Wednesday, 27 October 2010

Witch Side Are You On?

There are several people that I know that consider Hallowe'en to be their favourite time of year. They celebrate it more lavishly than they do Christmas, New Year or even Tom Baker's birthday. These people are from America, a big bit of fat just off the coast of Ireland. Hallowe'en under these people's guidance is full of dressing up as a really sexy zombie and drinking cocktails called Dracula's Haemorrhage and thinking the last 27 Saw films were totally awesome. They have parties and laugh while dancing to the Time Warp and send their children out to Trick or Treat. THAT IS NOT FUCKING HALLOWE'EN, OK? Hallowe'en is way shitter than that.

I grew up in 70's Northern Ireland where it could be argued Hallowe'en came every day. Wearing masks and terrifying people door to door was pretty much a constant occurrence and the only difference being that on one of those days we got toffee apples instead of kneecapping. We didn't have Trick or Treat. We had something else. It was called Hallowe'en Rhyming. What happened was, a bunch of kids put on masks, NOT FUCKING COSTUMES, masks and went door to door singing while their parents stayed at home getting pissed and celebrating that the kids were away. We wore Dracula masks and ghost masks and werewolf masks and the song we sang was "FUCK THE POPE FOR HALLOWE'EN, GIVE US YOUR MONEY, PAPIST SHITE...." Only joking. The song was "Hallowe'en is coming and the goose is getting fat, will you please put a penny in the old man's hat". Oh, sure. These days with your The Saturdays and your Justin Beiber that probably sounds great but in our day that music was thought of as, as we would say, "balls". But people would give us money that we would put in a bag and at the end of the night we would play the game of Who Can Beat Everyone Up And Keep The Money? I wasn't that good at that game but, as my father would say, it's not the winning it's the getting your head kicked in that counts.

Of course nowadays kids don't even leave their bedrooms to Trick or Treat. They all have apps that do that for them. Oh, and they realise that Trick or Treat is shit and would rather be sold into the sex slave industry than ever do it. But in my day we had nothing during Hallowe'en and we were happy. Well, we were on the edge of suicide but that's as happy as you can expect for that time. We didn't have fancy costumes back in the 70's, we made a mask from the back of a Corn Flakes packet and superglued it to our face. We didn't have fancy sparklers, we had to strike two rocks together really near our faces. We didn't have fancy apples, we used to bob for frog spawn. And we certainly didn't have pumpkins. And that's what brings me to my point.

What happened to turnips? Have we become so clean? So sugar-coated? So AMERICAN??? Have we forgotten the humble turnip? Wasn't the turnip our friend in the 70's? Wasn't the turnip enough? Why have we sold our soul to the bigger, and admittedly far superior, pumpkin when it comes to pointlessly hollowing something out and sticking a candle in it as our biggest vegetable-based FUCK YOU to electricity? Hallowe'en is so squeaky clean now but in my day it was what it was supposed to be. Hallowe'en is a time for ghouls and monsters and what could be more horrific than encouraging a small child to cut himself to bits carving a fidgety little turnip, sticking a big 70's candle in it and burning down the house. When did Hallowe'en become

I encourage you, dear reader, to remember the joys of the past. This Hallowe'en bring your dog to a firework display and remain oblivious to it's fear, buy indoor fireworks so that all you can taste is sulphur for a month, stay up late and try to finger your partner during Friday the 13th and, for God's sake (after all, it is his day), buy a turnip and stay British.

I'm proud of you.

Reserve Judgement.

I have taken some bad train journeys in the course of my glittering career, a couple of good ones, but mainly bad ones. If you've read this blog before you may have noticed me getting all grumpy about train stories from arguing with noisy girls in wheelchairs to having a breakdown and demanding that a child give me their shoe. But this past weekend, keeping in mind all the fucking shitty, noisy, horrible, incompetent train journeys I've been on, was the worst trip I have ever taken.

