Thursday, 31 January 2013

Your Tworoscope 3.

Hello. What has the week in store for you? Well, I have looked into the future and I bring you YOUR TWOROSCOPE....

ARIES: A neighbour brings some news about the fucking noise you make and the state of your bins. Perhaps romance?

TAURUS: That internal bleeding you've had will soon result in a sort of party where everyone cries. But what's in the big wooden present?

GEMINI: You're a dairy sign aligned with the planet Hoth. Love comes in the shape of a hammer and your lucky word is "Argh".

CANCER: You don't have time to go to Disneyland.

LEO: A successful business prostitute offers you a deal. Tiny groin pets means moving out and never seeing the kids again.

VIRGO: Not even a pity fuck, love.

LIBRA: There isn't a single fluid your body can make that you won't see today. In a bowl.

SCORPIO: Your best friend is racist, you're in serious debt and you haven't had it in months. Apparently Utopia is very good.


AQUARIUS: A new job prospect opens but you have to think of the family. Why are they hiring someone like you as a stripper?

PISCES: So what if you've just been dumped? Theres plenty more fish in the sea. On Monday, you're arrested for entering a salmon.

And that is Your Tworoscope for this week. Perhaps I will see you again?...IN THE FUTURE!

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 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. 

Wednesday, 30 January 2013

Just Go.

(Nearly) The top of Scrabo Hill.

I was looking forward to returning to London. The cheeky street urchins, the streets paved with gold, the big kittens pushing over Telecom Tower. I've missed them all. But Northern Ireland really is a brilliant place to visit and, if I could, I would hold you at gunpoint and scream at you to visit just to show it's not all anger and violence. Here are my very favourite things about it:

Visit Newtownards. A while ago I actually made a list of all the places that I've been sick in Newtownards and I'm thinking of selling it as a tour. It would be a lovely chance for tourists to visit cafes, bars, canals and grit bins. But walking up Scrabo Hill is my favourite thing to do in the town (also, I've been sick there). It overlooks the town and right at the top is a spiky, gothic looking tower that dates back to 1857. It's an amazing looking building that has lost only a bit of it's appeal since I found out that my house is 5 years older than it. Castles shouldn't be younger than your house. Really makes me feel old. 

I walked up Scrabo on my own one day and about a 5th of the way up I thought I was going to explode from exhaustion. I'm not that fit, I'll be honest. In fact, I was about to give up when I saw a slightly hidden path that I completely forgot existed. Of course, I'd forgotten it. I haven't properly walked up Scrabo since I was about 13. This wasn't just an ordinary was a TIME TUNNEL. As soon as I started walking up it the memories came galloping back. I used to walk up these tiny, hidden paths all the time. How could I have forgotten these places I'd spent so much time in? It was completely amazing. I recognised trees that I've climbed, hills I used to roly-poly down...I'm telling you, I actually recognised some of the puddles there. I haven't seen these puddles in 30 years but I'd know them anywhere. There are people I haven't seen in decades that I feel sick about seeing again and yet, here I was, greeting these long lost puddles with open arms. I regret that a bit now but it was still utterly mind blowing to see them. I even saw our old hut. Me and my little friends used to play in that hut all the time. I say hut, it was a hole. But we loved it. Me and my friends, our little gang together. Just standing there, basically in a grave. Good times. I was sick in that once.

Hey, just get to the top of Scrabo. The view is utterly incredible.  

Go to Lidl with my Dad. Admittedly, this might take some organising but you should definitely do it. I didn't want to at first but I'm glad I made the effort. My Dad is slightly obsessed with Lidl and wants to walk there every day. He asked me to join him EVERY DAY. Eventually I gave in and reluctantly went to Lidl with my Dad. I begrudged the whole journey to the shop but Dad made it all better by saying "I have to get a hammer and some grapes". YAY! Dad's making Angry Wine. The trip was only made better by Dad then saying "Oh, before I go. I better just get a bag of German bird balls". GO TO LIDL WITH MY DAD.

Go to Belfast. It's the best. Go to The Black Box, The Spaniard, The Duke of York, Muriels...there's a lot of good bars there. And fuck the dicks who want to throw bricks at each other. They're very far away. 

Hang out with my brother. Again, might be tricky to organise. Not as tricky as my Dad though because my brother is one of those nice giys that talks to anyone. Ask Cat Deeley. On Friday, I vaguely remember him being angry at tuna fish because of all the money they have. Definitely hang out with him.

