Yesterday, it was announced by the UK Peace Index that Lewisham is the "most un-peaceful" place in the country. As a resident of Lewisham I thought, as I'm sure other residents of Lewisham did, that I'm delighted.
I've only had two homes. Northern Ireland and Lewisham, so when I read that Lewisham is the most un-peaceful part of the country I couldn't help but think that it must be me. I just clearly make people very violently upset. The Troubles and topping the Un-Peaceful charts is too much of a coincidence. Obviously wherever I lay my hat, that's an area soon to be cordoned off while a police helicopter beams it's light on it. But I like Northern Ireland. I'm only mentally coming to terms with how The Troubles effected me (and let's face it, NOTHING happened to me during The Troubles) and for the first time in my life I actually feel pretty patriotic. Not nuts like some Northern Irish patriots - I don't go around marching or crying about a missing flag - I'm much more quietly patriotic. Fewer things have made me happier recently than the film Good Vibrations, I'm delighted that David Holmes is producing the new Primal Scream album and I love that Belfast has a growing comedy scene made up of Northern Irish comedians avoiding hack Northern Irish topics. I'm that sort of patriot. I feel like I'm Northern Ireland's childless aunt, watching her nieces and nephews doing so well. Oh, some of them aren't perfect but I'm proud of a lot of them. As for Lewisham...well, I had to think about that one.
I found out that Lewisham is the most un-peaceful place in the country as soon as I woke up. I mean, it isn't perfect. Sure, Lewisham council is actively helping local businesses by actively offering them work (see: http://tinyurl.com/aqon6h5), the major regeneration of the area means that new shops, homes, a gym (meh) and a cinema (yay!) are close to being completed and it's incredibly handy to go anywhere in London but...it isn't perfect. It's too hard to think also because I haven't had breakfast yet. I'll eat and then think about it.
I walked to El's Kitchen in the lovely, hot sunshine. Now, I'm sure you had the exact same sunshine wherever you live yesterday but I just didn't want you thinking that the sun is too intimidated by Lewisham. It gets to us as much as it gets anywhere. There's been a surge of lovely new places to eat in my part of Lewisham. It's all patisseries as far as the eye can see but I decided I wanted to make breakfast. I bought a fresh, homemade sourdough loaf, some homemade houmous and some vegan chocolate because THAT'S WHAT I HAVE FOR BREAKFAST, OK? And I can buy all those things in Lewisham.
I had breakfast in the garden because I can sit there listening to my neighbour's Radio 4. I have neighbours that are always gardening or cleaning their kitchen with the windows open so I can just sit there listening to free Radio 4. Yes, that's right: I steal Radio 4. Look at me, UK Peace Index! I'm one of Lewisham's crime statistics. I know you might get a tiny feeling of excitement occasionally stealing your neighbour's wifi but you don't know what smug is until you've got your feet up on a lounger, eating houmous on toasted sourdough while nicking loads of Radio 4 from kind people who suspect NOTHING. In LEWISHAM! But Radio 4 was distracting me. Lewisham is the most un-peaceful place in the country. I need to think about that.
Jerk suggested we go for a walk in the park. It's a beautiful day, so that sounded like a great opportunity to stroll and ponder this un-peaceful problem. We went to Ladywell Fields. We could have gone to Hilly Fields which is almost as nearby and it has that new cool cafe that's dog-friendly and terribly middle-class but I fancied a walk by the river. That's right, I had a stroll in the sunshine along a river. In LEWISHAM! But what with watching Jerk swim and seeing bright green parakeets fly around and looking at Dutch Elms, I forgot about thinking about the un-peaceful thing.
I mean, I can't honestly say I consider Lewisham to be peaceful. I hear sirens a lot but I always take a bit of comfort from that. A siren? Good. Something's being done about that bad thing. And there's not that many times when I go to the park and don't meet a "colourful character"...but that's all they are. Characters. Surely they're just put there for me so I can write a blog? I wouldn't call those chaps peaceful. But un-peaceful? Maybe we need to look at the needs of young people here. Most of the crime statistics seem to be made up of 16-24 year olds but i don't know any of them. Are they all stealing Radio 4? I need to think about that. It got to about 5.30 and I decided that maybe a beer would help me think.
I went to The Ravensbourne Arms. I could just as easily have gone to The Fox & Firkin because both of those bars are my favourites. Not just in Lewisham but my favourites full-stop. They're excellent pubs that don't treat you like a dick by charging £5 a pint. Rare these days. I sat in The Arms and did a bit of work on my laptop. It's always got a friendly buzz going on at The Arms (and The Fox too). Lovely staff and there's always a lot of people but it's never a place you can't do a spot of work in. That's right. I worked in a crowded but civilised pub, using their wifi and having a relaxing drink. In LEWISHAM! But the pub's so lovely that it's putting me off thinking about the un-peaceful thing. Plus it's starting to get dark. Best get some dinner and head home.
