Monday, 30 May 2011


Why does this only happen to me? Why do all the very worst things in this world only happen to me and no one else? Why don't they happen to you, you bastard?

Now, you'll notice there that I called you a bastard and that's sort of a swear word, isn't it? I'm trying not to swear at the moment, in blogs and in my writing generally, because my agent says it would be a good idea to see if I can actually write without the constant swears. I think she's right and also I'm a bit scared of her so I'm going to do what she says but this blog is going to be really difficult to do without SCREAMING MY FUCKING HEAD OFF. So, at least if I don't not swear in this I won't not apologise for it in advance. Sorry.

It's a terrifying thing, being served. You wait for ages and then when it happens it goes wrong. On Friday night, at a gig in Welwyn Garden City, I fancied a beer before the gig. A lovely pint of refreshing, delicious lager. I looked everywhere for the bar in the building and was finally told that alcohol was served in the coffee shop upstairs. You see? That's why I get anxious about being served. A coffee shop doesn't do booze. This could be the worst night of anyone's life.

They didn't sell booze. Well, not really. Bottled beer. That IS NOT booze. It's a very expensive sample of booze. I gave the lady behind the counter (NOT THE BAR) of the coffee shop my order and I waited the hour and a half for her to turn round, pick up a bottle of Becks and give it to me. To be fair, she was very busy calling her colleague "retarded". While she was busy doing that I spent my time looking around the room at the art. The art was mainly signs saying "More than just a coffee shop", which was a lie, and classic cinema posters redesigned to promote the selling of coffee. It was stuff like Midnight Espresso (I get it), Meet The Mochas (Erm...OK) and The Cupfather (pathetic). Eventually the lady had stopped saying "retarded" and had finally given me my bit of drink. I gave her £20 and she gave me change of £10. Of course, she checked the till and it was not £10 over so there is no way that I could have given her £20.

I had. That's not up for question. Maybe someone who shouts "retarded" often in public shouldn't be in charge of a till, that might be a question worth asking but the one about whether or not I gave her £20 isn't. But there's no way of proving it. I had to to just suck it up and walk away. I got served.

The wait to be served it the worst part, sort of. Yesterday, I was in a Co-op in Alton. It's a shop that employs idiots to serve idiots. I know I shouldn't get upset by this but...well, it's me, isn't it? The drunk nutter in front of me was staring and grinning at the spotty brain-free git behind the counter who was putting the nutter's items into a bag slowly and cack-handedly. As he had all the time in the world to wait on getting his items put into a bag, Drunk Nutter decided to stare at him for a bit longer then eventually he said "I've got one for you".

As soon as he spoke my body naturally clenched and I tasted my own sphincter. I'm not going to like what this man has to say, I thought. He continued: "Who would win in a fight Han Solo or Indiana Jones?"

Now, to be fair, the git behind the counter didn't answer him. Thank the Lord. He just got on with putting things into a bag at a crippled snail's pace. So Drunk Nutter repeated himself. "No, I'm being serious. Who would win in a fight, Han Solo or Indiana Jones?" The Git just handed the Drunk Nutter his now full bag and stared back at him. Drunk Nutter laughed and walked away. This was terrible for me because the question wasn't answered. That meant that The Git is going to talk to me. I just know he is. All I want is my 2 litre bottle of "Italian White" and my copy of Chat Magazine, I DO NOT WANT THIS MAN TALKING TO ME. But he did talk to me.

"Pfft", he said to me. "Stupid question. Han Solo would win. He's got The Force".

NO HE FUCKING DOESN'T, YOU FUCKING CUNT. Han solo NEVER had The Force. He had a Wookie. That was it. And a blaster by his side. Han Solo had The Force? How the fuck did this cretin get the job as Shop Assistant at the Co-op? What sort of Star wars questions do they ask in their job interviews? It's probably all prequel stuff nowadays.

This was nothing compared to the torment I went through getting served yesterday at The Plough, a bar in South London's Lordship Lane. I'm going to try to just transcribe, as best I can, the entire dialogue between myself and the woman working behind the bar. Be warned though: She's a phenomenal idiot.

After waiting and basically being ignored by her for 10 minutes she eventually turned to me and said "Are you being served, babes?"

"Erm...Not yet."

"Right, babes. What can I get you?"

"I'd like a Bloody Mary, a glass of rosé and a pint of soda water and lime, please."

"Right", she said and then immediately went off to serve someone else. To be honest, I was impressed. She had just taken my order and was now taking someone elses. She's a multi-tasker. This is great. Oh, it took a while to get served but when at last it happened my order was taken by a professional. Excellent. Five minutes later she passed drinks to the other people and took their money. Then she turned to me and said "Are you being served?"


