Monday, 30 March 2009

Youth and Old Manhood.

I'm getting old. I only found out yesterday when I was tidying up my house.

I've decided to get rid of a lot of stuff that clutters up my house. CD's, DVD's, books, games, a bizarre amount of London A-Z's are all getting chucked or eBayed. The thing is, the items that I own are constantly telling me that I'm not 23 anymore. That's a good enough reason to get rid of them if you ask me. Parklife is 15 years old. How the fuck did that happen? It only came out about 5 years ago so it can't be 15 years old. It's umpossible. Foxbase Alpha is 18 years old! What the fuck? It can't be 18 years old because it's so modern and futuristic and I've just moved to London and it's telling me everything that I want to know and everything I feel about this city. It can't be 18 years old because Sarah Cracknell's only about 25 and me and my mate Phat Paul were sitting in Dingwalls oogling her and that was only last year or something. Plus, it just can't be 18 years old because if it's 18 years old then I must be 40 and that's RIDICULOUS.

Tidying up is quite an awful thing anyway but it's a lot worse when the things that you're tidying up start ridiculing you. The CD's of my youth laugh at me because they've remained youthful and vibrant and my Doctor Who/Star Wars/Batman DVD's that are relatively new remind me that I'm a fucking idiotic man-child. You see? This is why men don't do housework, Chicks. It's not because we're lazy, it's because of the bullying and mental scarring that we have to go through. Women are lucky. They have the mental capacity to understand fully that we all grow old and one day we will die. Men haven't a fucking clue about that. One minute you're a child riding a bike, discovering girls and burying your head in a comic and before you know it you're a middle-aged lump, sitting in your own piss and burying your head in a comic.

At least I'm not Daniel's Dad. If I've done anything in my life, it's that. I've achieved the lofty position of not being Daniel's Dad. Being Daniel's Dad must be awful and I can only assume that he is a very broken man. Daniel is a kid I saw in the park today and he's a prick and a half. So is his mum. So, you see, being Daniel's Dad must surely be about as bad as life gets. Not only have you helped create this fucking dickhead called Daniel but you've also put your precious, precious penis into that heap of arse known as Daniel's mum.

Daniel and his mum were cycling through the park today and passed me while I was at the river throwing the ball for Jerk. Daniel, the big prick, decided that he wanted to ride his bike in the river. His mum told him not to because he might fall in. It's not very deep at all but it is rocky and he was surely going to fall in if he rode his bike through it. He told his mum to shut up and rode his bike into the river. He fell in practically immediately. He was drenched and I was entertained. So far, so good. He got out of the river but without the bike. The bike was in the middle of the river. He started crying. Not because he hurt himself but because he was wet. He was about 13 for fuck's sake. He stood on the bank of the river trying to reach out for the bike, his hand stretched out in front of him just in case The Force actually does work and he can magic his bike back on to dry land. His mother then tried to help. She asked Daniel to hold her hand and to use all his weight to make sure she didn't fall in the river as she stretched over to reach for the bike. She fell in practically immediately. This time, I wasn't so much entertained as overcome with a blend of pity and hate. Daniel's mum got out of the river and stood on the dry river bank. They just didn't know how they were going to get the bike out.

THEY HAVE BOTH BEEN IN THE RIVER AND ON BOTH OCCASIONS RAN AWAY FROM THE BIKE. What is wrong with these fuckwits? By now, I had decided to sit by the river and watch. Mum walked all the way round to the other side of the river, via two bridges, but even on the other side was too far away to reach the bike. Daniel's mum had run out of options. She asked for my help. That is normally the last thing that people do. The pathetic pair were soaking wet and shivering. I had to help. I pointed out to them that if Daniel walks into the river he can lift the bike and take it to dry land. Mum pointed out that he would get his wet shoes wet if he did that. OK, I said, why doesn't he take his shoes and socks off and walk in? Because, she replied, he would get his feet wet. I left them to it.

My house is starting to look slightly more bare. Once I get rid of these mocking items I'll have a lot more room. I've only put one thing on eBay so far but I hope you will be interested in buying it for your own home. I've had this framed photo of comedian Rex Boyd for ages. Happy bidding:

Sunday, 29 March 2009

The Change.

All the gigs this weekend were fantastic which means I'm in a horribly good mood. Don't get me wrong, I tried to get in a bad mood. I didn't want to let you down so I tried to do a podcast knowing fully well that my Podcastudio just refuses to work when I tell it to. It's an evil bastard, really. It works when I set it up and it seems to love recording me saying "Testing, Testing, 1,2,3." but when it comes down to me actually using it for a podcast it just stops. Like it was bored or something. Rude.

But my fury didn't last long because I was with Johnny Candon, da party man! I mean, if we don't do a podcast then we can go straight to the pub. Brilliant. I live near a pub. We can be there in 5 minutes. Johnny can't say no to pubs, today's gonna be fiiiiiine. But today wasn't fiiiiiine because Johnny wanted to go shoe shopping. Fucking shoe shopping!? What? Are we Sex In The City now? Johnny actually said the words "I need to go to Schuh or Office" in that order. I had lost Johnny. Johnny has been changing a lot lately. He's been eating salads and packets of roasted almonds instead of punching his face in with deep-fried heart-attack meat. He's even been talking about going to the gym (only talking about it, mind). Poor Johnny. No more lovable falling asleep in his lunch due to having too many breakfast ciders, from now on it was all about looking good, girlfriend. I needn't have worried. The big, cack-handed lummox wandered around the streets of Covent Garden terrified of shops that sold non-booze related footwear for about 20 minutes before running back to the safety of beer and quiz machines. Stupid Johnny trying to think for himself. Idiot.

The Jade Goody film lie made me angry for about 15 minutes too so, really, the last few days have just been peppered with bile rather than steeped in it like normal. Last night's Comedy Cafe gig was excellent. I even saw a new comedian who I really liked. Imagine that! Her name is Katie Wilkins (I think) and her material about talking dirty to her boyfriend in bed was absolutely fantastic. I laughed a lot. In fact I've been doing a fair bit of that laughing thing over the last few days. I finally got round to watching the first series of The Inbetweeners which was excellent, Newswipe was amazing and I get Peep Show now. Never did before. It's brilliant.

Sorry about the good mood. Perhaps you can recommend a terrible comedy TV show for me to watch and I can be back to angry normal. If Johnny's turning into a red-hot, size zero shopaholic and I'm finding comedy "fun" then this does not bode well for King of Everything. Please help.

In the meantime, enjoy this opening credit sequence for the 60's cartoon of Marvel comic's terrifying ball of fury, The Hulk. Ain't he unglamour-ace?

Saturday, 28 March 2009

The Jade Monkey.

Jade Goody: The Movie? You know what? Fuck off now. I've tried my very bestest to be kind, thoughtful and respectful about the news of Jade's horrible illness and eventual death, despite all knowledge that she is in no way more important than any other person who has died of cancer, but the very thought that anyone at all is even thinking of discussing a movie biopic about Jade's utterly ordinary life beggars belief. It was on the front page of the Daily Star today. That makes it practically gospel. Like Jesus wrote it or something.

I have nothing at all against Jade Goody. She made money out of, well, nothing but people loved her and I certainly can't argue with that. Natasha Richardson was a well-respected stage actress but no-one gave two fucks when she died. Fucking hell, Darth Vader has cancer now. Where's his fucking OK! magazine creepy selling-the-dead special? But, a film about her life? Isn't that the news media wringing the last bit of energy out of this story? Of course it's not. They'll always get more.

What sort of film could it be anyway? It's hardly inspiring. Woman exists, is loud, dies. That's not much of a gripping tale. I know there was more to Jade's life than just that but...well...I dunno, was there? Really? She was popular. OK, but for what? I still don't know. She was unpopular. I understand that but it was ridiculous how she was treated for it. She said something stupid. She was told it was stupid. She understood it was stupid. She apologised. That all sounds OK to me but that was her at a time when Britain hated her. Britain hated her for having the same opinion or lack of education as almost everyone in Britain. It was fine when she just embarrassed herself but when she showed us all up to be cunts that was the limit. Then she became popular again. Because she was ill. God, we're horrible.

The Bionic Woman is, apparently, playing the part of Jade in the film. I want Danny Dyer as Jack Tweed, Dev Patel as Shilpa Shetty and, of course, Morgan Freeman as caring old Uncle Max Clifford. It'll be MASSIVE. If, you know, it ever existed.

I never thought I'd say this but I really do feel sorry for Jade Goody. She sold pretty much everything she ever had while she was alive and she's now a product. The one big product that, in these credit crunch times, continues to sell. Newspapers will continue to make a lot of money from her by making up crap for a long time to come. There is obviously no plan to make a Jade Goody film because there can't be. There's just not enough there to make an actual on-screen story. That doesn't stop papers like the Daily Star, The Mirror, etc. from telling us that there is. Jade sells, so why not make up some crap and sell a bit more? It's depressing.

A dog went missing in the park at Ladywell three weeks ago. Posters went up immediately crying out for the safe return of this loveable pet to the family. The dog was then found a few days later. The posters are still up. Why? Why must people be concerned about a lost dog that is currently at home being spoiled by it's loving, lazy owners? Why won't they take the dozens and dozens of fucking posters they put up down? More importantly: While there is a credit crunch destroying the world, our saviour Obama is sending more troops in to Afghanistan and 48 people are killed in a terrorist attack in Pakistan, how come I'm more fixated with a Jade Goody lie and some lazy, thoughtless dog owners? I'm depressing.

