Friday, 31 December 2010

New Year's Revolution.

As I was leaving the park in the pitch dark on Wednesday evening I saw a woman enter. She walked down the hill from the entrance right up to the river where she stood staring for a while. I didn’t see a dog with her but she must have one. I mean, no one walks into a park and stands by a riverbank in the pitch dark. There’s nothing to see. She must have a dog. The dog has run to the river to drink and she’s standing there waiting for him. This was confirmed by Jerk bolting over to her. Jerk has no interest in strangers but can’t wait to rush over to a dog to show it who’s boss. She’s a horrible bully when she wants to be. I saw Jerk bolt and immediately called her back. After all, this woman has just come out for a quiet night time stroll with her pup. The last thing she wants is some dog bullying hers. “They love to run, don’t they? My favourite sort of dog, they are”, she said.

“I think she just wanted to run over to your dog”, I replied.

“I haven’t got a dog”.


“No. I see what you’re saying and you’re not fucking funny. You’re a fucking wanker”.

I left the park thinking that’s it. Nothing has changed. 2010 was just the same as all the other years. I vowed at the beginning of the year to be nicer, friendlier and more tolerant but where does it get me? Nowhere, mate. That’s where. I try to be tolerant and my reward is sitting in a noisy train breathing in other people’s stench. I try to be nice and Barclays refuse to understand what nice is. I try to be friendly and it’s misconstrued as an insult to a woman’s face. Well, fuck it. 2010 is nearly over and I have a resolution that I will NEVER break in 2011.

I am not going to shut up in 2011.

That’s my resolution. I’ve spent the last year tolerating other people’s rudeness and I’ve hated it. It’s just not how I’m built. Noise on trains needs me to tell it to shut up. That’s just how our relationship is.

Yesterday morning I wanted to scan my passport and email it. My computer had other plans. It wanted to sit there for ages doing nothing then surprise me with a sign saying “An error occurred” but with no explanation. Fine. I’ll go to the internet
café round the corner.

The internet café round the corner was closed. I’m glad I went, though, otherwise I would never have known that someone had upturned three wheelie bins and stacked all the shitty, wet rubbish up against the door of the internet café. Great. I’ll go to the one in the High Street.

The one in the High Street had a sign that said “Open” next to another one saying that the establishment opened at 10am every day. It was about 11.15 and the blank zombie that worked there just kept repeating the word “Closed” to me. I asked him when it was opening. Nothing. I asked again. Nothing. I asked him if he could explain why the sign says “Open” but he’s saying “Closed”? The man sat there for ages doing nothing then surprised me with a sign saying “An error occurred” but with no explanation. Sigh.

Not to worry. There’s the internet café by the bank. I’ll go there. It was open and everything.

I wanted to scan my passport and email it. The man behind the counter was delighted to tell me that this was impossible. Why? Because it’s impossible. That was the only reason given. I asked if he had any blank discs that I could put the photo on, then go to a PC and send it. He didn’t know what a disc was. You try explaining a disc to someone who has no clue what one is. THAT’S impossible. I now know how Lisa Goddard felt when Arthur Mullard was on her team in Give Us A Clue. I, like Lisa, wanted to punch the thick cunt.

But he wasn’t totally stupid. He told me that there WAS a way that this impossible task could be completed. He could scan the passport, put the scan on to a USB stick and then plug it into the PC. BRILLIANT! Let’s do that then!!! Do I have a USB stick? No.

Of course I fucking don’t. You might as well ask if I’ve got a jam filled spider bus. Of course I don’t have a fucking USB stick. We came up with a solution but the solution was dung because I didn’t have a fucking USB stick. God Almighty, how did Lisa not strangle that prick? I asked him if he had a USB stick.

He hadn’t.

But I can see one just behind him.

No. They don’t have a USB stick.

But I can see one right there. On the shelf. Right behind him.


Yes. It’s just right fucking there. I can almost touch it. I can almost kill him.

Oh, yes. They DO have one.


But I’m not allowed to use it.

This went on for AGES. I mean a really stupidly long time until he just had to give it to me to shut me up. It was totally straightforward, easy to use and it got the job done. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THE DELAY FOR?

