts like we're somehow mates. He often "jokes" with me. Things like me asking for a zone 1-4 travelcard are often met with "no" and five minutes of gormless laughing while I stand there looking at him stoney-faced and thinking about where I'd bury him. I had to deal with him yesterday. When I asked him for a return to London Bridge it was as if that very question itself had given him amnesia and he couldn't work out where he was or how he got the clothes he was wearing. Everything confused his face and seemed to give him great pain. Good. He took so long that the train I had to get on arrived. I asked him to forget about the ticket just give me my debit card back. He looked at me as if the debit card was his only friend and I was taking it away to rape it. He stared at me and I felt then that I had no choice but to shout "CARD. NOW". He gave it back, very annoyingly slowly. I took it, said Prick and jumped on the train. I had to stare out the window and count to ten a lot just to get Sakesh's big idiot face out of my mind. I hate Sakesh.

Then I got to where I was going; The Great British Freezing Fucking Cold Queuing Experience. It was something I really wanted to show to my visiting American friends. If you've never been to the GBFFCQE then you really must go, it's fantastic. You stand there for over an hour and a half (sometimes beside a massive bin) while the cold tries to break your feet, you legs start to ache and foreign tourists, wearing ski sunglasses for some reason, constantly try to push in front of you. It lasts ages and it's free. At the end though you're given the option to pay to go inside The London Dungeon which we all thought we might as well. Queuing in the cold is a very relaxing thing especially after meeting Sakesh and, as happened to me on arrival at London Bridge Station, the HSBC cashpoint machine you tried to use blows up and keeps your card. Yeah, I was sooooooooooo in the mood to queue now!

The London Dungeon is one of London's slightly more fun rip-offs. It costs over £20 to get in and is far more disgusting than it is scary. The disgusting parts are the amount of pretend dead bodies lying around with their organs hanging out and the scariest bit is when one of the students who have dressed up as a plague victim want you to get involved in a spot of audience participation. That happened to me. I was led to a dock in an 18th century courtroom where, somehow, the Judge was a woman. It was there that I was tried for the crime of being a gay transvestite prostitute. I wish I was making this up but I'm sadly not. It was then that I was made to do a series of gestures that made me come across as both homophobic and racist, something I was planning on coming across as anyway. It was awful but I went along with it. I don't know why I did but I did. Maybe I was thinking of the poor students who have found themselves not quite working in London's glittering West End and if I put a bit of energy into it then maybe they'll be a bit happier. Or perhaps I was thinking of the other people watching, they've paid so why not put on a show? Or maybe I was thinking BRILLIANT! I get to be homophobic and racist again! Dad would be so proud.

After all the touristy stuff I felt like I really had to have a hefty amount of culture to balance it all out. The theatre beckoned. I got tickets to one of the best plays in London starring some incredible, respected actors. I say London, it was Bromley. And I say one of the best plays it was Cinderella. Oh, yeah, and I say actors, it was Steve Guttenburg and Helen Lederer. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a pantomime. The last one I went to (if you don't count the Portobello Pantomine in Edinburgh, and I don't) starred Rod Hull and a week after seeing him in it he was DEAD. So, I thought it was a good call to go and see this one. It was a lot of fun. Helen Lederer was really very funny in it, words I never thought anyone could write. The songs were all sing-along and jolly, the sets were all glittery and cartoony and the Buttons character was just as he should be, a fucking prick. All was going well until Guttenburg set his big stupid foot on the stage. It was amazing to see an actor doing what is basically a school play for five year olds and still look like it was too heavy a character for him to play. He looked utterly out of his depth and he has no depth. All his lines were crow-barred references to his career that was shot dead in 1988. "I'm having so much fun I hope I don't SHORT CIRCUIT", he said to children who had never heard of him and adults who wanted to kick his corpse down the high street. You know what? If you don't get something as simple as pantomime, Steve, then just don't take the job. Think of how happy we would have been if it was Derek Griffiths playing the role of Baron Hardup instead? That would have been magical. It's hard to get too grumpy about it because kids loved it. I did get the feeling that pretty much any of the kids near us wanted to join our little gang because we were shouting louder, singing louder and drinking more than their constantly texting parents were. Mind you, the parents looked young to so maybe they were texting 118-118 to see what Short Circuit was?

