Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Sweet Death.

OK, fine. If it's a more positive blog you want then here it is.

Some things this week that I've enjoyed. Let's start with Mr. Humbug. Next time you go to Waterloo Train Station you must visit Mr. Humbug, a sweet shop with time travel abilities. I went there on Sunday and just seeing all those jars, dozens and dozens of jars, all filled with sweets I haven't had in years was just an emotional overload. The shop assistant, unlike any in Britain, was friendly and told me to take my time choosing what I wanted. Of course I had to take my time. I basically had a 100 jars filled with bits of my childhood right in front of me. I couldn't rush this. I chose Candy Peanuts, a sweetie that I'd forgotten even existed. I loved them as a kid and probably hadn't seen one in 30 years. And, as the shop is called Mr. Humbug, I went for Humbugs even though I fucking always hated humbugs. They're Grandparent sweets.

Well, I learned something about myself that day. Candy Peanuts are disgusting and Humbugs are incredibly delicious. I am old.

If I might recommend a podcast to you then please may I point you in the direction of the latest Doubling Up. In each of their podcasts they have a guest from the world of comedy such as Dave Piss or Charlie Sofa but this time they have a real scoop. Not only is their guest a true legend of comedy but he's also dead. If you can get a comedian who is globally famous and dead to agree to be on your podcast then you are definitely doing something right. Or something paranormal.

Nick Doody interviewed Bill Hicks in 1992 when Nick was only 19 years old. He was a child talking to a dead legend, or at least that how it seems when you listen to it. The thing is, Nick is surprisingly sharp and interesting. Not surprising because it's Nick but surprising because he's only a child. A wee little child. TALKING TO BILL FUCKING HICKS. My favourite part is when Hicks offers Nick a support slot at his gig in Oxford and Nick turns him down because he is busy. Like a twat.

It's such a fantastic interview. Listening to Nick making Bill Hicks laugh is pretty much as perfect as it gets. Of course, I couldn't completely revel in the joy. I was busy thinking how many people Bill Hicks influenced to get into comedy and are now working on Balls of Steel. There must be a few.

Download Doubling Up at http://blog.doublingup.info/ or iTunes.


Monday, 29 March 2010

Ambition Makes You Look Pretty Ugly II.

I admit it. I've arrived late to the party. But to be fair, it's definitely a party that I haven't been invited to. It's been out about four years, it finished it's third series in January and I have just recently got round to watching it. It's Balls Of Steel and it is an insult.

I feel slightly bad about hating this programme as two of the people involved are very talented. I'm just not sure that their talents are being highlighted in the right way with this steaming pile of crying shit. There just isn't a redeemable thing about it. For those lucky people who have never seen it, Balls Of Steel is a prank show where grown adults leave dignity in a torn Aldi bag and embarrass only themselves in the name of untertainment. A series of arseholes act as characters designed to make us all a bit stupider as they find themselves hosting a never-ending series of hate-filled stunts that don't work yet somehow end up in the final edit. Hilarious characters such as Militant Black Guy (He is a man who gets angry anytime anyone says the word "Black"), Big Gay Following (A large man who is gay and follows people), Knob Jockey (A homosexual rapist), Scummy Mummy (A cunt who drags a real baby down to her level) and many, many less. They're all as funny as each other. Fucking dreadful.

Watching it has just upset me and yet I can't seem to stop watching it. Surely nothing this lacking in anything of any value could make it to a third series. It is a programme so venomous and nasty that there is no way you could possibly enjoy it unless you're the kind of person who keeps looking up Saddam Hussain's hanging on YouTube and laughing. At least Saddam Hussain's hanging worked. NOTHING in this show works. Big Gay Following constantly asks men if they fancy a bum and every one that I have seen simply says no and walks away. No confrontation, no comedy, no point. Yet in the final edit it goes. The guiltiest of these is also the worst person in the entire world: Olivia Lee.

Olivia Lee is the female version of Keith Lemon, a title I'm sure she'd be very proud of and that gives you an idea of what a fucking moron she is. I just don't see the point in her at all.

The Word, the classic TV series of the early 90's, used to have a segment called I'D Do Anything To Be On TV. Olivia Lee has used this as a career plan.

Even though she describes herself as glamorous on her website, Olivia looks exactly like what she is: a hen night in a car wreck. She dresses like a skank, acts like a drunk man and, if you look closely in her eyes, will do ANYTHING to be on TV. Now, I'm not going to say anything as libellous as Olivia Lee has fucked her way to the top. No. All I'm saying is that she WOULD fuck her way to the top. Whether she has or not is not for us to speculate. But she would. You can tell. She hosts the Loaded Awards, her publicity shot shows her pissing into a urinal and her new TV series is called Dirty Sexy Funny. This is just a guess but I reckon there are very few times in Olivia Lee's life when she is not on her knees in a carpark begging to become the target of various TV executives bukkake. Of course, I'm joking. That's the great thing about Olivia's contribution to Balls Of Steel, we know she can take a joke. And a cock, I imagine. Loads and loads of them. All connected to TV executives all helping her career by soaking every last bit of her in cum. Just more and more cum saturating Olivia Lee and getting her closer and closer to her precious, precious fame. That's what she looks like she'd want, that's all I'm saying.