Go back to Newtownards. There's a bar there that I've only just discovered and I love it. Don't know why I never went there before. It's 300 years old and when you walk in you're suddenly hit with how quaint and lovely it is. Also, it's about 8ft squared. It's basically a shelf with booze on it. Luckily, the barman is always there with a friendly dirty look and a sighing "What do you want?" as soon as you walk in. Don't get me wrong, I think he's brilliant but I don't think he'd last long working the door at the Disney Shop. My friend Dotes introduced me to the wonder of this bar and the cheeriness of it's owner. Dotes, a fairly grumpy man himself, even tried to be nice to him. "How come your Guinness is the best in the world?", said Dotes. "I don't fucking know" was the reply. Brilliant. I asked him how many the bar holds and with a heavy sigh he said "We had 30 once". This bar is called The International. 

It's a great place but as soon as I landed in London I felt it was great to be back. Ah, England. So much more reserved and buttoned-down. A place of quiet respect. I got on a train and after 10 minutes I had to ask someone to turn their music down. She gave me the finger, I called her a cunt and a woman next to me said to her friend "That's the song Glen likes to shag to. He wrecked me to that once".

London. My hometown.

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 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. 

Tuesday, 29 January 2013

Michael Says No.

You know what there's not enough of in this crazy mixed up world of ours? Sexy robot housemaids. But that is just one of the many things in life that I've come to tolerate. I hate not having a sexy robot housemaid but I tolerate it. I think that's one of the few good things about human beings, we can tolerate things. Of course, not all of us choose to tolerate the things we don't agree with and that can often be a problem. I mean, you don't HAVE to approve of gay marriage but you do HAVE to not go red in the neck screaming your condemnation of people who do approve of it. Gay marriage clearly isn't your thing but, that's OK because no one will ever ask you to gay marry them. All you have to do is straight accept it. Maybe you could start by not calling it gay marriage? Marriage is between two people. It doesn't really have a sexual orientation. I prefer to call it Human Legal Binding Hour but then I'm a romantic. Of course, I don't know a single person who is against Human Legal Binding Hour for anyone because I pretty much live in the tolerant world. We tolerate everything. And that's why I hate the world I live in.

How come we tolerate intolerance? I mean why do we just let people do whatever they want? It's one thing that we never say anything when people are playing loud music on the train, when we definitely should, but how come we put up with so much shit and do nothing? Sorry to bring up Northern Ireland again (I wasn't going to. This blog was supposed to be about a very adorable pub I've just discovered but then I saw something about tolerance on Facebook that pissed me off so now I'm all cross) but while I was there that whole flag protests thing made less and less sense. Like I said in a previous blog, if you want a flag to fly then you have every right to want that. You might not get it though and that's just something you need to accept. So many nights, I watched the news seeing people throw bricks in the name of patriotism and seeing political leaders talking of the outrage of not being allowed to truly show their love for their country. All the while Ian Duncan Smith threatens to cut pensioners benefits and Jeremy Hunt wants to close down much needed hospitals. That's happening in YOUR COUNTRY. Why are you tolerating that? Can't the flag wait until you've looked after the people first? And how come the police are tolerating being hit with bricks? Whatever happened to putting the boot down and running the cunts over? Has our tolerance of intolerance got so bad now that we think people have every right to throw a brick at us because it's their belief and beliefs should always be accepted and...blah blah blah blah blah. Solve the problem. PUT YOUR BOOT DOWN.

Why has the NRA got any power in America whatsoever? Why is Obama urging the gun lobby to accept gun regulations? Guns are bad and they kill and we shouldn't have them. Who cares what a bunch of evil pricks think? Their opinion should be zero. Fuck what they think. I HATE BEING TOLERANT. It's getting us nowhere. And why am I in a mood about it? Well...

I've been thinking about our tolerance of intolerance for a while but last night I found myself awake at 2.30am and looking at Facebook. I saw a friend's status update. I had no real problem with the update although I did think the wording of it was wrong. It basically questioned why athiests don't "chill out" and then compared them to the BNP. I don't think this was a particularly serious post, of course, but it was another dig at atheism. You know, that belief system that holds so much sway in the world? Coming back from NI, I'm probably more sensitive than some about religion and that will be why I found pretty much every religious or religion-friendly person who responded to the original post an idiot. You cannot compare atheism to any religion. There is no atheist controlled government banning religion, no atheists taking money from the gullible and (as far as I know) no atheist wars.

