Thursday, 30 October 2014


It's 2014 but I think it was said best back in 1971 by the late Marvin Gaye: "What the fuck is going on?".

I liked the last couple of years. They were fun. Everyone seemed so excited by feminism. Bridget Christie made it funny and terrifying and it felt like something important was happening as we gathered together to laugh at how horrible the world we exist in is. I mean, that hasn't happened in comedy in a really long time. A comedian tackling a huge subject - a huge, terrible, frightening subject - and made people laugh at how ridiculous "normal" life is and perhaps how ridiculous, terrible and frightening we are too. It wasn't just Bridget that brought this to our attention, of course. There was EverydaySexism, there was Caitlin Moran (who I don't like because I think she's unfunny and often wrong but at least I think she's an unfunny wrong person and not an unfunny wrong woman and she got people talking about feminism so she's completely necessary. Maybe I do like her? Well, that's a revelation already), there was Twitter and Facebook and Instagram and every single person in the world coming together to post articles, share opinions, point fingers at inequality and, more importantly, celebrate equality. The last couple of years have felt positive. It felt like we were getting somewhere. So why is this year so very, very awful?

Obviously, I get it. I'm not that stupid. If something happens that people like then sooner or later there has to be a backlash. We did it with Bros, Pictionary and New Zealand so why not do it with decency and respect?

But it doesn't feel like a backlash. It feels more like a people's rights movement. People uniting and rising up to make sure other people have fewer and fewer rights as human beings. Were we too happy and too positive? Is that why Dapper Laughs came along to show us that respect was boring and probably queer or something? Is that why so many people immediately took to him? Is that why so many comedians that I work with support and defend Dapper Laughs? We wallowed in our selflessness and therefore something had to be done about it. We liked feminism too much for some people and we made an uncomfortable noise about it with our happiness so The Others had to fight back. I mean, it's freedom of speech, isn't it? Dapper's not doing any harm, is he? And if you don't like it then you've every right to say so. And The Others have every right to call you a slut and threaten to rape you. It's freedom of speech.

I've always thought of comedy as a very progressive place to work in. Luckily, it generally is. But there is definitely a rise in rape jokes just as their is a rise in women not being seen as equals on a bill. A venue dropping a woman from the comedy bill because "there are too many women" already performing is probably the funniest comedy story I've heard this year. Yes, it's horrible but, my God, that is some proud, proud sexism you're getting right there. No shame. Head held high. Say it loud! I'm a cunt and I'm proud!

And that's my big question: Why aren't people more ashamed of themselves? I'm ashamed of all my many, many faults. I'm unhealthy, I get angry at the most insignificant things (noise, litter, Kasabian) and I'm 46 with an in-order-of-broadcast complete Doctor Who DVD collection. I'm horrified at myself but, you know, at least I don't openly hate women. Unlike comedians (and others but it's the comedians that I feel most upset by) online who post their sexism with the same "normality" that we use to post pictures of our dinner. What I wouldn't give to see a photo of spaghetti hoops on Facebook again. Over the last few weeks I've spent far too much time arguing with comedians posting "Fucking feminism again" and "You shouldn't be on a panel show just because you're a woman". I don't want to argue with these people. There was a time when you might see one or two posts like that a week. Now it's every day. So, I guess, recently I snapped. In two weeks there hasn't been a day without arguing, capitalising the word cunt and blocking idiots.

It seems obvious (not to everyone, clearly) but... FEMINISM IS NOT ABOUT WOMEN GETTING MORE THAN MEN. IT'S ABOUT US BEING EQUAL.

God, I just never wanted to get into these boring and horrible arguments but in the last two weeks I've argued with comedians posting "I'm sick of people saying 'Violence against women'. What about the violence against men?" and "I'm on Dapper Laugh's side" and... it goes on. Luckily, one of these comedians describes himself as "The Dark Knight of Comedy" so his opinion on any subject is significantly less than worthless.

Sometimes I actually regret inventing online anger, especially when I see what some people have done with it.

Complaining about the worthiness of Malala Yousafzai's Nobel win (seriously, if you haven't seen these idiots online, then please look them up now. "How is getting shot and then still campaigning for rights peaceful?" Brilliant!), Gamergate supporters and the NotAllMen bullshit. It's EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And for those people who think Dapper Laughs and his cheeky, misogynistic antics are harmless then please check out Shoshana Roberts film of her walking down streets in New York and the subsequent rape threats she received on Twitter. #SheKnows you're a dick.

I'm trying not to think about all this and not get upset by it, despite it being a constant in our online (and therefore real) lives. Believe it or not, I don't like being angry. Andrew Lawrence's stupidity made me sigh and laugh in equal measure. He's an idiot. After all the support of Dapper, the "What about violence against men?"and the general "fucking feminism again"... I still didn't blog about it. I stopped blogging. Why have all that grumpiness all the time? But then I saw Sofie Hagen's recent Facebook post about her experience on the comedy circuit. A compere saying "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up one more time for Sofie Hagen. I would never rape her" made me want to punch him. I don't know who he is but I hate him. But if there's one good thing that's come from all of this, it's got me thinking of things I've said in the past and I'm ashamed. I've not said anything that awful but I'm not innocent either.

And maybe a few other people could change their attitudes too. At a recent gig, a woman entered the dressing room to give an act some food. When she left, the comedian said "Who ordered the escort?". Then I overheard another comedian say to the showmanager "Yeah, but you're supposed to be hot. I'm not saying I'd kick you out of bed because I wouldn't but a woman should wear heels".

Why aren't people more ashamed of themselves?

A backlash against decency and respect. But it doesn't feel the same as it did with Bros. We accepted When Will I Be Famous and I Owe You Nothing. Everything about them was on the up. Then we heard Cat Among The Pigeons and we called time. We united to end something before it went too far. You know what though? I'm starting to think reactions to Bros and reactions to feminism are very different things. People got bored with Bros but this feels like... fear.

What's to be scared of? I can't answer. I can't answer that.

I'm not expecting anyone to read this really, I'm certainly not expecting anyone who disagrees with my very obvious point will read it. If they do, they'll no doubt say it's whiny, unfunny and boring. But that's their fault, not mine.

Monday, 14 July 2014

Michael's Bones.