I bought some Chinese food from a great take-away called Home (could have gone for Indian, Turkish, Greek, Italian, Irish, British, Lebanese...pretty much anything) and walked through the dark streets of Lewisham. The area of London that is the most un-peaceful place in the country and now I'm walking it's dark streets at night time. Safely.
I got home and ate and I finally got round to thinking. My feet were up on the sofa and I had a sleeping dog on me and I thought about Lewisham, the most un-peaceful place in the country. And I thought, as I'm sure other residents of Lewisham did, that I'm delighted. If we're in the most un-peaceful place in the country then just think how tranquil everywhere else is.
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 at www.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.
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
Your Tworoscope 5.
OooooOOOooooOooooh, dear reader. Welcome to the unknown. I have seen YOUR future. Now let me reveal what the next 7 days have in store for you in Your Tworoscope....
ARIES: Things improve at work now that the fire brigade have arrived. Your 3rd degree burns grab attention from sexy doctors.
TAURUS: You win the lottery in your mind and dream of the mansion you live in and speedboat you shag in while wanking in your sleeping bag.
GEMINI: A new haircut gives you a lift, sadly so does a serial killer. Your funeral is tragically joyous on Monday.
CANCER: You've had a terrible innings.
LEO: You get sad that all you have to drink is Mr. Sheen and cry when you realise you quite like it. Your shoes are filthy.
VIRGO: You had no idea how unpopular you are until right now. Are people talking behind your back? You're thinking that now.
LIBRA: Your sister leaves you for another sibling and you're left to pick up the bills. Kick her head in.
SCORPIO: A recent bereavement gives you a fit of the giggles. Romance, employment and travel only happen to other people.
SAGITTARIUS & CAPRICORN: Wankers.
AQUARIUS: Your boss gives you more free time and no money. A liaison with a stranger leads to love between him and your Dad.
PISCES: You always say that running away from problems solves nothing, sadly your problem is a rhino. Konnie Huq blocks you on Twitter.
And that's your week, fellow mystic. Perhaps I will see you 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 at www.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.
ARIES: Things improve at work now that the fire brigade have arrived. Your 3rd degree burns grab attention from sexy doctors.
TAURUS: You win the lottery in your mind and dream of the mansion you live in and speedboat you shag in while wanking in your sleeping bag.
GEMINI: A new haircut gives you a lift, sadly so does a serial killer. Your funeral is tragically joyous on Monday.
CANCER: You've had a terrible innings.
LEO: You get sad that all you have to drink is Mr. Sheen and cry when you realise you quite like it. Your shoes are filthy.
VIRGO: You had no idea how unpopular you are until right now. Are people talking behind your back? You're thinking that now.
LIBRA: Your sister leaves you for another sibling and you're left to pick up the bills. Kick her head in.
SCORPIO: A recent bereavement gives you a fit of the giggles. Romance, employment and travel only happen to other people.
SAGITTARIUS & CAPRICORN: Wankers.
AQUARIUS: Your boss gives you more free time and no money. A liaison with a stranger leads to love between him and your Dad.
PISCES: You always say that running away from problems solves nothing, sadly your problem is a rhino. Konnie Huq blocks you on Twitter.
And that's your week, fellow mystic. Perhaps I will see you 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 at www.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.
Monday, 22 April 2013
Michael's Taste: Evil Dead (2013).
Being evil and dead seems to be very topical at the moment and, although we don't like to admit it, some good things did happen while Thatcher was throttling us in the 1980's. The Smiths, I snogged someone for a while and The Evil Dead are the main three things we all remember from that otherwise dreary decade. Well, The Smiths are never going to reform and I heard that girl took her own life in 1987 so that just leaves The Evil Dead. And it's BACK!
When I heard that Sam Raimi, the creator of the 1981 original Evil Dead, was producing a remake of his classic horror comedy, I lost my mind with excitement. I mean, I like SOME people but I really LOVE The Evil Dead. When you're growing up in the midst of Northern Ireland's background of hate and violence there was no better escape for a young teen than that of the 1980's video nasty boom. Basket Case, Reanimator and Cannibal Holocaust all took me under their protective wings when life just got too scary. That escape is still so appreciated. Those films are frightening, weird and, above all else, really funny. And as much as I got so incredibly excited about sneaking any of those three films into my house and then bunking off school the next day to watch them, it was always The Evil Dead that I completely adored. My parents went out for the night and I was delighted to tell my sister that I had The Evil Dead under my bed (she always suspected I did). We put it on and stopped it every two minutes so she could calm down and get her breath back and then we'd press play again and the laughs of joy and screams of terror began all over again. You see, that's really what reviewers should mean when they say a film is a "real rollercoaster ride". It's terrifying! Let me have another go!!
