My lazy days spent on my parents sofa ended yesterday when I moved around a little bit. Not much, of course, but definitely a little bit. There is a gym near my parents house that has some of the most state-of-the-art running machines and weight training equipment as well as a first rate yoga session but that is completely nothing to do with this blog because I went to the cinema.
There comes a time when a man can no longer lie on the sofa watching TV and he must give himself a good shake by sitting in a cinema. Just in case you are jealous of my stress-free lifestyle of late let me reassure you that once again leaving the house has just convinced me more than everyone on Earth is a brainless bag of fat except me. I'm the best. I queued up to buy tickets for Avatar (I know, I know) and once the tickets were bought I had to queue up again to BUY the 3-D glasses you needed to watch the film. I had to BUY them. "That way, you can keep them", explained the cunt. I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING KEEP THEM. I want to drop them in a pile of stood on popcorn and Fanta like in a real cinema. Not only where they selling 3-D glasses for you to keep but they also sold SEPERATELY a "luxury" pouch to keep your 3-D glasses that you don't want in. What is luxurious about an item that you despise? Then while standing in the second queue waiting to buy something that I now hated, we were told by the world's smallest prick that we had to queue in a different way, a way that would block other people getting into the cinema. I'm joking, of course. Nothing could block the 10 year old shaved gorillas who go to this cinema from getting in. You're in the way? Well, FUCK YOU, let me push you to the side with my sticky hands and massive forhead. Cunts.
All this and I was going to see a James Cameron film. I was now stressed out.
Unbelievably the film was quite good. Not brilliant. But quite good. There are one or two special effects in Avatar but mainly it's a film entirely shot on location and, for once, a blue actor plays one of the leads. That said, I was very disappointed in Sigourney Weaver blueing up for her role. I'm sure there are a lot of great blue actresses out there who could have played the part just as well as a white actress could. I can imagine that Smurfette is furious. I don't blame her. It's exactly how I felt when I saw Lenny Henry in True Identity. Shameful. Anyways, the film was a very unsubtle satire on America being a twat. I think that's a fair review. Even though the dialogue was mainly a bit awful there were two lines that genuinely made me go cold. "Why would they help us?" and "You're not the only ones with a gun" pretty much sum up our crap, crap world. We're screwed, basically, is the meaning of Avatar. I left the cinema depressed.
Why do I ever budge from the sofa?
Later that night I went to the pub with my Dad and Dotes (you remember Dotes?). It was a fun night of talking absolute bollocks about school, work, Newtownards and Pissy Cripple (if you listen to Precious Little you will know about Pissy Cripple). I think the best part of the night was when the "lads" in the next room kept cheering while watching football. As none of us were interested, and weren't even in the same room as the "lads", we imagined that they were in fact watching Come Dine With Me and someone had obviously just made a really lovely dessert. The best part of the night definitely wasn't the part when Dotes showed me a really horrible "funny" column I wrote for some free newspaper when I was about 18. It was called Tales From The Drinking Den and if it was supposed to be in anyway funny then I now just don't get the joke. Basically, I was laughing at people being a little bit drunk and then calling them twats. I have really grown up since then. I will stick these awful columns up as soon as I can. But remember, I said they were shit first, OK?
I am about to get off the sofa again. I'm getting off the sofa to go to karaoke. God help me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Monday, 28 December 2009
Silly, Stupid, Lazy.
I've done nothing. Since I got to Northern Ireland I've done absolutely nothing. I sleep a minimum of 10 hours, I shuffle around eating, drinking and making the occassional noise and then I go to bed again. I mean, I consider myself a lazy man but I had no idea of the incredible amount of fuck all I could achieve if I just refused to apply myself.
Last night I watched Cranford, for fuck's sake. That's how little I'm doing. I even enjoyed it. I didn't understand any of it but I enjoyed it. I don't know the characters or what goes on in Cranford but it was perfect I-refuse-to-move-from-the-sofa-to-pick-up-the-remote viewing despite it being baffling. It was like period-Lost. It looked very pretty and Tim Curry was in it and a cow got hit by a train and Imelda Staunton disappeared in a box. All I had to do was sit on my massive, fat arse, drinking booze, eating sweeties and looking at the pretty pictures. I thoroughly recommend it. Stop reading now and do fuck all. You won't regret it.
