Bye, 2012!

2012. What a year! It was certainly my favourite and yours. Barack Obama made gay marriage compulsory, Nottingham Forest got to the top of the league of gentlemen, Michael Gove exploded in a ball of fire and cum and Justin Beiber gave the sea a big kiss and the sea was arrested for being a paedophile. It seemed like 2012 just couldn't keep still for a second. But those are just the big stories, what made 2012 special for me? Here's a predictable look back at the last 12 months....

BEST SONGS OF THE YEAR:

"Bit Drafty" by Wang-Man

"Let Me Lift Your Soul To Heaven (And Fuck It)" by Anthony Intercourse

"Party Coffin" by The Generous Flaps

BEST ALBUM:

London 0 Hull 4 by The Housemartins by Nickelback

BEST FILMS:

Moon Pub 

Quiet Northern Woman Gets a Kicking

The Madness of King Hulk

BOOKS:

Don't be so stupid. Reading was fine two decades ago before YouTube and Soda Stream but if you even so much as read this then you're a fucking twat and everyone despises you. That said, all the 50 Shades of Grey parodies have been exemplary.

EVENT OF THE YEAR:

The London Sports Day. Every single person in the entire world came to London to compete in this year's sports day until only one survivor was left on Earth. He came from Brazil and he recieved a silver medal.

PARA EVENT OF THE YEAR:

The London Parasports Day. The deafening cries of "bless" patronised our sportsmen and sportsgirls to be the best that they could be and go for gold! Of course, some never got gold and therefore will never be allowed to have their hair ruffled on television chat shows.

MAN OF THE YEAR:

That dog from Britain's Got Talent.

WOMAN OF THE YEAR:

n/a

So that was 2012, my friend. Wasn't it though? Here's to a happy 2013. Hope you have a lovely one. All the best, Uncle Michael xxxx

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

A Christmas Kennel.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

This is a story set at Christmas time and it is also the story of Nancy. Nancy is real. I met her once and she was really lovely. Nancy was born on the 15th of December 2004 and she was one of a litter of nine very beautiful puppies. All of them a gorgeous tan colour except one. That was Nancy. She was a jet black little puppy with bright eyes and the sweetest of all natures. Sadly, this could not be said of Nancy and her siblings's owner.

Just nine days after their birth, Nancy's owner put all of the newborn puppies in a box and abandoned them near a bin at London Bridge station. It was Christmas Eve, snow was falling on the ground and a box full of puppies were pining for their mother. 

It was so cold that night that two of the puppies died. Luckily, a charitable soul passed by and heard the puppies cry for help. The generous stranger picked up the box of distressed and confused orphans and alerted Battersea Dog's Home. Nancy and her brothers and sisters were saved!

The loving folk at Battersea tramped through the snow and took the puppies to warmth and safety. Over the following weeks the dogs were nursed and cared for as best they could but, alas, dogs cannot stay at a dog's home forever. They must be adopted and looked after by others. They must be cared for individually. They must be taken from their new home for a second time and they must all be parted from one another. Nancy saw her first sibling adopted and removed from her family in February 2005. She'd lost her mother and two other loved ones from her pack and now the plucky group of abandoned puppies was down to six. As soon as anyone saw the beautiful tan Lurcher pups, they immediately fell in love with them and chose one of them to adopt. Tan dogs are so much rarer than black dogs so they always go first. Nancy's pack was soon down to five. Then four. Then three. Then two. As beautiful as Nancy clearly was, it was the novelty of owning a tan dog that people favoured and she was passed by again and again. Until a kindly old man visited the dog's home.

The elderly gentleman craved the company of a dog. A companion to stand by him in his dotage. Nancy was the sweetest little dog that you could ever meet. Despite being abandoned, despite having brother and sister taken away from her one by one...she remained as sweet as she was the day she was born. Friendly and warm. Bright eyed and happy. Her remaining sibling bullied her, lying on Nancy like she was a bed. Yelping at Nancy like she was a servant. Wrestling Nancy like she was a helpless rag-doll. But the kindly old man saw Nancy and immediately saw how beautiful she really was.

"These puppy lurchers?", enquired the old man. "They are beautiful. I must have one". The helpful volunteer at Battersea rushed off to get the puppies. They must be introduced properly to potential new owners, only then can dog and owner know if they're right for one another. Then a dog is chosen and rehoused, cared for and loved. The frail and ancient gentleman was invited in to a room and was promised that a meeting with the puppies would be imminent. At last, he thought. A companion to join me on my final journey.

The tiny dogs were walked into the room and Nancy's eyes were immediately drawn to the old man and the old man was immediately drawn to Nancy. The bright eyed pup skipped right up to the old, old man and she smiled brightly at him. You have never seen such a sweet puppy in your life. Eager to please and huge of heart. A wagging tail that said how much she liked you and a friendly face that told you you had a friend for life. Nancy had the worst start in life that you can imagine. Taken from her mother, abandoned in the cold and passed by time and again for adoption. But she was the perfect friend for an old man who clearly needed her. Then her little tan sister ran up, grabbed Nancy by the neck and threw her across the room.