"I gave you my order about 5 minutes ago, remember?"

"What was it again, babes?"

"Sigh...I'd like a Bloody Mary, a glass of rosé and a pint of soda water and lime, please"

"What's in a Bloody Mary?"

"Oh. Well, I don't really know. I was hoping you would."

She just walked away. I didn't know why, she didn't say why. I did see her speaking to a pregnant woman who looked baffled. The pregnant woman walked round the spirits optics easily 10 times then shuffled over to me. "We don't have any vodka up here", she said.

"Do you have any vodka in the building?"

"There might be some downstairs."


"I could go there and get some"

She walked off and I really went off wanting to give The Plough my business. Then Babes turned up again. "Right, babes. What was your order again?"

FOR FUCK'S SAKE. "Can I have a Bloody Mary, a glass of rosé and a pint of soda water and lime, please?"

"Do you know what size glass of rosé?"

"As it's my order, yes, I do know what size glass of rosé. Large, please. The largest you have".

I was being very sarcastic now. I'd had enough. I had but Babes hadn't. She had kept her very best until the end. Prepare to be amazed. Babes took out a half-pint glass and put it under one of the pumps then got a pint glass out and started pouring lime cordial into it. Of course, some people like fresh lime in their soda water and lime, not cordial, and while pouring she realised her error. "Oh", she said. "It was lime cordial you wanted in your cider water, babes?"

I must have misheard. I must have. "I'm sorry, in my what?"

"Would you like lime cordial in your cider water?"

"What is cider water?"

"I don't know."

"Then how are you going to give it to me?"

I looked at the till and I'm pretty sure she had rung in a half of cider and a bottle of still water. Now, I'd like to think that I'm mistaken in thinking this, I'm not. She had decided to just make up a drink for me. Then the pregnant woman returned with her mouth wide open and her tongue hanging out. She stirred the Bloody Mary and put it right in front of me.

"Is that right?", she said.

You know, we really do live in a very patient society. I'm sure there was a time far back in history when we wouldn't have let morons live. The mere mention of cider water would have got you beheaded back in the Tudor era. Maybe I'm just an old-fashioned guy?

By the way, the staff at The Phoenix are always friendly and attentive plus they do lots of vegan wine and beer so we can ALL enjoy their bar. Why not enjoy their bar this Wednesday at the next Los Quattros Cvnts with our very special guests Richard Herring and Mushybees? The show starts at 8pm and the doors are 7.30. Get there early because the seats go very quickly. Here's the Facebook invite with all the info:

Also....The Flaherty Brothers and Billy Sunday will make a return on Wednesday. What more reason could you need to go?

ps Thanks for listening to Mr Blue Sky, the Radio 4 sit-com written by Andrew Collins and featuring me as Sean, a 25 year-old genius pianist. You can find out about it here:

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Bad Taste.

My growing lack of knowledge is really starting to upset me. I don't know how something that's lacking can grow but that's just typical of me, you see. Thick. I don't know where Strasbourg is, I don't know how or if wasps fuck and I don't know where you cut the umbilical cord. Not that I'm intending cutting any umbilical cords but say I HAD to cut one, I wouldn't know where to start. I could cut a baby's head off. My total lack of knowledge is a danger to society. Is it at the baby's belly button? That seems right. What seems wrong is that I'm 42 and have no idea where the cut-off is in the umbilical cord. I used to have an umbilical cord, for fuck's sake.

I wish I was joking when I said my abundance of ignorance is taking up my every waking moment. I'm not. A few night's ago I lay awake because I couldn't figure out where concrete came from. WHERE DOES CONCRETE COME FROM? I mean, it's everywhere. I must know where it comes from. Is cement and concrete the same thing? I'm not sure. No. I'm sure I don't know. That thought took me up to at least 3am. The next day was taken up by circumcision. Obviously, I know that it's a religious thing but why does circumcision happen? I also know that pretty much everyone I know knows that it's a religious thing because when I've asked "What is the point of circumcision?" the response is always "It's a religious thing". THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER. In what way is it a religious thing? What does it represent? If it's a religious thing, aren't you just admitting that God made a mistake? Why not wait until the person being circumcised is old enough to say "You know what? I really want to be circumcised"? Then slap him and remind him he's talking about his cock. I understand that if you have a medical condition then circumcision could be the answer and I have known for a very long time that circumcision is a religious thing (although there is no such thing as a religious baby. If you can't control your bowels, why would God be interested in you?) but why don't I know WHY it's a religious thing? And why doesn't anyone else? Why do we just accept circumcision and cement and Strasbourg and wasps without knowing really what they are? And what's the deal with airline food?

