Saturday, 30 January 2010

Right For Your Fight.

I returned home from my four day nap yesterday morning and immediately watched what could turn out to be THE television event of the year. It was incredible. The man looked uncomfortable with the questions, he obviously had no idea what he was talking about and it is no wonder that people protest at everything that he has done. I'm really glad I recorded I Believe In UFO's: Danny Dyer.

It was everything I hoped it would be. Danny fackin' believes in fackin' UFO's and no fackin' mistake, guv, leave it aht, fack off, do yerserlf a fayvah. It's that for an hour. It starts so well. The opening statement from Danny's own mouth is "Every six minutes, someone somewhere see's a UFO". No, they don't. "Every six minutes, an areshole somewhere see's a UFO". Fine, I'll go along with that. Danny then interviews Patrick Moore, a man with decades of experience looking at the night sky. His skills of garnering information from this font of knowledge are incredible and an inspiration.

Danny: "Is there life out there in space?"

Sir Patrick Moore, CBE, HonFRS, FRAS: "Maybe".

Danny: "Sir Patrick. I'll leave you there. You've got the cricket on, obviously. Loves the cricket. You've a glass of wine on the go. Sir, a proper gentleman".

And that was it. Danny can't waste time because Danny has nutters to meet. Crop circle nutters. How the fuck does anyone in 2010 still fall for crop circles? Well, fear not, there's plenty of people who do. Danny's one of them. But at least he shows a little scepticism. "Yeah, I'd look in the paper and see crop circles", he says. "But then I turn the page and look at a pair of tits". Why isn't he fronting more documentaries?

It goes on as you would expect. With twats thinking that every light in the sky is a form of extraterrestrial transport and every YouTube hoax is solid proof that we are being watched. "Is that a guy in a mask? I dunno". YES, IT FUCKING IS AND YOU DO KNOW. YOU FUCKING FILMED IT YOURSELF. The one thing that these lovable eccentrics have to make us unbelievers really question everything is this: dead cattle. Yeah, take that, Mr. Sceptic. I mean, we all know that humans have made it on to the moon and back but we just don't have the technology to kill a cow. Only spacemen from Mars can do that. The universe is infinite and if it's infinite then there is life out there but watch this programme to find out why life on other planets wouldn't give us Earthlings the time of day. We are shit.

My new year's resolution of not getting into arguments on trains will have to go. I travelled to Bournemouth yesterday and sat near some horrible drunk pricks who saw me watching Doctor Who. They started taking the piss out of me which I thought was very brave of them. I mean there's four of them having a go at someone wearing earphones and therefore "can't hear" them. They are heroes. They let a female co-worker sit near them and talk to them and join in with their witty banter while they plied her with wine. All four of them did this because all four of them wanted to fuck her. All I'm saying is, I missed out on a really good argument and I'm just not sure I can do that again. Please forgive me. I nearly got through all of January without an argument but if one like that comes up again I HAVE to take it. Anyway, the cunts knew nothing about Doctor Who. "Darleks" are NOT robots. Stupid cunts.

Then I was charmed by a cab driver who, it turns out, knows the comedy business and how it works inside and out. He asked if I was off work this weekend and I told him that he was taking me to work. I'll be in the venue and out again in no time, I bragged. He asked more questions and once he realised that I was a stand-up comedian he started throwing his knowledge at me. "You're on first then, yeah?", he said. "So, you just starting out in this then?" You'd be forgiven for thinking so if you ever saw my act but I've been going for a stupidly long time. "Right. So you're just doing a little spot are you? What is that? 45 minutes?" I'm doing half an hour. "I see. Well, half an hour's not long" Well, cunt, be my guest. Get up there and do half an hour. "So, you go on and then what? A professional goes on after you?". Fuck you. I'm on a bill with Tim Clarke and Junior Simpson. There are no professionals on after me. I started to point out the gentleman's error just as we got to the venue. "That'll be £7. I hope you don't get booed off, eh?". Keep calm, Michael. Just hand him the money and say goodbye. "All the best, mate. I hope your career takes off some day".


As it turns out the gig was just what I needed. I was utterly self-indulgent throughout, constantly referring to the Bournemouth audience as being very, very old (they weren't) which meant I could repeat everything I had just said to them a bit louder. I like shouting.

Friday, 29 January 2010

I Know You Did Fuck All Last Summer.

Now, when I say holiday I don't mean holiday holiday. I didn't go away to an exotic island for a couple of weeks to bronze myself while beautiful women serve me delicious cocktails. That's for quitters. I went to a log cabin in the middle of fuck not nowhere for a few days and topped up my incredibly pale skin tone.

It wasn't even that remote either. I stayed in Tilford Woods in Surrey (it had to be close because Jerk doesn't like trains) and was surrounded by an incredible mass of natural beauty. I saw next to none of it. Without exaggerating each day was like this: I woke up, had breakfast, had a nap, walked Jerk in the woods for an hour, have a hot chocolate, have a nap, walk Jerk, cook dinner, have a nap, let Jerk out for a pee, go to bed. It was fucking brilliant and I realise that I've just invented a new MEGA-PASTIME!!! A mega-pastime that I call Extreme Sleeping.

The great thing about Extreme Sleeping is that it can be done by almost anyone (dead people aren't allowed to participate. Sorry to be racist but that's considered cheating) and there is little to no training involved. All you do is eat a load of food, stick the central heating on full and BANG! You're playing Extreme Sleeping. When I realised that I had been sleeping for an average of 16 and a half hours a day I wasn't alarmed or embarrassed, I just realised that I had found an activity that I'm good at. I'm very much a glass half full kind of guy or, at the very least, a lovely hot water bottle half full kind of guy. It may seem like laziness, to the untrained eye, to go to bed straight after breakfast but to me it shows commitment to my new hobby. I now know how those snowboarders and bungee jumpers and putting-your-cock-in-a-lions-mouth people feel like. They're laughed at by the masses because they live life to the EXTREME. Like me.

"No-one can sleep for that amount of time and be happy,'s your name again. Martin? No, Michael. Yes, that's it. Michael", I hear you say but you are SO wrong. I just had a 30 minute sports-sleep right after that last paragraph. WHOOO!! The rush I now get from just sliding away from all conciousness, awareness and responsibility is freakin' AWESOME! I would get a tattoo that says "Bedtime All The Time" but I can't be bothered.