Of course, when Olivia's not being a carpark bukkake whore covered head to toe in the cum of men that hate her, I imagine, she's recording her brilliant bits for Balls of Steel. This is what she does: She goes up to someone famous (say, Ron Atkinson) and asks for an interview for Channel 4. When they agree she gives them a one finger salute right up at their face.

No. I don't get it either. The famous person normally looks at her with great pity and walks away. Not funny in the slightest because the "prank" has failed but it ends up in the show anyway. And why wouldn't it? Then we get to see Olivia's arse, don't we, lads? We see her TV Executive bruised arse and her congealed cum tits (you can't get ALL of that off) so that's alright, isn't it, lads? That's what she's here for, eh, lads?

When a time machine is finally invented I will step into it with my Olivia Lee clip downloaded on my iPhone and will go back to 1913 and just before Emily Davison throws herself in front of the King's horse I will show her the clip. Emily will just go back to her kitchen and cry. Better that than wearing a big arrow to your cunt, shouting out of a white limo and singing "HERE COME THE GIRLS!"

I'M JOKING! HA HA HA! That was great! All that stuff about Olivia Lee covered in cum as a career move. As if! It was a PRANK I played on you, that's all. What do mean it didn't work and isn't funny? Fuck you, it's staying in.


Friday, 26 March 2010


What a lot of fun yesterday was. A full day of fun. Lovely.

Seriously, I have nothing to complain about so you might as well read something else. You won't like this.

I left the house much earlier than normal to go into London's exciting West End to have my photograph taken by Edward Moore (www.edshots.co.uk). I love London. You just never know who you might see. I saw thousands of people. Didn't recognise any of them except for Sally Phillips. She's famous but she takes the tube. Sally keeps it real, people. I decided to choose a setting for my photograph that would be appropriate to me as an artiste and one that would reflect the man himself. I went to the pub.

I love the pub. Who doesn't love the pub? It's full of interesting characters and there's always a buzz. Except yesterday. There was only one man in the pub when we walked in. It was so utterly quiet that I got all too self-concious about having my photograph taken. Not that the man and the barmaid were just staring. They weren't. They didn't look once at what was going on. I mean, for fuck's sake. There is something interesting happening in the pub. LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! Nah, they didn't give a fat shit about me and my beautiful face being photographed. They didn't even look up when the manager told us to stop taking pics. We weren't allowed so had to pack up and leave. She told us that if she let us take photos in the pub, Samuel Smith would regard that as a sackable offence.

Dear Samuel Smith, I might still use the photos that were taken in your pub but please don't fire the Manager who clearly told us not to. She did her job brilliantly. Instead, why not fire the bored blonde girl who worked behind the bar who told us that we could take photos and who obviously hates her chosen occupation. Thanks.

We just went to another pub and finished what we started. Even though we were told not to. Ha! I'll never learn!

I will learn. I looked at the photos. I have learned that I'm really quite, quite repugnant on the eye. Poor Edward who had to look at me. He's probably all upset now.

It was a lot of fun hanging out with Edward, drinking beer and posing, but soon I was off to do something totally stupid. I'm too busy to get to Hitchin this week to record Precious Little so I thought it would be a good idea to record our very first ever live podcast in the centre of London. In a pub. Right by the toilet. In front of no-one. We announced our venue on Twitter but were filled with confidence that not a single person would turn up. Mainly because no-one knows who we are but partly because we announced it on Twitter after we had started recording it. It is probably my favourite podcast so far, although I haven't heard it and probably never will. I was a bit drunk by the time we started recording and that just made me giddy. And very loud. I've never screamed "WHAT'S WROOOOONG!" in public before. I can't even really remember what we talked about but I remember it mainly being about how I'm going to go round the pub selling home-made copies of the new Collings & Herrin CD for a pound (which I didn't really mean) and repeatedly saying Olivia Lee is a bukkake- in-a-car park, cum-covered, useless whore (which I meant). Might be worth avoiding but it was a lot of fun spoiled only by Mr. A McHaffie of Scotland who ruined everything by actually turning up 20 minutes before we finished and being our audience. At least he brought me a copy of Barbara Windsor's autobiography. For some reason.

After a few more drinks (during which I almost deleted the podcast) I was off to Brockley for more more drinks with my lovely friend John Voce. We chatted about the budget, the Vatican paedophile cover up and other things we knew nothing about but mainly we talked about how much we hate anyone who never came to see our show, The Conversation, in Edinburgh 2004. You fucking cunts. It was a brilliant show and you missed it, you stupid arseholes who we hate. And the one star review we got in Chortle? It can go fuck itself. It was written by a child, anyway. A cunt child. So, if you didn't see our show then you're a cunt and we hate you, is that understood? Good.

Our joyful vitriol was almost ruined when we were interrupted by two very, very pissed people who wanted to share our table. And our conversation.

The best way to describe them would be "loaded and thick". I think that's fair. They had a driver waiting for them outside as they drank in the pub and had come all the way from Essex. Why go drinking in Brockley if you live in Essex? Simple: "We were another pub round here watching Justin Lee Collins".


I hated them even more but this would soon change.

Justin Lee Collins was bizarrely doing a show called Good Times at a pub called The Brockley Jack. I don't know why either. They absolutely love Justin Lee Collins. I don't know why either. But hang on, if he's doing a show at The Brockley Jack and it's on now and you have tickets to see it, why aren't you there?

"I watched a bit of it", said Danny. "But I got bored and went for a fag in the bog. They chucked me out."

