Pathetic. I couldn’t even go two whole fucking days. My 5-day detox failed miserably last night due to, well, me. I mean, it wasn’t totally my fault. Someone bought me a beer. Obviously I could have said no but that would have been rude. I am never rude. Plus I was with my lovely friend John and I couldn’t just sit there while he had a beer and I didn’t. Like I say, PATHETIC.
And I tried. I am drinking this detox crap and I’m eating fruit and avoiding everything that I like. Yesterday I ate a Beetroot and mixed pulse salad. You know, like a cunt would. I had vegetarian sushi. And a pomegranate. I ate a fucking pomegranate. I don’t even know what a pomegranate is and yet I put one in my mouth and swallowed it. I hate detox. Yes, yes, yes, it’s only 5 days but all my habits are a habit. I like habits. And when you give up one habit you just replace it for another one. My new habit is weird. I like to pay for strange men to urinate.
It’s happened twice in the last week now. And in the same place. There’s just something about Charing Cross station that makes me want to urinate. I don’t know if it’s the beautiful Victorian architecture or the amount of liquid I drink but I always seem to pee when I’m there. Luckily, there is a toilet there so the embarrassment is normally minimal. Normally. Last week I went downstairs to the toilet lair and I saw a man standing right by the turnstiles. I had my 30p-To-Pee ready in my hand and was ready to just skip right in and wee myself to Heaven and back but the man stopped me. He asked if I had change of a pound so that he too could urine his brains out. My cousin, Patti, used to have this incredibly generous thing when it came to toll booths. She lives in America and America had 50 billion squillion toll booths so inevitably she would come across one every few feet while driving. She’d pay her dollar (or whatever they call “money” there) and then pay for the car behind too. I was always impressed by that. It’s a really kind thing to do. Well, this was my chance to be just as kind. I had lots of change so instead of paying for someone who I don’t know to drive through a highway toll booth I would pay for someone who I don’t know to expel their urine. Their urine would be my pleasure. I gave him the 30p and told him to not even worry about it. He looked very pleased. So pleased that he walked with me to my urinal and used the one next to me, all the while thanking me and telling me how desperate he was to pee. I didn’t like that bit. I don’t mind helping someone out if they really are in need but I do insist that they fuck off as soon as I’ve done it. I will NEVER do that again.
As you know, I did it again.
Last night pretty much the same thing happened except for two things. One, he needed change for a 50p piece and two, I stupidly made a “joke”. When I gave him the 30p he tried to give me his 50p. I said that he didn’t need to worry about it and when he tried to push the 50p on me I stupidly said “Your piss in on me”.
He laughed.
He laughed for ages. He laughed while taking my money, through the turnstile and on the way to the urinal. He stood right beside me laughing all the while. Apparently I had “tickled him”. Something I feel a bit weird about a strange man saying while we both have our cocks out. He then asked my name, my job, where I lived, where I was going and told me how much he was enjoying his piss. The piss that I paid for. But all his talk was stopping my piss from coming out. An achievement in itself as the detox crap that I’ve been drinking has meant that I’m spending about 100% of my time in the toilet (surely there is NOTHING left in me?). He pissed, zipped up, patted my back and thanked me again then left. I must have stood there for 3 minutes mentally shouting at my piss and ordering it to get out. I don’t know. There’s just something about getting patted while trying to piss that puts me and my penis right off the experience. I will NEVER do that again.
2 days of crap detox to go.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Hellthy.
I have been to hell.
I'm not saying I've been to hell and back because I haven't. I have yet to return from hell. I am in hell right now and, you know what, it's really unpleasant. Hell is not the hot party town full of the decadent people that the Bible would let you think. On the contrary. Hell's rubbish. But I'm here for a good reason. Or a bad one, I haven't made up my mind. Stupidly, I've decided to go on a 5-day detox.
5 days. 5 whole days with no booze, no caffeine, no dairy, no wheat, no happiness, no joy. It started yesterday so I still have 4 more versions of boring, boring yesterday to follow. I ate fruit yesterday. FRUIT. Not chocolate or anything. No. FRUIT. Loads of it. Plums, apples, bananas and...erm...what are those really tiny oranges called? You know, the tiny oranges? Christmas fruit, that's right. God, I ate so much fruit yesterday because yesterday was boring and awful and lonely and frustrating and, fuck me, it was dull. Did you know that some people actually go every single day without beer, chocolate, Diet Coke, bread, cheese and breakfast wine? That's how they live their icy cold, jet black lives. Yet they claim to be happy. LIARS! They go to work after eating nuts and berries and sit in their office making yearly plans and improvement charts and instead of eating chips for lunch they go to the cunting gym where they will meet more robots built by the same tedious Professor Dickhead like they were and then they will stay late in the office, NOT BECAUSE THEY WERE TOLD TO BUT BECAUSE THEY FUCKING WANT TO, and then fucking cycle home instead of rushing to the pub to forget, forget, forget. Then they will steam some awful inedible beige cloth that they claim is food and eat it while watching Grey's Anatomy before drinking a glass of water and going to bed at 10.30 instead of drinking beer all alone and watching Family Guy and repeating "That's a shame" all over Russell Howard's Good News. Then the cunts wake up the next day and happily do it all over again.
I'm on a 5-day detox and, yes I might be overreacting, but I hate it. It's not like I pour awful shit down my throat excessively every day but I was designed to be lazy and things that are convenient to eat or drink are my favourite things to devour. Muesli just looks like a chore to eat. Toast and peanut butter is easy and delicious but basically wheat (which the whole fucking world is allergic to, apparently) and fat. A salad is just so much effort to make and has very little to give back once you've done it whereas chips are just there. Ready and waiting. Mmmmmm...tasty and it might kill me. That's how I like my food, like I like my women: Delicious, deadly and unwrapped. With vinegar. And bread and butter. And given to me by a man who never washes his hands.
4 useless, dull days to go. It will be interesting only to see if I do it without cheating at all. I'm on at the London Comedy Improv at The Phoenix tonight and that will be a test. I normally turn up there and eat unhealthy, lovely food and then there is the booze, booze, booze afterwards. Probably best for me to bolt out the door as soon as the show is finished.
I mean, it's only 4 days, right? 4 days is easy. And I'm giving up all this bad stuff simply because ...erm ...God, I have no idea why I'm doing this.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I'm not saying I've been to hell and back because I haven't. I have yet to return from hell. I am in hell right now and, you know what, it's really unpleasant. Hell is not the hot party town full of the decadent people that the Bible would let you think. On the contrary. Hell's rubbish. But I'm here for a good reason. Or a bad one, I haven't made up my mind. Stupidly, I've decided to go on a 5-day detox.
5 days. 5 whole days with no booze, no caffeine, no dairy, no wheat, no happiness, no joy. It started yesterday so I still have 4 more versions of boring, boring yesterday to follow. I ate fruit yesterday. FRUIT. Not chocolate or anything. No. FRUIT. Loads of it. Plums, apples, bananas and...erm...what are those really tiny oranges called? You know, the tiny oranges? Christmas fruit, that's right. God, I ate so much fruit yesterday because yesterday was boring and awful and lonely and frustrating and, fuck me, it was dull. Did you know that some people actually go every single day without beer, chocolate, Diet Coke, bread, cheese and breakfast wine? That's how they live their icy cold, jet black lives. Yet they claim to be happy. LIARS! They go to work after eating nuts and berries and sit in their office making yearly plans and improvement charts and instead of eating chips for lunch they go to the cunting gym where they will meet more robots built by the same tedious Professor Dickhead like they were and then they will stay late in the office, NOT BECAUSE THEY WERE TOLD TO BUT BECAUSE THEY FUCKING WANT TO, and then fucking cycle home instead of rushing to the pub to forget, forget, forget. Then they will steam some awful inedible beige cloth that they claim is food and eat it while watching Grey's Anatomy before drinking a glass of water and going to bed at 10.30 instead of drinking beer all alone and watching Family Guy and repeating "That's a shame" all over Russell Howard's Good News. Then the cunts wake up the next day and happily do it all over again.
I'm on a 5-day detox and, yes I might be overreacting, but I hate it. It's not like I pour awful shit down my throat excessively every day but I was designed to be lazy and things that are convenient to eat or drink are my favourite things to devour. Muesli just looks like a chore to eat. Toast and peanut butter is easy and delicious but basically wheat (which the whole fucking world is allergic to, apparently) and fat. A salad is just so much effort to make and has very little to give back once you've done it whereas chips are just there. Ready and waiting. Mmmmmm...tasty and it might kill me. That's how I like my food, like I like my women: Delicious, deadly and unwrapped. With vinegar. And bread and butter. And given to me by a man who never washes his hands.
4 useless, dull days to go. It will be interesting only to see if I do it without cheating at all. I'm on at the London Comedy Improv at The Phoenix tonight and that will be a test. I normally turn up there and eat unhealthy, lovely food and then there is the booze, booze, booze afterwards. Probably best for me to bolt out the door as soon as the show is finished.
I mean, it's only 4 days, right? 4 days is easy. And I'm giving up all this bad stuff simply because ...erm ...God, I have no idea why I'm doing this.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Borderline Rude.
Ah, youth. What a great excuse they have to be as stupid as they want. "They're too young". That's the excuse for them breaking stuff, throwing stuff, shouting stuff, puking stuff, peeing in stuff and giving commentary to people walking around the park. They are funny.
I took Jerk to the park on Sunday for a quick run around. Right at the park's entrance I saw two boys sitting on a park bench. I threw the ball for Jerk and she bolted after it. "Whoah!", said the boys.
They were right to Whoah! Jerk is a very impressive runner and when's she in full throttle she's just beautiful. The focus, the speed, the grace. So much more impressive than me wheezing and limping after it when Jerk suddenly gets bored with our ball throwing game and refuses to chase anymore. The boys kept watching while Jerk ran up and down the hill, returning the ball to me in return for a biscuit. After a while, they decided to give a running commentary to everything they saw.
"The ball goes flying and the dog is neeeeaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrr...And he catches it on the second bounce! YES!!! That dog is so fast, isn't it, Calvin?"
"You're right, Bobby. And look at it running up the hill. It drops the ball and wins food."
"BOOM! The ball is going down the hill again, Calvin. Will the dog get it before it goes in the river?"
"YES! That was amazing, Bobby. He got it just before it splashed in the water".
The two boys went on like that for about 5 minutes and it was really making me laugh. They put on posh/serious voices "just like commentators" and even their constant referring to my little Princess as "he" couldn't stop them from being absolutely brilliant. In fact, they only got funnier.
After a while, seeing a dog run up and down a hill got boring so they decided to commentate on other things. It started off quite sweetly but soon turned horrible. Funny but horrible.
"That bike went really fast over that bridge. What do you think, Calvin?"
"It was very fast, Bobby. And this man running up the hill looks so tired. He might not make it to the top, Bobby".
"He's got lots of sweat, Calvin. This ugly old woman looks like she doesn't know where she's going".
"She's mad, Bobby. She looks like she stinks".
"Will the bridge break when this fat man walks over it, Calvin?"
"Yes, it will, Bobby".
The thing is, the commentary wasn't quiet. They were shouting everything they saw and what they thought of it. And the people they were referring to kept turning round to give two dirty looks. One to the little boys who don't know any better and one to the 41 year old man who kept laughing. I'm pretty sure that the boys were doing it just to entertain me because every time I laughed they just got louder and more rude. Eventually, Bobby asked if he could throw the ball for Jerk. I gave him the ball launcher and told him how to use it. He threw the ball.
