Saturday, 28 November 2009

Nails and Nailing.

So, anyway, there I was on the tube minding my own business, playing Monopoly on my iPod and listening to The Trap Sodcast. iPod's are great when travelling around the UK. You can just almost hide inside yourself so that screaming children, loud fucks on their phones and girls in wheelchairs listening to their awful taste in music can be pushed out and never penetrate your little Me Dome. At least, that's my theory. It never works of course. You can still see these shits on the train, even if it's just out of the corner of your eye, and you can still smell them. People normally smell bad.

I was very much enjoying the game and the podcast (if you don't subscribe to The Trap Sodcast then you are an awful twat, if you don't subscribe to The Trap Sodcast but subscribe to Sick & Wrong then you are a stupid cunt. Those are the rules) but soon someone's smell would ruin everything. If there's one thing I hate (and there isn't) it's the smell of nail varnish. It's sharp and petrolly and just fills your head with a nauseous funk. People who regularly use nail varnish know this. They must do. But that doesn't stop the pig ignorant fuckwits from painting their nails on trains and sharing their stench with us.

As always, I sat patiently ignoring what was going on. I'm sure she hasn't realised what she's doing and she'll finish soon. It's no big deal anyway.

Oh, no. Hang on. That didn't happen. No. I sat there boiling my blood in fiery fury figuring out how to drag her heart out of her right eye socket without any of the other passengers seeing me murdering her.

The thoughtless bastard then took a break from her nails to hold the little bottle of varnish out of the way of her nose and closer to mine. Thanks, cunt. It was then that I discovered it wasn't nail varnish but nail varnish remover. Did she really need to remove her old, chipped nail varnish right now? She couldn't wait until, I don't know, she got fucking home? I then noticed a man opposite me looking at the thoughtless woman beside me. He looked disgusted. I'm glad it's not just me that finds that smell horrible. It is horrible. It was time to do something. If I speak to her it will be my fourth fight with a stranger in about two weeks. My luck is running out. I'm getting closer and closer to being stabbed all the time.'s still the RIGHT thing to do. She is rude. It should be pointed out and I can do that in a mature, rational and reasonable way.

I thought for a second and rehearsed my opening gambit to her. "Excuse me. Would you mind very much not using your nail varnish remover just now, please? The smells a bit strong. That OK?". She would realise her error, apologise and smile. After she put the lid back on her little bottle I would smile back to show that no harm was done and all was well. We are adults after all. Yes, that's exactly how it would pan out. I turned to her and almost started my opening gambit.

It was then that I saw that she wasn't removing her nail varnish with nail varnish remover. She was sniffing nail varnish remover. My opening gambit changed.

"What are you doing?", I said. Terrified.

"Fuck off" was the reply.

Ah, the old fuck off, is it? Yes, well, it's certainly got me out of a scrape or two myself, you know. No matter. I'll try again.

"Sorry but do you have to do that here?", I pathetically reasoned.

"It's none of your business"

That's not strictly true, of course. If someone's smell is making you feel like puking up your blood then it is definitely YOUR business. But....well...I was scared now. I didn't really know what to do. She's fine sniffing something that can surely only get you a little bit high while on a train full of people watching. What morals can I give her that will make her see that she's overstepped a mark in society? Oh, yes, I can have a go at kids, cripples and loud people generally on trains, but someone who just doesn't give a fuck? That's tough.

I once asked a woman to stop smoking while on the DLR about four years ago. No-one else spoke to her or pointed out how rude she had been so again it was my job (you fucking cowards) and when I pointed out that the DLR is a non-smoking train she just stared at me and continued to smoke. When the train came to her stop she stood at the door right beside me, blew smoke in my face and got off. I quickly pulled out my foot, she tripped and landed flat on her face. People, cowardly people, on the train laughed. I realise that I had just assaulted a woman but what I felt most horrible about was the fact that people just don't give a fuck about what is going on around them and rely on other people to sort it out. You don't smoke on trains but someone is. Well, I'm not going to say anything, it's none of my business. Then we all sit there and do fuck all. We end up not giving a fuck about people who don't give a fuck.

Makes you happy to be alive, eh?

I looked over at the man opposite me and he gave me a "Whattaya gonna do?" look. I'm doing nothing. No-one else seems to care and she was beyond giving a fuck about herself. Back to Monopoly and The Trap and pretending there's no bad smell on the train.

She got up to leave at the same time the man opposite me did. They were standing together at the doors waiting for the train to stop. Surely he would say something. He saw what she was doing, it obviously upset him, he'll say something. Someone who GIVES A FUCK will say something, right?

He did.

He said that her boots were amazing. They even started laughing together. I switched off my iPod to check what was going on but by this time they had stepped off the train. All I heard was him saying "I'm going to a bar near here...."

He's right, of course. If you have a complaint with someone's behaviour on a train, telling them that will almost certainly get you nowhere. But you can at least try to fuck them.

I hope we've all learned something from this.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Bag of Shit.

Fucking hell. How depressing is a trip to HMV these days? A new HMV has just opened in Lewisham (it will close soon) and not only does it refuse to stock the 2-disc version of Star Trek, just like every other shop, but it lines up people that I vaguely know to point and laugh at me. There are thousands of stand-up comedian's DVDs on display this year and with each one I am reminded of the direction of my career. Rhod Gilbert, Jason Manford, Stephen K. Amos, Ed Byrne, Russell Howard, Jimmy Carr, Michael McIntyre, Jimbo....and LOADS more all have DVDs on the shelves each one with their faces laughing at me and a sticker on the cover saying "Fuck You, Legge. Talentless Cunt!" or "Everyone Loves DVDs" or something. To be honest, I was too upset to read the sticker. Obviously, it's great to think that these very funny people have their hard work available for punters to buy. They deserve it and they've earned every penny. But did they even think once about me when they wrote their jokes, honed them, grafted away at their careers and made it big? Yes. I am a warning to all. Take heed.

What have I really done that can compete with professional success? Well, what about emotional, real, HUMAN success? Yesterday I made two new friends.

Twenty minutes later, our friendship was over. Normal service resumed.

When you walk a dog there are several things that you need to take with you. First, a dog. A dog walk without a dog is just a walk. That's all it is. Second, dog treats. This will help your dog not just fuck off and never come back when you let it off the lead. Thirdly, poo bags. Your dog will want to excrete faeces when it goes out. It doesn't even begin to fathom how that is frowned upon when a human does it and it cares not how or even if the poo is disposed of properly. That is totally up to you.

Now, some dog owners will let their dog poo and then not pick it up with a poo bag and put it in the bin. These dog owners are fucking wankers. They also own Staffordshire Bull Terriers. The fucking wanker of the dog world. I don't own a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and I dispose of my dog's poo properly. That's why I ALWAYS bring poo bags with me.

Well, nearly always.

In my house, I have a bag bag. It's a bag that I put bags in. I know what a bag looks like and when I have a bag that I don't really need it ends up in the bag bag. "Hello", I often say to myself. "That looks exactly like a bag. Yes. Yes, it is a bag. Well, now that I've identified it I can happily put it in the bag bag. That's where I keep bags".

Some people don't actually know what a bag looks like and I am married to one of those people.

Muki thinks that anything that once contained something but no longer does is an empty bag. That's really not always the case. Sometimes, it's a sandwich box, cling film or a net that once held onions. All of which I have found in the bag bag.

Don't get me wrong. There are grey areas (Christ, are you STILL reading this?) to this rule. A bag that once had a loaf of bread in it is still a plastic bag. I can accept that. You can put your hand in a bread bag and lift up poo with it so that is totally accepted into the bag bag. As are the plastic bags that dog treats come in. Finished the dog treats? Fine, we can use the packaging for when the dog treats come out again. That's in the dog bag. Pretty much anything that is a bag is allowed in. Although I will be stricter with this from now on.

