I’ve been waddling a lot over the past 24 hours. The bottom of my back hurts and as soon as I get up its stiff so to start walking I have to waddle. When I was about 8, there was a man who waddled about in my home town of Newtownards. He was pretty old and waddled like a duck everywhere he went. My friends and I thought he was very curious. Why would a man choose to waddle around town like a duck? We were told that he couldn’t help it. This just confused us more and we decided to figure out why he had to waddle. We knew very little about how the body worked but we did know that he was old so, to us, the reason he waddled was obvious: He was shot in the dick during the war.
That was a story we came up with and it was a story we believed. It was the only conclusion we could come to. After a while though he went from the man who got shot in the dick during the war to the man who got shot in the dick by Hitler during the war. It was the kind of thing Hitler would definitely do because he was a baddie. You have to be pretty bad to shoot someone in the dick, although to be very fair to Hitler (he’s not here to defend himself), he may have been aiming for his ball. Hitler only had one and hated anyone who had more than one. Anytime we saw the man who waddled we looked at him with quiet respect because, after all, he was a war hero. To defend our country he was willing to sacrifice his own dick. The Hun didn’t stand a chance because that man’s dick was in the way. They say that, in war, out there somewhere there’s a bullet with your name on it but that evil Nazi bastard had the only bullet in WWII with “that man’s dick” written on it. I loathe Hitler. The thing is, we were only 8 so any respect for a man who got shot in the dick wasn’t ever going to last. About a week, I think, we gave him. Then respect turned to mocking and laughter. That stupid fucking idiot got his dick shot, the dickless fucking idiot, and so on. I regret that now.
As I waddled past some kids near the train station yesterday I thought that they might take one look at me and give the same diagnosis. I have become the man who got shot in the dick during the war (probably by Saddam Hussein though, I’m not THAT old). If I saw the man who got shot in the dick by Hitler during the war right now I would immediately apologise to him. Hopefully, he would see me waddling and relate to my pain and even see a kindred spirit to connect with while all 8 year old children on Earth laugh at us both. Let that be a lesson to all of us.
Mind you, some words can be too nice, too, can’t they? I mean ridiculously nice. Almost thoughtlessly nice. When Dan Mersh and I returned from Dublin on Thursday we saw someone near us reading OK! Magazine. It was full of pictures of Jade Goody. Jade’s story is utterly tragic (although no more tragic than any other person dying) and making the wedding as public as this means more money to leave to her kids. A very sensible move. But OK! wanted to be really nice about the day. Quite rightly. They wrote about how beautiful her dress was and how positive she appeared which is great. Then, and Dan and I could have got this wrong, we could have sworn we saw the sentence “Her dream wedding”. The page turned and that was that. I wish her all the best in what must be a terrifying time but, my God, that can’t have been her dream wedding. I can’t imagine that any little girl dreamed and hoped that one day she’d have to rush her wedding due to terminal illness, spring her husband from jail for the day and be joined by her two kids that aren’t his. No little girl dreams of that. But then Jade’s Fucking Awful Nightmare Wedding isn’t going to sell and it doesn’t sound as nice. Since then I’ve seen “Jade’s Dream Wedding” written in The Scotsman and MSN News. It’s just a stupid phrase given the circumstances. All the best to her though. Can’t imagine much worse than what she’s going through.
I saw Ian Brown in Starbucks yesterday. We said hello to each other with our eyebrows. I really didn’t expect Ian Brown to be a Starbucks kind of guy. Then, just before leaving, in popped Mick Jones from The Clash. The Starbucks in Holland Park is the most rock n’ roll coffee shop I’ve been to. I once saw Willie Rushton, Tim Rice, Ronnie Wood and Jimmy White in the same Wetherspoons but the Starbucks was even better. Actually, I’ve just thought about it. No way was it better.
By the way, Jongleurs Camden and I will be performing a rough, half hour, work-in-progress version of King of Everything at the Hen and Chickens in Islington on the 8th and 15th March. Please make sure it is completely sold out. Remember, I’m a war hero. I don’t want Saddam Hussein to have taken my dick for nothing.
I just knew that one day I’d write that sentence.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Friday, 27 February 2009
I Hate Martin.
Horne and Corden; a brand new sketch show starting soon on BBC3.
Sorry. I really did want to start this blog a lot more positively but I just saw that sentence and thought if I’m going to be depressed all day then you should be too. Sorry again. The last couple of days in Dublin were fantastic. King of Everything wrote new material, figured out a better way of writing together and finally got round to making its stage debut. The show was very good but, obviously, not without its flaws. I forgot a line, some gags didn’t work and the CD player decided to break just as it was needed. On the plus side, our ten minute spot extended to nearly twenty minutes, although the act on after us might not have thought of that as a plus. I really must thank our director, Dan Mersh, as his input so far has been invaluable and I’d like to say that Johnny Candon and I owe him a lot. I’d like to say that but I can’t because Johnny Candon no longer exists. The man is alive and well but Dan and I decided to change his name from Johnny Candon to Jongleurs Camden and we hope that you will only think of him as that too from now on and forever. It will definitely help his career now that he has the same name as a comedy club and that is all that Dan and I were thinking of when we kindly renamed him. Please change his details accordingly on your mobile phone now.