About 5 feet in front of him. He was pathetic. But he gave it another go. He was still shit. In fact, he was shit time and time again and Jerk was getting frustrated while he was getting embarrassed. Mainly because Calvin had continued the commentary and I had joined him. Basically, I found myself siding with a small boy while we both ganged up and bullied another small boy. It was great fun and I heartily recommend it.
That said, Bobby hated it. After about 10 pathetic attempts to throw the ball and constant laughter and abuse from a 50 year old (if you combined mine and Calvin's ages), Bobby threw the ball launcher down and sulked back to the commentator's bench.
I might be too old to have an excuse for my stupidity but I'm grateful for life occasionally letting me be as childish as I want. Especially if it means upsetting a child.
I think something great happened to me last night. I think it's great. It might be great. You tell me.
I think I've shaken Glee. I really like Glee although, to be honest, I can't justify why I like it. I mean, it makes me laugh but all of the characters are annoying and the musical numbers are embarrassing. But last night's Madonna special was just shit. It wasn't funny. It was simply an advert for Madonna's back catalogue. It was selling Madonna and forgetting the jokes. Usually there's 3 or 4 songs, there must have been 12 in last night's episode. Plus, all of a sudden, Sue Sylvester has a musical idol that she's worshipped her entire life but, you know, it just hasn't ever come up until last night's BUY MADONNA special. It was balls. Terrible. Really, really awful.
And I felt great.
Thank fuck that's over. Now back to boy's spaceship programmes. YAY!!!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I took Jerk to the park on Sunday for a quick run around. Right at the park's entrance I saw two boys sitting on a park bench. I threw the ball for Jerk and she bolted after it. "Whoah!", said the boys.
They were right to Whoah! Jerk is a very impressive runner and when's she in full throttle she's just beautiful. The focus, the speed, the grace. So much more impressive than me wheezing and limping after it when Jerk suddenly gets bored with our ball throwing game and refuses to chase anymore. The boys kept watching while Jerk ran up and down the hill, returning the ball to me in return for a biscuit. After a while, they decided to give a running commentary to everything they saw.
"The ball goes flying and the dog is neeeeaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrr...And he catches it on the second bounce! YES!!! That dog is so fast, isn't it, Calvin?"
"You're right, Bobby. And look at it running up the hill. It drops the ball and wins food."
"BOOM! The ball is going down the hill again, Calvin. Will the dog get it before it goes in the river?"
"YES! That was amazing, Bobby. He got it just before it splashed in the water".
The two boys went on like that for about 5 minutes and it was really making me laugh. They put on posh/serious voices "just like commentators" and even their constant referring to my little Princess as "he" couldn't stop them from being absolutely brilliant. In fact, they only got funnier.
After a while, seeing a dog run up and down a hill got boring so they decided to commentate on other things. It started off quite sweetly but soon turned horrible. Funny but horrible.
"That bike went really fast over that bridge. What do you think, Calvin?"
"It was very fast, Bobby. And this man running up the hill looks so tired. He might not make it to the top, Bobby".
"He's got lots of sweat, Calvin. This ugly old woman looks like she doesn't know where she's going".
"She's mad, Bobby. She looks like she stinks".
"Will the bridge break when this fat man walks over it, Calvin?"
"Yes, it will, Bobby".
The thing is, the commentary wasn't quiet. They were shouting everything they saw and what they thought of it. And the people they were referring to kept turning round to give two dirty looks. One to the little boys who don't know any better and one to the 41 year old man who kept laughing. I'm pretty sure that the boys were doing it just to entertain me because every time I laughed they just got louder and more rude. Eventually, Bobby asked if he could throw the ball for Jerk. I gave him the ball launcher and told him how to use it. He threw the ball.
About 5 feet in front of him. He was pathetic. But he gave it another go. He was still shit. In fact, he was shit time and time again and Jerk was getting frustrated while he was getting embarrassed. Mainly because Calvin had continued the commentary and I had joined him. Basically, I found myself siding with a small boy while we both ganged up and bullied another small boy. It was great fun and I heartily recommend it.
That said, Bobby hated it. After about 10 pathetic attempts to throw the ball and constant laughter and abuse from a 50 year old (if you combined mine and Calvin's ages), Bobby threw the ball launcher down and sulked back to the commentator's bench.
I might be too old to have an excuse for my stupidity but I'm grateful for life occasionally letting me be as childish as I want. Especially if it means upsetting a child.
I think something great happened to me last night. I think it's great. It might be great. You tell me.
I think I've shaken Glee. I really like Glee although, to be honest, I can't justify why I like it. I mean, it makes me laugh but all of the characters are annoying and the musical numbers are embarrassing. But last night's Madonna special was just shit. It wasn't funny. It was simply an advert for Madonna's back catalogue. It was selling Madonna and forgetting the jokes. Usually there's 3 or 4 songs, there must have been 12 in last night's episode. Plus, all of a sudden, Sue Sylvester has a musical idol that she's worshipped her entire life but, you know, it just hasn't ever come up until last night's BUY MADONNA special. It was balls. Terrible. Really, really awful.
And I felt great.
Thank fuck that's over. Now back to boy's spaceship programmes. YAY!!!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 26 April 2010
The Wrong Time.
What the fuck were the BBC thinking? I mean they have a long history of crapping all over Doctor Who. Pretty much since day one. But you'd think now that it is the BBC's most popular drama series they might just give it a bit of respect. Well, you're fucking wrong, aren't you? I'm used to the BBC doing their best to ruin my favourite TV programme. They don't give it a strictly regular time of transmission like, say, ever single other programme they make and they even make sure that we have to miss out on seeing it for one week every series so that nothing gets in the way of the incredibly important Eurovision Song Contest. The BBC clearly hate Doctor Who. But this new insult? Christ Almighty.
On Saturday night, just before the episode ended, right at the very cliffhanger, at the moment of suspense designed to keep us all excited until next week...the BBC put up a cartoon Graham Norton on the screen to remind us to watch Over The fucking Rainbow.
You stupid bastards.
I mean, for fuck's sake, Over The fucking Rainbow is the NEXT programme on. The actual programme itself would be on in 60 seconds time. Did they actually need to remind us of something that was literally about to happen? Or, you know, and I'm just saying, did they do it on purpose?
All I know is that it would NEVER happen during any sport on TV. Doctor Who? That's fine. We can shit all over that. It's just the best TV programme the BBC have but, hey, it's nowhere near as important or as religiously enlightening as golf. Go on, BBC. Where's your balls? I DARE you to advertise Over The fucking Rainbow in the middle of any sport you broadcast with my money.
Not that that will make up for their ridiculous mistake. It won't. The BBC have issued a half-hearted who-gives-a-shit apology for the cartoon Graham Norton and that's just not good enough. If they're really sorry for upsetting Doctor Who fans then they have to make amends. During the tedious World Cup, every time England are about to score a goal, the BBC must scroll a cartoon of Dale Winton screaming COO-EEE, SHUT YER FACE, SEEMS LIKE A NICE BOY across the screen. Then, maybe then, will I start getting a sense of humour about this trivial bit of nothing. But until then, I'm furious.
Apart from that, it was great. I love Matt Smith, me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
On Saturday night, just before the episode ended, right at the very cliffhanger, at the moment of suspense designed to keep us all excited until next week...the BBC put up a cartoon Graham Norton on the screen to remind us to watch Over The fucking Rainbow.
You stupid bastards.
I mean, for fuck's sake, Over The fucking Rainbow is the NEXT programme on. The actual programme itself would be on in 60 seconds time. Did they actually need to remind us of something that was literally about to happen? Or, you know, and I'm just saying, did they do it on purpose?
All I know is that it would NEVER happen during any sport on TV. Doctor Who? That's fine. We can shit all over that. It's just the best TV programme the BBC have but, hey, it's nowhere near as important or as religiously enlightening as golf. Go on, BBC. Where's your balls? I DARE you to advertise Over The fucking Rainbow in the middle of any sport you broadcast with my money.
Not that that will make up for their ridiculous mistake. It won't. The BBC have issued a half-hearted who-gives-a-shit apology for the cartoon Graham Norton and that's just not good enough. If they're really sorry for upsetting Doctor Who fans then they have to make amends. During the tedious World Cup, every time England are about to score a goal, the BBC must scroll a cartoon of Dale Winton screaming COO-EEE, SHUT YER FACE, SEEMS LIKE A NICE BOY across the screen. Then, maybe then, will I start getting a sense of humour about this trivial bit of nothing. But until then, I'm furious.
Apart from that, it was great. I love Matt Smith, me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Apple Sauce.
Warming up a TV show is definitely the oddest of the jobs that I do. It's really half great, half shit. It's also incredibly lonely.
Luckily, I've yet to do warm-up for a TV show that constantly needs a warm-up. Normally it's a panel show so I go on at the beginning, do 15 minutes then I might go on somewhere in the middle and a very short bit near the end. Pretty much like comparing a gig, albeit with an audience who are constantly looking straight through you in the hope of seeing a TV camera move, a lighting bloke climb a ladder or, even worse, Colin Murray. Last night I warmed up the audience for Would I Lie To You? and I had no idea what to expect. I'd never seen the show before (I'll be very honest, I'd never even heard of it) and my default setting for TV warm-ups is I AM GOING TO DIE ON MY ARSE AND THEY WILL HATE ME.
Before I went into the studio (Pinewood, don't you know?) I bumped into Ray Peacock and, despite his insane views on the moon landing, I was both happy to see him and incredibly jealous of him. He was warming up for The IT Crowd, a comedy series that I actually like. In fact I love The IT Crowd. Here I am, in the home of Star Wars but with no time to look around, about to warm up a show that I will doubtless hate, to an audience who will doubtless hate me and I will be constantly asked to keep going on because of the stupid amount of breaks throughout the show. Each time pissing away my dwindling arsenal of unfunny jokes in front of people that would rather do time for my murder than hear my pathetic opinion on cats and dogs. While Peacock will be swanning around Studio One, having a clever, interested audience in the palm of his hand and watching one of the best sit-coms on TV being made right before his lucky, lucky eyes. He'll be being cheered by the crowd, drinking beer with Chris O'Dowd, Graham Linehan will laugh at his jokes and say "Man, that was great. Can I use that line?" and Katherine Parkinson will put everything she owns in his bum while I will be abused and tortured and spat on and despised.
That's the way of the warm-up.
Turns out the audience for Would I Lie To You? were very nice and I had to do a grand total of 8 minutes. That was it. OVER. 8 really lovely minutes. All that stress for nothing. I just went on at the top, they were lovely and 8 minutes later it was over. All that fuss and all I had to do was 8 minutes. 8 minutes. 8 frigging minutes. Why the fuck would they put me through such mental torture if they're just going to end up being lovely and I'm only going to be on for 8 minutes? The fucking evil cunts. I hate them.
And, hey, Would I Lie To You? is good. I really enjoyed watching it. It's a TV comedy and, somehow, I liked it. I would be great on that show. Come on, Zeppotron, let me be on that show. Don't be sly.
After the show I got to hang out with all the celebrities and by that I mean I got to hang out near the celebrities. I'm afraid I'm just not very good at talking to people I don't know. I realise that that's what you're supposed to do if you want your career to go forward, just march up to a celeb and say "Hi. M'name's Mike. Great show tonight. Hey, I gots m'self a little ol' sit-com script and would love you to cast your eyes on it", but I just can't do that. It's the work of the arsehole. Instead I'll stand in the room completely on my own and look at Twitter but pretend I'm going through loads of really important texts. Yes, even though everyone is ignoring me, I must look really important. Yeah, I bet anyone seeing me would think I must be incredibly big time if it wasn't for the fact that I am completely invisible. I'm just waiting on a cab so I have to be here. It's not like I can leave yet. But God, it's dull. Everyone knows everyone except me. I know Lee Mack but he's talking to David Mitchell and Ben Fogle and I just don't have the confidence to interrupt that conversation with "Hi, all! I have a podcast and I'm in a sketch group called Los Quattros Cvnts".