All I'm saying is that when I visit a friend who has been on a fucking safari in Africa and wants to show me his photos of him feeding Rhinos and nursing a Zebra back to health and then he asks me if I have any photos of my recent trip I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "No". No, because my holiday was better than yours. My holiday was the dream lifestyle of those lucky, lucky few coma patients that win life's lottery and manage to step away from EVERYTHING. No fear of being attacked by a lion, no frustration at the Germans taking all the loungers at the pool, no talking to people who "always come here at this time of year. We know the place really well. Here, let me show you around. We can go for a drink together later in the Kon-Tiki Fun Pub".

Just sleep. Blessed, blessed sleep.

And the occasional sound of a fucking Chinook helicopter ruining everything. Why do the military like the middle of nowhere as much as I do?

Well, I didn't say it was perfect but being away and sleeping for four days has left me feeling great. And get this: I have no idea what an iPad is. Night night.

Monday, 25 January 2010

Good Vs. Evil.

Lots of gigs at the weekend as well as recording the latest Precious Little so I felt that yesterday's doing fuck all was justified. To be honest, doing fuck all was always the plan. I love fuck all, me.

Spent the day with my friends, Rob and Linda, and their 10 month old son, Jamie. I like Jamie. He took us to the pub. Or we took him. I can't remember. I was a bit drunk. Then I spent the night catching up on very important telly. The best programme on this week was undoubtedly 9 Lessons and Carols for Godless People on BBC4. I'm really glad this has made it on to TV. It's so well deserved. It's an incredible show full of intelligent people celebrating that underused little shit-stirrer known as facts. Robin Ince is just superb throughout. He's probably the best stand-up in the UK but no-one must ever tell him this. Confidence will destroy him. Of course, I have a middle-aged man-crush on Robyn Hitchcock so I feel compelled to say that he is the best thing in the show but then he opens his mouth and the first thing that comes out is just fantastic. He is the best thing in every show. "What you call God, I call evolution. What you call faith, I call Mum and Dad", he sings and I love him. It's still the comedy that appeals to me most about these shows even though Ben Goldacre is as fascinating as he is modest (I am being sarcastic. That said, he looks like Colin Baker playing the part of Chris Addison and that is as cool as any human can ever appear). Mark Steel, Richard Herring (wearing his one and only jumper) and Shappi Khorsandi are fantastic and Barry Cryer & Ronnie Golden's finale is furiously joyful. It's a welcome surprise that something this good and unique ends up on TV. Ironically, it restores faith.

Well, nearly. At the same time as BBC4 is trying to expand a mind or two, BBC3 is celebrating arse. The thickest of all channels has decided to show a series of celebrity led documentaries looking at the unknown. I sat through all of I Believe In Ghosts: Joe Swash. It lasted an hour and traced the journey of a man no-one in the entire world has ever heard of as he tries to uncover proof of things that are completely proven to not exist. Not that it wasn't entertaining. It was. But only in the same way that the first few episodes of X Factor are. You know, when we all get to laugh and point at people who are clearly mentally ill.

Joe, whoever the fuck he is, met a 17 year old who can speak to the dead (he can't, it's impossible) and I can see why he has chosen the dead to communicate with. No living being would ever give that bucktoothed piss the time of day. He is the world's youngest professional medium. Just think about that for a minute. He is the youngest man in the world to get paid to lie to the chronically insecure. Or, in other word's, he is the world's youngest evil cunt. Still, at least he doesn't drag his knuckles behind him and live in his own shit like the man who tell's Joe that a ghost tries to rape him every night. "How do you know he's trying to have sex with you?", says the celebrity that doesn't exist. "Because he's trying to fuck me" comes the reply that completely proves everything. Of course, the most incredible thing about the doc is that even though all of these nutters believe in the walking dead not one of them, not ONE of them, asks Joe who he is. They just somehow believe that he is a celebrity. Like I said, it's very far-fetched. The next episode is I Believe In UFO's: Danny Dyer. That is not to be missed.

I'm off on holiday now. BYE!

Sunday, 24 January 2010

Fuck Is a Four-Letter Word.

Scrabble gets you laid now? That's how people end up fucking one another these days? Scrabble? In my day, you got them drunk, listened to their tedious stories and, if you were luck, you got to see a bit of their bra. That was the very best you could hope for. But now Scrabble gets you blown. UNFAIR!

Last night I had a lovely gig at the Comedy Cafe and a pretty questionable one at Monkey Business in Hampstead. Some bright spark thought it would be clever to put me on after Mitch Benn. To be honest, my stories of large women having bakeries up their vaginas and shouting "SCUM!" at the poorest looking person in the room just couldn't compete with Mitch's songs. I was fucked from the word go. I didn't die (which surprised me) but I didn't exactly rock either. I got heckled by two men who, as is always the case, turned out to be friends of the promoter and the stage backdrop collapsed while I was in the middle of my ingenious hilarity. I just about got away with it.

Luckily, an open spot went on before me. He's a very nice man but he's very new and the audience liked some bits but could see his inexperience. That was SUCH a fucking fluke for me. If I'd gone on straight after Mitch I wouldn't have survived a minute. The new act, on the other hand, did his time admirably and cushioned the blow for my shit. Afterwards, we had a drink together and he told me that he get's laid by playing Scrabble. I should have chinned the cunt right there.

If you want to fuck someone via Scrabble you should at least have the common decency to play the game face to face and seduce one another. Like in The Thomas Crown Affair. You should be making suggestive come to bed eyes to her while laying down a seven letter word as see stares at you sucking on a tile with X on it. But no. He plays Scrabble online and after a few wins women can't resist him. Is this how it is these days? How cowardly can you get? I don't remember meeting women off the back of Daley Thompson's Decathalon. I didn't get to finger anyone because I played Jet-Pac. I distinctly remembering reading "You will have a wank on your own again tonight" in The Hobbit and that's as good as I got. Why the fuck is it so easy these days for people to get laid?

We need another sexual health scare.

I spoke to the guy for a while longer. We talked about Dr. Who but even when he was discussing the brilliance of The Green Death all I could think of was that this guy gets fucked by playing Scrabble. I got a cab home and bored the arse off the driver by shouting about what happens during Scrabble these days.

He drove off without giving me a receipt but he looked like he felt sorry for me.

Friday, 22 January 2010

Hmmmm and Her.

My experience with Li Ping has reminded me that this sort of thing has happened to me before. Gender confusion and me almost go hand in hand, in fact. I used to work with someone that I never saw. By that, I had to phone him every day and discuss Northern Irish newspaper things. Oh, yes. I used to have a proper job once. There was a time when I was considered "employable".

I worked in the Law Courts in Belfast for a year and after speaking to this guy for months and not knowing who he was I thought I should at least tell him I was leaving and it was nice working with a guy that was always so helpful. Oh, and I'm Michael, by the way. What's your name, mate?


