Michael Legge's Glorious 100th Blog!

Welcome to my 100^th Glorious Blog! I’ve done more than 100 but I’m officially saying that my blog really started with “2 Days To Go….” on the 26^th of July, the very first of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival blogs. I like blogging. I think more people should do it mainly because it’s fun, it helps you realise that your life is nowhere near as good as it should be and you might get some material out of it. So far I haven’t but you might. Plus I love people leaving comments on the blog. I’m trying to figure out what I can do with my blog on a slightly more professional level but if that meant sacrificing Johnny Candon’s songs and poetry, not to mention the rudeness, that he leaves then it might not be worth it. So thanks for that, everyone. And, as it’s my 100^th blog I felt that it was fitting to look back over the very best bits of the last 100 blogs in this, my 100^th Blog Compilation:

Cunt. Edinburgh Fringe. Fucking cunt. Fucking This fucking Belongs To fucking Lionel Richie. Fucking stupid cunts. I’m shit in The Clock Hour. Cunt. Crying Pregnant Bastard. Balls in a cup of cunts. Toilet. The “c” word. I’m 40 now. CUNT!!!!! A nutter tried to cut my hair in Glasgow. I am using the word cunt. Gypsys are moving in. Shitty shit cunts. Los Quattros Cunts. Young people in the park think I’m an arsehole. TV is shit. CUNT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have deep, penetrative sex with Famke Janssen. Doug Stanhope fans are beyond simple. Cunt. Doctor Who. BrendAn Burns being a penis. Wispas. Leicester is the hub of piss, etc.

That’s sort of everything I’ve ever said in a nutshell, I think. No doubt from now on I’ll be a lot more deep, meaningful and intelligent with my blogs. I mean, the first 100 are like a trial run, aren’t they? I wasn’t really blogging but from now on I will be.

Leicester is the hub of piss, I’ve decided. It has nothing to offer anyone and I’m very impressed and disappointed that anyone has decided to live there of their own free will. Three different Internet cafes were tried yesterday on my quest to cut and paste my blog from my memory stick. The first two claiming that they don’t have Microsoft Word. That’s like an Internet café saying they don’t have electricity or computers to me. The third one had Word but the person who was in charge asked the most bizarre question. I said I’d like to go online and he came back with “Online on a computer?” After a while I think its safe to assume that Leicester is taking the piss. That said, I feel as it’s my 100^th Blog I should say something much more positive about the town so, please, let me try. There are two positive things about Leicester city. One is the shoeshine man in the centre of town whose sign reads “I will heel you, I can save your sole, I will even dye for you” and the second is that Leicester had nothing to do with the shooting of Abraham Lincoln. There. That’s pretty much it.

I’ll admit it. Last night’s gig was what you might consider a much more traditional Christmas gig, in so much as there were a bunch of shouty pricks in. I didn’t have a good one. That said, I don’t totally feel like I had a bad one either. A bunch of arses from British Gas decided that they would be the stars of the night and, unsurprisingly, they were witless, drunk and ugly. I really liked the rest of the audience, partly because they were very nice and seemed to like my bit but much more because they fucking hated the ugly bastards from British Gas. It was one of those gigs that happens at this time of year. I didn’t do what I wanted to do. I wanted to do Sean Lock’s material but instead I stupidly did my own and even then I did a lot less of that than I could have due to dealing with the idiots. At one point I got heckled with “You don’t work at British Gas”, surely the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me but at the end of the day I felt slightly like I was taking one for the team. The gas people were much nicer during Paul Chowdry’s set due to a mix of my incredibly humble sacrifice and Paul being way better than me. He was very, very funny. I’m glad he’s trying a new direction. Not that I can in any way complain about this weekend because generally it was lovely. The staff there are very kind and attentive and the shows have been good. I didn’t get any Wispas but show manager Kimberley did leave out some Rockys. I like them. What a shame that the town itself is….well, I think I’ve said it before.

Here’s to the next 100 blogs and thank you very, very much for your time. I’ve got LOADS of gigs this week so I should be very angry indeed. Stay tuned.  