Of course, today it might not be that scary to some people but it's still brilliantly funny. That's why I feel really sorry for poor Mary Whitehouse. She died before she ever got the chance to laugh.
So, the brand new remake of The Evil Dead was released in America over a week ago and it went straight to number one in the box office. Of course it did. The Evil Dead and it's two excellent sequels (ED2 is even better) are loved so a remake was bound to be a hit. It was so frustrating to think that I had to wait for over a week before I'd get the chance to see it. One of my all time favourite films remade. With a huge budget. And proper glossy looking hot teens playing it seriously. And CGI special effects....and...Why am I going to see this?
Seriously. What was wrong with The Evil Dead? Was something that is perfect not good enough? It wasn't the lack of budget that was a problem, THAT was what was amazing about it. Creative minds conjuring genius with a couple of dollars. Why do these rich men do what they do? Raimi, Lucas, Spielberg. They look at what they once loved and in their ridiculous, selfish, soulless minds they think "I don't like what ageing has done to my once great love. I know what will cure MY hatred of looking at what I once considered to be great beauty: Plastic surgery". Can't they see that ageing is part of the wonder of life? The Evil Dead has crows feet (it really does) and it doesn't get out as much as it did but look how brightly its eyes still shine. It's STILL the same film, Sam. It hasn't changed. YOU have. Good for you. You've got a new film, Sam. Well, your new film is a fucking idiot. Your friends can't relate to it and they hate it when you show up with it. They're still friends with your original.
What a fucking insult to your own talent. The Evil Dead had no budget, it got banned and it never won an Oscar. It has no right to be even remembered yet it completely won. The King's Speech did well three years ago. Or maybe it was two. Remember that? No, not really.
So, yesterday I got up early to go to the cinema to see the new Evil Dead. And the thought of actually seeing it made me sick. So, I made a really lovely coconut curry, poured a nice glass of wine and watched The Evil Dead 2 instead. By all means go to see The Evil Dead (2013) but you're a fucking idiot and that's my review.
Groovy.
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 at www.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.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Michael's Taste: Wine.
Hi, everyone. I've decided to give my blog a bit of a shake by introducing an occasional review section that I've decided to call Michael's Taste. In it I'll be reviewing anything and everything from films and movies to your fucked up parents and what's on at the cinema. But today I'm going to be looking at....wine.
Vigne Lourac Mauzac Sauvignon £7.99
Vegan wine to be precise. It's harder than it looks to find any vegan wine when you're out and about, never mind decent vegan wine, so I thought I'd search around and find three bottles to try. They all sound good but, of course, it's "Michael's Taste" you're interested in.
Let's start with a sauvignon. I'm a big fan of dry white wines so I was really looking forward to trying this and I wasn't disappointed. It's incredibly crisp and full of vibrant fruit flavours that leave such a fresh sensation on the tongue. In fact, the first thing I noticed was that beautiful burst of gooseberry as I let the wine slosh around my mouth. And after I swallowed, was that elderflower? I think it was. Lovely. Basically, what I discovered was the exciting, fresh taste of Spring. Then, by the end of the second glass, I really loved how this appealing tipple made me feel gently numb. I really felt it in my arms at first but near the end of the bottle I could feel my face getting happily numb and warm at the same time. And at just £7.99, I think finishing the bottle and getting that feeling of confidence is well worth it. Confident or not though, I won't be texting her. I don't need to because she's not important anymore. In fact, I don't know why I brought her up. There's still a mouthful left.
Navarrsotillo Rioja Crianza £9.99
Now. Red I'm not always so keen on but I'm certainly not opposed to giving it a try. I have to say straight away that this rioja has a wonderful nose. Smells fucking great. Like Christmas or...I dunno. It's definitely a nice wine with a very strong, warm feeling brought to the face almost immediately but by the second glass it's making my mouth feel dry and chalky, if I'm honest. Hey, speaking of being honest, are we allowed to say what we think of It's Kevin yet? No. No, it is good. It IS good. Love him. Who doesn't love Kevin Eldon? Fucking about time he got a series. I think that's more important than putting on something funny. It is funny. IT IS FUNNY. I didn't mean it wasn't fun. funny. I mean, I just. Ha haaaa! I just think...I just think...I just think that Anna and Katy wouldn't never have gotten a series if it wasn't for the FACT that all accents, apart from theirs, are funny. Don't know why they don't just fucking black up. That's what Lee Nelson does. Yeah, you can black up on the BBC again. Getting on TV and performing is so hard but don't worry, black people, Lee Nelson will do it for you. Fuck's sake. My Radio 4 series got turned down, did I tell you that? Oh, I bet she loved that. I bet she fucking did.
De La Tour Gard Rose £8.99
Thirteen fucking years ago I loaned Rob Rouse £40. That's completely true, that is. We did a gig together in Brighton and I gave him £40 that he said he'd pay back the next day. Has he paid it back? Has he fuck. Thinks I've forgotten? The cunt. He's on the radio now. Why ams I not on the radio?