Worrying about all this has been a...well, a worry. But insult was added to injury the other day and I've come to the conclusion that instead of thinking about why I don't know things, I've got to actively find out the facts myself. I've written about this before but here it goes again: To Muki, everything that once contained something is a bag. Freezer bags, sandwich boxes, egg shells. These are all bags to my wife and therefore end up in our bag bag. I use the bag bag twice a day. I take bags from the bag bag to pick up Jerk's poo in the park. Sometimes the non-bags in the bag bag are easy to spot: an envelope is NOT a bag. But others can slip through my radar. So, Jerk pooed and I took a "bag" out of my pocket to pick it up. It wasn't a bag. It was, at best, a bit of cling film. Brilliant. I picked up the poo but only after getting shit all over my hand. Obviously, it's my little princess's shit so I'm not bothered too much. The public loos are right there, they open at 10 am and it's 10.20 so I can wash my hands and it'll all be fine.

The loos aren't open yet.

Why would they be? Fucking hell. I'll just walk Jerk for an hour and when I get home I'll wash my hands. All I have to do for the next 60 minutes is not touch anything. I wiped most of the poo on a tree (sorry, tree) but still had traces, streaks even, of it on my hand. During the next hour my head filled with all the circumcision/concrete/umbilical cord thoughts that have been annoying me all week. What I'm saying is, I started thinking and when I think I forget. How can someone forget they have animal excrement on their hands? I have three words for you: CIRCUMCISION CONCRETE UMBILICALCORD. I got home, took Jerk off her lead and switched on my laptop. I printed out some documents to look over. There were quite a few of them so I had to sort this bunch of paper out, put them in the right order. That's when I licked my thumb.

Yep. That's me. The man that knows nothing but the taste of his own dog's anus.

ps Thanks for listening to Mr Blue Sky, the Radio 4 sit-com written by Andrew Collins and featuring me as Sean, a 25 year-old genius pianist. You can find out about it here:

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Location? Location? Location?

Look, I know I'm not Stephen Hawking or Stephen Fry or Stephen Baldwin or any other great learned man but I'm not thick. I'm really not. Am I? No. I'm not. I read books sometimes and I like some subtitled films. I even occassionally understand those books and films. I'm not an expert on...well, anything but I definitely get by. Slightly above average. I know that all reality TV is terrible which is more than most so-called clever people on that there Twitter do. I howled with laughter when the makers of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding described their deficient endeavour as a documentary. I'm not so stupid that I let that pass. I can't be stupid, OK? I mean, I'm friends with Robin Ince and he's got a science show. If your friend has a science show then you can't be thick. Unless I'm an experiment. Oh God, I might be an experiment. But last night I watched the science show and I think I understood what Simon Singh was talking about and I met Alan Moore without pissing myself and licking him. That must stand for something? Alan Moore isn't going to speak to an idiot, is he? Unless he needs material for his next book, D for DUUUUUUUUUHHHH!

OK, OK, OK. I might not be razor sharp but I didn't know I was thick. Not until the other night when a Frenchman told me he was from Strasbourg. Erm...Isn't that in Germany?

How the fuck do I not know where Strasbourg is? I'm 42 and I have NO IDEA where Strasbourg is. If you asked me where the European Court of Human Rights is, do you know what I'd say? I'd say Strasbourg. I'd say Strasbourg because I KNOW it's in Strasbourg. BUT if you then said to me "Oh really? Where's that then?", I'd be fucked. I mean, I'm sure it's Germany. Yes, Strasbourg is in Germany. Germany or Switzerland or Austria. One of those places.

About a year ago I saw two wasps fucking. At least, they looked like they were fucking. I'm not normally into staring at wasps fucking but I did watch them for a very long time. Too long. The park started to look like a wasp dogging area. I stared at them for ages because I realised that I had no clue how wasps fucked. I didn't know they did fuck. Do they fuck? I still don't know but I remember how thick it made me feel. How can you be in your 40's and not know how wasps fuck? It's pathetic. The great thing is, I wasn't alone. Every single person I spoke to about wasps fucking and my lack of knowledge on the subject either plainly didn't know anything about it either or laughed at me because they wanted to hide the fact that they didn't know anything about it either. Actually, is that a great thing? I don't know how wasps fuck and neither does anyone I know. No, that's not a great thing. I'm just one part of a pig-shit thick splatter of friends.

And it's happened again. I've spoken to a few people about not knowing where Strasbourg is and so far some of them have said that I am completely right; it's definitely in Germany. But some have corrected me ("It's in Sweden", "It's Austria", "I don't think Strasbourg is real. It's like Transylvania, you know?" - that genuinely happened). I mentioned it on the Precious Little podcast and, as well as my co-host James saying it was in Switzerland, people have written to me to say that they have no clue where Strasbourg is either. What is it about this elusive, enigmatic city that baffles us all so? No wonder so much fuck all happens at the Council of Europe, no one knows where the fucker is (Oh, yes. I know that the Council of Europe is in Strasbourg. I'm full of fucking Strasbourg facts. Except one).