"Now that's a dog with personality", said the old man. "I shall take you home and call you Jerk".

That is a completely true story. The end.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Tofu Fighter.

One of the most annoying preconceptions that people have about vegans is that we're all sexy. Look, it's nice that you all think I'm smokin' hot but that's only one part of the enigma that is Michael Legge (not the one from Angela's Ashes). I have many layers. Like an onion or a chilly person. Yes, OK, fine: I'm sexy. But I'm also really tough and manly too. How come vegans are thought of as sensitive? That's so wrong. We are rock hard and ass-kickingly rugged. Evel Knievel, The Rock and Vinnie Jones are all vegan. Always have been. The S.A.S are some of the hardest and highly skilled vegans on Earth (S.A.S stands for Salad and A Smoothie). The film Die Hard doesn't eat meat and is lactose intolerant. That's right, when we're not caring for animals or banging supermodels, we are opening cans of soya whup-ass. 

On Saturday I woke up, had a couple of shots of whisky, gave Milla a little spank on the tush goodbye and headed out to Vx, a vegan specialist shop in King's Cross. I decided not to run there from Lewisham because I hate it when crowds of people start cheering at me or try to seduce me when all I want to do is work out, get some head-space and maybe break a record. So I power-swan to Ladywell train station and throw my guns in the direction of the little lady working at the ticket desk. She gives me a travelcard and I give her a smile, a wink and £7.30 even though I'm sure she would have given it to me for free even though she said I had to pay. The train turned up and I stepped back to let a woman get on the train before me. She thanked me and I said "You're welcome" even though I could have easily broken her neck or punched her guts out or something. Look, I'm a peaceful guy and I'm not one to brag but going by that woman's frame and age, I reckon there's a good chance I could beat up her dad. There was a gang of two youths sitting by me who had obviously switched their loud rapping music off and started quietly reading the second they saw this vegan bad-ass motherfucker get on the train, plus there was a nice lady sitting near them so I thought I'd just relax, be cool and be myself. Throw a little Legge style down. I always sit on a chair with its back to my front. It's cooler and I can lean on it better when my back hurts a bit. I sat down on the train seat like I always sit down. Like a total vegan Fonzie. Unfortunately, the seats are made for two or more people to sit on so only one of my feet was on the floor and I had to sort of half-kneel with my other leg while my face was way too close to the SE Network rail map. Clearly, those people were laughing at how stupid the meat-eating seat designer had been. And who could blame them? I stayed like that for the whole journey to prove a point, I think.  

After power-standing all the way down the escalator at London Bridge underground, I jumped on a tube to Kings Cross. On the tube, I looked around and quickly counted the amount of men I could beat up in the carriage. I've started doing that quietly now because some people think that because I'm so hard they consider me a challenge and because I'm a nice guy I often let them beat me up or I go quiet when they start shouting. One thing's for sure, as much as they THINK they want a piece of me, there is no way they'd want to get a one way ticket to Kick-Asstown or Chinese Burnland from me. That's one bag of edamame that no-one wants to open.

Even though it was raining a little bit, I strutted my stuff all the way from Kings Cross to Vx. As if weather could ever fuck with me! Plus I look good when my hair's wet and sexy and I had an umbrella so it was no problem. As soon as I saw the shop, I loved it. If you're vegan then you'll probably cry when you see it and if you're not vegan then you should go just so that you can see proof that we're not all bellends. It sells food. REAL FOOD. I mean really good food that's not just edible (that in itself is a miracle) but it tastes GOOD. They sell sweets! Vegans never get to eat sweets. And shoes! Vegan's never get to wear shoes. Not real shoes, anyway. And they sell "cheese" that...get this...TASTES LIKE CHEESE! Ever eaten vegan cheese before? It tastes like chalk. But not at Vx. What I'm saying is, you should go there. I walked in and, Rudy, the owner and I immediately high-fived and started our bromance. Felt good to be hanging out with another tough guy vegan. I fist-bumped a couple of other awesome vegan dudes in the shop too. Yeah, it had been an EXTREME journey getting here but this is why I do it the hard way, so I can enjoy the riches at the end of it all. Sure, I work hard and I play hard. But that's the life of a vegan. 24 hour EXTREME.

But there's two sides to every coin. Yeah, you all know me as the tough tofu-eating sex machine that you've fallen in love with but there's a secret side to me. A side to me that you probably wouldn't believe. A side that messes up everything he does and says. A side that just does the wrong thing at the wrong time. A side that is a twat.

I cut my finger on the packaging on a vegan schnitzel.

