Michael Legge's Blog

Sucker.

2012-01-19T08:51:00.000-08:00

And now for a Small story about the future. I love tales of time travel so it seems only fair that I should be in one. My future happened a week ago.

I got on to a tube train, sat down, got my Kindle out, the doors closed and the train started to move. That's when I heard the noise. It wasn't a particularly loud noise or a long noise. In fact, it was a very brief noise. But it kept happening. It's hard to describe the noise. If I wrote it down it would probably be "TET". The noise was tiny but revolting, sharp and it KEPT HAPPENING. I looked over to my left and there was an old lady sucking a lozenge. A lozenge that wouldn't go away, wouldn't get any smaller and it kept pecking away at my ear. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET.

Before getting up from my seat and smashing the old lady in the face with a cricket bat, I decided to glance over and give a look of "Would you mind not making that disgusting TET TET TET sound, please?" When I made eye contact, she looked straight through me like I wasn't there, or was there but was selling the Big Issue. She looked at me but she didn't see me. She just sat there with her dead, long face going TET TET TET TET TET. She had every right not to see me, of course. She was 70, I reckon, and I'm a comedian. Even if she could see, there was nothing of interest to look at. So I just went back to reading. Or trying to read, at least.

TET. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET.

Right. She's had a good innings and now it's time for her and her fucking deafening lozenge to die. I will destroy this evil TET witch with the power of my mind. I looked over again and tried a bit harder with the eye contact. Didn't work. She just sat there, not looking at anything and acting all innocent, like lozenges wouldn't melt in her mouth. I mean, how the fuck can she not see me? I'm really only a few feet away from her and I'm STARING RIGHT AT HER. I stare longer but all I get back are glazed eyes and TET TET TET TET TET. I'm not giving up. I stare longer. NOTHING! Nothing except TET TET TET TET TET. Fine, I'll just stare even longer. I'll do it forever if I have to. I will not give up. She'll have to notice my powerful glare soon. TET TET TET TET TET. Why can't she see me? TET TET TET TET TET. I'm trying to give you a slightly hard time, you old bag. At least notice that I'm all up in your grill. TET TET TET TET TET. Just look at me! TET TET TET TET TET. Right. I'm giving up.

I looked away and put my iPhone earphones in. If I put music on I'll drown out that sweet, elderly, fucking evil lump of TETTING septuagenarian mess. The music was on, I got back to reading and I was finally free.

"Stand in the place where you live, TET, now face north, TET, think about direction, TET, wonder why you haven't before, TET, Now stand TET in the place TET where you work, TET, Now TET face west, TET, Think TET about the TET place where TET you live, TET, wonder TET why TET you TET haven't TET before TET". TET TET TET TET TET.

It was unbearable. How can a noise that doesn't change volume at all become louder and louder and louder and the noise, Doctor, can't you hear it? That constant sound of drums. TET TET TET TET. TET TET TET TET. TET TET TET TET.

I have no choice. I'm going to have to turn to a frail old lady who is travelling alone at night on a tube train to stop making noise with her lozenge. Yes, yes, yes, I could get up and move away but where's the blog in that? See? I'M ONLY THINKING OF YOU. It takes guts to turn round and telling an old lady to shut up but, thanks to my mental breakdown, I am the right person at the right time. I took a deep breath and turned to the old lady.

Before I could get the chance to do anything she stood up. The train was coming in to a station and she was getting off. It was going. That noise was leaving the train and I could get back to not being completely insane PLUS I hadn't stooped so low as to tell an elderly woman off for making a very tiny noise. I would have been embarrassed with myself later if I'd done that. And I was going to do it. I was going to tell off this clearly innocent, sweet lady who was just sitting there doing nothing. As she passed I felt a bit ashamed of myself.

That's when she leaned right in to my face and went TET TET TET TET TET loudly and angrily. I burst out laughing. As she got off, I thought to myself "I like her". It wasn't until later that I realised that that's what I'll be like in 27 years. On trains annoying people just like I always have been. I'm lucky. Not everyone knows what the future holds. We all wonder if we'll be rich or famous or loved or happy. Me? I'm going to be a rude old black lady.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Bravepenis.

2012-01-13T04:29:00.000-08:00

How come when I read about people who are terminally ill or people who have been the casualties of war or starvation I'm not always moved? Sometimes that sort of empathy with another human being just doesnt connect. It makes me feel cold, when I think about it. I have such a comfortable life. A roof over my head, food in my fridge, too many Doctor Who DVDs, some bubble bath and a family who I assume love me. I must call them sometime. I don't think I'm a bad person, it's just that there's so much pain in life that it's hard to take it all in and sometimes I just don't feel anything when I'm faced with a story of incredible human bravery. But I'm not always like that. Sometimes I hear of something that is so brave, so selfless, so...kind that I just can't help but be moved. That's exactly how I felt the very first time I heard of Jeff Leach.

I had never heard of the comedian Jeff Leach at all until about 2 o'clock yesterday morning. Maybe it was my own feeling of vulnerabilty so late at night and alone but when I switched on BBC3 and started watching his documentary "Confessions Of A Sex Addict" it was like Jeff Leach had found the smallest room in my soul and deposited something in there. Jeff Leach might be the bravest man in the world.

If you had sex with over 300 people, would you be brave enough to admit it? It must have taken all of Jeff Leach's strength, humility and bravery to go on camera and tell the world that not only had he had sex with over 300 people but he'd also selflessly and bravely kept a spreadsheet database of the names of all those people on his brave, brave laptop. I know that, when I lost my virginity, the very second that I ejaculated I thought to myself "Michael, you must now do the decent thing and respect this beautiful bond you've experienced with your first sexual partner by beginning a ledger clearly registering her name just in case you're a sex addict. You must leave this bed, the bed you shared with your first sexual partner, and respectfully begin a spreadsheet database because you might have more than one sexual partner in your life and you have to bravely accept that you may or may not be a sex addict". But I didn't bravely leave my first sexual partner lying there and couragously begin that spreadsheet database. I was a total dick about it. I just lay there and cuddled for a while and then shared some jokes with her. I might as well have just kicked her in the cunt. Oh, I thought about bravely leaping from the bed, nobly slapping her bum and chivalrously telling her to get the bloody Wet Ones herself just so I could benevolently begin this important list of all the sexual partners that I would ever have but I was too scared. I was scared that if I kept a list of the names of people that I'd slept with that people wouldn't believe me. I was a coward who thought that what if, just if, my list gets to, say, 300 or more and then I told people about it, maybe they would think I'd made almost every name on that list up. I was too vain to start my spreadsheet database just because I worried that every single time that a fellow comedian met me, talked to me or even looked at me they would think that I was a fucking massive liar. But Jeff Leach is braver than that.

Jeff has bravely come to accept that he has an addiction to sex and wanted to share his story with all the millions and millions of other sex addicts in Britain so that they would know they're not alone. I mean, they probably know they're not alone. What sort of sex addict is on their own all the time? That's just wanking. Who could ever look at Jeff Leach and think "Wanker"? Not BBC3, thankfully. While other documentaries focus on greedy African children or moaning sick people, BBC3 saw something in brave graphic sexism and idiocy that might appeal to their viewers. A man with not only the courage to admit that he has an addiction and a list of girl's names but also the humility of meeting up with two or three of the girls that actually exist and asking them whether or not he was good at fucking. I sometimes think of all the things I've done in my life and get depressed that I'll never be brave enough to not care that everyone I know will think, say and be completely right about me making a DUH-cumentary on being a bit of a cheeky lad just so it would be a good career move and not something I actually felt was good. It's incredible that some bastard comedians will focus on their material or stagecraft and hope that that alone will show they're good enough instead of openly sharing something that is of no consequence whatsoever. Some fuckers actually think simply doing good comedic work and having none of the fame or plaudits that occassionally go with it is enough. But Jeff Leach is braver than that.

Hopefully, Jeff Leach's bravery has led the way for other comedians to be open and honest about their lives. I only hope the day comes when we can all switch on BBC3 to watch Holly Walsh's I Am A Rapist and Nick Helm: I Have Filled Everything With Spunk. Maybe one day I'll be that brave too. Brave enough to admit that I'm addicted to my own vanity, to bravely keep a list of everyone I've disappointed and to bravely base a stand up set on my experiences and courageously remove all the jokes and just fearlessly keep a load of sentences that said nothing in the finished documentary.

How come Chortle haven't even ASKED me to write for them?

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Christ On A Bus.

2012-01-05T11:45:00.000-08:00

I have a problem. I'm not saying I'm right all the time but I do know when people are wrong and it is one of the most uncomfortable feelings you can experience when everyone around you is on the side of the bad guy. I'm fairly convinced that my brilliant skills at complaining will get me compensation from stupid National Express but I'm not so sure about the only other complaint I've currently logged. I think I'm really going to enjoy properly complaining in 2012 even though this particular case has left me with serious doubts. Not just about the customer service industry in the UK but also doubting in my fellow man. Actually, I don't have a fellow man. I'm nothing like those bunch of bastards. I don't tweet pictures of my dinner or consider The Apprentice gripping or support a team or say the word vajazzle and then laugh like a goat trying to regurgitate it's own skeleton. I pretty much hate my unfellow man and never more so than when I'm on public transport and neverer morer soer than when I was on a bus just before Christmas. I don't say this lightly, my dear friends, but it was the worst journey that I have ever been on. Remember: that's ME saying that.

I was travelling from Surrey Quays to Ladywell Village, the desperately-needy named eye of the Lewisham storm. The bus pulled up and I paid my fare but as I took my ticket I was gripped by an unsettling feeling. I thought to myself, "Was the bus driver singing just then?"

The bus started moving and I quickly convinced myself that I had to be mistaken. I mean, he's a bus driver. Why would he sing? Shouting for help, yes, but not singing. It was barely seconds into the journey when I realised that, terrifyingly, my first assumption was correct. The bastard was singing. The bastard bastard bus driver was singing like it was a normal thing to do. There is nothing normal about singing. Anyone who sings at any time clearly has severe mental problems and may even be violently deranged. I mean, look at Little Mix. There's no way they're not arsonists and animal pornographers. There's just no way. But I left it for a few minutes. Surely he'd shut up soon and we could all go back to pretending that everything is tip-top and peachy. But it didn't stop. It went on and on and fucking on. And just to make it worse, he was singing GOSPEL.

Panic was setting in as the song got into it's fifth or sixth minute. The bus driver constantly bellowing out "It's all about you. It's aaaallll about you. Jesus". Looking around the bus didn't do me any good either. Pretty much everyone on the bus could hear his very loud voice and how did they react? They laughed. Old women laughing. Teenage boys laughing. Mums with babies in prams just standing there laughing. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? Do you not realise who's in charge of this bus? Don't you know that Jesus's buddy is in charge here? CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THIS MAN THINKS WE WON'T ALL BE TRULY HAPPY AND ENLIGHTENED UNTIL WE'RE DEAD AND TRANSPORT FOR LONDON HAVE PUT HIM IN CHARGE OF A THREE TONNE VEHICLE?? He can't wait to die because then he'll see some gates made of pearls and naked children playing harps. He's going to have a lovely time if he kills us all. But they just kept laughing. My head started to set fire to itself as the bus driver started his second song.

I don't know if you remember my Christmas blog of a couple of years ago when I couldn't go to the toilet because the toilet attendant kept singing the same thing over and over again? Well, this was similar. Except this time the lunatic singing is the captain of the massive metal death trap I've found myself in. But like last time, I can remember every word of the song he sang. It was this:

(LOUD VOICE) He'll do it again.
(QUIETER SQUEAKY VOICE) He'll do it again.
(LOUD VOICE) And he'll do it again.
(QUIETER SQUEAKY VOICE) He'll do it again.
(LOUD VOICE) He'll do it again, our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.

Well done for spotting the two different types of singing he used in that never ending loop of a song. Yes, that's right. He did his own backing vocals.

I'd had enough and just snapped. I walked over to the cab and said "Can you stop singing, please?" He said he couldn't because we should all be singing and raising our voices to God. I completely agree with him IF this was a church bus but it wasn't. It was a normal every day bus full of piss and graffiti and it was beyond saving. Plus, I really don't feel comfortable that this man is driving while singing insanity to a fictional ghost. I argued with him saying that his singing was making me and other people on the bus uncomfortable, maybe using the bus you're driving to advertise your faith isn't a good idea and also it's just a terrible noise. But he kept insisting that he had to sing to show his love for our father. I told him I would ring my father if he wanted to praise him, he didn't have to make a disturbing racket on public transport. And that's when the rest of the bus joined in.

"Leave him alone". "Sit down, mate". "Fucking shut up. He's only singing".

Yep, people on the bus were defending the driver who sings his way to Jesus and our doom. I argued back with these people but it was useless. I was shouted down by practically everyone. My favourite was a woman who shouted "At least he's trying to do something". WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? "It's Christmas", she explained. "What have you done for Christmas?"

So, that's a Christmas tradition now. All drivers on public transport, just like in the days of yore, traditionally sing their faces off while making our journey's just that bit more uncomfortable. I couldn't take it so got off the bus two stops early to jeers and sarcastic GOODBYEs from the passengers. How could they turn on me like that? The bus driver is in charge so they take his side? Do what he says? I just wanted to save these people and was persecuted for it. I felt like going to bed for three days.

I complained, of course. I called Transport For London and, to be very fair, had a really good laugh about it with the woman I spoke to. Was I being a party pooper getting angry at a man singing at Christmas time? Am I justified in feeling vulnerable being on a bus driven by someone who really gets lost in a book? Sigh....this complaining thing is going to be tough but one thing is for sure; expect help from your fellow man and you'll be damned.

If you want to hear a little snippit of the bus driver singing, and trust me, you definitely don't, then go to this link: http://soundcloud.com/michaellegge/why-do-i-ever-take-public

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Tomorrow Belongs To Me.

2012-01-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

I've decided that you need to change. I've been thinking about you a lot lately and, although you seem lovely, you're all wrong. It's a new year and you've decided to start it positively but clearly you have no idea what positively means. You're going to read at least one book a week in 2012? WHAT FUCKING GOOD WILL THAT DO? You're going to do more travelling? POINTLESS. YOU CAN'T GET AWAY FROM YOURSELF SO IT'LL BE AWFUL. You're going to start going to the gym? I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO PUNCH YOU IN EVERY ONE OF YOUR INTERNAL ORGANS WITH AN 8 FOOT TALL METALLIC FIST. TWICE.

Has every other year of your unnecessary, tear-strewn life taught you nothing? Making personal changes makes no difference to anything at any time ever. Self-improvement? Selfish bastard, more like. By improving yourself all you're really doing is making the rest of us look bad. When you go to bed at 10pm every night, just like you promised yourself you would do, do you ever think of me still awake until 4am sitting in my pants and socks watching Toddlers & Tiaras while eating biscuit after biscuit of dry Weetabix? Well, stop thinking of me doing that. It's not doing anyone any good. But that's typical of you. Why would you care about other people now that you've taken up painting or started volunteering at a local shelter for slapped cats? I think what pisses me off most about you is your new 2012 approach to work. It's a new year so I'm going to really knuckle down and work hard and get that promotion I deserve. WHY? ALL JOBS ARE SHIT. No matter what you do for a living, it's agony. Whether you're a toilet cleaner in a diarrhea hospital or a Hollywood movie star, it's all the same. Every day you're up to your knees in shit. Think Michael McIntyre's happy? Well, of course he is but he's clearly mentally ill so that's a terrible example. I don't know why you brought him up. All these self-improvements are improving nothing. So listen, Sugartits (or on the bizarre off chance that you're a man, Liquoricepenis), you need to buck up your ideas in 2012. You need to stop being so selfish. You need to start complaining.

The British are well known to be constasntly moaning but never complaining. If a hairdresser gives us a shit haircut we will smile and say it's nice and then walk home, pile furniture up against the front door, hide in a wardrobe and then, when we thought it was completely safe to do so, we tut a little bit. The last thing we would ever do is actually complain out loud that a professional that we've paid has left us looking like a dead pensioner's garden. We've been like this all our lives, friends. Ever wondered why everything is so completely terrible all the time? IT'S OUR FAULT. We let it happen. Because we don't like to cause a fuss, the trains are always late. Because we don't like to make a scene, our food in restaurants is cold. Because we musn't grumble, 9/11.

Those are all simple facts. Do we want to keep going with everything being broken, delayed, tasteless and rude? No? Then let's start complaining. It's my New Year's resolution. If I've paid for it and it's not right then I WANT COMPENSATION. I want my money back, I want an apology and, if I'm in the mood, I want a song and dance routine. And there's only one way I'll get those things. COMPLAINING!

I've started already and I can't wait to let you know how I get on. I'm expecting my money back from National Express for a trip I made to Newcastle just before Christmas. Actually, I don't just want my money back. I want free National Express travel for life. NO ONE should have to pay for that sort of torture and I think I deserve to be begged by National Express for me to ever set foot in their Moving Hell Boxes ever again. The coach...fuck it, let's call it what it really is...the bus started and for the first three minutes of the journey it was fine. Only another 8 and a half hours to go. The seat was uncomfortable, it was freezing cold then boiling hot and the sound of everyone elses personal stereos filled the airless bus. So, it was all perfectly normal until this git walked up the aisle.

I don't know how to describe this git. I know he wasn't the driver because the driver was just behind the steering wheel and he seemed to be driving. No, this git was something else. I'm going to call him The Driver's Elf. It seemed to be his job to walk up the aisle counting how many heads people had. He stopped right in front of me, not to talk to me but to talk to the passenger on the other side of the aisle beside me. The Driver's Elf didn't look at the passenger or even excuse himself to talk to the passenger, instead he looked at the celing and said "What are you doing?"

What The Driver's Elf meant to say was "Excuse me. I'm very sorry but unfortunately we don't allow hot food on the coach. Would you mind wrapping it up and I'll give it back to you when you get off, please?" Instead of that, The Driver's Elf looked at the celing and said "What are you doing?" Now, considering the passenger was listening to music, reading a magazine, sitting on a bus and eating chips, it was confusing as to what the correct answer to this rude question should be. The Driver's Elf then went on to say "There's no hot food allowed on the coach. You know that".

Wow. This man hired by National Express actually said that. "You know that". It never ever crossed his fat mind that maybe the passenger didn't know that or had forgotten that, no, HE KNEW THAT. He got on board with Burger King chips with the sole intention of completely undermining the rules, guidelines and values of National Express. And he would have got away with it if it wasn't for The Driver's Elf. The passenger then went on to explain that he didn't know and The Driver's Elf tried to reassure him that he definitely did know. The passenger wasn't being rude but The Driver's Elf's attitude was clearly getting to him and I can't blame him. Soon, the threats starting to come out with "You'll be thrown off at the next stop" being shouted on a loop. The Driver's Elf was just getting angrier even though the passenger was being compliant and calm. Then he said "You can eat a sandwich if you want" and the passenger pointed out that he also had a sandwich so, while The Driver's Elf started spouting more pointless information about National Express policy, he got his sandwich out. His sandwich was a hamburger.

Rude, I thought, but somewhat justified. The Driver's Elf was plainly nasty so being rude back seemed OK to me. The Driver's Elf did his best Don't-You-Dare dance and got furious again and that's when the passenger said "But you were eating a burger when I got on board".

YES! Very good move. I started to like the passenger but The Driver's Elf still had more up his sleeve. "I can do whatever I want", he childishly cried. A pathetic comeback but I didn't expect much more. Oh, but what happened next was just perfect. Beautiful. A textbook case of how not to speak to the public. He leaned over to the passenger and said "Why are you being an arsehole?"

The passenger was speechless and then The Driver's Elf only made it worse for himself. He turned round and brought me in. Stupid move. "You understand what I'm saying, don't you?" he said but I explained that the game was over. "You called him an arsehole. That's not National Express policy" I explained to him. "I don't care", he replied. "It's my last day tomorrow".

He continued to argue with the passenger and while he did it I phoned National Express. It took me a while but I got through to his department and explained the situation. By this time The Driver's Elf was red in the face with fury and the realisation that he's an idiot. My bag was sitting on the seat next to me. Normally, I wouldn't do that but as the bus was only a third full I felt confident that there would be enough seats for everyone and I could have my stuff next to me. The Driver's Elf didn't care about that. He'd argued with one passenger for ages and embarrassed himself and now he hated me too and needed to save face. "Your bag goes in the overhead rack. Seats aren't two for one". Once again, that was unneccesary rudeness but I had something good for him. "I've got your boss on the phone", I said.

"I don't care", he replied. "Call my boss if you like".

"No", I said. "I have your boss on the phone. Want to talk to him?" I then handed him my phone. He went even redder.

I'm not sure what was said on the phone but he was definitely a lot quieter when he handed my phone back. No more polite but definitely quieter. "Here's your phone", he grumped. I asked him to hold on for one moment while I spoke to the other man on the phone. "Is he leaving his job tomorrow?" I asked. There was a pause before I followed up with "Fully employed. That's what I thought".

What a pointless wanker. But that pointless wanker has pointed me in the direction that 2012 should be taking. I'm not paying for stuff that's going to make me feel horrible any more. I'm going to complain. I'm getting my money back. I'm going to be covered in compensation this year. So from now on, no more paying for an internet service that won't work every time I actually need it. No more accepting that people working in bars just don't know which wines are vegan. And if you work in a conveniece store then do me a favour and get off your fucking mobile phone when you're serving me because I AM A CUSTOMER AND I WILL HAVE RESPECT.

I'll let you know how it goes. Happy New Year.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Silent Night.

2011-12-25T01:10:00.000-08:00

Do you believe in the spirit of Christmas? It’s difficult, isn’t it? People constantly smiling and wishing you well, happy music playing wherever you go, the cold and empty hollow sound of children laughing. It’s a fucking horrible time of year. Be honest, is there anyone on this planet who hasn’t put a bullet through their televisions the very second that David Jason says “Consider yourself at home”? As if that wasn’t enough, Matt Smith and Karen Gillan also appear in the eye-rape that is the BBC Christmas trailer. Fine if they want to embarrass themselves but why drag a Cyberman down to that level? And then Scarlett Johansson made this bucket of awful: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_Lj58hsOO4

I should make it perfectly clear: YOU MUST NEVER CLICK ON THAT LINK. I hope I wasn’t too late. Yes, Christmas can be a trying time and joy never comes along like it does in the movies. Christmas miracles don’t really exist. At least, I thought they didn’t.

I was on my way to a gig in Milton Keynes on Wednesday and the train was full of Christmas misery. It was crowded plus at least half the people on board had, for some reason, brought their Christmas shopping to London for the day. I was already in a bad mood because I missed an earlier train due to my bank being dicks. My card was declined at the train station and when I called my bank they said they had put a block on my account because they were suspicious that my card was being used fraudulently. “We noticed an increased use of your card so the fraud department were contacted”, they said. Increased use? At Christmas? Give me fucking strength.

So the busy train started its journey to Milton Keynes and I relaxed with a book. For about 12 seconds.

A family sat next to me. Mum, Dad, brother, sister. All very sweet and Christmassy except that daughter decided to listen to her iPod and was, in the spirit of Christmas, sharing her shit music with us all by playing it loudly. I immediately tensed up and, as my blood turned to lava, I decided to think carefully about my next move. They’re a family who’ve been out for a day in London together and they seem perfectly nice and cheery. On the other hand, they are clearly ignoring the fact that their daughter is a turd. I pondered for quite a while. In fact, I pondered for almost my entire journey but, with only 10 minutes to go before arriving at Milton Keynes, I broke. It’s not too much to ask for her to turn her music off. It’ll be fine.

That’s when the shouting started. Despite me being very polite to the girl, Mum just exploded. “Why are you talking to my daughter? Why are you talking to my daughter?” I answered both those questions clearly, calmly and politely but that wasn’t enough for this screaming hate-witch. I was continually told by Scary Mum that her daughter wasn’t bothering me which was incredibly factually inaccurate. She was bothering me to shit. Scary Mum then went on about how her daughter had every right to listen to her music despite the fact that she doesn’t and to tell me that I had no right to ask her to turn it off despite the fact that I do. Then she gave her husband a stare. I could tell by his face that he had received this stare before and he wearily went through the drill. “Would you leave us alone now, please?”, he said. I will as soon as she turns her music off, OK? “I don’t think she’s going to”. Scary Mum had had enough of Tired Dad and of me. She pointed in my face and shouted “You have no right. She’s just a child”. That’s when I shouted back “No. She’s just YOUR child. Don’t you have any control over your own children?”

She went a bit quiet then but the look she gave me could be heard by the dead. “She’s listening to her music”, she said much quieter than before. “Get used to it”.

OK, I said and got my iPhone out, scrolled down my iTunes to find Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t and played it loudly while holding it directly at Scary Mum. I am 43.

Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t is a loud, aggressive piece of thrash metal. I like it very much but I can see why it wouldn’t be everybody’s cup of tea. It certainly wasn’t to Scary Mum’s taste. She shouted at me and threatened to report me to transport police and also pointed out several times that I was Irish. Don’t know why as I already knew I was Irish. But after a minute of Anthrax I noticed some of the other passengers faces. They looked embarrassed. Let’s face it, they looked embarrassed for me. I’m a grown man doing battle against a protective mother with the power of heavy metal. I started going red. Crap. I’m going to have to switch the music off and give up. All I wanted to do was point out to someone that they might want to be more considerate to others but now it’s gone too far and I look stupid again. Why does it always have to be me that asks someone to turn their music down? Why does it always have to be me that makes a stand? Why does it always have to be me that makes a solid gold arse of himself? Will I always be alone?

And what happened then? Well, on London Midland trains they say that Michael Legge's small heart grew three sizes that day. A man sitting behind Scary Mum leaned over and pointed his iPod at her. It was playing heavy metal. I don’t know what it was but it was the most magical, wonderful, CHRISTMASSY heavy metal I’ve ever heard. Someone stood up and joined in. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? It’s about friendship, sharing joy and banishing the baddies. Some people started smiling…laughing. Two grown men in their 40’s ringing in Christmas cheer and uniting everyone in their festive, glowing hatred of dicks who play music too loudly on public transport. Tired Dad leaned over and asked his daughter for her iPod and then turned it off. Scary Mum looked furious but said nothing. Me and the guy switched our satanic carols off, thanked one another and sat down. I looked around and there were enough happy faces near me to make me think that, yes, Christmas is a special time of year. Maybe we should be more like this all year round. Hey, maybe we WILL. And just then, in the carriage of the London Midland train to Milton Keynes, it started to snow.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

The Long Weird Friday.

2011-10-25T02:10:00.000-07:00

Friday’s are exciting, aren’t they? The beginning of a weekend of possibilities. The start of a couple of days of freedom to do whatever you want. To break loose, go wild, be whoever you really are deep in your heart. Mind you, it’s mainly full of sick. Friday night is basically 6 hours of sick no matter where you are or how you spend it. A charming evening at The Ivy drinking champagne with Stephen Fry sounds lovely but never forget that you have to get the train home later. A train full of noise, idiots, fighting and sick. Just so much sick. In bins, on seats, in your hair. You stand on it, you walk through it, you fall in it, you breathe it in. And that’s just the beginning of the weekend. You have another 48 hours of this and look at you already. Surrounded by sick. But that was your Friday night. How was mine?

It started brilliantly. I’ve worked apathetically to get where I am today and I totally appreciate it when that total lack of focus and drive pays off. I was booked to play the excellent Tattershall Castle on Friday but, due to a double-booking error, was told that I didn’t need to turn up and would still get paid. This is every idle bastard’s dream come true. It doesn’t matter what I do on Friday night now because I’ll be getting paid for it. Staying in on my own watching Weekend at Bernie’s II on video? AND GETTING PAID FOR IT? It’s almost too much to dream of. Surely life could never be that kind? Well, you’re right. It couldn’t. I was asked to perform at a charity do. FUCKING HELL! I mean, I had big plans already made concerning me, a cheeky bottle of Blue Nun and a certain little corpse called Bernie but, once again, life drills a hole in the back of my skull and fornicates with my head. I mean, who in their right fucking mind would ever say yes to a charity gig? THEY DON’T PAY. But the person who asked me knew I was free that night and getting paid for doing nothing. What an evil bastard he really is. Organising a charity benefit to raise money for someone who needs medical care and then asking me ON MY PAID NIGHT OFF to do it. Sigh. I couldn’t say no. Damn.

The gig was in a place called the Irish Centre in Camden. This will suit perfectly actually because my agent, Kate, was off to see another of her clients perform a one-man show at Camden’s Roundhouse so I could hang out with her afterwards. Brilliant. I would go off and basically save a man’s life with my comedic genius, then go out and get elegantly wasted with Kate. For the first time ever, I left the house without looking at the address of the gig (I might have done this a few times, to be honest). That was OK because I was told it was in Camden, I’ll just check the address when I get out of the tube. I have plenty of time anyway because I got to Camden 50 minutes before the gig was due to start.

Balls. It’s not in Camden. It’s in Kilburn High Road.

I ran back down to the tube and headed for Euston where I could get a speedy overground train to Kilburn. Easy. Except all the trains cancelled. AAAARRRGGGHH! It was getting closer to the gig’s start time so I ran back down to the tube and took the long, multiple-changes journey to Kilburn. I got there at 8pm. I was due on stage at 8.05pm. I ran (walked quickly) up Kilburn High Road to Quex Road where the venue was. I’m just in time. I can go straight on stage as soon as I get there. Or I would if the venue hadn’t been demolished.

Cancelled gig and then a demolished venue? Look, if you don’t want me to perform just say so. No need to be rude about it.

There wasn’t much I could do about it. I’d been given the wrong address and I was far away from the Irish Centre. There was nothing left to do other than get back on the annoying tube journey to Camden and get drunk on my paid night off. I got to the Roundhouse just before 9. Perfect. It’s a one-man show so it should only be an hour long. I’ll just check by asking a member of staff. Hmmm. There are no members of staff here. Anywhere. I’ll ask the guy at the desk of the dance studio next door. It’s connected to the Roundhouse, it’s part of the Roundhouse and the dance studio and main Roundhouse venue have connecting doors. This will be no problem at all.

“Hello. Could you tell me what time the show in the Roundhouse ends, please?”

“Sorry. This isn’t the Roundhouse”.

“Oh, I know. But you’re connected. I was just wonderi…”

“You’ll have to ask a member of box office staff”.

“There aren’t any around. Could you call or ask someone in there, please?”

“I can’t leave this desk, I’m afraid”.

“But you could just open the door there and ask”.

“I have to man the desk”.

“But the door is 6 feet away from you and there’s no one but me here. You could just open it and ask those people in there”.

“I can’t, I’m sorry”.

“I could shout and they could hear me. If you could just…”

“I said no”.

Wow. I mean, I have met some FUCK YOU people in my time but that was just incredible. An absolute refusal to walk 6 feet to help just in case the second his back was turned a thousand 12 year old Glee fans would turn up begging for dance lessons. And with that I was invited to leave.

I finally found a security man who, after asking two other people, told me that the show ends at 9.45. Not as short a show as I’d hoped. That’s OK. I’ll go for a pint. I walked across the road to Joe’s, a very nice bar with a good atmosphere and patronised by glamorous late 20’s types and fashionable people wearing trucker clothes. It looked nice but maybe too trendy for the likes of me so I walked away. That’s when I heard someone calling my name. It was really nice to see a face I recognised. And that’s where the problem lay. I recognised the guy, I know his face so well, but this was out of context. Who the fuck was he?

It’s not like I don’t know him. I do. But from where and how and, oh for God’s sake, who the hell is he? I tried my very best to get it out of him. “How’s things?”, “What have you been up to?”, “Keeping busy?” NONE of those got any information out of him. “So, you working?”, I said. “Yeah”, he replied. “Here”. Right, that’s good. He’s a bar manager. Come on, Michael. THINK. How many bar managers do you know? None. OK, let’s thing of something else. “So, what’s new?” I said. “Well”. He replied. “I work here now”. HE GAVE ME NOTHING. But he knew me and I know that I know him but my brain is dusty and cluttered and I’ve just found out that a charity gig would rather be bulldozed to the ground than have me perform at it so my head is all over the place. If you’re reading this then I’m so sorry and I know when the penny drops I will kick myself. He’s probably my brother or someone. But he gave me NO CLUE. Instead he gave me a free beer and I thank that kind stranger that I know well for it. I took my beer and sat down. That’s when one of the truckers joined me.

This guy was very thin, and like a few people in the bar (including one of the barmen), he had a huge beard, a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, mirror sunglasses and a trucker cap on top of his mullet. He also had a surprisingly well-spoken English accent. He asked how my night was, what my plans were for the evening and he offered to buy me a drink. I pointed out that I had just started drinking my pint so I was fine, thanks. He seemed happy with that and went on to talk about a couple of bars that “we” should go to or some clubs if I was “into that sort of thing”. It was confusing. Eventually I said “Are you chatting me up?” He laughed and said that he might be but the funniest part was when I thanked him for the flattering thought and told him, regrettably, that I was straight and his response was “Oh, shut up”. It was like I had just told him that I had Roger Moore’s foot in my bag. The very idea of me being straight was just ridiculous.

I mean, do I look gay? What does a gay man look like? I’m not sure but there’s one thing I do know and that’s gay men just don’t look like rednecks. You just don’t get redneck homosexuals. Well, you do but they just get angry and violent about it, they certainly don’t offer to buy you a drink in a cool bar in fashionable Camden Town. All I’m saying is, don’t assume I’m gay if you’re going to appear THAT straight. That’s cheating.

After drinks with Kate, that was my Friday night over. It is a confusing place. I’m actually happier working and keeping away from real life at the weekend, I thought as I got on the train home and stood in some sick.

www.michaellegge.info

The Shaming of Michael Legge.

2011-10-24T03:30:00.000-07:00

I’m easy. That’s the best way to describe me. I’m easily confused, I’m easily riled, I’m easily pleased and I’m easily embarrassed. Sometimes all of these happen at the same time, like recently when I was on a train to Manchester and I saw a man clipping his nails. Why would he think that that was OK to do in public, the ignorant, disgusting idiot? Then I laughed out loud when he realised that bits of his fingernails had been landing in his houmous, which made me go red in the face when he gave me a dirty look.

Trains are embarrassing places anyway. I’m always going red on them and not always with anger. I missed my stop but pretend I haven’t, my phone going in and out of signal so I have to repeat “Hello?” over and over again, being 43 and reading Doctor Who Magazine. Yes, it’s very rare that I’m not embarrassed while on a train. I remember once being really hot in a stuffy carriage so I thought I‘d open my bottle of water. It felt really good. How clever of me to have bought it before getting on board. It tasted so cool and refreshing and I was halfway through the 1 litre bottle when I thought to myself “Hang on. I didn’t buy a bottle of water”. The man beside me was furious and I went red. Again.

I’m guaranteed to go beetroot when the ticket inspector comes round. I bought my ticket and I KNOW it’s in my wallet but as soon as I see the ticker inspector I immediately become convinced that my ticket is lost or invalid or I’m on the wrong train. “You want to go to Birmingham? But this is the train to Imaginaryland. You’re going in the opposite direction and the next stop is 17 hours away. You massive twat”. On my way back from Manchester, the ticket inspector appeared and I should have got more embarrassed than I’ve ever felt in my life but luckily something so weird happened at the same time that somehow it all seemed OK.

There I was in First Class, relaxing back with a good film and having a perfectly nice time. I watched The Killing of Sister George. I’d never seen it before. I’d always heard good things about it and I knew it was definitely one of those films that I had to see before I saw Bridesmaids (yes, I am still going on about that). I didn’t even know what it was about. Turns out, it’s about lesbians. Good old fashioned BRITISH lesbians from the 60’s. Women who were simply flatmates. Filthy, dirty, hated-by-God flatmates. Women who would drink beer and hang out with other women and maybe, I’M JUST SAYING MAYBE, dance with them. There was certainly none of that modern lesbianism going on. No touching, no talking about it and DEFINITELY no glamorous lesbian power-couples. It’s a pretty good film about, among other things, the lack of acceptance of homosexuals and Beryl Reid is utterly fantastic in it. It’s a two hour long film with no graphic sex scenes in it whatsoever. Well, not until the last 10 minutes. Guess when the ticket inspector turned up?

“Tickets, please” is what I heard when Coral Browne began touching Susannah York’s vagina. I quickly reached for my wallet. IT WASN’T THERE. The ticket inspector squinted as Susannah York started undressing. The wallet must be in my coat pocket. WHERE IS MY COAT POCKET?? Why did I put my coat in the overhead rack? I never do that. Susannah revealed her breasts while I stood up to get my coat and considered pressing pause. NO, MICHAEL! Don’t press pause. It’ll just pause on a shot of Susannah writhing. Just concentrate. Get the ticket and he’ll go away and you can get back to your porn. IT ISN’T PORN! It’s an arthouse film from the 60’s. Aw, shit. Does he think I’m watching porn? He does. He thinks that, because I’ve paid extra to sit in First Class, I feel it’s my right to masturbate as and when I feel like it. Why isn’t my wallet in my coat pocket? Try the inside pocket. Oh, for God’s sake. Coral is kissing Susannah’s breasts now and all that’s in my pocket are loads of Starburst wrappers. Just switch the laptop off. NO, MICHAEL! If you do that then he’ll KNOW you’re watching porn. The wallet must be in my bag. Coral’s hand moves all the way down Susannah’s body again. Susannah’s body rises and arches as Coral’s fingers slide inside her. I FOUND IT! It was in my bag! Susannah is starting to come. The ticket isn’t in here! What? I always keep my ticket in my wallet. Coral touches Susannah more firmly while Susannah’s moans get louder. Where is my ticket and where the hell is Beryl Reid? No one would think I was watching porn if Beryl Reid was in it. Come on, Beryl, you bastard. HELP ME! Susannah comes and Coral’s face looks turned on and powerful. HERE IT IS! Of course! I always keep my ticket under my laptop these days so that I don’t have that embarrassing where’s-my-ticket fumble when the ticket inspector turns up. Susannah holds on to Coral’s wrist firmly between her legs as she comes down from orgasm. There you go. There’s my ticket. Oh, and look. There’s Beryl Reid.

