It amazes me sometimes how easy it is to get me out of a bad mood. Well, it’s not easy, it just has to be something unexpected. For instance, if I’m all grumpy you can’t just turn to me and go “Cheer up, mate. Let’s go home and watch Doctor Who”. That will sound like you’re TRYING to make me happy and that will make me more grumpy and I’ll probably tut and roll my eyes and think about lots of ways I’d like to kick your teeth out, you patronising, yet kind, bastard.
I was in a prick of a mood yesterday. The night before, I had behaved like a total moron for absolutely no reason whatsoever. King of Everything went out drinking. King of Everything love drinking so that was all good. Then Johnny had to leave to go to his gig in the centre of London but I feel that King of Everything still have some drinking to do and so I go along with him. Yep. That’s what I do with my Friday night off. I go to a comedy club. Luckily, the club is an excellent one but because of mine and several other members of the audience’s behaviour I won’t name it. As soon as we got there you could just tell that this was not this club’s regular kind of audience. They were basically a bunch of very arrogant, coked-up teenagers. Not all of them, obviously, but enough of them. The first act, Rob Collins, went on and did a great job but you could tell he was working hard and he wasn’t enjoying it. Neither was I because while Rob was on several punters were at the bar having a little shout at one another. That’s when the Scary-Man took over. I took one look at the guy making the most noise, walked over to him and told him to keep his mouth shut. Not “Excuse me, can you keep the noise down, please?” No. There was none of that for me because the Scary-Man was in charge now and the Scary-Man has no manners and likes beer more than I do.
During the interval he came up to me and explained that he’d try to keep his friend quiet for the rest of the show. You’d have thought that that would have been enough for me but it wasn’t. I told him that it wasn’t his friend I had a problem with, it was him. Then he faced up to me. He got far too close and said “Do you think you’re funny?” He had obviously mistaken me for a comedian. Ironically, this never happens when I’m working. The Scary-Man then forced me to face up to him. I told him that I wasn’t working here, I’m not part of the club and it was simply me telling him to shut up. No-one else asking him to be quiet, just me. After much facing-upping, he then said “All I see is a bloke with a Northern Irish accent who I’m going to punch if he says one more word to me”. He wasn’t stupid, this guy. That was exactly who I was. I thought that I’d best not say another word because I find fighting very tricky and fidgety. Then the Scary-Man spoke on my behalf. I told him to fuck off out of my face (sounds good but not when you feel wee-wee coming out a bit). Surprisingly, he did fuck off out of my face. But what the fuck was all that about? I’m not Mr. Big-Fight Man. I’m a scaredy type of person. That wasn’t even my argument. I looked for it myself and, besides, Angus who runs the gig was doing a great job of handling the idiots himself. If that had have been a gig that I was actually working at I doubt I would have said a word but, for some insane reason, I decided to pretend to be a hard nutter in front of a dickhead. I’ve had better nights.
When I woke up yesterday I felt terrible. What an embarrassing prick. That feeling stayed with me the whole way to my gig that night. My gig was in Chester and I was travelling by coach. That feeling picked the right trip to join me on. It was long, cramped and boring. I couldn’t concentrate on any of the DVD’s, podcasts, books and magazines I had brought because I was thinking of my behaviour the night before. Then I arrived four long, boring, freezing cold hours too early for my gig and by the time I got onstage the audience were restless and chatty. It was a good gig but I had to work at it and I was in no mood to deal with a chatty audience. I was dreading the six hour journey home.
Then right by the bus stop, as I stood freezing all of my brass monkey’s balls off waiting for my return coach to London, I saw a hedgehog. It scurried around some hedges (as it should do) and then ran across the park grass. It was lovely. I then came to the conclusion that I am 40 and I’ve never seen a hedgehog. It came from nowhere, it was exciting and it totally made me happy. I forgot all about Scary-Man and his idiotic ways all because of a little spiky animal. Hedgehogs are excellent and, now, I want one. If one can bring me that amount of joy after seeing it for one minute, imagine how constantly happy I’d be if I owned one? Let’s face it, considering my behaviour on Friday night, it might be in everyone’s best interest for me to own one. If anyone is selling any of their old hedgehogs, please let me know.