What sort of fucking pathetic twathole cuts himself on a vegan schnitzel. How fucking sensitive am I really? Sadly, that's not even the worst. I recently cut myself while changing a pillowcase. It's pathetic but it's true. Fuck sake, why did I have to start bleeding in a vegan shop? We have but one rule in vegan land. Do what you like when you like but please don't let us ever see blood. Well, I went all the way to the very best vegan specialist shop I've ever been to and I spilled blood in it. Of course I did. I am Michael Legge (not the one from Angela's Ashes).

I don't think I'm allowed back in that shop.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Your Tworoscope 2.

Time to have your Tworoscope read... 

ARIES: You receive a phone call in the post from a tall, dark stranger's ugly friend. He shouts "SPENDTHRIFT" and hangs up. 

TAURUS: The moon moves into your home chart and defecates everywhere. A close relative hates your piggy feet. 

GEMINI: You talk too much. Wind your neck in.

CANCER: You're still not well. 

LEO: This week you will live the life of a lion. Homeless, living on zebra guts and having sex with animals. Flies like you. 

VIRGO: Today's the first day of the rest of your life. And the last. You will be in agony all evening with a Viking funeral on Friday.

LIBRA: You think you're so fucking great. 

SCORPIO: It's time you took a long, hard look in the mirror. Seriously, who's going to want to finger that?

SAGITTARIUS & CAPRICORN: Still dicks. 

AQUARIUS: You discover that your widow has found a new lover. This could make things quite sad at your funeral (Monday). 

PISCES: Look how fat you've got. 

And that is #YourTworoscope for this week. I predict that I shall see you all again....IN THE FUTURE!!

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Kill List.

It's all lists, isn't it? Everything is a fucking to-do list. Especially at this time of year. What's wrong with lying in bed all day and staring at the ceiling? Nothing's going to go wrong with that. But, no. We make lists to give our lives order and then we wonder why we're upset all the time. No one ever completes a list.

Let's get up early tomorrow and have a decent breakfast and go for a run then get back and pay bills and fix that thing and check to see who Twitter has picked to hate today and clean the bath and phone that really sad friend and get the shopping in and do my emails and talk to the estate agent about selling the house and pick up some more vitamin tablets and see if we can get cheaper broadband and write a letter of complaint to the council and put out the recycling and scream and cry and blow our fucking brains out. Is that really better than lying in the grey light of a cold bedroom staring at the ceiling without a list?

Why do we do it to ourselves every day, every year? This year we want to lose weight, go to Japan, write a screenplay and learn how to ski. And then we don't do it because we're ordinary human beings with life getting in the way of anything and everything. We did nothing and we have a list to prove it. You'd think we'd have shaken Christmas off years ago but somehow we get delighted at making another list. This one ever stupider than all the other unchecked check lists we make every day. 

1. Buy a tree. That's right. That's somehow become an important priority to us. Buy a tree and put it inside the house. Why stop there? Why not replace the carpet with grass and dog shit. Maybe a massive tyre in the corner of the room next to loads of cigarette butts and some POLICE: DO NOT CROSS tape. Oh, and put it up against the window. There's very little daylight at this time of year and we want NONE OF IT in our house.

2. Buy christmas cards for friends and relatives. This is such a massive waste of time. If you have a friend or loved one in your life, surely they'll KNOW that you want them to have a nice Christmas. Why wouldn't you? There shouldn't be billions of cards made every year to let someone who knew that you wanted them to have a good Christmas KNOW that you want them to have a good Christmas. There should be a more limited amount of cards for people you hate just to CONFIRM that yes, you definitely want them to have a really shit Christmas. Maybe with a picture of Santa bumming their mum on it or baby Jesus doing the wanker hand sign.

3. Buy presents. Brilliant idea. Let's prove how little we know our friends by getting them something they hate.

4. Buy mistletoe. Ah, yes. Everyone's favourite consensual rape plant. 

5. Visit relatives. So nice of you to put that one day aside to pretend to like people you might get inheritance from one day.

6. Buy a tin of biscuits. What?

And it goes on and on. Decorate the living room, buy a century's worth of food, smile at carol singers and, for some utterly insane reason, buy sherry. Some people put a wreath on their front door. Why not have the entire grave in the front garden? So much work goes into having fun. Planned fun. Forced fun. The best kind. And do we really like it? I suppose so. But the pressure. Oh, the pressure. Yet we do it every year, every day. We make lists. It's not right. Do you know what kind of person makes lists? Murderers. So, when you're making your perfect list so your perfect Christmas is perfect you're no better than a murderer. Making a list is psychotic and cold and anyone who makes a list, FOR ANY REASON, is sick. I'm talking to you, Santa.