I love Danny, who showed me his driver's license just to prove he really is called Danny. I don't know why either.

Now, I don't have time to tell you why I hate Olivia Lee today so it'll have to wait until the next one. It's a good reason though and one I'm sure you'll agree with. Carry on.


Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Brotherly Love.

I'm back in London now. In fact, I've been back in London for two days and was amazed by the friendliness as soon as I arrived. Mainly my friendliness but it's friendliness nonetheless.

Even though I got up stupidly early on Sunday (and no, I didn't get up at Stupid O'Clock and if you ever use that phrase, you know that phrase were you say something o'clock that isn't a number o'clock? Well, I hate you and you should be ashamed of yourself. It's never been and it never will be Wine O'Clock) I still managed to go back to Hitchin to record Precious Little number 26. It was really a weird experience because I was phenomenally tired and yet buzzing from too much caffeine. I don't know what I said but I do remember discussing Tara Flynn's recent wedding with her on the phone. Actually, now that I remember it, we only discussed the wedding for a second because I felt I needed to know her stance on two brothers blowing each other for a bet. This might seem a random and vulgar thing to just spring on someone but it was a subject that had been swimming in my fractured brain since James brought it up just before we started recording. Not that it was James and his brother that blew one another. It wasn't. I don't think James has a brother. But he did hear of a story where that very thing happened. Two brothers put each others willes in their mouths. But don't worry, it was for a bet. You know, it was all just larks. HA HA HA HA! We've all been there (I haven't).

The thing is, I realise it's quite a disturbing story but it's "the bet" thing that's really upsetting me. Think about it; why would you suck your own brother's cock? A bet? No, that's not right. There wouldn't be enough money involved surely? Not that I would put a pricetag on my brother's cock. I wouldn't. It just seems deeply unlikely that a bet is the real reason. So what about "for a laugh"? No. No because sucking your brother's cock isn't funny. Not in the slightest. It's the Lesbian Vampire Killers of comedy, as far as I'm concerned. So why did they do it?


Is it so wrong to want to suck your brother's cock and just admit it? I've checked. Yes, it is. But surely, if you've done it, saying something feeble like it was a drunken bet won't cover up this weirdness. Plus "drunken bet" has been an excuse for too much shenanigans over the years and after a while you can't help but be a bit disappointed by it. Tony Hawks went round Ireland with a fridge for a "drunken bet". For fuck's sake. Wouldn't we have more respect for him if he said "I went round Ireland with a fridge because I wanted to suck my brother's cock"? And Dave Gorman. When he said that he went round the world, basically breaking his back and bank balance, to meet other people called Dave Gorman he said it was for a "drunken bet". Christ Almighty, Dave. If you want to suck your brother's cock then that's up to you. And his brother is his twin, which shows you the ego of the man.

Anyway, I was very tired when I got to London, that's what I'm trying to say.

After the podcast I headed back to Kings Cross and on to a Los Quattros Cvnts meeting. As I walked down towards the Victoria line my tired and wired mind reminded itself of yet another time that I embarrassed myself in front of Robyn Hitchcock. In case you don't know, I have embarrassed myself in front of Robyn Hitchcock more times than you've had hot dinners. Even if you've had 25 hot dinners a day and are 75 years old.

It was sometime in the mid-90's and myself and my friend Phat Paul went to see Robyn Hitchcock & The Egyptians at The Old Trout in Windsor. At one point I passed Robyn a note that he quickly put in his pocket and ignored. Well, booze and I agreed that we demand he reads my note so between songs I subtly scream "READ MY NOTE OUT, ROBYN. READ OUT MY FUCKING NOTE". Robyn was in the middle of one of his famous in-between songs stories and obviously realised that if he was to continue he'd have to read my note, just to shut me up. "It says thanks for all the great music, Robyn", said Robyn. I think you'll agree that that was something that NEEDED to be read out. He went back to his story.

"WHAT ELSE DOES IT SAY?", I shouted.

Robyn looked baffled and said that the note just goes on to say some nice things about his albums. "WHICH ONE?", I yelled. Robyn looked depressed now as he said "Eye". True. Eye is the greatest album ever made and I love it and surely everyone in this room needed to hear my opinion. Robyn sighed and put the note back in his pocket. Phat Paul egged me on to shout again. Good for him. "WHAT ELSE DOES IT SAY???"

Robyn now looked like he had been repeatedly hit by a rolled up newspaper. He wearily took the note out again, rolled his eyes and said "If anyone is driving back to London can you give two brilliant blokes a lift?"

The room glared at us and we thought we were the funniest people in the world. We weren't. We were cunts.

When this story popped into my head I started laughing. I hadn't thought of this in years. I had made such an embarrassing arsehole of myself that it was funny. I was too tired to fight the laughter so I happily walked towards the Victoria Line openly laughing in public. This is when the friendliness thing happened. I saw a woman struggling with her suitcase and I offered to carry it down stairs for her. She looked really grateful until I took her bag and walked beside her down every stair laughing away to myself. It must have been the most uncomfortable minute of her life. A giggling psycho has my bag and he's going to use it as my coffin, must have gone through her head.

She didn't need to worry. I was just laughing at a stupid thing I did when I was younger. And don't judge me, OK? I wouldn't have done it if there wasn't booze involved and wasn't being egged on by Phat Paul. It was just a drunken bet.



Monday, 22 March 2010

The Death of Cool.

