Friday, 30 October 2009

Hallowed By My Name.

Gigs are continuing to cheer me up. That will stop soon, obviously, but for now I'm really enjoying it.

Last night I played in a gig called the Hellfire Club in High Wycombe. The last time I was there was in 1996 as a punter. I saw Adam Bloom. That's all I can remember but last night's gig will hopefully stay in my head a bit longer. Firstly, the club looks great. It has a great big wacky comedy devil at the back of the stage and there are bits of triangular cloth being fanned and lit up to look like fire everywhere. Hell is just the right atmosphere for a night of comedy, I feel. I think what I liked most about the club was their choice of music before the show.

Comedy clubs have terrible taste in music. It's always the same crappy wedding-disco music at pretty much every club in the UK so it was nice to be somewhere where they felt confident to play Iron Maiden track after Iron Maiden Track after Iron Maiden track. Lovely. Especially when a man walked in with his very young family. Bring Your Daughter (To The Slaughter) played while the man cheerily sat his 12 year old daughter at their table. How apt, I thunk.

Luckily the gig was far from hellish. It was really, really, really nice. It was a big room that demanded focus for the first few minutes but after that they seemed to give me pretty much free reign to do whatever I wanted. That was nice of them. I even tried out my ever failing "Newcastle" bit and it did very well. I will, of course, continue to swear blind that I will NEVER perform that piece again. Not a completely perfect, storming gig but an utterly enjoyable one. I'd love to play it again one day.

Not only did I enjoy myself but I had the chance to ruin someone's career also. That's always the mark of a great night out. A couple of drinks, a few laughs, fuck up someone's life. Especially when it's someone who's not even there.

The compere, Mike Wilkinson, decided that I was actually Michael Smiley. As he said "We've got Michael Smiley opening the show tonight" I burst out laughing. Partly because he got it wrong and partly because I was thinking how disappointed the audience are going to be. He said Michael Smiley's name twice again before finally introducing "Michael Smiley" on to the stage. I looked around and assumed that Mike had meant me. After all, we Northern Irish comedians all look the fucking same, don't we? I got to the microphone and asked the audience to give it up for our host and compere, Mike Belgrave, and started the gig. It was then that I realised that I could really fuck this gig up and maybe get away with it. Tonight, Matthew, I am Michael Smiley and if they never book Michael Smiley again then that will not really affect my career, just his. And news of stinker gigs spread quick in this business. I just have to fuck this up so perfectly and in days, hours....MINUTES the word will be out that Michael Smiley is fucking awful and no-one will book him ever again and he will die alone (I plan to woo his wife also, did I mention that?) and remembered only as that man who opened a gig saying that he thought Nick Griffin was "well fit" and then started throwing his excrement at the audience while screaming "CUUUUUUUNT!" repeatedly.

As it turns out, I just did my set.

So, if Michael Smiley never gets booked again then it's my fault and I'm really sorry. I promise NEVER to do the "Newcastle" bit ever again.

Thursday, 29 October 2009

Bagging Victory.

I'm feeling quite smugly happy at the moment. After all the worry about me being thick I certainly got cheered up from the feedback I received from my two wasps fucking blog. Some people liked it and that made me very happy indeed but what really put a spring in my step is that not one single person has let me know how wasps mate. I am not alone! No-one in the entire world knows how wasps make wasps and, seemingly, not that many people even care how they do it.

Thank the Lord that everyone is happy being thick and I can hold my head high and say "DUH!" with pride. Ignorance is bliss, I've learned. Well, sometimes anyway. Last night as I was on my way to perform at London Comedy Improv I saw a massive arse drop the cardboard packaging that his sandwich came in and an empty plastic bottle that once contained juice. He did it on purpose. Not because he is evil and just feels like littering but because he is so monumentally thick that he doesn't know that throwing crap on the ground makes litter and litter is bad. He is just like you are with the wasps fucking thing but infinitely more anti-social.

As his rubbish hit the ground I imagined him being hit by a lovely old steam locomotive or being raped by a thousand piss-drenched robo-skeletons that fired their poisonous lazer-cum directly into his exploding heart. It just helped me come to terms with his horrible lack of social skills. Luckily there are about 12 utterly beautiful people in this world and last night I saw 1 of them. A dark haired woman in her 30's saw the stupid man drop his litter and went over and picked it up. I thought what she had done was at least a very nice gesture that, although taught the idiot nothing, meant that there was slightly less rubbish on the ground. She picked it up and, I assumed, was on her way to put it in the bin.

I was wrong.

She walked behind the man and with incredible skill (she was laughing as she did it so it can't have been easy) carefully placed both items of rubbish in the idiots open backpack. The bottle went in easy but the sandwich pack took a bit of an extra effort and when it was securely in the bag she turned to her friends and jumped up in the air in utter triumph. Some people who saw the beautiful even applauded. I was one. It's days like this that make you feel that living is very nearly worth it.

Of course, it isn't. I embarrassed myself greatly at London Comedy Improv. After angrily correcting Tara Flynn ridiculous mistake of Alfred the butler referring to Bruce Wayne as "Mister Wayne" and not "Master Bruce" I then openly and clearly said that the name of the first Doctor was William Troughton. I should be shot dead.

I could barely get out of bed this morning after making the greatest blunder of all time. OK, I hadn't killed a baboon but I completely let myself down. I felt so bad that I wrote PAEDO on my head and walked around Lewisham shopping centre waiting to get beaten to a pulp. Sadly nearly everyone I saw had named the first Doctor as William Troughton also by the looks of things.

Thanks, human race. I'll never be thick and alone ever.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

AA is Not a Very Nice Man.

Well, brilliant. I've turned into one of those awful balls of embarrassment who get morally outraged by something they see in the news. I feel an idiot but luckily we've already established that I'm "thick" so I don't even care how embarrassing I come across.

