So I was ill and like any real man, I played up to my illness. It started on Sunday night. I was compering a show and all was well but I started getting queasy, hot, cold and nauseous while watching Danny Buckler. This had happened before, of course, but it felt different this time. I drank lots of beer to make myself feel more like me but it didn't work. I moaned and complained and acted like this might be the end. When I woke up the next day I still felt like shit.
When I was a very young boy and I got ill, my Mum would tell me to lie on the sofa, give me a little blanket, switch Bagpuss on and give me an Egg Beat-Up In a Cup (recipe: Boiled egg in a cup, mash it up with a fork). It always made me feel better. A few years ago, my sister Dianne bought me a birthday present that consisted of a blanket, a cup, a fork and a Bagpuss DVD.
Well, it still works. I'm 41 and an Egg Beat-Up In a Cup and Bagpuss (yes, the chocolate biscuit episode) still cures any illness I get. Why are these insane scientists wasting time and money trying to find cures for cancer, Aids and Swine Flu when we already have one? Fuck you, Professor Dick! Thank you, Oliver Postgate and a chicken.
So by Monday afternoon, I felt a lot better and ready to record Precious Little podcast number 3. I was in a very good mood despite my phone running out of battery which, as you will know, is the worst thing that can happen to a human being ever at any time ever. Think of all the TV producers and film executives who would be calling me right now saying "Michael, you were right! Justin Lee Collins is a bellend. We need you to save entertainment! Write a sit-com about space sex! QUICK!" yet all they would get is me asking them to leave a message. The podcast went well. We talked about our one and only review and it was an absolute pleasure to see James get angry over what is essentially nothing. I didn't think James got angry. We also had another Interview James, discussed our look-alikes, mourned the passing of The Astoria and congratulated Ian of The Re-Entrants for his winning theme tune to our podcast. My fingering just wasn't appreciated or wanted.
After the podcast, James and I made our way back to London to see some gigs. James went to see Helen Arney and I went to see The Trap at BBC Radio Entertaining. They were very funny indeed, as usual. Their scripts are just fantastic. They always seem to tie everything up so brilliantly. I sat there being a bit jealous and wishing one of them was dead so that I could have a small chance of being in a sketch group with them. Then I remembered I am.
Los Quattros Cunts, the one-off sketch group that The Trap and I formed about a year ago are re-forming for two gigs in November at The Phoenix, off Oxford Street. We'll be performing sketches in the first half with the second half consisting of a little bit of us and a different special guest both nights. The special guests will not be crap. They will be very much uncrap. I'd advise you to go to these gigs. Buy a diary and write Los Quattros Cunts in it right now.
Another gig I recommend is Richard Sandling's Perfect Movie at The Comedy Pub. It's a great show made up of stand-ups doing a completely movie-based set and the closing act picks out 5 scenes from 5 different films to re-enact. I did the last bit but it was definitely the stand-ups that made the night. I was so impressed by Nick Helm, Stephen Hill and Tom Crowley for doing actual sets that were tailor made for this gig. Especially sets that were that good. Bastards.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Portsmouth Strikes Again.
It was a strange weekend. Highs and lows. The highs were....Oh. Maybe there weren't any highs.
The Saturday night in Portsmouth had at least one great thing going for it: there weren't any church groups pointing out how satanic STD's are. We had a normal interval just like in the good old days. The audience were OK that night and the show went fine. The highlight was seeing new act Tom Goble who was doing a five-minute open spot. He was fantastic and the audience really liked him. That's nice that is. That was the bit that made the night for me. Especially as what came after him was an act who was so racist, offensive and enjoyed acres of stolen material that I assumed I had died and gone to Hell and then Hell had died and gone to Portsmouth. Basically the act "hilariously" put on a wacky foreign voice and claimed he was an illegal immigrant and came off with jokes like "Ah've beeeen to Eeeeendia. The reel one, not Birmingham" and the audience gave him a standing ovation. It was depressing. Backstage he told a story of what good mates he is with Uncle Jim. He talked about Uncle Jim a lot. Uncle Jim let's gives him gigs. Uncle Jim phones him up. Uncle Jim is great. Uncle Jim is Jim Davison. For fuck's sake.
The most uncomfortable part was that he seemed quite nice and friendly before going on stage. He seemed nice. He was very keen on finding out about the other acts, he was excited about doing the gig and he spoke in a very camp, cheery voice. So much so that when he said that he was getting married soon I totally assumed it was a Civil Ceremony (it's called Positive Sexism. I invented it). But judging from the homophobic embarrassment that came out of his mouth on stage I now take it that he's marrying a woman. You know. Like Michael Barrymore did.
The audience absolutely loved him though so what the hell do I know? I know that as OK as I did, I wasn't ever going to do as well as this guy. That made me a bit depressed. I left the venue as soon as the show ended.
I walked back to the hotel past so many people who were screaming at one another and drinking in the street and flashing their tits at passing cars. This wasn't making me feel any better about anything. Still, I'd be in my room soon and watching some telly. That'll be nice.
It wasn't nice. I ended up watching Bring Back....Fame. That was never going to help, was it? I pulled the bed covers over my head, closed my eyes and dreamt that everyone I knew had won a chance to bootfuck Justin Lee Collins in the kidneys.
