Sunday, 19 April 2009


It doesn't take much to put me in a bad mood. Just watching the news, seeing people drop litter or the letters b, b, c and the number three are all just enough to make my brain shit itself with fury. But the last couple of days have been lovely. I've even stopped beating myself up about Wednesday's impro show. It was good and a lot of fun but sometimes it takes me a little while to realise that. One sketch that keeps making me smile was about Celine Dion being such a diva that she demanded, among other things, a grave dug in her dressing room. Even though that was a collective effort between me and three other people, I think I'll steal that and write it up myself. Can't wait for that to not appear on BBC3. Oh, fuck. My brain just dumped in my skull again.

Thursday started off great. I was on my way to see Dan Mersh and Robin Ince for a drink so already I was in a good mood. Then I got a phone call with some great news about this blog (I'll tell you later) and my mood was pretty much all the way up to Marginally Happy. It was also quite a sunny evening and walking through London on a sunny evening is just beautiful. Lucky old me, I thought. Then, just a few feet away from the pub, I saw a man struggling to put on his jacket. He was struggling because he was also holding on to his hat and scarf at the same time. Yeah, it would have been easier to have put them on first but I'm not going to judge the prick, I'm in too good a mood. Basically, while putting on his coat he dropped his hat. While passing I thought I'd just bend down and pick up the hat for him. That's a good deed. This can only make me feel happier. I have helped my fellow man. Anyway, I passed him his hat and his only response was "I did know it was there". He was pissed off because I'd helped him. He got upset because a stranger had decided to lend a hand. And I know what the cunt was really saying: Men can't pick things up for other men. It's gay and gay isn't allowed.

The fucking awful fucking cunt. My mood was slightly down now. But only slightly as I was now walking into a pub, my favourite thing to walk into. As soon as I entered the building I realised that it was so clammy that If I wanted to breathe then I'd better cut up the air into little pieces with a knife and fork. It was muggy, very muggy. No sign of Dan or Robin but perhaps they're upstairs where the air is. As I walked up I clocked a woman looking at me. There's nothing odd in that, I'm very attractive, so I didn't give it a thought. Then I could sense she was following me. "Jesus Christ", I thought. "Yet another person who saw 100 Worst Pop Songs on Channel 4 six years ago wants to get to know The Legge". You'd think I'd be used to fame by now. Anyway, I got to the top of the stairs, saw that the bar was danandrobinless so I turned to go back downstairs. That's when the woman gave me eye contact and a one word question: "Toilet?"

Of course, she could have confused me with my Edinburgh best friend of the same name but I was guessing that she was looking for the loo. I'm afraid that the hat man and now this one-word question had now flattened my good mood so she took the brunt of it. "Toilet what?", I said.

"I'm looking for the toilet"

"Oh, you mean 'Excuse me, can you tell me where the toilet it is, please?'"


"Yeah. It's nice to have caught up. Bye".

That was our full conversation. I'm not sure what has happened to being polite but it does appear to have fucked right off. Luckily, I soon met up with Dan and Robin and after a few bilious attacks on comedy my mood was back to the cheery one before angry hat man.

And it's pretty much been like that ever since. Gigs have been excellent this week. In fact, I'm going to go so far as to say that I love gigs. I did three London shows last night and the running from gig to gig just made the gigs themselves that bit more exciting, plus the gigs were all lovely anyway. I don't know who is in charge of gigs but I must congratulate them because gigs are great. If the person who runs gigs ever wants to book me for more gigs then just give me a call. I'd happily do gigs.

On Friday, I performed at The Funny Side of Covent Garden to a very quiet audience. VERY quiet. Silent, almost. Just before going on the promoter filled me with confidence with his stirring words of "If you storm this I'll build you a statue". Thanks, promoter. He may as well have said "You know your arse? You're going to die on that". The gig turned out to be good though so, you know what? As it's been so good I think I'll now go clubbing. Paul Litchfield and I started our 24 hours of joy together by leaving The Funny Side and heading to Old Street for a night of larging it. We don't know how to large anything but we fucking gave it a go.

Clubbing hasn't changed at all since I was a teenager, it turns out. I'm still standing in a corner, still think it's too loud and still wishing they would play some Marillion. Well, anything other than the seemingly one record that they did play. Paul and I have fond memories of this club in Old Street. We went there a couple of years ago and soon got chatted up by two wheelchair bound girls wearing burlesque clothing. They were lovely but it was definitely weird. One of them's on telly now. That'll fucking teach us. There are a few things very wrong about clubbing. Firstly, it's very unsociable. There were lots of our friends there but you can't really talk because of that record they keep playing. It's also too crowded. Crammed with teenagers and twentysomet...oh, hang on. No, it isn't. It's full of 40 year old's who can't grow up. Plus they have odd rules in clubs. If you go outside to make a phonecall or have a cigarette then you have to queue up again to get back in. Your hand has been stamped, you've paid to get in but FUCK YOU. How dare you take that call from your pregnant wife! How dare you be addicted to nicotine! BACK OF THE QUEUE! And have a nice night.

Then, and this is surely the madness of all nightclubs, the bar closes at 1am but the venue stays open until 3. Who the fuck could stay in a place like this sober? Not me or Paul. We waddled into a cab and do what any pair of lads do when they large it. We went home and watched The Unquiet Dead. Classic.

Yesterday, Paul and I laughed like children pretty much all day. I can't think of the last time I laughed so much and for so long. It started off, slightly hungover-ish, with the funniest clip from YouTube that I have ever seen. I howled ( Don't not watch it. There was only one way to for the day to go now and that would be to kill animals. Luckily, we found a game that helps you do just that. Big Game Hunter might be the most heartless and cruel piece of entertainment I have seen since The Justin Lee Collins Show. It is unbelievable. You are a hunter in the mountain wilderness of North America. You are armed only with a knife, your wits and an unlimited supply of live ammunition. You walk around the forests, past trees and through rivers, over hills and in the shadow of mighty mountains until...what's that in the far off distance? Why not look through the eye-piece attached to your rifle? Oh, look! It's a lovely mountain goat all alone and grazing happily. KILL IT! KILL IT'S FUCKING HEAD IN! Then you shoot it. It's miles from you, offers no threat and you can bravely kill it for your own amusement. Look at this gentleman killing a duck: I like it when he finally kills it and then says "Alright! Adrenalin".

I don't want to write too much about this game so please listen to this weeks The Trap podcast for Paul's full review. It'll be out on Tuesday or Wednesday, I reckon.

So, I'm in a good mood. You must be very happy for me and somewhat let down. Even the last train home, normally an actual breeding ground for cunts, was quiet and empty last night. I was just having one of those days. Lots of laughs, great company, great gigs. Maybe it was the happiest day I'll ever have. Fuck, that's depressing.

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