Religion.

Last night was the second of the Christmas shows in Leicester and it was fantastic. I can't remember the last time that I felt so relaxed and confident onstage, especially at this violently drunk time of year. I even patrickmonaghaned an extra five minutes over my time even though it felt like I'd only been onstage for ten minutes total. I realise that's pretty selfish of me and disrespectful of my fellow performers but fuck them, I was having a good time. I think everyone had a good gig last night. Jason Wood out-camped Christmas, Paul Chowdry proved that racism isn't funny with all his racist jokes and thank God that Brendan Riley was compering otherwise we wouldn't know were all the homosexuals in the building were. It turns out nearly every man sitting near the front was a "gay boy". His Gaydar certainly is second to none although strangely didn't go off at all when in the dressing room with Jason which can only lead me to believe that Jason is in complete denial about his heterosexuality. All in all, it's great to be doing nice gigs with nice people although I'm very aware that its early days as far as Christmas gigs go. I'll get mine soon no doubt. Especially if you believe in Karma as right after the gig Paul Chowdry and I spent five minutes laughing at and taking photos of a car accident. We're awful people.

I'm now sick of God. Two nights ago I was having a drink with the very bubbly Ron Vaudry who started talking about religion. I agreed with him that it's not only ridiculous but that it's also a very socially dangerous thing. I thought cheery Ron and I were on the same page but then he started to say things like "You see, Jesus was a philosopher", which made something in my mind scream it's head off. Its 2008, everyone. Don't you think that believing in this on any level has now gone well beyond the patience of rational, forward thinking people? Jesus wasn't a philosopher because Jesus never existed. Never. Ever. Just like Moses and Allah and Thor and Spock never existed. The very fact that in 2008 this STILL has to be pointed out to people is terrifying to me. We wait until unspeakable horror happens, like a bomb going off, before we arrest people who are doing things in the name of their god but why? Why wait. Anyone going into any church, synagogue, mosque or Games Workshop should immediately be arrested for living inside a daydream. At the very least put the fucking nutters in an asylum. What's the difference between people who go around wearing plastic bags and claiming that this is "their" train station and someone who goes around wearing a small dead man nailed to wood and worshipping a universe inventing ghost? I tell you what the difference is, if that first guy sorted himself out a bit then maybe he COULD own that train station and yet he's the one who'll be carted off to the funny farm first. And the funny farm isn't even a very funny farm. There's no cows slipping on banana skins or pigs calling other pigs "gay boy", it's a series of injections and electrotherapy mixed with brightly coloured pills and Melody FM. So, basically, my new year's resolution, which is starting today, is to argue with anyone who even so much as looks like they might be religious. They had the last several thousand years, they fucked it up because they can't grow up. Don't you think it's the turn of the people who don't believe in magic? And if you are religious just have a think for a minute. Think about it. How can what you believe really exist? Just think about it for a while and I'm convinced you'll come to the conclusion that it can't exist, I'm sure of it because you're a lot smarter than you think. Anyway, that was all Ron Vaudry's fault, the joyful bastard.

On the same day as my religious experience I travelled upon a National Express coach, surely all the proof we need that there is no God. It was cramped, it was smelly and everyone on it looked odd. It was like they hadn't quite formed yet. The worst one was the driver who had tattoos of skulls on fire and a woman with blood coming out of her tit on one arm and on the other just one that said I Miss You, Mum. What a tribute. She must have been lovely. Not only did he look bizarre but he sang the whole fucking way to Leicester constantly turning to a passenger near him and saying "Don't you know that one?" Of course she doesn't know that one. No one knows that one because the words and tunes coming out of your broken mouth have never been put in that spastic an order before. More annoying than him was the lady sitting in front of me who not only shouted while using her phone but put it on speaker-phone so we could all hear the other shouting prick she was talking to. Once again it was up to me to ask her to speak a little quieter but all she did was give me information that I already knew. She said "You don't even know me", which is true but irrelevant and after three times of asking her to be quiet and her saying that, I finally said "Yes, I do know you. You're that annoying fucker on the bus" which made some people near me laugh out loud. She hung up, put her phone on vibrate and never answered it again for the rest of the journey. I hate the bus but I hate the bus because people who go on buses are cunts. If they'd just stick them in the same asylum as religious people I might start to get a bit happier. Hey-Ho.