I booked my ticket to Edinburgh on, the online thief. When I bought the ticket, despite clicking the "Do you want to reserve a seat?" option, it told me that it couldn't reserve a seat at this time. Fair enough, there's a glitch on the system, they can't reserve seats but surely they wouldn't sell me a ticket if there weren't any seats available. I mean, if there weren't any seats available it would say something like "There are no seats available" not "We cannot reserve a seat at this time". You can probably figure out where this is going.

Have you ever been on a train from London to Edinburgh? It takes a long time. Over 4 and a half hours. If there is one thing that you need on a 4 and a half hour train journey it's a seat. I got on the train and sure enough every single seat was reserved. Even the ones in First Class. That's OK, not everyone turns up. I'll still get a seat. Just need to be a bit patient. It was just a few minutes from the train moving and the build up started. Dozens of people crowding around the vestibule area (such a lovely name for a place that is essentially dark, filthy and has a broken toilet in it) of every carriage. Then they filled the aisles of every carriage. There were people without seat reservations everywhere. There was one seat free in the carriage I was in and several of us with no reservation hovered around it waiting to pounce. Well, I did for a bit. Then I saw a woman who was trying to settle her three kids in to two seats and felt she probably needed it more. Sadly, the idiot who blocked the aisle with his DJ decks didn't feel the same and took the seat. Dick.

And that was it. I tried to find the least crowded part of the floor and unsettled in for 4 and a half hours of being treated like a cunt. To say the least, I was fucking furious. Still, at least the ticket inspector will reassure me that all is well, eh?

I asked him "Hello. I bought this ticket online and..."

He immediately interrupted me with "It has nothing to do with me". Fucking brilliant. Right. One more time I tried to explain that I bought the ticket online and it never told me that the train was heavily over subscribed. He kept sighing and eventually told me that he wasn't in charge of East Coast Rail, a ticket does not guarantee me a seat and that he doesn't have to explain why I don't have a seat. This is what this monkey is trained to do: fuck all.

I understand that people have the choice to get on a train that has no seats but surely the train company should tell you that that's what you're doing. Plus if you don't have a seat should you really pay £112 to sit on the floor? Isn't £112 just a bit steep to sit on the floor for 4 and a half hours? I mean, it's a train not a Travelodge. I mean if all the seats are taken then that means the train is sold out, right? It's made it's money, right? Any more money it makes is just a lovely little bonus for East Coast Rail, right? Surely, when the train is full, £20 to sit on the floor would be a lot better, right? But it wanted to make even more money because the worst part of the journey was when the prick with the trolley came round. THE TRAIN IS RAMMED FULL, YOU CUNT. YOU CAN'T EXPECT US TO MOVE. THERE IS NOWHERE TO MOVE BUT OUTSIDE. WE WANT A SEAT NOT A KIT-KAT.

The way home was a lot better. I had a seat.

A seat next to a child.


Yeah, that's the gamble that I can understand with trains. I MIGHT have to sit next to a child, I get that. Not I MIGHT have to sit on the floor next to a teenager who is drinking canned cider and has all his belonging with him in a bag that has been urinated on in every country in Europe. The child was noisy but it was a child, a very young not-yet-talking child, so I didn't mind too much. What I did mind was how it kept reaching for my cup of tea while it's parents did nothing to stop it. It was annoying. I'd had a bad journey on the way up and the return was turning out to be not much better. I decided I was fed up.

That's when the child grabbed my tea with both hands and poured it all over itself.

I laughed for an hour.

It's really the only way to travel.

Saturday, 23 October 2010

Don't Give Me a 'Break.

Well, the Tories certainly seem to have settled in now, haven't they? I have to say, I think they're very brave. It must be so difficult to decide that the only way forward financially is to cut benefits for people who are either sick or disabled. Then to actually go through with that must need real resolve. They either have the goodwill of the country in mind with the iron stomach to match or, and I'm just throwing this out there, they are pure undiluted evil. But fuck the disabled, me and all my friends are much more worried about the BBC. 16% of the licence fee that we must pay by law is now going to be taken from the BBC and given to "other" Government supported projects. So much for an independent BBC. Now, if this meant that the BBC had to sever most of BBC4 and Graham Norton's head, that would be fine but it'll probably mean more cheap shit like Hammers Under The House, Ash In The Attic and Bargain Cunt which are all exactly the same anyway or even worse the next series of Coast will have to be studio based.