This morning, after four incredible days of nothing, I left the house and walked about a little bit. What a stupid fucking idea that was. When I'm not lying on the sofa and dribbling over Cranford I see people, places and things that upset me. Today I looked at my first newspaper in a week. What a stupid penis I am.
The main story in some of today's newspapers focuses on crap terrorist Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. I was already miffed when it came to Umar because he tried to blow up an airplane with 300 people in it (he failed. Honestly, what are they teaching in terrorist camps, these days? RUBBISH!) but today's papers have shown me that he is a lot worse than I thought. Did you know that he once went on a school trip to Buckingham Palace? ISN'T THAT THE MOST DISGUSTING THING THAT YOU HAVE EVER HEARD IN YOUR LIFE EVER? Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab disgusts me now. How could an evil, sick, unsuccessful "murderer" like him ever be allowed into the nation's favourite building? Anything could have happened! He could have sneaked away from the rest of his school group and made a bomb and then not killed The Queen. It's DISGUSTING that this man who in the future would fail at terrorism was allowed to have his picture taken beside a corgi. He is now so much more evil than he was a few days ago. Definitely.
I am furiously angry with this piece of trivial non-news that I refuse to leave the sofa again until I leave Northern Ireland. In fact, right now I am getting my feet rubbed while I sprawl on the sofa with a lovely cup of tea. If I ever screw up blowing up a Hovercraft or something in years to come please send this blog to them newspaper people. The country will need to know how evil I was while doing fuck all.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Last night I watched Cranford, for fuck's sake. That's how little I'm doing. I even enjoyed it. I didn't understand any of it but I enjoyed it. I don't know the characters or what goes on in Cranford but it was perfect I-refuse-to-move-from-the-sofa-to-pick-up-the-remote viewing despite it being baffling. It was like period-Lost. It looked very pretty and Tim Curry was in it and a cow got hit by a train and Imelda Staunton disappeared in a box. All I had to do was sit on my massive, fat arse, drinking booze, eating sweeties and looking at the pretty pictures. I thoroughly recommend it. Stop reading now and do fuck all. You won't regret it.
This morning, after four incredible days of nothing, I left the house and walked about a little bit. What a stupid fucking idea that was. When I'm not lying on the sofa and dribbling over Cranford I see people, places and things that upset me. Today I looked at my first newspaper in a week. What a stupid penis I am.
The main story in some of today's newspapers focuses on crap terrorist Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. I was already miffed when it came to Umar because he tried to blow up an airplane with 300 people in it (he failed. Honestly, what are they teaching in terrorist camps, these days? RUBBISH!) but today's papers have shown me that he is a lot worse than I thought. Did you know that he once went on a school trip to Buckingham Palace? ISN'T THAT THE MOST DISGUSTING THING THAT YOU HAVE EVER HEARD IN YOUR LIFE EVER? Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab disgusts me now. How could an evil, sick, unsuccessful "murderer" like him ever be allowed into the nation's favourite building? Anything could have happened! He could have sneaked away from the rest of his school group and made a bomb and then not killed The Queen. It's DISGUSTING that this man who in the future would fail at terrorism was allowed to have his picture taken beside a corgi. He is now so much more evil than he was a few days ago. Definitely.
I am furiously angry with this piece of trivial non-news that I refuse to leave the sofa again until I leave Northern Ireland. In fact, right now I am getting my feet rubbed while I sprawl on the sofa with a lovely cup of tea. If I ever screw up blowing up a Hovercraft or something in years to come please send this blog to them newspaper people. The country will need to know how evil I was while doing fuck all.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 26 December 2009
Pope Star.
I arrived in Northern Ireland on Christmas Eve at about 7pm and just a few hours later I would be watching a multi-million album selling singing sensation live on stage. I can't really remember the last time that I went to a live music gig. Embarrassingly, I think it might have been Metallica in September 2008. That's a long time for a young, totally cool, young, hard-living, rock n' rollster like me to go without the adrenaline rush that my hard rock fix gives me. I more than made up for it on Christmas Eve though.
It was AMAZING. We listened to his CD in the car* to get us in the mood plus we had his new CD with us in the tiny hope that we might meet the great man himself and get him to sign it. An unlikely event, of course, but that did not dampen our happy, happy spirits. I mean, it's not every day that you go to St. Patrick's Catholic Church to witness a midnight gig by Father Martin O'Hagan.
