Don't Play Your Music On A Train, Cuntface

I've just been on a National Express coach on my way back from Margate. It was raining the whole way and the traffic was shit as soon as we got near London. Then this fucking awful cunt says to the driver "Why do they call it rush hour when..." That's all I heard because the rage in my head gave me tinnitus.

The trip down to Margate on the train yesterday was just as bad because the train became swarmed with schoolkids and Jerk was freaking out at the sheer number of them. That said, as much as Jerk hated them, I found them all very entertaining. The boys nearest me started telling each other dog stories such as "A man who lived near where we used to live didn't ask another man if he could pet his dog but he just petted it anyway and the dog bit his whole head off". Every story was just pretty horrible but my favourite one was a dog in the Guinness Book of World Records that was shot in the head but an hour later he woke up wagging his tail. I'm not sure what category of World Record that would be under. Least dead dog?

Like every train journey, there was once again a varied selection of cunts determined to ruin everyone's travelling experience. Mainly, the cunts who play music really loudly on their mobiles. I got very fed up and went over to two seperate people and asked them to switch the music off. One complained, one apologised. That I don't mind quite as much as every other fucker on the train just sitting there letting these little pricks play music and pretending it's not actually happening. They're only kids, we can easily beat the fuck out of them. What is wrong with you people? And, the thing is, maybe I wouldn't mind half as much if any of these fuck-knuckles actually played decent music out of their little tin-can. I've never once got on a train and saw a bunch of hoodies kicking back old-skool to The Queen is Dead or Pet Sounds. It's ALWAYS shit. Mainly that infuriating record-company wank-fest that is I Kissed A Girl by that one fucking moronic whore. It's fucking everywhere. Fuck off! Speaking of morons, I know she was only about six but I saw this little girl yesterday pointing at Jerk. She turned to her mum and said "What's that?" Her mum had to explain to her what a dog was, the thick, fucking, six year old prick.

I got to Margate and had a very nice evening with my friends Karen and Bec. They're the loveliest, most hospitable people you could meet. They adore Jerk and Jerk loves them and their four other dogs. It's a horrible piece of cruelty to come back and take her away from all of that. But I've always had a penchent for cruelty so that's that. Speaking of cruelty, tonight I plan to watch a documentary about Colin Baker getting sacked from Doctor Who. Jealous?

All Lovely.

Isn't the weather lovely? It's been a treat walking round the local park with Jerk the last few days. She runs and plays in the river while I walk around pretending that walking is exercise. Even the normal park wankers aren't getting on my nerves quite as much thanks to the sunshine. Yesterday, I saw a wanker playing golf. No matter where you play golf you'll always be a wanker but I think you come across as an especially contemptable tool if you play golf in a public park. I'm as into hitting kids with hard, fast-moving objects as the next man but I still think that that shows a particular sort of thoughtless arrogance. I also watched a "gang" of "hoodies" play basketball with a tennis ball. It was probably the most awkward, fumblingly pathetic thing I've ever seen and as a result couldn't keep my eyes of it until one of the young gentleman asked me what my problem was? I didn't think he looked like much of an expert in anything and therefore his advice would be minimal so I left without replying. Quite quickly.

Then I went to the wedding of Nick and Maxine Wilty. It's lovely in this modern time that Maxine is still romantic enough to want to take her husband's stage name as her own. It was a fantastically fun day and I got drunk enough to know I was very drunk without turning very, very drunk. The ceremony was very nice with everyone cheering as the happy couple stood together at the altar. I was sure someone was going to shout out something incredibly innappropriate at anytime but it didn't happen and I wasn't confident enough to do it myself. Instead I giggled through singing Morning Has Broken and Jerusalem. If my Mother knew that I was singing Jerusalem she'd die on the spot and then very quickly turn over in her grave. Then, someone who could actually sing sang a very lovely, haunting version of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, a song about having your heart broken. A bit out of place but then I once went to a wedding where a harpist played the theme to Love Story and people around me gave me a dirty look when I pointed out that "She dies in the end of that", so it wasn't that odd. I don't know who sang Hallelujah but she was very good indeed and Mick Ferry pointing out that the song was used in Shrek only added to the poignancy of the moment.