I feel sick.
I’ve just spent all day listening to the new Morrissey album. To call it eagerly awaited would be a gross understatement. This was supposed to be the album that I had waited for all my adult life. This was supposed to be the one that saved me. This was supposed to be the album that set me free, that made me cry “Jesus wept” from the very top of Twitter, the one that made me realise I’ve given Morrissey way too many chances and I’d finally be free from fat guitars, plodding drums and making excuses for his constant “eccentricity”. This album was supposed to be the one I threw in the bin and then I could grow up. This album was supposed to be shit.
But once again, Morrissey has let me down. And it starts so promisingly. World Peace Is None of Your Business is Morrissey’s best album since Your Arsenal but it’s also a completely godawful song. When it was released as a download single, I was overjoyed. It sounded like Morrissey had turned to me and said “You’re free to go”. Somehow, once again, a B-side from a band that should never exist had made it on to an actual Morrissey album. Well, I’ve stood by him through all five terrible photocopies of Vauxhall and I and clearly he didn’t want me anymore. I could run and frolic through pretty meadows for the rest of my life and leave Moz and his song to repeat themselves to death. Thank you. Then the second track on the album came along and I fell for him again. Just when I thought I was out, he pulls me back in.
The thing is, this sounds like Morrissey actually being creative again. Clearly that book did him the world of good. Maybe he read it and thought “Flip. This bloke sounds awful” and decided to be nothing like him? Or maybe he’s just great and, this time, he’s decided to show it.
The flamenco guitars on When Last I Spoke to Carol from his last album are back and, once again, they’re a highlight. Earth Is The Loneliest Planet is basically a depressing La Isla Bonita and I can think of nothing more joyous, while Kiss Me A Lot is proudly Glorious Esteban. Obviously there’s more than enough traditional Morrissey defiance for us long-termers, “I’d never kill or eat an animal. Well, what do you think I am? A man?”, but it’s the Spanish-styled songs that speed the album along with something close to being upbeat. Just to make things worse, Morrissey keeps the very best for last. Did any of us think he’d write something as good as Oboe Concerto again? Damn him. I’m lumped with him again.
Luckily there are a couple of glimpses of a time when I can move on. The title track and Istanbul are both terrible and Kick The Bride Down The Aisle won’t be making it on to any of Bridget Christie’s compilation tapes any time soon but other than that it’s an incredible piece of work that ensures further arrested development for me for years to come. Will he ever let me grow up? Thank God I have George Lucas and Steven Moffat doing their best for me.

Tuesday, 10 June 2014

But Why Are The Kids Crying?

Once in every lifetime comes a love like this.

Rightly, there have been many tributes to Rik Mayall in the hours following his death so let me be brief. When I was 13 years old I decided that I didn't want to ever work for a living. Why would anyone want to be responsible and live a life decently when you could shout, pull faces and annoy people? I mean, if I could do that when I grew up instead of actually, you know, growing up then I think there's a chance that I could be happy. And the one and only reason that the idea even entered my head is solely down to Rik Mayall.

The first time that Rik and I ever hung out was in my living room in 1981. He was on TV and I was on the floor in front of him, a position I have never left. A brand new sketch show had started on BBC 2. It was called A Kick Up The Eighties, it starred Richard Stilgoe and it was completely and utterly awful. Yet everyone in my school talked about it the next day like they'd just witnessed the second coming of a V-flicking Christ. It was one of the worst comedies on television yet to miss a single episode would have been agony. I assume. I never, ever missed it. Why? Because of the rush and excitement of the silhouette of Kevin Turvey, an investigative journalist who would research any subject with pain staking detail, if it wasn't for the fact he was easily distracted. "My name is Kevin Turvey but you can call me Kevin Turvey", he said in that exotically nasal voice. "Alright, alright. Settle down".

It is the one and only time anyone has had me at hello. Everything that appeared on my TV screen in those few minutes were brand new. Those eyes, that voice, those hands. No one in television had eyes, voices or hands before Kevin Turvey. I grew up in 70's/80's Northern Ireland and for the very first time, I didn't feel safe in my own home. Someone had broken into the dust of television and shouted "RIGHT. I'M IN. LET'S BREAK EVERYTHING!"

I think I'm in love.

A million years later, I saw a trailer for The Young Ones, a brand new BBC sitcom. I thought it looked shit. I hated punks, didn't really know what hippies were and I'd absolutely no idea why these young men were all still living with their dad. But wait... Kevin Turvey's in it! Well, it's bound to be good.

It wasn't good. It was much more than that. It was the single most important thing in my life. It was wild, anarchic, surreal and gloriously stupid. A sitcom that destroys its "sit" in the very first episode. And I didn't just watch every episode, I devoured them. I memorised them. I loved them. I had no idea where this programme had come from but I did know that their disgusting, sick-and-snot-filled house was my home. And the star was Kevin Turvey. I didn't even care that Kevin was playing a new character called Rick because Kevin Turvey is great in everything. He's my new hero and I want to know all about him. The Young Ones is everything I've ever wanted. And therefore, The Young Ones got banned in our house.

Not for long. Just a few episodes. I'd called my Dad a "complete and utter bastard" once too often and so The Young Ones had to be switched off. Of course, Dad couldn't keep to his threat because in the Legge household, comedy isn't just comedy. It's romance. My Dad first noticed my Mum when he heard her doing Goons impressions and, 56 years later, he's still married to the funniest person he knows. Maybe Dad thought that I should watch The Young Ones because maybe someone will someday fall in love with me after hearing me saying "Neil, Neil, orange peel" repeatedly. I don't see why they wouldn't.

It seems too much of a corny thing to say that I wish I could say thanks to Rik Mayall for all he's given me but it's true. In the same way that The Beatles fans feel their lives were changed by music, my life is all the better for having The Dangerous Brothers, The Comic Strip Presents, Happy Familes, Filthy, Rich & Catflap, Blackadder, The New Statesman, The Bad News Album and Bottom. Let's face it, what is Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire if it isn't Robin Ince and I trying to steal Bottom and get away with it? When I found out that Rik had died yesterday, I was glad I was with Robin. I think when someone as important to you as Rik Mayall dies, you need to be with someone who loved him too. Or maybe you could just look on Twitter and Facebook and all forms of online media. Or you could turn on the TV or read a newspaper. It turns out that Rik Mayall was loved by everyone. We all felt a loss and we all celebrated his life. Everyone quoted him, everyone posted clips of him and... oh, Greg Davies... you beautiful, beautiful man. Imagine writing a sitcom and the sitcom gets made and you star in the sitcom and RIK MAYALL IS YOUR DAD!

I don't need to tell you which bits of Rik Mayall's work you should see because you already know. But if I was forced to, I'd say get a time machine and go back to 1991 and see Rik and Ade Edmondson performing Waiting For Godot, still the best production of the greatest play I've ever seen. Or just watch Mr Jolly Lives Next Door, my favourite comedy of all time.  
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Tuesday, 3 June 2014

Some Kind of Monster.