I don't really worry about the BBC. That 16% could easily be made up for by not making all those exactly the same daytime TV programmes. Yes, they're cheap to make but they're even cheaper to not make. The BBC doesn't need Daytime TV. No-one needs daytime TV. Which brings me on to my real worry: ITV.

If you watch ITV then you must try your very, very best to understand that you are a massive fucking tool. You won't fully get it, of course, but you must try. There is nothing of any value that that broadcaster has to offer and it is so incredibly proud of it. I fucked up royally yesterday and watched Daybreak, a car crash where the two deceased victims, Chiles & Bleakley, look at their watches and speed through the swamps of banality until cheque time. I would urge you to watch it but that's what gets ITV through a lot of their output. "Ha ha! That looks shit. I must watch it" still gets a rating and ITV done does fink it did done good. Luckily, I'm a hypocrite and I really do need you to watch Daybreak. It is just so vast and empty and you try to stay with it but by concentrating on it you're cutting off anything getting to the brain. It's the closest thing you can get to drowning on your own sofa. And what underlines the banality even more is their Friday round up of the week from 4 Poofs and a Piano. Is there anything more cryingly dull and embarrassing than these ghosts of The King's Singers? See if you can get through any of this:

And it's not just Daybreak. ITV fills it's entire schedule with duffery. Lorraine, Daybreak's Torchwood, was full of "soap goss" (the most poisonous two words in the English language) and a fat man dressed as dirty ice-cream giving us important fashion advice such as hats are nice and shoes go on feet. Do I really need to mention The Jeremy Kyle Show, This Morning, Loose Cunting Women, Dickinson's Real Deal, The Alan Titchmarsh Show? ITV really is a mix of light chat and the end of days.

Plus if you can't see the emptiness of The X-Factor for yourself then your soul has packed up and left you. Either that or you and your soul are a pair of bastards that get off laughing at the mentally ill.

And ITV itself knows it. Go to the "Classic TV Shows" section of their website. Is The Prisoner on there? Fuck no. It's Jack Osbourne: Adrenaline Junkie, Vinnie Jones' Toughest Cops and Piers Morgan on Sandbanks. That's what the channel itself considers classic. Trinity is on there!

ITV have done maybe the odd period drama that was OK. Plus Cracker was good. Rising Damp, I suppose. Tiswas, I loved. But that's a long time ago. I won't mention Coronation Street because I just can't fathom it. I know it has it's moments but you have to understand: I watched Daybreak. I watched fucking DAYBREAK and I might never feel human again. Oh, ITV, when did you last have the pleasure of smelling a flower, watching a sunset, eating a well-prepared meal?

That's a quote from a BBC TV programme. Go on, Mitch Benn, stop fucking about and write a song for the channel that needs our support most. The BBC will make it through. ITV has lost it's way. Pity poor ITV.

Mind you, if it wasn't for all these shit programmes we would never have the excellent TV Burp. Which is on ITV.

Hmmm. Might need to rethink a few things.

Monday, 18 October 2010

Health & Footness.

So how is my big foot? Well, it's still big. Not as big as it was but definitely still bigger than the other one. The great thing is that it has opened so many doors for me while socialising. My big foot is a positive ice-breaker. Over the last week I've barely met anyone who hasn't asked "How's your big foot?" while smiling broadly at my pain. I'm fine with that (I'm not) but do they always have to follow it up with "It's gout"? Every time my big foot is mentioned someone will always say "gout". EVERY TIME. "You have a big foot? That'll be gout". "Your foot is sore? Gout". "Fancy a drink? GOUT". "Tickets, please. YOU ARE A MAN WHO HAS GOUT". "I now pronounce you man and GOUT". "Have you seen The Social Network yet? GOUT". "Do you have a Nectar card? GOUT" "Gout". "Gout". "GOUT".

