Friday, 30 July 2010

Buzz Kill.

It's the film that makes grown men cry, they say. I am a grown man. I cry at films all the time. In fact, that's the only time that I cry. Real life never seems to move me, it just makes me want to scream and punch and defecate but never cry. But give me It's A Wonderful Life and I'm in bits. E.T. makes me cry right from the very beginning because I know what will happen in the end. This is why I was terrified of going to see Toy Story 3. After all, it's the film that makes grown men cry. Grown men should NEVER cry. There just is no excuse for it. If you are a man and you cry at any time between the ages of 12 and death then you are pathetic. There is never, ever a cause for a man to cry at any point ever. Well, maybe over the death of a parent but it has to be your Mum. If you cry over your Dad, that's just a bit fruity.

I met my darling friend Liz in a bar before the film. I definitely needed a few drinks before going to see the film that makes grown men cry and the thought of crying in front of Liz was too much to bare. You'll find this hard to believe but I'm not at my prettiest when I cry. It's like my face starts dripping towards my knees and my eyes expand to seventeen times their normal size. Basically, I look like my botox has exploded. What a stroke of luck then that Toy Story 3, or any film, couldn't quite live up to the hype. It's a good film. It's just not great. Toy Story 2 is way better. The way people talked about this film you would think that it was the cartoon made by God to save us all from damnation. It wasn't interesting enough, it wasn't moving enough and they just didn't know what to do with Buzz Lightyear so they changed his character. Twice.

But it was funny. The dinosaur called Trixie really made me laugh but the Aquafresh advert that starts with a voiceover man saying "Your child's mouth is amazing" shown just before the film had us laughing for the whole night. Toy Story 3 didn't stand a chance.

Here's the thing, everyone who talks about this film raves about how moving it is and how deep it is (it is NOT deep, it's a cartoon) but as far as I can see no-one is talking about how horrible it is. It's fucking disturbing. Woody, Buzz, Mr. Potato-Head and the really gay dinosaur thing are all terrorised by a fucked up lazy-eyed, filthy dolly that can't speak because, you know, it's a special needs inanimate object and there are scenes of torture, imprisonment and a bitter, angry clown that are just upsetting. It's the film that makes grown men cry? Fuck that. It's the film that makes children shit out their own skeletons.

So, I'm a little disappointed that this film that is clearly made for people under the age of 9 wasn't for me. "It's Pixar's best film so far". No, it isn't. Up is a lot better. Fuck it, Tron is better. It had it's moments (Mr. Pricklepants is great) and there are some great jokes in it but I am a grown man. It's the film that makes grown men go meh.

Still, the getting drunk bit was good.

Wednesday, 28 July 2010

Another Quick Catch Up.

Think I might be returning to some sort of normality or, to put it another way, I am back to blogging, wanking and looking for Peter Davison interviews on YouTube like I normally do. Rehearsals and previews for Gutted are over. Shame because it is a blast.

The two previews at Riverside went down extremely well despite the technical faults, late start time and me. The first night was good but the second night was twice as good. I assume this will always be the case throughout the entire month of August. By the 29th we should be the greatest spectacle ever witnessed by any living being at any time, I should imagine. I pity all other musicals in Edinburgh this year because we will shit on them. I'm not saying we're any better than they are, I'm just saying that we will shit on them. I shat on the entire cast of We Will Rock You once and most of them were livid.

I have been spending most of my time with Lizzie Roper lately.

No more Gutted for me now until 6th of August. I have secretly loved the routine of getting up early and going to work even though I have constantly complained about it. Being awake at FUCKOFF in the morning doesn't bother me but getting on the train with YOU wankers was awful. Why do we have this system? Why can't jobs start at various different times instead of all at the same time? Surely no-one likes suffocating on a packed train while their face is in a woman's armpit and a man's elbow is rammed up their arse? Do they? Blimey. And the fact that YOU are all so fucking polite about it was the most infuriating thing. Commuters apologised to people who rammed in to them while I had to continually tell bastards who were pushing me to get on a stuffed train that there is no room. They can see there is no room. Why are they trying to get on to a vehicle that has no room in it? YOU CAN'T DO IT. PUSH AND SHOVE ALL YOU WANT BUT YOU CAN'T GET IN. It's like trying to get into a wall. YOU CAN'T FUCKING DO IT. Then the doors close and the elbows are in the face and the knees are in the groins and the groins are rubbing the bums and all YOU do is smile and apologise. I swear YOU could get raped on a commuter train and YOU would turn round, apologise and offer a hanky. Not me. I relished the chance of a before 9am argument. I did notice that as the week went on there was definitely fewer commuters on my train so "Will you stop touching me" every day seemed to work. Just a tip for you there.

Now to cement my luvviness.

The really great thing about doing this show has been meeting a whole bunch of brilliant new people. I know. I'm a wanker. But I can't help it. They're nice. Colin Hoult, Thom Tuck, Lizzie, Margaret Cabourn-Smith, Martin White, Danielle Ward, Doc Brown and Sara Pascoe I'd met and worked with before and it's a pleasure being in their company. Even Margaret's. But I didn't know David Reed, Humphrey Ker, Daniel Tawse, Fiona Stephenson and the incredibly brilliant Jim Bob before and they are funny, nice people who I have yet to have the urge to bludgeon. There's also the director Chris George and choreographer Ian Stroughair who, surprisingly, haven't once decked me. They have skill and patience. Imagine having just one of those. Well, they have both. Phoebe Eclair-Powell, assistant director, has something different from patience; complete and utter, sunshine strewn, rainbow coloured positivity. She's just so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so lovely that you want to kill her. But with something nice. Like smashing her in the face with Toy Story 3. Her mum is really lovely too.