Your heroes should never meet you. You'll only let them down. And by that I mean that my heroes should never meet me. I will definitely let them down. Mind you, they've got no one to blame but themselves. I mean, what is Morrissey doing coming round my house for tea? He knows I'm bound to ask him why he wears leather shoes or ask why his band are terrible. And Peter Davison. Why would he ever go out of his way to meet me when it's guaranteed that I'll shout and cum on him? And Seamus Heaney. Why would he ever get his agent to ring my agent to organise meeting me in an upscale West London restaurant (his treat, of course) when he knows fully well I talk with my mouth full and I'm bound to ask him why he's dead? It makes no sense whatsoever. These heroes are just wasting their time meeting the likes of me. And just in case you think I'm being self-deprecating, know this: when De La Soul met me, I forgot to talk. When Robyn Hitchcock met me, I got so excited I completely ruined his solo acoustic gig. And... proud face ...I've been told to fuck off by all three members of R.E.M.

But not all my idols have been horribly let down by their worshipper. I met Metallica when I was 18 years old. It was in a club in Oakland, California during a show by the band Armored Saint. I really liked Armored Saint but they were nothing compared to Metallica. And there they were. Just standing around like they were ordinary human beings. I stared at singer James Hetfield for what felt like hours, like he was Molly Ringwald. And finally, like Andrew McCarthy, I got the courage to just go over there and speak to her. I mean him.

He was lovely. Not only was he very friendly but he was genuinely decent. When drummer Lars Ulrich didn't want a fan anywhere near the band, James asked me to sit with them. And when I couldn't get any alcohol because I was under 21, James sneaked me a beer. It was a brief meeting but a beautiful one. I was a fan then and I'm still a fan today. There's barely a week goes by that I don't listen to a Metallica album in full, I still happily wear my awful-looking Metallica t-shirt and my favourite film of last year was easily Metallica: Through The Never. And one of the reasons I'm still a fan is down to James Hetfield. He's funny, he's utterly charming and he has one of the truly great singing voices in rock. I mean, he's close to Nick Cave. He's THAT good.

But... hey, all good things must come to an end. Sooner or later, your heroes just turn out to be shit. Ben Elton wrote The Young Ones and a song for George W. Bush's inauguration. George Lucas created Star Wars and its prequels. And James Hetfield wrote Master of Puppets and now he's narrated a TV show called The Hunt, a reality programme focusing on men tracking down and killing a Kodiak bear. What a prick.

I can't joke about it. Firstly, I'm not very good at jokes. Secondly, I'll never understand why anyone would want to hurt anything. The idea of being so impressed by something that you have to kill it makes no sense. It can't even make sense to the hunter. So why do they do it? I think Dolly Parton is utterly incredible but the idea of having her severed head mounted in my living room makes me feel like I've taken fan worship too far. Plus, it would end all the things she does brilliantly. And I'd go to jail and shit. Anyway, the third reason I can't joke about it is I actually feel hurt. Someone I admire is doing the very thing that I'm against. It's weird but I really do want James Hetfield from Metallica to promise he'll stop all this, say sorry to me and then just hold me. I'll have a cry on him and then I'll forgive him. But he HAS to promise.

I found out about this on Sunday but I started reading more and more about it yesterday. None of it made me feel better. It's not like I didn't know that people hunted bears, I just always assumed that the people I had picked for my team wouldn't ever do that. I stopped reading about it and closed my laptop. Metallica's next record just won't sound that good now. But you can't mope, I suppose. You have to get out of the house and give yourself a shake. It was a lovely day yesterday. A nice walk will help.

And it did. I decided to get some unhunted and unmurdered broccoli from Tesco and, as I walked down the street, I saw a kitten. It was tiny, black and white and it was adorable.

It got my attention, not from it's adorability but because it was digging a hole in a garden. I've never seen a cat dig a hole before. That's more a dog thing, really. This tiny little ball of fluff and eyes using its soft white paws to dig a hole... look, I know James Hetfield would have just kicked it's fucking head in but it made the sun rise and shine brightly in my heart. It was beautiful. I just stood there watching this little kitten dig and dig and dig. It's tiny paws nowhere near powerful enough to make much of a dent in the soil but, with its eyes wide and his front legs frantic, it wasn't for the lack of trying. I must have stood there, outside an ordinary house on an ordinary Lewisham street, for three minutes. I didn't know why the kitten was digging but I was gripped. A tiny, industrious and curious kitten padding at the earth with all his might. Then it stopped.

It stopped because it had finished digging its hole.

Then, it lay down in the hole it had just made, under a plant, and curled up to go to sleep.

THAT KITTEN MADE A BED! Right in front of me. A tiny, ickle, adorable kitten made a wee, tiny bed for itself and lay down to sleep. I saw the whole thing and it was just magical. Oh, I'm well aware how sweary and aggressive I can be but, believe me, I swoon over an animal being amazing just as easily as I raise my devil horn hands to a great heavy metal riff. The little kitten closed its eyes and settled down under the plant and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

Then a man who lived in the house came out and asked why I was looking in his garden.

I laughed and explained everything, even pointing to the kitten. "That must have looked really weird from your living room...a man just standing there staring at your garden...but your kitten was just lovely", I beamed.

"Yeah, well, it's not your cat, it's mine. Fuck off", he said.

I won't lie, I hate you. All of you people. You're rude, smelly, ugly and you kill animals. Or at the very least, tell people to fuck off when they look at your kitten. I spent most of yesterday with Jerk. We didn't argue or get fed up with each other or try to kill one another. Maybe she's actually my hero? And I had that moment with that kitten. And nothing else matters.

BOOM! Ended on a Metallica lyric. Well proud.

Saturday, 10 May 2014

The New Zealand Comedy Festival - Sue Chef.

When you've only got a month in a foreign country, and you're working every night there, you have to spend your time wisely. That's why a comedians outing was planned yesterday. All of us got up early and travelled to Waiheke, a tropical island about 40 minutes away from Auckland. It has golden beaches, beautiful vineyards and is quite rightly thought of as paradise.

I say all of us went. I didn't. I went to see the film Chef instead.

That was a huge mistake. It was a mistake to say no to paradise, it was a mistake to go to watch Chef and it was a mistake that anyone at all let that film ever get made. Imagine a more schmaltzy Love Actually, a less funny Keith Lemon: The Film and a more offensive Nigel Farage statement and you're about halfway to the godawful, manipulative headache that is Chef. If Chef was a human being it would be Rupert Murdoch. So much bullshit, self satisfaction and money. If Chef had a friend, that friend would kill himself rather than be seen in public with it. If Chef was an animal, vegans everywhere would applaud it's slaughter. I said no to paradise and yes to Chef. What the fuck was I thinking? It's like the time I said no to seeing The Smiths and yes to seeing Nik Kershaw all over again. I'm a fucking idiot. Look, in case you're thinking of seeing Chef, let me just tell you about it...