Stop saying gout. Gout is a horrible condition that happens to really old people who eat meat, not cool teenage vegans like me. Plus the three medical professionals that have looked at my big foot have said it's not gout. Ah, shit. That means I have gout, doesn't it? The fact that it seems to target psoriasis sufferers who like drinking beer might have been a good clue. Ah, balls. I've got gout. That's your fucking fault, that is.

But the doctor doesn't think it's gout. Gout wouldn't be scary enough for him. He had other ways of terrifying the shit out of me and he did it in the good old fashioned Vincent Price kind of way. He appeared welcoming and cheery and then BITCH-SLAP! As soon as I walked into his room he said that he was looking forward to seeing me. That's nice, isn't it? Lewisham Hospital have been reading my blog so maybe all medical people in SE London think it's the coolest thing on the internet just like you do. Yeah, I felt pretty good about myself although I played it down due to modesty. "Really?", I said.

"Yes. According to my records, you're 1.8 centimetres tall".

Ah, the competence of Woodlands Health Centre kicks my ego in the gut once again. But we're not here to fix my ego. It's my big foot that's afoot. I took my shoe and sock off and he looked at my big foot. Actually, he stared at my big foot. I don't blame him. It's a very hypnotic foot. But he stared at it for ages. I mean a long time. Too long. My foot started to blush and avoid eye contact. Then eventually the doctor spoke.

"Is there a history of prostate cancer in your family?"

I said no while a massive nuclear bomb exploded in my anus. WHAT THE FUCK? It's a foot. Why would he mention prostate cancer while looking at my foot? Is that where the prostate is? I'm fairly sure it isn't but I don't know how wasps fuck so could I be sure that the prostate isn't in the right foot? WHY DID HE SAY PROSTATE CANCER? I'm too sexy to have prostate cancer. I have to die in a car crash or a drug suicide with Megan Fox. I can't go out via a long drawn out cancer. Why did he say CANCER?

He kept looking at my foot to the point where I thought he was falling in love with it. Great, I thought, I'm going to die and this git is going to run off with my foot. The silence was too long and loud, I had to break it. "Why?"

"No reason. No reason at all".

He smiled, shrugged and suggested a blood test. I would need to go to another health centre and make an appointment and I should stop doing the exercises they've given me because if we don't know what it is then there's no point aggravating it any more, plus I should keep taking the painkillers for now. Of course, I didn't hear this. All I heard was CANCER CANCER CANCER CANCER CANCER CANCER. From the thin layer of sweat on my brow and the amount that I was crying the doctor realised that the cancer thing needed to be explained. He just wanted me to have a Wellman check and sometimes it comes up positive on prostate cancer even when it's not a concern. "Most men over 80 die with prostate cancer but not from it". He smiled again while I did some of my best staring. "It's not gout though", he said.

GIVE ME GOUT, YOU BASTARD! I want gout. I've really thought about gout and I've decided that that's the one for me. My foot will swell, I'll be in pain, I'll complain all the time. That is classic Legge. Give me gout. I don't like this prostate cancer. Even mentioning it in passing has made me taste my grave. No. I'm going for gout. You were right, everyone. I have gout. My gout. Michael Legge's lovely non-cancerous gout.

I went for my blood test two days later after my cancer scare. Admittedly, it wasn't a real cancer scare. In fact, it was just a cancer word. But I didn't expect it. Everyone was scaring me already by saying gout constantly. I wasn't expecting even the mere mention of anything scarier. Admittedly, the doctor could have maybe given me advice on a Wellman check a little easier than he did. He may as well have looked at my foot for two minutes and then said "Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?" It just wasn't what I expected. I wasn't taking any chances with the blood test. I knew that they would take 5 pints (well, vials) of my blood and I'd have to sit there and just let them do it. When I sat in the chair, I said to the nurse "I'm going to close my eyes. When you've finished will you tell me that I was brave?". She did just that. I like her the most.

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Hellth Centre.

