Wednesday, 30 September 2009

The Cure.

So I was ill and like any real man, I played up to my illness. It started on Sunday night. I was compering a show and all was well but I started getting queasy, hot, cold and nauseous while watching Danny Buckler. This had happened before, of course, but it felt different this time. I drank lots of beer to make myself feel more like me but it didn't work. I moaned and complained and acted like this might be the end. When I woke up the next day I still felt like shit.

When I was a very young boy and I got ill, my Mum would tell me to lie on the sofa, give me a little blanket, switch Bagpuss on and give me an Egg Beat-Up In a Cup (recipe: Boiled egg in a cup, mash it up with a fork). It always made me feel better. A few years ago, my sister Dianne bought me a birthday present that consisted of a blanket, a cup, a fork and a Bagpuss DVD.

Well, it still works. I'm 41 and an Egg Beat-Up In a Cup and Bagpuss (yes, the chocolate biscuit episode) still cures any illness I get. Why are these insane scientists wasting time and money trying to find cures for cancer, Aids and Swine Flu when we already have one? Fuck you, Professor Dick! Thank you, Oliver Postgate and a chicken.

So by Monday afternoon, I felt a lot better and ready to record Precious Little podcast number 3. I was in a very good mood despite my phone running out of battery which, as you will know, is the worst thing that can happen to a human being ever at any time ever. Think of all the TV producers and film executives who would be calling me right now saying "Michael, you were right! Justin Lee Collins is a bellend. We need you to save entertainment! Write a sit-com about space sex! QUICK!" yet all they would get is me asking them to leave a message. The podcast went well. We talked about our one and only review and it was an absolute pleasure to see James get angry over what is essentially nothing. I didn't think James got angry. We also had another Interview James, discussed our look-alikes, mourned the passing of The Astoria and congratulated Ian of The Re-Entrants for his winning theme tune to our podcast. My fingering just wasn't appreciated or wanted.

After the podcast, James and I made our way back to London to see some gigs. James went to see Helen Arney and I went to see The Trap at BBC Radio Entertaining. They were very funny indeed, as usual. Their scripts are just fantastic. They always seem to tie everything up so brilliantly. I sat there being a bit jealous and wishing one of them was dead so that I could have a small chance of being in a sketch group with them. Then I remembered I am.

Los Quattros Cunts, the one-off sketch group that The Trap and I formed about a year ago are re-forming for two gigs in November at The Phoenix, off Oxford Street. We'll be performing sketches in the first half with the second half consisting of a little bit of us and a different special guest both nights. The special guests will not be crap. They will be very much uncrap. I'd advise you to go to these gigs. Buy a diary and write Los Quattros Cunts in it right now.

Another gig I recommend is Richard Sandling's Perfect Movie at The Comedy Pub. It's a great show made up of stand-ups doing a completely movie-based set and the closing act picks out 5 scenes from 5 different films to re-enact. I did the last bit but it was definitely the stand-ups that made the night. I was so impressed by Nick Helm, Stephen Hill and Tom Crowley for doing actual sets that were tailor made for this gig. Especially sets that were that good. Bastards.

Monday, 28 September 2009

Portsmouth Strikes Again.

It was a strange weekend. Highs and lows. The highs were....Oh. Maybe there weren't any highs.

The Saturday night in Portsmouth had at least one great thing going for it: there weren't any church groups pointing out how satanic STD's are. We had a normal interval just like in the good old days. The audience were OK that night and the show went fine. The highlight was seeing new act Tom Goble who was doing a five-minute open spot. He was fantastic and the audience really liked him. That's nice that is. That was the bit that made the night for me. Especially as what came after him was an act who was so racist, offensive and enjoyed acres of stolen material that I assumed I had died and gone to Hell and then Hell had died and gone to Portsmouth. Basically the act "hilariously" put on a wacky foreign voice and claimed he was an illegal immigrant and came off with jokes like "Ah've beeeen to Eeeeendia. The reel one, not Birmingham" and the audience gave him a standing ovation. It was depressing. Backstage he told a story of what good mates he is with Uncle Jim. He talked about Uncle Jim a lot. Uncle Jim let's gives him gigs. Uncle Jim phones him up. Uncle Jim is great. Uncle Jim is Jim Davison. For fuck's sake.

The most uncomfortable part was that he seemed quite nice and friendly before going on stage. He seemed nice. He was very keen on finding out about the other acts, he was excited about doing the gig and he spoke in a very camp, cheery voice. So much so that when he said that he was getting married soon I totally assumed it was a Civil Ceremony (it's called Positive Sexism. I invented it). But judging from the homophobic embarrassment that came out of his mouth on stage I now take it that he's marrying a woman. You know. Like Michael Barrymore did.

The audience absolutely loved him though so what the hell do I know? I know that as OK as I did, I wasn't ever going to do as well as this guy. That made me a bit depressed. I left the venue as soon as the show ended.

I walked back to the hotel past so many people who were screaming at one another and drinking in the street and flashing their tits at passing cars. This wasn't making me feel any better about anything. Still, I'd be in my room soon and watching some telly. That'll be nice.

It wasn't nice. I ended up watching Bring Back....Fame. That was never going to help, was it? I pulled the bed covers over my head, closed my eyes and dreamt that everyone I knew had won a chance to bootfuck Justin Lee Collins in the kidneys.

When I woke up I couldn't have got out of Portsmouth quick enough. I was glad that it was over. Far from awful gigs but I just wanted to be home. As I left the hotel I couldn't help but notice how much nicer Portsmouth is at 8am on a Sunday. It was then that I saw a pair of pink knickers lying in a hedge. I quickened my pace.

Yesterday was much better. I had lunch with my friends, Tara and Carl, who have just announced their engagement. Congratulations to both of them. I'm very glad they've met because it would be a crime if two damn good looking, great people like them had been wasted on the likes of one of us. We're just not in their league. Then it was off to Alton to perform at the UK's best gig. It's the kind of gig that drives home exactly why you would want to do this fucking crap job for a living. The audience are amazing and continue to outdo themselves every time I play there. It made me happy.

Which is probably why I feel so ill right now. My body isn't used to joy. Stupid fucking Alton.

Saturday, 26 September 2009

The Interval R.I.P.

For fuck’s sake. I mean, really. For fuck’s sake. What is so wrong with doing nothing or going for a piss or buying a drink or realising that this isn’t for you and just leaving? Isn’t that what the interval is all about? What has happened to the good old British interval? You know, the interval that won two world wars and ruled the planet and invented TV? The interval that you could leave your front door open during and cheered on when Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards was shit. That’s the interval I remember. But, people, that interval has gone.