More chuckle tomorrow, folks!

Thursday, 26 March 2009

More Idiots.

The park is getting worse. Luckily, so is the weather so maybe these other people will stop using it for a while and give it back to us regular dog walkers, alcoholics and tree-screaming-at-ers that the park rightfully belongs to.

I saw a young family out walking their Staffordshire Bull Terrier yesterday. I hadn't seen them before and therefore I can only conclude that they are other people and don't belong in my park. Then I concluded that they don't belong in my universe when the "Dad" said to his dog, "Do we have to have this conversation again, Oliver?" "Dad" is a bellend.

But he is NOTHING compared to the two gentlemen I saw competing against one another for World's Biggest Tool. I was 10 minutes from leaving the park and for once I thought it was a relatively twat-free walk until I saw these dudes. And they were dudes. They were huge, wore t-shirts that were going mental over some sort of sport or other and they wore baseball caps. In England. In 2009! It goes without saying that they weren't from round here. They was all American like. They were playing a game called Frisbee. The rules of Frisbee are simple: Rule 1) A twat throws plastic at another twat. Rule 2) See Rule 1.

It was borderline pathetic. There's nothing wrong with playing Frisbee, it's only a game after all. But there most certainly is something wrong with playing Frisbee if you whoop loudly when you catch the Frisbee and the person you're playing with applauds. Surely, catching the Frisbee is what you're supposed to do? Isn't that all there is to it? Then when one of them didn't catch the Frisbee the prick that threw it yelled "C'mon, man. Where's the desire?" Those were his actual words in real life. He's an adult. Playing a game. The park can be a depressing place.

Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Blanked By Baby.

What is the fucking point? I was invited round to Margaret Cabourn-Smith & Dan Tetsell's flat yesterday to meet their new baby, Amy. I brought booze, flowers and Bennett Arron (actually that bit was awkward. Bennett was on his own in a nearby Starbucks and I couldn't just leave him there). Their flat is in Hammersmith, one of the many places in West London that thinks street signs are crass and unnecessary. Firstly, my train is late. Then I get on a tube that is so slow it feels like it's going backwards in time. Then when I get to Hammersmith, Bennett starts pissing about crying that he wants to get a present for the baby. He's never met the baby. He has no concept of what this person likes but decides he must buy something anyway. The fucking idiot. He buys something that is pink because Bennett is a sexist. I'm bringing a sexist round to my friend's house. Fucking brilliant. I might as well have knocked on their door and given them Jim Davison as a present. Anyway, we were late and I hate being late.

Dan welcomed us at the door with Amy in his arms. She was sleeping and very, very quiet. And that's how she remained for the entire time we were there. The rude fuck. I had come all the way from Lewisham to see her and she acted like she couldn't care less. If you come round to my house, Jerk WHO IS A DOG, not even a human, will at least wag her tail and sniff your crotch but this was all frankly beneath Amy. Luckily, Margaret's sister had brought an emergency baby with her so we could all smile at clap at her. Mabel made the effort, Amy. Learn from her. I'm hopefully seeing Rob Hitchmough's new baby, James, next week and if he doesn't jump through hoops and juggle I'm fucking off to the pub.

After some champagne and a lovely time with Dan and Margaret and, I suppose, Amy, sexist Bennett and I went out to discuss our play that we've been talking about for the past few months. It's amazing the many and varied topics of conversation you can come up with when you know you should be talking about work. Actually, we had a really nice night. Lots of drinking and pop-quizzing. Fun. Fun that was slightly ruined by a man who joined us without introducing himself and spent far too long just staring at me without saying anything. It was very uncomfortable. At least Amy was just rude, this man was utterly creepy. It was a bit like a ventriloquist had just left his life-size dummy down at our table and fucked off.

Then a drunk big mental decided he wanted to talk to me while I was on my train home. "Where's Hayes?" was his opening gambit. Not "Excuse me, can you tell me where Hayes is, please?", just "Where's Hayes?".

I think my reply to him was justified. "Eh?", I said.

"Hayes. Where is it?".

By this time, I had pretty much run out of conversation with him. "I don't know", I said hoping that would be the end of our friendship.

"Hayes. In Kent.", he continued.

"Well, it's in Kent", I said. Great. That's bound to be it all over now.

"Yeah. Whereabouts?"

FUCK. "I don't know", I said while burying my head in my iPod.

"It's West Wickham way".


And that was it. He didn't say another word. He wasn't looking for directions, he was pop-quizzing me. On a train. After 11.30 at night. While wiping ketchup off his knee. You really do learn something new everyday. If you meet enough of the right nutters.

Tuesday, 24 March 2009

Fucking Idiots Enjoy Big Warm Globe in Sky.

A walk in the park is no walk in the park, I can tell you. In fact, I think I have several times. Sorry about that. I do spend a fair bit of time in the park though and now that we've had a few days of sort-of sunshine I feel like my park has been invaded by other people.

Other people are ridiculous. They come to the park but instead of walking their dog, or drinking heroins at 9am or shouting at grass they do weird things. Weird things like having a picnic, play tennis and look at ducks for some fucking reason. Today I saw a woman doing something really weird that only other people in the park would think of doing; Tai Chi.

At least, I think it was Tai Chi. I don't really know what Tai Chi is. Is Tai Chi the thing where you carefully move your arms and legs about the place like you're trying to fight a very slow ghost? Well, that's what this woman was doing. Now, I have absolutely no idea what Tai Chi does for you although I'm willing to bet that it's nothing. It's still quite funny to see someone doing it in a park in Lewisham. You'd think Tai Chi in public in Lewisham would be a licence to have your own head kicked in but all she got was stares. I looked at her but only because it was mad and I wanted to try to figure what, if anything, she could be getting out of it. But after 10 seconds I realised that it was rude to stare so just went on my way. Jerk, unfortunately, does not have my good manners. She stood about 12 feet away from the woman, her head cocked to one side staring at Tai Chi. I can't figure out what Tai Chi is and I'm pretty sure if it baffled me then Jerk was going through an absolute head-fuck by watching. I called Jerk away but she ignored me. So, I did the dog owner thing of if your dog ignores you then walk briskly away. They'll see you're not interested in them and come running for attention. They're very like comedians in that respect. I walked round the corner and down a little country-looking lane, confident that Jerk would be following me in a second. She didn't. I waited for her for about a minute. Then I called her again. NOTHING. Fuck this, I'll go back and get her. I walked back to where Jerk was only to see her now sitting down totally relaxed in front of Tai Chi woman, who was still slowly battling the invisible dead. That's all the proof I need. Tai Chi works. Very relaxing. If you're a dog.

This is another example of my snobbery. I have to really watch this, I think. Looking at a woman doing Tai Chi in the middle of a park in Lewisham and just assuming she's an idiot is bad. Although, reading back, it does make sense. Anyway, I feel bad that perhaps I didn't appreciate Webstocky on Sunday enough. I judged the audience, the other acts and me. That's very bad. If I sounded unappreciative of the opportunity then that was not my intention. I'm utterly grateful to Matthew Crosby for giving me the chance to read out my blogs. The fact that I barely rose to the challenge is my problem. And thank you very much to the people who were there who wrote to me saying that they enjoyed the whole show including my bits. I'm very grateful. Hopefully, this will open my mind a bit to trying other experiences. I mean, I'm a bit of a cunt so it probably won't. But thank you very much.

Then on the way back from the dog-walk a man decided to get Jerk's attention by whistling at her. This is very stupid non-dog owner behaviour. There's a very simple rule: if it's not your dog then leave it alone, you fucking idiot. But Jerk fucking LOVES whistling so she dropped her tennis ball and walked towards the fucking idiot. I then called Jerk and commanded her to get her ball and bring it to me. Unsurprisingly, the whistle was too interesting so, once again, I was ignored. She'd never heard this whistle before. It was new. To her, it was a lost Smiths album. To me, it was a noise a fucking idiot made. Then the fucking idiot decided to run and get the tennis ball. I hate it when fucking idiots throw the ball for jerk because it teaches her nothing about looking after the ball in the park. But he threw it towards me and Jerk came running. I shouted "Cheers, mate" at him, even though I didn't want to. Jerk was back at my side and we were on our way home. That's when "You could have fucking said thank you" was shouted at me. I ignored the cunt. Not only did he do something that I didn't want him to do, I thanked him for it and then got accused of being ungrateful. I THANKED HIM FOR DOING SOMETHING I HATE. That's the most courteous thing I can possibly do. The fucking idiot went back to his picnic and I vowed to teach Jerk to attack people's throats on command. Jerk skipped and wagged her tail as if she hadn't understood a thing.