When I woke up I couldn't have got out of Portsmouth quick enough. I was glad that it was over. Far from awful gigs but I just wanted to be home. As I left the hotel I couldn't help but notice how much nicer Portsmouth is at 8am on a Sunday. It was then that I saw a pair of pink knickers lying in a hedge. I quickened my pace.
Yesterday was much better. I had lunch with my friends, Tara and Carl, who have just announced their engagement. Congratulations to both of them. I'm very glad they've met because it would be a crime if two damn good looking, great people like them had been wasted on the likes of one of us. We're just not in their league. Then it was off to Alton to perform at the UK's best gig. It's the kind of gig that drives home exactly why you would want to do this fucking crap job for a living. The audience are amazing and continue to outdo themselves every time I play there. It made me happy.
Which is probably why I feel so ill right now. My body isn't used to joy. Stupid fucking Alton.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
The Saturday night in Portsmouth had at least one great thing going for it: there weren't any church groups pointing out how satanic STD's are. We had a normal interval just like in the good old days. The audience were OK that night and the show went fine. The highlight was seeing new act Tom Goble who was doing a five-minute open spot. He was fantastic and the audience really liked him. That's nice that is. That was the bit that made the night for me. Especially as what came after him was an act who was so racist, offensive and enjoyed acres of stolen material that I assumed I had died and gone to Hell and then Hell had died and gone to Portsmouth. Basically the act "hilariously" put on a wacky foreign voice and claimed he was an illegal immigrant and came off with jokes like "Ah've beeeen to Eeeeendia. The reel one, not Birmingham" and the audience gave him a standing ovation. It was depressing. Backstage he told a story of what good mates he is with Uncle Jim. He talked about Uncle Jim a lot. Uncle Jim let's gives him gigs. Uncle Jim phones him up. Uncle Jim is great. Uncle Jim is Jim Davison. For fuck's sake.
The most uncomfortable part was that he seemed quite nice and friendly before going on stage. He seemed nice. He was very keen on finding out about the other acts, he was excited about doing the gig and he spoke in a very camp, cheery voice. So much so that when he said that he was getting married soon I totally assumed it was a Civil Ceremony (it's called Positive Sexism. I invented it). But judging from the homophobic embarrassment that came out of his mouth on stage I now take it that he's marrying a woman. You know. Like Michael Barrymore did.
The audience absolutely loved him though so what the hell do I know? I know that as OK as I did, I wasn't ever going to do as well as this guy. That made me a bit depressed. I left the venue as soon as the show ended.
I walked back to the hotel past so many people who were screaming at one another and drinking in the street and flashing their tits at passing cars. This wasn't making me feel any better about anything. Still, I'd be in my room soon and watching some telly. That'll be nice.
It wasn't nice. I ended up watching Bring Back....Fame. That was never going to help, was it? I pulled the bed covers over my head, closed my eyes and dreamt that everyone I knew had won a chance to bootfuck Justin Lee Collins in the kidneys.
When I woke up I couldn't have got out of Portsmouth quick enough. I was glad that it was over. Far from awful gigs but I just wanted to be home. As I left the hotel I couldn't help but notice how much nicer Portsmouth is at 8am on a Sunday. It was then that I saw a pair of pink knickers lying in a hedge. I quickened my pace.
Yesterday was much better. I had lunch with my friends, Tara and Carl, who have just announced their engagement. Congratulations to both of them. I'm very glad they've met because it would be a crime if two damn good looking, great people like them had been wasted on the likes of one of us. We're just not in their league. Then it was off to Alton to perform at the UK's best gig. It's the kind of gig that drives home exactly why you would want to do this fucking crap job for a living. The audience are amazing and continue to outdo themselves every time I play there. It made me happy.
Which is probably why I feel so ill right now. My body isn't used to joy. Stupid fucking Alton.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 26 September 2009
The Interval R.I.P.
For fuck’s sake. I mean, really. For fuck’s sake. What is so wrong with doing nothing or going for a piss or buying a drink or realising that this isn’t for you and just leaving? Isn’t that what the interval is all about? What has happened to the good old British interval? You know, the interval that won two world wars and ruled the planet and invented TV? The interval that you could leave your front door open during and cheered on when Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards was shit. That’s the interval I remember. But, people, that interval has gone.
I’m in Portsmouth this weekend. No, don’t pity me. After all, I got to see the Chinese restaurant that Peter Sellers was born in and I got to hear more of Rod Stewart’s American Songbook than any human deserves while in a pub last night. So, really, I’m having a (have a sarcastic voice in your head for the next two words) great time. Last night’s gig was fine but very, very tricky. The audience were perfectly nice but it’s the kind of room that you have to slow down to be heard and every word must be emphasised properly or people won’t have the first clue what you’re talking about. I figured that out early but that didn’t stop me struggling. I just about got away with it even though a few of my jokes were greeted with concrete grey warmth. But they were OK. You just had to be on the ball and, as the show had to be rushed, I didn’t really have time to get on the ball (yes, yes, yes. And I’m shit).