Let me end my luvviness by keeping the best 'til last. Of all the funny people that I'm working with, I might not be able to do what they do but I understand how they do it. They might be way more talented than me but I understand how they have and use that talent (well, maybe not Jim Bob. I have no to less than no musical talent) but Helen George is just something else. She plays the lead role of Sorrow (not the title role of Vicar) and she is just incredible. She is a proper musical theatre performer. Her voice is amazing and she can dance. I think you can see that we clearly have nothing in common. It's one thing to have a bunch of comedians, albeit multi-talented comedians, hamming and grabbing the laughs but this show is utterly cemented by Helen. She makes the production a proper musical and she is perfect as Sorrow. She even looks like a Tim Burton marionette and I can think of no higher compliment to give someone. Every time I see her perform I think I would love to have her talent, but hey, I'm a comedian. That's a different skill, right? Then she proves that she's funny too. What an exhausting, thoughtless, heartless bitch she is. If you hate comedy come and see Gutted because Helen is a total music theatre star. If you love comedy come and see Gutted because Helen (and the script and the songs and the rest of us) is really funny. If you hate both those things then we cannot help you. I mean, if you're reading this blog after buying a ticket but before watching the show, I mean it, mate, you are fucked. God, you're going to have a horrible time. There is a blackout after I say "Well, I must say. I'm having a lovely time". Sneak out then.

Right. That will be the last of my writing about the making of Gutted. It's a brilliantly written show and Martin and Danielle should feel very proud of themselves but that is not why you read this blog or why I write it. Come on, Michael. What uncomfortable situation have you found yourself in lately? Well...

On Sunday, I kneed a little girl in the chest, knocked her to the ground and hurt the back of her head as she fell.

I didn't fucking mean to. All I was doing was walking. All I'm ever doing is walking. Why can't I just walk and not have the worst time imaginable? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO FUCKING ASK? I have an incredibly stupid rule. One that I refuse to change ever no matter what is happening. EVER. When departing the Bakerloo line tube at Charing Cross and walk down the long corridor to the main train station, there is a sign that reads "Keep left". Guess what? I ALWAYS KEEP LEFT. It's what the fucking signs says yet, for some reason, YOU decide that when they say "Keep left" you assume they mean "March like a stormtrooper on the right". I walk down that long corridor on the left and I keep my eyes on the ground, that way anyone who is marching towards me can clearly see that I'm not looking where I'm going and will have to move out of my way. In other words, they will have to KEEP LEFT. This rule might have to change because I wasn't looking where I was going and a little girl walked towards a busker to give him some money and she got right in my way and BANG! My knee hit her in the chest, she went flying and smacked the back of her head on the ground. The screaming started very quickly after that.

I apologised immediately and checked to see if she was OK. She was but the shock of being kneed in the chest by a stupid, old man who has a Keep Left chip on his shoulder takes a lot out of a 5 year old. She was crying loudly and I was sure her Dad was going to punch me.

I'm sure he will.

Any second now.


Sadly, Dad did not leap to his daughter's side, even though she was crying loudly. Dad was busy. Busy reading a poster for a Dan Brown book. A little girl is confused, in shock and in pain and six feet away her Dad is sorting out his summer read.

Eventually, (it only took about 15 seconds but that's a long time when you have a 5 year old stranger hysterically crying at you) Dad turned round and told her she was OK. He told me that it was an accident and it was all fine. I walked away very confused.

All I'm saying is that if you punch a Dan Brown fan's child then tell them it was an accident they will smile and believe you. I mean, why wouldn't he believe me, eh? If I said that's what happened then that's what happened. Conspiracy theories are bit nutty after all.

Monday, 19 July 2010

I Name Thee.

When you are involved with a group of people a new problem arises. It's one thing for them to be awful and horrible and smelly and stupid. That I can deal with. I see some of that in myself even. Occasionally, I can even get on with evil carnivores as long as they're not the fucking unbelievably thick cunts that I've been talking to on Facebook recently. But the thing about being with a large group of people, like I am with with the musical, is that you have to find your place in the group. You have to know where you stand. You have to understand how the others see you. The others will have names like Damo or Spikey. That lets you know EXACTLY the kind of person they are. They are tragic. They have nicknames (probably self-given) and I am 41. Anyone with a nickname when you are 41 comes across as lost at best. They hate themselves so much that they pretend they are someone so awful that you would forget that the real them ever even existed. That's what someone called Bozza would do.

I hate Bozza, so let's forget Bozza even existed.

There are other people in groups, of course. They are called Elisa or Rosetta or, even worse, they will have a totally regular first name and a completely insane surname like Karen Hornbugger. Something like that. These people are known as the awful cunts who are nice. They bring little cakes and massage you and read out horoscopes and agree with everything you say and offer to let you kick their fucking head in. Avoid these people. They are minging. Of course, ANYONE with a one syllable name is worth avoiding too. Bob, Dan, Dave, Kaz, Shnaz, Rob, Ted, Fip, Sly, Kip, Tit or Piss are not people that you should ever say hello to. They are bastards with jokes. Jokes and hugs. They put their lizard arm around you and reveal this secret bit of hilarity that is only between you and them and then expect you to laugh at the end of their horror. Their jokes are made up of a very tricky and technical mathematical equation. It is this: A Dick + Something Racist + A Not So Recent Event = A dick was racist ages ago. They will also ask if you've seen Mock The Week. I'm just saying.

Then there are party poopers, shy people, the B.O. brigade, girls with three nipples, the jocks, the git that draws crap on his jeans, the weird religious one, the few nice people and Fat Graham. Those are pretty much all the character groups that you can fall into and when you are in a group and, if you want to survive, you must find out where you sit very quickly. I found out today who I am within the group. I am the one who shits.

Since I started rehearsals there has been NO TOILET. We have pretended that there has been but we are all liars. Often one of us will ask for two minutes. In theatre, two minutes means that you must excrete. It's a wonderful system for avoiding embarrassment. That person goes away and two minutes later they come back eager to continue rehearsing as if what they had done hasn't been the most disgusting thing they have ever done in their lives. We all fucking know that that useless bastard toilet doesn't work and yet when people come back from shitting/pissing and pretending they have flushed a toilet THAT HAS NO FLUSH they fully expect us to carry on with their charade. THEY HAVE FUCKING DEFECATED. THE FILTHY FILTHS! And yet, instead of bricking them to death, we ask them what page we were on and carry on with the rehearsal as if nothing DISGUSTING had happened. Actors are disgusting! Oh, they won't say the name of the Scottish play but they are more than happy to shit in a toilet that doesn't flush. BASICALLY SHIT IN A BUCKET and then skip back to work and expect us to give them eye contact?