I had a surprise night in last night so I caught up on telly. First of all I watched The Justin Lee Collins Show which gave me cancer of the imagination. The fat talentless cunt starts his show by singing a Tom Jones song. He sings it really well and obviously has a good voice but the thing is, the fat talentless cunt doesn't realise that that's not the point. You're not supposed to start a show by singing a Tom Jones song. It wastes time and is upsetting. He then went on to interview Billie Piper and "hilariously" rape Jane from Rod, Jane and Freddy. Fucking prick. I also saw Dave Gorman's Genius which I really liked. Like Justin Lee Collins, Dave also had Catherine Tate as a guest but unlike Justin Lee Collins he didn't make me taste all my future sicks in one go. Genius had a guest called Paul who invented a hood that you keep in your sleeve so that if it rains you can put your arm round your lady-friend and the hood will keep her dry. I'm actually baffled as to how that doesn't actually exist in real life. I love Paul. He's a visionary. I'm looking forward to seeing more Genius and can only assume that Paul will be in it every week. Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle was excellent again. I really think we're very lucky that this is on TV. It's great, so therefore it shouldn't exist.

Monday, 23 March 2009

Art Failure.

I feel really embarrassed today. What the fuck was I thinking yesterday when I agreed to read out blogs at WebstockY, part of the London Word Festival? That's a ridiculous thing to do. These blogs are spunked out all in one go and then forgotten about. They're not meant to be looked back at, printed out and then read out in front of people so cool that they would have to emigrate to the bottom of the sea if anyone so much as saw them smile.

Not that I'm blaming the audience. Well, they weren't really an audience for starters. They were just a bunch of arty, bored looking people who sat on the floor wearing ironic big beards and drinking fucking juice. No, the blame is firmly with me. I entered their world with nothing but swearing, grumpiness and an inability to pronounce quinoa properly.

I got there at 4 o'clock and immediately knew I'd made a mistake. There was a shop set up in the corner that sold it's own booklets and badges and provided lots of coloured markers and blank paper so that people there can draw their own pictures or create their own stories. There's a fine line between the intelligensia and the special needs. Soon everyone was settling down on the floor with their fucking juice because the first act was about to begin.

The first act was a performance poet who took photos of people's t-shirts then wrote poetry based on the t-shirt slogans. She read out her poems to a soundtrack put together from edited bits of pirate radio all stuck together and playing at the same time. Unbelievably, it was just as bad as it sounded. I walked out after a very baffling minute. I was followed out the door by someone who worked for the festival. "She's Art's Council funded", he said. "So we have to have her". Lucky bitch. Wish I'd had a good excuse to be here.

It just wasn't for me. Not that it was all bad, it was far from it. If it was exactly the same but instead of a performance poet there was a Cyberman and instead of showing short films they showed the last episode of The Tenth Planet then I would have been delighted. These people have every right to like poetry and blurred photos and non-alcoholic drinks and films about being lonely and a load of other balls. Plus Matthew Crosby was there, a man I think it's impossible to dislike (although, obviously I've tried). He's very funny, self-deprecating and he never seems to stop. He worked the entire show. Not just booking the acts (me, Andy Zaltsman, Idiots of Ants, some other chancers) but running around making sure everything was running smoothly-ish, constantly sending out Twitter updates of the days events and actually hosting the show. I like Matthew a lot. If you know him, buy him a fucking juice from me.

The second half started late due to a technical hitch. Technical hitch then became the theme of Idiots of Ants set. Never really seen Idiots of Ants before. They showed films of things they've done for BBC3 and other pretend TV stations plus sang a few songs. The films went down well but took ages to get started thanks to Apple Mac's fucking pointless inability to work when you want them to. Do Apple Mac's ever work? My favourite part of their set was when one of Idiots of Ants (there was only two of them) said that the next bit was "something we made before we became successful as Idiots of Ants". Well, I laughed.

Then it was me. Me on stage. Me on stage looking out into an ocean of bored faces. I could tell immediately that they wouldn't like me. I wasn't an artist, I wasn't making a point and I didn't have any form of digital media to show them. Apparently, these particular arty people like their lo-fi just a bit more technological. Oh, well. I started off with a bit of stand-up about fucking children. Surprisingly, that got a laugh so I thought I'd best start with the blogs. "These are things I made before they became successful as Idiots of Ants", I quipped to utter silence. Right. Here goes. The one about me being given a tennis ball for Jerk and then throwing it over a fence went down OK. I felt a bit more confident. Then I went on to read out the one about my family loving telling stories about people who got "kilt". That went down well. I was quite confident now and read out the trying to find Quinola in Sainsbury's one that got some really good laughs. I was sooooooooooooooooooo confident now. These things can work. It's not perfect, they need some work, this isn't an ideal audience but, despite everything, I'm getting some laughs and it seems that this might be a good idea after all. Then I ruin EVERYTHING by reading out just one more. Balls. Either they didn't find it in any way funny or they are all big fans of Skinnyjeans. I left the stage mentally kicking myself.

Luckily, I had my good friends Rob Heeney and Liz Buckley there to laugh at my shame. I drank my pint of beer in 9 seconds and left. Rob and I jumped in a cab to go to Islington to watch The Trap. They were hilarious which slightly made me feel worse. The thoughtless pair of cunts and another cunt. It was fantastic to see The Trap finally do a new show. It's been three years since their last one. They've replaced all their interactive media with a big piece of paper with writing on it. I like it. I hope they do something again soon. Perhaps I can support them by reading out some of my blogs. You know, or not.

The rest of my weekend in Liverpool was fun despite Saturday night's gig being pretty much ruined right from the word go by a man getting on stage and grabbing my balls. He thought it was hilarious and that's his problem. I just found it disturbing. Don't get me wrong, I love my balls but I don't think they're so lovely that people find them irresistible. Apparently, I'm very wrong about that. I must make a note to make my balls look slightly less beautiful, if that's possible, when I go out in future. I get the feeling grabbing my balls might be the new giving me a Wispa at a gig. WOMEN touching my balls, that is. Not men. Just a thought...

Saturday, 21 March 2009

Too Drunk To Fuck (Chris).

I am hungover. This is my first weekend away this year and so it should be spent in a complete drunken haze with no sign of sobriety. I'm in Liverpool. It's very easy to remain drunk in Liverpool mainly because it's so cheap. I spent the day drinking in the sun yesterday. That's a lovely way to drink. In a lovely beer garden, sun on your face and surrounded by flowers and signs reading "DRUGS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED" everywhere. I would tolerate gang rape if I thought I could have a nice beer in the sun.

The first bar I went to was called Ye Cracke. I liked it the second I stepped inside. The first thing I saw was a man who I suspected had been standing at the bar nursing pints for decades. His skin looked sad, his posture defeated and his voice creaked of the past. He said to the barmaid who wasn't listening "I took her for a drink on tuesday...." My God, I thought, Craig David's really let himself go.

I was in Ye Cracke with my friends Chris and Edda, two genuinely lovely people who are very much in love with each other. They do have one fault, and I'm sure you know a couple just like this, they are both really good looking. They're kind of perfect looking specimens of man and woman. It's only right that they should be together because if they went out with other people that other person would constantly be saying to themselves "How the fuck did I end up in bed with Chris/Edda? I'm not good enough" and eventually would kill themselves by shoving a screwdriver repeatedly into their own brain, I imagine. It's very off putting being with two really good looking people because, and I think everyone in the world would agree with me, you don't really know which one you'd fuck first. I'm not gay but Chris is great and I'm sure fucking him would be a right laugh. We'd probably go for a drink afterwards. Or during. And Edda is a woman so that's probably one of the main reasons that I think sex with her would be good too. Of course, this is just a daydream. I wouldn't really have sex with either of them in real life because I've known them both for a long time and, although they haven't said it out loud, me having sex with them is something that they would hate. God, I'm drunk.

After Ye Cracke we ventured to a bar called Fly In The Loaf. I have little to know memory of this, so please feel free to write your own blog imagining what hilarious antics I got up to. OR if you actually know what I got up to then please let me know. Cheers.

Shockingly, I sobered up for the gig. It was good! I'm never very good at Comedy Central in Liverpool but the past two nights have been OK. On Thursday night most of the audience forgot to turn up or something because there was hardly anyone there and the people who turned up were either mute or angry. I liked it in a strange way though because I spent most of the gig making jokes about how the comedians on the bill feared laughter and the quiet audience were obviously supporting that. Good for them. Last night at the same venue was a lot livlier. Too lively by the end of the night with incoherent drunk men providing some very unhelpful DVD commentary for Martin Bigpig. The stupid cunts. Mind you, by the end of the gig I was back to being quite drunk myself.

It's shame I was drunk really because after the show I went for more drinks with Sarah Millican, Gary Delaney, Ros (who runs the gig) and Dave Williams. That all sounds lovely but I have next to no memory of the entire event. It was almost the same the night before when I went for a drink with Richard Herring. First of all I make him meet me in a bar that he got punched in the last time he was here and then I turn up drunk and can barely remember any of the boring things I must have said to him, making me a cunt. Still, good to see I'm ruining his career:

Then I meet up with Gary, Sarah, et al and I barely remember that either, making me a stupid cunt. Then, at the end of the night, I jump in a cab home leaving Ros to stand and wait on another cab on her own at 2am, making me a fucking evil stupid cunt. What a cock. And not in a good way. Still, I looked at my phone today and saw that I texted Sarah last night and challenged her to a live Blog-Off in Edinburgh. She rightly replied with "I don't know what that is". Me neither but when I find out I'm going to whup her ass at it. Any help is greatly appreciated.