Jon Favreau, THE MAN WHO MADE IRON MAN, plays a chef who quits his job at a popular restaurant because his boss won't let him create imaginatively in the kitchen. His boss knows he's brilliant but he just wants him to make the same boring, popular meals. After getting one bad online review, the chef realises that he must stand by his principles so he quits this stifling, frustrating, tedious job and goes off to make sandwiches in a van. No. You're right. It makes no fucking sense at all. He's an artist who wants to be taken seriously so, TO PROVE HIMSELF TO THE WORLD, fucks off to make really boring beef and cheese sandwiches. That's like Picasso saying fuck you to the art world and going off to do caricatures in Covent Garden. IT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE. And that is the very least of this film's problems.

It's all about a man who got hurt from a bad review and now wants to run away and take all his toys with him. Jon Favreau doesn't just star in this film, it's also written, produced and directed by him. Instead of reading the reviews Iron Man 2 got, taking them on board and making a good film again, Jon Favreau has decided to basically make awful beef and cheese sandwiches. And these are incredibly cheesey sandwiches. Not only is the chef a tormented artist but he's also a divorcee and a dad who has never had time to get to know his son. Favreau has mistaken these things as layers. Failing at your job, your marriage and your one and only actual responsibility doesn't mean you have layers, it just means you're shit at everything. Still, the chef does get lucky. Despite being pretty repugnant looking, shit at everything, obnoxious, unfunny and a man who mistakes being a cunt for being right all the time, two of the most beautiful women you're ever likely to see are in love with him. That's right. Writer, producer and director Jon Favreau made the artistic decision to have Scarlett Johansson and that woman from Modern Family want to bang him. Again, that's nowhere near the most offensive thing in the film. Chef is so clearly bankrolled by Twitter that I wanted to troll it and then block it. At one scene the chef and the son he doesn't know are sitting together discussing Twitter. "I have an account", says the 8 year old boy. "Can you set one up for me?" says the chef AND THEN WE ARE TOLD, BY THE FILM, EXACTLY HOW TO SET UP A TWITTER ACCOUNT. "Is it like texting?", asks the chef. THEN THE SON EXPLAINS WHAT TWITTER IS. Favreau then steals from Sherlock and has his tweets appear over his head every time he writes one. You even hear the proper tweet noise when he presses send. Another mistake I regret making was staying to the end of the film. If I'd just walked out then I could have just lived the rest of my life assuming that the chef's sandwich business had failed, he'd died of starvation and his unloved son spent every day pissing on his dad's grave. But no, I stayed and, to my horror, found out that people love boring sandwiches and the chef's business was a massive success. Suddenly there are hundreds of people queued up outside his sandwich van, all totally psyched about buying a fucking sandwich. "How did they even know we were here?", asks the chef AND HIS SON THEN EXPLAINS HOW YOU ADD PHOTOS AND MAP LINKS TO YOUR TWEETS.


And it never ends. To get the Cuban feel of the film right, Favreau chose the first Now That's What I Call A Tourist In Cuba music compilation he could find and threw it at the soundtrack. Tony Stark is in it - NOT ROBERT DOWNEY JR - it's definitely Tony Stark. And Favreau has written, produced and directed his own idea of a best friend into the film. A man who constantly agrees with chef, tells him he loves him every ten seconds and high fives every clearly stupid decision he makes or line he says. If you had a friend like that you'd have him sectioned. BUT...I guess that's what happens when your ego is huge and the words of a blogger can hurt you. A successful filmmaker, THE MAN WHO MADE IRON MAN, who would even read an online review let alone give a fuck what it said and THIS is how it effects him? He doesn't just laugh and think "I'm Jon fucking Favreau, the brilliant filmmaker who made Iron Man. I made a great film before, I can do it again". Instead, he cries and asks the internet for money and makes this? When Tony Stark is kidnapped and stuck in a cave in Iron Man, his fellow prisoner says to him " are a man who has everything...and nothing". Tony listens, dusts himself off and makes something incredible.

I'm just saying.

By the way, apparently paradise was quite good, by all accounts. But I chose Chef instead. And while those other comedians all have their memories of that paradise, I left that film with nothing. Nothing.

Nothing except the full information on how to correctly tweet Jon Favreau and tell him Chef was crap.

Wednesday, 7 May 2014

The New Zealand Comedy Festival - All Shall Pass.

What the fuck is wrong with New Zealand? I've always wanted to go there. It looks so beautiful in all the films made there (all 5 of them) and it's so far away that it feels impossible to ever go there. But, as unlikely as it seems, I'm there now. And is the scenery as beautiful as it looks in all the films (all 5 films)? Yes, it does. Flying over the north island of New Zealand felt exactly as it should. So green and lush, exotic and inspiring, kind mother hills and evil stepfather mountains. Beauty that is hard to take in because it looks endless, so much of it that it just can't be real. And yet, there it is. Nature raising an eyebrow at everyone at the Weta Workshop and asking what silly little CGI thing have they made up today? I looked out the window of the plane and I saw the most beautiful country in the world and it was breathtaking. And, as I'm asthmatic, that was New Zealand's first insult to me. The second insult was meeting the people. What the fuck is wrong with New Zealanders?

It's not like I haven't met nice people before. I've easily met maybe 7 nice people who aren't from New Zealand. I've met people with manners and warmth and kindness. People who say "after you" and look pleased to see you and they're not covered in shit and sick. But EVERYONE is nice is New Zealand. EVERYONE. So nice. So suspiciously, terrifyingly nice. OK, that's not fair. I shouldn't tar all New Zealanders with the same brush. People in Wellington are cunts but I'm talking about the people of Auckland here. I've yet to meet a normal, everyday, couldn't-give-a-fuck-about-you person in this place. And it's got to the point were I'm afraid to leave my hotel room. Of course, I HAVE to leave my hotel room because at 11am every morning someone knocks on the door to ask how I am and if they can do anything for me. EVERY FUCKING DAY. Then I leave the hotel and the staff say goodbye to me and wish me a nice day and I go to get some caffeine and the caffeine salesman asks if I'm well and then recommends things to do in Auckland and then I go to a vegan shop and they say "it's great to see you again" when I know it can't be and they invite me to their house for dinner. I mean...FOR FUCK'S SAKE. I'm just trying to lead my grey, solitary life and these Hobbit fuckers won't leave me alone. Why is someone who works in a shop happy to see ME and why are they inviting me for dinner? If that happened in Lewisham, I'd have them arrested, if they weren't already being arrested. I went into a shop in Auckland on my second day and bought a Diet Coke. The shopkeeper said "How are you?". I assumed it must be the jetlag and just carried on counting out change. Then I heard "How are you?" again. I looked up and he wasn't on his phone like a normal shopkeeper, and it wasn't jetlag, he was saying "How are you?" to me. Obviously, I wanted to knock him out for being so personal but I looked at his friendly face and I found myself smiling and saying "I'm good, thank you". GET THIS: I even said "And you?". It was FUCKING AMAZING. I mean, I didn't hear his answer because I was so proud of myself for being great but it was a truly lovely moment. Then...and if you're not already shocked by the behaviour of Aucklanders, then check this out...he said "Is there anything not available in the shop that you'd like to see on the shelves?".


