Saturday, 30 May 2009

Train of Fools.

Once in a while, life becomes almost worth living. Not often but definitely sometimes.

Yesterday, I got on the train at Ladywell station to go into London's exciting West End. Before boarding the train I stepped to one side to let a woman, her baby in a pram and her three other children on first. I'm very polite like that. But it was a mistake. You should NEVER let children on anything ever at any time ever ever. They immediately ran on to the train and boxed a woman into that little area where there's a bit of foam to lean on instead of a seat. They started screaming at one another and generally annoying everyone within earshot while Mum texted. Lovely. The woman, who I guessed was Spanish because she had dark hair and a big flower behind her ear, put her newspaper down and stared at Mum in a way as if to say "Can you control these things, please?" Eventually, once the kids started to run around the train, the "Spanish" woman said very, very clearly "Little bastards". Mum must have totally agreed because she did nothing about someone calling her own children bastards. And bastards they were. The shouting and running went on past Lewisham (as shouting and running always does) until a businessman lost his fucking mind with them.

He shouted at texting Mum. "Can you control your children?", he screamed. "They're running amok and it's very annoying"

Thank God someone said something. It's always me and I really wasn't in the mood. Then Mum came off with the evergreen classic. Oh yes: "They're only children". These might the most horrible words ever and I seem to hear them at least once a week. They're not only children, they're cunts. Awful, awful cunts. Cunts that YOU made, you cunt. But, hey, this wasn't my argument. It was Businessman vs. Texting Mum.

They continued arguing. Really shouting at one another but the kids continued running around. Eventually other passengers joined in, attacking Texting Mum for being shit. She was VERY shit. Then, as the train approached St. Johns, the businessman got up to leave, red-faced with fury. Sadly, Texting Mum was getting ready to get off at the same stop. She called one of her little bastards to come and hold Mummy's hand (She'd had to put the phone away and everything) but as the little girl ran past the businessman something wonderful and unexpected happened: her hair got caught round the button on his jacket.

The doors opened and the little girl was crying because her hair had been pulled. The businessman tried to free the little girls hair but couldn't because she was jumping around so much. Texting Mum then started pulling at both the hair and the businessman's jacket but this just ended up freaking the little girl out so she screamed even more. The "We're about to close" beep-beep-beep of the doors started and there was PANIC. The businessman lifted the little girl up so Texting Mum could try to free the hair without the little girl jumping. She fiddled with it, pulled at it, untied it....and freed it! Just in time for the doors to close.

They had all missed their stop but, worse than that, now had to stand beside one another until the train approached New Cross. They stood in silence. Even the children were quiet except for the tiny sobs of the little girl. Three minutes went by. Three long, long minutes. Then the train arrived at New Cross, the doors opened and they all got off. The businessman hurried away while Texting Mum stood on the platform for a second to get her head together. The train doors closed.

Pretty much the whole carriage erupted with laughter. It was like we'd all been punched by sweet relief. Passengers started actually talking to one another and laughing at what they'd just seen. It was a genuinely lovely moment that pretty much NEVER happens in London, people talking and having fun. Admittedly, it was at the cost of others but...well, it was very funny. It'll be a while before something that fun happens on a train again as I realised when I got the last train back from Peterborough last night. Christ, almighty. They were REAL cunts.

Yesterday, Patti and I decided to have a look at places we used to go to back in 1989 when we were both new to London. Camden Town, Primrose Hill, The Washington Pub in Belsize Park. She used to live in a lovely, big house in Belsize Park and we thought we'd have a peep to see how it was. It looked the same to me but there were builders around so changes were definitely happening. Then the owner of Patti's old house turned up. It was Tim Burton.

Friday, 29 May 2009

Don't Talk To Me About People Who Are Nice.

Meeting people is not something that I would ever recommend. Often people are nice and that leads to being pleasant, which is the last thing that you could ever want to be. Yesterday I met two very nice people. It could have all gone very, very wrong at any minute.

The thing about nice people is that they take an interest in you and when people take an interest in me I normally find that that's the end of our relationship. I was with Patti yesterday, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and tastes and touches of London, and we were due to meet our friend Rosie who only appears every 15 years or so in our lives. Bizarrely, considering they hadn't seen each other in so long, the fucking idiots decided that they would go to watch a recording of QI at London Studios. They would meet 10 minutes before hand than go in and sit quietly for three long hours while QI made sure that it had 24 minutes of usable stuff for one episode. That's not much of a 15 year catch-up, is it? I spent most of the day telling Patti that this was a really stupid idea and that she would be stuck in there too long and it would be boring and she'd be throwing a night away in London to see something that won't be as good as the finished TV show. Plus Alan Davies is a cunt.

But Patti is loyal to Rosie. She didn't want to let Rosie down. This meant that I would not be going out drinking with her or at all. I am not giving a night of my entire life over to sobriety. That would be a waste. So I went on and on and on about how she would have a much better time going from bar to bar with me. Patti felt terrible (good). I'd put her off going. I got my way. Even better, Rosie queued up to go in and was turned away because it was full. Hooray for me. I got to spend the night drinking with my friends. Again. But this time, one of my friends brought two of their friends and they were, God help me, really nice.

There I was, trapped with two of the loveliest people you could ever meet, when one of them asked "So, what do you do for a living?" It is times like this that I wish I was a hired killer or a traffic warden or a professional child abductor, anything less embarrassing that a comedian. Because when you say "comedian" to people who have never heard of you all they hear is "comedian I've never heard of". So last night while I was explaining that I've never been on Live At The Apollo, Mock The Week, Have I Got News For You, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Dad's Army, Homes Under The Hammer, The Dog Whisperer or any other TV show they mentioned they just looked at me as if I was a liar. How can you be a comedian if you haven't been on TV? (Apparently Street Cred Sudoko doesn't count) I don't really know how to answer that question so that people who don't work in comedy will understand. Fuck Off just isn't a good enough answer although it is brief.

So, I sat there squirming and being reminded that I'm the least famous comedian in the world and I could accept that, although it was tough. I explained that I made a good living and I was "happy", hoping that would be a good enough answer for anyone. Then they got up to leave and I soon realised that all my talk had fallen on deaf ears. "Best of luck with the comedy thing" said the "nice" lady as she left. Fucking patronising bitch.

Well, fucking "best of luck" seeing comedy, fuckface! She couldn't even get in to a free fucking show. HA! I win. I'm drinking, I'm with my REAL friends and I don't have to answer any questions about my least favourite subject: Me. I win. I win. I WIN!!!

After a few drinks we leave the bar and bump into Rob Rouse who was doing warm-up for QI. One of the guests was David Tennant.


Thursday, 28 May 2009

The Idiot.

Even when I do nothing I get into trouble.

I went to a horrible, horrible bar in The Players Theatre underneath Charing Cross station last night. It's such a wanky bum-hole of a place filled with very pretentious drama students who either seem to be waving their 8x10's around, doing bits of their audition speeches or, most horrible of all, singing. It goes without saying that there was nowhere else nearby to drink in. There's a piano in the bar and normally I love piano bars but not when there's a bunch of pretentious cunts singing in fucking harmonies all around me. It was like a Wetherspoons had been invaded by The Kids from Fame who are all now drunk and crap.