I’ve just arrived back home. It’s 7.27am. I haven’t slept. Night night.
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Friday, 30 January 2009
Nil.
Drinking is great. It makes everything you do excusable. Been rude at a dinner party? That's OK, you've had a few drinks. Started a big fight? Well, you've had a skin full, I'm not surprised. Raped and murdered everyone you've ever heard of and then watched The Cowards on BBC4? OK, you've had enough. Booze can get you off with nearly anything. Generally, I love people who drink. Not alcoholics, they're probably not a lot of laughs but people who like to go to pubs and hang out. My favourite people all like hanging out in pubs drinking and it's pretty much the way that I've got to know and love anyone that I've ever got to know and love. Of, course some people don't like people who drink and that is exactly the way I feel about people who like football.
There's nothing much worse than getting to know someone, really liking them and their company and then finding out that they love football. Something just goes in my gut when that happens. It's like I'm all of a sudden completely disappointed in them. I thought they were clever and they weren't. They were a big, thick, pig-ignorant, violent, baby-stealing, animal-fucking, shed-painting football fan. There is nothing much worse than that but there is NOTHING worse than football. It's a terrible idea and, in case some people have forgotten, only a game. Only a game. A game that somehow, unfathomably, has found it's way onto television. I hate sitting in the same room as someone who's playing a video game (is that what they're called nowadays? Is nowadays still a word?) yet millions of brainless idiots all over the world pay money to sit at home, go to the pub or, God forbid, go to a football ground and watch other people play a game that they like but don't play themselves. It doesn't make sense. Why would you want to do that? How could you want to do that? Surely, playing the game can only be better than watching it. Why are these people wasting their time? And their use of the word "we" is very questionable. "We" didn't win because, you fat prick, "we" weren't playing. Professional football players were. Professional football players from somewhere other than the town they're representing were playing. So even if by "We" they meant "Liverpool", they were still wrong because Juanitos Cuarlingdelaguarlos is from Portugal not Kirby. And apart from anything else, it's dull. Very, very dull. It's slow, repetitive and looooooooooooooooooooooong. The culture linked to football is so utterly repugnant that you would think that anyone who actually truly loved footsie would have nothing to do with it because of what goes with it. Violence, racism, gang warfare and shamelessly painting your face like the "slow" adult who ruins a child's birthday party is enough to avoid this horrible part of this country's culture without actually having to plough through a tedious fucking football match too. And that's how I feel when people I like say things like "Did you catch the score today?" Maybe that's how they feel when I say things like "Who's your favourite Sontaran?" I hope so.
Last night I had none of that. I went out drinking with REAL MEN. REAL MEN who don't like sport (except for Bennett and Dan, and even Dan doesn't like it that much) and instead of wasting our precious time on this planet shouting at men who play a game better than we do we concentrated firmly on Karaoke. There were girls there too so don't think we're weird or anything. King of Everything duetted together but neither of us can remember what we sang. Now that's the mark of a dignified evening.
I'm writing this while watching Snuffbox. Why can't all the BBC's comedies be like this? If you haven't seen it then I would like nothing more than to force you to watch it. You will thank me.