He...he actually wants me to come back? And he's willing to stock more items that might interest customers?

I grabbed my Diet Coke, threw money at him, pushed him over and ran. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? What sort of Stepford Wives country have I woken up in? What do these people want? These people who have been trained...OR PROGRAMMED...yeah, probably show fondness in their eyes and appear to actually care. They smile and they help and they offer friendship. Listen to this...on the night of our first gig here, John Gordillo asked several people what New Zealand's equivalent of UKIP is. Every single one asked what UKIP was.

John explained that they were a far right political party. Every single one said "Ah. The Tories are right wing here".

John said, "Right. And they're racist, yeah?". Every single one said "What do you mean?"

THEY DON'T HAVE RACISM HERE. That's what New Zealanders (except for Wellington cunts) are like. THEY DON'T HAVE RACISM. One guy even said "Well...what would be the point of that?". Poor John Gordillo. He was only asking a question. It's not like he's got any material on UKIP, he just wanted to go to a meeting of like minded people but John Gordillo will now have to wait until he gets home because the creepy, suspicious people of New Zealand DON'T HAVE RACISM. I mean, for fuck's sake. We've had racism since the 70's. How backward is this place?

This is genuinely what it's like here. Everyone is nice at all times, people feel the need to unite the community while welcoming new people from overseas and there is no racism. It's terrifying. Every single day I walk the streets and all I see is nice people. Friendly people who say hello in the street. THEY JUST SAY HELLO. Like hello is any of their fucking business. And then...I found him.

I was sitting on a bench, exhausted from saying hello back to people all day, when a man stepped out of his workplace and lit a cigarette. Thank fuck for that, I thought. At least they smoke. At least they've got SOMETHING. Then, when he finished his cigarette, he threw the butt on the ground.


Not in Auckland. That's not how we do things here. 

I stared at him. He looked back. I stared longer. He stepped over to his cigarette butt. I stared longer. He stood on his cigarette butt as if to hide it. I stared even longer. He picked up the butt and threw it in the bin.

Then he looked over at me and smiled and I smiled back. He said hello and I said hello back to him. Everything back to normal. Everything lovely again. Everything nice. Really nice.

Fuck. I think I'm becoming one of them. But it still doesn't answer the question: why are these people so friendly? Why are they THIS lovely? Maybe I'm thinking too much into it. Maybe they're just nice because they're actually nice. But, I mean, they're REALLY nice. They're kind. Generous. Charitable. You know, like Jimmy Savile.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

The New Zealand Comedy Festival - A Flying Start.

Not enough credit is ever given to the geniuses Orville and Wilbur Wright for their ground-breaking and pioneering achievements in utter laziness. On December 17th 1903, these two humble men used the straight forward medium of aviation to secure laziness was a thing that could become almost mandatory for us all in the future. It’s hard to believe that, before the Wright brothers, people couldn’t afford a fat lazy arse due to travel being so insistent on US doing the travelling. The Wright brothers famous “fuck that” speech in the Gettysburg Address changed all that. Orville Wright impregnated Wilbur Wright’s brain with an idea, ultrasound pictures of flight were posted and “liked” and soon the Air-O-Plane was born.
Planes aren’t just about getting from London to somewhere, they’re about science demanding you sit down and drink while it takes you wherever you want to go. Planes are nothing short of a miracle.
I’m writing this in Auckland, New Zealand. I got here after a 28 hour plane journey. It was the perfect way, not just to travel, but to live. I got on board and I was told where to sit. So keen were the cabin staff on me sitting down and not using an ounce of precious energy that they insisted I actually strap myself into the seat. If the caring stewards feared that I might accidentally get up and start moving about, then they were wrong. I spent 28 hours on a plane. Sat down. Drinking beer and wine and eating almost permanently (TIP: always chose a vegan meal. It’s always far better and you get your meal first. You’re welcome). Dear reader, I watched SEVEN films. SEVEN. And one of them was The Wolf of Wall Street and that’s three hours long. That’s over a 10th of the flight already nailed.
Some dickholes cycle to their destination. That’s the kind of archaic, backward, spitting-in-the-face-of-science that makes me sick. What the fuck do these people get out of THAT experience? Exhaustion? Sweat? Unnecessary health? That’s bullshit. And they don’t even get to watch Saving Mr Banks. Why would you do that to yourself? I’m sorry but if you’re so against science and you ride a bike anywhere then you shouldn’t ever be allowed medicine or hospitals. You made your choice. You helmet wearing prick.
And I made mine: 28 hours of not moving. Watching seven films, 3 episodes of Futurama, eating and eating and eating…and at the end of it, I felt great. Yes, I was tired and my back really hurt but no pain, no gain. Which brings me to my point…the last flight I went on was from Estonia and on that flight…I saw the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
God knows what horror the victims of a plane crash see in their final moments but I definitely know that I’ve seen worse. Planes TELL us to sit down and do fuck all but some people just don’t listen. Some people get up as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off. They want to go to the toilet or stand up or change seat. Some people even want to walk about! What are they? Jenny Agutter? (They’re never Jenny Agutter) These people just walk about the plane being terrified of dying of DVT. As opposed to what? I mean, you ARE going to die so what difference does it actually make if it’s from DVT or not? What would you like to die from? Being twatted by a rainbow? Being skewered by the horn of a unicorn? Getting AIDS from Oliver Postgate? Look. You’re going to die so sit the fuck down and die in peace like the rest of us. Anyway, the point is that I was on a plane and I saw the worst thing that anyone has ever seen.
Let’s just think about that for a minute: the WORST thing ever. I want you to imagine what the worst thing ever could be. Just take a second. Have a think. What is the worst thing ever? Well…
When the seatbelt sign switched off, a man unbuckled his seat belt, got up and started doing push ups in the aisle.
Sleep well, everyone.

Hey! I’m in New Zealand. Come see me and lots of other comedians:

Monday, 14 April 2014

The Lost Blogs: The Sound of The Underdog.

"Dear reader, welcome...

 Some Blogs just didn't get written at the time but they still make noises in my head. Here's one of them. From  flipping ages ago".