There I was just standing there, minding my own business, quietly seething to myself when this idiot turned to me and said "Are you just jealous because she got a better reception than you?" I was a bit baffled by this. It didn't link to anything that was going on at all. I asked the idiot to repeat himself. He pointed to the woman playing piano and said "You're just pissed off because she's doing better than you" By now I had assumed he'd checked out my career and found out that I wasn't doing as well as someone playing piano once a week in a crap bar under a train station. He's right, of course, but I didn't come out to have my nose rubbed in it. I told the idiot that I wasn't a fan of this sort of thing ie Extras from The Bill so drunk that they think they're in Rent. He then pointed out that the piano player got a much better response than I did when I played. Now I was very baffled. "Er...That wasn't me. I can't play the piano", I told him. He went very red and turned away to face his friends. I laughed a lot. Then John Voce arrived and I told him what had happened. We both laughed. The idiot's friend tapped John on the shoulder and said "Tell your friend to stop talking about my friend". That's just stupid. I had every right to talk to my friend about the idiot. The idiot had tried to start an argument and realised it was a case of mistaken identity. He could have said sorry but no, he just turned his back to me.

The thing is, they were drama students - quite possibly the least scary (but most annoying) people in existence. John and I have had encounters with very pretentious drama students before. We once told a drama student that we were producers and were casting at the moment. He got very intense with us so, to see if he was right for the part, we asked him to repeatedly punch himself in the face. He did this willingly. The massive twat. So, being threatened by a drama student is a bit like being bitten by a leaf. It's not going to hurt. Eventually, the idiot's two friends started talking to John and they all got on well but the idiot still refused to turn round and acknowledge that he'd just been unnecessarily rude to a complete stranger. The piano player who he thought was me then returned for a few more songs. He was very handsome. Thanks, mate.

I was out drinking in strange places because my cousin, Patti, is visiting from San Francisco. Patti and I moved to London together nearly 20 years ago and there's no way I would have had the sense to make a move like that. I am forever in her debt. She pointed London out to me as well as The Smiths and how I didn't need to have a mullett or wear stonewash jeans all the time. In many ways, Patti invented me so if you have a problem with anything or everything that I do then go and talk to her. It's all her fault. I love her dearly but, of course, will never tell her that because that would be well gay.

Wednesday, 27 May 2009

When Do I Get To Sing "My Way"?

Is there a point in watching Britain's Got Talent? Surprisingly, yes. Not every single act on the show is desperate for fame and comes across like they would kill their own children if it meant they'd get talked about for a little while. Some of these acts are simply there to waste people's time. That has to be admired.

A grown man got a three minute slot on prime time TV by wearing a Darth Vader helmet and lethargically shuffling around to a Michael Jackson song. He was called Darth Jackson. BRILLIANT! The man didn't even attempt to entertain, he just turned up and was the focus of the night's biggest TV show for a while. He took the piss. Therefore, I love him. I won't vote for him (that would take way more effort than he put in to his act) but I want him to win. Not long after Darth was a lady who's talent was being a bit pretty and being able to twirl a little bit. I don't know what she was supposed to be. A dancer, maybe? Or someone who was having a really slow nervous breakdown? Then came Nick Hell who was such a time waster that even the judges noticed. He came on stage, went out of his mind with a pick axe while his worn out girlfriend stood beside him passing him more and more dangerous objects to shove down his throat. In a way, it was like watching Brian Damage and Crystal but without the jokes, charm or joy.

That was pretty much the show. Yeah, there were a couple of boring turds who went on crying about how much this meant to them and how they were doing this for their dead gerbils and how they're going to give it their everything but, generally, people were just arsing around. I applaud them for it. Last year at the end of the Edinburgh Festival every comedian there talked about how they were going to put IF.COMEDY AWARD WINNER on their 2009 poster just to take the piss out of the pointlessness of it all. I pretty much knew then that everyone would chicken out of it and it looks like they have. But these people saw a chance to take the piss out of this addiction to crap variety that we have suffered from since the beginning of the 21st century and they took it. They are heroes.

Shame Susan Boyle just isn't very good. Still, compared to Amanda cunting Holden she is talent personified. When the next semi-finalists were announced none of their disbelief could come close to the permanent look of surprise on Amanda's very expensive face.

Not only does Britain not have any talent but neither do I. I did a seemingly lovely gig in Tring last night that was going fine until I opened a door to a cunt called Adam. Not that it was completely his fault. I shouldn't have spoken to him at all. I should have ignored his contributions but I didn't and the more I let him have his say the more I could feel the audience just drift away from me. Shame because I think I would have had fun if I'd simply done my job. It wasn't totally awful. Adam went out to get beer at one point and I got the audience back with some very tried and tested material. A good time to get off stage, I thought. It wasn't the material I wanted to do but the staring ovation the audience gave me because of my Adam fuck-up meant I had to just bite the bullet. Robin Ince went on after me and was upsettingly superb. God, I hate him.

Tuesday, 26 May 2009

Olli Nollicazet.

Why isn't Otiz Cannelloni huge?

It's because he's one of the funniest people in the country, isn't it? The fucking idiot. I saw him on Sunday night being his usual brilliant, naturally funny self and the audience loved him. You see, if a TV producer saw that he or she would just roll their eyes and not quite get the connection between getting lots of laughs and being good at getting lots of laughs. Well, they'd say, he's no Justin Lee Cunting Collins and then go off and fuck up another BBC3 series before falling asleep in their own mess. Not that all TV producers are like that. They can't be. How else could Life On Mars get made? Not Ashes To Ashes, of course, just Life On Mars. Not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS because there are still a few good programmes being made out there. I watched Little Howard's Big Question the other day and the fact that some exec out there saw the fun as well as the dark side of Howard Read's incredible work and how it would be a prefect way of entertaining kids without patronising them makes me happy and proves that not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS. Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle was produced by Armando Iannucci and he's brilliant so, you see, not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS. One of these smart people will see the brilliance of Otiz Cannelloni and put that brilliance into good use. They can't throw something that good away and I'm positive that they won't. Unless, of course, ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS.

Today's blog was going to be about something else but I was told not to write about it. Shame. You would have been furious. It certainly made my blood boil. It was about someone horrible being horrible. I'm off now to put pressure on my friend so I can write the story.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Why I?

I spent an hour drinking tea in Times Square yesterday just watching people come and go. I love New York. It's an incredible, vibrant, scary, exciting, buzzing metropolis and people watching there can entertain you for hours. Sadly, I was in Times Square in Newcastle which looks like it was designed by an Etch-A-Sketch and decorated by a Tellytubby bomb.

Not that I have anything against Newcastle, far from it. They've got a Sci-Fi Charity Shop, for fuck's sake. How bad can a place be when it's got one of those? Something a bit weird always happens in Newcastle. You just have to wait for it. I was in Forbidden Planet yesterday when I saw a man collapse in a diabetic seizure. Well, I heard him crash to the ground anyway. He lay on his back with his arms raised and shaking while his body convulsed and his mouth foamed. It was a really disturbing thing to see. What was almost as shocking was not the one member of staff who quickly phoned an ambulance but the other members of staff who just stood there staring at him. It was probably the most Sci-Fi thing they'd ever actually seen in their lives and no amount of comic books had prepared them to deal with it. It was real life, that has NOTHING to do with them. Eventually, someone put two Watchmen sweatshirts under the guy's head to support it. I can't help but think he would have liked that. He was fine, by the way, though that must be horrible to live with. If you're a diabetic sufferer then please go and have some sugar. Or have less sugar. I don't know. Might have to check Wikipedia rather than my blog.