I left the internet café all furious. I then went into a shop and set an alarm off therefore waiting for a sloth dressed as a security guard to confirm that I wasn’t stealing anything from the shop. And, for some reason, bringing it back to the shop. I queued up to buy envelopes and when it FINALLY got to my turn the man at the till just walked away. I bought a child a birthday card that ended up costing £5.50. I was not in the best of moods but I never complained. And it started to hurt.

I had another long queue at the post office. 15 minutes at least. When I got to the end I was greeted by a really lovely, helpful and friendly person who apologised for the delay, gave me what I wanted, thanked me and gave me a cheery New Year’s wish. I
walked away completely cheered up.


No more rudeness, no more bad customer service, no more shit, no more tipping up bins outside shop doors. I’m up for a solid year of complaining straight to people’s faces. If they don’t know what they’re doing is wrong or rude, don’t worry. I’ll tell them. 2011 is the year it all changes, people.

Please note: I might get killed sometime in early January.

Happy New Year.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Brown Christmas.

Snow on the ground, the air filled with magic and wonder and yet Lewisham never changes. Magic and wonder wouldn't set foot in Lewisham. Awe inspiring beauty really gets ruined by the constant sounds of sirens and shouting. The snow may cover up most of the scratch cards, cigarette butts and corpses but Lewisham is still very much there and it won't let you forget it. You bastard.

Yesterday, I walked in the park with Jerk and soon realised I'd come out with any poo bags. This is a massive no-no if you're a dog owner. In fact, if you think that you're going to be responsible for any excrement being on the ground at any time, you should never leave the house without a poo bag. You don't need to be a dog owner. So, I decided to cheat. I'm not proud of myself but I really didn't want the £500 fine that I deserve for not picking up poo even though I know fully well that I could take a shit in the middle of Lewisham Shopping Centre and no one would mind. The thing is, I mind. So I felt guilty calling Jerk away from the main area of the park and closer to trees to poo. It wasn't ideal but it's better than poo everywhere where an innocent child could walk on it, eat it and become deaf (I think that's what it says on the poster). But my plan got foiled.

There was a man sitting on a bench. He saw my dog shit. Now he would see me walk past the shit without picking it up. He would see me shrug and not give a fuck where my dog shits. He would see me be like everyone else and just not care about a fucking thing.

Then I found two bags in my back pocket. Phew! My honour is saved. Now he would see me for the person I am. The thoughtful, respectful, caring sort of chap that picks up animal faeces with a bag and puts it in a bin. I'm not like everyone else.

Oh, but hang on. He is. He's a Lewisham resident. That's right. While I was picking up poo he got up from his bench and pissed against a wall. If that hasn't made you disgusted enough, how would you feel if I told you it was against the wall of a public toilet? What a fucking cunt.

I stood there and watched the man urinate (Sometimes I have to endure a lot to make a point). When he turned round he saw me staring and he looked embarrassed. "That's just disgusting", I said. "Was the door of the toilet just too far away for you?" He gave a bizarre answer. "Is that a lurcher or a greyhound?", he said. "You're changing the subject a bit", I replied.

I walked off in a huff. My spirits lifted though when I saw a kid playing in the snow. This weather might be a pain in the arse for us but children love it. Well, this child loves it. Hmmmm...there aren't any kids in the park. School's finished, this is a park full of snow, where are the kids? Is snow boring now? Has X-Factor and Xbox ruined the magic of snow even for them? Well, good on this one kid who's enjoying being a kid, loving the snow and building a snowman.

I got closer. It wasn't a child. It was a fully grown man. On his own. Building a snowman. And then dressing it in his clothes.

This would have been the most embarrassing thing that I'd seen that day if it wasn't for him beating that by running up to me and asking me to take a photo of him and his snowman. He wanted to prove to other people that he was once alone in a park building a snowman then dressed it in his jumper, coat and hat while he stood shivering in a t-shirt. Personally, I'd have kept that to myself. Nice to know that some man out there has a picture of himself, a snowman and Jerk, though. Oh, yeah. I got her in.

30 minutes later and I'm in Lewisham High Street where a "salesman" walked right up to me and wondered if I was interested in any watches, jewellery or sandwiches. I've never met anyone who sells counterfeit sandwiches before.

Saturday, 18 December 2010

The Big Thing.

Newcastle hasn’t stopped being odd since I got here. I got off the train and saw a woman get her purse stolen. She screamed so loudly then turned to her adversary and started hitting him. He defended himself by shielding his face with his hands and shouting “OK, Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry, Mum”. They hugged while relief and tears took up the woman’s face.