I walked into the park yesterday and was immediately greeted by a woman who thought Jerk was lovely. She was right. I liked her. She had good taste in dogs. She was even walking one. It was a Labradoodle and Jerk didn't seem to hate it. This was all going lovely. I was having a nice chat with a very friendly lady and our dogs were playing together. Isn't that nice? We started walking round the park smiling at the fun our dogs were having.

Jerk celebrated with a poo.

It was then I realised that I had come out without poo bags. This is very embarrassing in the dog community. If you don't pick up your dogs poo then you are scum or a Staffordshire Bull Terrier owner (in which case, you're scum no matter what you do). Luckily, my new friend had a poo bag with her. "Don't worry", she said. "You can have my last poo bag". How lovely. Take that, Rolo!

I walked over to the poo and picked it up. It was then that I remembered I did have a poo bag in my pocket. I had taken three from the bag bag the day before and only used two. There was still one left. I told my new best friend in the whole world that I just remembered about my poo bag. "Yeah", she said. "I thought you had one. I could see it sticking out your back pocket".

She just smiled about it because giving a poo bag over to another dog owner isn't a big deal. It's a pleasure. That's just how we are. We're fucking lovely.

Then a man approached. He had a yappy terrier. He was my new friend's boyfriend.

Jerk hated his dog (so did I) but I liked him. He seemed overly cheery and they seemed a nice couple. After two minutes, his annoying dog had a poo. He hadn't brought a poo bag with him either and asked his girlfriend if she had a spare one.

"No. But he has".

She had gallantly gave me a poo bag when I desperately needed it. The least I could do was offer mine to him.

Except, I didn't want to.

He stood there smiling and waiting for me to offer my bag. It was only a few seconds but enough to make it uncomfortable. "I don't have a bag", I said. "I had to ask you for one. Remember?"

"Yes", she said. "But then you remembered you had one in your pocket."

"Yeah. But it's not really a bag. Just a bit of plastic, really".

"That's ok", he said. "I'll take it".

He held his smile and his hand out. I was still not offering the bag. This was now just awkward.

"It's very small", I said.

"That's OK. My dog's only small. I can't just leave it's shit here".

Even though I disapproved of his vulgar language, he was totally right. It's against the dog walkers code. Poo MUST be picked up and therefore I MUST give him my "poo bag". I passed him the small blue bag and prepared myself for ridicule.

It was one of Muki's offerings from the bag bag. It wasn't a bread bag, it wasn't a sandwich box or an onion net. Those I could have handled. This was a bag that once contained 10 sanitary towels.

The man laughed a lot while trying to get his big, fat hand into the tiny bag to lift up poo. He laughed a lot. This made me laugh. I mean, what's so embarrassing about that anyway? NOTHING. That doesn't stop me, at 41 years of age, to be confused, embarrassed and giggly about periods. I'm actually pointing and laughing at the last word I wrote right now. I should be ashamed of myself for not being more mature and I was. Luckily, these two folks saw the funny side and were mature enough for all three of us. That was until the man did the "Ducky" limp-wristed hand gesture and said in a very camp voice "Is that what you and your boyfriend always use?"


"Just because I have sanitary towels doesn't mean I'm a gay man", I said while looking at him in a I-wish-you-would-fuck-off way.

"No", he retorted. "It doesn't mean you're a straight man either".

Him and his girlfriend laughed really loudly.

"You're right", I argued (slightly angrily, if truth be told). "It means, I'm a woman. I'm a woman".

There was a very slight silence (only an hour or so) when my new best friend said to her boyfriend "We should probably get straight back, then, yeah?". He agreed. They said their goodbyes and left quite briskly.

Don't know If I'll see them again. I doubt it. Just wish that the last thing I said to them hadn't been "I'm a woman. I'm a woman".

Don't have time for the awful woman with nail polish on the tube story. That's tomorrow sorted. Bye bye!

Tuesday, 24 November 2009


I've been in horrible sticky situations on stage before. It's hard to avoid when you have my "material". On Saturday night I was comparing another lovely gig at Covent Garden Comedy club and generally having a lovely time doing so. Well, for about five minutes anyway. That's when Stephen started shouting.

Stephen was a man in his 60's (I'd say). He was a bit drunk (I'd say) and very Australian (I'd bet my life on it). He also wanted to join in.

He kept shouting out the most stereotypical Australianisms that no actual Australian has ever actually said in real life ever. "Fair dinkum" followed "Struth", "Too bladdy roight" and "Bladdy bladdy bladdy" in quick succession. He also kept saying "Mate" a lot in the hope of getting my attention. This was starting to distract the front few rows from my mind-changing comedy truths so I had no choice but to involve him. That would be OK. It would only be a minute, he'd have his moment of glory and then he can shut the fuck up.

I hoped.

I chatted with Stephen and his hopeless Australianisms for a minute and got nowhere. He pointed out that he was with his sister, not his wife like I had presumed. "No, she's not my wife", he confirmed. Fair enough. Anyway, he's had his moment. Time to move on. Time to start the show. Time for LAUGHTER!

"No. My wife died two months ago".

Ah, balls.

You could have heard a pube thud to the ground. The audience didn't no how to react and I certainly didn't know what to do. Jacksons Lane Comedy Courses neglected to instruct us on drunk and grieving widowers.

"We were together 36 years", he elaborated as the sound of silence solidified our heads. "Would have been 37 next month".

I had to do something. The gig was dead. DEAD. You know? Like Stephen's gig wrecking wife. I'm a professional so luckily I can be relied upon to grab something out of the comedy bag and turn everything around. I took a deep breath and said....

"I'm a cunt".

Strangely, this seemed to do the trick. I had done nothing but I took the blame which made us all feel a bit better and the room heaved a very relieved laugh. No-one can say that the word cunt is offensive now, surely? Look at the good it's done. A gig was dead and I Jesused it with "cunt". Fuck you, Rumpio. The word cunt is not just for the immature. It's for the needy and the grieving too. I love cunt!

Of course, that's nothing to be proud of. I'm aware of that. Saying cunt isn't clever even if it does save an entire night of comedy from turning into a wake. I'm not proud of it in the slightest. But I am proud of something.

The previous night at the same gig I was doing a routine about a noisy vagina. It went down very well. I was very pleased with myself. Smug even. Then when I introduced the next act and stood at the back of the room to watch I noticed that the sound in the venue wasn't as good as it had been earlier. The sound guy was running around trying to figure out what had happened. The gig was still playable, just not as clear as it had been.

When I arrived on the Saturday night the PA system was still a bit knackered but at least they had figured out what had happened. A fuse had blown in one of the speakers (BOSE speakers, don't you know. Very good speakers). It had blown because of the noise I had been making during my noisy vagina routine. I had broken technology with my noisy vagina. How many of us can say that? Men, I mean...

I don't know if it was strictly true that it had broken because of my noisy vagina but I am definitely taking all responsibility. If I achieve nothing more in life (and I won't) I will at least have that story to tell my grandchildren in my dotage.

Saturday, 21 November 2009

Give Over.

Saving the world is never going to be easy. It's tough. You have to suffer through a lot if you want to see proper change taking place on this unfeeling and unfair planet. I suffered through about an hour and 20 minutes of trying to do the right thing but I will never do it again. Children In Need should be shot.

Look, I understand that the cause is good but it also highlights the problem too clearly and yet somehow ignores it at the same time. Maybe there wouldn't be these problems of neglect, abuse and underfunded children's hospices (in a time when we have to financially aid incompetent bankers and moat loving politicians) if more was made of that there dignity thing. I dunno, maybe if we just thought a bit more about how we would wish to be perceived then maybe we'd think more about other people, eh? I mean, if we didn't think about other people and how they are cared for then we'd look like pricks. Obviously, this hasn't occurred to the incompetent bankers and moat loving politicians and as a result we, the ordinary people, have to put our hands in our pockets and help. It is because of this that Children In Need MUST exist. And it is because of this that John Barrowman MUST die.