Carlsberg Special Brew £0.99
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 at www.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.
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Stinking Badges.
I am a dickhead. An unbelievable dickhead. You know that really stupid person you know? That person is Professor Brainy McUniversitychallenge compared to me. I am constantly amazed at my lack of knowledge but then there are those times, those phenomenal times, when something so simple and straightforward just passes me by. On Thursday, I walked out of the tube station and it hit me: I just realised what those "Baby On Board" badges mean.
I never got it until just now. I just saw them for sale in the Transport Museum and thought they were a tourist thing. And I hated every tourist who wore one. I'd see them all the time on the tube. Standing there, sweating and looking flustered and red-faced. God, I hated them. I used to sit there on the train looking at these tourists with their stupid "Baby On Board" badges and just seethe. They made NO SENSE. It has a London Underground sign on it. It doesn't work. "Baby On Board" signs go on cars, not trains. It's a stupid tourist joke that tourists find funny and IT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE. I must have seen people wearing those badges a thousand times and on each and every occasion I hated them with every fibre of my being and wished I could destroy their heads with my mind. A THOUSAND TIMES.
Yes, so that means that I have basically loathed 1000 pregnant women for NO REASON WHATSOEVER. And I've watched them stand. I have never, ever offered my seat to someone wearing a "Baby On Board" badge. I have sat there and judged them and damned them. Like a big, thick fucking idiot. There I was thinking I've simply been hating a thousand tourists when really I've been hating a thousand pregnant women and AT LEAST a thousand babies. All that time I'd been hating for two.
But you know what? Fuck them. Here's a badge idea: "I Am Pregnant". There. That's pretty fucking clear, isn't it? You must KNOW that there are thick people out there (I'm one of them. Hi.) so why put the life of your child at risk because you wanted to be cute and very mildly amusing? "How did you lose your baby?" "Unclear badge". "You fucking bastard". DO YOU WANT THAT CONVERSATION TO HAPPEN TO YOU IN REAL LIFE? No.
Look. I'm out there. Walking around and being incredibly unintelligent. There may or may not be people just as stupid as me out there too. Children are our future? Then fucking sort your badges out.
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.
Monday, 15 April 2013
I'm Not Worth It.
I had to go to Boots to buy some make up the other day. I know some readers of this blog wear make up and some don't. The latter are the lucky ones. I wish I had your confidence. But the rest of us either like wearing make up or we need to wear make up. Last week, I HAD to wear make up because I've got herpes.
Yes, I have herpes. Herpes is what I have. You may know it as "cold sores" but it's definitely called herpes. I have herpes. I know I have herpes because I know what herpes is and the reason I know what herpes is is because when my dad was my age, and I was about 12, he got cold sores and for two weeks couldn't stop going around saying "I have herpes". We asked him to stop, of course, but he got so much happiness from the simple pleasure of smiling at a stranger and saying "I have herpes" that it was hard to be angry at him. And it's only now that I fully understand my father's joy. Going around saying "I have herpes" IS fun. Honestly. Give it a try. Just turn to your office co-worker or nearest fellow bus passenger and say "I have herpes". It's just a fun thing to say out loud. It wasn't fun for mum to have dad going around proudly boasting of his herpes and she asked him to stop many, many times. "They'll think you got it from me", she reasoned. "Don't worry", my dad said to everyone in the world. "I didn't get it from my wife". Not sure that helped. But believe it or not, there's a down side to having herpes. They make you look like your lips have shot themselves in the head and I had gigs to do. Audiences will accept a lot of things from comedians (sexism, racism, asking for a round of applause for our brave boys killing people overseas) but congealed blood on your face isn't one of them. So, I had to go to Boots to buy some make up.
It was cover-up that I specifically needed but here lies the beginning of the problems. I don't really know what cover-up is.
I walked around the make up department looking at hundreds of things I didn't understand from a distance. I didn't want to get too close to the make up because I didn't want anyone thinking that I wanted to buy make up even though I wanted to buy make up. I must have spent 10 minutes squinting at foundation and lip stick while keeping an eye out for anyone ever seeing me. You see, I'm a grown adult but my mind is a very young and stupid child. In my head I was concerned that if I was seen looking at make up that people might think I was gay. Now, that's proper nuts.
There is no connection between being gay and make up. None. Also, if I wasn't buying make up and someone thought I was gay I wouldn't give a shit. So why am I even accommodating this thought for a second? It's because I am proper nuts. An idiot. I spend the next few minutes squinting in front of make up and trying to look like I had no interest in make up at all. The fact that I'm looking for cover-up while my bottom lip is practically purple with dead blood should give anyone who was watching (and no one was) all the information they need: I'm a man who doesn't know much about anything who is looking for something to make his exploded mouth look less deceased. But instead my mind kept saying "They all see you looking at the pictures of Kate Moss, you perv. Go on, touch the make up and they'll know you like kissing men. Stop pacing up and down squinting at the stuff, you look like you're going to nick something, THIEF!".