There's nothing much worse than getting to know someone, really liking them and their company and then finding out that they love football. Something just goes in my gut when that happens. It's like I'm all of a sudden completely disappointed in them. I thought they were clever and they weren't. They were a big, thick, pig-ignorant, violent, baby-stealing, animal-fucking, shed-painting football fan. There is nothing much worse than that but there is NOTHING worse than football. It's a terrible idea and, in case some people have forgotten, only a game. Only a game. A game that somehow, unfathomably, has found it's way onto television. I hate sitting in the same room as someone who's playing a video game (is that what they're called nowadays? Is nowadays still a word?) yet millions of brainless idiots all over the world pay money to sit at home, go to the pub or, God forbid, go to a football ground and watch other people play a game that they like but don't play themselves. It doesn't make sense. Why would you want to do that? How could you want to do that? Surely, playing the game can only be better than watching it. Why are these people wasting their time? And their use of the word "we" is very questionable. "We" didn't win because, you fat prick, "we" weren't playing. Professional football players were. Professional football players from somewhere other than the town they're representing were playing. So even if by "We" they meant "Liverpool", they were still wrong because Juanitos Cuarlingdelaguarlos is from Portugal not Kirby. And apart from anything else, it's dull. Very, very dull. It's slow, repetitive and looooooooooooooooooooooong. The culture linked to football is so utterly repugnant that you would think that anyone who actually truly loved footsie would have nothing to do with it because of what goes with it. Violence, racism, gang warfare and shamelessly painting your face like the "slow" adult who ruins a child's birthday party is enough to avoid this horrible part of this country's culture without actually having to plough through a tedious fucking football match too. And that's how I feel when people I like say things like "Did you catch the score today?" Maybe that's how they feel when I say things like "Who's your favourite Sontaran?" I hope so.
Last night I had none of that. I went out drinking with REAL MEN. REAL MEN who don't like sport (except for Bennett and Dan, and even Dan doesn't like it that much) and instead of wasting our precious time on this planet shouting at men who play a game better than we do we concentrated firmly on Karaoke. There were girls there too so don't think we're weird or anything. King of Everything duetted together but neither of us can remember what we sang. Now that's the mark of a dignified evening.
I'm writing this while watching Snuffbox. Why can't all the BBC's comedies be like this? If you haven't seen it then I would like nothing more than to force you to watch it. You will thank me.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Twitter.
I've been using Twitter a lot this week. If you haven't discovered it, don't worry. It's a bit like discovering your local yoga centre. Lots of people use it but, really, what's the point? Twitter is a micro-blogging site which means that people get an account there and basically write thousands of "Facebook status updates" every day and keep us all well informed about every single minute thing that they get up to. It's like being right beside these people all day, every day. Fucking nightmare.
Celebrities use Twitter to show that they're just ordinary people like you or...well, not me but you. John Cleese will let you know when he's washing his car, Jonathan Ross will tell you what type of cigar he's currently smoking and John Leslie will constantly remind you that he will still work for food.
The celebrity that I came across almost immediately after joining was James Dreyfuss. I'm not a big fan of James Dreyfuss but his every day notices of castings, celebrity dinners and not being able to quite finish a sudoku were rivettingly dull and I have followed his life ever since. If you don't know James Dreyfuss then you have my greatest admiration. He was in Gimmee, Gimmee, Gimmee and, if you don't hate him enough already, The Thin Blue Line. Sorry for reminding you if you've forgotten he ever existed. Of course, just because I don't like James doesn't mean I'd be nasty to his face (I'm a coward) but, luckily, my Dad would.Two years ago I took my parents to see Cabaret in Shaftsbury Avenue. I thought I'd slightly impress them by getting front row tickets and making them think that somehow the job I do actually makes me some money. We sat down and waited for the show to begin, my Dad handed me the programme. I played the usual game of seeing which members of the cast weren't in The Bill when I saw James Dreyfuss' painful face and thought "Fuck. That's this show ruined then". I didn't point it out to my parents because there was no need for all of us to be depressed before the thing had even started. Then the thing started. James Dreyfuss played the MC, which meant that he was first on stage. He walked straight to the edge of the stage itself and looked directly at us. We were in the front row. James was as near to me as I am (if I was your computer) to you. He breathed in to deliever the opening line. Then my Dad said in a loud, I'm-so-not-aware-of-where-I-am voice "Michael, there's that man you hate". James gulped and went red. "I know", I replied to Dad. "But I wasn't going to tell him". The first few rows that heard it giggled, James regained composure and the show went on. Well, at least he knows now.