That lasted three long and awkward minutes. But I wasn’t really that embarrassed. The ticket inspector was but I wasn’t. How could I be? I mean the whole thing was completely weird. Not the lesbian sex scene playing publicly on a train carriage, that wasn’t weird at all. What was weird was the fact that, during all of this, Matthew Horne, the actor from Gavin and Stacey and Horne & Corden, was fast asleep at my feet. That’s why I pay the extra to go First Class. You can watch Susannah York coming while a TV celebrity is curled up at your feet like a dog. I don’t know how you poor people do it.

I’m back, baby. I haven’t blogged in about 7 weeks but expect more. Isn’t it good to know that stupid things still happen to me on trains? I’ve missed you.

www.michaellegge.info

:)

2011-09-06T04:18:00.000-07:00

"Emotion is the complex psychophysiological experience of an individual's state of mind as interacting with biochemical (internal) and environmental (external) influences. In humans, emotion fundamentally involves "physiological arousal, expressive behaviors, and conscious experience." Emotion is associated with mood, temperament, personality, disposition and motivation. Motivations direct and energize behavior, while emotions provide the affective component to motivation, positive or negative".

Clearly, that came from Wikipedia and not me. It makes emotions sound intricate and labyrinthine which, as we all know, they're not. All emotions are just different Worzel Gummidge heads that we stick on when we feel like it and the only complex thing about them is that sometimes we rush in and pick up the wrong head by mistake. I know this because I'm often to blame for putting the wrong head on. I'm still not quite over the fact that I threw my first, and I hope last, ever Queenie Fit during the recording of the second Do The Right Thing Podcast in Edinburgh. I got told off twice by my team-mate for interrupting her even though I most definitely hadn't interrupted. The lovely Shappi Khorsandi, who I love and admire greatly, was pissed. It wasn't her fault. It was the fault of the publicity machine. The publicity machine demanded that Shappi guested at Arthur Smith's Pissed-Up Chat Show which meant she was contractually obliged to be hammered during the hour with the sober national treasure asking her questions and topping up her glass. Then she did our show. All very fair enough, I was a bit tipsy myself. Fuck it, it's late night in Edinburgh. What did you think you were paying for? After 10pm there are NO SOBER COMEDIANS. Anyway, the first time Shappi said I interrupted (EVEN THOUGH I HADN'T) I apologised and listened to her being funny. Shappi is always funny and, of course, being drunk just made the night all the more unpredictable and exciting. The second time, and to be very fair to Shappi she might not actually have been saying I interrupted but that is the way I took it, Shappi simply said "I thought we were supposed to be a team".

Now. I was in no way at all upset with Shappi. But the audience to my right all howled with approval. "Yeah", I heard in my own head. "Good for you, Shappi. Tell the stupid woman-hating man to shut his fucking rude mouth". That was it. I rushed into my very small bag of emotion heads to grab the Reserved Humility one but stupidly grabbed the WELLFUCKYOUTHEN head instead and put it on. I seethed throughout the rest of that podcast. I hate when people interrupt on Mock The Week and other laddish telly shouting and I have a paranoia that anyone would think that of me, especially, and I realise this is stupid, if I interrupt a woman. It's fine interrupting James during the Precious Little podcast because that is a godsend to us all but I'm not up for any interrupting during Do The Right Thing. After the recording I went to the bar, complained to everyone about how furious I was and then genuinely stormed off in a huff. I had a Queenie Fit for no reason. Emotions are dicks.

So, over the last few days I've been experimenting with emotions. I didn't mean to but I have. It's just amazing to me how basic and stupid emotions are despite Wikipedia's argument of their complexity. Put it this way, I wore my duckie jumper on Friday. If you haven't seen my duckie jumper then allow me to describe it. It's a jumper with duckies on it. Yes, it's adorable. Anyway, I was wearing it on Friday night when I got into the lift at my hotel. The doors opened and the lift was full. Seven men in the lift. All on a stag night. Plus me and my duckie jumper.

They laughed, they pointed, they call me a fucking twat. I pointed out that they would all catch their deaths going out in t-shirts late at night. Matching t-shirts. All with the same naked man on the front but with a different nickname on the back. I'm not saying I don't look like a twat but at least I'm not shouting in a lift, while wearing a naked man t-shirt with BIG DONG JOHN written on the back while hanging out with my best friend who is dressed like Tigger.

Plus, how could I mind them laughing? I'm only wearing a jumper and apparently that was too much for them. Maybe they only brought their Pointing and Laughing head out with them? In any case, here's what I've discovered. Men hate the duckie jumper and women like it. Not just one but two groups of female office workers waved at me this weekend because of the duckie jumper. I started counting the scowls from men and laughs/smiles from women while walking about but I lost count. Men were definitely winning though. I think there is nothing more appealing than living in a world where a jumper with pictures of ducks on it can upset and even seemingly offend blokes. Not that all blokes are like that. Last night after a gig in Swindon I got a bit chilly and took the duckie jumper out of my bag. The ticket inspector on the train said he really liked my duckie jumper. That was nice. Then he handed my ticket back to me and said "Thanks, babes"

I don't know if it was the jumper or maybe I'm just a bit of a babe at the moment but either way the ticket inspector shot off quickly (not like that). He obviously rushed for his Gratitude head and accidentally grabbed his Sleazey Geezer head by mistake. I understand. It's easily done.

www.michaellegge.info

Hey! Why not come to see DO THE RIGHT THING being recording live? It's great and I might get in a big huff again so it's definitely worth checking out. Here's the info: http://www.comedy.co.uk/podcasts/dotherightthing/

Also, come to see CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH, my very first ever solo show, at the Leicester Square Theatre from the 27th to the 29th September: http://leicestersquaretheatre.ticketsolve.com/shows/126518927/events

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Your Only Hope.

2011-08-31T13:50:00.000-07:00

I just turned 43 in August but it wasn't until yesterday that I think I may have finally grown up. I've lived the life of a child for 43 years and I suppose it was inevitable that I would grow out of it, I just thought I might grow out of it when I was 14 or 15. I'm at least 28 years behind schedule. Don't worry, I still ignore bills, get bored with books in the first chapter and refuse to fix my collapsing house but I've definitely turned a corner in my development. Yesterday I was looking at my DVD collection and I saw the box that holds my Star Wars discs and I realised that I just have no interest in it.

This is actually much bigger news than it seems. About two years ago I confidently claimed that there is nothing better than Star Wars and I meant it. When I saw it (5 times) in 1977 nothing effected me more and I've yet to be hit by that all encompassing feeling since. No movie, no band, no relationship that I've ever encountered has changed my life so obsessively as Star Wars and that's actually depressing when you think about it. I've fallen in love but I've always managed to have some moments when I've not talked or thought about my romance even in the early stages but as a 9 year old I was a lot more enthusiastic about my new crush. And I took that film with me throughout my life. I never really wanted kids but the older I get the more often I'd daydream about sitting down with my child and watch them watch my favourite film of all time just to see if it did anything to their heads at all. Then, when it didn't, I'd know that this wasn't my child and it's mother is a WHORE. But that would be the original Star Wars. Back in 1977 the original Star Wars was known as Star Wars. I wasn't happy when on it's re-release it was changed to Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope. What was the point in that? It's called Star Wars so call it Star Wars. Then it got re-released again with new bits in it. Terrible, awful new bits. Then it came out on DVD with newer new bits and next week it will be released on Blu Ray with more new bits. In 1977, George Lucas gave me a present but ever since then he keeps taking it back and drawing all over it.

In the blu ray edition there is a new addition that George Lucas thought was absolutely imperative. It just had to be included because, like a Jawa falling off a dinosaur or Hayden Christensen turning up as ghost at the very end, it was always part of his original vision. In....sigh....Star Wars: Episode VI - Return Of The Jedi, Darth Vader finally sees the cruelty within The Emperor as he sees his son being electrified. Vader silently lifts The Emperor above his head, taking the dark force electric shock himself, and throws him down the shaft of the Death Star. Now, instead of the mighty silence of Vader's attack on his mentor, the new Blu Ray version comes with Vader shouting "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Why?

The thing is, George only owns the rights to these films and not the emotional impact they have all played in mine/our life/lives. He's been fucking with these films since the day he gave them to us and there is no sign of him ever stopping. Well, that's actually of no odds to me because, and I'm happy to declare this, I'm not a Star Wars fan. It's just a stupid sodding space film that's been battered by it's master it's whole life. But there is maybe, just maybe, a way that he can be stopped from doing this again to this beloved classic (well, it's not beloved by me. Not any more). Just do yourself a massive favour, DO NOT BUY STAR WARS ON BLU RAY. If no one buys it, he'll just go away. I'm not going to buy it and I was delighted that my good friend, Martin Wolfenden, went back to Amazon where he ordered his copy and decided to cancel his order. The reason he gave was "Darth Vader saying Nooooooo!" I'm incredibly proud of him.

I'm pretty sure that....sigh....Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace will be left alone as it was on the day of it's awful release because, let's face it, you can't polish a turd. But that doesn't mean you have to take the Mona Lisa and smear shit all over it. Yeah, I've moved on. I'm finally free of Star Wars and it's 34 year Force grip. I've finally grown up.

Don't forget, Doctor Who's on this Saturday.

www.michaellegge.info

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Say Again?

2011-08-30T07:50:00.000-07:00

I'm back. I really feel like I'm back. Not just back from Edinburgh but actually back. For a month I've been happy (in a way) and feeling incredibly fortunate. I wake up every day and walk through the beautiful Meadows of Edinburgh and I get to do a show I love with my friend Robin Ince. You'll notice that I wrote that it's a show that I love. I love it. I'm not quoting anyone elses opinion or cutting and pasting anyone elses reviews of the show, I'm just telling you I love the show. Isn't that nice? Isn't that nice to actually enjoy the thing you do? It's that enough? Why do we need anyone elses opinion about anything? AND WHY THE FUCK DO COMEDIANS INSIST ON RTing THEIR PRAISE ON TWITTER?

Look, you stupid fucknuts. People follow you on Twitter, right. That suggests they like you. THEY ALREADY LIKE YOU. Why then would you feel the desperate need to tell all the people who already like you that you are liked? They know you're liked, THEY LIKE YOU. Why they like you is a complete mystery to me but they do like you. So you really don't need to tell them that The Scotsman love you or that someone Tweeted that your show was "good". It's the most trivial and needy thing you can do. When I see anyone RTing their own praise it just stinks of someone thinking "Wow, I hate my show and it makes me sick and nervous but someone likes it so I must be great. Look, everyone! I'm great! A child on the internet said so".

I mean, what lack of faith do you have in yourself when someone elses opinion is more important to you than your own? I mean, I'd give it more credit if the same people RT'd when they got negative feedback. I mean, it's just as relevant.

I made a friend of mine upset on Twitter because I was very mean about his constant praising of himself or RTing praise others gave him. I am genuinely sorry about that. To be honest, I'm not sure any amount of explaining of how when you either praise yourself or brag about praise given just detracts from you as a performer and a person would make a difference. It's my problem, really. If people are happy to do that then they should be able to without my wrath. But why stop there?

Surely, you have been praised at other things. Nice parking? Tell us about it. Made a lovely cup of tea? Well, why are you keeping that to yourself? Urinated without getting a drop on the seat or the floor? Then let us all give you a massive fucking round of applause, you big headed, needy, egotistical shitbag. (I am NOT still having a go at my friend here, he at least hasn't praised himself today) Let's see your school reports and scout badges and sports trophies and book tokens and premium bonds and completed crosswords and sponsored walk forms and Worlds Best Dad mugs and whatever the fuck it was you got in your Kinder Egg. Show us it all because it's exactly the same. Or...

You could just be happy that you like your show and carry on with some dignity. Either way, I thank you for reading this. You're really great (don't RT that I said that please).

Yes, I'm home and the second I got on the train from Edinburgh to London I had a brilliant Fringe moment. OK, I'm leaving the Fringe but I'm still counting it. I opened up my laptop and started watching the latest Doctor Who on iPlayer. This made Steven Moffat, who was on his way back from the loo to his seat, do a double take. YESSSS!!! Then I met him in the queue for taxis and told him the story of how my badge featuring the face of Peter Davison was mistaken for a badge featuring the face of Anders Behring Breivik. I love the fact that that story has such a strong chance of now getting back to the 5th Doctor. Now, all I need to find a friend of Anders Behring Breivik and the circle is complete. Also, Steven definitely said that he was bored of Matt Thingy and was interested in a 43 year old with psoriasis as the next Doctor. I can even pick my own companion, I imagine. Now, which one of you will it be? Hmmmm...

www.michaellegge.info

PS I'm really sorry for being mean to my friend. He's an idiot but I pushed it too far. I am also an idiot.

Wonder Why You Haven't Before.

2011-08-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

There is just a week left of Edinburgh Fringe. Hope you're enjoying it. Sad to say, I'm very much enjoying it. Remember the good old days of angry Fringe blogs? Those are years away. Mind you, I had a shit IWANNAGOHOME day three days ago. The thing is Edinburgh is great but the line from Anchorman, "We've been coming to the same party for 12 years, and in no way is that depressing", keeps popping in to my head. But it's the last week so my energy's up and my outlook sunny. But what to do in the next seven days?

Simple: go to The Stand.

The Stand comedy club in Edinburgh is the greatest comedy club in the world. It's also rare in the comedy world as it's sole purpose is comedy. When you go to The Stand what you get is comedy. NOT comedy and a disco, not comedy and a shout out on your birthday, just comedy. It books great established acts and nurtures new talent and it treats comedians and audience members with respect. It's also really decent to other clubs. They don't allow hen or stag nights in the club and instead recommend Highlight or Jongleurs if that's what you want. Not in a nasty "Why don't you fuck off there, you cunt with a stupid hat" way, no, it's a purely "I think you'd prefer this" kind of way. But really you should visit The Stand's five venues this Fringe because the show's there are of a higher quality than the so-called Big Four. If you don't make the effort over the next week to visit The Stand then you might as well not be at the Fringe at all.

Stewart Lee, Omid Djalili, Richard Herring, Phill Jupitus, Simon Munnery, Bridgest Christie, Andy Zaltzman, Todd Barry, Paul Sinha, Steve Gribbin, Tony Law, Simon Donald, Jo Neary, Tiffany Stevenson, Phil Nichol, Josh Howie, Craig Campbell, Wendy Wason, Alun Cochrane, Gavin Webster, Seymour Mace, Political Animal....That's just off the top of my head. I mean, you've only got a week left. A WEEK. Why would you think of going anywhere else? The Stand have a better line up, there's a better local pub (Lord Bodos across from The Stand 1) and you'll be happy knowing that you've put money into a club that's actually trying to look after you, comedians and the craft of comedy itself. Every member of staff at The Stand should feel proud of themselves because they're doing brilliant work this year and I would gladly buy all of them a pet swan if I could. I love them.

And hey, when you've seen a few shows there why not treat yourself to a free one at Peter Buckley Hill's Free Fringe? The Voodoo rooms are right around the corner from The Stand and Cariad Lloyd, one of the best shows I've seen this year, is on at 3.55 followed by Tara Flynn, one of the best shows I saw last year and will see again this year. It's all happening over this side of town so don't be a massive dick in the last week, come over and have fun. Oh, and me and Robin Ince are here at 2.35 too. I forgot about that.

Now, can someone kindly explain to me how The Pleasance got fucking charity status?

www.thestand.co.uk

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Men. Over-Bored.

2011-08-15T05:53:00.000-07:00

Where did I get the time to blog so much in the past? What was I not doing then that I'm doing now? I feel just as lazy now as I did then but with no time to blog. How is that possible? I guess I was just a younger, fitter, sexier man back then. Now I'm 43. Oh, yes, it was my birthday on Friday. I'm incredibly old now. The posters of Edinburgh seem even more judgemental to me now. I'm really feeling my age too. By that I mean my voice has completely gone. Thank God I'm not starring in musical theatre like last year. This might seem a bit odd to anyone who has ever seen me perform but I didn't realise how much my art depends on me screaming my bones out. That's a hard thing to do when you have no voice. This became clear when I did a gig in Glasgow on Friday night. At one part of my routine I had to shout really loudly but my voice had gone, my throat was desert dry and so....I was sick in my own mouth. They say Glasgow is a tough town to play but all cities in Britain are pretty tricky when you have a mouth full of boke. It goes without saying that it got my biggest laugh of the night.

Now that Curse Sir Walter Raleigh is over I've got slightly more time on my hands so I've decided I'm going to see more shows. I might see a play or a piece of performance poetry but mainly I'll be seeing comedians. I love comedians. To me, it's always a good night watching comedians. Oh, it'll be comedians this year for me definitely. I love comedians. Mind you, let's be honest, there's nothing worse than sitting down to watch some comedians and a male comic walks on.

I'm sorry, I know it's sexist but I just don't like male comics. I think it ruins a night of comedy when the male comic turns up and says the same boring things about his lack of sexual prowess, the unfunny lies he says to women and his broad sweeping generalisations of politics. It's tedious. They're all the same male comics. They wear zany t-shirts or, even worse, a suit to try and convince the audience that he's not in crippling debt after the second divorce and then they just spout the same obvious shit as the last male comic you've just seen. Why can't they be like comedians? My favourites are Bridget Christie, Caroline Mabey, Jo Neary, Josie Long, Holly Walsh, Shappi Khorsandi, Tara Flynn, Catie Wilkins, Susan Calman, Roisin Conaty...well, the list goes on, you know the ones. They're just infinitely more edgy and original to the point where you really don't know what's going to come next. You don't just switch off when they're on. They talk about different subjects in a different way. Last night I saw The Segue Sisters and howled with laughter from beginning to end. It was just so proudly fun, like watching a lost episode of The Monkees (admittedly, The Monkees were male comics but it was a different time then). Last week I saw one of the semi-finals of So You Think you're Funny. There were only two comedians in the final, the rest were male comics. Lorna Forde and Rachel Parris were easily the best acts on the bill but did they win? God, no. Typical. The award was passed to some piece of trouser who the judge obviously wanted to bang. The only thing really missing from this year's Edinburgh Fringe for me is Margaret Cabourn-Smith and Zoe Gardner, my favourite comedy act of all time. Even then, some male comic has hired Zoe to be in his show this year to make sure he doesn't stink out his venue with cock jokes and reasons why X-Factor is below par. Look, I've nothing personal against male comics, I just wished they tried harder. I mean, some of them are good. I saw Stewart Lee and Andy Zaltzman and they're both reasonably competent although clearly trying to be comedians. They'll never be comedians, of course, they're just male comics but good for them for giving it a go and trying to be different. All I'm saying is that when I see a male comic on a bill where a comedian should be I just sit there. I've already made my mind up. He's going to be crap. You know what? Let them have their male-only comedy nights (there are lots of them) and I won't begrudge them having their stupid and ridiculous and frankly pointless to the point of embarrassing male-only competitions but you won't catch me laughing at them. Male comics just aren't funny.

I think my favourite crap show of the festival that I haven't seen but am perfectly happy to judge is Loose Men. "Take a unique glimpse at what the loose male thinks, feels, and really wants from life". Yes, that is unique. If there's one thing that there's a complete lack of it's hearing what a bunch of slaggy men think. Loose Men. I'm glad they've removed the Wo but retained the woe. Male comics just aren't funny.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Fringe Benefit.

2011-08-11T04:30:00.000-07:00

So, dear friends, tonight will be the last night of Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. The Edinburgh Festival has only started and already I'm finished. It's at this time, at the end of my little run, that I have to ask myself "Why did I come here and what the hell did I get out of it?" Those are good questions. But they were questions that I had already answered six weeks before coming here.

Curse Sir Walter Raleigh is a show I didn't want to do. In fact, I have no interest in doing a solo show. I like working with other people. It's less lonely and there's less pressure. If we succeed in a show then HOORAY, we ALL succeed in a show. If we fail in a show then HA HA HA HA HA, we died on our arses together. Look, I'm 43 tomorrow and I might never do another Edinburgh Festival. Can I bow out of Edinburgh forever without doing a solo show? I could, but I know what I'm like. In the coming months and years I'll just bully myself into regretting not doing a show on my own. "You're not as good as a real comedian, Michael", I'll say to Michael Legge. "Look at you hiding behind Robin Ince. Are you so scared that the world will see how a deformed, ancient, psoriasis freak like you could never compete against the might of Daniel Sloss and whatever new comedian currently celebrating their 5th birthday?" And, in a way, that's true. Most of the big, hip, young comedians have actually been up here for the last few years earning their following and now they have a huge PR machine building on the foundations that they made themselves. If you actually look at what you're competing with, why would anyone come up here? You won't have a chance. You won't get seen. You won't be nominated for an award. The press won't be interested. You won't get in at one of the main venues because you're a nobody. There won't be any space for your poster because all the posters up this year were put up in September of last year plus you won't get a Brooke's bar pass. There is NO POINT AT ALL in coming up here. Unless of course you consider the good work you do to be of value.

That trivial thing, creating something that you like, might just get you through an entire run of the festival. You won't get an award and you'll have to listen to other people either complaining that they haven't been nominated or people bragging that they have been nominated, but I still think that it's actually worth doing something you like instead of trying to win an award by doing a show you think is the kind of show that wins awards. My show is small. It's just based on a few experiences I've had with rude people. I'm not sure many people have had a nervous breakdown on a train and threatened a child by trying to throw their shoe out the window but it's that kind of small thing that means it's not like the other shows. In a way, I just think that's enough. The subject of the show is the growing acceptance of bad manners in daily life. So it's a show that's small, has a story about a shoe that means it's not like other shows and it's about something that lots of people feel strongly about. What I'm saying is, I'm actually proud of myself. If I have one regret it's that I'm not doing the show for the entire month and the reason I'm only doing it for 8 days is because I was scared of the competition instead of being overjoyed at making something I like. The first night I had 8 people in. 4 of them were friends. It was a disaster but it turned out to be a very delightful disaster because, as it turns out, it doesn't matter how many people see this show, I just like performing it. The numbers have grown every night and I really don't know why other than maybe a few people have said "You should see this show. A man has a nervous breakdown on a train, shouts at kids and seems very happy to retell the story on stage". There are no posters for this show, I know this because when I arrived I was told that my posters hadn't been put up but "Here's a pile of them. Can you put them up yourself?" plus I haven't seen any flyering. I'm not for one second saying there hasn't been any (my agent says my flyerer is a very lovely person) but I haven't seen any. It's a word of mouth thing. A small show that I really love. Get's talked about by a very small amount of people. The audience grows a bit and last night the room was nicely full. Not sold out but very nice. That's why I came to the festival. And I think that's better than having headaches worrying that you might just not become a star or upsetting yourself by seeing everyone elses magnificent successes. In many ways, people, I am the spirit of the fringe.

Now where's my fucking award?

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Time Out and Time's Up.

2011-08-10T04:03:00.000-07:00

I'm enjoying myself. That's what happens when I don't blog. I know I don't blog as much as I used to but that's because I'm happier than I used to be. I just don't see the point in writing about being happy. What could anyone get out of me being happy? NOTHING. The festival is going well and people are coming to see the shows and laughs are happening. So I'm enjoying myself at the Edinburgh Fringe, the very thing you don't want me to do. Not that it's all been paradise. Some stuff has riled me. Seeing all those posters already up and screaming at me last Monday gave me such a shock that I barely noticed that practically all of them have something in common. I don't know how I didn't notice it before but bar a few exceptions they're all exactly the same. The font seems pretty much the same, all chunky letters as fat as the ego they represent, with the same photograph of the same T4 haircut and the same skinny jeans. It's all BIG FACE ON POSTER WITH BIG WRITING. Not just a few of them. Practically all of them. How are we supposed to know what comedian it is we're seeing? They shouldn't have their names on posters at all. It should just say something like Comedian "A" or Female Comic 12. Not that there are 12 female comedians, of course. Where's the imagination, comedians? And stop being called Russell all the time. Even the few that aren't called Russell are called Russell, aren't they?

So, how have I survived the madness of Edinburgh with it's permanent rain and it's constant NO's? It isn't easy to be honest. It really has been raining a lot and there hasn't been a day without a classic Edinburgh NO. My favourite so far was when I went for a beer with my friend Sarah. We met at The Tron, a bar just off the Royal Mile, and I ordered us a couple of drinks. Well, I wanted to but both members of staff behind the completely clear bar didn't see me despite them just standing there doing nothing. It was an interesting experiment to just wait to see how long they would wait until they felt embarrassed enough that they HAD to serve me. I guessed it would be 20 seconds, quite a long time to wait if it's a clear bar and staff are a foot and a half away from you. My guess was way off. It was about three minutes before they reluctantly acknowledged my existence. As all seats were taken we decided to have our beer outside. "I wonder how long it will be before they say you can't drink outside", I said. It was immediate.

Look, what you need is a trampoline. Edinburgh is a tough town during the month of August. It's full of ups and downs and the best ups and downs are the ones you get from a trampoline. No doubt your student accomodation comes complete with a trampoline, right? My place certainly does. It stopped raining a few days ago and I had a choice: do I get in the jacuzzi (oh, yes) and relax in the manner fitting a man collapsing into 43 or do I just act like a dick on a trampoline. I went for the trampoline. There is just something really funny about being nearly 43 and bouncing up and down like an idiot while your friends laugh at you and take clips to put on YouTube. That said, it's even funnier when you're nearly 43 and you bounce up and down on a trampoline while no one at all is watching. I wasn't not showing off, I wasn't trying to be funny, I was just happily being nearly 43 and bouncing up and down on a trampoline. Alone. I really recommend it. It's really fun and a bit scary. All you can see is the metal bar of the frame that holds the trampoline in place and when you bounce you just KNOW you're going to slip and smash your skull on it. But what a hilarious way to go. Dying at the age of nearly 43, alone on a trampoline.

I have something else to recommend to you this Edinburgh Fringe. How about stepping away from all the shows and seeing some art? Take yourself to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery and see a painting called The Three Oncologists. You know when some very pretentious people say "When I saw that painting, I just cried"? Well, you just might. It's a painting that just lets you know that one day you will die. Looking at it actually feels like a cold, friendly hand offering to help you into death. It is beautiful and terrifying and I can't urge you enough to see it. Trust me, there is nothing better going on up here than that painting. Note that I haven't attached a picture of it here and please DO NOT Google it. Just go to the gallery and see it yourself. My agent, Kate, took me to see it as should all good agents show this perfectly tragic piece to their clients. "There. Look at that. Now, fancy doing something good before you go?" See it. And enjoy yourself, it's later than you think.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

I Get So Emotional, Baby.

2011-08-02T07:47:00.000-07:00

I feel sick.

I arrived in Edinburgh yesterday and it was lovely. The place I'm staying in is just fantastic and the area around it is beautiful. It's quite far from the centre so every day I'll be lucky enough to walk for maybe 30 or 40 minutes before seeing a crumpled flyer on the ground. The first thing I did when I arrived was go to Waitrose, yeah I'm one of those people now, and bought some food and then spent two hours making chilli. You shouldn't rush chilli. Especially in this house. The area is so quiet and cooking is very relaxing. I should savour the whole experience. I sat at the table and ate while thinking this is how the Edinburgh Festival will be for me this year. Relaxing and peaceful. About 5 o'clock I decided to slowly wander into town just to see if anyone I know is around. Just to say Hi and share a laugh.

FUCK ME WITH A SELECTION OF IRON RAILINGS! THERE ARE POSTERS EVERYWHERE!!!!

The festival hasn't started yet but everyone is everywhere selling their show. My posters aren't even printed yet. No matter where I look there are posters. Massive posters. All of them screaming at me. "I SOLD OUT LAST YEAR". "I WON THE BEST COMEDIAN IN THE WORLD AWARD". "I'M THE STAR OF THE MICHAEL MCINTYRE COMEDY ROADSHOW". You're not but that's not the point. Look, I know this whole thing is incredibly competitive but at least let's wait until it's started before we draw blood. My friend, Marisa, said they've been up for ages. WHAT? What about us little guys? The ones nobody knows. Let us put a poster first, eh? I mean the rain will wash it away in a day or two because our posters are made of recycled spider's webs and psoriasis and THEN you can put your solid steel, really pretty posters up. I think acts should bring their own posters to Edinburgh. Not here yet? Then you can't put your poster up. This is too early. Way too early. I saw a poster of Craig Hill and no-one had written "God, I hate him" on it yet. THAT'S how early it is.

I missed out on the train journey to Edinburgh and I've now realised how important that journey is to getting your head together for the festival. You need five hours in a carriage with noisy actors and bragging comedians to slowly let yourself know that this next month is going to be a massive pain in the arse. Just arriving and having it punch you in the dick simply isn't sporting. All of a sudden I really miss all the people I've ever done shows with. I'm doing this 8 night run all on my own. Where's Robin? Where's Johnny? Where are the other Cvnts? I'm scared that I'll fail on my own, paranoid that everyone will think it's shit, worried about...everything. Ah, the Fringe. It's great to be back.

That's all part of it. The fear. It can't all be drinking and laughing at other people's bad reviews. You have to be a bit scared yourself. That's good. That's adrenaline. You can use that. Can't I? Thankfully I didn't spend the whole night thinking about what will happen to my show. I mean, who in Edinburgh could spend an entire evening just going on and on about themselves? Marisa and I bumped into Rich Fulcher, then we met Richard Herring, Catie Wilkins and Charlotte Jo Hanbury of The Segue Sisters and had a really good laugh. If I can have nights like that then maybe my definite and unavoidable failure will not be so bad. I've got a good show that I'm happy with. Come along if you fancy gambling on something that hasn't got a massive publicity machine behind it. You might like it.

Now, is there any room for my poster, Edinburgh? NO!

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Shut Up, Gilbert O'Sullivan.

2011-08-01T04:38:00.000-07:00

This is it! Today is the day that most performers make the journey up to Scotland for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. So many bright, young hopefuls are packing up their dreams, ambitions and stilts and taking them on that fun, song-filled train journey to Waverley Station where they will show the world that they’ve got the goods, mister. Each one of them fresh-faced, energetic and alive.

Not me. I’ve been up here for a week already. On my own. Going mad.

Glasgow is a great city but Glasgow is Rotterdam and Rotterdam is anywhere alone. When you’ve spent the bulk of six days on your own in a hotel room, your mind wanders and breaks. Only someone who has spent six days alone in a hotel room with a broken mind could find it clever to throw in a Beautiful South lyric. That’s me. Hello.

I’ve brought DVD’s and work with me. Lots of DVD’s and lots of work. So far, I’ve done a thimbleful of work and I’ve watched one DVD. I just can’t seem to concentrate on one single thing this week. There’s so much to do in preparation for Edinburgh that I’ve decided to do as much nothing as I possibly can. That means a lot of looking out the window, a lot of pacing and a lot of doing things that never need to be done. I spent a couple of hours on Thursday deleting phone numbers from my phone. Who’s Brian? I don’t know. Delete. Hmmm…am I ever likely to phone Carol again? Last time we spoke she said that she liked my sitcom idea and would send the first draft to the head of her production company and then she said she hated Doctor Who. Delete. Every time I pressed delete I imagined that person immediately disappearing off the face of the Earth. You can see why that took a couple of hours, surely? Then I decided to find out how much German TV I could stand watching. The answer is 72 minutes. Das ist gut, ja? I did do a lot of reading which I think is healthy. Reading every day keeps the mind fit and strong. There wasn’t a single day when I didn’t read that soy sauce packet. Sometimes aloud. “Wok and Walk soy sauce. Fermented soy beans, wheat, water, salt. Recyclable packet”. I didn’t even look at that, I know it off by heart.

Do you talk to yourself? Me neither. Why would I talk to myself when I have Mr. Curtains and the Cup twins? Sadly, I’m not lying when I say I really did start to talk to inanimate objects this weekend. On Saturday I turned to the kettle and said “What are you actually made of?” He said nothing so I made two cups of tea that I forced to compete for my affection. One was called “Welsh Blend”. It was from a hotel in Machynlleth. The other was a posh rooibis tea from a hotel in Hong Kong. That Welsh tea never stood a chance. I remember sitting on the floor naked just laughing at it and thinking how pathetic it was.

Finally, last night after the gig I went back to the hotel and actually watched a film. It was Bananas, the Woody Allen classic. I decided it would be great to watch it with the commentary on. My commentary on. Turns out, although I’m quite critical of a lot of the production values, I know a lot of behind the scenes gossip from that film. “He shagged her. That building used to be a brothel. That car’s in jail now. That was Woody’s own spoon. I remember him punching Charles Joffee in the dick for touching it”, I said while sitting alone in bed eating eight vegan sausages. Actually, it was seven. I found one under the duvet this morning. I had it for breakfast. It was warm, so that was nice.

The gigs have been great fun, though I was shit in Falkirk last night, but the absolute highlight for me this week was when someone pointed at my Peter Davison badge and said “Jesus Christ! Is that the Norway bloke?”

Normally the cracks start to show near the end of the second week during the festival run but I’ve come ready prepared. I’ve gone as mad and broken as I can be this week. Or perhaps this is just the beginning. Edinburgh, here I come.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Before The Fringe

2011-07-27T06:18:00.000-07:00

What’s the point in going to the Edinburgh Festival? A massive competition where every participant must pay thousands of pounds for the grand prize of the off chance that Kate Copstick call you a cunt in print. If you even dream of getting anything more than that from the Edinburgh Fringe you’re an incredible idiot. You spend all day trying to weave in and out of street entertainers (when will the PC Brigade let us go back to calling them tramps?) and 8 year olds excitedly handing out flyers only to bump into a comedian who will tell you they saw that bad review you got in Festered, the student website that thinks everything that isn’t Daniel Sloss is old, boring and confusing. Then you have to listen to that same idiot comedian who will go on and on and on about how they’re being ripped off despite selling out every gig, every night for the last four years and yet they still go back to the money-grabbing, soul-destroying evil of the Big Three venues. Is there still a Big Three in Edinburgh? Didn’t one of them die? But, hey, don’t let me put you off going. There’s over a million shows to see, some of them free, and it’s always worth checking out some unknown, unheard of show that no one else has discovered yet. What I’m saying is, please come to my show. I need the money.

Look, it’s fun being there as a punter. The cheapest B&B in Edinburgh is a £150 a night cupboard in Newcastle, then you can pay £10.50 to sit through an hour of over-rehearsed and under-written sketches by Gilsby & Prick, a double act who met while hitchhiking up to the festival, in a venue that is basically a crypt that will drip condensation on you constantly. Don’t get any in your eye though. That’s how 28 Days Later started. And why not travel to the Edinburgh Festival in style too? I’m already up in Scotland and can heartily recommend taking the Caledonian Sleeper train. It leaves Euston at 11.50pm and comes complete with a wet pallet and a grey, sticky pillow to lie wide awake on for the 8 hour journey ahead. If you’re lucky you’ll get a berth all to yourself. If you’re unlucky you’ll end up sharing it with a man who constantly sings no matter how many times you remind him that you can hear him. Guess which one I was. Either way, the train gets you into Edinburgh in time for you to burst into tears.

There’s a reason I’m saying all this and I regret not saying it sooner. You don’t really NEED to go to the Edinburgh Festival (you can just buy a ticket to my show, I’m not going to pressure you into actually turning up) because there are still preview shows going on this week. I only found out that I was doing the festival about five weeks ago so could only get about seven previews in, which is about a quarter of the amount most people seem to do, but these were the most fun gigs I’ve done in years. When you go to Edinburgh in August you will see the finished version of a comedian’s show and it will be slick, precise and professional. Well, not mine but pretty much everyone else’s. I mean, really. What is the point in watching something of quality? I want to see it rough around the edges, experimental and desperate. If I don’t see a comedian cry into a puddle of his own urine by the end then IT IS NOT A SHOW. I want to hear the umms and errs of a never-before-performed routine. I want the excitement of getting it right, the disappointment of getting it wrong and the silences, oh ladies and gentlemen, those loooooong silences until the embarrassed cough of the punchline. I genuinely love previews.

Over the last few weeks I’ve seen Rich Fulcher, Bennett Arron, Bridget Christie, Caroline Mabey and Thom Tuck trying out brand new stuff in front of audiences and it’s been just fantastic. I know their finished shows will be great but there’s just something about seeing it when even the performer themselves isn’t really quite sure what comes next that makes it utterly exciting. I’ve seen Robin Ince preview too but, as his finished show will still be him basically arguing with himself every night, that doesn’t count. And my own previews have been a joy, maybe not for the audience but definitely for me. Even the shit one at The Albany where I forgot every single thing in front of an audience of 7 friends and 2 other people was fun really. Previews should really be the finished show. We should all preview throughout June and July for the Edinburgh Festival and then not go because it doesn’t exist. Even the actual month of August was just a dream.

There are still previews going on so don’t make the mistake of not seeing them. Here’s some I really recommend you see:

Tonight.

Bridget Christie at The Fix in Camden
Richard Herring in Colchester
Sara Pascoe at the New Wimbledon Theatre
Lewis Schaffer at The Source Below in Soho, London
Carey Marx at East Meets Jest in Clapham
Edward Aczel at Comedy Bunker in Ruislip

Thursday 28th

Richard Herring in Cardiff
Tiffany Stevenson at The Top Secret Comedy Club in Covent Garden
Jigsaw featuring Dan Antopolski, Nat Luurtseema and Tom Craine at The Junction in Cambridge
Kerry Godliman & Paul Sinha at Tara Studio in Earlsfield
Lloyd Langford at Hampstead Comedy Club

Friday 29th

Caroline Mabey and Holly Walsh at The Black Sheep in Crystal Palace
Tiffany Stevenson at Abbey Fest in Wimbledon
Jigsaw featuring Dan Antopolski, Nat Luurtsema and Tom Craine at Colchester Arts Centre
Richard Herring in Cardiff
Stephen Carlin at Hampstead Comedy Club

Sunday 31st

Richard Herring in Newcastle
Bennett Arron in Balham

Oh, look. There’s just loads. I gave up looking but you shouldn’t. And they’re not all in London either so check what’s happening in an arts centre or sticky, smelly room above a pub near you. BUT DON’T MISS OUT ON SEEING THESE SHOWS NOW. Remember, in a week we’ll have lost all of these wonderful, unpredictable and funny previews to expertise. It’s a great shame.