It's after 1.30pm in Liverpool and so far I've been booze free. Can I keep it up? Why not come to Comedy Central tonight yourself to find out. Plus, I'm reading out about 6/7 of my blogs at the London Word Festival tomorrow afternoon. I have no idea where that gig is but would love you to come along as I am terrified of it. Then it's The Trap, the greatest sketch group EVER, at the Hen & Chickens at 7.30pm. Go to both of those gigs. Watch a hungover man cry while he tries to read out his own bile then go to see how really funny men can make you laugh properly. Your sunday is SORTED. Oh, and bring your Mum. It's her day, remember?

Thursday, 19 March 2009

Tom is Hard Work II.

I saw Tom again yesterday. I wasn't expecting to see him again and when I found out that I was, I felt a bit sick. This time the meeting was mercifully brief but he displayed all of his foibles in that short time with great gusto. In fact, he didn't even need to open his mouth (although he fucking did) to annoy the shit out of the world because his t-shirt was a bastard all on it's own. It said "NO, I'M NOT ON F@*#ING FACEBOOK!". This was ridiculous for several reasons. No-one asked him if he was on Facebook. The Facebook craze has passed so no-one really asks that question at all now. He is on Facebook (I rejected his friend request yesterday). And, finally, there is nothing more infuriating than censored swearing. If you don't want to swear, then don't swear. If you do, fine, just don't put loads of hash signs and shit in it instead of letters. People aren't offended by the actual spelling of a swear word.

It was a lovely day yesterday. Very sunny. I spent a good chunk of the day sitting outside drinking beer with Paul Litchfield. Drinking beer in the sun is as close to nirvana that we humans will ever reach. It was a really lovely day ruined only by the glimpse of an OK! Jade Goody Tribute Magazine. I don't think you should be able to read your own commemorative tribute about how you died. Especially when the magazine is called OK!

I'm off to Liverpool this weekend. Speaking of Paul Litchfield, The Trap are playing the final of three comeback gigs this sunday at the Hen & Chickens, Islington. I can't urge you enough to go. The Trap are honestly the best there is. They're the funniest sketch group I've ever seen. Make sure you go. You could be stopping the next Horne & Corden by buying a ticket.

By the way, and this is pure laziness, are you a regular-ish reader of this blog? Can you think of any particularly good ones? I'm reading some out at the London Word Festival this sunday. It could be very, very shit. Make sure you're there. Thank you!

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Tom is Hard Work.

Yesterday, I met a cock. Now, I meet cunts all the time but it's quite rare that one bumps into a cock. Cunts are quite evil really but cocks are just annoying. They're normally desperate to be your friend, try too hard and just end up looking ridiculous and getting on your nerves. You know the type. You don't? Here's one:

The cock that I met was working at a sound studio in Soho. I had to do a little voiceover thing that was six words long and should have taken me less than a minute. I was there for two hours listening to Tom. Tom the cock. Tom has no malice in him, he is a very good man but if you could get away with it you would gladly fill him full of poison and then shoot him. Firstly, 50% of the time he referred to me as Mr. Legge, the rest of the time he called me Bro which isn't even short for Michael. When we met he shook my hand in that horribly, embarrassing all-fingers-over-thumb, we've-bonded kind of way, then he just said a long list of really weird things like "You look like a man who knows a beer", "Are you bigging up St. Patrick today?" (Fuck yeah, Tom. And, yo, let's give it large to St. Francis of Assisi while we're at it), and "How many gigs do you do on average per month that rake it in? Money-wise, I mean". Believe me, that was just the tip of the iceberg because Tom just could not shut up. Nor could he see that everyone else wasn't speaking in fear that he might be the only one to respond. At one point there was silence for maybe 6 minutes while the sound engineer tried to figure out what was wrong with the sound desk. No-one spoke at all. It was really nice. Then the six minutes was over when Tom got us all riveted with "Do you know where I had the best full English ever? Bang. La. Desh". Take me now, Lord.

You might think that all that was unbearable. It was. You're right. But it still wasn't as bad as his weird, weird habit that confused everyone in the room. He swore a lot. That's fine, of course, but he swore a lot and then put the word "Son" on the end of any swear word he said. "Let's get this shitson over with", "The tea here tastes like fuckingson pisson", "My name is Tom and I am an enormous fuckingson, cuntingson cockson". What the fuckson could he possibly be getting out of that? I take it back. The man's been upgraded to cunt. Congratulations, Tom.

I have a meeting in the same part of Soho this afternoon. I'm scared to go. Please go for me.

Tuesday, 17 March 2009

This Is Not a Blog.

Although I will never blog again ever, if I was the sort of person who still blogged I'd probably be blogging about Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle. It's fantastic. I don't really know about blogging, because I don't do it, but if I did I'm pretty sure that I'd want to only write about great comedy shows that are being produced here in the UK and completely avoid talking about the few weaker one that somehow get made too. I hate all these angry bloggers who only complain about the rare,occasional, not up to par comedy programmes yet somehow miss praising the many, many great ones that fill our telly schedules. Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle is one in a long line of great comedy shows, like The Peter Serafinowicz Show, to name but the other one.

It's like cunting Horne & Corden had been taken out and shot, that's how good it felt watching Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle. It actually, wait for it, made me laugh. Remember laughing? At comedy, I mean? No, it had slipped my mind completely too. Laughing is the new Spangles and, like a likeable version of Peter Kay, Stewart Lee has reminded us of this forgotten thing of the past. It's such an interesting idea for a show; a funny man says things that are funny. It beggars belief that no-one has thought of this before (except Dave Allen). Obviously, with a new idea like this, you want to be careful not to alienate, confuse or terrify your audience which would explain fully why the BBC barely showed any trailers for it and didn't plaster it all over every fucking bus in London. It's a great show but can you imagine if anyone actually saw it? People might start thinking and then that would be the end of everything. People might start seeing a few of the hair-line cracks in other recent comedy shows starring a plank of wood and a fat cunt. I shouldn't really complain about it because it actually is nothing less than a minor miracle that we have something this good on TV. It's actually given me a little bit of hope. Plus I think that I, personally, deserve Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle. His response to anyone who has ever asked "Have you read Harry Potter?" is beyond superb. Thank the Lord.

Yeah, supporting well-deserved, good comedy is definitely the way to go if I was ever to blog. Last night I supported another great new comedy. And a shit one. The great one, I meant to support. The shit one was an accident. Alex Lowe has written a sit-com called The Green which had a read-through at the Soho Theatre as part of The Comedy Project. It was excellent. Well written and superbly performed. The cast alone was worthy of a night of 100 stars. It featured the man from the bank adverts (he was the first person to get killed in new Dr. Who, too), the sexy man from I'm Alan Partridge and one of Titty Bang Bang. A lot of people came just to see Alex's show. I know this because during the second show the room had practically emptied. I have no idea what the second show was called or who was in it but I will never forget it. I didn't want to see it but was persuaded to, by Alex, and I certainly didn't want to be part of it. But I was. I walked in late and the woman on stage who was dressed as a man (she had a hat on) dragged me to the stage to, basically, write cunt on my head. It was horrible. It was a one-woman (if you don't count me) show showing off the actresses varied range of characters such as man with hat, posh woman and annoying European whore. Now I'm sort-of fine being on stage when I'm doing my, you know, thing but when it comes to taking part in someone else's I just want the ground to open up and kick their fucking head in. I don't know what to do. Do I help? If I help am I just scene stealing? Who would win in a fight, the batmobile or a volcano? These are the questions that ran through my mind during this painful and unbearable five minutes.

At one point she forced me to wear a surgical gown. I would rather go through actual surgery than sit through this excruciatingly embarrassing so-called sketch. She then, I think, removed a multi-coloured hanky from my arsehole. I was then told that I could go back to my seat. I felt belittled, embarrassed and used. Then I felt ashamed. Because that's what I do to countless poor saps who innocently sit in the front row of comedy clubs all the time. What goes around, comes around. The hunter becomes the hunted. The man that did the thing that he did has the thing that he did done to him once. Yeah, wise words.

Monday, 16 March 2009


As this is my last ever blog I thought I should go out the way I came in: by being fully supportive and positive about what's happening in the world of comedy.

I was told yesterday that Stewart Lee's new TV show is on tonight. That is terrible news. Not that Stewart Lee has a TV show and it's on tonight. That bit's good. It's the fact that I was informed of it yesterday. I had no idea. How the fuck can someone as brilliant as Stewart Lee have a TV show on tonight and it's passed me by yet I can't fucking blink without seeing another trailer or poster for cunting Horne & Corden? I haven't seen one single thing about it. I don't even know what it's called, when it's on or what channel it's going out on. It's not like I haven't been watching TV. I have. Even during Comic Relief, a charity marathon, the BBC were showing cunting Horne & Corden trailers. (Right now I am listening to invisible Mathew Horne on breakfast telly say that the bad reviews they got for their show was "an inevitability due to the way the press works" and not because they're shit, so that's good). Yet not a single note of Stewart Lee's show has got through to me. Apparently, it's brilliant as I can only imagine it would be. He's about as talented as you could ever dream of being and the fact that he's brilliant AND has a TV show is a miracle in itself. Bit much to expect anyone to give a fuck about it, I suppose.

So, set your video tape recorders. Stewart Lee. Tonight. Sometime. On the television.

Big thanks to everyone who came to King of Everything last night. It was fun having you there. And thanks for reading the blog and not having a fucking queenie fit over it. Stupid cunts.