I have watched everything that I brought with me. I've watched all of series four of Doctor Who (which is fantastic but bookended with the two worst episodes ever made), Superbad and Doctor No. This means I have nothing to do, which means I will have to venture out into Leicester. Leicester, the city with nothing. Wish me luck. Again.

Johnny Candon says Hi.

Fucking Leicester.

I don't know how long this blog will be because I'm writing it in the world's most annoying internet cafe. I've been here once before and the person in charge of the very small establishment had a cleft lip. Nothing annoying about that except that he was only three feet away from me the entire time and he spent the whole of my hour whistling. It was if he wanted to prove how shit it was to have a cleft lip. Now I'm here again and although Cleft Lipman (that's his real name) is not here he's been replaced by an obviously deaf man who can't hear that his fucking Duffy CD is skipping. He is a cunt.

The internet cafe is in the town of Leicester. I've been here lots of times and had lots of good gigs here but I've never had a good time here while not gigging. The days are long in Leicester. There is genuinely nothing to do. Want to eat? Sorry, all the restaurants have closed. Want to go to the cinema? Fine, you'll need two long bus journeys to get there. Do you want to blow your own brains out? We don't have guns shops like fancy London, you'll just have to hang yourself. Rope must be the most sought after High Street item in Leicester. Last night I did the first of my christmas gigs and it went fine. When you do a christmas gig there's always an almighty fear that you will get kicked to death by an entire table of Claire's Accessories' employees on their christmas night out but last night they were as quiet as dead mute monks on a sponsored silence in space. At least they were for the first half. I had the easiest time because I compered, therefore I could interact so much easier with the audience plus I'm a lot more comfortable compering anyway. They liked me, so that was nice. But it wasn't so simple for the acts. First on was Def Jam comedian Tony Hendrix who turned up with barely seconds to white up before going onstage. The audience paid attention and were very polite but, boy howdy, were they quiet. That said Tony managed a good couple of laughs and a few rounds of applause especially when he remembered to do his hilarious Chalky White impression. Then Ron Vaudry, surely anyone's idea of Festive Fun, went on to more of the same but he did make fun of how quiet the audience were and was extremely funny. So during the interval we all sat in the dressing room comfortably knowing that the people downstairs were quiet but nice. Unfortunately, we didn't know that during the interval they were all getting Screaming Lessons. Like I said, it was OK for me because I was only on for 10 minutes but they just couldn't stop screaming their heads off and fucking around during Jason Wood's set. He could barely hear himself mince up there. It was a close shave for me but I'm doing a set tonight and tomorrow. God help me.

I'd write more but this place is a tit. I really wanted to write about God and National Express Coaches today, the two big topics of our age. I will tomorrow. Somewhere else, of course.

Celebrity Drugtakers.

Yesterday I saw the least likely thing I thought possible at Lewisham's Woodlands Health Centre. I went there to pick up a letter that Muki had to take to Lewisham Hospital and if you had told me that Porny the Raping Unicorn was in there kicking pictures of Neil Diamond into a barrel I couldn't have been as surprised as the thing I actually did see when I walked through the door. Woodlands Health Centre is a general meeting place for deeply angry, heavily tattooed, shouting mothers who have to carry their babies because the baby-buggy they also have to wheel around is full of cigarette ash. It's a fucking hole, in other words. It was certainly not the kind of place you'd expect to see the sort of thing that I saw while there yesterday. You see, the thing that I saw there was Lenny Kravitz.

Now, I can't be 100% sure it was him but I'm really not sure that it wasn't. Maybe it's another sign of my senility but the man looked like Lenny Kravitz, he had an American accent and he dressed like a camp bollock. I was trying very hard to hear what he came in for. I know it was a prescription but I don't know what for. I'm assuming talent pills. I know you probably think I'm joshing about a man who looked a little bit like Lenny Kravitz but this guy was his fucking double, so much so that I'd say I'm 90% sure it was him. Lenny Kravitz, rock star, picking up his NHS prescription from a health centre in Lewisham. It's the most rebellious thing he's ever done. I now like to think that when he sings Are You Gonna Go My Way? that his way is Lewisham.

