tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48110987290698156632024-03-13T03:51:54.998-07:00Michael Legge's BlogMichael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.comBlogger672125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-66792229233964774152019-01-16T02:20:00.001-08:002019-01-16T02:20:23.972-08:00Rise and Shite.<br />
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January is such a sad time of year. The grey skies, the cold
weather and the look of grief on the faces of friends, family and acquaintances
when I reply to their question “So, what have you got planned for the new
year?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have the exact same thing planned for this year as I did
for last year, as I did for the year before: Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I will stick to that plan. I will not let myself down.
At the end of 2019, I will have comfortably achieved my goal. Almost certainly,
well before the end. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Each day this year, I will wake up in time for a nice rest. I
will consider and dismiss either getting up or getting dressed. That’s for
later. For at least an hour, I won’t even open my eyes. I’ll just sink further
and further into the mattress while I listen to the outside sounds of wind,
birds and people, all ruining their lives by living. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I finally open my eyes, I spend a solid hour or two ignoring
texts or phone calls. They’re probably important, so there’s no point in me
getting involved. It’ll end badly. Plus, I have to keep the bedroom ceiling
from falling in using only my mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember there’s a good book lying on the floor beside me.
I’m a third of the way through it and for a few moments I wonder what will
happen in it next. Then, in my mind, I murder the lead character, consider the
book finished and decide that I have now read it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A friend of mine once said that when she is having a bad
day, she just goes to bed. But I say, why take the chance? Stay there. The only
bad thing that can happen to you is that you might piss yourself. Then I spend
a long passage of time thinking how bad would it really be to lie in your own
piss? Surely, it’ll only be initially horrifying like plummeting to your death
or going to work. At first, you realise the horror of it but after a while you
get used to it, become numb and then, ultimately, oblivion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I close my eyes again, pull the duvet over my head and enjoy
some more reassuring oblivion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it’s no good. My bladder is furious and loud. Plus, it’s
after lunchtime now, so time for me to get up and have breakfast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cook a Diet Coke by opening it. A delicious start to… er…
whatever day it is. Yes, breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I
find a Diet Coke just hits the spot. Refreshing and doesn’t spoil my inertia
with all that chewing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are things to do. So many things to do. I have some
unread emails. 3,649 to be precise. But first things first: It’s time to help
the arse-sized dent on the sofa with its task of hitting the floor. I don’t put
the TV on because the remote control and my mind are too far away. So, I heave
my legs onto the sofa, lie back and continue my blurred focus on nothing. At 2pm,
I hear a siren and feel sad when it goes past, more interested in someone else
and not me. But that’s me. Too unmotivated to do a killing spree or set fire to
my house. And ambulances are useless. I was in one recently when my leg
exploded. They took me to a hospital and a doctor told me that I needed
complete rest and my leg would be healed in 6 weeks. 2 weeks later I came back,
fully healed. “How did that heal so quick?”, asked the doctor. “I just did what
you said”, I told him. “Complete rest”. The doctor was surprised and said “Oh,
no one ever actually does that”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am and always have been a model patient. I was born to be
a patient.<o:p></o:p></div>
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2pm becomes 3 becomes 4 becomes 5. The day is over, and I haven’t
started. If I wasn’t so content, so blissfully happy doing nothing, maybe I
could be on TV like my friends. I could be on panel shows and chat shows and
Bake Off and Question Time. My friends are so busy that I worry about them. How
do they fit their nothing in? When I talk to them, they seem so happy that they’re
busy. But that’s comedians. Always masking the pain. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I have barely any free time!”, they say. Free time? What is
that. My day is full. I’ve not gone scuba diving, played golf, read Eleanor
Oliphant or watched Better Call Saul because I have no time to do things, just 24
hours a day to do nothing. But somehow, I cram all that nothing in. Not false
free time nothing. Not “doing nothing, just reading a book” or “doing nothing,
just washing myself”. Actual bona fide, genuine, half-dressed rehearsal-for-the-grave
nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It is night and people are returning to their homes just as I
begin to wake up and go out. This is not as scary as it seems. My night will
consist of just a few hours drinking beer and having the same conversation with
friends I’ve been having for years. Like minded friends. Comfortable and
comforting friends. They don’t ask what I’ve been up to because they know, and
they can’t be arsed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It is bliss. Drinking is lovely. Like going back to bed
while you’re out. The beer starts to feel like the duvet. Keeping me warm, safe
and in the dark. And soon the beer will put me back into my slumber. It’s an
expensive and decadent lifestyle but fast-tracking, whether onto a plane or
into oblivion, feels worth every penny at the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, bed again. Exhausted but happy, I turn out the
light, close my eyes and roll the duvet around me. As I drift off, I think
about what could become of me if it wasn’t for the support of apathy. I think
we all dodged a bullet there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A good friend once told me, in a very accusatory tone, “You
can’t go back to the womb”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mate. I never left.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.twitter.com/michaellegge">www.twitter.com/michaellegge</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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I “wrote” this blog nearly 2 years ago but didn’t post it. A
few days ago, I heard an album by The The called The Inertia Variations. It’s
Matt Johnson reading out John Tottenham’s poetry of the same name. I heard it
and immediately loved it, despite being jealous that someone was way better at
this sort of thing than me. It reminded me of this blog, so I dug it out and
changed two bits. It’s still a blog. It’s not art or nothing. John Tottenham’s
work definitely is though, and I feel I’ve discovered a great new hero. Here is
his genuinely terrible website: https://johntottenham.com/category/inertia-variations/<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-21434192268533589642018-12-05T06:55:00.000-08:002018-12-05T07:40:20.374-08:00Nil By Brain. <div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Display"; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I have never been interested in sport.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Never wanted to score a goal. Never wanted to come first in a race. Never wanted to win the World Cup. But... I have always wanted to have a sports injury.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Sports injuries are cool. How did you hurt yourself? “By pushing myself to the very limits”. Cool. When I was a child, I’d give my self-penned letter from my mum to my PE teacher to excuse me from wanker class and then just sit there and watch the wankers run around being wankers with a ball. If they tediously controlled the ball, it was “good play”. If someone scored a goal, they were a “good team player”. But if they fell over and cut themselves, somehow they were a hero. The attention they got was amazing. The whole team coming together to help the clumsy, bleeding idiot off the pitch was an incredible sight. I used to look at those limping, bleeding heroes getting their backs patted and their hair ruffled and think: one day, that’ll be me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I’d close my eyes and lie back on the grass and imagine me on the pitch during the World Cup final. I’m playing for Northern Ireland alongside Pat Jennings, Kevin Keegan, Kenny Dalglish and Ray Reardon. We’re facing the might of Brazil. The score is 3 all. Only minutes left of the game. Dalglish has the ball and sprints easily past the Brazilian centre forward. He passes to Keegan who skilfully weaves past player after player. He sees Reardon to his right and me near the goal. This is his chance. He kicks the ball high and direct to Reardon who heads it with precision directly to me. The goal is open. This is my chance. Northern Ireland will win the World Cup!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Then Brazil’s cheating bastard Johan Cruyff comes out of nowhere and hacks my shin like a prick. I’m in agony. The Brazilian goal keeper takes the ball and kicks it to Pele. Jennings has left the Northern Ireland goal to tend to his team mate and call him a hero. I’m surrounded by my teammates all patting my back and ruffling my hair as Franz Beckenbauer puts the ball into the Northern Irish net. Brazil has won the World Cup to the boos of all nations including Brazil, who changes the name of its country to Leggetown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I arrive home to a hero’s welcome. George Best apologises for thinking the World Cup was next week. Ian Paisley shakes my hand and says “Honestly, I’ve been such a dick. Well, I’m changing my ways, buddy!”. And Dana sucks on her finger and slowly slides it into my bumhole. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">But that’s just a teenage football dream. It never happened. And, outside of injuries, I remain completely uninterested in sport or any physical activity. Until recently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I have arthritis. It hurts a lot. After medication made me both very sleepy and unable to drink alcohol (therefore denying me the ability to be me), I decided to take the doctor’s original advice: start exercising. I have never exercised in my life until this year. I quit the arthritis medicine and I took up... aqua jogging.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Aqua jogging is easily the simplest and least demanding exercise you can do. You put on a floatation belt, get into the pool and you jog up and down. That’s it. Your feet don’t even touch the bottom of the pool. There is absolutely no impact with aqua jogging. You just trick your body into thinking that it’s doing a lot more than it actually is. Plus, when I aqua jogged in a proper aqua jogging class, it wasn’t a bunch of really old people doing it. No. It was 20 year old runners who’d had injuries and this was a great way to keep their bodies in shape for running when they got better. And when those young athletes looked at me, their faces seemed to say “good for him. I hope I’m still running marathons at his age”. Yes! My first sports injury! But... it’s a fictional one, just like the World Cup Final. It felt good though. As did the actual aqua jogging.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Get this: it worked. I was off meds and I could get around and do whatever I wanted pain free. All I had to do was exercise! Turns out, there really is something in all fitness talk. After a while, I had another appointment with my doctor. He was delighted with my news. Aqua jogging three times a week was saving the day. He was very happy for me. And then he suggested it was time to push it a bit further.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Uh-oh. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">He enrolled me in a six week gym class where I had to go and exercise with a class on proper gym equipment twice a week.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Fuck’s sake. This was everything I didn’t want. Real exercise. Not the gentle splashing of aqua jogging. No longer would I be able to lie to my body by doing gentle, gentle “exercise”. I’d be telling my body the hard truth. With real exercise. Weights, machines, fucking warm-ups... WITH OTHER PEOPLE. This is not me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">How wrong I was. My gym class consisted of me and four others. I was the only person in my class who wasn’t an elderly, Christian Jamaican woman. And I instantly loved them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">We did exercises like standing on one leg, walking in a straight line and lying down. And after every exercise, the gym instructor would clap and say “Well done, guys!” and my four gym buddies would all turn to me and individually say “God bless you”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Isn’t that amazing? Seriously. They believe in an almighty creator of all things AND they want Him to bless me. I have NO equivalent to that. I tried saying “I hope David Bowie likes you”, but it’s not the same, is it? And every time they “God bless” me, I loved them more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Those six weeks flew by. And every week, the gym instructor made it a bit harder for me (but not any of the rest of them). Instead of walking in a line, go on a cycling machine. Instead of standing on one leg, lift weights. Instead of lying down, RUN! And, I can’t lie... I started to really like it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Since then, I’ve been going to the gym. Gently, but regularly. Cycling, rowing, lifting, running. And, it’s not me, but I like it. And if you really stick at something like that, you’ll achieve your goal. I know because I achieved mine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Last Saturday, I woke up and my left calf hurt. Nothing bad but it definitely hurt. I stretched it to try to get rid of the pain, something I wouldn’t have known to do before my Christian Women’s Gym Class. But stretching didn’t work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">It got worse over the next few days and I just kept stretching to try to get rid of the pain. Then, on Thursday, I actually looked at my leg. It was swollen. Then I did another thing that isn’t me. I went to A&E.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I normally ignore lumps or bumps but pain is something I’m not keen on. I was checked out and diagnosed with DVT. That’s right, I barely moved all my life and now that I’m going to the gym regularly, I’ve got Deep Vein Thrombosis. That makes sense.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Except, they were wrong. The next day, my leg had swollen further and it was hard for me to walk. They took me in for blood tests, an examination and a scan. Turns out, a thing called a Baker’s Cyst ruptured behind my knee. The cyst is there to provide fluid for my knee so I can walk. But when it burst, the fluid poured into my leg. My leg detected a foreign object and immediately attacked it without ever considering that the Baker’s Cyst fluid is good for me and the leg ended up doing far more damage to itself than it ever could. Yes, my leg is a metaphor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">My leg then became massive. HUGE. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">The doctor asked what physical activities I get up to and I told him about the gym. Several visits to hospital later and I’m still in horrible pain and I’m getting around (the house) on a crutch. Yesterday, the doctor said “I don’t know what you did in the gym on that Friday but please be careful you don’t do it again”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I cannot lie. I left the hospital so proud of myself. I’d done it. I’d achieved my dream. I hadn’t let my teenage self down. It took a long time but I worked hard, I focused and I won: I had a sports injury.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Then I had another thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">I wasn’t at the gym that Friday. I was at aqua jogging class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">And that’s the story of how I broke a sporting record: The world’s first person to get a sports injury from aqua jogging.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".sfuidisplay"; font-size: 21pt;">Pathetic? Yes. But still... someone tell Dana.</span></div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-85693673607039390382018-07-23T03:15:00.001-07:002018-07-23T03:15:49.628-07:00Cats and Dogshit.<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
When I turned 40, I decided that I didn’t want to be a smiley, cheery stand-up on stage anymore. I wanted to be miserable, because that’s who I am.</div>
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Doing those miserable Edinburgh shows made me happier than I’ve ever been in comedy. They’re basically therapy for whatever it is that’s missing in my life and for whatever it is in life that I’ve done wrong. But when I turned 30, all I wanted to be was a stand-up comedian. I didn’t realise you could just be yourself, I thought you had to be likeable. I’m not likeable but I gave it a really good go. Pretty much my first ever bit of compering warm up that I ever came up with was getting the audience to shout out the names of rubbish bands from the 80’s with the promise that the person who named the worst band would win dinner for two anywhere in the UK. “Bros!”, they would shout. “A Flock of Seagulls!” On and on it would go with everyone having a fun time (except me) until someone said Rick Ashley and I handed them two Pot Noodles.</div>
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Mind you, it was better than my previous job. An office job that I hated, but it was me that wanted the job so I applied for it even though I knew I’d hate it. I was 20 then.</div>
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Before that, I was working in a police station in Northern Ireland. Like all the jobs I’ve had, I really really wanted this one. I wanted it because I could walk there from home. I wanted it because it was a shit job that anyone could do and I wanted it even though I knew I’d hate it and I did. Every bit of it.</div>
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Before that, when I was 18, I worked in a morgue. Well, I sorted out their autopsy photos. I did that for a year. Why? Because I wanted to, even though I didn’t want to because no one could ever want to.</div>
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When I was 17, I got a job in a furniture shop because I’d just left school and I “knew” that if I didn’t get a job immediately that the entire world would explode before I’d seen real breasts. I got that job because I really wanted it and I did that job even though I hated it.</div>
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On Friday night, I did a gig at the West End Centre in Aldershot. They were holding a 3 day festival featuring comedy and live bands. Before my show, I went to see one of the bands. They’re called The Keep Cats. They played guitar based indie rock and they were utterly magnificent. They looked cool, they sounded cool, they are cool. In fact, they’re the only good and important thing on this planet. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes you feel more like you’ve wasted your life more than watching 4 fifteen year old guys playing so incredibly well while the 50 or so audience members stand way back admiring them while one girl, and one girl only, is down the front jumping around like her life depends on it.</div>
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It is literally the most exciting thing on Earth.</div>
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The Keep Cats will be huge. They’ll play stadiums and perform to thousands and that will be OK. But it will never be as good as being in a band when you’re 15, playing great songs while one girl jumps up and down at the front. I do my stupid Edinburgh shows because they’re basically therapy for whatever it is that’s missing in my life and for whatever it is in life that I’ve done wrong. And this is what’s missing and that is what I did wrong. I forgot to be 15 and in a band. Even Barney’s, the promoter, introduction for the band was utterly fantastic. “They’re already sort of famous in Reading”, he said. “But I want to make them famous in Aldershot”.</div>
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Seriously. What is better than that?</div>
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I’ve bought The Keep Cats music on iTunes and they’re great. They’re now famous in one small part of Lewisham too. I’m a fan and I’m jealous as all hell of them. I was never hit as a child and now I’m a comedian so let that be a lesson to all parents. Hit your children. Hit them hard and often. Anytime they aren’t practising an instrument, take your belt off and thrash until they’ve written the next Lust For Life. Because when each and every one of us enters this world, we are musicians. Some of us forget and by the time we remember, it’s too late. Hit your children or they’ll end up in hell.</div>
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And I’ll see them there.</div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-39297830710196401102018-05-01T01:23:00.001-07:002018-05-01T01:23:42.823-07:00Popularity.<br />
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I’m a huge fan of the band Sparks. They had massive chart
hits in the early 70’s with songs that were in no way obviously commercial. The
tunes were there, clearly, but the complex arrangements, the witty and poetic
lyrics and the falsetto vocals made them a challenge for some. And by some, I
mean idiots. Plus, some people were put off by the keyboard player looking a
bit like Hitler. But Sparks only got better as time went on and, as a result,
became less popular. Of course, they’ve now been producing challenging,
inventive pop music for so long and so often that everyone’s finally realised
how great they’ve always been and now they’re really popular again. Sparks are two
brothers aged 72 and 69 and they are pop stars.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I’ve been thinking about them a lot recently. In 1974,
they were at the top of the charts (well, near it) and rubbing shoulders with
Donny Osmond, Olivia Newton John and Gary Glitter and they probably could have
gone on like that forever, but they kept changing their musical style and
getting better and, generally, people hate that. So, the records got better but
the hits stopped. Then last year they had their first top 5 album in 40 years.