Then I went to the Hyena Comedy Club to pick up the keys to the flat that Nick Doody and I would be staying in for three nights. It turned out that people there hadn’t heard of Nick and I. Or the flat. Or keys. What I’m saying is it took a while to actually get to the flat where a collection of meats and cheeses left by comedians from weeks, maybe months previously, awaited us in the fridge.

Then there was the gig. It was a Christmas gig and, for any normal gig, it went fine. For a Christmas gig, it was the greatest piece of art ever performed in front of the most entranced audience. I got away with it.

On Friday I decided to go to see Tron: Legacy. I was looking forward to seeing this as I’m a huge fan of Tron despite the fact that Tron is absolutely terrible. It’s rubbish and doesn’t make sense and I totally relate to that. But of course if I go to see Tron: Legacy I will have to sit in a room with other people and listen to their talking. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That’s what every sane person dreads days before going to the cinema. People and their fucking mouths spouting fucking shit. You’re trying to watch a magic motorbike spew a wall out of it’s arsehole when some prize dick decides he wants to tell his friend that magic motorbikes aren’t real. It’s annoying and hurtful. But the noise that these awful people make isn’t the worst thing about the cinema. What we forget about so easily is the smell of other people. I was already furious that I had to pay for 3D glasses (What? I have to pay to see the film and then pay to see it properly?) but when I walked into the actual screening room I thought I was going to be sick. It smelled like a fucking butcher’s shop. How is that the piece of common courtesy that has been overlooked completely? Just the assumption that no-one will mind the stench of your cooked dead animal flesh? When will the age of enlightenment start really kicking in? It’s just horrible and the whole room STANK. At least there was one civil person there who reeked so much of cigarettes that I could barely smell the Odeon Abattoir. Thanks, mate. Mind you, I had to tell him off for burping and when I did the 50+ year old said “You can’t help burping”. When you’re a small child, yes. You’re nearly dead and you haven’t learned to control wind yet. Awful cunt. Plus the film was a bit dull. It’s a lot to take from a trip to the cinema.

Then the big thing happened. In fact, I think the big thing always happens to me when I feel like this. Sitting in a room full of smelly, disgusting cunts and then walking the streets avoiding evil charity workers, tedious carollers and moronically rude people gets me so wound up with anger that somehow a big thing has to happen. Either I start killing or something important happens. I was in the bank putting a cheque in when a man in his mid-thirties came up to me. He was crying and he said “Where do I go?”

I don’t know if that’s ever happened to you but it’s completely terrifying. My only response was “Sorry, mate?” and again he said “Where do I go?”

I asked if he needed me to help him and he walked away and out of the bank. I was right behind him and my head was full of right-I-have-to-find-a-hospital-and-take-this-man-to-the-hospital-where-the-fuck-is-the-hospital but when I got outside he was met by a group of women who all asked where he’d been. One said she was worried about him and he hugged her and kept crying.

“Where do I go?” is the saddest thing a complete stranger has ever said to me and I couldn’t stop thinking about him for hours. With all the billion complaints that I have I really don’t know how lucky I am. Then it really hit me. Something completely profound. Something that made me realise what my life has in store for me. There I was, so moved by this man and his predicament that I was immediately thinking of nothing but his care and welfare. I mean, for fuck’s sake. If only I’d pointed at him, laughed and called him a cunt I’d have my own Channel 4 show. I will NEVER make it in this business.

It genuinely did shake me up a lot seeing that guy. I hope he’s OK. It took me a long time to get over that 5 second meeting.

I say it took me a long time, half an hour later I held a door open for some girls at a Starbucks but they just stared at me. I gave up and walked through the doorway myself. As I passed, one girl said very sarcastically “Oh, charming. After you”. My response was a simple “I HELD THE FUCKING DOOR OPEN BUT YOU JUST STARED AT IT, YOU MORONIC CUNT”.

I need to stop doing that.

Thursday, 16 December 2010

48 Hours Nicer.

I've had a nice time. I totally understand that that's not allowed but maybe the spirit of Christmas has actually decided to let me have a couple of nice days of joy amongst the constant downpour of shit. Not that it was all good. A delivery man woke me up at 7 to ask if I would look after a package for my next door neighbour that could easily slip through their letterbox, a woman with vomit on her coat shouted some dog-care advice at me and I saw Tramadol Nights again. But the last two days have been just lovely.