The great thing about not knowing something is that you can go and look it up and educate yourself. The terrible thing about being Michael Legge (not that one, the other one) is that I'm a stubborn bastard. I refuse to look it up. I'm 42 years old and I bloody well should know where Strasbourg is. I'm not going to look near an atlas, a globe, a map, a weather forecast or Wikipedia until I remember where Strasbourg is. I mean that Frenchman was from Strasbourg so it should be in France but loads of French people are from Canada and the great American comedian, Bob Hope, is from London and the greatest French singer of all time, Jacques Brel, is from Belgium and the most respected, well-known and loved Italian, Mario, is from Japan so really who the fuck knows? I'm just going to have to remember. Where is Strasbourg?

It is Strasbourg, right? Not Strasburge? Oh, for fuck's sake...

ps Thanks for listening to Mr Blue Sky, the Radio 4 sit-com written by Andrew Collins and featuring me as Sean, a 25 year-old genius pianist. You can find out about it here:

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:

Sunday, 15 May 2011

Patience, My Tinsel Angel.

Although Friday night's gig at Covent Garden Comedy Club was great, I'm still a bit sensitive from doing so badly in Sheffield. The last thing I needed this weekend was unneccessary noise from drunk, thoughtless dicks in the audience. There was a bit of shrieking from a Hen Party on Friday night and I turned on them viciously to shut them up. Me putting them down so horribly made the audience feel awkward and go quiet but my point was made: If anyone is fucking this gig up, it's me.

That moment on Friday was fleeting and the rest of the show was excellent but last night at the same venue I felt the rage boiling up inside me again. There I was in the middle of a routine about the hilarious differences between men and women (a lot of it is biological and also men like box sets) when I heard someone's phone go off. Why the fuck does this still happen? Why do arseholes not just switch their phones off? You're in a comedy club: SWITCH YOUR PHONE OFF. Fuck's sake, even if you're out for the night in a pub, SWITCH YOUR PHONE OFF. Why not actually relax? Switch your phone off, if anyone wants to contact you then you can check your messages when you get home. Why did we decide to make the mobile phone such an important part of our lives? It's supposed to be there in case of emergency but NO. We just can't cope, think or exist without our fucking mobile phones. On a train, anyone reading a book? NO. They're screaming down their phone or deafening us with their terrible taste in music or they're playing Angry Birds. YOU ARE IN YOUR FUCKING 30's (at least), WHY ARE YOU PLAYING ANGRY FUCKING BIRDS? Just switch your phone off sometimes. You know, try life instead for a while. You might like it. You probably won't, of course, but at least you can say you tried. Or you can text that you tried. But give it a go. Switch your phone off.

Of course when this dick's phone went off during my routine it wasn't a subtle, reserved ring-ring. Oh, no. It was a big old rock song. Some fucking rock song that this thoughtless cunt just couldn't wait to share with us all. All I could think of was, if I break out of this routine now to deal with this then I can't go back to it. This bit will be fucked. Luckily, it was quiet enough that seemingly only me and the front row could hear it so that meant if I did stop the routine to have a go at this moron almost everyone in the room would be thinking "What mobile phone? What's he talking about? What was that he said about box sets?" But on it went, this fucking mobile phone ringing with its big, stupid rock ringtone. Whoever owned the phone obviously couldn't find it to switch it off and that only made me angrier. What a fucking idiot. Oh and look! The whole of the front row are now visibly agitated by the noise. Great! I can't concentrate on what I'm saying, the front row are drifting off and some prick is out there somewhere struggling in his gym-bag to find his cocking mobile phone. AND WHY IS IT STILL RINGING? Surely, it should have gone to voicemail by now? And why, oh, why did this person choose as his ringtone a song like Chelsea Monday by Marillion?

That's when I realised it wasn't a mobile phone. It was an iPod. My iPod. The one that I put in the front pocket of my jeans.

For the next 5 minutes I kept giggling on stage. There's nothing like performing a gig when the front row is squinting at you and thinking "Why is a searing guitar solo coming out of his crotch?"