I had a very full list planned for yesterday but I just got swept up by the exciting rush of spontaneity. My alarm went off and, completely off the cuff, I just lay there and had a completey unplanned stare at the ceiling. Why did I make that list in the first place? I knew I wasn't ever going to complete it. I'd be disappointed and frustrated with myself. Again. But, look. Life is all about chances and yesterday I threw the rule book away. No list. Just lying there staring at the ceiling, unplanned and finally living. I'm really good at lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I'm brilliant at it. "And that's it", I thought. "Tomorrow I'm putting 'Do nothing' on my list and nothing else".

Then I wrote this blog. So that's that list fucked too then.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Wiped Out.

There's an incredible feeling you get when you swim the English Channel. It's not the people cheering or the medals that make you feel better, it's the actual event itself. It's the same with climbing up Machu Picchu or walking from Land's End to John O'Groats. Yes, there's some glory in that but that's not the main feeling you get when you've done those things. No matter what it is we do in life, whether it's diving off the top of a cliff into the sea or running a marathon or building a skyscraper or curing cancer or travelling the world to find 52 namessakes or parachuting out of an aeroplane or reading a blog, we all think the same thing when we're doing it: thank fuck I'm not putting new toilet roll onto the toilet roll holder.

My lovely toilet experience was completely ruined yesterday when I realised that I'd have to get a new roll of toilet paper out from behind the loo. That means taking the empty tube off the toilet roll holder and putting the new roll of toilet paper on. Yes, yes, yes. I could have just left the old empty tube on there, taken what I needed from the new roll and then left it on top of the cistern but then that becomes a reminder of how lazy I am every time I go to the toilet. The thing is, I really do think that putting a new toilet roll onto a toilet roll holder might be the most boring and awful thing that can ever happen to anyone. It's just slightly fidgety enough to be utterly tedious. I hate putting new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder. Why do we even have toilet roll holders? What's wrong with the floor?

Oh, yeah. That's where we piss. Can't put it on the floor.

Crap, better put the new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder. But I don't want to. Is not wiping your arse that awful? Could I live with shitty pants just for a day? Hmmm...I'm going out tonight. People always point out shit when they smell it so best not. No, I'm going to have to wipe my arse. COULD THIS DAY GET ANY WORSE? Yes, because once I've taken the new toilet roll out of it's packet then I'm going to have to somehow complete the dreary, drawn out, exhausting task of taking the empty tube off the toilet roll holder and, if there is any strength left in my spent frame, then I'll have to attempt the tiring chore of putting the new toilet roll on there. This two second slight movement suddenly becomes the most time cosuming, physically challenging project known to man. And that's why we do anything else to avoid it. Why climb Everest? Because it's there. Far away from a toilet roll holder.

When Matthew Webb swam from Dover to France in 1885, he accidentally became the first person to successfully swim the English Channel. He had no idea what he was doing. He was simply turning his back on the most tedious bit of housework possible and somehow that got confused with a sporting event. Emily Davison threw herself in front of the king's horse at the Derby in 1913 because she was "sick of being the only bloody one in this fucking house who puts the bloody bog roll on". The Wright Brothers were so distraught at the very idea of putting the new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder that they told people they were going to figure out how to fly. Of course, no one else wanted to do it so everyone they knew said "Alright, we'll come and watch" and that's how the aeroplane was invented. The toilet roll holder in the White House is so famously fidgety that Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy paid assassins to kill them rather than face that most upsetting of physical and mental trials. Reagan did the same but he fucked up everything, didn't he? Couldn't even get out of not putting new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder properly. What a stupid President. 

All that cheering and support given to any of humanity's achievements is simply the rest of us being happy that at least one of us got out of putting new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder. Every great scientist, every astronaut, every hero...they're all simply lazy people who can't face that awful moment right after an otherwise delightful poo. A job so utterly tedious that people without arms or legs or with serious physical disabilities actually went through the rigors of the paralympics rather than the tear-inducing torture of putting the new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder. And I know just how those gold medal winners feel.

I put the new toilet roll on the toilet roll holder and afterwards I stood back and just looked at it. I did that. It's not a job for everyone but it's a task I took on and I succeeded. Oh, I didn't like it. It was gruelling. But look at it. The new toilet roll is on the toilet roll holder. It's the biggest, most physically draining task known to man and I have done it. I actually did something that day. I took the Andrex puppy by the horns and I conquered it. You can too. I know, the thought of it is making you cry, but you CAN do it. And when you do, that's it. For at least 20 poos. You'll never have to do it ever, ever again. For a while. It feels so good to actually have a day where I achieved something good. I pulled up my trousers and walked out of the bathroom, taller.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

What Lies Beneath?

Everyone has secrets. Everyone. Every single person you have ever met has that one horrible, shocking thing that would kill them if you knew about it. Something they did in their youth, something they did half an hour ago. Something dirty and perverse. Something that, if you found out about it, would make you gouge out your eyes and then throw up on them. Everyone has secrets. And here are mine: I sometimes sing what I'm doing when I'm alone, I often speak to my dog in a series of "racist" voices, I like the band Eternal, when I sit on the toilet I often play air drums, I really like Shakespeare In Love, I sometimes exercise, Mandy Patinkin singing Sonny Boy makes me weep and I wear thermal underwear.

Can I justify any of those things to you? It'll be tricky, except for toilet air drums because that is so cool. Imagine it now. Me on the toilet playing invisible drums. Just imagine it. Imagine it now. Think of me doing that. There. Pretty cool, huh? I'm not sure I'd know where to begin to justify my secrets. Except one. Thermal underwear. Can't understand them? Try them. Your whole life will change.

Thermal underwear is for old people. That's what I thought. I was 24 and staying overnight at a friend's house. Her house was freezing cold and she was too poor to put the heating on. I'd have to sleep in my clothes. I don't like that. It's smelly. Then she offered me a pair of men's thermal underwear. Long johns and a tight top. I laughed. I'm not wearing that. I'm not a 1860's prospector. I'm 24 and hip and cool and into Marillion. Why would I want thermal underwear? Why would I ever wear thermal underwear? Why does she have a pair of men's thermal underwear? Actually, I never asked that last question because it's only just dawned on me. Why DID she have a pair of men's thermal underwear? Anyway, look, it doesn't matter. The fact is, she had a pair of men's thermal underwear and I reluctantly agreed to put them on. Well, why not. It'll be a laugh. I'll look stupid and we can both point and laugh at how stupid I looked. Maybe I'll pretend to be a 1860's prospector and go around her house looking for gold and cackling. Fuck it, it doesn't matter how daft I look, I'm putting these stupid things on.

I was quiet for a long time after that. Clothes don't normally mother me. Clothes just tolerate me, hanging on my body and looking embarrassed. I put on those thermals and it felt like they missed me. "There you are!", they said and they hugged me...no, they held me. They held me all night. I was finally safe and warm. No adult feels safe and warm. Not until they have a moment like this. Cosy and protected. Loved and guarded. These aren't clothes. They're sanctuary. 

Waking up the next morning and taking off the thermals was awful. All those memories flooding back. "No. Not yet. It's too soon. I'm not ready. Please, Mum. The womb is so much better than what's outside. Don't let me go!!!".

But that was it. I had to get back. I didn't go home when I left, I went shopping. Thermal shopping. I bought three pairs. WHAT IF I WORE THEM ALL AT ONCE? No. No. They're all individuals. I have to respect that. God, this is exciting. I have something new that is brilliant and cosy and it loves me as much as I love it. Even better, they go under my clothes. No one will ever know how happy I am.

That's been it ever since. I don't wait until the weather goes cold. Just crisp is enough for me. Then the thermals go on. Under my clothes and out in public. Wherever I go, I'm getting attention. Maybe not from people but from something more important than people. It's always nice when someone asks how I am. "Fine", I lie. I'm not fine. I'm delirious with joy because, although I might look like I'm just standing there, I am being cradled. What an incredible secret to have. I know he lives in a fortress of solitude but I don't think that's the only reason Clark Kent wears his flashy blue thermals under his suit. He knows how brilliant it makes you feel. Sure, on the outside Clark and I are awkward and pathetic looking. But rip open our shirts and we are heroes.

That's why they all wear thermals. It gives you a secret confidence. Clark Kent, Peter Parker, Bruce Banner all have something underneath that gives them that boost when they need it. Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne and cocky industrialist Tony Stark need to put more clothes on on top of their clothes if they want to get anything done. Two years ago I did a gig in Southend on a freezing cold night. Think I care about freezing cold nights? I look forward to them. I actively seek them out. My secret thermal two-piece is on underneath my ordinary, boring clothes and I march confidently from the gig to the train station to get back to London. That's when a youth tries to mug me. He has something in his pocket, or he's pretending to have something in his pocket, that might pierce my skin. He tells me to give him my wallet. There is no one around. So I walk briskly to the opposite platform where there's a train going even further away from London. He walks beside me constantly saying he's going to cut me if I don't give him my wallet. I get on the train and he still follows me. "I don't give a fuck if you're on the train. Give me the wallet now" he says. I think he's bluffing. I think there's nothing in his pocket, I think he DOES care that I'm on a train and I think he's a crap mugger. The train doors warn us that they're about to close. Nowhere to go. For either of us. The doors's beeping seems to get more frantic but I can't do anything yet. Just wait. His face is right up close to mine and the doors are screaming WE REALLY ARE GOING TO CLOSE RIGHT NOW! Just one more second and...I push him hard, he falls to the floor and I calmly walk off the train. Letting the doors close behind me. I see him getting up and try to open the doors. Too late. They're locked and the train is departing. He's shouting at me and giving me the V's and I smugly smile and wave. The slow, brass section-only introduction to the Superman: The Movie theme begins in my head.

Is that enough? Convinced now? Thermal underwear is nothing to be laughed at when we all should know that it's THAT good. Wear thermal underwear: Stay warm, fight crime.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Hangoverwatch.

5.23am.

I wake up for the first time today. My bladder is full and noisy but my body is numb and I'm surrounded by too much gravity. My mouth feels like it's been open since June. My hair is in agony. I've started to realise that I'm not dreaming about needing to have a piss and, in fact, I really am needing to have a piss. Why do we put on so much weight when we sleep? I'm not this heavy out of bed. The mind rules the body and I am a strong man with convictions and piss will not tell me what to do. Piss is a bully. Ignore bullies and they go away. Mind you, bullies also piss in your bed. You know what? I actually think that I could sleep in a piss soaked bed. Right at this moment, lying in piss doesn't sound so bad. It's certainly a lot better than reanimating my corpse and puppeteering it downstairs to the bathroom. I don't know how bakers and postmen and newsagents do it. They're all out there now starting their working day. I'm a lucky man. I bet they'd love to lie in my piss instead of having to work. Ha ha! Yes, Michael, you're brilliant. Not being a baker or a postman or a newsagent was the best idea you've ever had. So what if just this once you end up lying in your own piss? They metaphorically have to wade through piss every day. The piss in my bladder has solidified and expanded. Like my bladder just downed 5 pints. Nice try, bladder, but it's my move now and I refuse to move.

5.55am.

The bathroom is freezing and annoying. The light switch string thing keeps hitting me while it's swinging plus my piss is refusing to go quietly. It sounds like white noise played through Metallica's PA system. Piss isn't supposed to have feedback. Someone has built another 50 stairs onto my staircase.

6.30am

I wake up for the second time because my heart is having a party. I don't mind it enjoying itself as long as it does it quietly. I remembered something I said last night. I say "twat".

7.50am

I wake up for what will hopefully be the last time today. I feel like I'm coming out of an anaesthetic. I put the radio on and realise that all music is basically nagging. Songs are just so fucking demanding and bastardy. I want you to love me and I want you to take me to heaven and I want you to always be there and I want you to imagine a perfect world and I want you to hold me and I want you to hit me baby one more time. OH, FUCK OFF AND DO IT YOURSELF. Can't I have 5 fucking minutes peace without a song barking orders at me? There are no "Would You Like Me To Make You Tea and Toast and Then Leave You Alone?" songs. Why has that genre been skipped? You know what? I rarely need to hear that last night you had a dream that somebody was fucking thick and desperate enough to love you but right now I really need YOU to make me toast and to go away for years. The radio is either further away or my arm has got shorter or I can't move anymore. I used to be able to move a bit, I'm sure of it, although I have no memory of moving in excess. It's the duvet. It's cocooned me. It's trapped me, the scheming blanket bastard. My mouth is dry and I'm sweaty and I'm too hot and I might be sick but there is nothing I can do about it because my duvet has imprisoned me. Like so many people held captive against their will, I have developed Stockholm syndrome. I have fallen in love with the very thing that has confined me with his two henchmen, Green Blanket and Red Blanket. They have left me with no food or water and the heat, the sweltering heat, is starting to suffocate me and yet I still do not want to escape. I probably should though as I am about to make a lot of sick.

8.30am

I've spent 10 minutes painfully miming being sick into the toilet. Nothing came out except repressed memories. I wipe the tears from my eyes and lift myself to my feet like a newborn baby deer. A fat, shaking, smelly, ghost white, sweaty newborn baby deer.

9.30am

I've been lying in bed for almost an hour just thinking about places I've been sick in. It used to be so easy to be sick when I was young. I think it was even fun back then. Part of the evening. Meet your friends, have a few drinks, throw up, kiss a girl. That was all I wanted then. Everything really was so much better back then including being sick. Being sick was celebratory. How did we let being sick become awful? I've been sick in nightclubs, pubs, cafes, museums, concert halls, cinemas, bins, my friend's hand, schools and swimming pools and every single time it was an event that marked a beautiful time of my life. A time when I was young, I had fun, I was sick and I got on with it. Now look at me. I can't even bring myself to be sick in the comfort of my own home. If you're young and reading this please remember this advice from a much, much, much older person: enjoy every chunk. Soon it goes. I've been about to be sick thousands of times in my 40's but I don't think I've actually throw up since 1998. It's shameful. I pick up my book of sudokus and spend over an hour lying in bed doing and thinking nothing whatsoever but with a book of sudokus quite near my face. I decide to get up out of bed and start my day.

11.45am

I've been lying on the floor for ages now. Negotiations with clothes went badly. I wanted to treat my trousers to a brisk walk around the park but as soon as I tried to get in them they tackled me to the ground. I realise now that I will starve to death on this floor. Then I remember that cafes do food. I don't need to break my back labouring over toast. Someone can do it for me. My trousers and I argue further but eventually come to an understanding after an hour or so. Finally, they're on. My underpants arrive and apologise for being late.

1.00pm

I'm out of the house. It's awful. The cold is picking on me. Because I'm hungover and old, one of my feet is colder than the other. I have no idea why this happens when I'm hungover but it always happens. I get to a nearby cafe and decide to get myself some fuel. I need something greasy. The guy that works there looks like an expert on grease. I order loads of food. I may not be able to eat for a while so I need to stock up. Toast, mushrooms, hash browns, beans, tomatoes, veggie burger, chips, tea, diet coke and a Lucozadey drink. That should help. I'll be fine after that. I sit down and await my feast. The very thought of it is making me feel better already. Sadly, sitting down is making me dizzy. That's how my body works. Even doing fuck all makes me nauseous. A man near me is singing. It's good that he's making the song up and has decided to show his work in progress to us. "Da da da da dada da, for the way da dada da, near da da dada dada and you da da da da dada da dada da da Chiswick". I'm near the door and near the radiator. I'm sweating to death and freezing to death. My food arrives and immediately turns itself into poison. I can't eat it. My breakast is diet coke and looking at food.

2.00pm

I'm home and lying down. If I just put a film on then I can just lie here and die and be happy. I put on Schindler's List. It's on for 7 minutes when I realise that no one in their right mind finds comfort in Schindler's List. Who the fuck watches Schindler's List while hungover? Michael Legge does. I mean, I do. I'm at that stage of the hangover where I'm convinced something this awful can't be happening to me. I must be someone else. I sigh loudly but it squeaks. I feel tired and emasculated all at once. Schindler's List isn't right. I should be watching Cool Runnings or Liar Liar. Something fun that doesn't matter. Schindler's List is too depressing. I take it off and put on Tyrannosaur. In the first 30 seconds a dog is kicked to death. It's rare that so soon into a film that I see a character I can identify with so fully.

2.50pm

I have fallen in love with Olivia Coleman or whatever she's called. She's so sweet and lovely. I think I'd like to go out with a religious person. They mean well, don't they? I look up the name of the actor who plays her husband on IMDb because I want to kick his fucking head in. I know he's just an actor but I make note of his name just in case he's method. If I ever meet Olivia Coleman or whatever her name is, I shall tell her I've done this. Defending a woman's honour always impresses them. I burp and smell very old dinners. I go out for tea.

4.20pm

A tool is sat near me in the coffee shop. I'm wrecked and the last thing I need right now is a tool. He's the most awful looking cunt that you've ever clapped eyes on. He's in a coffee shop, his beard is crap, he's wearing an Inca hat indoors. Everything about him is contemptible. To make things worse, he has TWO laptops. What a fucking boring cliche he is. I don't want a single, solitary nice thing to ever happen to him and my head hurts. I overhear him say "Of course you travel, you must. How else do you know who you are?" I find that statement worse than genocide. Fuck off, twat hat. You were born, you're a dick. You went nowhere, you're a dick. You went to India once, you're a dick. No matter what that guy would ever do ever, he'd be a dick. Hating him is helping. I'm actually feeling better. When he speaks, the blood in my veins circulates at speed and I can feel myself coming to life. Is that how I work? Dicks open their mouths and I feel energised by loathing them? Wow. I'm really unpleasant. But I am feeling better.

6.20pm

My journey home feels bracing. The cold air feels pleasant now. It's making me walk briskly with my back straight and my head up. I see a teenager get thrown out of a chip shop and think "My GOD!! I'd love some chips". After food I feel better. Properly better. Why do I do it to myself? Drinking too much when I know the next day will be wasted? So stupid. But I got angry and felt better. Had some tea, felt even better. A teenager being shouted at and some chips made me feel great. I threw my day away but at least I know that. At least I realised it was a waste and to do something like that again would be stupid. I like having a full day. Getting up, walking the dog, doing work. I like that. Tonight I'm staying in. I'm drinking water and looking after myself. A night in and a full day tomorrow.

8.00pm

Just realised the Comedy Awards are on tonight. I can't watch that sober.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Your Tworoscope.

Hello. My name is Michael Legge and I am an astrologer. I see your future. I have a regular column in This'll Do magazine and I famously once nearly read Princess Diana's palm almost. Now read on for Your Tworoscope....

ARIES: Your money worries will soon be over but things get worse before they get better. A family member punches poison into you on Friday.

TAURUS: A horse or maybe a man will carry you semi-safely to Rhyl. Don't forget to be wankered at noon.

GEMINI: Job prospects look good this week. An old flame returns and burns down your children.

CANCER: You have aids.

LEO: It's a good time to get some shopping in and to plot revenge. Why not stock up the larder and smash that dicks face in?

VIRGO: What's wrong with your eye?

LIBRA: A work colleague shows interest in you and murder. As a water sign, you spend most of tomorrow telling a kettle to fuck off.