May I start by saying Hello to Lewisham Hospital? Hello! They're nice people who tweeted me recently and they read the blog. Good timing too because my big foot has been painful again. I thought, I can do one of two things: I can sit here all day watching PhoneShop (turns out I couldn't. I saw the first 10 minutes and it started to give me brain cancer) or I can go to my GP. Even if there was nothing wrong with me the choice was obvious. I made the appointment with Woodlands Health Centre and like a fucking idiot I actually thought I would get seen.

I've complained about Woodlands Health Centre before. Anyone who has ever had any contact with Woodlands Health Centre has complained about it before. Nothing wrong with the medical staff there but the badly stuffed, depressed scarecrows that work there are beyond useless. The answer to every question is "I don't know" and their facial expression for every occasion is "I don't care". It's like the awful woman in Charing Cross Station last week. I could argue with them but I'm fighting a losing battle. Well, I'm a loser, baby.

Woodlands Health Centre is a mile away from my house. A mile away and up hill. An uphill mile is a lot to drag a big foot through but in the interest of getting better, I did it. I took each agonising step with incredible dignity and poise. The pain shooting through my muscular frame went unnoticed by passers-by, such was my reluctance to complain or fuss. No human being has ever suffered as much and looked so fucking awesome in the history of everything ever. Thank you. It was a frigging pain walking all the way there, especially considering what happened.

"Hello. My name is Michael Legge. I have an appointment for 10.20".

The melted lump at reception stared right through me like she did to everyone at every time every day. I had to repeat myself a few times before any of the information got through to her boneless, brainless head. "It's running late", she said.

No "I'm sorry but we're badly behind schedule. Would you mind waiting?" No, none of that. Just a fat bored face mumbling "It's running late". I asked how late and she either shrugged or her shoulders swallowed her neck and vomited it up again. I can't be sure. "Dunno", she coughed. "45 minutes?"

I have never ever been to Woodlands and got what I came for first time. EVER. I always, always have to phone them, go there, get told it's not ready/it's running late/I done broked it, go home and then come back the next day. EVERY SINGLE TIME. I shouldn't have been so surprised that they had fucked it all up again as they always do. I dunno, I think I just gave them the benefit of the doubt which, of course, makes me King Cunt in this story. I didn't snap. Not yet. I just grumped.

"Couldn't you have called me to tell me it was running late?"

She went back to staring right through me. I stared back but not straight through her. I stared into her face. Just to see if she could emotionally connect with a human. Time passed and all I got was "I don't know".

I expected as much. Time to snap. "OK. So I have to wait 45 minutes?"


"Well, I can't wait that long. Any chance I can see the doctor before that?"

LONG PAUSE. "I don't know. He's not in yet".

Fucking brilliant. She's asking me to wait on someone who hasn't got in yet. I'm not blaming the delayed doctor, anything could have happened, but couldn't she have told me this at the beginning? Well?

"I don't know".


"Right. Can I make another appointment?"

This upset her greatly because it meant that she had to look at her computer again. She'd already looked at it once when I first walked in, just to confirm my name, address and appointment. Now she had to look at it AGAIN. Her computer was right beside her but she had to exhaust herself by moving her boneless head a little to look at it. "Tomorrow at 8?"

I didn't really fancy getting up even earlier to walk up a fucking hill for no fucking reason. In the end, we started haggling for time. After this she did her equivalent of a smile (like a skin bubble on custard bursting) and said all was confirmed. I turned to leave and she called after me.

"What was your name?"

MY FUCKING NAME IS THE ONE THAT WAS ON YOUR FUCKING COMPUTER SCREEN WHEN YOU LOOKED ME UP IN THE FIRST PLACE! If she spent half as much time and effort actually doing her job as she does painting ridiculous pictures on her fingernails there wouldn't be these problems. I left angry.

Is there a happy ending? Yes. 20 minutes later I walked through the park and watched a mum run after her 2 year old child saying "Leave that down. Leave it alone. It's dirty". The little boy had found a used condom and was running around waving it in the air.

If a sight like that doesn't lift your spirits...well, you probably work at the reception at Woodlands Health Centre.

Friday, 8 October 2010

Approach With Caution.