Why? Because they did what they wanted, and they did it brilliantly, and it
took the rest of the world that long to catch up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been thinking about Sparks lately because, as always, I’ve
been thinking about myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where am I in all this? I do what I want and… well, do I
have to wait until I’m 72 for the world to discover my genius or has the world
already discovered that I’m shit?<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not like you can’t be true to your art in stand-up
comedy AND be hugely successful. Look at Daniel Kitson. He sells out huge
venues with almost no advertising, no TV presence, relying only on the fact
that he’s probably the best stand-up comedian in the country. John Oliver is
another good example. He used to do clever, informed satire in front of drunks
in crappy, stinking comedy clubs in dismal UK towns a Megabus cry away from London.
Now he does the same thing in front of the entire world on television. I’d say
even Michael McIntyre is a good example too. He always wanted to connect with
as many people as possible. Also, he's a great stand-up. He worked at it, stayed true to his aim and it paid
off. Whereas I swear a lot and have a moderately successful podcast. But maybe
people just haven’t caught up with how brilliant that is yet?<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, where am I? Where do I stand in the world of comedy?
What has happened so far and what are the soaring highs and the still-falling
lows? What have I achieved? What can I look back on? What is my moment? That
moment where I was part of art and success? That moment where I was part of
something that was going somewhere? What is the moment in my life where I felt a
part of the comedy community, with art and success and me sitting together as
closely as we’ll ever be?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I think I know when that moment was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Many years ago, I was once on a bill at a very small comedy
night in Soho. I remember it very well for two reasons. Firstly, the bill was
Daniel Kitson, Michael McIntyre, John Oliver and me. Just think about that for
a second. Secondly, the venue’s toilet was broken. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While John Oliver was on stage being brilliant, I decided to
go to the toilet. I went downstairs to the gents and, as I entered, I saw
Daniel Kitson walk out of the cubicle. “It’s broken”, he said. But I needed it,
so in I went. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I locked the cubicle door and looked into the toilet bowl.
There was shit in it. Daniel Kitson’s shit. The shit of the future greatest
stand-up in the country. I tried flushing the toilet, but nothing happened. It
was disgusting but, I had no choice. I had to shit on the shit of the future
greatest stand-up in the country. Then Michael McIntyre walked into the gents
for a pee. I knew it was him because he was talking and I recognised his voice.
He was talking about me. He didn’t say anything that bad, but he definitely
didn’t say anything that good. Something about how he was surprised that I was
on the bill. Not that that bothered me. It’s hard to be hurt by criticism when
you are shitting on another man’s shit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Above me, I heard the voice of John Oliver coming through
the venue’s PA system. He was doing a great routine but how it’s always funny “on
the way here” if you’re a comedian. I laughed. And that made Michael McIntyre
stop talking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And that’s my moment. The closest I’ve ever come to success.
The voice of the most respected satirist of our time above me, being bitched
about by the most popular entertainer on TV at my side and, below me, the filth
of the greatest stand-up comedian in the country.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When do I get to sing My Way?<o:p></o:p></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-49915510191073662172018-04-16T01:24:00.003-07:002018-04-16T01:24:53.428-07:00A Michael Legge Joint.<br />
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“If I speak
what is false, I must answer for it”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thomas
Fuller said that. Seems obvious, I suppose. I think Thomas and I would have got
on so it’s a shame we missed each other by just 300 years. He was pretty much
my age when he died, he got very ill on my birthday, which I’ve done loads of
times although he got ill on my birthday in 1660, and he often sounded a bit
like me. “We are born crying, live complaining and die disappointed”. I mean,
that’s pretty much every single thing I’ve ever said in one sentence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And “If I
speak what is false, I must answer for it” seems very prevalent right now.
Everyone lies, and everyone knows everyone lies but they love the lies so much
that they decide it’s now true. But that’s not why I’ve been thinking about my
dead friend Thomas. I’ve been thinking about what he said because I often get
words wrong. I say the completely wrong word by accident and it changes
everything I want to say. Because, unlike Thomas, I’m a fucking idiot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But, like
Thomas, I am middle-aged and ill. YES! The dream double. I’m constantly
exhausted, I’m constantly in agony and I have every disease known to man. Let’s
list those diseases right now, Ladies…<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have
asthma, arthritis, psoriasis, diphtheria, croup, whooping cough (had that for a
while now), sickle cell anemia (don’t know how I got that, I think my body is a
racist), the plague, smallpox, largepox, heart attack (I have a heart attack),
dick flu and a bum full of strokes. I have every disease. But I soldier on
bravely. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s rare
anyone ever wants to talk about illness. It’s not like skateboarding or Garbage
Pail Kids stickers or whatever is cool these days. But a week ago, my arthritis
got so bad that I couldn’t move. At all. This is “normal”, said a doctor who
thinks its normal to be a corpse who can feel pain. It’s just a “flare up”.
This was such comfort to me as I lay in bed completely static and screaming my
unmoving tits off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Later that
day, I was fine. It was just a “flare up” after all. I was right as rain. Nothing
to worry about. But… you know… I wanted a bit of sympathy. Aren’t I at least
allowed that? Just some acknowledgement of my bravery. I left the house and
bumped into a neighbour who said, “How are you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A perfect
chance! I can talk all about the pain of my ungodly arthritis and get all the
sympathy and medals I want. Hooray!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now, if only
I was a bit more like Thomas Fuller. If only I didn’t get all my words mixed up
all the time. If only I wasn’t a fucking idiot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All you
really need to know about what happened next is this: I got the words ARTHRITIS
and DIARRHOEA mixed up. Jesus fucking Christ. “If I speak what is false, I must
answer for it”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I’ve not been
well actually”, I said with a brave face. “Diarrhoea”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My neighbour
screwed his face up in a disgusted, I-don’t-want-to-hear-about-that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah. It’s
been really bad lately”, I said, like a hero. “Couldn’t get out of bed for
hours”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My neighbour
looked sickened. He just looked appalled and sad and said “God…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah. I’ve
had it for years but only started getting treatment for it a few months ago. It’s
been fine for months but today… Today was just awful”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can’t
have had it for years”, he said. That was very kind, I thought. Yes, I do hide
it well but it’s true. I’ve actually had it since my late 20’s. My neighbour
then just stared at me. This was great. Way better than I was expecting. He
knows the agony I’ve been through, he knows how long I’ve lived with it and,
yet, here I am standing in front of him with no visible trace of my illness and
he just can’t find the words. This was exactly the sort of pick me up I needed.
Yes, neighbour. You’re right. I am brave. Very brave indeed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After more
explaining of my bravery and the terrible affliction that has clearly not got
the better of me, he finally spoke. “Jesus”, he said. “Christ almighty. What…
what are they doing about it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing
they can do about it really”, I told him. “You sort of just have to live with
it”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You live
with it like a hero would. One day at a time. “I don’t think I could have
avoided it”, I said. His face now completely baffled. Yes, I get it: I’m a
legend. But time to put him out of his misery. I’ll explain a little bit about
the illness, then he’ll get it. “My dad has it so… you know”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Wait.”, he
said. “Diarrhoea isn’t hereditary”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I spoke
falsely, and the payment was a rush of redness to the face. The penny dropped.
I am a fucking idiot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All I wanted
was a bit of sympathy. Some there-theres after a painful day of dealing with
arthritis. Something I deal with every day. And I think I deal with it pretty
bloody well, actually. Very pretty bloody well. And all I wanted, all I fucking
wanted was just a little bit of recognition. A little admiration for dealing
with something so well. I wanted someone to look at me and think “There goes
Michael Legge. A man who does not give into pain but rises above it with dignity
and courage. There goes a hero”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But no.
Because of ONE TINY LITTLE MISTAKE, one incorrect word, one misuse of our great
nation’s tongue, I will forever be considered the man who shat himself for 20
years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Fuck you,
Thomas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-szLFDyyRcKo/WtRduQ_LlZI/AAAAAAAACEY/o8FinjXbRak59UF_0fWaMRYOmoi7oVangCLcBGAs/s1600/rheumatoid-arthritis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="700" height="212" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-szLFDyyRcKo/WtRduQ_LlZI/AAAAAAAACEY/o8FinjXbRak59UF_0fWaMRYOmoi7oVangCLcBGAs/s320/rheumatoid-arthritis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-87848118408294791672018-04-15T04:43:00.000-07:002018-04-15T04:43:16.554-07:00Try a Little Tinderness.<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="34ucf-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="34ucf-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="34ucf-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I love my noise-cancelling headphones. I wear them every time I go out and it means I don’t have to hear any sound made by any other human (other than, at the moment, Lou Reed). I also wear a blindfold and a nose clip for similar reasons. When I leave the house, I just don’t want to ever have to acknowledge that people actually exist. They’re awful. They make horrible noises and they all look and smell like shit. Every single one of them. But, you know, even I have to admit that sometimes by blocking out all the senses (I also wear a full body sock and a tongue hat), I’m missing out on some beautiful real-life stories. Take Friday night for example…</span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="f2loe-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="343sq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="343sq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">There I was, sitting in a bar in South East London minding my own business when I heard the unmistakable noise of a human being. It was loud and shrill and ugly. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the man’s conversation, he insisted on it. He wasn’t even sat particularly near me, but I could hear every word he was saying because he was shouting over the sound of a pub stereo that wasn’t playing. This was a perfect time for me to put on my headphones, but the man caught my interest. I even wrote down a few things that he said because I never wanted to forget them. He was bellowing at a woman and it was the most bizarre seduction I had witnessed that entire day.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="978j1-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="978j1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="68ghj-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="68ghj-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="68ghj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">“I don’t want to pay pub prices anymore”, he honked at her. “You’re more than welcome to join me in my flat where I have many wines. Some of them actually good wines. But it is a long walk away and up a steep hill and that might be tough for someone like you (he means she’s a bit fat) but I like your company and I’m leaving now”.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="fr8he-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fr8he-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="fr8he-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="3ktjc-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3ktjc-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3ktjc-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn’t hear what she said to him, but I happily imagined that it was very, very threatening. Of course, this is really very snobby of me. I’m probably taking everything he said out of context. Maybe he did just want to have a glass of wine? Maybe he’s just a bit gruff but really he’s the absolute salt of the earth? I’m sure he doesn’t really think that people who are a bit fat can’t walk up a hill. No. I’m sure I’ve got it all wrong. But then he got a bit louder.</span></div>
</div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dfh79-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="dfh79-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="cs521-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cs521-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="cs521-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m going to the toilet and then I’ll leave”, he announced to absolutely everyone in the world. “If you could make your mind up by the time I get back then there’s no hassle. If you want to get an Uber, then you can do that. But I’m leaving. If you want to join me, I’m fine either way. I have wine and a nice bed. Up to you. I’m bursting”.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="7mllm-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7mllm-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="7mllm-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="92h40-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="92h40-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="92h40-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And with those sweet words of love, he departed for a slash. </span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="e2jlk-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="75v0k-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="75v0k-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="75v0k-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">That man will be alone forever, I thought. I mean, I know it’s hard to talk to someone you fancy but ordering them about isn’t going to help. And now she’s alone while he has his ultimatum piss, this is her chance to just get up and leave. Why spend another second with that dick. Just go.</span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="48teh-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="aooo1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But she stays. And he comes back. </span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="ce0gt-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="44tpj-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">He doesn’t leave though. He sits down and shouts a bit more instead. He lists the wines he has. It turns out that he might have five bottles of wine. Now that’s hot. Again, he asks if she’s coming or not? That is such a smooth move. Then he talks about his very high cholesterol. Bragging, yes, but anything to impress a lady, right? Anything to seduce her back to his love pad. Anything to capture the heart of his prey. He told her that he knew he had high cholesterol because of his HIV test.</span></div>
</div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3da92-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="3da92-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="bsu1-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="bsu1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Now, I might not be Velvet P. Lovewanger (I bloody am), but even I’m not sure that bringing up your high cholesterol and your HIV test on a date is a guaranteed fuck-ticket. To be fair, honesty is very refreshing when on a date. But I know more about him than I need to know and I’m not even going to get a choice of five wines and a terrible shag out of it. </span></div>
</div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2fnd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="2fnd-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="blfo6-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="blfo6-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="blfo6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">He then just repeated “I’m going. Up to you” at her while putting on his coat. He must have said it 10 times. “I’m going. Up to you. I’m going. Up to you. I’m going. Up to you”. And then they left together.</span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="4pnog-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="f255h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">That woman is going to have a terrible night. I felt depressed. </span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="42mlu-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7vgh6" data-offset-key="5uia2-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5uia2-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="5uia2-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Which was unfair. Because I don’t really know what happened. I just picked up what was going on from the things he shouted and the way he shouted them. I didn’t hear a single thing she said. Maybe I’ve got it all out of context and everything is totally fine. Maybe they’re in his nice bed right now, laughing and drinking one of five wines and ripping each other’s clothes off in a fit of genuinely deep, romantic passion. Then why do I feel sad? Why do I feel sad for someone I don’t know? Why didn’t I just put my headphones on?</span></div>
</div>
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<span data-offset-key="m7cb-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Then she came back into the bar, laughing down her mobile phone. “WHAT A WANKER!”, she said.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="crqv6-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And she said it a lot to whoever was on the other end of the phone. “WHAT A WANKER!”.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3iufl-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">20 minutes later, another woman turns up and joins her at her table. They laugh and drink and they both say “WHAT A WANKER!”</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fhulr-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve decided that this is my feel good story of the year. It certainly made me very happy. Sometimes you just have to leave the headphones off. Sometimes. Otherwise I’d have missed out on a bit of real life. A dirty, sleazy tale. A scary one. A sad one. But one with a very happy ending. What would Lou Reed know about any of that?</span></div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-18298117307405079822018-02-07T07:42:00.001-08:002018-02-07T08:32:47.291-08:00Signal Virtue.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was in a
bad mood yesterday, but British Telecom really helped cheer me up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been in
a bad mood for a while now (don’t know if you’ve noticed) and it hasn’t been
made better by my worst enemy: ordinary members of the public. As you know,
everyone in the UK voted for Brexit. They may not have physically ticked the
Brexit box on National Cunt Confirmation Day, but they still fill the grey between
eternal nothingness by playing music loudly out of shit speakers in public,
attack everyone they agree with on social media and clip their fingernails
while sitting next to you in Costa’s. If that isn’t separating yourself so that
you can live by your own backward laws, then I’m a Dutchman (this is my pathetic
attempt to get a non-UK passport). <o:p></o:p></div>
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My bad mood
was brought on by a man playing noise out of his phone while he sat near me in
a local café. I said nothing. I don’t say anything at all these days to people
who do this because, sadly, making noise come out of your phone is now how we
all live. It’s been normalised. People get their phone out in a café, bus or
funeral parlour and don’t give the slightest shit that we can all hear their tinny
screeches of football, Ed Sheeran or hilarious YouTube racists piercing our eardrums
while we pretend that we’re cool with it and control the High Street shooting spree
within. And then, in the café, bus, funeral parlour or cinema, someone sitting near
you WHO HAS SAID NOTHING to the person making the noise, has the fucking brass
balls to turn to you, A COMPLETE STRANGER WHO IS NOT MAKING ANY NOISE, and sort
of tut a bit. Why the fuck are you tutting at me? You’re not trying to bond
with me, are you? You’re not actually turning to me and saying, “Isn’t it
terrible that that person is making unnecessary noise?” when that person who is
making unnecessary noise is just a few feet away? They’re RIGHT FUCKING THERE.