Martin Davis opened and did a great job. The audience loved him. I thought this is going to be great from now on. I was big wrong. I went back on stage to introduce Ron Vaudry and the audience looked at me as if to say “Go away. We like the elderly mod better”. Ironically, I aged rapidly during my two minutes on stage. Some people laughed. I now have both of their names and addresses. Ron went on and again struggled to be heard. Still, at least the interval is near and we can clear the slate and start all over again. They’ll have time to drink away the memory of me and then it’ll all be fresh again.
Then something weird happened.
During the interval a church group got up on stage to give a “fun” lecture about the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a comedy club where a church group gets on stage to give a “fun” lecture on the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases before but this was a first for me and I’ve done nearly 20 gigs. They certainly looked like a church group anyway. Four people wearing blue t-shirts that individually read “Chlamydia”, “Herpes”, “Gonorrhea” and “AIDS” who all showed us ways of avoiding catching something horrible from unprotected sex. Surely the best way to avoid catching an STD is to wear one of those t-shirts. I’ve never once tried to seduce a woman who has the word AIDS screamed across her clothes. Not even while drunk. The four churchies were lead by their very own Mr. Cool. I’ll tell you how cool he was: he didn’t wear an STD boasting t-shirt (he wore a groovy black suit) and he was a DJ on Galaxy FM. In Portsmouth he is 10 Brad Pitts and a Fonz. He had a microphone and used it to persuade people to get up on to the stage to receive an STD goodie bag. I wish I was making that up but that’s what was happening right in front of me during the interval. More and more people (mainly sluggishly dressed women) got up on stage to shout “OI OI!!!” into the mic and receive their STD goodie bag and I couldn’t help but think that this was the work of the Devil that this church group were doing. Surely, if God loved us He would want these fucknuts to get a disease and die. Why are these people stopping this important piece of natural selection?
Then, Mr. Cool from Galaxy FM invited for dignityless fuck-holes on stage to see who could put a blue condom on to a plastic penis the best. God must be spinning in his grave. It goes without saying that the big-titted blonde in the fuck-me-up-arse-if-you-like-I’m-not-bothered-as-long-as-you-buy-me-chips shoes won.
The second half, and I’m really not sure how this happened, was actually pretty good. I did a VERY tight five and introduced Rick Wright. The audience didn’t seem in the slightest bit phased by what they had seen during the interval even though I felt like my brain had been to Noel’s House Rape. Is this a new thing I have to get used to? Very strange.
The good thing was that the gig went OK and we were in the pub by 10.30. That NEVER happens. It’s a lovely thing going to the pub after a gig and having a, you know, conversation. I recommend it. Martin told some brilliant tales of his days as a Faces groupie and I even managed to recommend a Small Faces related album that he had never heard of before. It’s called Would You Believe? By Billy Nicholls and I think you should listen to it too. It has an amazing song on it called London Social Degree that basically says everything in 3 minutes that Brett Anderson said in 6 albums. Enjoy.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I’m in Portsmouth this weekend. No, don’t pity me. After all, I got to see the Chinese restaurant that Peter Sellers was born in and I got to hear more of Rod Stewart’s American Songbook than any human deserves while in a pub last night. So, really, I’m having a (have a sarcastic voice in your head for the next two words) great time. Last night’s gig was fine but very, very tricky. The audience were perfectly nice but it’s the kind of room that you have to slow down to be heard and every word must be emphasised properly or people won’t have the first clue what you’re talking about. I figured that out early but that didn’t stop me struggling. I just about got away with it even though a few of my jokes were greeted with concrete grey warmth. But they were OK. You just had to be on the ball and, as the show had to be rushed, I didn’t really have time to get on the ball (yes, yes, yes. And I’m shit).
Martin Davis opened and did a great job. The audience loved him. I thought this is going to be great from now on. I was big wrong. I went back on stage to introduce Ron Vaudry and the audience looked at me as if to say “Go away. We like the elderly mod better”. Ironically, I aged rapidly during my two minutes on stage. Some people laughed. I now have both of their names and addresses. Ron went on and again struggled to be heard. Still, at least the interval is near and we can clear the slate and start all over again. They’ll have time to drink away the memory of me and then it’ll all be fresh again.
Then something weird happened.
During the interval a church group got up on stage to give a “fun” lecture about the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a comedy club where a church group gets on stage to give a “fun” lecture on the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases before but this was a first for me and I’ve done nearly 20 gigs. They certainly looked like a church group anyway. Four people wearing blue t-shirts that individually read “Chlamydia”, “Herpes”, “Gonorrhea” and “AIDS” who all showed us ways of avoiding catching something horrible from unprotected sex. Surely the best way to avoid catching an STD is to wear one of those t-shirts. I’ve never once tried to seduce a woman who has the word AIDS screamed across her clothes. Not even while drunk. The four churchies were lead by their very own Mr. Cool. I’ll tell you how cool he was: he didn’t wear an STD boasting t-shirt (he wore a groovy black suit) and he was a DJ on Galaxy FM. In Portsmouth he is 10 Brad Pitts and a Fonz. He had a microphone and used it to persuade people to get up on to the stage to receive an STD goodie bag. I wish I was making that up but that’s what was happening right in front of me during the interval. More and more people (mainly sluggishly dressed women) got up on stage to shout “OI OI!!!” into the mic and receive their STD goodie bag and I couldn’t help but think that this was the work of the Devil that this church group were doing. Surely, if God loved us He would want these fucknuts to get a disease and die. Why are these people stopping this important piece of natural selection?