On Tuesday I went to the BBC Radio Light Entertainment Party. Of course, I shouldn't have been there. I've not written anything for Radio 4 or been on Loose Ends or listened to The Now Show without screaming my guts out. The great thing was though that everyone who should have been there was there. The room was full of the very cream of radio comedy and I knew they were important because I didn't recognise any of them. These were the very people who could really make changes to my career. They're inventive professionals who make great things happen. So I stayed in a corner with Andrew Collins. The last thing I need right now is success. At one point Chris Addison almost introduced me to someone but she turned her back just in time thus avoiding a professional or friendly relationship ending in shouting, punching and violent sex. If only more people were as nice as she was. Just think about that next time you're introduced to someone. Do they look nice? They do? Then why not just turn your back and walk away. Why would you give a nice person even a chance of horror? I don't know who she was but I thank her for being as thoughtful as she was. Our relationship is as good today as it was 20 years ago and If she hadn't turned her back all of that could have changed.

My favourite thing about going to a party that by rights I shouldn't have been invited to was that I totally shook the system from the inside. Bennett Arron wanted to come but he didn't have an invitation. I remembered I'd seen Dave Gorman's name on the list at the door but hadn't seen Dave at the party. Problem solved. Bennett could just show up and say he was Dave Gorman. Bennett, being Bennett, had a problem being Dave. "I don't look anything like Dave Gorman", he whined in his campy little voice. There's more than one Dave Gorman, you know. I think he made a big deal of that himself once.

Bennett got in. Then we went to the pub. So full of nice people and festive cheer. Then I remembered I had a dog and went home to watch Tramadol Nights. WHY IS THAT ALWAYS HAPPENING TO ME?

Yesterday was great too. I'd never been to one of Robin Ince's Godless shows before and was very excited to be going. Once again I'd be in the company of lovely people being funny. Mr & Mrs Jim Bob were there as was Liz Buckley. My favourites. Jim performed The Impossible Dream which was all lovely. Plus among the comedians and musicians on stage were scientists and mathematicians who can wow, educate and baffle an audience brilliantly. Matt Parker certainly can. He showed a photograph of his wife as a child at Disneyland and in the background the young Matt himself was standing with his Dad. Through maths and rational thinking Matt proved that it was just a coincidence that these two people who are now married and have spent years together passed each other for two seconds as kids and were captured in a photograph. The room was silent. You need to put maths to one side sometimes, Matt. That is NOT JUST a coincidence. That is fucking amazing.

I also met Robyn Hitchcock at the gig. I have a history with Robyn so I tend to avoid him in case I accidentally set fire to him. But HE came up to me "You're the infamous Michael Legge", he said with a big smile. We shook hands, had a quick chat and off he went. I waited for the door to close behind him before breathing again. Phew. I didn't kill him.

See? Isn't that all lovely? It is. It's all lovely. A couple of days with all my favourite people having a nice time. It was perfect.

It was almost perfect.

Of course it wasn't fucking perfect. Throughout the Godless show Liz and I sat next to fucking Abie fucking Philbin-Bowman, a solid gold 100% wanker. He fake laughed so loudly through the whole thing it was impossible to fully enjoy it. Even the man in front of us had to turn to Abie and say "Really?" Sigh. It was so close to being perfectly lovely. Oh, that Abie!

Sunday, 12 December 2010

Reversed, Not Reserved.

Friday was opposite day. Up was down, right was left, Tramadol Nights was clever. Things that I expected just reversed themselves. Plus it ended with the greatest insult I have ever received. Friday was fun.

I went for a beer at Tortilla just off Oxford Street. It's a nice little cheap n' cheerful Mexican fastish food place. I was looking forward to my beer. It would have lime in it and I could pretend I was on holiday somewhere warm and not just walked in from a street where the air is made of broken glass and punches. That beer was going to transport me from the cold street to the hot beach. Sadly, two girls sat near me. They sat near me and they talked. The very two things I thoroughly despise: people and their voices.

They spoke so loudly and so constantly and so X-Factorly. They actually spoke in X-Factor language. For fucking ages. "Seriously, I just fink, right, that this is my moment to shine, you get me?" "You have such a gift inside you. You need to show everyone that". "I really do. Deep down, I know I'm so special".