But that's normal to them. Actors are wild animals. Not Lions or Bears, no. Much more boring than that. Voles and badgers would be closer. They just shit everywhere and expect us to take it. But they do have defence. They SHIT EVERYWHERE but they never talk about it. I mean EVERYONE must have used that broken toilet last week. Are they saying that NONE of them had a poo? Well, they must have but they are like shadows. Did I see you walking out of the toilet? No? Trick of the light. Where have you been? Nowhere? I must have imagined you'd left...

Oh, they will fuck with your heads but they are humans, aren't they? Surely they are humans? They must go to the toilet?

Yet no trace of evidence.

Today I turned up for rehearsal and was overjoyed to see that the toilet had now been fixed and a "flush" installed. Imagine that, readers. Defecating and getting rid of your waste. It's a dream come true. But, lo! There is no toilet paper. I am in need and yet with nothing to wipe! NOW IS MY CHANCE! I have yet to make my mark in this group. Wouldn't it be great if I could do a good deed and be known as the nice one? "Have you met Michael?", they will say. "Oh, he's lovely. So nice. So generous". And why? Because he was the one who decided to go and get toilet paper. Nobody told me to, nobody suggested it. I thought of it all on my own. I went and got toilet paper. ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE!!! (For today anyway) Dig in, everyone, I cried. I don't want to see a single sheet left at the end of the day!

I came back to the rehearsal room, ready to sneak the toilet paper into the toilet and not be seen. Everyone loves people who buys toilet paper but they don't want to see them do it. Everyone knows that. I'll just sneak in and drop the bog roll off then let everyone know that there is loo roll available. I'm bound to be loved.

Everyone was in the courtyard as I returned with the toilet roll in my hand. They saw me with it. They saw it in my hand. Yet they said NOTHING. I smiled awkwardly and went to the loo.

I have tried to make the Vicar funny and I've tried to throw a bit of energy into the part. I want to be as good at this role as I can. I want to have fun and I want the people who pay money to see it see that I love it and, maybe, the people I'm working with will see how much I love and respect what I'm doing.

They won't though, will they?

I'm the one who shits.

Saturday, 17 July 2010

Graham Norton Might Starve.

You know, you don't need to look at the Daily Mail website for very long before you despair for all humanity. If even a small percentage of people in Britain think or behave the way that the empty headed hysterics do on any given Daily Mail story's comments board then we are screwed. No matter what happens at any time in any place on the globe, be it famine or someone scratching their arse in front of a camera, their reaction is always the same: WELL, I'M NOT PAYING FOR IT.

I heard that our short-sighted and desperate to make a name for himself Culture Secretary, Jeremy fucking Hunt (Hey, I think he already has made a name for himself, know what I mean? A four-letter name, right, readers? That name I'm referring to is cunt. Geddit?), has declared that the government MIGHT cut the licence fee and therefore cut the amount of money the BBC gets to make it's programmes. This he claims is down to the BBC's "extraordinary and outrageous" waste. Now, I assume he means the World Cup and Wimbledon coverage, in which case I couldn't agree more. Sport is a hobby. It should NOT be on TV. Ever. In the same way that public funded cameras aren't pointing at me while I masturbate over Pyramids of Mars, likewise for everyone else's hobbies. But I appear to be in the minority. People who refuse to get up off their fat arses apparently love football and demand that it be on TV. To be fair, I don't think our Conservative government (let's not pretend anymore, eh?) are talking about the millions of our money wasted on wealthy people playing games. I'm also pretty sure they don't mean the quality of the drama that the BBC put out. I don't watch all of it but, you know, the BBC has got a pretty good record of high quality drama. Look at Doctor Who. I love Doctor Who. Maybe it's the comedy? I'd pretty much agree with the Tories IF that's what they were complaining about. I found it weird that people were so quick to save 6 Music yet no-one joined my Burn BBC3 To The Ground And Fuck The Ashes Facebook group (although I hear Mongrels is good). But again, the BBC made The Young Ones and Blackadder and I quite like Outnumbered, so I forgive them. If it's the daytime programming, then once again I'm on the side of the Tories. I don't understand the point of daytime TV. TV is something that either inspires you or something that you veg out to at the end of the day. Surely people have stuff to do during the day? No? I mean, we really don't NEED Cash In The Attic or Homes Under The Hammer or Shit I Found In My Garage or My Neighbours Are Hideously Ugly And I Can't Sell My House so maybe the BBC could save some of our money by not broadcasting during the day. Go back to Programmes For Schools & Colleges. I used to like watching that when I bunked off school. But that's not what's pissed the Tories off is it? It's the tedious myth that Jonathan Ross gets paid £500 Billion-a-year to shout at Andrew Sachs, isn't it?

I'm not an expert on the subject but surely Jonathan Ross does not get a yearly salary of £18 million or whatever it is. His production company does. That must include Friday Night With..., Film 2010 and his Radio 2 show. It's still a lot of money but surely that's a lot of hours of entertainment, no, and a fair few people are getting paid from that? I might be wrong, of course. But it's no major surprise that the Tories would attack the BBC as soon as they got in. Now they're smug, the Daily Mail is smug and it's readers are hysterical. GOOD! They say. WE SHOULDN'T HAVE TO BE FORCED TO PAY FOR THIS LEFT-WING INSTITUTION ANYMORE! DEATH TO THE SOCIALIST REGIME!