Also, thanks very much to everyone who came to see the Curse Sir Walter Raleigh previews. I had so much fun. Special thanks to the people who came to and performed at The Phoenix shows throughout July, in particular Neal who came to all of them. I very grateful indeed. I hope to see you in Scotland.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Custard Piety.

2011-07-20T03:53:00.000-07:00

I hate comedians. Joyless, po-faced, unfunny and incredibly thick. Did you see them on Twitter yesterday afternoon? Every one of them was glued to their TV's so they could come up with more ways of pointing and laughing at an 80 year old man. A poor, defenceless, frail old evil tyrant was mocked by young, cutting edge comedians in their 40s. These people, some of whom have written stuff for The Now Show, saw a delicate octogenarian and they ridiculed him in public. And it was brilliant. Being on Twitter yesterday was a joy. There was no way that you could have kept up with the jokes because there was a constant barrage of them. And it started brilliantly. When Rupert Murdoch interrupted his son to say "This is the most humble day of my life", Twitter practically popped the cork on it's #bottleofchampagne and the party started. It was great, gripping TV and it was a pleasure sharing it with funny people. Then a comedian ruined everything.

Some attention seeking openspot who will remain nameless - and by that I mean he got his biggest spot of global telly exposure ever and I've forgotten his name already - ran up to Rupert Murdoch and threw a custard pie in his face. That was when the comedians of Twitter all stopped laughing. Because someone had made a joke.

Apparently, this had ruined the whole legal process of bringing the Murdochs to justice which confused me because I could have sworn it was just REALLY, REALLY FUNNY. It's Rupert Murdoch getting A CUSTARD PIE IN THE FACE. That is brilliant. It was over two hours into the hearing and we were bored and a man came along and made it interesting again. We'd had two hours of "I don't know", "I don't know" and "I don't know but I will check" and a clown PIED RUPERT MURDOCH IN THE FACE. Even better, Murdoch's wife got up and punched the comedian. Say what you like about Rupert, he's got great taste in women. I'd fall in love with anyone who would punch a comedian on live television. It's what comedians are for. But the comedians on Twitter should genuinely feel ashamed of themselves. They all got so tediously righteous from that moment on that it made me sick. "He has ruined this trial". No, he didn't. "He is making a mockery of justice". Erm, I don't think it was him that did that. "How could anyone attack an 80 year old man like that?" IT'S MURDOCH.

Has the custard pie really overshadowed the main story? Not in the slightest. Has it made this comedian famous? No and if Graham Linehan would kindly shut up about him it never will. Being so utterly pious is the least attractive trait of anyone but when a comedian gets pompous it's just pathetic. Have they forgotten what they do for a living? The pie in the face is a classic gag and it was good to see it back on TV, also it's good to see a comedian on TV targeting someone in a position of power and not just making jokes about blind children. I mean, it's not as if Rupert Murdoch was on the ropes, was it? Was he about to break down and confess? A man threw a pie and the comedy world turned into Bono.

I dunno. Maybe it's me. I just find authority figures being embarrassed really funny. Newspaper magnates, high court judges, civil servants. Last night I was enjoying a beer outside a pub near where the Hackgate Enquiry was going on. There must have been 20 civil servants standing outside drinking and being all civilly servanty. Then a sewage worker came along and lifted up a manhole cover. 30 seconds later, the civil servants got hit by a stream of shit and piss. Comedians would never have found that funny. Bloody comedians.

Remember: Only a comedian would be a contestant on Show Me The Funny. Only a comedian would have "Star of Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow" on their poster. Only a comedian would write, produce, direct and star in Mrs. Brown's Boys. They are NOT to be trusted.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

What The Hell Are You Looking At?

2011-07-16T09:15:00.000-07:00

The film Bridesmaids is getting a lot of good press and several of my friends have recommended I see it. I very well might go to see it but I can't yet because I haven't seen Lawrence of Arabia and I really do think that if you want to truly enjoy Bridesmaids you really have to have seen Lawrence of Arabia first otherwise you'll just be sitting there thinking WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND CHOOSES BRIDESMAIDS OVER LAWRENCE OF ARABIA? I'm not saying Bridesmaids is bad, I'm just saying that Lawrence of Arabia is better. That said, I've seen neither film. That is the problem.

Yesterday I saw the best film I've seen in years. It's called Brazil and it came out in 1985. I was well aware of it when it came out and I know how lauded, celebrated and loved that film is but for some reason it took me more than 25 years to get round to seeing it. It is inventive, funny, creepy, horrible, bleak and it's immediately in my top ten films of all time. It has no CGI in it, it has a story and it has an incredible cast: Nigel Planer, Gordon Kaye, Robert De Niro. Don't those three names alone make is sound the most exciting thing you've ever heard even 25 years later? 25 years. 25 sodding years. That's how long it took me to see this masterpiece that I knew was there all along. Put it this way, I saw Teen Wolf 2 the day it came out.

I haven't seen Lawrence of Arabia, Blood Simple, Once Upon A Time In The West, The Battleship Potemkin, The Purple Rose of Cairo, On The Waterfront, Being There, Witchfinder General, Metropolis, Biutiful or any Bergman films. I've not seen one single Ingmar Bergman film so how can the producers of The Hangover expect me to watch The Hangover 2? I haven't even seen The Hangover and I have no intention of seeing it until I've seen City of God. How the fuck could I let myself see Sex Lives of The Potato Men knowing fully well I've not yet seen Chinatown? I've spent money and time watching The Green Lantern, Inception (shut up, it's crap. You know it is), Jersey Girl, Spider-Man 3 and Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigalo. Guess how many times I've seen The Phantom Menace? ABOUT 18 TIMES. To be fair, it's a film that never gets worse.

All I'm saying is that film companies should really consider and protect the viewer when it comes to releasing a new film. How many people my age used to sneak into X's when they were young? That's right. EVERYONE MY AGE DID IT. So I'm sure it's the same these days with films rated 18. Any kid that wants to see any film will see it if they want to so the certification of films in that way doesn't work. Here's my new way: "Want to see a film? Fine, have you seen Amadeus? No. Then I'm afraid you really can't see Bad Teacher. Come back when you've seen more good films. Good day to you". Is that so wrong? Of course, I'm joking. Nothing that simple could work effectively. How about after every film you see you get a mandatory tattoo of the name of the film on your arm or leg or neck? Then me and the other Cinema Police will know you're not a liar. Another problem sorted out by Legge. You're welcome, world.

It hit me hard right after seeing Brazil that me wasting my time was nothing but a waste of time. I should be writing my Edinburgh show but instead I watched a film. Luckily that film is one of the greatest 2 hours 15 minutes I've ever spent. I just think, if you're wasting your time anyway why waste it not being completely amazed? And stop watching The Apprentice. Have you seen every episode of Arrested Development? No? THEN STOP WATCHING THE APPRENTICE.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

You've Got Me.

2011-07-12T04:20:00.000-07:00

I've realised that I have something in common with the man on the train who picked his nose and wiped it on his seat last week. He's only trying to leave his mark on the world. He only wants to leave something behind so we remember him after he's gone. I was wrong to have told him off because he and I are exactly the same. We just want to give a little bit of ourselves to the world.

A couple of weeks ago I went to the National Theatre to see "An Audience With James Corden". That's not normally the kind of thing I'd go to see but a bastard I know bought me a ticket to see it alone. This is becoming a habit with bastards I know. Unfortunately, this time it backfired. I really enjoyed James Corden. He was self-deprecating, embarrassed and gracious. I know! I was surprised too. He talked about his theatre work, Gavin and Stacey and about how he doesn't really know what he's doing. He also spent the last 15 minutes talking about how he spent a long time being an idiot. He became famous and his ego went on the rampage. I think I needed to hear that. It reminded me of something Bill Murray said: "The truth is, anybody that becomes famous is an ass for a year and a half. You've got to give them a year and a half, two years. They are getting so much smoke blown, and their whole world gets so turned upside down, their responses become distorted. I give everybody a year or two to pull it together because, when it first happens, I know how it is". To be honest with you, at the end of the talk with Corden I actually liked him. I know he's a good actor and that was always my problem with him. He's really good, why is he doing all this other shit? Why is his ego allowed to do what ever it wants? But he realises that and I love him now. I love James Corden. That's something we'll all have to get used to. Me loving someone. I also realised that during the whole thing I'd been scratching my leg. My leg with psoriasis all up it. I looked down on the ground and saw thousands and thousands of little bits of me just lying there in a pile. A generous helping of Legge Flakes just lying there for someone to come along and sit amongst. I'm disgusting. But, as I was trying to clear it up (there's no way I could have cleared it all up. There was too much of it and some it needed a hoover), I got to thinking: I'm everywhere.

The chances of you sitting next to me right this second are much greater than you'd think. You very well might be sitting next to me, standing on me or eating off me (I have psoriasis on my elbows too and I put my elbows on the table despite etiquette's clear standards). I bet you can't walk 10 feet in London without touching me these days and has anyone not been on a train without bits of me all around them? What I'm saying is, you are never alone. Chances are I'm right there with you. People often say that they suffer from psoriasis but I don't suffer from it. I just have it. If you ever leave your house ever, then you might suffer from my psoriasis but that's just me trying to share a little bit of myself with you. It's a beautiful thing. A beautiful bonding of people whether they like it or not. I'm thinking of getting a tattoo so that when I flake it'll come out like a beautiful dusty rainbow. You're welcome.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

You.

2011-07-08T10:09:00.000-07:00

I feel like I'm really returning to my old self again this week. My old, horrible, grumpy, rude self. I'll be very honest with you, all that scares me. But it is completely your fault.

Not all of it, just most of it. Firstly, last week when I was on my way to a preview gig I saw a man on the train purposely drop his ticket receipt on the ground. I quietly screamed inside my own head until the train arrived when I turned to the man and said "Oh, look. You've dropped your ticket". He turned round to pick up his dropped ticket but then saw it was just the receipt. You know, the receipt that he didn't want anymore. The one he just threw on the ground for someone else to pick up. He started to get on the train so I repeated "You've dropped your ticket". "No", he said. "It's just the receipt". I asked him if he thought that was OK to just throw it on the ground and he grunted like he didn't understand the question. "Are you going to pick it up?" I asked. He looked angry now. "NO".

He took his seat and I sat beside him. Within seconds he had his finger and his thumb, HIS THUMB, up his nostrils having a good old pick. Right up there with his finger and thumb giving his entire head a good thorough clear out, by the looks of things. Before I could tell him how revolting he was, he wiped his finger and thumb on the side of his seat.

"NO FUCKING WAY", I said. "God, man, what age are you? You're in your 30's and you pick your nose in public and wipe it on the seats?"

He went bright red, got up and changed carriage. A victory? No. The next stop a massive man who looked insane came on and sat next to me listening to his loud, awful music. He looked scary. I said nothing. Bring back Noseypick!

Then on my way to my next preview, I got off the tube during rush hour. The doors opened and a very big man just immediately got on without letting any passengers off first. The insane part of my skull immediately took over and I put my hand flat on his chest and pushed him back on to the platform, all the while shouting "RUUUUUUUUUUUDE!"

OK, those two examples weren't really your fault but the next one definitely is. Yesterday I took a bus to Stella Duffy's house to do some work on my solo Edinburgh show. I got the P4 bus and as soon as I sat down I heard the loud, awful music. I've said it before but, really, why is it only people with terrible taste in music that feel the need to share it on public transport? I sat there for three or four minutes just staring at YOU and all YOU did was just accept this rude woman polluting our journey with her musical dung. It was as if no one else could hear the moronic and repetitive beat coming from her iPod or, and this is just a guess, I was once again on public transport with spineless shadow people who are too terrified to just ask a woman to turn her music down. It's not like this woman was the man who replaced Noseypick. That man was weird and I wouldn't have encouraged anyone to approach him. This was just a regular person.

I thought.

She was two seats in front so I got up and tapped her on the shoulder. Here's what happened. She took her earphones out and I said "Excuse me, could you turn your music down, please?"

"Why?"

"Because it's very loud. Everyone can hear it".

"Yeah, that's your problem."

I was confused and said "Noooo, it's too loud and everyone can hear it so can you turn it down, please?"

"It's my earphones".

"What?"

"I'm using earphones".

"Yes, but the volume is so loud that everyone else can hear".

"Yeah, that's your problem. It's not like I'm listening to it out loud, I've put earphones in."

"But you are playing it out loud. It's up so loud that everyone can hear it."

"Yeah, that's your problem.

This went on for a very long time. Round and round with her always saying the same thing "Yeah, that's your problem". But let's skip to the end. This is how it all finished.

"That's the thing", I said. "It's not my problem. It's definitely your problem. Why are you listening to your music so loudly?"

This utterly baffled her. Genuinely her eyes raised upwards so much it was like she was trying to read what her brain was thinking. She had no answer, so I helped. "It's so you can hear it, right?"

"Yes".

"Right. And that's why it's your problem. If you had your music turned down a bit then you could listen to it but instead you've turned it up so loudly that all you have is me talking to you and stopping you hearing anything but me". And this is when the insane "Give me your shoe" version of me took over. I started tapping her shoulder repeatedly while smiling and saying "Annoying isn't it? Isn't it? It's annoying. It's very annoying. Isn't that annoying? That's what hearing your music is like".

She was too thick to get anything that I was saying plus I was going mad so I sat down. Gradually, slowly, bit by bit she turned her music down until I couldn't hear it. WHY DIDN'T SHE JUST DO THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE? WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING TO HER? WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE ME? WHY CAN'T YOU DO IT FOR A FUCKING CHANGE? WHY DIDN'T YOU EVEN SUPPORT ME WHILE I WAS DOING IT? I. HATE. YOU.

Look, you really are going to have to pull your socks up. I'm writing a show about being polite and I'm turning into my insanely rude self again. If you love me then you'll ask those dicks to turn their music down first before I start frothing and flinging my madness at them. Please, I'm asking you as a friend, help me.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

John Heartfield.

2011-07-02T04:16:00.000-07:00

This is a lazy blog. I'm embarrassed to say that I have never heard of the brilliant artist John Heartfield. You probably have and therefore I'm just telling you stuff you already know but I'm excited about discovering him and excited about learning more about him.

John Heartfield was a German anti-fascist communist artist hell-bent on undermining Adolf Hitler. His photomontages, especially the ones used as covers for AIZ magazine, are just stunning especially considering when he was making them. The Nazi's weren't known for their sense of humour during the 1930's. In 1916, when anti-British sentiment was pretty damn high what with that pesky World War going on, he changed his name from Helmut Herzfeld to the terribly British John Heartfield as an anti-fascist statement. A really, really dangerous anti-fascist statement. I LOVE HIM. If you don't know of his work then check it out. We can learn about him together. If you do know about him, please feel free to educate me.

What I'm saying is, that Tate Modern isn't that bad.

Adolf the Superman.

The Cross.

Goering becomes an AIZ cover star.

Goebbels dressing Hitler as Karl Marx. My favourite one.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here:http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Curse Sir Walter Raleigh.

2011-07-01T06:23:00.001-07:00

I have a question for you. It's about good manners. It's a question that was put to me a few months ago. Basically, I was talking about good manners, and how important they are to me, with Philberto, a comedian who I owed a tenner for months (that is NOT good manners). We were sharing a small dressing room in a gig in Camden. Philberto used the dressing room loo and when he got out he said "I'd leave that 10 minutes before going in if I were you. See? That's good manners". Is it, Philberto? IS IT? No, really, is it?

So, here's the question. What is right? Is it a) Basically turn to someone and say "Just in case you were thinking of going into that tiny room to put your naked arse on the heat left my arse, I just want you to know that I defecated in there and my fecal clumps and splatters made enough aromatic funk to make you choke to death on your own vomit the second that you walk in" or is it b) Say nothing because talking about plops is unpleasant and, if the other person has any manners at all, when they enter the toilet they should realise that we all sometimes make smells and just live with it and get over it?

Let me know what you think the correct answer is. You see, I'm trying to write an Edinburgh show about manners and it seems that people have very different views about what is acceptable. Some people hold doors open for other people, other people don't. Some people keep noise to a minimum on public transport, other people don't. Some people put their rubbish in the bin, other people throw the bin into the street after wanking and wanking and wanking in it. What I'm saying is, some people just don't know they're being rude. Maybe I'm rude all the time and have no idea about it? Here's a good example: I was getting a train from Ladywell the other day and decided I fancied a Diet Coke. I went to the train station shop but a woman ran right past me and got there first. Bit rude that she pushed in front but, as you know, I am very forgiving. She wanted a drink and a snack. Both items came to about £2. Luckily, the woman had more than enough money to cover it. In fact, she had a £20 note. I know this because I saw her take it out of her bra.

Now, it was a hot day, that just adds to the EURGH of what just happened, but even if it wasn't I'm not sure I would accept someone offering me a £20 note from their underwear. The man in the shop certainly didn't want it. He just looked at the Breast Money and said "Oh. I don't have any change. Sorry. Do you have anything smaller?" DON'T ASK HER THAT!!! No one wants to know where she keeps her change. Luckily for the shopkeeper the £20 note was all the lady had. Unluckily for me she was a very confident person. Of course she was confident. Only seconds ago she reached into her bra and whipped out a sweaty £20 note. It was with this confidence that she turned to me and asked "You wouldn't have two tenners or a 10 and two 5's for this?"

I had nothing for that. All of a sudden it looked like a Mexican stand-off. The woman pointed the £20 note at me like a gun, the shopkeeper looked nervous and you could tell he wanted to shut the old, bullet-hole riddled, wooden shutters of his shop while I stood there considering my move. I could have just taken the money and changed it but (spits tobacco) I'm not a coward. The tension mounted. Old women ushered their grandchildren back indoors, a lone beautiful woman stared then made the sign of the cross and the local sheriff pretended he hadn't seen a thing. You could have cut the air with a knife.

"It was in your tits".

That's all I could think of saying. There was no flipping way I was touching sweaty Breast Money and it was SO obvious that the shopkeeper had lied about not having change and the atmosphere was all nasty and...and..and something just had to give. I said "It was in your tits" and it turned out that being rude about someone being rude was the best thing that could have happened. All three of us laughed. I'd said tits in front of two people I don't know, it was odd and we laughed. And neither me nor the shopkeeper had to deal with Breast Money. The shop next door did, though.

See, I'd like to know if you've been rude to be polite. It's my new thing. I've read my book out loud on trains to other people reading their bible (see my last blog) because I thought they MUST be interested, I've asked people what that song is that they're playing so incredibly loudly in public and raved about it so much that they couldn't listen to it, I've offered my seat on a train to an incredibly homophobic young man and my simple act of kindness made him feel molested. All good, I think. But let me know if you've ever been rude in the name of good. I'm writing Curse Sir Walter Raleigh, my show about good manners that will be performed at this year's Edinburgh Festival, and I want a bit of the show to be banter between me and the audience about how we can rise up and be rude in the name of good. If you're planning on going to the Edinburgh Festival, you can get tickets here: http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

The thing is, I may not always know if I'm being rude or not but I definitely know that when a chance to be rude comes along it doesn't mean you have to take it. You don't HAVE to be rude. Yesterday, I met a woman called Semen and I didn't even giggle. Now, that's good manners.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/63mlcrm

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Don't Walk.

2011-06-24T07:05:00.001-07:00

This is not the blog I planned. This was supposed to be a really sweet and lovely blog about how good going for a walk is but this morning I went for a walk and my opinion on going for a walk has changed. You should never go for a walk unless you’re walking in the middle of the Sahara desert or Hoth or somewhere you are completely sure there are no other people. Let me make this completely clear to you: People are worse than the Nazis.

I was hungover this morning (“was”? Ha!) so perhaps seeing any other human being wasn’t a good idea but I have a dog and she needs walking. She likes the park. So do people. Maybe if I just keep my head down, close my eyes, block my ears and then cut my own head off I can avoid the stress of knowing there are other people around. I shuffled to the park and watched Jerk run around. It was a really beautiful morning. Lots of sunshine, the parakeets were squawking and Jerk was wagging her tail. It’s not so bad, eh? I’m feeling chirpier already. It’ll be a lovely day.

Then I saw her.

A woman in the park was trimming a bush. She was cutting large parts of it off and then putting them in her wheelie-bag. Luckily, she was quite far away so I had plenty of time to figure out what my opening gambit should be. Don’t want to sound aggressive or accusatory. I mean, she might have a very good reason for cutting off large bits of bush and collecting them in a wheelie-bag. Yes, this requires a gentle touch.

“Should you be doing that?”

OK, I’ll confess. I started the argument. I’m not the Park Police so “Should you be doing that?” is a bit much. That said, I’ve had even more time to think about what I could have said and I really can’t think of anything. “Stop that at once” is too bossy, “What are you doing?” is too stupid and “Blu-Tac hair-cut” is too mad.

“It needs trimming” she said as she carried on trimming. “Right”, I retorted. “Do you work here?”

“No”.

The “no” was aggressive. She was angry now. I’d made her angry. Still, I’d made my point so it’s probably best that I just leave it at that. Anyway, I pushed on.
“It’s not very nice, cutting things from the park that don’t belong to you”.

“It doesn’t belong to anyone”.

“It does. It belongs to the park. Everything in here is for everyone to enjoy. You shouldn’t be hacking bits of bush off”.

“I’ll do what I like”.

“I can see that. I’m just trying to tell you that it’s rude”.

This is when she snapped. She stopped trimming to shout, swear and point her shears at me. I was on a train last week and told a man off for dropping the wrapper his straw came in from a small carton of juice and he shouted at me too. But what is more terrifying? A large man threatening you while drinking Ribena or a tiny woman shouting while waving pruning shears in your face? Answer: neither. They’re both stupid.

“You don’t work here either so you can’t tell me what to do. It’s none of your fucking business. It’s hurting no one. Just fuck off, OK?”

She went on like that for quite a while. I won’t repeat everything she said because there is a lot more swearing in it and I hate swearing now. Ugh, swearing. Not only did she use toilet words but she used them in front of her two kids. One a baby who was emotionless and one a child who looked at me as if to say “Look, she’s my mum and I love her. I know she’s a dick but she’s my mum”. After she stopped swearing at me I just said “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you”. Then she hit me with a whammy.

“My husband is very ill. I’ve been nursing him for over a month. This is his favourite bush”.

Right. When it comes to my time in life when I get ill, seriously ill, and it looks like I won’t be able to get better, just before I die I hope that Muki, my wife, will break the news to my friends, family and loved ones in the same way. “Michael is very ill. This is his favourite bush”. I don’t care what she points at as long as she says it. “This is his favourite bush”. In fact, I want every woman that I know to say it when discussing my decline. Anytime I’m mentioned after my diagnosis I want every single woman I know to only speak of my oncoming journey into the forever-sleep thusly: “You haven’t heard about Michael? God, it’s awful. The doctors can’t operate and he’s in a lot of pain. They reckon he’s only got a few weeks to live. This is his favourite bush” and then point to whatever you like.

Of course, now I just wanted out of the whole mess I’ve made but I suffer terribly from being a bit Michael Legge at times. Not that I replied straight away to her, I didn’t. I had a few seconds to think before I replied. Not that I was thinking about what to say next, I wasn’t even thinking about what she had said. All I was thinking was “Who has a favourite bush?” I mean, I understand a favourite flower or a favourite tree but no one has a favourite bush. “What’s your favourite bush, Graham?” “Well, Chester, as you asked, I’d definitely say it’s that green one that’s sort of but not quite round” NO ONE HAS A FAVOURITE BUSH. He just said that to get you out of the house. Anyway, my reply was….”Well, what if it was my favourite bush too?”

I think it was a good reply actually. It must have been because she just turned her back on me and went back to that ill man’s favourite bush. That’s when the two teenage boys appeared. I had seen them walking towards us but thought nothing until they passed us by. I heard them laughing but I never guessed what they were laughing at. As they passed they started pointing and laughing at the rude woman. They sarcastically called her sexy meaning that in their opinion she wasn’t sexy. It was horrible and I felt horrible. Her husband is ill, a flawless saint is lecturing her on bush trimming and now teenagers are calling her ugly. I turned to the boys and told them how much I fancied them. They are just so gorgeous, I told them, what woman would be good enough for them? “No woman is good enough”, one of them said very, very stupidly. “You know what that means”, I said with all the experience of doing shows to stag nights for 12 years. “You’ll both have to fuck yourselves”.

Basically, I defended the rude woman. The boys actually looked confused as they walked away. It can really pay to look like a nutter in the park when confronted by arrogant and cheeky youths. The rude woman thanked me and I said no problem. She went back to cutting off bits of bush. “Any chance you could stop that now?” I said. I thought that was fair. I’d defended her and her wheelie-bag was practically full.

“No. I need some more”.

“Oh, come on. After all we’ve been through?” I even gave her a smile.

“I didn’t ask you to get involved”.

It was now my turn to snap. I know she’s going through a tough time and is working through her pain by chopping up a bush and giving it to her husband but I can go mad too. “FUCK YOU”, I rationally shouted.

Obviously, when I left I realised that she had won that little spat. I had a point to make and I lost my ground when I shouted and swore in front of her children that she shouts and swears in front of. To make things worse, during that entire experience Jerk was chasing a butterfly and was looking ADORABLE. I missed most of that. I walked through the park feeling ashamed of myself. I need to calm down if I want to win an argument. I need to show poise and confidence and I need to be rational.

Just to let you know that during the writing of this blog I stopped for a minute to read a bit of Shappi Khorsandi’s book. Out loud. On a train. The man sitting opposite me on the train was reading his bible out loud to his wife, then she read out a bit aloud too. They shut up when I started reading.

That’s me. Calm and rational.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

The Brown Blues.

2011-06-16T02:28:00.001-07:00

A couple of months ago my former friends, Dan Tetsell and Margaret Cabourn-Smith, bought me one single ticket to see Good Mourning Mrs. Brown, the spin-off live show of the TV series Mrs. Brown's Boys, at the Hammersmith Apollo. 3,499 howling fans of Ireland's very worst contribution to anything, including terrorism, and me alone in one room. In a way, I was really looking forward to it but when I woke up yesterday morning I felt sick. It was going to be a long day.

The plan was this: I would meet Margaret and Dan at their flat beforehand, give them a bottle of champagne, watch them drink it then I would continue the night alone not drinking a single drop while I watched Mrs. Brown live on stage. It was an unmitigated failure. The only thing that went right was the very worst part of it: I watched Mrs. Brown live on stage.

Let's just cut to the show: it wasn't very good. It wasn't very good at all and it knew it. The show started very late, as it had in every terrible review I read about Good Mourning Mrs. Brown yesterday. It had to start late because there is so little in the show that if they started on time people would leave early and then figure out that they've been cheated. That's the one good thing about going to see Mrs. Brown live on stage, you can't be cheated. Every single person in that room including the cast know fully well that the show is such utter garbage that disappointment can never enter into it. Everyone knows what they're letting themselves in for. I know this because Mrs. Brown's audience gave the show the respect it deserved. Mobile phones constantly ringing, people answering their phones and talking loudly, people seemingly just wandering around the theatre for no reason. Yes, even the people who really love Mrs. Brown and would pay £40 to go to see it think it's a pile of crap.

So, the lights go down and the whole room cheers. It get's one of the biggest cheers of the night. Why wouldn't it be? The safety blanket of complete darkness is definitely preferable to the onslaught that followed. Mrs. Brown's voice comes over the PA to ask us to switch off our phones (that was ignored) and to remind us that, through some sexual agreement with Beelzebub, Mrs. Brown's Boys was BAFTA nominated. That's not an achievement. It isn't. All it means is that now all BAFTA awards and nominations are completely meaningless. In fact, they're an insult. Look at eBay right now. BAFTA's are really cheap. I got two for The Office plus Daniel Day-Lewis's 2002 award for Gangs Of New York. Less than a tenner and that includes P&P. Anyway, the recorded message at the beginning went on for ages. It had to because there's so little in the show that if that pre-show message hadn't gone on for ages people would leave early and then figure out that they've been cheated.

The message finally ends and we're off to the theme tune. The theme tune lasted a really, really long time. It had to because there's so little in the show that if the theme tune hadn't gone on for ages...look, all I'm saying is that the show hadn't started and I'd already had enough.

Of course, I look back at that theme tune quite fondly now. It's tedious length was the only thing from stopping me seeing Good Mourning Mrs. Brown. Let me make this very, very clear: there are NO jokes in Good Mourning Mrs. Brown, there are just things that people say. It might as well be "Forgot my umbrella. Honestly, I'd forget my own head if it wasn't attached" followed by a rolling hate-thunder of laughter. In fact, when they actually tried jokes they were just bizarre. Mrs. Brown has a gay son who is the butt of every homophobic jibe known to man. At one point, he walks into the room and Mrs. Brown says "Oh. Here's Eminem".

What?

I mean, everyone laughed loudly and I could clearly tell it was a dig at him being gay but...but...Eminem? Not "Oh. Here's Liberace". No? Not "Oh. Here's Graham Norton". or "Oh. Here's a pink thing". Despite the rapper being constantly tagged as a homophobe himself in the late '90's, they chose Eminem as that gay stereotype it's OK to use as an insult. Mind you, a few seconds in the company of Mrs. Brown's gay son will bring out the hate in everyone. I don't want to to be stereotypical, nasty or showing any hate towards my homosexual brothers and sisters but I want Mrs. Brown's gay son to get AIDS. I realise he's only a fictional character but I want that fictional character to get real AIDS. I hate him. He's the worst thing in the show and outside of the show. He is the worst thing.

But Eminem isn't the worst joke. Oh, no. Not by a mile. I feel like I'm in a dusty cellar looking at fine wines just to choose the perfect one to give you an idea of what I saw. Ah, yes. Here's one: Two of the characters are robbing a house. The stage is completely dark and the thieves' torches are broken. Awful Man One: "Oi tink oi found a Playstation 2". Awful Man Two: "Doze are moy balls".

Just let that swirl around your mouth for a while. Taste every bit of it. Savour the putrid bile. Now spit it out and forget everything.

Basically it was 2 hours and 20 minutes of that. Over and over and over again. It would have been longer but I just couldn't stand it any more. I left before the end. I'm sorry, everyone, I'm just not that strong. Plus I had a beer in the interval. I guess I just wasn't as prepared as I thought I'd be. To be really honest, the first half ended up being pretty traumatic for me. About an hour into the show, not the "play" like it's been advertised, the woman next to me started tapping my leg. She started tapping out a beat on my leg. There was no music playing but somehow a very jaunty little number had aneurysmed it's way into her head and she decided to tap the beat out on MY leg. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap on MY leg. I pulled my leg away and the woman looked at me, shocked. "I'm sorry", she said. "I thought that was my leg".

That is the kind of person Mrs. Brown attracts. People who aren't sure which legs are theirs.

Look, it was never going to be a great night, not for me anyway. I think Dan Tetsell enjoyed himself. While I sat there being upset, he was out in pubs and restaurants having a lovely time. It will always be one of the most brilliant and funny horrible things anyone has done to me. Well done, Dan.

Of course, none of this would be possible without the Irish writer, producer, director, homophobe and racist Brendan O'Carroll who's creation Mrs. Brown entertains thousands of leg-confused people all over the world. I'm so glad he got in touch before the show: http://tinyurl.com/5tlxbtv

Also, while you're on Twitter, start following @TWJokeTrialFund and giver generously to a very worthy cause. Thanks.

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

The Big Legge.

2011-06-13T02:31:00.000-07:00

I really wanted to write another blog about my train unjourney on Thursday night but the news stole my thunder. It was the top story for most of Friday: "Non-Fictional Humans Lack Camaraderie - Shocker!" It turns out that what the staff of Southwest Trains "don't know" is that thieves stole a load of electrical cables from the train tracks, which is incredibly dangerous and funny. Commuters got so fed up waiting (and who isn't in a rush to get to Woking?) that they forced their way out of the train and walked along the tracks to the next station. That was the cause for at least another hour of our delayed journey. "Sorry for the delay. Wrong kind of lunks on the tracks". The electrical cables were replaced but couldn't be switched on until they were sure there were no people still walking on the line because it would have been incredibly dangerous and funny.

But that was all on the news so I have nothing to write about. Nothing except the one positive thing that happened while sitting there for hours beside a bush near Woking. You must remember this because I'm about to teach you how to look cool and sexy. You know how pathetic and hunched and wretched you are in real life? Well, there's a sure-fire cure. There's a time and place for everyone and I found mine on Thursday night on a broken down train beside a bush near Woking. I can only hope that you find your useless train one day because you will be transformed from the grey shame of excess flesh that you are into a beautiful, resplendent, rare and alluring butterfly. With a massive penis and a sports car.

Before I got on the train I needed to go to the toilet but I thought I'd wait. I just didn't think I'd be waiting that long. I don't like using the toilet on the train because I've never been keen on standing inside a tiny, pungent box that shoves me from side to side and insists my urine is expelled on to my leg. After three hours of sitting on a hot, airless, angry train beside a bush near Woking, I could hold it in no longer. I had to go. This meant taking all my stuff with me (I had stuff with me) and risking losing my seat to one of the unscrupulous standing commuters. I had just made my decision to get up and walk up the crowded train to the loo when this announcement came over the tannoy: "If there is a doctor or any medical professionals on board could they make their way to carriage D to assist a passenger. Any doctor or medical professional, especially if you have any insulin".

I got up and walked towards the toilet which just happened to be in carriage D.

Women turned their heads and stared at me. Men's eyes widened as I passed them. Every female mentally undressing me with their eyes and drooling lips with every male's bodies surged with jealousy, admiration, respect and, yes, lust. Women wanted to get with me, men wanted to be me. I could feel them all over me as I walked past every single one of them. My shirt slowly unbuttoning by itself and my smooth, firm, delicious pecs revealing themselves to the onboard hungry, wanton and entranced. Proceeding up the aisle with men patting me longer and slower than they should as I passed, while the long nails of beautiful, writhing, commuting women found themselves clawing at my thighs and back, my fingertips somehow finding their way into open, wet mouths.

I knew that the second I stepped over the shaking, insulinless woman and pressed open on the toilet door that this magnetism, this control I held, would end. But I was bursting.

All good things must come to an end but for about 48 seconds I had a good job, I was intelligent and respected and everyone wanted to sleep with me. When an onboard toilet door opens and the stench of urine looks you in the eye and says "wake up" you must always remember that you at least had that moment. Through all the heavy days and all the nights that won't stop picking on you, at least you had that moment. Beside a bush near Woking.

By the way, I wrote to Southwest Trains on Friday and asked for a refund. I've yet to hear from them.

www.michaellegge.info

THIS IS IMPORTANT: Never forget what I am doling in the name of human rights this Wednesday and how you can contribute. Read this: http://tinyurl.com/3o6expu

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Where Is The Emergency Hammer?

2011-06-10T01:20:00.000-07:00

Last night I paid money to Southwest Trains to go on a 7 hour train journey that went nowhere. For almost 5 hours I was stuck on the one train, just sitting beside some bushes near Woking, and I missed my gig in Aldershot with Ivan Brackenbury. God, listen to me. Always seeing the positive. But, just for once, I don't really want to be all positive and cheery like I always, always am. Spending 7 hours on a train just to drain my iPhone battery and the end up where I started having gone nowhere is not fun and not what I wanted to do. So why did I do it? I don't know. I don't know how it happened because "I don't know" is the only reply I ever got from every Southwest Train employee. Just a dead face with rainy graveyard eyes saying "I don't know". In fact, thats basically the only reply you ever get from staff at any train station. "I don't know". "I don't know". I don't know".

I'm always complaining about trains and you must think that being stuck on one filled with sweaty, noisy commuters would be my worst nightmare. You probably think that that would be the thing I hate most about trains. But you're wrong. Even a train filled with drunk aggressives screaming nothing at all down their phone, or the unaware eating hot flesh and making me sick or the tasteless morons forcing their musicless music into our happy comas, all of that isn't the worst thing about trains. Those things are finding love at a party compared to the worst thing about trains. The worst thing about trains is that poster, the one at every train station, the one cowardly, admitting-they-can't-do-their-jobs-right poster. That cowardly poster that says "Don't abuse our staff".

Why? Why can't we abuse your staff? We've paid money and we're not going anywhere so why can't we abuse them? Why can't we laugh at their hair and their name badges? Why? Why can't we abuse your staff? They wear clip on ties. I demand my right to abuse anyone over the age of 12 who wears a clip on tie. A shameful, pathetic clip on tie. Look how shameful and pathetic YOUR staff are. They can't even hang themselves with their own ties. They're pathetic so why can't I abuse them? Why? Tell me. Why can't I give them a little push? I'd really like to give them a little push. Just a shove. But I'm not allowed. Why? I've paid money and YOU won't take me anywhere and I need to shove YOUR staff. Why am I not allowed? Why can't I slap them? Look at them. They won't feel it. They died many, many years ago. They won't feel it so let me just reach over and slap them in their face. Why did YOU put such thick glass between me and YOUR member of staff? Why? I want to slap them. Why am I not allowed to abuse YOUR staff? You want passengers to be happy when they commute, don't you? You want us to feel that we've got our money's worth on our journey, surely? Then let us abuse YOUR staff. Let us kick them. Kick them and kick them and kick them. Why won't you let us? Why can't I abuse YOUR staff? Why can't I punch them? I want to punch them. It's the only thing that I actually crave in this life. I don't need money or fame or love or peace or warmth or air. All I need is to lift my fist and crash it down hard into the grey corpse that YOU have employed. Again and again. Why can't I? Why can't I lift a brick and hammer it into their heads? Why? Just half a brick even? I want to lift half a brick and smash, smash, smash, SMASH and it feels so good. Why won't YOU let me? Why can't I lift half a brick and thump their eyes into the back of their heads and laugh for the first time in years and actually see some good in this world? Why can't I laugh at YOUR staff when I've smashed their eyes with a brick and I urinate in the holes? Why? Why won't you let me murder and urinate in the holes of YOUR staff? Tell me? Why? Why can't I? WHY?