Of course, it is.

I had no idea that Siobhan was legend in this little world. She had a big man's voice. Like Paisley. Terrifying. My last week working there was too scary. Now that I knew Siobhan was a woman it was hard for me to discuss features in the Belfast Telegraph without imagining what she looked like. Pigtails, pink frock, eating half a wild boar while scratching her big, fat, hairy cock. I barely heard a word she said that last week. After this weeks Li Ping incident, I'm glad to see that over 20 years later I have really not changed a bit. Maturity isn't my bag, baby.

Siobhan was the influence for a character that Bennett Arron and I came up with for our failed sit-com scripts "Central General Emergency Hospital". The BBC loved the script, they thought that only the title needed to be changed. I can see their point. We had many very positive meetings with the BBC and in all that time only one thing was ever questioned. One of the "producers" was someone who is now called Lucy Lumsden although we knew her before she was married. She was called Whore then. That might not be the correct spelling but that was definitely her name. Anyway, Whore could not get her head around a female character who had a man's voice. Why did she have a man's voice, Whore would say, was there something in her past that could reveal the answer? It was a very childish script that relied heavily on idiocy but Whore felt this character needed a genuinely moving and traumatic back story so that we could explain her voice if people wrote in asking why she spoke like a man. I suggested if people wrote in asking why she spoke like a man we could either ignore them or tell them to fuck off. I never met Whore again.

The BBC then decided to go with the God awful TLC instead of our script. Bitter? Fucking yes. Whore, it goes without saying, went on to become Head of Comedy.

I have just realised that I have no idea why I wrote all this. Bye.

Thursday, 21 January 2010

Good Frief II.

Minutes after I wrote yesterday’s blog I received a phonecall from Li Ping the cunt. The cunt said that he would meet me at Lewisham train station anytime I wanted. That’s more like it, you cunt.

As I’m Mr. Lovely 2010 I decided that I’d go along and see my good deed to it’s intended conclusion. This meant not putting Li Ping’s phone on eBay and getting about £50 for it. I had already decided that I was going to buy the upcoming Doctor Who Kamelion boxset with Li Ping’s money but now, thanks to my stupid loveliness, I’m going to have to buy that crappy boxset with MY money. Still, it’s the good deed itself that should be the reward. Sadly, I’m a realist and the good deed itself is a pain in the arse, not a reward. I hate good deeds.

I turned up at Lewisham Train station at 3 as agreed. He was late. It got to five past (not that late, I agree, but if it was my phone I would have made sure I was on time. I’m sorry but I’m just that sort of a prick) and he still hadn’t turned up. I called him and he said he was at Lewisham. I described what I looked like (Brad Pitt body with a Daniel Day-Lewis intense mature beauty about me. And a big Russian hat) thinking that he could easily pick me out. That plus I was the only person standing outside the train station. Five minutes go by and he still doesn’t appear. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Lewisham train station isn’t that big. You can’t get THAT lost in it. I get really pissed off, call him and say in a stern voice that I’m leaving. He keeps telling me that he can’t find the main exit but I am now so pissed off with the cunt that I don’t care about my good deed at all. I will never do another good deed again in my life. I hate Li Ping and I’m sorry that I ever tried to help him.

Well, I was sorry until he appeared.

“Are you Michael?”, said the very sweet looking young girl with a man’s voice.

I quickly handed her the phone and left. I had to leave. I had to leave because I had to laugh.

She was so grateful and thanked me a lot, just like I wanted but there was no way that I could pretend that I wasn’t surprised at her gender. I held it in for as long as I could and if it wasn’t for the sound of my eyebrows shooting off my face then I’m sure she’d have no clue that I was surprised. My casual walk away from Li Ping quickly turned into a speed walking frenzy. Li Ping is a girl.

I really didn’t expect that and the fact that my brain couldn’t process all the information in front of it just made the whole laborious malarkey of returning his…HER phone completely worth it. All of a sudden I really like Li Ping. She’s full of surprises. Or at least has one so big that there’s no room for any more surprises.

It made my day. Staying in and watching the National Television Awards obviously ruined it. What a God awful spectacle of dumbing down celebrations that was. A pubeless nothing opened the show with a song that should have been buried and forgotten about along with him and a billion airheads in frocks screamed their expensive breasts off to the very sight of a cunt from “Corrie”. I switched off pretty much when Gavin & Stacey won the Adolf Hitler Memorial Award for All That Is Wrong. We are fucked, Ladies and Gentlemen, we are fucked. Gavin & Stacey beat TV Burp and The Inbetweeners. You’d be really hard pushed to think of anything better made in Britain these days. Except maybe Cadbury’s chocolate. At least that has remained true to itself and not got all cheesey. HA HA HA HA HA HA! Well, fuck it. If this is what I have to do to get a writing job on ITV I’ll fucking do it.

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Good Grief.

God, Li Ping is a cunt. Seriously, a fucking cunt. You know what? You try to help someone but really, what's the point? There is no fucking point. Ever.

I lost my phone about a month ago and it was found by a very nice man called Kevin. Kevin called my Mum. My Mum called me. I called Kevin and then went to his workplace to pick it up. It was that simple. But Li Ping is a cunt and making things simple is just not his style.

2010 is my year of being really nice to people. No arguing, no getting upset by other people's thoughtless behaviour and much more helping. Kevin is my influence. He found my phone and, instead of phoning everyone in Australia or texting photos of his cock to my Mum, he made sure I got it back. I would NEVER do that. Not until now. On Monday night I found Li Ping's phone on the train. Li Ping is a cunt.

I immediately contacted a couple of people on his phone and the next afternoon he called me. Even though I left my number for him he called on his own phone. I should have known then what an arsehole he was. When I answered the phone one thing became apparent. Li Ping loves pauses. "Hello", I said. Then about 20 seconds later Li Ping said Hello back. "Are you calling about your phone?", I enquired and after much soul-searching and reflecting he said yes.

This was going to take ages.

English isn't Li Ping's first language but he definitely knows it better than I do. He used words like bothersome and grapple. Words I forget to use all the time. If I have one thing nice to say about Li Ping it's that I like his vocabulary. He likes quite old fashioned sounding words. It's just that there is a lifetime between each one and talking to the cunt on the phone takes every ounce of my patience. I actually had to borrow some patience from St. Monica because within no time at all I found myself daydreaming about kicking Li Ping's severed head around my back garden. I would have enjoyed that. Time passed and eventually Li Ping and I got round to the business of him picking up his phone. My good deed was coming to fruition. Soon he would be picking up his phone and thanking me profusely for being so incredibly benevolent. Showering me with gifts and kind yet frustrating drawn out words. Well, that would happen if Li Ping wasn't such a cunt.

I first of all offered to meet him at Lewisham train station even though it's about a 15 minute walk for me. I'm doing a good deed after all. Sometimes good deeds are 15 minutes away. He didn't like that idea. Despite the fact that he lived a couple of minutes away from the station he just didn't know when he could get there. Fine. As he's so near the station I'll drop it off at his house. He didn't like that at all. After all, he doesn't know me. I could be a serial killer. You know, the type of serial killer who likes to give his victims their lost phones back before he fucks their corpse. Right. Well, where would Li Ping like to meet me?

He was going to be in a bar in Blackheath that night. I'm not going to Blackheath just to give the guy his phone back.

He could come to my house. No. If I'm not allowed in his house, he's not allowed in mine. That's law, that is.

He changes his mind and says that he WILL pick it up from Lewisham train station. Somewhere between 4 and 6. FUCK RIGHT OFF.

Finally we agree to meet at Costa Coffee, Shaftsbury Avenue at 3pm. It's where I'm meeting The Trap to discuss the upcoming Los Quattros Cvnts show. He sighs at the very idea of having to meet me there. It's a big inconvenience to him, it's way out of his way but as it's me (and the fact that he's just round the corner at the time) he will grapple with making the effort despite the bothersome nature of it all. Then he calls me back and asks for the address again. I give him the full address and the correct tube station that it's near and he agrees he knows the place. But, you know, could I now text him the address because he doesn't have a pen at the moment. Fucking cunt.

It goes without saying that half an hour after texting him the details I received a reply from him saying that he "couldn't" make it and could I meet him at Lewisham train station sometime the next night. FOR FUCK'S SAKE! All I want is a lot of praise from a complete stranger but I had no idea it would be this much of a cock-pain.

I let him know that this is all a bit much. If he sends his address I'll just post it to him. I can at least get a tiny bit of pleasure from knowing that I've done the good deed. I finished what I stupidly started. Li Ping will have his phone back. He'll never be able to thank me properly but I'll get over that because, after all, I'm a nice person now. His response was "No. Just meet me at Lewisham".

I am putting Li Ping's phone on eBay. He is a cunt.

I checked his phone today and calls from this number are now barred. When I sell the phone I will let you know how much money I got and what I spent that money on. If I can't be told how great I am I can at least buy something really stupid.

Me being nice is supposed to be the "third act" of my possible Edinburgh show. It's going to be really, really tough that bit. I try to be nice and I'm not allowed. What's the fucking point? Cunts.

Saturday, 16 January 2010

Here Come The Tears.

This is my third internet cafe of the day. The first two I went to had no internet access despite the fact that they both had signs that bragged to fuck about the huge amount of internet access they had. Could I be in Edinburgh? Yes, I am.

I love the Land of NO. No matter how frustrating it is to try to get anything at all, it's still a beautiful city to visit. I got to sit at the front of the plane on my way here (the front seat, obviously. That would be very cold) and when I got off the plane I stepped straight on to the city centre shuttle bus which started it's journey immediately. Brilliant. Everything is going Legge's way in 2010. I haven't got into any arguments yet and already it's a much more positive, less embarrassing year. Nearly.

Jerk started barking at a special needs kid yesterday. Yes, I might as well just start this story with the end because it was deeply stressful and I'd like to pass some of that stress to you right from the word go. It was awful. There was this little kid enjoying what's left of the snow and laughing and playing and having a great time when my vicious, insensitive, predjudiced dog spotted her and went into a frenzy of fury.

I can't quite say what sparked this off but I do know Jerk has a problem with people who are... different? By that, I mean they could have a hat on and Jerk would be freaked out. She has barked at people wearing turbans, bike helmets and police helmets (to be fair, I taught her to bark at the last one) and it's slightly embarrassing but nowhere near as shameful as when she barks at a special needs kid who is wearing a hat with rabbit ears on it.

Have you ever tried to calm a crying special needs kid while a dog incessantly barks at her? It's not as easy or as fun as it sounds. Her mother, luckily, found it hilarious and couldn't stop laughing despite the torment her child was going through. I think it was probably my pathetic "Do you want to stroke her?" while I'm holding a door with the Devil in it's eyes that did it.

This is rare for Jerk. Very rare. In fact, although she's barked at people who wear hats before, I can normally spot who she might bark at. It's normally big hats. Very big. Luckily very few Buckingham Palace guards and comedy Russians walk through the park in Lewisham so I generally feel very confident about any hat wearers near her. This little girls hat was small but, at the end of the day, Jerk is a Lurcher bred to hunt rabbits. She was only doing her job.

Despite making a special needs child cry uncontrollably and her Mother laugh uncontrollably, I still think that 2010 is a much more positive year. I'm keeping to my New Year's resolution of keeping out of trouble and I'm quite happy with the small pieces of writing I've done for a possible Edinburgh show. There are new Los Quattros Cvnts shows coming up too (the first one at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square om 3rd February with Robin Ince) and that makes me very happy. Yep, it's great being me. So great that I feel more positive than ever (that's quite easy, to be honest). I even want to pay my positivity forward.

On Tuesday night Susan Murray arranged another very successful Comedian's Christmas Party at the Bed Bar above the Comedy Cafe. On my way, I passed by a homeless man. I felt bad because I really did want to give him something but I had no change. Still, I'm going to give him eye contact, smile, say sorry that I can't help him and wish him luck. He looked up at me.

"Sorry, mate. No change", I said.

"I didn't ask for any", he replied.

This was true. True and embarrassing. I swiftly walked away only to hear the word "wanker" drift towards me on the wind.

2010 is going to be the same as usual.

Thursday, 14 January 2010

Everybody Has a Song In Them.

This isn't easy for me. It's a big step and I'm sure certain people in society will soon turn against me. But I've been in denial for too long and really just have to admit it to myself. Maybe just by saying it out loud I can start coming to terms with it. The main thing is that I hope I have your support for I, Michael Legge, like musicals.

I really thought I hated musicals but I don't. I love them. It's definitely crept up on me although the signs were there from an early age. When I was 11 I went on my first plane journey to America (it's just off the coast of Ireland) and was incredibly excited about it. But when other kids my age were asking to see the cockpit or thinking that the safety instructions leaflet was "cool" I was happy sitting in my seat singing loudly to The Broadway Channel on the in-flight radio. My Mum kept asking me to sing quietly, especially during "I'm Just A Girl Who Can't Say No".