We are all used to newsreaders learning a dance routine or Lesley Joseph wearing a slit dress while singing Hey Big Spender to a young, disinterested homosexual but over the last few years we have been thrown the excrement of John Barrowman as a way of persuading us to help the disadvantaged. Children who live in squalor and fear. Children who live in despair. Children who have no telly. The jammy bastards.

John Barrowman just appears like the alcoholic that doesn't know he has a problem while we watch with incredible pity and thinking he needs our help more than the kids do. Except he's not reliant on booze to get him through his every waking moment. He is simply addicted to himself. Thank fuck that Children In Need had a 5 minute Doctor Who clip and Terry Wogan, brilliantly grumping his way through everything. Every time Blonde 12 or Woman From Strictly spoke he just rolled his eyes and begged for a sniper. It is hard not to love him. THAT is what charity work should be. You do it because you feel you have to not because you're going to enjoy it. Sir Terry should definitely be knighted. Again.

But Barrowman is a different thing altogether. It's not about charity work, it's about embarrassing yourself, your family, everyone you know and everyone else. I'm sure there are community projects that are receiving money from Children In Need right now and feeling dirty about it. They will try to put the money to good use but will they ever rid their minds of this:

Before Children In Need I had the good fortune to be compering the Covent Garden Comedy Club which is in Heaven, the very nightclub that the smelly religious man on the train said that gays would never get into. I'm sure there were a few in though and it was a great night. Lots of fun. After the gig I met Ian who works at the gig. He is a very nice man who made me laugh a lot. Not sure he meant to but he did. Allow me to quote him: "Out of the two jobs I've ever had, McDonalds and here, this is my favourite".

By the way, I DID donate to CIN but it wasn't because I watched John Barrowman do his dance thingy. It really wasn't, OK? I donated because I didn't see Peter Kay. Now that's worth investing in.

Friday, 20 November 2009

Dogs of War.

The drunks of Lewisham just get classier. Although I haven't seen Nick the Homeless Man ever since he threw a can at my head and then asked me to join him and his friends for a drink, the park near my house is still full of interesting characters. You know. Arseholes. That sort of thing.

I walked Jerk this morning and passed a group of gentlemen who were sheltering from the rain by standing under a tree while drinking heavily and winding up their fucking horrible looking Staffordshire Bull Terrier (By the way, if you have a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, get it neutered. There are way too many of them and they always end up being raised by fuckers. The same rule applies if you have children). The jolly bunch wanted nothing more than to exchange some gay banter with me. One of them welcomed me to their inner circle with "Fucking hell, do you fucking race your whippet, mate? I'm not be fucking funny or anything".

I don't think swearing is ever called for but surely the phrase "I'm not being funny" is even more pointless. I don't think that anyone who has tattooed himself a billion times, drinks aggressively at 10am and shouts at dogs is the kind of cheeky josher that will end up on Dave anytime soon. Apart from Mock The Week. He was terrifying. I knew he wasn't being fucking funny or anything.

Stupidly, I pointed out that Jerk isn't a whippet. That may seem like an important point to make in a conversation such as this but I can't help but think that I would have been happier simply walking away and not saying a word. Then the gents all talked about times they spent at Catford and Walthamstow's dog tracks...sorry, Catford fucking and Walthamstow's fucking dog tracks with what I assumed was some authority. They were convinced they had seen Jerk race a few years ago. She hadn't. Jerk is too lazy to lead a double-life and besides she's too small to race against greyhounds.

She's not too small, the booze buffs argued. They've all seen much smaller greyhounds race at the track. The haven't, of course, but they said they have. I realised that I was in hell and decided I'd bid them all a farewell. They wished me a fucking good fucking day but wanted their fucking dog to fucking say fucking hello to fucking Jerk (which, I was informed, "is a fucking stupid name for a whippet"). This is where things always get awkward.

Jerk is very much the dog equivalent to me. She is beautiful, fit, healthy and hates all of her own species. The Staffy sniffed Jerk's bum for a while. Jerk gave it 10 seconds then gave her warning growl. That warning growl is simply like us saying "Stand back, please. You're too close". The staffy did not heed the warning so Jerk barked aggressively. Which made the cunty dog bark aggressively. Which made the cunty drunks shout aggressively.

They thought winding their own dog up further would make it want to attack Jerk and what could be more fun than two dogs fighting to the death? What they didn't reckon on was, although Jerk is lovely to look out and outwardly very sweet, there is a fucking blood-thirsty killing machine within that really doesn't need an excuse to come out. The men shouted and screamed at their dog to "fucking get it" and eventually Jerk just lashed out and bit it's stupid stump of a tail. The coward ran.

"Well", said the main dickhead. "That didn't fucking come to much".

As I walked away I heard him telling the dog off. Not for being aggressive but for not attacking. What a horrible bastard.

We walked right round the park. That normally takes an hour and the rain was still pouring down so I certainly didn't expect to see the drunks still under the tree when I came back but there they were. Luckily I was on the other side of the park and could only see them from a distance but they made their presence known. "Fuck off, poodle", I heard.

I looked over to see a man walking his poodle very briskly past them.

These depressing shits can't ruin my good mood though. I'm still happy with the LQC shows this week and yesterday I received an invitation from Stackridge to see them play in Bath. Don't think I can go but I will do everything I can to try and make it happen. Stackridge RULE!

Thursday, 19 November 2009

Los Quattros Cvnts!

What a lot of fun the last couple of days have been. Los Quattros Cvnts made their debut at The Phoenix on Tuesday and Wednesday and I'm pretty content to consider it a flawed victory. On both nights we were lucky enough to attract really lovely, supportive audiences (although some of them found Paul's drool disgusting) who made it a much less stressful time for all four of us. Thanks for that. Every sketch got laughs (not every joke, obviously), it was enjoyably all over the place and our guests were superb. Very big thanks to Andrew Collins and Jason Manford and a little bit more thanks to Rich Fulcher who did the show on his birthday when he could have easily gone out and done something better. Except he couldn't have because it was brilliant. Hopefully we should be back from January to start our monthly residency.

More thanks goes to everyone who came to watch. We had a very respectable audience on Tuesday and it was a few from Sold Out last night. Particular cheers to a few Precious Little podophiles and others who made it to both nights. I particularly liked how big a laugh the punchiline "Robin Ince" got on the second night. He would be so happy to know that, although we were taking the piss out of him, so many people recognise him as an angry, Godless household name.

I meant to write about this in my last blog. I have a problem with sport fans. I may have mentioned that a few million times before but I think it demands repeating. Apparently telling a sport fan that you don't like sport isn't enough. They will continue to spout sport tedium at you despite your claim that you have no interest, the look of boredom on your face and your mumbles of "shutupshutupshutupshutup". On Sunday night, in between a LQC rehearsal and shouting at Doctor Who, we decided to go to the pub. Jeremy lives in an area of London where shit pubs are the order of the day. There's two of them. One is really shit while the other is merely shit. Although it's further away we decided to make the effort to go to the shit one. We got our seats and I went to the bar to get the drinks. The barman took my order and asked if I'd watched the match. I told him, very politely and in a friendly way, that I'm not a sport fan. "Really?", he said. "It was close though, wasn't it?"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"The thing is that means we still have another to go through before qualify", he bored.

"Right", I coma'd.

"France....blah blah blah....very strong first half...blah blah blah...we should have won...blah blah blah...they came from nowhere in the second half...blah blah blah....Know what I mean?"


"If we'd have had the original squad...blah blah blah...the game was ours...blah blah cousin was there...blah blah blah...couldn't touch the ball"

He had only poured one pint so far. This was taking ages and he couldn't shut up. I looked at my phone about five times. I folded my arms and sighed. I looked away. I repeated "I don't watch it" over and over again yet NOTHING could stop this boring wanker from killing me with words I don't know.