Is there anything more powerful than music? Yes. The Hulk. But music definitely comes a close second. Music has the power to change the world and to unite us all, although it never has. In fact, generally music only divides us further and most bands want to make the world exactly the same as it was in 1974. I love my friends so dearly but I would rather murder them with my two bare knives than listen to their shitty taste in music. I have a friend who is funny, intelligent and sweet and every time I'm with her I think I'm lucky to have someone like her in my life and when we part I sincerely hope that a motorcycle courier ploughs her into the tarmac before she gets home and puts Ocean Colour Scene on. I mean, why would anyone do that to themselves? In 2014? They were a 90's mistake. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT. Anyway, she'd be equally appalled if I put my beloved Metallica on in front of her. In fact, most music I like is designed to make everyone but me sick. I love heavy metal. It's the single most perfect form of music. It's fun, exciting and it will never ever make you feel sad. Heavy metal is basically better than any person you've ever met. And heavy metal fans are happy, friendly, warm people. They're good people who have great music.

But that doesn't mean they should force it on us.

When I walk around listening to Megadeth, I have my earphones in and my iphone turned up full. I love it. But if I get on a train or a bus or an ambulance or go anywhere in public, that music gets turned way down. I've yet to get on a train carriage and have everyone all agree they'd love to hear some heavy metal right now so I keep it all to myself. And that is how it should be. Music should be shared, it shouldn't be mandatory. But how to deal with those who break that rule? How to deal with heavy metal fans insisting on playing the loudest music on the planet in a place it's not been invited to? Well...

A few months ago after a gig in Nottingham, myself and fellow music fan Bennett Arron (well, he has a Best Of Driving Anthems tape in his car) went out for a drink. It was late but I knew a bar that would still be open. I knew it because it's a heavy metal bar. I knew the heavy metal bar because I'm a heavy metal fan. I like it loud, loud and louder. Bennett?...not so much. But that's OK because this is a heavy metal bar and heavy metal people are the nicest people in the world. The bar has three rooms. One pretty loud room, one deafeningly loud room pretty quiet room. See? They're thoughtful. I mean, you can still hear the music but it's definitely background music. You can easily have a relaxing conversation. I was happy. Bennett was happy. And the quiet room was empty except for us. Us and three heavy metal fans. Three heavy metal fans who got their phones out and started playing THEIR music loudly. Very 'eavy, not very 'umble.

This is completely alien territory for me. Rude heavy metal fans? I've never ever met any. In the '80's in my hometown of Newtownards, there was a heavy metal bar. It was dark and terrifying. NEVER EVER GO IN THERE was generally the plan for me and everyone I knew. Of course, now I look back and think that's nuts. Every other bar in town was run by paramilitaries and we decided that drinking with terrorists was safer than drinking with people who quite liked Dumpy's Rusty Nuts. When I finally went into that bar for the first time it was like I'd found home. Everyone was long haired, smelly and just lovely. I was welcomed with open, unwashed arms. I was bought a pint. And if I wanted to headbang to Judas Priest...well, no one here was going to stop me. How could anyone not like heavy metal fans. They're just adorable. So what the hell went wrong with these three?

Bennett and I ignored them. We hadn't been out together for quite a while and it was great to see him and just chat. Then they played another loud song on their phone. Bennett and I quietly laughed and rolled our eyes. These three dicks aren't going to spoil our night. Then they played another loud song on their phone. But we cared not. It was annoying but Bennett and I rose above it. Then they played another loud song on their phone.

"You know I'm going to have to deal with this, don't you?", I said to my friend.

Bennett closed his eyes, sighed and said "I know".

Thoughtlessly playing loud music in a bar is unforgivable and I was glad Bennett agreed. We'd heard four loud songs from a shitty, tinny phone speaker and, to quote Twisted Sister, we're not gonna take it anymore. They're loud people playing the loudest of music but I must defeat them. Somehow.

I got my phone out and scrolled through my music. Metallica, Megadeth, Anthrax...all great loud bands. But I'm not just a heavy metal fan. I'm a MUSIC fan. On my phone I have Iron Maiden, The Smiths, The Clash, Faith No More, The Sex Pistols...and I have Girls Aloud.

I also have a better, louder phone. I pressed play on Sexy No No No and sat back to enjoy the disgust on the faces of the only three rude heavy metal fans in history. They turned their phone up. I turned mine louder. I can vaguely hear a guitar solo but it's hard to register it over the sound of Cheryl Cole's vocoder. They turned their phone up again. So I turned Britain's girl band pop sensations up to 11. AND we sang along.

The three heavy metal "fans" switched their phone off. They got up. They left. Such is the power of music.

I switched Girls Aloud off and Bennett and I continued our night in happiness. Just us in a heavy metal snug in Nottingham. And it made me has the power to change the world and divide us all. Sometimes, that's not always a bad thing.

ps I will never come round to your house and shove a Metallica or Girls Aloud song into your ears. But, if you're interested, I'd go for Master of Puppets by Metallica and Miss You Bow Wow by Girls Aloud. Sharing music is a brilliant thing and I recommend you do that right now. Tell everyone what you're listening to right now on Twitter, recommend an album on Facebook for your friends to see. Just keep it down in public, please. Thanks.


Thursday, 10 April 2014

Sunday In The Park With Jerk.

I come home in the morning light, my mother says "when you gonna live your life right?". Oh, mother dear, we're not the fortunate ones and Legges, they want to have fun. Oh, Legges just want to have fun.

Believe it or not, sometimes I just want to have a laugh and kick my hair off and let my heels down. I get so wrapped up in my lair all day, working out my revenge on everyone, that I forget there's a whole world of fun out there. Life isn't all work, work, work. Well, my life is nothing like that. I'm a very lazy man. But even I know, that while I'm waiting here for my moment to destroy mankind, I could be out there doing literally ANYTHING. Instead of going online anonymously to slag off Steven Moffat, I could be out there anonymously having the time of my life. That's why I liked Sunday. Sunday was just one of those days that reminded me to have fun. It reminded me to let loose. It reminded me that, on Sundays, men play football.

Men love football and to see them playing the beautiful game in the local park on a Sunday afternoon is nothing short of a thing. They shout at one another, get angry at one another and they physically try to take each other down. It's how men relax. 

I'm not a man. I'm just some guy. Being a man looks really hard. You have to fix the motor and respect Alan Sugar and switch over when the scores come on. It just seems really hard work. There's no watching Doctor Who and listening to The Smiths when you're a man. They don't have time for that shit. That's what guys do, not men. Men only need three things in life: Football, sport and football. Anything else is pathetic. Anything else is for guys. Men hate guys. Guys aren't normal. They're disgusting. Guys parade around really rubbing their love of Marvel Comics in men's faces. They have pets instead of guard dogs, they sometimes drink things that are neither alcoholic or isotonic and they play games instead of matches. I know a guy that borrows comic books from WOMEN! (That guy is me) For God's sake, guys can even get married these days. It's broken Britain, everyone. Quite frankly, I think there should be a fence built between men and guys and I for one agree with me. And luckily, on Sunday, there was a fence. A fence between Men and Guys. Score so far: Men 10 - Guys 2.