To be honest, James is one heck of a great guy compared to others I've discovered on Twitter, or as I like to call it Twatter! Because, SERIOUSLY, that's the best I can come up with. My favourite massive arse that I've discovered there so far is a walking penis by the name of Skinnyjeans. Skinnyjeans has a very strange way of writing, like she's living in an overly Americanised advert for being a really great person. She's utterly kickable. She lets the world know all sorts of annoying flumpty like "Time to rehydrate" and "Every woman is beautiful. They just need to find their own way to let the world and themselves know". What a cunt. Although my favourite thing that she wrote was "At Starbucks. Swallowing is going to be difficult here". Not for her, surely?
In summary; avoid Twitter. I've already become a big Twitter arse. Last night I updated it to let the universe know that I was tidying up. I'm sure millions were captivated by that startling piece of important fluff. That said, Stephen Fry and Charlie Brooker are very funny on it so it's worth it for that. Thanks to Saliwho who pointed me in it's direction.
Celebrities use Twitter to show that they're just ordinary people like you or...well, not me but you. John Cleese will let you know when he's washing his car, Jonathan Ross will tell you what type of cigar he's currently smoking and John Leslie will constantly remind you that he will still work for food.
The celebrity that I came across almost immediately after joining was James Dreyfuss. I'm not a big fan of James Dreyfuss but his every day notices of castings, celebrity dinners and not being able to quite finish a sudoku were rivettingly dull and I have followed his life ever since. If you don't know James Dreyfuss then you have my greatest admiration. He was in Gimmee, Gimmee, Gimmee and, if you don't hate him enough already, The Thin Blue Line. Sorry for reminding you if you've forgotten he ever existed. Of course, just because I don't like James doesn't mean I'd be nasty to his face (I'm a coward) but, luckily, my Dad would.Two years ago I took my parents to see Cabaret in Shaftsbury Avenue. I thought I'd slightly impress them by getting front row tickets and making them think that somehow the job I do actually makes me some money. We sat down and waited for the show to begin, my Dad handed me the programme. I played the usual game of seeing which members of the cast weren't in The Bill when I saw James Dreyfuss' painful face and thought "Fuck. That's this show ruined then". I didn't point it out to my parents because there was no need for all of us to be depressed before the thing had even started. Then the thing started. James Dreyfuss played the MC, which meant that he was first on stage. He walked straight to the edge of the stage itself and looked directly at us. We were in the front row. James was as near to me as I am (if I was your computer) to you. He breathed in to deliever the opening line. Then my Dad said in a loud, I'm-so-not-aware-of-where-I-am voice "Michael, there's that man you hate". James gulped and went red. "I know", I replied to Dad. "But I wasn't going to tell him". The first few rows that heard it giggled, James regained composure and the show went on. Well, at least he knows now.
To be honest, James is one heck of a great guy compared to others I've discovered on Twitter, or as I like to call it Twatter! Because, SERIOUSLY, that's the best I can come up with. My favourite massive arse that I've discovered there so far is a walking penis by the name of Skinnyjeans. Skinnyjeans has a very strange way of writing, like she's living in an overly Americanised advert for being a really great person. She's utterly kickable. She lets the world know all sorts of annoying flumpty like "Time to rehydrate" and "Every woman is beautiful. They just need to find their own way to let the world and themselves know". What a cunt. Although my favourite thing that she wrote was "At Starbucks. Swallowing is going to be difficult here". Not for her, surely?
In summary; avoid Twitter. I've already become a big Twitter arse. Last night I updated it to let the universe know that I was tidying up. I'm sure millions were captivated by that startling piece of important fluff. That said, Stephen Fry and Charlie Brooker are very funny on it so it's worth it for that. Thanks to Saliwho who pointed me in it's direction.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
The Kindness of Strangers.
Yesterday I saw two people arguing in the park. They were both screaming at one another and one was crying. It was a sad sight. It's awful seeing people cry in public because it means that they're so upset, so sad that the world around them has disappeared for them and all that is left is this bad moment in their lives. Being so distraught that the reaction of others doesn't come into the equation. There is no-one there for you when you cry in public because you don't want there to be. And the thing is, if you're a good person and see a complete stranger crying, you will want to comfort them. It's what's in you. It's your humanity. It's your need to take this person away from the pain that is digging into them, to heal them. Two people arguing in the park, but the history that went before, the pain that went before, could a caring hand ever take that away?