When I first moved to London I shared a room with a man and a television. One day I came home to find the television on and the man reading. I took my biker jacket off, got out of my silver toe-capped cowboy boots and settled down to watch My Fair Lady. I watched the whole thing and sang along to every song. The man left.

In fact, me and the man even lived next door to Ron Moody at the time. We sent him a Christmas card. How did I think that I hated musicals when I once sent Ron Moody a Christmas card?

Well, I'm out now. My family know (they sort of always knew), my friend's know (Bennett Arron once bought me Fiddler On The Roof on DVD as a joke. I didn't get the joke. I love that film) and finally now I know. I love musicals. I even know when they're good ("Cabaret") and when they are absolutely appalling ("Grease"). Someone who hated musicals wouldn't know that. They'd be too busy watching Top Gear and thinking about Cheryl Cole's bum to care about the quality of Sunday In The Park With George.

In hit me like a ton of bricks last night while I was watching (and loving) Hairspray at the Shaftsbury Theatre. It was fantastic. I laughed at all the funny bits which obviously upset some people as they kept looking over at me. I was in a theatre, after all. A bit of decorum, please. But that didn't dampen my enjoyment of the show. I loved the songs, the story (it's about time someone said something negative about racism) and Phill Jupitus in a dress. I really recommend going especially if you hate musicals like I thought I did. I need more people to come out and maybe you'll have the same realisation that I did. Musicals are great.

Go with a friend. You don't want to come out when you're alone. No-one will know. I was with my friend Ros Bell and she was so supportive when I finally admitted what I was to her. Thank you, Ros. I'm glad you were there.

Now I'm going to go off and bore everyone rigid with my knowledge of musicals. I'm currently listening to A Little Night Music by Stephen Sondheim and yesterday you would never have guessed that. It's my favourite musical ever. I even went to see it at the National Theatre TWICE. With two different women who didn't want to see me for much longer after seeing the show.

Fuck them. Who needs women when you've got We Will Rock You?

Oh. I'm sad now.

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

My Father's Footsteps.

I am very, very old. This is something that hits me, maybe not every day, but certainly every week. It's shit. You young people don't know how lucky you are. You drink and smoke and laugh and watch Skins (are the kids still into that?) and take drugs on trains and get all up in our faces thinking that you'll be like this forever. YOU WON'T. Soon you will be as decrepit and twisted and dusty and useless as me. HA!

It seems like it was only yesterday that I was putting on my leather biker jacket, brushing my mullet and heading down to the local dance-o-rama in the hope that I would just get rejected by girls instead of beaten up by boys. Good days. I was reasonably fit and healthy and had my whole life ahead of me. Of course, I did fuck not nothing with it. I made sure that I whittled my health down to dribbling and wheezing and steered my life speedily towards arse. Well done, me.

I'm not really complaining about the state of my health or my bollocks, bollocks life. Things really aren't that bad. It's just I've recently had one of those moments that remind me that I'm not young anymore. Even though my house is a shrine to a children's TV programme and a big space film, I am in fact 41 years of age. A grown adult. It doesn't really suit me but that's what I am. Sometimes I get these little reality checks about how old I am and I want to run upstairs, slam my bedroom door shut and listen to Powerslave by Iron Maiden. Middle-age doesn't understand me or my music.

What happened was a shock. It was a slow, creepy shock not a surprise-HA YOU'RE DEAD shock. It just crept up on me without me seeing it, like a vampire smoking it's way in through your window. It was crap.

My Dad wanted to get rid of a pair of shoes that he bought but didn't like anymore. He offered them to me and instead of looking a bit embarrassed and making up an excuse about how I don't have room in my suitcase for shoes I just said thanks and took them. I even wore them. I liked them. They're nice.


I never even wear my shoes never mind my Dad's shoes. I wear trainers specifically designed to make people think that I MIGHT still be able to skateboard without them knowing the truth that I could never ever skateboard. I was always very scared of the ground. The ground seemed too fast and the board was wobbly and I couldn't do it and now I own my Dad's shoes. There. That's my autobiography.

The thing is, I really do like the shoes. I said yes to them because I like them. I even wear them. I wear them when my Dad's not around. I just HATE the fact that I like them. They're not mine, they're his. My Dad's. But they are nice. Nice and comfy. Yes, I'm not used to the heel on real shoes yet and they make me feel like someone is gently pushing me from behind when I walk but they look OK. Like something a grown up would wear. A grown up like me.

It certainly explains why I now ask complete strangers for shoes. Tell me you get these moments. It can't just be me? Is it? Don't you feel "old" sometimes? Or at least stupid that you think you're old?

Sorry. I always get this silly when I miss my nap.

Sunday, 10 January 2010

2010: The Year of the Cunt.

For me, 2010 has now started properly. Last night's gig at the superb Boat Show was upset for a while by incredibly noisy fucknuts who had no idea that there where other people on the planet besides their badly dressed selves. I was compering and heard them a lot while I was on but it didn't really interrupt what I was doing. Well, I didn't let it interrupt what I was doing because I was in no mood for pricks. Tom Wrigglesworth, on the other hand, had to deal with them and I'm over the moon that he did. He was superb.

The people at the back of the room were talking so much that Tom had no choice but to engage them. They had an odd opinion of talking in comedy clubs. The first thing they said to Tom was "We've been asked to be quiet all night" as if, somehow, it's the people around them that were at fault and not their DOA brains. Then one of them opened one of her many, many cock-holes to say "It's my birthday, I can talk if I want to" once again proving that abortion shouldn't have a cut-off date. Tom went on to give an incredible and hilarious torrent of abuse directed at the birthday twat before feeling almost pity for her and deciding just to talk to her. You know, ease the tension in the room and maybe prove to everyone that she wasn't a big bag of brainless bollocks after all. "What's your name?", Tom asked. "21", she replied.

Oh, well.

Tom carried on with the gig but you could sort of tell he didn't really enjoy it even though he was very, very funny. Even when a woman shouted out "The dickheads have gone" and the audience cheered I think it was too little too late for him. Near the end of his set he said "Let's just let me finish this one routine and then I can leave and we can get on with our pigging lives". He is right. Our lives are pigging. Just pigging.

After the gig, I got on the train home. Nice early night, eh? Avoid all the noisy drunks on their way home. Except one of them.