Jerk (she's a guy) and I were walking through part of the park that has a fenced off sports club in it. It has a running track and in the middle of the running track there's a football pitch. As we passed we heard shouting and screaming like a building was on fire and people were trapped inside with a murderer who had a bomb made of 9/11 but actually it was just men playing football. It was a Sunday morning 5-a-side football match that sounded like nothing else was important except this. Jerk and I were the only other two in this part of the park. It was a nice day and even the matter-of-life-and-death shouting couldn't spoil it. Then the ball came flying over the fence.

"Throw it over", said a huge man. 

Right. Here's the thing. I'm not saying guys are better than men. In many ways, we're not. We aren't as strong as men or as good at fixing things. We don't have great cars or the names of both people we give a flying fuck about tattooed on our pecs. We don't have pecs. But we do have one thing: manners.

I looked at the ball THAT WAS NOWHERE NEAR ME and then I looked back at the huge man. "Excuse me?", I said.

"Throw it over", he said again.

Well, I gave him a chance. "Righto", I said cheerily and half-ran over to get the ball THAT WAS NOWHERE NEAR ME. I didn't want to do a proper run over to get the ball because it was a nice day. A lovely day. A great day to have fun. And I wanted to drag this out for as long as possible.

I lamely kicked the ball closer to the fence of the sports club. Jerk saw me kicking a ball and immediately got excited. Jerk LOVES football. And I forgive her this sin because she's very pretty and she's the opposite of nearly every person who loves football. She never talks about it, she only likes actually playing it. As I got to the fence, I kicked the ball really hard. Jerk's tail wagged at the speed of light and she bounded over to play. The ball hit the fence and bounced back to me. Gosh, I must have missed getting it over the fence. Still, I'll give it another go. I kicked the ball, THUD, and it hit the wire fence once again, SHING SHING. 

The men were just staring at me now but the ball bounced back to give me yet another chance of returning this much needed ball to these big, mannerless men. Jerk followed the ball, too. She ran to the fence as I kicked the ball, THUD, then followed it back after it hit the fence unbelievably for a third time, SHING SHING.

Hey, fourth time's the charm, they say. Let's give this another go. After all, Jerk's having fun, I'm having fun and it's a lovely day. I could THUD do this SHING SHING all day.

"Just chuck it, mate". 

It was kind of him to offer advice but, despite our weak bodies and fun t-shirts, us guys are determined. And quite frankly, I was not giving up while my darling little Jerk was skipping around like a deer. I mean if those men THUD actually thought about it SHING SHING for a minute THUD they'd completely agree SHING SHING. Who is actually THUD enjoying this football? SHING SHING Them shouting furiously at one another THUD or this dog with the waggily tail? SHING SHING.

"Just throw it".

I assured him that this time I'd definitely get it over the fence. THUD. SHING SHING. "Just throw it over". Don't worry, I can do this. THUD. SHING SHING. "No. Just THROW it". Oh, so close. I nearly got it then. Another go. THUD. SHING SHING. "Throw it". THUD. SHING SHING. "Just throw the ball". THUD. SHING SHING. "Throw the ball over".

He must have said "Throw it" at least 10 times. 10 FUCKING TIMES. But that was nothing. Because I kicked that ball THUD and hit that fence SHING SHING easily 20 times in front of these huge men and that very happy dog. The more I kicked the ball THUD and the more it hit the fence SHING SHING the more the men stared at me. It was almost as if I was doing it on purpose. He said "Throw it" again and now that I was sure I had their full attention, I kicked the ball THUD, it hit the fence SHING SHING and when the ball came back I put my foot on it and said "What's the magic word?".

There was a pause.

"Please", said the huge man.

I picked up the ball, walked over to the fence and threw it over. They didn't thank me but as I walked away I clearly heard one of them say "Prick". Yes, I am a prick. But I'm the prick that they made and I'm a prick with manners, a prick with a happy dog who slept like a log when she got home and I'm a prick who won a small victory thanks to his determination to do what's right and having a huge fence between him and people who could easily kick his head in. Sunday was a good day. Final score: Men 0 - Guys 20. 

Monday, 7 April 2014

Down and In.

"And why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up".

The words of Thomas Wayne to his young son. It's a very inspiring notion too. Life hits us with so many problems and, in dealing with them, we become stronger, wiser, better people as a result. We get fired from our job so we work harder to get an even better job. We lose a loved one so we grieve and let time teach us to keep the memory of that person precious and to love the ones we still have even more. We see the new trailer for Derek so we drag a key down the side of our neighbour's new car. Basically, we cope. We rise up in the face of adversity. But why?

I'm very interested in falling because I've recently become a faller. In a way, it's very nostalgic. In the 70's, I used to fall all the time. That's what it was like back then. Bay City Rollers, Zoom lollies and falling. That was all we did, every day. I'd fall on my way to school, I'd fall going into Mass, I'd fall playing Mouse Trap somehow. Mum would give me a shilling to get a pound of television from Radio Rentals and I'd fall all the way there and all the way back. And do you know what would happen when I fell? Nothing. I wouldn't even notice. I'd be straight back up, buying flares and reading the latest copy of I.R.A. Comic, before I'd even properly hit the ground. That's what my youth was like in the 70's. Long summers, Star Wars and constantly falling over. That and almost permanently being fucked by Jimmy Savile.

But as I grew less attractive to the television presenters of the time, the falling just seemed to gradually phase itself out. Of course, I still enjoy watching other people fall. It's hilarious. Especially when it's someone I know and care for. I genuinely can't remember the last time I fell (probably because I was drunk) but I know it wasn't recently. So, you can imagine how I felt when I fell just a few days ago.

I woke up that morning to the sound of my next door neighbour learning to play the hammer. When I went downstairs, I saw that I hadn't closed the door of my freezer properly and there was water all over the kitchen floor. Water that Jerk clearly spent the night playing in and tip-toed it all over the living room. I had a cold shower (not by choice) and made myself a tea that I somehow lost for two days. I spent 10 minutes looking for it and shouting threats at it. Anyway, it was on the mantelpiece.  The postman arrived with some bills that were furious with me and, while buying some soy milk in Tesco, a fight broke out right in front of me. Two men, inches away from me, punching the shit out of each other. In Tesco. How far we've come from wild west saloons...

THAT was the morning. Then I got on the train to Kettering. 