At one point, He asked me if I knew who should have played in the team and I could kick myself for not saying "Ray Reardon" just to see what he would say. He finally poured the last pint and when he handed me the change he cheerily said "Still, the next one should be interesting if they sort themselves out". Because I hadn't been listening I allowed myself to imagine that he was talking about Sex And The City: The Movie and that nearly cheered me up. But only nearly.

I sat down with Dan, Paul and Jeremy and screamed about how frustrating the last five minutes had been. They looked at me like I was a pathetic mess. I was asked if I ever have an uneventful day where I don't want to kill. That really made me laugh. For a second.

It is a treat working with these fine gentlemen and I look forward to starting up again in January. The feedback for the shows has been great (despite people leaving during Paul's drool bit). Twitter was full of LQC fun when I looked this morning. I was particularly happy that Peter Serafinowicz had responded positively to being mentioned in our Twitter Play sketch last night. Someone had gone on Twitter and tweeted about it while it was happening. We heard about his reply during the interval. That's how quick this big fast modern world works these-a-days. So, thanks for that Twitter people. I'm even happy to say that I have annoyed someone on Twitter. Someone felt that they needed to write "enough with the C-word. Jesus, some of us got over that at 15". His name is Rumpio. Yeah, that's how mature he is. His Twitter welcome message is "I wear my sunglasses at night, so i can, so i can watch you weave then breathe your story lines". I mean, why wouldn't I take his advice? The cunt.

Monday, 16 November 2009

Blind, Stupid and Pointless.

I thought I was actually going to be able to beat the Girl in a wheelchair story yesterday as I stood at Kings Cross train station watching a blind woman loudly dumping her boyfriend. It was a pretty unusual sight. She stood there with a very deadpan looking dog beside her shouting "You're fucking useless, you are. If I ask you to do something you just can't do it. If I want something done then I have to do it myself. I've had enough. I want you out. Out!" at her very sad looking boyfriend.

I was in a hurry otherwise I would have watched it for a bit longer or at least written "Just walk away" on a piece of paper and passed it to him.

No time for that though, I was on my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little podcast 9 or 10. I'm not sure what number it is as I'm not sure that I count last week's pathetic Skype attempt as an actual podcast. I really enjoyed 9 or 10 though. In fact, I was brought to uncontrollable laughter because of a listener's letter telling us about his band. Laughter that lasted a long time but the listener had the last laugh for sure. James read out the letter and I asked him what the name of the guy's band was. It was a rock band. If you're in a rock band you need a cool name. I mean, there's nothing really cooler than being in a rock band so it stands to reason that the band name should reflect that.

The band was called Stackridge.

I still don't really know why I found that quite as funny as I did but I completely lost it for about a minute. I think it might be the worst name for a band that I have ever heard. That in itself is quite an achievement.

But then James and I looked up and it turns out that the band have been going since the 70's and have a huge following. They are famous and, like the £2 coin, I have never heard of them. Not only that, they're good.

Well, that shut me up. I'm now the proud owner of two Stackridge albums. I went on iTunes and bought Stackridge (1971) and A Victory For Common Sense (2009) and am thoroughly enjoying both albums. Thanks very much to Fatty Fudge for bringing them to my attention and apologies for laughing at how stupid your band's name is.

After the podcast (which features the phrase Bum Pussy quite heavily), I was off to Streatham for Los Quattros Cvnts rehearsals. Not sure quite what we rehearsed but it all seems to be pretty together now. Or as together as it'll ever be. I'm really looking forward to these two shows and urge you to come along. They'll be fun. Obviously, rehearsals took a break for Doctor Who. My God that started badly. "Gadget Gadget"? Fuck off. Not that I'm complaining because the second half really made up for it. Very little family entertainment shows end in suicide. Well done.

A weird thing happened to me on Saturday night. I was booked at the Monkey Business Comedy Club at O'Reilly's in Kentish Town. I went along slightly dreading it because I used to drink in O'Reilly's about 10 years ago and it was a violent hole of a place. When I got there I saw no trace of a comedy club. There is no comedy club here anymore. Brilliant.

I contacted my agent who told me the gig was at Red, a bar further up Kentish Town Road. I walked to the gig and when I got there it looked....well....closed. It was closed. The comedy club only opens on a Thursday night. Brilliant.

Called my agent again and was told that the REAL address of the gig I'm doing is at The Steele, another bar I used to drink in, in Belzise Park. I jumped in a cab and sped my way to the gig. It WAS the right venue. BUT....the promoter had booked about six acts too many. I took a look around and said to him "Do you really need me?"

"Not really", he said.

So I fucked off. Pointless story and a complete waste of time. Still now you know how I felt on Saturday night. Not that it was a complete waste of time really, I saw Nick Helm who is rapidly becoming one of my favourite acts to watch and I met Steve Weiner who is a very nice man, a great act and, although not on a par with Stackridge, has a funny name. I then went off to an 80's charity night where I got in for free and drank free booze all night. I think I might have been the charity. Muki was doing an excellent job as DJ and like all nights where Muki invites me out I got completely pissed too quickly and ruined it for her. That is the last time I am EVER going to do that. How I've got away with it so many times is beyond me. I decided at about midnight that it was time to go home, even though Muki didn't want to, ordered a cab and fell asleep in it all the way home. Classy. Sorry, Muki. I'm a fucking idiot.

Anyway, if you like fucking idiots why not come along to Los Quattros Cvnts tomorrow and Wednesday night? Tomorrow we have Jason Manford and Andrew Collins as guests while on Wednesday we have Rich Fulcher. The shows start at 8pm at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, just off Oxford Street and admission is just £6. It will be the event of the year.

Saturday, 14 November 2009

Wheely Awful.

I don't want to keep going on about this but I'm just so touched by the gesture that I'm not quite over it yet. My (tiny) illness is pretty much all gone now and I can't help but put it down to the nice things people do for you when you're ill. I mentioned Nobby in the last blog but I'm going to thank him again. It was just so nice to hear that audience shout "Get well soon" and it has given me a huge buzz ever since. Not only that it has shown me that there is more to Nobby that starting fights with people who have Leukaemia. He has such a tough geezer image but he's actually a very caring and thoughtful man. It was a lovely thing to do and I'm deeply touched.

Now the bad stuff....

I would never start a fight with a woman who has leukaemia, unlike some people, but apparently I can start fights with the disabled and the elderly. Great.

You be the judge, OK? YOU BE THE JUDGE. Have I done anything wrong? You tell me (better yet, keep it to yourself). I was happily on my way to the Los Quattros Cvnts rehearsal and waiting on the platform at Ladywell station was, for once, a pleasure. I knew that I was on my way to have fun working with the funniest people I know so standing on this grey, rainy platform was just a tiny blip on what would be an otherwise lovely day. The train pulled up and the doors opened and my shit day screamed Hello at me.

A girl, somewhere in her late teens, was sat in her wheelchair right at the door. She was sideways to the door. Not facing it or with her back to it so people could walk past her easily but sideways on. It was embarrassing as I basically had to step over her. Not my happiest moment and I'm pretty sure she didn't get anything out of it either.

Because of this really awkward moment, I hadn't noticed that she was listening to very loud music on her Mp3 player. No earphones, just letting it blast so that we can all enjoy her shitty, shitty taste in noise. I sat quite near her and looked around to see if anyone else looked like they were upset by the music. They didn't seem to be but then they never do. People are too scared to simply ask someone to turn their music off but I am not. Well, normally I'm not. This time I was. I'd never asked a girl in a wheelchair to turn her music off before and I realised that as soon as I would do it everyone in the world would hate me. She could be a Gulf hero, for fuck's sake. Someone who has fought for our freedom to upset everyone on a train. If she doesn't play Cheryl Cole loudly on the Hayes line to Charing Cross then the terrorists have won, etc. I really thought about it for a while. I mean, so what if she's in a wheelchair. She's a human being who is obviously in full control of her mentality (Cheryl Cole not withstanding), I should be able to ask her for some courtesy in the same way that I would to anyone else.