Sunday, 15 March 2009


I'm still trying to get my way through Comic Relief and every time I see one of their films about the despair that some people very sadly have to go through I couldn't help think what a selfish pair of cunts Russell Howard and Michael McIntyre are. Didn't I say that we'd all give money to Comic Relief? Didn't I put Comic Relief's number in my blog? All they had to do is have one little punch-up and they couldn't even be bothered doing that. The fucking cunts. They are both worse than paedophiles as far as I'm concerned. There are people DYING out there, Russell and Michael, you could stop that but you fucking refuse to. For every punch to Michael's face, wouldn't we all have pledged £5? For every boot-fuck to Russell's back wouldn't we have dug deep in our pockets? But no. Those two are too busy obsessing over their careers to even think about the little people.

When I heard on Friday night that the might of Michael McIntyre was up against rock-hard Russell Howard, I never once thought that a story as credible as that could turn out to be a rumour but, I'm heartbroken to say, it was. Russell confirmed it himself on the Facebook version of this blog yesterday. At first I didn't believe it was really him. I thought it was an alias. But the truth was revealed in a very clever ps at the end of his comment. It read "ps This isn't an alias". So that gave me the proof I needed. And, yes, I'm very disappointed in him. We don't ask much of our stars. Just once, every two years, it'd be nice to see them knock the fuck out of one another and give something back to the people who put them up there in the first place. Neither of them started a fight at The Comedy Store on friday night and they should both be ashamed of themselves.

Johnny Candon and I wouldn't let you down like that. There are still some tickets left for King of Everything tonight at the Hen & Chickens Theatre, Islington and we both pledge right now that if we sell out then at the end of the show, not only will we give all the Box Office to Comic Relief but we will have a massive fight to celebrate. Yeah, it won't be as funny as watching McIntyre and Howard fighting but at least we're trying. We're trying to help. Won't you join us? Call 020 7704 2001 now and book your ticket. They're only £5 and you'll be giving to Comic Relief (if we sell out).

See? That's how easy it is to be selfless.

Saturday, 14 March 2009

Mock the Weak.

Yesterday was Red Nose Day so let's start this blog with a real feel-good laugh. I have no idea how true this is but apparently last night, backstage at The Comedy Store, Michael McIntyre and Russell Howard had a fight. If that thought has in any way made you in the slightest bit happy then please call 03457 910910 and give money to Comic Relief. I think that should raise billions. I don't know what they were fighting over (who didn't sell out the O2 the bestest?) but what a wonderful thing they've both done for a worthy cause.

Comic Relief, Comic Relief, Comic's actually harder to slag it off than I thought. Not completely, of course. It's easy to forget the pain and suffering that real human beings have to live with every single day of their lives while Dick N' Dom are dressed up as tomatoes and shooting their own dignity in the face. The ego's on the show are pathetic. Every time I see Little Britain I assume they can't possibly stoop any lower in their black-hearted plan to destroy comedy but their contributions to Comic Relief show that they will go so far out of their way to do absolutely fuck all except turn up. Apparently them telling everyone that they know Robbie Williams in real life is enough to make us see what big hearted celebrities they really are. If they actually gave a fuck about saving lives they might have written a sketch but pointing and grinning at a celebrity chum will really mean the world to a child who's speedy death from TB is a relief from the Aids he was born with. There's nothing that compliments these horrible films of people having to cope with disease better than the knowledge that we've also seen something that was knocked up in The Groucho one afternoon.

Not everyone is like that, of course. Peter Serafinowicz kept his dignity by raising money via the internet, the little girl in Outnumbered was fantastic (never seen that before) and Ben Elton was thoroughly decent by having nothing at all to do with it. There really are people doing it for the reason they say they are. They actually want to help other people less fortunate. They're not doing it so people can see them on screen with the England Football Team or to push their pop career, they're doing it because the world we live in, the COUNTRY we live in, is fucked. The people that are in charge of all our lives don't help so it's up to everyone else. If that means sitting in a bath of baked beans or Big Barry from work dressing as a woman all day then so be it. You don't know Big Barry. Maybe this one day every two years is the only time that he can really be himself. So, you know, please give generously.

God, it's rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreally hard to slag this off. It does good but leaves a bad taste in my mouth so it's obviously just me. There are people who need help but does that mean we have to further James Corden's career? That's not the point. I'm just being stupid.

It's hard to slag it off. It is. Last night a film was shown of a very young boy dying of TB. It had made him blind, deaf and he could no longer speak. How terrifying. You saw him shake in pain and then slip into a coma. Next, you saw his coffin being carried to his grave. If Little Britain's shrug of a sketch or James Corden's stomach has raised money to in any way stop that happening to someone else then I'm a fucking idiot to complain.

Plus, look what McIntyre and Howard have done. For one night only, they made us laugh. Please give your money now. Thank you.

Friday, 13 March 2009

Night Vs. Day.

I don't like people. They're not very nice and they are always ugly. But they can be neatly separated into three piles.

Pile one is the ugly during the day people who are just fine with being ugly. Pile two is the ugly people at night who are terrified of their ugliness and try to hide it by painting their faces so it looks like they've got jaundice and dress as if they have more fuck holes than you can imagine. Not that you have to imagine because you can normally see at least 8 or 9 fuck holes at any given time. Pile three is some of my friends.

Getting the train back from gigs can be traumatic, depressing and very murdery because trains are normally full of pile two. Admittedly, I was a bit pile two myself last night. I'd just done a gig that went OK but I was watery-shit on stage due to being a wee little tiny bit ill. It's enough to throw me off completely. Any time I got a laugh I took a little break to just stand there and sweat and waver in the breeze. It was very odd. When I got on the train I listened to Adam & Joe. They made me feel better but they didn't stop me vomiting. It was one of those vomits that just rushed round completely unannounced. One second I was laughing at "Rancid Cow-Bag" the next I was holding a fistful of sick in my mouth. Everyone near me saw it and the noises I made in the loo trumpeted my proud finishing off of my surprise vomit or Christmas Puke, as I like to call it. I came out of the loo only to see disgusted faces looking at me. Thus making me pile two.

During my fifth and final train journey of the night I found myself surrounded by pile two. There were piles upon piles of pile two as far as the eye could see, not that you'd have wanted to open your eyes except maybe with a stanley knife. A louder bunch of aggressive, drunk, ugly cunts you couldn't wish to meet. Awful. I decided that I would go for a wee-wee. Well, my bladder did. I got up and walked towards the loo. What I didn't realise was that I was being followed by the two ugly sisters. They were behind me. BEHIND ME. The very place where I don't have eyes. "Oi", harked one of the little angels. "We're in there first." I didn't look round, I just kept walking. I don't respond to "Oi". I got to the loo, opened the door and walked in. Before I could close the door the ugliest one of the two (and that was some achievement) held the door open and said "You are fucking rude. It's girls before boys, don't you know that?" "Yep", I said. "If you're five." I then closed the door and had a really lovely piss. A piss is so much nicer when you know you're delaying a cunt from pissing too. "Fucking rude", one of the bags of peroxide and orange said as I passed them again. I didn't bother responding. If any of pile two hate you then you know you're doing something right.

Pile one is just plain weird. What is it with daytime people? Yeah, they don't have a job but surely you don't have to just spend your days shuffling around Sainsbury's looking weird and talking to yourself. It's just not good. Sainsbury's will give you a job for a start. No-one wants that. I see it every day. Weird, weird daytime people looking weird and doing weird things. Face it, I am one of them. They're also easy to freak out, Pile one. Pile one live in constant fear of being spoken to. They fear it because they know that the only people who would speak to someone in pile one are other people in pile one. That conversation could last days. You both want to stop but this might be the only chat you have for months because all you ever see is pile one. I may be slightly snobby here. My apologies.

Today I saw a classic pile one drop her pension book. She was quite old (obviously) and looked at the ground in case she accidentally made eye contact with another pile one. As she walked past me I saw her drop the pension book and as I love nothing more than helping my fellow man I decided to pick it up for her and give it to her. I said excuse me. She didn't respond and why would she? She is old. That's a perfect excuse to pretend not to hear another pile one trying to get your attention. I said excuse me again. I shit you not (mainly because I don't know how to) the old lady started speeding up. I had to do a little jog. I said excuse me again, this time quite loudly. Everyone else in the street turned round except for this slag. Eventually I jogged a bit harder and put my hand on her shoulder to get her to stop. Anyway, after she calmed down from her fifteen heart-attacks and started breathing properly I gave her her pension book back. Did I get thanks? NO. That is how pile one works. They are ugly people who shuffle around during the day in constant fear of their own kind. A random act of kindness only confuses and angers them. Good to see her shitting herself though.

I had been reliably informed via Twitter by Richard Herring and Alex Horne that James Corden's Comic Relief sketch is fantastic. I was very happy about this, you might be surprised to learn. I was happy that I might laugh at it and write about how wrong I was. Anyway, I saw a clip and that pair of pile one cunts are very wrong. Not only does it have chunky in it but it's about football. Fucking football. If only there's a bit where he cooks and eats meat then it will be my perfect anti-sketch. Still, the full thing is on Comic Relief tonight so maybe it'll get better. And you can imagine how much I love Comic Relief. If you can't then read tomorrow's fury filled blog. Thanks.