Later, too much happened in one go for me. It was actually too much for my brain to take in all at once. I got flirted at by a 6' 5" Thai waiter with a strong Geordie accent. He kept touching me and he was too tall and he looked exotic but he had that voice and he was a man and...I had to have a lie down. Alone.

The gig last night was great, as was the company. Probably because that cunt Mohammed wasn't there.

Saturday, 23 May 2009

Staring at Young Boys.

Young people are lovely, aren’t they? So fresh faced, naïve and full of spunk. On Thursday I went to a new comedy night called The Ambassadors Comedy Reception at the good old Albany in Great Portland Street. Although I’m not a big fan of the Albany’s policies, I love the venue. So dark, intimate and full of spunk. You can never get served at the bar but, hey, what has the selling of alcohol got to do with a comedy club? Nothing, as we all know.

I met Rob Heeney there and we sat at the back of the room, like the two old men that we are, watching what can only be described as foetuses and a microphone. They were so young it was an insult. Don’t get me wrong, they were excellent but their youth just made me smile more than their jokes did. It’s great being that young. You don’t really know what you’re doing no matter what it is that you’re doing. I’m pretty sure that that lovely, gangly, “is this alright?” awkwardness on stage would happen to these new comics if they were wiring a plug or having sex or buying alcohol. When you’re that young everything is still pretty new and, basically, I’m jealous.

The compere was my favourite (sorry that I didn’t catch the acts names but if you know who they are let me know). He was so eager and smiley and excited to be there that you couldn’t help but love him. He asked someone in the room what they did for a living and when they said Biologist his young persons head could only reply “There’s lots of biology, isn’t there?” Fucking brilliant! He looked like a farmer had decided to model his scarecrow on Miss Joan and it came to life, all windmill arms and massive eyes. He’s fantastic and I wish I owned him. I think a baby was the first act on then after him was a Newcastle comedian who may even have had pubes (he was very good, jokes and everything) then came Boy From Norway. Again, about 10 years old, keen and I wanted to buy him and show him to my friends. He was soooooooooooooo new that he still kept apologising for everything he did despite him being pretty good. He can speak English perfectly but kept asking if what he just said was the right way to say that which made me laugh because I kept imagining comic Tony Gerrard doing the same for some reason (“Any fucking poofs in? Am I saying that right?”). Plus I’m going through a “Isn’t broken English hilarious?” spell at the moment. A new café owned by two very nice Polish ladies has just opened round the corner from me and every day it has a new sign outside it. “Well Come” it said on the first day and “Healty Food” the next. Yesterday I was delighted to find out that I could get a white black coff there for 90p or a crepe what you like for 1.65. Bargain. Anyway, Norway Boy was young and shy and eager and it was brilliant to watch him. Then they wheeled on Grampa Ben Norris who wheezed about the war and asked where the biscuits were for 10 minutes. The first half closed with The Ladybirds, a singing group in their very early twenties who probably felt old for the first time in their lives just being in the same room as some of the bairns on the bill. Lucky for those ladies, me and Rob Heeney were there to show them they have a good 30 or 40 years before they get to our age.

I left halfway through and missed middle-aged Rob and Nana Ava Vidal talk about how it was different in their day but I’m sure the second half was great. I’m not sure when the next Ambassadors Comedy Reception is but I think we should all go. All us comics who’ve been around for a while should come down and be reminded of that nervous excitement of youth. Maybe not Chris Langham. Ageing comedian or not, you should check it out. It’s a good gig. Let’s go.

I’m up in Newcastle this weekend. I’m playing at the Hyena Café which is a club I love doing because the audiences up there are generally good and the club is run by nice people. Yvonne and Della do a damn fine job despite the club’s owner being a massive prick. Last night’s crowd went from being slightly volatile to completely unplayable in the space of an hour. Admittedly, there were a fair few people there who wanted to see the show but the bulk of them were cunts. They would have been fine but the club’s prick owner told the bouncers to not throw anyone out. Stupid fucking cunt. Even though there were dickheads ruining a show that short-sighted prick wouldn’t remove any of them because then they wouldn’t spend money on booze. For fucks sake, what has the selling of alcohol got to do with a comedy club? Oh…hang on. Now I get it. Anyway, to summarise what I just said: Hyena in Newcastle is a lovely club with great staff but Mohammed, the owner, is a fucking cunt.

Hmmm….wonder if I’m still on the bill for tonight.

Thursday, 21 May 2009

Would You Like Cheese With That?

Do you actually pay your TV licence fee? WELL DON'T. Look at what YOU are funding, you evil bastard. God, I hate you. If it wasn't for you there would be no Horne & Corden, no My Family, no Cunts Dancing Like Cunts or whatever it's called. But no, YOU had to actually pay for all these things and ruin my fucking life. And now you have crossed the line, as if Torchwood wasn't utterly shit enough, you give money so this can happen. What were you thinking? What was going through your mind when YOU decided to make Tonight's The Night with John Barrowman.

How this bootable, annoying ball-ache of a man ever became popular is completely beyond me. He smiles for a living. That's all he does. Smile and patronise. Smile and patronise. Sing a song. Smile and patronise. Smile and patronise. Sing a song. Goodbye wink. Smile and patronise. That's the entire show. The smarmy fuck-nut dances around, talking down to "ordinary" people and blessing us all with his presence. The premise of the show is this: Do you know someone very special? Then let Tonight's The Night reward them by being in the same room as John Barrowman himself. What a prize! Has your entire family been wiped out with AIDS and your dog been shot dead and now you spend all your time trying to stop wolves from eating orphan babies? Well, we're going to let you touch John Barrowman's lovely golden hand. My favourite bit in the show is when they get someone who's life is so shit that their friend's lose their minds and ask John Barrowman if he would be so gracious as to make a dream come true for the poor sap. What about singing live in the studio with Russell Watson? Well, he wanted to go to Disneyland but, fuck it, why not? Then they drag him to the studio, let him sing two lines then Russell Watson steps in to prove how pathetic ordinary members of the public are when they start thinking slightly above their station. Barrowman also plays God by making different groups in the community compete in the Devil's own karaoke. Different groups in the community like plumbers, firemen, waitresses and rapists proudly show off their lack of dignity at the court of King John while he claps and throws his own shit at them. He's such a smarmy, untrustworthy cunt. Why can't we have John Leslie back? Better the Devil you know, that's all I'm saying....