Then I escorted Muki to Lewisham Hospital for tests to start the next part of her treatment. In there I realised how tough it must be for famous people when they have to wait in an NHS waiting room. I mean they come along just like any of us to be treated equally but as soon as their big, fat, famous name gets called out everyone stares at them, not giving our beloved celebrities the space they need and deserve in their private lives. I realised this while overhearing the name Rose West being called. That woman really didn't want to stand up and take her turn but did so in a way that said "See? I'm not even her". Lenny and Rose in one day! Brilliant! All I'm saying is that hospitals and health centres are THE place for our A-List celebs to hang out and be outrageous. Heat Magazine is wasting it's time going to Nobo or freezing their balls off outside The Ivy. I'm going to go to the hospital every day from now on! You never know what celebrity you might see. Probably Jade Goody.

I am over the moon with joy to hear that Michael McIntyre's DVD has become the fastest selling DVD by a debut stand-up comic in the history of everything ever that's ever happened before ever. Last week it was Frankie Boyle who had achieved what most people thought impossible and couldn't give a shit about but this week Michael beat him. And why? BECAUSE OF THE COVER. I'm telling you, there's no way that any DVD (or any thing, for that matter) holds as much unadulterated happiness as the picture that Michael chose for the cover. I'd like to think that his rise in sales is down purely to me saying that I like him now and therefore everyone now feels comfortable buying McIntyre product but really it's the cover. When I saw it on the shelf at Sainsbury's it was like watching the Wizard of Oz in one second flat. Dara O'Brian, Michael McIntyre, Frankie Boyle. In other words; Black & White, Colour, Black & White. Well done, Michael. That photo of you deserves everything it gets. I LOVE IT! 

I stayed at home last night. The first night in weeks that I've done that. Of course, it wasn't just me sitting on the sofa getting dirty looks from Jerk while I scream at Celebrity Juice, those days seem very far away at the moment. Instead it was me, Jerk and The Kulhans. In many ways it's safer being with them all at once, that way my Father-In- Law doesn't say something uncomfortable like Quim or Feltching and we can act like mature grown adults and play a spot of cards. The spot of cards that we played was a game called Uno. It's a game based on numbers and primary colours to teach very young children how to understand numbers and how to gamble. You might think that this was an immature game to play for five grown adults but The Kulhans play it like it's a championship game of Chess or a members only club's Bridge Evening. It took fucking ages. And I lost. The fucking cheating cunts. It's a fucking little kids game anyway so I don't even care about losing because it's just for kids and it just proves that I'm more mature than them times a million. I quickly went to bed, in a huff, and watched Doctor Who. I've woken up now and packed my bags along with my brand new Doctor Who Series Four boxset that will accompany me on my trip to Leicester. Pretty much the worst city in the UK with only crappy, crappy Season Four for entertainment. Wish me luck.

Does This Thing Work?

Today, readers, I am hungover. I feel absolutely awful and to be honest I really didn't have that much to drink. That's the worst part because it could mean something that I don't really like to think about. It could mean that somehow, someway, I'm getting older. I've always thought that age wouldn't happen to me, it's the sort of thing that happens to OTHER people. You know, OLDER people. I thought I was immune to it and carried on my desperately immature life, wallowing in an arrested development, thinking that aging in any way was never going to come my way. But lately I've noticed that things knacker me. Not things like exercising or hard work, I'm sure they would knacker me but I have absolutely no proof. I mean little things like standing up, walking to the DVD shelf, thinking or screaming at the telly. All things that I love but now slightly fear because they can exhaust me. It's a terrifying ordeal I'm going through. Last friday I got knackered drinking a bottle of Lucozade, that shouldn't happen surely? But last night really did tire me out. I went out for a few drinks with the writer Bennett Arron who very kindly lent me £20. Now that I've described him as "writer" I think we're evens. He lent me £20 simply because either I can't remember my PIN number or the bank hasn't sent me a new one. I can't figure out which. Which means that I'm either senile or just one of those annoying, fumbly types of old people that can't figure out anything new like banks, computers, TV remotes or stairs. After kindly giving me £20 (see how it's changed to giving?) I declared that I would go to the bar and get us our first drink of the evening. Bennett asked for anything but Kroenenbourg and his face looked confused and full of pity when I returned with two pints of it. That's how an old person's mind works. It doesn't. And mine is old and broken, friends. As we didn't have any dominoes to amuse me the rest of the evening was spent with the two of us quizzing each other on our knowledge of 80's pop, surely our generations equivilent to talking about the war. "Eeeh, in them days it were all Tight Fit and Owen Paul around here. And The Skids, they had the real eggs". Bennett and I have an enormously pointless knowledge of 80's trivia and can spend hours trying to baffle one another with questions like "Hi-Ho Silver" was the theme tune to what TV series and who sang it? That would take an hour in itself. What I'm trying to say is, if you think you're very knowledgable about the 80's then don't come out drinking with me and Bennett, we'll beat you every time! And if you don't know the 80's then still don't come out with us, we're THAT tedious. God, I'm rambling. Is this a sign of aging too? I'm going to lie down.

The main reason for my head being slightly mush at the moment, apart from being a doddering old cunt, is that there are just too many people in my house. Normally, I'm very used to it just being me and the dog but at the moment it's me and an entire family living here. Don't get me wrong, I've done very well out of it. I've been given a brand new microwave and a bed. It's like winning a quiz show in the 70's! Maybe I'll ask them for a Soda Stream next. But the house is full so I kind of hide in one room as I'm the very poster child for social awkwardness. Plus I get too many questions from my American visitors. Constant questions. "How much is a pound?", "Do the tubes run during lunch?", "Is Big Ben real?" And, of course, as friendly as he is I'm trying to avoid being alone with my Father-In-law for fear the conversation will turn to cocksucking, wanking or cunt hair. I'm under a lot of stress and there are NO Wispas left. Please help me.

The X-Man.

Why can't I just admit that I like X-Factor? I openly complain about how shit it is all the time yet watch it every week and I don't even fast forward to get through the awful, awful singing bits. Originally I just watched it for the crying. The crying is brilliant. There's no better form of entertainment than watching some ugly, talentless, ex-drug addict, orphan, got-five-kids, mentally ill blob of useless crying their bones out because they didn't win a sing-song game. It's brilliant. Their faces are priceless when they hear the news, it's like it never crossed their minds once that maybe, JUST MAYBE, they might not win. And the type of music they perform, although varied (you can hear anything from spine-vomiting pop ballads to just plain balls), is beyond dull. And yet I watch it. And yet I love it. And yet I can never admit it. I don't really even admit it to myself, sometimes telling myself that it's just so pathetic you have to watch. So how come I'm quite upset that granny-punching, crack-drinking sprog-machine Rachel has been booted out? She was really good. Imagine going on X-Factor and being able to sing? Well, that's what she did, the mad bastard. In the end she was beaten by JLS, London's loveliest street gang. Are there nicer youths in the whole of the UK? Christ, they're awful and souless. Why can't they mug old money for drug women like Rachel does? At least she has a bit of depth to her. The cunts. Anyway, I'll be looking forward to the next few weeks but telling people that I never watch it. All we have left is Mad Hippy Teenager, Irish Child, Nice Lads, Spanish Tits and Woman left. My money is on Irish Child, he's definitely terrible enough to win. I suppose. I don't really watch it, to be honest.