Then, Mr. Cool from Galaxy FM invited for dignityless fuck-holes on stage to see who could put a blue condom on to a plastic penis the best. God must be spinning in his grave. It goes without saying that the big-titted blonde in the fuck-me-up-arse-if-you-like-I’m-not-bothered-as-long-as-you-buy-me-chips shoes won.
The second half, and I’m really not sure how this happened, was actually pretty good. I did a VERY tight five and introduced Rick Wright. The audience didn’t seem in the slightest bit phased by what they had seen during the interval even though I felt like my brain had been to Noel’s House Rape. Is this a new thing I have to get used to? Very strange.
The good thing was that the gig went OK and we were in the pub by 10.30. That NEVER happens. It’s a lovely thing going to the pub after a gig and having a, you know, conversation. I recommend it. Martin told some brilliant tales of his days as a Faces groupie and I even managed to recommend a Small Faces related album that he had never heard of before. It’s called Would You Believe? By Billy Nicholls and I think you should listen to it too. It has an amazing song on it called London Social Degree that basically says everything in 3 minutes that Brett Anderson said in 6 albums. Enjoy.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Friday, 25 September 2009
BORED!
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Justin Lee Collins is a cunt. But, I digress...
What a boring week it's been. Other than work stuff I've done nothing. I've even stayed at home a whopping three nights in a row. That might seem like nothing to you but that is total imprisonment to me. After night two I started to feel EXACTLY like Josef Fritzl's daughter. I'm sure now she and I would have very interesting conversations if we ever met. You have no idea the torment the two of us have been through. We both know the depression of being kept in the same room looking at all the couple of hundred DVD covers and deciding that there is absolutely NOTHING to watch. I'm sure there were many times that she must have scrolled through her mobile phone looking at all her friend's names and thinking to herself "Yeah, I'd love to go to the pub with them but I can't be bothered going too far and they would never go south. I know what Hans is like". Three days, twenty-six years; it's all exactly the same when you are a little bit bored.
The thing is, it's been a dull week anyway. I'm sure there are all sorts of horrible and important things going on in this world of ours but very little of it seems to make it's way to me. As far as news goes, mainly the idiot stuff gets shoved in my face. To be fair, mainly because I'm surprised that anyone would think that anyone would need to know this stuff.
Keisha has left the Sugababes. Lily Allen has quit the music business. Tommy Tiernan hates Jews.
WHO FUCKING CARES? Yes, yes, yes. I know. Me. But fuck me, this shouldn't end up on TV news, should it? Don't get me wrong, I find it quite funny that there is a successful pop band out there without a single original member in it while the actual three who started the group have solo careers. They could just re-form and call themselves The ACTUAL Sugababes. Mind you, they're about 23 now so maybe they should be called the Sugarbabes just to show how grown up they are now. Plus Lily Allen quitting the music industry wasn't the story, it was just the story that was shoved down our throats. The real story was that over 100 successful musicians gathered to support a sensible step towards dealing with illegal file-sharing and, as an incentive to music-lovers, they asked Lily Allen to quit the music business. Seems fair. Now, if someone could make her Dad stop...er...whatever it is that he does I'd be very happy.
Then yesterday the BBC news team revealed that Justin Lee Collins, an overstuffed pillow with Farrah Fawcett's old hair, thinks that Bruce Forsyth isn't up to the job of presenting Strictly Come Dancing. Let's just think about that for one second. A cunt thinks a cunt isn't good enough at being a cunt. That is the basic maths of what Justin is saying. It's probably how a very young Thatcher thought of that stupid old past-it Hitler. Yes, it's exactly the same as that. I don't watch Strictly Come Dancing and I realise that Bruce Forsyth is not for me, nor is he presented by television for me. But Justin Lee Collins sort of is and I've seen him bouncing up and down wearing a t-shirt that hilariously reads "If Found, Return To Pub" and annoying ex-celebrities that don't want to be reminded of the soap opera they were in 20 years ago. Yet somehow this ball of hair and sadness has deemed someone who has been in the entertainment business for over 1000 years not good enough to present fluff on a Saturday night to people who are only half watching because they're getting ready to go out and heckle me. I'm not a fan of either but Bruce sings (sort of), dances (a bit), tells jokes (in a corny way) and, whether I like it or not, has presented some of the biggest crap shows in British TV history. Justin, what is it that you do exactly?