I'm not sure what communist agenda these fucknuts see in The One Show but I just can't quite see the BBC as a big evil or drain on money. There will definitely be waste, of course. I don't know how cheap Snog, Marry, Avoid is but I do know that it doesn't need to be made and no-one ever needs to see it. There's a few quid saved right there. At the end of the day, the licence fee costs £145.50 a year. Is that about £2.50 a week? I think that's pretty good for what we get as far as public broadcasting goes. Not everyone can afford that, I know, but maybe that's what needs to be looked at. Plus if the BBC goes Michael McIntyre might go back to the clubs and I can't let that happen.

Maybe I should start a Facebook group. 6 Music was saved by a Facebook group and I think we're all very impressed by the amount of people in this country who actually support Raoul Moat. I have every faith that he will crawl out of his grave very soon. Well done, guys!

That reminds me. I really should pay my licence fee this week.

Friday, 16 July 2010

A Quick Catch Up.

I haven't had a chance to blog this week and I've missed it, to be honest. But instead of writing all grumpily I've just been out enjoying myself. First things first, a very big thank you to all the people who made the effort to come down to the Precious Little Party on Sunday. James and I are very grateful and it was a lot of fun. Special thanks to Martin and Andy from The Gentleman's Review who were our special guests, Mushybees for excellent stand-up comedy to start everything off and to Andy McHaffie who provided a great live version of the Fuck-A-Thing jingle. We've been asked if we'll ever do another live podcast and the answer is almost certainly no. It was fun, special and unique. It will, at the very most, only be two of those three things if we do it again. But, you never know. You can hear it at

More thanks go to Drunk Sarah who, although she was in America filling herself with booze and cocks, sent everyone in the room a lovely "I am a pair of bastards" badge. That will mean nothing to you if you've never heard that one particular podcast. Oh, well. And lastly, huge and humble thanks go to the podophiles who had a whipround to give us beer money. It was very unexpected and I was totally overwhelmed when it was handed to me. Just to let you know, the money went to Rosie who helped set up the room and keep tabs on the door (fankoo!) and Mushybees who, apart from being funny, drove the equipment to the show. James spent the rest on hair products and Kula Shaker bootlegs. The cunt.

The rest of the week has been spent working on shows. Robin Ince and I had a lot of fun shouting at everyone and everything at Old Rope on Monday while trying out new material for Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire. We seem to have a lot of new material but when we get on stage we start complaining about other things and forget about what we've written. Very professional. But it's been the musical that's kept me busiest. I've gone from terrified to I FUCKING CAN'T WAIT TO DO THIS. This week everyone said that my dancing is equally as good as my singing so the show might not be a complete failure after all. Thank God they have me is what I keep saying all the time quite loudly. And the others love me for it. After every rehearsal it's straight to the pub. The darlings never invite me though as they want me to be at my best for all the shows, I imagine. And I always know when I've done something good because the others just stop what they're doing and Chris, the director, throws his script to the ground and leaves the room. I don't think he likes crying in front of everyone. But he does like shouting in the courtyard, I know that. And what a great director he is. It was his idea that I stopped doing "The Vicar" in a Nigerian accent and remove my face make-up. It has made some of the cast less angry, for sure.

I got up early yesterday for another day of agonising warm-up stretches, vocal exercises and fucking about but luckily I checked my email just before I left. I wasn't needed yesterday. I had the day off. That meant I could catch up on blogs and other writing and start writing more for my solo preview this Tuesday. OR...

I could lie on the sofa watching telly.

Christ, it was fucking brilliant. When my body heard that I didn't have to go to rehearsals it just shut down. I lay on the sofa and decayed. It felt great. Just watching telly and going through YouTube and doing...well...nothing. It was really lovely. It was like me and the sofa had fallen in love with each other all over again.

The thing with doing nothing is that after a while your mind wanders. My mind should never wander. It should stick clearly to the map I've given it: awake, eat, complain, eat, drink, drink, drink, drink, argue, bed. But my mind did wander and when it wandered I got sad. Where have my eyebrows gone?

I was sent a couple of photos of Robin and I and I noticed that I no longer have eyebrows. I'm sure I used to have eyebrows. They were just above my eyes for ages and now they've gone. Girls used to say nice things about my eyebrows. Yes, that's right. Due to a complete lack of anything else to compliment, girls used to say they really, really liked my eyebrows. "Ooh", they would say. "You have nice eyebrows. Anyway, bye!" So the fact that they have gone is more than just a little bit upsetting for me. My Dad lost his hair when he was quite young and as a child I used to laugh at him for being bald and old and stupid but now look. I can't even keep hair on my face so the hair on my head is bound to follow. There was a time when beautiful, scantly clad, blonde maidens would come running and giggling towards me and beg me to let them wash my eyebrows with lavender and water from a well. Some of the water would splash on to them and their thin, white clothes would stick to their wet skin, revealing their breasts. Well, that's never going to fucking happen again, is it? DON'T take your eyebrows for granted. I did. I just assumed they'd always be there and I never gave them the attention or credit they deserved. What will leave me next? My sight? My hearing? My head?

My head might as well go because without those eyebrows I am nothing. And I'm not wearing a head-merkin.

I was beautiful once. And Terrifying.

And now they're gone.

Sunday, 11 July 2010

Scared And Not Heard.

Thank the Lord for Insane Mums. They know how to keep order. Unruly children on trains can be really annoying but luckily I was in the Insane Mum Carriage on my way to Glasgow and the bedlam was cut short. It's amazing. None of that "talking to your children" or "keeping your child entertained or busy" crap. Just a simple screaming fit and a few threats and the child was quiet. Quiet and frozen in fear.

The train, as always, was full of pricks and awful. For the first hour, a child behind me kept playing his Electric Gameboy Machine very loudly even though his pissy Liberal parents kept asking him to put it on mute. He said he would IN A MINUTE but that minute never came. You might wonder why I didn't take it off him and shove it down his horrible, rude throat. Well, the answer is simple. He was far from the most annoying on the train. The noise that little brat was making was nothing compared to AN HOUR of horsey laughter and cheering from four men sitting near me who kept on reciting Numberwang. FOR A FUCKING HOUR. I mean of all the sketches in the world to recite why did they pick that one? I was trying to read through the script for Gutted (I am a musical actor now) and all I could hear was THAT'S NUMBERWANG! HAW HAW HAAAAWWW! NUMBERWANG! HAW HAW HAAAAWWWW!!! 38! 26! 11! HAW HAW HAAAAAWWWWWW!!! 87!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWW!!!!!! THAT'S NUMBERWANG!!!!