AA Gill, the Times' restaurant critic and cunt, shot and killed a baboon just to see what it would be like. That was his actual excuse for murdering a baboon. "'I wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone". Christ almighty, what sort of lack of imagination does this cretin suffer from. Strangely, I've never wanted to even consider killing a baboon but I have a good idea of exactly how I'd feel. That's one of the things that stops me from doing it. We call that having empathy. It's one of the better traits that the rest of our species has.

"'I wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone". What the fuck are you, AA? Some sort of monkey-hating Johnny Cash? I killed a baboon in Tanzania just to watch him die. Not only that but doesn't this cockboil of a man still have to face his family and friends who now know that he has said the words "'I wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone". I imagine that quite a few people in AA's address book are going to stop returning his calls. You know, except for the one were they call him to say "I don't want to see you ever again because you are a creepy, creepy bastard. Bye".

The baboon was far away from him. Wasn't bothering him. And it certainly had no way to defend itself against a deranged psychopath with a gun who then described it's murder as "naughty fun". I don't know about you, but I'm really not in AA Gill's gang. He doesn't sound like one of us. At all.

He's a food critic, of course, so I'm sure a few evil carnivores (they're all evil, by the way. And, no, Hitler WASN'T a vegetarian, he was a meat eating Christian just like you) might consider that he at least killed the baboon to eat it. No. No, he didn't. I don't know if I told you but he said that the reason that he shot a totally defenceless animal to death was because he "wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone". He didn't cook it afterwards. He didn't eat it. No-one did. Baboons aren't "tasty" apparently. Stupid undelicious monkeys. That's the irony right there. Killing a baboon is nothing like killing a "someone" as AA Gill wanted. A "someone" could at least try to defend itself, maybe even tackle him and turn the weapon on him, and of course "someone" tastes of chicken. You could at least eat "someone".

What a pointless, half-man he truly is. Killing for no reason for a hobby and telling people whether or not he liked his dinner for a living.

Sometimes it's as if AA didn't actually read my blog yesterday. If only he had seen the beauty of two wasps fucking then maybe he could see that nature is there for us to be in awe of and not to destroy just because we're rich, bored and no-one will fuck us.

I don't like AA Gill. I feel closer to the baboon than a man like him. To be honest, I feel closer to a dung beetle than I do to that....whatever the fuck he is. Jan Moir, you are temporarily off the hook.

Monday, 26 October 2009

Look and Don't Learn.

I've been plagued by a very trivial problem this last week or so. Last Monday someone referred to me as "thick" and, near the end of last week, I was told that I hadn't much going on in my life. Both hurtful and accurate comments that I shrugged off thinking "Bog off, I've read and vaguely understood Gabriel Garcia Marquez and I listen to The Smiths. That's clever, right? And I'm always busy. Or busy-ish, at the least".

But then the two wasps fucking thing happened.

On Thursday I was walking in the park with Jerk when I noticed two wasps fucking. It isn't every day that you see two wasps fucking and, I think, when you come across it (don't) you should take your time and enjoy it. You know? Stare at it for an hour or so. That's what I did. It was a really odd sight. I never really thought about wasps fucking but I guess they must do.

That's when it hit me that the cruel, cruel comments thrown at me last week were bang on the money. I don't know if wasps actually fuck but I have all the time in the world to just stand there and watch them. I am 41 years old and have no idea how a wasp reproduces. How has that passed me by? We must have learned about it at school, right? It wasn't all lessons about overthrowing England, not all the time. We must have learned about the mating rituals of insects. Shit. Are wasps insects? How do I know that Lando Calrissian lost the Millennium Falcon in a card game to Han Solo but not how wasps have baby wasps? Do they lay eggs? They must lay eggs. I tried looking it up on Wikipedia but got distracted by the band W.A.S.P. best known for their 1984 UK hit single Animal (Fuck Like A Beast) who's b-side was, of course, Show No Mercy. I know that. Oh, yeah. I fucking know that, alright. But what good is that when I'm trying to find out how a wasp exists. Why couldn't it be Animal (Fuck Like A Wasp)? It's as if that angry, shouty, drunk band didn't want to influence me at all.

And yes, I'm well aware that I've been spending too much time thinking about how I might be a bit thick after all. Proving that maybe I don't have as much going on in my life as I thought I had. To be fair, after the third or fourth hour of watching those two stripey exhibitionists bang away I sort of understood that I'd have to maybe find a few more things to do with my days. And, yes, that's how long they went on for. Tantric wasp sex....something about Sting. Look, you make up your own joke OK? I'm very busy.

In reality, I could have looked up all manner of websites and found out more about the wasp but I actually downloaded W.A.S.P.'s Animal (Fuck Like A Beast) instead. Haven't heard it in 20 years. It's terrible.

Saturday, 24 October 2009

Turn That Frown Upside-Down.

Thankfully some gigs are good enough to drag you out of misery. well, a bit anyway.

I've been so fed up this week due to the fuck-up with the Sheffield Comedy Festival but a couple of great gigs have really cheered me up. The first was the excellent Funny Side of Covent Garden and the second was, believe it or not, the notoriously difficult Jongleurs in Portsmouth. I turned up to both gigs very grumpy and with the feeling of "Fuck them. If they don't like me they can suck the cunt I'm growing" which somehow seemed to work.

Funny Side had a pretty small audience who gave me all the room I wanted to be self-indulgent and, you know, enjoy myself. They seemed to like it too. Jongleurs didn't exactly rock but it was pretty much the same deal as Funny Side. I was given room and the audience went with it. Great fun. Must remember to do that more often, that "fun" thing.

Johnny Candon did a set at the Sheffield gig in place of the King of Everything one and it was nice to hear the audience shout "Fuck You, Michael Legge" down the phone to me from there. Think it's Johnny's endearing way of saying sorry. Bless.

This morning I took the four-hour train ride of misery to Hitchin to record the seventh Precious Little podcast. Every train I got on (there was four of them) got delayed or detoured or both. One just exploded. OK, it didn't but I wanted it to because it quickly became full of cuntingly dull, upsetting and loud football fans. Why anyone would go to watch a football match is baffling enough but why they would even consider spending time in the same building as these people and others like them is brain-fuckingly ridiculous. They kept singing a song very loudly that repeated the lyric "Donna's got a massive cunt" over and over again. What made it all the more charming is that Donna was one of them. I don't know what team they supported but I hope they lost and got shot dead at the end of their stupid game of footsy.