Fucking ridiculous. I'm buying some make up because I have herpes, what's wrong with that? I pick up some cover-up and join the queue to pay for it and finally leave.
But what if the woman at the check-out thinks I'm a weirdo for buying make up? "Yeah, Michael. She'll see your one item of make up and she'll know that you're a drag queen. She'll think you're gay. She'll know that you want to be a lady. She'll think you're gay. She'll know that you put make up on when you're alone and wearing nothing but a kimono while looking yourself in the mirror and tucking your genitals between your legs. She'll think you're gay".
SHUT UP, HEAD. Make up isn't a gay thing and who cares what she thinks? I will never know her. This is one tiny moment out of both of our lives and we will think nothing at all the entire time. And that's when the true madness dawned on me...
I think that during the 6 seconds that me and women who work at check outs are in each other's company, I want them to fall madly in love with me. I didn't want her to see my make up or my bloody mouth because I wanted her life to be instantly changed just by my presence. I wanted her to just light up at the very sight of me. We would know each other for 6 seconds and in that time she would open her very soul to me. As I walked away, she would just stare longingly at me. "He..he..he had the right change", she would say while looking at her perfect man walking out of her life forever. So, you see how silly I was being? I didn't care if she thought I was gay, I just wanted her to fall in love with me and to be left completely broken-hearted and shattered by my absence.
Then I caught my reflection. I saw my bloodied lip. And my wrinkles and my flat, disappearing hair and my grey skin and my beer belly and I thought...well, I bet she didn't think I was gay. People think men who are handsome and impeccably groomed are gay. I really, really wish she thought I was gay.
PROLOGUE: I thought it might be funny to tell that story on stage the day after it happened (it wasn't). I came up with a sort of punchline too. I'd wear purple eyeshadow all night and at the end of the story I'd say "Oh, and while I was there I bought some eyeshadow". The problem here is that I had to buy some eyeshadow. This meant going back to Boots and, of course, exactly the same things happened again. The stupid paranoia, the squinting at make up from a distance, the trying to stand in a manly way while paying for eyeshadow and looking like I didn't even notice I was buying eyeshadow. Except this time, when the woman at the check out gave me my receipt I said thanks and turned in haste to leave. To just forget this stupid anxiety, to get away from what people who weren't thinking anything were thinking, to just get out of the shop with as much dignity as I could.
Then I was immediately tripped by a cunt in a wheelchair and I sent a thousand bags of Starburst crashing to the ground.
More cover-up, please.
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 at www.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.
Yes, I have herpes. Herpes is what I have. You may know it as "cold sores" but it's definitely called herpes. I have herpes. I know I have herpes because I know what herpes is and the reason I know what herpes is is because when my dad was my age, and I was about 12, he got cold sores and for two weeks couldn't stop going around saying "I have herpes". We asked him to stop, of course, but he got so much happiness from the simple pleasure of smiling at a stranger and saying "I have herpes" that it was hard to be angry at him. And it's only now that I fully understand my father's joy. Going around saying "I have herpes" IS fun. Honestly. Give it a try. Just turn to your office co-worker or nearest fellow bus passenger and say "I have herpes". It's just a fun thing to say out loud. It wasn't fun for mum to have dad going around proudly boasting of his herpes and she asked him to stop many, many times. "They'll think you got it from me", she reasoned. "Don't worry", my dad said to everyone in the world. "I didn't get it from my wife". Not sure that helped. But believe it or not, there's a down side to having herpes. They make you look like your lips have shot themselves in the head and I had gigs to do. Audiences will accept a lot of things from comedians (sexism, racism, asking for a round of applause for our brave boys killing people overseas) but congealed blood on your face isn't one of them. So, I had to go to Boots to buy some make up.
It was cover-up that I specifically needed but here lies the beginning of the problems. I don't really know what cover-up is.
I walked around the make up department looking at hundreds of things I didn't understand from a distance. I didn't want to get too close to the make up because I didn't want anyone thinking that I wanted to buy make up even though I wanted to buy make up. I must have spent 10 minutes squinting at foundation and lip stick while keeping an eye out for anyone ever seeing me. You see, I'm a grown adult but my mind is a very young and stupid child. In my head I was concerned that if I was seen looking at make up that people might think I was gay. Now, that's proper nuts.