Thursday, 12 March 2009


This is a complete sketch. This it IT. It hasn’t been edited down. This isn’t a clip of the sketch. It’s the full sketch. The beginning, middle and end. This is actually how they wanted it to be. The real nightmare thing about it is that it’s the best thing that they’ve done. Fucking hell.

Apart from the confirmed news that this shit smells sweet enough to the BBC that they’ve given more of our licence fee to them to make a second series, do you know what the real tragedy of Horne & Corden is? It’s directed by Kathy Burke. It’s like discovering that Christopher Eccleston had directed The Man from Auntie. I feel sick.

I’m back from Margate now. All that sea air, beach walking and healthy living is knackering. I’m sure I’ve done myself a right mischief and no mistake. It was a lovely couple of days though, the peak being dinner on the last night. We went to a place called Indian Princess (type Indian Princess Margate into Yahoo!, the Did You Mean…? made me giggle). It’s an Indian restaurant. It’s very modern and trendy and really pretty upmarket. In fact, it’s so incredibly NOW that it barely has anything for vegetarians apart from rice and plates. Don’t let that put you off (especially if you’re not a vegetarian) because the dessert is the best thing I’ve eaten in years. Maybe even longer. I’m not into desserts. I like school dinner desserts like Boring Sponge & Flavourless Custard but that’s about it. The Indian Princess changed my mind about everything. I had a chocolate samosa. Sounds revolting but it works. It was like there was a party in my mouth and everyone had bought me expensive presents and it was an orgy and James Corden’s parents had never been born. It was that good.

Sounds revolting but it works, pt II: Johnny and I will be performing our second attempt at King of Everything this Sunday at Hen & Chickens, Islington at 9.30. Tickets are only £5 and it doesn’t last too long (only about 45 minutes) so there’s still time to drink all your brain cells away afterwards. Call 020 7704 2001 for tickets right now this very second. Please come along. It was fun last Sunday and there will be more stuff in it this time. Remember: if you DON’T come then Horne & Corden have WON. Is that what you want for your children?

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Little & Wise.

I met James Corden once. It was at 8 Out Of 10 Cats and, although he came across as quite rude, he was OK in the show. Far better than I thought he could be. At least he made an effort, I thought. He’s probably OK.

James Corden is not OK, is he? I just saw Horne & Corden, the new sketch show on dire telly’s natural home, BBC3. Touch Me I’m Karen Taylor, The Kevin Bishop Show and, fuck it why not, Love Thy Neighbour have all had their shitty, shitty turd crowns taken from them with this new pile of splinters from the bottom of Satan’s very own barrel. I’ve never seen Gavin & Stacey and I never will. I know I won’t like it, but I also know a lot of people who love it. Not all of these people are fuckheads. It MUST have something but that something is not for me. Horne & Corden on the other hand should be just what I’m after. Edgy sketch comedy with a fresh new look! Orrrrrrrr… something Ant & Dec’s Saturday Takeaway wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot cunt skewer.

It’s mind-numbingly uninventive. Did you know that fat people are over-weight? HA HA HA HA! Horne & Coden do! Can you imagine what a homosexual would be like out in war torn Basra? HA HA HA HA! Horne & Corden can! It’s soooooooooo funny. Just look at the mincing, fruity little affront to the eyes of God skipping away in fear of bombs instead of fucking Girls Aloud, drinking 10 pints of lager and spitting Jade Goody’s cancer into the face of Rose West like a REAL MAN. It’s just so embarrassing. What are they trying to say? I mean, apart from “Have you noticed that one of us is fat?”, what is it that they’re trying to get across?

The whole skip of eye-rape starts with the pair of cunts walking down a flight of stairs and actually high-fiving the studio audience. The audience aren’t SITTING DOWN like fucking morons who watch One Foot in the Grave, Grandad, they’re standing up like the youngsters who watch TOTP2 or Top Gear.

Interestingly enough, the audience are also behind a steel fence thus combating all attempts to help the two fuckers out with a couple of much-needed head bullets. Now, all that is fine but they ruin everything by talking and moving around. If only they stayed still and decomposed I’d be hooked to the series.

The first sketch involves James Corden being fat. As do all the others. The first one also has a supporting appearance from Nick Mohammed, who in every way, shape and form towers over the two stars. At one point Nick has to give the cheeky pair of lovable cunts a dirty look. Nick is an incredible character actor but I’m not sure he was acting there. It was just what was happening anyway. I hope he hasn’t smashed his entire skull in with a hammer due to being in any way linked to this. That hammer was not meant for you, Nick, it’s for them. What I’m simply saying is NICK MOHAMMED SHOULD KILL HORNE & CORDEN WITH A BIG HAMMER, NO-ONE WOULD GIVE A SHIT.

The real problem with this show is, obviously, James Corden. My God, is he an embarrassing, fame-addicted, fat, self-obsessed, fat, belly-pointing bag of tedium. I know it sounds bad me picking on him because he’s fat but if he’d just occasionally shut up about it maybe I wouldn’t (I probably would). He HILARIOUSLY did an impression of Ricky Gervais in one sketch. Does the cunt not think for a fucking second that we haven’t noticed how much of Ricky Gervais’ mannerisms he’s nicked anyway? At least Matt Horne has the common decency to be completely invisible.

This will get a second series. Them proving that they can make a shit Shaun of the Dead will lead to more films. That fat cunt’s ego will expand even if his repertoire decreases, and I very much suspect it will. Ripping of Ricky Gervais, screaming and pointing at your gut surely has it’s limits. That won’t stop them because the public love them. The same people who vote for awful politicians, who sell-out Coldplay’s stadiums and take Richard & Judy’s book club seriously.


Tuesday, 10 March 2009


I'm a bad dog owner.

I've taken Jerk to Margate several times. She loves it. If I'm going away for any length of time my friends Karen and Bec always offer to look after her for me and it's fantastic for Jerk. She gets fussed over totally by the two of them plus their four other dogs. She's properly part of a pack here. At home, she doesn't really like other dogs. Always ignoring them, growling at them, biting their tails or, in one case, landing them in hospital. But she loves the four dogs she visits in Margate. She knew two of them pretty much since I got her, they used to live in Lewisham. I knew she loved coming here because Karen and Becs have told me so often about what a good time she has. The thing is, I've never really seen it before. Until yesterday.

Jerk and I walked along the cliff top towards the beach to see her pack. It's best for dogs to get reaquainted outside in case one of them just decides that they don't like the other and they start trying to smash each others faces in. As we walked along the cliff, I could see the pack on the beach below. We were very far away from them but it didn't stop the dogs from all looking up at once and Jerk to start pulling on the lead to get to them. Dog's noses and memory's are amazing. As soon as Jerk got to the pack it was like she was always with them. Immediately, she just looked...happier. That put me in a foul mood. The ungrateful fucking bitch.

At Karen and Bec's house Jerk has a sofa. She walks in, claims it and lies there for as long as she likes. Dogs come and go round the house all the time and Jerk is so visibly relaxed about everything. In my house, if I scratch my balls or pick my nose or sigh when I put the TV on, Jerk just assumes something important is happening and wants to be part of it. This mainly includes her standing on me and sticking her face in my eye. But in Margate there is constantly something fun for dogs happening and because it's constant she can relax knowing that when she's ready she can join in or start the fun.

This means that tomorrow when I take her home I will feel like shit. It's not like she's not happy in my house it's just she definitely is happier here. But then, so am I and I have to go back so, you know, fuck her.

Yeah, it's fair to say that I'm fed up today. I shouldn't be. I'm in a good place with good friends but Jerk's happiness is sort of fully on my mind. Plus, just before going to bed I started reading about the killings in Northern Ireland. That was not good bedtime reading.

Jokes about people on TV being cunts will return tomorrow.

Monday, 9 March 2009


Well, it was good. Not perfect, far from it. But it was definitely good. Last night’s King of Everything was certainly a lot better than I thought it ever was going to be. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we forgot lines, cues and entire sketches but we more than made up for that with tons of puerile childishness and cock jokes. Plus we had an audience! Albeit one practically made up of people we know. I’m very, very happy about King of Everything now and have learned three very important things from last night; it works, we need to do a lot of work on it and sometimes shitting your pants before a gig is a good thing. A bit of adrenaline helps a lot.

I’ve had an odd week of gigs. Thursdays was totally shit and great. While I was on stage, it was fun and the audience were nice though a little quiet. The big problem was that I was only on stage for 10 minutes. I was told to be at Stand & Deliver (I know, for fuck’s sake) in Worthing (I know, for fuck’s sake) at 8pm for an 8.30pm start. I’ve been doing stand-up for over 1000 years and yet I’m still often very na├»ve about things. When they said the gig started at 8.30 I ridiculously thought that the gig would start at 8.30. Fucking idiot I am. At 8.15 not only was there no audience but there were no acts either. I pointed this out to the manager who laughed and said “Yeah, we never start on time. We’ll probably kick off after 9”. I decided then and there that that wasn’t good. I had planned on going on first and getting the 9.30 train, that way I could be home before 6 in the fucking morning. I was sticking to my plan no matter what. That’s what I was told, that’s what I had planned, that’s what’s happening.