This genuinely went on for half a fucking hour. The subject of their conversation was how she dumped her boyfriend because he couldn't lose weight. "I have so much to give, you get me? This is my life and I have to live it or I'm just not being true to myself. My wings shouldn't be clipped because everyone should be free to fly and reach their dreams. Plus he was fat".

HALF A FUCKING HOUR. Listening to that shit. You dumped him because every time you spoke he screwed his face up and just stared at you, there is NOTHING deep within you except for the chips you're shoving down you oh-so-snappable neck and you can't shine. People cannot shine. No one has ever shined. It is impossible to shine. You're not a Knight. Fuck off saying shine. I hated these two girls. They were loud, pretentious and fucking horrible.

Then they offered me some margarita.

Turned out they were lovely. I left really disappointed. The fucking lovely, generous slags.

Then it was off to my gig where I was immediately warned of a table of women at the front who were sitting at the front, being loud and they kept getting up on to the stage to talk into the mic. Even though the mic wasn't switched on yet, they kept on doing it. Before the show started we must have seen them get up on the stage and use the dead mic 10 times, each time thinking it was hilarious. It was a Christmas party gig in a room full of work outings and it was going to be bedlam. The rest of the audience looked really nice and even somewhat sophisticated, there was even a group in the room from a company called Fine & Rare Wines, but these ladies were going to be trouble. You could just smell it.

And there was bedlam in the room indeed. One table refused to shut up, some of them even refused to sit down when we started the show. The loud and scary women at the front quietly and respectfully asked them to keep the noise down. That's right. They may as well have offered me a margarita. Soon, the rest of the room was calling on this table to keep quiet and, a little while before they were thrown out, I asked them what company they worked for. One spikey haired little cunt among them shouted "Fine & Rare Wines" and started cheering.


Their boss came up to me and said that being repeatedly asked to be quiet and then being told to leave was a bit strong, after all they'd only been talking amongst themselves. I told him that you don't go to the theatre and talk amongst yourselves, do you? His mind just drifted away for two minutes while he thought about this. "I see your point", he said. WHY DO PEOPLE NEED TO BE TOLD TO SHUT UP IN COMEDY CLUBS? What is it about a comedy club that people don't feel it's important or respectful to not talk constantly and just enjoy the show? If you have the answer, please tell me. It's baffled me for years.

Then the "annoying" women who turned out to be nice bought me a drink. That's twice I've been wrong in one night. Let's make it three times. A man came up to me after the gig saying nice things about me and not so nice things about Fine & Rare Wine. He seemed very knowledgeable about comedy, professing to be a fan of Stewart Lee, Daniel Kitson and even Mr. Show, an American sketch show that I love. He seemed a clever man and was certainly very complimentary and polite. He liked my spontaneity on stage and said that was what he found most interesting about any comedian. I felt proud. Then he said "I mean I know that spontaneity is the lowest form of wit but I like it"


By the way, I lied about Tramadol Nights.

Monday, 6 December 2010

People Of The World, Join Hands.

At the beginning of this year I decided I had to change my ways. Every train journey I went on infuriated me and I ended up going up to complete strangers to tell them to switch off their music or to switch off the videos they were blasting out of their iPhones or to stop breathing. Last New Year's Eve I even went so far as to basically threaten a child by insinuating I was going to throw his shoe out a window. I felt embarrassed and pathetic. I'm just not going to get involved any more.

That sort of worked for a while but it's just so hard keeping quiet when everywhere you go there's an almighty cunt behaving like he or she is the only person in the fucking world. Despite it being so incredibly hard not to throttle practically every single person who comes within a half mile radius of me, I think I've done a fairly good job in 2010. I'm a lot less active in the train shushing department but it was just this weekend that I realised how I can be a lot calmer on trains no matter what is going on around me.

My view this year has been "If it's not annoying anyone else, then it's not annoying me" because previously I had ALWAYS been the one on the train that had to go up to the wanker and tell them to keep the noise down while all other passengers sit there pretending the carriage was perfectly tranquil. Of course, "If it's not annoying anyone else, then it's not annoying me" doesn't work because it certainly is annoying me and I'm pretty confident that it definitely is annoying everyone else too. And that's sometimes the only thing that gets me through these train journeys. Watching some businessman tut and sigh and give dirty looks to some complete arse playing Mumford and Sons can really entertain me on a long trip. And right there is my new found solution to my stress: Don't travel alone, bring an equally short-tempered git with you.