There is no connection between being gay and make up. None. Also, if I wasn't buying make up and someone thought I was gay I wouldn't give a shit. So why am I even accommodating this thought for a second? It's because I am proper nuts. An idiot. I spend the next few minutes squinting in front of make up and trying to look like I had no interest in make up at all. The fact that I'm looking for cover-up while my bottom lip is practically purple with dead blood should give anyone who was watching (and no one was) all the information they need: I'm a man who doesn't know much about anything who is looking for something to make his exploded mouth look less deceased. But instead my mind kept saying "They all see you looking at the pictures of Kate Moss, you perv. Go on, touch the make up and they'll know you like kissing men. Stop pacing up and down squinting at the stuff, you look like you're going to nick something, THIEF!".
Fucking ridiculous. I'm buying some make up because I have herpes, what's wrong with that? I pick up some cover-up and join the queue to pay for it and finally leave.
But what if the woman at the check-out thinks I'm a weirdo for buying make up? "Yeah, Michael. She'll see your one item of make up and she'll know that you're a drag queen. She'll think you're gay. She'll know that you want to be a lady. She'll think you're gay. She'll know that you put make up on when you're alone and wearing nothing but a kimono while looking yourself in the mirror and tucking your genitals between your legs. She'll think you're gay".
SHUT UP, HEAD. Make up isn't a gay thing and who cares what she thinks? I will never know her. This is one tiny moment out of both of our lives and we will think nothing at all the entire time. And that's when the true madness dawned on me...
I think that during the 6 seconds that me and women who work at check outs are in each other's company, I want them to fall madly in love with me. I didn't want her to see my make up or my bloody mouth because I wanted her life to be instantly changed just by my presence. I wanted her to just light up at the very sight of me. We would know each other for 6 seconds and in that time she would open her very soul to me. As I walked away, she would just stare longingly at me. "He..he..he had the right change", she would say while looking at her perfect man walking out of her life forever. So, you see how silly I was being? I didn't care if she thought I was gay, I just wanted her to fall in love with me and to be left completely broken-hearted and shattered by my absence.
Then I caught my reflection. I saw my bloodied lip. And my wrinkles and my flat, disappearing hair and my grey skin and my beer belly and I thought...well, I bet she didn't think I was gay. People think men who are handsome and impeccably groomed are gay. I really, really wish she thought I was gay.
PROLOGUE: I thought it might be funny to tell that story on stage the day after it happened (it wasn't). I came up with a sort of punchline too. I'd wear purple eyeshadow all night and at the end of the story I'd say "Oh, and while I was there I bought some eyeshadow". The problem here is that I had to buy some eyeshadow. This meant going back to Boots and, of course, exactly the same things happened again. The stupid paranoia, the squinting at make up from a distance, the trying to stand in a manly way while paying for eyeshadow and looking like I didn't even notice I was buying eyeshadow. Except this time, when the woman at the check out gave me my receipt I said thanks and turned in haste to leave. To just forget this stupid anxiety, to get away from what people who weren't thinking anything were thinking, to just get out of the shop with as much dignity as I could.
Then I was immediately tripped by a cunt in a wheelchair and I sent a thousand bags of Starburst crashing to the ground.
More cover-up, please.
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 at www.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.
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Rustle.
I've decided to become a good person. Not just nice or sweet but completely good. I guess it happens sooner or later to everyone (nearly) but I saw something that just made me want to better myself. We live in a cold and cruel world, full of unfeeling and spiteful insecure people but even amongst all that we can see cracks that let the sunshine through. Moments when we finally feel sober and clean. A time when something small and, to some, insignificant happens that just makes you want to open your heart to beauty. I mean it. I really don't think I want to whine or complain or hate ever again because I now see that perfection exists. Perfection rose up in front of me just minutes ago and it changed my life forever.
Of course, I've had perfect moments before in my life but never one that made me feel that good will definitely triumph. Yes, I was angrier than I've ever been in my life last year and that's when I saw Jamelia fall off a chair, making me feel so much better, but I never felt the warmth of positivity and possibility from that. Yes, I once thought I was going to get punched in the face in a bar in Edinburgh and, from out of nowhere, Hunter from Gladiators appeared and rescued me. That was good but I never thought that my life could change for the better. Especially when he offered me tickets to see the play he was in with Abi Titmuss. Out of the frying pan and all that. But today was different. It was beautiful, simple and perfect.
I walked Jerk in the park and from a distance I could see a little boy out with his mum. He was on a bench dangling his little legs while his mum leaned up against the nearby railings. Jerk was off on her own, sniffing about, and she'd caught the eye of the little boy. I'm used to this, of course. Little kids like dogs and they often have lots of questions. "Can your dog run faster than a car?", "Can I give your dog some Fanta?" and "Does your dog stink?" are just some of the questions I've genuinely had from little kids. I think it's very sweet. Mainly, they want to ask if they can pet her but also they want to know how old she is, what she eats and what her name is (I'm normally a bit embarrassed about that one). It's cute and seeing the way this little boy was adoring Jerk from afar, I knew he'd have something to ask.
As I got closer, he turned to his mum and said "Who's fucking dog is that?"