But I'm on my own. I warmed your fucking audience up for you. I gave 8 minutes of my blood, sweat and tears. Besides the fee I'm being paid, you fuckers owe me.
I marched right over there and barged right into their fucking world!
And it was lovely. Again, pressure over nothing. Why do they insist on doing that to me? What possible pleasure can they get out of forcing me to get stressed out about talking to them and then, when I've pathetically made my move, they just turn out to be really nice. I mean, they're just sick really. David Mitchell was very lovely indeed. Isn't that great to know? He's great on TV and nice in real life. He never once punched me or talked about my Mum's bucket. He was nice. And there I was, hanging with the celebrities. Lee, David (I can call him that now), Ben Fogle (we're still on that basis), Kate Silverton and Rob Brydon. Look at us. A great bunch of mates just having a laugh together. Muckers throwing giggles back and forward and sharing a couple of drinks. HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF THIS? What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
Then I did the coolest thing I've ever done in my life. I left first. I was with the celebs and I was the one who abandoned the party first.
Sure, they could have been over the moon that I had gone or, even though I was talking with them, they didn't even notice I had been there in the first place but I felt good. "Yeah, guys, guys, guys. Caoi for now, yeah? Laters", I may or may not have said as I walked away from them begging or not begging me to stay. God, I'm the coolest.
It was a great night though. Zeppotron people are nice people (go on, Zeppotron, please let me be on Would I Lie To You?) and I found out David Mitchell is nice. That's a good day for me. Plus someone working on The IT Crowd recognised my voice from Precious Little. That was funny and made me happy.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Luckily, I've yet to do warm-up for a TV show that constantly needs a warm-up. Normally it's a panel show so I go on at the beginning, do 15 minutes then I might go on somewhere in the middle and a very short bit near the end. Pretty much like comparing a gig, albeit with an audience who are constantly looking straight through you in the hope of seeing a TV camera move, a lighting bloke climb a ladder or, even worse, Colin Murray. Last night I warmed up the audience for Would I Lie To You? and I had no idea what to expect. I'd never seen the show before (I'll be very honest, I'd never even heard of it) and my default setting for TV warm-ups is I AM GOING TO DIE ON MY ARSE AND THEY WILL HATE ME.
Before I went into the studio (Pinewood, don't you know?) I bumped into Ray Peacock and, despite his insane views on the moon landing, I was both happy to see him and incredibly jealous of him. He was warming up for The IT Crowd, a comedy series that I actually like. In fact I love The IT Crowd. Here I am, in the home of Star Wars but with no time to look around, about to warm up a show that I will doubtless hate, to an audience who will doubtless hate me and I will be constantly asked to keep going on because of the stupid amount of breaks throughout the show. Each time pissing away my dwindling arsenal of unfunny jokes in front of people that would rather do time for my murder than hear my pathetic opinion on cats and dogs. While Peacock will be swanning around Studio One, having a clever, interested audience in the palm of his hand and watching one of the best sit-coms on TV being made right before his lucky, lucky eyes. He'll be being cheered by the crowd, drinking beer with Chris O'Dowd, Graham Linehan will laugh at his jokes and say "Man, that was great. Can I use that line?" and Katherine Parkinson will put everything she owns in his bum while I will be abused and tortured and spat on and despised.
That's the way of the warm-up.
Turns out the audience for Would I Lie To You? were very nice and I had to do a grand total of 8 minutes. That was it. OVER. 8 really lovely minutes. All that stress for nothing. I just went on at the top, they were lovely and 8 minutes later it was over. All that fuss and all I had to do was 8 minutes. 8 minutes. 8 frigging minutes. Why the fuck would they put me through such mental torture if they're just going to end up being lovely and I'm only going to be on for 8 minutes? The fucking evil cunts. I hate them.
And, hey, Would I Lie To You? is good. I really enjoyed watching it. It's a TV comedy and, somehow, I liked it. I would be great on that show. Come on, Zeppotron, let me be on that show. Don't be sly.
After the show I got to hang out with all the celebrities and by that I mean I got to hang out near the celebrities. I'm afraid I'm just not very good at talking to people I don't know. I realise that that's what you're supposed to do if you want your career to go forward, just march up to a celeb and say "Hi. M'name's Mike. Great show tonight. Hey, I gots m'self a little ol' sit-com script and would love you to cast your eyes on it", but I just can't do that. It's the work of the arsehole. Instead I'll stand in the room completely on my own and look at Twitter but pretend I'm going through loads of really important texts. Yes, even though everyone is ignoring me, I must look really important. Yeah, I bet anyone seeing me would think I must be incredibly big time if it wasn't for the fact that I am completely invisible. I'm just waiting on a cab so I have to be here. It's not like I can leave yet. But God, it's dull. Everyone knows everyone except me. I know Lee Mack but he's talking to David Mitchell and Ben Fogle and I just don't have the confidence to interrupt that conversation with "Hi, all! I have a podcast and I'm in a sketch group called Los Quattros Cvnts".
But I'm on my own. I warmed your fucking audience up for you. I gave 8 minutes of my blood, sweat and tears. Besides the fee I'm being paid, you fuckers owe me.
I marched right over there and barged right into their fucking world!
And it was lovely. Again, pressure over nothing. Why do they insist on doing that to me? What possible pleasure can they get out of forcing me to get stressed out about talking to them and then, when I've pathetically made my move, they just turn out to be really nice. I mean, they're just sick really. David Mitchell was very lovely indeed. Isn't that great to know? He's great on TV and nice in real life. He never once punched me or talked about my Mum's bucket. He was nice. And there I was, hanging with the celebrities. Lee, David (I can call him that now), Ben Fogle (we're still on that basis), Kate Silverton and Rob Brydon. Look at us. A great bunch of mates just having a laugh together. Muckers throwing giggles back and forward and sharing a couple of drinks. HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF THIS? What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
Then I did the coolest thing I've ever done in my life. I left first. I was with the celebs and I was the one who abandoned the party first.
Sure, they could have been over the moon that I had gone or, even though I was talking with them, they didn't even notice I had been there in the first place but I felt good. "Yeah, guys, guys, guys. Caoi for now, yeah? Laters", I may or may not have said as I walked away from them begging or not begging me to stay. God, I'm the coolest.
It was a great night though. Zeppotron people are nice people (go on, Zeppotron, please let me be on Would I Lie To You?) and I found out David Mitchell is nice. That's a good day for me. Plus someone working on The IT Crowd recognised my voice from Precious Little. That was funny and made me happy.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
The Song On The Bus Goes Round and Round.
So, this happened to me a week ago today. I'm late blogging it because just because. As you know, I occasionally get into slight altercations on public transport. Well, this is one of those blogs.
I had been going through stuff for my Work-In-Progress shows with Stella Duffy and on the way back on the bus I met a little girl. I didn't arrange to meet the little girl, I'm not a big weirdo, I just happened to make her acquaintance while on the bus. I sat just across from her and started reading as soon as I sat down. Now, I never really think of the bus as the perfect place to do some work, even if you're a bus driver, but I had to look over notes that Stella made before I forgot what they meant. I suffer from Memento and have to write things down quickly or they will be gone from my head forever. I don't do the tattoo thing though. You'd have thought that Memento, the lead character in Memento, would have made his first tattoo "Just get a notepad and write these things down" but I suppose that's what happens when you suffer from Memento like I do. You just don't know what to think all the time. So there I am reading and writing and trying to figure a few things out when the music starts. There's always music on public transport. Fucking awful music.
The little girl was, as is always the way, playing loud music out of her phone without wearing earphones. Just letting it all blast out so that we could all revel in her shit taste in music. At least when I was her age I liked David Bowie. I mean, I liked the music to Why Don't You? better but I definitely think I liked Bowie. Either way, I wouldn't have listened to THAT music when I was a little girl on a bus.
She was 10 years old, I'd say, and was happily singing along to the crap that was coming out of her phone. You're probably thinking that I should just let it go. She's only a little girl. She doesn't know any better. Just get over it. Well, you'll be glad to know that I just sat there saying nothing to her (for as long as I could) but it wasn't because she's a little girl and I should just get over it. No. It was worse than that.
The little girl just looked weird. Really weird. I was so close to turning to her and politely asking her to turn her music off but I took one look at her beach ball eyes and concrete hair and thought maybe she's got enough on her plate. She's too weird to be told off. Good for her. She'll get away with anything for the rest of her life.
But the music was too much and it was only one song. She played it over and over and over again. It was one of those songs that you know quite well but don't know what it's called or who made it because...well...it's fucking terrible. Like Delta Goodrem. Something like that. All screaming passion about absolutely nothing at all. Over and over and over again. I'm trying to figure out what notes mean what and all I can hear is that it's a lonely, lonely bed without ya, babe, over and over and over and over and over and over again. I can't take it. It's time to look into the eyes of The Medusa and say "I know you're only a little Gorgon but your music is fat balls in a pie".
I turned to the little girl and looked her spiralling collage of a face and said "Excuse me. Would you mind switching your music off for me, please? I'm trying to read and it's a bit distracting. Thank you".
Polite, firm and not too patronising. She's only 10 but no need to talk down to her. She stared at me (I think, it's hard to tell with her) for about 5 awkward seconds. Oh, dear. This isn't going well. I kept my smile on my face for as long as I could while waiting for her to respond. Come on, you mad looking 10 year old cunt. Say something.
She turned to a woman who was sitting quite far from her, not beside her, and said "Mum?"
Now, I would have gone to Mum first in a situation like this. No point me freaking out children when I can get their parents to do it. But I couldn't tell who Mum was. No one around this little girl looked like her. Obviously when this little girl was made they broke the mold. Or perhaps it was just before she was made. All I'm saying is...er...she must take after her Dad. Look, I just couldn't tell who Mum was OK?
The woman ignored her little girl, just staring out the bus window instead. "Mum?", the girl repeated. If this woman was this girl's Mum she was obviously not that into the roll. She just sat there staring out the window like she couldn't hear her own daughter. She couldn't hear her own daughter say "Mum?" or her own daughter's shit music coming out of her earphoneless phone. "MUM?", the girl said quite loudly.
Mum then looked up at the little girl and gave a look as if to say "What?".
The girl said nothing but looked over at me again and then back over at Mum. Mum gave the "What?" look again.
Is this really how these two fuckers communicate? I mean, at least point, for Christ's sake!
The girl looked over at me. Mum just looked confused. She didn't know that a man had asked her daughter to switch her music off and the way they were communicating she might never know. Then, all of a sudden, Mum realised that she needed to actually use words with her daughter. That really might help. "What is it?", she said.
"This man wants something", said the girl.
Mum took her earphones off and said "What?"
Aah! That's why the little girl isn't using her earphones. Mum has them. Mum is sitting far away from her daughter and listening to music through earphones while staring out the window. Brilliant. What an absolutely charming woman. The girl repeated her sentence and Mum looked over to me. "I just asked her if she could switch her music off, if that's OK? Very distracting. Thanks".
Mum rolled her eyes and put her earphones back in.
Well, I guess it's you and me, Kid. I felt really sorry for this little girl but if someone else doesn't point out that it's rude to play loud music then she'll never learn. I asked her again to switch it off but she just called for her Mum again. Mum had no interest. I looked at the girl with a "Please, switch that off" look on my face.