Of course, I didn't have to stay in my hotel room the entire time. I could have gone out and explored Manchester. Manchester is a very exciting city and having a look round is highly recommended. Just one warning: people here like to speak to you.

I wanted socks. Is that such a crime? I didn't even need socks but I really wanted new ones. New socks are always a good idea for a I'm-miles-away-from-home pick-me-up. I went to Top Man which, I believe, is where all the young trendy people buy their socks. I'm sure I saw Kurt Cobain and Jedward in there. Top Man were offering the incredible bargain of £7 for three pairs of socks and I don't know a single human being that could turn that kind of offer down. It's just too good. I chose a pair with yellow crosses all over them, a pair with robots on them and a pair with skulls on them. Yes, I'm quite the hip guy. I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up on the cover of Smash Hits with socks like these or perhaps I'll get a job on T4 by being thick before Friends. Yep, these socks will definitely stop me from being all shit all the time. Nothing can spoil today.

Except this guy.

This guy works in Top Man. He has clothes that hurt me and hair I can't understand. He is easily half my age yet has the beard of a tramp in his 70's. He is wearing two belts. Did he forget that he was already wearing one? Oh, and he has a hat. What a cunt.

This guy then beckons me towards him so keen is he to make the socks mine and therefore I will be able to join his club reserved only for us trend setters. I pass him my socks and he fucking ruins everything. I was so happy a second ago. I had the socks of the Gods and they would lead me out of my gutter and into fame. A second ago I was planning my controversial presenting style at the NME Awards and thinking about fucking someone who's in The Priory but everything has been ruined because this guy decided to speak to me. I handed him my socks and he said "So, what are you up to today?"


What does he mean? What does he want from me? Why does this insane youth want to know what I'm going to do with my day? This is too difficult a question to just spring on me. You can't just ask "What are you up to today?" and expect me to just answer the fucking question. Not honestly, anyway.

My brain got depressed and I said "Shuffling around in a hangover, mate". Yeah. Yeah, that's cool. That's what this bearded baby in brand new old clothes wants to hear. It wasn't true but it was sooooo cool. Maybe I should ask him if I can bum a ciggie off him? No. Don't get ahead of yourself, Michael. He already knows that you're rock hard what with the hangover lie and everything. No need to tell him anything else. That's enough for now. Way better than the truth. If I had said to him "To be honest I'm reading up on the life of William Gladstone today but I'll probably get so bored that I'll end up having somewhere between 2 and 5 wanks" he'd never give you the socks. It's all about the socks, Michael. And look at the big grin on his face. He loved your hangover lie.

"Nice one, mate", he beamed. "I'm a bit groggy myself today to be honest. Not that I had that much to drink last night. I didn't. But you know how sometimes you can drink all night and get away with it the next day but other times you have a couple and then you feel rough? That's me today, I'm sorry to say. Not that I'll be drinking tonight. I can't really. Got a party to go to tomorrow and I want to be on form for that, do you know what I mean? It's my sister's party. Should be good. Not tomorrow night, what am I saying? It's the night after. Even so want to keep a clear head. It's her birthday, you know?"

I don't want the socks. I don't want the socks and I don't want to be cool and trendy and I don't want to be accepted into his cool and trendy gang. Is this what being cool and trendy is like? Christ, it's dull. What a boring, boring, BORING man and will he shut up? No. No, he never fucking will. At least at WH Smith they just try to force half-price chocolate into your skull but here they bore you to death with their constant, tedious friendliness.

I remained quiet. Not because quiet is cool but I just knew that if I said anything it would be loud and have cunt in it. He offered me a store card. I shook my head. He offered me a FREE store card. I shook my head again. The socks were in the bag and all he had to do was pass them to me. He counted the change into my hand, naming all the coins as he did so, and finally gave me the socks that I wanted. That's right. I remember now, I came in here for socks and not for a lecture on ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I took the bag and started to move. I hated him but at least I'd never see him again, right? He spoke again as I left.

"See you again, yeah?".

I turned back and replied "Sure. When?"

He looked confused. "What?", he said.

"You said 'See you again'. When?"

He looked confused, upset and even hurt. "Here?"

"Right", I said and left. "Here" isn't really a when but his answer wasn't important. I hope I have made him think. You can't say see you again to someone and not expect them to take it very seriously indeed. It's not like see ya or ta-ra or bye-bye because it sounds like you want to make a commitment. If you say see you again to someone then you MUST be fully prepared for arrangements to be made.

And where would we go, bearded baby? Where on this awful ball of water and dirt is the place that caters for the two of us, eh? Sitting on the sofa staring at Doctor Who? NO. I don't think that you'll find all the it-was-fine-back-then racism of the Talons of Weng-Chiang all that "wicked". What about going to The Fuckpit Indie Scene Club? NO. It'll be too loud and the seats will be sticky, IF we get one.

I doubt that I will ever see this guy again.

Bad news, everyone! Well, bad news for me anyway. After much thinking I've decided that I have to put off my Edinburgh show until next year. I just couldn't get the right venue at the right time for me and I don't want to do this unless I'm happy with the venue. It's too much money to spend so I might as well get that part right even if the show is a magical bag of poo. Not the end of the world, though. I'm still doing the Work In Progress shows at the Hen & Chickens (18th & 19th April) and I'll be doing a lot more throughout the year. Plus I should be doing a show with Robin Ince during the whole of the first week of the Edinburgh Festival. All in all, that's not too bad plus I have next year to look forward to.