Father Martin O'Hagan, as you know, is one of The Priests. Not one of the priests (thought he is obviously one of them too) but one of The Priests, the trio who have topped the American albums chart despite, and because of, being actual priests. They are very different to Metallica.
I haven't been to proper non-wedding/funeral church in years, my deep spiritual belief that God isn't real has kept me from going, but I made an exception this Christmas Eve because my Mum was singing in the choir. I am a lovely son, though one that, in my loving Mother's eyes, will burn for all eternity in the Lake of Damnation. To be back in St. Patrick's Church after, I think, 21 years is odd to say the least. It looks pretty much exactly the same. It's big, it's cold, it's quiet and it's pretty dull. That said, I wasn't being forced to go this time so I could at least enjoy mass knowing that I never ever ever have to come back.
For those who have never been to Catholic mass before let me explain what happens. A cold, grey man in a dress mumbles incoherently for an hour while everyone else in the building takes part in a coughing competition. That's pretty much it.
It has to be said though, Father Martin from the pop group The Priests did his best to liven things up. He joked! ("When Mary in the nativity said she had given birth to a baby I said "Great. Is it a boy or a girl?"") He sang! (Brilliantly it has to be said. A bit like Daniel O'Donnell but even more like Nick Cave) He begged us to give it some welly!
Catholics are very meek people (when sober) and they only go to church to sit in their own joyful misery and not have to get involved in anything other than the Mass responses that have been beaten into them since birth. I haven't been to Church for over two decades but I still remember every terrifying word of Mass. But that's not what Father Martin O'Hagan wants. He wants us to rejoice, praise loudly and sing, sing, SING! Everytime you sing a song, he said, you're praying to God twice. A theory that must piss off a lot of death metal bands.
But, of course, he could say all this until he's blue in the face (he did) and no-one would do anything more than shrug out their praise to their Almighty Saviour. Christmas gigs are tough, Father Martin.
Mind you, if he had sung my favourite hymn maybe I would have joined in a bit more. We were given a hymn book when we entered the Church and soon found a song inside called My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me? Why we didn't sing this joyful tribute to Our Father I will never know. It's SO uplifting. Here are some of the real lyrics: "Dogs have surrounded me, howling/Criminal gangs approach and attack/My hands and my feet they are tearing/All of my bones can be easily seen".
Joyful and triumphant.
The next day, of course, was Boxing Day Eve and it was spent with family, eating and drinking and an hour on my own watching Doctor Who. What can I say about the penultimate Tennant/Davies episode? Well, how about "Thank fuck it's nearly over"? I obviously love the show despite all my complaints but I just don't even see what actually happened in last night's episode. What was the story? I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet (although Russell T. Davies obviously does) but there is either a lot going on or nothing going on and I just can't figure out which. The Master has the force now, The Doctor is bored out of his mind and The Time Lords are BACK! How did they come back? I mean, they're all dead, right? O ye of little faith. It's simple. The Time Lords come back by saying "We are the Time Lords and we are back". Makes total sense.
That said, if any of you slag it off I will punch you. I go to Church now. I know how to condemn old school.
*(I originally wrote "We listened to his CD in the cat" and deeply regret correcting myself)
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
It was AMAZING. We listened to his CD in the car* to get us in the mood plus we had his new CD with us in the tiny hope that we might meet the great man himself and get him to sign it. An unlikely event, of course, but that did not dampen our happy, happy spirits. I mean, it's not every day that you go to St. Patrick's Catholic Church to witness a midnight gig by Father Martin O'Hagan.
Father Martin O'Hagan, as you know, is one of The Priests. Not one of the priests (thought he is obviously one of them too) but one of The Priests, the trio who have topped the American albums chart despite, and because of, being actual priests. They are very different to Metallica.
I haven't been to proper non-wedding/funeral church in years, my deep spiritual belief that God isn't real has kept me from going, but I made an exception this Christmas Eve because my Mum was singing in the choir. I am a lovely son, though one that, in my loving Mother's eyes, will burn for all eternity in the Lake of Damnation. To be back in St. Patrick's Church after, I think, 21 years is odd to say the least. It looks pretty much exactly the same. It's big, it's cold, it's quiet and it's pretty dull. That said, I wasn't being forced to go this time so I could at least enjoy mass knowing that I never ever ever have to come back.