Yeah, dangerous stuff. That's the kind of thing that I get angry about. It hasn't been a completely crap week though. Precious Little podcast has risen to the mighty 36th position in the iTunes Comedy chart and I thank everyone who subscribed. The next one will be out on Tuesday but there is also a mini-podcast out today. By the way, we've fallen to 73 at the time of writing. Hey ho. Allow me to end with something genuinely funny. I saw a tweet yesterday by someone called Hungbunny. It read: "Mock The Week without Frankie Boyle is like a paedophile without a penis". That made me laugh for a long time. Follow @hungbunny now, Tweeters.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.twitter.com/hungbunny
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
What a boring week it's been. Other than work stuff I've done nothing. I've even stayed at home a whopping three nights in a row. That might seem like nothing to you but that is total imprisonment to me. After night two I started to feel EXACTLY like Josef Fritzl's daughter. I'm sure now she and I would have very interesting conversations if we ever met. You have no idea the torment the two of us have been through. We both know the depression of being kept in the same room looking at all the couple of hundred DVD covers and deciding that there is absolutely NOTHING to watch. I'm sure there were many times that she must have scrolled through her mobile phone looking at all her friend's names and thinking to herself "Yeah, I'd love to go to the pub with them but I can't be bothered going too far and they would never go south. I know what Hans is like". Three days, twenty-six years; it's all exactly the same when you are a little bit bored.
The thing is, it's been a dull week anyway. I'm sure there are all sorts of horrible and important things going on in this world of ours but very little of it seems to make it's way to me. As far as news goes, mainly the idiot stuff gets shoved in my face. To be fair, mainly because I'm surprised that anyone would think that anyone would need to know this stuff.
Keisha has left the Sugababes. Lily Allen has quit the music business. Tommy Tiernan hates Jews.
WHO FUCKING CARES? Yes, yes, yes. I know. Me. But fuck me, this shouldn't end up on TV news, should it? Don't get me wrong, I find it quite funny that there is a successful pop band out there without a single original member in it while the actual three who started the group have solo careers. They could just re-form and call themselves The ACTUAL Sugababes. Mind you, they're about 23 now so maybe they should be called the Sugarbabes just to show how grown up they are now. Plus Lily Allen quitting the music industry wasn't the story, it was just the story that was shoved down our throats. The real story was that over 100 successful musicians gathered to support a sensible step towards dealing with illegal file-sharing and, as an incentive to music-lovers, they asked Lily Allen to quit the music business. Seems fair. Now, if someone could make her Dad stop...er...whatever it is that he does I'd be very happy.
Then yesterday the BBC news team revealed that Justin Lee Collins, an overstuffed pillow with Farrah Fawcett's old hair, thinks that Bruce Forsyth isn't up to the job of presenting Strictly Come Dancing. Let's just think about that for one second. A cunt thinks a cunt isn't good enough at being a cunt. That is the basic maths of what Justin is saying. It's probably how a very young Thatcher thought of that stupid old past-it Hitler. Yes, it's exactly the same as that. I don't watch Strictly Come Dancing and I realise that Bruce Forsyth is not for me, nor is he presented by television for me. But Justin Lee Collins sort of is and I've seen him bouncing up and down wearing a t-shirt that hilariously reads "If Found, Return To Pub" and annoying ex-celebrities that don't want to be reminded of the soap opera they were in 20 years ago. Yet somehow this ball of hair and sadness has deemed someone who has been in the entertainment business for over 1000 years not good enough to present fluff on a Saturday night to people who are only half watching because they're getting ready to go out and heckle me. I'm not a fan of either but Bruce sings (sort of), dances (a bit), tells jokes (in a corny way) and, whether I like it or not, has presented some of the biggest crap shows in British TV history. Justin, what is it that you do exactly?
Yeah, dangerous stuff. That's the kind of thing that I get angry about. It hasn't been a completely crap week though. Precious Little podcast has risen to the mighty 36th position in the iTunes Comedy chart and I thank everyone who subscribed. The next one will be out on Tuesday but there is also a mini-podcast out today. By the way, we've fallen to 73 at the time of writing. Hey ho. Allow me to end with something genuinely funny. I saw a tweet yesterday by someone called Hungbunny. It read: "Mock The Week without Frankie Boyle is like a paedophile without a penis". That made me laugh for a long time. Follow @hungbunny now, Tweeters.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.twitter.com/hungbunny
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
My Brother Jason.
I was a bit all over the place and forgot about my two favourite things that happened during the past weekend. Firstly, the staff at Cafe Nero allowed me to lock up for them (this is actually not that interesting a story so let's leave a shroud of mystery over it and pretend it must have been AMAZING. My friend Sali looked suitably embarrassed about it but that's the best that I can say about the experience) then, on Sunday, I met someone with a foot lump.
I've missed my beautiful foot lump. I lost in during the Edinburgh Festival but still feel it's not time to talk about it yet. After all, I grew the thing myself over two years before my foot gave birth to it, then I let it live in my pocket for a month taking it everywhere I went. I've also suffered another Edinburgh-based loss this week too. I've been wearing a little blue rubber band that says The Little Howard Appeal on my wrist for more than 4 years. I've lost it many times but only for a few moments (it was normally found in the sleeve of whatever jacket/jumper/thermal top I'd just taken off. This time it looks like I've lost it forever. My wrist certainly feels a bit weird, like it's wandering around naked in public. I feel the same way about the foot lump. Not many people have foot lumps and fewer carry one around with them. It really marked me out as an individual, albeit a creepy one. But then I met Jason, a massive man who proudly displayed his foot lump for all to see.