Here's news. I've done a sit-com. Oh, yeah. I'm totally an actor now. Mr Blue Sky by Andrew Collins starts tomorrow on Radio 4 and I play the title role of Sean, a 25 year old piano playing genius. You can see why they asked me. It stars Mark Benton and Rebecca Front and we recorded it one week a couple of months ago. It was pretty much the nicest week I've had working on anything. What a lot of fun. It's a nice, gentle comedy about a man who gets shot in the head. You can hear it on the radio at 11.30 am, the much-coveted "ironing" slot, or you can listen later on iPlayer. Here's some information:

Plus, I highly recommend that you buy the brilliant theme tune to Mr Blue Sky by Jim Bob. It's utterly fantastic and it's available on iTunes here:

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:

Saturday, 14 May 2011


That's something I forgot to say about Sheffield: it's really clean. No litter. Anywhere. The streets are really clean and you can eat your dinner off them. Just like the people of Lewisham do. There were a few clues that I was back in Lewisham after my lovely weekend in my favourite British town. The first was the sign saying "Lewisham" at the train station, the second was that I was standing in a pile of debris. For fuck's sake. How can we possibly know how many dead bodies are lying in the streets of Lewisham if people keep littering everywhere?

Also, the second I got off the train at Ladywell, the part of Lewisham I live in, I saw madness. That's one thing I'd miss if I left Lewisham. There's always something really fucking odd going on. A few weeks ago I saw a tramp give another tramp a bunch of flowers. Lovely, in a way, but definitely odd to see. Last week I passed a dear old lady and, I assumed, her adorable granddaughter. As they passed I heard sweet Granny say "No wonder they wrote cunt on his door". Then on Sunday, as I returned home from perfect, perfect Sheffield, the first thing I saw was a woman riding an exercise bike in the park. Instead of getting an actual bicycle, this plucky and insane Lewisham resident carried an exercise bike from her house, set it up at the entrance of the park and rode it for the equivalent of miles and miles. You just don't get that anywhere else. It's good to be home.

And I was worried about getting home. Being in a really charming and progressive city can make you loathe where you live all the way home but, luckily, exercise bike woman was there to welcome me and she made me smile. My other worry then was doing a gig. I performed four gigs in Sheffield and I just wasn't great in any of them. The Lescar gig was OK but I just wasn't on form so I got a bit concerned about my next lot of gigs. Luckily, the first one back cancelled. Phew! Being unemployed and not earning any money really helped dodge a bullet there. Then last night I had Covent Garden Comedy Club. People had bought tickets, they were in the building, they were seated facing the stage. There was NO WAY this was going to cancel. I'm going to have to do a gig. Shit.

Not only was the gig utter fun to play but one of the funniest things I've ever seen in a comedy club happened right in front of me. Covent Garden Comedy Club is based in Heaven, the gay nightclub underneath Charing Cross Station. During his set, Del Strain asked a man what it was that he looked for in a woman. That's right, he asked that question to a man in Heaven. The man who was holding the hand of the man sitting next to him.

The man actually had to ask Del to repeat the question. It just baffled him that much.

"What do you look for in a woman?", Del asked again. The man screwed his face up and said in a is-this-right? tone of voice "Prettiness?".

I nearly vomited with laughter. "Prettiness". It was such an alien question to him, quite rightly, and he winged it. He thought prettiness sounded right and he went for it. Like in Sci-Fi films when an alien disguised as a human tries to understand and fit in. It was just so beautiful. You could actually see his brain working as he thought about the answer. Hmmm, this is a poser, he thought, what do straight men see in women? If I was straight, what would I tolerate? "Prettiness". And how right he is about us straight men, right, lads? Eh, lads? We're fucking always on the prowl for a bit of prettiness. PHWOOAR! Seen the floral patterned summer frock on that? "Prettiness". We can't get enough of it. Look at her tits, lads. They'd look lovely in a vase.

Can audiences always be as fun and funny as last night in Covent Garden Comedy Club, please? It just makes it all so much better. For the rest of the night I told Prettiness Man I loved him and I meant it.

Of course, it'll all go tits up tonight.

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

Going For Brown.

I am too good for this world. In 36 days time I will be putting my mind and body to the ultimate test, a gruelling marathon that will exhaust, punish and perhaps even kill me. Unlike wimps who run pathetic actual marathons or climb mountains or swim the channel, there is no preperation for what I'm about to go through in just over one month. I could try to train but that might damage me too and this is a hellish task that I intend to complete. Whether I'm the same man at the end of it remains to be seen. I won't lie to you, I'm scared. My demeanour is not built for challenges such as this but isn't that why all atheletes do what they do? They want to take the pain to the next level. In this way, I am pretty much on a par with Carl Lewis, Muhammad Ali and Tim Henman all rolled in to one. In 36 days time I will be watching Mrs. Brown's Boys - Live.