On Friday night, I travelled back from Cambridge with Liam Mullone. Liam is a very funny comedian and his perfect blogs mean that I am relegated to third greatest blogger of all time. Liam and I decided to spoil ourselves and go First Class. In a way. I mean, in as much as it was the last train back to London so we were confident that there would be no ticket inspector and, anyway, First Class was covered in ripped up Metro's, food wrappers and manure. NO ONE should pay extra to sit in there. A few stops into the journey and we were joined in the carriage by a big arse who sat behind Liam playing a very loud game on his iPad. He was the very advert of why NO ONE should have an iPad. Admit it. Think of all the things an iPad can do. Admit it. It's not very much at all, is it? Liam said that you'd have more to do with a rock and a chisel. Liam's great.

We tried to figure out what game the iArse was playing and we came to the conclusion that it was a game where you had to bring elderly gentleman to orgasm with a drill while a cuckoo watched. And it wasn't just noise that was upsetting. Oh, no. The iArse had choreography to go with his game. His arms flapped constantly and his body jerked frantically like his life actually depended on making old men cum in front of a bird. But just watching Liam's face get more and more serious, seeing the energy sap from his very frame, was all I needed to lift my spirits and actually embrace the noise. That's what I need. I need to see someone in pain and frustration so that I can somehow carry on. Does that sound cruel?Well, why do you read my blog then?

I'm telling you. Watching Liam's face and the flapping goon behind him really made me relaxed and happy. Life as camomile. If only someone had filmed it.

DON'T watch that loudly in public, please.

Friday, 3 December 2010

Bing Bing Bing Bong.

This is my first blog written on my brand new laptop. I've written nearly 500 blogs and almost all of them were written on my very knackered laptop with an Ood sticker on it. I know absolutely nothing about computers at all but I was recommended, by geek friends, that I should get one with Windows 7, an Intel Core processor (dual, preferably), at least 320GB of memory on it's hard drive and at least 3 GB of RAM. With this in mind, I picked one that was red. I like red. Red is like a big fire engine. NER-NER! NER-NER!

So off I went to PC World to buy my new laptop. Buying an electrical item from places like PC World is an almighty pain in the arse. Sure, picking the laptop takes 10 seconds (red tends to stand out) but actually trying to just pay for the thing and leave takes hours. What a shitty admittance to failure the whole "Would you like insurance with that?" begging plea is. You know I don't want fucking insurance because I didn't ask for insurance. Every fucking shop you go into now is McDonalds. Would you like fries with that? Would you like a large bar of chocolate for only £1? Any sandwiches or muffins to go with your drink? That's £2.99 for the hat, would you like to buy a fucking wardrobe to put it in? JUST LEAVE US ALONE! If we want it, we'll ask. Even fucking Holland & Barrett have tried pushing men's fitness magazines on me which means I have to buy twice the amount of camomile tea because my stress levels have gone right up. Oh, they know what they're doing, the health concious hippy bastards.

So I went up to one pale-faced dick who worked there and said I'd like to buy a laptop. He looked like I'd just told him his parents had died. I really thought he was going to cry. There he was, innocently skiving behind the Norton PC Protection boxes when an evil cunt (me) found him and asked for help. What a bastard I am. Why didn't I just shoot him in the face and then fuck the bullet hole (pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaassssseeee give me a TV series, Channel 4)? He told me that going into a warehouse, picking up a box and bringing it to me wasn't his department. Fine, he's in charge of hiding behind software, so I went off to find someone else. A shop assistant came right up to me and asked if he could help. I said yes but I was wrong. Again, going to get that box about 20 feet away was not in his job description. He's simply employed to ask if you want any help but nowhere in his contract does it say he actually has to do anything after that. Finally I found the guy in charge. He seemed nice. He also looked crestfallen that I didn't want any insurance. Then he looked melancholy when I refused a PC protection kit. And speakers. And a mouse. And a laptop bag. And insurance again. But at least he got me my red laptop. All I had to do was take it to the counter and pay for it.