"NO!", she screamed.
Right. Fine. Ignore them. Just try to look through my stuff while cunts get away with it again. "Pair of cunts", I said as I went back to my notes. I'm not that happy with that because Mum will never know that I called her 50% of a pair of cunts and only the little girl heard it. But on the other hand, best get her used to hearing it.
Mum and little girl got off one stop before me. As they passed I told Mum that I thought she was extremely rude. "Fuck off", she said. Nice.
"I think Britain is great", says Eddie Izzard in his Labour video. Take the bus, Eddie, and get back to us.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I had been going through stuff for my Work-In-Progress shows with Stella Duffy and on the way back on the bus I met a little girl. I didn't arrange to meet the little girl, I'm not a big weirdo, I just happened to make her acquaintance while on the bus. I sat just across from her and started reading as soon as I sat down. Now, I never really think of the bus as the perfect place to do some work, even if you're a bus driver, but I had to look over notes that Stella made before I forgot what they meant. I suffer from Memento and have to write things down quickly or they will be gone from my head forever. I don't do the tattoo thing though. You'd have thought that Memento, the lead character in Memento, would have made his first tattoo "Just get a notepad and write these things down" but I suppose that's what happens when you suffer from Memento like I do. You just don't know what to think all the time. So there I am reading and writing and trying to figure a few things out when the music starts. There's always music on public transport. Fucking awful music.
The little girl was, as is always the way, playing loud music out of her phone without wearing earphones. Just letting it all blast out so that we could all revel in her shit taste in music. At least when I was her age I liked David Bowie. I mean, I liked the music to Why Don't You? better but I definitely think I liked Bowie. Either way, I wouldn't have listened to THAT music when I was a little girl on a bus.
She was 10 years old, I'd say, and was happily singing along to the crap that was coming out of her phone. You're probably thinking that I should just let it go. She's only a little girl. She doesn't know any better. Just get over it. Well, you'll be glad to know that I just sat there saying nothing to her (for as long as I could) but it wasn't because she's a little girl and I should just get over it. No. It was worse than that.
The little girl just looked weird. Really weird. I was so close to turning to her and politely asking her to turn her music off but I took one look at her beach ball eyes and concrete hair and thought maybe she's got enough on her plate. She's too weird to be told off. Good for her. She'll get away with anything for the rest of her life.
But the music was too much and it was only one song. She played it over and over and over again. It was one of those songs that you know quite well but don't know what it's called or who made it because...well...it's fucking terrible. Like Delta Goodrem. Something like that. All screaming passion about absolutely nothing at all. Over and over and over again. I'm trying to figure out what notes mean what and all I can hear is that it's a lonely, lonely bed without ya, babe, over and over and over and over and over and over again. I can't take it. It's time to look into the eyes of The Medusa and say "I know you're only a little Gorgon but your music is fat balls in a pie".
I turned to the little girl and looked her spiralling collage of a face and said "Excuse me. Would you mind switching your music off for me, please? I'm trying to read and it's a bit distracting. Thank you".
Polite, firm and not too patronising. She's only 10 but no need to talk down to her. She stared at me (I think, it's hard to tell with her) for about 5 awkward seconds. Oh, dear. This isn't going well. I kept my smile on my face for as long as I could while waiting for her to respond. Come on, you mad looking 10 year old cunt. Say something.
She turned to a woman who was sitting quite far from her, not beside her, and said "Mum?"
Now, I would have gone to Mum first in a situation like this. No point me freaking out children when I can get their parents to do it. But I couldn't tell who Mum was. No one around this little girl looked like her. Obviously when this little girl was made they broke the mold. Or perhaps it was just before she was made. All I'm saying is...er...she must take after her Dad. Look, I just couldn't tell who Mum was OK?
The woman ignored her little girl, just staring out the bus window instead. "Mum?", the girl repeated. If this woman was this girl's Mum she was obviously not that into the roll. She just sat there staring out the window like she couldn't hear her own daughter. She couldn't hear her own daughter say "Mum?" or her own daughter's shit music coming out of her earphoneless phone. "MUM?", the girl said quite loudly.
Mum then looked up at the little girl and gave a look as if to say "What?".
The girl said nothing but looked over at me again and then back over at Mum. Mum gave the "What?" look again.
Is this really how these two fuckers communicate? I mean, at least point, for Christ's sake!
The girl looked over at me. Mum just looked confused. She didn't know that a man had asked her daughter to switch her music off and the way they were communicating she might never know. Then, all of a sudden, Mum realised that she needed to actually use words with her daughter. That really might help. "What is it?", she said.
"This man wants something", said the girl.
Mum took her earphones off and said "What?"
Aah! That's why the little girl isn't using her earphones. Mum has them. Mum is sitting far away from her daughter and listening to music through earphones while staring out the window. Brilliant. What an absolutely charming woman. The girl repeated her sentence and Mum looked over to me. "I just asked her if she could switch her music off, if that's OK? Very distracting. Thanks".
Mum rolled her eyes and put her earphones back in.
Well, I guess it's you and me, Kid. I felt really sorry for this little girl but if someone else doesn't point out that it's rude to play loud music then she'll never learn. I asked her again to switch it off but she just called for her Mum again. Mum had no interest. I looked at the girl with a "Please, switch that off" look on my face.
"NO!", she screamed.
Right. Fine. Ignore them. Just try to look through my stuff while cunts get away with it again. "Pair of cunts", I said as I went back to my notes. I'm not that happy with that because Mum will never know that I called her 50% of a pair of cunts and only the little girl heard it. But on the other hand, best get her used to hearing it.
Mum and little girl got off one stop before me. As they passed I told Mum that I thought she was extremely rude. "Fuck off", she said. Nice.
"I think Britain is great", says Eddie Izzard in his Labour video. Take the bus, Eddie, and get back to us.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Homeless Wrecker.
You see, I really did want this blog to be either about me arguing with a little girl on the bus or my problems with the Black Eyed Peas (they are everywhere you go at all times) but sometimes something so incredible happens that other stories have to go to the side. This is my equivalent of breaking news.
I was on my way to last night's Work-In-Progress show at the Hen & Chickens when I realised I had no money so joined the queue at a cashpoint. Right by one of the machines was a homeless man. I didn't know this at the time but soon I would do the worst thing that you can possibly do to a homeless person. The worst thing ever.
I am a great supporter of the homeless. I mean, I don't support them being broke and without a home. To be honest, that's the thing about them that gets to me most. That must be shit. I support the homeless by giving money to Shelter and any spare change to homeless people when I can. The man said "Can you spare any change, please?" to the cashpoint queue but he really didn't need to say it to me. I was already going to give him my spare change. I am just that lovely.
The thing is, while I was in the queue and the homeless man was asking for change I did the thing of checking my pocket for change but not giving him eye contact. Look, I wanted to give him money but...well...I didn't want to talk to him. IS THAT SO BAD? It's not like he's hungry for conversation. He's just hungry. Plus, I know what would happen. We'll get into a chat and before long he'd be telling me where I've gone wrong in my career. It's the conversation I have with everyone. I just wasn't in the mood.
So, I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed a handful of change ready to give to the homeless man. I had lots of pub-last-night change in my pocket and was grabbing about half of it for him. I stepped to the cashpoint, did my cashpoint thing and all the while I was ready with a handful of change ready to spin round and give to the homeless man and quickly walk off without getting into the usual "Weren't you in Street-Cred Sudoku on UK Living about four years ago?" that I always get.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Like I said I was about to do the worst thing that anyone could do to a homeless man. The worst thing ever. And this is coming from someone who has physically got in between a homeless man and the evil cunt who was kicking him. That kicking man is a saint to the homeless compared to me now.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Along with my house keys.
It was an awkward two seconds as we both looked at the keys lying there in his hat. The keys. The keys to a house just lying there right in front of him. Centimetres away from his hand. Not as awkward as the moment that I reached into his hat, took the keys away from him and said "Can I have these back, please?"
For two seconds, two whole seconds, he had a home and like the evil shit I am I reached in and destroyed his new life. I am giving money to Shelter today. I really am.
Once again, the Work-In-Progress show was an absolute delight. If you were there, thanks very much. You're great and it was a lot of fun. If you weren't there then come along to the next one on the 31st May. Andrew Collins and I would love to see you. Again, I didn't get through as much material as I hoped (but that's a good thing) and again I forgot to say the name of the show: Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. But that's OK, I didn't actually get round to mentioning Raleigh either. What do you think of the title? Please let me know.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I was on my way to last night's Work-In-Progress show at the Hen & Chickens when I realised I had no money so joined the queue at a cashpoint. Right by one of the machines was a homeless man. I didn't know this at the time but soon I would do the worst thing that you can possibly do to a homeless person. The worst thing ever.
I am a great supporter of the homeless. I mean, I don't support them being broke and without a home. To be honest, that's the thing about them that gets to me most. That must be shit. I support the homeless by giving money to Shelter and any spare change to homeless people when I can. The man said "Can you spare any change, please?" to the cashpoint queue but he really didn't need to say it to me. I was already going to give him my spare change. I am just that lovely.
The thing is, while I was in the queue and the homeless man was asking for change I did the thing of checking my pocket for change but not giving him eye contact. Look, I wanted to give him money but...well...I didn't want to talk to him. IS THAT SO BAD? It's not like he's hungry for conversation. He's just hungry. Plus, I know what would happen. We'll get into a chat and before long he'd be telling me where I've gone wrong in my career. It's the conversation I have with everyone. I just wasn't in the mood.
So, I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed a handful of change ready to give to the homeless man. I had lots of pub-last-night change in my pocket and was grabbing about half of it for him. I stepped to the cashpoint, did my cashpoint thing and all the while I was ready with a handful of change ready to spin round and give to the homeless man and quickly walk off without getting into the usual "Weren't you in Street-Cred Sudoku on UK Living about four years ago?" that I always get.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Like I said I was about to do the worst thing that anyone could do to a homeless man. The worst thing ever. And this is coming from someone who has physically got in between a homeless man and the evil cunt who was kicking him. That kicking man is a saint to the homeless compared to me now.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Along with my house keys.
It was an awkward two seconds as we both looked at the keys lying there in his hat. The keys. The keys to a house just lying there right in front of him. Centimetres away from his hand. Not as awkward as the moment that I reached into his hat, took the keys away from him and said "Can I have these back, please?"
For two seconds, two whole seconds, he had a home and like the evil shit I am I reached in and destroyed his new life. I am giving money to Shelter today. I really am.
Once again, the Work-In-Progress show was an absolute delight. If you were there, thanks very much. You're great and it was a lot of fun. If you weren't there then come along to the next one on the 31st May. Andrew Collins and I would love to see you. Again, I didn't get through as much material as I hoped (but that's a good thing) and again I forgot to say the name of the show: Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. But that's OK, I didn't actually get round to mentioning Raleigh either. What do you think of the title? Please let me know.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 19 April 2010
Nicey.
What a fun weekend I’ve had. It was really weird too. I liked it.
On Saturday I co-presented the Collins & Herring show on 6music with Andrew Collins. Richard couldn’t do it so Andrew had to choose someone who would make the listeners really yearn for his return. He picked me. It was an incredibly joyful experience. My favourite bits were Hospital chocolate, Liz Kershaw getting Bjork mixed up with Iron Maiden and putting a Star Wars trash compactor into the Family Carriage of every train. By far my least favourite bit was recording the intro and outro to the podcast. Yeah. The podcast. The podcast that I listen to. The podcast that I’m a fan of. I never thought about the podcast when I said yes to this. I mean, anyone can get on the radio but it’s THEIR podcast. NO-ONE can “replace” Richard Herring on this. Who the fuck do I think I am? What an arrogant prick. Please send Michael Legge as much anti-him-on-the-Collins & Herring podcast hatemail as you can. That fucking wanker, who is me, shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. You can still listen to the full show on iPlayer here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00s41m1/Collins_and_Herring_17_04_2010/ but boycott the podcast until next week. Arrogant, arrogant prick.