Then we went to the pub. Then we went to the reception. I'll be honest with you, that's where I got drunk. At the reception. It was such a great do because everyone that I knew there I liked, how often can you say that about a room full of comedians? It was fun seeing people I hadn't seen for a few years, it was fun seeing the bitchy side of goody-fucking-twoshoes, eternal fucking nice guy Stuart Goldsmith come out finally and it was fun seeing Alastair Barrie asking people if they thought he was racist. I've never had to ask anyone that question before. Am I overweight? Am I starting to look older? Am I any use in bed? These are all questions that I've had to ask other people but never am I racist.?Have more confidence in yourself, Al. Of course, you're racist and a damn good one, too. After some speeches and more raising glasses to the happy couple we were treated to some music. Glenn Tilbrook got his guitar out and sang a few of his excellent and legendary songs while standing on chairs that were moved around constantly so he could basically walk around the room serenading us while being much taller than everyone else. The booze got the better of me though and I wimped out before I got so drunk that it was only mildly embarrassing and not totally embarrassing. I got a lift home from my friend's Rob and Linda who I never see much these days and will make a huge effort to see more of from now on. They're both lovely and pregnant.

My last couple of blogs have been a bit positive and nice and a couple of people have even pointed this out to me. Unfortunately, I'm visting friends today so tomorrow's one is probably going to be all lovely too. I was supposed to be at another comedian's drinks do tonight (one that I organised) but I've had to cancel. Shame, I'm sure I could have got some bitchy stories from that. Rest assured that this great weather and my happiness is very temporary. Ta ta!

I Know This Much Is True.

Last night was a lovely night for gigs and socialising. I was on first again at The Funny Side of Covent Garden and, although it was far from a storming set, it was very lovely indeed. It was a shame I couldn't stay to watch sets by Danny Buckler and Milton Jones but at least I had time after my set to hear a funny story. Danny told me yet another in a very long line of tales about a comedian on the circuit who, basically, can't stop lying. The comedian in question is actually very much an OK bloke but the constant stories that fly around the circuit about him are simply incredible. He's slept with royals, cancerous pop princesses, he's written the theme to the "new" Bond film (update that every time a Bond film is about a year away from release) and he used to play guitar in Louise Nurding's band (yeah, I wouldn't have bothered making that up either). But last night's story was up there with the best of them.

Apparently the comedian in question (oh, this is going to get tedious so I'll make up a name for him, let's call him, oh, I don't know, fuck it; Shappi Khorsandi, yeah, that'll do) .... So, anyway, Shappi opened his heart to a newish comedian one night fairly recently about why people seem to think that he fucked Princess Diana. The new comedian said that he'd heard that rumour and Shappi decided it would be best to clear up the whole misunderstanding once and for all. The rumour started after Shappi won his photography award. (What photography award?) The award he won for taking that famous photo of the Omagh bombing. (Eh?) It's simple, Shappi sneaked past the police to crawl underneath the bomb itself to take a photo of it. (Wasn't the bomb in the boot of a car?) Do you want to hear this story or not? (Er...) So, the bomb goes off and Shappi finds himself blown 20 feet away from where he was and unconscious. (I'm leaving) When he wakes up he finds that there's a perfect photograph of the bomb just starting to explode on his camera. So, Shappi wins a big award for the photo and everyone loves him. Then he's told by a friend that Princess Diana is having a party in a Kensington hotel and he should go down and papparazzi it. Dann...SHAPPI leaps into his speedboat and gets there in seconds but when the Princess of Hearts finds out that Omagh Bomb Boy is outside she gets one of her slaves to invite him in. Anyway, he didn't even fuck her, he just did a bit of DJing and hung out with her royal highness and Dodi and Wayne Sleep and all that lot. Then, in the early hours of the morning, Shappi was photographed leaving the Princess' hotel, it got in the papers and THAT'S how that silly, silly rumour got started on the comedy circuit.

I for one am very glad that's all been cleared up now and I can finally stop obsessing over that story. At least Stu Who's stories of facial reconstruction, his son inventing the internet and him getting the moon pregnant have a certain charm about them. But, like I say, Shappi's a very nice man and I'm not really sure why he says what he says but it very much amuses me.