I checked with people on Twitter just in case.

Turns out that people on Twitter are fucking idiots because they all suggested that I just ask her to switch her music off, the fucking 140 character cunts. I turned to the young lady and said "Excuse me, would you mind switching your music off, please? It's a bit distracting. Thank you".

She screwed up her face and said "No". I was fucked really, wasn't I?

"It's just that this is a public place and I don't want to listen to your music so can you please turn it off?", I reasoned behind fury.

"I'm not switching it off".

"I'm pretty sure no-one on the train wants to hear your music. It's very inconsiderate".

That's when a man, who could beat me up, stood up and put his face very close to mine and said "Leave her alone".

I was confused more than worried. Who the fuck could defend someone playing loud music on a train? Wheelchair or no wheelchair? Who the fuck is this gut? Her care assistant?

"I'm just asking her to switch her music off. I'm not being rude", I said.

"Just leave her alone", he replied. "I'm her care assistant".

I was right. He was still very close to me when I tried reasoning directly with her again. He wasn't having it.

"Can you leave her alone now?", he said, very firmly.

I thought long and hard about my reply before stupidly saying "No, I can't". That got me nowhere. We talked in circles for a while and I just gave up and sat back in my seat. The girl in the wheelchair gave me a smile that sarcastically suggested she had won.

She had not won. Not yet anyway.

I took the earphones out of my iPod and played it loudly for all to hear. I even held it in my hand in the girl in the wheelchair's direction so she could get the full benefit. That's when other people in the carriage decided to hate me.

Some people shouted at me to turn my iPod off. "Annoying, isn't it?", I said to the girl in the wheelchair. A man told me that I was embarrassing myself (true but by now I was beyond caring) and others were giving me advice from "Wise up" to "Grow up". Advice I've heard a billion times and it still hasn't sunk in. I argued back that I thought the girl in the wheelchair should also turn her music off and was met with various leave-her-alone's. The totally pathetic part was that while she was listening to loud music I was listening to a podcast on a tinny speaker that you could barely hear but it was enough to upset these people on the train. It was the Collings & Herrin Podcast, to be precise and while I was being shouted at it was a tiny victory to heard Andrew Collins plug the Los Quattros Cvnts gig at the same time. Maybe, just maybe, they'll all come along to the shows next week.

I sheepishly, and pathetically, switched my iPod off and looked out the window, defeated. This whole thing lasted no more than two minutes but it was enough to upset me for the rest of the day even though it was basically my fault. I didn't start it or finish it. I just did the upsetting middle bit. As I got off the train, the girl in the wheelchair gave me another sarcastic smile as I climbed over her. Fucker. Why couldn't she benevolent and just like Ironside instead of evil and annoying like Davros?

I left the train station hating all ramps.

The bad stuff was far from over though. I got off the tube at Brixton and before getting the bus to Streatham I thought I'd pop into WH Smith. I grabbed a magazine and got in the queue. I knew I was in the queue because I know what a queue looks like. It was a line of people and I joined it at the end. Some other people then started queuing behind me. I was in the queue. I had been in the queue for a minute now, I reckon.

That's when a very old woman appeared.

"You took my place. Move over", she charmed.

"Excuse me?", I said.

"I was in here. You took my place"

This would normally never be a problem but she was rude. I'd already lost to a cripple, I'm fucked if the nearly-dead are going to beat me.

"Do you mean, 'Excuse me, please, but would you mind letting me in in front of you? I had been in the queue before but stepped away to get something. Sorry for the inconvenience.'?"

"This is my place".

I ignored her. That was stupid because she then started pushing me. Brilliant. I was going to have to fight an old woman. Dignity? Never heard of it....

"Look, this is my place. It isn't a very long queue. If you'd been nice about it I'd have let you in but you were rude. I'm sorry but I'm not letting you in."

A man in front turned and said "I've been in the queue 5 minutes. She wasn't there before". This was good news but I really didn't need another community of rage today. She got angry.

"I am 92. You should have some respect. You will be 92 one day", she grumped. "You should know better".

Well, considering I'm 41, queuing up to buy Doctor Who Magazine and have just started a fight with a crippled child I think it's fair to never ever consider what I should know. She walked to the back of the queue and continually said the word Bastard. Yeah, I'm a pillar of the community.

I finally got to Jeremy's house and we recorded a special Los Quattros Cvnts Sodcast to be put up as part of The Trap's Sodcast ( or iTunes) and later as a one-off Precious Little Podcast ( or iTunes) as well as working on the sketches. I'm really looking forward to these shows. They're going to be great. Just in case you've forgotten they're at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London on the 17th & 18th at 8pm. It costs just £6 to get in and it's a bargain because not only are we on but on the 17th we have Andrew Collins and Jason Manford and on the 18th we have Rich Fulcher. Don't miss these shows. You'd be a fool. And get there early because we want you to get in.

Friday, 13 November 2009

Save Michael.

I'm feeling a lot better now. And that's bad. As much as I don't like being ill, what goes along with being ill is fantastic. Pity rocks!

Once again I had to cancel a gig yesterday. It's the third in a row this week. That part I don't like. Along with the snot and sweat and basically shuffling around in a pathetic way isn't much fun either but it is nice to look on Twitter and find messages from people wishing me good health. That's very nice. And on Facebook. And texts too. All wishing me a speedy recovery from what is, basically, nothing. I even got a text from a friend of mine who is still recovering from a car accident. SHE texted ME to see if I was OK. Even worse, that was two days ago and I haven't even replied to thank her for her concern. God, I'm a tool. The thing is, I love the attention when I'm ill but I'm very aware that I don't deserve it. I'm like Ferris Bueller and his sister all rolled into one. When Nobby phoned me last night and got the audience at the gig I just pulled to shout "Get Well Soon" I felt like a big faker. Albeit a big, smug, happy faker.

The good thing is that I've had more time to spend on Los Quattros Cvnts and shouting at the television. Mainly, shouting at the television. The show is coming along nicely and I'm very happy to say that we are only using two things from our Real Daniel O'Donnell Show days. One because it sets up another new sketch plus another that is BY FAR our least popular sketch ever. When we performed it over a year ago at RDOD it got nothing. Not a single laugh. That was all the inspiration we needed to do it again.

There is some bad news and some good news about the first Los Quattros Cvnts show on the 17th. Richard Herring can't make it as he's on Never Mind The Buzzcocks now, which I think is a fair enough excuse (I wouldn't have stood for it if it was Mock The Week) and so we had to find a replacement. But who could replace him? Someone that Richard would see as his equal, someone he respects, someone he admires even. Easy. His wife. So, Andrew Collins will now be joining us that night, I'm very happy to say. But that's not all! We also have more stand-up comedy from the fantastic......well, we're not allowed to say who yet. It's a secret.

These gigs are going to be a lot of fun and I'm looking forward to a day of writing and rehearsing today. To be honest, I'm just looking forward to leaving the house. Join us at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London on the 17th and 18th at 8pm. Tickets are available ONLY on the door so get there early. More details to come.

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Sick Note.

It's crap being ill. No energy to do anything and everything is annoying or hard to do. I've been trying my best to pretend there's nothing wrong but the amount of ooze dripping out my nose or hacking up in my throat makes a good argument.

Work is starting to go smoothly (sort of) on Los Quattros Cvnts. We're 6 days away from the show and we have about half the sketches done plus another billion ideas, most of which revolve around kicking a talking cake to death. That's entertainment in my book. Still got lots of work to do and that'll probably take up all my time until Tuesday. Make sure you come along. It's at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London and you can buy tickets on the door (no booking, I'm afraid) on the 17th & 18th of this month. Shows start at 8 but make sure you get there early. We want you to get in OK. Now all we have to do is write it, rehearse it, realise we don't like it, completely re-write it, shit ourselves because it's the day of the show, completely re-write it again and then, finally, completely re-write it. It's going to be hard work the next few days but at least I've got my health.