Thanks obviously to Richard and Andrew for letting me do it. I didn’t break the BBC like I completely expected I would so hopefully they’re not too incredibly embarrassed of my contribution. Henry and Will at 6music are great and the fact that they let me play by beloved 28 Costumes means that they will always have a special place in my heart even if they end up killing my parents, bumming my wife and eating my dog. I thank them. It was also lovely to see so many listeners messages come through on the computer. They mainly consisted of "Has he sworn yet?", "I can't believe he hasn't sworn yet" and has he said cunt yet?"
Then yesterday Andrew and I did the first of our three Hen & Chickens work-in-progress shows and it was FUCKING BRILLIANT! If you came along then please know this: I love you.
We had an incredibly fun and supportive audience mainly made up of podophiles and members of the Nerd Army. Some of them were both. All day yesterday I stressed about learning all seven pages of my pointlessly wordy first attempt at my Edinburgh show for 2011 (yeah, I’ve given myself plenty of time) and I just could not learn it. Writing it out like a blog and saying it out loud are two very different things. While rehearsing I kept forgetting my place, forgetting lines, forgetting jokes, forgetting everything and I was starting to panic. Then I got the best advice I could have got.
Muki just looked at me and said “Yeah but it doesn’t matter”.
I hadn’t thought of that before.
It really doesn’t matter. I want the show to be good when it’s complete but now? It doesn’t matter now. I just need to do it and see what works and what doesn’t. A massive weight was lifted off my shoulders. Once again, laziness and a shoddy attitude to work had won the day.
Don’t get me wrong, I still went on stage with a setlist. And a script.
But I forgot stuff constantly and improvised constantly and it just didn’t matter. The audience were great and I had a truly great time thanks to them. Hopefully tonight will be just as good and I can get to the bits that I didn’t have time for last night (I only got through three pages). The story of the annoying girl in the wheelchair must be heard!
Plus, I forgot to even say the name of the show. It’s called Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. Is that a good title?
I don’t know. Come along tonight and tell me. You can buy tickets here: http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=374356&referral_id=s
My first blog for nearly a week and it’s all positive. How tedious. I’ll be blogging a lot more from now on. Just got a bit busy there for a while. I really need to tell you about arguing with a little girl on a bus and we need to talk about what we’re going to do about the Black Eyed Peas. Something needs to be done.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
On Saturday I co-presented the Collins & Herring show on 6music with Andrew Collins. Richard couldn’t do it so Andrew had to choose someone who would make the listeners really yearn for his return. He picked me. It was an incredibly joyful experience. My favourite bits were Hospital chocolate, Liz Kershaw getting Bjork mixed up with Iron Maiden and putting a Star Wars trash compactor into the Family Carriage of every train. By far my least favourite bit was recording the intro and outro to the podcast. Yeah. The podcast. The podcast that I listen to. The podcast that I’m a fan of. I never thought about the podcast when I said yes to this. I mean, anyone can get on the radio but it’s THEIR podcast. NO-ONE can “replace” Richard Herring on this. Who the fuck do I think I am? What an arrogant prick. Please send Michael Legge as much anti-him-on-the-Collins & Herring podcast hatemail as you can. That fucking wanker, who is me, shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. You can still listen to the full show on iPlayer here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00s41m1/Collins_and_Herring_17_04_2010/ but boycott the podcast until next week. Arrogant, arrogant prick.
Thanks obviously to Richard and Andrew for letting me do it. I didn’t break the BBC like I completely expected I would so hopefully they’re not too incredibly embarrassed of my contribution. Henry and Will at 6music are great and the fact that they let me play by beloved 28 Costumes means that they will always have a special place in my heart even if they end up killing my parents, bumming my wife and eating my dog. I thank them. It was also lovely to see so many listeners messages come through on the computer. They mainly consisted of "Has he sworn yet?", "I can't believe he hasn't sworn yet" and has he said cunt yet?"
Then yesterday Andrew and I did the first of our three Hen & Chickens work-in-progress shows and it was FUCKING BRILLIANT! If you came along then please know this: I love you.
We had an incredibly fun and supportive audience mainly made up of podophiles and members of the Nerd Army. Some of them were both. All day yesterday I stressed about learning all seven pages of my pointlessly wordy first attempt at my Edinburgh show for 2011 (yeah, I’ve given myself plenty of time) and I just could not learn it. Writing it out like a blog and saying it out loud are two very different things. While rehearsing I kept forgetting my place, forgetting lines, forgetting jokes, forgetting everything and I was starting to panic. Then I got the best advice I could have got.
Muki just looked at me and said “Yeah but it doesn’t matter”.
I hadn’t thought of that before.
It really doesn’t matter. I want the show to be good when it’s complete but now? It doesn’t matter now. I just need to do it and see what works and what doesn’t. A massive weight was lifted off my shoulders. Once again, laziness and a shoddy attitude to work had won the day.
Don’t get me wrong, I still went on stage with a setlist. And a script.
But I forgot stuff constantly and improvised constantly and it just didn’t matter. The audience were great and I had a truly great time thanks to them. Hopefully tonight will be just as good and I can get to the bits that I didn’t have time for last night (I only got through three pages). The story of the annoying girl in the wheelchair must be heard!
Plus, I forgot to even say the name of the show. It’s called Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. Is that a good title?
I don’t know. Come along tonight and tell me. You can buy tickets here: http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=374356&referral_id=s
My first blog for nearly a week and it’s all positive. How tedious. I’ll be blogging a lot more from now on. Just got a bit busy there for a while. I really need to tell you about arguing with a little girl on a bus and we need to talk about what we’re going to do about the Black Eyed Peas. Something needs to be done.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
GET OUT!
You have to get out there, people. You can't just sit inside reading this, you won't learn anything. OK, yesterdays blog was very educational but generally you don't learn anything unless you get out there and experience it for yourself. For instance, did you know cats get AIDS?
I didn't know cats get AIDS but they do. Not all of them, obviously. Just the filthy, dirty affronts to God ones. While waiting for a lift to Hitchin on Sunday I found myself standing outside a shop that was actually called "Neutering Stops AIDS In Cats" and I got all confused and tired. But, it turns out that it's true. Cats get AIDS. It even has a name. FIV. This is true. Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. Cats get AIDS. I don't know how they get AIDS or how cat AIDS started (I assume a cat fucked a monkey once) but I do know that cat AIDS is real. I was even told that cat AIDS is "a massive problem". To be even more accurate, it isn't a massive problem. I've never heard of it, there isn't a TV marathon appealing for funds to raise awareness and a significant and famous cat hasn't come out as suffering from FIV and causing the world to go "Biscuits has AIDS? I thought he was straight". Unless Chris Martin has written a song about it then it isn't a massive problem. Hang on, is cat AIDS all yellow? I'll check.
So, you see, I'd never know that cat AIDS even existed if I didn't get out there and look around. Stop reading this. Get out there. I mean, if it wasn't for "getting out there" I'd never know that buying underwear for a man is really complicated.
My wife's brother, Bob, is staying with me this week. He arrived from New York yesterday and the airline misplaced his luggage which is both frustrating and really, really, really funny. In fact, he's in my living room right now waiting for his bag to be delivered to him. He's NOT getting out there and looking around and it's the stupid airplane man's fault. As I am kind and generous I offered to go and buy him new pants so that he would at least have that until his bag arrived. This should have been a simple task but it was far from it. The thing is I just should have grabbed the first pair of pants I saw and bought them but because there was such a wide range I wanted to buy him something nice. Yes, that's right. I wanted to buy my brother-in-law some NICE underwear. I almost bought him a white pair but thought they wouldn't suit him. Then my brain shouted at me. JUST BUY THE FUCKING PANTS. My brain was right. I'm just buying him pants because he needs them, I don't want him to wear them for me or anything.
That said. I can't just buy him y-fronts. Y-fronts are horrible. I'll buy him boxers. He'll like boxers. No. Boxers aren't right. He's not a boxers guy. He's classier than that. I'll buy him a pair of hipsters. Hang on. Are hipsters too "sexual"? I don't want him to think I'm being sexual. But I do want him to know that I thought about him. I mean, I didn't think about him wearing pants I just thought about him and his comfort, that's all. God, why is it so difficult to buy underwear for a man who looks a bit like my wife? Come on, Michael. What underwear would you buy for Muki if she wanted a bit of comfort and support around her cock and balls? She'd want red satin ones, I think. I'm not buying Bob red satin pants. That just sends a weird message and I need him to know that these pants are friendly and platonic. TRUNKS! Brilliant. Trunks aren't sexy. They look utterly purposeful and even the name screams I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU, BOB. God, I hope he likes them.
I never normally actually listen to Precious Little podcast but I did this week. It was funny. Funny and horrible. James and I were lucky enough to be joined by Tiffany Stevenson who was fantastic. She's really funny. So...er...if you haven't listen to Precious Little before I think you should check this one out. Oh, and buy a ticket to see me and Andrew Collins this Sunday & Monday at London's Hen & Chickens Theatre: http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=374356&referral_id=s
Right. That's it. Get out there, folks. Let me know what you've learned.
.jpg)
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I didn't know cats get AIDS but they do. Not all of them, obviously. Just the filthy, dirty affronts to God ones. While waiting for a lift to Hitchin on Sunday I found myself standing outside a shop that was actually called "Neutering Stops AIDS In Cats" and I got all confused and tired. But, it turns out that it's true. Cats get AIDS. It even has a name. FIV. This is true. Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. Cats get AIDS. I don't know how they get AIDS or how cat AIDS started (I assume a cat fucked a monkey once) but I do know that cat AIDS is real. I was even told that cat AIDS is "a massive problem". To be even more accurate, it isn't a massive problem. I've never heard of it, there isn't a TV marathon appealing for funds to raise awareness and a significant and famous cat hasn't come out as suffering from FIV and causing the world to go "Biscuits has AIDS? I thought he was straight". Unless Chris Martin has written a song about it then it isn't a massive problem. Hang on, is cat AIDS all yellow? I'll check.
So, you see, I'd never know that cat AIDS even existed if I didn't get out there and look around. Stop reading this. Get out there. I mean, if it wasn't for "getting out there" I'd never know that buying underwear for a man is really complicated.
My wife's brother, Bob, is staying with me this week. He arrived from New York yesterday and the airline misplaced his luggage which is both frustrating and really, really, really funny. In fact, he's in my living room right now waiting for his bag to be delivered to him. He's NOT getting out there and looking around and it's the stupid airplane man's fault. As I am kind and generous I offered to go and buy him new pants so that he would at least have that until his bag arrived. This should have been a simple task but it was far from it. The thing is I just should have grabbed the first pair of pants I saw and bought them but because there was such a wide range I wanted to buy him something nice. Yes, that's right. I wanted to buy my brother-in-law some NICE underwear. I almost bought him a white pair but thought they wouldn't suit him. Then my brain shouted at me. JUST BUY THE FUCKING PANTS. My brain was right. I'm just buying him pants because he needs them, I don't want him to wear them for me or anything.