What do earphones do? Do they keep unwanted noise from people so that you can listen to music and not disturb others? Maybe. I think what they really do is block out the outside world. That is certainly why I use them. But some people don't get that. I'm always amazed at how some people don't see the obvious FUCK OFF's that I put out there. I'm reading a book on a train? People will start asking me questions like "Does this train stop at London Bridge?" or "Does this train not stop at London Bridge?" while completely ignoring the people around me who are just sitting there doing nothing but waiting for death. I'm walking down the street talking on my phone? People will come up to me and ask ridiculous questions like "Do you have the time?" or "Does this train stop at London Bridge?" I'M ON THE PHONE, DICKHEAD. ASK SOMEONE ELSE.

So let me ask that question again. What do earphones do? They tell you to FUCK OFF, that's what earphones do. If you see anyone wearing earphones then that is a shut shop. Go elsewhere. We're closed.

A young lady in Charing Cross station last night did not understand that simple rule. She didn't understand a lot of things.

I may have got pointlessly angry at the girl from 1992 last weekend because she had the audacity to be young but she was never rude. She was incredibly polite. But this fuckhead was obviously born before 1992 (like 1988. Same year as The Travelling Wilbury's album. Well done, dick) and she was just rude, rude, rude. She stood toooooooo close, that's already wrong, and said "Where's the Piccadilly Line?" I had earphones in my head. I did what anyone in my position would do. I ignored her. If she can't see that she's being told to FUCK OFF by two bits of plastic then that's her problem. Then she said it a bit louder. "Where's the Piccadilly Line?"

What the fuck has happened to excuse me and please? Is that just not hip?

I took my earphones out and said "Pardon me?" I genuinely, and stupidly, thought that if I showed some manners then she might display some too. What a big eejit I am, eh? "Where's the Piccadilly Line?"

I just sighed and said "There is no Piccadilly Line at this station". She then asked what I meant.

Yep. It was a tricky concept and I certainly didn't expect her to grasp it. Then I told her she needed to go up one stop on the Northern Line to Leicester Square and change there. She walked away.

What? She just walks away? No "Thank you"? Not even an "Right" or an "Oh"? She just walks away? My earphones were in. Earphones mean FUCK OFF. You can't just break into my world and then be rude. So, I went after her.

I tapped her on the shoulder and said "You're not even going to say thank you?" and she did it. She fucking did it. The rudest, most annoying thing you can do. She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. I fucking hate that noise. Who the hell came up with that? She walked away and I, a man in his 40's, shouted "You fucking cunt". The look on her face was emotionless. Totally blank. Like she hadn't registered someone shouting "you fucking cunt" at her because it happens every single day of her life. She walked on and away while I had to remain standing there and continue being The Man Who Just Shouted Cunt on the concourse of Charing Cross Station.

People often wonder why I get angry at rude people and my answer is always the same: there's no need to be rude and I'm just pointing out that rudeness shouldn't be tolerated. But when I meet someone like that I can see their point. There is no point in getting angry with someone like her because no matter what you do, no matter what you say, she just won't get it. She is the most important person in the world and has no idea how trivial she is. You could kick her in the face every day for a year but she still wouldn't get that being rude is wrong. That doesn't mean that you shouldn't kick her in the face every day for a year. But the result for her will always be the same: someone has got angry for no reason and she can just walk away and forget about it while they stay fuming.

I stayed fuming.

Luckily, I had Roundtable at 6 Music to do that night. I turned up to the studio all tense from a 10 second encounter with a bastard but it would soon all go. Roundtable is a brilliant fun radio show to do. Andrew Collins hosted and his guests were Midge Ure, Sean Rowley and me. The three of us listened to new records and Andrew asked our opinions. I'm so happy to say that I have something in common with the ex-lead singer of Ultravox and the founder of Guilty Pleasures: we all hate everything. The records just got panned. Even when we were being positive we were saying they were shit. You can listen to it here:

Midge seemed like a nice man and Sean was just fantastic company. He is a great talker. Someone who obviously soaks up information and then can't wait to share it with you. Even when he's talking about constellation therapy, where you are coaxed to go deep within your mind and have conversations with long dead relatives, you didn't feel like "Oh no! He's a nutter". It was more "Brilliant! He's a nutter!" A really fun, lovely man. I wonder if I'll ever see him again?