God, what a fucking cunt he was. Fine, he was drunk but did he have to scream his own skeleton out while "chatting" on the phone and did he have to sit right behind me? Of course he did. He's a cunt. You can always tell a cunt because they are shouting loudly and they are sitting behind me. I have a new year resolution not to get involved and if I keep getting cunts like this sitting anywhere near me it's going to be very difficult to keep my resolution. But, the way I look at it is this: If no-one else is bothered then neither am I. It goes without saying that no-one on the train said a word to the thoughtless shit even though you couldn't hear yourself plotting his murder and his cooked dead animal flesh stank the train out. Here are some of this gentleman's quotes that he loud-hailered into my ear last night: "I know how to sweet talk a camera", "I was at home in my house listening to The Kaisers with JD in hand, my man" and "She's into me. Into me, though. Me".

Tell me that you wouldn't have battered the shit. I wanted his shoe so badly.

Then I went home and for no good reason that I can see watched Celebrity Big Brother. I was tense from the journey home and then I caught myself watching a 60 year old woman having a bath while fully dressed on TV and I thought, yes, 2010 has begun. I hate 2010.

James and I recorded Precious Little podcast number 18 yesterday and that was fun. I wore a cape throughout the recording. That felt good. Not enough cape wearing these days, if you ask me. If you have a cape give it a wear. You'll feel good. Promise.

Friday, 8 January 2010

Man's Best TV Programme.

This is not a blog. I'm busy today and nothing of note has happened. I heard yesterday that Heads Or Tails won't be getting a second series but that was it. Don't get me wrong, that's a great step forward as far as I'm concerned but I don't really feel like it made my day that much better. It was just it's highlight. I also saw a turd that looked like a penis and it made me laugh a bit. Other than that, not much happened.

So instead I'd like to recommend something to you. Wednesday night's Horizon documentary called The Secret Life of The Dog is the best TV programme I have ever seen (maybe). It's about how we and dogs have a bond. It's hormone's, you know? The programme looks at why dogs behave the way they do with us. Is a dog's bond with man down to nature or nurture. Guess what? It's nature. Dogs are just really nice. Not only are they nice but they are very, very intelligent. They communicate with us, they read our faces to understand how we feel plus there is a great argument for mankind being dead if it weren't for dogs. I liked that bit. But the most incredible part is when you see Betsy, a black & white Collie. Admittedly, Betsy has a shit name but she more than makes up for this with her incredible intelligence. She has a vocabulary of over 340 words (she doesn't say them, just in case you got VERY excited, she understands them) and can fully recognise and acknowledge different objects to the point where if she's asked for something she will go and get it. No matter what it is. Unless it's really heavy, of course. And who's idea was it to teach her so many incredible things? IT WAS HER IDEA! Scientists claim that this dog proves that we have seriously underestimated the intelligence of dogs and consider them as clever as children. That was the only thing I disagreed with. Children are thick cunts.

Please watch this. It's incredible. It's up on BBC iPlayer until Wednesday night:

Thursday, 7 January 2010


It has snowed in the UK. I know this because dull, ordinary people's dull, ordinary photographs have made it on to the news. Strange when it is hot and I send my pictures of me barbequeing in my speedos they don't get on TV. That's because the whole country goes hysterical for snow.

Snow, a weather condition that can KILL YOU, is just so magical that everything grinds to a halt to marvel in it's beauty. Why can't a 50 tonne train make it's way through a third of an inch of snow? Because snow is very pretty. The driver of the train will be over-charmed and could easily crash and kill everyone on board. He could easily see the most darling little robin redbreast sitting on a frosty twig and the resulting carnage would be bloody and unfathomable. It would be like a dreamy 9/11 that would live on in our minds FOREVER.

All I'm saying is that before you try to enjoy all this picturesque loveliness make sure you're in a safe environment. I've seen people smiling at the snow one minute and then falling face first into it the next. It's very, very dangerous and funny. Sky News for once got it completely right yesterday. It described the snow as treacherous. It IS treacherous. It looks so lovely and yet once it has gained your trust it will betray you, turn icy and knock your teeth out. Like a fluffy Ike Turner. If there's a wife beater that's more topical please feel free to replace Ike's name with theirs. I can't think of one. I even Googled wife-beating but all I got were thousands of websites dedicated to places on women were bruises don't show. You'd think the internet would have a list of famous wife-beaters, wouldn't you? I mean they have lists of famous French vegetarians and lists of unofficial holidays of the world (my favourite is Monkey Day, December 14th) so you'd think they would definitely have an up to date list of horrible celebrities that get a bit tasty sometimes. It's not that my Ike Turner joke is COMPLETELY awful it just would have been better with a more contemporary name. Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yes. All bloggers will be blogging about the snow. It's boring.

Tuesday, 5 January 2010

Coots Are Doing It For Themselves.

You shouldn't watch TV anyway. It's bad for you. If you watch TV all the time you miss out on life's precious moments. I could have sat in and watched TV yesterday but then I would have missed two moments of sheer beauty that will live with me forever. So, if you're sitting at home watching Loose Women, stop it. Get out there. Live, damn you, LIVE!

Yesterday I saw two brilliant old men. They were the best old men I have ever seen because they gave me faith in my grumpiness. I have a New Year's resolution to be a lot more patient with idiots. You know, maybe not ask people for their shoe, that type of thing. But I am wrong to want to change. These two old geezers have shown me the way.

I got off the train at Charing Cross and was walking through the concourse when I saw a group of youths. All groups of youths are cunts and these were no exception. They rushed through the crowds of people laughing, cheering and enjoying life without even a care for the FACT that they are all dying. OK, they might have another 70 or 80 years still in them but they're dying to death. The stupid arseholes. The youths passed me by and walked briskly towards the exit but one of them whacked into an old man in front of me. He didn't mean to. It was an accident but he didn't stop to say sorry or to see if the old man was OK, he just walked on as if nothing had happened.

The old man then did a little jog, caught up with him and shook the fuck out of him.

He grabbed the kid by the coat and just started shaking him really firmly and shouting "Who do you think you are?" Eventually the youth, who looked like he might shit his pants any second, broke free and shouted back at him. "Don't touch me, OK? Don't touch me", he shouted while the old man, who I was starting to love, screamed back "I'll bloody strangle you".

The kid's friends apologised to the man while dragging the youth away. The old man just followed them shouting the whole time. He was great.

I left Charing Cross with a spring in my step. Getting older isn't so bad, eh? You can act as mad as you want. People either pity you or get completely freaked out by you. I love that, me.

I came to the crossing between St. Martin's-In-The-fields and the National Portrait Gallery and, as the traffic lights were green, I waited to cross. The traffic wasn't moving, though. An old man (a different one) sat in his car and didn't budge. I thought I might cross but I knew that the second my foot hit the road he would start moving. I'll wait. The traffic behind him waited too. All of it. The thing is, the car behind him was a van. A police van. Full of the police.