Besides working, it was mainly boozy in Dublin. We did a lot of bar hopping and generally it was fun. Dublin is, unsurprisingly, a good drinking town. On Wednesday we all woke up just a little bit hazy and hungover. That wasn’t a good way of feeling that particular Wednesday because that particular Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. For those who don’t know what Ash Wednesday is it’s a Holy Day of Obligation were the insane put ash on their actual foreheads and walk around proudly showing it off as if it was totally normal. Just being hungover and seeing EVERYONE you passed having a smear of black shit on their heads was just too weird to take in. It actually looked like every single person you saw had had the exact same accident just happen to them. Like they all had accidentally bumped their heads on the same fireplace or had all put their heads in a fire to light their cigarettes and didn’t check their reflections afterwards. They looked liked dicks. God must hate them. I don’t though because I’m much more forgiving than God plus they all made me laugh a lot. Thanks for that, weirdos.
I arrived back in London yesterday evening and went straight to a gig in the city and then off to one in Covent Garden. Both went OK despite my head being broken thanks to the Dublin booze. I quite like doing two gigs in one night but maybe not so much when I’m feeling like I only have half a pint of blood in me. The gigs were part of The Funny Side… empire and had the same bill playing at both of them. Poor Greg Burns had to watch me twice, but to be fair I watched him once so now we’re evens. As crap as I felt, Greg found it very easy to persuade me out to The Phoenix Bar for more totally unneeded beer. I’m glad I went really because, via Greg, I met some really nice people and A FUCKING CUNT.
Martin is the manager of The Phoenix Bar and a total evil fuckwit. If you know him, punch him. If you don’t know him, find out who he is and punch him. I got a round of drinks in. Greg wanted a brandy. He was given a drink that looked like whisky, smelled like whisky and, I think this is the important bit, tasted like whisky. But no, it was brandy. The fact that it was whisky from a bottle with the word whisky on it didn’t seem to matter to manager Martin. I asked for a brandy and, to him, I got a brandy. No amount of reason or fact was going to change Martin’s mind. In the end, Greg went up and bought himself a brandy and the whisky was poured into the sink. This just got on my goat’s nerve’s wick a bit and I decided that I must have a word with Martin. I was even relatively friendly about it. Then he said “I told him and now I’m telling you, you’re not getting you’re money back” to which I replied that I thought he was being a prick. He asked if I wanted to be barred and when I said “yes, please” he mumbled and walked away. The truth is that I would love a law to be put in place that meant my entry to The Phoenix Bar was illegal. Maybe those photos of people all round the bar itself are people who Martin has previously barred. That would explain why they’re up there. It’s not like any of them are in the least bit remotely famous.
When I got home I saw my Chortle Award. It does exist and it wasn’t a wind up. Omid Djalili was right after all. I looked at Chortle’s footage of the night and I’m particularly glad that my carefully prepared acceptance statement was read out (a single word “cunts”) and was thought of as unfunny by so many. By the way, Richard Herring was robbed blind. I haven’t seen Tim Michin’s show or indeed Tim Michin’s act, in fact I absolutely refuse to even spell his name correctly, but there is no way that it was better than The Headmaster’s Son. Mind you, Zoe Gardner’s Fault was even better than that and it wasn’t even nominated so really Zoe was the one who was robbed blind. Fuck you, Steve Bennett, you wouldn’t know a fucking decent on-stage comedian if they came up and fucked you just to get a three star review. That said, when it comes to off-stage comedians your taste is immaculate.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Sorry. I really did want to start this blog a lot more positively but I just saw that sentence and thought if I’m going to be depressed all day then you should be too. Sorry again. The last couple of days in Dublin were fantastic. King of Everything wrote new material, figured out a better way of writing together and finally got round to making its stage debut. The show was very good but, obviously, not without its flaws. I forgot a line, some gags didn’t work and the CD player decided to break just as it was needed. On the plus side, our ten minute spot extended to nearly twenty minutes, although the act on after us might not have thought of that as a plus. I really must thank our director, Dan Mersh, as his input so far has been invaluable and I’d like to say that Johnny Candon and I owe him a lot. I’d like to say that but I can’t because Johnny Candon no longer exists. The man is alive and well but Dan and I decided to change his name from Johnny Candon to Jongleurs Camden and we hope that you will only think of him as that too from now on and forever. It will definitely help his career now that he has the same name as a comedy club and that is all that Dan and I were thinking of when we kindly renamed him. Please change his details accordingly on your mobile phone now.