Basically, there were several posts pointing at the intolerance of atheists. Now, there were NO examples given but I think even if there were those examples could never cast much of a shadow on the intolerance of religion. Thousands of years of intolerance and yet people on Facebook get upset over a student being loud while reading Dawkins. Well, fuck religion. Faith might be a wonderful thing but religion clearly isn't. With the exception of Quakers, I can't think of a single religion that hasn't got something horrible or barbaric about it. The amount of tolerance religion is given is ridiculous and the amount of power it still has is nothing but destructive. It should have none whatsoever. Religion is a personal thing not a global thing.

Why are we supporting the baddies? Why are we even listening to the baddies? They wouldn't tolerate us. Hey, man, I just think it would be so easy to make a change and make this world a beautiful place to live in: PUT YOUR BOOT DOWN. But not on Quakers. They seem nice.

To be honest, I'm in a right mood today. At least I'm not so grumpy that I finished this blog with a Manic Street Preachers song. That's how much I tolerate you.

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 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. 

Monday, 28 January 2013

The Northern Ireland Question.

I am Northern Irish, so I am. Totally. Through and through. I was born there and I was raised there. I sort of have a Northern Irish accent and I definitely have a Northern Irish family. I am Northern Irish. OK, I don't go around marching and I don't have a flag pole actually attached to my house. Yes, and I don't talk about the glory of the IRA or the UVF or the JLS because I don't think there's anything glorious about them. In fact, hardly anyone in Northern Ireland comes close to being the tedious sterotype on TV. Hardly anyone has a shit tattoo with a three coloured flag on it and hardly anyone goes around saying "Ulster is British". And for good reason. You'd look like an idiot if you went around saying that. You might as well say "Europe is French". Northern Irish people are generally cool people who prefer jazz albums, sunglasses, calling people "cats" and making sweet beat-poet love to one another. And THAT is how I always want you to think of Northern Irish people. Get that other shouty stereotype out of your head. Those guys are dicks. The rest of us are smooth cats, you dig?

More than being Northern Irish, I am an Ards man. I was born in Newtownards hospital (now a psychiatric hospital, obviously) and I know where Roma's, the duck pond, Cafolla's and loads of other places you've never heard of are. I may have lived in London longer than I did in Newtownards but it's Newtownards that's in my blood and in my very soul. I just don't relate to London the way I do to Newtownards. I'm not a geezer who cokes it up in Hoxton or the salt of the earth who would kill you for your iPhone in the Isle of Dogs. No. I'm a chunky jumper wearing, saying-hello-to-strangers-in-the-street, country and western music loving Ards man.

I mean, I think I'm an Ards man. I must be. Just because I've lived in London for nearly 24 years doesn't mean I've lost touch with my home. No way. I mean, yes, when I walked down my parents street on my first day back and a man I'd never met before said hello, I did scream like a particularly girly girl and immediately gave him my wallet. Even worse, later that day I saw someone I knew in the street and completely ignored them. Jesus Christ, have I really become so...English?

No. I'm not English. I'm an Ards man. I...I can't be English. My parents couldn't take it. If I sat them down and told them I was English my father would turn his back on me and my mother would cry and say "Now I'll never have grandchildren". It's ridiculous. I'm not English...I'm not a Londoner. I'm an Ards man. AN ARDS MAN.

A few days before I left Northern Ireland, I decided I'd go to Roma's. As I walked down the centre of Newtownards, my HOME, a man came up to me and asked a question that only a local Ards man like myself would know the answer to. This is it! Brilliant! A man needs Ards info and he's come to the right Ards man. A stupid Londoner would be of no help here. This is my chance to cheerily show my Ards soul off in the street.

"My car's broken down and I need to call a repair man. Could you tell me the name of this street, please?"

I was SO HAPPY! As a typical Ards man, this is the kind of thing we love. I imagine. Being helpful and knowledgeable is definitely something all us Ardsmen are famous for, probably. And the thing is, I knew the name of the street and all I had to do to prove how un-Londony I am is to answer his easy peasy question.

"Yes, of course", I replied confidently. "It's...."