The podcast was....weird. It just hit a brick wall about 3/4 of the way through. Still enjoyed it though. I spend a lot of the time calling James a fruit.

Hmmmm....I'm staying in on a Saturday night. That's weird. Still, lots of work to do on the upcoming Los Quattros Cunts shows (now named Los Quattros Cvnts, very regrettably) on the 17th (with Richard Herring) and 18th (with Rich Fulcher) November at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square. They'll be fun. Don't miss them.

Thursday, 22 October 2009


Why the fuck would anyone NOT want the BNP to speak openly on Question Time? It's going to be hilarious. Nick Griffin, the stupid, fat, blinkered, evil cunt, will open his cum-pit of a mouth and spit out his thoughtless thoughts and his father's opinions and we can all have a great laugh at the big idiot man. Not only will we see that he's a massive moron but maybe, just maybe, some of the vegetables that voted for him with their clumsy, spidery "x"'s will have a moment of clarity and see him for what he really is.

It's what TV is made for. Laughing at the mentally ill. You don't mind it when it happens on X-Factor or Britain's Got Talent or Katy Brand's Big Ass Show so you shouldn't be so hypocritical. It's the reason we really wanted Jan Moir to respond to criticisms of her hate-piece in the Daily Mail, we wanted to see how stupid she was going to be while trying to worm her way out of being a ridiculous cunt. "It's all a a heavily orchestrated internet campaign". HILARIOUS!

I'm really looking forward to Question Time tonight. It's going to be very funny and horrible and ridiculous. Anyone who is against an ordinary, everyday fascist appearing in this programme is obviously prejudiced. Which is exactly what the BNP want you to be. By letting him on and laughing at him you have taken a firm stance against bigotry. Well done, you. Actually....just thought....The BBC won't pay this nutjob, will they?

I would write more but Jerk is currently face-first in my crotch. It's hard to rail against all the evils of this world when an animal is basically trying to blow you.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009


I'm really fucked off that we had to cancel the return of King of Everything this Saturday at the Sheffield Comedy Festival. I was really looking forward to it and it's gone balls up due to stupidity. Shame. If you had plans to go, then I'm very sorry (though it wasn't my fault) and I'm very grateful that you bought a ticket. The worse thing is that it was close to selling out thanks to lots of people on Twitter and Facebook buying tickets as well as the SCF being very supportive. It's a small venue but King of Everything aren't used to selling out. It would have been great. Arsebiscuits!

Yesterday's Precious Little podcast was a lot of fun. Despite another religious nutter shouting on the train on my way to Hitchin and me being in a shoutinghellpunch of a mood thanks to the Sheffield Comedy Festival disaster, I really enjoyed it. My favourite part was coming up with the worst joke I have ever heard ever. It is shit. But you can win ownership of it if you enter our competition. That's nice. James and I went for beer afterwards. This is now the third or fourth time we have socialised and are now acting like friends (don't worry, it's only acting). Pretty much every conversation James and I have ever had has been recorded. But now thanks to the few times we've socialised our unrecorded conversations might soon outweigh the recorded ones. I will try my best to make sure that never happens.

Is there a good side to the cancellation of King of Everything this week? NO! But it does mean that my weekend is now completely free. I intend to spend it like you normal people. Might go to see a film or a band or talk the whole way through a comedy show. I'm fed up today. Recommend something for me to do this weekend. Hurry up.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

Here's To Stinking Kevin.

Why does the smelly man ALWAYS sit near me? I reckon it's every three or four train journeys that I take has a smelly man who decides that the seat next to me is the best one. On Friday, the smelly man was very, very smelly.

He didn't sit next to me. That was at least a blessing. But fucking hell, did he stink? Yes. Yes, he did.

At first, I didn't notice him. He just got on the train and put his bag in the overhead....thing (what is that called?) but once he took his coat off his presence became known loud and clear. I assume his coat once belonged to Pandora because the evils that flew out of him were beyond repugnant. I would have vomited but I was too busy being dead.

He sat on the other side of the table in front of me. I had my laptop out and my earphones in ready to start watching The Wire (never seen it before. I know, I know) and he got two books out. There wasn't much that this man could do to make himself more of a bellend but he succeeded. As if the reek wasn't bad enough, and it was (he smelled like the dead. That weird lemon's gone off stench that dead people have), he got out two books. One was a leather bound copy of a book called The Bible and another was called Do People In Hell Still "Exist"? Good fucking grief. Once he had settled himself, he started reading the bible and, like any other completely sane human being, started praying. Out loud. On a fucking train. Why was this happening to me? I'm the most unfortunate man who has ever lived. Or so I thought. Then some sad fuck sat next to smelly man.

The poor cunt. If I was a better human being I would have just gave him a look as if to say run for your fucking life but do NOT sit next to this smelly nutter but I wanted to watch The Wire. If this stinking bit of insanity was going to talk to anyone I would want it to be him not me. And smelly man did talk to him. He talked to him a lot. Talking and talking and talking about salvation and Jesus and forgiveness and the next world and how homosexuality is wrong. This was before I read Jan Moir's Daily Mail article on the exact same subject: Gay's are disgusting.The only differences between smelly man and Jan Moir was that smelly man would not be so pathetic as to complain that his views had been distorted by an internet-based hate group and at least smelly man accidentally said something funny. The poor fuck beside him had to listen to this crap for the whole hour and a half journey to Birmingham, I only dropped in and out of the conversation. All I ever heard was "You tryin' to rip me off, motherfucker? I'll pop a cap in your ass, bitch. JESUS IS THE PATH. I got two things for you, McNulty. GOD HAS HIS PLAN. Dumb bitch got hisself shot. GAYS WILL BE DAMNED" but I did manage to hear one bit of his madness and I'm glad I did.