Laptops are very special. You can't just pay for it like a tin of beans or an orphan. There's paperwork to be filled in. They need to know my date of birth and my postcode and my top three favourite Sugababes members. They needed this information for their computer. Their big, evil, PC World computer that must not be questioned or lied to. Their big, evil, PC World computer that can lazer-beam you into it's components and make you compete in the Light Cycle races against the Master Computer. Their big, evil, PC World computer that...doesn't work.

PC World's computer crashed right in front of me. The guy in charge took me to another big, evil, PC World computer. It didn't work either. I looked at him and said "Would you like insurance with that?"

It felt good.

Thursday, 2 December 2010

Utterly Youthless.

Was I hard on Morgana? Maybe. It's tough watching something that just lazily throws its dung at you in the hope that you'll be happy enough that it didn't get in your hair, especially when you know there is great talent out there. Did you go to All Day Edinburgh? You should have done. There wasn't a single person on that bill (except me) that doesn't deserve to have a TV show with time, money and care in it offered to them. Thanks to everyone who came and to all the performers who gave their time for a good cause. Speaking of which, I should probably give Shelter that money because at the moment I feel like Father Ted. "It's just resting in my account". Thanks, everyone.

But Morgana is young. If I was offered my own TV show where I would "have" to point and laugh at people with special needs, would I turn it down? Well, yes I would. But the point is that she might just be naive (although THAT naive? Is anyone?) and could easily be pressured into making the show she made. A lot of TV producers/commissioners/broadcasters want their shows to appeal to everyone and therefore they pretty much always appeal to no-one. EVERYONE loves the Fern Cotton impression though so she'll do well. She's young. She's only about 23. So what's Frankie Boyle's excuse for the women-love-getting-raped sketch? He should know better what with being 40 (presumably).

But acting your age isn't always easy. I find it very difficult. I'm a professional writer (in a way) and want to be taken seriously, yet here I am blogging to you, dear reader, in my Star Wars pants while watching Wallace & Gromit.

And why is acting your age nearly always meant in a behaving older way? In Lewisham, the snow has forced kids who are shit at being kids outside to play. They're pathetic. Yesterday I saw kids building a snowman. Or kicking one to death, it was hard to tell from looking at their creation. It looked like they were using snow to bury a goat. Fucking useless crap children. Then there was the kid on the sledge. Good God! Do you know what skill goes into riding a sledge? The same skill that goes into sitting down. That's it. You sit down, Daddy pushes you, you slide to the bottom of the hill. I watched this 7 year old dick fall off about 18 times in a row. It wasn't even a big hill. All he needed to do was sit still for 5 seconds and he'd be at the bottom. But the little cunt couldn't even do that. He should be aborted (plllllleeeeeeeassssse, give me a TV series, Channel 4).

The worst kids I saw were the teenagers. There were about eight 14/15 year olds hanging around the train station, throwing snowballs at people who walked under the bridge or down the steps. They are young and have every right to do that. They are acting their age perfectly. Or I thought they were. I saw them and as I passed I just knew I'd get pelted. Of course I'm going to get pelted. I have a big, stupid Russian hat with puppy-dog ear flaps on. If they miss out on pelting the cunt with the hat then I have no respect for them. I prepared myself and even smiled while waiting to be hit. Snow doesn't hurt. It'll be funny. Here goes. The first snowball came.

And flew right by me. I looked round and saw loads of snowballs coming my way.

Well, not directly my way. They all missed. For fuck sake, really? Have you seen the size of my hat? It's like I have a fucking St. Bernard on my head. You can't miss my hat. For fuck's sake, children. Act your age.

The train station was closed so I had to come back up the steps. This was their chance to finally get me. I was face to face with them and POW!!! All the snowballs flew right by me and hit the ground. I have never been so disappointed by the youth of Britain in my life.

As I walked past them I put on my best teacher voice and said "Pathetic. Must try harder". The kids laughed as I walked past, obviously ready to get me when I was a safe distance away from them. One snowball flew past. That was their THIRD CHANCE. I looked round and laughed. They all looked a bit embarrassed, decided to not chance throwing at me again and went back to throwing snow at people under the bridge. One day those young men could be in the military. We'll be invaded by 2015, I reckon.

But the snow has made me happy. I like this snow. It's spongy but firm. Not sloppy or slippy. Plus I saw something today that lifted my spirits right up. I saw a man in a wheelchair, not struggling, but getting through the snow with ease.

If that isn't the biggest FUCK YOU to our train companies then I don't know what is.