Ah, shit. I fucking know this street so well. I mean, I walked up it EVERY FUCKING DAY for 20 years. Of course I know the name of this street. Why isn't it coming out of my mouth?

"I'm so sorry, mate. I'm born and raised here but I left 20-odd years ago and...I've forgotten".

"Not to worry", he said.

NO! (See, I am Northern Irish) I need him to understand that I'm from here and I'm an Ards man and the whole stupid London place has fucked with my lovely, local brain. "I've been in London for 23 years. I know this street so well. I can't believe I can't remember. I'm so sorry".

"London, is it?", he said. "Sure, no wonder you've forgotten here".

NO! (See?) This isn't fair. I might live in London but my heart is in Newtownards. That's who I am. Michael Legge: Ards man.

A couple passed us and the man asked his very easy, local question to them. "This is Regents Street".

FOR FUCK'S SAKE! It might as well have been called London Road or Buckingham Palace Avenue. How could I forget that it's Regents Street? I'm an Ards man who lives in London. I know Regents Street. BOTH OF THEM! How did that get lost in my stupid lost head?

"You sure you live in London?", the man asked. "No. Not really", I replied.

And that's that. With one very simple question, I'm basically homeless.

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 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. 

Thursday, 10 January 2013

Peace & Riot.

The Troubles in Northern Ireland began shortly after I was born. Then, not long after I left, the Good Friday Agreement was signed, the Provisional IRA ceased to exist and peace was finally declared in Northern Ireland. Since I've returned there has been rioting almost every night on the streets of Belfast. I can't help but begin to take it personally.

There are only two things that I genuinely hate about Northern Ireland. One is the overuse of the word "wee". Not every single thing in the entire world is wee. At Tesco, the woman at the till said "Would you like a wee bag? Do you have a wee reward card? You get money off your two wee bags of rice". Look, it's just not charming when it's constant. It makes my blood boil. I just wanted to scream at her "THIS BAG IS NOT WEE. IT'S THE SAME SIZE AS ALL THE OTHER BAGS HERE. MY REWARD CARD ISN'T WEE. IT'S THE SAME SIZE AS ALL THE OTHER REWARD CARDS. I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT'S WEE". and then I'd just stare at her while pissing my pants. "GO ON. WHAT'S THAT?", I would shout. "WHAT DO YOU CALL THAT? WHAT IS IT? NO. NOT PISS. IT'S WEE. GO ON. SAY WEE PROPERLY FOR ONCE IN YOUR FUCKING LIFE. WEE. WEE. WEE!" Then I'd smugly walk out of the shop and all the way home knowing that I'd shown her. The second thing I hate about Northern Ireland is patriotism.

Patriotism is never attractive and all countries suffer from patriotic idiots. England has arseholes that watch the flotilla and wave flags with a Korean mobile phone companies logo on the back and say things like "We do this better than anywhere else in the world" forgetting completely that nowhere else would do it because it's tedious. America's peak of patriotism is the phrase "Support Our Troops", a phrase that clearly means all American soldiers except the ones who lost the Vietnam war. In Northern Ireland there are a select group of patriots who show the extent of their national pride by throwing bricks and shouting "cunt" at police.

And it is a select group. Not that many at all. But it's just enough to scare people from going to Belfast and to put fear into the exact same communities they claim to represent. The Union flag is now only being flown on select days at Belfast City Hall. It used to be permanent. This move has angered many Loyalists who show their anger by saying things like "I wish that wasn't the case" or updating their Facebook status to a sad face emoticon. You have every right to want a flag to fly if that's really what you want. What you have no right to do is lose your shit and start hurting people. Sadly, this small group of clearly insane bastards think that this is the only way to show their loyalty to a flag. But don't worry, everyone, because I have come up with a solution.

Let the Union flag fly permanently at City Hall.

It's just a flag. Who gives a shit about it? It can't hurt you in anyway and that flag is flapping around this country so much anyway, would anyone notice another one? I've just got more important things to think about than a flag. I have some sort of life to lead. If a flag is a problem then just let it flap around. I can understand that some people might be offended by a Union flag permanently flying at City Hall but I have a solution for them too: don't worry about it. It's just a flag. A load of cry-babies can't live without their safety flag so just give to them and shut them up. There's no way AT ALL it will make a single iota of a difference to my life. Flag away.