That said. I can't just buy him y-fronts. Y-fronts are horrible. I'll buy him boxers. He'll like boxers. No. Boxers aren't right. He's not a boxers guy. He's classier than that. I'll buy him a pair of hipsters. Hang on. Are hipsters too "sexual"? I don't want him to think I'm being sexual. But I do want him to know that I thought about him. I mean, I didn't think about him wearing pants I just thought about him and his comfort, that's all. God, why is it so difficult to buy underwear for a man who looks a bit like my wife? Come on, Michael. What underwear would you buy for Muki if she wanted a bit of comfort and support around her cock and balls? She'd want red satin ones, I think. I'm not buying Bob red satin pants. That just sends a weird message and I need him to know that these pants are friendly and platonic. TRUNKS! Brilliant. Trunks aren't sexy. They look utterly purposeful and even the name screams I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU, BOB. God, I hope he likes them.
I never normally actually listen to Precious Little podcast but I did this week. It was funny. Funny and horrible. James and I were lucky enough to be joined by Tiffany Stevenson who was fantastic. She's really funny. So...er...if you haven't listen to Precious Little before I think you should check this one out. Oh, and buy a ticket to see me and Andrew Collins this Sunday & Monday at London's Hen & Chickens Theatre: http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/user?region=gb_london&query=detail&event=374356&referral_id=s
Right. That's it. Get out there, folks. Let me know what you've learned.
.jpg)
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 12 April 2010
iStarted It.
Ah, arguments. I've missed them, you know. I made a New Year's resolution to try to avoid them after the "Give me your shoe" debacle and up until Friday it had been relatively easy. But four arguments in one day obviously sparked my joy of confrontation. I may even have embraced it like an old friend that I haven't seen in years. Good old argument has come back and that has made me happier.
Or maybe it was my imagination. Late Saturday night and I hadn't had an argument ALL DAY so the day before had been a fluke. Just a bit of good luck. A lucky, jammy, flukey day with four arguments and at least two chances of a beating. But then I got on the last train to Ladywell. Last train's are the natural home of the blazing row. Brilliant.
It really didn't take long before the bastard with the iPhone sitting next to me started to irritate me. She was playing a game that involved tapping the screen a lot and laughing like a drowning cat. What a lot of iPhone users don't realise is that the volume button on their phone goes down as well as up. If you're in public you can mute the volume so that you can play games and not annoy the people around you. It's a very simple design but, sadly, not as simple as your average iPhone user. After a while the BEEP BAP WHOOP of the irritating game she was playing just got to me and the Legge Police took over the situation.
"Excuse me, can you turn the volume off on your phone, please?"
I thought that was a fair enough request. You know, noise...public place...blah, blah, blah. But she kept her drunk, dozy eyes on the game and said "Nearly finished".
Right. I'll give her ten seconds and speak to her again. Right. Ten seconds are up.
"It's a very irritating noise. Can you switch the sound off now, please?"
Firm but not aggressive. I'm in the right. Everything's fine.
"Oh, fuck off", she said.
YAY!!! She want's an ARGUMENT! Thanks, lady. That's very generous of you. Yes, I will have one.
"You're in a public place. I don't want to hear that noise anymore. Switch it off".
She told me to fuck off, remember? Now I can be as rude as I like. Actually, I could be as rude as I liked anyway because I had already spotted her weakness. She had a boyfriend.
When you argue with a couple on a train ALWAYS check the gentleman out first. What is his demeanour? How is he sitting? Is he wearing anything that says Dr. Who on it? You see, if the gentleman is anything like me then you've won the argument already because if the gentleman is anything like me then he is a coward.
The drunk lady started to tell me that it wasn't against the law to make noise on a train when her boyfriend started to get involved but not in the way she wanted. He wanted to switch the phone off and for her to stop being aggressive. He took the phone away and then apologised to me. She looked at him as if to say "Why aren't you hitting him?" HE'S NOT HITTING ME BECAUSE HE'S NOT INTO HITTING PEOPLE. He doesn't want the confrontation or the fighting or the chance of him getting his eyes crushed. I'm a coward who can't fight but he doesn't know that. I'm not the one wearing the Dalek badge so he know's nothing about me. The fact that he's wearing one gave me all the information I needed before the argument started. I WIN!
He took the phone from her and asked her to calm down. This resulted in some loud whispering and dramatic arm-folding. They got off at New Cross, two stops before me, and their loud argument started as soon as the train doors opened.
If there's one thing better than an argument it's an argument-transfer. One that I started but two others now have complete ownership of.
I am a cunt.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Or maybe it was my imagination. Late Saturday night and I hadn't had an argument ALL DAY so the day before had been a fluke. Just a bit of good luck. A lucky, jammy, flukey day with four arguments and at least two chances of a beating. But then I got on the last train to Ladywell. Last train's are the natural home of the blazing row. Brilliant.
It really didn't take long before the bastard with the iPhone sitting next to me started to irritate me. She was playing a game that involved tapping the screen a lot and laughing like a drowning cat. What a lot of iPhone users don't realise is that the volume button on their phone goes down as well as up. If you're in public you can mute the volume so that you can play games and not annoy the people around you. It's a very simple design but, sadly, not as simple as your average iPhone user. After a while the BEEP BAP WHOOP of the irritating game she was playing just got to me and the Legge Police took over the situation.
"Excuse me, can you turn the volume off on your phone, please?"
I thought that was a fair enough request. You know, noise...public place...blah, blah, blah. But she kept her drunk, dozy eyes on the game and said "Nearly finished".
Right. I'll give her ten seconds and speak to her again. Right. Ten seconds are up.
"It's a very irritating noise. Can you switch the sound off now, please?"
Firm but not aggressive. I'm in the right. Everything's fine.
"Oh, fuck off", she said.
YAY!!! She want's an ARGUMENT! Thanks, lady. That's very generous of you. Yes, I will have one.
"You're in a public place. I don't want to hear that noise anymore. Switch it off".
She told me to fuck off, remember? Now I can be as rude as I like. Actually, I could be as rude as I liked anyway because I had already spotted her weakness. She had a boyfriend.
When you argue with a couple on a train ALWAYS check the gentleman out first. What is his demeanour? How is he sitting? Is he wearing anything that says Dr. Who on it? You see, if the gentleman is anything like me then you've won the argument already because if the gentleman is anything like me then he is a coward.
The drunk lady started to tell me that it wasn't against the law to make noise on a train when her boyfriend started to get involved but not in the way she wanted. He wanted to switch the phone off and for her to stop being aggressive. He took the phone away and then apologised to me. She looked at him as if to say "Why aren't you hitting him?" HE'S NOT HITTING ME BECAUSE HE'S NOT INTO HITTING PEOPLE. He doesn't want the confrontation or the fighting or the chance of him getting his eyes crushed. I'm a coward who can't fight but he doesn't know that. I'm not the one wearing the Dalek badge so he know's nothing about me. The fact that he's wearing one gave me all the information I needed before the argument started. I WIN!
He took the phone from her and asked her to calm down. This resulted in some loud whispering and dramatic arm-folding. They got off at New Cross, two stops before me, and their loud argument started as soon as the train doors opened.
If there's one thing better than an argument it's an argument-transfer. One that I started but two others now have complete ownership of.
I am a cunt.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Four-A-Day.
What a perfect day yesterday was. The sun was shining, I befriended a little Robin that lives in my front garden and I saw the Parakeets of South London looking even more glorious than normal thanks to the lovely weather. Oh, and I had four arguments. It was a great day.
One argument was with some useless bastard from Woodland's Health Centre (I actually shouted at her, it felt good) and another was with a fan of The Trap who took time to write to tell me how much he hated me. But they weren't my favourite arguments. My favourite arguments happened in the park in the space of just under 10 minutes.
The great thing about beautiful weather is that you get to keep an eye on all the cunts. All the cunts come out when the sun shines and they take over MY park and stamp their cuntishness all over it. People spread their picnics out and take up space, people bring every child they can find and take up space and the world's biggest cunts play sports and take up loads and loads of space. I'm used to MY park being empty bar a few nutters but when the weather gets even just a little bit pleasant everyone suddenly remembers the park and what a lovely place it is to leave food wrappers in and throw cigarette butts on and shout aggressively at footballs in. I hate those cunts.
One such cunt was a massive cunt. I mean HUGE. His hair could beat me up, he was that big. He and his equally large friends were kicking and shouting at a football and taking up a huge chunk of the park that me and Jerk would have liked to have walked on but couldn't. I didn't need to meet this guy to know he's a penis but when I did meet him it was kind of nice to have my opinion confirmed. We weren't introduced socially and we didn't get into a deep conversation but we did meet briefly. His massive friend's massive foot kicked the ball and somehow missed getting it anywhere near the other massive people. The ball rolled towards me.
Always an awkward moment that. A football and I are never going to get on so there's no way that I'm going to kick it back to them. It will be a disaster. I will kick it and somehow it will hit a child in the face and kill it. I will not be dragged into this football's evil bloodlust. I'll ignore it.
I can't ignore it. It's right beside me.
Fuck it. I'm ignoring it. They're taking up all the space in MY park, it's a stupid game and they look like the type that love to run after balls anyway. I'll ignore it. Definitely. I'll just ignore it.
"Kick the ball back", shouts the massive cunt.
You see, I had no intention of kicking the ball back simply because I didn't want to embarrass myself but now I had a whole new reason to not kick the ball back. Kick the ball back? That sunbitch juss give me an order?
"Kick the ball back", the massive cunt repeated.
Now here is where I hope you'll be proud of me. These people are taking up too much room in a public area, they have no manners (seriously, would it have killed him to say "Excuse me, could you kick the football back, please?") and they are massive, massive bastards. All this information was taken into consideration before I turned to the massive cunt and said "No".
It was an incredible moment. They all looked really confused like they didn't understand what I had said at all. I may as well have told them that all my bread had run out of petrol because they just looked utterly confounded. I was happy and terrified.
"Why not?", said the massive cunt.
"I don't want to", I replied.
"Just kick it back, mate", said the massive cunt who had no idea what on Earth I was talking about.
"No", I said and walked on.
My adrenalin was rushing through my body but I could still clearly hear the massive cunt say "Arsehole". This wouldn't be the last time I would hear this today.
I walked away victorious. It's a small victory, yes, but I sometimes think they're the best kind. Him TELLING me to kick the football back was a status thing. We're big guys playing a big guys game. That wuss will be impressed and will do whatever we say because we are better than him. They are not better than me. I am the best. Ask Jerk.
What I love about endangering my life in that way is that Jerk had no idea about it whatsoever despite being beside me the whole time. Of course, me getting my head kicked in may have come as a shock to her so I'll probably not try that again. Well, not for about 8 minutes anyway.
I was just leaving the park when another cunt decided to talk to me. "Kick the ball back" without an excuse me or a please was bad enough but this cunt managed to be fucking pig-rude with just one word. "Light".
That's what he said to me. Light. Just fucking "Light". Don't get me wrong, I know exactly what he was trying to say. I'm aware that the gentleman required some assistance in the ignition of his cigarillo but fuck off. That is just one cunting word. He didn't even put a question mark in the tone of his voice when he said it. "Light". Just "Light".
"Sorry?", I said.
"Light".
He repeated it. He fucking repeated it. I gave the fuck a second chance but he just said "Light" again. I hate this man more than I have ever hated a human being in my entire life. Why isn't he dead? Why isn't he all dead?
"Light", I said. Oh, yeah. Two can play at this game, sonny.
"Yeah, got a light".
I sighed. I sighed because that was his third and final chance to say to me "Excuse me. I'm very sorry to bother you but I was hoping you might be able to help. You wouldn't have a lighter that I could borrow, by any chance, please? Be really lovely of you if you did. I say, what a charming dog you have".