The gig was held in a place called Light Bar. It has pictures of semi-naked women and massive foam tits on the walls. These pieces of art fully compliment the shiny silver pole right in the middle of the room. Basically, it was less of a purpose built comedy club and more of a wank factory. Anyway, 8.30 came and went and still the compere, Paddy Lennox, hadn’t turned up. By now I was getting quite antsy about it. Not to worry, he turned up at 9.05 with a fantastic excuse; “Oh, I thought it started at 9.” Yep. Makes perfect sense. We’ll start right now, I was told. Right now means something different in Worthing. Right now means nothing is going to happen for another 10 minutes. The worst thing about the staff at this place was there infuriating friendliness. This just made their lack of giving a shit worse. They were constantly warm, welcoming and cheery throughout every bit of bad news they gave me or every thing that they didn’t do right. The fucking cunts. I finally got on stage at 9.15, got off at 9.25 and was driven to the train station with seconds to spare. They even gave me £5 more than I expected to get. Fucking idiots couldn’t even pay me right, thankfully.

Then the weekend’s gigs were compering at Up The Creek. The gigs were good but noisy and drunk. Not me, the audience. The two great things about Up The Creek were walking to the gig from my house (that was BRILLIANT) and watching Phil Kay. Phil Kay is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get and you end up feeling a bit sick. This is the third time I’ve seen Phil and each time he has pretty much died. I know from other people that he can be an absolute genius on stage, and there were small flashes of that on Saturday, but I’ve yet to see the man at his best. The first time I saw him the entire audience walked out. I mean EVERYONE. The second time I saw him he just wanted to show photos of a trip to Australia while the room booed. I’d love to see him at his best because going on stage with no prepared material and your act working must be an incredible feeling and an incredible show. People I know have described Phil Kay’s shows as maverick and a true alternative. Anyway, on Saturday he went on stage and in the first five minutes made fun of a hen party, dropped his pants and sang a song about Ryanair. Very nice (and mad) man though. Plus he really, really smells. It’s a treat to walk through his cloud after he leaves a stage.

By the way, you know how you think James Corden is a fat fucking cunt? Well, that’s because you’re jealous. Look at this piece of “news” about the ego-driven fat fucking cunt:

I’m going to Margate with Jerk for two days. Jongleurs Camden is alone in my house for those two days. If he invites you to a party do not attend. Thank you.

Sunday, 8 March 2009


Today is King of Everything day. We'll be doing half an hour at the Hen & Chickens tonight in Islington at 9.30. You'll be there. Nothing, so far, has been written apart from a few pre-records expertly done by Chris McIntosh, lead pop-star in 28 Costumes. Johnny and I have done nothing.

I'm relaxed about it though. Johnny promised to write up two of our sketches while he was in Portsmouth for the past two days. He's on his way back now. He just called. He said that although he hadn't actually, physically written them I wasn't to worry because "it's all up here". Seeing as this conversation took place over the phone I can only assume Johnny was pointing at his arse.

Don't miss the show tonight. It would be a crime. Two grown men floundering for 30 minutes and it only costs £5? That is a fucking bargain. Call 020 7704 2001 right now and book your ticket. I'll come to your shit show if you come to mine.

Saturday, 7 March 2009

Virgin! Virgin! Virgin!

People who don’t like The Young Ones are instantly suspect. The only reason that you could not like The Young Ones is because, instead of blood, you have the screams of the damned flowing through your veins due to you being the thrown away child of The Prince of Darkness and Sonia.

Dave showed some episodes last night and, even now, it just seems like nothing else. Every line is either hilarious or just baffling. Every scene is inventive and then immediately, brilliantly stupid. It’s a sit-com that in 1982 wanted to destroy the sit-com. Just to prove it, in the very first episode the sit of the sit-com gets demolished. While watching it last night I just couldn’t get over how fresh, energetic and funny it was. Even the shit joke about the TV Times (I never knew there was so much in it) made me laugh. I first saw it when I was 13 and to me it was the newest of the new. It came from nowhere. All I knew was that I wanted to be exactly like those four twats. And why wouldn’t I? They were four grown men pretending to be in a cartoon. Brilliant.

Sadly, or perhaps excitingly, The Young Ones got banned in my house after episode three. Apparently my parents didn’t really like me calling everyone they knew a complete and utter bastard all the time. They are so reactionary! They certainly hated it when I wrote “VERY METAL” on the back of the jacket I wore at my confirmation.

Barely a day went by in 1982-83 when I didn’t quote The Young Ones. If the phone rang in my house I immediately shouted “Answer the phone, Neil”. If someone in my family had the slightest bit of good news I would congratulate them with a really sarcastic “Far out. Really great. Woooo-ooodstock”. One time, I bumped into my mum in the street. She was delighted to see me but all I could say was “Oh, no. I’m being hassled in the street by a chick”. Basically, this incredible piece of art turned me into a bollock. I thank it for that.

I guess the only really heartbreaking thing about The Young Ones is Ben Elton. This is how high he reached. He MADE THE YOUNG ONES. This is how funny he can be and yet he has chosen this other horrible path of greed to walk down. His fucking books and his fucking Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals and his fucking, fucking, FUCKING Thin Blue Line. How could he do it? The massive cunt. Him going from The Young Ones to We Will Rock You is like Sir Edmund Hillary going from conquering Everest to killing babies with his cock. IT’S EXACTLY THE SAME.

If you haven’t seen The Young Ones before, and I’m so jealous of you if you haven’t because you have something incredible to enjoy, then watch it today. Nothing you have planned for today is as good or as important as watching The Young Ones. That funeral will still happen whether you’re there or not. Speaking of funerals, when I moved to London in 1989 one of the first people I met was Pete Wear. He played the part of the Witchfinder in Flood. He said “No. No. In the pit” a lot. I know him. In REAL LIFE. How exciting is that?

By the way, Happy Birthday to Susan Murray.

The last few days have been both busy and lazy at the same time. I think Johnny and I have given up even trying to write King of Everything and instead we’re going to go on stage tomorrow night with practically nothing. Should be interesting. Car crashes are interesting, right? Still, something funny happened to me and Johnny the other day. Well, it happened to Johnny but it was my fault. Johnny needed Steve Best’s phone number. Unfortunately, I got Steve Best mixed up with Steve Day, a comedian who is both very funny and deaf. I gave Johnny Steve Day’s number and watched him call Steve. I laughed and asked Johnny what he was doing? Steve’s deaf. He’s not likely to answer the phone. Good point, thought Johnny. Oh, well. Johnny will just see him at the gig and ask him for a lift back to London then. Unfortunately, by this time Johnny had also confused Steve Best with Steve Day so when he finally saw Steve Best later he made eye contact with him and slowly said “HELLO. STEVE. HOW. ARE. YOU?” Steve just assumed Johnny was having a nervous breakdown.

Please come to King of Everything at the Hen & Chickens this Sunday at 9.30. Don’t let me down. Cancel all your plans. It’s only a fucking fiver. Have I ever asked you for money for all my blogs that I just GIVE you? NO. Call 020 7704 2001 right this second and book your ticket. It’s cheap, it only lasts half an hour and it will be mental. Don’t throw away this chance to see us. Each gig could and should be our last.

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Alone Again Or.

It's very lonely sitting on your own in a pub. It's not something that I'd make a habit of. Pubs should be full of friends and noise and life but, last night, the Jolly Farmers pub in Lewisham was desolate. There was just 5 other punters sitting around the pub. Four sitting together speaking like they were secretly conspiring about a secret in a secret library, while another man was sitting alone with his beer. He wasn't reading or watching TV. The fucker wasn't even Twittering. He was just sitting there, all alone. Like me. Friendless, cold and isolated. No-one to turn to. It could have been worse, we could have talked to one another. What a nightmare that would have been. I would have talked endlessly about the stupidity of the entertainment industry, how David Tennant was right to leave Doctor Who, how I managed to upset David Mitchell's friend, Wispas, dog-walking, the King of Everything previews and how well my bad back was doing. And he would have talked pint and how his trousers were both brown and purple at the same time. This was all the information I could get from a man sitting alone doing nothing.

As a fellow man sitting alone doing nothing, I was starting to get bored. The pub was depressingly quiet. You could have heard a pin drop if it wasn't for the fact that the pub insisted on playing crappy local radio. Radio that was proudly local. LEWISHAM! BROMLEY! CATFORD! it proudly exclaimed before playing an ocean of shit, shit music. I don't know when the last time that you heard "We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off" was but I'm betting it wasn't long enough ago.

I sat in that pub alone for half an hour waiting on my stupid, late friends. Finally, one of the stupid, late bastards turned up. Then within the blink of an eye (a very slow eye) the pub was pretty full. Where were these fuckers when I was alone? It was almost as if all these people thought "Hmmm, the pub quiz starts at 8.30 so let's get there for about 8.15 so we can get a table for our team" and not the rational thought of "Hmmm, the pub quiz starts at 8.30 so let's get there at 6 so we can get pissed and lose". The rest of my friends turned up and the quiz began. We got all the questions right in the first round. This very much upset the table nearest us. It was the four secret men and they were taking this quiz extremely seriously.

We did OK in the second round which gave them a chance to catch up a bit. The other teams were all still well behind. In the next few rounds we started to slip more. It was getting pretty much neck and neck between Team Name (us) and Trev's Twisted Army (them). In the penultimate round we pretty much crushed them. Crushed them, I say! To be very honest, I didn't care that we were winning. It's not like I was answering that many questions anyway. But Trev's Twisted Army were visibly upset. And then audibly upset. We overheard them calling us annoying. Finally, in this quiet pub with it's serious atmosphere there was something to entertain me.