I’m in Portsmouth this weekend. No, don’t pity me. After all, I got to see the Chinese restaurant that Peter Sellers was born in and I got to hear more of Rod Stewart’s American Songbook than any human deserves while in a pub last night. So, really, I’m having a (have a sarcastic voice in your head for the next two words) great time. Last night’s gig was fine but very, very tricky. The audience were perfectly nice but it’s the kind of room that you have to slow down to be heard and every word must be emphasised properly or people won’t have the first clue what you’re talking about. I figured that out early but that didn’t stop me struggling. I just about got away with it even though a few of my jokes were greeted with concrete grey warmth. But they were OK. You just had to be on the ball and, as the show had to be rushed, I didn’t really have time to get on the ball (yes, yes, yes. And I’m shit).
Martin Davis opened and did a great job. The audience loved him. I thought this is going to be great from now on. I was big wrong. I went back on stage to introduce Ron Vaudry and the audience looked at me as if to say “Go away. We like the elderly mod better”. Ironically, I aged rapidly during my two minutes on stage. Some people laughed. I now have both of their names and addresses. Ron went on and again struggled to be heard. Still, at least the interval is near and we can clear the slate and start all over again. They’ll have time to drink away the memory of me and then it’ll all be fresh again.

Then something weird happened.

During the interval a church group got up on stage to give a “fun” lecture about the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a comedy club where a church group gets on stage to give a “fun” lecture on the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases before but this was a first for me and I’ve done nearly 20 gigs. They certainly looked like a church group anyway. Four people wearing blue t-shirts that individually read “Chlamydia”, “Herpes”, “Gonorrhea” and “AIDS” who all showed us ways of avoiding catching something horrible from unprotected sex. Surely the best way to avoid catching an STD is to wear one of those t-shirts. I’ve never once tried to seduce a woman who has the word AIDS screamed across her clothes. Not even while drunk. The four churchies were lead by their very own Mr. Cool. I’ll tell you how cool he was: he didn’t wear an STD boasting t-shirt (he wore a groovy black suit) and he was a DJ on Galaxy FM. In Portsmouth he is 10 Brad Pitts and a Fonz. He had a microphone and used it to persuade people to get up on to the stage to receive an STD goodie bag. I wish I was making that up but that’s what was happening right in front of me during the interval. More and more people (mainly sluggishly dressed women) got up on stage to shout “OI OI!!!” into the mic and receive their STD goodie bag and I couldn’t help but think that this was the work of the Devil that this church group were doing. Surely, if God loved us He would want these fucknuts to get a disease and die. Why are these people stopping this important piece of natural selection?

Then, Mr. Cool from Galaxy FM invited for dignityless fuck-holes on stage to see who could put a blue condom on to a plastic penis the best. God must be spinning in his grave. It goes without saying that the big-titted blonde in the fuck-me-up-arse-if-you-like-I’m-not-bothered-as-long-as-you-buy-me-chips shoes won.

The second half, and I’m really not sure how this happened, was actually pretty good. I did a VERY tight five and introduced Rick Wright. The audience didn’t seem in the slightest bit phased by what they had seen during the interval even though I felt like my brain had been to Noel’s House Rape. Is this a new thing I have to get used to? Very strange.

The good thing was that the gig went OK and we were in the pub by 10.30. That NEVER happens. It’s a lovely thing going to the pub after a gig and having a, you know, conversation. I recommend it. Martin told some brilliant tales of his days as a Faces groupie and I even managed to recommend a Small Faces related album that he had never heard of before. It’s called Would You Believe? By Billy Nicholls and I think you should listen to it too. It has an amazing song on it called London Social Degree that basically says everything in 3 minutes that Brett Anderson said in 6 albums. Enjoy.

Friday, 25 September 2009


I've said it before and I'll say it again: Justin Lee Collins is a cunt. But, I digress...

What a boring week it's been. Other than work stuff I've done nothing. I've even stayed at home a whopping three nights in a row. That might seem like nothing to you but that is total imprisonment to me. After night two I started to feel EXACTLY like Josef Fritzl's daughter. I'm sure now she and I would have very interesting conversations if we ever met. You have no idea the torment the two of us have been through. We both know the depression of being kept in the same room looking at all the couple of hundred DVD covers and deciding that there is absolutely NOTHING to watch. I'm sure there were many times that she must have scrolled through her mobile phone looking at all her friend's names and thinking to herself "Yeah, I'd love to go to the pub with them but I can't be bothered going too far and they would never go south. I know what Hans is like". Three days, twenty-six years; it's all exactly the same when you are a little bit bored.

The thing is, it's been a dull week anyway. I'm sure there are all sorts of horrible and important things going on in this world of ours but very little of it seems to make it's way to me. As far as news goes, mainly the idiot stuff gets shoved in my face. To be fair, mainly because I'm surprised that anyone would think that anyone would need to know this stuff.

Keisha has left the Sugababes. Lily Allen has quit the music business. Tommy Tiernan hates Jews.

WHO FUCKING CARES? Yes, yes, yes. I know. Me. But fuck me, this shouldn't end up on TV news, should it? Don't get me wrong, I find it quite funny that there is a successful pop band out there without a single original member in it while the actual three who started the group have solo careers. They could just re-form and call themselves The ACTUAL Sugababes. Mind you, they're about 23 now so maybe they should be called the Sugarbabes just to show how grown up they are now. Plus Lily Allen quitting the music industry wasn't the story, it was just the story that was shoved down our throats. The real story was that over 100 successful musicians gathered to support a sensible step towards dealing with illegal file-sharing and, as an incentive to music-lovers, they asked Lily Allen to quit the music business. Seems fair. Now, if someone could make her Dad it is that he does I'd be very happy.

Then yesterday the BBC news team revealed that Justin Lee Collins, an overstuffed pillow with Farrah Fawcett's old hair, thinks that Bruce Forsyth isn't up to the job of presenting Strictly Come Dancing. Let's just think about that for one second. A cunt thinks a cunt isn't good enough at being a cunt. That is the basic maths of what Justin is saying. It's probably how a very young Thatcher thought of that stupid old past-it Hitler. Yes, it's exactly the same as that. I don't watch Strictly Come Dancing and I realise that Bruce Forsyth is not for me, nor is he presented by television for me. But Justin Lee Collins sort of is and I've seen him bouncing up and down wearing a t-shirt that hilariously reads "If Found, Return To Pub" and annoying ex-celebrities that don't want to be reminded of the soap opera they were in 20 years ago. Yet somehow this ball of hair and sadness has deemed someone who has been in the entertainment business for over 1000 years not good enough to present fluff on a Saturday night to people who are only half watching because they're getting ready to go out and heckle me. I'm not a fan of either but Bruce sings (sort of), dances (a bit), tells jokes (in a corny way) and, whether I like it or not, has presented some of the biggest crap shows in British TV history. Justin, what is it that you do exactly?

Yeah, dangerous stuff. That's the kind of thing that I get angry about. It hasn't been a completely crap week though. Precious Little podcast has risen to the mighty 36th position in the iTunes Comedy chart and I thank everyone who subscribed. The next one will be out on Tuesday but there is also a mini-podcast out today. By the way, we've fallen to 73 at the time of writing. Hey ho. Allow me to end with something genuinely funny. I saw a tweet yesterday by someone called Hungbunny. It read: "Mock The Week without Frankie Boyle is like a paedophile without a penis". That made me laugh for a long time. Follow @hungbunny now, Tweeters.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

My Brother Jason.