They got off the train, the pissy liberal parents, the horrible child and the haw-haws, and I felt a lot better. For about 8 minutes. Two girls walked past me and I clearly heard one say "By then my fanny was damaged". I felt sad.

Then, at Newcastle, a couple of women got on with their kids. The kids were fine for the first hour or so but they got bored. Their Mums hadn't brought something with them to keep them amused and, as their Mums seemed interested only in talking loudly at one another, they decided to go and find something to do. This meant running up and down the aisle of the carriage while screaming. It still wasn't as annoying as Numberwang but it was rapidly getting on my nerves. Then they started swinging on the arms of their seats. The Mums didn't care about the running up and down bit because they didn't really see it and therefore it couldn't have anything to do with them. But now the kids were right beside them swinging on their seats and laughing and being children. This was interrupting the Mums very loud conversation and that would not do.

"FUCKING SIT DOWN. FUCK'S SAKE. YOU'RE GIVING ME A HEADACHE", exclaimed one mother to her small child.

The child laughed and continued swinging on the seat. This only encouraged Mummy to open her heart to her offspring again. "I FUCKING TOLD YOU TO FUCKING SIT DOWN. I'LL SMACK YOU".

That was horrible enough but the other Mum topped her by turning to her own daughter and declaring "I'LL BREAK YOUR LEGS, LEANNE".

After that the train was a lot quieter. No kids running around and even the Mums themselves were quiet. They had terrified everyone into shutting up and it looked like they had even scared themselves. Surely that is the best way to talk to your children. Shout at them and threaten them with violence and they will be quiet. Perfect. No way is that going to come out negatively in later life.

I don't know these people so maybe I shouldn't judge even though what I saw could never be justified. I say I don't know them, I definitely know two things about one of them. Firstly, I know she is bad with children and secondly I know that she knows either four or five people. Two of her tattoos said "Paul" but the other three had different names. It could be the same Paul or two different ones. I didn't ask as I didn't want to end up with my legs broken.

Friday, 9 July 2010

Tits and Teeth.

I can completely relate to Raoul Moat. We are both nervous about doing something that we shouldn't have. We are both waiting to be discovered. And we have both committed horrible crimes. Admittedly, his was murder and mine is just not being able to sing but, other than that, we are exactly the same. The whole country is looking for him like some sort of Evil Maddie and, soon, I too will have all eyes gazing on me for this August I will be the starring in a musical.

It's the most exciting thing that has ever happened to anyone ever. The musical is Gutted and it's written by Danielle Ward and Martin White and, despite that, it's great. In Gutted I play the title role of "Vicar", a mysteriously beautiful hero figure who is the multi-millionaire boss of a church and, when not on a speedboat with a machine gun, slams one bad-ass mutha of a wedding service right into the faces of the happy couple. There are some other people in the musical too but I have barely noticed them so wrapped up in the role have I become. What I like about the rest of the cast (one of them is called Jim, I think) is that they have all just stepped back and let me lead the show. It's pretty obvious that when it comes to musical theatre that I am a complete natural and it must be quite frustrating for some of them who have trained for years and have a lot of experience and yet are still utterly and embarrassingly shit. Danielle and Martin wrote the role especially for me but they must have been really nervous to ask me in case I said no like the other people had but I just knew that this was a project that I could save. I can see it now: Opening night, the press is there, a single spotlight shines on my face as I sing the opening ballad, "There Are No Whoopsies In Heaven", and then BOOM! The word VICAR in lights behind me as I lead the cast, and the whole room, into the "Sexual Lunch/Love Island/Christ, Women Don't Shut Up" medley and a star is born. The room will rise to it's feet and applause will fill the air. The rest of the cast (maybe I'm wrong about Jim, I think he's called John or something) will be gracious and let me have my moment. They might be going back to their little studio flats for Pot Noodle and suicide but they know they cannot stand in my way. The West End, Broadway, Vegas, The fucking Moon. I'll be everywhere, baby. You won't be able to watch a chat show without me being on it. There won't be an awards ceremony that I'm not invited to. And, like Raoul, the papers will want to know all about my latest hair-do. Perhaps we should say goodbye now, dear reader. I'm the next big thing whether you don't like it or hate it.

And this is me. Today was my first rehearsal and I was terrified. I can't sing so the last thing I should be in is a musical but, as no-one has told me to fuck off, I'm sticking with it. Of course, I'm sticking with it. It's just brilliant. We did a warm-up which involved stretching, doing the splits, touching my toes and crying then it was straight to the opening number. You will all be glad to know that Colin Hoult licks my face everyday and then hits me in the face with a woman. It's how Judy Garland started. Or ended up, I can't remember. All I can say is that it's definitely a funny show and it's going to be fun working with very lovely people (Christ, 5 minutes in and already I'm acting the Lovey). Plus Chris George, the director, gave me the best advice on acting and, indeed, life. He said something that I think we can all use. He said "Michael, you just stand there until you get hit". He's right. I do do that a lot.

There are two previews of Gutted at the Riverside Studios (where they filmed a lot of Hartnell/Troughton Dr. Who's) on the 26th and 27th July then it's off to The Assembly Rooms in Edinburgh from the 6th August. Just to let you know how excited I am, the first thing I did after the rehearsal today was phone my Mum. I am a total tough hard comedian who shouts at people and fixes toilets with his bare hands. I DO NOT phone my Mum to tell her how the musical rehearsals are going. It's a joy.

Thursday, 8 July 2010

Keep Everything Off The Grass

Is there anything better than a picnic in the park on a sunny day? Yes, there is and I have made a short list of them.