Dan Tetsell and Margaret Cabourn-Smith, after reading my moving blog detailing my utter loathing of Mrs. Brown's Fucking Stupid Bastard Boys, decided that it would be funny if they bought me a ticket to see the stage version of the show live at the Hammersmith Apollo on the 15th of June completely on my own. Of course, they're right. It is funny. I just wish that I'd thought of it and bought the ticket for someone else. Dan or Margaret perhaps? Unbelievably, tickets for this event are actually quite hard to come by. Since I revealed that my friends have stabbed me in the back by buying me a ticket, people on Twitter have been writing to me to say how jealous they are that I'm going and they aren't. Presumably these are the same people who see car accidents and shout "Jammy sod".

Of course, I could have been less of a man about it and just chucked the ticket in the bin but I'm better than that. I'm the fucking greatest. Here's the plan: On the 15th of June I will pop round to the home of Dan, Margaret and their rude, rude child and I will give them a bottle of quality champagne. I will drink none of it because, throughout the entire show, I WILL REMAIN COMPLETELY SOBER. Not only do I want to take in every horrible aspect of this insult to all five senses but I want to sit there in the full knowledge that Dan and Margaret are enjoying some booze on my account. I will record a short Soundcloud podcast just before I go in as well as one during the interval and, of course, when the whole sorry abortion is over.

Then, and only then, will I drink my sorrows away. I'm encouraging my friends to be standing outside the venue when I finally stumble out of it. They will wrap me in a foil blanket and give me hot soup, something to get my strength back. Paula Radcliffe crying as she crosses the finishing line will be nothing compared to the red-eyed, watery, snot-dripping mess that I will be at the end of that two and a half hour unneccessary persecution. So typical of me to do this for other people's benefit and not my own. I am a saint.

This is where you come in. I am sitting through a two and a half hour stage version of Mrs. Brown's Boys and I would like you to sponsor me. All atheletes need sponsorship and I'm no different. You can sponsor me by the minute, by the half hour, whatever you want... just give us the money. Please donate to show support for my struggle and that of Paul Chambers, the victim of our ridiculous legal system who lost his job and had to pay legal fees just because he made a poor quality joke on Twitter. If that's the case, why isn't Tiernan Douieb in solitary confinement for life? It's not fair. Please sponsor me by going to this link and donating to @TwJokeTrialFund:

Remember, every penny you give is another 1p you've spent on saying you hate Mrs. Brown's Boys. Yeah, and that fund gets some money too, I suppose. This is a VERY important thing so I fully expect you to spread the word and get people donating. I want AT LEAST £1000 by the end of the night of the 15th June, but you can start donating now. Just tweet me afterwards and I will make sure everyone knows that you have taken a stand against this monster of a show, yeah...stood up for human rights and shit. It's going to be a big, long, horrible night, my friends, an I am very, very scared.

I mean, what if I like it. To be fair, I think it's impressive to get such a good review from Liverpool:

Sunday, 8 May 2011

This Is Hardcore.

Last night was the last of four gigs in Sheffield, my new favourite town, and it was an odd way to say goodbye. I guess these things just happen sometimes when you’re a comedian. You’ll anticipate a great gig to end an otherwise excellent weekend but it just doesn’t happen. I built it up in my head as a cracking, celebratory, laughter-filled evening to crown the days and nights of good times but, on the night, something just went wrong. Oh, it’s happened to me before and it’s nothing to be ashamed of but last night’s audience in Sheffield just died on their arses.

I don’t know if it was their first time being an audience but it just looked to me like they didn’t know what they were doing. I was on stage being absolutely brilliant in every way, improvising, throwing out gags, skilfully weaving tales of wonder, but this audience just didn’t know what to do. They just sat there and stared. Maybe sometimes I’m just too amazing and an audience will be stunned into silence but these guys were like that for a full 20 minutes (actually it was 18 minutes, always leave them wanting more). They just couldn’t get their heads round the fact that when I throw a well-crafted gag about an unlikely place I’ve masturbated in, you’re supposed to laugh. They genuinely thought they had to be quiet the entire time while one of them took it in turn to cough a bit.

I felt really bad for them. It was so uncomfortable being on that stage and watching an audience who clearly weren’t ready for a comedy club of this scale. I could tell they knew how bad they were too because some of them had their head in their hands the whole time I was on stage, a lot of them even tutted and sighed constantly at the frustration of just not being that good yet.

Of course, it’s early days for this audience and I’m sure they’ll improve after a good few more gigs under their belts. I think they even started to catch on themselves because, when I said that I was leaving, they cheered. Good for them, I thought, there’s hope yet.