Besides working, it was mainly boozy in Dublin. We did a lot of bar hopping and generally it was fun. Dublin is, unsurprisingly, a good drinking town. On Wednesday we all woke up just a little bit hazy and hungover. That wasn’t a good way of feeling that particular Wednesday because that particular Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. For those who don’t know what Ash Wednesday is it’s a Holy Day of Obligation were the insane put ash on their actual foreheads and walk around proudly showing it off as if it was totally normal. Just being hungover and seeing EVERYONE you passed having a smear of black shit on their heads was just too weird to take in. It actually looked like every single person you saw had had the exact same accident just happen to them. Like they all had accidentally bumped their heads on the same fireplace or had all put their heads in a fire to light their cigarettes and didn’t check their reflections afterwards. They looked liked dicks. God must hate them. I don’t though because I’m much more forgiving than God plus they all made me laugh a lot. Thanks for that, weirdos.
I arrived back in London yesterday evening and went straight to a gig in the city and then off to one in Covent Garden. Both went OK despite my head being broken thanks to the Dublin booze. I quite like doing two gigs in one night but maybe not so much when I’m feeling like I only have half a pint of blood in me. The gigs were part of The Funny Side… empire and had the same bill playing at both of them. Poor Greg Burns had to watch me twice, but to be fair I watched him once so now we’re evens. As crap as I felt, Greg found it very easy to persuade me out to The Phoenix Bar for more totally unneeded beer. I’m glad I went really because, via Greg, I met some really nice people and A FUCKING CUNT.
Martin is the manager of The Phoenix Bar and a total evil fuckwit. If you know him, punch him. If you don’t know him, find out who he is and punch him. I got a round of drinks in. Greg wanted a brandy. He was given a drink that looked like whisky, smelled like whisky and, I think this is the important bit, tasted like whisky. But no, it was brandy. The fact that it was whisky from a bottle with the word whisky on it didn’t seem to matter to manager Martin. I asked for a brandy and, to him, I got a brandy. No amount of reason or fact was going to change Martin’s mind. In the end, Greg went up and bought himself a brandy and the whisky was poured into the sink. This just got on my goat’s nerve’s wick a bit and I decided that I must have a word with Martin. I was even relatively friendly about it. Then he said “I told him and now I’m telling you, you’re not getting you’re money back” to which I replied that I thought he was being a prick. He asked if I wanted to be barred and when I said “yes, please” he mumbled and walked away. The truth is that I would love a law to be put in place that meant my entry to The Phoenix Bar was illegal. Maybe those photos of people all round the bar itself are people who Martin has previously barred. That would explain why they’re up there. It’s not like any of them are in the least bit remotely famous.
When I got home I saw my Chortle Award. It does exist and it wasn’t a wind up. Omid Djalili was right after all. I looked at Chortle’s footage of the night and I’m particularly glad that my carefully prepared acceptance statement was read out (a single word “cunts”) and was thought of as unfunny by so many. By the way, Richard Herring was robbed blind. I haven’t seen Tim Michin’s show or indeed Tim Michin’s act, in fact I absolutely refuse to even spell his name correctly, but there is no way that it was better than The Headmaster’s Son. Mind you, Zoe Gardner’s Fault was even better than that and it wasn’t even nominated so really Zoe was the one who was robbed blind. Fuck you, Steve Bennett, you wouldn’t know a fucking decent on-stage comedian if they came up and fucked you just to get a three star review. That said, when it comes to off-stage comedians your taste is immaculate.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Fight! Fight! Fight!
I'm very pleased to say that this blog won a Chortle Award last night. I got it for Best Off-Stage Contribution. I'm not big on awards or forcing competition on an already very competitive occupation but this is very nice indeed. It's not heavily sponsored by a mortgage company and its just nice to think that at least some part of this industry thinks that I'm funny. Off-stage.
As if to prove that I'm not funny on-stage, the debut performance of King of Everything at The International Bar in Dublin last night was pulled at the last minute. It was gutting. Not that we were down to do the whole show, just 10 minutes, but we dragged our director, Dan Mersh, all the way to Dublin to see a little of what we could do and it was all for nothing. Bumfuck. We did some work on a couple of sketches and links and thought, fucking stupidly, that it was all going to go well. Then hardly anyone turned up. Only 9 people in a venue that holds 2,500. Well, it holds 60 but what's the fucking difference if no-one bothers to turn up? Stupid, lazy, Irish bastards. I fucking hate Dublin now. That said, the lovely people of Dublin are getting a second chance to let me down tonight because King of Everything are performing their REAL debut at the same venue. No doubt we'll sell out to a bunch of lovely comedy-appreciating sexy people, unlike last night's ugly bunch of lumpy fucks who stayed at home watching BBC3 and crying into their piss and basically doing everything they can to secure that I remained off-stage. The very arena that I win awards in.