1. Being shot dead in the face.
2. A mad dog finding out that your genitals are made of bacon.
3. Hitler coming back to life and marrying you.
4. Dragging your bloodied and battered body out of your wrecked car just in time to get hit by a tank.
5. Stand Up For The Week.
6. Your feet ending up in your arse.
7. Your birthday is Christmas Day and you only get one set of presents and you have liver failure.
8. Your teeth hitting a kerb.
9. You're on Death Row and, due to a terrible mix-up, they bring you a big statue of James Corden made out of solid, stinking cum instead of your final meal.
10. A man shouting "Dick" at you.

And that's just off the top of my head. A picnic in the park sounds like a great idea but it is ruined by other people having the same idea. All other people are cunts. You must remember that.

The last week has been beautiful, weather wise, and that has made every trip to the park a misery. When it is pissing with rain, a walk in the park is like...well...there isn't really a good enough simile for a walk in the park but all I can say is it's dead good. No-one is there. The park is empty and there isn't even a trace of anyone being there. It's just me, Jerk and grass. And loads and loads of rain. But I'd rather be soaked than have to walk through the park on a sunny day when it is full of cunts who fill the park with rubbish. Wherever you go it's sandwich wrappers, empty bottles, fucking discarded fried chicken boxes and, most disgusting of all, soiled nappies. Why the fuck do picnic people forget about bins? Why does the sun make us say FUCK OFF to courtesy? Are these cunts so dehydrated that they can't make it to the bin that's 6 cunting feet away from them? Are they so effected by the power of the sun that they have deluded themselves into thinking they're helping a fucking womble? I mean how are the drug addicts, alcoholics, cottagers and rapists supposed to enjoy their pastimes if you picnic loving Nazi's leave the place in a fucking state?

And it's a lot harder to enjoy a dog walk thanks to YOU. There is so much discarded food around that Jerk is on sensory overload. She can't believe her luck. THERE'S MEAT EVERYWHERE! She runs and wags her tail and eats death and then is completely confused when I tell her to drop what she's eating. It's food that is given to her by a thoughtless, evil cunt and taken away from her by a thoughtful, caring cunt. She knows she's not allowed it so instead she just stands in front of a thrown chicken bone or half a burger and stares at it. Dreaming of eating a dead animal. For ages.

What I can't understand is when I see an empty family bucket of fried chicken lying around. And I see them a lot. A family bucket of fried chicken is NOT a picnic. It just means that you're a lazy, bad parent outside. If there was a telly in a tree you'd be watching it and ignoring your unwanteds as normal. It changes nothing just being outside.

And don't think I haven't said to people about it. Last year I saw a family of, well, fucking bastard arseholes eating their KFC "picnic" and then packing up their blanket and leaving. With all their wrappers still on the grass. I quickly picked them all up, put them in the empty bucket and ran after the family. "You forgot this!", I said cheerily as if I'd done a good deed and felt all happy about it (which was the case). The man looked aggressively at me and said "What?"

"This is yours", I said. By this time he'd had a second to assess the situation. He could beat me up but not in front of his kids. So, he took the bucket.

"The bins over there", I said helpfully and completely sarcastically. His wife (I assume) said "Just put it in the bin over there, yeah?"

"Yes", I said.

"OK, thanks".

It was like the thought had never dawned on her to put rubbish in a bin before. Like she thought that if you leave rubbish there and walk away then it doesn't exist anymore. But she is stupid and I'm not. I know that she knows that you put rubbish in a bin. EVERYONE knows that. She and her husband (I'll let their kids off, they were very young) are just so utterly horrible that they feel it is their right to leave their shit wherever they feel like. Someone else can pick it up because I'm King 12-Inch and this is my wife Queen Brilliant and we are so fucking important that our rubbish is your problem, not ours.

Today, as I was leaving the park, I saw a woman get up from her picnic blanket and walk towards the bin with a soiled nappy. How refreshing, I thought. Someone who knows how to put waste away. She dumped it but it hit the side of the bin and fell to the ground instead. It was lying there right beside the bin and she looked at it, tutted and then walked away. The fucking cunt. My blood turned to lava.

"Can you pick that up and put it in the bin, please?", I said while trying my best not to punch her fucking useless face in.

She spun round like it was the most exhausting thing she'd ever done and, like a spoiled child or a Harry Enfield character, said "I was going to actually".

"Yeah, right", I said.

"Fuck off", she said in front of her child and baby.

At least I'm getting out and meeting people, I suppose. I did another preview of Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire last night with Robin Ince. He was excellent and I was shit. That's OK. It's a preview, I'm supposed to find out what I'm crap at and we certainly got very excited talking about new stuff and ways to improve the show. I'm really looking forward to Edinburgh. Especially as I'm going to be in a musical now too. Did I tell you that I'm going to be in a musical? Well, I bloody am.

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

When The Blog Applies To Me.

I've been wearing a grey t-shirt a lot lately. If you've seen me in the last couple of weeks you may have noticed me wearing a grey t-shirt. It has a picture of a heart and a fox on it and it publicises the fantastic musician Tim Ten Yen. If you know me at all then you will know my very limited wardrobe so this grey t-shirt will be brand new to you. And you would be forgiven for thinking that it's pretty new to me too. But it's not. I've had it for two years but, up until now, have been too generous with my size for it to fit me. Now I wear it all the time. I mean pretty much every day and constantly. Even while sleeping. I wear this grey, Tim Ten Yen t-shirt every day because I finally can and I finally can because I've invented a brand new diet plan that works. I call it Being Drunk All The Time.

BDATT works by blindly destroying yourself over a surprisingly short space of time. I have a beer for breakfast, a beer for lunch and a proper session in the evening. The weight just drops off. No need for tasteless food or exercising, BDATT, when used with nothing whatsoever, can genuinely work for YOU. Sure, I might stink and my sentences are all in the fuck bunch not making sense tree-bags anymore but it's a small price to pay for looking and feeling great. I bought that grey t-shirt for a reason: so that I could wear it. And now that I can wear it I'm never, ever going to take it off ever. I've worked too hard.