A policeman got out of the van and knocked on the window of the old man's car. He obviously said something like "Is everything alright, Sir?" but the old man's reply was a lot clearer. He started screaming.

"It's stalled. I'm doing my best. Go away".

The policeman got back in the van and waited. I felt safe to cross the road now.

The elderly really are there to be cherished, you know. If you're near an old person then give them a hug right now. Or wait until you see me.

What a great start to the day. Seeing two not-takin'-no-shit old men who arthritically kick arse. Shame I ruined everything by going to see Sherlock Holmes. There isn't a single, solitary second of that film that isn't awful. If you've ever read any Arthur Conan Doyle before then you'll agree that this film does remain faithful to Guy Ritchie. Abysmal.

Monday, 4 January 2010

Day One.

What a lovely amount of sheer pity I got from yesterday's blog. Er...thanks. I admit, it wasn't my proudest moment but the reaction from readers was hilarious. It went from "Are you OK?" to "You should have fucking taken both of his fucking shoes". Good. My favourite was "I'm going to ask for the shoe of everyone who pisses me off from now on". That sentence (pretty much word for word) came from two different people. I'm very proud and embarrassed of them.

It was the first Precious Little podcast of the year yesterday and we got off to a cracking start. It really did sound like we were cracking. We never really talk about anything in the podcast but this was truly an hour and twenty minutes of NOTHING. James tried to stop it a few times but I kept waffling on. Still, it made me think (a bit) about The Naughtys and how they will be defined when we look back on them. It's not good.

The Naughtys, to me, is the decade were the planet agreed to just accept shit. Obama aside, it's an apathetic decade. Despite war and terror we just seemed to shuffle along like it was our lot in life. I hope there's a lot more storming of Downing Street and the White House in this decade. Not that I'll be doing any. It's my back, you see? And my Doctor says I shouldn't use my feet. Too much po-going to heavy metal as a teenager. It's a Gwar wound. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Anyway, the most apathetic thing about The Naughtys was that we became so lazy that we just let our own personal taste drift away from us. In the 70's, when telly was just invented, we had I Claudius which was a well made, well written, well acted incredible drama that EVERYONE watched. There have been plenty of other quality programmes since then but not so many in The Naughtys. Now it's X Factor where we sit in our comfortable homes laughing at the mentally ill while keeping rich people rich and making talentless people famous. Reality TV has to be the last straw though, eh? Haven't we had enough of it? Don't we want something well written again? Aren't we bored of Britain's Most Haunted Woman and How To Look Good Paralysed? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know we still have well written drama like The Wire but no-one watches that. Well, everyone WE know watches it but WE aren't the problem are WE? It's the fucking proles keeping Simon Cowell rolling in money that are to blame. The proles used to watch I Claudius, that's all I'm saying.

Obviously, I have no idea what I'm saying. I think I'm just fed up that otherwise rational people keep accepting this level of untertainment. I watched Celebrity Big Brother last night like a big fucking idiot. I won't watch it again because it is dreadful and an insult to my intelligence. I'm not even particularly bright and it's an insult to my intelligence. Last night was the introduction of the 10 or so people that you've never heard of and one by one the idiot-stereotype boxes were ticked as they entered the house: The Nutter, The Whore, The Hilarious Tranny, The Fat Popstar, The Criminal, The Embarrassed Older Woman, The Little Girl Who Once Had The World's Oldest Cock In Her and Vinny Jones, a fellow actor.

The only nearly entertaining bit was when they all clapped eyes on each other it was obvious no-one recognised anyone. They are celebrities that we must add some more letters to the end of the alphabet just so we can describe them.

It's a new decade. A fresh start. Please don't watch this programme. Please. Let's let good writers kill the reality stars. I don't even mind if it's actual murder, let's just finish this. Wouldn't it be great? Good quality writing back on our TV's entertaining everyone instead of embarrassing nobodies begging to be on page 7 of the Daily Star again like they were at their peak? If the TV companies see we have no interest in their version of reality they'll make that move. They'll bring writing back! I can see it now....Channel Five dropping Heads Or Tails to put money into new comedy, Channel Four will scrap Come Fight With Me so they can go back to their original remit of being a pioneering, alernative channel and the BBC will ask Russell T. Davies to bring I, Caudius back........oh.

Davina, I'm on my way.

Sunday, 3 January 2010

Failing The Drug Test.

Great start to 2010 gigs last night in Camden. A lovely gig made lovelier with the presence of Noel Britten, a comedian I was lucky enough to work with for a month in Edinburgh in 1999. I've worked with him a lot since then but not so much over the last few years. It was a real treat.

Noel is a proper comedian with proper jokes. A naturally funny man who is slick like one of them there comedians from years ago but silly enough to be modern. I like him.

You should see him. He's good.

He's also very good company. He doesn't take the comedy business too seriously despite every single person involved in it being an evil Nazi bastard plus he has a lifestyle that I am completely jealous of. For three months of the year he doesn't traipse around the country playing The Laughing Arse in Rhyl or Wacky-Woo's in Amersham, he goes to Borneo and looks after Orang-utans. Orang-Utans are great. They rarely heckle and they don't sit at tables wearing glittery deely-boppers and singing "Here Come The Girls" loudly while you're trying to change their minds with some edgy material about how some men often forget how long they've been going out with their partners.

Nice gig. Nice company. Nice journey home. This is how I wanted to start the year. I wonder how long it will be like that for?

Thanks to my lack of memory (I really have to start keeping notes) I totally forgot to write about my final argument on a train of 2009. To be honest, I don't come out of this at all well. In fact, I come across as a nutter.

I'd had a few beers at the gig in Reading. Not too many but I'm trying to give myself an excuse for my behaviour. Admittedly it's a pathetic excuse but it's all I've got. I got on the train to Twickenham to my friend's New Year do by the Thames and half an hour into the journey I smelled druggers.

There were druggers on the train. DRUGGERS! Doing drugs. They were smoking drugs on the train. Not only is that illegal it's illegal. As I am The Train Dad I thought I'd best say something. I knew nothing bad would happen because there were only two of them, they looked about 16 and were very weedy (in more ways than one). They were sitting quite close so I just stood up, leaned over and asked them to put out their marijuana doobie joints and they apologised and put out they blunts.

Well, that was easy. And that was it. My last argument of 2009. Anyway, bye!

Oh, no. Hang on. There's more.

The drug-children then got up from their seats and moved to another part of the carriage. Stupidly, it was still part of the carriage that was near me. Then they lit up their 60's beatnik narcotics again.

For fuck's sake.