Anyway, as I got closer it turns out that the sick-looking bloke had only left his bawling lump of a girlfriend with half a finger of Twix and he'd eaten one and a half himself. What a fucking evil cunt he is. He should be hung. He's worse than a paedophile. I missed the rest of the world's most embarrassing screaming competition but on my way back through the park I did see the bloke again. Sitting alone, looking sad and wiping a lot of blood from his nose.
Here's my latest embarrassing advert that makes me cringe. I actually saw it months ago but it was on TV last night and I could barely watch so I thought I'd share. I don't know how you can feel embarrassed for a cartoon but you will: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=sO1XQ8ylRIM
Anyway, as I got closer it turns out that the sick-looking bloke had only left his bawling lump of a girlfriend with half a finger of Twix and he'd eaten one and a half himself. What a fucking evil cunt he is. He should be hung. He's worse than a paedophile. I missed the rest of the world's most embarrassing screaming competition but on my way back through the park I did see the bloke again. Sitting alone, looking sad and wiping a lot of blood from his nose.
Here's my latest embarrassing advert that makes me cringe. I actually saw it months ago but it was on TV last night and I could barely watch so I thought I'd share. I don't know how you can feel embarrassed for a cartoon but you will: http://uk.youtube.com/watc
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Chwist Almighty!
Ha ha ha!!! I said "Chwist" because I'm going to write about Jonathan Ross, a man who has a very slight lisp. That is brilliant! I love it when he does something completely, boringly uncontroversial because it always ends up in Britain's equivalent of a newspaper and the headline is always something like "Wossy Nearly Says Piss In Front Of War Hero's Tea". HA HA HA HA HA!!! They called him Wossy because he has a lisp. I love it! That is sooooooooooooooooo imaginative and has been for about 20 years. Wossy! HA HA HA! Brilliant! I wish he was paralysed too because I bet the tabloids would give him an equally hilarious nickname every time he did absolutely fuck all of any interest. Probably "Cwipple" or something". Brilliant!
People who are bored out of their minds are asking for Wossy to be shot dead on live TV again because of a thing he said about a Spanish pensioner. I think he should be Knighted for what he said and given a castle full of money. The man is a saint. He said that his producer should have fucked an old woman. If someone said that to me I'd say something like "Yuk! No way, man. Old women are ugly and leathery. I'm not putting my lovely young penis anywhere near that. Count me out, Sunshine. Hello? Did I miss a meeting?" because I am a big twat. But Sir Wossy doesn't care about age, just love. What he was trying to say was that we should care more for the elderly, take them out on daytrips, visit them occassionally and, yes, if it makes them happy, fuck them. The only reason YOU and your other Nazi friends think it's disgusting is because you don't have the caring, open mind that Jonathan has. He would gladly pick biscuit crumbs out of his pubes for a week if it meant that some lovely old dear got his A-game, a servicing and the "little death" from him. If you have any goodness in you, then you will write to the BBC immediately telling them that you support Jonathan Ross' good work with the elderly in the community and confirm that you too will fuck an old woman in your area, giving details of who, how and what war you will be discussing afterwards. That's all I'm saying.
I saw Frost/Nixon last night. It's excellent. I really wanted to see The Wrestler but was put off when a BAFTA member told me that it was just like Rocky. I love Rocky but I'm happy with Rocky the way it is, I didn't need to see a wrestling version. So I saw Frost/Nixon which is about a man who no-one believed in, even the team behind him. They thought that he had no chance of beating his opponent but in the end showed that, although it wasn't a complete triumph, he'd proven himself and shown the world a different side to the man he was trying to beat. Then he shouts Adrian and it was all over. I can't wait for Frost/Drago.