Not that telling them will do any good. You should have told them years ago.
But you didn’t. You sat there in the café, bus, funeral parlour, cinema or
children’s hospital ward and did nothing, just occasionally rolling your eyes
at a fellow passenger to let them know that you didn’t vote Brexit like that
other cunt playing Foo Fighters out of his fucking iPhone. That was your chance
to stand up and be heard but you did nothing so now you’ll just have to live
with it. Like Noel Gallagher.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Voting or
non-voting on the Making Noise In Public debate is meaningless anyway now that
British Telecom has pushed for a hard Brexit for everyone by actually having
noise pollution as a happy, loving family moment in their recent television
advert. A bastard gets on a bus and gets her phone out to see a Facetime call
from another bastard. Even though she is on a crowded bus full of people that
don’t want to hear about her bastard life, the bastard answers the call and we
hear the bastard on the other end of the phone say “Hello. Here’s something
exciting” THROUGH THE SPEAKER OF THE PHONE SO THE WHOLE BUS CAN HEAR. The “exciting”
thing is that the bastard’s cunt child is making her first white supremacist’s
march around their living room. British Telecom have cleverly made sure we have
no hatred towards the bastard making all the shitty noise in public by making
her a member of medical staff. Like Harold Shipman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, it’s
normalised now. I’m angry that the man near me in the cafe is making all the noise through his phone even though he must know it’s annoying for anyone else. But then,
since when has a Brexit voter ever cared? And the silent majority in the café say
nothing too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The only bit
of joy I get in the café is hearing the man sigh when the video he is watching
starts buffering. This happens a lot. He sighs. He watches 10 seconds of Hitler
pouring baby oil on his own bum, the video buffers and he sighs again. It goes
on like that for ages. Sigh, Hitler, sigh. Sigh, Hitler, sigh. Then his sighs
get angrier. He can’t watch his beautiful <span style="background: white; color: #222222;">führer</span>
oil up for Britain for more than 10 seconds without it stopping. I look at my phone.
I can’t even get a signal. Turns out that the only way you can get a signal to
watch any Nazi propaganda is to connect to the café’s wifi. The man complains
to the café staff that the wifi isn’t working. They apologise and switch the
wifi off and on again in the hope that will help the man get his white
noise/white supremacy fix. It still doesn’t work for him and he sighs heavier
than ever. He sits back down and sadly puts his phone away. So, I try to get on
the café’s wifi too, but it doesn’t work for me either.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course,
it doesn’t work. The café’s wifi is BT.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They can try
to separate us, get us to hate one another with social ignorance and lying propaganda
but thanks to good old British incompetence, they will never win. The fight
continues.<o:p></o:p></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge</div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-65385441561499218442018-01-24T06:27:00.001-08:002018-01-24T06:27:55.397-08:00Old Order.<div style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I hung out with some 20 year olds in a bar yesterday. I didn’t mean to. They were just there and one of them said hello to me because he’s my friend’s son and we got talking. He’s in a band and I asked how they were doing. They’re sort of Joy Division-ish. I didn’t say that, he did. I told him I loved Joy Division and he said cool but it was clear he didn’t believe me because I’m not 20. I was probably 20 when I first liked them. I showed him that I had 2 of their albums on my phone and he was genuinely impressed/surprised. His friends, who were also in the band with him, couldn’t believe I’d seen Nirvana. They talked about David Bowie, The Smiths and Blondie. I mentioned Tune-Yards in a pathetic attempt to connect but they didn’t really know Tune-Yards. One of them said they didn’t like them, they were a bit too mainstream. I was delighted that there’s still a mainstream but ashamed that I liked a modern band that were “boring”. I mentioned a couple of other bands that were probably well into their 30’s but to me were really young and new. They had no interest in that sort of music, even though it was so similar to what they did like. I passed my phone and earphones to one of them and asked him to listen to Carter USM. He loved it. I told them I saw Iggy Pop last year. They were jealous. I told them about Black Box Recorder and they all seemed to think that they were right up their street. I’m 49 years old and I can still confidently sit in a bar and connect with a group of 20 year olds. I am cool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have a mobile phone. It made a noise and flashed up a message on its screen. I read the message aloud: “Time for your arthritis medicine”. The youngsters immediately started acting their age and saw me as I really am. The conversation stopped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Drugs can unnerve a lot of people but you’d think a band could have handled it. Maybe I should have offered them some of the pills? It’s what all us real Joy Division fans are all doing.</span></div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-37976464834756360082018-01-16T01:07:00.001-08:002018-01-16T01:08:19.766-08:00Hello! Hooray!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My mum often
asks me when I think I’ll be discovered. The thing is, I was discovered years
ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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10 years ago
this very day, the internet was full of warmth, compliments and photographs of
loved pets and unloved animals mocked up as happy dinners. Every time we looked
on Facebook, we read our friends’ successes and I related to none of it. The
internet just didn’t speak to me, so I decided to speak to it. In fact, I
shouted at it. 10 years ago this very day, I invented online anger.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And now look
at the state of the place. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Back then,
no one had ever thought of calling a friend’s wedding cake a cunt but it’s all
different now. Everyone is angry. Not just occasionally but all the time.
Non-stop. I came up with the simple idea of not telling lies about how great my
life and your life was and now everyone does it. But with none of the charm. I
was the Pixies and then you lot became a huge, popular, white supremacist,
women-hating, constantly threatening Nirvana who, if he were still alive, would
probably coax the snowflake Kurt Cobain into killing himself live on Instagram
or Snapchat or iPlayer. There are days when I almost regret calling David
Walliams a corpse-fucker on Twitter. I was supposed to be the angry man on the Internet
but who would even notice that now? I’ve become undiscovered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hide
online now. Mainly on Twitter. Mainly on my @vitriolamusic Twitter account. It’s
a place I share with Robin Ince (he hasn’t ever logged in once yet) and I go
there to avoid the copycat angry people who took my beautiful idea too far. I
talk to lots of people on there every day. While you are threatening to rape a
slut or telling a woman who doesn’t like Black Mirror that they’re fat, I go on
to my @vitriolamusic Twitter account and talk to kind, civil people about
music.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For those
who are unaware of music, it’s a popular art form based on sound and rhythm and
without it our lives would be completely empty and without any meaning and it
is very easy to steal. Some people actually pay for it but not many and the few
that do are threatened with violence or called fat on the Internet. I much
prefer risking the threats and paying for the music because I’ve loved it so
much since I was a child and buying new music helps keep me almost up to date
with whatever might be happening in the music (please forgive me for using this
next word, I am very aware it’s awful) scene. And there lies the problem. The
music scene has undiscovered me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It happens
every few years. The whole music scene changes and it becomes filled with bands
that forget to sing about the things I like or play guitars the way I like
them. Like the Internet, the scene isn’t for me just now but I’m in so deep
with music that I can’t just turn my back on it. That’s why I buy the new one from
the National or some other band that are clearly aimed at me and I get
disappointed. It’s just not for me. The National are boring and their singer is
a prick and the guitars are crap and they wear waistcoats like absolute cunts. And
then, out of nowhere, my secret online friends and I will decide to pick an
artist from the past and listen to their back catalogue and discuss it. That’s
how, in 2018, I discovered the talents of Alice Cooper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am a
fucking idiot. For years I bought Shed Seven albums and The Soft Parade singles
and that fucking bullshit last album by Sleater-Kinney and all of The National’s
fucking records and ALICE COOPER HAD BEEN THERE ALL ALONG. Every one of his
albums (that I’ve heard so far) are incredible and they have just been sitting there. For
decades. Just sitting there statically and full of life. They have an actual
heartbeat. Great tunes with fun in them. Pantomime, schlock-horror, loads of
actual horns, drug-induced electro experimentations and rock that has decided
that it has to live because YOU have to live. It is music that has invited you
in and it only wants you to be happy. It’s music that actually cares about you.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Songs that
are so good you won’t be able to stop whistling, humming and screaming them.
Probably all at the same time. Alice Cooper has just sat there waiting and my
reward for finding him is a new joyous belief in the power of music. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Think I’m
going too far? Then please just listen to Elected, an uplifting Ringmaster of a
song that revels in being the first thing to ever slag off Donald Trump,
beating the Internet by over 40 years. After that, try a whole album in order.
Some of you may never have done that before but, trust me, in this case it’s
worth it. Try Billion Dollar Babies and Welcome To My Nightmare because those
are albums that everyone (except me) knows and they are sunshine in a very
dark, spooky and incredibly funny can. Then go to Flush The Fashion, very
different to his classics and it’s my favourite Alice Cooper album. I always
love the ones the artist can’t remember making. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m new to all
this so I’m excited and want to share it with you like it’s a picture of my
loved pet or my happy vegan dinner. If you’re not keen on Alice Cooper then all
I can say is: you love him, you just don’t know it yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Alice Cooper’s
incredible music and very witty lyrics (yep, he’s really funny) are pretty much
the reasons why I love the Internet right now. Coming together and sharing that
stuff hasn’t just made me happy, it’s given me a genuine thrill to find out
everything I can about a new artist. Admittedly, one that’s been around since
1969. And huge thanks to Dan Mersh and EVERYONE who joins in with the listen-alongs
at @vitriolamusic. You can go and find out about Alice Cooper’s stuff too
because it’s just there. Gathering dust but waiting to be discovered. Just like
all of us.</div>
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www.twitter.com/vitriolamusic</div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge <o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-66153733939329081142017-12-10T03:06:00.001-08:002017-12-10T03:06:34.709-08:00Spoilt Rotten.<span style="color: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.701961); font-family: "uictfonttextstylebody"; font-size: 17px;">Two phrases keep running through my mind: "Have a treat, mate" and "You're not allowed that".</span><br />
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I've had a lot of thinking time lately due to having a bit of a dicky tummy. I do all my best thinking on the toilet and I've been thinking about those two sentences on and off for about a week. "You're not allowed that" is something I hear a lot. It's a reaction to being vegan. People will tell me that something milky or lamby or murdery is delicious and then follow it up with "You're not allowed that but it is nice". </div>
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"You're not allowed that". I don't want to be allowed that. I think it's weird that anyone is allowed that. That shouldn't be allowed. But it is allowed and I don't want it. "You're allowed that" just isn't the right phrase. It sounds like I've been banned rather than made a choice. And it happens so often. "My mum cooks the best Christmas turkey with penguin and sea horse stuffing. It's SO delicious. *awkward look* But you're not allowed that". </div>
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People who kill people probably act the same way in front of their non-murderer friends. "I picked up some hitchhikers and attacked them with a hatchet and now I keep them in 6 suitcases in a Big Yellow Self Storage locker in Crewe. *awkward look* But you're not allowed that".</div>
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Thing is, I am allowed that. I just have to be prepared to go to jail forever, stomach killing people before cutting up their bodies and then talking to the fucking gormless arseholes who work at Big Yellow Self Storage in Crewe. Again, I have no interest in being allowed that.</div>
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A stupid thought, and one I wouldn't have had if I didn't have this upset stomach that kept me on the toilet so much. But "Have a treat, mate" is the one I've been thinking about most. </div>
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Comedian Andrew Bird asked me how giving up booze was going. He saw me drinking an alcohol-free beer and his face fell sad. I told him that it really didn't taste that bad. I don't like lying to people but I thought it was the right thing to do at that moment. It tastes disgusting, of course. It was so nice of the club to get an alcohol-free rider in for me and I was genuinely touched by the thought but I can't kid myself. It tastes truly awful. Like your favourite drink has committed suicide and you're drinking the tears of its grieving children. It's the taste of a lost generation.</div>
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Andrew and I both agreed that booze was great and that's when he asked "What do you have for a treat, then?"</div>
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I was stumped. I don't think I have a treat anymore. </div>
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"What do you have when you come home after a gig now?", he asked.</div>
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I don't know. Nothing. I have nothing.</div>
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I used to have a beer maybe. That's gone. Sometimes a bottle of wine. I'd come home and cuddle Jerk. I don't think I have a treat anymore. </div>
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Andrew said goodbye and, just as he walked out of the dressing room, he said "Have a treat, mate". He was right. I should. I deserve a treat. But what have I got?</div>
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And as I took another swig of Carling Remembrance 0.0%, I realised: ugh, alcohol-free beer IS my treat. This bottle of stale empty is all I have to look forward to. That is my treat. Something I hate. Something that tastes disgusting. Something that looks weird. Something that makes everyone question every single thing about me. That is my treat. </div>
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Despite my guts still being a bit... gymnastic, I decided to meet up with friends the other night for our annual Christmas drinks. I thought about what Andrew said. "What do you have when you come home? Have a treat, mate". So I prepared for coming home by going to Sainsbury's and buying a 4 pack of alcohol-free lager. That'll be nice when I get home. I mean, it won't be NICE but it'll be something. This isn't a sad or shameful thing. No. It's a treat. A lovely treat. I am treating myself to some alcohol-free lager when I get home. I beeped the joyless bottles over the self-checkout till and the only voice that had said anything to me that day said "Approval needed"</div>
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That's right. You need approval to buy alcohol-free beer. Honestly, how can anyone approve of you when you buy that?</div>
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For one of the very few times in my life, I had to show ID. It's clear just by looking at me that I'm over 18. That sentence also works if you take out the number 18. I am very not under 18. But they didn't want to see my date of birth, they just wanted to know the name of the cunt who's only treat is coming home to an alcohol-free beer. Well fuck you, Sainsbury's. I'm having a treat, mate. I'm allowed this.</div>
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The bar we went to had TWO different alcohol-free beers. What a choice! All my friends had booze. It was "Delicious. But *awkward look* you're not allowed that". Like the beer had shouted "Oi! You're barred" at me. I decided to not have booze, booze didn't decide to not have me. Have a treat, mate. Have an alcohol-free beer.</div>
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I had 10 of them. That's more alcohol-free beer than anyone has ever drunk ever in one night. Why? I'll tell you why: Have a treat, mate. I had a treat. The only treat that I'm "allowed". For the last few weeks I've had about 4 alcohol-free beers a day. I don't care how disgusting they are. 4 alcohol-free beers a day and tonight I'm going to break all records for drinking alcohol-free beer because they're a treat. They're a treat, mate. Have a treat, mate. This is the treat you're allowed, mate. Have a treat, mate. Good for you, mate. Well done, mate. Have a treat, mate. How is it, mate? Have a treat, mate. Is it nice, mate? Can I have a taste, mate? Fucking hell, mate.</div>
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That is ALL I HAVE. Being out with my friends and getting drunk was all a beautiful dream I had in the past and the past is over and now all I have is alcohol-free beer. And they can't take that away from me despite Sainsbury's best efforts. And tonight I'm going to break my own record by going all the way up to 11 because when I get home I'm going to have ANOTHER alcohol-free beer. I'm having a treat, mate.</div>
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My stomach was punchy the whole way back and I just made it home in time to get to the toilet before all brown hell broke loose. It was wretched and traumatic. But still, this will soon be over and I'll put the telly on, put my feet up and I'll have a treat, mate. My only treat. The only thing I've actually got left.</div>
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It became clear that I'd be on the toilet for a bit longer than expected and I decided I'd had enough of my stomach and its constant problems. I decided to Google tummy troubles. I sat there on the loo and I Googled so much about diarrhoea. 20 minutes Googling info on diarrhoea. I now know so much about diarrhoea. Too much.</div>
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Alcohol-free beer gives you diarrhoea.</div>
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Have a treat, mate? I'm not allowed that.</div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge</div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-90052316459075342112017-11-28T02:40:00.000-08:002017-11-28T02:40:04.665-08:00Ill Communication.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">What
makes us happy?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">People
pretend it’s things like love or friendship or God. Those three things that no
one has any proof exists. But really, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone
happier as when their phone is 100% charged. Leaving the house when you know
your phone is fully charged brings such peaceful contentment and joy. It’s the
feeling of Christmas, or it would be if we didn’t know that the feeling of Christmas
is claustrophobia and anthrax. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Days
are ruined immediately by our phones. We wake up and the first thing we all do
is look at our phones to see if we matter. We don’t. We never do. And yet it
was the first thing we did today, and it’ll be the first thing we do tomorrow. Remember
when masturbating came first? Those were great days, weren’t they? I love the
past. Bros, Space Dust, Ceefax and wanking. How did wanking get knocked off its
golden pedestal as being the first thing we did every day? We don’t really
think that Twitter is better than wanking, do we? Because it definitely isn’t.