But no. The cunt said "Got a light". I sighed and said "That's not a sentence" and then walked away.
Again, a little victory but I was proud of myself. If someone needs your help the very least they can do is ask for it. "Light" just doesn't cut it. I walked away with a smug, twattish sense of superiority and a tail-wagging dog that had no idea that I had basically asked a stranger to punch me in the face for a second time. The pride was ringing in my ears but I could still clearly hear the pig-rude cunt say "Arsehole".
I sort of feel that I'm back.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
One argument was with some useless bastard from Woodland's Health Centre (I actually shouted at her, it felt good) and another was with a fan of The Trap who took time to write to tell me how much he hated me. But they weren't my favourite arguments. My favourite arguments happened in the park in the space of just under 10 minutes.
The great thing about beautiful weather is that you get to keep an eye on all the cunts. All the cunts come out when the sun shines and they take over MY park and stamp their cuntishness all over it. People spread their picnics out and take up space, people bring every child they can find and take up space and the world's biggest cunts play sports and take up loads and loads of space. I'm used to MY park being empty bar a few nutters but when the weather gets even just a little bit pleasant everyone suddenly remembers the park and what a lovely place it is to leave food wrappers in and throw cigarette butts on and shout aggressively at footballs in. I hate those cunts.
One such cunt was a massive cunt. I mean HUGE. His hair could beat me up, he was that big. He and his equally large friends were kicking and shouting at a football and taking up a huge chunk of the park that me and Jerk would have liked to have walked on but couldn't. I didn't need to meet this guy to know he's a penis but when I did meet him it was kind of nice to have my opinion confirmed. We weren't introduced socially and we didn't get into a deep conversation but we did meet briefly. His massive friend's massive foot kicked the ball and somehow missed getting it anywhere near the other massive people. The ball rolled towards me.
Always an awkward moment that. A football and I are never going to get on so there's no way that I'm going to kick it back to them. It will be a disaster. I will kick it and somehow it will hit a child in the face and kill it. I will not be dragged into this football's evil bloodlust. I'll ignore it.
I can't ignore it. It's right beside me.
Fuck it. I'm ignoring it. They're taking up all the space in MY park, it's a stupid game and they look like the type that love to run after balls anyway. I'll ignore it. Definitely. I'll just ignore it.
"Kick the ball back", shouts the massive cunt.
You see, I had no intention of kicking the ball back simply because I didn't want to embarrass myself but now I had a whole new reason to not kick the ball back. Kick the ball back? That sunbitch juss give me an order?
"Kick the ball back", the massive cunt repeated.
Now here is where I hope you'll be proud of me. These people are taking up too much room in a public area, they have no manners (seriously, would it have killed him to say "Excuse me, could you kick the football back, please?") and they are massive, massive bastards. All this information was taken into consideration before I turned to the massive cunt and said "No".
It was an incredible moment. They all looked really confused like they didn't understand what I had said at all. I may as well have told them that all my bread had run out of petrol because they just looked utterly confounded. I was happy and terrified.
"Why not?", said the massive cunt.
"I don't want to", I replied.
"Just kick it back, mate", said the massive cunt who had no idea what on Earth I was talking about.
"No", I said and walked on.
My adrenalin was rushing through my body but I could still clearly hear the massive cunt say "Arsehole". This wouldn't be the last time I would hear this today.
I walked away victorious. It's a small victory, yes, but I sometimes think they're the best kind. Him TELLING me to kick the football back was a status thing. We're big guys playing a big guys game. That wuss will be impressed and will do whatever we say because we are better than him. They are not better than me. I am the best. Ask Jerk.
What I love about endangering my life in that way is that Jerk had no idea about it whatsoever despite being beside me the whole time. Of course, me getting my head kicked in may have come as a shock to her so I'll probably not try that again. Well, not for about 8 minutes anyway.
I was just leaving the park when another cunt decided to talk to me. "Kick the ball back" without an excuse me or a please was bad enough but this cunt managed to be fucking pig-rude with just one word. "Light".
That's what he said to me. Light. Just fucking "Light". Don't get me wrong, I know exactly what he was trying to say. I'm aware that the gentleman required some assistance in the ignition of his cigarillo but fuck off. That is just one cunting word. He didn't even put a question mark in the tone of his voice when he said it. "Light". Just "Light".
"Sorry?", I said.
"Light".
He repeated it. He fucking repeated it. I gave the fuck a second chance but he just said "Light" again. I hate this man more than I have ever hated a human being in my entire life. Why isn't he dead? Why isn't he all dead?
"Light", I said. Oh, yeah. Two can play at this game, sonny.
"Yeah, got a light".
I sighed. I sighed because that was his third and final chance to say to me "Excuse me. I'm very sorry to bother you but I was hoping you might be able to help. You wouldn't have a lighter that I could borrow, by any chance, please? Be really lovely of you if you did. I say, what a charming dog you have".
But no. The cunt said "Got a light". I sighed and said "That's not a sentence" and then walked away.
Again, a little victory but I was proud of myself. If someone needs your help the very least they can do is ask for it. "Light" just doesn't cut it. I walked away with a smug, twattish sense of superiority and a tail-wagging dog that had no idea that I had basically asked a stranger to punch me in the face for a second time. The pride was ringing in my ears but I could still clearly hear the pig-rude cunt say "Arsehole".
I sort of feel that I'm back.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Who's Back!
See? There was nothing to worry about. It was fantastic. I don't know why you were doing all that complaining. You knew Steven Moffat was brilliant so you did all that grumping for nothing. I hope you feel ashamed of yourself. Don't know why you couldn't be more positive like me.
Last night saw the welcome return of Doctor Who Confidential and it was the best series opener in it's history, I reckon. Gone are the days where the production assistant falls in love with the Director and the special effects department desperately crowbar in gay references, The Moff is in charge now and there are big changes. The previous four series of Doctor Who Confidential, although having a fair few great moments, suffered badly from patronising dialogue ("We painted it blue"), the constant return of characters that you hate (Russell) and really disappointing stories (Tennant talking about Kylie). Moffat has obviously taken notice of this because last night's episode was gripping from the start. Terrifying, even! You really got a feel of what it would be like to live and work in Cardiff and that sent shivers down my spine. This is what makes Doctor Who Confidential so utterly special, yes it's got a lot of jargon that none of can understand and that gets a bit dull but it is definitely scary! Whoever played the part of Matt Smith's Grandad does creepy like no-one I've seen. New head writer, new cast but it's still Doctor Who Confidential. It's the exact same on the inside.
I saw Doctor Who Confidential's companion show on BBC1 too. You know, the one for children. I really enjoyed it.
Hey, don't forget to come to Los Quattros Cvnts this Wednesday at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square. It's going to be a great night. Our guests are Jeremy Lion and Bennett Arron, plus we'll be doing brand new Flaherty Brothers and Billy Sunday, Dr. Party solves your problems, Wikipedia History and I'll be playing the part of Little Orphan Hammond. Get there early if you want a good seat. It was full last time. Here's the Facebook link: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=408173007328
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Last night saw the welcome return of Doctor Who Confidential and it was the best series opener in it's history, I reckon. Gone are the days where the production assistant falls in love with the Director and the special effects department desperately crowbar in gay references, The Moff is in charge now and there are big changes. The previous four series of Doctor Who Confidential, although having a fair few great moments, suffered badly from patronising dialogue ("We painted it blue"), the constant return of characters that you hate (Russell) and really disappointing stories (Tennant talking about Kylie). Moffat has obviously taken notice of this because last night's episode was gripping from the start. Terrifying, even! You really got a feel of what it would be like to live and work in Cardiff and that sent shivers down my spine. This is what makes Doctor Who Confidential so utterly special, yes it's got a lot of jargon that none of can understand and that gets a bit dull but it is definitely scary! Whoever played the part of Matt Smith's Grandad does creepy like no-one I've seen. New head writer, new cast but it's still Doctor Who Confidential. It's the exact same on the inside.
I saw Doctor Who Confidential's companion show on BBC1 too. You know, the one for children. I really enjoyed it.
Hey, don't forget to come to Los Quattros Cvnts this Wednesday at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square. It's going to be a great night. Our guests are Jeremy Lion and Bennett Arron, plus we'll be doing brand new Flaherty Brothers and Billy Sunday, Dr. Party solves your problems, Wikipedia History and I'll be playing the part of Little Orphan Hammond. Get there early if you want a good seat. It was full last time. Here's the Facebook link: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=408173007328
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 3 April 2010
The Eleventh Arrgh!
It's the most exciting day of the year. A day when all children should be silenced, tied up and shoved in a cupboard. Nothing should disturb today. It's too important. It's certainly not a day for children who might have questions or thoughts. Today is about us not them. Because today we see a brand new Doctor.
Matt Smith. I love Matt Smith. So far, he hasn't done a thing wrong. I mean, he's only said "GERONIMO!" once so it hasn't got annoying yet and he looked genuinely delighted to find himself in the TARDIS as it was exploding. Yeah, so far he's been excellent. None of that constantly loving himself or loving his hair or getting companions to fall in love with him and his hair. He's my favourite ever Doctor so far. Easily.
So when will it fuck up?
It won't. Matt Smith will be the first ever Doctor to never, ever fuck up. He's too good for that. Remember all that screwing his face up and wondering what he was doing at the end of the last episode? I mean, that was great. How can someone who can be so excellent for 20 seconds change for the worse over the course of 13 fourty-five minute long episodes? You're right, mate. He can't.
It will all fuck up though, right?
That's the thing. It won't. It can't. I mean look at what they're bringing back to the series. The Daleks! They never fail, The Daleks. Yeah, OK. Once. They failed once in Daleks In Manhattan. Oh, and Journeys End. And The Chase and Destiny Of The Daleks and Planet Of The Daleks and Remembrance Of The Daleks but they won't fuck it up again. They're well overdue being brilliant again. And The Weeping Statues from Blink are back! Remember them? I mean they were perfect. Absolutely perfect. Complete and utter perfection. Couldn't be touched. Shouldn't be touched. Why the fuck are they bringing them back? Leave them where they were, you stupid bastards! God, The Weeping Angels are going to come back and somehow they'll now all be really nice and thank The Doctor for saving their planet from the Big Twat or whatever pathetic alien that they've made up that needs to eat statues to live. Why couldn't they just leave The Weeping Angels where they were so we can look back and always like them. Like we could have done with The fucking Ood if that Russell Cunt Davies had just left them the fuck alone. Why not just bring fucking Rose back again? For the billionth time. Be nice to see her saying goodbye to The Doctor properly. AGAIN. Or Captain cunting Jack? Why doesn't the Doctor find him on the planet of The Bum or wherever the fuck he lives and just fuck him. Get it all fucking over with. You know what? Fuck them. It's a stupid programme anyway and I'm not watching it. I'm going to untie all the children in my cupboard and they can fucking watch this shit. They've ruined it. They've fucking ruined it.
I am 41.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Matt Smith. I love Matt Smith. So far, he hasn't done a thing wrong. I mean, he's only said "GERONIMO!" once so it hasn't got annoying yet and he looked genuinely delighted to find himself in the TARDIS as it was exploding. Yeah, so far he's been excellent. None of that constantly loving himself or loving his hair or getting companions to fall in love with him and his hair. He's my favourite ever Doctor so far. Easily.
So when will it fuck up?
It won't. Matt Smith will be the first ever Doctor to never, ever fuck up. He's too good for that. Remember all that screwing his face up and wondering what he was doing at the end of the last episode? I mean, that was great. How can someone who can be so excellent for 20 seconds change for the worse over the course of 13 fourty-five minute long episodes? You're right, mate. He can't.