So far, I've avoided getting into a big stupid fight here in Dublin, mainly because Dubliners are friendly (although they can't be arsed putting their potatoes down for five seconds to come out to comedy, the alcoholic, shamrock-shagging, leprahaun pricks). I'm glad about that because in my last 24 hours in London I managed to get into three big stupid fights. One when asking a little girl to kindly stop screaming in an internet cafe (the little girl was fine about it but her wheezing, red-faced, furious mother reckoned that I'm a durt-ee wankah). One was with a man who was keen to support his dog's raping of mine (he's only playing. With his cock). The most up to date one was with a teenager. I don't mind fighting with teenagers because every teenager in the world is King Bellend and deserves the kicking that they're permenently about to get. I was gigging in Alton and during Tom Wrigglesworth's excellent set two "18" year old lads were talking so I politely asked them to keep it down. One of them didn't like that and decided to stare at me. This child was under that mad impression that all grown adults are terrified of kids because they can stab us with their hoodies and happy slap us right up. Well, that's ridiculous. They're smaller than us. We can destroy them. Let's destroy them! He stared at me for quite a long time trying to intimidate me, if being stared at by a tinier version of Ray Quinn is intimidating to anyone then there's no way they should ever be out of the house. Eventually I turned to him and said "What?". He shrugged, looked away and started texting. A minute later he was back to giving me his bad-ass stare. That's when I pointed my finger in his face and told him to fuck off. He deflated in front of me and, for a second, I felt like I had just bullied that little boy who hid in shit in Schindler's List. Then I remembered he was a cunt.
None such rudeness in Dublin. All's well despite the lack of last night's show. We even had a brilliant Irish moment. We went to Johnny's local pub called The Village Inn. After a couple of drinks one of the staff came up to us with three cups of soup and said "HERE". It was the rudest act of kindness I have ever witnessed.
Here's to tonight's second attempt at a debut or an underlining confirmation of my award.
As if to prove that I'm not funny on-stage, the debut performance of King of Everything at The International Bar in Dublin last night was pulled at the last minute. It was gutting. Not that we were down to do the whole show, just 10 minutes, but we dragged our director, Dan Mersh, all the way to Dublin to see a little of what we could do and it was all for nothing. Bumfuck. We did some work on a couple of sketches and links and thought, fucking stupidly, that it was all going to go well. Then hardly anyone turned up. Only 9 people in a venue that holds 2,500. Well, it holds 60 but what's the fucking difference if no-one bothers to turn up? Stupid, lazy, Irish bastards. I fucking hate Dublin now. That said, the lovely people of Dublin are getting a second chance to let me down tonight because King of Everything are performing their REAL debut at the same venue. No doubt we'll sell out to a bunch of lovely comedy-appreciating sexy people, unlike last night's ugly bunch of lumpy fucks who stayed at home watching BBC3 and crying into their piss and basically doing everything they can to secure that I remained off-stage. The very arena that I win awards in.
So far, I've avoided getting into a big stupid fight here in Dublin, mainly because Dubliners are friendly (although they can't be arsed putting their potatoes down for five seconds to come out to comedy, the alcoholic, shamrock-shagging, leprahaun pricks). I'm glad about that because in my last 24 hours in London I managed to get into three big stupid fights. One when asking a little girl to kindly stop screaming in an internet cafe (the little girl was fine about it but her wheezing, red-faced, furious mother reckoned that I'm a durt-ee wankah). One was with a man who was keen to support his dog's raping of mine (he's only playing. With his cock). The most up to date one was with a teenager. I don't mind fighting with teenagers because every teenager in the world is King Bellend and deserves the kicking that they're permenently about to get. I was gigging in Alton and during Tom Wrigglesworth's excellent set two "18" year old lads were talking so I politely asked them to keep it down. One of them didn't like that and decided to stare at me. This child was under that mad impression that all grown adults are terrified of kids because they can stab us with their hoodies and happy slap us right up. Well, that's ridiculous. They're smaller than us. We can destroy them. Let's destroy them! He stared at me for quite a long time trying to intimidate me, if being stared at by a tinier version of Ray Quinn is intimidating to anyone then there's no way they should ever be out of the house. Eventually I turned to him and said "What?". He shrugged, looked away and started texting. A minute later he was back to giving me his bad-ass stare. That's when I pointed my finger in his face and told him to fuck off. He deflated in front of me and, for a second, I felt like I had just bullied that little boy who hid in shit in Schindler's List. Then I remembered he was a cunt.
None such rudeness in Dublin. All's well despite the lack of last night's show. We even had a brilliant Irish moment. We went to Johnny's local pub called The Village Inn. After a couple of drinks one of the staff came up to us with three cups of soup and said "HERE". It was the rudest act of kindness I have ever witnessed.
Here's to tonight's second attempt at a debut or an underlining confirmation of my award.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Avert Your Eyes.
Good fucking God. I don’t really have time for blogging today as King of Everything is making its (quite short) stage debut tomorrow night at The International Bar in Dublin, but I have just been sent a link that I feel I must share with you.
It was sent to me by a fine gentleman and much nicer person than me. He probably would not put the link on his blog in the hope that readers of his blog can share in its total and awful pointlessness. He would not want the people behind this link to think that his opinion of them was low. I, on the other hand, am compelled to do this. This might be the worst comedy I have ever seen. I got to 2 minutes and 22 seconds into the thing. Please try and do better than I did and let me know how you feel afterwards.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you….The Shop: http://www.theshopsitcom.co.uk/
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
It was sent to me by a fine gentleman and much nicer person than me. He probably would not put the link on his blog in the hope that readers of his blog can share in its total and awful pointlessness. He would not want the people behind this link to think that his opinion of them was low. I, on the other hand, am compelled to do this. This might be the worst comedy I have ever seen. I got to 2 minutes and 22 seconds into the thing. Please try and do better than I did and let me know how you feel afterwards.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you….The Shop: http://www.theshopsitcom.co.uk/
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Let Me Entertain You. Pur-leeeease!