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Tonight's The Night then has a competition where idiots dress up as aliens and Barrowman and others just as bad as him pick the best one. The prize is too horrible to even think about. The winner gets to be in an episode of Doctor Who in a scene filmed on the TARDIS. I AM NEVER PAYING MY LICENCE FEE EVER AGAIN. Why not get them to dress up as corpses and the best one gets to be in an episode of the News?

iPlayer is becoming the bane of my life. I shouldn't be waking up, switching the computer on and just upsetting myself. It's depressing. How long is this crappy variety TV going to go on for? Fucking ballroom dancing and cheesey singing and Britains Got Bastards and all that other crap that gets flung at us. I'm telling you now, BBC (because they read this), if you made better programmes people would still watch them. Don't be afraid to make good programmes because you think that thick people will switch off. The entire country watched I, Claudius. That was good, that.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

Having a Fit.

Something really weird happened to me yesterday, something a little bit out of character. There I was lying on my sofa mumbling at the TV while hungover (hang on, we're getting to the weird bit) when all of a sudden I took a look at myself, decided that what I saw was awful and went for a two mile run.

I went running! That's about as likely as Stephen Hawking doing Jazzercise, but somehow it happened. It's incredible the amount of energy a spot of proper self-loathing will give you. The thing is, I was lying on that sofa, crying and dribbling, for hours. I think I watched about 8 episodes of Family guy while continually telling myself that I will get up and do something in five more minutes even if its just to open the curtains. That's exercise, in a way. I think I was just giving myself a warning. Two miles isn't that much to run but it knackered me and if I lie on the sofa doing fuck all for hours and hours ever again THIS is what will happen. I'll be wearing shorts (bad enough) and out there running (nightmare).

I'm very glad I did it though. It made me feel a lot better despite me thinking I was going to throw up my own heart at the end of it. It's a good way to sort your head out as well as your body. Just running on your own gives you time to think clearly, take stock of what's happening and what needs to be done. Turns out, I'm fucked. But it was nice to spend time with Jerk who ran along side me the whole time, constantly looking up to me as if to say "What the fuck are you attempting, you fat wheezing embarrassment?" Then, just before my chest exploded with the shock of me moving around, I saw something that made getting off my lazy, stupid, pale arse all worthwhile. I saw three ducks having a race on a proper running track. They ran for about a minute and even had a lane each. It was like one of those sweetly nearly-amusing moments that you see on You've Been Framed but did I have my video camera with me? NO! That's another £50 that's slipped through my fingers. As I was looking for an excuse to stop running, I watched the competitive little ducks, smiling while my body screamed for mercy. It was fun to watch. Not in a Beat The Horse way (despite the heavy breathing and floods of sweat coming from me), that would be wrong, I thought. It's fine to masturbate competitively while watching horses. Horse racing is the sport of Kings and therefore Beat The Horse is the way a King would wank, obviously. But Beat The Duck? That's just wrong. If you wank while looking at a duck then you're a paedophile and you disgust me. Oh, the mallard won, by the way.

You know what? If you want to wank while looking at ducks, go ahead. Sorry for what I said earlier, it was a bit right-wing of me to force my own views on to you but I have an excuse. I'm very easily manipulated and, when I came home to do all my post-run collapsing, I noticed that the BNP had posted a leaflet through my letterbox. Now, I'm not saying that the BNP have all or any of the answers (Unless the question is "Was Hitler lovely?"), but you have to admire/be alarmed at their massive balls. They come to your house and post right-wing arsery through your letterbox, not as a threat but as an invitation. Incredible! Firstly, the leaflet tells you all the things that the BNP are saying no to (pretty much everything) then it tells you the one thing they're saying yes to: British people. By British people they mean white British people. It then goes on to remind us how "we" have earned our rights in this country by listing some wars that none of us were in. Wars like The Battle of Trafalgar, The Somme and The Time War. My favourite bit though is the back of the leaflet where it says "Why We're ALL Voting BNP" and then gives the opinion of two people. One's a doctor who will now surely be struck off for showing prejudice and the other is an old person smiling broadly at the thought of sending the asylum seekers he never sees or has anything to do with back on the boat they came over on. Who the fuck would agree to have their photo on a BNP leaflet? Are you that stupid that you won't think that everyone is going to loathe you? On the front there's an entire family of cunts smiling at the camera. Well done, you two pricks, for dragging your own children into your pool of hate. By the way, it gives you a number to call if you want a free poster to display in your window. I might get one. I need to get new windows but I don't want to pay to have the old ones removed. At the bottom of the leaflet it says "Please Recycle". I can't believe I'm doing something the BNP told me to do.

I'm forgetting too much stuff to put in my blog. I should keep notes. On Saturday, Johnny and I saw a headline on the front page of the Manchester Evening News that read "Go on, Jade! You can do it!" Nice sentiment if rather late.

It's not that weird for me to go out running. I used to do it a lot a few years ago but then I started getting in to Buffy and Lost and Dexter so it got put to one side. Even after the run I sat down and watched Crank. Thank fuck that's not a TV series as it's the greatest thing I've ever seen ever ever and my life would be ruined if I had to devote time to that as well as all my other time-wasting activities. Think I'll dust off my bicycle today.

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Hanging Out The Back of Katie Price.

If there is one thing that I am not, it's a schmoozer. I don't feel the need to fake interest in people just to get slightly ahead in my career. There are plenty of other comedians who brown-nose their way into comedy clubs or TV but having my head shoved firmly up some promoters arse just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. In fact, the only reason that I would ever attend something as sycophantic as The Comedy Store 30th Anniversary Party is to make fun of it the next day in my blog. I'm glad I was turned away at the door.

Well. That's today's blog fucked then.

Monday, 18 May 2009

Oh, Manchester. So Much To Answer For.

Football and trannies ruined a perfectly lovely date for me and my husband, Johnny, on Saturday in Manchester. There we were being regular, middle-aged men, buying comics and cybermen dollies and minding our own business when The Others decided to try to spoil our blissful time.

Johnny and I were walking down Canal Street discussing what was better, Firefox or Women, when we chanced upon a bar patronised by men who look like men in dresses. That's all perfectly fine, of course, but we both felt uncomfortable about it. There were two transvestites sitting outside the bar. They were being loud and shouting things at passers-by. They weren't quietly dignified transvestites, they were the over-the-top, screaming, absolutely fabulous types. You know. Wankers. Passing them was going to be awkward for Johnny and I because we hate random people in the street being funnier than us plus the case for Firefox was going really well. Also right outside the bar was a carpenter doing some work. This saved us. The carpenter was way more interesting to the transvestites. One of them awkwardly hobbled up to him and, while he was working, pretended to kiss the carpenter on the bum while laughing hysterically. Yeah. There would have been a time that this would have been OUTRAGEOUS but, you know, that was two fucking centuries ago. Of course, Johnny and I could have just ignored this incredibly minor incident, it was none of our business, but it was kind of interesting to watch a Transvestite try to annoy someone while he's using a circular saw. What a wasted opportunity.

Johnny and I found a bar and did something I never thought possible: we did some work. Now that's OUTRAGEOUS. The bar was empty, quiet and had big comfy chairs. Perfect for doing a spot of work, we thought. Why did we think that? It was ruined immediately by cunting football fans who magically just appeared and filled the place. If I could do anything to make this world a better place it would be to ban football and imprison anyone who had a passing interest in it. Everything stops for football. TV schedules get changed, roads are blocked off and pubs get so rammed with shouting arseholes that you can't enjoy a pint. It was even worse when I got on the train back to Leeds. Not only could I not get a seat because it was full of men who painted their faces red and their embarrassed children who's faces were naturally red, I had to listen to their fucking singing. Lovely songs, they were too. Especially considering most of these pissed up cunts had kids with them. Lovely songs like "Arsenal are fucking shit, Arsenal are fucking shit, Lets kill them with an axe and rape their wives with an axe, Arsenal are fucking shit". It's only a game. A game that these fat, wheezing, drastically out-of-tune pricks can never actually play. I HATE football.