So, anyway, I then went on to East Dulwich Comedy run by the fantastic Emma and Ron. Once again this weekend, it's lovely to be working for such passionate-about-comedy people. The bill was excellent and I felt very nervous at the thought of having to follow both Matt Rudge and the legend that is Dan Antopolski. I'm a huge fan of Dan's and he was incredibly funny in front of a very small, very quiet but very nice audience. I haven't seen him do a set for a few years but he was just as inventive and brilliantly off-the-wall as ever. You should check him out right now. Marc Lucero did an excellent job compering and he proved to be very good company throughout the night, seeming just as nervous about me going on as I was. Matt Rudge is confident, young, good-looking and funny so he can go and fuck himself. And, considering how pretty he is, he should take that as a compliment. The cunt.

I'm off to the wedding of the year now. Expect a drunken blog later tonight. MESSAGE TO DANNY BUCKLER: If I've got any of that story wrong, please correct me. Thanks.

They Came, They Saw, They Talked The Whole Way Through It.

I did two gigs last night and on reflection they were both good but I really didn't like one of them at the time. My first gig was at The Funny Side of Covent Garden, an excellent gig run by David Bourn, a man who is hard-working and passionate about comedy. I always have a problem playing his gig though because I've known David for 15 years and just think of going to his club as "I'm off for a drink with Dave". Then I get there and shit myself because I've just remembered I've got a gig. And last night was weird but probably not as bad as I thought while on stage. The front three rows all knew each other, never a good sign. They were, basically, posh city boys with loads of money and awful, awful, screeching, orange, murderable girlfriends. They were the worst kind of Trophy Girlfriend, mainly because they'd make you look like you'd come in last, but also because they found it impossible to simply shut the fuck up. Everything I said they took at face value and believed it - loudly. They had to comment on everything; I'm from Ireland, "Ohhh, I was finkin ov goin there. Iz well nice, innit". I live in London now, "London iz wicked, thass were I iz right now an everyfin". Shut the fuck up, "You know what I'm sayin, ahm alwayz shoutin that in my own ead". Awful cunts. But the bulk of the room was pretty nice so I shouldn't really have got that upset and it was very nice seeing the city boys looking genuinely embarrassed by their dates. They should be. Dump them. Now.

Then I went on to Big Night Out, Leicester Square which is the independent comedy club's FUCK YOU to the Comedy Store. It's right next door, sells out all the time and is a brilliant club. Apparently, it's very existence really pisses off Comedy Store owner Don Ward so I think that's a good enough reason to support it. The gig was great but boiling hot. The audience were a lot of fun and I really enjoyed mucking about with them. It's all run by Jeremy O'Donnell who is very funny and obviously great at running a top quality club. Apparently, he gave up a hugely well paid job in Australia to come back to the UK and start a career in comedy. The dozy cunt.

Sadly, I didn't see any of the other acts that were on the bills last night so I can't slag them off but I did meet up with Robin Ince afterwards so I can slag him off. It was very nice seeing Robin and even nicer seeing lots of people come up to him to tell him how brilliant he is. So they should as he's by far one of the most underrated comedians in the country and I'd say that even if he was huge. We decided to go for a few drinks so Robin suggested meeting at the bar in the Curzon Cinema, Soho because he's a big poncey twat and he was introducing a film showing there at 11.30. The film was Cry Baby by John Waters and it was fun seeing so many people say how much they thought that Cry Baby wasn't one of Waters best and wasn't it a big sell out that he made it and isn't it a shame that they're not showing that black & white film Waters made in 1902 where Divine ate a ton of human faeces? I realised that, although nice spending time with Robin, that I was not meant for this little world. The Curzon doesn't sell popcorn but does sell carrot cake, it sells DVDs of Q&A's by the director of Reykjavik 101 and FUCK OFF because Cry Baby is by FAR John Waters' best film. It's funny, it has Johnny Depp in it and it's not wedged 8 miles up it's own arsehole. I'm not complaining too much though because the people that I actually met, as opposed to eavesdropped on, were lovely, especially the owner of the Curzon who I was jealous of because he has his own cinema. That must be nice. Even if it shows a lot of crap. I checked the listings; not a single Bill and Ted film on in the next six months. Insane.