We wake up, we look at Twitter, we get depressed. And then wanking is all but
forgotten about. Imagine all that, but with the added loss of your phone (THAT
WAS PLUGGED IN ALL NIGHT) somehow being only at 98%.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s
the day completely ruined. You grump your way to the shower, you punch your
clothes on and you shout the kids to school, worrying all the way to work if
your 98% charged phone will make it to the end of your commute before you can
get to the office and plug it in again and start to feel normal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
went to work on Saturday night with a 100% charged phone. I felt happy and
confident. My phone is fully charged. I’ve managed to hit the target of the
most important thing in all of existence: a fully charged phone. I’m doing a
show in Cardiff and the club have put me up in a flat just a one minute walking
commute from the venue. This is the phone charging dream. It’s 100% and I’m one
minute away so by the time I get there, as its an iPhone, I’ll still have
around 45% left if I don’t actually use it, look at it or say its name out
loud. I am living the dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
get to the venue and my phone stops working. The screen goes completely blank
and then switches off. That’s OK. I know what happens when the phone goes a bit
loopy. It needs a soft reset. That means holding the home button and the off
button at the same time. No problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Ah.
Yes. That means I’ve got to do a soft reset while the phone is charging. Easy.
I’ve got my charger with me. Of course, I do. What fucking psychopath leaves their
flat to go somewhere one minute away without bringing a charger? That’s insane.
I plug it in and press the home button and the off button at the same time.
Nothing, so I do it again. Maybe I’m not pressing hard enough? Nothing. Maybe I’m
not pressing for long enough? Nothing. Actually, I think that time I pressed
the home button slightly earlier than I did the off button, so I’ll do it
again. Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The
fear hits me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">My
phone is broken. It’s actually died. My phone has completely died and I’m here
without a phone. I AM EXISTING WITHOUT A PHONE. That’s impossible. It’s not
allowed. What if someone likes one of my Facebook posts? I’ll never know! And I’ll
never find my way back to the flat that I can easily see from the venue’s
window and I won’t be able to put a photo of me and the other acts pretending
to like each other on Instagram and I won’t know what to think because I haven’t
seen what Graham Linehan has thought first and I don’t have a phone and I’m
panicking and my phone has died and I. DO. NOT. HAVE. A. PHONE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">And
then I realised… I’m off the grid. I’ve stepped off the ride. I’m out. I’ve actually
found a way out. I am not a phone number, I am a free man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
slept so peacefully that night. Of course, I did. I was a human being again. I wasn’t
attached to this robot dickhead that keeps abusing me anymore. I woke up very
briefly a couple of times, but I was soon off to sleep again because I didn’t
immediately fumble for my phone to see what was trending. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The
next day, I watched a film on Netflix. Well, I watched it for 15 minutes. For
15 whole minutes I gave that film my full attention. I didn’t just press play
and let it run on to the end while I played games and posted hateful comments
online because, well, I don’t have a phone. I watched the first 15 tedious
minutes of Hacksaw Ridge without interruption from Twitter, Facebook or looking
up IMDb to see which of the cast has died since the film came out (a game I
play with pretty much every film I watch), which is a shame actually because at
least then I’d have seen that the film was directed by an actual lunatic and
switched it off earlier. Then I realised the film was shit and I switched it
off. But I would never have known that if I’d pressed play and had a working
phone anywhere near me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I
read a book. I went for a walk. I wanted to find out what some of my friends
were up to, so I met up with them. It was lovely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">If
only this had happened earlier. I wouldn’t know who to hate and I wouldn’t know
what horrible person had done what horrible thing and I wouldn’t know that a
massive bomb had killed every single person in Oxford Street and lots of other
things that didn’t happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">And
now my phone is back and working. I’ve switched it on but not really looked at
it. I’m not ready to go back. For 2 whole days, Trump wasn’t president, Brexit
didn’t exist, and liberals weren’t arguing over the things they all agree with.
It was blissful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">So,
why don’t you just switch your off mobile phone and go out and do something
less boring instead…?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">(Ask
the hivemind on Facebook or Twitter if you don’t get the reference)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">www.twitter.com/michaellegge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">https://michaellegge.bandcamp.com/releases</span></span></div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-6753761665952373282017-11-23T01:38:00.002-08:002017-11-23T01:38:17.215-08:00George Worst.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Today is Day
44.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My 44<sup>th</sup>
day in a row of not drinking alcohol. My 83<sup>rd</sup> in total. 90<sup>th</sup>,
if you count that week my mum couldn’t find the off licence when she was
pregnant. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s been a
traumatic decision. I set the date to quit booze months ago and I feared its
arrival constantly. Four weeks before the big day, I was drinking like a man
who was quitting booze in four weeks. But then, I always did. I loved getting
drunk. It was magical and charming and I was really good at it. A natural, they
said (at a “meeting”). I could get drunk anytime I wanted. Sometimes twice a
day. That’s how good I am. And that’s what scared me about quitting. But I had
no idea of the darkness ahead of me. I knew it was going to be bad, but I didn’t
see any of this coming: Quitting booze was so easy. Like really easy. The
easiest thing I’ve ever done. Which means… I’m not an alcoholic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm Michael and I'm not an alcoholic. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So, what am I? I can’t
sing, I’m not knowledgeable, I’m not good at sport and I can’t build anything. I
was fucking relying on being a drunk. And I’m not even that. What am I? Tall?
No. Short? No. Irish? Well, I’m not typical of being Irish in any way. In fact,
apparently I’m not even one of the main stereotypes of being Irish now. I thought
being drunk was who I was. That was my thing. It defined me. But I’m not an
alcoholic. And knowing that has made me feel antisocial, bleak and lacking in
self-belief. But with nice breath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Of course,
coming off booze will always bring some sort of problems and lack of identity
isn’t the only one for me, whoever I am. There is always pressure from your
peer group and being sober is one of the most pressured. Friends can be so unnaturally supportive, it's sickening. I would NEVER treat them like that. When I’m with friends,
they’re all really cool and understanding and fucking supportive which stresses me out TOO MUCH. Great!
Now I’ve got to prove that I’m totally OK with being sober even though I am,
and they have in no way hinted that I might not be. Bastards. </div>
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So, in company, I
sit with a drink in my hand just like them. Just to let them know I’m relaxed.
I’m fine. Look: I have a drink in my hand too. It’s all good. Them with their
beer and me with my glass of Diet Coke. But still I feel their concern. “That’s
the third Diet Coke Michael’s had”, they seem to say without showing it or
saying it. “Is he really OK with all this?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And I am. I don't have to drink Diet Coke! I can drink anything I want. Nearly anything I want. That’s why I’ve recently started showing my friends how cool I am about
sobriety by relaxing with them with a refreshing, revolting bottle of alcohol
free beer. See? I’m relaxed and I’m drinking a drink that’s a bit like theirs
so it’s all good. It’s fine. It’s great. Cheers!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And my
friends cheers me back but with suspicion. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Disgust can’t be hidden when you
take a mouthful of alcohol free beer. It’s impossible. It tastes like the ghost
of fun. It’s like there’s a suicide pact in my mouth and only me and Mugabe’s
favourite improv troupe are invited. It’s horrible and I don’t want to drink
another drop but… but just look at my friends’ faces. I’ve told them I’m fine
being sober, but they can tell I can’t hack this stuff. I can’t look like I
want a proper drink in front of them. “Have another drink of your alcohol free beer”, my
friends’ don’t in any way insinuate but I hear loudly. “No one likes the taste
at first. You’ll get used to it”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And I have. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Look, it
wasn’t that bad at first. I thought I could handle it. Becks Blue has 0.5% alcohol
in it so I’m sure I tasted something that wasn’t just the dust of ancient sick. Lots
of alcohol free beer has 0.5% alcohol in it. Some have “Less than 0.5% alcohol”
in it but that’s still a bit of booze, isn’t it? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But it wasn’t
enough. Or it was too much, it’s hard to tell. My friends wanted me to be fine
being sober, I assumed, so I had to go on the real stuff: The completely
alcohol-free alcohol-free beer. It’s OK, my friend said. His cousin had a
bottle of Cobra Zero at a Foo Fighters gig once. The whole band were doing
them. That explained so much but I had a bottle anyway. Oh, god. What had I
become? I drank an ENTIRE BOTTLE of Heineken 0.0 that weekend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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I’ve started
drinking it at home. I’m up to two bottles a night every four or five nights
now. And the shame of it. Oh, God in heaven, help me: the shame. I wake up so
clear headed the next day and I walk into the kitchen and I see those two empty
bottles lying in the recycling box, those two tiny 330ml alcohol free bastard
bottles… and I think back to the night before and, oh God… I can remember every
single second of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PHtiLmWP31U/WhX4C0IHI1I/AAAAAAAAB_U/y1qbr4wqmnQvz4qJz7LgAGovRSTJdN07ACLcBGAs/s1600/pri_46219851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="748" height="167" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PHtiLmWP31U/WhX4C0IHI1I/AAAAAAAAB_U/y1qbr4wqmnQvz4qJz7LgAGovRSTJdN07ACLcBGAs/s320/pri_46219851.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge </div>
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https://michaellegge.bandcamp.com/releases</div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-78011823864487619372017-11-17T03:53:00.000-08:002017-11-17T03:53:11.152-08:00Godot is Prompt.<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">My day was very busy yesterday, so I set my alarm for 6:30am. Not to
make sure I got everything done. No. I knew I’d get everything done in time.
What worried me was not getting enough nothing done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I’m pretty strict when it comes to doing nothing. I’m probably one of
the very few people that has deadlines for doing nothing. And it is always
a deadline that I cannot ignore. I must have that nothing done or it’s my ass
on the nothing line. My day is full, so how am I supposed to cram 3 to 4 hours
of nothing in? I’ll tell you how: by pulling your bloody finger out, getting up
early and immediately start doing nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I know people who have written books, which probably means they also had
to read them (not always the case). Do you know how long it takes to write a
book? Have you any idea how much time and effort goes into that? Because I’d
like to know. A fact like that would look great in this blog post but, sadly, I
couldn’t research it as I had fuck all to do. It’s a great phrase that, isn’t
it? “I had fuck all to do”. It’s a much more positive and dynamic phrase than
people give it credit for. Let me reword it for you: “Fuck all HAD to be done.
It had to. There’s no getting round that. And who do you think stepped up to
the challenge? That’s right: I”. But these authors I know don’t just write a
bit of a book every day and then just sit there for hours playing Monkey Turnip
on their iPhone or staring at the window (not OUT OF the window. That would
almost be doing something, so please be careful). No. They raise children and train
for marathons and rehearse plays and talk to their local council and fight
crime and don’t argue on Twitter and raise awareness and… Jesus, they’re just so
busy. When, just WHEN, do they get time to do nothing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Don’t act like doing nothing isn’t important. It’s vital. I take time
out of my inactive day every day to squeeze in hours of nothing. Sometimes
hardcore nothing. Not just putting a film on or listening to music, I mean
absolutely nothing. Barely moving. Barely thinking. Just sitting on the stairs
(walking down the stairs is normally when the fear of real life hits me) and coming
to terms with who I am and, most importantly, doing nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I worry about my busy friends with their deadlines and schedules and
success and careers. They’re showbizzing themselves into the grave. I, and the
entertainment industry, have given myself all the time I need for
self-loathing. I’m used to it. I’ve come to terms with it. But what happens to
my busy friends who haven’t had the time to realise they’re awful? Will it hit
them in later life? Will they start spontaneously screaming at their child’s
wedding? Will they burst into tears on The One Show 2039? Will they collect
their own sick every day for a month just to throw it at the celebrity audience
at the BAFTAs? These are the reasons I’m still friends with them so I do hope
so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">One of the busiest people I know is my neighbour Jonny. He is a fucking
human rights activist and works for a company that goes around businesses
persuading them to be ethical, he is a father to two children and he is
constantly organising meetings with Lewisham council to find town planning
improvements. I argued with this human rights activist recently when he said he
also paints in his “spare time”. How is that spare time? You’re doing
something. You’re actively creating, you’re filling that time by making
something AND you’re not focussing on how awful you are. That is NOT spare
time. Put it this way: Jonny isn’t on Twitter, he has never watched ANYTHING on
Netflix and his Monkey Turnip score is H. This man is a ticking timebomb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I thought about Jonny when I woke up yesterday morning. I’m sure he was
getting up at 6:30 too. Probably to jog his children to school or crochet an
Amnesty banner. He definitely wasn’t getting up at 6:30 so he could have a few
hours doing absolutely nothing at all. He didn’t put Star Trek Discovery on at
7am and not watch it because he was looking at an Instagram story from Olly
Murs and then Googled “Olly Murs” to remind himself who Olly Murs was. He didn’t
sit there wondering if Donald Trump has ever heard Suede (he must have though,
right? He might not know he’s heard Suede but he must have heard them at some point.
Anyway, that thought lasted 45 minutes). And he certainly didn’t fart into all
12 microwaves in Monkey Turnip. He got up and he filled his day, making his and
other people’s lives better and, therefore, mine worse. Well, don’t say I didn’t
warn him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Jonny and I planned to meet last night. That’s mainly why I was anxious.