I have, of course, done nothing. I have no idea why this t-shirt now fits me but I do like what it's done to my fractured mind. I definitely am not eating less or exercising more but this t-shirt now fits me and it's much more likely that the t-shirt itself has somehow grown instead of me shrinking. That's not the case in my head, however. In my head I am telling myself that I look great these days. If I wear this t-shirt then everyone will be impressed by how much weight I've lost and how healthy I look. They will all find me more attractive. Fitter, leaner, sexier. If I wear this grey t-shirt then the world will want to fuck me so, therefore, I must wear it every day. Yes, it is dirty and smelly and mostly damp and sticky now but if I take it off then I will just go back to being dull, ordinary, awkward Peter Parker instead of strutting my sweet, sweet ass and gettin' freak-ayy as Batman. Yes, not only does this t-shirt help me re-write history but I can now re-write fiction too. I love you, stinking grey t-shirt.

Thanks to this grey t-shirt my standing in the world has changed so much. Not only does my head think that I'm thinner, it thinks I'm younger too. Don't be surprised if you see me hosting T4 or letting everyone down on BBC3 or throwing out "topical" "news-based" comedy on Stand Up For The Week. Honestly, if they mention George Michael getting arrested this week it will just be a coincidence that he actually did get arrested. They've just got some jokes from his second arrest to SLAM you with. And that section "This Week On The Web"? You can't do topical stuff on the internet. The internet is an archive system. That's like INSERT FAMOUS PERSON WHO WAS IN THE NEWS SIX WEEKS AGO having a SOMETHING THAT FAMOUS PERSON IS UNLIKELY TO HAVE.

Yep, it's all going my teenage, skinny way these days. Thanks to good old grey t-shirt. Bennett Arron is performing a preview show at The Phoenix tonight and I'm going along to watch. Poor guy will find it hard to get focus from the ladies in the audience if I'm there with my grey t-shirt on. Ha ha ha. Poor Bennett.


Saturday, 3 July 2010

The Last Train To Evolution Has Gone.

Ah, the train. Where would my blood pressure be without it?

After last night's gig in Reading I travelled back home by train. It was bad enough on the way there with commuters pushing and running and throwing all their dignity away to get a seat like that was the only way they could survive. If they don't get a seat on the 7.28 from Paddington then THEY WILL DIE. Get out of my way! I have a disease and the only cure is a seat. Somehow. I know I'm a grown adult with family and friends and maybe even a lover but I will risk them all thinking far less of me and show the world who I really am, a fucking prick, as long as I get a seat. I know I shouldn't be pushing people or shoving people or doing that half-walk half-run thing because it makes me look like I am insane but there's a seat on a train at stake here. You know? A SEAT on a TRAIN. The holy grail of commuting. It is worth dying for because without it I will die anyway. Or I'll have to stand for a bit and I don't really like standing for a bit. Right. The platform's been announced. I'll just look at the picture of my baby on my phone, apologise to it and then push every fucker out of my way as I foam at the mouth, bark, scream and embarrass myself all in the name of sitting down between Paddington and Slough. A 15 minute trip that no man could have the stamina to stand for. Push the old lady, knee the old bloke, blu-tac under the bum, I'm sorted.

Someone should write a comedy routine about that. Maybe if I could condense it to 140 characters or less then I could enter the Highlight Joke Competition on Twitter, a competition for ordinary people to tell jokes in the hope of winning £5000. Well, ordinary people and several professional comedians. I'm sure that's cheating.

Yes, the journey there was bad but that was nothing compared to the trip back. In a recent blog I wrote about the interesting (not to mention incredibly obvious) ways that the media treats religions and the way the people in that religion actually are. Basically, I was in Doha hanging out with Arab Muslims and, would you believe it, they were all very nice people. Not one of them blew me up even a little bit. My point was that jumping to judge on something like religion isn't wise, not because of the wrath that we might suffer but because, let's face it, we're probably wrong. I don't believe in any God but other people do and that doesn't make them stupid.

I would now like to take that back.

About 15 young men were on the train last night and they were all shouting at one another. Really loudly. It was really interrupting my enjoyment of The Gentleman's Review podcast (how am I supposed to know what Yoda thinks if YOU'RE ALL SHOUTING!?) and it was obviously upsetting a lot of other people on the train too. I gave them a few minutes, not to see if they'd quiet down but just to see if someone else...anyone else...on the train might ask them to keep their voices down. No such luck. You're a bunch of spineless cunts, the lot of you. My turn again. I leaned over and asked them politely if they could keep their voices down. They stopped, looked at me and then a few of them told me to sit down. "You've got headphones. You've got headphones. You've got headphones. You've got headphones", said one of them. Well observed but the jokes on you, Sonny Jim. They're earphones not headphones. HA!

"You're talking too loudly, guys. Can you just keep it down, please? I think you're upsetting other people on the train", I pleaded while dreaming of fucking all their mums at their funerals.

Again I was told to sit down. "You've got headphones. You've got headphones", the prick repeated. I loudly said "Fucking cunts" and sat down. This made about half of them stare at me but I stared back and they quickly stopped staring and went back to shouting at one another.

This made things interesting. I've just called 15 lads on a train fucking cunts and they said nothing. I fixed a toilet seat yesterday, I can easily beat up 15 lads. But why didn't they say anything? They outnumber me greatly. And they're wearing suits. And they're not drinking like other groups of lads on trains normally do. Hang on. I get it. THEY'RE RELIGIOUS! Brilliant! This I have to hear. I took out my earphones (they were in my ears) and listened in properly.

Oh, yes. These were the proper religious people that I know. Not the cool, groovy, calm, conversational religious types of Doha. These were much more like the ones I grew up with. People who believe in exactly the same thing arguing long and loud about the tedious fine print. "Say it again, right", said the one that I now considered The Main Cunt. "You call God Allah, right? And You call God Muhammed, right? Well, that's stupid. God is God. Call God God".