The gigs in Leeds weren't that great that day either. Both shows had the same problems. Pretty much any punchline was ruined by either a Hen Night bursting into talk or a Stag Do dropping their drinks. Friday was a lot better. Still, yesterday was just perfect. Lizzie Roper invited me and several others to her flat for lunch, some drinks and for her to talk about her minge. Even though she tried to poison me with dead animal flesh, it was a lovely day. The lunch was delicious, the company fantastic and Lizzie's minge stories gripping. We even played a game about books that was surprisingly not as dull as it sounded, mainly due to Lizzie's various outbursts about her minge. Thanks, Lizzie. That was lovely that was.

Now to Margate to pick up Jerk. It's been over two weeks since I've seen Jerk. At least now I can get all cross about dickheads in the park again, eh, readers?

Saturday, 16 May 2009


We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. We all fucking hate Leeds.

I'm in Leeds. Although Leeds is a lovely place and gigs here are generally great I'm always reminded of my favourite football chant any time I come here. It's an amazing song. Shorter than Song 2, more passionate that I Know It's Over and simpler than Happy Birthday. Brilliant. Thanks to Rob Hitchmough for teaching me that song about 20 years ago. It's stuck with me and certainly lifted my spirits at difficult times. Sing it now, if you fancy.

But Leeds is great. Last night's gig was fantastic and it's made me think that pretty much any actual enjoyable weekend I've spent away from home being a stand-up comedian has happened in Leeds. Good gigs happen fairly frequently, which is nice, but nice weekends are a lot rarer. You never know what cunt you're going to be stuck in Birmingham with for three days. But every time I've come to Leeds I've been with good people. Aah, that weekend years ago where Jamie Mathieson and I did some Sci-Fi shopping then bitched about comedians or the lovely time that Gordon Southern pissed in an ice bucket WHILE ASLEEP and then we bitched about comedians. Great days. Or that great weekend where Steve Harris, Stefano Paolini and I had a few drinks every night and then bitched about comedians and even last night hanging out watching a young, cool indie band with Richard Morton and Ron Vaudry while we bitched about comedians was excellent. Great, great days. I say WE bitched about comedians, we didn't really. I did, but WE didn't. And I say young, cool indie band they were more like a hospice. Covers bands aren't good at the best of times but these guys took a turd, used spit instead of Brasso, gave it a rub and said "That'll do". They were ageing songs by The Killers and Kings of Leon while throwing ye olde rock shapes to some of the drunkest people the north could provide. There's nothing wrong with getting older but to this band birthdays, all their many, many birthdays, came as a spirit-battering insult. They looked like Black Lace for fucks sake. When they said "We're gonna do one more number" they hadn't run out of songs it's just that their bladders can be a lot more unpredictable these days.

Not that I could enjoy the band properly, anyway. We were standing at the bar which is the exact place that everyone in Leeds comes to do all their pushing and shoving. I got into a lovely argument with one blob who rugby tackled her way to the front of the bar while making sure I knew what it felt like to have her fall on me. She was awful, made of shit and elbows. When I made my views clear on how I didn't appreciate her fucking existence she laughably told me that there was no need to be rude. It turned into a pointless argument that went on way too long and took too much time away from bitching about comedians. Some cunts have no manners.

I'm staying in an absolutely beautiful hotel here but, instead of relaxing in it's splendour, I'm going to Manchester to meet Johnny Candon. We're going to "work". Shame I'm not hanging out in the hotel today. There's racing from Newmarket today on Channel 4 and I fancy my chances.

Thursday, 14 May 2009

Boldly Fuck Off.

Today hasn't started well. I woke up way too early due to beer the night before. I felt groggy, a little hungover and very grumpy. It was only 7.30 so I thought it was best to go downstairs, sit in my own mess and force my bastard eyes to watch Bring Back Star Trek.

Christ Almighty, does anyone actually like Justin Lee Collins and if so can you tell me why you like him? What does he do? It's like a top television executive saw someone who was quite good at singing at a karaoke bar one night and then, while having a brain haemorrhage, offered him whatever the fuck he wanted. Just because he has a ridiculous voice then we must just assume he's a laugh or, even fucking worse, lovable. He is neither. He is utterly upsetting and a cunt. I know a fair few people who know him and say that he's actually a really nice guy but I'm afraid he can't be. A nice guy wouldn't do what he does. I get called bitter a lot because of this blog and I often find that ridiculous. I'm not bitter (mostly), I just want things to be better. I'm not saying I can make them better but there are people out there who can. Justin Lee Collins is not one of them. BUT....I think I am bitter towards Justin Lee Collins. I'm bitter and angry and frustrated because I just cannot fathom what it is about him that anyone could like. Even Justin Lee Collins hates Justin Lee Collins. Look at his tired, sad face faking more energy and "fun" while his brown, shitty soul pours more and more of itself out of his colon and into his wacky underpants. He knows that we know but NO-ONE IS SAYING IT. WHY IS JUSTIN LEE COLLINS? That's the big question. I am bitter. I'm bitter as fuck because, as little as I have done, all I see is a fat hair-do who woke up, put on whatever hilarious t-shirt was lying nearest him and got a career. The fat fucking cunt. And bringing back Star Trek? For fuck sake! You can't bring back something that hasn't gone away. What next, Justin? Bring Back The Jonas Brothers? The News? The Sea? In summary: I hate Justin Lee Collins but, and here's the twist, I can't stop watching him. There's the rub. The reason that pathetic amount of flesh is famous is because of me and people like me. He's like a one-man version of Lost and we must keep watching until it's all explained. But so far, we're just left with mystery.

Still, I saw Star Trek yesterday and it's great. It's very, very flawed but still great fun. It's main problem is the references. It just can't leave itself alone. In a way, it's a massive budget version of Bring Back Star Trek minus the cunt. Pretty much every line of dialogue was basically saying "Eh? Eh? Did you get that, Trekkies? That was for you". But that's trivial because it's a great film. Stupid and brilliant. Karl Urban as Bones is excellent, best thing in the film in fact. I'm glad Justin brought it back.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

Lazy Legge.

I can't just go back to doing fuck all now that I'm back from holiday. It's the whole point of holiday, isn't it? You go away to recharge your batteries and mine are now full. All I have to do is actually use them.

Edinburgh is just around the corner, not geographically but time-wise. You know, a time-corner. If I just spend my time like I normally do watching Doctor Who, screaming at James Corden pictures and playing Beat The Horse then it's going to be pointless. Not that Beat The Horse is a complete waste of time. It isn't. At least now I know how many furlongs I can masturbate for (4, not that many but that's not the point of the game) and it doesn't bare thinking about how I could have easily gone to my grave ignorant of that fact. But it's so hard to be influenced when you come back to Blighty after a week in the hot, hot sun.