"Homosexuals", he said to the poor fuck who wished he was dead, "will never be accepted into Heaven".

I've been to Heaven. I'm not joking. There were loads of homosexuals there.

Smelly man was insane though. He couldn't help himself because he's mentally ill. In Birmingham this weekend I noticed that the people who roam around the centre of town are predominantly insane. The mad people outweigh the sane by quite some number. Very few people I saw weren't screaming at windows or telling themselves that the moon is following them. They can't help saying the wrong things they say because they are mentally ill. It's incredibly sad.

So, come on, everyone. Let's stop this horrible internet-based hate campaign that we all started against Jan Moir. She is to be pitied. Maybe even hospitalised. There's obviously something wrong with her. I mean a 50 year old woman can't just go to bed and wake up a bigotted cunt. Stands to reason.

Friday, 16 October 2009

Nice & Simple.

What a lovely day yesterday was. Well, it was.

I was on 6 Music's Roundtable show as a guest of Andrew Collins. I always wanted to be on a programme like this. Sitting around listening to new records and then giving my big stupid opinion on them. Lovely. The other guests were Jim Kerr from Simple Minds and Damian Harris aka The Midfield General and head of Skint Records, both of whom were fantastic company. Jim Kerr was great. He's funny, self-deprecating and a bit awkward when hearing a bit of praise. I told him how I still have my copy of In The City Of Light that he signed in Golden Discs, Belfast in 1987 (I got a written warning at work for sneaking off to that) and how he once saved me from getting my head kicked in. It's still on iPlayer if you really want to hear that story.

My opinion always seemed to be different to that of the two actual musicians in the room and that made me feel, well, like a twat. Nobody really completely honestly said what they thought, of course. Jim and Damian were polite because they are polite and I couldn't swear so the truth was kept hidden. For instance, I never once said that Florence + The Machine's new single is absolute fucking awful, cynical shit. I wanted to but I didn't. But I've said it now and feel a bit better. My favourite song of the bunch was by Passion Pit and it was also the winning record of the day. A fun show (don't know how it was to listen to but it was fun to do) and Damian, Andrew and I went for a couple of beers and talked about how nice Jim was. It was then I realised I was really late for my gig.

My gig was hosting The Hob's "Celebrity" Pub Quiz. I've written about it a few times in this blog and last night was just as good as it normally is. A total treat. Just trying to get a few laughs out of an "audience" who are talking amongst themselves and getting upset because they don't know the name of the one from Sugababes who just quit is a lot more fun than it should be.

Listen to all my positivity! I'm all lovely today because everything in the world is lovely. Let's all give each other a hug. I'm so happy that I'd gladly hug everyone in the entire world. Well, maybe not the drunk man who asked me to move out of his way at a bus stop just so he could piss on the spot where I was standing last night. I hate that cunt.

Thursday, 15 October 2009

Kay Is For Kunt.

I gigged with Chris Addison on Tuesday night and he really couldn't wait to talk about his big hero, Peter Kay. It was Peter Kay this and Blackpool Tower that and cunting garlic bread the other out of Chris. You couldn't shut him up or out. But one thing stuck in my mind. Chris told me that Peter Kay's latest book, Saturday Night Peter (the next one will be called "Oh, Kay!", I GUARANTEE it), has something interesting written in the blurb on the inside cover. It says "Peter is one of Britain's most prolific stand-up comedians".

He isn't. He is one of the fattest. That's it.

With this information in mind, I had to see it for myself. I went into WH Smith in Lewisham yesterday (a place I already have massive problems with. Do they giggle at EVERY 41 year old man who buys Doctor Who Magazine? DO THEY? And NO, I don't want a fucking half-price bar of fucking Toblerone. NO-ONE fucking does) and picked up the book. I had seen Saturday Night Peter in bookshops before but never actually touched a copy for complete fear of Bill Hicks turning up, seeing me and shaking his head in despair. I looked inside and Chris was right. "one of Britain's most prolific stand-up comedians". There it was. Prolific? PROLIFIC? Peter Kay obviously hasn't looked in a dictionary in a long time. A dictionary, Peter? Do you remember them?

I left WH Smith with my Doctor Who Magazine (and yes, alright, my half-price bar of Toblerone) and thought about this for a while. Does he really think that he's prolific? Does he actually imagine that re-re-re-re-re-releasing the same tedious Do-You-Remember-Magpie DVD every fuck year counts as being prolific as a stand-up? I had to look at it again.

I went to two other bookshops yesterday and looked at Saturday Night Peter and it's big fat lie by it's big fat author. I don't know why I had to look again. Twice. But I did. Perhaps part of me thought that it couldn't possibly say that in EVERY copy, could it? I know it says it on two copies, the one in WH Smiths and Chris Addison's signed copy ("To Chris, Garlic Bread, Peter Kay xxx",) but that could have been a printing error. But no. It says it on two more copies as well. Please look in your copy now and see if it's there. If you don't have a copy then ask to borrow a sick relative's copy. If you do have a copy then I am furious and will end this blog here.

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

Shaken Legge.

The starting a fight with a man in the park thing really put me in a funny mood yesterday. I couldn't shake it all day. Imagine if it had actually come to blows. I'm pretty sure that I don't know how to fight but I don't need that fact proved and I certainly don't need my face any more fucked up than it is. Why didn't he pick one of the other park dogs to nearly kick? Why didn't he pick one of the million Staffies to start a fight with? Those dog owners would have happily fought him. And killed him. It was as if he looked at me and saw a man that punched like a girl. A sick girl with no fists.

I performed at Fat Tuesdays in Islington last night. It's an excellent club run by Tiernan Douieb and it helps remind you why you would ever want to be a stand-up comedian for a living. I was all over the place because of my ruck-that-didn't-happen and I couldn't focus on anything that I actually wanted to do. I tried to make notes before the gig but just couldn't concentrate. The only note I made was "I am a prick". That was meant to link to some stand-up material, it wasn't just me coming to terms with fact. When I got on stage I totally forgot about "I am a prick", did a little bit of old material (but in a new way) and realised that my "Newcastle" story really just doesn't work anymore. I've broken it.