I'll tell you why I can't kill and urinate into the holes of staff of Southwest trains. The answer is, very simply, "I don't know".

And that, to me, should be the only time that any member of train staff should ever, ever say "I don't know". Why can't I abuse you? "I don't know".

www.michaellegge.info

Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Dreamer.

2011-06-09T05:01:00.001-07:00

How does a heterosexual man tell another man he's interested in him? It's a difficult one, isn't it? You can't go in too confidently because that's just uncomfortable for the person you're wooing. Is it still wooing if I don't want to have sex with this person? It must still be wooing because I get nervous and excited when I see this man and I feel in my heart, stomach and knees that I want to get to know him better. I just want him to know that I'm impressed by him and, judging from the way I feel so awkward about it, I must want him to be impressed by me too. Yeah, that's definitely wooing.

Derek was a man who I thought was homeless but it turned out he wasn't, he just liked sitting in the park all day every day drinking cider. When he died he seemed to be immediately replaced by this guy I like. It was as if the homeless community heard there was a vacancy and this guy I like got the job. I mean, about two weeks after Derek passed away I started to see this guy every day. And he's fantastic.

Basically, he looks like Nick Nolte in Down and Out In Beverly Hills. No, he's better than that. He looks like a Norse God. All salty beard and white windswept mane. He has tough, leathery skin and eyebrows that judge all of us. Although I'm fairly sure he's homeless (I say, I'm sure. I made that mistake before. Sorry, Derek), this guy I like is in no way traditional or stereotypical. For starters, I want to hang out with him and I rarely feel that way about anyone, homeless or mansioned. He hasn't thrown a can at my head like one of the other Lewisham homeless men did and he has yet to urinate in front of me. I haven't seen him drink booze and I haven't seen him shouting and swearing at other homeless people while trying to punch them even when he's 8 feet away from them. He doesn't socialise, he doesn't speak, he just sits alone and reads. Every day. A different book every day.

I've seen him on the same bench for weeks reading Dickens, Philip K. Dick and, he's homeless so give him a break, Martin Amis. One day it's a biography of a sporting legend and the next it's Puckoon. Jerk has none of the social graces I have and normally just trots up to him every day and he doesn't flinch. She's been taught by the idiots of Lewisham that people on benches just drop their unwanted food on the ground so she makes a beeline for anyone on a bench. But this guy I like always has a book and has no interest in anything else. Every day when I go over to get Jerk away from him I see the sun dance on his pale blue eyes that only follow text and don't know that I even exist.

Look, I don't fancy him, alright? I DON'T. I just like him, that's all. He looks intense and dramatic and he likes to devour words and just when I got into the routine of see him/Jerk runs over/I go get Jerk and see what book he's reading, he changes the routine. A couple of weeks ago he wasn't on his bench, he was sitting in a tree. HE SITS IN TREES! Not under a tree, right up high in the branches, just sitting there reading.

The thing is, where this guy I like normally sits is a place that has three benches yet no one sits there. The benches have been there years and no one goes near them. He's there a month or so and suddenly people are using them and I know why.

This man is a striking figure and it's hard to see him and not be interested but, as he's so striking, there's no way any of us are worthy enough to talk to him. But just being near him is enough. People now eat lunch near this guy I like because we all hope to find out something about him or to find out why the hell we're drawn to him. He's been here a couple of months yet everyone I know who uses the park knows him and no one has spoken to him. They ALL like him. Not as much as me though. I like him the best. Some kids were sitting near him listening to music and that was the day I heard him speak: "Switch that off, please". God, I love him.

Then came a problem. Other than the time I saw him in a tree, I've never seen him anywhere but the bench. Sitting right there on the bench. Then last week as I was finishing up the dog walk I saw him get up from the bench and walk off. I've only stalked two people in my entire life: Kylie Minogue and this guy I like.

He didn't go that far (unlike Kylie, I was exhausted at the end with her). A brief walk round the park and then he propped himself up on a bridge. As I passed him I said "Hello". He said nothing.

Damn.

I stood there looking out at the same sight he was, a river and some ducks. Then after a while.....HE SPOKE! "If you were a duck, would you live in Lewisham?"

I was excited. This is brilliant. This guy I like is talking to me! Whatever you say, Michael, make it very, very funny. "No", I said.

"Really? They must like it. They're Mallards. Mallards can live anywhere. There's Mallards that live in the Arctic, you know? It's because they can breed with any type of duck so they can live anywhere they like. They must find something good about round here. I wonder what it is?"

All that I could think of was that Jerk has a toy called Mallard that she likes squeaking but as this was my only Mallard fact I though, for once, it's best to keep my mouth closed. And he walked off.

This guy I like I like even more now. He knows about Mallards. He's the best advert for reading I've ever seen. When you read, you learn and then you have something to talk about. Simple when it's explained really. Shame I didn't properly introduce myself. I wonder what his name is? No, best to take it slow. I've talked to him now. Let's just ease into one another. The next day, Jerk ran over to him on the bench as usual and as usual I went over to take her away and his eyes never looked up from the page. Then, while still reading, he patted Jerk on the head.

I'm so in there.

www.michaellegge.info

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Y'Gettin?

2011-05-30T03:19:00.000-07:00

Why does this only happen to me? Why do all the very worst things in this world only happen to me and no one else? Why don't they happen to you, you bastard?

Now, you'll notice there that I called you a bastard and that's sort of a swear word, isn't it? I'm trying not to swear at the moment, in blogs and in my writing generally, because my agent says it would be a good idea to see if I can actually write without the constant swears. I think she's right and also I'm a bit scared of her so I'm going to do what she says but this blog is going to be really difficult to do without SCREAMING MY FUCKING HEAD OFF. So, at least if I don't not swear in this I won't not apologise for it in advance. Sorry.

It's a terrifying thing, being served. You wait for ages and then when it happens it goes wrong. On Friday night, at a gig in Welwyn Garden City, I fancied a beer before the gig. A lovely pint of refreshing, delicious lager. I looked everywhere for the bar in the building and was finally told that alcohol was served in the coffee shop upstairs. You see? That's why I get anxious about being served. A coffee shop doesn't do booze. This could be the worst night of anyone's life.

They didn't sell booze. Well, not really. Bottled beer. That IS NOT booze. It's a very expensive sample of booze. I gave the lady behind the counter (NOT THE BAR) of the coffee shop my order and I waited the hour and a half for her to turn round, pick up a bottle of Becks and give it to me. To be fair, she was very busy calling her colleague "retarded". While she was busy doing that I spent my time looking around the room at the art. The art was mainly signs saying "More than just a coffee shop", which was a lie, and classic cinema posters redesigned to promote the selling of coffee. It was stuff like Midnight Espresso (I get it), Meet The Mochas (Erm...OK) and The Cupfather (pathetic). Eventually the lady had stopped saying "retarded" and had finally given me my bit of drink. I gave her £20 and she gave me change of £10. Of course, she checked the till and it was not £10 over so there is no way that I could have given her £20.

I had. That's not up for question. Maybe someone who shouts "retarded" often in public shouldn't be in charge of a till, that might be a question worth asking but the one about whether or not I gave her £20 isn't. But there's no way of proving it. I had to to just suck it up and walk away. I got served.

The wait to be served it the worst part, sort of. Yesterday, I was in a Co-op in Alton. It's a shop that employs idiots to serve idiots. I know I shouldn't get upset by this but...well, it's me, isn't it? The drunk nutter in front of me was staring and grinning at the spotty brain-free git behind the counter who was putting the nutter's items into a bag slowly and cack-handedly. As he had all the time in the world to wait on getting his items put into a bag, Drunk Nutter decided to stare at him for a bit longer then eventually he said "I've got one for you".

As soon as he spoke my body naturally clenched and I tasted my own sphincter. I'm not going to like what this man has to say, I thought. He continued: "Who would win in a fight Han Solo or Indiana Jones?"

Now, to be fair, the git behind the counter didn't answer him. Thank the Lord. He just got on with putting things into a bag at a crippled snail's pace. So Drunk Nutter repeated himself. "No, I'm being serious. Who would win in a fight, Han Solo or Indiana Jones?" The Git just handed the Drunk Nutter his now full bag and stared back at him. Drunk Nutter laughed and walked away. This was terrible for me because the question wasn't answered. That meant that The Git is going to talk to me. I just know he is. All I want is my 2 litre bottle of "Italian White" and my copy of Chat Magazine, I DO NOT WANT THIS MAN TALKING TO ME. But he did talk to me.

"Pfft", he said to me. "Stupid question. Han Solo would win. He's got The Force".

NO HE FUCKING DOESN'T, YOU FUCKING CUNT. Han solo NEVER had The Force. He had a Wookie. That was it. And a blaster by his side. Han Solo had The Force? How the fuck did this cretin get the job as Shop Assistant at the Co-op? What sort of Star wars questions do they ask in their job interviews? It's probably all prequel stuff nowadays.

This was nothing compared to the torment I went through getting served yesterday at The Plough, a bar in South London's Lordship Lane. I'm going to try to just transcribe, as best I can, the entire dialogue between myself and the woman working behind the bar. Be warned though: She's a phenomenal idiot.

After waiting and basically being ignored by her for 10 minutes she eventually turned to me and said "Are you being served, babes?"

"Erm...Not yet."

"Right, babes. What can I get you?"

"I'd like a Bloody Mary, a glass of rosé and a pint of soda water and lime, please."

"Right", she said and then immediately went off to serve someone else. To be honest, I was impressed. She had just taken my order and was now taking someone elses. She's a multi-tasker. This is great. Oh, it took a while to get served but when at last it happened my order was taken by a professional. Excellent. Five minutes later she passed drinks to the other people and took their money. Then she turned to me and said "Are you being served?"

Great.

"I gave you my order about 5 minutes ago, remember?"

"What was it again, babes?"

"Sigh...I'd like a Bloody Mary, a glass of rosé and a pint of soda water and lime, please"

"What's in a Bloody Mary?"

"Oh. Well, I don't really know. I was hoping you would."

She just walked away. I didn't know why, she didn't say why. I did see her speaking to a pregnant woman who looked baffled. The pregnant woman walked round the spirits optics easily 10 times then shuffled over to me. "We don't have any vodka up here", she said.

"Do you have any vodka in the building?"

"There might be some downstairs."

"And...?"

"I could go there and get some"

She walked off and I really went off wanting to give The Plough my business. Then Babes turned up again. "Right, babes. What was your order again?"

FOR FUCK'S SAKE. "Can I have a Bloody Mary, a glass of rosé and a pint of soda water and lime, please?"

"Do you know what size glass of rosé?"

"As it's my order, yes, I do know what size glass of rosé. Large, please. The largest you have".

I was being very sarcastic now. I'd had enough. I had but Babes hadn't. She had kept her very best until the end. Prepare to be amazed. Babes took out a half-pint glass and put it under one of the pumps then got a pint glass out and started pouring lime cordial into it. Of course, some people like fresh lime in their soda water and lime, not cordial, and while pouring she realised her error. "Oh", she said. "It was lime cordial you wanted in your cider water, babes?"

I must have misheard. I must have. "I'm sorry, in my what?"

"Would you like lime cordial in your cider water?"

"What is cider water?"

"I don't know."

"Then how are you going to give it to me?"

I looked at the till and I'm pretty sure she had rung in a half of cider and a bottle of still water. Now, I'd like to think that I'm mistaken in thinking this but...no, I'm not. She had decided to just make up a drink for me. Then the pregnant woman returned with her mouth wide open and her tongue hanging out. She stirred the Bloody Mary and put it right in front of me.

"Is that right?", she said.

You know, we really do live in a very patient society. I'm sure there was a time far back in history when we wouldn't have let morons live. The mere mention of cider water would have got you beheaded back in the Tudor era. Maybe I'm just an old-fashioned guy?

By the way, the staff at The Phoenix are always friendly and attentive plus they do lots of vegan wine and beer so we can ALL enjoy their bar. Why not enjoy their bar this Wednesday at the next Los Quattros Cvnts with our very special guests Richard Herring and Mushybees? The show starts at 8pm and the doors are 7.30. Get there early because the seats go very quickly. Here's the Facebook invite with all the info: https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=194365173943685

Also....The Flaherty Brothers and Billy Sunday will make a return on Wednesday. What more reason could you need to go?

www.michaellegge.info

ps Thanks for listening to Mr Blue Sky, the Radio 4 sit-com written by Andrew Collins and featuring me as Sean, a 25 year-old genius pianist. You can find out about it here: http://tinyurl.com/6xod7aa

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Bad Taste.

2011-05-25T03:01:00.000-07:00

My growing lack of knowledge is really starting to upset me. I don't know how something that's lacking can grow but that's just typical of me, you see. Thick. I don't know where Strasbourg is, I don't know how or if wasps fuck and I don't know where you cut the umbilical cord. Not that I'm intending cutting any umbilical cords but say I HAD to cut one, I wouldn't know where to start. I could cut a baby's head off. My total lack of knowledge is a danger to society. Is it at the baby's belly button? That seems right. What seems wrong is that I'm 42 and have no idea where the cut-off is in the umbilical cord. I used to have an umbilical cord, for fuck's sake.

I wish I was joking when I said my abundance of ignorance is taking up my every waking moment. I'm not. A few night's ago I lay awake because I couldn't figure out where concrete came from. WHERE DOES CONCRETE COME FROM? I mean, it's everywhere. I must know where it comes from. Is cement and concrete the same thing? I'm not sure. No. I'm sure I don't know. That thought took me up to at least 3am. The next day was taken up by circumcision. Obviously, I know that it's a religious thing but why does circumcision happen? I also know that pretty much everyone I know knows that it's a religious thing because when I've asked "What is the point of circumcision?" the response is always "It's a religious thing". THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER. In what way is it a religious thing? What does it represent? If it's a religious thing, aren't you just admitting that God made a mistake? Why not wait until the person being circumcised is old enough to say "You know what? I really want to be circumcised"? Then slap him and remind him he's talking about his cock. I understand that if you have a medical condition then circumcision could be the answer and I have known for a very long time that circumcision is a religious thing (although there is no such thing as a religious baby. If you can't control your bowels, why would God be interested in you?) but why don't I know WHY it's a religious thing? And why doesn't anyone else? Why do we just accept circumcision and cement and Strasbourg and wasps without knowing really what they are? And what's the deal with airline food?

Worrying about all this has been a...well, a worry. But insult was added to injury the other day and I've come to the conclusion that instead of thinking about why I don't know things, I've got to actively find out the facts myself. I've written about this before but here it goes again: To Muki, everything that once contained something is a bag. Freezer bags, sandwich boxes, egg shells. These are all bags to my wife and therefore end up in our bag bag. I use the bag bag twice a day. I take bags from the bag bag to pick up Jerk's poo in the park. Sometimes the non-bags in the bag bag are easy to spot: an envelope is NOT a bag. But others can slip through my radar. So, Jerk pooed and I took a "bag" out of my pocket to pick it up. It wasn't a bag. It was, at best, a bit of cling film. Brilliant. I picked up the poo but only after getting shit all over my hand. Obviously, it's my little princess's shit so I'm not bothered too much. The public loos are right there, they open at 10 am and it's 10.20 so I can wash my hands and it'll all be fine.

The loos aren't open yet.

Why would they be? Fucking hell. I'll just walk Jerk for an hour and when I get home I'll wash my hands. All I have to do for the next 60 minutes is not touch anything. I wiped most of the poo on a tree (sorry, tree) but still had traces, streaks even, of it on my hand. During the next hour my head filled with all the circumcision/concrete/umbilical cord thoughts that have been annoying me all week. What I'm saying is, I started thinking and when I think I forget. How can someone forget they have animal excrement on their hands? I have three words for you: CIRCUMCISION CONCRETE UMBILICALCORD. I got home, took Jerk off her lead and switched on my laptop. I printed out some documents to look over. There were quite a few of them so I had to sort this bunch of paper out, put them in the right order. That's when I licked my thumb.

Yep. That's me. The man that knows nothing but the taste of his own dog's anus.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Thanks for listening to Mr Blue Sky, the Radio 4 sit-com written by Andrew Collins and featuring me as Sean, a 25 year-old genius pianist. You can find out about it here: http://tinyurl.com/6xod7aa

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Location? Location? Location?

2011-05-18T05:33:00.001-07:00

Look, I know I'm not Stephen Hawking or Stephen Fry or Stephen Baldwin or any other great learned man but I'm not thick. I'm really not. Am I? No. I'm not. I read books sometimes and I like some subtitled films. I even occassionally understand those books and films. I'm not an expert on...well, anything but I definitely get by. Slightly above average. I know that all reality TV is terrible which is more than most so-called clever people on that there Twitter do. I howled with laughter when the makers of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding described their deficient endeavour as a documentary. I'm not so stupid that I let that pass. I can't be stupid, OK? I mean, I'm friends with Robin Ince and he's got a science show. If your friend has a science show then you can't be thick. Unless I'm an experiment. Oh God, I might be an experiment. But last night I watched the science show and I think I understood what Simon Singh was talking about and I met Alan Moore without pissing myself and licking him. That must stand for something? Alan Moore isn't going to speak to an idiot, is he? Unless he needs material for his next book, D for DUUUUUUUUUHHHH!

OK, OK, OK. I might not be razor sharp but I didn't know I was thick. Not until the other night when a Frenchman told me he was from Strasbourg. Erm...Isn't that in Germany?

How the fuck do I not know where Strasbourg is? I'm 42 and I have NO IDEA where Strasbourg is. If you asked me where the European Court of Human Rights is, do you know what I'd say? I'd say Strasbourg. I'd say Strasbourg because I KNOW it's in Strasbourg. BUT if you then said to me "Oh really? Where's that then?", I'd be fucked. I mean, I'm sure it's Germany. Yes, Strasbourg is in Germany. Germany or Switzerland or Austria. One of those places.

About a year ago I saw two wasps fucking. At least, they looked like they were fucking. I'm not normally into staring at wasps fucking but I did watch them for a very long time. Too long. The park started to look like a wasp dogging area. I stared at them for ages because I realised that I had no clue how wasps fucked. I didn't know they did fuck. Do they fuck? I still don't know but I remember how thick it made me feel. How can you be in your 40's and not know how wasps fuck? It's pathetic. The great thing is, I wasn't alone. Every single person I spoke to about wasps fucking and my lack of knowledge on the subject either plainly didn't know anything about it either or laughed at me because they wanted to hide the fact that they didn't know anything about it either. Actually, is that a great thing? I don't know how wasps fuck and neither does anyone I know. No, that's not a great thing. I'm just one part of a pig-shit thick splatter of friends.

And it's happened again. I've spoken to a few people about not knowing where Strasbourg is and so far some of them have said that I am completely right; it's definitely in Germany. But some have corrected me ("It's in Sweden", "It's Austria", "I don't think Strasbourg is real. It's like Transylvania, you know?" - that genuinely happened). I mentioned it on the Precious Little podcast and, as well as my co-host James saying it was in Switzerland, people have written to me to say that they have no clue where Strasbourg is either. What is it about this elusive, enigmatic city that baffles us all so? No wonder so much fuck all happens at the Council of Europe, no one knows where the fucker is (Oh, yes. I know that the Council of Europe is in Strasbourg. I'm full of fucking Strasbourg facts. Except one).

The great thing about not knowing something is that you can go and look it up and educate yourself. The terrible thing about being Michael Legge (not that one, the other one) is that I'm a stubborn bastard. I refuse to look it up. I'm 42 years old and I bloody well should know where Strasbourg is. I'm not going to look near an atlas, a globe, a map, a weather forecast or Wikipedia until I remember where Strasbourg is. I mean that Frenchman was from Strasbourg so it should be in France but loads of French people are from Canada and the great American comedian, Bob Hope, is from London and the greatest French singer of all time, Jacques Brel, is from Belgium and the most respected, well-known and loved Italian, Mario, is from Japan so really who the fuck knows? I'm just going to have to remember. Where is Strasbourg?

It is Strasbourg, right? Not Strasburge? Oh, for fuck's sake...

www.michaellegge.info

ps Thanks for listening to Mr Blue Sky, the Radio 4 sit-com written by Andrew Collins and featuring me as Sean, a 25 year-old genius pianist. You can find out about it here: http://tinyurl.com/6xod7aa

Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Patience, My Tinsel Angel.

2011-05-15T03:13:00.000-07:00

Although Friday night's gig at Covent Garden Comedy Club was great, I'm still a bit sensitive from doing so badly in Sheffield. The last thing I needed this weekend was unneccessary noise from drunk, thoughtless dicks in the audience. There was a bit of shrieking from a Hen Party on Friday night and I turned on them viciously to shut them up. Me putting them down so horribly made the audience feel awkward and go quiet but my point was made: If anyone is fucking this gig up, it's me.

That moment on Friday was fleeting and the rest of the show was excellent but last night at the same venue I felt the rage boiling up inside me again. There I was in the middle of a routine about the hilarious differences between men and women (a lot of it is biological and also men like box sets) when I heard someone's phone go off. Why the fuck does this still happen? Why do arseholes not just switch their phones off? You're in a comedy club: SWITCH YOUR PHONE OFF. Fuck's sake, even if you're out for the night in a pub, SWITCH YOUR PHONE OFF. Why not actually relax? Switch your phone off, if anyone wants to contact you then you can check your messages when you get home. Why did we decide to make the mobile phone such an important part of our lives? It's supposed to be there in case of emergency but NO. We just can't cope, think or exist without our fucking mobile phones. On a train, anyone reading a book? NO. They're screaming down their phone or deafening us with their terrible taste in music or they're playing Angry Birds. YOU ARE IN YOUR FUCKING 30's (at least), WHY ARE YOU PLAYING ANGRY FUCKING BIRDS? Just switch your phone off sometimes. You know, try life instead for a while. You might like it. You probably won't, of course, but at least you can say you tried. Or you can text that you tried. But give it a go. Switch your phone off.

Of course when this dick's phone went off during my routine it wasn't a subtle, reserved ring-ring. Oh, no. It was a big old rock song. Some fucking rock song that this thoughtless cunt just couldn't wait to share with us all. All I could think of was, if I break out of this routine now to deal with this then I can't go back to it. This bit will be fucked. Luckily, it was quiet enough that seemingly only me and the front row could hear it so that meant if I did stop the routine to have a go at this moron almost everyone in the room would be thinking "What mobile phone? What's he talking about? What was that he said about box sets?" But on it went, this fucking mobile phone ringing with its big, stupid rock ringtone. Whoever owned the phone obviously couldn't find it to switch it off and that only made me angrier. What a fucking idiot. Oh and look! The whole of the front row are now visibly agitated by the noise. Great! I can't concentrate on what I'm saying, the front row are drifting off and some prick is out there somewhere struggling in his gym-bag to find his cocking mobile phone. AND WHY IS IT STILL RINGING? Surely, it should have gone to voicemail by now? And why, oh, why did this person choose as his ringtone a song like Chelsea Monday by Marillion?

That's when I realised it wasn't a mobile phone. It was an iPod. My iPod. The one that I put in the front pocket of my jeans.

For the next 5 minutes I kept giggling on stage. There's nothing like performing a gig when the front row is squinting at you and thinking "Why is a searing guitar solo coming out of his crotch?"

Here's news. I've done a sit-com. Oh, yeah. I'm totally an actor now. Mr Blue Sky by Andrew Collins starts tomorrow on Radio 4 and I play the title role of Sean, a 25 year old piano playing genius. You can see why they asked me. It stars Mark Benton and Rebecca Front and we recorded it one week a couple of months ago. It was pretty much the nicest week I've had working on anything. What a lot of fun. It's a nice, gentle comedy about a man who gets shot in the head. You can hear it on the radio at 11.30 am, the much-coveted "ironing" slot, or you can listen later on iPlayer. Here's some information: http://bbc.in/jxhBUi

Plus, I highly recommend that you buy the brilliant theme tune to Mr Blue Sky by Jim Bob. It's utterly fantastic and it's available on iTunes here: http://bit.ly/lDFqfs

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Pass.

2011-05-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

That's something I forgot to say about Sheffield: it's really clean. No litter. Anywhere. The streets are really clean and you can eat your dinner off them. Just like the people of Lewisham do. There were a few clues that I was back in Lewisham after my lovely weekend in my favourite British town. The first was the sign saying "Lewisham" at the train station, the second was that I was standing in a pile of debris. For fuck's sake. How can we possibly know how many dead bodies are lying in the streets of Lewisham if people keep littering everywhere?

Also, the second I got off the train at Ladywell, the part of Lewisham I live in, I saw madness. That's one thing I'd miss if I left Lewisham. There's always something really fucking odd going on. A few weeks ago I saw a tramp give another tramp a bunch of flowers. Lovely, in a way, but definitely odd to see. Last week I passed a dear old lady and, I assumed, her adorable granddaughter. As they passed I heard sweet Granny say "No wonder they wrote cunt on his door". Then on Sunday, as I returned home from perfect, perfect Sheffield, the first thing I saw was a woman riding an exercise bike in the park. Instead of getting an actual bicycle, this plucky and insane Lewisham resident carried an exercise bike from her house, set it up at the entrance of the park and rode it for the equivalent of miles and miles. You just don't get that anywhere else. It's good to be home.

And I was worried about getting home. Being in a really charming and progressive city can make you loathe where you live all the way home but, luckily, exercise bike woman was there to welcome me and she made me smile. My other worry then was doing a gig. I performed four gigs in Sheffield and I just wasn't great in any of them. The Lescar gig was OK but I just wasn't on form so I got a bit concerned about my next lot of gigs. Luckily, the first one back cancelled. Phew! Being unemployed and not earning any money really helped dodge a bullet there. Then last night I had Covent Garden Comedy Club. People had bought tickets, they were in the building, they were seated facing the stage. There was NO WAY this was going to cancel. I'm going to have to do a gig. Shit.

Not only was the gig utter fun to play but one of the funniest things I've ever seen in a comedy club happened right in front of me. Covent Garden Comedy Club is based in Heaven, the gay nightclub underneath Charing Cross Station. During his set, Del Strain asked a man what it was that he looked for in a woman. That's right, he asked that question to a man in Heaven. The man who was holding the hand of the man sitting next to him.

The man actually had to ask Del to repeat the question. It just baffled him that much.

"What do you look for in a woman?", Del asked again. The man screwed his face up and said in a is-this-right? tone of voice "Prettiness?".

I nearly vomited with laughter. "Prettiness". It was such an alien question to him, quite rightly, and he winged it. He thought prettiness sounded right and he went for it. Like in Sci-Fi films when an alien disguised as a human tries to understand and fit in. It was just so beautiful. You could actually see his brain working as he thought about the answer. Hmmm, this is a poser, he thought, what do straight men see in women? If I was straight, what would I tolerate? "Prettiness". And how right he is about us straight men, right, lads? Eh, lads? We're fucking always on the prowl for a bit of prettiness. PHWOOAR! Seen the floral patterned summer frock on that? "Prettiness". We can't get enough of it. Look at her tits, lads. They'd look lovely in a vase.

Can audiences always be as fun and funny as last night in Covent Garden Comedy Club, please? It just makes it all so much better. For the rest of the night I told Prettiness Man I loved him and I meant it.

Of course, it'll all go tits up tonight.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Going For Brown.

2011-05-10T08:22:00.000-07:00

I am too good for this world. In 36 days time I will be putting my mind and body to the ultimate test, a gruelling marathon that will exhaust, punish and perhaps even kill me. Unlike wimps who run pathetic actual marathons or climb mountains or swim the channel, there is no preperation for what I'm about to go through in just over one month. I could try to train but that might damage me too and this is a hellish task that I intend to complete. Whether I'm the same man at the end of it remains to be seen. I won't lie to you, I'm scared. My demeanour is not built for challenges such as this but isn't that why all atheletes do what they do? They want to take the pain to the next level. In this way, I am pretty much on a par with Carl Lewis, Muhammad Ali and Tim Henman all rolled in to one. In 36 days time I will be watching Mrs. Brown's Boys - Live.

Dan Tetsell and Margaret Cabourn-Smith, after reading my moving blog detailing my utter loathing of Mrs. Brown's Fucking Stupid Bastard Boys, decided that it would be funny if they bought me a ticket to see the stage version of the show live at the Hammersmith Apollo on the 15th of June completely on my own. Of course, they're right. It is funny. I just wish that I'd thought of it and bought the ticket for someone else. Dan or Margaret perhaps? Unbelievably, tickets for this event are actually quite hard to come by. Since I revealed that my friends have stabbed me in the back by buying me a ticket, people on Twitter have been writing to me to say how jealous they are that I'm going and they aren't. Presumably these are the same people who see car accidents and shout "Jammy sod".

Of course, I could have been less of a man about it and just chucked the ticket in the bin but I'm better than that. I'm the fucking greatest. Here's the plan: On the 15th of June I will pop round to the home of Dan, Margaret and their rude, rude child and I will give them a bottle of quality champagne. I will drink none of it because, throughout the entire show, I WILL REMAIN COMPLETELY SOBER. Not only do I want to take in every horrible aspect of this insult to all five senses but I want to sit there in the full knowledge that Dan and Margaret are enjoying some booze on my account. I will record a short Soundcloud podcast just before I go in as well as one during the interval and, of course, when the whole sorry abortion is over.

Then, and only then, will I drink my sorrows away. I'm encouraging my friends to be standing outside the venue when I finally stumble out of it. They will wrap me in a foil blanket and give me hot soup, something to get my strength back. Paula Radcliffe crying as she crosses the finishing line will be nothing compared to the red-eyed, watery, snot-dripping mess that I will be at the end of that two and a half hour unneccessary persecution. So typical of me to do this for other people's benefit and not my own. I am a saint.

This is where you come in. I am sitting through a two and a half hour stage version of Mrs. Brown's Boys and I would like you to sponsor me. All atheletes need sponsorship and I'm no different. You can sponsor me by the minute, by the half hour, whatever you want... just give us the money. Please donate to show support for my struggle and that of Paul Chambers, the victim of our ridiculous legal system who lost his job and had to pay legal fees just because he made a poor quality joke on Twitter. If that's the case, why isn't Tiernan Douieb in solitary confinement for life? It's not fair. Please sponsor me by going to this link and donating to @TwJokeTrialFund: http://tinyurl.com/27ucjsb

Remember, every penny you give is another 1p you've spent on saying you hate Mrs. Brown's Boys. Yeah, and that fund gets some money too, I suppose. This is a VERY important thing so I fully expect you to spread the word and get people donating. I want AT LEAST £1000 by the end of the night of the 15th June, but you can start donating now. Just tweet me afterwards and I will make sure everyone knows that you have taken a stand against this monster of a show and...er, yeah...stood up for human rights and shit. It's going to be a big, long, horrible night, my friends, an I am very, very scared.

I mean, what if I like it. To be fair, I think it's impressive to get such a good review from Liverpool: http://venues.meanfiddler.com/apollo/full-listings/featured/3640

www.michaellegge.info

This Is Hardcore.

2011-05-08T02:37:00.001-07:00

Last night was the last of four gigs in Sheffield, my new favourite town, and it was an odd way to say goodbye. I guess these things just happen sometimes when you’re a comedian. You’ll anticipate a great gig to end an otherwise excellent weekend but it just doesn’t happen. I built it up in my head as a cracking, celebratory, laughter-filled evening to crown the days and nights of good times but, on the night, something just went wrong. Oh, it’s happened to me before and it’s nothing to be ashamed of but last night’s audience in Sheffield just died on their arses.

I don’t know if it was their first time being an audience but it just looked to me like they didn’t know what they were doing. I was on stage being absolutely brilliant in every way, improvising, throwing out gags, skilfully weaving tales of wonder, but this audience just didn’t know what to do. They just sat there and stared. Maybe sometimes I’m just too amazing and an audience will be stunned into silence but these guys were like that for a full 20 minutes (actually it was 18 minutes, always leave them wanting more). They just couldn’t get their heads round the fact that when I throw a well-crafted gag about an unlikely place I’ve masturbated in, you’re supposed to laugh. They genuinely thought they had to be quiet the entire time while one of them took it in turn to cough a bit.

I felt really bad for them. It was so uncomfortable being on that stage and watching an audience who clearly weren’t ready for a comedy club of this scale. I could tell they knew how bad they were too because some of them had their head in their hands the whole time I was on stage, a lot of them even tutted and sighed constantly at the frustration of just not being that good yet.

Of course, it’s early days for this audience and I’m sure they’ll improve after a good few more gigs under their belts. I think they even started to catch on themselves because, when I said that I was leaving, they cheered. Good for them, I thought, there’s hope yet.

The whole room felt terrible for not being a solid, reliable unit throughout my hilariously inventive and superb set during which I was brilliant. But they shouldn’t feel like that, all audiences have bad gigs. I was part of the audience during Sarah Silverman’s classic one and only performance in the UK and, due to us being a hack, obvious and unprepared crowd, I doubt we’ll see her here ever again. I felt bad for them. They were so embarrassed about dying that not one of them could face me during the interval to say how great I was and even the other comedians and the promoter couldn’t make eye contact with me. I didn’t want them to feel that way, I just wanted them to be the best audience they could be.

You know what? I think they picked up on my vibe because for the rest of the night they really improved. They laughed, applauded and looked like they were having a great time. Yes, I thought to myself, you’re finding your feet. You can do this. You’re going to make it. I’m glad the audience realised that, through my guidance, they could show these two-bit chancer comedians what a good night out is. Not that I want to be thanked and I appreciate that everyone understood this and didn’t thank me once.

I really loved my time in Sheffield. In a way, that was the perfect way to end a lovely weekend. Every single person I met in Sheffield was friendly, charming and warm and last night? I think I made them even better.

You’re welcome.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Different Class.

2011-05-07T02:09:00.000-07:00

What the fuck is wrong with Sheffield? Why can’t it be like the rest of Britain? We all agreed many, many years that our entire nation was going to be somewhere between a bit shit and toweringly awful. THAT WAS WHAT WE AGREED ON. London closes at 11.30pm. Portsmouth lets all its dickheads roam the streets at the same time. Nottingham is the most violent place I’ve ever set foot in (remember, I grew up in Northern Ireland in the 70’s and 80’s). Edinburgh refuses to let you do anything. Leicester is Leicester. Cardiff encourages ugly people to fuck in the streets. Brighton is full of deluded people and hand-made crafts. There’s panic on the streets of Carlisle, Dublin, Dundee, Humberside and, I wonder to myself, why is Sheffield being different to the rest of us? Also, I’m aware Dublin isn’t British but when you can sneak a Smiths lyric in you have to take the chance.

I’ve never been to Sheffield before until this weekend. I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t this. I’m not saying that I was just assuming that Sheffield was one big coalmine. No. It’s just I didn’t think it would be…well…beautiful. But it is. I genuinely can’t think of a nicer city I’ve visited in Britain.

I arrived on Thursday and spent the night in two bars in what looked like a pretty boho area of town. This must be the nice part of Sheffield. I’m sure the centre of town is constantly on fire with rapists, murderers and Hitler drinking, puking and shouting outside every branch of Greggs. Also, I thought, every shop in Sheffield will be a branch of Greggs. It was good to spend the night in these two cool and relaxing bars because surely seeing the centre of Sheffield tomorrow will be a nightmare of biblical proportions, if The Bible was written and directed by Wes Craven.

I spent my first full day in Sheffield reading my Kindle in the Winter Gardens, a beautiful big greenhouse right next to a town square filled with fountains and waterfalls. I ate in The Blue Moon Café, a wanker-free vegetarian place. After that I stood outside The Crucible, the home of snooker, as a Richard Hawley gig was played on a massive screen for anyone passing by to watch. THIS is a very civilised town. How can I return to Lewisham now? Come on, Lewisham! You love closing down schools for no reason, why not close down the Wetherspoons and open up a big greenhouse? Knock the clock tower down and put up a big screen showing Squeeze and Kate Bush and anyone else famous from Lewisham (that’s all the famous people in Lewisham).

The architecture of Sheffield is beautiful so walking around aimlessly is the aim. Walking aimlessly in Sheffield is aimfull. That way you can get lost and find brilliant shops like Rare and Racy, an independent record and book shop that’s been going since 1969 and, get this, is STILL open. I bought Hysteria by Def Leppard there. I am SO Sheffield now.

Here’s the most important bit: I have yet to see a Sheffield dickhead. Every single person has been friendly. Properly friendly. Like you know when you go somewhere and you say “Oh, I like it there. People are very friendly there” but you realise you only met about 3 people so you have no authority at all to claim people are friendly there? Well, I must have met 50 people since arriving in Sheffield and they’ve ALL been lovely. And how many people are there in Sheffield? 70? 80? Something like that, so I’m definitely right to say they are friendly in Sheffield because I’ve met nearly all of them. I’ve done three gigs here so far and the audiences have been respectful, funny and friendly. I’ve been a bit shit but all this pleasantry is a lot to take in at once so it’s put me off a bit. I’ll try harder tonight. I mean it, I love this place and all the people here. The only people to get on my nerves here were a bunch of loud and obnoxious Americans (whodathunkit?) while watching Thor in the cinema and Brian May from Queen, but that’s another story.

I wish you were here.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

They're Grrrreat!