Allow me to reccommend a podcast, it's the Amnesty International Secret Policeman's Ball 2008 series featuring Robin Ince interviewing a comedian each week running up to the actual event. The first one is available now and features Robin talking to Stewart Lee. It's very good indeed. Go to iTunes and type in Secret Policeman's Ball, that's the best and seemingly only way you'll find it. To be honest, I really only listened to it because I heard Stewart Lee said some really nice things about The Clock Hour but Amnesty must have censored him, the fucking Nazi bastards.

Why Don’t You Just Switch Off Your Television Set And Go Out And Do Something Less Boring Instead?

I'm so bored of being ill now that I'm totally pretending that I'm fine. That normally gets rid of it. Just ignore it. That's the ticket. I did NOTHING yesterday. Well, I did a bit of writing but who cares about that? Basically, all I did was blow my nose, gob in the sink and watch TV. Two days of TV in a row isn't good for my well being. It reminds me why I like going out so much plus it makes me want to boot-fuck everyone who's ever been born ever. Plus two days without booze. Has anyone gone that long before? I doubt it.

I wrote a bit for the upcoming Real Daniel O'Donnell Show which is my favourite thing to do as we're all in charge of the show ourselves so nothing that we want to do gets rejected (unlike mine and Bennett Arron's script did by Children's BBC this week, "too mature" my ballbag). So that was fun. And that's pretty much when the fun ended because I went fucking insane and watched Sex In The City: The Movie. It was my own fault because the cover of the DVD came with a very clear warning; "'A classic' - Edith Bowman". For those who don't know, Edith Bowman is an awful bag of unneccesary excitement who says the words "A classic" everytime she points at something. So the blame lies squarely with me. The whole film is like watching the last three minutes of Father Of The Bride II over and over and over again. It's just screaming and cocktails. I get enough of that at home.

By the way, I watched EVERYTHING last night. Sex In The City, 3 episodes of Family Guy, Mock The Week (which was a compilation of clips not good enough to be shown in the series, that should give you an idea of the quality), Have I Got News For You (ALWAYS watch this after Mock The Week), 8 Out of 10 Cats (Doug Stanhope came across as really, really lovely), Secret Diary of a Callgirl (no, I didn't, but I was on standby just in case), No Heroics (Christ Alfuckingmighty), When Women Rule The World (it's great! It's a reality show based on women being in charge and telling men to do stuff that they can't actually do themselves. How producers Rebecca Eisen and Nicole Streak came up with that is a wonder), Arc of Infinity and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (still the worst Indy movie but fun).

That's too much TV. I'm really looking forward to gigs tonight not just because I'm playing two of my favourites but because it would be nice to see other humans. I mean, it won't but it's how I feel right now. It's sunny! Let's go out!

Doctor Who references: 1. Cunts: 0. The Doctor finally wins!

An Evening with Paul Ross.

I got ill yesterday and spent most of the day removing stuff from my nose. It's still going and shows no signs of stopping. There just so much stuff coming out of one nose. I don't know how much stuff is coming out of your nose right now but it will be nothing compared to the massive volume sliming it's way out of mine. I've got a cold but I'm acting like I've caught a disease that's somewhere between the one in Outbreak and the one in Philadelphia. I'm so bored of it already because everything I do is stopped due to snot. I think I'll just pop the kettle on, oh no, I won't as every pissing thing in my body is coming out my nose. It's really depressing.

It's not all bad though because last night I had a half hour of pure unmitigated joy. It might have been the happiest, most blissful moment of my entire life. Last night at 8.30 I turned to Bid.TV and watched Paul Ross' DVD Evening. It was fucking amazing. Paul Ross, former World's Biggest Cunt (he's not even good at being a cunt anymore), sits in a studio the size of a midget's stamp and basically begs for money. Sure, he's pretending that he's giving us an incredible bargain on the complete A-Team boxset, but it's begging really and his fat little desperate face has "M-m-m-mercy" written all over it. When he holds his hand out to show what a great friend he is to offer you The Best of Poirot at such a low, low price it looks even more of a tortured cry for help. After a while I muted the TV and as his flapping mouth kept moving I just threw bits of bread at him. It was honestly a very fun night in. Tuesday nights, Bid.TV, 8.30. Don't miss it.