It was pretty much then that I'd decided not to engage in banter. I don't like 5 year olds at the best of times but one that was disrespectful enough to swear in front of his mother, the woman who carried him in her womb for nine months and brought him into this world, just seemed like a little cherub to avoid. His mum was clearly upset by what the boy said. That's probably why she shouted at him: "None of your fucking business".
I'll be honest with you, I hate that woman. I hate her so much that I hope she's dead. Right now. You might think that's extreme but that's why the world will never be a nice place. Not enough of us wish that woman was dead. Surely the power of positive thinking, or a bomb planted in her neck, would be enough to get rid of her and this planet would just be a little bit better. And it's not because she swears at her child. I don't think she should but that's up to her. And it's not because she replies to her child's questions with "None of your fucking business" although it should be because that poor little cunt will have that FOREVER. He'll ask questions like "Is Santa real?" or "What's 2 plus 2?" and the answer from his Hutt of a mother will always be "None of your fucking business". That's right, son of mine who I am in full charge of raising and caring for, sums and joy are none of your fucking business and then one day he'll just stop asking anything and in years to come we can all place him neatly on the pile of the barely moving who feed of the colours and noise of The Voice instead of thinking. No, it's not that. The swearing and the telling your child not to think are both things I can handle but the reason I hope this woman is dead is because of the bag of Wotsits she was eating. She was telling her son to shut up while eating a BIG bag of Wotsits. Admit it, that's the most offensive thing you've ever heard in your life. It was "a shame" before, wasn't it? But now somehow with the addition of a big bag of Wotsits that woman has become a bastard that this planet is just too small to house. "None of your fucking business", she said with her orangey saveloy fingers gathering up more cheesey dried hell to shove between her orangey down-turned lips. Nom nom nom. "None of your fucking business, little boy". Nom nom nom.
Of course, I should be delighted about the big bag of Wotsits because they're probably helping her towards death but they were the hate symbol that boiled my blood. Hitler had the swastika and she had a big bag of Wotsits. They're exactly the same to me now and they will be to you from now on. Every time you see anyone with a bag of Wotsits from now on you will instantly hate them. They should all be tried for their crimes, the bastards. I walked past the three of them. Little boy, awful mum and big bag of Wotsits and I felt sad. I felt sad because I couldn't turn to this woman and ask her why she felt it was OK to swear in front of her child and tell him to not ask questions. I couldn't ask her anything like that because society has decided that it's none of my business. We have all decided that people can behave in any manner they choose and we all agree that the raising of children is no one's business but the parents. We don't get involved. We don't question. We are, after all, civilised human beings who shouldn't judge. We're not animals.
Then a crow knocked the big bag of Wotsits out of her hand.
I loudly honked with laughter and I still can't decide what's funnier: the Wotsits being knocked out of her hand by a crow or the woman calling the crow a "black fucker". Yeah, I bet she wouldn't say that about Muslim birds, or something.
The great thing was that the little boy found it funny, two crows ate the rest of the Wotsits and I got to hear a grown woman shout "Fucking crows" at least seven times. Isn't that beautiful? Of course, it is. It's beautiful because it reminds us that the worst thing about existence is other people. They're completely appalling. But it also reminds us of the power of nature. You're a cunt? Fine. But then a crow will take away all your snacks. Just be nice. Who knows? You might get a kiss from a squirrel. I want that.
Of course, it's easy for me to want to be a good and more positive person, I've seen perfection knock a bag of Wotsits out of a bastard's hand, but how do YOU begin being a better human being? Well, you could start by not betting on the Grand National on Saturday. It's a truly horrible thing to do. Horses die every year for no good reason. Why this is allowed to happen is baffling. Actually, it sadly isn't. Every single horse that exists or has existed is beautiful, athletic and hard working. So what do we do? We stick a satin foetus on them to beat them with a stick until they fall over a fence and break their necks. It's bullshit and, Wotsits eaters to one side, we are all above that. DO NOT BET ON THE GRAND NATIONAL. Here's a link to all the statistics you could need: http://horsedeathwatch.com/ and please feel free to tweet it to @clarebalding before Saturday and ask her what she's doing about it. I know I will. Thanks.
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 at www.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.
Of course, I've had perfect moments before in my life but never one that made me feel that good will definitely triumph. Yes, I was angrier than I've ever been in my life last year and that's when I saw Jamelia fall off a chair, making me feel so much better, but I never felt the warmth of positivity and possibility from that. Yes, I once thought I was going to get punched in the face in a bar in Edinburgh and, from out of nowhere, Hunter from Gladiators appeared and rescued me. That was good but I never thought that my life could change for the better. Especially when he offered me tickets to see the play he was in with Abi Titmuss. Out of the frying pan and all that. But today was different. It was beautiful, simple and perfect.