2011-05-06T10:25:00.000-07:00

What did you do today? Wake up and go to work? Sit in an office with some people you would gladly kill? Watch the clock get closer to 5pm and further away from your dreams? I ate a whole tub of houmous while wearing only my socks and pants. That was my highlight. Oh, I got a wrong number phone call. That was fun. Always nice to meet new people. And my footlump fell off! That was brilliant. Don’t worry, I’ve kept it if you want to have a look at it. The thing is, spending too much time in just my underwear and eating whole tubs of things is basically all I do. Those two things will take up the bulk of my autobiography (working title: Leggerice Allsorts – Tales of Titters and Tears). But I know someone who is probably never bored because, instead of doing what we do, she looks after two tigers for a living.

I really like going to the zoo. Not many vegans like the zoo, for obvious reasons, but I really like it. I think if you see a zoo that is treating animals cruelly for yourself then you’re much more likely to do something about it than if you just read about it in the newspaper. Put it this way, avoid Lisbon Zoo. Or don’t. No such problems with London Zoo though. It’s utterly fantastic.

The animals there look amazing and, as far as I can see, seem to be there for a reason. The only questionable thing I saw was a monument dedicated to “The Victorians and their love of animals”. Erm… Anyway, I was giddy the whole day. Pushing children out of my way so I can get a better look at meerkats and having Johnny Morris’s voice in my head while looking at hippos. I even walked through the anus of a caterpillar. I did! I walked through the anus of a caterpillar. The butterfly house is in the shape of a caterpillar and you have to enter via the anus. Just like a real caterpillar. The butterflies were my second favourite animal. The tigers were my favourite because Andrea looks after them and also because I got to feed them.

Backstage at any rock gig is brick wall tedious compared to getting backstage at a zoo. There’s no booze but that might be a good thing as there are tigers there (I’m not saying there aren’t tigers backstage at rock gigs, obviously. I’ve heard Jim Bob’s stories). You know what? There’s a strange feeling of fear that runs right through you when you’re about to meet a pair of tigers. It’s like meeting Madonna and Prince. You’re told where to stand and what to do before they get there and you know if you don’t do what you’re told they’ll rip your arm off. Not that I was going to be directly in the same room as Gary and Gary (that’s the Tiger’s names…alright, they’re called Raika and Lumpar). God, no. There was green wire in between me and them. Safety first, eh?

Raika came into the backstage room first. She paced the room for a bit and decided that she wasn’t going to kill me today. Lumpar was next and he was being enigmatic. He walked in and lay down. We had only just met and he was bored of me already. They hadn’t really come into this room to meet me. They came into get fed. Luckily, I had made enough tofu salad for all three of us.

After a massive fight, Andrea, a trained and highly experienced zoo keeper, persuaded me that the meat she had in a bag might be more the thing that Tigers like. I reluctantly bowed to her advice but left the Tigers some PETA leaflets and badges. I picked up the evil meat with tongs and was told to feed Raika by holding the food low down for her. I’d been in the room with the tigers for about 10 minutes by this time and was feeling confident. Feeding Tigers is fun. THEY’RE TIGERS, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I wanted to feed Lumpar now. Same thing. Meat on tongs, keep low. Brilliant. Lumpar insisted on keeping low. He was lying down looking glamorous and wasn’t going to lift his head slightly for the likes of me. Can I feed him again? Can I? Can I? Can I? BRILLIANT! Meat on tongs, low down… Oh. Change of plan. This time Andrea said to hold the meat up high so that Lumpar would get up and get it. You know, a little fun Tiger trick.

Lumpar stared at the food above him. I had broken our agreement: I keep the food low down and he doesn’t kill me. He growled. Ever had a Tiger growl at you personally? It’s great. Lovely. Really relaxes your bumhole. He stood up but the food was being held by me even higher so he stood up on his back legs towering over me with his front paws on the wire balancing him. Now, I’m not saying I was scared but a thin layer of sweat broke out over every part of my body.

Feeding Jerk is going to be pretty dull now.

Then while the Tigers were hanging out backstage, I got to go into their lair. I actually walked out into the Tiger enclosure. There’s an incredible look on people’s faces when they see an ordinary bloke just walking around in there. We hid food for the Tigers all around their enclosure to encourage a more natural habitat. Obviously, in the wild bits of meat aren’t just placed there by me but it was incredible seeing the Tigers climbing and foraging. I was out of the enclosure by this time. You can find out more about the zoo’s enrichment work at www.zsl.org

It’s weird being vegan and handing out meat but I feel more vegany than ever because of the experience. That said, I was worried when I suggested to Andrea that if the zoo had, say, a really sick antelope that couldn’t be cured they should put it in the tiger’s enclosure. Andrea agreed. Apparently, it’s illegal. Right, I’m off for a dairy-free meatless falafel.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

The Thrill of The Chase.

2011-04-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Robin Ince and I brought our Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire show to the Machynlleth Comedy Festival, a completely secret comedy festival in a secret town somewhere secret. No one I spoke to knew how to pronounce Machynlleth (Myclunkclick being one of my favourite attempts at it) and no one knew where it was. It was definitely somewhere in North Wales or in Central Wales or in Wales. Or maybe England. It didn’t really matter where it was, the main thing was that Robin and I were travelling 5 hours on a train to do a gig where we would spend more getting there than we would earn. It isn’t cheap staying at “the best hotel in Machynlleth” (it tragically, tragically was the best hotel in Machynlleth) nor is it cheap going on the stupidly long train journey.

Not just any train journey. No. It was a loud train journey. It’s not often that Robin and I are surrounded by women and this is not how I ever fantasised about that concept (I’ve always fantasised about Robin crying in a corner while the ladies brush my lovely hair and throw their shoes at him). I don’t mean to be rude but I think Welsh women are the loudest noise on the planet and these particular ones were ear-bleedingly terrifying. Hey, guys, I’m all about equality but is displaying all the very worst traits of arsehole men really what Emily Davison wanted? All I’m saying is that if ANY woman sits on a train and drinks a litre of something blue she should have the vote taken away from her. It’s not like she’s going to use it.

For two and a half hours, these screaming, foundation-caked efforts filled the carriage with their charming tales of fucking. Golly gee whizz, these ladies loved cock and got loads and loads of it. From their gentle banter, I can only assume that the two and a half hours spent with me and Robin are the only two and a half hours they have ever spent in their entire lives not getting spit-roasted, bukkaked or gangishly banged. At one point, they played a game. The rules were simple: one lady would name a gentleman that they all knew and the others then confided as to whether or not they had fucked him. Alan did well. Robin or Michael didn’t get a mention.

The two ladies next to us talked of an argument one of them had with a bitch. “She’s a bitch, that one. She called me a slapper, that bitch”, the lady deafeningly whispered. “I can’t help it if he fancied me”. No. But surely he could?

This journey wasn’t helped by the fact that, 10 minutes outside Machynlleth, I looked out the window at the beautiful scenery and saw a sheep stuck on a barbwire fence. It was horrible. It’s wooly coat had got tangled in the wire and it was clearly stressed out. But we were on a train speeding past and I couldn’t save this lovely animal like I normally would do. Poor Gary (that’s what I called the sheep). He’ll be the first Gary I couldn’t rescue. You know, like I did with Gary the seagull, Gary the Michelle from Richmond and Gary the ladybird (I never told you about Gary the ladybird. He nearly drowned). I SAVED ALL THEIR LIVES. But Gary the sheep…Poor Gary. I felt like Indiana Jones when he thought Marion had blown up. There was just nothing I could do. I might as well go drinking with a monkey.

To say the least, I got off the train completely stressed. We’re throwing money away on a gig, the train was made of solid noise (although it really was funny seeing how disgusted Robin looked when a woman sprayed half a can of deodorant on her tits) and Gary the sheep was in trouble. Then Muki rang to say she’d lost her house keys and couldn’t get in. Jerk was inside getting agitated that she could see Muki through the window but Muki wasn’t coming in. Stupid Muki. I was in Machynlleth and couldn’t really let her in. MORE STRESS! Still, I could now just leave Muki to sort that problem out herself and I’ll just get to the hotel and de-stress before the gig. It’s bound to be a relaxing hotel. I mean. It’s “the best hotel in Machynlleth”.

I’ve never been to a hotel where the receptionist has said “Would you like a key?” before.

Bad food and a lack of vegan booze followed. Luckily the gig was excellent. It took me a while to get into it (I was worried about Gary, OK?) but when I did I loved it. Really lovely audience who were angry about local government, Donald Trump and public spending. I was angry about Mrs. Brown’s Boys.

It was great afterwards too. Lots of nice people to hang out with and watch on stage at the festival showcase show. Nick Helm, Ed Gamble and Pappy’s were fun. Not as much fun as Josie Long’s disbelief that Billy Bragg and Boris Johnson are friends. They really are. It’s true. Her utter disappointment will comfort me in my dotage.

I woke this morning and thought of Gary. He was the only sheep in a field of cows and he’s caught on barbwire. How often have we all felt like that? Has someone saved him? Is he OK? I remembered last night’s gig and as I lay in bed I noticed there was a painting of three dogs on the wall. One looked like Jerk. Awww. It’s not such a bad place, old Machynlleth. It was a fun night and luckily enough people came and we might make a small profit.

Robin and I got on the train home and I saw Gary. The only sheep in a field of cows was now happily grazing by a river and free. Some Gary’s don’t need me. Some Gary’s are special. I couldn’t be happier.

Then I saw a sheep chasing a squirrel. ADORABLE! It’s definitely never going to get any better than that ever. A sunny spring day watching a sheep chase a squirrel up a hill. Lovely. Maybe this is how it feels to be truly content and happy.

Of course, only I could see the negative side to all this. WHY did I see a sheep chase a squirrel TODAY? My life is full of crushing disappointment and flaky psoriasis but today I’m reeling from a lovely gig, a picture of Jerk, a non-lost key chat with Muki and a freed Gary (Don’t. I’m well aware of what I’ve been saying). Even the news today is good because apparently nothing happened yesterday other than a lovely wedding. I wonder how it would have been reported if Wills was gay and met a man and fell blissfully in love with him and yesterday was Britain’s first Royal Civil Ceremony. Might not have got in all the papers, I reckon. Well, it’s just been great and a sheep and a squirrel made me happy.

WHY COULDN’T THIS FUCKING BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF GORGEOUSNESS HAPPEN WHEN I’M FED UP? Some animals are thoughtless cunts.

www.michaellegge.info

ps. We have a BRILLIANT line up at the next Los Quattros Cvnts on Wednesday the 4th of May at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square (where it's less than £4 a pint but it's still central London). Our special guests are CHRIS ADDISON and CATIE WILKINS. It'll be a great night and, as usual, get there early to secure a seat. Doors 7.30 pm, show starts 8pm. Admission is £8 or £6 with the secret password which I will publicly tell you is "Mrs. Brown's BAFTA".

ps Kindle owners might like to now that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
Like · · Share · Delete

Royally Shafted.

2011-04-29T01:53:00.000-07:00

I feel sorry for these two young people. A wedding day should be the happiest day of your life but how can it be when it's clear you're being forced into doing something that you just don't want to do. Oh, they'll go along with it because it's expected of them but they can't be happy. No one would be happy in their position. It might be every hopeless romantic's dream to get married in Westminster Abbey but that's how it should remain: a dream. The reality for Kate and Wills today is a nightmare turned real like a bad dream made of actual stuff. After the wedding everyone always goes to the pub just before the reception. They'll have to buy everyone a drink. Have you seen central London pub prices these days? It's a MINIMUM of £4 a pint practically wherever you go and when you get married and everyone has made the effort to turn up and buy you a present and said how lovely you look then YOU CAN'T GET OUT OF IT. Your highnesses, it's your round.

This has been bugging me for the last few weeks. And it's not just central London, this £4 a pint evil is creeping everywhere. The thing is, people are acting like nothing has happened. Like it's perfectly normal to charge over £4 for a pint of lager. You see people in pubs everywhere smiling and laughing and chatting and behaving like they haven't just been raped which they most certainly have been. Do you know how much it costs to make a pint of lager? 7p. EVERYTHING costs 7p to make, Beer, Bounty bars, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm finding it impossible to enjoy a pint when I've just £4 and NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE! Is everyone rich now? I could buy Viva La Vida by Coldplay on iTunes for less than the price of a pint and, yes, I know that's a terrible example but I'm all angry and can't think straight. I mean, are we just going to sit there and accept this? We are. We are, of course, we are. I'm too weak to say no. If I don't drink beer then every single thing in the entire world is Viva La Vida by Coldplay.

Oh, I'll buy my neccessary beer but I'm not going to enjoy it. I'll sit there in the pub looking at the smiling damned all around me blissfully ignorant of the fact that they'll wake up the next morning and look in their wallets and say "Fuck. How much did I spend last night? I only had a few pints. I can't have spent that much. I must have been mugged". YOU WERE MUGGED, YOU DICK. Don't you remember? You went into the bar last night and queued up for 15 minutes waiting on your mugger to stop ignoring you. Do you remember? Yeah? Do you remember when your mugger actually mugged someone else before you even though you had been stood there a good 12 minutes before this latest victim turned up? Do you remember when you mugger turned to you with eyes of steel and viciously said "What can I get you?" You said two pints of lager but somehow your mugger managed to get nearly a tenner out of your wallet and you said nothing because it was such a shock you realised you were lucky to get away with your life and there's no way that you're going to say anything about getting salted crisps instead of the salted nuts you asked for. If you haven't the will to stand up to your mugger over a £4 pint then you're just going to have to admit you have no nuts.

The multi-million dollar film Iron Man is currently on sale at Play.com for £3.89. Keep that in mind when next drinking your £4 pint. A film that cost MILLIONS OF DOLLARS to make costs less than your drink that is 97% water. At the same website you can buy David Bowie's Hunky Dory, one of the greatest albums ever made. Of course, you could give £4 to Oxfam. They're always giving fresh water to some village or other for about £4 a month. It would make you feel good. Or you could sponsor a child in an 8 mile sponsored walk. Forcing a child to walk a mile for 50p is as good a bargain as I can think of. Or you could go to a Samuel Smith's pub and get upset for cheaper. Your mind will break after the spiralling thought of "It only costs £2.30 for a pint here. They make it themselves. Why is it so cheap and everywhere else is so expensive? How can they afford to serve beer for 2/3 of an Iron Man DVD but the others can't? Why does my leg hurt? Why can't I kiss men in here?" I love Samuel Smith's pubs and The John Snow kiss embarrassment was a nightmare for me. I'd stand up for the right of any gay couple to kiss in public but if Samuel Smith's pubs closed down due to that furore I was ready to murder John Barrowman himself. Hmmm...I might have been ready to do that before The John Snow kiss embarrassment.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm surprised that there hasn't been more of a public outcry. I mean, it's Britain, for fuck's sake. We love a drink. There's a recession on. How can we drink away our money problems if we can't afford to? And non-Londoners can wipe that smug look off their faces too. There are LOADS of bars in Manchester, Glasgow, Cardiff, Birmingham, Newcastle and Liverp...well, not Liverpool, that are just as expensive as London. This is supposed to be a great day that makes Britain proud. A happy, glorious day for all of us. But getting married in the centre of London where it's completely normal to pay OVER £4 a pint? I don't know how the royals can afford it.

Oh. Oh, yeah.

www.michaellegge.info

ps. We have a BRILLIANT line up at the next Los Quattros Cvnts on Wednesday the 4th of May at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square (where it's less than £4 a pint but it's still central London). Our special guests are CHRIS ADDISON and CATIE WILKINS. It'll be a great night and, as usual, get there early to secure a seat. Doors 7.30 pm, show starts 8pm. Admission is £8 or £6 with the secret password which I will publicly tell you is "Mrs. Brown's BAFTA".

ps Kindle owners might like to now that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Mutiny.

2011-04-27T05:35:00.000-07:00

“Anger is anenergy” sang butter salesman John Lydon and he’s right.

Anger is an infectious energy like when someone yawns and then you automatically yawn too or a baby makes a funny little noise and you repeat it back to them just to show the baby you’re learning from it instead of the other way round. It’s exactly like that but with more swearing and red faces and pointing. Sometimes you can see people being angry and you get swept up in the same feeling whether you believe in what they’re furious about or not. Last week’s anger on Twitter and beyond (but not very far beyond) over the Funny Women competition charging £15 to play their gigs was a good example of fury without that much thought.

I mean, yeah, it’s bad that they now charge £15. Performers should never have to pay to play. Plus the response by Funny Women to the anger was patronising and insulting and rightly caused more anger but amongst all the fury no one ever just said “Well, it is a competition and judging art in this way might be a completely reprehensible thing to do anyway so why are we only getting angry with Funny Women now? What lack of faith in yourself do you have by entering a talent contest instead of working on your act? I know that a lot of people say ‘Well, it’s good exposure’ but if it’s PR you’re after then fucking pay for it like everyone else does. £15 is nothing, you egotistical prick. Not that you should ever pay to play. Not ever. And I mean surely there are better ways to raise money for cancer charities than using segregation to fight sexism. Anyway, when it comes to fighting sexism why the fuck are we beginning with the UK comedy circuit? Is raising awareness of the amount of forced labour or forced prostitution that goes on globally not quite as important as Pippa Evans not getting booked at Highlight but bloody KevOrkian does and that’s not even fair because she’s been on Fast and Loose and everything? Mind you, Funny Women are dealing with sex issues outside the comedy circuit and they’re important. Breast cancer, ovarian cancer and challenging sex-object culture are all important issues so maybe it’s good thing, eh? No. Someone just said 15 quid again. I’m furious”.

But it’s a healthy thing to see people being angry and standing up for a cause and, of course, I’m the King of getting angry over the trivial without seeing the bigger picture. But I vow to improve on this. No more leaping in with all fists flying until I’ve thought everything through. No more shouting until I’ve heard it from all sides. No more hissy-fitting until I know the facts.

Last week, on a train, I overheard a man who was angry. He was angry but he had all the facts and therefore was a pleasure and an education to listen to. It was like listening to Mark Thomas or Carl Sagan. He knew things that we didn’t, because we just don’t care to look, but if we only knew we’d be amazed. The truth is out there.
“They can do what they want because they’re the ones in charge”, said the loud, overweight, knackered looking truth-teller to his bored friend. His friend might well have been bored but there was something about the way this Guardian of Facts screamed that made me take notice of him. “They can do what they fucking want and no one will do anything about it. It’s criminal”.

Wow! This man may be cunningly disguised as a massive oaf but he’s got the inside scoop. He knows about the government or the media or the mafia or the internet or…I don’t know, but he does. He knows about THEY and THEY can do whatever THEY want. THEY are criminal and this Angel of Light has shone his beacon and exposed the whole damn dirty lot.

“Do you know how much it costs to make one of these? 7p. How can you charge 80p for something that costs 7?”

My God! He’s right. He went on to say that the 7p included everything. “The packaging, the chocolate, the coconut”, he said while pointing to his half eaten Bounty and my eyes opened for the very first time in my life. I’ve been asleep but now I’m awake and I’m out of the dream and, unlike the rest of you, I’m living in reality. BOUNTY IS A FUCKING RIP-OFF. It’s a rip-off and I too have willingly funded this evil (before I was vegan, obviously) but we’re through the looking glass, people. FUCK YOU, BOUNTY! You’ve STOLEN 73p off us for the last time. Not only has this Sweet Prince of Honesty shown us the truth, he’s also given us the recipe: chocolate, coconut and a wrapper. We need never bow down to our paradise-based slave drivers ever again. This Gentleman of Purity shouted at great length about the same thing over and over and over again for ages and bloody ages and soon Bounty just didn’t exist for me anymore. I vowed then and there to follow my new principled Knight of Integrity to the very end.

And then he opened his second Bounty bar.

I gave up that second. What chance do any of us really have when even this one sacred, honest, loud, pretty much disgusting, jewel of a man can be swayed from his beliefs? I have never felt so alone.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Sarah Jane Must Live.

2011-04-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

I'm a Doctor Who fan and today was a great day. Well, up until about 8.30pm anyway. When you're 42 and your favourite TV show is a programme aimed at children you quickly get used to people thinking you're, well, a twat despite the fact that Doctor Who is pretty much the UK's most popular non-talent contest piece of televisual entertainment. It's easily the most popular long running TV series that isn't shit, an achievement that deserves applause. After a bit of shopping in Sainsbury's today I felt like I deserved a reward, Sainsbury's is a trying experience, so I went to WH Smith and bought Planet Of The Spiders.

I took the empty DVD cover to the counter. The cover shows a dashing Jon Pertwee, a troubled but cute Elisabeth Sladen and two massive spiders. The shop assistant took one look at the cover and said "Gross".

SEE? That's what happens when you like Doctor Who. People can't wait to fucking give their pointless and needless opinions on something that has NOTHING TO DO WITH THEM. I mean, what would this shop girl know about quality British sci-fi from the 70's? She's only about 20. "Gross"? You're out of your league, love. Keep your opinions for voting time on Britain's Got A Fat Git Singing or The Ache Factor. "Gross"? How dare you, child? You're 20, you work in WH Smith and you're an idiot. You don't know your Ark In Space from your Eldrad.

"I bet it's good though, eh?", she said next. Too little too late, young lady. I came in here to buy something far above your stupid Beiber filled head and you've insulted me. You can take your fake interest back to your Glee downloads and shove off.

"Aw, man. Jon Pertwee ones was good though", she said.

About 17 months passed between the 20 year old shop assistant from WH Smith's last sentence and me saying "What?" and it felt great. I shook myself back to reality and tried to pretend that this wasn't one of the greatest moments of my entire life. "Yes", I said. "Jon...er...Jon Pertwee is great".

"I used to watch the re-runs back in the day. Did you know they made an American Doctor Who movie?"

DID I KNOW? Yes! But that's not the point. The point is that she knew they made an American movie. Alright, it was sort of Canadiany Americany but she knew it existed and she thought that I, someone who was buying Planet of the Spiders, might not know anything about it. Of course! See, that's the thing about Doctor Who. The assistants often appeared to be stupid compared to the expert but often they knew much, much more than they were given credit for.

"When the Master takes his fingernail off I was like I'm switching off".

A wise move when it came to Doctor Who: The Movie. I stayed at the counter for 10 minutes talking about Doctor Who with this girl and it was fantastic. It is easily the greatest thing that has ever happened to anyone in WH Smith. Mainly we discussed Jon Pertwee and his car and his shirts and The Master. I just never saw any of this coming. Then right at the end she pointed to the picture of Sarah Jane Smith on the cover of my DVD and said "She's the best girl ever".

Sarah Jane has always been The Doctor's most popular companion ever since she first appeared. She was cute and clever and funny and a bit tough and everyone liked her. I adored her when I was 5 and there's something brilliantly exciting about knowing that you can bump into people who are a couple of decades younger than you who get Sarah Jane's appeal too. Of course, much more crucially, the last few years has seen Sarah Jane become hugely popular again to kids on CBBC. That's just how good the character is. She lasted and she is loved and today's sad news just came out of nowhere.

I feel like I've been wrongly dropped off in Aberdeen.

If you don't know much about Elisabeth Sladen's excellent Sarah Jane Smith then I encourage you to watch The Hand of Fear. I think it's her at her best. That said she was great in all classic Doctor Who and her comeback in School Reunuin with David Tennant is one of the best in the new show. Any more comforting thoughts?

www.michaellegge.info

The Twin Dilemma.

2011-04-14T00:52:00.000-07:00

All I wanted to do was nap, OK? I'm an old, old man now and a nap in the middle of the day is as important as taking my prescription to Boots or struggling over a toffee (Why do they make them so hard these days? Toffos were really soft in my day. And they were bloody cheaper, Mr. Cameron). Is it so wrong to want to have a nap? Is a nap such a crime now? I wasn't blowing up parliament or kidnapping a baby or putting my little fireman into a dolphin's blowhole. I was just having a nap. But was I allowed? Fuck, no. Peri had to bloody ruin it.

The thing is, I've waited a long time for Peri to knock on my door but I never wanted it to be like this. I'd already messed up badly the time Ace come round to use my toilet. This really happened. Sophie Aldred, who played Ace in Doctor Who alongside Sylvester McCoy's 7th Doctor, was invited by a neighbour to a street party we had in my street a few years ago. I don't remember too much about meeting her because I was so nervous that I had to get completely pissed before I could talk to her. What I do recall is that after chatting for a few minutes she asked if she could just pop into my house and use the loo. I went red and made a few excuses such as "I think there's someone in the already", "Wouldn't you rather use the toilet way over there?" and "We have no toilet" but, as she was getting just as embarrassed as me, I gave in and said yes. She came out a few minutes later and said "Right. Yes. I get it now" and then shuffled off. I don't know what it was in my house that could have spooked her? I mean, how many TARDIS' and K9's is too many?

So I wanted Peri knocking on the door to be much more successful. My neighbour Gloria called yesterday morning and gave me a key to give to her friend, Peri, who was going to be staying with her. Gloria was out for the day so Peri would call at my house sometime after 3 to pick up the key. Great. I'll do some work in the morning and have a nap at 2. I'll be all fresh for Peri.

As 2 o'clock came round I felt knackered. Now is the perfect time. Maybe I can have a little dream of Peri in her Planet of Fire bikini and when I wake up she'll be on her way to make that dream a reality. I settled down about 2.05 and after a few minutes I fell asleep.

Thats when I heard the knock on the door.

Bloody hell! Have I slept that long? I looked at my phone. No. It said 2.12. I've been asleep for about three minutes. Fucking hell! Typical Peri! She never had a clue about time and how it worked. As I'd just fallen asleep and was wakened way too suddenly, I felt groggy. Disorientated. Thick, even. And as I walked confused to the door I heard a mobile phone ringing from outside. I opened the door to greet Peri.

That's not Peri.

Look I'm not saying that the 60-odd year old woman in front of me wasn't nice, I'm just saying that you should never get your hopes up. I can't see Turlough jumping in to save her from drowning although I can imagine Brian Blessed marrying her. Anyway, I handed her the key and noticed that the phone was still ringing. "You going to answer that?", I said. "Could you?", she replied. "I don't know how phones work. I just found it on the train".

This was too much for me. I've had three minutes sleep and now I have to answer someone elses phone? I hate talking to strangers but now I've been rudely woken up to speak to two of them. My baffled eyes and lazy brain looked at the phone flipped up the top of it. It was still ringing. Bum. I'm going to have to think harder. Hang on... It says "Gloria calling".

"Erm...You just found this phone?"

"On a train. Yes".

"And it's not yours?"

"That's right".

"So, this isn't your phone and you just found it and yet somehow your friend Gloria is calling it?"

This was completely insane. I must still be asleep because Peri isn't due to be here until 3 and it's 2.13, it says so on the phone just above "Gloria calling". Plus Peri is young and beautiful and wears very little and I love her and I don't know this woman and she has no phone, she's just found a phone and the phone she found says "Gloria calling" and Gloria is her friend and how does Gloria know what phone Peri has found if it was just random even though Gloria is definitely calling this random phone because it says "Gloria calling"?

"There's more than one Gloria in the world", said Peri.

SHE'S FUCKING RIGHT! It must be one of the other Gloria's calling. I answered and it was a Spanish teacher. A spanish teacher called Gloria! The phone belonged to one of her pupils who had dropped it on the way to Greenwich. All I had to do was take my house slippers off, put my shoes on and walk all the way down to Lewisham Train Station and give it back to her.

I WAS FUCKING ASLEEP A MINUTE AGO. How the fuck did this happen? You can't just wake me up and expect me to fucking help. I'm not a fireman. I keep telling people, I'M NOT A FIREMAN. And all I wanted was a nap. A little sleep. A tiny kip. 40 winks. And yet there I was tired and shuffling down the cold streets of Lewisham to give a phone back to a cack-handed Spaniard....WHO DIDN'T FUCKING TURN UP!

See that nap I wanted? It was too much for the world. The world just couldn't have someone being happy for half an hour and me napping was a breach of the world's code. Has Legge been asleep for 180 seconds? WELL, FUCK HIM. He has to wake up and have a shit time like the rest of us. A day ruined by Peri and all the Gloria's I know.

I had a very busy day yesterday yet the only reason that I had time for this blog is because I had to sit in waiting for Gloria (the Spanish one) to call back. I'm not like Peri, you see. I'm like The Doctor. I see things through to the end. I won't just palm the phone off to the first half-awake, slippered idiot I find. Oh no, I'll make sure the phone is returned to it's rightful owner.

And yes, I have taken a photo of my arse with it.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

And When They Shag, They Think Of Me.

2011-04-12T01:54:00.001-07:00

You know, when you start off with a little comedy project the most you can hope for is that one or two people might be entertained by it. I've yet to hit those heady heights but sometimes something almost as good happens. I've had a few people tell me that they've stopped eating meat after reading my anti-carnivore rant and that makes me feels great. Equally, I had a few people call me a cunt for not warning them enough about Mrs. Brown's Boys. I suppose saying it was the worst thing on TV just wasn't enough of a warning. I blame myself. Luckily, just yesterday, something beautiful happened.

James Hingley and I have been recording the Precious Little podcast since September 2008 and we've been lucky enough to gather a small but loyal following that we lovingly call Podophiles. It's a podcast where two grown men talk about nothing in particular for an hour, sometimes we manage to stretch fuck all out for even longer. Somehow, these bewildered, lost, even hideous people actually enjoy the nothing that James and I have to say even going so far as to set up listening parties on Twitter and making t-shirts and badges with "I'm a pair of bastards" and "WHAT'S WROOOOOONNNGG???" written on them. These are phrases from the podcast, not just bollocks they've made up themselves. That's how bewildered, lost, even hideous these people really are. They couldn't even think of that themselves. But they are OUR bewildered, lost, even hideous people and we love them. Well, James doesn't but I do. So, imagine my delight when I found out yesterday that two of these shadowy, bent, half-people are getting married. It's the FUCK YOU to Wills and Kate I've been longing to hear.

Last year, a podophile called Barry lost a competition that I held on Precious Little. The prize for losing the competition was two tickets to see me and Andrew Collins. Stupidly, Barry accepted the tickets and PAID MONEY to come all the way down from Manchester to London to watch our equivalent of entertainment. The fucking idiot even PAID MONEY to stay in a hotel that night. In other words, he PAID about £150 to get a ticket worth £8 to see two men who had yet to write their Edinburgh Fringe shows (mine remains unwritten to date). This is the kind of man that listens to Precious Little. He actually won two tickets but couldn't even give the other one away, such is my fame. But after spending money, time and patience on me and Andrew, it was here that Barry met Sarah.

Sarah, equally as disturbed as Barry, had come from some God forsaken cave-hole in Scotland to see the show. She had PAID for her ticket as well as her travel. She had travelled twice as far as Barry, PAID MORE for travel and PAID FOR A TICKET plus she lived in the middle of fuck-not-nowhere. Barry was never going to do any better than this. It was love at first sight.

I have met Sarah and Barry and I am delighted that they are together. I guess that thought just makes me happy: They met via me and because of me two people are much happier than they would have been. Not Barry and Sarah, of course, I mean the two people they might have met if Barry and Sarah hadn't met at my gig. Oh, yes. There are two very lucky people out there living their lives and going about their business blissfully unaware that I have saved them from living with a podophile and having to spend an eternity hearing catchphrases that no-one else gets. Those are two very lucky people.

And, I suppose if I have to, congratulations to Sarah and Barry. Please name your first pet after me. Now, to pair up the rest of them before any normal people find them...

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Basket Case.

2011-04-11T05:38:00.000-07:00

I was only just talking about how lovely everything is and how delightfully happy I am. Obviously, the change in the weather makes most people a lot cheerier and, although I look like a ghost's ghost, I really love the sunshine so I certainly carry a tip-top bent. That's how good my mood is. I'd never have said anything as twatty as I certainly carry a tip-top bent but since the sun's come out you will indubitably hear me declare that extraordinary affirmation oft afresh.

Yes, the sun certainly turns me into a completely different kind of cunt. Everything just seems to make me cheery. I just bought Guitar Hero and find it impossible to play but (chuckle) isn't that part of the fun of it all? I had to go to collect my free dry cleaning and (tee hee) there isn't a trace of Michelle from Richmond on it. I shall miss her. Yesterday I was asked if I wouldn't mind helping with the gardening and not only did I say YES but I also actually did some gardening! WHY? Because I thought it might be fun. The sun's rays have positived up my brain and now I think every fucking little thing is great and fun and convivial. I can't even get angry about the IKEA advert. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!!??

Look, it's not like I have a problem with the people in the advert, I certainly don't. They are three incredibly fine and and talented, not to mention hard working, comedians and one of Idiots of Ants but it definitely shows that all people involved in any form of advertising just haven't got a fucking clue. I get it, of course I do. Why get Michael McIntyre or Alan Carr or The Krankees in to plug IKEA's unquestionably shit furniture when all we need is comedy itself? Comedy is HUGE right now, way bigger than the household names that amuse and upset us at primetime Saturday evenings so it makes sense to use hard working, talented, working comedians and one of Idiots of Ants to perform stand up in their ad. It's just...well doing stand up in front of, what is obviously, 12 people is hard enough without also having to do some tidying up at the same time. Still, there are some good points raised in the ad: men or women either are or are not messier than men or women. And thank God IKEA had the forsight and imagination to completely forget gay couples or single people completely. I mean what would the bloody gays know about furniture? And single people who live alone are too hideous for TV so they can fuck off.

See? I'm just not that angry about that ad and I know I should be. It's the sunshine! It's ruined everything. Maybe that's what happened to Chief Idiot at the Guardian, Brian Logan. Even he had nothing to say about the IKEA advert but decided to get paid for not having an opinion anyway and The Guardian decided to print his nothing story too. A slow week for make-up tips, eh, Guardian? http://tiny.cc/3iqn7

And that has been happening for a week. Sunshine and happiness. Los Quattros Cvnts was excellent last Wednesday even though we had our very first walk-out. To be honest, I'm very proud. She complained that the show was "The most disgusting thing" she's ever seen and demanded her money back. Who would have thought that a show called Los Quattros Cvnts could somehow be offensive to some people? We really should put a warning on the poster or something. But our audience on Wednesday were just fantastic and I thank them for coming down. With all this joy, I was so looking forward to strolling in the park this morning.

And that's when the anger returned.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE! What is wrong with people? We have so little nice weather in this country but you will do your best to ruin it completely. I'm a dog owner who has a responsibility to look after my dog, you're a cunt who decides to throw chicken bones anywhere you fucking feel like because Hey! the sun's out and we should do all our unhealthy eating outside. The park was full of dog owners calling their dogs back from hunting out chicken bones today. Then we have to tell our dogs off for finding the chicken bone that YOU left there. I don't really want to punish my dog. Can't I just punch a picnicker in the face instead? I'd feel so much better. Then I saw 12 empty beer cans.

That was my clue, you see. I spoke to the park keeper about how they look after the park on a sunday. Is there anyone here to stop people throwing shit everywhere? Oh, God, no. We just come along on a Monday or a Tuesday or a Wednesday or whenever and just clean it up. Eventually. You see, Michael, it's the young people. The young people come down here with their pop music and their fizzy drinks and their sew-on patches and their magazines and their long hair (can't tell if they're a boy or a girl some of them) and they just mess the place up. FUCK. OFF. Take a fucking look around. The beer cans are lying on the grass beside paper plates, empty dip containers and plastic forks. Young people have drugs, the internet and constant fucking to keep them busy. This is NOT the work of young people. THIS. IS. A. PICNIC!

No young person would ever go on a picnic. I mean a child, yes, but a young person? No fucking way. How would they fit in all their filming every single thing they do then sticking it on YouTube? It's only grown adults who have given up on life that have fucking picnics. Next time your arse friend says "Ooh, it's lovely out and we were thinking of having a picnic in the park. Oh, do come" don't forget to just tell them to grow the fuck up. Hungry? Go to a restaurant. Better still, stay at home. You are not welcome in the park. Dog owners hate you, people just walking in the park hate you and your fucking frisbee and, Jesus Christ, even wasps hate you. Wasps have brains the size of two grains of sand but even they're clever enough to know that you shouldn't be doing this.

If you do find yourself guilted into going to a picnic in the park with your mentally stunted friends who have more potato salad than dignity then here's a fun game you can play to while away the hours. Instead of praying for rain why not google any crimes that have happened in the park and then read out the grusome details while pointing at the area that they happened. The cheese strings will be tupperwared away in minutes.

The thing is, I probably wouldn't be so grumpy about this if it wasn't for the fact that my local park has been getting a complete overhaul for the last 8 months. It's really looking fantastic and will be beautiful when it's finished. But...what's the point, eh? Why are they even bothering? They're making the river more scenic with more trees and benches round the river bank. Why? So we can get a better view of trolleys in the river and see blue platic bags floating by in a more picturesque setting. There are new pathways and bridges so we can see more fried chicken boxes near, but not actually in, bins and read further of how much a slag Kiera is. A new gazebo is being erected, I assume, as an alternative to using that bothersome public lavatory. Why would they go to all this effort when people just don't care? I saw the film Source Code on Saturday afternoon and the baddie in it hates the human race so much that he designs a bomb to destroy everything so that "we live amongst the rubble" just like we deserve. How crestfallen I was when Jake Gyllenhall stopped him before he got the chance. Still, the film's worth seeing only because Russell Peters gets killed every 8 minutes. I left the park fuming today.

And as I did I thought I saw a man drop litter on the ground and leave it there. I immediately snapped. "Can you pick that up, please?"

The man looked at me like I had two heads. I don't have too heads. Just one massive red one.

"Sorry?", he said.

"Can you pick that up?"

"Pick what up?"

"The rubbish you just threw on the ground".

"I didn't".

"Yes, you did", I smugly argued. "I just saw you".

Erm...but I looked around and couldn't see any trace of rubbish near him. Oh, Lordy. I was so angry that I just wanted an argument. My brain had taken in so much picnic trash that it became spiking and started seeing things that weren't there. I had turned round to a complete stranger and started a fight for no reason whatsoever.

Phew. I'm back.

www.michaellegge.info

ps Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Blood Quite Near The Tracks.