Thanks to Brett Vincent for all his help. He's great, he is.


Sunday, 21 March 2010


Oh, Look! The internet! Yes, I remember that. I've been away from being online properly for five days because I've been staying at the Travelodge in Manchester and their Wifi is incredibly fictional. Oh, yes, they advertise Wifi all over the place. They're so proud of their Wifi. Everywhere you go you see posters bragging about the buckets of Wifi they have lying all over the place at the Travelodge yet there is no Wifi to be seen. Er...felt. Whatever. It's like the Travelodge is a Grandparent and Wifi is the dead Grandchild that it overcompensates for by keeping it's picture on every single wall of the building. The Wifi is gone, Travelodge. Move on. It's what it would want.

Not that they believe you. To them, their little Wifi is alive and well and doing very well, thank you. I checked in and immediately switched on my computer. I had more things to hate about Mums so I had to blog right away but the Wifi just wasn't working. I switched my computer on and off again. I even did the technical thing of leaving it for a bit and seeing if magic made the Wifi come on but nothing happened. Crap. I'd have to talk to hotel staff.

Luckily, I had a choice of two door-slammed faced, brain-fucked morons to choose from. I went for the male one because the female one was a bit busy looking at the wall. "The Wifi isn't working in my room", I informed him. "What?", he said.

Brilliant. O'Brien's Sandwich Shop in Edinburgh is now closed and their staff have moved to Manchester.

I repeated my problem and he smiled and informed me that Wifi is available at this hotel. That's good to know but what I was telling him was that the Wifi wasn't working. "Oh, yes. The Wifi isn't working. That's right", he said with more joy than he has ever truly experienced in his life.

"So, there's no Wifi here?", I said.


"There is? Good. Like I was saying, it's not working in my room. Can I get moved to another room, perhaps?"

"I just told you. The Wifi isn't working".

"But you just said that you have Wifi".

"We do".

"But it's not working?"

"That's right. Can I help you with anything else?"

"What do you mean 'Anything else'? If the Wifi isn't working then you have no Wifi".

"We do have Wifi, Sir. It's in every room".

"But it's not working?"


"That means you don't have Wifi".

He smiled a smile that heavily suggested that I simply didn't understand the hotel business as well as he did. He then sighed and explained to me that although the Wifi hasn't been working for over a week an engineer is coming out to fix it. Fine. When? "Next week".


"Yes, we do. It's just not available".

What the fuck did that mean? Is he hoarding all the Wifi for himself? Like his ambitions, I just gave up on him. But as I walked away he called to me. "Are you in room 110?", he shouted.

I came back to reception and said yes. "Right. You still need to pay £10 for your early check in this afternoon".

I have to pay £10? For a room that was sitting empty, waiting for me, just because I checked in two hours early? Even though that room was sitting in limbo doing nothing? I have to pay for my own room? WITH SMASHED WIFI?

The man saw that I looked furious and chose to wave the fee. A shame as I now wanted to do nothing else with my life but shout at him. Just then, the female moron stopped staring at the really brilliant wall and decided she would "help". She called the Wifi engineer and explained the situation. She was on the phone to him for 15 minutes and when she hung up she beamed both her teeth at me and said that the engineer would come out and fix the Wifi next week.

I knew that. Male moron had already told me. I'm going off to sit in my room and hate everything.

But, no. I wasn't allowed to do even that. Male moron II turned up.

"Is it Wifi you're after?"

"I can't remember anymore", I said.

"Well, it's not working".


"But if you go over there, right into the corner of the bar and hold the laptop up you can sometimes get it. It's the only spot in the hotel where it works. Just over there. Behind that sofa right at the back. In the corner. Just lift your laptop up and you should be able to get a signal".

I was about to scream at him when he said this...

"Costs £10".

You know, if you ever meet someone who thinks it's fine for you to pay £10 to stand in a corner, holding up a laptop and basically beg for Wifi you just know that they aren't worth arguing with. They won't get it. They will do anything to avoid dignity and can't comprehend people who have even a trace amount of it. I walked away without a word.

So you see, I should have been blogging every day while in Manchester but I wasn't allowed. Now you will never know about me meeting up with most of The Gentleman's Review, getting stuck in a loud conversation with a woman who constantly spat at me while repeatedly saying that Jason Mansfield is her favourite comedian, me turning Billie Piper's Honey To The Bee into The Streets' Dry Your Eyes, my day of seven poos, my lovely new socks and Jason "Mansfield"'s Dad calling me a cunt. He might be the most famous person's Dad to call me a cunt so far. But you'll never know these tales. Send your complaints to the Travelodge in Manchester.

Just don't expect them to do anything.


Tuesday, 16 March 2010

Pack Your Bags and Leave Tonight.

Look, why I downloaded Club Tropicana isn't important. That's not really the point I'm making and it's not really part of the story so just get it out of your head. It could have been any song that I downloaded. I could have downloaded Bad Boys by Alexandra Burke or Seven Tears by the Goombaby Dance Band and the outcome would have been the same. My iTunes credibility is fucked.