I saw Jason on the tube when I got back into London. He was wearing sandals and when I saw his foot lump I felt like I had found a massive brother. Surely he would be so happy to meet another Lumpy? Well, he was massive so I brought the subject up sensitively.
"I've got one of those", I said. But much quieter than you might think.
He didn't look that impressed until I showed him my year old one on my right foot (yes, I have two) and his massive face lit up. He'd never met anyone with a foot lump before. I had met someone who claimed to have a foot lump but they never showed it to me so that doesn't really count. But here were two grown men, one more grown than the other, happily admiring each others foot lumps. Then we ran out of conversation and just sat next to one another in silence for the next five stops. It was really awkward. I put my shoe back on and made a note never to talk to anyone ever again.
Not that that was the most embarrassed I was to feel that day. God, no. I felt a lot more embarrassed that evening when I was sitting in house and watching ITV's latest venture into elephant diarrhoea: Trinity. It's set in an incredibly exclusive school for the privileged where all the pupils are seemingly 26 or older and everyone is a cunt who fucks other cunts. It's basically a school for stereotypes. Posh spoilt fuck who shags members of his family, shy Christian woman who the posh people look down upon but you just know that by episode three they'll all he hanging out of her, poor black man (such imagination!) and kooky girl who is funny because she has a Welsh accent. Isn't that hilarious? Imagine being from Wales!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaaa...
Fucking awful. Why does everything have to be so shit? No-one can like this, surely? Charles Dance, who plays the stern Headmaster, looks like he's just staring at the clock and waiting for death. I bet he looks back at Ali G In Da House as da good old days now. There's actually a scene where everyone laughs at "poor black man" because he doesn't know Latin. ITV is so 2009. I just don't see the demographic here. People who like crying and wanking to non-sexual sex are probably the only ones who will enjoy this, even if they will hang themselves by the time they get to discover the two hilarious "stoners". To give Trinity it's due credit it was directed by a blind man. I'm sure of it. So that's quite impressive.
Thanks to everyone who has voted for the Precious Little podcast theme tune. At the moment, it's pretty neck and neck. Quite happy to discover that we're number 36 in the iTunes Comedy chart. Not bad, that.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I've missed my beautiful foot lump. I lost in during the Edinburgh Festival but still feel it's not time to talk about it yet. After all, I grew the thing myself over two years before my foot gave birth to it, then I let it live in my pocket for a month taking it everywhere I went. I've also suffered another Edinburgh-based loss this week too. I've been wearing a little blue rubber band that says The Little Howard Appeal on my wrist for more than 4 years. I've lost it many times but only for a few moments (it was normally found in the sleeve of whatever jacket/jumper/thermal top I'd just taken off. This time it looks like I've lost it forever. My wrist certainly feels a bit weird, like it's wandering around naked in public. I feel the same way about the foot lump. Not many people have foot lumps and fewer carry one around with them. It really marked me out as an individual, albeit a creepy one. But then I met Jason, a massive man who proudly displayed his foot lump for all to see.
I saw Jason on the tube when I got back into London. He was wearing sandals and when I saw his foot lump I felt like I had found a massive brother. Surely he would be so happy to meet another Lumpy? Well, he was massive so I brought the subject up sensitively.
"I've got one of those", I said. But much quieter than you might think.
He didn't look that impressed until I showed him my year old one on my right foot (yes, I have two) and his massive face lit up. He'd never met anyone with a foot lump before. I had met someone who claimed to have a foot lump but they never showed it to me so that doesn't really count. But here were two grown men, one more grown than the other, happily admiring each others foot lumps. Then we ran out of conversation and just sat next to one another in silence for the next five stops. It was really awkward. I put my shoe back on and made a note never to talk to anyone ever again.
Not that that was the most embarrassed I was to feel that day. God, no. I felt a lot more embarrassed that evening when I was sitting in house and watching ITV's latest venture into elephant diarrhoea: Trinity. It's set in an incredibly exclusive school for the privileged where all the pupils are seemingly 26 or older and everyone is a cunt who fucks other cunts. It's basically a school for stereotypes. Posh spoilt fuck who shags members of his family, shy Christian woman who the posh people look down upon but you just know that by episode three they'll all he hanging out of her, poor black man (such imagination!) and kooky girl who is funny because she has a Welsh accent. Isn't that hilarious? Imagine being from Wales!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaaa...
Fucking awful. Why does everything have to be so shit? No-one can like this, surely? Charles Dance, who plays the stern Headmaster, looks like he's just staring at the clock and waiting for death. I bet he looks back at Ali G In Da House as da good old days now. There's actually a scene where everyone laughs at "poor black man" because he doesn't know Latin. ITV is so 2009. I just don't see the demographic here. People who like crying and wanking to non-sexual sex are probably the only ones who will enjoy this, even if they will hang themselves by the time they get to discover the two hilarious "stoners". To give Trinity it's due credit it was directed by a blind man. I'm sure of it. So that's quite impressive.
Thanks to everyone who has voted for the Precious Little podcast theme tune. At the moment, it's pretty neck and neck. Quite happy to discover that we're number 36 in the iTunes Comedy chart. Not bad, that.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 21 September 2009
And In The End, Rejection.