I’d put all that time aside to do nothing and then later I’d meet up with a
lovely man who never had any time due to the constant good work he puts into
life. What a bastard. He’s going to make me feel like shit. That’s not fair. I
already make myself feel like shit. Oh, he’s got time for that, has he?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">There I was, doing absolutely nothing yesterday morning. Important
nothing. Nothing that HAD to be done. I had fuck all to do and, by God, I was
doing it. And later he’d be telling me how sorry he was for being 5 minutes
late because he was busy saving the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Yesterday afternoon, Jonny’s wife called to say he’d have to cancel. He’d
got hit by a motorbike and broke his arm and cracked some ribs. He’d be in
hospital at least until the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">All that running around…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">www.twitter.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-53000496790283176232017-11-14T01:41:00.000-08:002017-11-14T01:41:53.809-08:00MOVIE REVIEW: THE PARTY<div class="MsoNormal">
MOVIE REVIEW: THE PARTY (Dir: Sally Potter, BBC Films,
B&W 71 mins)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sally Potter’s first full length film since 2012’s acclaimed
Ginger & Rosa is a monochrome background to an in-colour story of a
troubled man sighing his way through a bunch of genuinely awful middle-class
people spilling wine while pretending they’ve never heard of Harold Pinter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The main protagonist’s inner monologue is left to the
viewer’s imagination and yet is communicated clearly with his constant head
shaking and his backward glances at the cinema patrons to find out where the
laughter is coming from and why. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This tale of isolation and confusion carries on until the
closing credits but, due to us living in a populist, popcorn-selling,
post-Marvel world, the narrative continues with an extra scene featuring the
dishevelled and exhausted figure making his way from the cinema to the bus
stop, joining other cinema goers in the queue. This is where the story takes a
dark and horrific turn.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The bus queue is made of six or seven blank canvas
characters put in place to show the value of the anonymous in social
situations, a true juxtaposition to the wine-spilling, shrill, Mark Rothko
print owning “cunts” observed by the unfortunate, grey-skinned figure
throughout the previous 75 minutes. “Mercifully brief”, he texts to a far-away
friend before coughing. The distance of the friend is highlighted tragically in
the next few minutes as one of the anonymous lifts his compulsory mask and
turns to face the queue to reveal himself as the story’s villain. “Were you
all just in the cinema just now too?”, he beams at the silent non-faces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fear is now the theme of the piece. Has someone actually
spoken to us, the masks seem to ask with their mute body language. Unable to
understand totally normal practices at a fucking bus stop, the arrogant
offender continues: “Good, wasn’t it?”, he says with all the confidence of a
man who happily has no idea what the word good means. “It reminded me of Sartre’s Huis
Clos”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The masks remained silent and afraid while this embodiment
of evil and ignorance awaits a response that would never come save for the
grey-skinned protagonist’s rolling eyes and the truly moving feeling of “Did he
actually just use the fucking French title of No Exit? What a fucking cunt.
He’s fucking turning round and talking to us and he thinks he’s the only cunt
who’s ever heard of fucking Sartre. The cunting cunt cunt”. That feeling is
made even more poignant by the masks’ utter refusal to acknowledge the toxic
weasel’s wank ejaculating from the villain’s pointless head hole. The agreed
upon silence is broken yet again with the villain's agonisingly plummy noise genuinely offering “You know?
Hell is other people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The protagonist laughs and turns his back on the villain
while the masks stay in their plant pots. “Hell is other people”, says the
villain again but this time directly to the protagonist. “Hell is other people.
Sartre?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mate.”, the protagonist utters his first words of the
piece. “No one wants to talk. People just want to go home”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The villain plays his vicious devil card once again: “I’m
just trying to be frie…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No. You aren’t”, the protagonist is prepared to end the
torment for good. “You’re not trying to be friendly. You wouldn’t have started
up a conversation with people who clearly didn’t want to talk if you were being
friendly. And you wouldn’t have brought up Sartre like that if you were just
trying to be friendly. The French title? Jesus. And we just saw the film, so we
know what it was like. Pointing out hell is other people after we’ve just seen
that film is like us seeing Jaws and you pointing out that it was probably
about a shark or something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But…”, says the villain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“And who the fuck quotes Sartre to a bus queue anyway? I
just don’t believe you think that was ‘a bit Sartre’. I think you’ve seen that
somewhere, liked it and tried to pass it off as your own just to be popular here.
Because who in their right mind would ever come off with something so clearly
obvious and try to pass it off as their own?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The self-referential description of Potter’s black and white
(mainly white) segment of the piece is simply the set-up for the protagonist’s
killer blow: “And, seriously, who says hell is other people to a bunch of
complete strangers waiting for a bus in the cold? Who references Sartre and
hell is other people when they clearly don’t understand it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Silence is restored but the sound has been replaced with a
feeling of utter discomfort from everyone but the deluded protagonist who
believes he has made a stand against the smug. He did not buy into the
wine-spilling lives of the awful plagiarists and he made it clear that he would
not buy into the forced friendliness of the villain. The evil, lying villain
who dared talk at a bus stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Party experience then closes with the protagonist alone
in bed smiling to himself. He thinks back to the evening past and his victory
over unnecessary warmth at a bus stop. Hell is other people indeed, he thinks
as he turns out the light. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The darkness is the only truth of the piece. And the
protagonist knows this as his inability to sleep proves while the evening
replays continuously inside his roomy skull. Hell is other people? Or is it
being alone in the dark realising exactly who you are?<o:p></o:p></div>
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One star.<o:p></o:p></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge <o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-87107425705677143912017-11-08T00:53:00.000-08:002017-11-08T00:53:53.164-08:00As Soft and Gentle As A Sigh.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I enjoyed
myself this summer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t
enjoy myself very often these days. Enjoying yourself is a much younger man’s
game. I’m 49 so, these days, on the very rare occasion that I do enjoy myself,
I know it’ll take me weeks to recover before I can even think about enjoying
myself again. Hard to believe that there was a time I’d enjoy myself every day.
Get home from school, run up to my bedroom, close the door, lock it, lock it
again, put a chair up against it, put another chair up against that, check the
door was locked again and then enjoy myself. Every day. Sometimes more than
once. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And that was
fine. People don’t mind hearing about young people enjoying themselves. It’s
just a bit cheeky when young people do it, isn’t it? A bit of fun. But not when
a 49 year old man does it. Then it’s disgusting. A young comedian bounces on to
the stage and talks about how he enjoyed himself and then got off the bus and
we all laugh at the innocent, adorable little scamp. Then I come on and talk
about how I enjoyed myself and I am branded a pervert. “Ugh”, the audience say.
“Now we have to think about this lecherous creep stalking himself and grooming
himself and… Ugh, I feel sick. He probably sends himself dick pics and hand
pics. And the poor guy has to go along with it because he thinks it’ll help his
career even though this creep is a nobody, which is probably why we’ve never
heard of him. He’s worse than Harvey Weinstein and Stephen Fry, if Stephen Fry
has been called out on sexual harassment claims by the time this blog is posted”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let me
reassure you. That is one of the very main reasons I don’t enjoy myself very
often: I’m just not that into me. I don’t want to do THAT to me just as much as
you don’t. It’s gross. I mean, it’s not that gross. I don’t ejaculate or
anything. I never ejaculate. For a couple of reasons. One: I’m vegan. That
semen is an animal product. It isn’t for me. It’s for my babies. Two: like I
say, I’m 49. Nothing comes out anymore. I mean, if I really try (and I mean
really, really try), my future ghost might puff out, screaming “THE TIME IS NOT YET
UPON US” before sucking itself back into my penis. Or if I really, really try
(and I mean really, really, REALLY try), a couple of teeth might pop out. But
that’s it. So, stop judging me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, it
was a lovely sunny day, so I went up to my bedroom to prepare enjoying myself. I
walked over to the bedroom window and opened it. Not that that’s a part of my
enjoying myself ritual. It isn’t. It’s not like I open the window and shout “You,
boy! What day is it?”, hitting an urchin in the eye with my stuff just as he
says, “Christmas again, by the looks of it”. No. I opened the window a bit
because it was a hot summer’s day. I closed the curtains! I’m not weird. Well,
I closed them almost all the way, leaving just a tiny gap to let some air in. I
didn’t want the people I fantasise about to feel stuffy. And before you start
feeling sick again, I was joking. I never fantasise. I just lie there
completely still not thinking of a single thing until the whole sorry mess
(tiny mess) is over. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I used to
fantasise. I used to do it all the time but now, at the age of 49, I’m so me
that I can’t stop being me. Even in fantasies. Like I could start fantasising
about being in a jacuzzi with Lulu and it would start OK. She’d say, “You like
this, don’t you, Michael?” and I’d say “Yeah, Lulu. I do”. And she’d say “Yeah.
You like it when I touch you there, don’t you?” and I’d say “Yeah, Lulu. I
bloody do. And then she’d say “Yeah, Michael. I bet you wish Stephen Moffat was
staying on another year, don’t you?” and I’d say “No, Lulu. I don’t actually”. A
massive argument would erupt and I’d storm out of the jacuzzi mumbling
something about how she hasn’t even seen Pyramids of Mars. So, there’s no point
in me ever fantasising.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, I lay on
the bed and began… you know… polishing the rod. Practicing my stroke. Cleaning
out the pipe. Whatever euphemism you use. I genuinely tried to come up with a
proper euphemism for how it actually is for me and the best I could come up
with is “Ceefax and chill”. Really depressing. </div>
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But I was enjoying myself. And I
was enjoying myself for maybe three minutes when a butterfly landed on the
pillow next to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Right next
to me. It lay there looking at me. A butterfly saw me masturbate. I hope you’re
feeling the importance of this in the same way I did. If not, allow me to
repeat: a BUTTERFLY saw me MASTURBATE. A BUTTERFLY! Nature’s Princess Diana. It
flew in, lay down and it watched me masturbate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do you know
how long a butterfly lives for? 48 hours. And for 5 seconds during it’s brief,
brief life, it saw me masturbate. To put that into perspective, that’s like you
(yeah, you) watching me masturbate for 33 hours. Really slowly. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am
embarrassed and sickened by my first thought when I was, you know, “killing
myself softly” while a butterfly watched. I just saw it lying there next to me
and I thought “Jesus Christ. I bet this happens to Snow White all the time”.
She’s finally seen the guys off to work. Decides to have a little me party and
as soon as she gets started, a deer and a pig walk in saying “Do you need the
dishes done?”. “Fucking hell”, she screams. “Five fucking minutes to myself!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I stopped. I
had to. Every time I flap my right arm, a hurricane hits South America. HA HA
HA! Brilliant! Seriously, I stopped. Of course, I did. I’m not a monster. I
cupped my hands around the butterfly and gently carried it to the
window and set it free. I did that immediately because, no matter what, that
traumatised insect will be dead within 48 hours. Probably now due to suicide.
It probably flew out the window directly into a pin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was not
how I normally enjoyed myself. That poor little animal. Such a short life and
yet the horror it had seen. And then my next thought made me feel even worse:
How many eyes does a butterfly have?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, god. I
bet it has like 20 eyes. 20 eyes just flew in and saw my dick. That’s horrible
and depressing. For an insane reason, I tried to calculate how many eyes had
seen my dick before the butterfly. I reckoned 33. Mainly medical professionals.
And a villain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do you know
how many eyes a butterfly has? I looked it up: 12,000. A butterfly has twelve
thousand eyes. TWELVE THOUSAND EYES WATCHED ME WANK. I mean, I’m sure I burned
a few out but it still stands. Twelve thousand eyes watched me wank. Sigh…<o:p></o:p></div>
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When you
feel low, you have to make yourself feel better. That’s important advice. If
you’ve traumatised a butterfly and you’re feeling worse and worse about it,
then you have to do something about it. And nothing makes you feel better than
education. Knowledge makes us stronger. So, I did more research. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I looked up
the seating capacity of some of the finest, most prestigious concert venues in
the UK and I discovered this: The Royal Albert Hall has a seating capacity of
6000. How’s THAT for making yourself feel better about yourself? Don’t you get
it? 6000 people. That’s 12,000 eyes. I felt terrible just a few minutes ago but
look at me now, people, just look at me now!<o:p></o:p></div>
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For I am
Michael Legge. And I have basically masturbated at a SOLD OUT GIG at the ROYAL.
ALBERT. HALL. (APPLAUSE FROM EVERYONE WHO READS THIS…)<o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet
still the comedy industry ignores me<o:p></o:p></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-19710224539931064512017-11-07T00:51:00.000-08:002017-11-07T00:51:32.776-08:00The Idiot<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yesterday
morning I woke up, got out of bed and fell immediately onto the floor. That was
not my first mistake of the day. That came later when I picked myself up. Why did
I do that? My bedroom carpet is soft and comforting and the floor itself stops
me from falling any further. Only getting up again guarantees more falls. Why
do we fall, Bruce? Because it’s great. Getting up makes us bitter, angry and
pretty likely to seek bloody justice while dressed as a caped gimp. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I lay on the
floor for the greatest second of my life and then made the rash decision to get
up. As I lifted my equivalent of a body, I realised I was in pain. That’s
another stupid thing about getting up: after falling, you don’t really realise
you’re hurt until you start moving. I held on to the wardrobe for support and
as I raised what was left of me from the floor, my knees held their head in their
hands in agony. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I sat on the
bed and looked at the floor. Why would anyone want to be anywhere else other
than the floor? The floor is our only friend. We can lie on it and nothing
worse will ever happen. Next time you fall, think: where is pain and fear and
sadness and wankers? Is it down here on the comfy, fluffy, mothering floor
carpet? Or is it all up there with the delayed trains and the unpaid bills and
the racism and the random American shootings and the Weinsteins and the
hashtags and the Brexit and the fucking constant constant. Christ, when you
fall, that is the floor giving you a way out. That is the floor reminding you
that you are loved and cared for. The floor is freedom. The floor is the only
person who gives a shit about anyone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I rejected
it. My one chance at happiness and I said no. I mean, I’ve fallen loads of
times and I’m planning on falling loads more but I bet, eventually, I’ll still
get up again. Because I’m a fucking idiot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My day was
awful yesterday. Literally every part of it. A disaster. In fact, it was
several disasters. One after the other. And after every disaster, all I could
think about was that warm, beautiful floor. I thought about how lovely it was
when I fell on it. How safe I felt as I lay on top of it. I thought about a
story I once read about a man who was found dead on his living room floor after
lying there alone and forgotten for two years and I envied the jammy cunt. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are
only a few things that make me completely happy. One of them is writing blog
posts. I can write what I like and I never have to edit it or change it in any
way. Not that I blog any more. I don’t. I gave that up years ago. I also like
Iggy Pop, being vegan and performing my latest show called Jerk. I love it. And
the only thing that yesterday had going for it was that I could perform part of
that show at The Comedy Store at a vegan benefit gig. I mean, that’s the best.