For those who have never been to Catholic mass before let me explain what happens. A cold, grey man in a dress mumbles incoherently for an hour while everyone else in the building takes part in a coughing competition. That's pretty much it.
It has to be said though, Father Martin from the pop group The Priests did his best to liven things up. He joked! ("When Mary in the nativity said she had given birth to a baby I said "Great. Is it a boy or a girl?"") He sang! (Brilliantly it has to be said. A bit like Daniel O'Donnell but even more like Nick Cave) He begged us to give it some welly!
Catholics are very meek people (when sober) and they only go to church to sit in their own joyful misery and not have to get involved in anything other than the Mass responses that have been beaten into them since birth. I haven't been to Church for over two decades but I still remember every terrifying word of Mass. But that's not what Father Martin O'Hagan wants. He wants us to rejoice, praise loudly and sing, sing, SING! Everytime you sing a song, he said, you're praying to God twice. A theory that must piss off a lot of death metal bands.
But, of course, he could say all this until he's blue in the face (he did) and no-one would do anything more than shrug out their praise to their Almighty Saviour. Christmas gigs are tough, Father Martin.
Mind you, if he had sung my favourite hymn maybe I would have joined in a bit more. We were given a hymn book when we entered the Church and soon found a song inside called My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me? Why we didn't sing this joyful tribute to Our Father I will never know. It's SO uplifting. Here are some of the real lyrics: "Dogs have surrounded me, howling/Criminal gangs approach and attack/My hands and my feet they are tearing/All of my bones can be easily seen".
Joyful and triumphant.
The next day, of course, was Boxing Day Eve and it was spent with family, eating and drinking and an hour on my own watching Doctor Who. What can I say about the penultimate Tennant/Davies episode? Well, how about "Thank fuck it's nearly over"? I obviously love the show despite all my complaints but I just don't even see what actually happened in last night's episode. What was the story? I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet (although Russell T. Davies obviously does) but there is either a lot going on or nothing going on and I just can't figure out which. The Master has the force now, The Doctor is bored out of his mind and The Time Lords are BACK! How did they come back? I mean, they're all dead, right? O ye of little faith. It's simple. The Time Lords come back by saying "We are the Time Lords and we are back". Makes total sense.
That said, if any of you slag it off I will punch you. I go to Church now. I know how to condemn old school.
*(I originally wrote "We listened to his CD in the cat" and deeply regret correcting myself)
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 24 December 2009
His Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day!
I am actually full of Christmas cheer, everyone! Jesus was born 2010 years ago, love and friendship is in the air and (mainly) I have done all my Christmas gigs for the year.
I had my last two last night at the excellent Funny Side of Covent Garden and got so weirded out by the shows that I barely did anything. The first show had a (very nice) audience of just 27 people. One of them was a woman. I think, to be fair, that's enough to weird anyone out. But I got through them, they had moments of fun and I never got punched in the face. Something that every comedian just assumes will happen at this festive, joyful time of year.
The other reason that I'm feeling very Christmassy is because a lot of very nice people have been sending very lovely Christmas messages of goodwill to me. I hate Christmas cards. I don't see the point in them. The way I see it is that I assume that you want me to have a nice Christmas so you don't need to send me a card telling me that. I want you to have a nice Christmas but feel that going out and buying cards, writing stupid messages in them and queueing up in a post office is only going to make me have a less nice Christmas. So by me sending YOU a card YOU have fucked up my good time. You shit. In fact, they should only make cards for people who want other people to have a shitty Christmas. That would be fair enough. I know Mum and Dad want me to have a nice Christmas so they didn't need to send a card but I had no idea that Ian and Brenda from number 12 wanted me to have a shit Christmas. Thank God they sent me a card or else I would have no idea. Look, on the front of the card it says "Jesus was born on this Holy Day..." and on the inside it says "Because you're a cunt. I hope you choke on your nut roast, you fucking wanker, Ian & Brenda." That just makes more sense.