Getting to Kettering costs £67 and your sanity. Getting the ticket from a machine that argued with me took 15 fucking minutes, so that meant I missed my train and had to take a later one. The good thing about that was it was now slap bang in the middle of rush hour. I took a deep breath, got on the tube with every single person in London and, for the next 20 minutes, just let my face get baptised in the sweaty armpit of a 50 year old man playing Candy Crush. I got off the tube at St. Pancras and had to guess what platform my train was on and where they were hiding it. Once on the train, I was joined by a man who shouted on his phone and gave a series of women a series of terrible reviews. 

Backstage at the gig, I had a moment to think about my day. It wasn't great. How can anyone hit someone like that? Especially in Tesco. Why does such a short train journey cost so much? How do commuters get on the tube every day like that? Doesn't it make them want to walk? Why do people still not realise their loud, obnoxious phonecalls are aggressive and disgusting? It was then that I tripped on a low platform lying on the ground. I didn't fall though. I just stepped onto the low platform and kept walking. It was very dark backstage but I had every confidence that this low platform was long and I could walk confidently on it for quite a few steps.

I was wrong.

It was short.

I fell.

You'd think falling would instantly transport me back to the good old days of the 70's. Spacehoppers! Evel Knieval! Peter Sutcliffe! But, no. This wasn't like the 70's at all. Falling now takes ages. It's slow and insanely drawn out, like life or a conversation with a comedian. My arms flailed, my body twisted, my balance retired. I hit the ground with a corpse's thud and...I just lay there.

The fall didn't hurt but it definitely was a shock. Luckily the shock of actually falling had passed on that long, long journey to the ground. I had already come to terms with hitting the floor even though I tried valiantly not to. But why did I try? Why would I want to stop this wonderful moment happening? I lay there, far away from angry bills and urinating freezers, in the pitch dark on a dirty floor and I was finally free. When you hit the ground, there is nowhere to go. It's only in the walking around world where the options of pain, frustration and failure will find us. But in the dark, on the is where I belong. No hate, no anger and no one to break my heart. It is liberty.

" And why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up".

Yeah. And what a well-rounded guy he turned out to be.

Thursday, 27 February 2014

That's Ideal.

The thing about catching a mouse (after 10 days of hunting it) in a humane trap and then releasing it in a luscious green field where it can frolic forever is that it makes you feel so good. Not only have you cared for a tiny, fragile animal and rehomed it back to nature but you also showed all those negative, unloving people who say humane traps don't work that they can suck your fat balls. Catching mice is clearly a topic that practically everyone has an opinion on and now I'm one of those people. Humane traps work. Peanut butter didn't lure Stripe (that's the mouse's name. I called him that because he had a mohican) as many people said it would. Nor did chocolate or cheese. Love lured him into my trap. Simple, heartfelt love. And dog food. And as soon as Stripe fell for the bait he realised he'd been tricked into entering...liberation. He understood, for the first time ever, that everywhere else had been the trap and now he was free. Free of running, free of hiding. He walked into my love and it was that love that carried him to his field of dreams. And all those people who said "When you release a mouse, they just come back" should know that he hasn't returned because he has freedom. Those people should know that he hasn't returned because he's found his way in the world. And, perhaps most importantly, those people should know that they can suck my fat balls.

Being right, and therefore better than everyone else, comes with a feeling of such smug elation that you just want to share it with the world. After giving Stripe a new home, Jerk and I were walking in a different park and I could feel that smug happiness rising within me. It was a nice day, I'd just done a good deed and I wanted the world to feel as good as I did.

I saw a woman sitting on a bench. She was about 30 and had a can of beer hidden away in a black plastic bag. Standing beside her was a smartly dressed middle aged man with a briefcase. He was trying to show the woman some paperwork but Jerk had distracted her. She asked me what type of dog Jerk was and when I told her Jerk was a lurcher she said "Well, she's very lovely". I was delighted. I could feel my heart swell with joy. Could today get any better? Sunshine, mouse freedom and now someone has said Jerk is very lovely. "And so are you", I replied.

She laughed and said "Tell him that. I'm in court tomorrow for stabbing my boyfriend".

Right. Well. I won't be put off. It's a beautiful day, I've rescued a mouse and I'm not letting this feeling of joy and love go. Today is a great day. I will spread my feeling of goodwill and, within no time, everyone will be as loving, kind and great as I am. I looked across the park at the trees, the river and a man taking a shit into a bag and decided to go home.

But that's Lewisham. It's a tense, aggressive but often wonderful place. In no time, I'd be off to Central London where a classier type of person is found. Ah, the glamour and excitement of London! It still gets to me. Even the train journey there is exciting. A carriage full of people with exciting lives. A businessman sending emails on his Blackberry, an art student looking over his portfolio, theatre-goers checking they've remembered their tickets fifty times. Within minutes my feeling of warmth and happiness had returned. Just one tiny good deed at the start of the day and I'm ready to hug strangers on a train that night. And that's when my opportunity to spread my feeling of goodwill arrives right in front of me. 

A blind man gets on the train and bumps into a handrail. There is only one seat free in the carriage and it's the one next to me. I stand up and offer to help him. He thanks me and I walk with him to his seat. I can see people around me watching and...they smile. They've just seen a nice man being nice. Even jaded old London can still have it's heart melted by the sight of a humble, selfless hero using his powers to defend the needy. I sit down first but keep hold of the man's arm until he sits too. As he does, he stumbles slightly and his hand lands flat on my groin. And stays there until the man finally sits down. It must have been 4 incredibly long seconds of this man's hand firmly and securely on my groin. He sat down, smiled and said "Thank you".

THAT WAS TOO LONG. I don't know how long a hand should be on the groin of a stranger so that it's still OK but that was WAY TOO LONG. He stumbled. His hand touched my cock and balls. And then it still touched my cock and balls. And then it still touched them and still touched them and still touched them. THAT IS WAY TOO LONG. I looked around at passengers sitting in front of me. They had horror on their faces. "Are you OK?", one woman's face screamed. "Holy shit", shouted a man's face. And I sat there. Alone. For the rest of the journey. And the normal hate for everything returned. I tried to do a nice thing and something horrible happened to me as a result. AS IT ALWAYS DOES. And now I'm on a stinking, piss soaked train with some business cunt, an art prick, theatre wankers and a blind paedophile (he doesn't know I'm 45) and I think why bother with anything nice when life is always this shit? It was then that I noticed the blind man had a newspaper.

That was supposed to be my happy day. My day of sunshine and spreading the warmth of my wellbeing to everyone I met. The one fucking day where I'd done something good and thought it was OK to feel good about myself. Is it so wrong to be happy? Is it so wrong to hope for joy in a joyless world?


Because hoping for joy is the human trap. And human traps don't work.

Los Quattros Cvnts return on 13th March!! Tickets here:

Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire with Robin Ince and Michael Legge, next show 4th March with NICK HELM! Tickets here: