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.

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