BUT.....I have had nice messages from other folk. Firstly, I have missed the last two shows at the fantastic monthly gig, Hecklers in Aldershot, and the good people there made me a large card with individual post-it notes attached, each one containing a special Christmas message for me such as "Your a prick", "Fuck off and die of AIDS" and a picture of an arse. Thanks so much to Nobby and everyone at Hecklers. Then James Hingley and I recorded our Christmas Precious Little podcast and it is full of very lovely Christmas messages from other podcasts, Johnny Candon and one Cyberman (really). I urge you to listen to it only because it's quite funny hearing me get a bit overwhelmed by it all and all the messages make James and I sound really popular (well, except the one from Collings & Herrin). Thanks to everyone who sent their messages to us, they're fantastic. And thanks to James for surprising me with them (well, except for the one from Collings & Herrin). That's lovely, that is.
Have a lovely Christmas, dearest reader. Let peace be with you on this special day, may happiness reign upon you and may we all find the strength to try to forgive David Tennant and Russell T. Davies for what they are undoubtedly going to do.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Merry Christmas from Aldershot.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I had my last two last night at the excellent Funny Side of Covent Garden and got so weirded out by the shows that I barely did anything. The first show had a (very nice) audience of just 27 people. One of them was a woman. I think, to be fair, that's enough to weird anyone out. But I got through them, they had moments of fun and I never got punched in the face. Something that every comedian just assumes will happen at this festive, joyful time of year.
The other reason that I'm feeling very Christmassy is because a lot of very nice people have been sending very lovely Christmas messages of goodwill to me. I hate Christmas cards. I don't see the point in them. The way I see it is that I assume that you want me to have a nice Christmas so you don't need to send me a card telling me that. I want you to have a nice Christmas but feel that going out and buying cards, writing stupid messages in them and queueing up in a post office is only going to make me have a less nice Christmas. So by me sending YOU a card YOU have fucked up my good time. You shit. In fact, they should only make cards for people who want other people to have a shitty Christmas. That would be fair enough. I know Mum and Dad want me to have a nice Christmas so they didn't need to send a card but I had no idea that Ian and Brenda from number 12 wanted me to have a shit Christmas. Thank God they sent me a card or else I would have no idea. Look, on the front of the card it says "Jesus was born on this Holy Day..." and on the inside it says "Because you're a cunt. I hope you choke on your nut roast, you fucking wanker, Ian & Brenda." That just makes more sense.
BUT.....I have had nice messages from other folk. Firstly, I have missed the last two shows at the fantastic monthly gig, Hecklers in Aldershot, and the good people there made me a large card with individual post-it notes attached, each one containing a special Christmas message for me such as "Your a prick", "Fuck off and die of AIDS" and a picture of an arse. Thanks so much to Nobby and everyone at Hecklers. Then James Hingley and I recorded our Christmas Precious Little podcast and it is full of very lovely Christmas messages from other podcasts, Johnny Candon and one Cyberman (really). I urge you to listen to it only because it's quite funny hearing me get a bit overwhelmed by it all and all the messages make James and I sound really popular (well, except the one from Collings & Herrin). Thanks to everyone who sent their messages to us, they're fantastic. And thanks to James for surprising me with them (well, except for the one from Collings & Herrin). That's lovely, that is.
Have a lovely Christmas, dearest reader. Let peace be with you on this special day, may happiness reign upon you and may we all find the strength to try to forgive David Tennant and Russell T. Davies for what they are undoubtedly going to do.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Merry Christmas from Aldershot.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Balls.
I have just done the most pathetic thing that I have ever done in my life. That's up against some stiff competition, I'm sure you realise. I've done many, many pathetic things in my life. As I write I'm sitting with a Spongebob Squarepants blanket over my shoulders and listening to an awful Morrissey B-Sides album. I mean, that's pathetic but that's nothing to what just happened. It really just happened 15 minutes ago.
Jerk is spending Christmas in Margate. I walked with her, Muki and a ball-launcher (it's a stick that throws tennis balls about 50 yards for dogs to chase) to the train station via the park. I threw the ball a lot and Jerk chased it, making sure she had a good run before getting on the train. They got on the train and I waved goodbye and walked home via the park. I still had the ball-launcher with me and as I walked threw the park habit got a hold of me.
I threw the ball. On my own. In the snow. While people walked past.
If you've ever seen anything more pathetic than a man throwing a ball for a dog that's not there and then walk through the wet snow to go and pick it up please let me know. I need to feel a bit better about myself.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Jerk is spending Christmas in Margate. I walked with her, Muki and a ball-launcher (it's a stick that throws tennis balls about 50 yards for dogs to chase) to the train station via the park. I threw the ball a lot and Jerk chased it, making sure she had a good run before getting on the train. They got on the train and I waved goodbye and walked home via the park. I still had the ball-launcher with me and as I walked threw the park habit got a hold of me.
