Are you Michael McIntyre? No, you aren’t, so you are NOT the fucking STAR of Michael McIntyre Comedy Roadshow. Do you know who is? Michael McIntyre. That’s all. No-one else. He is so much the star of Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Roadshow that he’s even managed to sneak his name into the title of the show somewhere, so they say. Why you haven’t stopped your agent from putting “Star of the Michael McIntyre Comedy Roadshow” on your poster and making you look like an egotistical, fame addicted tool is absolutely no-one’s guess. You aren’t Paul Merton or Ian Hislop either. You’re just you. Shame you don’t think that’s enough.
Right. That’s that bit done. Now, let’s talk about Chris Addison. I’m having a really nice Edinburgh. It’s stressless, relaxing, enjoyable. All the things that I don’t relate to. As a result, I have nothing to blog about. People around me are all lovely and the shows are going well. Nothing about that is interesting. I had a bit of trouble finding vegan food at the beginning of the festival but now I’m in a new flat practically next door to Henderson’s, Edinburgh’s oldest vegetarian/vegan restaurant. Everything is going my stupid fucking way. I even tried to pick a fight with some poor cunt called Alan by heckling him at Karaoke Circus but everyone is so fucking lovely there that they just tolerated me. Cunts. But Chris Addison. Chris fucking Addison gets it all handed to him on a plate. He’s a fucking bastard. I’ve always thought that about him and so have you. I saw him on Monday night, hours after he had torn ligaments and was hobbling on crutches. Did he cancel his gigs and then go home and bitch about it on Chortle like a real man? NO. The big flowery twat shrugged it all off, did the gig crutch-free and fucking smiled about it afterwards. He told me how it all happened while smiling and not making a big deal of it. The arrogance of the cock. And there I was, looking at his crutches, seeing him hobble and I seethed with jealousy. Those crutches should be mine, not his. I should be the one on pain killers and doctor’s orders. Imagine my blogs describing in detail of how I have to spend days in bed in pain and agony popping pills and constantly reading everyone else’s good reviews. I would tell yarns of my struggle to put pants on and go on and on and on about my solitude while all around me everyone is having a great festival and then make some hilarious joke about at least now I can’t physically make it to see Dark Side Of The Poon. But that cunt has ruined it. I’m never going to have torn ligaments now. I mean what are the chances of that happening to two young, talented and famous comedians? Instead I have to tell you a fucking stupid story about Alistair McGowan shitting on my shit.
Alistair McGowan has done a shit on my shit. I always had a feeling that one day mine and Alistair’s faeces would touch and I was right. I did done a poo at the Pleasance (no, not like everyone else. I mean in the toilet) and, when I had completed my poo and ticked my To Do List, I flushed. The toilet did nothing. I flushed again. Once more the toilet remained enigmatic and refused to get rid of my waste. I flushed several more times and still nothing. You know what? I kept my side of the bargain and flushed, the toilet blanked me so it’s the toilet’s problem. I don’t have time to spend all night in a cubicle flushing (I do) so I left. When I opened the door Alistair McGowan was there ready to go in. I can only assume he has shat on my shit. What a terrible impression, LOL! Now you know how we feel, Alistair!! LOL!
Fuck off. If I’d torn my ligaments instead of that prick I would never have written that.
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