To be honest, I should be working on the show right now but instead I appear to be sitting in my pants, writing a blog and watching/singing along to the film Chicago. Right. Let's go to work.

Oh, before that.....look at how beautiful this is:

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Come On.



I'm ill. Nothing serious but it's knackering and full of snot. That's why there's no Precious Little podcast this week and it's also why I'm lying on the sofa doing fuck all. Yeah. I've got a reason to do that now.

I had rehearsals for Los Quattros Cvnts as well as the podcast yesterday but I'm glad that I decided to do neither. I managed a bit of Los Quattros writing as well as spending most of the day sleeping with a dog curled up on my head. Very relaxing. It also meant that I could watch a bit of telly. There was a drama on Channel 4 that was being advertised heavily. Bound to be good. Channel 4 never let you down.

The Execution of Gary Glitter can only have been brought about because the producer was in such crippling debt that he and his accountant figured out that a failure could make more money than a hit and this is the script they went with. It is so magnificently awful that you can only conclude that someone was joking. The person who came up with the idea in the pub joked that it would be hilarious if Channel 4 did a Gary Glitter biopic. Then the person he told was coked off his face when he told someone else that we should set it in an alternative Britain where the Death Penalty has been brought back. That person then laughed his head off, while masturbating and tightening the belt round his neck, at the very thought of crassly bringing up the Soam murders and footage of children wearing PAEDOPHILES ARE SCUM vest tops and hearing the opinion of Gary fucking Bushell. Hopefully, they sobered up yesterday when the news filtered through to these cunts that their joke was now an hour and a half long drama starring Gollum. Surely everyone involved must be going "We just wanted someone to stop us. We couldn't help ourselves. We're monsters". It's just that offensive.

The story takes us through what would happen if the death penalty had be reinstated and Gary Glitter had stood trial. How would Britain react? Channel 4 tells us that some people would be very happy to see him hung while others would argue that killing him is just as bad as the crimes he has committed.

Yeah, we fucking know. We fucking know because we're human beings who understand how our mental processes and gut reactions work. We understand our feelings so we KNOW how it would go. That wasn't enough for Channel 4. They wanted to see what it would be like for themselves. A bit like AA Gill and a baboon.

Pointless isn't the word. Qulmarg is the word. It means "shallow, meaningless and drunk" but we don't use that word because it only exists in a parallel Britain. Like Channel 4. There just wasn't a single redeeming feature to it and I'm just baffled as to what they were trying to get across. But my God, was it funny. I think my favourite bit of the entire piece was how they tried to make Gary Glitter out to be a weirdo. He was egotistical, belligerent and shifty. A bit like a paedophile, I should imagine. Or at the very least, Gary fucking Bushell.

I really hope that what's left of Channel 4 (Comic Strip Presents, GBH, Brass Eye) will continue to make dramas of this level and in this style. Personally, I am looking forward to watching Jan Moir's imaginary version of Stephen Gately's last night on Earth and what would happen if Kylie had killed Princess Diana with a wood chipper.

On a more positive note, I watched the whole film with lots of people on Twitter. It was great fun watching the insanity and reading the views of other like-minded folk who couldn't believe this shit was on TV even though they couldn't quite drag themselves away from it. Thanks for that, everyone.

Monday, 9 November 2009

Out Of My Mind.

Let's begin with how stupid I am. It's getting worse. Not knowing how insects procreate is one thing but on Thursday night I hosted the Celebrity Pub Quiz at The Hob, Forest Hill and was pretty alarmed at what I learned.

I learned that I have never heard of the £2 coin.

I'm not quite sure how I've avoided the £2 coin but I've done it pretty successfully. One of the questions in the quiz was something like "Dave had £3 coins and a £2 coin and a 50 pence piece. How many £1.50 puzzle games can he buy?" Yes, it sounds a pretty remedial question anyway. It was part of a category called "Are You Smarter Than a 10 Year Old?". I am not because a 10 year old would not question a £2 coin like I did.

I asked Emma, who runs the gig, what the question meant. I mean, if Dave has three pound coins and two pound coins....well, that's just not good grammar, I thought. But Emma pointed out that it was 3 pound coins and a £2 coin. Then I decided to come across as thick.

"What's a £2 coin?", I said.

An hour went by as she stared at me with a level of pity mainly reserved for a really old animal that needs to be put down. She then showed me a £2 coin. I've never seen one. They must be new.

They're not new. They've been in circulation since 1998. I'm 11 years behind the rest of Britain. Now everywhere I go I see the £2 coin. It's on Train Ticket machines and snack dispensers and peep shows. The whole country has gone £2 crazy!

I MUST have seen a £2 coin before. I MUST have! How can a man avoid a fucking coin? This obviously means that I have a problem keeping memories and there may be something wrong with my brain. That's fine. I'd rather be broken than be thick. I'm bored of being thick. I've been thick for ages. I really hope that one half of my brain has just shut down and I'm slowly dying because I don't think I can take any more of this me being thick thing. It's depressing.

Speaking of depressing, on Friday night I performed, for the first time, in front of Jim Davidson. He was standing at the back of Jongleurs in Glasgow being racist and hating women, I assume, with his bouncer who stands beside him making sure that no-one gets in to Jim Davidson. I'm very wary a big, evil mainstream stands at the back of a gig watching us 41 year old youngsters riffing some political vitriol and changing some minds because they often go to comedy clubs to steal jokes. That is naughty. But Jim didn't write a single thing down during his stay which is even worse. Imagine not being good enough to be nicked by Jim Davidson. Embarrassing.

Luckily, the fucking awful cunt only caught the very end of the show so we didn't feel too bad about walking on stage and risking entertaining Jim Davidson. Plus Mandy Knight was in her last five minutes when he arrived and I doubt there's many of her gags about being fucked up the arse that Jim could use during his many, big-hearted gigs for our troops that he does every fucking day. I was compering so if you ever see Jim Davidson on stage thanking three comedians and then saying goodnight, he got that from me.

The weekend in Glasgow was great. I spent most of my time being all drunk. The few sober moments were spent doing the actual gigs and watching The Awful Balloon of Captain Twat (I honestly can't remember the name of the new Terry Gilliam film) and really enjoyed it. I tried to see Up (which I just know I will loathe) but it was sold out. The Awful Balloon of Captain Twat was the only thing on and I'm really glad I saw it. I'm long past the spectacle of Terry Gilliam's films. I love his imagination but his characters and stories are dull. This film is patchy but very enjoyable. Tom Waits is fantastic. I sat in the freezing cold cinema thinking what a wonderful film it was until 5 minutes from the end when Colin Farrell was on top of Lily Cole and forcing her to the ground. I remembered. I'm supposed to be boycotting this film. Terry Gilliam is one of the many, many Hollywood cunts who signed the petition asking for rapist Roman Polanski's release from prison because he is old and his wife died in the 60's. Good to see I have morals if not a memory.

£2 coins. Rape. It's all the same to me.

Friday, 6 November 2009

Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey.

For all those concerned, Jerk was great yesterday. There were so many fireworks that she stopped hearing them after a while. Of course, she was chillaxing while taking hits from da bong. Well, Rescue Remedy anyway. It's great. It makes dogs very mellow. I thought I'd give it a try myself but the taste made me furious. I'm the same with Radox. The smell just irritates me and I get all cross and I can't relax. Then I light some candles but that just makes things worse because now I'm grumpy and sitting in the smelly dark.

I had a second visit to the doctors in a week yesterday. My feet are being completely childish. They are refusing to accept my blood circulation which means I can't take any salt for a while and have to put my feet up as often as I can. I'm so fine with this. I don't like salt (especially Radox Bath Salt) and I love doing fuck not nothing. Unfortunately, my examination went on a lot longer than I thought and I was late for a voiceover that I was doing in central London. I ran all the way to the train station (which did me no good. It hurt my feet and I look like a twat when I run) and got to the studio two minutes early. I'm so obsessed with being on time that being two minutes early is actually late to me.