This sounds like I had a bad time but I really didn't. I really enjoyed it. I went on stage and moaned and complained and whined and got laughs (but not from the "Newcastle" story). It's really made me think about how I want to change my set. Normally I go on all cheery (seriously, I do) but I'm not cheery and last night's 20 minutes of complaining really cheered me up. Thanks for that if you were there. Of course, Tiffany Stevenson, Chris Addison and Milton Jones went on after me and showed me up as the total amateur that I am. Cunts.

Afterwards, we went to some other bar nearby where another comedy night was going on. No, I don't know why we did that either. We got there just in time to see the audience watching Phil Kay doing what he does best: having a nervous breakdown and being mental. At one point a woman in the audience heckled. "You're gay", she shouted. "Yes", Phil replied. "But in the morning, I will be sober". I imagine the audience are still staring. I know I am.

It's the London Comedy Improv tonight at The Phoenix for me. Please come along. Starts at 8.

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

Big Scrap.

Someone tried to kick Jerk. I think you can guess how angry I am. If you can't then think of it this way, imagine someone had actually kicked your favourite child in the face and his little child body fell down the stairs and you ran down the stairs to catch your favourite child but you weren't quick enough and your favourite child just exploded on the ground and all you could hear is the man who kicked your favourite child laughing while smoking a big cigar and fucking your wife. You'd be angry, right? Well, I'm more angry than that.

Jerk is better than any child. Even Shirley Temple in her heyday would say "I'm a big bag of broken bollocks compared to that dog" so trying (a little bit) to kick is something that I can't tolerate.

Jerk and I were in the park and whilst strolling we came across a massive bellend. He was leaning up against a tree and having a cigarette. Jerk loves trees. They are the things that male dogs piss on and Jerk loves nothing more than sniffing day old tree-piss. The bellend obviously had a bit of a fear of dogs but I couldn't tell that just by looking at him so, to show that he is terrified of dogs that have absolutely no interest in his existence, he lamely kicked out at Jerk when she came to sniff the wee-wee. "Get your fucking dog away from me", he said.

I was angry now.

I was angry but I respect people who are scared of dogs. Dogs aren't for everyone and that's why I was always very strict on recall with Jerk when I first got her. If someone looked uncomfortable at the thought of passing by my dog I simply shout "Jerk" and she comes right by my side. The people then walk past me and have totally forgotten that they're scared of dogs because the stupid man has shouted a nearly rude word in the park. My Mum is scared of dogs. I totally respect that some people are scared of dogs. But I don't think (pathetically) trying to kick a dog and then being rude to it's owner is going to get you very far. It doesn't with me, anyway.

I threw Jerk a dog-biscuit and while she was busy eating I stood right beside the man and stared at him. He got uncomfortable very quickly. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just standing here", I replied. I then moved closer.

The bellend mumbled something and started walking away but I followed him as close as I had been. He turned and asked if I had a problem, the classic fight-opener. I did have a problem, the classic fight-starter. "Yes", I said. "I don't like it when someone tries to kick my dog then refers to my dog as my fucking dog".

I went red with embarrassment as these words left my empty head. What the fuck was I doing? I'm not the man with no name and this bellend had not insulted my mule. I'm going to get in a fight. In a park. Just like a smelly poor person. And it's all my fault.

"Alright. Sorry, mate. OK?", he said. He backed away and held his hand out to shake mine. I agreed. We went our seperate ways.

I got back home and started to stop shaking. It's Nobby's fault. I totally blame Nobby. "Well, I'm not backing down" is fine when you're attacking a woman with Leukemia but not a dodgy-looking angry man in a park. If you ever see me try to start a fight again will you please beat me up? I'm an idiot.

Great. So now I'm in a bad mood after two very lovely days. On Sunday I went to Hitchin to record Precious Little Podcast number 5 which was good fun but both James and I (mainly I) were a bit shit. Still, I'm very happy to say that we're at number 26 in the iTunes Comedy Podcast charts (we were number 21) and number 43 in the iTunes All Podcasts chart so it's nice to know we have some listeners. Thanks very much for that. We'll try not to be shit next week. The main bit I enjoyed was trying to figure out what other podcasts we could beat up (fuck! Back to fighting!) and concluded that we hadn't a chance with Phill & Phil, a maybe with The Trap and Answer Me This were fucking dead meat. If you'd like to organise a fight between us and another podcast please do so. RIGHT. I HAVE TO STOP STARTING FIGHTS. Fucking hell.

Speaking of podcasts, I went to see Richard Herring's excellent As It Occurs To Me sketch show recording at the Leicester Square Theatre last night. I very much recommend seeing it even though it's Herring showing off that he's good at something else now. The cunt. It's on for the next nine Mondays, it's a brand new topical show each week and it only costs £10. Also you can download it for free the next day on iTunes but if you weren't there I think you shouldn't be allowed to or at least you should pay a tenner. It also features Emma Kennedy and Dan Tetsell (who is a lovely, lovely man despite the Nazi blood, crying bastard girlfriend and rude baby).

It was a great show. You should go. I counted 6 references to Andrew Collins in it but maybe there will be more when you go. Seems he can't quite let go. Mind you, I call nearly everyone I know Johnny so I know how he feels. I'm on Andrew's 6 Music show this Thursday with Jim Kerr and (hopefully) my signed copy of Live In The City of Lights that Jim signed for me in Belfast in 1987. No doubt he'll remember that brief moment fondly. Either that or I'll kick his fucking head in.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Saturday, 10 October 2009

Army Legge.

I'm not sure if this will be a blog or a a few angry sentences (what's the difference) but something pretty new-ish in comedy is currently getting right on my fucking nerves.

How come it's now OK to entertain the troops? Even worse, how come it's OK to crow-bar a round of applause from an audience by telling them you've just come back from entertaining the troops? Aren't the troops cunts? I thought we were against that war thing yet doing a gig in front of our brave boys is now fantastic and noble?