Pretty much as soon as I got off the plane I got fed up. Ugly British people pushing other ugly British people out of the way just so they can stand and wait beside a chewing gum-riddled luggage carousel for a bag that will never ever come, then you get on the train and the same ugly British people are sitting there watching their holiday loudly on their phones. CUNTS! Plus it's cold and wet and the train is smelly and I've got 200 messages from people who needed an answer 5 days ago and I'm home and I'm grumpy and it's not fair and bollocks. As soon as I sat on the train the first thing I saw was someone reading a copy of Metro with Peter Andre and Katie Price on the front page. Fucking depressing. I've just been hanging out in beautiful mountains and turquoise lakes, the last thing I want to see is the celebrated brain-dead. I almost read the story but stopped myself. I just knew it would be something along the lines of "Peter Andre and Katie Price are to be re-married for the 17th time this week in a diamond encrusted tit on the top of a pink pony's dream. McFly, Richard Madeley and Rose West are confirmed guests". I couldn't stomach that being the first thing I read after a holiday. I still haven't checked out why they were on the front cover of Metro so if Peter and Katie have accidentally walked in to a big Murder Factory and were sliced to death by Killotron 3000 then fed to their own kids, let me know. It would slightly cheer me up.

Even pushing back the front door and picking up the billion offers of further debt is just the bank's way of saying "Fuck you, you're back, get used to it". They won't just give you 5 minutes to think "Well, I'm back. Best make the most of it. I'll just put the kettle on. Maybe have a biscuit. Wonder if there's a horse race on?" Real life just can't wait to ram itself up your arse after a holiday. It doesn't want to hear how the holiday was or see photos or ask if you think you'll keep in touch with that nice couple you met. Real life just wants to batter and rape you. Or worse. And anyone who thinks that you can't possibly compare returning from a holiday to extreme violence obviously hasn't come home to find that you forgot to throw the rubbish in the kitchen out before you left. My house stinks. Fucking, fucking, FUCKING real life!

King of Everything must take up my time from now until Edinburgh. I can't go back to Lazy Legge. We've got some great new ideas for the show, my favourite being The Diary of Frank Anne (I think you can see where that joke is going), and we must book lots of previews. If you have a venue and need King of Everything then please contact me. My one glimpse of Oooh coming back was late last night when I saw an episode of Tim & Eric Awesome Show Great Job! It's a fantastic American comedy show that just goes to such ridiculous extremes but also barely does anything. All I know is that it's hilarious and that's the show that I'm going to steal from now. If you haven't seen it, please go way out of your way to do so. Even if you hate it I think you'll admire the balls of these people. I love it.

One last thing about Croatia for those still not sure where to go on holiday this year: You can buy XXX Hard Core porn on DVD at roadside garages. It's right by the Kids DVD section. Honestly. That, I think, is a bit strange but nowhere near as strange as a monthly publication they have out there that we don't have here. Or anyone has anywhere else. Seinfeld Magazine. Bizarre.

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Croatia Pt.3 - The Last Stand.

The last couple of days in my Croatia trip have been just as relaxing as the rest. I never thought that, as a man who basically does fuck all, I could ever do less than I normally do but I'm an achiever. If there is more fuck all out there to do then I shall grasp that sleeping bull by the horns and just do an almighty amount of nothing. Yeah, doing less than nothing is certainly a first for me and I'm very proud of myself for ticking that box successfully. The Devil finds work for idle hands. Not mine, I'm just that idle.

That wasn't the only first that I achieved on this trip either, I also got sunburnt for the first time. I'm so horribly pale that I normally just reflect the sun back on to itself but this time the sun tried extra hard and now I have two stingingly painful streaks of burn all down my legs. I look a bit like bacon. Vegetarian bacon, of course. I've actually been jealous of sunburnt people before. Seeing people complain about their lobster faces or their fried arms used to fuck me right off due to the sun's rudeness. At least it noticed them, it ignored me. But now, probably thanks to my appearances in The Trap Sodcast, the sun has finally taken notice and it fucking aches. I'm not good with pain at the best of times and mild irritation is like having my eyes gouged out and shoved through the eye of my penis while I shit an anvil. I'm playing up this small bit of sunburn brilliantly. I reckon one more sobbing phone call and I can get my mum to come over from Northern Ireland and make me soup.

I loved Croatia and recommend that you go on a holiday as soon as you can. Not necessarily to Croatia, you might not like it, but somewhere. Holiday is a great idea. It's pretty much my favourite thing right now. I'm all about Judith Charmers over here. Do give Croatia a thought, though. Here are my Top Ten Favourite Things About Croatia. You'll be booking that trip in no time!

1. It's where Goths go on holiday! Seriously. I saw them sunbathing. It's a bit like seeing a nun fucking a protestant. It's just wrong.

2. Bread in breadcrumbs. Unbelievably, this is what they call French Toast.

3. Hotels have a "Complaintment Department".

4. Deep-fried Brussels Sprouts. Take that, Scotland!

5. People look at you like a twat when you order a Pivo and they bring you a Heineken or a Lowenbrau or a Budweiser or something. You wanted a Pivo. While you're here you should try out the local brew. Oh, yeah, you argue with the cunts. You keep telling them "Pivo, please. Pivo. Pivo. PIVO!" but they always bring a beer that you could get anywhere and when you point out that that's not what you want they tell you that that's what you ordered. You fucking didn't order a fucking Fosters, you ordered a Pivo. What the fuck is wrong with everyone? Is Pivo a drink that's for Croatian's only? Grow the fuck up, you fucki...oh, pivo means beer. Fine. Heineken, please.

6. Their cornflakes look and taste like psoriasis.

That's my Top Ten, holidaymakers. Hope that helps. Back to real life now. Hope all's OK. Has Peter Kay done anything since I've been gone?

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Croatia Pt 2.

One thing you can definitely say about the people of Croatia: They really love animals.

I love animals too. So far on this trip I’ve seen Dolphins, Wild Rabbits, thousands of Trout, Bears and Wolves in the mountains (nearly) and lizards. I think the lizards are my favourite so far. They are the Croatian version of mice except they’re much cleaner and instead of screaming in fear when they come into a room I scream with excitement and make an idiot of myself. Yes, as much as I love animals I have to admit that the people of Croatia definitely love them more than me. In fact, they love animals so much that, over here, they actually eat them!

I know it sounds disgusting but animal flesh is actually thought of as food in Croatia. They eat everything from baby goats to baby bison to babies, I’m guessing. There’s barely a dish available here that doesn’t come along with a side of murdered animal and the locals don’t bat an eyelid. Bat’s eyelids in particular are considered a delicacy. For my trip to the Plitvice National Park, where I nearly saw Bears and Wolves, my tour guide prepared some pack lunches for everyone and I chose the vegetarian option. This consisted of a bread roll, water and chicken.

The National Park was incredible, probably one of the most truly awesome things I’ve ever seen, and it was only helped by tour guide and carnivore, Elvis. He was huge but always referred to everyone as “My Dear” before saying their name which made me think that he might be The Master from Doctor Who. Any trip to a massive nature reserve is made all the better when you imagine that you’re part of a universal takeover.