When I arrived I was given a script. One of the lines I had to say was "I want a good sports package". This would test my acting ability to it's limits. I sat down with the three other people who were also recording their voices to sell broadband and telly. The first person I met was Elizabeth (I think) who looked like a tiny wee hippy chick but had the voice of a dominatrix. She was nice. The second was Russell Tovey, the actor who plays the werewolf in Being Human. He was also in an episode of Doctor Who. a really shit episode of Doctor Who but it still impressed me. I introduced myself to him with a very uncomplicated "Hello. I'm Michael". "Michael Legge?", he replied.

This made me so happy that my feet cured themselves and I started elevating about three inches off my seat. Russell Tovey, the actor I wanted to be the next Doctor, knows who I am. This is very exciting. He's probably read my blog, right? I mean, who doesn't? Perhaps he's one of the intimate few who subscribe to Precious Little. No. I know what it is. He's seen me on Street-Cred Sudoku four years ago. That show meant a hell of a lot to a hell of a lot. Anyway, he had seen my name on the list at reception when he arrived and he was all excited because he has a friend called Michael Legge who was in Angela's Ashes and is the bane of my fucking life. I deflate easily and as I was crumpling to the ground I was introduced to the third person at our table. Her name was Lucy. Lucy Gaskell. Lucy Gaskell who played the part of Kathy Nightingale in Blink, widely considered to be the best ever episode of Doctor Who (not mine, though I think it's excellent). Fuck Russell and his imposter Michael Legge. Lucy was in a proper Doctor Who, not a children's episode.

FUCKING BRILLIANT! This could only be beaten by Sally Sparrow turning up. Or an angry statue.

The voiceover was tricky. They wanted me to be shouty, friendly, aggressive and happy. I tried to point out that you can't be all four at once but they were having none of it. Every take was greeted with "Can you be lighter next time, Michael?" or "More firm and direct. Punch the words". It wasn't the words I wanted to punch. Luckily, Lucy from BLINK had gone. She had done her work in as many takes as me but at least she looked like it didn't bother her. Elizabeth (I think) did it in two takes. I think her voice was making the guy at the sound desk horny and he couldn't take anymore. Which left just me and Russell. I'm glad Russell asked me to go first because otherwise how would he know that the original Michael Legge is completely incompetent at reading out loud.

He was very nice though.

After Jerk had calmed down last night, I went to host the excellent Celebrity Pub Quiz at The Hob, Forest Hill. At the corner of the bar I saw a man who looked the absolute double of Nicholas Briggs, the man who does the voices of the Daleks and Cybermen in new Doctor Who. I turned to Emma, who runs the gig, and said "Wow. That man is the absolute double of Nicholas Briggs, the man who does the voices of the Daleks and Cybermen in new Doctor Who". Emma made her excuses and walked away.

Thursday, 5 November 2009

Fawkes Off.

I don't like today. November the 5th is always a shit day, especially the last four of them.

It should be good. You should be lighting sparklers and eating toffee apples (although they are vomit inducing) and watching V For Vendetta. That sounds like fun. But then fireworks are involved and that's when the fun ends. God, I hate fireworks.

I've always hated fireworks. Firstly, they play havoc with your memory. Every single fucking tedious year a nearby firework display promises excitement and wonder and every single fucking tedious year I believe them. Stupid Legge. Firework displays are only half-interesting for the first three minutes then you soon catch on as to how repetitive it all is. Yes, yes, yes. Whizzy red, poppy blue then massive sparkly gold. And repeat until it's all over. Oh, and maybe a catherine wheel that you won't be able to see because everyone has brought there entire family to show you how fertile they all are. Very impressive.

But it's the noise that gets me. The noise of both the fireworks and the people watching. How the fuck can you still oooooooh at something you also saw 25 seconds ago? For the 18th time? Plus they go bang. Who can find BANG fun?

Plus they just used to scare me. When I was a kid I talked and talked about going to a firework display so much that my parents, knowing fully well that I would hate it, gave in and took me to one. As soon as we got there I started screaming to be taken home. The noise was terrifying and I got it inside my head that one of the fireworks would land on me and I would go up in flames. I preferred indoor fireworks like The Snake. At least it would only slowly and gently put you to sleep (forever) with it's fumes, it wouldn't melt your eyes to your anorak hood (I really thought that).

And they terrify the crap out of Jerk. She shakes like she's on the top of an old washing machine when a firework goes off. She shat on the living room floor on Monday night. I think I now know what happened.

So, please, if you must let a firework off tonight at least put a sock over it to muffle the noise. As I write about 50 have gone off and Jerk is practically standing on me and vibrating my face. Guy Fawkes would be turning in his grave if he knew what you were doing to Jerk, I imagine.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

The Joy of Joy.

Life is beautiful. Not the fucking shitty existence thing that we have to drag ourselves through every pitiful day until the warm, welcoming embrace of the grave. That's awful. I mean the TV series. It's just incredible. I've been staying in slightly more than I usually would recently and have watched a lot of TV. It goes without saying that animals behaving naturally in their own environment crushes anything stupid comedy writers could ever create. Why can't we just have TV like this instead of continually giving money to programmes that we KNOW are terrible but will commission a second series to anyway?

You never say "How the hell did they do that?" while watching How Not To Live Your Life. Why, maybe, but never How. I love Life so much but of course I can't watch it without getting upset that some cunt with a very large Hi-Definition TV is enjoying it more than me. Or even worse, the cunt isn't watching it. He's watching How Not To Live Your Life in Hi-Definition instead. God, I hate him. He's fictional and a bellend. Look, my point is that Life is beautiful.

And sometimes, only rarely obviously, life is beautiful too. Little moments that just lift you and con you into believing that it's all going to be OK. It's a bastard in the long run but short-term happiness is better than no happiness, I suppose. Like pretending to be Mick Talbot from The Style Council last week. I didn't make that happen but it was joyous to see how happy "I" made someone. Or seeing how big, full and close the moon was last night. That was just incredible. Did you see it? Or getting free tea-bags in the post! (I got post! And some of the post was free tea-bags!) Or when your mate emails you and tells you he's bought you tickets to see Robyn Hitchcock and Graham Coxon.That happened to me just now. Lovely! Or giving a complete stranger your travelcard that you're finished with and they actually thank you instead of looking at you like you are sick. Or finding a fiver. Or finding the heating on when you get home. Or watching Life. Yeah, they missed two wasps fucking (so far) but seeing 40,000 bats in flight is just breathtaking and watching Hyenas getting revenge on Lions is incredible. It's just the best TV show ever.

Anyway, I had a lovely "lovely moment" yesterday. I walked past Anvil. There they were, Lips and Robb Reiner, standing outside a record company office on Wardour Street enjoying a cigarette and laughing and joking and being mates. I'm glad they're mates. They look very happy together.

I walked past them to a pub off Oxford Street where I met The Trap for a very important Los Quattros Cvnts drink meeting. I think it's coming together now. We have about five sketches done and a couple of links. Think we need about five more and we've got a show. I hope. It was a really good meeting. We came up with a new character that actually woke me up with laughter this morning just thinking about it. That's a good sign right?

Anyway, watch Life. It's very good. Oh, and The Thick Of It. Everything else is shit, by the way.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009

Talking Crap.

Why did Jerk have to shit on the living room floor the night that Robin Ince came round?

Robin coming to stay is the equivalent of the Vicar coming round. Nothing should go wrong or it will be a total, farcical embarrassment. Why couldn't Jerk shit on the floor when Johnny Candon stayed? Johnny wouldn't have noticed. Or I could have even blamed Johnny. Johnny would definitely take full responsibilty for a shit on the floor because, even if he didn't do it, it's very like something he would do. But not Robin. A shit on the floor is the kind of thing he would clock right away. He's a very clever man. He discovered no God, you know.