I threw the ball. On my own. In the snow. While people walked past.
If you've ever seen anything more pathetic than a man throwing a ball for a dog that's not there and then walk through the wet snow to go and pick it up please let me know. I need to feel a bit better about myself.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Flip Off.
Surely the bottom of the barrel has been scraped so much that it is now just dust. Have you ever pitched an idea to a TV company and had it rejected? Feels bad, eh? Now think about how bad that feels now knowing that Five have decided to go ahead and make Heads Or Tails.
Justin Lee Collins, Britain's fattest and loudest T-shirt, hosts a brand new game show where contestants have the chance to win one million pounds on the flip of several coins. The contestant simply has to say heads or tails. Obviously, it's not that simple. The contestants have to pick a number between one and twenty first and then they flip a coin.
Oh, sorry, it IS that simple. It is the simple half-brother to Deal Or No Deal, it is utterly pointless (because flipping a coin CANNOT entertain unless in lands in Justin Lee Collins eye) and it is stolen from a Peter Serafinowicz sketch.
It starts badly and keeps that as a theme throughout. The opening has Justin's massive head flapping in an incredibly serious way. "A million pounds could be won", he says like he's telling the world that nuclear weapons are heading for us. "But will they choose heads (pause for incredible amount of non-suspense) or tails?" Then the opening credits roll with a big silver coin flipping constantly to show all the aspects of Justin's personality. You know, "Grinning like a cunt" and "Looking like a cunt". And then it begins.
A giggling arsehole who actually thinks Justin Lee Collins is great giggles and points and giggles as she can't quite believe that she was chosen to be in a game show that she applied to be in. She is going to go out of her mind if she correctly predicts heads or tails (she does). Justin asks her to pick a number and the audience laugh hysterically at the contestant's reluctance to choose the number 7. "It's not curly or straight, is it?", she reasons while the rest of us convince ourselves further that this planet is doomed. She picks her number, the lights go down and Justin Lee Collins asks the all important question: HEADS OR..........................................................................TAILS?
She picks one. He flips a coin. She's either right or wrong. It's depressing.
Luckily Justin is on hand to fill up the show with his magic. He asks the contestant about her best friend. They talk about the contestant's best friend. We learn that she is a hairdresser and lives in the world. THEN, because Justin is brilliant, her best friend appears from the side of the studio. The contestant goes apeshit. The audience goes apeshit. Justin is apeshit. I mean, seriously, how on Earth could TWO ordinary members of the public find their way to a location? FUCKING AMAZING.
My favourite part is when the contestant feels the pressure. I mean, heads or tails? So much to choose from. She turns to the audience for advice. Unbelievably some shout heads while others shout tails. This is going out on television.
If you have any scripts that you would like the powers that be in telly to look at so that you can somehow improve the medium, then please bin them now. You will save yourself a lot of heartbreak in the future. TV wants itself to be shittier and there is no such thing as too shit. Your script will be rejected or ignored and Heads or Tails will get a second series and a Christmas special. What's the fucking point? Even the sketch show that this was stolen from didn't get a second series (although it did get a Christmas special). I'm depressed.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Justin Lee Collins, Britain's fattest and loudest T-shirt, hosts a brand new game show where contestants have the chance to win one million pounds on the flip of several coins. The contestant simply has to say heads or tails. Obviously, it's not that simple. The contestants have to pick a number between one and twenty first and then they flip a coin.
Oh, sorry, it IS that simple. It is the simple half-brother to Deal Or No Deal, it is utterly pointless (because flipping a coin CANNOT entertain unless in lands in Justin Lee Collins eye) and it is stolen from a Peter Serafinowicz sketch.
It starts badly and keeps that as a theme throughout. The opening has Justin's massive head flapping in an incredibly serious way. "A million pounds could be won", he says like he's telling the world that nuclear weapons are heading for us. "But will they choose heads (pause for incredible amount of non-suspense) or tails?" Then the opening credits roll with a big silver coin flipping constantly to show all the aspects of Justin's personality. You know, "Grinning like a cunt" and "Looking like a cunt". And then it begins.