I'm not one to give in to the demands of anyone who uses violence, of course. All I know is that no one gave a fuck about that flag flying majestically and proudly above City Hall until they found out it was being removed. So put it back. Then we'll see if this was all about national pride or, as most suspect, idiots who just want to destroy. Either way, it's bad really. If anyone says that they "love" a flag then they really need to take a long hard look at themselves. A flag isn't a person. It's a cold, meaningless tag, just like any other logo. Why would anyone want to be British or Irish over being themselves? You didn't choose where you were born so why the automatic pride in it? And if you are stupid enough to think that displaying a flag shows your devotion and pride in your country over actually doing something to contribute to your country then you're pretty much the reason why the country's shit. It's just a flag. No matter how high you wave it your country owes you nothing and your elected representatives will always hate you. And that's the worst part of it. Always violent idiots showing their pride in their country and never once considering that their country is ashamed of them. Poor people getting wrapped up in their support of the rich.

I look forward to being pointed out how wrong I am. I may well be.

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 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. 

Wednesday, 9 January 2013


So I popped in to visit God the other day. I very rarely visit him but because I'm currently testing my parents to see whether or not they're still good at being parents I thought it was important that Mum and Dad made me go to Mass. Of course, I would try to sneak out as soon as I got there and if I successfully got out of Mass without them catching me then they'd lose all important Parent Points. So far, thanks to Mum cutting my hair, they were up 100 points although considering I went off to Cafolla's Cafe for chips ON MY OWN WITHOUT TELLING THEM they should have lost a few but I'm a lovely son and forgave their negligence. This time. Next time they mess up I will deduct 100 points and call Childline. 

This would be the least fun of any of the parental tests. Mass is utterly tedious. An hour that feels like a month in a massive, freezing cold stone room where grey people come together to see who can cough the loudest. Still, I wouldn't be there long. I'd wait for Mass to start and then I'd tell my parents that I was going to the toilet and I'd be free! The fools! I went round to my parents' house to walk with them to Mass and just before we left my Dad said "Have you been to the toilet? Well, go now because I know what you're like. As soon as we get there you'll say you need the loo and we won't see you again".


That was my only plan. Fuck. Think, Michael, THINK. You can't actually GO to Mass. It'll be awful. I could say I feel sick but they'd know it was a lie. Unless I throw up right now. I felt like throwing up. I never, ever liked going to Mass. I think I preferred going to school. Except when I had to go to school Mass, of course. That was like eating a turd that was also on fire. Right...look, this might not be that bad. Maybe there will be a power-cut and they'll have to cancel Mass. That's STUPID, Michael. They thrive on the ancient power of candles. They'd fucking love a power-cut. Maybe the priest will die. Priests are always just about to die so maybe I'll just have timed this right. He'll have passed away this afternoon while visiting a hospital to draw on the faces of all the Protestant coma patients. That'll never work. All my childhood I only ever saw dying priests. None of them actually died. They're still around with one foot in the grave and one stamping on my heathen soul. THIS ISN'T FAIR. When I agreed to go to Mass I made it very clear in my head that there is no way that I'm actually going. And we're going on a Saturday night? Does that even count? Is Saturday part of the Catholic Church's programming schedule now? God and Jesus's Saturday Takeway? The Cross Factor? Strictly Come To Procreate Within Wedlock?


I'm going to have to go to Mass. During the walk there my Mum told me about a man who got shot dead while he was on his way to Mass. "It was very sad", said Mum. WAS IT?, I screamed inside my head. When we entered the church I took my usual (well, usual when I was about 14) position right at the back. That meant that when my parents took their seats I could nip off and be back in time for the end. They'd never know I'd gone. My Dad grabbed my arm tightly and basically dragged me to the front seats.

I knew that wouldn't work.

Yes, my parents like to sit at the front. It meant they they could see the Mass better. Fair enough, really. Mass time isn't really about me, it's my parents' thing. I'm here now so I might as well try to enjoy it. If they want to sit at the front then good for them. We'll see the whole show right there in front of us. Dad led (dragged) me to a pew in the second row. Right behind a stone pillar that must be 12 feet thick. Brilliant. This is just excellent, I thought, because I rarely get to see 12 foot thick stone pillars this closely. Let's face it, it's got to be better than watching Mass.