I walked Jerk in the park and from a distance I could see a little boy out with his mum. He was on a bench dangling his little legs while his mum leaned up against the nearby railings. Jerk was off on her own, sniffing about, and she'd caught the eye of the little boy. I'm used to this, of course. Little kids like dogs and they often have lots of questions. "Can your dog run faster than a car?", "Can I give your dog some Fanta?" and "Does your dog stink?" are just some of the questions I've genuinely had from little kids. I think it's very sweet. Mainly, they want to ask if they can pet her but also they want to know how old she is, what she eats and what her name is (I'm normally a bit embarrassed about that one). It's cute and seeing the way this little boy was adoring Jerk from afar, I knew he'd have something to ask.
As I got closer, he turned to his mum and said "Who's fucking dog is that?"
It was pretty much then that I'd decided not to engage in banter. I don't like 5 year olds at the best of times but one that was disrespectful enough to swear in front of his mother, the woman who carried him in her womb for nine months and brought him into this world, just seemed like a little cherub to avoid. His mum was clearly upset by what the boy said. That's probably why she shouted at him: "None of your fucking business".
I'll be honest with you, I hate that woman. I hate her so much that I hope she's dead. Right now. You might think that's extreme but that's why the world will never be a nice place. Not enough of us wish that woman was dead. Surely the power of positive thinking, or a bomb planted in her neck, would be enough to get rid of her and this planet would just be a little bit better. And it's not because she swears at her child. I don't think she should but that's up to her. And it's not because she replies to her child's questions with "None of your fucking business" although it should be because that poor little cunt will have that FOREVER. He'll ask questions like "Is Santa real?" or "What's 2 plus 2?" and the answer from his Hutt of a mother will always be "None of your fucking business". That's right, son of mine who I am in full charge of raising and caring for, sums and joy are none of your fucking business and then one day he'll just stop asking anything and in years to come we can all place him neatly on the pile of the barely moving who feed of the colours and noise of The Voice instead of thinking. No, it's not that. The swearing and the telling your child not to think are both things I can handle but the reason I hope this woman is dead is because of the bag of Wotsits she was eating. She was telling her son to shut up while eating a BIG bag of Wotsits. Admit it, that's the most offensive thing you've ever heard in your life. It was "a shame" before, wasn't it? But now somehow with the addition of a big bag of Wotsits that woman has become a bastard that this planet is just too small to house. "None of your fucking business", she said with her orangey saveloy fingers gathering up more cheesey dried hell to shove between her orangey down-turned lips. Nom nom nom. "None of your fucking business, little boy". Nom nom nom.
Of course, I should be delighted about the big bag of Wotsits because they're probably helping her towards death but they were the hate symbol that boiled my blood. Hitler had the swastika and she had a big bag of Wotsits. They're exactly the same to me now and they will be to you from now on. Every time you see anyone with a bag of Wotsits from now on you will instantly hate them. They should all be tried for their crimes, the bastards. I walked past the three of them. Little boy, awful mum and big bag of Wotsits and I felt sad. I felt sad because I couldn't turn to this woman and ask her why she felt it was OK to swear in front of her child and tell him to not ask questions. I couldn't ask her anything like that because society has decided that it's none of my business. We have all decided that people can behave in any manner they choose and we all agree that the raising of children is no one's business but the parents. We don't get involved. We don't question. We are, after all, civilised human beings who shouldn't judge. We're not animals.
Then a crow knocked the big bag of Wotsits out of her hand.
I loudly honked with laughter and I still can't decide what's funnier: the Wotsits being knocked out of her hand by a crow or the woman calling the crow a "black fucker". Yeah, I bet she wouldn't say that about Muslim birds, or something.
The great thing was that the little boy found it funny, two crows ate the rest of the Wotsits and I got to hear a grown woman shout "Fucking crows" at least seven times. Isn't that beautiful? Of course, it is. It's beautiful because it reminds us that the worst thing about existence is other people. They're completely appalling. But it also reminds us of the power of nature. You're a cunt? Fine. But then a crow will take away all your snacks. Just be nice. Who knows? You might get a kiss from a squirrel. I want that.
Of course, it's easy for me to want to be a good and more positive person, I've seen perfection knock a bag of Wotsits out of a bastard's hand, but how do YOU begin being a better human being? Well, you could start by not betting on the Grand National on Saturday. It's a truly horrible thing to do. Horses die every year for no good reason. Why this is allowed to happen is baffling. Actually, it sadly isn't. Every single horse that exists or has existed is beautiful, athletic and hard working. So what do we do? We stick a satin foetus on them to beat them with a stick until they fall over a fence and break their necks. It's bullshit and, Wotsits eaters to one side, we are all above that. DO NOT BET ON THE GRAND NATIONAL. Here's a link to all the statistics you could need: http://horsedeathwatch.com/ and please feel free to tweet it to @clarebalding before Saturday and ask her what she's doing about it. I know I will. Thanks.
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 at www.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.
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