I was a bit all over the place and forgot about my two favourite things that happened during the past weekend. Firstly, the staff at Cafe Nero allowed me to lock up for them (this is actually not that interesting a story so let's leave a shroud of mystery over it and pretend it must have been AMAZING. My friend Sali looked suitably embarrassed about it but that's the best that I can say about the experience) then, on Sunday, I met someone with a foot lump.

I've missed my beautiful foot lump. I lost in during the Edinburgh Festival but still feel it's not time to talk about it yet. After all, I grew the thing myself over two years before my foot gave birth to it, then I let it live in my pocket for a month taking it everywhere I went. I've also suffered another Edinburgh-based loss this week too. I've been wearing a little blue rubber band that says The Little Howard Appeal on my wrist for more than 4 years. I've lost it many times but only for a few moments (it was normally found in the sleeve of whatever jacket/jumper/thermal top I'd just taken off. This time it looks like I've lost it forever. My wrist certainly feels a bit weird, like it's wandering around naked in public. I feel the same way about the foot lump. Not many people have foot lumps and fewer carry one around with them. It really marked me out as an individual, albeit a creepy one. But then I met Jason, a massive man who proudly displayed his foot lump for all to see.

I saw Jason on the tube when I got back into London. He was wearing sandals and when I saw his foot lump I felt like I had found a massive brother. Surely he would be so happy to meet another Lumpy? Well, he was massive so I brought the subject up sensitively.

"I've got one of those", I said. But much quieter than you might think.

He didn't look that impressed until I showed him my year old one on my right foot (yes, I have two) and his massive face lit up. He'd never met anyone with a foot lump before. I had met someone who claimed to have a foot lump but they never showed it to me so that doesn't really count. But here were two grown men, one more grown than the other, happily admiring each others foot lumps. Then we ran out of conversation and just sat next to one another in silence for the next five stops. It was really awkward. I put my shoe back on and made a note never to talk to anyone ever again.

Not that that was the most embarrassed I was to feel that day. God, no. I felt a lot more embarrassed that evening when I was sitting in house and watching ITV's latest venture into elephant diarrhoea: Trinity. It's set in an incredibly exclusive school for the privileged where all the pupils are seemingly 26 or older and everyone is a cunt who fucks other cunts. It's basically a school for stereotypes. Posh spoilt fuck who shags members of his family, shy Christian woman who the posh people look down upon but you just know that by episode three they'll all he hanging out of her, poor black man (such imagination!) and kooky girl who is funny because she has a Welsh accent. Isn't that hilarious? Imagine being from Wales!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaaa...

Fucking awful. Why does everything have to be so shit? No-one can like this, surely? Charles Dance, who plays the stern Headmaster, looks like he's just staring at the clock and waiting for death. I bet he looks back at Ali G In Da House as da good old days now. There's actually a scene where everyone laughs at "poor black man" because he doesn't know Latin. ITV is so 2009. I just don't see the demographic here. People who like crying and wanking to non-sexual sex are probably the only ones who will enjoy this, even if they will hang themselves by the time they get to discover the two hilarious "stoners". To give Trinity it's due credit it was directed by a blind man. I'm sure of it. So that's quite impressive.

Thanks to everyone who has voted for the Precious Little podcast theme tune. At the moment, it's pretty neck and neck. Quite happy to discover that we're number 36 in the iTunes Comedy chart. Not bad, that.

Monday, 21 September 2009

And In The End, Rejection.

Manchester turned out to be a very nice weekend indeed. The gigs were fine, I saw a deeply depressing film called Fish Tank and I hung out in a series of interesting bars.

My memory is sketchy but I'm sure I sang Girls Just Want To have Fun at a karaoke bar. You can imagine how dignified I must have looked during that. I knew I had to get up early the next day to catch my train so at least I was sensible enough to leave early-ish. Well, 1.30 anyway. Then I didn't get back to the flat until over an hour later mainly because I didn't know where I was staying and telling the driver that it was definitely number 19 something avenue was proving to be little help. I remember him being quite patient but with the face of someone who might kill me at any second if I don't stop saying the words "19 something avenue" over and over again.

I really recommend Fish Tank. It's utterly grim but that's what Britain does so well. Basically, it's a bit like Flashdance but if Flashdance was real and set in block of flats in London and instead of Irene Cara singing the theme tune they had cider and fighting. Bleak but brilliant.

The next day I was up early to get to Hitchin to record Precious Little podcast number two. Sadly, when I got to James' (Mum's) house I found that he was as knackered as I was. And I was hungover. And very smelly. And really loud. I must have been a treat to be around.

This time James and I discussed my new interactive "Is A Cunt" game, James' opinion of Dan Brown and the wonders of the homeless community. We also have a competition (sort of) that consists of voting for which theme tune you prefer for our podcast, Ian of The Re-Entrants frankly excellent theme tune or my talentless effort. At the time of writing we only had one vote. That was for me. Fuck you, Ian.

I'm really enjoying the podcasts and am looking forward to seeing how they'll change over the next few weeks. We obviously haven't found our feet yet but there's definitely some nice bits in there. Pretty much all our favourite podcasts are in there with us: Collings & Herrin (the childish, disgusting stuff), Phill & Phil's Perfect 10 (the ukulele and the fact that we just talk about us) and The Trap's Sodcast (everything else) but I'm not too worried about that just now. There's enough "us" in there already and we'll find more us over the next few podcasts. Either that or maybe everyone will stop doing podcasts and we can just nick all their stuff, which has always been the plan.

Not sure that my welcome to the world of the homeless is still valid. I said hello to Nick this morning. He said nothing. Sigh.....will I ever belong?

Saturday, 19 September 2009

Love In The Time of Special Brew.

What the fuck is going on with the homeless? Why have I not been asked to join them before now? If you've been reading my blog lately you will know that I have been accepted into the homeless community due to a misunderstanding over a flying can of booze and my face. Now I just cannot believe the things these crazy dudes get up to.

Yesterday I was wandering around Manchester on my own and very bored. I had just done a very clever thing by going to see Star Trek at the IMAX but that now seemed like forever ago as I threw time away doing not fuck nothing. By the way, going to the IMAX really was a brilliant idea of mine. Well done, me. I've only been to the IMAX once before but this time was different because not only did I get my entire head filled with the wonders of Star Trek but I also didn't kick a six year old girl in the face. That genuinely happened the last time I went to IMAX. Anyway, after IMAX I wandered the streets only to see a homeless man trying to talk to a very pretty lady who was trying to ignore him.

Already I thought it was quite an amazing sight to see. A homeless man (to be fair, I just assumed he was homeless as he looked like shit and was drinking booze in the street. Is that unfair?) with the confidence to go up to a woman who was sitting on a bench outside the Arnsale Centre with her friends and then start flirting with her is really quite amusing to watch. And watch I did. Face it, I had fuck all else to do. I had nothing to do AT ALL but I have a house and some money yet this homeless man is the fella trying to score. Who's the loser in this scenario? Anyhoo, he tries talking with her a few times yet every time he gets either ignored or a very short, sharp reply. Surprisingly, she isn't interested. But he doesn't give up. He keeps on trying to get her attention and due to my lack of everything I keep watching. Then she turns and actually talks to him. That's nice, I thought. She can see that this man just wants a bit of company, just some conversation and she isn't stupid enough to not give him the time of day. Then she starts laughing at his jokes.