It will all fuck up though, right?
That's the thing. It won't. It can't. I mean look at what they're bringing back to the series. The Daleks! They never fail, The Daleks. Yeah, OK. Once. They failed once in Daleks In Manhattan. Oh, and Journeys End. And The Chase and Destiny Of The Daleks and Planet Of The Daleks and Remembrance Of The Daleks but they won't fuck it up again. They're well overdue being brilliant again. And The Weeping Statues from Blink are back! Remember them? I mean they were perfect. Absolutely perfect. Complete and utter perfection. Couldn't be touched. Shouldn't be touched. Why the fuck are they bringing them back? Leave them where they were, you stupid bastards! God, The Weeping Angels are going to come back and somehow they'll now all be really nice and thank The Doctor for saving their planet from the Big Twat or whatever pathetic alien that they've made up that needs to eat statues to live. Why couldn't they just leave The Weeping Angels where they were so we can look back and always like them. Like we could have done with The fucking Ood if that Russell Cunt Davies had just left them the fuck alone. Why not just bring fucking Rose back again? For the billionth time. Be nice to see her saying goodbye to The Doctor properly. AGAIN. Or Captain cunting Jack? Why doesn't the Doctor find him on the planet of The Bum or wherever the fuck he lives and just fuck him. Get it all fucking over with. You know what? Fuck them. It's a stupid programme anyway and I'm not watching it. I'm going to untie all the children in my cupboard and they can fucking watch this shit. They've ruined it. They've fucking ruined it.
I am 41.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Friday, 2 April 2010
Stella's Street.
It is important to stick to your word.
I arranged to meet Stella Duffy yesterday. Stella is someone who has directed real plays for real theatres and has now somehow found herself directing me in what will eventually be my debut show. Anyway, our last meeting was weeks ago and since then I have written....nothing. Well, very nearly nothing. When I woke up yesterday I decided that I'd cancel the meeting. I'd be wasting Stella's time and, much more importantly, I'd be embarrassed telling her that I haven't done any work. Yeah, calling Stella on the day and cancelling is definitely the thing to do. Even though she's a very busy novelist, director, etc and I'm lucky to have any of her time at all, phoning Stella up a couple of hours before we're due to meet and telling her that I can't make it because I'm auditioning for the new Bond film is definitely the best thing to do. And so believable. Even better would be to text her and tell her I'm not coming. Yes. Good old texting. The coward's faithful friend.
So, I sent her a text and pressed send. The only thing was that my text was as spineless as I was. It gave Stella a choice. I told her it was up to her if we met today. I could go to her house with nothing and we could talk about other things or I could stay at home and "work" on the show. Pathetic. Why didn't I just say I'm not coming round. Why am I so scared of both work and Stella?
Stella's reply was "Up to you".
The fucking bitch. What am I supposed to do with that? She can clearly see that I'm trying to wriggle out of work and forwarding my career in some way by being a wimp who can't make his mind up and then she threw me right back to square one. The choice was supposed to be hers not mine. In fact, although I gave her a choice, there wasn't really a choice, was there? Surely she could have read between the emoticons and clearly see that I am useless, had done no work and didn't want to do any work. Surely she could see that the only answer to my choice was "Fair enough. Work hard on the show today. We'll rearrange for another time". That would save my embarrassment and, like every single thing in my life, could be put off until later. But no. She had to make ME choose. ME! The person with no spine. Oh, fuck it. We'll meet. That'll fucking show her.
And I'm really glad we did. Otherwise I wouldn't see how lovely Stella's house is and I wouldn't have drunk Chili Tea. I don't recommend Chili Tea but I'm glad I tried it. It tastes a bit like really sweet yet spicy urine. I take it back. I do recommend it. Plus if I hadn't gone round I wouldn't have got off the bus at the wrong stop about 20 minutes away from Stella's house and if I hadn't done that then I wouldn't have seen a grown man skipping. It was lovely to watch. Not enough of us skip anymore. There he was, I'd say in his early 40's, happily skipping down the street and smiling away to himself. He looked blissfully happy. If I had his confidence I would have skipped myself. If you feel like it, have a skip today. It looked like a lot of fun. Let me know how you get on.
If I hadn't have gone to see Stella I would have missed out on being freaked by the woman I was freaking. That's not a Sugababes lyric, that really happened.
After the joy of watching a middle aged man in the throws of merry skipping, I found myself walking behind a woman. I was maybe 30 feet behind this woman so, to be honest, I didn't really register her at first. In fact, I wouldn't have noticed her at all if it wasn't for her constantly looking over her shoulder. It became pretty obvious pretty quickly that she was looking at me. I didn't know why but she was. I wasn't skipping so I don't think that I deserved all the attention. After a while I could see that she looked stressed. Am I stressing her? I mean I'm just walking. Does she think I'm following her? Does she think I'm stalking her? Oh my God, does she think that I'm going to leap on her or something? She starts walking really fast. Right. Fine. I'm not doing anything but I'm obviously freaking her so I'll slow down while she speeds up.
Well that's not fucking fair. My slow walking is faster than her fast walking. Oh God, she keeps looking round. She's going to fall over and when she falls over I'll have to run over and help her up and if I run over to her while she's on the ground she'll start screaming. Why is this happening? I'm going to a meeting where I will reveal nothing to someone who will kick me out of her house and somehow on my way I've accidentally raped someone. I bet that fucking happens. She's looking at me with such fear and she's speeding up so much that she's bound to fall. Well, if she does, I'm not helping her. If I run over to help she'll start screaming and I'll panic and cover her mouth and say something like "Ssh. Ssh. I'm your friend" and she'll just be so scared that she'll want to get it over with now and quickly get my penis out and, while I'm telling her that it's all good, she'll put it inside her and I'll have accidentally raped her. Well, I'm not doing it, do you hear me? I'm not going to be my own rape victim.
Why is she scaring me so much? This isn't fair. Eventually she stops walking and I walk past her. She stares at me as I pass. Thank God she didn't do anything. I felt really vulnerable there for a while and there was no-one else around to help me. Sure, I could go to the police and tell them that a woman made me rape her but they never believe you. Like no amount of men before me, I'll just let it happen and keep it inside forever. You're really not safe on the street anymore.
All that took about 20 seconds and felt like a month but when I got to Stella's house and drank my weird, weird tea it was all forgotten about. I think after something like that you really do just need your friends around you. And that's why I'm glad I went to Stella's house yesterday. I arranged to meet her and I stuck to my word and I'm glad.
Oh, and we got lots of work done and that shocked me and made me happy. That's nice, eh? Thanks, Stella!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I arranged to meet Stella Duffy yesterday. Stella is someone who has directed real plays for real theatres and has now somehow found herself directing me in what will eventually be my debut show. Anyway, our last meeting was weeks ago and since then I have written....nothing. Well, very nearly nothing. When I woke up yesterday I decided that I'd cancel the meeting. I'd be wasting Stella's time and, much more importantly, I'd be embarrassed telling her that I haven't done any work. Yeah, calling Stella on the day and cancelling is definitely the thing to do. Even though she's a very busy novelist, director, etc and I'm lucky to have any of her time at all, phoning Stella up a couple of hours before we're due to meet and telling her that I can't make it because I'm auditioning for the new Bond film is definitely the best thing to do. And so believable. Even better would be to text her and tell her I'm not coming. Yes. Good old texting. The coward's faithful friend.
So, I sent her a text and pressed send. The only thing was that my text was as spineless as I was. It gave Stella a choice. I told her it was up to her if we met today. I could go to her house with nothing and we could talk about other things or I could stay at home and "work" on the show. Pathetic. Why didn't I just say I'm not coming round. Why am I so scared of both work and Stella?
Stella's reply was "Up to you".
The fucking bitch. What am I supposed to do with that? She can clearly see that I'm trying to wriggle out of work and forwarding my career in some way by being a wimp who can't make his mind up and then she threw me right back to square one. The choice was supposed to be hers not mine. In fact, although I gave her a choice, there wasn't really a choice, was there? Surely she could have read between the emoticons and clearly see that I am useless, had done no work and didn't want to do any work. Surely she could see that the only answer to my choice was "Fair enough. Work hard on the show today. We'll rearrange for another time". That would save my embarrassment and, like every single thing in my life, could be put off until later. But no. She had to make ME choose. ME! The person with no spine. Oh, fuck it. We'll meet. That'll fucking show her.
And I'm really glad we did. Otherwise I wouldn't see how lovely Stella's house is and I wouldn't have drunk Chili Tea. I don't recommend Chili Tea but I'm glad I tried it. It tastes a bit like really sweet yet spicy urine. I take it back. I do recommend it. Plus if I hadn't gone round I wouldn't have got off the bus at the wrong stop about 20 minutes away from Stella's house and if I hadn't done that then I wouldn't have seen a grown man skipping. It was lovely to watch. Not enough of us skip anymore. There he was, I'd say in his early 40's, happily skipping down the street and smiling away to himself. He looked blissfully happy. If I had his confidence I would have skipped myself. If you feel like it, have a skip today. It looked like a lot of fun. Let me know how you get on.
If I hadn't have gone to see Stella I would have missed out on being freaked by the woman I was freaking. That's not a Sugababes lyric, that really happened.
After the joy of watching a middle aged man in the throws of merry skipping, I found myself walking behind a woman. I was maybe 30 feet behind this woman so, to be honest, I didn't really register her at first. In fact, I wouldn't have noticed her at all if it wasn't for her constantly looking over her shoulder. It became pretty obvious pretty quickly that she was looking at me. I didn't know why but she was. I wasn't skipping so I don't think that I deserved all the attention. After a while I could see that she looked stressed. Am I stressing her? I mean I'm just walking. Does she think I'm following her? Does she think I'm stalking her? Oh my God, does she think that I'm going to leap on her or something? She starts walking really fast. Right. Fine. I'm not doing anything but I'm obviously freaking her so I'll slow down while she speeds up.
Well that's not fucking fair. My slow walking is faster than her fast walking. Oh God, she keeps looking round. She's going to fall over and when she falls over I'll have to run over and help her up and if I run over to her while she's on the ground she'll start screaming. Why is this happening? I'm going to a meeting where I will reveal nothing to someone who will kick me out of her house and somehow on my way I've accidentally raped someone. I bet that fucking happens. She's looking at me with such fear and she's speeding up so much that she's bound to fall. Well, if she does, I'm not helping her. If I run over to help she'll start screaming and I'll panic and cover her mouth and say something like "Ssh. Ssh. I'm your friend" and she'll just be so scared that she'll want to get it over with now and quickly get my penis out and, while I'm telling her that it's all good, she'll put it inside her and I'll have accidentally raped her. Well, I'm not doing it, do you hear me? I'm not going to be my own rape victim.
Why is she scaring me so much? This isn't fair. Eventually she stops walking and I walk past her. She stares at me as I pass. Thank God she didn't do anything. I felt really vulnerable there for a while and there was no-one else around to help me. Sure, I could go to the police and tell them that a woman made me rape her but they never believe you. Like no amount of men before me, I'll just let it happen and keep it inside forever. You're really not safe on the street anymore.
All that took about 20 seconds and felt like a month but when I got to Stella's house and drank my weird, weird tea it was all forgotten about. I think after something like that you really do just need your friends around you. And that's why I'm glad I went to Stella's house yesterday. I arranged to meet her and I stuck to my word and I'm glad.
Oh, and we got lots of work done and that shocked me and made me happy. That's nice, eh? Thanks, Stella!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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