I'm quite picky about my music and if anyone ever recommends an album to me I often tense up. They're bound to get it wrong. They look at me and think "Hmmm...in his 40's, dresses like a git, looks like he's waiting to die: Coldplay". WRONG! The Smiths, David Bowie, The Pixies, Robyn Hitchcock is more my cup of tea. I'm very credible when it comes to music. My CD collection should have it's own show on 6music. That would change those BBC bastard's minds. Anyway, on Sunday night I downloaded Club Tropicana from iTunes, IT DOESN'T MATTER WHY, and my recommendations are all up the spout. I worked so hard on getting them just right and now I've fucked it all up. I've been so careful yet for one brief second I dropped my guard and now iTunes, a music robot, thinks I like Wham!

So far over the last two days iTunes has been confident that Take That's Greatest Hits and Showgirl (Live) by Kylie Minogue would be just what I'm looking for. After all, "You bought music by WHAM!" I just had a look now and its basically put it's arm around me, winked, passed me Popped In Souled Out by Wet Wet Wet and said "Here. You like this shit".

Admittedly, I used to own Popped In Souled Out by Wet Wet Wet but again that's not my point. DAMN!

Occasionally, I'll admit to liking music that I'm ashamed of. I'm actually ashamed of my own taste. OCCASIONALLY. Like when I bought The Promise by Girls Aloud. BUT I DIDN'T DOWNLOAD IT. That would fuck up my iTunes recommendations. I bought it in a shop. I don't know why I felt like a sex offender when I bought it but I did. Fine. That's a small price to pay to keep my iTunes recommendations looking as cool and edgy as they are. Think of me as a pervert all you want but a COOL pervert. That's OK.

Oh, I remember the good old days. "You bought Chew Lips", iTunes used to say. "We recommend Two Door Cinema Club". But not anymore. And all because I bought Club Tropicana for a reason that is barely worth mentioning.

I suppose I'm telling you this as a warning to you. We all spend our lives projecting a certain image out to the world. In the way we talk, dress, read, listen and watch we are all trying to tell the world that this is who we are. But be careful. One tiny slip and WHAM! The world might discover the truth.


Monday, 15 March 2010

Mum's The Law.

The great thing about saying something stupid is that you can be corrected. Educated even. It appears that I'm not that up to speed on the whole breastfeeding thing and quite a few people were very happy to put me straight on a few things after yesterday's blog. Not that many, but a few. Way less than the amount of people who gave me all the "killing myself" advice after I said I'd heard a very funny rumour that Russell Howard and Michael McIntyre had had a punch up. But the points were interesting and I think I've learned something.

First things first, the whole breastfeeding at the wedding dinner lasted 10 seconds for me. The woman in question seemed perfectly pleasant and the whole lunch was lovely. But that's not very interesting, is it? I had to get something negative from the day (IT'S WHO I AM) and I still think that breastfeeding at a dinner table that you are sharing with other guests at a wedding is one of the few exceptions to when public breastfeeding would be better if it was more discreet. My mind hasn't changed about that. What my mind has opened up to is what a massive pain in the arse feeding a baby must be.

Is it a surprise that I, a childless man who has absolutely no interest in ever having children, am a tad naive when it comes to the subject of breastfeeding? It shouldn't be. Why should I give a fuck about the laws and etiquette of breastfeeding? I'll tell you why: because it's yet another thing that the rest of the world does for YOUR baby. I'm glad people decided to put me in my place over the issue because I understand what goes on and how it effects mothers more now. I'm happy to know this because I'm supportive of YOUR baby. Just like the rest of the world is. We don't have to be, we want to be.

The main response to my blog (which was supposed to be a fucking joke, you joyless bunch of furious cunts) was negative and the stories that I received from people saying that "one time I was asked to leave a shop because I was breastfeeding" or "one time I was given a dirty look just because I was breastfeeding on a bus" just became utterly trivial to me. You really are a deeply selfish bunch of thankless fuckers. I fully understand how difficult it must be, what a chore it is and how when a baby is upset and needs food you just have to feed it there and then but to even suggest that because you breastfeed you are persecuted is utterly ridiculous. The rest of the world actually bends over backwards for YOUR baby. Creches are built in shops, cinemas are given over to you for special screenings and you can breastfeed anywhere you want (even at a dinner table, apparently). The rest of the world tolerates this because it is supportive of YOUR baby. That's the reason that no one said anything during the lunch because we tolerate it. The rest of the world tolerates it. Not everyone might like it (none of us HAVE to like it) but we tolerate it. And we tolerate it because, like YOU, we want what's best for YOUR baby.

No one has a grudge against a baby. It's a natural gut instinct within us all to wish the best for a child. We've all fucked it all up but maybe this one will be OK we think as we're told we can't swim during 10am-11am because of the Mothers and Babies session. Has our tolerance of YOUR baby really gone that unnoticed by you? I can't help but think that for all of society's few arseholes (maybe me included) that can't stand the amount of cuntingly huge all-terrain sports buggies that fill the entrance to Tesco that there are millions more who are all up for making sure that you have a parking space right by the door. After all, we didn't force you to have a baby. And there isn't a single, solitary reason that isn't completely selfish for having one. There really isn't. "We're in love and we just feel having a baby is right". What has that got to do with the baby? That's your problem. "I think it's what God put us here to do". Grow the fuck up. "There's just something inside me that makes me feel like I must have a child". Oh, it's one rule for you and another for the paedophiles. Not good enough!