2011-04-01T08:15:00.001-07:00

This blog will start with something brilliant, then something really horrible, then something brilliant again. Just warning you, that's all.

On Monday, my good friend Jeremy Limb was kind enough to treat me to a day out. It was pretty much the perfect day out for a 42 year old man like me. We went to the Doctor Who Experience in Olympia. It was a lot of fun. We walked into a room filled with props from the TV series and after about two minutes the 11th Doctor appeared in front of us asking for our help. The Doctor asked ME to help him! ME!!! Me and my companion, Jeremy, who's just there for the Dads. He asked us if we could see the TARDIS anywhere but it wasn't there AND THEN IT WAS. The TARDIS doors opened and we got inside and it was really big and we steered it. We steered the fucking TARDIS. What were you doing on Monday? Going to work, were you? Commuting to the office like a good little robot? Well, we were doing something a little more important, thank you very much. Leela and I (I call Jeremy Leela now) steered the TARDIS away from the Starship UK.... into the clutches of The Daleks!

Somehow, mainly by just standing there doing nothing, we defeated the Daleks and found ourselves face to face with the Pandorica that tore a hole in time and space that let in all our enemies. The Daleks, the Cybermen and the Weeping Angels all tried to destroy us but we very cleverly defeated them and sent them spiralling into a black hole. The Doctor was really pleased with me and Leela and praised us for all our good work which, again, felt a lot like just standing there watching. After all this excitement we got to see all the costumes of all 11 Doctors (you can just imagine how incredible the 9th Doctor's costume looks in real life) and hung out in the 80's TARDIS control room. I held hands with the K1 Robot and I have never felt happier in my entire life than I did in that beautiful moment. I couldn't recommend it more to any other 42 year old manchildren.

Because I'd been a good boy all day, Leela and I went to the pub and had a few drinks before going back to real life. Real life turned out to be horrible and messier than I hoped.

Leela went back to her own planet (that's how I like to think of it) and I walked to Hammersmith Tube station. I was on the Piccadilly line platform, my train pulled up, the doors opened and that's when I heard screams behind me. I looked around and saw a woman lying at the bottom of the concrete steps. Now, I'd like to say that I bravely sprung to her aid immediately but I didn't. I paused. Just for a second. There were lots of people much nearer to her than I was. But that one second was coming to a close and still people were just staring at her. "Fine", I thought. "I'll do it".

I ran over and saw a lot of blood coming out of her head. I took my coat off and used it to support her head while I asked one of the staring doing nothing people to get an ambulance. Tube staff appeared pretty quickly and one look on all their faces said all I needed to know. "You deal with it", they said. Great. I know very little about First aid but I know that supporting the head is important. But she was bleeding a lot so while one of the Tube staff ran off to get a First Aid kit I thought it would be best to talk to this woman. I held her hand and asked her to squeeze mine. Nothing happened.

Of course, it was then that I totally understood why everyone just stared at this woman and did nothing. As I held her hand and asked her to give mine a squeeze I thought "Oh, fuck. What if she dies?" These are concrete steps and she's clearly hit her head on them during the fall. That could easily kill someone. Holding this motionless hand was a million miles away from the joy of holding the cold, motionless hand of the K1 Robot. I knelt there talking to her for maybe two minutes before she responded with a groan. That's normal for me but it's the happiest I've ever felt hearing it. I asked the woman her name but she only groaned. I asked her to squeeze my hand but she only groaned. A bit more asking and worrying that she was going to die and finally she squeezed it. YAY!!

I asked her name again a few times (I've got her blood on my hands, jeans, t-shirt and it's completely caked on my coat, the least she could do is tell me her name) and she opened her eyes and said "Michelle".

"That's a great name, Michelle. I'm Michael" I said.

"Well, it's the same name, isn't it?"

That's when I knew everything was OK. We talked for a bit and I vaguely explained what had happened while convincing her to stay still. Then my 15 minutes of being a Doctor was up and paramedics turned up and I let them take over. They took another 10 minutes to look after her before stretchering her away but when they turned up Tube staff said I could go. I couldn't. Her head is on my coat. It's only a coat, I realise, but I need it. It was an interesting 15 minutes. I rarely speak to complete strangers on the tube but it was definitely interesting to meet Michelle who was on her way home to Richmond and was more concerned with her handbag than her head. When she left I went backstage of the London Underground and cleaned up in their solid gold VIP bathroom. They put my coat in a bag and gave me their number. I could call them and they'd let me know how she was. I'm never doing that. When I rescued Gary the seagull and took him to the vet pretty much everyone said "You know they'll probably just put it down". I never checked on Gary for that very reason, I'm sure as hell not doing it for Michelle from Richmond.

So the reason why you DON'T help someone who's had a horrible accident is clear: They might die while you're holding their hand. But what reason would you help that person? Well, I can tell you. There are perks to this job. I had to take my blood soaked coat to a dry cleaners and you can't just give a bloody coat to them without explaining what's happened. I explained. They said that I was lovely and there would be no charge.

Hear that, COWARDS? Save someone's life, get free dry cleaning. Oh, the 9/11 firemen are praised as heroes but I know why they really did it.

www.michaellegge.net

ps. Robin Ince and I are performing Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire at the Glasgow Comedy Festival this Saturday. You can buy tickets here: http://bit.ly/f9Wghe

Also Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Take Five (Slight Return).

2011-04-01T02:22:00.001-07:00

I forgot something in yesterday's blog. Something I really shouldn't have forgotten because it might well be my favourite part of Frankenstein. One of the characters in the play is blind. I know this because he says "I am blind" constantly.

What a pathetic way to portray a role. I would NEVER do that. Not in a serious play, anyway.

A real blog is on it's way.

www.michaellegge.net

ps. Robin Ince and I are performing Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire at the Glasgow Comedy Festival this Saturday. You can buy tickets here: http://bit.ly/f9Wghe

Also Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Take five.

2011-03-31T05:57:00.000-07:00

Last week I went to see a play. That's the sort of fate that should never befall anyone. No rapist, murderer or TV executive deserves to go to a play. Ever. All plays are completely rubbish. There is no such thing as a good play, only less utterly shit ones. That's why they are difficult to review. The play I saw was Frankenstein at the National Theatre and the reviews from The Guardian, The Independent, Time Out, Daily telegraph and The Times all gave 4 stars but, then, they were only comparing Frankenstein to other plays. Even with this in mind, those publications were being incredibly generous, as theatre reviewers always are. They just don't know any better because all plays are just so cripplingly awful and embarrassingly pretentious and dull that theatre reviewers can only guess at how "WONDEROUS... ROLLOCKING... TRANSCENDENT" they are. Like a blind man stumbling to assist a twisted creature that knows not what it does, the reviewers claimed Frankenstein was good. But, no. Frankenstein bad.

The thing is, theatre has no right to be shit. At £45 a ticket it just has no right at all to be less than absolutely brilliant. £45 is about 15 pints of Lager. I've never had 15 pints of lager and complained that the acting was bad or the plot didn't make sense or the dialogue is rubbish. Actually, I have but my point is that there are a lot of things you can spend £45 on that are better than a night at the theatre. £45 is a lot of money. You expect incredible sets, intense yet sensitive acting and a visionary director. At the beginning of Frankenstein, Bamber Gascoigne falls out of a bag and spends 15 minutes doing a Joey impression.

I'm joking! He spends the whole two hours doing a Joey impression. That's what you pay £45 for at the National Theatre these days. Two hours of a grown man ripping off Morgana Show. Two hours of Joeying. Two hours of doing the very thing we were told as children never to do. TWO HOURS WITHOUT A FUCKING INTERVAL.

Bamber Cascoigne, who thrilled us as Sherlock Holmes in Sherlock, basically slaps his wrist, talks with his tongue out and shits his pants and THAT is his interpretation of a lost yet eager to learn re-animated corpse. The Creature is just such a brilliant and sad character and the National Theatre has put in the hands of a real cunt of a child on a rowdy school bus. He is so completely over-the-top insulting that the audience is spellbound into not noticing how boring Jonny Lee Miller is. A clever trick, really. By the way, Doctor Who fans, did you know Jonny Lee Miller was in Kinda? I just found that out this week and has made me not want to kill him anymore.

Before the play began, we are told that director Danny Boyle started his career in the theatre but his film career took off and he became too busy. This is his return statement to the British theatre after nearly 20 years and the statement he has made is "Never ask me to do this again". How he let this mess happen is anyone's guess. My guess is he wasn't really watching. And why would he? Why would anyone accept The Creature screaming and lunging at a blind man only for the blind man to respond with "Oh, you'd like some music?" WHAT? And a small child turning round to see The Creature for the first time only to yell "You're ugly! Go away!" and then run straight towards him. WHAT WHAT? Or when The Creature finally finds a friend in Dr. Frankenstein's wife and then, from nowhere, says "You had better run" just before he rapes her. WHAT WHAT WHAT? Those are just some of the many, many things that make no sense in this bag of Drama School shame. And I haven't even mentioned that Jonny Lee Miller's dad is black. No, no need to explain that one, Danny Boyle. You haven't explained anything else so why start with that one?

I will say this, I had a great seat. Of course I had a great seat because I saw the play in the cinema. It was broadcast live to the huge screen at the IMAX and my ticket was generously paid for. That is the great thing about Frankenstein. I didn't pay for it. Someone...lots of someones...paid £45 to see that ridiculous play. Of course, £45 is just the standard price. Standard being the best seats in the theatre. The theatre doesn't work like every other place where standard is rubbish but you can upgrade to deluxe, grande or large. No, in theatre Standard is where we dream of being. That's what you pay your £45 for. The cheaper tickets being graded as Far Away, Behind A Pillar and Outside.

All I'm saying is that the theatre is a place of unmitigated evil and there is no difference between Hamlet and We Will Rock You and I definitely really mean that.

www.michaellegge.net

ps. Robin Ince and I are performing Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire at the Glasgow Comedy Festival this Saturday. You can buy tickets here: http://bit.ly/f9Wghe

Also Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Thanks!

Leggy Come Home.

2011-03-30T05:00:00.000-07:00

I have made a terrible mistake. In a way, that's always been the point of this blog. I make terrible mistakes so that you don't have to, but this one is one of the most terrible and horrible mistakes of my life. Worse than the time I said no to tickets to see The Smiths because I already had a ticket to see Nik Kershaw, worse than the time I agreed to do a Harvester advert for £16,000 only to turn up late, drunk, smelly and was docked £13,500 in wages and worse than the time I met Robyn Hitchcock. Any time I met Robyn Hitchcock. These are all mistakes of the past but at the age of 42 I'm still making mistakes. Big ones. And this one only happened because I love Jerk. I love her so much that I wanted to get closer to her, get to know her better, see what she's really like. God, I made such a terrible mistake. I set up a webcam.

The thing is, when you're a dog owner the one bad thing about the relationship between you are your ickle puppy is that the dog can't talk. You never really know how the dog truly feels. Most dog owners would say that if they could have one wish, it wouldn't be for something dickish like world peace, it would be that their dog could talk. This is completely ridiculous. You really don't want your dog to speak ever. I recently had a dream about Jerk and at one point she turned to me and said, in a very polite English voice, "I'm going now".

No-one wants their dog to talk. It would be heartbreaking.

A webcam is exactly the same. I mean, what does Jerk get up to when I'm not around? What adventures does she have? What adorable games does she play? Does she just curl up like a big, cute, lovely, yummy donut that you just want to kiss and kiss and kiss? Awww...it'll be lovely having a webcam and seeing Jerk when I'm out. It'll be really, really nice.

It's not nice.

I set the webcam up through Ustream and left the house to go to my gig in Alton. When I got on the train I phoned Muki who was in Las Vegas. I told her all about the wecam and we both agreed that it was the most perfect and adorable idea that anyone had ever had ever in the whole history of perfect, adorable ideas. Muki clicked on the website and saw... nothing.

That's fine because I had just fed Jerk so she's probably in the kitchen eating. Jerk doesn't scarf her food like other uncooth dogs. Jerk is a lady. She eats her food slowly, enjoying the flavours and she only ever drinks champagne. She is class. After about 10 minutes Jerk finally appeared on screen. And she just stood there. For ages. Doing nothing.

I'd left the TV on, because I'm insane and think that she watches it, and Songs of Praise was quietly churching in the background. But Jerk just stood there. Staring at the sofa. The sofa that Jerk and I sit on. The sofa that was empty. And that's when she started to cry.

At first we just thought Yoko Ono was hosting this week's Songs of Praise but no. She's not Christian so they wouldn't let her, I don't think. And the crying got louder. At one point she howled so loudly it just sounded like she might die. I reckon I'm not a bad dog owner but when you can hear your own dog crying via Las Vegas when you're on a pissy train in South London you feel nothing short of Cruella Deville or Josef Fritzl. Muki's commentary to go along with the visuals didn't help. "Oh, my God. She's staring right into the camera. She's crying and she won't stop staring into the camera. She knows we're watching. She knows!"

This lasted two minutes. Jerk's crying, I mean. Muki's commentary lasted hours. She then got on the sofa and curled up, occassionally squeaking her dog toy, and then fell asleep. It took me a long time to get over those two minutes and I can blame no-one but myself. I did it. I did it and you must never, ever do it. Dogs don't play cards when you leave, they don't watch telly (or if they do they fucking hate songs of praise), they just miss you. You love your dog, you feed your dog, you play with your dog, you fuss your dog, you comfort and care for your dog. Want to get closer to your dog than that? Then be prepared to be horrified. Webcams are for mutual masturbation on Skype, not pets.

As I started to get over Jerk's crying moment, I thought I'd listen to a podcast and as a result spent the rest of the train journey laughing. It was a Simon Munnery interview and he was talking about the worst introduction he'd ever got. The compere was so utterly useless that he got everything mixed up. Simon was going under the name of League Against Tedium at the time and this idiot compere got so confused that he ended up thinking Simon was on first AND he got Simon's name wrong. This meant that Mark Maier, the act that WAS on first, was introduced as League OF Tedium.

That compere was me.

And I'm still making mistakes.

www.michaellegge.info

ps. Robin Ince and I are performing Pointless Anger, Righteous Ire at the Glasgow Comedy Festival this Saturday. You can buy tickets here: http://bit.ly/f9Wghe

Also Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is know available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here: http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3

Thanks!

The Light's Not On.

2011-03-23T04:50:00.000-07:00

I blame the messenger. I always blame the messenger. I mean, look at him. He's got stupid messenger hair and a fat hand. I hate him. It's rarely anyone's fault but the messenger. He's an idiot. Weirdly, you never blame the messenger. You and the messenger are fucking BFF's, aren't you? Oh, you and the fucking messenger up a tree, m-e-s-s-a-g-i-n-g or something. Why do you like the messenger so much? I actually want to shoot the messenger. I want to put a gun in his eye and shoot him. All messengers are a dick. Couriers, receptionists, street urchins, Hotmail, Twitpic, post-it notes, graffiti, newsreaders (but not postmen. Postmen are cool). There is no need for any of these things. They're useless. Especially newsreaders. We know it's all shit. Why are telling us all the time? Weirdly though, I like cab drivers.

Cab drivers are, by tradition, bastards. Of course, they start very young and happy and full of great ideas of how to improve the cab industry (skill, knowledge, hygiene) but after just a few days of working with members of the drunk, stupid public their brains die and they become granite. I met a really lovely cab driver once. Well, he was lovely then, I can't imagine he is now. I was at a late night party and, as it was about 9am, I thought it was probably time to go home. One of the other party revellers (I don't name his name, let's call him Zethquin) also lived in Clapham so we agreed to share a cab. I sat in the front and chatted to the cab driver while Zethquin sat in the back and remained eerily quiet. The cab driver was just lovely. We talked about the cultural significance, but not the skill, of George Best and great sci-fi films. He joked about everything I liked. He was my dream cab driver who only lost his cool for half a second when he heard a splash from the back seat. I assured the lovely, lovely cab driver that Zethquin had simply spilled a bottle of water and was cleaning it up. I had to say something because Zethquin was so drunk he couldn't talk and I couldn't tell him the truth because Zethquin had puked in the hood of the coat the cab driver was wearing.

We got out, paid, left a very good tip and waved a cheery goodbye. I know it was wrong but the cab driver was so utterly lovely that there's no way I could turn to him and tell him that he's wearing a hood full of sick.

We all have our memories of the day Princess Diana died. That is genuinely mine.

If you get into a cab in the next few days and the cab driver is a complete bastard, that might be my fault. Or at the very least Zethquin's.

But I can't fully blame myself or Zethquin. And you shouldn't blame yourself for any horror you've flung at a cab driver in the past. We are not the only reason why cab drivers have become social turds. I blame the messenger.

I fully realise that you have to be fuckthick stupid to qualify for the job of answering phones in a cab office but the half-man I spoke to last night just took the piss. Bertie Jenner, the young and offensive comedian, and I needed a cab to take us from the Hammersmith Apollo (where we were obviously doing a gig. Obviously. I was headliner) to the Cutty Sark (where Bertie apparently lives) and then my house (where I definitely live). I called a London based cab company that specialises in knowing London really well and taking people from one part of London to another part of London. This is what happened:

"Hello. Can I order a cab, please, to pick me up from the Hammersmith Apollo?"

"Where in Hammersmith?"

"The Hammersmith Apollo".

"Whereabouts?"

"Er...outside of it?"

"Where in Hammersmith?"

"The Hammersmith Apollo".

"What's is the Address?"

"I don't know the address. Sorry".

"You need the address. How is the driver supposed to know where to pick you up?"

"Because it's the Hammersmith Apollo".

"Is that a church?"

"Funnily enough, no. It's a venue. A big music venue. It has Stephen K. Amos's face all over it".

Bertie looked up the address on his iPhone and I managed, though it was a mental battle, to relay the correct information to him.

"Ok. Where to?"

"The Cutty Sark".

"What is the address?"

"The Cutty Sark doesn't have an address, it's just The Cutty Sark. Right. Cutty Sark Greenwich train station. How's that?"

"North Greenwich?"

"Not even close. The Cutty Sark Greenwich train station. The DLR".

"What is the DLR?"

"It's the train at Greenwich".

"What does DLR stand for?"

"What possible difference can that make? If you have never heard of it and have no concept of what it is, what will knowing what DLR stands for achieve? It stands for David Lee Roth. It's the Cutty Sark Greenwich David Lee Roth Station we'd like to be dropped off at, please*".

"And the other drop off?"

"16 Durham Close. You've probably never heard of it".

That is my real address and I fully encourage you to drop by anytime, night or day. The cab driver turned up and he was angry. That's no surprise. Cab drivers are angry because some of us throw up in their hoods and the joy just leaves their bodies. But no. The cab driver spent the first 5 minutes cursing the dick that answered the phone and relayed the journey to him. After struggling to get information into his empty head he then just gave the cab driver a bunch of random places. "He's an idiot", said the cab driver. "I hate him". Isn't that nice? The cab driver is one of us really because, look! He hates that dick on the phone. Just like we do. The dick that ended up telling the cab driver that we wanted to go all around London and at some point stop in North Greenwich. The only place he got right was my house which is, of course, at 16 Durham Close.

Why not tip the cab driver a bit extra this week? Maybe even kiss him. Or write her a poem? (Some taxi men are women, remember?) Or just say "I love you" with your eyes. They'll get the message.

* I didn't say that bit which is a real shame.

www.michaellegge.info

It's Like This.

2011-03-22T04:38:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me the other day "What DO you like?" after I said that I didn't like 30 Rock. I know I'm the only person in the entire world who doesn't like 30 Rock but that simply means that, once again, everyone in the entire world is wrong and I am right. It suffers badly, for me, from being created by and starring Tina Fey, the most patronising and full of herself performer I've ever seen. I can't watch her because everything she says or does suggests she's a lot smarter than everyone else and when she interacts with any other actor her face just screams "I'm getting paid WAY more than you". But maybe it is a good show and I've only seen bad episodes but I'm probably never going to give it another chance plus I quite like being the only person in the world who doesn't like 30 Rock. And, anyway, how smarter than everyone else is Tina Fey when she posed for a Gap advert after the company had been exposed as running a sweatshop using child labour in Cambodia? Still, she's very good at being Sarah Palin, isn't she?

But that is a good question, isn't it? "What DO you like?" Well, I like being the only person who doesn't like 30 Rock. When everyone is talking about how great 30 Rock is and I don't know what they're talking about it makes me feel good. Look at me being different. But you know, I DO like a lot of things. I like my dog and my friends and drinking and The Young Ones and Metallica and being vegan and doing Los Quattros Cvnts and the strong emotion of love and a couple of books and Gavin Webster.

I was lucky enough to have a really good gig at the fantastic Bearcat Comedy Club in Twickenham on Saturday night, the night of Ireland's win/England's loss in some rugby match and the rising of the supermoon. It was great to have an audience that not only couldn't give a fuck about sport but also actively despised the moon. Stupid, round, 90% closer to Earth dick that it is. I felt so good after this gig that I went to another comedy club. Just to hang out. I'm glad I did because, not only was my dear friend Johnny Candon there, but also Gavin Webster was performing.

If I had to pick a favourite circuit comedian I reckon it would be Gavin. He's a hard-working, no-nonsense, straightforward, Northern, working-class, traditional comedian who is none of those things. Well, he's hard-working and Northern, I'll give you that, but he's also surreal and delights in being, I hate this word, silly. There's barely a thing he says on stage that he doesn't comment on or reconstruct immediately after, constantly reviewing himself throughout his act. Then at some point he'll rail against the world, like a proper old man in a pub, making a well-observed and clever point about something that has never happened. His reason for "this country going downhill" gag is pretty much my favourite joke in the world and the joy and confusion it brings to an audience in equal measure makes it even better.

I've tried about 50 times to describe Gavin's brilliance here and deleted them all. I have no idea why I have kept the words that I have but I have realised that I am no comedy reviewer and now fully understand why Steve Bennett gets paid the fortune that he does. It's really hard to describe someone who is utterly funny just because he appears to be one thing then reveals he's something else while having some of the best jokes and routines you'll ever hear. Maybe I should have just written that? I don't know. What I do know is that Johnny and I watched him at the Banana in Balham and right afterwards went straight into the upstairs room of the venue to watch him again. That must say something, right?

If you happen to see Gavin Webster's name in any listings then make the effort to see him. If you're the type of person who only sees comedy once a year at the Edinburgh Festival then go to see one of his superb solo shows.

Shame he's a cunt in real life.

He's not. I just realised that I said something nice and that's not what my blog is about. I am evil and I'm the kind of person that gets asked "What DO you like?" so I had to say something horrible about him. Now I've explained that I'm going to have to do it again. Shame he's a cunt in real life.

So, that's what I like, to answer your question. Gavin Webster. Mind you, I like the film About A Boy so take that whatever way you want.

www.gavinwebster.co.uk

www.michaellegge.info

Gents Review.

2011-03-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

One of my favourite things to do is go to the toilet. Two of my least favourite things are the public and men. You can therefore imagine my utter distress of needing to use the toilet when I'm out of my house. It means I'm going to have to go to use a room frequented by the public and most of them will be men. Sure, within a public lavatory they have some smaller rooms called "cubicles" but even when you're in one of these smaller rooms you can still hear members of the public talking and, thanks to the sexist way we all urinate and deficate, those members of the public that I always hear are men. You can just sit there and you'll end up hearing someone outside the smaller room singing never before heard Christmas carols * or when you leave the smaller room and go to wash your hands you'll meet a smelly dick**.

I'm quite terrified of public toilets. Something bad is always going to happen in there. Sometimes something disgusting will happen in there. Sometimes something completely stupid. On Friday night, I had my second of two bad public toilets with men in them encounters. The second one was actually not as bad or disgusting as the first. It was just revolting and odd. I walked into the toilet at Ruby Blue (a venue where I was booked to NOT go on stage and I got paid for it. If that's not the biggest FUCK YOU to Comic Relief then I will try harder next year) and saw three men chatting to one another. They were just standing there. Chatting. In a public toilet. Where people shit and piss. They just stood there having a little chat. It's not like they were chatting while washing or drying their hands or even exchanging light banter while standing at the urinal. They were just stood there in the middle of the public toilet chatting. And for those of you who think that's not as weird as it sounds let me also inform you that these three men were standing there, in this public toilet, chatting and drinking coffee. They had coffee, in real cups, and they drank them in the public toilet. What does that say about the bar, Ruby Blue, when people would rather drink coffee in a room where men go to release stools than sit in the bar itself drinking coffee while shouting over the top of S&M by Rihanna?

But before the incident in Ruby Blue there was the incident in All Bar One, Leicester Square. This is going to be quite a tough story to re-tell in a blog so I'll just pretty much transcribe it with as little exaggeration as I can. Let me set the scene first: Two men are standing together at one side of the urinal and another man is standing alone on the other. There is no room for me to wee-wee so I wait. While I wait, I overhear the two men standing together. This was their charming conversation...

"You fucked her the other night though, didn't you?"

"What? Shut up".

"You did though, didn't you? You did. You fucked her. You did. You did though. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You did. You fucked her. You did though".

"Shut up".

"Admit it. You fucked her. You did. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You fucked her. You did though. You did. You fucked her".

"Fucking shut up".

"I'm just saying, mate. You fucked her. You did. You did though. You did. You did. You fucked her. You fucked her. You know you did. You fucked her. You did. You did. You did though. You fucked her. You know you did".

"I'm not saying I did, I'm not saying I didn't".

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! You fucking did. You fucking did. You fucked her. You did. You know you did".

The "You fucked her" man stopped urinating, pulled up his zip and left the public toilet while laughing. This made his friend think. I'm assuming the friend wanted to clear up the whole did he/did he not fuck her, her being the most unfortunate human being that has ever crawled this planet. I assume he wanted to clear up the mystery so he called after the "You fucked her" man. And what better way to get someone's attention than by calling out his name? That's when the depression hit me. I can't tell you how heavy with sadness I was when the man left the public toilet and his last words were "Hang on. Wait up, Bonanza".

The "You fucked her" man is known by his friends as Bonanza. He is so loved and is so brilliant that his friends have a nickname for him and that nickname is Bonanza. Being quite nice and being called Michael has never seemed so dull. If only I was a right cunt then I too could be called something like "Maverick" or "High Chaparral" or "Little House on The Prairie" and one of my friends could have sex with someone and we could laugh about it while pissing. That's why I hate going into public toilets with men in them. It reminds me that I'm shit at being a man.

My favourite thing that Bonanza said amongst the "You fucked her"s was "You know you did". What was this supposed to achieve? Did the man genuinely think that he hadn't made love to her but the phrase "You know you did" made him see the light? "Hmmm...that does explain why there was so much woman on my penis that night"...

You might be thinking that it is all my fault. What was I thinking going into a public toilet in All Bar One of all places? You might be right but then I went to the public toilet at the Pleasance Theatre in Islington yesterday. A lovely, lovely theatre. The cublice door was closed with a big "OUT OF ORDER" sign on it. That's OK. I only need to tinkle. While tinkling I heard the flush in the cubicle go. It didn't quite flush properly, of course, because the toilet is "OUT OR ORDER". It flushed a bit again and then the person flushing obviously gave up. He walked out of the cubicle and we made eye contact. The look on my face was "Why did you go in there when the sign clearly says 'OUT OF ORDER'?" and the look on his face was "I bet he wants to know why I went in there even though the sign clearly says 'OUT OF ORDER'?" We never exchanged a word, just glanced at each other. The man then just said "Ah, well" and left without washing his hands.

Good for him. His shit isn't his problem, is it? That's for other people to clean up. His nickname is probably "Gunsmoke", something like that.

Great news for all you Kindle owners! My blog is now available to subscribe and read on your device. It costs £1.99 a month to subscribe but it will still be completely free to read online. What's the point? I don't really know but I do know that if any money ever gets to me via this blog it might encourage me to do more plus, and this is the greatest bit, you can press a magic button on your Kindle and a robot voice will read out my blog to you. Imagine having Stephen Hawking saying "cunt" in your very own living room! That's definitely worth £1.99 a month surely. You can subscribe here: http://tiny.cc/qhb0n Richard Herring's non-award winning blog is also available here: http://tiny.cc/4fo08

* Read this http://michaelleggesblog.blogspot.com/2009/12/xmas-factor.html and watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vV8KyHDELl8

** Read near the end of this: http://michaelleggesblog.blogspot.com/2011/03/damned-foreigners.html

www.michaellegge.info

Brown Waste.

2011-03-15T05:02:00.000-07:00

"Ah, shit! I've been recommissioned!" These are depressing words for any actor, writer or viewer to express or hear. Yes, you thought you were talented and making a fantastic, fresh comedy series or you thought you were an intelligent audience member who's tastes are above the average but you were WRONG. The TV companies know best and their view is "If it's unbearably shit, let's give it a second series". Don't think of this as neccessarily a bad thing, although it definitely is, because maybe we should be wearing this as a badge of honour. The powers that be have given up on our cool, brilliant, clever little show after just six episodes? BRILLIANT! I told you it was good. I mean who wants to be recommissioned by a business that happily gives a second series to Episodes, Stand Up For The Week and fucking Mrs. fucking Brown's fucking Boys.

One of my favourite TV series is Catterick. It lasted one series. Just six episodes. It had a story, characters and some of the best jokes in any sit-com and it lasted one series. Of course it did. It's excellent. The Peter Serafinowicz Show was flawed but brilliant. When it hit, it was fantastic. It would have been the natural thing to see those ideas developed over a second series but no. It was just too good to be recommissioned. I couldn't believe that Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle didn't get another series immediately after it's brilliant debut. Arguably the best stand up comedian in the UK performing at the very peak of his powers, it was easily the best comedy series around and as a result did not deserve it's second series. Imagine my surprise when it did finally get recommissioned. I guess I was wrong. Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle must be shit.

Of course, I can go one even more impressive than Catterick or Serafinowicz. I have never had a first series commissioned. That's just how talented I am. And I take great comfort from that when I have a night off and put my feet up on the sofa and watch some new TV comedy. If this is what the TV companies want then it makes sense that my utterly genius scripts have been sent back with a badly written, grammar-free rejection letter. Not that I always accept rejection letters. Production companies must understand that I get a lot of rejection letters and I do try to read as many as I can but unfortunately some of them just aren't right for me at the time, it's just not what I'm looking for, etc. Anyway, what I'm trying to get at is last night I watched a TV show called Twenty Twelve which wasn't funny but, to be fair, no one in it tried to be funny and then I watched fucking Mrs. fucking Brown's fucking Boys.

Where to begin? Well, let's begin where Mrs. Brown's Boys starts: in the bin. It is clear that the BBC have simply found all the old Rentaghost scripts they thought they had dumped and replaced the words "ghost", "ghoul" and "spectre" with the word "fuck". It's so utterly offensive that I'm sure the word "spook" stayed. It starts off with CBeebies opening credits and an old-fashioned voiceover welcoming us to Mrs. Brown's Boys. That was the bit I liked. That one bit where the guy said "It's Mrs. Brown's Boys!" was the one single solitary second of enjoyment to be had from this dung that is thrown into our eyes and mouths. It's easy for them to get the dung in our mouths too because your jaw hits the floor right from the word go. Mrs. Brown, in the fine tradition of Shakespeare or serial killers from Silence of the Lambs, is a man dressed as a woman. Yes, somehow the BBC didn't just tell them to fuck off there and then. Mrs. Brown is a man dressed as a woman and has a bunch of children all aged about two years younger than her, except the hilarious gay son who is clearly much older than his male mother. In last night's episode, Mammy (played by Mrs. Brown played by some docker with no teeth) went to a wedding and had to speak to a posh lady. Incongruous with most wedding etiquette, Mammy told the posh lady to go fuck herself and then walked into a room waving a penis around. The second bit wasn't that surprising as I was already confident that Mammy had a penis. She's a tough talking, hard drinking, "typical" Irish woman with a "typical" Irish family. Just like mine! Oh, the amount of times my own Mum would just tell people to fuck off for no reason, shit her pants while laughing and then wave her fat, hairy cock at a priest...But that's just what we're like. That's the Oirish fer ya. We're just so tick, ah but sure isn't the crack great? Where the fuck is a potato famine when you need one?

But I have just learned that it's getting a second series. Of course it is. It deserves a second series. It's as bad as adult comedy can get. If they took the swearing out and put it on at 3 in the afternoon I wouldn't have a problem with it. They don't. They put it on at 10.30pm. That's when I watch TV. This programme is aimed at me. The BBC must think I'm a fucking eejit...I mean, idiot. Even when you watch it on iPlayer a little insulting box pops up saying "Are you 16 years of age or over?" HOW DARE YOU! No one over the age of 8 minutes old should watch this tripe. I was hoping that when I clicked "yes" another box would pop up saying "Well, what the hell are you playing at?"

This blog was supposed to be about how lovely celebrities are. I had a great week last week and wanted to share it with you but last night I decided to watch a bunch of self-loathing Irish people piss all over their culture and then hope that we might all join in. It upset me so you got this blog instead. In fact, I'm still furious about it that it might go to a 2nd blog.

No. My anger and fury over this doesn't deseerve a 2nd blog. It's too good.

I will leave you with this though. Keith Lemon's on his 5th series. Goodnight, everyone.

www.michaellegge.info

Travel Sickness

2011-03-14T08:54:00.000-07:00

It's the train's fault, not the passengers. All those times that I've been furious with pig-ignorant half-people who shout and fight and fart and play loud music and ignore their screaming children on trains might be unjust (maybe) because it's finally dawned on me that these people have been shown the way by the train itself. The train is a little bastard.

I spent most of last week commuting like all of you business robots, getting up in time to scream about how early it is and somehow forcing my corpse all the way to Ladywell train station. This is where I wake up. This is when the anger starts. This is when the trouble begins.

To get on a train you have to pay something called a fare. Every year the financial experts at National Rail look at costs, expenditures and upkeep and then they get all bored and tired and decide to charge us whatever the fuck they like. For instance, I wanted to travel from Ladywell to Waterloo East at 8.20 in the morning. My fare was £3.20. Know how many stops I travelled for that amount of money? ONE. ONE FUCKING STOP AND IT COST £3.20. Of course, I could save money by buying a travelcard. Unbelievably, during this current recession, a travel card costs £7.30. That's right. £7.30 for the privelege of STANDING in a big metal box, full of piss and ripped up Metros, that will take me to my destination but, obviously, sit just outside the station I want to alight at for 15 minutes FOR NO FUCKING GOOD REASON. Of course, I didn't pay £7.30 for a travelcard. No way. I was travelling at a "peak" time so my travelcard cost £10. WHAT THE FUCK IS A PEAK TIME FOR TRAVELLING ON A BRITISH TRAIN? You mean there's actually a less glamorous time to travel on these fuckers?

So after being ripped off (and don't start me on Oyster cards. JESUS CHRIST) by the train we go insane. When we pay our £10 for a travelcard we lose all reason. "I paid", we think, "therefore this train completely belongs to me. I can do whatever the fuck I want. Look at me. I'm writing on the window. Why? BECAUSE IT'S MY FUCKING WINDOW. I've got my feet on the seats. Why? BECAUSE THEY'RE MY FUCKING SEATS AND I CAN SHIT ON THEM IF I WANT. Fuck it, I might as well light up a cigarette and have a puff in between random shouts and, no, you can't sit on the seat next to me. Why? BECAUSE IT'S MY FUCKING ASHTRAY".

We go mad. Of course, we do. We pay lots of money and when you're standing on a platform waiting for a delayed or cancelled train or if you're lucky enough to get on a train, while you're stood there crushed up against the door with someones elbow in your back, someone's umbrella in your throat and someones wandering hand on your bum-bum you have time to think. You think: I paid for this? London Transport is the most expensive public transport in the world but where are the improvements? Where's the security on the train? Why arent there enough trains? Why do trains stop so early at night? Why are all of the trains filthy? Why do people who work for the train companies never know whats going on? Why is it all so fucking shit?

While these questions are kicking around our heads we go mad. The train actually drives us insane. It's not us, it's the actual train itself. That's what the train wants and the train is winning. How can we not go mad when we think about how our money is spent? How can we not go mad when we think about every single bastard useless train employee? Every job interview being this: "Come in. Do sit down. You do seem completely under-qualified for any job at all but are you a terrible cunt also?" "Oh, I'm a frighful cunt". "Congratulations. When can you start?" "Monday. But I'll be late".

And how can we not go mad when we see so many passengers that have been driven mad before us? Last week I was on the tube and right in front of me was one of the beaten. One of the train's victims. He was probably OK once, in the beforetime. But now he was a horrible cunt, a man mentally broken by a transport system that makes no sense at all. He sat in front of me listening to very, very loud music on his big Lobot headphones. I sat reading and pretending that I didn't want to kick his neck in but I soon noticed that he was playing the same song over and over and over again. As soon as it ended he would quickly take his iPod from his pocket and replay the song again. It got to the point where I dreaded the song ending. There was something even worse about the one nano second that it took him to cheerily push replay than it was to actually repeatedly listen to this song. But I looked around and saw, once again, that no one was at all bothered by this prick but me. Maybe they had all come to terms with my new realisation that some people are driven mad by the train. Maybe they were just showing support for his condition. Maybe I was being too harsh on him. Maybe. Let me just explain further that every single time he played that song....HE SANG ALONG WITH IT. EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME.

I think I was patient but I couldn't take it anymore. This happened:

"Can you switch that music off now, please?" (I was quite cross).

"Sorry, mate. I have to learn this song."

I closed my eyes, drew strength from somewhere. "What?"

"I have to learn this song."

"No, you don't. No one HAS to learn a song. This is a train. If you WANT to learn a song, learn it at home. That's what the other X-Factor people do. (I was quite smug now) If you want to listen to music you turn it way down so everyone else on the train can't hear and you definitely never, ever sing."

"The volume's broken on my iPod."

"Then you have to switch it off."

"I can't. I have to learn this song."