I've been spending a lot of time with my in-laws. Obviously, I haven't killed them yet mainly because I've been busy. My father-in-law seems to have made a brand new kind of bond with me, though. To be honest, it started last month in Seattle when he boldly claimed that Vice-President Elect Joe Biden thought I was a cocksucker. I have little to no idea what Joe Biden thinks of me but I do know that my Father-In-Law doesn't swear. He's actually a very clean-cut, small town, All-American boy, so you can imagine my surprise when Cocksucker came out of his gentle, down-to-earth mouth. I now realise that he might be a little starved of male companionship and has chosen me to be his bud. His bud he can drink with, laugh with and swear with. Unfortunately, I don't deal well with grown-ups who swear. I know that as a 40-year old that I too, in a way, could be considered a grown up but I'm so staggeringly immature that I don't think you could ever consider me as such. Therefore when a REAL grown-up swears I revert to being 10 and I'm totally shocked by it. My gut reaction is to tell a teacher. Since his arrival in the UK he has sworn a fair bit but ONLY in front of me. Never any other member of his family and yesterday his swearing and my lack of comfort with it hit a peak. Not only did he say that when he used to work in a power plant it was "20% hard work and the rest of the time I sat around stroking myself" while doing the Wank hand gesture he then told me that he saw a car almost collide with another car and, apparently, there was nothing but a RCH in it. When I asked what an RCH was he smiled, winked and said "Red Cunt Hair". After I swallowed all my own sick I laughed, wiped away a tear and said "What are you like?", then immediately booked an appointment with a counsellor. I'll be traumatised for a very long time. I sincerely hope he hasn't ruined the word cunt for me. He'd be a cunt if he has. Oh, there we go. Back to normal.

I Heart Michael McIntyre.

I worked with Hal Cruttenden this past weekend and during the conversation he asked about my blog. I explained what it was like and he, very rightly, looked like it wasn't really his bag especially when I said I'd mentioned Michael McIntyre a couple of times. Hal looked appalled as he very much likes Michael and couldn't see why I'd have anything negative to say about him. I felt bad. Not because of what I'd said about Michael but by Hal's face. He looked like I'd let him down. Hal's a nice man and nice men can easily manipulate you into feeling bad anytime they feel like it just by being nice. Then, this morning, I walked into Sainsburys (or as I like to call it "Insainsburys"! Brilliant! You can have that) and saw the cover of Michael's new DVD, Live and Laughing. All the negative thoughts I had about Michael simply melted away when I saw his beaming grin showbizzing it's way to my eyes and heart. Just look at it. How can anyone begrudge a man when he's THAT happy? His face just screams FUCKING HELL, THEY'VE MADE A DVD OF ME! BRILLIANT! So what if he insults me every time we meet, I can forgive him anything now. Hal was right to make me feel bad and I genuinely love Michael now for all the joy his face on his DVD cover is experiencing. All the very, very best to you, Michael. One day, I hope to be as happy as you look on your DVD cover and if I could buy the cover on it's own then I would.

I am going mad. I've lost too much stuff recently and, as a result, I'm a paranoid mess. I keep thinking I'm going to lose something else at all times. I've lost my iPod, wallet and phone in the space of a month and on saturday night at The Boat Show I lost my coat with all my money and my new iPod Touch in it. I went fucking mental. I mean actually, bona dide, cuckoo-clock mental. At one point I actually tried ringing my iPod to see if I could find it. Now, that's proper mental and no mistake. Poor Paul, who runs the gig, and my brother-in-law Bob had to watch me shout, stomp and do all the world's best swearing because I'd lost something else. Then we found it. It was about two feet away from where I left it. I immediately felt relieved and then utterly embarrassed. Paul and Bob looked at me with all the pity they could muster. It was a shame because the gig had been great and afterwards a lovely audience, who just wanted to say well done to me, experienced me going from being their on-stage friend to a dribbling ball of fury chanting "Where's my fucking coat? Where's my fucking coat?" My apologies to all who witnessed it and many thanks to Paul for his general kindness and for giving me a Wispa.

Getting Wispas from people at gigs is now something I totally expect EVERY TIME. Last night Nobby was kind enough to give me a lovely Wispa that I took home and put into the bag of Wispas that Judy gave me last saturday. How disturbing it was to find out that, in one week, I've gone from nine Wispas in the bag to just one. I'm a greedy bastard. I know someone who'll be going to the gym all week. My friend Carl. He works there.