The whole room felt terrible for not being a solid, reliable unit throughout my hilariously inventive and superb set during which I was brilliant. But they shouldn’t feel like that, all audiences have bad gigs. I was part of the audience during Sarah Silverman’s classic one and only performance in the UK and, due to us being a hack, obvious and unprepared crowd, I doubt we’ll see her here ever again. I felt bad for them. They were so embarrassed about dying that not one of them could face me during the interval to say how great I was and even the other comedians and the promoter couldn’t make eye contact with me. I didn’t want them to feel that way, I just wanted them to be the best audience they could be.

You know what? I think they picked up on my vibe because for the rest of the night they really improved. They laughed, applauded and looked like they were having a great time. Yes, I thought to myself, you’re finding your feet. You can do this. You’re going to make it. I’m glad the audience realised that, through my guidance, they could show these two-bit chancer comedians what a good night out is. Not that I want to be thanked and I appreciate that everyone understood this and didn’t thank me once.

I really loved my time in Sheffield. In a way, that was the perfect way to end a lovely weekend. Every single person I met in Sheffield was friendly, charming and warm and last night? I think I made them even better.

You’re welcome.

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Saturday, 7 May 2011

Different Class.

What the fuck is wrong with Sheffield? Why can’t it be like the rest of Britain? We all agreed many, many years that our entire nation was going to be somewhere between a bit shit and toweringly awful. THAT WAS WHAT WE AGREED ON. London closes at 11.30pm. Portsmouth lets all its dickheads roam the streets at the same time. Nottingham is the most violent place I’ve ever set foot in (remember, I grew up in Northern Ireland in the 70’s and 80’s). Edinburgh refuses to let you do anything. Leicester is Leicester. Cardiff encourages ugly people to fuck in the streets. Brighton is full of deluded people and hand-made crafts. There’s panic on the streets of Carlisle, Dublin, Dundee, Humberside and, I wonder to myself, why is Sheffield being different to the rest of us? Also, I’m aware Dublin isn’t British but when you can sneak a Smiths lyric in you have to take the chance.

I’ve never been to Sheffield before until this weekend. I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t this. I’m not saying that I was just assuming that Sheffield was one big coalmine. No. It’s just I didn’t think it would be…well…beautiful. But it is. I genuinely can’t think of a nicer city I’ve visited in Britain.

I arrived on Thursday and spent the night in two bars in what looked like a pretty boho area of town. This must be the nice part of Sheffield. I’m sure the centre of town is constantly on fire with rapists, murderers and Hitler drinking, puking and shouting outside every branch of Greggs. Also, I thought, every shop in Sheffield will be a branch of Greggs. It was good to spend the night in these two cool and relaxing bars because surely seeing the centre of Sheffield tomorrow will be a nightmare of biblical proportions, if The Bible was written and directed by Wes Craven.

I spent my first full day in Sheffield reading my Kindle in the Winter Gardens, a beautiful big greenhouse right next to a town square filled with fountains and waterfalls. I ate in The Blue Moon Café, a wanker-free vegetarian place. After that I stood outside The Crucible, the home of snooker, as a Richard Hawley gig was played on a massive screen for anyone passing by to watch. THIS is a very civilised town. How can I return to Lewisham now? Come on, Lewisham! You love closing down schools for no reason, why not close down the Wetherspoons and open up a big greenhouse? Knock the clock tower down and put up a big screen showing Squeeze and Kate Bush and anyone else famous from Lewisham (that’s all the famous people in Lewisham).

The architecture of Sheffield is beautiful so walking around aimlessly is the aim. Walking aimlessly in Sheffield is aimfull. That way you can get lost and find brilliant shops like Rare and Racy, an independent record and book shop that’s been going since 1969 and, get this, is STILL open. I bought Hysteria by Def Leppard there. I am SO Sheffield now.

Here’s the most important bit: I have yet to see a Sheffield dickhead. Every single person has been friendly. Properly friendly. Like you know when you go somewhere and you say “Oh, I like it there. People are very friendly there” but you realise you only met about 3 people so you have no authority at all to claim people are friendly there? Well, I must have met 50 people since arriving in Sheffield and they’ve ALL been lovely. And how many people are there in Sheffield? 70? 80? Something like that, so I’m definitely right to say they are friendly in Sheffield because I’ve met nearly all of them. I’ve done three gigs here so far and the audiences have been respectful, funny and friendly. I’ve been a bit shit but all this pleasantry is a lot to take in at once so it’s put me off a bit. I’ll try harder tonight. I mean it, I love this place and all the people here. The only people to get on my nerves here were a bunch of loud and obnoxious Americans (whodathunkit?) while watching Thor in the cinema and Brian May from Queen, but that’s another story.

I wish you were here.

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Friday, 6 May 2011

They're Grrrreat!