People who are bored out of their minds are asking for Wossy to be shot dead on live TV again because of a thing he said about a Spanish pensioner. I think he should be Knighted for what he said and given a castle full of money. The man is a saint. He said that his producer should have fucked an old woman. If someone said that to me I'd say something like "Yuk! No way, man. Old women are ugly and leathery. I'm not putting my lovely young penis anywhere near that. Count me out, Sunshine. Hello? Did I miss a meeting?" because I am a big twat. But Sir Wossy doesn't care about age, just love. What he was trying to say was that we should care more for the elderly, take them out on daytrips, visit them occassionally and, yes, if it makes them happy, fuck them. The only reason YOU and your other Nazi friends think it's disgusting is because you don't have the caring, open mind that Jonathan has. He would gladly pick biscuit crumbs out of his pubes for a week if it meant that some lovely old dear got his A-game, a servicing and the "little death" from him. If you have any goodness in you, then you will write to the BBC immediately telling them that you support Jonathan Ross' good work with the elderly in the community and confirm that you too will fuck an old woman in your area, giving details of who, how and what war you will be discussing afterwards. That's all I'm saying.
I saw Frost/Nixon last night. It's excellent. I really wanted to see The Wrestler but was put off when a BAFTA member told me that it was just like Rocky. I love Rocky but I'm happy with Rocky the way it is, I didn't need to see a wrestling version. So I saw Frost/Nixon which is about a man who no-one believed in, even the team behind him. They thought that he had no chance of beating his opponent but in the end showed that, although it wasn't a complete triumph, he'd proven himself and shown the world a different side to the man he was trying to beat. Then he shouts Adrian and it was all over. I can't wait for Frost/Drago.
Monday, 26 January 2009
I Disgust Me.
I'm too excited about King of Everything. We've done very little work, yet Johnny and I are sure that we're going to have a very enjoyable Edinburgh. The little amount of work we've done is fine because the ideas for the show keep on coming. The bit I'm working on today will feature Johnny and I singing "I Know Him So Well" totally straight. No mucking about, just us singing as best we can plus some choreography properly taught to us by a proper real dance instructor. That should be worth the price alone. Or not. Who knows? We've also got a Ouija board with some letters missing, Iggy Pop being addicted to insurance and finding out what happened to all the school friends we used to bully. Yeah, sketch shows sound shit in synopsis form but we think it's all funny. And we find NOTHING funny, so that must mean it's the funniest thing in the world. Still, the fact that we haven't done any real graft on it could be our Achilles heel. No point in worrying about that though, I wouldn't be surprised if they brought back the Perrier just for us or Phil Nicholl, BrendAn Burns and whoever the fuck won it last year were forced to gives us their If.comedy prizes. But like I say, we've done very little so we might not win that many awards. We'll see.
I'm very glad I'm all positive about King of Everything because I'm feeling shit about my own solo show which, I fear, may never happen. You, on the other hand, may fear it will. People are different. I'm having more than a few teething problems with it mainly because I'm feeling surrounded by nice people all of a sudden. The show's about how I have a terrible habit of being really nice to people I can't stand but being round too many nice people recently has slightly put me off. I fucking hate nice people.Even this weekend at The Comedy Cafe I was surrounded by fucking stupid pointless niceness. The staff are always lovely there but you'd have thought there would be at least one cunt on the bill just to help me get all angry. But there fucking wasn't. The nice awful bastards. Mind you, the open spot, Rob Tarbuck, mistook me for Drew Barr so he can suck my funny third ball. Rob was, of course, in the paid half-spot slot but he thought I was Drew Barr so he's a fucking open-spot to me now. But, he was a really nice open-spot so that doesn't help. Then last night in Alton they took niceness to a new level. You might not like this next bit. It's disgusting.
On my way to Alton I sat looking through my new material, making re-writes to make sure I had it perfect for the gig. HA HA HA! Only joking. On my way to Alton I needed a piss but the two loos on the train had committed suicide so I had to wait until I got to Alton station. The loo in Alton was in mourning for the two suicide toilets and, although I was bursting, I thought I coould hold on until I got to the gig. I was wrong. Five minutes into my walk I decided that I had to pee and I had to pee NOW. I started to feel urine seep into my nostrils. I really hoped that I wouldn't have to lower myself to pissing in the street. I'm 40. I shouldn't be pissing in the street. My cock started to cry so I thought I'd best rid myself of what little dignity I have left and walked into a very dark street and stood behind some bins. As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared. Well, I don't know if he was a shopkeeper or not but he was a punter who had been to Alton before. I know this because, while I was pissing, he waved at me and shouted "I'm coming to see you again tonight". It was nice that he was so keen on coming to the gig but I'd rather that he'd run me over in a racist lorry than saw me make tinkle. My tinkle froze in embarrassment and I continued on my journey.