That’s what I live for. That will make the morning fall and everything that
happened after it seem worthwhile. THIS is why I got up from the floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I went on
stage and I was terrible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I haven’t
felt that amateur in a long time. I remembered feedlines and punchlines. Just
not ones that matched up. I tripped over words, forgot where I was, my throat
and mouth got drier and drier to the point that I thought I was going to be
sick. Being sick on stage in front of vegans is a nightmare. They won’t clean
it up as it’s technically an animal product. Instead I just wobbled about on stage,
sweating and nearly being sick while the audience remained polite and
respectful. Oh, yeah. No booing or heckling. They wouldn’t let me die. Bloody
vegans. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was
bollocks. My beloved show was bollocks in front of a room full of vegans and
animal rights supporters. Floor! Why did I forsake thee?!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Everyone
else on the bill was vegan too but they were funny. I sat in the dressing room
feeling like shit with a bunch of really talented vegan comedians that were
loved and adored by a few hundred like minded people at a GIG I REALLY WANTED
TO BE GOOD AT. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ever have
one of those moments in life when you think “what am I?” That’s how I felt on
the way home. All I needed was to be good at that gig. That would have made
getting up off the perfect floor worthwhile. Or at least I needed any part of
my shit, shit day yesterday to be good. Anything to justify getting up. But I
had nothing. So when it’s late at night and you’re alone and you’ve rejected a
floor that tried to save you and you didn’t perform well at the only thing you
should be good at… what are you? What am I?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I started
reading the Iggy Pop biography Open Up and Bleed. I couldn’t really concentrate
as I was busy remembering everything that I SHOULD have done at the gig but was
too crap to do. Iggy always cheers me up. His energy, his intellect, his
stupidity. But this was a tough job for him this time. I held the book in my
hand. I even looked at the words. Yet all I could think about was the horror of
my act and the comfort of the floor. That’s not a life. Not being prepared for
a gig you’re looking forward to is bullshit and lying on the floor isn’t going
to improve that. That’s when something in the book caught my eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the 11<sup>th</sup>
August 1968, The Stooges played a midnight show in a town called Romeo in
Michigan. It was a 15 minute long set and at the end, for the very first time
in his career (but nowhere near the last) Iggy Pop got his dick out on stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That was
about 12:15am on the morning of 12<sup>th</sup> August 1968. Michigan is 5
hours behind the UK. I was born at 5:15am on the 12<sup>th</sup> August 1968. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yeah, yeah,
yeah. I had a shit day. I had a gig that I wasn’t that happy with. Boo hoo. I
WAS BORN AT THE SAME TIME AS IGGY POP’S DICK. WHO CAN BE SAD OR FEEL LIFE IS
AGAINST THEM WHEN THAT PERSON AND THE PENIS OF THE GREATEST SHOWMAN OF ALL TIME
WAS EXPOSED TO THE WORLD AT THE EXACT SAME MOMENT? <o:p></o:p></div>
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It really
doesn’t take much to make me happy. Just dates, times and Iggy Pop’s wang. I
HAVE NEVER FELT MORE ALIVE! <o:p></o:p></div>
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The day
started with me on the floor but now I’m standing proud. Because I am Iggy Pop’s
dick. And I hope, in your darkest hours, you will be too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge</div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-34233384103574422342017-03-21T03:17:00.000-07:002017-03-21T03:17:31.378-07:00Upgrade Downfall.<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="33doq" data-offset-key="c2s6v-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F7kDW1sSgjk/WND8_ZgtRGI/AAAAAAAAB14/wrLHg0NTqs0aQF1pz2-sfmG4x_1dSTsmgCLcB/s1600/IMG_2436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F7kDW1sSgjk/WND8_ZgtRGI/AAAAAAAAB14/wrLHg0NTqs0aQF1pz2-sfmG4x_1dSTsmgCLcB/s320/IMG_2436.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span data-offset-key="c2s6v-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Only an idiot would ever go into the Apple Store.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2jcl5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And in I went. Awful. I can confidently say that it is the worst place I've ever been to and I've been to "Troubles era" Northern Ireland and the theatre. It is a massive, massive, expensive warehouse of nothing. It sells nothing. For thousands of pounds. And in I went.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6n6fp-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Within seconds, I wanted to burn the place to the ground. If only I could have afforded their pointless and overpriced iMatches and virtual petrol, that place would no longer exist and I would be hailed as a hero. Within 3 minutes I witnessed two iFriends (that's what Apple Store staff are really called. Honestly. Look it up on your android phone) celebrate making a sale by giving two thumbs up to their customers and saying "Fantastic". The customers had bought nothing but it was nothing that came in really good packaging. I came in for a reason but now that I'd seen the iFriends fantastic thumbs, I was too scared to ask anyone if I could buy the thing I came in for. So, like an idiot, I browsed.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8piak-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">All I saw was nothing. Nothing that connects to your phone so you can play music (which you already can anyway) and nothing that can connect to your phone so that you can dim the lights in your living room when you're in Helsinki. Boxes and boxes of nothing. Nothing that costs £150 or £345. I saw one box of nothing that cost £359! And it was quite a small box. Then I started to look at very small boxes of nothing that wrap around your phone to protect it from the moment that you finally snap back into reality and smash it with a hammer. And, as if by magic, an iFriend appeared.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7ftv1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">"Hey, there", he said. "Can I help you at all?" I put my hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye and said "I was about to ask you the same thing".</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5np6i-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">He now looked terrified but carried on trying to sell me an iPhone protective cover or, as it is known in the real world, nothing. He pointed out that there are leather covers and there are silicone covers. He said the silicone covers were a lot cheaper. They're also a lot smaller and all they do is basically give your iPhone an extra layer of the plastic shell it already has. It was £35. Thirty Five Pounds. "But it isn't a thing", I said. He smiled and asked me to "get his eye" when I'd made my mind up. I had made my mind up. I wanted to "get his eye" and stand on it.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2id9u-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I had to get out. It was time to just buy the nothing I came in for and leave. I walked through the store passing nothing that chooses films for you because why should you have to pick a film as well as watch it? And nothing that can ask your children if they have homework and nothing that can turn your heating on or off via the Bluetooth in your phone if you're in the same room as your thermostat. And... and... a cunt playing jazz piano live in the fucking store for no fucking smug cunt balls reason. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2id9u-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I raged up to an iFriend and asked for some nothing, please. They gave that smile/cry for help that they give everyone and asked what sort of nothing I'd like and I said I wanted the new nothing, the newest nothing, You know the nothing that you put on your wrist and and everyone asks why you bought it and it monitors exactly how lazy you are and it has to tell you to stand up because you've been lying on the floor in your own shit for too long and it sends cheery cartoon reminders for you to breathe and it checks on your heart so that it can email a sad face to everyone on your contacts list the second you finally die. I want that fucking nothing. Also, it tells the time.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="d9gek-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The iFriend got me my nothing and took my credit card and I waited. She's going to hand me my nothing and give me the celebration thumbs and the we-have-your-money-now "Fantastic" any second now. Why have I bought this useless fucking thing? It is literally nothing. £399 worth of nothing. Nothing that can survive up to 300 ft below water. Great. I can't even drown it. And what do I get for nothing? Thumbs up and a "fantastic". And here it comes.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="60rcq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The iFriend gave my card back and gave me my nothing in a lovely nothing bag. She looked me right in the eye and said...</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="duosn-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">"Well done".</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="d6lh1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">No fantastic. No thumbs up. Just "well done". You came in here. You hated every single thing you saw and you saw it for what it was and then you paid nearly £400 to have a bit of it. Just like every other idiot. Yeah. Well done.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="d6lh1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">www.twitter.com/michaellegge</span></div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-52126109977858282442017-02-23T05:32:00.000-08:002017-02-23T05:32:45.108-08:00One For Fuck All.<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="fm58l" data-offset-key="33s6i-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="33s6i-0-0">Liverpool can be a lonely place on a Thursday morning, and this was only Saturday night.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="e6qqd-0-0">Being a stand-up comedian is a lonely job. Being a 48 year old stand up comedian is even lonelier. Even you don't want to hang out with you. But the loneliest I've ever felt doing this job was one Saturday night in Liverpool last year. I remember it well because it was the weekend that The Stone Roses released their long-awaited comeback single.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="d5mf8-0-0">I love The Stone Roses, and by that I mean that I love The Stone Roses by The Stone Roses. It's a truly great album made by ambitious, fiery, artistic, free young men. Their follow up album was nothing compared to that wonderful, trippy, angry first album and over 27 years since its release. It's all of The Stone Roses that matters. The second album could afford to be terrible because that debut was so superb. It has carried them all this time and anything else they do wouldn't matter unless it was as good or better. To say the least, I was excited about the first Stone Roses music in 22 years.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="a13os-0-0">It was fucking appalling.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bkqg-0-0">Of course it was. How could it not be? Their second album proved that they'd run out of inspiration, what made me think they'd get it back over two decades later? I'm an idiot. It's called All For One and if you haven't heard it then you've got the luckiest pair of ears in town. "All for one, one for all", whines Ian Brown. "Let's join hands and build a wall", forgetting how difficult it is to build a wall while you're holding hands. What did you use to put the bricks on top of one another? Your knob? It's fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking awful. I just didn't "get" it. What happens to all that fire in a young band's belly? How can four men be so full of artistic vision and then release that drivel? I just didn't "get" it. I just didn't "get" the new Stone Roses single. I don't know where that vision went and I don't "get" the new Stone Roses single and then I started thinking about my own life.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="898nn-0-0">I was listening to All For One for about the eighth time and hoping I'd "get" it while walking alone from the gig in Liverpool to the train station. I still didn't "get" it. And I also didn't "get" what had happened to me.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="32gqb-0-0">When I was 18, I was in a band. We were a cover band. Yes, that's right. A cover band. Not a covers band. Cover. One song. That's all we knew. It was a cover of Walk This Way by Aerosmith. Walk This Way by Run DMC was incredibly popular at the time but we decided to go for the less popular Aerosmith original. We did four gigs, sometimes performing Walk This Way up to three times in a row. Of course, we were much more ambitious than that. Of course we were. We were young. We didn’t just want to do an Aerosmith cover for the rest of our careers. The band started to write their own music and I wrote the lyrics. Then I was asked to leave because every one of my songs was about masturbation. It was literally all I knew.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7ro53-0-0">That band could have gone somewhere. But then I moved to London and suddenly discovered art. I gave up on the band too easily but art was something that I could really devote my life too. I would be a painter. I genuinely had my heart set on it. But then I just went to the pub instead. It’s the same with that play I didn’t write. And that film I didn’t direct. And that book I didn’t… No. I just haven’t written that yet. But I will. I will. I should do.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="c6tng-0-0">And I thought all this while walking alone late at night in Liverpool. At 48, still doing the clubs alone and travelling alone and thinking about that ambitious young man I once was and listening to the new Stone Roses single. I just didn’t “get” it. Then I broke one of my own rules. I pissed in the street.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8bgvq-0-0">I left the venue after drinking the regulation comedian’s amount of lager and now desperately needed to wee. I absolutely hate the idea of weeing outside. Don’t know how people do it. But, I was desperate. I knew it was wrong but I went under a very dark viaduct and pissed.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="dgm43-0-0">Junkie needles lay all over the ground as I pissed. This did not make me feel any better. How did that young leader singer… that artist… that playwright… end up alone, under a viaduct at midnight, pissing near junkie needles? What would he think of what I’d turned him into? I made him middle-aged. I made him alone. I made him piss on junkie needles.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4ocpo-0-0">As I thought all this, I used my piss to move two of the needles together so that they formed a V shape. Then, just above the needles, I pissed two half circles side by side so that the V shape and the piss half circles made a heart. I really did this. In real life. I stood there under that viaduct and thought about getting fired from the band and not painting and not writing my play and I was old and alone and I was shit and really, really… what have I done with my life? I made a love-heart out of piss and junkie needles.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="a6t6h-0-0">And that’s when I finally “got” the new Stone Roses single.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="edu7p-0-0">For more record reviews, listen to the Vitriola podcast with Robin Ince and Michael Legge on Soundcloud and iTunes. https://soundcloud.com/vitriolamusic</span></div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-74020707313596727692016-08-23T00:43:00.001-07:002016-08-23T00:43:13.335-07:00Delete the Internet.<div>Hello. I am Michael Legge and I have an announcement to make. I am retiring from being angry online as from tomorrow and today I will be having my last ever online argument: With Sir Tim Berners-Lee.</div><div><br></div><div>25 years ago to the day, Sir Tim Berners-Lee, the then keyboard player in D-Ream, invented the Internet and he is a cunt. I mean, he ruined absolutely everything. If you're young, you may not remember a time when a sack full of every hate-filled thought by every arsehole on the planet wasn't thrown at your front door, but 25 years ago today Sir Tim Berners-Lee decided that that was the very thing that was missing from our lives. Why are people keeping their thoughts to themselves?, he sang in Sack Full of Every Hate-Filled Thought, the follow up single to Things Can Only Get Better, his one and only sarcastic pop hit that the nation didn't get was a joke. Why can't we all read the minds of every single vicious bastard on Earth and openly agree with them?, he kept singing and singing and singing. I can barely listen to any of D-Ream's albums anymore. They sound like the beginning of the end of civilisation. Which they are. And that is the fault of one "man": Sir Tim Brooke-Taylor.</div><div><br></div><div>All of that might sound insane but that's only because I haven't slept for days. Maybe 2 or 3 hours a night for at least five days. Right now, I'm writing this at 4:53am after sleeping for 90 minutes. I can't sleep because the noise of the Internet is so constant in my head. I know what Dave Piss in St Albans thinks of non-English athletes in the Olympics and I shouldn't because he's far away, he's horrible and I have no interest. Yet, Mr. Piss's opinion has been posted online, retweeted, shared and put into the sack full of every hate-filled thought that arrives at my door every morning. I know what Kenny Dickhead in Utah thinks of #BlackLivesMatter and I shouldn't because he's far away, he's horrible and I have no interest in him. I know what Billy "The Wanker" Wanker in Blackburn thinks of Brexit and I shouldn't because he's far away, he's horrible and I have no interest in him. I know what Shit Shit in Wexford thinks of abortion and I definitely shouldn't because he's not far enough away, he's definitely horrible and he should always keep his stupid fucking pointless mouth closed while holding his nose blocking any oxygen unfortunate enough to locate his brain. Yet, Sir Tim looked at the world 25 years ago and decided he wanted to connect people, not to the mains like you or I would, but with a tool that means every single person can communicate with every single person in every single subject at every single second of the day, at all times. Sir Tim wanted to connect people. PEOPLE! The very things that should be isolated in iron trunks at the bottom of the sea permanently. He looked at a global forest fire and thought "What that fire needs is a voice".</div><div><br></div><div>When I invented online hate in 2008, it was adorable. Cute. I thought it would be funny to appear to be the least supportive member of the comedy community and openly abuse my contemporaries. But we were all younger then. I'm not sure we were ready for this possible huge change in our lives. It was back when Facebook was in its second trimester and the news that an unwanted Twitter had appeared and it was just a different time. They're both products of the regretted fling between MySpace and Geocities, a night that should have been forgotten. Society demanded we accept these horrible twins and let them grow, even though we clearly weren't ready to raise them properly. It was all pictures of cats and dinners then and maybe we thought it always would be like that. But, like The Smiths, pricks started to like them. Somehow, pricks really got into dinners and cats and, all of a sudden, the Internet was appealing to the same people who like violence, porn, far right politics and The Smiths. It was the middle of the beginning of the end of civilisation. </div><div><br></div><div>Over the past few days I've got in online arguments with a joke thief, a pro-lifer abusing women and a cunt. These arguments lasted hours. Hours of whatever I have left of my life. I don't know why I argued with the last one. A cunt is just a cunt (D-Ream, 1996) and there is very little anyone can do about that but I argued with him anyway because that is what Sir Tim's plan for me always was. It's equally baffling that I got into such a long argument with the joke thief. It's not like everything I do in comedy is always so original. As for the pro-lifer? Yes, him targeting the utterly heartbreaking and noble @TwoWomenTravel is distressing but here's the thing: when you argue with a pro-lifer who has gone online to target and abuse women who are making such a brave statement and yet you start looking equally mad, it's time to rethink exactly what it is that you're doing. His views were horrible and, as he attacked, so I attacked him. I almost certainly couldn't change his mind. Can anyone calm insanity in 140 characters or less? But maybe I could have tried. </div><div><br></div><div>One night in 1989, the first person outside of my immediate family that I loved asked me to go to the pub with her. She was the first funny, artistic, well-read alien I had ever met and she still appears other-worldly and exciting to me to this day. I worry about the fictional Michael in the alternative universe who didn't meet her because his life wasn't doing so well when I left him. She bought me cowboy boots. That night while sitting on a kerb drinking beer, she told me she had an abortion. My response wasn't angry or abusive but I did say that I considered it murder. </div><div><br></div><div>I was 20 and even though I was a few years into atheism, I was still very much hardwired to think just as the Catholic Church taught me. Obviously, I felt bad that this person who I loved had experienced this and decided to read up on exactly what abortion was. I wish I could remember what I read now because those books helped me so much. I'm very much a pro-choice person and I'm ashamed of how my brain worked in the past. But, it's amazing what a bit of reading and actual facts will do. And maybe I could have told him that. Instead, I called him smelly. Yeah. I really did.</div><div><br></div><div>So, I'm done. I'm even calling off my last fight with Sir Tim Berners-Lee. He invented this awful thing so it's his problem. Just like stealing a joke, hating yourself so much that you send hate tweets to women and being a cunt is some other people's problems. I'm not looking in the sack anymore. Neither should you. In fact, stop reading this. If you have to look at anything Sir Tim's invention has to offer then look at @TwoWomenTravel and you will see something truly astounding, inspiring and tragically beautiful.</div><div><br></div><div>Sorry this isn't funny.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fh3PsNmhWSQ/V7v-SI83yqI/AAAAAAAABwc/xLPR_RFGZ7Y/s640/blogger-image--788719410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fh3PsNmhWSQ/V7v-SI83yqI/AAAAAAAABwc/xLPR_RFGZ7Y/s640/blogger-image--788719410.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">www.twitter.com/twowomentravel </div><br></div>Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-37813064211572315042016-08-08T03:21:00.000-07:002016-08-08T03:21:27.870-07:00A Fringe Sell Out.<div class="MsoNormal">
This year has seen the worst Edinburgh Fringe since 2007. It’s
great that there are so few badly designed posters (practically none), there
are no shuffling crowds to avoid and I’ve yet to get hassled by an over-happy
foetus on stilts passive-aggressively threatening me with news of his play, but
it’s still terrible. This year’s theme of the Fringe seems to be just existing.