SCORPIO: You're still grieving over your own death. It's time to pick yourself up and start haunting. A blonde ghost makes Thursday fun.

SAGITTARIUS AND CAPRICORN: No one has ever liked you.

AQUARIUS: A rash decision has brought on a rash. A chance meeting with a beautiful stranger brings huge fights. Soup's off.

PISCES: Your wife, children and house leave you for another man. Luckily, it's you! Be wary of Tuesday. Tuesday is a big lion.

And that is YOUR future, believers. I predict that I may or may not return soon....IN THE FUTURE! #YourTworoscope

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though. 

Warped.

Music is the soundtrack to memories. It's also the soundtrack to Batman Begins but my point is that we all have a song that reminds us of that special time in our lives. A song for the time we went to that special place, a song for the time we fell in love, a song for the time we hated that one awful dick. There's nothing that we do in life that isn't enhanced by music. In fact, that's really all we have in life. Food, water, air and music. That's the big four that keeps us from perishing. It's my favourite part of my day. Putting on a record, washing some grub down with a nice glass of water and having a big old breathe. And those other three just wouldn't be the same without a good song to back it up. Everything is better with music. Shame it's going to go.

You know it's going, right? It is. No one buys music anymore so what's the point in making it anymore? I know not everyone can afford to buy music but there are plenty of people who can and they don't. What an odd thing to choose not to buy. It's the best thing we have and, because it's so easy to steal, everyone nicks it. There was a time when all we needed was music and chips. Why have we decided now that all we need is chips? Chips was never the nourishing part of that combo. It was never the good bit of it. Chips was never food. The only reason we do anything is because we have The Smiths and Beastie Boys and David Bowie and Nick Cave and Bjork and Steven Sondheim and The Undertones and PJ Harvey and John Barry and the first three albums by Marillion. Shut up, they're great. Why are we now rejecting the only decent thing we've got? 

I remember 1985. It was very exciting. Iron Maiden released Live After Death and I went to Zepplin Records in Newtownards to buy it. On my way home I sat on a bench to just look at the cover. It was beautiful. A double album in a gatefold sleeve featuring a reanimated corpse on the front and a bunch of grown, hairy men in spandex on the inside. I fell madly, deeply in love with it. And that was before I even heard the record itself. It was just so exciting to have bought some new music that I couldn't walk all the way home without sitting down and catching my breath. That is how music should make us feel. Utterly excited. It's how it made me feel in 1985 and it's how it makes me feel now. It makes you feel that way too. So why are we letting it die?

We all steal a bit of music. I've done it. I've illegally downloaded a lot of Queen albums but I bought the originals years ago and it's Queen. They are loaded. One of them is so rich that he's dead. Imagine being able to afford to retire that early. From everything. I think a lot of us justify stealing music by paying money to go to gigs. That's crap though, isn't it? No live concert can match the experience of hearing your favourite artist the way you want to hear them. In your house, away from dickheads. I love going to gigs but, let's face it, the same cunts that never buy records ever are the same cunts that spend the entire gig standing in front of you, holding their phone up and taking photos. That's the "live experience" for these dicks now. No respect for music being sold in shops and online and no respect for the band right in front of them. I know this because I've seen it way too often. Last night, for instance. I sat behind four 50-something music haters at a Robyn Hitchcock gig and they took photos on phones and digital cameras constantly throughout the gig. They knew they were annoying people but they're cunts so it was never going to have any effect on them. It goes without saying that I ended up agreeing to go outside for a fight with one of them after the gig. It was pathetic. Two old men agreeing to fight at the end of a Robyn Hitchcock gig. Like either of us had the strength to make a fist. But, Christ, they were irritating. Holding up camera phones at a One Direction gig? Fine. At a Robyn Hitchcock gig at the English Folk Dance and Song Society? That's embarrassing.

Buy some music today if you can. It's brilliant and there's loads of it but there won't be any more unless we support it. I know all old music is way better than anything that is in the hit parade these-a-days but I've heard some great albums this year. Martin Rossiter's new album and Human Don't Be Angry by Human Don't Be Angry are my favourites of the year. Dexys, Bob Lind, Mac Demarco and Bat For Lashes aren't far behind them. Buying a song on iTunes costs less than buying two bags of crisps. If you've bought two bags of crisps and no music this week then you just have to face facts. You are a dick. The Guardian costs £1.20 and it's fucking awful. Everyone knows that. If you've bought The Guardian this week and not bought Every Day When I Come Home I Expect To Find You Gone by Jim Bob for 79p then you just have to face facts. You are a dick. If you've bought a Rolex watch for £18,000 this week and not bought 3ft High and Rising then you need to fucking open your crap eyes and face facts. You're the biggest dick in the world. Who gives a shit what time it is if you don't have 3ft High and Rising?

Buy music today. When you go to gigs, keep your phone in your pocket. You might enjoy yourself. 

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast atwww.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though.