Steady on, dear, I mean, he's a homeless man. You don't need top patronise him so much that you feel you have to pretend to find his jokes funny. She gives a really hearty laugh. She's NOT pretending.

Soon her friends are joining in with the conversation but you can easily tell that both the homeless man and the pretty lady son't really have time for the others in the group. They're too busy laughing and talking and slightly touching each others hands. FUCKING HELL, SHE'S TOUCHING HIS HAND! The hand that he uses to take half-sandwiches out of bins with or flick V's at policemen while urinating on HMV. She's touching his fucking hand! How is this happening? He's drinking booze outside a shop in the middle of the day and has three teeth. Why is she touching his hand?

The friends then decide it's time to go and the spiteful, jealous cretin that is me is delighted to see that she has decided to join them and say goodbye to Flirty McNoteeth. I mean, she just kept looking at him like she might quite like him and that just can't be. Right? The friends say goodbye to homeless man and homeless man says goobye to them. Then something really weird happened. I mean, if you were me and saw this story unfold right in front of you from beginning to end you honestly never would have seen this coming. She kissed him on the mouth. Not a snog, of course, but definitely not a peck. She held his face and touched his lips with hers. If you are single and reading this I can only assume that you are preparing for suicide right now.

Is this what my new friends get up to? Is Nick banging some beauty up against a tree right now? Reat assured, dear reader, I will investigate. But for now, my hangover needs attention.

Friday, 18 September 2009


I know that you are all worried but I can now reveal that all is well. I've finally been accepted by a part of the community and may have found "my people". People who understand and know me. People who get the complexities of Michael Legge.

In my last blog I wrote about a man who threw a can of booze in my face due to an incredible fit of anger sparked by the fact that my dog was somewhere near-ish him. I felt sure that this passionate and inebriated gentleman would become my arch-enemy and forever would I be in the park dodging his vitriol and flying alcohol. But like all the best buddy movies, although we didn't get on initially (he hates dogs and I hate being hit in the face), somehow we have grown into being friends.

I walked Jerk yesterday morning and the gentleman, Nick, ran up to me (I say ran, it looked like he was trying to hold a potato with his arse cheeks) and apologised for hitting me in the face with a can of booze. "I thought you were being a shit with your dog running everywhere", he said insanely. "But the lads said you were OK". Isn't that great? A homeless alcoholic now thinks I'm OK because other homeless alcoholics told him I was OK. What a fucking achievement. I've hit such a peak.

He pointed to the lads and the lads waved over to me. I waved back. I know one of them. His name is Derek and he is a pretend homeless person who has tricked me before (see: "Fancy a drink? I owe you one" said Nick. Isn't that nice? It's rare thaat someone has the guts to admit they were wrong and even rarer that they want to do something about it. I'm glad he hit me in the face with a can of booze now because it's these kind of moments that make this upsetting blip between oblivions almost tolerable. I would have loved to have joined Nick, Derek and the rest of the lads, MY lads, for a drink on that bench but I declined as it was 8.45am and I had a dog to walk and a train to catch. But mainly because it was 8.45am and they were all smelly.

A part of me regrets not having a drink with them and I certainly hope I get the offer again. There is nothing that would give me more joy than for someone I know to walk past and seeing me doing some early morning drinking with my friends alfresco-style.

I'm in Manchester this weekend compering The Frog & Bucket. Last night's audience were very good and I was very, very shit. The lads would have been very dissappointed in me. Come along tonight and tomorrow night and help me do them proud.

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

Beer and Regrets.

There really should be some sort of health warning on alcohol because yesterday was taken away from me just because I decided to go drinking with my friend, John, on Monday. An entire day gone. I did practically nothing. I woke up, I groaned myself into my clothes and I dumped my skin and bones on the sofa until bedtime. This is only partly got to do with me drinking heavily, of course. It mainly got to do with me being 41 and drinking heavily.

It used to be so easy. I could go out for an evening, have 32 pints of lager and a couple of bottles of red wine, making sure I had a cheese sandwich first to line the stomach. Then I'd have a few shots of whiskey and a birthday tequila. In the old days every day was my birthday and I'd have lots of birthdays every single day. Sometimes up to 12 birthdays a day. Now, I'm lucky if I can handle 1 birthday a year! I'd go out drinking in my 20's and the next day I would wake up at 7am, go for a run, do a spot of gymnastics, then slip back to bed to pleasure what ever lucky supermodel(s) that I had brought back to my yacht. In Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo in space. That was all so normal but now it's as if alcohol is now more interested in younger, less experienced people to offer it's good times to. Like some liquid Avalon.

I really have to learn to stop doing this to myself. It hurts. It hurts and it's exhausting and you don't get the congratulations or sympathy you get when you're younger.

Today, I decided to change my ridiculous lifestyle again again. I had a run, I ate fruit, drank lots of water and did an hour on the Wii fit. I got up and started working immediately. I actually got things done. I woke up ready to go because I had zero booze the night before. There might be something in that. Some sort of scienceman should look into that.

Then it hit me. A revelation the size of Issac Newton's when the apple fell on his head. I was walking Jerk and feeling quite happy about the day and all the things I'd got done when I felt like a shaft of light from Jesus' big torch had shown me the way. I realised that getting work done and looking after yourself is nowhere near as enjoyable and satisfying than getting beered. Then something else hit me. It was a half full can of booze.

It was thrown at me by one of Lewisham's many park-based, bench dwelling characters who shouted "Get your fucking dog away from me" as he threw the can at my head. Jerk was behind him at the time but he felt that as the dog was sniffing a tree behind him that I completely deserved a can of booze in my skull.

I couldn't really be angry, mainly because he seemed to have his anorak on upside down and he obviously just realised that he'd thrown booze away. Wow, if that wasn't a sign for change then I don't know what is.

Out of all the people who died yesterday, my favourite is easily Keith Floyd. I shouldn't like him (he's a murdering carnivore who cooks flesh on television for money) but I do. I may not be able to follow his recipes but I do like him leading us all in example of drinking wine and shouting while on telly. He was definitely a change to normal TV chefs when I first noticed him in the 80's mainly because he was far from dull and, although he paved the way for less interesting people to swamp the TV schedules with more carnivore cooking, I loved the fact that one day he just stopped doing what he was doing because he hated the people in television so much. I don't really like the way that near the end he drank just to pass time and often alone, but my memories of him are very fond. He once set fire to a boat. That's nice.

James Hingley and I have received a lot of good feedback for Precious Little. Thanks for that. My favourite piece of feedback came from someone who hated our theme tune so much that he wrote and recorded his own for us to use. That was really lovely. That said, we're still using my version. We should be recording the second one on Sunday so subscribe at iTunes if you fancy it. Thanks again.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

Precious Little.

I've got a podcast! Not just me, James Hingley and me have got a podcast! Yeah, I don't really know who James is either but we've definitely got a podcast going. I'm not saying it's perfect but I'm pretty happy with it. It starts well, loses itself pretty quickly, gets funny again, loses itself and ends up funny again. I think that's fair. It's called Precious Little (we think).