"Then I will carry on talking to you so you won't be able to learn the song. Fair?"

He switched it off and continued looking at me like I was a nutter? HA! I foamed at the mouth and became aggressively rude to a man who treats trains like they're the Pineapple Studios and I'M the nutter?

That's what our stupidly expensive London Transport did. A man figured out that a travelcard is about 30p cheaper than hiring a rehearsal space and another man realised that he paid so much over the odds for a travelcard that he could just consider himself The Train Police. I found out last week that Boris Johnson is spending £150 Million on "upgrades" to the tube meaning that we'll all be able to get a signal on our mobiles under ground. Imagine that! The one fucking place on this planet where you're guaranteed embarrassing, loud ringtones won't depress the fuck out of you is being taken away from us and it will only cost £150 million. Where will they get that kind of money from? Oh, yes. Us. We'll look back with fondness very soon on those heady days when a travelcard was only £7.30 (£10 before 9.30am).

On a more positive note, my big foot is currently being licked by a dog.

www.michaellegge.info

Damned Foreigners.

2011-03-07T03:31:00.000-08:00

One thing that Thailand definitely has is good manners. Pretty much every Thai person could be a member of Polite Club. They are warm, helpful and grateful and it makes you feel good being in their company. Not that everyone I met in Thailand was gracious. No. Some of them were out and out cunts. They were British.

The average British ex-pat is probably the worst type of person you'll ever meet. No-one would listen to their constant bollocks at home so they move to another country to shout constant bollocks at people who can't understand them. They don't like the weather here, the Government here or the pesky Age of Consent Laws here so they must move. They are fat (even the thin ones), evil bastards who hate Britain soooooooooo much that they just had to get away to a far off land and hang out with other British people in a British theme pub. And if you meet one you are doomed to hear this: "I would never go back. Why would I go back? Look at what I have here. I have everything I could want. I don't know how you could live in Britain, mate. It's paradise here and I'm never coming back". This is followed by the fucking horrible prick dropping to his knees and begging for HP Sauce. Gee, Mister, if only there was a country where you could fuck kids AND have PG Tips, eh?

After Phuket we went to Hua Hin and a hotel that was heartbreakingly perfect. It was in a jungle, by the beach and everything it had to offer was beautiful. The people who worked there were the pinnacle of grace and manners. When was the last time you went to a Travel Inn and were offered a glass of juice made from flowers grown in bliss? Then we had to do a gig. A cunting gig.

This was never going to work. A British ex-pat gig in an estate agent's office? Good fucking grief. What fucking estate agents has a fucking stage in it? Hot Property in Hua Hin, apparently. The audience talked the whole way through the show, they talked on the phone loudly while the show was on and they thought nothing about walking across the stage to get to the bar while the show was on. They just didn't give a fuck. They've spent so much of the last few years shouting at and pushing at "foreigners" that they have no concept of how to treat other human beings. One cunt started the debate on whether I was British or Irish so before I strangled him I introduced Nick Doody to the stage and sat seething in a corner. A fucking shrieking twat who was constantly "contributing" to the evening sat near me talking and talking and talking and talking and saying absolutely nothing so eventually I said to her "Do you ever shut the fuck up?" She laughed. She laughed because she didn't get it. She didn't get the plain and simple fact that she was irredeemably awful. None of them did. I told them often enough but none of them understood that I genuinely hated them. None of them ever simply realised that the reasons they didn't fit in in the UK are the exact same reasons that they are loathed in Thailand. I don't say this lightly but if they were dead the world would be a better place.

Luckily a few people came up after the show to register their disgust at the rest of the audience. A few did. Not enough though. The rest of them went back to shouting, groping their teenage wives and getting fatter so they'd have more room for their tattoos.

We went back to our beautiful hotel in paradise so I could drink alcohol and complain about those people. I have never said cunt so often in such beautiful surroundings. I wanted to just stay there and say cunt as the sun rose. Lovely.

Then it was two days in Bangkok and home again. Those gigs in Bangkok were the best of the trip. The trip was a blast the whole time really and the company was great. But I'm home now and everything is back to normal. It's so good to know that, after that one night of British ex-pat horror, we can still be right bastards on our own turf.

Since I got back I've seen the worst kitchen salesman ever. He just stood in the middle of Lewisham Shopping Centre saying "Kitchen". Not shouting it, not whispering it out of embarrassment, just saying it. "Kitchen". I could have watched him all day. "Kitchen. (Pause for 10 seconds) Kitchen. (Pause) Kitchen". I just wanted an sharp suited American from the 1930's to go up to him and say "Hey, kid. I'm a Hollywood producer and I've seen your act. You got the goods".

Then, while washing my hands in a public loo, I saw a man putting on aftershave. He kept staring and smiling at me but saying nothing. He just stood there smiling and putting on aftershave. Finally we made eye contact. His smile got bigger and he said "No splash, no gash". I left.

The worst person since my return might be one of the biggest cunts I've ever seen in my life. As I left Leicester Square Tube Station on Thursday I saw a man nicking a Big Issue. HE STOLE A FUCKING BIG ISSUE. What a cunt. You don't STEAL Big Issues. That's literally the last thing you ever do. That's like wanking in the letterbox of an Orphanage or tipping Jesus out of his wheelchair. You just don't do it. And there he was. A grown man in real life stealing a Big Issue and then running away. He got to the top of the stairs and turned to look at the vendor. He was laughing and ripping up the Big Issue. People saw him and did nothing. I saw him and did nothing. We all just watched. We watched and we pitied. What a stupid, poor, awful sod. He thinks it's funny to steal from a homeless person and is in no way ashamed of that fact. Well, congratulations, my friend. If you wanted pity from a homeless person you got it. The vendor just raised her eyebrows and gave a look that said "Wow. I thought I had problems".

I pity him but I pity Thailand, or any other country, more. I think we're sending you another one.

www.michaellegge.net

Both Feet in Hell.

2011-02-28T05:43:00.000-08:00

I'm cocky now. Conquering the sea has turned me into an even bigger egomaniac than I already was. I am scared of the sea yet I went for a swim, but worrying about Jaws getting me isn't my only phobia. I can't bear the thought of anyone ever seeing my feet and I'm too selfconcious to display my torso in public. My feet basically look like they have been shot dead and my body is...different. Unique. Fucking horrible. But since the day I dipped my dead and bloodied toe into the Andaman Sea I've decided that anything goes. The fact that I look like a big mess is your eyes problem not mine. Children may scream but I have every right to wear flip-flops if I fancy it. Grown men might die from shitting out their internal organs but if I want to walk around shirtless, like so many dicks before me, then I shall. I'm bringing sickly back.

Walking barechested around the Patong Beach area of Phuket was actually easy. Despite my many deformities I was still one of the prettiest there. When I think of Phuket I think of lush mountains and bright blue waters. Patong isn't really like that. It's more like Satan's crotch. After a wank. That he refuses to clean up. Everywhere you go there is someone trying to sell you something: Cheap food, cheap booze, cheap sex. You can't walk two feet without being hastled and even my grumpy face and accursed body didn't stop them. Not that I blame them, they have to make a buck and here they are catering to The West. Is there a more depressing thought than catering to The West? No, there isn't. For every one of the thousands of local Thai people lowering their culture to fit in with ours, there is a 100 more British and German tourists doing what they do best: being a complete cunt. Big fat bastards (some of them are deluded enough to think they're muscley, they are wrong) wandering around with their awful vests and pathetic tattoos and punchable faces, just dragging their knuckles and grinning because they've taken their tiny, tiny cocks on a much needed holiday. Yes, they'll pretend that they're here for the weather but as the weather doesn't have breasts and a penis they really have no interest in it. They just want something that they can put their cock in or watch a ping pong ball come out of.

And that's how The West is catered for here. That's what The West wants, that's what The West gets. Stupid West. Of course fucking a well hung schoolgirl is more of a night time thing. During the day it's drinking and at the world's most insanely named bars. One bar was called U2 Tribute, another is Vegas Thai Boxing Stadium but my favourite is a pub called Margarita Retro King of Pop Michael Jackson. I think it's a Wetherspoons.

But walking around all this bedlam is very stressful so how does one survive Patong? Simple. You do what I did. Get booked at a gig that puts you up in a very quiet and very lovely resort with fancy pool bars and in-room electric 5-speed duvets, get a fancy millionaire to take you out on his £1,000,000 boat or, if you somehow can't do either of those things, go for a massage.

Not that sort of massage, although there's plenty of that in Patong if you really need it. All 5 of us went to Let's Relax and got the "Dream Package" of an hour and a half massage of the neck, shoulders, hands and....FEET! Brilliant. Not only do I get to show my feet in public but some poor cunt has to actually touch them. This might be the greatest day of my life. I barged in first and sat down grinning in front of the masseuse. Her face suggested that she had seen my feet before. Maybe in her nightmares. She didn't look happy. But I took my shoes off in front of her and, like some trained professional in her field, she didn't vomit for 34 hours straight. Instead she washed my feet. Washing my feet meant touching them. Oh, yes. No using a mop with a 4-foot long shaft for her. Pern was a professional (her name was Pern) and she touched my feet like there was nothing wrong with them despite her face commiting suicide with every second. Of course, the thing about being scared of anyone ever seeing my feet means that no one has touched my feet. I learned something about me that day. I'm ticklish.

I spent the whole massage laughing, just lying there and taking tickles is a lot harder than it seems but it was amazingly good fun. My feet were finally giving me joy. Pern tried her best to dig her fingers in and wring out any pain but the alien touch of another human being on my feet just made me laugh. I even laughed when she started punching my feet. Pern really did punch my feet. A lot. And for ages. I'm glad she enjoyed herself.

If you can't go to Let's Relax then simply do a gig at the Holiday Inn Resort in Patong. You'll really enjoy that and the best part of doing the gig is you'll see Pete Harris, the promoter. He helped start my "career" so complain to him if you must. I know I do. He is a very lovely man and I thank him a lot.

But if there is just one thing that I can recommend you do in Patong, it's this: Go out late at night and avoid the bars. The bars are full of people you won't like and the music is too loud and lacking in quality. Instead, find someone selling booze from a big polystyrene box and offer to help them. That's what Muki, Josh and I did and it might be the highlight of the whole trip. We stayed there with the owner of the booze box drumming up business until 3.30am. We met lots of people, we started a little party in the street and we sold lots of booze although admittedly we did buy a lot ourselves. Josh found it tricky at the beginning. He DID sell a Bacardi Breezer to a passing Ladyboy but he ended up paying for it himself, so that doesn't count. Still, it was nice when a very jolly Swedish man bought us all booze and then promised to rape Josh. I have heard of people threatening rape but happily promising it is a new one for me. Ah, memories.

THIS IS IMPORTANT! Los Quattros Cvnts performs this Wednesday 2nd March at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London. Our guests are Al Murray and Joanna Neary. Tickets are bought on the door on the night so get there early to make sure you get a seat. It will be great. Here's the Facebook invitation, see you there!: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=166068140112049

www.michaellegge.net

Ocean Man (or The Old Man and The Sea).

2011-02-26T02:55:00.000-08:00

Carpe Diem. That has always been my motto. It's a latin phrase meaning "stay in bed". When life has me pinned against the wall or when the chips are down or even when I realise I have a gig in Leicester in 11 hours time I just say to myself "Michael, carpe diem: stay in bed". It's certainly got me out of a few scrapes. When there's a knock on the door: carpe diem. When I realise I have to go to Lewisham Shopping Centre: carpe diem. When I look on Twitter and a complete cunt tells me that James Corden is returning to Doctor Who: carpe diem. It's my motto, my mantra and my plan for life. Carpe diem: stay in bed. Even when it's a case of ego postulo laboro. I'll let you figure that out yourself.

We left Hong Kong on Sunday for Phuket and three days off. It was going to be sun, sea and sand until gig-day on Wednesday. Brilliant. I love the sun. I might be the whitest man on this planet but I love blazing hot sunshine. The hotter the better. And, despite me being the colour of very pale snow, I never burn. My skin is jet white and therefore relects the sun back on itself and somehow it's me that ends up burning the sun. I know that one day I will end up being the chief reason why the sun gets skin cancer. I also quite like sand mainly because I laugh at how irrationally angry it makes other people. "Bloody sand! It gets EVERYWHERE!!!" No, it doesn't. YOU take it everywhere. Sand would just stay on the beach if it had a choice. And that's my choice too. Lying on the sand and making the sun sick. Lovely. Oh, but the sea.

The sea. That's not for me at all. I like looking at it but I couldn't bear to touch it. I very much treat the sea in the complete opposite way to how I treat myself. I don't hate the sea, of course, I'm just scared of it and for very good reason. When I was 6 my parents took me to see Jaws.

WHEN I WAS 6!

The evil bastards. It was 1975 and the Legge family were holidaying in a caravan in Ireland during the summer and after the film I was utterly traumatised. On the drive back to the caravan I talked constantly about how I wasn't scared of Jaws at all, despite hiding my face in my Dad's jumper during the two-holes-in-the-sunken-boat scene. I bragged a lot about how if Jaws was here I would beat him up with my bare hands yet later that night I was scared to ask for a glass of water in case a Great White Shark came out of the tap. After that I got obsessed with sharks. I only read shark books from the library and tried to learn the names of all the deadliest sharks that terrified me: the blue shark, shortfin mako, the tiger shark, Bruce. They all terrified me and I couldn't stop looking at them. I asked my parents to take me to see Jaws again and once again I was shit scared of it. I paddled about in the sea any chance I could after that but I was always worried that Jaws would get me. Not any shark mind, it was definitely Jaws. A few shark obsessed years went by and Jaws 2 came out. And that was it. The SAME beach got attacked by the SAME kind of shark and was destroyed by the SAME MAN? This was too much of a coincidence. I never got into the sea again.

That's the rationale that my mind used when I was a child and still uses to this very day. When people say that it's safe to swim "here" I just think well, that's what happened on Amity Island, isn't it? That was "safe". Yet TWO Great White Sharks, the deadliest animal known to man, hunted and killed there. I mean, are you really telling me that sharks can't get lost? Not even one of them can go off course and end up here in Rhyl? I think not, matey. And then they roll their stupid eyes and say "Well, just paddle in the water for a bit. You'll like it". IDIOTS! A shark can attack and kill in 1mm of water and just because it definitely can't doesn't mean I'm wrong. Plus there are other animals in the sea. Jelly fish, crabs and seaweed. Alright, seaweed isn't technically an animal but evil fish could be hiding in it and, anyway, it feels all funny on my leg. I don't like it.

You might think I'm being completely stupid but this is how I have thought since 1975. I've had a 35 year old phobia of the sea and I definitely haven't been in the sea since I was about 10. Sometime in the '90's, I went on holiday to Majorca with my then girlfriend who was hell bent on curing me of my phobia. She loved swimming in the sea and wanted me to love it too. The dick. She worked hard on persuading me to get in the sea and eventually I compromised and agreed to get into a pedalo shaped like a rubber duck. We went 8 feet out into the sea when I started gasping for air. She smiled at me and told me that if I relaxed I'd enjoy it. I must have shouted bitch a thousand times that day. I say day, I lasted about two minutes before she steered the pedalo back to dry land. It was nice that she cared but obviously she wasn't prepared to be called a cunt by a fully grown man in a yellow rubber duckie. Not that she gave up. The next year we went to Florida and I accidentally ended up in a tiny row boat (it's a long story but I was definitely tricked). I was uncomfortable in the boat but she assured me that these were safe waters. That's when I saw the dorsal fin appear.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT! IT'S HIM! IT'S JAWS! HE'S FUCKING FOUND ME!!

It was the pedalo all over again although this time I had a reason to be shouting at her. A shark was about 20 feet from us and I was about to die. She explained that it was a dolphin and that dolphins were harmless. What a stupid bastard she was. What? ALL dolphins are harmless? There's no chance that ONE of them will go "Fuck this" and just attack? What? I suppose all dolphins are the same to you, eh? Racist.

We split up soon after that. I think she still sees the dolphin. Weirdly, although I'm scared of the sea, I love big boats. Not keen on dinghies but give me a yacht or a big catamaran any day. And in Phuket that's just what happened. We got an invitation by a very rich man to go island hopping on his million pound catamaran. YES! This is a proper holiday now. We can sunbathe on the deck, drink beer and keep singing Rio in our heads. It's going to be brilliant.

But when I got on board that's when carpe diem hit me. Stay in bed. Why hadn't I just stayed in bed? EVERYONE is going to get off this boat at some stage and I'll just be on my own with them all thinking I'm a weirdo. Why is a 42 year old man scared of a film he saw when he was 6? Why won't he listen to us explaining how safe the water is? Why won't he just get over it and get in? The answer is very simple: JAWS. Jaws will get me the second I dip my big toe in there. It WILL happen. This isn't a guess, it WILL happen. Then we anchored off a very secluded beach that just looked like everyone's idea of paradise perfection. I'm surrounded by utter beauty on a glorious day on a beach in the middle of nowhere. If I don't get in the sea now I never will.

Of course, I had no intentions of actually getting in the sea. I'm not mental. I'll never be back here again and to say I swam in this sea would be a huge personal achievement but my phobia controls me and, anyway, everyone had been talking about the deadly sea snakes that are found in this part of the Andaman Sea and...HOLY FUCK, I'M IN THE SEA! I'M FUCKING SWIMMING IN THE SEA. I'M SWIMMING IN THE SEA. CAN YOU SEE ME, MUM? I'M IN THE SEA SWIMMING ALL BY MYSELF!!!

Not only did I swim in the sea but when I got back on the catamaran I quickly got back in the sea. This might seem like nothing to you but it feels like I just knocked a wall down. It would have been nice to say that I walked on a pretty deserted beach on an island off the coast of Thailand but to say I swam there just makes me feel like a very proud child you got a B+ in his exams. I did pretty good.

I didn't think too much about swimming in the sea that day. I only thought about NOT swimming in the sea. For hours. But it was beautiful and it was right there and it never would be again. It was now. I had to sieze the day. I'd like to see the latin phrase for that.

www.michaellegge.info

This Bath Is Too Hot.

2011-02-20T02:03:00.000-08:00

Completely decadent luxury and I get on really well. Sadly, like me and that guy I met once, we rarely meet. But on Tuesday at Heathrow Airport, luxury and I practically 69’d.

This week I’ve been lucky enough to get booked as some sort of stand-up comedian man in Hong Kong, Phuket, Hua Hin (no, me neither) and Bangkok. After checking in for the flight to Hong Kong, as Virgin Atlantic were sponsoring the gigs, I was allowed into the hallowed and holy Virgin Atlantic Upper Class Lounge. It looked like the fucking USS Enterprise and within its walls I was allowed anything I wanted. Champagne, fine dining, seats made of diamonds, a fire engine made of cocaine. If I could imagine it, I was allowed it. Everywhere I looked I saw something I wanted. A luxurious cocktail bar where all the drinks are FREE, a masseuse who will grope all your stress away for FREE and a barber who will cut my hair, for FREE, just before I get on a flight so I will look the loveliest on my plane. THIS IS FUCKING AWFUL! One day I will have to leave this place and return to a boring, ugly, thick normal life just like you. Why the hell did anyone let me in here? I wish I was dead. Just look at what I have sampled and within an hour of this life, THIS LIFE THAT I SHOULD LEAD, I’m just pushed back into the dung to forage for gruel and mingle with cunts like you. Yes, luxury would be the making of me, I thought as I sipped my cocktail with my feet up on a Rolls Royce and Kylie just shut up and kissed my winkie.

Sigh.

Hong Kong has been great fun. Really lovely gigs, nice hotel, excellent company. I’m here with Muki and the comedians Josh Howie and Nick Doody plus London Comedy Improv’s Kirsty Newton. Lovely. It’s such a big deal doing gigs abroad and China is definitely somewhere I’ve always wanted to visit. But it just didn’t feel like I was in a foreign country. Everything just looked too familiar and I really never got that excited feeling that I was somewhere else. Especially somewhere as brilliantly mad as China has always appeared in my head. Mind you, on our first night we went to an English pub because we are dickheads. The next day I slept for 16 hours and saw nothing of Hong Kong. On the third day we went to a beach and market in the exotically named area of Stanley. Nice but just not Chinese enough for me.

Maybe it’s hard to feel foreign now. Hong Kong is an impressive, and very tall, looking city and it’s easily the most cosmopolitan place I’ve ever been to but with so many British over there I just felt like I was in a more impressive, and much taller, UK. Well, that was until yesterday when proper China finally turned up. Late but very welcome. We travelled up the longest escalator in the world. See, that's how I want my China. Mad enough to build an escalator to go up a mountain. It was incredible. It wasn’t really one big escalator, it was about 50 regular ones that took you through amazing, tiny streets filled with insane shop signs and rammed-right-in-there real Chinese life. Billions of people living right on top of one another in buildings that are three feet wide and 8 miles high. There was also one embarrassing English pub called Yorkshire Pudding that confusingly had a London Underground symbol as its logo. We didn’t go in that one. We’d learned our lesson.

The longest escalator only went halfway up the mountain (lazy) so when we got to the end of it we went for a stroll where we saw Hong Kong’s gravity defying motorway system. We seemed to only see roads from an angle where the cars looked like they were driving upside down. Then it was our planned highlight of the day. I was really looking forward to this. We planned to take a venicular tram the rest of the way to the top of the mountain then go up the 12 floors of The Peak Tower, a building that boasts the highest point in Hong Kong and therefore spectacular views. Spectacular views if it isn’t Solid Cloud Day. We paid extra to get to the very top of The Peak Tower just so we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. The Peak Tower itself is basically a jumble sale on a hill and standing outside at the very top was depressing. It was like the background to life had been deleted. Still, there was one more thing to actually see up there and that was The Big Buddha, the world’s largest outdoor statue of Buddha. Imagine my delight when we found out we were in the wrong place. I may have said cunt a few times.

But fuck it. It was the journey that mattered not the grey fuck up they call a tourist trap. Plus, later in the day I got quite excited when it finally dawned on me. I just went up a mountain and spent an hour in a cloud. That is the China I was looking forward to. Monkey Magic!

It really should be the journey that matters at all times anyway. I doubt that any of us will reminisce, or even recall, our day spent in Stanley but NONE OF US will ever forget Muki puking her guts out on the bus on the way there. Especially when some people who were wearing surgical masks moved away to avoid the smell. And especially especially when the bus went downhill and the vomit chased after the people who had just moved. I love holidays.

The gigs have been great and we’ve been well looked after by Abi and John at the venue which is an Indian/Italian restaurant. Obviously. I’m utterly impressed and a bit jealous of Josh and Nick’s talent. They do different material for each gig and they’ve been excellent all three nights. We’re off to Phuket now where hopefully they will both die on their arses and I can feel a bit better about myself. The cunts.

www.twitter.com/nickdoody
www.twitter.com/joshxhowie

www.michaellegge.info

Shop of Fools.

2011-02-15T05:25:00.001-08:00

Even though I am President of Polite Club, a very civil organisation with only one member, I find it incredibly difficult to keep politeness while under pressure. Admittedly, it doesn't even have to take much pressure to make me snap. 10 seconds ago I shouted cunt at my laptop because an email looked a bit funny. That's not the work of a man in charge of overseeing Britain's, no, THE WORLD'S biggest club for people who believe in the constant use of good manners (membership: still just one). Of course, Polite Club isn't really about showing good manners, it's about standing up against bad manners. But there are times, dear reader, so many times when I think to myself "Are bad manners really that bad, dickface?" Surely there is something far worse than bad manners. By that I mean over-friendliness. Creepy, unnecessary, ice-cold friendliness.

Most of my living nightmares happen in Lewisham Shopping Centre. It is pretty much my Hellmouth but at least it has a Holland & Barratt. Try to get fucking vegan food in Hades, mate, that's all I'm saying. I walked through the God awful shopping centre on Saturday and decided, like an idiot, to buy something. It was a sort of a jumper thing. Yeah, that's the best way to describe it. It was stripey, you know, the way I like things. I saw it in the window of Next and actually thought it wouldn't be a horrible, uncomfortably stressful thing to just go in and buy it. What a fucking idiot. I should be shot dead for thinking of thinking that never mind actually thinking that.

I picked out the jumper from the rack, had another look at it and took it to Happy Hitler, the man who worked behind the counter. Happy Hitler just takes his big, bastard smile and shoves it down your throat. YAY! Happy Hitler's smile says. IT'S SATURDAY AFTERNOON, IT'S RAINING OUTSIDE AND I WORK IN NEXT IN LEWISHAM SHOPPING CENTRE! ISN'T EVERYTHING JUST FUCKING BRILLIANT. WHOOOOOO!!!!

I would gladly have knocked every one of Happy Hitler's teeth out one by one with the butt of a revolver when he smiled at me. It was too big, overbearing and icky. No man should be that happy no matter what the occassion. I am buying a jumper in his shop and he is high on fucking life. If he ever won the lottery he would just spontaneously combust. (Note to self: always buy Happy Hitler a lottery ticket) After I reluctantly gave my pathetic and scared half-smile back he jumped at the opportunity to talk. He took me recognising him as a living being on this planet as interest. He was wrong. "I like this", he said, meaning the jumper and not the quality time we were spending together. "It's really nice, isn't it? Really lovely. A nice top. Really like it. It's nice, isn't it?"

LOOK, DICK. I'm already buying your fucking jumper. I can't buy it anymore than I'm already buying it. You don't need to sell it to me. I'M BUYING IT! STOP FUCKING SMILING!

He basically then started groping my jumper. He's groping my jumper! How can I pick up an innocent seagull in this filthy rag now? He caressed it and stroked it and made me sick. His hands all over my jumper but his eyes never once moving away from my face and his neon grin burning into my soul. Then he decided to prove to me that he was useful: "It has a pocket, you know?"

I did know. I knew because I had seen the jumper before I decided to buy it. It's my system when it comes to jumpers. Of course I know there's a fucking pocket. I LOOKED AT IT. This is a jumper, not a Russian bride. He continued: "Yes. Yes, there it is".

He then pointed to the pocket. Sure enough, there was the pocket, that I had already seen, sitting completely camoufalged right on the front of the jumper. THANKS. I NEVER FUCKING WOULD HAVE FOUND THAT. "You can put something in there if you like". AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!! Shut up. Just shut up, you smiling pointless bastard. I'm buying a jumper. I've bought jumper's before. I know how to do it. I don't need anyone to show me where a jumper keeps it's pocket and I definitely don't need some cheery cunt telling me how a pocket actually works. My heart started to thump it's way up my throat and out of my mouth. Even my internal organs wanted to punch this evil and friendly dick. I took the jumper and left as steam poured out of my ears. This probably explains me mishearing what he said as I left. "See you again". No. He can't have just said that. It would be the worst thing that could possibly happen. PLEASE don't let him see me again. PLEASE.

Halfway through writing this blog I left the house because a fitness instructor somehow found his way into my living room. Don't ask. I walked down to Lewisham Shopping Centre. When I got in there I started thinking about Happy Hitler. Maybe I was too hard on him. He was a happy and friendly man who just got too excited about the geography and abilities of a pocket. Surely happy smiley people are better than misery guts.

Then a smiley man came up to me and spoke. I had to take my earphones out to hear him. Earphones mean go away but not everyone understands that and this was a friendly, smiley man who looked very pleasant. I had already condemned one of his kind today already and I feel bad about it. Let's give this guy a chance.

"I'm from the Free Missionary Church", he said.

I really don't know why I fucking bother. Right. I'm off to China.

www.michaellegge.info

Mind The Gap Between My Ears.

2011-02-11T06:28:00.000-08:00

There's very little that can make you feel more uncomfortable than a conspiracy theorist. I have met people who believe in Governments hiding intergalactic aliens, cancer being cured but pharmaceutical companies are refusing to admit it and Jesus. Comedian Ray Peacock genuinely believes that the moon landings are fake and never happened. Ray Peacock isn't even that loon's fucking real name. Who's the real liar, "Ray"? I don't believe in any nutty conspiracy theory, no matter how funny they are, but I'm starting to get suspicious of tube stations. I think tube stations don't like me. I think tube stations are trying to kill me.

First things first: this blog is definitely NOTHING to do with me aging and getting much stupider as I get older. No way. It's about the London Underground using mind manipulation and brainwashing and my fondness for booze to confuse me, upset me and make my murder look like an accident.

It's been going on for about two weeks, dear reader. I get on the tube, confident of where I'm going, and within seconds (actually, about half an hour), I realise that I've somehow ended up on the wrong tube going the wrong way. For ages. Not only that, I have completely forgotten where I was supposed to be going in the first place. This first began on the 2nd February just before noon. I was on my way to meet The Trap to have a LQC rehearsal and really should easily have met them about 12.30. I turned up about 1.40. AN HOUR AND 10 MINUTES LATER. I entered the tube station at Charing Cross at 11.58am (have the 24 timer noise in your head) and walked to the Northern Line to journey north to Golders Green. I would have got to the Northern Line Northbound platform at 12.01. The wait for the train would have been approximately 2-5 minutes. The journey: 20 minutes. With the 3 minute walk from Golders Green to Paul Litchfield's flat that brings us up to approx 12.30. SO HOW THE HELL DID I END UP ON THE BAKERLOO LINE AND ONLY REALISE I WAS GOING IN THE COMPLETELY WRONG DIRECTION WHEN I GOT TO MARYLEBONE?

I knew I was on the wrong train so got off immediately. That's when my second problem began. Although I knew that I wasn't supposed to be on the Bakerloo Line, I had completely forgotten where I was supposed to be going or what I was doing. I would like to say that this only lasted a second until I instantly remembered what to do but no. I stood there like a gaping mouthed idiot for ages. Well over the normal amount of time you're allowed to not know where you are or what you're doing. I'll be honest, I fucking freaked out. Not because it was scary but because it was exciting and funny. I found myself on a Bakerloo platform with no clue what I was supposed to be doing and I started laughing. At least laughing because you're lost isn't the first sign of madness. Talking to yourself is, I said to myself. For about 20 seconds I was free. I didn't know what I was doing so ANYTHING could happen. I might be off to a party or a speedboat race or YES! A SPEEDBOAT PARTY! I would drink fine champagne and laugh at Donald Trump's jokes and then Famke Janssen and I would finally get off with each oth...no. That's right. I'm going to Paul's to meet The Trap. Balls.

This happened again the next day. THE NEXT FUCKING DAY. I got on the Northern Line and, after one stop, I got off again. I wasn't supposed to but I did. What the fuck is going on? I realised after I got off and walked towards the exit. I ran back just in time for the doors to close and the train moved away letting all the people in the carriage have a good look at my lack of dignity. Idiot.

Pretty much every time I've been on a tube since has been confusing and paranoid but yesterday was the worst of it. I'd had a meeting with my agent and, OK, yes, I'd had a couple of pints BUT ONLY A COUPLE. I should be able to think and walk properly. But NO. That's what these secret little bastards on London Underground want to take away from me. They are using secret poisonous gasses to destroy my thinking and they are putting some sort of slippy liquid (rain water?) under my shoes to make it treacherous for me to get around. I got on the escalator and just as the bottom was getting close...I fell. It was the stupidest, cack-handed, helpless old man fall I've ever experienced. It took a really long time, for starters. I tried to balance. That was my mistake. If I'd only just let my carcass hit the moving stairs straight away it would have been fine but instead I decided to fight against the London Underground and it's evil ways. My arms flapped, my legs flew and my voice squealed. I neared the ground but I could just grab the handrail and then I could pull myself up. DAMN! It was too late. I was now so near the bottom that when I went to grab the handrail it just moved further away from me and I hit the ground. I looked in front of me and my eyes widened as I saw my feet getting nearer and nearer to the scary, evil, toothy mouth that Tim Burton used to draw on all his schoolbooks. I was doomed.

Luckily, a member of Polite Club quickly picked me up. I had never actually met another member of Polite Club before. I was embarrassed and elated (mainly embarrassed). He was a really friendly and helpful guy and I was happy to be his Gary while he took care of me. That was luck but when will the London Underground strike next. Or I could just take the bus, eh?

By the way, I haven't checked on Gary yet because I'm too scared. Think I should? Now. Where was I?

www.michaellegge.info

Gullible Me.

2011-02-09T14:07:00.000-08:00

I've written a few blogs about how helping others is the most pointless and thankless thing you will ever do. This is almost another one. I hate helping. It takes ages, it's boring and I don't want to do it. Those are all valid reasons to never help another living being ever again. But, stupidly, I have done it again and this blog might be in danger of being a bit feel-good. That said, it will feature me telling old people to go away and shouting at teenagers. So, business as usual.

Like all good blogs, this story begins in the park. I don't normally walk Jerk as late as 4.45pm and I don't really know why. It's a good time for dog walks. No other dog walkers are around and the nutters have got all tired from a full days shouting at trees. It's peaceful. A bit I-Might-Get-Stabbed-And-Killedy but definitely peaceful. If you put the darkness and fear just to one side, it's almost relaxing. Calm. Tranquil. And it's always at those times when BANG!, a seagull falls out of a tree.

It fell right out of the tree and landed about 12 feet in front of me. I've only started to get into the beauty of bird spotting and although I don't know the names of all the birds I see in the park this was definitely a British seagull because when it fell from the tree it looked embarrassed and tried to act like it meant to fall. One second after falling it immediately tucked it's legs under it's body and sat down. You know, that normal way of falling 12 feet to settle down for the evening. He could act as nonchalant as he wanted but there was no doubt about it, Gary (I called him Gary) was in pain. So, what to do?

I didn't want to touch him because if he's hurt, I might make it worse. That and EEEUUURRGGGGHHH! IT'S A FUCKING SEAGULL!!! EEEEUUUUUURRRRRGGGGGHHHH!! So I got on my phone and tried to find the number for Lewisham Council's Animal Welfare which was easily found inside Lord Lucan's hand in The Lost Ark buried underneath Atlantis. It took a while is what I'm saying. I called and it went straight to answering machine. "Animal Welfare is closed. Our office hours are between 8.30am and 5pm". True to their word, it was 4.48.

Cunts.

For the next five long minutes I stood right by a cawing broken bird while holding Jerk on a tugging lead with one hand and a frustratingly informationless iPhone in the other. I tried to get in contact with the RSPB, the nearest Vet and even the local Dog Warden (really) but got nothing from any of them. By now I was attracting the attention of other people. Other people who could CLEARLY see me struggling with a phone, a dog and Gary. Did they help? FUCK, NO. They were too busy doing what the human race does best: standing there open mouthed and doing fuck all. I mean, for Christ's sake. Why would ANYONE want to stand around WATCHING someone try to look up appropriate phone numbers? Surely the stupid cunts guessed what I was doing? The wailing seagull must have been a bit of a clue. But no. They just stood there watching and watching and watching and watching and doing fuck all. It SHOULD go without saying that I cracked. I eventually turned to an old woman and said "WHAT?" really loudly. "Is it hurt?", the stupid fucking cunt said. Sadly, this was nowhere near the stupidest question I would be asked during this pain in the arse moment of my life. I explained what had happened and she and the git I assume was her husband just nodded while I wrestled with a bastard iPhone and a bored dog. "What are you doing?", I said fully aware how rude I was being. "Just helping", she said. WHAT? Jesus Christ. "It's fine. You can go away". It was the nicest that I could be. But they stood there like cunts and insisted on "helping" with their staring and their nothing. That's when the teenagers walked by.

The teenagers spotted Gary who, although he still hadn't budged an inch, was looking around and wailing. The teenagers looked at the noisy bird and....

Well, just put yourself in my place. I was being stared at by idiots, I couldn't find anyone to help me on the phone and Jerk was trying to pull my arm out of my socket. So don't jusdge when you hear my reaction to the teenagers, OK?

The teenagers looked at the noisy bird and one said "Is it alive?"

"FUCK OFF", I shouted. Completely justifiably.

This pretty much got rid of all onlookers, although the old couple still took a while to go. While they finally shuffled away I got hold of the RSPCA who asked a billion questions and promised that they would send someone to pick up Gary sometime in the next billion years. That meant me and Jerk waiting with Gary. For ages. Ages? HE MIGHT DIE IN AGES! Fuck fuckitty fuck. It was time to man up, if saving a seagull can ever be an example of manning up. There was no way I could wait on the RSPCA, I HAD to get it to the vets. But how? It would be too icky in my hands and I had nothing to carry Gary in. I looked around for a good receptacle but there was nothing. There was no way I could safely hold a seagull in a leaf. I was going to have to carry him in my clothes. I was wearing my favourite jumper, the one I just had dry cleaned last week. Balls. I took off my coat and my favourite jumper revealing my inspiring Chicks Dig vegans t-shirt and carefully bundled Gary into it.

This was actually brilliant. I was doing something really brilliant. I was saving a fucking seagull. I have never saved a seagull or met someone who saved a seagull or even heard or someone who saved a seagull. Finally, I was an individual. I was going to get Gary to the vet and the vet would save him. I was not going to lose Gary. I've already lost one Gary this week so calling him Gary was the only sensible thing to do. NO ONE has ever lost two Gary's in one week so, by law of probability, this seagull is saved! It's the motherfucking feelgood story of all fucking time. I will walk into the vets a hero. They will take Gary, thank me and give me a little crown. I. Am. Great.

The first thing the vet said was "Do you want your jumper back?"

It's the best jumper in the world, mate. It looks great AND it's saved the life of a seagull. Show the jumper some respect. It turns out that Gary's wing is broken and it should be fine. I realise this isn't a guarantee that Gary isn't going to be put down but at least I took the chance. And I'm glad I did. I've spent so few moments of my life nursing a seagull in my jumper that it made me think what have I really been doing with my life? Hanging out with a seagull is just such a rush. There is not one single solitary second that you spend hanging out with a seagull where you don't think "Wow. I'm hanging out with a seagull". Plus, I was doing it for Gary's welfare and nothing else. I guess during the hour that I knew Gary we became comfortable. Close. Friends. I liked Gary and I like to think that when I held him in my hands he was knew he was loved.