I've met very few parents that don't have selfishness written all over them. They rarely shut up about their child or having their child, they walk about shoving their baby down your throat and just expect the world to stop doing what it's doing to make sure their baby is OK. I have no idea why YOU do this because we already do try to make sure your baby is OK. We're the best support group YOU have and YOU'RE lucky to have us. For all our fuck ups, we're on YOUR side and I think we do a really good job.

But was there one report in amongst all these complaints of how society has changed to accommodate YOUR baby? Fuck no. Parents are very selfish you see.

My Mum is incredibly selfish. She was on Songs Of Praise last night and I watched the entire thing from beginning to end. I sat through TV Church for my Mum and only saw the top of the back of her head. I'll never get that half an hour back. Luckily, what with not having any kids I had nothing better to do anyway.

By the way, someone called Anonymous (or Coward as I like to call them) posted a response to yesterdays blog on Blogger.com saying that a law was passed in Scotland making it illegal to prevent breastfeeding anywhere. Isn't that the case all over the UK? Am I wrong? You know, again.

Oh, and James Corden is a cunt. There. All better again.


Sunday, 14 March 2010

Breast On Show.

Here's the dilemma: do you pretend that nothing is happening or do you tell them that this is all just a bit weird. I mean, it's not like they're doing anything wrong. Well, certainly not illegal anyway. It's just that I don't know them, I've never once spoken to them, we haven't been introduced and I just don't want the first thing that I say to anyone to be "Please stop breastfeeding, I'm trying to eat my lunch".

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to be invited to the wedding of my good friends Tara and Carl. Two people more suited to one another you could not imagine. Genuinely. They're almost too good to be true. They're both very creative and very beautiful and, if they had any decency in them at all, when they have sex they should let us all watch. We might learn something. Look, the point is that it was a really lovely ceremony. Father Dara O'Briain did an absolutely incredible job of being both funny and touching. He said some very sweet things indeed. Carl got teary eyed during his vows but, of course, Tara HAD to upstage him by singing to him during hers. It's fantastic being in a room full of comedians watching something that is just lovely with not one comic deciding that it needed a joke to be shouted out. I mean, obviously I thought of loads but I think we are all just enjoying how nice it all was and realised anything added was just taking too much away. Hooray for shutting the fuck up.

Then after the ceremony we all sat down to a beautiful meal while we all pretended that the woman directly opposite me wasn't breastfeeding her baby.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-baby. I like babies and me and this baby were definitely getting on. I had yet to speak to either of his parents but I had briefly said hello to him and he seemed to like my many stupid faces. And waving. He loved it when I waved. The food arrived and I started eating. The starter was goats cheese and beetroot tartlet and it was delicious. I was really enjoying it. Then I saw it. Her tit.

Her tit was feeding a baby while I was eating goats cheese and beetroot tartlet. I haven't said hello to her yet but I have seen her tit. In a baby's mouth. The table conversation was just so strange at that time. We talked about Irish actors who cling on to their one Father Ted appearance, restaurants in Germany, Bad Play, not being physically able to stay awake to watch the Oscars, Matt Smith and travelling to the wedding. In fact, the only subject that we seemed to miss was "that woman is breastfeeding at our dinner table".

I know what you're thinking. "Breastfeeding is a natural thing". I agree. So is having a shit but I feel that soiling myself before I've even been introduced to someone might put that person off me a tad so I go to the toilet and do that in there instead. And I know what you're thinking now. "Oh, I see, Michael. If we want to breastfeed we should just go into a tiny stinking dark room and do it then, hmmm?" Calm down. The answer is simple: yes.

It doesn't even need to be a dark room. I'm not a monster. Ladies, have as many candles as you want. Even scented ones. That takes care of the dark and the stinking. I don't even insist on a tiny room. It can be huge. I don't care. I just think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, if you CAN be discreet about breastfeeding a child then maybe you should take that opportunity. I realise that we're all mature, middle-class, modern people but not everyone is totally cool with seeing a child getting twatted in the face by your udder.

Of course, that's not a problem. It really isn't. What I thought was way weirder than knowing more about that woman's breast than I do about her is the fact that NO ONE SAID ANYTHING. No one at all. Are we that hopelessly mature that we can't even point and giggle when we see boobies now? Shame on all of us.

Babies n' tits were all soon totally forgotten about because it was time for me to utterly embarrass myself by getting very, very drunk and acting like a big arsehole. I danced and sang the night away like I was Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers all car-crashed into one. I apologise to anyone who was anywhere near me. But I'm not that sorry because I loved it. It was a great fun night and I'm very, very happy that my two friends are very, very happy. It's all lovely really, isn't it?


Friday, 12 March 2010

Dress Sexy At My Funeral.

Well, my "bad" news didn't happen after all which is great for me. It means I'm still going to Edinburgh and everything is back on course. But now I have nothing to complain about so that's my blog fucked. Christ Almighty will these things ever stop tormenting me? Even when my life is going well it's only doing so so it can screw up the one thing I actually like doing: this. CUNTS!

Even gigs have been going well recently. I say well, last week I did a gig to 12 people in a University in Hatfield (they were lovely but they were 12 people. And they ALL sat at the back of the room) and last night I performed in front of a whopping 22 people in East London. They were quite nice but the room was so big and there were so few people there that everyone just felt a bit awkward. When I bounced cheerily on to the stage the general vibe was "Oh. Oh, God, no. You're not really going ahead with this, are you? I mean, no-one is here. You don't expect ME to laugh, do you? Oh, sweet Jesus" and that got me thinking.