On my way to a gig in Bow last night I bumped into someone who had seen me on stage a few times. She was very friendly and said nice things. She then said how much she liked my blog. That made me feel great. She quickly ruined my good feeling, of course, by leaving with the statement (which was actually a question) “Why are you so angry all the time?”
Well, Fuckface, the answer is simple. Look around you. Everywhere you go in life you are surrounded by arseholes. In London, they say, you are never more than six feet away from a rat at any time. The thing is, all of those rats are never more than two feet away from an absolute arsehole at any time. I’m very happy for you if you find everything fucking brilliant but I can’t. The shit that we have to put up with on a day to day basis is tolerated for reasons that I just cannot fathom or ignore. Why is there an oven in the river near my house? Why is someone screaming down their mobile phone on a train? Why is this woman angry with me just because I asked her daughter to be quiet in an internet café (this just happened 20 minutes ago)? Why is there a representative from Talk Talk at my front door telling me about a great new communications package including fast-speed broadband, cheap phone calls and great, great on-demand movies at 8.30 at fucking night? Why are police horses allowed to shit wherever the fuck they want and I’m not? Why is there NOTHING on TV? Why when I think I’ve got the hang of Sainsbury’s randomness do they change their entire shop around? Why is the tube late? Why is the tube so expensive? Why is the tube crowded? Why is the tube crowded with arseholes? Why is the tube in the tunnel for 10 minutes? Why doesn’t the tube driver know? Why doesn’t the tube driver turn up the volume on the tannoy so we can all clearly hear that he doesn’t know why we’re in a tunnel for 10 minutes? Why? Why? WHY?
Anyway, that’s why. Thanks for asking.
If the human race could simply fuck off, I’d be a lot happier. I just don’t see the point in them and I don’t see how they add to life. The good thing about this is that it now means I’m not “grumpy”. According to Liam Mullone’s excellent blog I am, in fact, a “Libertarian”. That means I’m still me but somehow just a little bit sexier.
A better way to clearly answer her question would be to take her to my gig in Bow last night. I like Bow. It’s never popular with many comedians but generally I like it. But not last night. The line-up was fantastic; Andrew Bird, Bennett Arron and Ben Norris, all great comedians. They were all exceptionally funny last night. What a shame the audience were too busy talking to notice there was such a good show on right in front of them. The front five tables seemed interested in the show. They laughed in all the right places, applauded when they especially liked something and, you know, had the good time that they paid for. The others actually paid money (and it’s not that cheap to get in) to sit and scream at their badly dressed, thick as fuck friends. I managed to say some of my very best feedlines on stage before asking the morons to keep talking to a minimum, which is a polite way of saying How fucking thick are you? Don’t you even realise there’s a show that you fucking paid for going on in front of you right now? Don’t you know how to actually conduct yourself in a public place, you fucking, fucking, FUCKING morons? Honestly, it was as if they hadn’t gone anywhere to learn how to whisper.
The door staff constantly asked people to be quiet but not all the staff were as helpful. I loved how they decided to bring out two birthday-candlelit cakes out just as I was introducing the open spot. The open spot was a very nice man called Pardis Parker (great name) who did a quick 10-minute slot. The audience were silent for him and listened throughout. Now, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but of all last night’s acts to give your undivided attention to perhaps this wasn’t the one. I’m sure he’d have done fine if the audience had watched any of the show before him but they just hadn’t. The audience were now very quiet. Quieter than they had been all night. Probably quieter than they had been their whole noisy lives. You could have heard a pin drop. Well, you certainly would have noticed a laugh if the audience had given one. The good news was that they were listening. Great! Let’s bring on Ben Norris! Then the audience went back to talking loudly. They obviously felt that they had given the show a chance and that was it. Not that Ben, or any of the other acts, didn’t get laughs. They all did. Just from selected audience members who laughed but then stopped laughing quickly to ask the table next to them to stop talking. Fucking pointless.
Anyway, that’s why. Thanks for asking.
Just in case you think I’m being over dramatic about a crap night then let me assure you I’m not. Bennett Arron said that he preferred the gig, in the same venue, the night before. Bennett was threatened with a kicking the night before. That should give you some idea about last night.
Hey ho. That’s how it goes sometimes. Sometimes you just get an incredible percentage of thick people in at the one time. I don’t get it and I never will. You pay for a show. The show is on. You sit and watch the show. To me, that’s pretty straight forward. I can only imagine long division or a rubiks cube would kill these people. It’s certainly worth a try.
Don’t let that (or me) put you off going to see live comedy. Thankfully there are still more than enough nice people out there to make up for a one-off night with some arseholes.