That's a lot of questions. Maybe I need to think about it. Thought about it. Sorry, can't shake the feeling that entertaining soldiers in a foreign country stinks of Jim Davison and superiority.

What's wrong with entertaining people who had nothing to do with war at all? Like nuns. Nuns have caused a fair bit of trouble and trauma but they've never stormed a country while killing loads of people before. Entertain nuns and then get on stage and brag about how you've "just got back from Lourdes" and listen to that standing ovation that you're bound to receive.

I'm in a bad mood. I keep seeing comedians getting rounds of applause for saying they've just got back from entertaining the troops and that's put me in a bad mood. That wouldn't have happened in the 80's. We've gone full circle. I bet the Tories get back in next.

I'm fed up. Bye.

Friday, 9 October 2009

Michael Legge is a Prick.

I am a prick. No, don't argue, I am. It's just how God didn't make me. Who knows, maybe you're a prick too? If so, welcome! I've been thinking a fair bit lately about how I'm probably not the nicest person in the world but this week it dawned on me that I am definitely a complete and utter prick.

An acquaintance of mine and fellow Lewisham resident were having a chat the other day. He is ill. Quite seriously but he will get better. That's the good news. The bad news is that he opened up about his condition to me without the understanding that I am a prick. Not convinced? Allow me to continue.

He has to go to hospital for a series of operations over the next few months. "I go in next month", he told me. "I have to lie in bed for 12 weeks, have three operations, one on my spine, I'll be on medication for over a year plus rehab for at least nine months. They'll have to check on me every couple of days for over a year to check on the pain and, of course, to make sure that I'm getting better and there is no chance of it recurring. They said during the first month that I'll be drifting in and out of conciousness a lot and there is a chance that I may never be able to go without medication ever".

Terrible. But I am a prick and all I heard was "I have to lie in bed for 12 weeks". I was actually jealous of him. It's exactly how I felt about the blind woman being allowed to bring her dog to the theatre the other night. I would LOVE to lie in bed for 12 weeks. I'd have to be fed and someone would have to collect my faeces and Joanne Whalley would give me a bed bath. I thought about this and my only conclusion was that I am the lowest of the low. Then I found a kindred spirit...

My friend Nobby never lets me down. He's one of the nicest men you could ever meet. He is firm but fair. If he thinks that you're a cunt then, chances are, you probably are a cunt. He's calls me cunt a lot. But last night I realised he's as bad as me, which in a sick way made me like him more.

Nobby was telling me a lovely story about how he complimented someone on their appearance. That's nice, isn't it? He met a woman at a wedding and was struck by her keen fashion sense. "That's a really nice head scarf", he said to her.

"Are you taking the piss?", she replied.

"No. I like it. You don't see many people wearing head scarves like that".

"Well, I have to wear one because I lost most of my hair through chemotherapy".

Nobby thought about this before replying.

"Fuck off", he said.

"It's true. I've got leukaemia".

"Behave, love".

"I really have".

"Fuck off, you tart".

The lady explained further and Nobby told me that that's when the penny dropped. "She really did have leukaemia". Now, you would think it couldn't get worse but it did. Not that I heard the rest of the story because I was still laughing at what he said next: "But I wasn't going to back down".

I'm glad I'm not alone. Sort of.

By the way, some quick plugs: Precious Little podcast has a new feature so please listen to the latest mini-podcast now for details of how you can get involved. I'm performing at London Comedy Improv this wednesday night (and the bill is excellent) at The Phoenix just off Oxford Street. Also, at the same venue, on the 17th & 18th November Los Quattros cunts (The Trap & me) will be trying out our new show with guests both nights. Our guests are booked now. Our guests are VERY good so put those dates in your diary now. NOW.

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

Big Night Out.

I went to see Wicked last night. Those aren't words I thought I'd ever write but it happened. In real life.

My niece won tickets for her and her friend to see the show and I thought I'd join them. I volunteered to go. No-one forced me. I decided, of my own free will, to buy a ticket for Wicked and use it. Well, I wish there was some single word modern parlance to describe Wicked because it was actually very enjoyable. I sat near a dog!

Blind people are so lucky. I had to leave my dog at home and there was this jammy bastard sitting two rows in front of us with her dog sitting quietly beside her. It's not fair but it didn't spoil the evening. In fact, it made the evening. Every time there was a boring bit all you had to do is look to the right a touch and you'd see a dog sitting up straight in a seat in the theatre. Worth every penny.

I have to say the show didn't start well. In fact, it started really badly. Two songs in and I hadn't a clue what was going on. Surely twirling and pointing couldn't be the plot? The chorus sang so loudly that you really couldn't understand a word plus there was a massive dragon hovering over the stage that totally stole focus. Shame it was never used or explained or even mentioned because it looked good.

The story is a pretty ordinary West End sugary tale you've hear a million times before. A green baby grows up and falls in love with a man who is shagging a fairy. But it gets better as it goes on, although it does seem to steal quite heavily from The Wizard of Oz which I think is a bit cheeky.

The main thing about the whole evening was, of course, seeing my niece. She's only been to London a couple of times but hasn't really seen much of the city so I was determined that she would see a bit more this time. You can imagine how happy I was to see her and her friend drinking in a train station bar. That's OK, there's plenty of time to show her the sights.

We went to another pub. It might as well have been the same pub. Still, she got to meet Johnny Candon and that must have kept her mind off how awful the pub looked. Not to worry, there's plenty of time after the show. London is an all night kind of town. The city that never sleeps. 24 hour party people. The bright lights. The big smoke. The city is our oyster.

After the show, we all went home. Young people don't have the stamina anymore. Not like in my day. In my day, you'd wake up at 5am in a puddle of your own puke, piss, shit, blood, sweat, tears, friend's piss and you'd reach for a drink, phone the boss, tell him you were sick, go to the Off Licence, argue that you've never heard of licensing laws, get some "pity booze", go to the pub, have a sandwich to sober up, pick up the kids from school, shout them to sleep, then go to a club until 4am. Lightweights, these days.