But really, what is the worst thing you can say about Mass? Not religion, that debate wouldn't last long. Once you say "THEY FUCK KIDS" to any subject the matter wraps up pretty quickly. What's the worst thing about Mass? It's boring. That's it. You can't say that a load of people coming together to form some sense of community is a bad thing and the sermon's topic was on the subject of being happy. Can't really argue with any of that. Yes, the beliefs are completely daft but so what? Within this context, everything was at worst harmless and at best warmly communal. I even got into the spirit of things, sort of. My Dad gave me an envelope of money to put into the collection plate and I ACTUALLY PUT IT IN. This is the second time that my Dad has trusted me with the collection plate money envelope. The first time was when I was about 5. The man came round with the plate and Dad said "Go on, Son. Put the envelope in the plate". I just stared at the man and slowly shook my head while putting the envelope in my pocket. Clearly I've learned how to be less greedy. That's 100 Parental Points to Dad.

Look, I'm not going to go to Mass again, it's just...I didn't think it was that bad. There were a lot more Goths there than I was expecting and it always surprises and terrifies me how much of the Catholic Mass is tattooed onto my brain. Prayers and Responses are basically DNA. I'm sure when I'm very old that I'll forget my own name before I forget "It is right to give him thanks and praise". Plus it was really funny hearing the EXTREMELY confident and loud man behind me constantly saying the wrong things. Pfft. You can always tell the dickheads who haven't spend their entire childhood having the fear of God battered into them by the Catholic education system. Idiots. Then I met the priest afterwards. My Mum loves him. "He stays around after Mass and says hello to everyone. Sometimes for 15 minutes!". Well, Mum, he's no Jimmy Carr.

So, it wasn't that bad visiting God's house. Bit sad that he was in on a Saturday night. Dad knew my toilet trick, trusted me with the money envelope and my parents got me to Mass without me leaving. That's 300 Parent Points (I've decided). But how well will they do in the next test? I'm going to steal something from Page One, the newsagents in Newtownards, just like I did when I was "wee". This could be my last blog as I might be going to jail. Unless my parents can stop me.

ps. I forgot the best thing about going to Mass. It's this: My Grandfather, Owen Dorrian, graffitied one of the pews in 1925. Someone called O. Flynn paid tribute to that early piece of Banksy-style vandalism in 2012. 

O. Dorrian 1925

O. Flynn 2012 (vague, but it's there)

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 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. 

Saturday, 5 January 2013



I hate getting my hair cut. Mainly the paying for it. It's not my fault I have hair, although my dream of being bald is perhaps coming sooner than I would have liked. Normally you have to go to a barber's shop, talk to him about some tedious shit, get thrown up on and then pay money for the privilege. But that's the good thing about visiting your family, you can just go back to being a child and they'll all willingly accept it. And that includes Mum giving me a haircut.

I need a haircut and, as you may have read in my last blog, I have an incredible need to test my parents just to see if they can still actually parent. Mum used to cut my hair all the time, mainly because I cried a lot at the barber's. It's been about 34 years since she last cut my hair. Has she still got it? Well, I for one was dying to see. 

To be honest, I was hoping for a bit more joy from my mum when I asked her to cut my hair. She looked at me with a face full of worry. I thought it would be a fun test of her mothering skills but her face suggested that what I'd asked was horrible, creepy even. What's creepy about a 44 year old man demanding that his parents treat him like he's 7 again? Fuck sake, I didn't ask to be born. If they'd just reined their lust in for 5 seconds then they wouldn't have to cut this 44 year old man's hair because he wouldn't have hair or a body or anything. But no. My Mum and Dad just had to bang constantly, too busy thinking about their own groinal desires to spare a thought that maybe in 45 years time they'd have to cut a man's hair or not. Well, my Mum and Dad's erotic lifestyle has led them to this whether they like it or not. Remember that. Next time you don't want to cut a 44 year old man's hair, wear a condom. Stupid Catholics.

This is a test of my mother's parenting skills and it started badly. First of all, I shouldn't have asked her for a haircut. She should have just taken one look at my hair and told me that I wasn't allowed out until she'd cut it. So, already my Mum is on -100 Parent Points. Then when she finally accepted that she'd have to cut my hair she said "What style do you want me to cut it to?". WHAT? What the hell has that got to do with me? It's a Mum haircut. Mum's cut hair how THEY want it, not how YOU want it. I was starting to think that I may as well just cut my own hair myself because clearly this former good mother had lost her touch. She's now on -200 Parent Points.  