What did you do today? Wake up and go to work? Sit in an office with some people you would gladly kill? Watch the clock get closer to 5pm and further away from your dreams? I ate a whole tub of houmous while wearing only my socks and pants. That was my highlight. Oh, I got a wrong number phone call. That was fun. Always nice to meet new people. And my footlump fell off! That was brilliant. Don’t worry, I’ve kept it if you want to have a look at it. The thing is, spending too much time in just my underwear and eating whole tubs of things is basically all I do. Those two things will take up the bulk of my autobiography (working title: Leggerice Allsorts – Tales of Titters and Tears). But I know someone who is probably never bored because, instead of doing what we do, she looks after two tigers for a living.

I really like going to the zoo. Not many vegans like the zoo, for obvious reasons, but I really like it. I think if you see a zoo that is treating animals cruelly for yourself then you’re much more likely to do something about it than if you just read about it in the newspaper. Put it this way, avoid Lisbon Zoo. Or don’t. No such problems with London Zoo though. It’s utterly fantastic.

The animals there look amazing and, as far as I can see, seem to be there for a reason. The only questionable thing I saw was a monument dedicated to “The Victorians and their love of animals”. Erm… Anyway, I was giddy the whole day. Pushing children out of my way so I can get a better look at meerkats and having Johnny Morris’s voice in my head while looking at hippos. I even walked through the anus of a caterpillar. I did! I walked through the anus of a caterpillar. The butterfly house is in the shape of a caterpillar and you have to enter via the anus. Just like a real caterpillar. The butterflies were my second favourite animal. The tigers were my favourite because Andrea looks after them and also because I got to feed them.

Backstage at any rock gig is brick wall tedious compared to getting backstage at a zoo. There’s no booze but that might be a good thing as there are tigers there (I’m not saying there aren’t tigers backstage at rock gigs, obviously. I’ve heard Jim Bob’s stories). You know what? There’s a strange feeling of fear that runs right through you when you’re about to meet a pair of tigers. It’s like meeting Madonna and Prince. You’re told where to stand and what to do before they get there and you know if you don’t do what you’re told they’ll rip your arm off. Not that I was going to be directly in the same room as Gary and Gary (that’s the Tiger’s names…alright, they’re called Raika and Lumpar). God, no. There was green wire in between me and them. Safety first, eh?

Raika came into the backstage room first. She paced the room for a bit and decided that she wasn’t going to kill me today. Lumpar was next and he was being enigmatic. He walked in and lay down. We had only just met and he was bored of me already. They hadn’t really come into this room to meet me. They came into get fed. Luckily, I had made enough tofu salad for all three of us.

After a massive fight, Andrea, a trained and highly experienced zoo keeper, persuaded me that the meat she had in a bag might be more the thing that Tigers like. I reluctantly bowed to her advice but left the Tigers some PETA leaflets and badges. I picked up the evil meat with tongs and was told to feed Raika by holding the food low down for her. I’d been in the room with the tigers for about 10 minutes by this time and was feeling confident. Feeding Tigers is fun. THEY’RE TIGERS, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I wanted to feed Lumpar now. Same thing. Meat on tongs, keep low. Brilliant. Lumpar insisted on keeping low. He was lying down looking glamorous and wasn’t going to lift his head slightly for the likes of me. Can I feed him again? Can I? Can I? Can I? BRILLIANT! Meat on tongs, low down… Oh. Change of plan. This time Andrea said to hold the meat up high so that Lumpar would get up and get it. You know, a little fun Tiger trick.

Lumpar stared at the food above him. I had broken our agreement: I keep the food low down and he doesn’t kill me. He growled. Ever had a Tiger growl at you personally? It’s great. Lovely. Really relaxes your bumhole. He stood up but the food was being held by me even higher so he stood up on his back legs towering over me with his front paws on the wire balancing him. Now, I’m not saying I was scared but a thin layer of sweat broke out over every part of my body.

Feeding Jerk is going to be pretty dull now.

Then while the Tigers were hanging out backstage, I got to go into their lair. I actually walked out into the Tiger enclosure. There’s an incredible look on people’s faces when they see an ordinary bloke just walking around in there. We hid food for the Tigers all around their enclosure to encourage a more natural habitat. Obviously, in the wild bits of meat aren’t just placed there by me but it was incredible seeing the Tigers climbing and foraging. I was out of the enclosure by this time. You can find out more about the zoo’s enrichment work at

It’s weird being vegan and handing out meat but I feel more vegany than ever because of the experience. That said, I was worried when I suggested to Andrea that if the zoo had, say, a really sick antelope that couldn’t be cured they should put it in the tiger’s enclosure. Andrea agreed. Apparently, it’s illegal. Right, I’m off for a dairy-free meatless falafel.

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