If only my niece had seen her Uncle Johnny when he turned up to my house at 3.45 this morning. I texted him to call me instead of knocking but Johnny took that as an insult to his skills as a door-knocker and basically smashed the door to pieces instead. I let him in. It took ages as he was using the outside of the house as support. I showed him to the spare room. He never made it. He slept with Jerk instead. Now that's a night out, niece of mine.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

The Non-Running Man.

Waking up is the biggest drag in this awful, awful life. I've woke up hundreds of times but it's never been enjoyable. On Sunday I was tricked into waking up and going to something so utterly un-me it might as well have been a meat-eating football match sponsored by Top Gear. It was called the Lewisham Fun Run.

Lewisham? Fun? A run? Fun? Why are these words together? I was woken at 9am to shuffle all the way to a park in Beckenham to watch an eye-insult of massively half-arsed proportions. Firstly, I went to the wrong park. You might think that was my fault. It wasn't. It was God's. And the fucker who made TWO Beckenham Parks. I went to the wrong one which I later discovered was the right one for me.

Once I finally got there I was told by a boring man in a yellow coat with the words BORING MAN written on it that I wasn't allowed to have my dog off the lead. It's a park. Park's are for dogs. Park's are NOT for dicks who want to take over a park for an entire morning to celebrate sport, the Devil's pastime. Of course, this abuse of a morning was all in aid of charity so complaining is illegal. Everyone there was running 5K and dressing like brightly coloured disappointments to raise money for Breast Cancer Awareness. A great charity. Love supporting it. Great. But why then were there recruitment officers for both the police and the army there? Are Lewisham Council saying that they will do their best to protect us from cancer but they're happy for us to get shot? Getting shot is a big way of Lewisham life anyway, I suppose. In fact, I've been shot twice while writing this. Three times now.

It was definitely a weird thing to be standing with my dog, quietly hating everyone who had ever lived and everything that had ever happened, when an Army recruitment officer approached me and asked if I'd ever thought of joining the Army. I'm from Northern Ireland. The only time I've ever thought about joining the Army was when my parents annoyed me. I pointed out to the little boy playing soldiers that I was 41 and probably not of much use to the Army. I don't even own a tank, I told him. Not to worry, he said, the cut-off age for recruitment is 43. Great! I still have two more years before I have to make up my mind as to whether or not I want to go somewhere hot to get blown up. He asked what I did for a living and I've ever said STAND-UP COMEDIAN with so much glee before. Perhaps the TA might be more to my suiting, pointed out the lickle boy. "How's your weekends?", he said. "I'm a STAND-UP COMEDIAN!!!!!", I gleefully replied. He walked away.

The police recruitment was less pushy but much more creepy. It consisted of a man wearing a wacky over-sized Policeman's uniform and a wacky massive head. He walked around mainly waving and getting his photo taken, obviously unaware that impersonating a policeman is illegal. The run started and wacky-dressed-up-as-a-policeman-man ran the 5k along with everyone else. When the race was finished he did a bit more waving and then went behind a tent to remove his wacky outfit. I saw him take his massive head off. He looked like an ordinary bloke. An ordinary bloke wearing an over-sized Policeman's uniform. Then he took the uniform off. He was dressed as a soldier. That was weird.

The star of the day (if you don't count the stupid fuck who pointed to Jerk and said to her husband and said "What's that?") was the Lewisham Fun Run host. None other than DJ CK Flash. That was his name and he wasn't embarrassed about it or anything, which gives you an idea of the kind of person he is. He played Footloose just as the race started (stupid cunt) and then, for some unfathomable reason, said this: "Have fun today. Have fun? What am I talking about? You're about to run 5k. You'll be like hound dogs". He then played Hound Dog by Elvis Presley. Do hound dogs not have fun, then? Are they four-legged party-poopers? And will the boring man in the yellow jacket tell everyone that they should be on a lead? Stupid DJ CK Flash.

I spent nearly an hour standing with Jerk and listening to DJ CK Flash brilliantly read out the numbers of the runners who passed him by. "212", he would say. "87". Great stuff. For an hour.

9 minutes in to the run and I saw the first of the runners return. He ran out of the woods and back into the park while some people clapped. He still had 2k to run but he was in the lead. Way in the lead. Really way in the lead. There wasn't anyone at all behind him. That's when the penny dropped. This stupid cunt has gone the wrong way. He's obviously cut out a chunk of the run. He's looking smug now but when he gets disqualified he's going to be very pissed off. Still no-one behind him.

The man in the lead continued his run and by the time he got to the finish line, 8 minutes later, the first of the other runners were appearing out of the woods. The "winning" man crossed the finish line, smiled, waved and took his applause. It hasn't crossed his mind that everyone else is 10 minutes behind him for a reason. He's going to be very embarrassed in a minute.

But no. He had his photo taken for the local newspaper and was given a medal. Only in Britain would this happen. He's fucked up so let's heap praise on him.

Except he hadn't fucked up. He had legitimately run the race and won. Absolutely everyone else in the run had gone the wrong way except him. For fuck's sake.

There is more to say on this Lewisham Fun Run (you must be so excited) but I must finish now. Johnny Candon has just come round to my house. Later I will introduce him to my niece. That'll be a mistake.

Saturday, 3 October 2009

Clearance Sale.

When your career is as fucked as mine one feels compelled to keep a tidy house. All those mistakes, bad gigs and rejected sit-com scripts are a direct result of too much clutter in the house. Sadly, clutter is the main thing that I buy and I like to store my clutter in a relaxed, random, leave-it-wherever-my-lazy-arse-fancies kind of vibe. So, today I decided that as I'm going to try to start writing sketches for Los Quattros Cunts this coming week I'd best have a big tidy up. Dust everything, vacuum everywhere and put one or two of those silly little purchases that I don't need on eBay.

Nearly everything I own is going on eBay.