Wednesday, 1 December 2010


I was going to blog about yet another insult to comedy that happened just last night but I've decided against it. I haven't blogged for weeks (I wanted a break) and I now think that coming back and just moaning won't do. This needs to be more dynamic. A bit of action and adventure. Something that will draw the reader in and, eventually, let them know a bit about me and the kind of man I am.

Last week I stabbed my own fridge to death.

It's true. I was angry, I lifted a big knife and I stabbed the fucker. Oh, yes. I could have defrosted it. I could have easily defrosted it. But I'm not a woman, am I? I'm not Michelle Legge. I'm MICHAEL Legge. A real man with a real man's name. And don't bring up Michael Learned or Princess Michael of Kent because they were obviously once men who simply accidentally defrosted a fridge instead of stabbing it. I wanted something from the freezer. The fridge wouldn't give it to me so I threatened it. I WASN'T GOING TO HURT IT. I just threatened it with a knife, just knocking off bits of it's ice from around the edges of one of it's drawers. But it kept refusing me. So I lunged at it. The red mist in my eyes, the steel blade in my hand. How dare this frigid bitch not let me in to get what I want? I went mad. Uncontrollable. And plunged the knife right in.

I didn't mean to cut her freezer line. Oh, God. There was so much cold air pouring out. I tried to heal it but I couldn't. It just...died.

See, that was me writing about a simple and stupid situation where I thought I could chip away some ice from my fridge with a knife and then I ended up breaking it. But what I did was end up writing it like I was threatening it and wanting to rape it. That's the kind of thing that gets you on at Channel 4 these days. Plus I also implied that men are better/different than women which will get you talked about if you are on Channel 4 these days. Last night's TV was fucking awful.

Balls. I'm writing about it, aren't I?

I really like Frankie Boyle's stand up and was delighted that he had his own series. But...well. I don't know. Is calling everyone a cunt in the first 10 seconds then following it up with a rape sketch what either Channel 4 or Frankie Boyle would or should approve of? I wouldn't have thought so. I'm pretty sure their back catalogue's are better than that. Some of the stand up stuff was good but...well...a rape sketch is hard to shake off especially when the woman starts off being scared of the rape but then ends up loving it. It just seemed more than dated. It seemed uncomfortably dated. Like Jim Davidson had come out of the grave to haunt TV again. I can only imagine Frankie has reached the age of 40 a few years early.

Then there was The Morgana Show. I'm not going to lie to you, I was really looking forward to watching this. I saw Morgana Robinson on TNT months ago and wanted to die of shame right there and then. Her sole character in TNT was a special needs kid who interviews nearly-famous people while trying to make them feel uncomfortable by doing that mong acting we all used to do on the school bus when we were 12. The sketch never worked because her "victims" never embarrassed themselves, they just reacted in a sensitive way to someone they assumed had special needs and not just some fucking cunt being a fucking cunt. If only she'd revealed herself before the sketch ended and we got to see the celebrities violent and bloody reactions. That would have made good telly.

She went on to do impressions of Cheryl Cole and Fern Cotton that were a bit like them but had no jokes whatsoever. Even if they had you still couldn't help but scream DID SHE JUST DO A SPECIAL NEEDS CHARACTER? One sketch consisted of Lady Ga-Ga ironing. Yep. That was it. My fatal mistake was going on Twitter and seeing the amount of support this show was getting plus the amount of people pointing out that Morgana is female like they were totally shocked that a woman should be on TV.

Is it good to see female performers on TV? No. Not if they're this awful. Equally if Morgana was male is would be just as bad and therefore NO-ONE SHOULD BE ON TV. I'm happy with that. Because you can't play the sex card if the sex card has shit all over it. No-one will accept it. Where's the Hour of Telly Live TV series? Cunts.

I shouldn't have watched it so it's all my fault. Plus I have enough faith in Frankie Boyle to think that it might be me not him. At least there's The Trip. Seen The Trip? Let me tell you about it. Two very funny people have a camera pointed at them while they are funny. It's a bit pretentious but it's so utterly naturally funny without even caring about how other comedies on TV are and sticking to that formula, instead they ride on their natural abilities and fuck cutting edge.

The Morgana Show was described as cutting by a moron who writes a Guardian blog. The only thing that's cutting are the wrists of her suicidal viewers.

Nice to be back. See you soon.