Robin was performing at Happy Mondays at The Amersham Arms in New Cross. It's near where I live so I thought I'd go and watch and, as he had gigs in London the next day, he asked to stay. I doubt he'll ask again. Robin didn't turn up until after 10 so I accidentally got drunk with my friend Liz. I'm still enjoying the hangover as I write. It was a very entertaining evening even before the comedy started. Firstly because Liz is great company and secondly because the bar was playing host to a nutter. A real nutter. A great big, taking-over-the-room nutter.

I knew he was nuts straight away. I overheard the conversation he was having with the barmaid (I'm sure they're not called barmaids anymore. I am very old). She said she was from Lewisham and he was totally amazed by that. Amazed by someone who comes from about a quarter of a mile away. Then he took a step closer to me and I couldn't help but notice that he reeked of shit. It was pungent. Horrible. Then he showed me his fist. Not in a violent way or even a sexy way. Just a sort of Hello kind of way. This makes me feel uncomfortable anyway. Why is offering a fist thought of as welcoming? I reluctantly fisted him (is that what you call it?) and quickly sat down with my drink. He pretty much went to every table looking for a conversation to crash. His smell never got him very far though. Eventually he got chucked out in what has to be one of the most gracious pieces of anger I have ever seen:

"What? Are you saying I'm fucking chucked out? Is that what you're fucking telling me? You're actually fucking throwing me out? Fuck off. I ain't being fucking chucked out. I don't give a fuck. Fucking talking to me like that. You fucking throwing me fucking out? You fucking really fucking throwing me fucking out?"


"Fair enough. Bye".

He left. But as he did he mumbled something like "I'm gonna come back 9 million times" which would have been impressive. I then went to watch the comedy so have no idea if he succeeded. I wish him all the best.

I was welcomed at the door by the lovely Tom Searle who runs the gig. Tom is a really nice man and I particularly like how many compliments he gave me for a blog I didn't write. I'm not an idiot. I accepted his compliments. Chris Addison was excellent and rude to some people who needed some rude and Robin Ince was his tediously, normal excellent self. The cunts. The pair of fucking cunts. Anyway, we stayed for a drink or two. I can't remember. I was drunk. We got in a cab and went to my house.

It was the smell that hit me first. Fuck! Have I been burgled by the nutter at The Amersham Arms? No. My house-trained dog decided to break her four-year run of not shitting on the living room floor by shitting on the living room floor. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't hide it. The nearest thing to me was a book but if I covered a shit with a book Robin would actually die. Plus a book can't really cover that fucking stench (unless it's Saturday Night Peter). I mean, I know everyone else's house smells a bit but this was too much.

I was embarrassed. Even though I know that Robin's flat was once three feet deep in shit after a sewage burst, I still felt awful that he had to witness a turd in my house. I quickly gave him some wine and put on Doctor Who in the hope that he would forget he even saw it.

I'm going to clean it up now.

Monday, 2 November 2009

Fairtrade Mocha Is Wasted On The Young.

Why the fuck are children ordering latte's in Starbucks?

Yesterday, I saw a group of girls, aged I'm sure no more than 13, ordering lattes, capuccinos and asking for soya milk. What the fuck has happened to young people? Why aren't they off letting fireworks off in cats arses or nicking from Claire's Accessories or having abortions like I did when I was a little girl? This isn't the first time that I've witnessed the abomination in a coffee shop. It seems like this is what a lot of kids do these days. They go for coffee. And talk. Like pricks.

I remember being 18 years old and my friend telling me that he took a girl out for dinner the night before. This was so utterly alien to me. Why on Earth would you pay money to take a girl for dinner? I mean, you'd have to sit there and talk. Like pricks. I was 18 years old when that happened. I couldn't grasp the concept of interesting dialogue between like-minded people yet I was allowed to vote, drink and rent Kentucky Fried Movie legally. I know it's a cliche to say that kids are growing up faster these days but what the fuck is going on? I'm 41 and I don't like coffee shops. They're like libraries, churches or an unloved relatives smelly house as far as I'm concerned. Places that you are dragged to, not ones that you organise to meet your friends in right after Swap Shop (is that still on?).

When I'm writing with someone and they say that we should meet for a coffee to discuss the script I, and to be fair they, always assume we'll be meeting in a pub and drinking. We might even discuss the script. But we NEVER meet in a coffee shop because coffee shops are for grown-ups and squares not cool-assed overgrown man-children like me.

The thing is, I'm 41 and I don't know what a latte is. I have no idea. It could be wasp-cum for all I know. And that's my problem. That's it right there. I'm 41 fat, ridiculous years old and forcing myself into a state of arrested development yet I get grumpy when I see 13 year old girls streamling themselves through life with complete confidence and ease.

Plus, when I finally got served I realised I'd spent so much time grumping about coffee kids that I didn't know what I wanted and took ages looking at the menu and then ordered what I always order and then answered every one of the Starbucks assistant's 500 questions incorrectly and fumbled over giving her the right change. She asked if the drink was for here or to go. I didn't know. I just didn't know.

As I left I saw the girls texting and talking about X-Factor. That made me slightly happier. They're normal after all. Except one. The one who lept up because she forgot to but a newspaper. Jesus fucking Christ.

That happened at the Starbucks at Kings Cross. I was on my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little number 8 and it turned out to be the most enjoyable one to date. Making it, I mean. Listening to it will be a chore. I was very hyper (you know, annoying) when it came to start recording so that might explain the incredible childishness that gave birth to a brand new character called Sad Hippo who I then shot ten minutes later. We now have a new, new character called Ghost Hippo who can never die or be written out EVER. Yeah, that DOES sound shit, you're right, but it completely entertained me for the whole recording. Mainly because of the look of incredible pity that James gave me throughout. Even more fun than recording the podcast was reading all the tweets on Twitter from the Precious Little podcast listening group. A small but dedicated group of extremely lovely people from Scotland, England, America, Canada and Australia press play on Precious Little at the same time then go on Twitter to debate and point out my stupidity as it happens. This has made me very happy and I'm very grateful to all who got involved. I think my favourite part was reading how Andy McHaffie tried to convince Shannon in California that Dalek is pronounced and spelled Darleks. At one point he wrote to her: "No. That's just the BBC's opinion. It's Darlek". Sadly, James and I never came up with anything quite so funny as that on the podcast. Which is James' fault.

Sunday, 1 November 2009

I'm The Best Thing.

How could I have forgotten this?

The answer is booze.

On Wednesday night, right after London Comedy Improv, I headed home on the late night Hayes train. I met Muki on the way and soon a man sat right across from us. I noticed he kept staring at me. She noticed he kept staring at me. We felt uncomfortable.

This lasted a good (or awful) 10 minutes before he finally spoke. I can't remember what he said at first, it was something pretty trivial about the train or the weather or the fact that the nights are fair drawing in. But right after that he told me that he saw me at a gig in Finsbury Park and really loved it. He then revealed that he had seen me a lot over the years and was a big fan. He had all my albums.

I don't have any albums.

Every time he saw me had been in the Eighties. I looked confused. He followed my look of confusion with "Oh, I'm a lot older than I look". That wasn't what was confusing me, mainly because he looked a fair bit older than me. The good thing was that, although I was confused, I went along with what he was saying. I never once hesitated in accepting what he was saying. "Finsbury Park?", I said. "That was a while ago".

He seemed pretty happy to have met me and before he got up to leave he finally plucked up the courage to ask the question that was obviously burning on his mind. "Do you still see Paul Weller?"

"I haven't seen him since 1995", I said completely honestly. I'm very glad that I remembered this. I should drink less when I randomly come across other people's fans on late night trains.

Anyway, here's a video of Paul and I in our hay day: My Ever Changing Moods