Walking around, doing nothing and just barely keeping things together. Why they
decided to hold it in Lewisham is also a mystery.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The arrogance of being a relatively unsuccessful comedian
and not doing the Edinburgh Fringe is atrocious. How fucking dare I not do the
Fringe? Who the hell do I think I am? Last year was fun and the show did well
so OBVIOUSLY I didn’t want a repeat of that and decided not to go. WHY? I lied
to myself by saying I was going to work on something else. Something else? What
else have I got? What else have any of us got? Nothing. I am not on Live at the
Apollo and yet I decided not to do the Edinburgh Fringe. I’m not the host of
The Graham Norton Show and yet I decided not to do the Edinburgh Fringe. I’m not
“THE STAR OF” Mock The Week, 8 Out Of 10 Cats or Garden Rescue and yet I
decided not to do the Edinburgh Fringe. I’ve not even been on Question Time.
Name one comedian who hasn’t been on Question Time besides me? You can’t. And
yet I decided to not do the Edinburgh Fringe. I’ve not even had an online
misogynistic/racist breakdown or openly pretended that I’m transitioning just
to get some attention and YET I decided to not do the Edinburgh Fringe. The
gall. The arrogance. The utter egomania. And yet here I am, complaining about
not going to the Edinburgh Fringe and being just as vain and pompous as any who
are there and posting of near sell outs and how the internet was in to review
them. I am pathetic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And it’s not like the stand-up circuit is a lucrative
alternative anymore. I’m lucky to get the gigs I do during any month, never
mind August, but there’s no way I’m making a fortune by avoiding Edinburgh while
all the real comedians are being one-starred to death at the Fringe. It’s hard
on the circuit now. Hell, it’s hard for anyone. There’s not a single person I
know outside comedy that doesn’t have two jobs to make ends meet and yet, here
I am, fucking what little career I have left in a bin because I just felt like
not doing Edinburgh! Years ago, I would mock my friends for having proper jobs.
But not now. At least they’re doing something and going somewhere. Years go by
and they get promoted while I avoid the ladder completely by poo-pooing
Edinburgh. My friend Paul is a home security expert. He started his job around
the same time I started mine and I remember thinking “People will always need
laughter. Are locks really that important?” Turns out that door locks are the
Michael McIntyre DVD of the home security world and, as a result, Paul is now
successful enough to own a house, a car and a child. He’s even convinced me to
think about getting a door lock. But, even he doesn’t rest on his laurels.
Times are tough and, to make ends meet, Paul is also a bass player in a Queen
tribute band playing 5-6 nights a week in provincial theatres around the UK. My
friend Karl quit stand-up comedy to be a fitness instructor 10 years ago. At
the time I thought “I can’t think of anything worse” but now he owns 6 very
successful gyms and earns a fortune. Not that that’s enough for Karl. He knows
how easy money comes and goes so he has a second job as a bass player in a
Queen tribute band playing 5-6 nights a week in provincial theatres around the
UK. When I left school, my friend John told me he wanted to join the church. I
laughed in his stupid, religious face but I don’t laugh anymore because John is
now a deacon employed by the Church of England and gets a free house and a car!
Not only that, Deacon John has a second job as bass player in a Queen tribute
band playing 5-6 nights a week in provincial theatres around the UK (not
Sundays). My other friend John quit his band 25 years ago and I thought he was
an idiot but now he makes about £20 million a year by being a silent partner in
an operation by his former bandmates to sully his name by doing terrible
musicals and feeding off the last remaining bits of flesh of their dead lead
singer but even he knows that to make ends meet you’ve got little choice but to
be a bass player in a Queen tribute band. Which he is. My mate… I dunno… let’s
call him Kenny. Yeah, Kenny works as a guitarist in a Queen tribute band
playing 5-6 nights a week in provincial theatres around the UK earning
thousands every night but, look at Broken Britain, look at the times we live
in. Even Kenny has a second job as bass player in a Queen tribute band playing
5-6 nights a week in provincial theatres around the Uk and I sit here, like Emperor
Cunt doing fuck all squared and thinking that NOT going to the Edinburgh Fringe
was a good idea. I’m a fucking idiot. I hate this. I hate it all. Please give
me an hour at a dripping free fringe venue that’s in the middle of a fight with
another free fringe venue. Anything. I just want to smell Edinburgh. I want to
taste it. I want to taste its pain and its frustration and its disappointment.
I want to cancel a show and burst into tears and meet someone who just sold out
“again” and find out my accommodation doesn’t actually exist because at least
while I was dying in Scotland, I’d be living. But NO. I decided to just choose
a month long coma. Like a coward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then, in Manchester on Friday night (technically the
first night of the Edinburgh Fringe), I died on stage for so long and to a maze
of such grey silence. I could have been at the Fringe, performing every day and
get better as a comedian. Every day, working on my act and my skills. But I
said no. To those who said yes, I salute you. Have a great month no matter
what. You’ll be on my mind always while I figure out what I thought August
without the Fringe might be. I’d get another job but I can’t even play bass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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www.twitter.com/michaellegge</div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-47746778347745305542016-04-30T04:22:00.001-07:002016-04-30T04:22:11.916-07:00Lo-Fidelity.<span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">If you work hard enough, sooner or later you'll receive the recognition you deserve. My first drama teacher, Lydia Grant, used to say to me every week: "You've got big dreams. You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying: in sweat". Every time she said that, I would sweat instantly and profusely. That's how much I wanted fame and how unhealthy I was. Sadly, after 6 years of studying and sweating at the </span><span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">New York City High School for the Performing Arts, I left and, like all my fellow pupils there, I didn't really do anything afterwards.</span><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well, nothing recognisable. Miss Grant had promised me fame and it never arrived. But I never gave up. Maybe recognition isn't important. Maybe the work is reward enough, I often tell myself. And, to be fair, I get a lot out of doing what I do. I'm very satisfied with the skill I have perfected over the years. And I have experienced tiny flashes of fame before and I hated it.</span></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At a recent music festival, a man came up to me and said he listened to Vitriola (he didn't say he liked it, just that he listened to it). Then he asked if he could have an autograph. Not my autograph. Robin Ince's. A couple of years ago at a party, a BBC producer said they were really happy to see me as they had an idea for a Radio 4 series for me. It was very exciting and he certainly gave it an interesting pitch. Well, the first few minutes of the pitch were great but tailed off once the penny dropped that I wasn't Dave Gorman. Turns out beards really can fool people. And, of course, I have signed countless Angela's Ashes DVD's as well as numerous photographs of the successful actor Michael Legge. Photographs of a man who looks nothing like me. It still makes me smile to think that there's a huge fan out there with a pristine shooting script of the film Angela's Ashes signed by Frank McCourt, Robert Carlyle and me, rendering it worthless. </span></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was on my way to Scotland the other day and, at King's Cross station, a pigeon did a huge almighty massive shit all over my little suitcase. I mean, it was only a pigeon yet it managed to absolutely cover my little suitcase in shit. Covered it. I soon found myself in a dark corner of the station, alone and on my knees scrubbing away to remove the mess and the stench. And that is exactly how I've always been recognised.</span></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Until yesterday.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">If you persevere, people will notice. I know that now. How long have I been doing what I do? Years. So very, very long. I remember starting out and being so nervous. Terrified. But I soon got confident. Sure, yes, I made many mistakes on the way. It's gone disastrously wrong a lot of times but I'm definitely way better than I used to be. I'm confident. And when people see that confidence, they respect it. And you. And if you persevere, people will notice. You got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is were you start paying...</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">On the metropolitan line going to Amersham yesterday, I asked a man to turn his loud music off that was blasting from his phone and he stared at me. For two seconds. A long time. Then he smiled and switched off his music and said "You again?"</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Yes. That's right. That's how famous I am now. I'm the man who tells people to be quiet on public transport. So famous am I at that one thing that people have started to recognise me for it. Apparently, I "had a go" at him on a tube train a couple of years ago. Brilliant. I sat next to him and we talked. Because that's what I do. That's what I'm known for. I ask you once to switch your music off and I have a go at you. If I have to ask you twice, you're getting the lecture.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">And this is my life now, I suppose. Fame. That's what I have now. I promise I won't let it change me. Really. I'm still going to be that normal, everyday, down to earth bloke that foams at the mouth if you so much as sniff on a train or make a fucking FaceTime call to a baby while sitting next to me in a quiet pub (WHY THE FUCK DO PEOPLE DO THAT???). No. I'll still be the regular Joe that I always was.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I'd like to thank Miss Grant for believing in me all those years ago. And thanks to @BrianFerry for dinner too.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ViQLIz3i2N0/VySVYrrwxRI/AAAAAAAABtk/stN9_uls6_I/s640/blogger-image--1116250835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ViQLIz3i2N0/VySVYrrwxRI/AAAAAAAABtk/stN9_uls6_I/s640/blogger-image--1116250835.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">www.twitter.com/michaellegge </div>Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-36519007353636217312016-04-23T03:20:00.001-07:002016-04-23T03:20:30.349-07:00Arsehole Formally Known as David.<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">On Thursday, like so many of us, I put on my black armband and walked to the local florist. When the young woman who worked there asked if she could help, I wiped tears from my eyes and my throat cracked a lost yes. I wanted flowers. Purple flowers. They had to be purple. I wanted beautiful purple flowers. Roses. Morning Glory. Lavender. And I wanted them arranged lovingly into the shape of a name. The name of someone I've admired for so long, more than I could ever admire or love anyone. I wanted those flowers arranged into the name "Michael Legge". When the young florist asked why I wanted flowers in the shape of my own name, I asked her to sit down because I had some terrible news. Prince is dead. She understood immediately. One of the world's greatest songwriters, musicians and showmen had died. And what else could I do but make it all about me?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">When I looked on the BBC website and read the news that Michael Legge's Prince had died, I just wanted to curl up into a ball and exploit him. I looked through my entire collection of Prince albums (Hits 1 & 2, The Best of Prince and The Very Best of Prince) and tweeted about my favourite songs, like a normal person would do: Purple Rain, Raspberry Beret and Purple Rain, to name just three. As well as rarer cuts such as When Doves Cry. But it just felt pointless. A great man is dead and no one knows that I met him and we have a strong connection, even though I haven't and we don't.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We all mourn in different ways and my way is to take the focus away from the deceased and put it directly on me. Through tears I tweeted Tim Burton saying how sorry I was that he had lost the composer of the Batman soundtrack, making sure I put a full stop in front of his Twitter handle so everyone could see what I wrote and maybe think that I might know Tim Burton. I don't know Tim Burton. I don't even like him. But that's hardly the point. I am the point. Then I tweeted that, like Prince, I too don't eat meat, thereby letting the world know that a torch had been passed from the dead rock star directly to me and, as I was alive, I would carry on his great work of eating vegetables. Then I did the only thing that I could do when someone famous dies and you're a manipulative piece of shit: I wrote to Prince's estate asking if I could attend the funeral, read out a memorial to me in front of the grieving, take some selfies of me beside dead Prince and then defecate into his open mouth. They respectfully wrote back saying they understood exactly how I felt. Michael Legge's Prince meant so much to so many people and it was only natural to want to read a thing about yourself at his funeral, take some fun pics of you and the corpse and then to defecate into his mouth. It's completely normal. But sadly, so many people had already insisted that they attend and shit in his mouth that they just couldn't make room for anymore. Elton John, Kim Kardashian, Kate Smurthwaite. So many people wanting to show their disrespects and vulture the remains of the dead for money, fame and Instagram. I am grateful to Prince's estate for their understanding and their promise of one of Prince's feet if anything is left of him after the funeral. I'll Snapchat the foot as soon as it arrives so please link to me, yeah?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Lots of people tweeted about Prince with respect, saying they love his music and what a great loss his passing is. And lots tweeted about themselves, just like I wanted to. But none of them came close to the same desperation and neediness that I felt since his death and all the opportunities it presented. I hoped to find a kindred spirit. Someone who loved exploiting the dead as much as I did. Thankfully, I met that kindred spirit. What helps us through the grieving process more than connecting with someone who feels as you do? I am so grateful then to David Walliams and his deeply moving, thoughtful and manipulative tweet: "Thank you so much @bryanferry for inviting me to have dinner with #Prince a few years ago. One of the most unforgettable nights of my life".</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">That really happened. In actual real life. And I thank him for it. I thank him for letting me know that he met Prince. I thank him for letting me know he is friends with Bryan Ferry. And I thank him for sharing with us all that it was one of the most unforgettable nights of his life, despite him forgetting to say what made it so incredibly special. One can only dream of what could have happened that lovely, unforgettable evening at Bryan Ferry's fox-free mansion with Prince dining with those two Cameron-supporting cunts. Delicious food served on the finest platters while Bryan says "Prince, do you like me?" and David says "Prince, what is Sheena Easton really like?" and Bryan says "Prince, seriously, do you like me?" and David says "Prince, can you play the guitar in real life?" and Bryan says "Prince, please like me" and David says "Prince, computer says no" and Prince says "I've told you 18 times, I'm Lenny Kravitz. You're both being racist". Unforgettable.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">I am humbled at David's complete lack of humility. He wasn't alone in being the online corpse fucker the second news broke of the tragic and untimely death of Michael Legge's Prince but his words are the ones that have stayed with me the longest. I will look at his tweet every single day for the rest of my life because it said everything that I wanted to, but mainly because it's hilarious that Bryan Ferry has still not acknowledged it. My friend said it is the single worst thing that anyone has ever posted on the Internet, an achievement in itself. But she is clearly jealous, petty and correct. David, just like I tried so hard to do, saw his opportunity and exploited it. And as any Prince fan knows: if Prince stood for anything, it was exploitation.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-73729270672900651852016-02-22T00:37:00.001-08:002016-02-22T00:37:57.379-08:00Take It Off<span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I hope you'll forgive me for this. I don't ever really write things like this but, sorry, but something awful happened to me on my way home last night. Sorry.</span><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I was standing on the train platform and a woman came along and stood beside me. She was too close but not close enough for me to make a fuss of it. I moved a few steps away and pretty soon she moved a few steps closer. Sorry. It wasn't that awful... It's hard to explain. It just felt like my space was being invaded for no reason. Maybe it wasn't. Sorry. I just felt a bit awkward, I suppose. I definitely suddenly became too aware of how short my trousers were. Sorry.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Then the train arrived. I was totally relieved because it meant I could get on and get away from this woman. But everything went wrong as soon as the train came to a stop. I held my hand out to press the OPEN button on the door but she got there first and she smiled at me as she said "After you". Like an idiot, I said thank you and walked through the door. IDIOT! Everyone knows that if a woman holds a door open for you and you agree to walk through then that's a contract. A contract you've agreed to. I knew she was creepy but, I swear to God, I thought she was just being nice. Sorry. So I took a seat and she sat next to me.