Crap! There goes my Libertarian status.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Well, Fuckface, the answer is simple. Look around you. Everywhere you go in life you are surrounded by arseholes. In London, they say, you are never more than six feet away from a rat at any time. The thing is, all of those rats are never more than two feet away from an absolute arsehole at any time. I’m very happy for you if you find everything fucking brilliant but I can’t. The shit that we have to put up with on a day to day basis is tolerated for reasons that I just cannot fathom or ignore. Why is there an oven in the river near my house? Why is someone screaming down their mobile phone on a train? Why is this woman angry with me just because I asked her daughter to be quiet in an internet café (this just happened 20 minutes ago)? Why is there a representative from Talk Talk at my front door telling me about a great new communications package including fast-speed broadband, cheap phone calls and great, great on-demand movies at 8.30 at fucking night? Why are police horses allowed to shit wherever the fuck they want and I’m not? Why is there NOTHING on TV? Why when I think I’ve got the hang of Sainsbury’s randomness do they change their entire shop around? Why is the tube late? Why is the tube so expensive? Why is the tube crowded? Why is the tube crowded with arseholes? Why is the tube in the tunnel for 10 minutes? Why doesn’t the tube driver know? Why doesn’t the tube driver turn up the volume on the tannoy so we can all clearly hear that he doesn’t know why we’re in a tunnel for 10 minutes? Why? Why? WHY?
Anyway, that’s why. Thanks for asking.
If the human race could simply fuck off, I’d be a lot happier. I just don’t see the point in them and I don’t see how they add to life. The good thing about this is that it now means I’m not “grumpy”. According to Liam Mullone’s excellent blog I am, in fact, a “Libertarian”. That means I’m still me but somehow just a little bit sexier.
A better way to clearly answer her question would be to take her to my gig in Bow last night. I like Bow. It’s never popular with many comedians but generally I like it. But not last night. The line-up was fantastic; Andrew Bird, Bennett Arron and Ben Norris, all great comedians. They were all exceptionally funny last night. What a shame the audience were too busy talking to notice there was such a good show on right in front of them. The front five tables seemed interested in the show. They laughed in all the right places, applauded when they especially liked something and, you know, had the good time that they paid for. The others actually paid money (and it’s not that cheap to get in) to sit and scream at their badly dressed, thick as fuck friends. I managed to say some of my very best feedlines on stage before asking the morons to keep talking to a minimum, which is a polite way of saying How fucking thick are you? Don’t you even realise there’s a show that you fucking paid for going on in front of you right now? Don’t you know how to actually conduct yourself in a public place, you fucking, fucking, FUCKING morons? Honestly, it was as if they hadn’t gone anywhere to learn how to whisper.
The door staff constantly asked people to be quiet but not all the staff were as helpful. I loved how they decided to bring out two birthday-candlelit cakes out just as I was introducing the open spot. The open spot was a very nice man called Pardis Parker (great name) who did a quick 10-minute slot. The audience were silent for him and listened throughout. Now, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but of all last night’s acts to give your undivided attention to perhaps this wasn’t the one. I’m sure he’d have done fine if the audience had watched any of the show before him but they just hadn’t. The audience were now very quiet. Quieter than they had been all night. Probably quieter than they had been their whole noisy lives. You could have heard a pin drop. Well, you certainly would have noticed a laugh if the audience had given one. The good news was that they were listening. Great! Let’s bring on Ben Norris! Then the audience went back to talking loudly. They obviously felt that they had given the show a chance and that was it. Not that Ben, or any of the other acts, didn’t get laughs. They all did. Just from selected audience members who laughed but then stopped laughing quickly to ask the table next to them to stop talking. Fucking pointless.
Anyway, that’s why. Thanks for asking.
Just in case you think I’m being over dramatic about a crap night then let me assure you I’m not. Bennett Arron said that he preferred the gig, in the same venue, the night before. Bennett was threatened with a kicking the night before. That should give you some idea about last night.
Hey ho. That’s how it goes sometimes. Sometimes you just get an incredible percentage of thick people in at the one time. I don’t get it and I never will. You pay for a show. The show is on. You sit and watch the show. To me, that’s pretty straight forward. I can only imagine long division or a rubiks cube would kill these people. It’s certainly worth a try.
Don’t let that (or me) put you off going to see live comedy. Thankfully there are still more than enough nice people out there to make up for a one-off night with some arseholes.
Crap! There goes my Libertarian status.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Saturday, 21 February 2009
The Enemy of the World.
Robert Mugabe is a massive dick. I don't normally come off with insightful political comment like that but the man makes me furious. He gets through elections by using threats of violence to secure the outcome, he takes people's farmlands from them, he used to work at Chortle, he once punched a unicorn and now this: Robert Mugabe is refusing to let the BBC look through Zimbabwean television vaults in the hope of finding the remaining lost episodes of Doctor Who. I fucking hate Robert Mugabe. This is by far the worst thing he has ever done.