But at least she accepted the challenge so there was no backing out now. I sat on a chair in the kitchen, just like I did many years ago, and Mum put a towel round my shoulders and got to work.

She was nervous. I heard the scissors and the electric clippers busying away at the back of my head but I felt nothing. "You might have to get a bit closer to my actual head", I advised and Mum explained that she didn't want to mess my hair up. Well, no chance of that happening if she's standing 10 feet away from me. You know what though? I didn't care how bad the haircut was going to be. If it was the worst haircut ever I'd still be chuffed with it. If anyone said "What the hell happened to you?" I'd simply say that my Mummy happened to me. I was actually enjoying the thought of walking around with the worst haircut on Earth and bragging about it.

Some hair fell to the ground. This is it! The haircut is happening. The back got the clippers very briefly, the sides got trimmed a tiny bit and the top never got touched at all. Then it was over.

That can't be it! Mum barely touched my hair at all. I looked in the mirror and it looked EXACTLY THE SAME. It did feel better though. Definitely shorter at the back but not noticeably. You'd only really notice if you were me or one of my hats. It felt like I'd had a haircut. I liked the feeling a lot but if you couldn't tell the difference then what was the point. Mum had failed.

Then it dawned on me. The reason I hated getting a haircut when I was a child was because of the fear of going to school on Monday and having vicious and nasty haircut abuse hurled at me such as "HAIRCUU-UUT! HAIRCUU-UUT!". And that was just the pupils! The teachers rarely said anything about my hair. It would be detrimental to their jobs if they did, I think. But Mum had solved that problem. I'd got a haircut that felt great but NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW. I went to the bar with my brother last night and NOT ONE person shouted "HAIRCUU-UUT! HAIRCUU-UUT!". What a cunning genius my Mum is. I'm giving her 300 Parent Points, taking the total Parental Test Score up to 100. Well done, Mum. You're great.

Tonight they're taking me to church. That's not going to be fun.


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 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. 

Friday, 4 January 2013

Parental Testing.

I have failed my parents. All a parent wants is a nice child that grows into a respectable and successful adult. Well, they got me.

Since becoming an adult I've become more puerile and crap. I'm really pretty crap. I can't fix a single thing. Breaking things seems to come naturally but fixing things, arranging things, making things, helping things and not dropping things into a big fire have completely eluded me. Also, my job is rubbish. There's no stability in the comedy industry. Plus it's full of wankers who use phrases like "the comedy industry". It's not an industry. None of us pampered poodles have ever done a proper day's work in our lives. So, I'm childish and I don't really have a job. What have my parents got to be proud of when they look at me? I'm not a priest. That would have made my mum very happy. Especially if I was a priest who somehow married a nice Irish girl and had babies and was a doctor. She'd have loved that. My dad is slightly easier to please, he's delighted simply because I know Dave Gorman and the Indian man from The Chase. That said, he definitely thinks I should get a proper job and 2 children and learn to drive and sit up straight and wise up. He is, of course, completely right.

Do you ever feel a slap of guilt when going to your parents'? I do. They clearly love me but I'm not great. I could have just pretended that I wanted to stay in Newtownards and got a proper job and met a local woman and pretend to love her and buy a local house and pretend to love it and then have some local babies and pretend to love them and then my parents would be happy. And they'd later die happy thinking that I was happy and the joke would be on them because I was only pretending for 40 years! Ha ha! The twats.

My parents are good people and I think it's pretty normal to feel like a bit of a letdown. It doesn't feel nice though. But on my way to Belfast a couple of days ago I thought....hang on. What makes them think they're so bloody great at being parents? They haven't done any real parenting in nearly 30 years. My mum hasn't had to wipe food off my mouth in ages and my dad hasn't taken me to the park to play football (a game we both hate) since I was about 10. Yes, I know I'm a terrible son but, really, are these two any good at being parents anymore? I intend to find out.