When we got home my lovely American friends, Heather and Scott, made me very happy indeed by asking for more Doctor Who. Considering a day filled with Sakesh, exploding cashpoints and Steve Fucking Guttenburg, it was just what I wanted to hear. Today is a very important day. It's the day that the BBC reveal who David Tennant's replacement will be. My money's on Johnny Candon. Or Paddy Considine.

Friday, 2 January 2009

Two Thousand and Nine.

Happy New Year to you. Thank the Lord 2008 is over. It was a terrible year full of death and illness. Obviously I hope yours was better than that but that's how it was for me. 2009 has to be better. I think I'll start with some new year's resolutions to help steer me to a happy, successful 12 months. I'm definitely going to work harder this year which should be dead easy as I was a lazy, lazy man work-wise all of 2008 and 2007 and probably the four or five years before that. So, that's good. I'll look after myself better this year too. Again, quite easy as I've lived on beer and Wispas for ages now. Plus, I should try to become famous and rich and the new, hip thing that rich comedians are doing these days is either not swearing or dragging up and wee-weeing their talent away while blindly assuming everyone in Britain loves everything they do. Well, I don't have a dress so I'd best give up swearing. That'll make me much more viable for telly. So, here's to a truly great 2009. It HAS to be better than 2008. 2008 was a wally.

God, not swearing's hard.

I celebrated New Year's Night in style. Sadly, the style was "battered homeless". The Fox & Firkin, a fantastic pub round the corner from my house, held a very unimaginative 70's night, a baffling decade to want to celebrate. People dressed up with afro-wigs, brightly coloured flared trousers and HIGHlarious moustaches, completely ignoring the continuous black-outs, bombing campaigns, accepted racism and the rise of Thatcherism. The great thing about The Fox & Firkin is that the people that go there are all young, trendy students type or at least they are when you don't put on a corduroy and crimpelene-filled, eye-rollingly boring "Disco Night". Everyone there was ancient. Some of them were my age or, occassionally, OLDER! It wasn't a night without it's moments however because I was lucky enough to meet the least likely gay couple in the world. One was a tattooed, shaven-headed, huge thug of a man holding hands and discussing their future wedding with what can only be described as a crusty. In a way, it's a truly beautiful thing that two completely different people can fall in love and be proud of that love publicly but, equally, there was just something really funny about it. It was like Arthur Mullard romantically wooing Wurzel Gummidge. But they were very nice and good fun and, as The Fox & Firkin wasn't getting any better, we left to spend the rest of the evening with a piano player and a trombonist at the Ladywell Tavern. It was a lot better than it sounds. My friend Heather, drunk on the excitement of a new year and cider, forced herself into the role of singer in this little group to much cheers from the room. Ain't Misbehavin', Route 66, Crazy. It's amazing the amount of songs she doesn't know the words to. It was a good night full of booze and friends. Even the hangover the next day was quite nice. We all just lay in my living room, barely moving and watching The Ark In Space (Doctor Who, 1975) and drinking lots of Diet Coke. Mind you, I kept having to swallow a little bit of puke every 15 minutes or so.

Was there anything good in 2008? Not much. Music was pretty bad. I honestly can't think of a single great album from the whole year. I liked two films (The Dark Knight and In Bruges) and some telly (Screenwipe and....maybe that's it). I think Collings and Herrin Podcasts have been the funniest thing of the year and Scott Capurro's stand up was amazing. He's fantastic. The highlights for me were The Real Daniel O'Donnell Show, The Clock Hour and the one Los Quattros show that we did and I loved. I've also really got a kick out of people reading the blog and leaving comments, especially around Edinburgh time. It was nice to have that release. Other than that it was all lung removal, special needs school getting knocked down to make a traveller's site and Brandy Borr dying for me. I didn't like any of those things. But, if we must look at a bright side, and although I don't think we HAVE to I will anyway; that year is all in the past and 2009 has started well. I've watched Doctor Who with some baffled Americans and the Wii Fit just told me that I am as fit as a man two years younger than me. That's not amazing but it's a start. Plus I haven't sworn once. I should be hearing from a top TV producer anytime soon.

And when I say top TV producer I do mean cunt.