Andrew and I went out and got drunk. Not just drunk, putting-the-world-to-rights drunk. We solved the world's problems with religion, atheism, war and Mums over too much beer. Well too much beer for us. We even had a chat with Dave Rotheray. Later we were joined by Liz Buckley (would have been earlier but I gave her the wrong address) and, as she's a woman, we pretended to be sober for a while. Didn't work.

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Are You Smarter Than An 18 Year Old?

What have I been doing since 1992? Have I done anything? I'm not sure. I went to America once but does that count as actually doing anything?

I've been thinking about this since Saturday night. During the interval at a gig, a completely thoughtless bastard came up to me and said how much she was enjoying the show. Dick. She then went on to say that she loved Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire in Edinburgh. Dick. I turned to the unfeeling, inconsiderate idiot and said "Thanks. Why would someone as young as you want to go to watch a pair of old men grumping around?" She replied with "I know. I was 17 in Edinburgh. I'm 18 now". There are few things that hit you harder than the realisation that punched me right in the face.

I am talking to someone who is younger than The Drowners.

For fuck's sake. How can anyone be younger than The Drowners? How can you stand up without help, form sentences and make potty all by yourself if you're younger than The Drowners? Fuck it, she's younger than Your Arsenal and It's A Shame About Ray. SHE'S YOUNGER THAN RESERVOIR DOGS. It's fucking disgusting.

I quickly wrapped up the chat because my head hurt with all this thinking. I seem to be thinking about time a lot recently. In August I overheard someone in a cafe say "Don't worry about it. It's all in the past" and I came up with the world's most pointless and boring theory. It really IS all in the past. Everything. Absolutely everything is in the past. EVEN THE FUTURE! Because we don't know what will happen in the future, or if the future will even ever come, it is all in the past. We only assume tomorrow is Thursday because of all the other Thursdays in the past. In a way, we're travelling backwards in time. And, because everything we can fathom comes from things we all already know IT'S ALL IN THE PAST. My friend, Barney, said "What you're about to say next isn't in the past". "It is", I replied. And it was. IT'S ALL IN THE PAST.

This tedious thought and my insistence on going on about it upset at least two people during the Edinburgh Festival. I can see why.

Then I met this girl who was born in 1992. A grown adult born in 1992. A grown adult who completely missed The Stone Roses. And, instead of doing the usual I'm-smarter-than-a-young-person thing that we oldies often do I realised that she has to be smarter and more knowledgeable than me. She has to. The years 1968-1992 are pretty well documented. Big stuff happened. Man landed on the moon, The Beatles split up, the three-day week, Harold Wilson, Star Wars, Thatcher, Reagan, the Falklands War, the miner's strike, Haysi Fantayzee flick the v's on Top Of The Pops, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Nelson Mandela's release, The Drowners. The important things in that list are all well known. Everything else that happened to me during that time was just me pissing about. What isn't that well documented, or at least it isn't ever pointed out to me, are things that have happened in the last few years. Things that the girl from 1992 will know very well, because she is young, as well as everything that has happened since I was born. I only just found out who Justin Beiber is and up until a few months ago I was blissfully unaware of the £2 coin, something that went into circulation when she was 4. That's right, I'm 42 and starting to forget things already. There was a time when I could have told you the drummer or bass player from every awful heavy metal band in 1980's Britain but the other day one of them told me to fuck off and I couldn't quite place him (it's a long story). But this CHILD, this thoughtless uncaring bastard of a child, who timed her existence on Earth brilliantly to avoid Sylverster McCoy's era, with her compliments and warmth, will know more about the world than I do.

I'm all in the past.

BUT....the future is Los Quattros Cvnts! Come and see the return of Los Quattros Cvnts tonight at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square at 8pm. Our excellent guests are Colin Hoult and Caroline Mabey. Get there early, seats go very quickly.