We recorded it in Hitchin, a place that I assumed was in North London. It's not. It's somewhere else. It's not on any map and all records of Hitchin have been wiped but, somehow, I got there. During the podcast we discussed what we should call the podcast, why we decided to do a podcast together (it involves the lovely Ben Moor), why Mark Thomas' anti-Coca-Cola book will never work on me (because I won't read it), the FACT that James still lives with his mum, Martin White's sex appeal and the fat cunt from the Odeon in Birmingham. I also wrote the theme tune despite having no musical talent whatsoever.

It's got some feedback already and the general consensus is that it's good but James is too quiet and, unbelievably, I can be quite loud and angry sometimes. We may or may not work on those criticisms but we must say that we are very grateful for them. Please give it a listen at either or you can download it at iTunes. It wasn't quite working this morning there but you should be able to download and subscribe from there sometime today:

Obviously, as it's our first one we don't really know what we're doing but I'm pretty confident that we'll get the hang of it over the next few weeks. The main thing was to not sound like Collings and Herrin and our total lack of talent saw to that admirably. That said, when we recorded a five minute mid-week follow-up podcastette I accidentally said Nyum Nyum Nyum right at the end. What a prick.

So, that's the "good" news, now for the bad news. Michael Legge, your beloved friend, has sold out to The Man. Yesterday I recorded some crappy, crappy idents for Nokia that will be shown to some crappy, crappy communications executives in crappy, crappy Munich. My friend John asked if I wanted to do this job as he knew the director. It would mean that John and I would have to get up stupidly early in the morning to catch a train to Cardiff and spend the day in a hot studio that Doctor Who may or may not have been filmed in while reciting corporate lingo. How could I do this? I know fully well how the controversial idea of a comedian doing adverts is the current hot-potato but I did it anyway. Not for some namby-pamby, Mark Watson-esque pathetic "I'm doing it for so my family will be comfortable and so that I will be able to offer my fans free/cheap shows educating them on the horrors of climate change" reason. Christ, no. I did it so I could go out drinking with my friend John. And drinking we did.

I learned two very important things from my corporate sell-out day, yesterday. One: Drinking with John is always fun on the day and painful the next day. Two: I am crap at sucking Satan's cock. I'd love to sell-out but sadly I just don't have the talent for it. Seriously, even with the script in front of me I needed 20 takes to get one 30 second scene right. Pathetic.

Thanks to everyone who has downloaded and listened to the podcast. I really appreciate it.

Sunday, 13 September 2009

Film '09.

I've been to the pictures! I love going to the cinema. The sticky floors, the annoying cunt beside you, the lazy projectionist that hasn't seen that the film's out of focus, the £7 bags of M&M's. It's all so exciting. Here's some FANTASTIC movie reviews to help you enjoy your cinema experience all the more:

District 9 is pretty good but the "wacky" stuff is a bit annoying.

(500) Days of Summer is very good. The most British film I've ever seen from America I think. There's so much referencing of British music from the 80's and 90's. Even Zooey Deschanel's final speech in the film is basically the lyrics to Something Changed by Pulp. And there's a great big bit of theft from Gregory's Girl. Other than that, great.

Inglorious Basterds is a shit, shit, SHIT film. If you liked it then you are a fucking idiot. Quentin Tarantino is just an embarrassing arse. Yes, yes, yes, Quentin, you're right. There were a LOT of shit films in the 70's. Why are you now copying them all?

And those are my movie reviews. Hope you liked them. Now for my cinema review: NEVER EVER EVER BLOODY ANYTHING GO TO THE BIRMINGHAM ODEON. Heed these words, people, for fear, danger, horror and just plain weirdness awaits ye. The first film I saw yesterday was (500) Days of Summer and after the film I had earned the right to expel urine. I went to the toilet, did my business, expelled urine and then tried to leave. I couldn't leave at first because a boy who was 12 years old maximum was holding the door open for his friend. I stood to one side and waited for the boy's friend to come in. I waited and waited but the friend just wasn't walking through the door. "Hurry up" said the boy. I decided I'd waited enough and walked out. It was then that I saw the boy's friend and saw what was delaying him. He was even younger looking than the first boy and he was staring at a condom machine. "3 for a fucking pound", said the little cherub. "Fucking rip-off".

Incredible to think that not only is this 11 year old stud getting all the pussy but he absolutely digs his heels in when it comes to the greedy fat cats in the prophylactic industry.

Then I saw the bollock in the eye that is Inglorious Basterds. Can I say anything positive about this film? Yes. This film did not give me AIDS. That is the only thing that it has going for it. But I sat through the whole thing, so that must mean that it was better than Tarantino's last film. When I walked into the screening room I knew I had made a terrible mistake. The floors were audibly sticky, the room was tiny and hot and the air was smelly and....funky. Basically, I was in the Odeon's Porn Cinema. I arrived as the trailers were on, as did a big fat cunt. I'm sorry but that was really the only way to describe this man. He was big, he was fat, he was a cunt. It took him about a minute to find his seat and all he did while trying to get to his seat was give out an annoying sigh/grunt ever 5 seconds. WUUURGHH, he would say. Finally, he sat down. WUUURGHH. Then he took his coat off. WUUURGHH. Then he settled down and relaxed. WWWWUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRGHH.

He was two rows in front of me and I hated him. As soon as the film started he decided to get a bottle of coke out and take a sip. When I say a bottle I mean a 2 litre bottle and when I say a sip I mean he downed a third of the bottle in one go. He put it up to his stupid mouth and gulped and gulped and gulped until he had no choice but to breath. The only thing that was stopping him gulping more was the headache and the feeling of passing out due to a lack of air. He stopped gulping and WUUURGHH. Five minutes later and he was thirsty again. He shoved the bottle up to his mouth and took another third of the bottle only this time as he drank he squeezed the plastic bottle just so he could get more of the fizzy drink into his head quicker. He then put the bottle down and WUUURGHH. Luckily, I had a shit film to distract me from this man.

The film ended. I was grateful and stormed off for a very angry piss. This was my second trip to this toilet and it was to be the most eventful.

Fat cunt was right behind me WUUURGHHing with every step. I held the door open for him and to thank me for my kindness he said WUUUURGHH. I went for the furthest urinal bowl from the door. He decided on the one three bowls away from me. I happily started pissing but was distracted by the fact that fat cunt had taken his cock out and just started pissing hands-free. Piss was going everywhere. On the floor, on himself, occassionally in the urinal bowl. I was pretty disgusted but to be fair he couldn't hold his cock to piss because he was eating a massive back of nuts. With his face. Seriously, he just put his face into the bag of nuts and started eating and pissing while his right hand dangled by his side.

Thankfully, he finished his piss and washed his hands. I say washed, he put his right hand under a tap for a second. Then he dried his right hand. He dried it under the hand drier while I stood beside him at the other hand drier watching him eating his nuts. It took him about a minute to dry that one hand. Quite a while, I think you'll agree. I stood beside him for nearly all of that minute drying both my hands. I wouldn't have minded standing beside but, well, he still hadn't put his cock away.