Why the fuck did I buy a 4-disc jazz compilation? That was a fear of turning 40 moment if ever I saw one. I hate jazz (well, recorded jazz anyway). 40 was never going to make me like that noise. Or the second Sugababes album? Why the fuck did I willingly buy that? Why would anyone buy that? They do a Sting cover on it, for fuck's sake. I have Das Boot on video and DVD. I bought both copies myself. I have NEVER seen Das Boot. I will NEVER see Das Boot. I will often say that I will watch it but it's never going to happen. A fucking photo frame for photos of a dog? What was I thinking? 25 packs of Top Trumps. A huge camping light. A Hear'Say Easter Egg. A big beer mug that says "BEER" on it. A cowboy hat. A watercolour painting set. A Slendertone beer-belly removal system. Two lawn mowers! (I have NO grass) A yoga mat. Stars & Stripes dinner plates. Sex And The City: The Movie. A set of Tufty Club badges. An E.T. Pez dispenser. The Beautiful South biography. At Last, Smith & Jones Volume 1 on DVD. A skateboard complete with cool bands stickers all over it (never even stood on). A telescope. A babies night light. Macy Gray's other record. Fucking place mats. What the fuck can I do with a place mat? Five different versions of Monopoly. A big book called Teach Yourself Spanish. Russian dolls. A Pussycat Dolls hat. A kimono. A Winning Yachts 2005 calendar. A Dalai Lama mantra card. Scripts from Mork & Mindy. A letter from Paramount Studios warning me that I cannot perform a play based on Wrath of Khan. A plastic penguin that picks up tooth picks. A vest. A spirit level. Lisa Stansfield's autograph. A fondue set. A stupid Stradivarius violin (that I can't even play). A wind-up Ladybird. Finley Quaye on MINIDISC. Every Q magazine from February 1997 to July 2005. Balls of wool. A really tiny table tennis table. A Soda Stream drinks maker. A boxset of Freddie Mercury's solo works. A broken TV. A massive wooden tortoise. Fucking wind chimes.

This wasn't so much a blog as a car boot sale. If you want any of this shit, let me know. If not, eBay is in for a treat.

By the way, thanks to all the extremely nice people who emailed me relating to the Dawn Porter predicament. Glad I'm not alone. Solidarity, brothers!

Friday, 2 October 2009

Pistols at Dawn.

My penis and I are no longer speaking. We've had disagreements before, of course. Sometimes I want to do a spot of cleaning but it insists I have a look at or I'll try to get my taxes done but it wants to ogle for an hour or I want to go to the pictures to watch a lovely black & white foreign film about injustice and solitude but it wants to watch Inglourious Basterds with all the other dicks. I mean, we get on but we're not perfectly matched.

But this time my penis has gone too far (shut up). My penis quite fancies Dawn Porter. I mean, for fuck's sake. She's fucking dreadful. Everything she does or says is so utterly banal and pointless that it makes me slightly shrug with furious apathy. Does anyone else even know that this patronising, giggling frock even exists?

Let me tell you about Dawn Porter. She's a posh little fuck-nut who's living a permanent gap-year by wasting time pretending to be interested in people who aren't her. She calls herself a documentary film maker, you know, in the same way that the bloke with the video camera at your wedding is a film director. Her "documentaries" are beyond contempt and reveal real-life shockers such as underneath our clothes is naked flesh and if a woman finds another woman attractive then that's fine really but it's not for her. She is the girl in Pulp's Common People come to life except her thirst for knowledge seems to be utterly quenched by nothing and whatever the slaggy one from Sex And The City drinks. I can't believe I did it but I sat through two of her God awful fuck-you's to my eyes over the last two days. One was about men paying for Mail Order Brides and would you bleedin' Adam and completely believe it? Some of the men who do this are a bit odd! Blimey! There was one bit in the documentary that focused on the safety of women who get involved in this but this was pretty much ditched when Dawn got bored and it was nearly lunch. The second was about becoming a Geisha. Dawn decided to discover the incredible trauma that must go with being completely subservient to men your entire life and her astonishing revelation was that kneeling for a while hurts your knees a bit. She spent the whole week learning the ways of the Geisha (or Dawn's version of it anyway) and finally had to pass a test to see if she was good enough. Before the test Dawn was getting upset, nervous and was wiping away tears made from the most expensive imported crocodile water. "I've never been so nervous in my life", said Dawn, who has been given everything she's ever wanted. "I just don't want to fail".

Why? What will happen if you fail, Dawn? Might you NOT become a Geisha and have to slum it back to your crappy, spoilt, do whatever the fuck you want TV job? Christ Almighty, if you called your Dad he could stop it all.

Anyway, she failed. The test involved her pouring tea. To be fair, she'd seen it done a million times but it's not until you actually do it yourself that you see that there's a knack. Spout towards cup, Dawn discovered.

So why do I think she's quite cute, then? I don't know. I suspect it might be the fact that I'm a bit of an arsehole. Maybe Dawn can make a documentary about that? She must know that she's awful but I bet she'd like to make a film about why some people might want to at least shag her if not actual speak to her or recognise her as human. I'm looking forward to seeing her latest Sky TV docs which are called My Breasts Could Kill Me. Dawn could be living with months, even years, of painful chemotherapy as well as facing a life threatening disease, something that actually happens to so many women every day, but only if she has breast cancer which she hasn't so that's alright then, we can go to the Groucho now and get some Manhattans and another series! Chin chin!

I'm all fed up. I had a gig last night in St Albans and I was told to get there half an hour before the venue even opened. It is my utter pet-hate. I turned up, the venue was closed, I walked back to the train station and my agent had to convince me to go back to the gig and wait. The guy introducing me wanted to introduce me as "the compere" and not "Michael Legge", I got told off for not setting up a joke competition that I had no idea existed and, as a result of spending 15 minutes trying to find out what really was the difference between Katie Price and a shoe, I had no time to do any stuff I wanted to do. A big fucking waste of time. Nice crowd though. Very nice.