What if not very many people turn up for my funeral? Will they still go ahead with it? I don't know if funerals ever get cancelled due to lack of interest but it was pretty much the only thing I was thinking about during my opening 10 minutes.

I quite like the idea of not very many people turning up to my funeral. It would be really awkward and embarrassing but not for me. I'd be dead. The stupid, respectful few who turned up would definitely feel weird about it though and that would be my final "fuck you" to them. The stupid, caring, lovely bastards. Or even better, what if just one person turned up to my funeral? That would be great! Ha ha ha! You liked the most unpopular man on Earth! You sitting alone, wearing black, wreath holding cunt! Actually, maybe the only person to come to my funeral would be Janice Pollack, the girl that everyone fancied in my primary school. Finally, I'd be alone with Janice Pollack. That would show those boys at school who laughed when I wrote about how much I hearted her on the front of my jotter. Yeah, if I was dead and only Janice Pollack turned up I'd have revenge and maybe even a new girlfriend.

Like I said, things are going well at the moment. Not much to complain about so I have to make things up. Perhaps I need to get out more.


Wednesday, 10 March 2010

The Joy of Saxon.

I didn't like that. That break between blogs, I mean. Sadly, I've now got so used to shit happening to me that I actually get quite happy about it. At least I'll be able to blog about it tomorrow, I often think. Well, while having a break from blogging that just means that shit was happening to me and I was getting nothing out of it other than confusion and embarrassment.

And a lot of stuff has happened. Things that should have been blogged but now never will be. Things like the woman with no head, arguing with a 90 year old, James Cunting Corden in MY Dr. Who, giving a man wrong directions on purpose, watching Saturday Night Fever for the first time and why I will never watch it again, the barmaid who didn't know God was fictional, the fucking middle-class who consider Lidl to be a Moroccan Bazaar, laughing at This Is Jinsy when the law states you're not allowed to, just because you fought for this country doesn't mean you're not a cunt, mobile phones have made it easier to mock the mentally ill and many, many more. Well, maybe I will blog one or two of them up sometime but I shouldn't really. They're in the past. Let's leave it. Move on. Plus, I'm far too happy.

I know and I'm sorry.

Lots of things have been keeping me cheery lately. Los Quattros Cvnts started it's monthly residency at The Phoenix last Wednesday and it was far better than I could have expected. The room was full, the audience just got it right from the word go and Robin Ince patronised me more in one sentence than he has ever done in our entire friendship. And that's saying something. "Michael, I haven't even lent you philosophy books yet", he gurned from the stage. Yes. Educate me, O Master. That said, he was utterly brilliant as was our other special guest Bridget Christie. She was brilliANT. Get it? No? Well, you should have been there. The next one is on April 7th. Don't miss it.

But nothing has made me quite so happy as BBC4 has this past week. Ah, BBC4. You are BBC3's intelligent, beautiful and incredibly embarrassed brother and I love you. If I could have sex with any TV station it would be BBC4 even if BBC4 is a man who dresses like a geek.

Apart from screening a great documentary about the life and death of Dennis Wilson that only let itself down right at the end when Dennis' friend was forced to throw a flower into the harbour where Dennis drowned (you can tell that he was forced to do this. It's what stupid documentary makers do all the time. Check out the first minute of Bennett Arron's How To Steal An Identity. He didn't REALLY want to go stone skimming), they've shown the glorious Heavy Metal Britannia that you really must see.

Heavy metal pretty much took up most of my time between 1980 and 1990 and, apparently, I know a ridiculous amount about it. More than I should, that's for sure. I joined the Iron Maiden fan club in 1981 and spent my youth sewing pictures of Satan on to my clothes, growing my hair so that I looked like Bonnie Langford and buying records by Maiden, Anthrax, Metallica, Def Leppard, Judas Priest, Motorhead and Hall & Oates. I can explain the heavy metal thing but Hall & Oates still baffles me. I recall in 1985 getting up all my courage to ask a girl to dance with me. She was beautiful and cool and for some reason she said yes. I wasn't expecting that. I also didn't expect the DJ to change songs from something awful by Paul Young to You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC. It was fine while most of the song played. We danced. We smiled at each other. It was going well. Then the guitar solo started.

I couldn't help myself, alright? It's a very irresistible force, the air guitar. It's also very funny to look at, apparently. So funny that you have to scream, point and run back to your friends.

And that's what Heavy Metal Britannia is all about. Where do all the unattractive, socially awkward people go to be accepted? Heavy metal, my friend. Spandex, leather, booze, motorbikes and soooo many women. Yeah, we got none of that. And that's what we all had in common. We didn't even have books. At least if we had we would have liked Joy Division and ended up fucking indie girls. Anyone can fuck an indie girl. They HATE themselves. Brilliant.

But I chose heavy metal. Sexless music that sang about anything other than sex. World War II, dragons, Alexander the Great, cannons, the death of an Egyptian idiot, the stupid government and fire were the subjects I knew most in the 80's thanks to these badly dressed middle aged drunks. Heavy Metal Britannia is still on iPlayer, as is the amazing Iron Maiden documentary Flight 666. It's so funny. Ever wanted golf or tennis tips from the fat, tired and old? Then look no further. An absolute must.

And that's what makes me happy. I love being happy. That will change tomorrow. I'll tell you why then. Bye bye.