He left the toilet eating nuts and showing off his cock. I left about 10 seconds after him and just in time to hear someone shout DISGUSTING at him. He looked embarrassed and apologised and put his penis back in his sweat pants. SWEAT PANTS. It's not like he had to zip something up or button something. He just had to ping the elastic. But that was too much for fat cunt. The amount of WUUUURGHHing that would lead to doesn't bare thinking about.

At first, I thought he was mentally ill. He wasn't. The fact that he simply hadn't realised his cock was even out just suggested that he's simply that horrible. I hope you meet him.

It was an interesting weekend. Gigs were OK. Had a bit of an odd argument/discussion with Daliso Chaponda before the show started and I think that led to me being a bit all over the place. Basically, I said I felt let down by Janeane Garofolo's show in Edinburgh because she was doing material about airline landing cards and the questions they ask. That's been done a billion times before and Janeane was added nothing to her version of this ancient joke. Daliso disagreed. He had a point: the premise doesn't have to be original as long as what you do with it is original. I totally agreed. But Janeane hadn't done that. Daliso repeated his theory. I agreed again and then pointed out again that that was not what Janeane had done. He repeated his theory for a third time and I began to miss fat cunt. He then explained to me what the word original means for five minutes. It was a fair enough argument (albeit utterly patronising) between two people who were talking about two different things. The only thing that stuck in my head was Daliso's claim that "originality is not important". I'm far from an original comedian, even though I know that I've never used old material, but surely some form of originality is fundamental to being a stand-up? Then we looked at the stags and hens and realised he might have a very good point.

As it turns out, the gig was good. A bit of work but good. May I leave you with a question, dear reader? If you could get rid of one thing on the internet what would it be? My choice is currently the T-Mobile adverts where thousands of people are singing Total Eclipse of the Heart in Trafalgar Square. I look at those people and see no reason to not fund terrorism. What's your choice?

Friday, 11 September 2009

The Kevin Bishop Shoe.

Dear Dad,

I love you. That's the important bit and the thing that you have to remember. No matter what comes after this just remember that I love you. Now, get out of Facebook. Unjoin Facebook immediately. This is not the place for you. It is where I come to swear and embarrass myself but I do that with the understanding that you will never read any of it. A lot of people now depend on my blend of failure and foul language and I will not be able to provide that service if I think you're looking.

I know what you're thinking, Dad. "My son can't tell me what to do. I have every right to join Facebook if I want to". That's fair enough but remember this: I have every right to join the North Down Anglers Association and apply for an allotment next to yours. Just keep that in mind. Now stop reading because I'm about to swear. I mean it. Stop reading.

Love, Michael.

Right. The good news: I've got a new telly. That really is all the good news. I mean, it's quite a nice telly. It's a bit bigger and much flatter than my old one and it's great for playing games on but it's terrible for actually watching telly programmes. It's not the telly's fault. It's the fault of Television itself. Television has given up. It will let any old shit be commissioned and recommissioned without once questioning it's terrible, terrible content.

The Fucking Kevin Fucking Bishop Fucking Show. What a low. I knew his new series would be bad but I at least thought there might have been a trace of him actually trying to be funny. He actively avoids it. The whole programme is an abortion bucket of impressions that need to be pointed at and underlined because they just haven't got any connection to the person they're supposed to be and a bunch of shit where he slightly changes the title of something that was famous two decades ago (eg When Harry Met Salman). If they just knock out any old shit then he can get down to the Groucho Club and fellate sooner. If they just write any old shit really quickly then he'll have more time to get more and more Channel 4 executives crying penises into his sorry, sorry mouth and then that'll be series three green lit (seriously, Dad. Stop reading). How else can this dire shit be deemed acceptable? It is low-brow but only if your brow is on the floor and the floor is in a cellar and the cellar is in hell. The man can't write a joke, tell a joke, act, impersonate or even slightly look a bit like the celebrity that he is bringing down with his witless wit. And his targets are hilarious simply because he doesn't hold a candle to them (mainly because his hands are full of Channel 4 executives crying penises). Gok Wan ("Hello. I'm Gok Wan" and then the words GOK WAN appear on screen), Britney Spears ("Look it's Britney Spears" and then the words BRITNEY SPEARS appear on screen) and Michael McIntyre ("I am Michael Mcintyre" and...well, you get it). For fuck's sake, yes, they're terrible but they are genius' compared to Kevin Fucking Bishop. I would jump in front of a bullet for Michael McIntyre on the off chance that I might catch it in my teeth and spit it in Bishop's pleaseshootmei'msosorryandalone face. And The Doctor's new companion, Karen Gillan is in it. Depressing. At least she's out of it now and by the time series three of this cancer of a show comes round she'll be too famous to be in it. She's in a real show now. Oh, I've just remembered. Richard Curtis is writing an episode of Doctor Who. Poor Karen. Is she ever going to get a break?

People must like this though and that is, of course, the most depressing part. No doubt this arse loves it:

Is there a good comedy on TV at the moment? Thank the Lord for The Inbetweeners. It's so good that I can only imagine it will never get recommissioned. I mean it. It's THAT good.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009


It's taken me two weeks to come to terms with this but now I feel that I can finally write about what has happened. A death in the family is a hard thing to recover from and who knows if any of the remaining Legges will ever get over the death of George.

At first, I was jealous of George. Why wouldn't I be? He was the focus of so much attention and arrived into the family just five years after I left the family home. It used to be a special event when I came over from the big London with tales of how I nearly met Nick Berry or about the time that I didn't write for Radio 4. That used to excite my family and it made me feel like a big shot even though I knew that I wasn't. But George's arrival stopped that. When I came home to Newtownards the first thing my father would say was "Have you said hello to George yet?" I would get frustrated and with a lack of something funny to say I would just come out with something crap like "He's just a fish". My father's eyes would roll and he'd sigh into his paper. After a while, I did make a special effort to say hello to George. As much as I hated my family's, especially Dad's, attention to this newbie I too was secretly swayed by his aura. There was something calming about George. It sounds stupid but he was actually a good person to talk to and when you had something to say he wouldn't interrupt. He'd just listen. That's what made him different to any other member of the family. He'd listen and if you had anything personal to say then you knew it would go no further. I was jealous of George but I think I'm big enough to admit that he was trustworthy.

Soon, George was to become popular outside the family too. Neighbours all had a soft spot for him and visitors would always spend time with him. My family often holiday in America and, as a result, a large percentage of the population have at one time or another stayed in my parents house. There are few postcards that my parents receive from all round the world that don't mention George by name and best wishes sent specifically to him. The rest of the family never ever get a mention but George is thought of and cared about my travellers who have met him maybe just once.

When I left Newtownards to be a famous comedian in London, my siblings decided to have thousands of babies. Some grew up to have several hundred children of their own. This is one of the worst parts of living away from your family, you miss important people growing up. As a result of this some of my nieces barely know who I am and their children don't seem to even care that I vaguely know Frankie Boyle. It is a gulf that I'm all too aware of when I return. A gulf that is pointed out to me all too well by George's huge popularity. These children who are related to me push the stranger to one side and go to the real uncle who was always there for them. They go to George. They love George. They talk only about George. "Where's George?", they say. "And who is the ugly old man who doesn't have an accent?"