108 episodes of Doctor Who are still missing after the BBC destroyed master tapes of the programme in the '60's because the BBC are fucking idiots with no soul who keep sending me rejection letters. Since then some episodes have been found in foreign TV vaults and the occassional car boot sale. But, because of his hatred of all white people and Torchwood, probably, Robert Mugabe has decided that he will keep the contents of the vaults secret. There could be Episode four of The Tenth Planet in there, you despot anus.
I know all this because I read The Sun yesterday, a newspaper that I have only just discovered holds the exact same views and opinions that I do. You are right, The Sun. Mugabe is "Worse than Davros". I bet that has sent him in to a wild, violent fury that a British newspaper has bravely stood up to his hate-regime and told him that he is worse than someone who doesn't exist.
Also, in the same newspaper, was an editorial bile by Jon Gaunt. I don't know Jon Gaunt. All that I do know about him is what's been said on the Collings & Herrin Podcast. What I have learned about "Gaunty" since reading his column is that he is a calm and reasonable man who has accepted the horrors of the world and risen above them. That is, until a recent line was crossed and even this gentle soul could not bare to sit back and watch the injustice any longer. He said that you know things are bad in the world when the Pet Shop Boys win a Brit award. How right he is. Like Jon Gaunt, I too do not care about the Credit Crunch, teenage stabbings, international terrorism or any other global disaster. But where are we good, good people to go now that the Pet Shop Boys have won a trophy? Surely this is the darkest day that the human race has yet faced. I'm sure in years to come we will all remember where we were when we heard the news that the Pet Shop Boys have won a Brit. Please, Jesus, if you are there, hear us. We need you now more than ever. Just help Jon Gaunt get through this one thing. There is no hope for any of us now that the record industry has decided to pay tribute to a HOMOSEXUAL and his friend just because they are both brilliantly talented. God, what a horrible world to bring a child into.
I'd like to welcome Amy Kathleen Tetsell to planet Earth. She was born last night at 9pm and is, what I like to consider, the first of the many, many Real Daniel O'Donnell Show children. Congratulations to Margaret and Dan and well done Margaret on being upgraded from crying, pregnant bastard to simply bastard. Congratulations to all three.
108 episodes of Doctor Who are still missing after the BBC destroyed master tapes of the programme in the '60's because the BBC are fucking idiots with no soul who keep sending me rejection letters. Since then some episodes have been found in foreign TV vaults and the occassional car boot sale. But, because of his hatred of all white people and Torchwood, probably, Robert Mugabe has decided that he will keep the contents of the vaults secret. There could be Episode four of The Tenth Planet in there, you despot anus.
I know all this because I read The Sun yesterday, a newspaper that I have only just discovered holds the exact same views and opinions that I do. You are right, The Sun. Mugabe is "Worse than Davros". I bet that has sent him in to a wild, violent fury that a British newspaper has bravely stood up to his hate-regime and told him that he is worse than someone who doesn't exist.
Also, in the same newspaper, was an editorial bile by Jon Gaunt. I don't know Jon Gaunt. All that I do know about him is what's been said on the Collings & Herrin Podcast. What I have learned about "Gaunty" since reading his column is that he is a calm and reasonable man who has accepted the horrors of the world and risen above them. That is, until a recent line was crossed and even this gentle soul could not bare to sit back and watch the injustice any longer. He said that you know things are bad in the world when the Pet Shop Boys win a Brit award. How right he is. Like Jon Gaunt, I too do not care about the Credit Crunch, teenage stabbings, international terrorism or any other global disaster. But where are we good, good people to go now that the Pet Shop Boys have won a trophy? Surely this is the darkest day that the human race has yet faced. I'm sure in years to come we will all remember where we were when we heard the news that the Pet Shop Boys have won a Brit. Please, Jesus, if you are there, hear us. We need you now more than ever. Just help Jon Gaunt get through this one thing. There is no hope for any of us now that the record industry has decided to pay tribute to a HOMOSEXUAL and his friend just because they are both brilliantly talented. God, what a horrible world to bring a child into.
I'd like to welcome Amy Kathleen Tetsell to planet Earth. She was born last night at 9pm and is, what I like to consider, the first of the many, many Real Daniel O'Donnell Show children. Congratulations to Margaret and Dan and well done Margaret on being upgraded from crying, pregnant bastard to simply bastard. Congratulations to all three.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
This Band Has Eaten All Our Money and We Don't Mind.
I have the world’s loveliest hangover today. It’s just humming away gently inside my head, more of a lullaby than a headache. It’s there just to remind me that I had a lovely night last night out with friends I hardly ever see. Zoe, Chad, Clare, Jo, Darren,Cat, Dom, Vera, Ally, Chris, Tony, Toria, Jo, Andy (who I just met), Ballyclare Paul, Kathy, Karin, Bob, Charlotte and some others who I don’t know. It was so good. Hooray for all them. And there was booze. Not loads, but enough. And my hangover is a gentle, throbbing reminder that keeping in touch with your friends (actually real, face to face, not Twittering) is something I should be doing more of.