Look, I’m on holiday, OK? The blogs don’t have to be that good.

Saturday, 9 May 2009

Croatia Pt 1.

So, I’m in Croatia, a country I hadn’t given a single thought to until this week. I don’t really know why. It just never registered with me. And, the way I so far have been able to walk around the streets without being constantly mobbed by screaming teenage girls, they’ve never heard of me either. The good news is that Croatia and I are getting on very well. It’s a beautiful place and the “Fuck it, we’ll do it tomorrow” attitude of the people suits me fine.

I’m staying in a very touristy place called Porec but, as it’s just out of tourist season, there are really not that many people around. To be fair, I haven’t really looked round Porec mainly due to fear of Brits On The Piss types that probably aren’t even here. Not that I’ve avoided British people since I’ve been here. I fucking haven’t. There seems to be mainly British people staying at my hotel, along with some Germans. No doubt hilarity will ensue at the poolside over some towel-on-the-lounger situation. The German’s have definitely been my favourite. Two of them to be precise. I saw them on my first night and thought they might be the biggest pair of twatty geeks I have ever seen. Looks can be deceiving.
They’re a couple in their early 50’s, I’m guessing, and I saw them while going to the hotel bar for my nightcap. The hotel bar has a terrible covers band EVERY FUCKING NIGHT so I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to just sit there and have a relaxing beer. Plus the place is floodlit. You can practically see people’s bones, it’s so brightly lit. The band played some terrible balls and there were two people dancing along to it. Only two. And everyone was transfixed on them. It was like they had rehearsed their dance routine for weeks, both smiling constantly as if trying to appeal to judges. They twirled around and shook what I assume is their stuff for ages, always bowing after each song. It’s not like they were bad people, just geeks. Fairly embarrassing, quite laughable geeks. Their geekdom only enhanced by the gentleman’s choice of clothing. He wore a very tight white t-shirt with cut off sleeves, tight black shorts, a bum bag and silver, spangley shoes. He was 50+ and a disco demon.

The next day, I saw the couple again. This time getting on a tandem. I recognised the gentleman immediately by his massive permanent smile, the same one he had been so proud of while dancing. They were both dressed identically this time. In cycling gear. Their tops suggested they cycled competitively but my brain suggested they didn’t. They looked even geekier than the previous night. Then the gentleman went off for a few minutes on his own leaving, I presume, his wife to hold the tandem until he returned. She all of a sudden looked very serious. Not exactly sad but definitely serious, like she was not just standing on her own but actually alone with her thoughts. Crap, I stupidly thought, this is all his idea and she hates it but goes along with it anyway. He returned with his big grin and patronisingly helped her on to the bike like she was so fragile that she couldn’t possibly do it herself. I really started to dislike this guy.

That night, I went for my nightcap again and caught two long tedious songs from the crap covers band while waiting to get served. The German couple were up again twirling and spinning and bowing and there was his big smile beaming out his evil, controlling punchableness throughout the room. The second song ended and he decided that they would sit this one out and sit down. He even led her by the hand to her seat. The patronising cunt. Maybe she can walk to her seat herself without your fucking help, you smug shit…..OR perhaps, just perhaps, she’s blind.

She was blind. Probably still is. No wonder he grinned all the time. He was in a relationship with someone who despite being blind wanted to dance and, let’s face it this must be tricky for her, cycle her way round foreign countries and generally enjoy her life. I look at blindness as a disability that must cut out so much of your life and she simply doesn’t. They were up there looking ridiculous and spinning around for the judges (that weren’t there) and having a great time. A much better time than I was standing waiting to be served while complaining about a crap covers band. I love that couple. They have taught me a valuable lesson about judging people that I will soon forget. But that’s my problem. They, on the other hand, don’t have a problem in the world. Good for those geeks.

The little that I’ve travelled around Croatia has been both beautiful and shocking. Amongst the breathtaking scenery there are still constant reminders of the War of Independence and the locals don’t seem to want to hide those signs either. It’s what they went through and it’s too recent to pretend to forget. It’s also deeply moving for someone who didn’t live through it. In one hour long journey through the Istra countryside I saw numerous houses still riddled with bullet holes, a burnt-out, crashed shell of a fighter jet and a piece of angry graffiti that read “Jakob is homo for Turkey cock”. It’s hard not to think about how this place was just a decade and a half ago with people fleeing their homes, tanks rolling through the fields and Jakob sucking off poultry. The fun side of Croatia is evident, it’s very much a party place, but I find its recent history more interesting. The few people I’ve met have all been affected by the war, grew up during it and know all too much about it. None of them remember Jakob though.

And that is why I'm not a travel writer.

Wednesday, 6 May 2009

Play The Game.

Although I really enjoyed my long weekend in Edinburgh, I’m still slightly miffed at the amount of time I wasted doing nothing. It’s amazing and depressing how often this can occur when you have a job that’s as glamorous and exciting as a stand-up comedian’s. Pretty much, we don’t know how to cope with daytime.

Sure, I’ve packed some classic books on weekend trips all over the world. Love In the Time of Cholera to Singapore, Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas to Amsterdam, The Sound of Laughter to Nottingham but have I read any of them? Fuck, no. That would be somehow spending my time wisely. That’s never going to happen. I’m a stand-up comedian (in a way) and must spend my free time in strange places shuffling.
But I’ve come up with at least one amusing way to pass a little bit of time, plus it might actually feel like I’ve achieved something in my thrown-away life. It’s Joe Heenan’s fault, sort of. He compered the Edinburgh gigs and during the intervals we talked a lot about how time gets dumped on these trips away from home. More importantly, we both mused, the amount of time touching your winkie goes WAY up. Winkie touching does get to be an almost default setting to the easily bored. I’m not saying its constant; I’m just saying that it’s easy to fall back on a wank when you’re bored. It’s like Joe said, it’s better than watching Channel 4 Racing. And that’s when I had my good idea. You can stop reading this now, If you like. Especially if you’re related to me.

It’s a game, of sorts, and it’s called Beat The Horse. The rules are very simple. Switch on Channel 4 Racing and, basically, when the race starts so do you. You MUST finish before the horses do. Now, this game might not be for everyone (not everyone has that competitive edge that I have) and you must be careful to do it properly. Safety first and all that. Firstly, make sure that your hotel room door is locked. The last thing you want is housekeeping walking in while you’re playing a game of Beat The Horse. They might just see it as a man who fancies animals as opposed to a normal man who likes passing the time playing competitive games. Secondly, make sure you have a tissue handy. You’ll need something to rip up in frustration when you lose.

So, it wasn’t a totally wasted weekend. At least I invented a game. Don't think it's sexist either. Women who want to wank off cocks during horse races are very welcome to do so. And now I’m in Croatia. I’ve no idea how that happened.

Monday, 4 May 2009

Lazy Coward.

Edinburgh is a phenomenal city. Literally, phenomenal. The sun was beaming down on it all day yesterday and yet rain fell on one street. It seemed a bit weird walking down this one little street and getting rained on only for it to stop when I turned the corner but it was even weirder when it happened again on my way back. I stood and watched it for a few minutes trying to figure out how this could happen but as Edinburgh is a mystery wrapped in a conundrum wrapped in a puzzle and I know fuck not nothing about the mechanics of rain I left baffled. I like baffled.