Maybe, the reason that I do have time for George is that as much as he's loved he hasn't once let it go to his head. He spends almost all of his time on top of the cistern in my parent's loo. He even sleeps there. Even my brother Martin had it slightly better than that. He is easily the most unhygienic of Legges often found in his own shit but looking like it was the most normal thing in the world. Airs and graces, George had none. He never cleaned up around him ever. In a way, that was part of his charm.

Yes, I used to mumble "He's only a fish" but he was a fish that lived for 15 years in a bowl that was never cleaned and was kept in a toilet and received fan mail from America. And he wasn't only a fish. He was a GOLDfish. Surely the most prized of all fish.

Two weeks ago George got ill. He was swimming on his side and, after 15 years, my dad decided to clean his little tank and see if George would respond to fresh water. He did. He swam livelier than he had for a long time. He swam like there was no tomorrow.

The next morning he had passed away.

I have spoken to my dad since George's passing and he's not the same. "We have lost a Legge", he said. A sentence that is totally understandable written down but quite upsetting when he just said it to me. He needs time to come to terms with the loss. To grieve. I took some happiness when dad said that he and mum would be trying for another goldfish soon. Again, the way he said it was very upsetting.

George Legge 1994-2009 RIP.

Monday, 7 September 2009

Sometimes You're Better Off Dead.

The human race. They're a let down, aren't they? I went into the middle of town on Saturday to have a quick birthday drink with Miriam Miller and that meant passing some of the exciting theatres in the heart of London's glittering West End. There was a queue on for Dirty Dancing at the Aldwych Theatre. Not just a queue but a huge queue. One that snaked down the road and in front of the Waldorf Hilton hotel. It was depressing. Surely there's something better on in the West End than Dirty Dancing? Hasn't Hamlet got a play on or something?

The queue of people were terrifying. I know as a stand-up comedian that as soon as I see a hen night I get a bit vomitty but surely that must be even worse if you're an actor/singer/dancer. At least we can tell them to shut up but I'm sure that would ruin most searing love ballads if you had to shout SHUT THE FUCK UP, THIS ISN'T TELLY, I CAN HEAR YOU at some giggling, drunk, fuck-cattle. Sadly, this is maybe what some shows in the West End has come to.There is a lot here now that caters for the idiot. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong about wanting to go out for a sing song but it seems like pretty much every show does that now. And Dirty Dancing? For fuck's sake. It was a TERRIBLE film. I mean really, really awful. If anyone actually liked it they should be cared for my experts or shot, not given the live experience. But, I have to admit, there were a lot of people waiting eagerly to get into the theatre to watch it so what do I know? Well, I know that Dirty Dancing fans like to really dress up for their night on the town. They wear garish gold shoes, enough make-up to hide all human features and brightly coloured dresses that show off just enough of their tattoo tributes to their children. What mum could do more? Still, it was funny to see so many bored looking men outside too.

After the drink with Miriam I was off to my gigs. I kept thinking about the queue outside Dirty Dancing and realised I was being stupid. I've lived in London for 20 years and don't go to the theatre enough. I should change that. There are lots of good shows out there. Aren't there? Then I passed by a poster while on the escalator in Holborn. It was advertising La Cage Aux Folles and featured a picture of John Barrowman in drag looking surprised. For fuck's sake.

My bad luck is still running on a high this week. Not only is my telly broken (and don't think I wasn't thinking of those Dirty Dancing cunts leaving all their tellies behind so they could go out and pay £60 to see a big fat musical turd. No doubt all Sky+ing The Kevin Bishop Show so they could all go back and have a great laugh before bed) but now my phone is broken too. It doesn't ring, vibrate or display a name when someone calls. If I answer when you ring me then that is an utter coincidence. Now my iPod is on the blink. It seems to be skipping songs it doesn't like. It played all of the latest Cyndi Lauper album but refuses to acknowledge Marillion. It would probably LOVE Dirty Dancing. Then on Saturday night, the inevitable happened: I broke.

I've been pretty happy with my stand-up lately, something I obviously shouldn't be. I've had a"new" piece of material for about 6 weeks and I'm really enjoying it. I've performed it maybe 12 times now and each time it has gone down well. Sometimes it can last 3 minutes, other times it goes on for about 15. Then at my first gig on Saturday it utterly died. The whole audience just stared at me and I felt a total idiot carrying on with it. Crap. Still, that's just a one-off. I'm still pretty confident with the piece. Well, I was until my second gig. The audience there just stared again while I pretended that what I was doing was a suitable thing for a 41 year old man. I'm an idiot and I felt dirty. Dancing about on stage and clawing at dignity doesn't suit me. Where is that audience who wanted a load of old crap when I need them? They're at the Aldwych Theatre, aren't they?

Saturday, 5 September 2009

Carried Away by Television.

Day five of no TV and my legendary voucher still hasn't arrived. Everything is boring without TV. How am I supposed to enjoy eating, writing or my many, many guests funny and whimsical stories without the TV being on? I can't, that's how.

I gigged at Big Night Out in Haymarket last night with Jojo Smith. I turned up to the gig feeling really odd and I realised that the reason I was feeling so peculiar was because I had done a fair bit during the day. I had written some stuff, sent letters off to people who I want to work for, sent a letter off to an Ombudsman (never done that before) and generally sorted some things out that I knew I wouldn't sort out if there was a fully functioning telly in my house. No TV has helped me greatly but I just can't appreciate that at all. A good career and comfortable home life is nothing compared to shouting at John Barrowman and his stupid, stupid face. When I got to the gig, Jojo asked our host, compere and booker, Jeremy O'Donnell, if the gig would be starting on time. Good for Jojo. Starting the gig on time is important. It shows the audience that we're not going to wait for them to just turn up when they fancy (you'd be surprised how often that happens) and it gives us a chance to get to our next gig without having to rush. If we had a next gig that night, that is. Anyhoo, Jeremy asked if Jojo was indeed doubling up somewhere. "No", she replied. "I want to see who wins Big Brother". FUCKING HELL. You have a telly Jojo and that's what you do with it? A three month long show that puts writers out of work? A show with the vilest human beings Channel 4 could find (they couldn't get Horne & Corden, remember)? Cameras pointing at a cunt creche? GIVE ME YOUR TELLY, JOJO! GIVE IT TO ME! I want to watch episodes of South Park that I've seen 17 times before. You know? Something worthwhile. And you are treating your television like an object. YOU SICKEN ME.

I really miss my telly.

I have only just got a text message from Johnny Candon saying that O'Brien's Sandwich Shops has gone into administration. If you've seen King of Everything you will know what this means to us. That is the power of King of Everything. Piss us off slightly and we will satirise you to death.

Friday, 4 September 2009

See No Evil by Television.

It is now day four without a telly. I am ready to kill.

The people I am most likely to kill are my next door neighbours. The fact that they are the nicest couple you are ever likely to meet will not stop me from shoving their heads in a blender and microwave their feet while I scream/masturbate. Not that they have a blender or a microwave, they don't even have a telly. And there lies the problem. They DON'T HAVE A FUCKING TELLY but they carry on their day AS IF THEY'RE HAPPY. The bastard fucksticks. God, I hate those two helpful, considerate, lovely twats next door. Oh, yes. They're very quick to lend you things but do either of them have a clue who Justin Lee Collins is? NO. They're the luckiest bastards on Earth and, even though I love them, I hate them.