I was invited along to an evening in Kings Cross themed “F*** The Brits”. Now, although I saw the asterisks as cowardly I definitely loved the sentiment behind the title. Imagine my disappointment when I got there and discovered it was just a load of starving indie bands and not some IRA uprising like I hoped. I ironed my balaclava for nothing. I say nothing, I still looked fabulous in it and I certainly turned a few heads. Ha ha ha! Only joking! I was actually really there to see my favourite band in the entire world, 28 Costumes.
You know the way your friend has a band and its shit? Well, I don’t have that problem. My friends’ band is genuinely my favourite band and they are a never ending fountain of great pop hooks, uplifting tunes and plainly exciting, danceable, guitar-driven, feel-good songs. Not in a fucking Wombats way. In a good way. In a 28 Costumes way. Plus, they can break your heart when they feel like it, too. To put it simply; I adore them. It was such a good gig last night and I was over the moon that they had drawn a great crowd to the legendary Water Rats. Normally London venues like this are lucky if half a man and a third of his dog turn up and it was good to see that they did. So did lots of other complete people. You will be doing yourself a big favour if you go to iTunes now and download one of 28 Costumes songs. It will cost you 79p. Imagine that? 79p for happiness? That is a bargain. I recommend one of the tunes from their Electrical Fever EP but all their stuff is excellent really. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than that band your friend is in. www.itunes.com/28costumes
After the band it was back to boozing and two beautiful discoveries. Firstly, although by being at the Water Rats I was therefore f***ing the Brits, I did manage to see one bit of the pointless, middle-of-the-road pop trophy event. It was for best live act. Best live act in 2009. Coldplay? White Lies? Lady Gaga? NO! The winner was Iron Maiden. I’m so proud of them. I was a member of their fan club in 1981, don’t you know? (Don’t let that put you off my love of 28 Costumes, my taste is much more refined since 1981) Secondly, did you know that when the Pixies split up their drummer became a professional magician? It’s true and it’s fantastic. There is a documentary called loudQUIETloud and in it David Lovering appears at several magic shows under the name The Scientific Phenomenalist. Personally, I think he should have called himself The Magic Lovering although that might have given him a totally different audience.
Yeah, it was a simple night of drinking and seeing friends but, really, you can’t get much better than that. Well, you can. Later that night I was asked to leave a waiting room in London Bridge’s train station because it was a women only waiting room. I told the attendant that I was a woman and we both left it at that. She obviously didn’t want to question it and I didn’t want to budge from her incredibly sexist waiting room. For all she knew I was a woman. After all, I still had the balaclava on.
I’m glad this blog is cheerier than yesterdays.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
I was invited along to an evening in Kings Cross themed “F*** The Brits”. Now, although I saw the asterisks as cowardly I definitely loved the sentiment behind the title. Imagine my disappointment when I got there and discovered it was just a load of starving indie bands and not some IRA uprising like I hoped. I ironed my balaclava for nothing. I say nothing, I still looked fabulous in it and I certainly turned a few heads. Ha ha ha! Only joking! I was actually really there to see my favourite band in the entire world, 28 Costumes.
You know the way your friend has a band and its shit? Well, I don’t have that problem. My friends’ band is genuinely my favourite band and they are a never ending fountain of great pop hooks, uplifting tunes and plainly exciting, danceable, guitar-driven, feel-good songs. Not in a fucking Wombats way. In a good way. In a 28 Costumes way. Plus, they can break your heart when they feel like it, too. To put it simply; I adore them. It was such a good gig last night and I was over the moon that they had drawn a great crowd to the legendary Water Rats. Normally London venues like this are lucky if half a man and a third of his dog turn up and it was good to see that they did. So did lots of other complete people. You will be doing yourself a big favour if you go to iTunes now and download one of 28 Costumes songs. It will cost you 79p. Imagine that? 79p for happiness? That is a bargain. I recommend one of the tunes from their Electrical Fever EP but all their stuff is excellent really. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than that band your friend is in. www.itunes.com/28costumes
After the band it was back to boozing and two beautiful discoveries. Firstly, although by being at the Water Rats I was therefore f***ing the Brits, I did manage to see one bit of the pointless, middle-of-the-road pop trophy event. It was for best live act. Best live act in 2009. Coldplay? White Lies? Lady Gaga? NO! The winner was Iron Maiden. I’m so proud of them. I was a member of their fan club in 1981, don’t you know? (Don’t let that put you off my love of 28 Costumes, my taste is much more refined since 1981) Secondly, did you know that when the Pixies split up their drummer became a professional magician? It’s true and it’s fantastic. There is a documentary called loudQUIETloud and in it David Lovering appears at several magic shows under the name The Scientific Phenomenalist. Personally, I think he should have called himself The Magic Lovering although that might have given him a totally different audience.
Yeah, it was a simple night of drinking and seeing friends but, really, you can’t get much better than that. Well, you can. Later that night I was asked to leave a waiting room in London Bridge’s train station because it was a women only waiting room. I told the attendant that I was a woman and we both left it at that. She obviously didn’t want to question it and I didn’t want to budge from her incredibly sexist waiting room. For all she knew I was a woman. After all, I still had the balaclava on.
I’m glad this blog is cheerier than yesterdays.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
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