I spent the rest of the quiz talking very loudly about how annoying I was. The rest of the pub started looking over, the quiz hostess had to keep repeating questions because I was being annoying over them and, more annoying, we kept getting the answers to the final round right. I am nothing if not petty and childish and a bit of a prick.

The quiz was held in aid of a cancer trust fund and, I like to think most annoyingly of all, we gave our winning money to the charity. This was announced over the PA and we got a respectful golf clap from everyone. Nearly everyone. Trev's Twisted Army instead just finished their drinks very quickly, got their coats and left. They are nothing if not petty and childish and a bit of a prick. Army's do get like that when they lose though so that's fair enough.

Jongleurs Camden is fast asleep on my sofa right now. He looks like a little baby. I'm now going to see if I can write on him without waking him up. I am annoying.

Wednesday, 4 March 2009

David Mitchell is Dying of AIDS.

Wow, David Mitchell has lost a lot of weight. I was at The Blue Posts pub in Newman Street last night, with the newly reformed Trap gentlemen, and David Mitchell sat next to us. It was really nice that he didn't make a big deal out of sitting next to four successful comedians and just left us to get on with our evening. Our evening consisted of staring at David Mitchell so just as well that he wasn't giving us lots of attention otherwise that would have just turned into a great big stare off. Luckily, David had scripts to look over and producers to talk to. The Trap and I are never lumbered with the responsibilties of a career so we all just had beer.

To be fair, we didn't start staring at David Mitchell. We didn't even know he was there. As far as I was concerned we were sitting next to a skinny man with an annoying voice. He looks about half the size of his former self. It's like Apple have brought out a smaller, sleeker, more user-friendly version of David Mitchell that has a totally brand new design. But Jeremy Limb recognised him. The thing is, Jeremy does an excellent impression of David Mitchell and once he discovered that David Mitchell was next to us he found it very difficult to not speak like him. For quite a while I thought that Jeremy was going to embarrass us all by doing that impression and making the real David Mitchell think that we must be massive fans. That would be very embarrassing but no, David Mitchell decided to embarrass himself and us by pouring a pint of beer over himself, the table, the floor and Dan Mersh, then try to clean all of it up with a 2 inch by 2 inch facecloth. All the while doing a far worse impression of David Mitchell than Jeremy does. He just David Mitchelled himself up a gear in that posh, clumsy, overly-apologetic, English way of his.

Anyway, he looks really good and healthy so I have no choice but to libelously assume and state that David Mitchell has AIDS. That's not a bad thing. Dying is just sooooooo now.

I keep forgetting to put things in my blog. That's half the reason that I write this thing. It gets my brain going so (hopefully) I can work better through the day plus I can look back at things and remember lots of little things that I should have forgotten completely.

I didn't write about a car driving towards the car I was in while on a dual carriage way shitting me up for the rest of the journey. I forgot about the email I got from an 8 year old Doctor Who fan who wrote to say that he loves reading the blog, asking me what my favourite stories from each Doctor's eras are and why do I say cunt all the time? I also didn't write about how I recently got my semen on a friends clothing but then I really don't want anyone to know about that.

Oh. Anyway, last week I decided to fix my washing machine. The belt had come off and therefore the drum wasn't spinning. I don't really know how I figured this out but I'm incredibly impressed that I did. I unscrewed the back of the machine, like a Fix-It Man or a Daddy would, and saw the belt lying at the bottom of it. I'll just put that straight back on, I thought. Easy.

It really wasn't. It was as if the belt had shrunk and now couldn't fit back on to the back of the drum. I pulled it, I manipulated it, I hated it and STILL it would not fit on. Then I heard neighbours talking in the street. Then more neighbours talking in the street. Then almost everyone in the street talking in the street. From what I could gather, all their water in their houses had stopped. Aw, fuck.

I tried my taps and sure enough they didn't work. HOW HAS THIS HAPPENED? How can trying to put a fucking belt onto a washing machine drum, something that requires NO plumbing, mean that I have fucked up the water supply for the street? Why does this only ever happen to me? I did the decent thing. I hid. Again.

While hiding I thought I should phone Thames Water and tell them that I'm a cack-handed ball-bag of a man and have somehow stopped the water supply by doing a totally unrelated piece of fixing. I was so wound up and tense that calling Thames Water would definitely be the best option for me. They're bound to be shit so I could vent my anger at them and feel a bit better about myself. The cunts ruined that totally by being shockingly efficient. They told me that a pipe had burst near where I live and the matter would be resolved in the next two hours. I needed it clarified. So, it had nothing to do with me trying and failing to put a belt on a washing machine drum, then? "How could it?" came the are-you-fucking-thick reply.

My 72 year old neighbour, Richard, came into my house to look at the washing machine. Five seconds later he had left my house and the machine worked perfectly. How did he do it? How did he put a belt that was too small back on to the drum of my washing machine? How? How? "I just put it on. See ya." came the are-you-fucking-thick reply.

I learned so much about me that day. I learned that I'm fucking thick, some people are kind and do a good job and I am really fucking thick.

Still, my back is a lot better so now I can be thick with my head held high. Thanks to lots of people who gave me advice on how to get my back all better. Believe it or not, I've been doing yoga. I don't believe it and I was there. I can do a tree pose. I can do very little else but I can do a tree pose.

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-BACK PAIN!

I saw TWO Alicia Silverstone films yesterday. TWO! I didn't know there were two. One was cancerous to the eyes, ears and understanding (Batman & Robin), the other was very good because Ewan McGregor got shot dead right at the beginning. It was called Stormbreaker and starred Mickey Rourke and Jimmy Carr, obviously. Anyways, that's all the Alicia Silverstone films I need to see for ages so at least I've got that out of the way. Think I'll move on to the works of Michelle Trachtenberg next.

I watched Batman & Robin at 6.30am yesterday because my back (the thing that makes me waddle) likes to scream it's head off at that time. There's very little more depressing than being awake before the rest of the world, being in pain and hearing "Batman" say to Robin "This is why Superman works alone." I couldn't help but think that Chris Nolan wishes he was dead just so he could spin in his grave.

My back is getting slightly better though thanks to a blend of yoga and ignoring it. I've noticed that if I pretend to not be in brain-exploding agony then the back pain loses it's will or gets bored or something. Either way, it goes. Also, at the moment, I'm wearing a Deep Heat patch on the base of my spine which is slowly burning my flesh off therefore taking focus away from the back pain. In a way, Batman & Robin was doing exactly the same thing.

Sadly, I've got a full day of King of Everything stuff to do plus I need to put a few hours aside to scream at various fuckwits who work for BT so let me leave you with this delight....

We all remember The Shop, as does all our therapists, but have we really given focus to any of the key players? NO! The same really nice person who pointed me in the direction of The Shop but is too nice to publicly laugh at it has now sent me another link. It's the website of Paul Newbery who played the shop manager. He also did a BT advert which, for today at least, makes him a cunt. Here's his showreel:

Monday, 2 March 2009


I waddled down to Sainsbury’s today. My back is still being childish and it was very painful walking all the way down there, although most of the agony was just thinking about having to go into Sainsbury’s. Sure enough, the rancid fuck-hole didn’t disappoint.

As soon as I walked in I overheard two ladies discussing Jade Goody’s much publicised media death. They didn’t like her. That’s fair enough. She never exactly came across as great but what struck me was how passionately these two old dears from a bygone era couldn’t wait for her to die. I think it is quite easy to forget that Jade Goody is an actual human and I’m not exactly her biggest fan (I was always much more of a Helen Adams maniac) but wishing her dead just seems a bit extreme. Overhearing the two sweet, aged darlings talk about how Jade did nothing other than beat other idiots at a big idiot competition made it very difficult for me to disagree with them or argue against their point. That was until they truly revealed what upset them. They’d seen that Jade has 9 seconds left to live (again) on the front page of the Daily Star, a paper for the hysterical, and next to Jade’s crying face was a picture of Princess Diana, the dead woman.

“Well”, said one of the piss-soaked, old cunts. “You can’t compare her to Princess Diana.”

“No”, said her senility-filled, coffin-dodging, skeleton friend. “It’s disgraceful having them on the same page.”

You can learn a lot from the old. Things like, aren’t old people fucking awful? Comparing Jade Goody to Princess Diana? That will never do! What in the name of God has Jade Goody, a blonde, money obsessed, fame loving parasite who spent her whole life doing absolutely fuck all and only when the shadow of death appeared got people to actually like her, have in common with Princess Diana?

I’m being sarcastic. They could be twins.

I had a nice weekend with nice gigs with very nice bills. Weekends like that really make me very happy about my job. Then leaving the gig to get on a late night train is where it goes all piss-shaped. I was in a tube carriage with about 10 very noisy men all of whom were drinking heavily and shouting at one another. They intimidated everyone in the carriage and kept a horrible atmosphere. I hated them. Why they thought they could forget about everyone else and just drink and shout in a confined public space is beyond me. What baffled me further was the fact that they were all swapping friendship bracelets with each other. “YOU’RE MY BFF, YOU SLAAAAAAG!”