People who don't have tellys are just fucking weird. They read books and listen to the radio and, unbelievable as this might appear, talk to one another. TV was the cure for all of that unnecessary labour but these two retired, evil shits next door would rather ponder opinions given on Science In Action or indulge a bit of Charles Dickens and, basically, piss all over Logie Baird's grave than watch my beloved television. How do they live with themselves? They are worse than Hitler.

Have you ever met a person who doesn't have a telly? They're cunts. They seem so utterly proud to not have a telly. "Well, we don't want our children growing up being influenced by the idiot box", they bore but they're more than happy to let their kids be outcasts at school because they keep missing Why Don't You? (is that sill on?) I know someone who doesn't have a telly AND does yoga. What a prick. They're so full of fucking boring morals non-telly owners. "Telly is dumbing down our planet and I wouldn't have one in my house yet when I come round to yours I can't keep my unblinking eyes of your beautiful, arousing television even if it's switched off. God, I just want to fuck the stand-by light." To be fair, my neighbours aren't like that at all. They've never once mentioned that they don't have a telly in their house. I only know this because I've been to their house. That kind of makes them worse. They're so utterly comfortable with having no telly yet they don't need to rub my nose in it? What the fuck are they up to?

My neighbours are the very wonderful Jan & Richard. Richard is in his very early70's and Jan is 23 (She's not but that immediately makes this more interesting). So what do they do if they have no telly? They go on cycling trips round France, they keep their beautiful garden in such a glorious state simply to make a further mockery of my plant holocaust out the back and Richard is a big film fan. He goes to the Prince Charles cinema a lot. How cool is Richard? Very cool.

I once bumped into him on a train as I was going to gig and he was on his way to see a film. I told him I was going to work and he asked a few questions about live comedy. Richard is 30 years older than me and I am much more patronising than he is so I kept my answers simple. He said that he really wanted to see me perform one night. I felt awkward because inviting an older gentleman like Richard to see me do comedy might just leave him confused. He's from a different generation and he probably wouldn't get it. "I used to see all the old comics in the '60's", he told me. Even more of a reason to never see me. If he loved the likes of Bruce Tarbuck and Bernard Grayson he's not going to like me. "Yeah, I used to watch Lenny Bruce, Woody Allen...all the Americans. Of course, they were proper controversial and that's why we liked them. They addressed what needed to be addressed."

Now he's definitely not going to see me but for very different reasons.

I've had the last few days to properly get over Edinburgh and even reflect upon it a bit. I'm really happy that King of Everything was good. For the first week I thought it was going to be crap and I'm very glad I was wrong. As for the Five Pound Fringe, it was the best thing about Edinburgh easily this year. The acts on under it's umbrella were of an incredibly high standard and I've no doubt that it will grow so much next year. Which is bad for me as I'd like to do it again. A huge amount of thanks to Five Pound Fringe for this year and well done to them for doing such an impressive job. I'll have details of the upcoming Los Quattros Cunts gigs very soon. I'm very much looking forward to them.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Friction by Television.

I am going out of my mind. There is nothing to do in life. It's like my life has been put on hold and I'm trapped in a bubble and there is nothing to do in the bubble because it's only a fucking bubble. And this isn't some wanky post-Edinburgh comedown either. No. It's worse than that. In fact, it's the worst thing that could happen to a human being. My telly exploded.

BALLS! Due to my own cack-handed incompetence, my TV passed away on the morning of the 31st August. I switched it on and off several times but all I got was a loud noise and a bad smell (don't). I called it at 12.04pm, wiped a tear from my eye and phoned my insurance company. They'd sort it out.

At first, I actually believed that they would sort it out. They certainly appeared competent and nicely uncunty. I checked through my paper work before calling them, after all a telly is at stake here, and saw that my excess (something that I will never comprehend) is £100. If there is an accident I must pay my insurance company £100 before they will pay me for a new telly. It makes no sense whatsoever but I understood that that was what had to happen. Fine. I called and spoke to Fembot 12 who was programmed to be friendly, helpful and to steal money from me. She pointed out that the new TV I would recieve would be a considerable upgrade on my own TV. Great. It would be a flat screen, HD ready, freeview installed and bigger TV than I'd been used to over the last 10 years. I was very happy. Fembot 12 had done a great job. She said she would pass me on to the person who would take my details and my £200 excess and then she was gone. £200 excess? It says clearly that it's £100.

Shitdroid 9000 then took over and asked me all the same questions that Fembot 12 had. Fine, just get this bit over and I'll have a lovely new telly. Then he asked for my credit card details just so that I could pay the excess and my TV voucher (to be exchanged at Currys, how exciting!) would be posted to me right away. So that will be £200.

" says in my paperwork that my excess is £100."

"Yes, sir. That's a mistake."

"OK. But it says £100 so really all I need to pay is £100. (Pause) Right?"

(Pause) "You should have been told that the policy had changed. It's now £200."

"I wasn't told that my policy had changed."

"Yes. Your excess is £200."

"I'm looking through all of my paperwork now and it says that my excess is £100 three different times. I don't think I should be paying more for my excess if I haven't been informed."

"You should have been told."


(Very long pause) "Do you have your credit card details ready?"

"Well, yes."

"Right, if I can take the long number..."

"Hang on. Are you going to take £100 or £200 from me?"

"Your excess is £200."

"No, it isn't. It's £100. It says so. That's what I was told. That's what I have in front of me. You can't just double the figure. Especially when you're paying out money anyway. It doesn't make sense."

"I'll need to pass you on to my manager."

Boss-A-Tron X was even worse. The conversation went round and round in circles and when I finally said that I was unhappy with the service and would not be renewing my policy she just said "Fine". Bunch of fucking cunts. In short, yes I'm getting a new TV that will be better than the exploded on in my living room but now I have to pay double what I should to get it. That is theft. Do not use Paymentshield ever and if you are with them get out quick. I looked online and no-one seems to have a good word to say about them. And because I huffed about it they won't be posting my TV Voucher out until tomorrow now. CUNTS! How am I supposed to complain about how shit The Kevin Bishop Show is if I can't watch it and scream at it? And watching online isn't the same. If anyone caught me shouting at a computer they would assume me mad or, even worse, that I hated porn. So, if anyone can recommend a better insurer then please do. I'd be very grateful.

I hate people in insurance now. Iggy Pop should be ashamed of himself.

I hope Paymentshield are happy (they are). I've been stooped to finding entertainment elsewhere. Last night I read a book, for fuck's sake, and today I've been listening to a load of podcasts like a beggar. And the podcasts I've been listening to are all insane. They're all BBC radio podcasts. More insane, they're all from the BBC World Service. I've listened to a lot of them over the last two days. About 20, in fact. In fact, while writing part of this blog I was listening to "60 Second Idea To Improve The World" a BBC World Service programme where posh people discuss things that have fuck all to do with them. The subject of their recent podcast? "TV should be banned." CUNTS!