Manchester turned out to be a very nice weekend indeed. The gigs were fine, I saw a deeply depressing film called Fish Tank and I hung out in a series of interesting bars.
My memory is sketchy but I'm sure I sang Girls Just Want To have Fun at a karaoke bar. You can imagine how dignified I must have looked during that. I knew I had to get up early the next day to catch my train so at least I was sensible enough to leave early-ish. Well, 1.30 anyway. Then I didn't get back to the flat until over an hour later mainly because I didn't know where I was staying and telling the driver that it was definitely number 19 something avenue was proving to be little help. I remember him being quite patient but with the face of someone who might kill me at any second if I don't stop saying the words "19 something avenue" over and over again.
I really recommend Fish Tank. It's utterly grim but that's what Britain does so well. Basically, it's a bit like Flashdance but if Flashdance was real and set in block of flats in London and instead of Irene Cara singing the theme tune they had cider and fighting. Bleak but brilliant.
The next day I was up early to get to Hitchin to record Precious Little podcast number two. Sadly, when I got to James' (Mum's) house I found that he was as knackered as I was. And I was hungover. And very smelly. And really loud. I must have been a treat to be around.
This time James and I discussed my new interactive "Is A Cunt" game, James' opinion of Dan Brown and the wonders of the homeless community. We also have a competition (sort of) that consists of voting for which theme tune you prefer for our podcast, Ian of The Re-Entrants frankly excellent theme tune or my talentless effort. At the time of writing we only had one vote. That was for me. Fuck you, Ian.
I'm really enjoying the podcasts and am looking forward to seeing how they'll change over the next few weeks. We obviously haven't found our feet yet but there's definitely some nice bits in there. Pretty much all our favourite podcasts are in there with us: Collings & Herrin (the childish, disgusting stuff), Phill & Phil's Perfect 10 (the ukulele and the fact that we just talk about us) and The Trap's Sodcast (everything else) but I'm not too worried about that just now. There's enough "us" in there already and we'll find more us over the next few podcasts. Either that or maybe everyone will stop doing podcasts and we can just nick all their stuff, which has always been the plan.
Not sure that my welcome to the world of the homeless is still valid. I said hello to Nick this morning. He said nothing. Sigh.....will I ever belong?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.com
My memory is sketchy but I'm sure I sang Girls Just Want To have Fun at a karaoke bar. You can imagine how dignified I must have looked during that. I knew I had to get up early the next day to catch my train so at least I was sensible enough to leave early-ish. Well, 1.30 anyway. Then I didn't get back to the flat until over an hour later mainly because I didn't know where I was staying and telling the driver that it was definitely number 19 something avenue was proving to be little help. I remember him being quite patient but with the face of someone who might kill me at any second if I don't stop saying the words "19 something avenue" over and over again.
I really recommend Fish Tank. It's utterly grim but that's what Britain does so well. Basically, it's a bit like Flashdance but if Flashdance was real and set in block of flats in London and instead of Irene Cara singing the theme tune they had cider and fighting. Bleak but brilliant.
The next day I was up early to get to Hitchin to record Precious Little podcast number two. Sadly, when I got to James' (Mum's) house I found that he was as knackered as I was. And I was hungover. And very smelly. And really loud. I must have been a treat to be around.
This time James and I discussed my new interactive "Is A Cunt" game, James' opinion of Dan Brown and the wonders of the homeless community. We also have a competition (sort of) that consists of voting for which theme tune you prefer for our podcast, Ian of The Re-Entrants frankly excellent theme tune or my talentless effort. At the time of writing we only had one vote. That was for me. Fuck you, Ian.
I'm really enjoying the podcasts and am looking forward to seeing how they'll change over the next few weeks. We obviously haven't found our feet yet but there's definitely some nice bits in there. Pretty much all our favourite podcasts are in there with us: Collings & Herrin (the childish, disgusting stuff), Phill & Phil's Perfect 10 (the ukulele and the fact that we just talk about us) and The Trap's Sodcast (everything else) but I'm not too worried about that just now. There's enough "us" in there already and we'll find more us over the next few podcasts. Either that or maybe everyone will stop doing podcasts and we can just nick all their stuff, which has always been the plan.
Not sure that my welcome to the world of the homeless is still valid. I said hello to Nick this morning. He said nothing. Sigh.....will I ever belong?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.com
Saturday, 19 September 2009
Love In The Time of Special Brew.
What the fuck is going on with the homeless? Why have I not been asked to join them before now? If you've been reading my blog lately you will know that I have been accepted into the homeless community due to a misunderstanding over a flying can of booze and my face. Now I just cannot believe the things these crazy dudes get up to.
Yesterday I was wandering around Manchester on my own and very bored. I had just done a very clever thing by going to see Star Trek at the IMAX but that now seemed like forever ago as I threw time away doing not fuck nothing. By the way, going to the IMAX really was a brilliant idea of mine. Well done, me. I've only been to the IMAX once before but this time was different because not only did I get my entire head filled with the wonders of Star Trek but I also didn't kick a six year old girl in the face. That genuinely happened the last time I went to IMAX. Anyway, after IMAX I wandered the streets only to see a homeless man trying to talk to a very pretty lady who was trying to ignore him.