I went over and the first words out of my mouth were "What did I say?" What gave me the right to say that only baby Jesus and Mr. Kronenbourg know. They apologised again but The Arsehole Within had already come out and I was on a roll. I took the mindtrip reefer from the DRUGGER's hand and threw it out the window. Already, that is mad. I got madder. I told one of them to give me his phone.

He looked at me like I was insane. INSANE? I'm not the one filling my head with that JUNK, I thought while the alcohol that is full of horrible chemicals swirled in my blood. "Why do you want my phone?", he asked. How dare a zonked out drug hippy ask me a reasonable question like that! "I'm going to throw it out of the window", I replied with the measured reason of a mentally ill, furious, haemorrhaging Swamp-Wolf.

He just looked at me like he was worried about me, like he pitied me. Well, fuck you, Pinko. I'll pick on your mellowed out bongo brother instead. I turned to his friend and realised that I had to show mature authority over these two wild hipsters that are headed straight for Juvie. For some reason what came out of my mouth was this: "Give me your shoe".

That's when I seemingly sobered up. I felt embarrassed. I reminded them that smoking on trains was illegal not to mention rude. They apologised again and I returned to my seat and tried to hide in my coat.

What a fucking wanker.

Hopefully those two kids will just assume they had too much psychedelic trip tobaccy and were just hallucinating that they saw the world's most embarrassing old man on a train. Maybe that's what will finally get them off that stuff, eh?

Yes. I'm really a very good citizen.

Saturday, 2 January 2010

Last Impressions First.

Oh, and Happy New Year to you. In all the excitement of David Tennant's departure from our lives I totally forgot to say Happy New Year. How has it been so far for you? Mine has been cold.

Despite the fact that I now have an excuse for my testicles being a bit inside me, there is nothing good about living in a freezing cold house. The grumpy, monosyllabic man from British Gas fixed my boiler and left hours ago but the house is still bloody cold. Still, at least I can walk around my house wearing all of my clothes at the same time. I look so cool wearing three coats, 27 t-shirts, four pairs of shoes and a sock. It's really not much to complain about. The house will heat up soon. Homeless people go through a lot worse and you never see them complaining.

So what was good in 2009? That's what everyone's blog should be about these days, right? The best albums, best films, best TV programme, best worst. They all must be recorded in everyone's angry blog right now. But not me. I've decided to simply list my one single best thing of 2009, in fact it's my favourite thing of The Naughtys. Here we go:


1) All-Star Impressions Show.

That's it. That's my entire list. And wasn't it an incredible show? Every word in the title is a lie and it gave us just the right amount of festive embarrassment we needed at Christmas time. It's hard to pick a favourite out of all the sketches I saw in the programme (it's like picking your favourite child but only if your children are Hitler, Stalin and a big monster) but they ranged from Claire Sweeney not doing an impression of The Queen to a cunt sort of pretending to be Paul McCartney. ITV never quite get it right when it comes to comedy so praise must be given to them for sticking so rigidly to their remit.

If you haven't seen it then you are very lucky indeed but allow me to end your luck now by asking you to click on this link:

Just in case you're not tempted to click, at 6.08 Eamonn Holmes pretends to be Elvis. You will think you're having a nightmare but you're not. They really, really made that TV programme. Massive kudos to Iain Lee who apologised for All-Star Impressions Show on Twitter. To be fair, at least he and MacKenzie Crook tried. Unlike....well...everyone else. Enjoy.

Friday, 1 January 2010

Tennant Evicted.

Back from Northern Ireland now and I'm sitting in my freezing cold house. As always, the heating broke down while I was on holiday. What the fuck is up with boilers? Even if I left a child alone in my house for a week I would expect more warmth when I got back. I'm sure a child would at least still be working when I got back. My stupid boiler takes it very seriously when I leave.

I got back yesterday and went straight to an excellent gig in Reading and then a champagne New Year's toast by the Thames. Bizarrely, I barely have a memory of last night. I think I got instantly drunk. I vaguely remember going to the pub and I sort of remember playing Rock Band later. I definitely don't remember killing anyone. I don't even know why you brought it up.

But when I woke this morning in my friends' Twickenham home I knew I would have to deal with my crap boiler. I was due to go to Margate to pick up Jerk and spend the night at my friend's house. This meant that I would have a lovely night but would miss David Tennant's farewell to Doctor Who. That would be weird if I had to wait a tiny bit longer to see that. I know that, you know that and my boiler knows that. The man from British Gas could only come to fix it tomorrow at 8 or in about a week's time. I couldn't stay cold for a week so Muki went to Margate to get Jerk and I stayed home with my broken boiler who hates it when I miss Doctor Who. I am 41.

It was great. A great episode with fantastic acting. David Tennant and John Simm were excellent but still second to Bernard Cribbins who just nails it every time. He should be the next Doctor. Or a daft, lovable Davros. Did I shed a tear during Tennant's last scene? No. No fucking way. Russell T. Davies, the cunt, would never let me COMPLETELY enjoy one of his episodes. He HAS to ruin it with his own massive, not particularly bright ego. If The Doctor had regenerated when he was exposed to the radiation then he would have done it in front of Wilf and it would have been emotional and we'd all have a big cry and it would be great. But Russell, the cunt, cannot let us have that because he has invented lots of characters that he thinks we give a flying fuck about despite them being terrible. The last ten minutes of The End of Time made me cringe until I swallowed my own face.

The Doctor travelled around to see lots of people that he has had past adventures with. REALLY IMPORTANT PEOPLE. Like Mickey (who is now really tediously conveniently married to Martha) and the big eared sailor from the crap Kylie episode. And, of course, Rose. Who he has now said goodbye to four fucking times. Christ Almighty.

He couldn't let US say goodbye to David Tennant. No, the fat cunt had to say goodbye himself to characters that he had already written out of his own series. The bar scene with Captain Jack is the worst thing to have ever happened in the history of mankind. It is a tragedy that could have been avoided and will live on in the memory of all who saw it forever. I'm sure we'll all remember where we were on 1/1 for the rest of our lives thanks to that horrible, despicable scene.

When I watch that episode again (and I will a lot) I will skip from the radiation scene straight to The Doctor stumbling back into the TARDIS. OR.....I will watch it as normal and do a lot of grumping.

I wasn't that keen on the last few Tennant stories. His performance seemed flat, like he was really bored. Plus he is EVERYWHERE. You can't open your eyes ever without seeing David Tennant. It's impossible. I'm glad to see the back of him and the great thing is that he regenerated back into Patrick Troughton, by the look of things.

Weird that I feel like I really miss him already. I don't want him to go.