When I got there I went straight to the toilet. Hooray! It was empty. Now for a slap-up piss! It was a lovely piss. A lovely piss that I felt I'd earned. I savoured every delighful moment of it and quickly forgot about the horrible piss-bin-waving-racist lorry incident of earlier. I felt so good just standing there pissing that surely I couldn't be happier than I was right there, right then in that beautiful, blissful state of relief. I could, actually. I could fart. I farted. It felt great. Then as if by magic, another fucking shopkeeper appeared. What the fuck is it with these shopkeepers (or whatever it is they do for a living)? He walked out of the cubicle, laughed and said "Bloody hell, was that you? Better get it out before you go onstage, eh?" For fuck's sake.I was dreading the gig. I compered the night without anyone in the small, brilliant audience mentioning my urine or gas. Two of them had every right to bring it up but they didn't. Because they're nice. That's what a nice person does. A nice person never mentions seeing you piss behind a bin but they also don't help me write about horrible people that I'm nice to. Hang on. I AM horrible people that I'm nice to. Hmmmm....interesting angle. Thanks, Alton. You're nice.
As if that wasn't enough niceness for one night, Cole Parker drove me (very nearly) all the way home AND gave me his ventolin after I lost mine. HE GAVE ME HIS MEDICINE. That is a whole level of niceness that I can't even fathom. I wouldn't give anyone my Wispa never mind my medicine but that's because I am horrible and everyone else in the world is nice. God, I really think I've made a break through with this blog.....sniff.....
By the way, King of Everything should be making a few podcasts this week. We might need your help. You're nice. You can't refuse!!!
I'm very glad I'm all positive about King of Everything because I'm feeling shit about my own solo show which, I fear, may never happen. You, on the other hand, may fear it will. People are different. I'm having more than a few teething problems with it mainly because I'm feeling surrounded by nice people all of a sudden. The show's about how I have a terrible habit of being really nice to people I can't stand but being round too many nice people recently has slightly put me off. I fucking hate nice people.Even this weekend at The Comedy Cafe I was surrounded by fucking stupid pointless niceness. The staff are always lovely there but you'd have thought there would be at least one cunt on the bill just to help me get all angry. But there fucking wasn't. The nice awful bastards. Mind you, the open spot, Rob Tarbuck, mistook me for Drew Barr so he can suck my funny third ball. Rob was, of course, in the paid half-spot slot but he thought I was Drew Barr so he's a fucking open-spot to me now. But, he was a really nice open-spot so that doesn't help. Then last night in Alton they took niceness to a new level. You might not like this next bit. It's disgusting.
On my way to Alton I sat looking through my new material, making re-writes to make sure I had it perfect for the gig. HA HA HA! Only joking. On my way to Alton I needed a piss but the two loos on the train had committed suicide so I had to wait until I got to Alton station. The loo in Alton was in mourning for the two suicide toilets and, although I was bursting, I thought I coould hold on until I got to the gig. I was wrong. Five minutes into my walk I decided that I had to pee and I had to pee NOW. I started to feel urine seep into my nostrils. I really hoped that I wouldn't have to lower myself to pissing in the street. I'm 40. I shouldn't be pissing in the street. My cock started to cry so I thought I'd best rid myself of what little dignity I have left and walked into a very dark street and stood behind some bins. As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared. Well, I don't know if he was a shopkeeper or not but he was a punter who had been to Alton before. I know this because, while I was pissing, he waved at me and shouted "I'm coming to see you again tonight". It was nice that he was so keen on coming to the gig but I'd rather that he'd run me over in a racist lorry than saw me make tinkle. My tinkle froze in embarrassment and I continued on my journey.