Already I thought it was quite an amazing sight to see. A homeless man (to be fair, I just assumed he was homeless as he looked like shit and was drinking booze in the street. Is that unfair?) with the confidence to go up to a woman who was sitting on a bench outside the Arnsale Centre with her friends and then start flirting with her is really quite amusing to watch. And watch I did. Face it, I had fuck all else to do. I had nothing to do AT ALL but I have a house and some money yet this homeless man is the fella trying to score. Who's the loser in this scenario? Anyhoo, he tries talking with her a few times yet every time he gets either ignored or a very short, sharp reply. Surprisingly, she isn't interested. But he doesn't give up. He keeps on trying to get her attention and due to my lack of everything I keep watching. Then she turns and actually talks to him. That's nice, I thought. She can see that this man just wants a bit of company, just some conversation and she isn't stupid enough to not give him the time of day. Then she starts laughing at his jokes.
Steady on, dear, I mean, he's a homeless man. You don't need top patronise him so much that you feel you have to pretend to find his jokes funny. She gives a really hearty laugh. She's NOT pretending.
Soon her friends are joining in with the conversation but you can easily tell that both the homeless man and the pretty lady son't really have time for the others in the group. They're too busy laughing and talking and slightly touching each others hands. FUCKING HELL, SHE'S TOUCHING HIS HAND! The hand that he uses to take half-sandwiches out of bins with or flick V's at policemen while urinating on HMV. She's touching his fucking hand! How is this happening? He's drinking booze outside a shop in the middle of the day and has three teeth. Why is she touching his hand?
The friends then decide it's time to go and the spiteful, jealous cretin that is me is delighted to see that she has decided to join them and say goodbye to Flirty McNoteeth. I mean, she just kept looking at him like she might quite like him and that just can't be. Right? The friends say goodbye to homeless man and homeless man says goobye to them. Then something really weird happened. I mean, if you were me and saw this story unfold right in front of you from beginning to end you honestly never would have seen this coming. She kissed him on the mouth. Not a snog, of course, but definitely not a peck. She held his face and touched his lips with hers. If you are single and reading this I can only assume that you are preparing for suicide right now.
Is this what my new friends get up to? Is Nick banging some beauty up against a tree right now? Reat assured, dear reader, I will investigate. But for now, my hangover needs attention.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Yesterday I was wandering around Manchester on my own and very bored. I had just done a very clever thing by going to see Star Trek at the IMAX but that now seemed like forever ago as I threw time away doing not fuck nothing. By the way, going to the IMAX really was a brilliant idea of mine. Well done, me. I've only been to the IMAX once before but this time was different because not only did I get my entire head filled with the wonders of Star Trek but I also didn't kick a six year old girl in the face. That genuinely happened the last time I went to IMAX. Anyway, after IMAX I wandered the streets only to see a homeless man trying to talk to a very pretty lady who was trying to ignore him.
Already I thought it was quite an amazing sight to see. A homeless man (to be fair, I just assumed he was homeless as he looked like shit and was drinking booze in the street. Is that unfair?) with the confidence to go up to a woman who was sitting on a bench outside the Arnsale Centre with her friends and then start flirting with her is really quite amusing to watch. And watch I did. Face it, I had fuck all else to do. I had nothing to do AT ALL but I have a house and some money yet this homeless man is the fella trying to score. Who's the loser in this scenario? Anyhoo, he tries talking with her a few times yet every time he gets either ignored or a very short, sharp reply. Surprisingly, she isn't interested. But he doesn't give up. He keeps on trying to get her attention and due to my lack of everything I keep watching. Then she turns and actually talks to him. That's nice, I thought. She can see that this man just wants a bit of company, just some conversation and she isn't stupid enough to not give him the time of day. Then she starts laughing at his jokes.
Steady on, dear, I mean, he's a homeless man. You don't need top patronise him so much that you feel you have to pretend to find his jokes funny. She gives a really hearty laugh. She's NOT pretending.
Soon her friends are joining in with the conversation but you can easily tell that both the homeless man and the pretty lady son't really have time for the others in the group. They're too busy laughing and talking and slightly touching each others hands. FUCKING HELL, SHE'S TOUCHING HIS HAND! The hand that he uses to take half-sandwiches out of bins with or flick V's at policemen while urinating on HMV. She's touching his fucking hand! How is this happening? He's drinking booze outside a shop in the middle of the day and has three teeth. Why is she touching his hand?
The friends then decide it's time to go and the spiteful, jealous cretin that is me is delighted to see that she has decided to join them and say goodbye to Flirty McNoteeth. I mean, she just kept looking at him like she might quite like him and that just can't be. Right? The friends say goodbye to homeless man and homeless man says goobye to them. Then something really weird happened. I mean, if you were me and saw this story unfold right in front of you from beginning to end you honestly never would have seen this coming. She kissed him on the mouth. Not a snog, of course, but definitely not a peck. She held his face and touched his lips with hers. If you are single and reading this I can only assume that you are preparing for suicide right now.
Is this what my new friends get up to? Is Nick banging some beauty up against a tree right now? Reat assured, dear reader, I will investigate. But for now, my hangover needs attention.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
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