Fucking hell.

One of his cunt friends tried to explain. "But Allah is what we call God in Arabic". The Main Cunt just couldn't fathom this.

"You call God God. God speaks English not Arabic".

That's what the incredible idiot said. With no trace of irony or humour (this cunt has no humour) he opened his mouth and actually let those words leave his blind-and-looking-for-the-exit brain.

"There is only one God", he continued. "Just like there is only one Jesus (there isn't. He should go to Brazil. There are loads) and there is only one bible (Erm...what?)"

That is the Christian that I know, people. The loud, damning, insane Christian. The one that is so terrified of dying, and living, that he must make up a little story about how death takes us to Castle Smiles and if you don't believe in everything he says you won't be allowed in and you must live for all eternity at the bottom of the river Fuck and drown for every second from now on for all eternity forever. Oh, and you're on fire. And there's a weasel in you.

Look, I really don't mind anyone believing in anything. I might think it's mad but I don't mind. But my one tiny, wee bugbear with the whole thing is that IF YOU SAY THAT YOU ARE CHRISTIAN THEN BEHAVE LIKE A FUCKING CHRISTIAN. Why, after thousands of years, is that still so hard a concept to grasp?

The only joy I got was when The Main Cunt said "Look, we're all intelligent men..." and I shouted "HA!". They all looked over and I stared back. Yeah, those wimps knew a man who'd fixed a toilet recently when they saw one.

And he wasn't the worst on the train. The worst on the train was everyone else for letting these people shout, scream and obnoxiously and aggressively dictate the atmosphere of the carriage. I'm not looking for a revolution here but for fuck's sake there was a lot more of us than there were of them and absolutely no-one backed me up when I was "told" to sit-down. Our trains are getting worse and, as the train companies have no interest themselves, why don't we push the train companies until they take an interest. Overload the complaints departments until they actually might think about maybe doing something at sometime someday. And in the meantime, don't be afraid to remind people of their manners while in public. Er...make sure they're not nutters first though. I don't want you getting hurt.

The train pulled into Lewisham and I got off. I didn't go to the door nearest me, I wanted to walk through the group of lads to have the last word. "You were too loud and aggressive", I told them and got a lot of "Whatever"'s back but then I pointed to The Main Cunt and said "And watch out for this one. He's trouble".

They went a bit quiet then.

And that's the kind of guy I am. I fix toilets, I stand up to loud people and I'm just a little bit creepy.

Friday, 2 July 2010


I did it. I bloody did it! It's taken me 13 days of daily strain, sweat, tears and incredible amounts of abuse from an inanimate object but I have finally achieved the impossible. For 13 long, long days I have been reading books, watching videos and buying the proper equipment to conquer this mammoth task and not one single bit of advice from these helped. Then yesterday, after an hour (A WHOLE FUCKING HOUR) of working on this uncooperative, evil, rock-solid BASTARD, I just snapped and ran to my tool box. I'll let you take some time to get over the shock of knowing that I have a tool box before telling you that I grabbed a screwdriver, shoved it under the cap of the toilet seat hinge and prized the rusty, piss-congealed nut and bolt right off. You don't get that in your fancy DIY books. In fact, they specifically all say to definitely NOT do what I did but I just couldn't take looking into that toilet any more. Every day, on my hands and knees, using all my strength to try to unscrew a bolt so that I can put on a new toilet seat so that I don't spend all my poo time falling off the toilet. Every day looking at that smug, porcelain bastard with his big round mouth going "OOOOOOH, you nearly had it that time. NOT! OOOOOOOOH, I've seen some shits in my time but you're taking the piss. I thought that was my job! OOOOOOOOOOOOHHH, YOU'LL NEVER DO IT!"

But with one stab of a screwdriver, one full on body-weight prize and one big scream and it was done. The bolt off, the new seat on and the lid down to shut the toilet up. I bet he's looking a bit flush now.

DAMN! I should have said that to him yesterday. Anyway, I fixed the toilet seat and I just feel utterly masculine. It's like I have a six-pack, a misspelled tattoo and I've finally got schoolpubes. Everywhere. Finally fixing that bastard has given my cock a real lift too. It's massive now and barks to let me know when there's a Beyonce video on telly. It even drinks beer! But only after I've drank a lot of beer.

Yep. It's great being a bloke.

The great thing about fixing something as rugged and masculine as a toilet seat is that I had an audience to witness it. A perfect audience. Just one man. My garden has decided to start eating both my neighbours gardens so it was time to call in an expert. I wasn't happy at calling in a gardener because my fragile manliness would have to be put to question again. That said, I don't like creepy crawlies and jaggy things sometimes nearly make me bleed so I had no choice. He turned up with his big arms and brushing his chest hair out of his face and started to work immediately. I know! He didn't even blog first. He just STARTED. Punching down trees and kicking the grasses head in and being manly and making me feel tiny and weak and with an unbarking cock. It barely coughed now. And that was all the inspiration I needed to finish this thing between the toilet seat and me.

Just as I screamed my big manly scream while prizing at the evil bolt, the gardener walked in. He walked in to see the bolt fly off. I had a screwdriver in one hand and now a rusty bolt in the other. He said he'd finished his little bit of weeding and I walked outside with him to check everything was as me and my barking cock desired. I took the screwdriver and bolt with me. I could talk to him on his level, or even just above his level, if I had those with me. The fact that he had completely changed my garden in a matter of two hours while I spent 13 days trying to change a toilet seat couldn't stop my feeling of masculine authority over this little garden gnome who is basking in my glory. I even gave him a real man's handshake too. You know, one that you have to put your whole arm out and then fully swing your body right round so that your hand CLASHES with his. It really hurt but I didn't go on about it.

I have another drawer to fix today. In a way, I hope it gives me shit. I DARE it to not do what I tell it to. Sock drawer? Prepare to meet your assembler.