My incredible joy was beaten, raped and left for dead not long after because very soon I'd be watching the greatest excuse for global genocide ever; Keith Lemon's Celebrity Juice. How the fuck did this cunting pile of agonising ball-throb ever happen? Who the fuck is responsible? Keith Lemon is a comedy character who is as thick as pig cement, has no talent whatsoever and yet wants to become famous. How it's creator Leigh Francis came up with the idea I have absolutely every idea. "Keith" hosts the ITV2 panel show along with two team captains, Holly Willoughby and Fearne Cotton, both finally looking embarrassed at something they're in. They're joined by celebrities who then go through a series of spunk-obssessed rounds of questions based on what show-biz folk have been up to that week - with HILARIOUS consequences! Apparently, George Michael was in Wham and now he's a homosexual! FUCKING BRILLIANT! At least some of the celebrities looked furious and agent-sacky throughout the show. Dermott O'Leary, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and some cunt who has a gossip column looked bored and upset. Paddy McGuinness, obviously, couldn't believe his luck. Can we put an end to all this shitty TV comedy now? Please TV people, I can't take any of the rejection letters you send me seriously if you keep on making this shit.

I'm ill. I went to the gym on tuesday and wednesday. A connection? I think so. I really like going to the gym. I can put on my iPod, go on the running machine for half an hour and just be in my own little world. What I don't like is another person being anywhere near the gym while I'm there because gym people are the smuggest wankers who've ever lived. People who scream while they're on a rowing machine, or use words like "intense" when talking about a Spinning class. PRICKS. The worst ones though are the bastards who give you a dirty look when you're using weights just because they know how to use the machine "properly". Maybe I want a bad back, Mr. Fucking I Can Lift A Washing Machine With My Flacid Cock. And how untrustworthy are the orange people who work there? "All OK?" they say when they clearly mean "I think you're on the wrong setting for that machine, mate. Your face is blue and your right eye is on your left cheek". Patronising bastards. But, like I say, I do enjoy going there. What's not to like! I mean, where else but Fitness First can I get up to date DVD releases such as Poison Ivy III, Return To Poseidon II and The Taking of Pelham 123 IV.

I went there. Where's my shitty series, ITV II?

Area Cunts Do Nothing.

Last night was the second of our Los Quattros Cunts meetings and after the fairly unsuccessful first meeting we were determined to make sure this one was where the mammoth ball of invention would start rolling. It was also the first one with all four of us so the atmosphere in the room was electric with inspiration and excitement. Anyway, we did fuck all. Paul cooked dinner, I got 8 cans of Kronenbourg at the local shop for £2.98 (they fucked up somewhere) and Jeremy has a new ringtone. Those were the highlights of the meeting. We then sat down to watch a TV series called This Is Pop (or something) by the now defunct Four Horsemen. It's a real shame that they split up when they did because if they'd split up a bit earlier then maybe This Is Pop would never have been made and there would have been a tad less embarrassment in the room while we were watching it. Then we watched The Onion Movie which had a few good bits in it (a nun drinks a jar of Ape Cum) but was mainly shit, very dissappointing considering how excellent The Onion can be. Then we all went home. Not an idea knocked out between us. It would have been a waste of everyone's time and lack of energy if we hadn't been exposed to these two clips:





The worst thing about meeting up with my fellow Quattros Cunts, apart from Jeremy not drinking, is that after a while I always end up talking about how great it would be if there was another Trap show, thus pushing myself out of the project. The Trap are pretty much the best show that I've ever seen and draining their talent has long been a hobby of mine. I think I'm just in that post-Edinburgh "Come On! Let's Do Stuff!" kind of mode but without any of the actual doing stuff so getting The Trap to do another show just seems to be my easiest option. I get to see a great show without doing any work. Maybe I should try to persuade Johnny Candon to join me and reunite our Tolerance Twins double act again? That was tasteful.

Now I'm about to do something stupid. I'm going to the gym. If you're in any way a friend, you'll stop me.