When I got there I went straight to the toilet. Hooray! It was empty. Now for a slap-up piss! It was a lovely piss. A lovely piss that I felt I'd earned. I savoured every delighful moment of it and quickly forgot about the horrible piss-bin-waving-racist lorry incident of earlier. I felt so good just standing there pissing that surely I couldn't be happier than I was right there, right then in that beautiful, blissful state of relief. I could, actually. I could fart. I farted. It felt great. Then as if by magic, another fucking shopkeeper appeared. What the fuck is it with these shopkeepers (or whatever it is they do for a living)? He walked out of the cubicle, laughed and said "Bloody hell, was that you? Better get it out before you go onstage, eh?" For fuck's sake.I was dreading the gig. I compered the night without anyone in the small, brilliant audience mentioning my urine or gas. Two of them had every right to bring it up but they didn't. Because they're nice. That's what a nice person does. A nice person never mentions seeing you piss behind a bin but they also don't help me write about horrible people that I'm nice to. Hang on. I AM horrible people that I'm nice to. Hmmmm....interesting angle. Thanks, Alton. You're nice.
As if that wasn't enough niceness for one night, Cole Parker drove me (very nearly) all the way home AND gave me his ventolin after I lost mine. HE GAVE ME HIS MEDICINE. That is a whole level of niceness that I can't even fathom. I wouldn't give anyone my Wispa never mind my medicine but that's because I am horrible and everyone else in the world is nice. God, I really think I've made a break through with this blog.....sniff.....
By the way, King of Everything should be making a few podcasts this week. We might need your help. You're nice. You can't refuse!!!
Sunday, 25 January 2009
World's Laziest Blog.
Nothing much has happened to me over the last couple of days. I've done nothing. I should be working but I can't get my head round it at the moment. So, what do you do when you've got nothing to do? You probably sort out your taxes, hit the gym or go swimming? Not me. I have a new hobby and I want you all to have a go at it too. It's called sleeping.
Sleeping is fantastic. You can do it practically anywhere and can be played by one or more people. You can even do it with a dog, and how many activities can you say that about? You're right, three or four. This is pretty much my 2009 sorted now. When I have fuck all to do, I'm going to bed. You can all join me if you like (but you won't like it. I snore and rub a lot). I had a two hour nap in the middle of the day yesterday that didn't get my garden tidied up, my house cleaned or my neighbours apologised to but it did make me feel great. Highly recommended.
My other hobby, though nowhere near as exciting and fun as going to sleep, is re-casting famous films. But not re-casting them with other actors, instead I've re-cast them with other characters from other films. For instance, re-casting Star Wars with Wolverine as Han Solo, Barbarella as Princess Leia, Danny from Withnail and I as Chewbacca, Jay as C-3PO, Silent Bob as R2-D2 and Sandy from Grease as Luke Skywalker. It's a fun game. Sleeping is still my favourite but it's the re-casting of films that is keeping me awake. Time to do something else.
Sleeping is fantastic. You can do it practically anywhere and can be played by one or more people. You can even do it with a dog, and how many activities can you say that about? You're right, three or four. This is pretty much my 2009 sorted now. When I have fuck all to do, I'm going to bed. You can all join me if you like (but you won't like it. I snore and rub a lot). I had a two hour nap in the middle of the day yesterday that didn't get my garden tidied up, my house cleaned or my neighbours apologised to but it did make me feel great. Highly recommended.
My other hobby, though nowhere near as exciting and fun as going to sleep, is re-casting famous films. But not re-casting them with other actors, instead I've re-cast them with other characters from other films. For instance, re-casting Star Wars with Wolverine as Han Solo, Barbarella as Princess Leia, Danny from Withnail and I as Chewbacca, Jay as C-3PO, Silent Bob as R2-D2 and Sandy from Grease as Luke Skywalker. It's a fun game. Sleeping is still my favourite but it's the re-casting of films that is keeping me awake. Time to do something else.
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