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I looked out the window and pretended to ignore how she was just staring and smiling at me. I mean, I thought she was just letting me on to a train. I thought the only reason she noticed me was because I was a fellow passenger who wanted to make the same journey she did. But no. She wanted more. Sorry. I was on there with her for 4 stops and she made herself clear at every moment. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I asked her to stop touching me but she kept reminding me that if I was going all the way to Lewisham then I'd be better off being looked after by someone like her. Someone older, someone that knew the area. I sometimes thought she was right. Sorry. Idiot. Sorry. But it didn't feel right. We got to London Bridge and she started kissing me. I asked her to stop but she told me that if she hadn't pressed the OPEN button on the door then I'd never even have got on the fucking train in the first place so I owed her. Going through St Johns was horrible. Sorry. But it was there that I decided that enough was enough. No one should have to suffer the things she thought were totally normal. She thought it was acceptable. I'm sorry. I got off at Lewisham and refused to even acknowledge her. I went straight to the police. They also brought in the transport police. I sat down with all of them and I told them exactly what I've told you.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Now I'm legally obliged to record six albums with her. How does any of that make sense? </div>Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-24758129266405249732016-02-11T06:36:00.000-08:002016-02-11T06:45:16.097-08:00On Rocky Ground.<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="35vr3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="35vr3-0-0">As you may or may not know, this week I have been taking on the considerable might of comedians who box and I HAVE BEEN KICKING THEIR ASSES (from the safety of behind my laptop, I'm not an idiot). I made a joke, went too far, my fault. But I haven't forgotten what the money raised from the boxing night went to: a very young boy who is ill and needs money to get get better.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="el8cm-0-0">It's important that you read this.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6v615-0-0">His illness is time sensitive so money is needed right now. The charity is halfway through to it's target so donate right now. £1, £10, £500. Anything. I need new recording equipment for podcasting that will cost me £100. I won't get it now because I gave the £100 to Care For Kian because podcasting equipment isn't that important. Ask anyone who has heard Vitriola. What I'm saying is, instead of buying an extra pint tonight or paying for drugs to give to a prositute patient of yours so she might sleep with you (if you're George Osborne's brother), why not just give the money here?</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fid33-0-0">Just do it right now. Then you'll feel great about yourself. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8m6el-0-0"><span style="background-color: white;">Help raise more money by helping arrange a benefit night. I want to arrange a kissing night where I can beat all the Fight For Kian boxers at kissing. I shall kiss each and every one of them for at least 10 minutes each to see who is the best at kissing. I will easily win. Milo McCabe</span></span><span data-offset-key="8m6el-2-0" style="background-color: white;"> has already said yes, which is great because he's the boxer that looks most like a beautiful woman. That said, I think there were some women boxing too, so even better. but mainly I just want to get off with Eliott Steel</span><span data-offset-key="8m6el-4-0" style="background-color: white;"> as he's young and I can prove I've still got it. Plus, we'd raise money for a worthy cause and Kian could get better and stronger and then come round and punch me for making fun of his boxer friends.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="feng8-0-0">Surely that's worth your donation?</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bv4o3-0-0">Donate. Like. Share. Do it right now.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bv4o3-0-0" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Click here: http://www.kapipal.com/caringforkian</span></span></div>
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Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4811098729069815663.post-2945291641074984122015-12-29T02:18:00.007-08:002015-12-29T02:18:59.305-08:00Binh.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In the UK, a child is reported missing every 3 minutes. Some go missing and are never reported, certainly not by the media, and the reason will disgust you. Take 4 year old Binh Ly Cao, for instance. Ever heard of her? There has been no report of her in any newspaper in the country. Not one. No TV report, no radio, not even a mention on the internet. Her parents have yet to even inform the police that their own daughter has been missing for over a month.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was at Costa Coffee in Lewisham Shopping Centre on the 22nd November. I was just sitting there drinking tea, minding my own business and trolling on Twitter when a young family came along and sat at the table next to me. The little girl was making some noise so one of the parents gave her an iPad to play with. The parents continued to ignore their child and just talked to one another while she played games with the volume on full. Right next to me. In a public place. There I was trying to relax with some peppermint tea while calling @Glinner a boring moral compass for idiots, but all I could hear was crappy kids music and beeps and whistles all loudly pushed through a horribly tinny speaker and yet the parents just kept on talking to each other as if they could hear nothing. I mean, why does this ALWAYS happen? Fine, let your kids have an iPad. There's a mute button on the iPad though, just letting you know in case you give the tiniest flying fuck about anyone else on this planet besides your awful selves. Better yet, why not actually give your kid some attention? I mean, I know that an iPad is an important part of modern parenting, in the same way that beating was an important part of my parents' upbringing, but it doesn't have to be permanent. You can sometimes switch the iPad off and talk to your kid. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I tried to be patient. I even tried getting the parents' attention to ask them to turn the iPad down but they never looked away from their own conversation. They certainly didn't look at me or the other people they were annoying around them and they definitely didn't look at their child. As long as the iPad was making BEEP-BOOP-WHIZZ noises then they didn't have to care about anything. So, I picked their daughter up and left.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I just put my hand around her mouth, lifted her up and walked out of Costa Coffee. The iPad was still on the table making irritating noises and the parents didn't notice a thing. I just abducted a child and walked out.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When I got home with Binh, I got worried. I realised I had done something stupid. I had taken a child away from the iPad that had raised her. She was scared, confused and angry. I only wanted to steal a child to teach two utterly thoughtless cunts a lesson but as soon as she got into my house she just kept screaming for her iPad. "I want my iPad", she screamed. "I WANT MY IPAD!". I told her I didn't have an iPad and she told me to stop being stupid. "Everyone has an iPad", she insisted. But I don't. I have a Wii but I'm not even sure if it works anymore. I have Netflix and a plastic mounted fish that dances when you press a button, but no iPad. This made her scream more. My dog wondered what the fuss was all about and came in from the kitchen. As soon as Binh saw the dog, she stopped screaming. She actually looked happy. Happy like she'd found her iPad. "There we go", I said to her. "This is Jerk. Why don't you go over and pet her and introduce yourself?"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"My name is Binh", she said to Jerk and the pair sat together while Binh patted Jerk gently and Jerk lay her head on Binh's lap. I showed Binh how to get Jerk to sit, stay and lie down. The time flew by and soon Binh was fast asleep on the sofa next to a snoring Jerk. I put a blanket over them both and tip-toed off to bed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I lay there flicking through every news website on my phone. There was nothing about Binh's disappearance. Maybe they have to wait 24 hours? Is that just for the films though? I couldn't figure it out why there was no mention of an abducted child anywhere. Then I slunk to sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I awoke to screams. "IPAD!", I heard. "IPAD! IPAD! IPAD!" I bolted downstairs to see Binh in tears, shaking. "WHERE IS MY IPAD?", she demanded. Suddenly, I was absolutely terrified of this very small 4 year old girl. Even Jerk had decided to go to the kitchen to hide from her. I calmly reminded Binh that I didn't have an iPad. This made her more furious. "I need my iPad", she howled. "I miss it". </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I felt awful. I'd taken a child away from its iPad. What have I done? A child should always be with their own iPad. I mean, parents are probably better for a child but if the parents have absolutely no interest then an iPad is all a child has in this world. Who was I to deny this child that right? "OK", I said. "Let's go get an iPad"...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Look, I know buying an iPad is the coward's way out but after all that screaming, what else could I do? I had to buy Binh an iPad. Just to keep her quiet. Anyway, her parents will be frantic about her and the press will go ballistic trying to find her and I can leave her in Wetherspoons or somewhere and she'll be found and I can sell the iPad. It's only temporary, I thought. I asked her what she did with her iPad. "Play games", she said. "Angry Birds". </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"I know where the real angry birds live", I said. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And with that we took a temporary detour to the park so that I could introduce Binh to the parakeets of Lewisham, the loudest, angriest birds anywhere. They're truly amazing. We stood under a tree listening to them screech at everyone who passed by. She loved them. Actual exotic birds living in Lewisham! They're Asian, sometimes African or Central/South American but these ones were let loose in Lewisham and they thought, if we have to live here, we're taking over. When sirens aren't blaring, the parakeets are all you can hear around here. And the closer you get to a tree full of parakeets the more screaming they do. Binh and I discovered this to our amusement and spent far too long tiptoeing up to trees, hearing a billion squawks and running away again. It was fun. And we hung out in the park for so long that the iPad was forgotten about. At least for that day.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I mean, "I want my iPad" soon became the sentence I heard most every single day. But that hasn't been the only change in my life. Food has been the most difficult thing, really. She eats meat and I'm not going to argue with her over that one. She's been through enough. There's plenty of time to give her animal rights leaflets when she's reunited with her iPad and I'm writing to her from jail. Now isn't the time. So I've been cooking bacon and sausages and chicken or whatever for her and then a separate meal for me. I've only been a child abductor for a few days and I'm already turning into my mother! I thought clothes were going to be hard but it was easy. Binh and I have been shopping a lot and she picks her own things to wear. I only say no when it's too stupid (I had to buy her shoes for walking in the park and she picked out ballet slippers). She's great with her clothes. She's got style. I mean, it's a crazy style but it's definitely a style. Sometimes she dresses like a 4 year old Diane Keaton but mainly she dresses like Paddington. I'm not sure she was allowed to pick her own clothes before and I can totally understand why but, she's not my kid, so I just let her. She loves hats.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It took me a while to figure it out but, anytime she would cry for an iPad, what she really meant was that she wanted to be entertained. Amused. So when the tantrums started, we'd play with Jerk or watch Frozen (I have seen that film 18 times now. Seriously) or go out and play or stay in and play games. My house is full of games now. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Also, Binh saw a parakeet in the garden so has been trying to lure one into the house by leaving bread trails from the garden into the house. So far, it has only resulted in Jerk eating a trail to the garden. But I was so impressed with her ingenuity that I got bird feeders that actually stick to the windows. Now we can watch parakeets and hear them scream while I'm washing the dishes and she dries them, something she surprisingly loves.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Recently, we've got into talking. Big conversations. Mainly about things I don't know anything about. Like, "Why is there a moon?" and "What is Ireland?". All sorts of questions. And we try to figure them out together. Or make up stories based on what we think the answer might be. I love talking to Binh. It's better than talking to anyone else I know, that's for sure. Like everyone I know, Binh knows nothing. But unlike them, she wants to know everything. There are four bags of astronaut poo on the moon. Neil Armstrong and his friends left them there. I know that because Binh and I found it out together.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of course, Binh needs more company than just me. She needs other 4 year olds. So I've been taking her to pre-school day nursery. Three days a week, we get up early, I check the news for any mention of Binh and we go off to nursery. At first, I was really nervous leaving her there. In case she said something. But now, I hate dropping her off because I miss her. Two weeks ago, the nursery had a Christmas Tea Party. Parents turned up and hung out with each other while the kids played. It was very cute. Soon some of the kids got restless and started looking for their parents' attention. All they got was an iPad that they played with loudly while their mums and dads talked. I saw Binh roll her eyes and I think I felt, for the very first time in my life, pride.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The whole change in me has left me with this incredible love of kids making noise. Not iPad noise or loud noise. Just noise. Last week, Binh and I went to see The Peanuts Movie and I was a total dick about it. I told her how you had to be quiet during the film (which is right) and not talk. Sit quietly, I said. Then I worried that she wouldn't like the film. It wasn't that funny. Every joke was a bit dull. And yet she laughed at every single one. Not just her, but every child in the cinema. I heard kids cheering and laughing and asking so many questions and it was lovely. Made it more communal. Like we were all watching together. I saw Carol the other day and no one wanted to talk to me during it. Carol isn't the same without Binh.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I counted the days since she last said "I want my iPad". For a full week before Christmas Day, she didn't say it once. The iPad stopped but the questions continued. The day before Christmas Eve, I cooked her chicken and veg for dinner and a tofu-based stir-fry for me. For the first time, she asked me why we eat different food. I told her I didn't eat meat. She asked why. I didn't want to answer. She's only 4. So I said "I'll show you why tomorrow".</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On Christmas Eve, Binh and I went to Surrey Docks Farm, an urban farm in London. We petted piglets, fed chickens and mooed back at cows. It was a completely brilliant day. The piglets were our favourites. But Binh still had questions. "But why don't you eat meat?" Oh, boy. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"See the pigs and cows and chickens? They're meat".</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was a much quieter trip home. It's a lot to take in when you're 4. It's hard to love pigs and pork sausages. You have to make a choice and choices aren't really what being 4 is all about.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When we got home, Binh was happier than ever to see Jerk. She promised to look after Jerk forever. While they hugged, I went upstairs to wrap Binh's Christmas presents. Silly things. And an iPad. It was Christmas Eve and not a word about her on the news. She deserved her iPad back.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We sang carols as we walked up to my spare room (now Binh's bedroom). She picked a book to read and I read to her while she settled into bed. Even though she was falling asleep, she still had questions. "Can we go back and see the piglets?" I told her we could go back as often as she wanted. She told me that she didn't want any meat for a while. I acted like that was fine but really I was so happy I could have yodelled. "I don't want turkey tomorrow". </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Good", I said. "I haven't got any". I had to promise three more times that we would go back and see that the piglets were OK. I told her that I thought she was really clever and I was so proud of her. "What would you like from Santa?", I asked. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Not an iPad", she said.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I kissed her on the forehead and said merry Christmas and then, just as she was falling asleep, she changed my life. "Merry Christmas", she said. "I love you".</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I left her room, closed the door and I felt... I felt Christmas. In every part of my body. Especially my heart. I felt Christmas.</span></div>
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Luckily, I got other presents for her too. If she feels she doesn't need an iPad, then there's no point giving her an iPad. She's completely amazing. I wish her parents could see Binh the way I do. Funny, clever, sweet, dresses like a brilliant idiot. Surely they can't face 2016 without her. It's only a few days until New Year and I hope they get in contact. I'm sure they will get in contact. I'm sure they will. Because I sent them one of her toes this morning. She's nice and all but, at the end of the day, she's the child of two cunts and I won't have THAT in my house.</div>
Michael Leggehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11960711574094252653noreply@blogger.com0