"By the way", said the vet just before I left. "You have an oustanding bill of £81 from last August".

You BASTARD, Gary! You fucking tricked me. You went this far just to make sure I paid a bill? I did it for love, GARY! You did it for money. Sniff...

That part of the story has made me laugh since it happened. I helped, it felt good, I got slammed with a bill. Life in a nutshell.

The totally best part of all was Jerk. Jerk was off lead when Gary dropped in to our lives and she immediately darted towards him. Jerk is a dog bred to kill small animals. It's in her DNA to see Gary, shake him to death and then bring him to me as a present. But when I said "Leave" she stopped in her tracks and sat down. She reigned it all in even though it might be the one and only time she'll see a completely defenceless animal to attack. I'm just saying, she's great. Let's spare a thought for Gary tonight, friends. Hope he's OK. Jerk is on the sofa being fussed.

www.michaellegge.info

G-Force.

2011-02-07T09:04:00.000-08:00

The Text The Station subject for Saturday's 6 Music show was Lies You Have Told To Improve Your Social Standing. I told a story of how when I was 17 I was threatened with a beating from a very drunk man and, as I was cornered and had to think fast, I told him that I was Scottish and was a close personal friend of Simple Minds. Somehow this stopped me from getting beaten up. I could have just as easily told the story of when I was 18 and lied to improve my social standing at a bus stop. I was in Alameda, an island town just outside San Francisco, and when a man pointed to my Gary Moore t-shirt and asked "Is that you?" I said "Yes". The man was impressed that I was famous enough to have my own face on a t-shirt despite my own face looking nothing like the face I was wearing. It was a lie but, at least for a little while, I was the coolest person at a bus stop.

Fact is, he wasn't the only one to be impressed with my Gary Moore t-shirt in Alameda. I remember going in to a record shop and some long haired Poison t-shirted "dude" got very excited by it. I met Metallica on that trip. I knew James Hetfield liked my t-shirt because he said so and I knew Lars Ulrich coveted my t-shirt because he refused to speak to me. Gary Moore t-shirts are pretty rare in America.

I hadn't thought much about Gary Moore since 1989 until last week when I found a Thin Lizzy Tribute concert archived on BT Vision. It was completely fantastic. The songs were great but that wasn't what was particularly appealing, it was Gary Moore's utter beaming enjoyment of playing the songs. He looked like the happiest man on Earth. That was never my memory of Gary.

Although his albums were the kind of over-the-top, fat riffed, rock splendours that I loved at the time, I got the feeling that Gary wasn't that keen on it himself. He was one of the very, very best rock guitarists of his generation but with that came interviews, press shots, album cover photos and videos. He looked like a sad little boy who's parents made him wear a dress to school every day. It just wasn't him. And when he had a minor hit, his record company wanted a proper hit. When he got a proper hit, the record company wanted more proper hits. It was this stuff that I loved. I'm not saying that Gary hated it but the very fact that he turned his back on radio friendly rock at his peak and returned to his beloved blues says a lot. He got thousands of people to love him and then revealed what he truly wanted to do, something I assume Michael McIntyre has been planning all along also. All those times I saw him in concert, all those times I saw him in videos, he never smiled once. I decided to let Gary go off on his own went he turned to the blues. It felt good that he'd outgrown me and I was happy for him to try something he loved without the safety net of me buying his records and wearing his t-shirts. I was happy for him. I couldn't join him on his blues journey because the blues is not for me. But I do regret not peeking in just once to see how he was doing, just like Victoria Wood at the end of Eric & Ernie. I'm sure during those blues gigs he would have been grinning just like he was at the Thin Lizzy Tribute. Happy because he's a man doing something that he loves and he's doing it well. Imagine that. Smiling like I had never seen him smile.

I say that. I saw Gary Moore smile once. It was at Welcome To The Garden Party, a rock festival in Milton Keynes on the 28th June 1986, the same day as Wham!: The Final. I remember that because on the coach journey to the gig our coach egged the Wham! fans coach. I wasn't vegan then. It was so exciting that Gary Moore was on the bill and I remember screaming the news at my Mum. "MUM! GARY MOORE'S GOING TO BE AT WELCOME TO THE GARDEN PARTY!!!" My Mum did her best. "Are you going with him?", she said. The Line-up was Jethro Tull, Mama's Boys (also from Northern Ireland), Gary Moore, Magnum and headliners Marillion and it was very much Marillion's audience Gary was in front of. The beginning of Victims Of The Future is all acoustic guitar for a minute and then heartfelt singing to follow. At the end of the acoustic guitar part Gary didn't sing. He just cupped his ear to the crowd and let them sing back to him. Sadly, no-one knew the song and Gary was greeted to utter silence that made him burst out laughing, go red and say "Oh. I thought some of you might know this one". He did a rock pose and it backfired. Of course it did. All that posing was for popstars, not Gary.

Yesterday, when I found out Gary Moore had died I actually stopped in my tracks. Not Gary. At least it was my childhood friend and co-Gary fan, Dotes, that told me via Twitter but, of course, that made it all the more track-stoppable. I felt like someone had sat on my chest (better than what happened at 6 Music the day before, I suppose). That's a part of my youth gone. I know Gary Moore isn't as glamorous as Bowie or as clever as Morrissey or as iconic as Kurt Cobain but he was a talented boy from Northern Ireland doing well and therefore a better thing to attach yourself to than most other things covered by the media about my home. There was definitely something gripping about turning on Top Of The Pops and seeing a white Ulsterman singing an anti-war song with a black Dubliner. Put it this way, when I found out that Gary Moore was dead I bought Out In The Fields: The Very Best of Gary Moore. When I found out Kurt Cobain died I remember going to the shop and buying Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes. That proves Gary is best.

If you are going to buy a Gary album let me recommend Corridors of Power or Victims Of The Future. My favourite though is Rockin' Every Night: Live In Japan because it sounds massive and it came with aJjapanese lyric sheet. Cool.

Well, that got a bit serious, didn't it? Here's my favourite Gary song, Military Man featuring Phil Lynott on vocals:

www.michaellegge.info

Pocket Billiards On The Radio.

2011-02-06T04:24:00.000-08:00

Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. There are a lot of jobs that I have wanted but almost none of them will I ever be qualified to do. Film director, vet, Time Lord. I've dreamt of doing these jobs since I was a child but I would be the worst possible candidate to fill any of these posts despite me having a very long scarf. The film would make Michael Bay look good, the animals would die and every episode in my era would be Delta And The Bannermen. But there is a job that I always thought I'd love to do and, who knows, maybe I'd be good at it. Being a DJ/radio presenter just seems like a dream job to me. You play records and entertain yourself for a few hours while having a laugh. What a way to make a living. In a way, it sounds easy. Too good to be true. And that's exactly how it is. It's too good to be true. I should know because yesterday I was given the privilege of hosting a three hour 6 Music show with Andrew Collins and the second we went on air... NOT A MINUTE BEFORE OR A MINUTE AFTER... the SECOND we went on air I tried to get comfy in my seat and in doing so I sat on myself.

I don't know how many three hour radio shows you've co-hosted while trying to nurse your aching balls but I do know that it is stressful, upsetting and fucking agonising. Every 20 seconds or so I was lifting myself off my seat to adjust. It made no difference because there is no comfy position for balls that have just been sat on. You can rest them gently in a pool of calamine lotion on a bed of silk clouds but they'll still be shouting at you because you sat on them, the very thing you don't do to your own balls.

What I found baffling about shifting in my seat and rearranging by battered blobs every 20 seconds was that none of the three people in the studio batted an eye lid. I mean I'm reading out listener's texts, telling stories of when I used to pretend that I knew Jim Kerr and answering listener's questions about The Young Ones while red-faced and squirming yet these people said NOTHING.

OF COURSE THEY SAID NOTHING. They are professionals. Broadcasters are always sitting on their balls, these people see it every day, it means nothing to them. They've worked with some of the most popular ball-sitters in radio entertainment, so seeing me simply doing what any other broadcaster working at the BBC does shouldn't interest them at all. I'm paid to do a job so get in the studio, sit down and then shuffle around in your seat for a few hours. That's why so many shitty DJs these days stand up to present their shows. Some people just don't have what it takes to do the job properly. Seated, cheery voiced and sweating with pain.

That said, Andrew Collins never squirmed or adjusted himself once. Is he ball-less? He's been broadcasting for quite a while now, do testicles acquire calluses after years of spinning tunes to the nation?

I had a lovely time sitting in for Richard Herring on his and Andrew's fine show yesterday, despite the tears. I was made to feel very welcome by everyone there. I didn't even mind the website calling me Michael Legg or my BBC pass saying Micheal Legg or being referred to three times by Jo Good as Richard Legg (I'm assuming she dropped the "e" when saying my "name"). It was a great fun show.

You can listen to it, and try to spot the times I'm in the most pain, on iPlayer for the next week: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00y45zh/Collins_and_Herring_Andrew_Collins_and_Michael_Legg/

That was my first blog in over two weeks. I'm just not that inspired at the moment so it was nice to have a bit of fun at 6 Music to put me in a good mood to write. I just haven't wanted to blog because everything is the same. I'm standing up against rudeness still (are you?), my foot is continuing to be big and the comedy world is now too depressing to write about. Episodes is a TV series that never should have been made , David fucking Walliams is in Doctor Who and I know some people in Fast and Loose so I shouldn't laugh at it. That said, I have a few stories in my head that should be blogs so I should dish up a few more this week.

Thanks to Andrew for yesterday, thanks to Martin and Danielle and everyone who came to see Gutted on Monday (that was fun) and huge thanks to everyone who came to see Los Quattros Cvnts on Wednesday. You are all lovely.

www.michaellegge.info

The Quiet Man.

2011-01-21T03:44:00.001-08:00

I obviously didn't make myself clear with yesterday's blog. My fault. When writing a blog it just sort of pours out of my head. I don't edit it or overly-think it out. Fuck, I don't even spel check it. I guess just sometimes when you feel passionately about something you can write so much from your gut reaction that it's easy to actually forget the original point. That's obviously what happened to me. I tried to explain something important and I forgot the whole message that I was trying to send out. Let me make it clear, when I said all that stuff yesterday, what I was trying to ask you, myself, the world is this: How is Paddy McGuinness playing stadiums now?

Last night I met a man called Torquil Zest. He was an incredible man, a decent man, a quiet hero. He was a man that I long to be but woe betide this pitiful planet if I had the power of Torquil Zest. I couldn't harness the power of Torquil Zest. With great power comes great responsibility and I'm too irresponsible for responsibility. But last night, I looked at Torquil zest and I dreamt. A day with that man's qualities. An hour. Five minutes. The changes I could make.

OK, so I didn't actually meet him and I don't know if his name really is Torquil Zest but he definitely exists. I saw him. And he was beautiful.

As you may know, I have made a New Year's Resolution to not let rude people away with rudeness. So far, this has gone really well. Through pointing out other people's rudeness I have managed to get TWO free hash browns, ONE free bottle of Diet Coke and a lot of apologies. This is a New Year's Resolution that I would love you all to join in with and tell me how you get on. HOWEVER....the first rule of Polite Club is that you don't do a pathetic, out-of-date Fight Club joke. Second rule: Be safe. Don't point out to a large gang of knife wielding maniacs that they're not allowed to put their feet up on the seats of the bus. You might find your feet up your arse. With that in mind, last night was my first Polite Club disaster.

I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. A group of lads who looked a bit scary playing loud music on the train. It was loud music. It was terrible music (WHY DO THESE PEOPLE NEVER PLAY THE SMITHS?). But everyone in the carriage sat there quietly and tried to force the noise out of their heads while pretending all this wasn't happening. They were a horrible bunch of fucking cunts who knew exactly what they were doing. There were four of them, they were loud, they were aggressive to one another. Fuck knows what they would be like to a complete stranger if that's how they treat their actual friends. I looked at them and thought about it for ages. Would I get away with it if I asked them to switch their music off? Would the rest of the carriage defend me if they got aggressive? After looking around the carriage I decided "no". I had clocked Torquil Zest but he was reading a book. He was just like everyone else. He was pretending that none of this was happening. Balls. I had failed Polite Club (membership to date: 1). I put my iPod on and went on Twitter and tried to forget about it.

That's the thing about Torquil. He's not like everyone else. Firstly, he's utterly massive. Secondly, he'll give you a chance but if you don't take that chance then he will use the fact that he's utterly massive.

10 minutes into me hiding in my iPod, Torquil got up from his seat. He walked down towards the horrible, loud people. He looked so beautiful. His shoulders blocking out all light, his stride confident and deadly, if he had any hair it would have been romantically wind swept and handsome. Now here is confidence: He didn't ask them to turn their music down. Oh no. That's not Torquil's style. Instead he sat right down between them, BETWEEN THEM, asking them to give him a seat. After asking them all if they were OK he calmly turned to the one with the loud music and said "Give me that. I'll switch it off for you".

YES! YES, TORQUIL, YES. You magnificent God among men. He sat with them for maybe two minutes before asking the lads to keep the noise down and returning to his seat. The status of those lads changed beyond all recognition. They barely even spoke for the rest of the journey. Not that I would have heard a word because I was lost to Torquil Zest. I just replayed what happened over and over in my head, loving it each time, and Torquil, Oh Torquil, just got bigger, better and more beautiful each time I thought about it. I stopped myself from Tweeting about it all because it was too perfect. I wanted to keep Torquil to myself. He was my Torquil and I just wasn't ready to share yet. Plus, I wanted to be him. That's when the thoughts got dark.

Look how calm Torquil was. He didn't need to get too aggressive because he could pulverise everyone in the world. If that was me, there would be about 18 people left on the planet. I would love to be all big and muscley and tough because I would like to think I would use all that for good but I know I wouldn't. The least little cough in a cinema and I'd punch the popcorn down the cunt's throat. If someone whistled on the tube I would kick their copy of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo up their arse. If I clicked on Chortle and saw an unworthy game show host was playing the o2 Arena then HULK SMASH! It wasn't Torquil's size that I wanted, it was his calm reserve. His calm reserve that got things done. Like a 15 tonne Gandhi. Torquil could give us a Shangri-La but in my hands it would be Armageddon. Tonight thank God it's him instead of me.

I love you Torquil.

www.michaellegge.info

Stop The Presses.

2011-01-20T06:27:00.000-08:00

I prefer reading the Daily Mail to The Guardian. It's a much better newspaper. Oh, don't get me wrong, I prefer brushing my teeth with a broken bottle while The Script tell me about the new direction their next b-side is taking than reading the Daily Mail but I'd still read it before I read The fucking Guardian.

You just can't take the Daily Mail seriously. It's written by the insane for the insane. They don't actually mean what they write and what they write certainly never happened but the voices in their punchable heads convince them that the real tragedy of Jo Yeates' death is that she didn't go to a nicer pub before she died (but at least her choice of pizza proved that Jo had aspirations of "a lovely life"). What Liz Jones wrote was insane but you can't be too shocked or angry about it because it's the Daily Mail. And it's Liz Jones. She's a faker who writes "shocking" (ie Tedious) things, so that people give her attention, in a newspaper that thinks gays are Nazi's (check yesterday's Daily Mail) despite the Nazi's making quite a ding-dong over their opinion of homosexuals. They don't mean what they say, it's obvious, they just want us all looking in their direction. Well, that's the best case scenario. Thinking of them as twisted is actually giving them the benefit of the doubt otherwise they're just evil. I mean, the Daily Mail couldn't be evil, could it? But, somehow, we've been conned into thinking more of The Guardian. At least the Daily Mail makes us angry, The Guardian just wants to make us stupid.

The Guardian has a little bit of news in it, I'll give you that. But the rest of it? It's a fucking middle-class, twee, backward lifestyle magazine and nothing more. Would you read Hello! Magazine? No. Why the fuck would you read The Guardian then? It's stuffed with absolute inane bollocks. Gossip, shoes, terrible art, pictures of ill looking actresses on a red carpet and fucking pointless "beauty" sections fill the newspaper. The Guardian has a "Fashion and Beauty" section? What fucking left-wing newspaper has a "Fashion and Beauty" section? "Obama's popularity in the States is sliding. Perhaps a hat?" It's fucking pathetic. But at least the choice is there. You don't have to buy The Guardian. You can read it for free on the internet.

DO NOT READ IT FOR FREE ON THE INTERNET.

The online version of The Guardian is even worse. Not only does guardian.co.uk pay professional writers to be thick they openly let anyone write their madness for free. They call this Comment Is Free. I call it The End Of Days. I know I shouldn't let it get to me but it did. Jenna Woginrich is a horrible, wealthy liar who wants us to be just like her. You know. "If you're not happy with your food, do what I did. I opened a farm all by myself". OK, let's just assume, as Jenna has done, that we can all afford to buy a farm, what next? Well, Jenna is a lover of animals and has been a vegetarian for the bulk of her adult life but has given up vegetarianism because she realised that not eating meat is cruel to animals.

I know. It took me a while too. Jenna has got it into her easily distracted brain that vegetarianism isn't a money making ideal and therefore worthless. The only way to be ethical is to pretend that you like animals, farm them so they are happy right up until you murder them, don't inject them with steroids and then charge a fucking fortune by claiming that this is healthy. Jenna doesn't get human beings. If someone wants to eat meat then they will eat meat. Few people care where their meat comes from and poorer people can't afford to care where their meat comes from. There will be no massive increase in the sale of "ethical" meat ever because no one gives a shit. If you don't care about animals, you eat meat. If you do care about animals, you don't eat meat. It's very straightforward. The point of vegetarianism or veganism is that hurting, scaring or killing an animal is wrong and, considering the wide range of other food available, pointlessly cruel. If Jenna really wanted to be ethical, and is doing all this for the animal's benefit, as she claims then maybe reminding people what it is that they're actually eating is the best way forward? Certainly has to be better than befriending animals only to kill them for profit. Et Tu Brute.

Er...not that all animals are nasty Roman dictators. Hardly any of them are. You can read Jenna's article here. You might agree with her. You might not. : http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cif-green/2011/jan/19/vegetarian-animal-cruelty-meat#post-area

I never read Jenna's other article she wrote for The Guardian because it was so painfully The Guardian and had the stupidest title I've ever read: "Jams Secret Ingredient: Effort".

No it isn't.

www.michaellegge.info

Boom Boom.

2011-01-15T07:19:00.000-08:00

Isn't the news depressing? Floods and murder and the beatification of a dead Pope who will become a Saint after he performed the miracle of hiding paedophiles and not going to jail. You're better off not knowing about the world. It's an awful place anyway. But once in a while a news story comes along and just makes your heart soar. It gives you hope. It makes you happy.

A fox shot a hunter. Is there ever going to be a more feel-good story than that? Well, there is because it wasn't just a fox that shot a hunter, it was a WOUNDED fox that shot a hunter. A terrified, wounded, bleeding, helpless, defenceless animal somehow turned the gun on his coward assassin and shot him. WHERE THE FUCK IS THE BEATIFICATION OF THIS FOX? THAT, BeneDICK, is a miracle. Saint Basil, patron Saint of getting rid of fuck-wits. I love that fox.

Read the beautiful story here: http://af.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idAFTRE70C5Q220110113

Just got time for a tip: DO NOT SEE 127 HOURS. It's an absolutely brilliant film. Unbelievably tense, claustrophobic and horrible. The script is great, it's filmed beautifully and James Franco is, for once, amazing and likeable. BUT... The whole way through the film your head can't help shouting "YOU STUPID FUCKING PRICK" constantly. Who the fuck does these things? Who invented extreme sports? Why is smashing yourself to bits thought of as a rush? Isn't Batman on the Wii enough? 127 Hours is a true story about a man who likes going into the middle of the desert, WHERE NO ONE CAN FIND HIM, and climbing deep down into tiny crevaces hundreds of feet into the rock. WHAT A CUNT. I hate him. When he falls, traps his arm and spends six days going insane until he cuts his own arm off, it was all I could do to stop myself standing up and shouting "THERE YOU GO, YOUNG MAN. YOU DESERVED THAT. NOW THINK ON. dick". Just before he fell, TWO GIRLS asked him to go to a party with him. Did he go? NO. He said "Whooo!", high-fived them and tried to jump the Grand Canyon on a Space Hopper made of cement.

If you do any EXTREME snowboarding or EXTREME mountaineering or anything where you put yourself in danger with only a bit of rope and EXTREME Ribena to get you out of it then please stop doing that immediately or else I will dance all the way to your funeral and lay a big wreath that spells out "EXTREME PRICK". All I'm saying is, 127 Hours is exhausting and imagine how lovely a film it would have been if that dick just enjoyed dominoes or kitten kissing.

Oh, and wouldn't it be nice if just once, JUST ONCE, Danny Boyle did use his own terrible home-made compilation tape as a soundtrack?

Short blog but sweet blog.

www.michaellegge.info

Badger Gets BAFTA?

2011-01-14T03:11:00.000-08:00

About a year ago I was begged to appear as the star of a 12 minute play and since then I have gone on to star in a musical and now a sit-com pilot. I think it's fair to say that I am one of the most successful and sought after actors in the country. I'm definitely one of the most successful actors that I know.

I know you're all very proud of me and can't quite believe it but, YES, I'm the star of a sit-com pilot. The sit-com is called Dave Shakespeare and I play the title role of Badger King, a role I was born/given to play.The world of acting is a tough one but I managed to bag the role through the proper professional procedure of waiting for everyone to say no to it and the director then desperately messaging me on Facebook. Obviously I had to poke him a few times, but the job was mine.

I haven't done much filming, except ads and even the last one of those I did I was drunk (That cost me about £12,000), so this was all very exciting to me. To be very honest, I think it may have come across as pretty obvious that I don't have much experience in TV acting. The fact that I CONSTANTLY started acting waaaaaaay before "Action" was called and that every single line I delivered was in a different accent was not me being eager or experimental. I just hadn't a fucking clue what I was doing. The amount of TV I have watched over the decades were I have sat there criticising actors is massive and, although I'm never ever going to stop doing that, I completely get that there's a lot more to it all than turning up and learning some of your lines. You really have no idea the amount of psychological preparation you have to go through to shoot a scene while dressed as a badger with 8 elderly people on top of you. But, thanks to yesterday's filming, I know exactly what that's like. Just in case you missed that let me make it clear: THERE WHERE 8 ELDERLY PEOPLE ON TOP OF ME WHO RAVAGED ME WHILE I WRITHED ON THE GROUND. It was basically a cross between Cocoon and The Accused.

The other thing that I learned yesterday was that extras really love to act. The extras I worked with were all really lovely and had a lot more experience at this sort of thing than I had but MY GOD did they LOVE acting. None of that sitting back and being subtle for them. They fucking went for it. They were DEFINITELY getting on screen and they WOULD BE SEEN! I liked them. You'd think that someone would make a sit-com about how funny extras can be. Another trick missed by telly.

It was a very good fun couple of days and I'm glad I did it. Not sure exactly what I contributed but it was fun. They say in this business that filming is boring. The work is great but the sitting around all day waiting is just tedious and exhausting. I beg to differ. My lack of experience meant that I couldn't enjoy the work fully (although NO ONE gets bored dressed as a badger with 8 elderly people on top of them) and the sitting around waiting was a laugh. What a lovely bunch of people. Plus I heard a great anecdote about what a complete cunt Ian McShane is. I FELT LIKE A REAL ACTOR!! I particularly liked hearing it being told and re-told several times as it spread through the cast and crew. Showbiz.

Plus I got fussed over by lots of women. This is my favourite thing, really. I was wearing a rubber badger mask and the costume lady and the make-up lady constantly asked about my welfare. Production assistants ran off to get me water and sympathy while fearing I would dehydrate. Natalie Casey fanned me while I was tied to a chair. It was great. Of course, the costume wasn't too hot and the mask was only a bit uncomfortable. It wasn't the heat that got to me, it was the creepy feeling that wearing a rubber mask was like having another persons skin wrapped around your face. A feeling that only adds to the experience of being ravaged by 8 elderly people.

It's the magic of television.

(By the way, on a side note but one very important to me. The director, Frank, is vegan therefore we had vegan food at the shoot. GOOD vegan food. I never expected that.)

www.michaellegge.info

Lose The Gut.

2011-01-11T00:59:00.001-08:00

You really must be careful when you make a decision. You make decisions because things need improving but, if you're anything like me (and you are), your gut reaction takes over well before your brain see's the bigger picture. Your gut rarely improves anything. Our lives are full of these regrettable moments. It's the beginning of January so you think you need to better yourself by joining a gym and you feel happy for a minute and then you realise you've spent a fortune on something you hate and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror wearing shorts and you hate yourself and you hate your awful legs and you hate everyone in the gym because they know how every machine and free-weight works and you're baffled by the skipping rope. Or you feel you deserve better at work and you ask the boss for a raise and he agrees and promotes you and everyone is proud of you and you are happy for a billionth of a nano second because now that you're promoted you realise that you hate your job and your new desk and your new job title and all you've done is leapt another mile away from your dream of being a roadie for These Animal Men. Or you call someone a sell-out and feel smug for a half second after pressing SEND before you remember that you write for The Sun and sell crap Australian beer for a living. Don't listen to yourself ever. You're an idiot. We all are.

I know I am. My New Year's Resolution of not letting anyone away with being rude has finally hit me. It's a really bad idea. I'm going to get killed to death.

Of course, it all has to do with a train. Trains are my nemesis. If something bad is going to happen, a train will be involved. Did you know that the "grassy knoll" leads to a train line? It really does. Trains are bastards. There I was at Paddington station shuffling my way off the train and down the platform when a man rushed towards me, whacked into me at full force and ran off. Because I made this decision to not let rude people off, I listened to my gut and did what any clear-headed, rational person would have done. I tutted a bit and just forgot about it.

Oh. Hang on. No. I didn't do that.

I ran after him.

It wasn't a big run, don't worry. If it was he would have got away and I would have died of stitch. He didn't get far and I caught him. I literally caught him. By his arm. And this is where it got uncomfortable.

He looked all shocked. My gut loved this. My gut was having a great time. Running after this man and grabbing him by the arm was definitely the right thing to do. The scared man asked what was wrong. "You just whacked right into me", I said, still holding his arm. "I'm really sorry", he said. "I'm going to miss my train".

"I know you are", I replied while grabbing his arm now with both of my hands."Because I'm not letting you go".

And that's when my gut stopped laughing and my head woke up. "What are you doing, Michael? A man has bumped into you, so now you've kidnapped him?" My head was very disappointed in me.

The man looked really scared. That made me really scared. Two scared men together on a train platform not knowing what to do. I let him go and he ran.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! What the hell is wrong with me? It's not like he purposely shoved me. Yes, it would have been nice if he had apologised and maybe he'll think twice about that in the future but is that really the point? Is HE the one that needs to think about things in the future? I GRABBED A MAN! I don't grab men. Men push me and I accept it. I DON'T GRAB MEN!

And has this made me change my mind about my New Year's Resolution? Sigh.... No. Of course not. Me and my stupid gut.

That whole thing lasted about 10 seconds but has taken me 4 days to come to terms with. By the way, if you want to join me in my NY Resolution, then please do and let me know how you've stood up against rudeness. First rule: DO NOT PUT YOURSELF IN DANGER. Remember, I'm an idiot. Thank you.

www.michaellegge.info

Answer Me This.

2011-01-04T10:28:00.001-08:00

There are two things I really like and they are looking at birds and doing pub quizzes. Even Doctor Who doesn't give me the giggly erection that birdies and booze questions do. I'm in my element. Lovely animals and being in a pub shouting out film facts. It's better than secks. Whatever that is.

But I am in Northern Ireland. That's right, the other place that likes to say NO. I went to two bird sanctuaries over the last two days. One was shut, obviously, and one turned out to be a private sanctuary. Where the birds are bred for hunting. Jesus fucking Christ. Then there was the pub quiz. I've been to lots of pub quizzes and I like them for the very good reasons that they're in pubs, I can have booze, no music will be playing and everyone is pretty much as old as me. Young people hate pub quizzes and therefore they cannot come in and taunt me with their youth and lovely hair and immortality. If young people so much as hear a question, to them, it's like still being at home with their stupid old parents. "I don't have to answer this", they shout over the top of their embarrassing ringtone. "You don't understand me or my music". Then they storm out of the pub, slam the door and play Vampire Weekend at full volume from their phone at the bus stop while fucking energetically and constantly. The stupid arseholes. They'll catch their death out there while we, the aged, are safe in a cosy pub quiz eagerly writing down topical answers, music trivia and arguing over the photo round. Young people are so stupid they can't see how brilliant it is to just stop fucking for a couple of hours and just get quizzical. LOL!

Except the youth of Northern Ireland.

We went to Roma's which is the good bar in my hometown. There are lots of bars in my hometown but most have retained that old charm of YOU WILL GET YOUR HEAD KICKED IN so Roma's is the best choice. It's in the centre of town but with an old countryside feel to the interior. Perfect for a quiz night. The only thing that ruined it was ABSOLUTELY FUCKING EVERYTHING.

The music was deafening and youthful and dreadful. It was quite loud before the quiz started but for some unfathomable reason they turned it way up as the questions began. The pub quiz had a pumping techno soundtrack. It's a fucking PUB QUIZ! Not Tron. It was so difficult to hear what the bored, 12 year old quiz master was saying. The awful music was bad enough but the fact that the quiz master got his microphone skills from Norman Collier really didn't help.

That's right. I referenced Norman Collier. I did that because I'm a handsome and distinguished old man and not a fucking child like everyone else in the bastard room. EVERY. SINGLE. ONEOFTHEM. It was me and my family (the youngest being 29) versus nine other teams of ....no....not teams... CRÈCHES of fresh faced, energetic, good looking, happy WANKERS. What the fuck are they doing at MY pub quiz and what the hell have they done to it? Why aren't they outside throwing bricks at libraries and quoting Misfits and drinking and aborting? Why can't they all just fucking act their age? GET OUT OF MY PUB QUIIIIIIIIIZZZZZ!!!

Of course, I was delighted that someone actually asked the quiz master to turn the sound down but imagine my disappointment when I found out that the person was me and I was told NO. Well, they said yes but they didn't do it so that's a NO in my book. My first complaint failure of the year. I was depressed. The quiz was loud, had a sports round and was infested with youth. And the worst part? They were all really nice.

Fucking bastarding young people. They were ruining my quiz and now, thanks to being friendly and fun, were ruining my chance to relax back and hate them. The table next to ours helped with a sports question. The table across invited us to a sing song. They were young and having fun. Humbug.

It's hard to come to terms with the fact that I might be too old for pub quizzes and has certainly made me reflect on my future. How will I feel when I find out that dominoes is a young man's game? That Last Of The Summer Wine has got too complicated and relies too much on special effects? That Werther's Originals are what da yoof drop?

I have to just admit defeat, I suppose. Everyone loved the pub quiz except us and even then we enjoyed ourselves because everyone else was enjoying themselves. Like when someone else's great-grandchildren come to visit at the nursing home. They're nothing to do with you but it's nice just to see them play.

Anyway, where was I? This Horlicks is nice.

www.michaellegge.info

The Best.

2011-01-01T06:53:00.000-08:00

But let’s start 2011 with a positive. Let’s not just assume that everyone’s going to be rude and/or take the piss constantly. It’s a new year, a fresh start, a clean slate. Let’s look upon it positively.

Before 8.30 this morning I had told a cab driver off for ripping me off (he got embarrassed and admitted it) and asked a guy that worked at the airport café how he justified charging £1.18 for one single fucking hash brown (he later brought two more hash browns over to my table. TWO FREE HASH BROWNS!). Complaining has come so naturally to me already this year. I’m finally good at something and it’s paying off (TWO FREE HASH BROWNS!!).

But, of course, that’s not what anyone wants to read in the first blog of the year. No. You want to know what all my bestest’s of 2010 are and my ego is eager to tell you. Even apart from performing and “writing” Pointless Anger Righteous Ire, playing the title role of Vicar in Gutted: A Revenger’s Musical, having a big foot and touching Jim Bob, I have had a brilliant year full of bestest’s. And here they are:

BEST SONG:
Sugar Baby Spangle Puke by The Tender Genocide.

BEST ALBUM:
Fuck Off, Mum by Pixie Goulding.

BEST FILM:
The Man Who Knew 2 Unlimited.

BEST BOOK:
How I Escaped My Certain Fate by Jim Davidson.

BEST TV SHOW:
Big House Full of Cunts.

BEST DAYTIME TV SHOW:
Frankie Boyle’s Tramadol Lunch.

BEST CATCHPHRASE:
“That doesn’t taste like Twix, Nana”.

BEST RINGTONE:
Oh, yours. It’s hilarious.

It’s been a wonderful year, hasn’t it? And here’s to a bright, beautiful 2011. It’s going to be great. What? The Morgana Show has been recommissioned? Sigh...

www.michaellegge.info

New Year's Revolution.

2010-12-31T06:21:00.000-08:00

As I was leaving the park in the pitch dark on Wednesday evening I saw a woman enter. She walked down the hill from the entrance right up to the river where she stood staring for a while. I didn’t see a dog with her but she must have one. I mean, no one walks into a park and stands by a riverbank in the pitch dark. There’s nothing to see. She must have a dog. The dog has run to the river to drink and she’s standing there waiting for him. This was confirmed by Jerk bolting over to her. Jerk has no interest in strangers but can’t wait to rush over to a dog to show it who’s boss. She’s a horrible bully when she wants to be. I saw Jerk bolt and immediately called her back. After all, this woman has just come out for a quiet night time stroll with her pup. The last thing she wants is some dog bullying hers. “They love to run, don’t they? My favourite sort of dog, they are”, she said.

“I think she just wanted to run over to your dog”, I replied.

“I haven’t got a dog”.

“Oh”.

“No. I see what you’re saying and you’re not fucking funny. You’re a fucking wanker”.

I left the park thinking that’s it. Nothing has changed. 2010 was just the same as all the other years. I vowed at the beginning of the year to be nicer, friendlier and more tolerant but where does it get me? Nowhere, mate. That’s where. I try to be tolerant and my reward is sitting in a noisy train breathing in other people’s stench. I try to be nice and Barclays refuse to understand what nice is. I try to be friendly and it’s misconstrued as an insult to a woman’s face. Well, fuck it. 2010 is nearly over and I have a resolution that I will NEVER break in 2011.

I am not going to shut up in 2011.

That’s my resolution. I’ve spent the last year tolerating other people’s rudeness and I’ve hated it. It’s just not how I’m built. Noise on trains needs me to tell it to shut up. That’s just how our relationship is.

Yesterday morning I wanted to scan my passport and email it. My computer had other plans. It wanted to sit there for ages doing nothing then surprise me with a sign saying “An error occurred” but with no explanation. Fine. I’ll go to the internet
café round the corner.

The internet café round the corner was closed. I’m glad I went, though, otherwise I would never have known that someone had upturned three wheelie bins and stacked all the shitty, wet rubbish up against the door of the internet café. Great. I’ll go to the one in the High Street.

The one in the High Street had a sign that said “Open” next to another one saying that the establishment opened at 10am every day. It was about 11.15 and the blank zombie that worked there just kept repeating the word “Closed” to me. I asked him when it was opening. Nothing. I asked again. Nothing. I asked him if he could explain why the sign says “Open” but he’s saying “Closed”? The man sat there for ages doing nothing then surprised me with a sign saying “An error occurred” but with no explanation. Sigh.

Not to worry. There’s the internet café by the bank. I’ll go there. It was open and everything.

I wanted to scan my passport and email it. The man behind the counter was delighted to tell me that this was impossible. Why? Because it’s impossible. That was the only reason given. I asked if he had any blank discs that I could put the photo on, then go to a PC and send it. He didn’t know what a disc was. You try explaining a disc to someone who has no clue what one is. THAT’S impossible. I now know how Lisa Goddard felt when Arthur Mullard was on her team in Give Us A Clue. I, like Lisa, wanted to punch the thick cunt.

But he wasn’t totally stupid. He told me that there WAS a way that this impossible task could be completed. He could scan the passport, put the scan on to a USB stick and then plug it into the PC. BRILLIANT! Let’s do that then!!! Do I have a USB stick? No.

Of course I fucking don’t. You might as well ask if I’ve got a jam filled spider bus. Of course I don’t have a fucking USB stick. We came up with a solution but the solution was dung because I didn’t have a fucking USB stick. God Almighty, how did Lisa not strangle that prick? I asked him if he had a USB stick.

He hadn’t.

But I can see one just behind him.

No. They don’t have a USB stick.

But I can see one right there. On the shelf. Right behind him.

No.

Yes. It’s just right fucking there. I can almost touch it. I can almost kill him.

Oh, yes. They DO have one.

Hurray!

But I’m not allowed to use it.

This went on for AGES. I mean a really stupidly long time until he just had to give it to me to shut me up. It was totally straightforward, easy to use and it got the job done. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THE DELAY FOR?

I left the internet café all furious. I then went into a shop and set an alarm off therefore waiting for a sloth dressed as a security guard to confirm that I wasn’t stealing anything from the shop. And, for some reason, bringing it back to the shop. I queued up to buy envelopes and when it FINALLY got to my turn the man at the till just walked away. I bought a child a birthday card that ended up costing £5.50. I was not in the best of moods but I never complained. And it started to hurt.

I had another long queue at the post office. 15 minutes at least. When I got to the end I was greeted by a really lovely, helpful and friendly person who apologised for the delay, gave me what I wanted, thanked me and gave me a cheery New Year’s wish. I
walked away completely cheered up.

NOW. CAN WE ALL JUST BE A BIT MORE LIKE HER, PLEASE?

No more rudeness, no more bad customer service, no more shit, no more tipping up bins outside shop doors. I’m up for a solid year of complaining straight to people’s faces. If they don’t know what they’re doing is wrong or rude, don’t worry. I’ll tell them. 2011 is the year it all changes, people.

Please note: I might get killed sometime in early January.

Happy New Year.

www.michaellegge.info