I'm here in Newtownards for a few weeks and I'm planning on my parents parenting me. I want my dad to take me to see Star Wars and he HAS TO PAY, I want my mum to take me to the swimming pool and she HAS TO PAY AND STAY AND WATCH ME AND TELL ME HOW GOOD I AM and I want them to throw a birthday party for me and my friends. That means they have to phone my friends mums to ask permission, if they're still alive. I also fully intend stealing something from Page One, a local newsagent. I stole some books from Page One when I was about 6 and I completely got away with it. Sadly, my ego got the better of me. If I'd just stuck to books my parents wouldn't have noticed but I went completely over the top with crime-lust and stole a Star Trek jigsaw puzzle. My dad saw me doing the jigsaw and he turned into Columbo. Except Columbo never gave anyone the belt (my one and only time I ever got hit by my parents and I don't think anyone could argue with it. I mean, I did. I told them that Lee Gavin gave me the books and the jigsaw and the only reason I don't want to go to his house to confirm the fact is because his house is smelly. I mean, why didn't they believe that? Actually, the joke really is on my parents because I got the belt across the bum and it really stung and my mum then said to me "Go to bed. Say your prayers and ask God to forgive you". I was only 6 but this light went on in my head the second she said that. I thought "But God said he loved me. Why did he make my bum hurt? Hang on...GOD DOESN'T EXIST". And I haven't believed in God since. Stupid parents). I don't know what I'm going to steal from Page One but I WILL steal something. I'm just letting them know that now. And I'll avoid my second belting by confessing everything to my parents. Then I want my mum to take me back to Page One and say to the shopkeeper "My son has something to say to you" and I will apologise, completely learning a lesson. The lesson being: Have my parents still got it?

Of course, I'll try to be a good son most of the time. I'm planning on going to mass every Sunday while I'm here. But, just to test my parents, I will try to sneak out every time just like I did when I was young. If I get caught, then that's a skill point to them. I'm looking forward to this experiment. I hope it'll make for a good blog because that's definitely what it's about and NOT just a man in his forties having a breakdown. If you have any other ideas on how I can test my parents then please let me know. The experiment begins today. My mum's going to cut my hair.

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 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. 

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Love Story.

David and Jude were introduced by mutual friends and they clicked instantly. Neither of them were looking for love but they couldn't deny the instant bond between them. David was good looking but thin and awkward. This had put potential dates off going out with David in the past but Jude found his physical awkwardness cute and, likewise, David liked her very pretty face and bad tattoos.

They didn't even play it nonchalantly. Instead of being cool about liking one another, they saw each other every day. The night they met, David walked her home and a few hours later he was back at Jude's front door offering her breakfast at a nearby cafe. And that was it. The entire world had completely changed because David and Jude had finally met and there was a spark of genuine joy somewhere in England. Friends were ignored and plans changed because why bother with anything else when you can sit beside the person who gives electricity to your bones and makes every second a page turner? What will happen next? Can it be as exciting as the last second? Of course, it always was. And there wasn't another sound around the pair or another living being or another trace of light. It was just them. Their eyes racing to gather up all the beauty of the person in front of them. And then they held hands. The most perfect moment in life. Holding the hand you want to hold and feeling every blood vessel rush up your arm and spin round your head and it had happened to David and Jude.

Why did they have to go to work? 8 and a half hours apart with only constant texts and photo messages to keep them sane until they were together again. Jude spent her lunch listening to David's terrible taste in music and smiling, while David took the bus from work with his head in one of Jude's self-help books. Then the agony was over and their hands could join again and their lips would touch and that warmth could return. So little talking, so much said.

Talking wasn't for now. Now was about the hand holding and the kissing and the going to the pub without David's mates and going to the cinema without Jude's no-one. Talking was for later. Night time. Lying in bed and telling stories about embarrassing holidays and terrible ex-workmates. Somehow all the awkward and tragic times of the past could be dealt with because Jude and David had David and Jude. It was like sadness had been deleted. David kissed Jude's stomach and his lips moved down to her thighs, Jude's fingers gripped his hair. Was there a time before David and Jude? No one could ever recall.

There was one night, at least one night, when David and Jude lay together and David was in the only place where he could be truly happy and Jude was in the safest, warmest place she could be. And one night, at least one night, David turned to Jude and said the most wonderful thing that a human being can say to a human being and Jude smiled and said the same thing back to David.

I have no idea if any of this happened for sure but David and Jude are real. I saw them on a train a few nights ago. David was shouting at Jude to shut up and saying she'd fucking changed while Jude shouted "You're a useless cunt, David" and threw chicken bones at him.

But something better must have happened before that.

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 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.