I've been to Edinburgh more times than I can remember and every time I'm there Arthur's Seat says "You still haven't been up here yet, have you?" and I always reply "No, Arthur's Seat, but I definitely will do it this time". Then I go to Forbidden Planet and pretend that Arthur's Seat doesn't exist. I was so determined yesterday morning that I wouldn't waste a day due to hungover difficulties that I decided the time to conquer Arthur's Seat had finally arrived. I was going to climb it! Well, walk up it. It was such a beautiful day that seeing Edinburgh, surely Britain's most beautiful city, in all it's glory was the only option to take. And I almost took it. I walked all the way down to the bottom of Arthur's Seat and was ready to make the walk all the way to the top when I noticed that I couldn't be bothered. It's fucking massive and the thing is the closer you get to it the bigger it appears. How does that happen? It's Edinburgh. Phenomenal Edinburgh. I turned my back to Arthur's Seat and proceeded to Forbidden Planet. I have now decided that I will NEVER go up Arthur's Seat. I will set up a Facebook group for other people who will NEVER go up Arthur's Seat later. Join me.

The day wasn't a total waste (it was) because yesterday I popped my Star Trek cherry. Although I've seen some of the films and consider The Wrath of Khan to be one of the greatest things that anyone has done ever, I've never watched a TV episode. Now I've watched six. Six violent, sexist episodes of this iconic violent, sexist sci-fi classic. Here's what I have learned about the 23rd century: Women are shit. Even Spock, a Vulcan who is motivated only by extreme logic, repeatedly punches a woman until she is unconscious. That's the first episode. Then, just a few episodes later, Captain Kirk tries to rape someone. How the fuck did this get a second series? Even bit part characters are creepy fucking pervs. In episode 2, Charley X, a 17 year old tries to rape the same woman Kirk does WITH HIS MIND. And cock, of course. Later, a charming Irish man boards the Enterprise and, yeah fuck it, pimps out three women to the crew. If any of you lovely ladies are still boo-hooing about equality or fair pay or what time Coronation Street is on or whatever it is you moo about then spare a thought for how shit it's going to be in 200 years time. Apparently, we're going to get medieval on your ass. Sorry about that.

Last night at The Stand was a let down. The audience were great and the other acts on the bill were fantastic but I chickened out of doing two new bits of material and I feel like a big coward. I did do some new stuff (yeah, the Maddie joke) but I fucked about and fucked about and just didn't do it. If you can't do new material at The Stand on a Sunday night then YOU'RE A FUCKING IDIOT, is my motto. Still, the gig was good and about 95% of the audience liked me, the other 5% LOATHED me so that's an achievement in itself. If I have ruined their evening in any way, I am happy. Very big thanks to the nice people of Twitterland who came down to The Stand this weekend. You're very nice.

Sunday, 3 May 2009

Day of the Dead.

I spent all day yesterday in a haze. A totally wasted day with me being just as wasted as it was. It was as if I'd drunk too much alcohol the previous night and that alcohol had somehow had an effect on me. I was hungover (it's a technical term) and my hangover decided to spend the day with me. It went wherever I went. And it did a lot of shouting.

It's amazing to spend an entire day doing absolutely nothing but just lie there and feel sorry for yourself. An incredible waste of time and I knew it but did nothing about it. I could have walked up Arthur's Seat, gone to Edinburgh Zoo or simply sat in the park and people watched (you know, oggling) but my hangover had other plans. A carefully put together set of plans that meant that I stayed in bed, watched Doctor Who, Twittered and felt the agony of Christ as my hangover punished me for enjoying myself.

I was also supposed to go to The Whisky Society with The Stand Comedy Club's Chris Cooper yesterday afternoon to spend the day trying various single malts that whisky expert Chris suggested. I loved that idea when I was drunk and even thought it exciting before I got drunk but, strangely, when my hangover arrived I wasn't that keen on trying out different kinds of booze. The very thought would have made me throw up if I wasn't already shitting out my newly diarrhoea-ed organs every three minutes. Unpleasant.

It's a shame to miss a day in Edinburgh because it's a fantastic place and I'll definitely make up for yesterday today. I just realised that I said NO to Edinburgh. That'll teach it.

The gigs have all been great here in The Stand as always. It's a wonderful club. You should go there. The gig last night was the first time all day that I didn't feel hungover although Chris Limb's poster for King of Everything helped too. Just look at it. Have you any idea how happy it has made me?

Friday, 1 May 2009

Dr. Legge.

I have been in pain for weeks. I have no idea what's up with me. I ache everywhere. Even my hair hurts. I find it hard to walk, move, breathe, laugh (obviously) or do anything really. Every day I wake up and it takes me about 10 minutes to get out of bed. Of course, I could go to the doctors and find out what's wrong with me but that is the coward's way, not my way. I'd much rather live with the pain and throw a shroud of ignorance over myself, therefore never knowing if it's something really serious that could kill me.

It is the only cure that I know works 100%. Ignoring things is a medical wonder that has baffled scientists, doctors and Jesus for years but it definitely works. Got a headache? IGNORE IT. It's nothing. Your right side has gone numb? PAY IT NO MIND. It'll go away. Your cock is on fire? DON'T GIVE IT THE TIME OF DAY. It'll soon burn itself out.

Look at these fucking idiots who have died of the piggy cold. They went to hospital, told the doctors that they had piggy cold and THEY DIED. Coincidence? I think not. My grandfather smoked, drank and had heart attacks every day of his life and he lived to be nearly 200 years old. He was killed by an ambulance racing to save some cunt who had phoned the hospital complaining of pains. The dick.

I'm glad I've ignored my pain because it HAS gone away. Last night, my friend Marisa came to see me at The Stand Comedy Club in Edinburgh and after the gig massaged my shoulders. Not in a wet drama student way, I mean a proper massage. She's a real masseuse and she's amazing. Basically, she asks you to relax your body, sit comfortably, breathe calmly and then she batters the fuck out of you. There is truly a very fine line between a relaxing massage and a big kicking. But it worked. Yes, it hurt but afterwards I felt fantastic. All day today I've been walking like a normal human and not some old man who was shot in the dick by Hitler during the war. Thank you, Marisa. You're fantastic. I feel great. That's nice, isn't it? I like a massage with a happy ending.

Even seeing Wolverine today couldn't ruin my good feeling of having a fully functioning body again. It's a terrible film that tells us next to not fuck all about how he became a mutant. It is incredible how they made the film as both a prequel to X-Men and a sequel to Van Heilsing. How they did it I don't know or give a fat fuck. It's just two hours of Big Things Hugh Jackman Can Punch. He punches a man, a tree, a house, a helicopter and, finally, a big power station. Will.I.Am from The Black Eyed Peas is in it in case you need any more convincing of it's bag-of-ballsness. Avoid.

Looking forward to the next three nights here at The Stand. It's a fantastic comedy club. The last two nights in Glasgow and Edinburgh have been very good but I think the weekend gigs are going to be even better. Look how happy I am? That massage sure has worked. I love you all!

Blame Marisa.