A giggling arsehole who actually thinks Justin Lee Collins is great giggles and points and giggles as she can't quite believe that she was chosen to be in a game show that she applied to be in. She is going to go out of her mind if she correctly predicts heads or tails (she does). Justin asks her to pick a number and the audience laugh hysterically at the contestant's reluctance to choose the number 7. "It's not curly or straight, is it?", she reasons while the rest of us convince ourselves further that this planet is doomed. She picks her number, the lights go down and Justin Lee Collins asks the all important question: HEADS OR..........................................................................TAILS?
She picks one. He flips a coin. She's either right or wrong. It's depressing.
Luckily Justin is on hand to fill up the show with his magic. He asks the contestant about her best friend. They talk about the contestant's best friend. We learn that she is a hairdresser and lives in the world. THEN, because Justin is brilliant, her best friend appears from the side of the studio. The contestant goes apeshit. The audience goes apeshit. Justin is apeshit. I mean, seriously, how on Earth could TWO ordinary members of the public find their way to a location? FUCKING AMAZING.
My favourite part is when the contestant feels the pressure. I mean, heads or tails? So much to choose from. She turns to the audience for advice. Unbelievably some shout heads while others shout tails. This is going out on television.
If you have any scripts that you would like the powers that be in telly to look at so that you can somehow improve the medium, then please bin them now. You will save yourself a lot of heartbreak in the future. TV wants itself to be shittier and there is no such thing as too shit. Your script will be rejected or ignored and Heads or Tails will get a second series and a Christmas special. What's the fucking point? Even the sketch show that this was stolen from didn't get a second series (although it did get a Christmas special). I'm depressed.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 21 December 2009
I Love Kevin.
Goodbye, Brittany Murphy. I met her once, you know. We kissed. So let that be a warning to all of you. I am the kiss of death. OK, it was only a kiss on the cheek and it was three years ago but it was obviously deadly. Maybe I've got the cheek of death? Oh, yes. The "Coroner" says it was cardiac arrest but you people really don't quite get how mysterious and interesting I am. Do you?
I really liked Brittany Murphy and it really is a shame that she's dead. I loved Clueless (even though everyone else in the entire world hated it) and she was fantastic in Sin City. 32 years old is a tragic age to die. Especially when you consider that Andi MacDowell is still alive.
But there is at least one truly great human being left on this planet and his name is Kevin.
On Saturday night I decided to do my yearly thing of losing my phone. I left it on a train between Hitchin and St. Neots. I got off the train, realised I'd left my phone behind and came to terms with my loss. I would never see that phone again. Someone would find it, steal it, have sex with it, keep it in their cellar and torture it on a daily basis because that's how people are. If they find something that should be returned to it's rightful owner, the first thing they do is have sex with it. To be honest, I would. I had totally given up seeing that phone again the second I realised that it had gone.
But it was found by Kevin, a man too good for this harsh, cruel world. He found it and immediately did the right thing. He phoned my Mum, left a message with her, gave details on how I could pick up the phone and then had sex with it. I assume.
How nice is that? Someone ACTUALLY did the decent thing and returned a lost phone. He didn't phone Australia, text "Suk mi u beeeeaaatch" to my sister or put it up his bum, like the rest of us would have. Kevin, I thank you. You are the last of a dying breed. So, you know, don't die.
Other good people on this planet are, of course, John and Tracey Morter who started the campaign to stop the X-Factor winner's single becoming the Christmas number one. Rage Against The Machine got to number one with a song that wasn't a single and has the fuck-word in it. Pretty amazing. I love the fact that the nation has come together to say bum off to Simon Cowell. Yeah, yeah, yeah where were these angry people when it came to voting day and two BNP members got in? But since when has politics and fascism been as important an issue as pop?
I'm tired, OK?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I really liked Brittany Murphy and it really is a shame that she's dead. I loved Clueless (even though everyone else in the entire world hated it) and she was fantastic in Sin City. 32 years old is a tragic age to die. Especially when you consider that Andi MacDowell is still alive.
But there is at least one truly great human being left on this planet and his name is Kevin.
On Saturday night I decided to do my yearly thing of losing my phone. I left it on a train between Hitchin and St. Neots. I got off the train, realised I'd left my phone behind and came to terms with my loss. I would never see that phone again. Someone would find it, steal it, have sex with it, keep it in their cellar and torture it on a daily basis because that's how people are. If they find something that should be returned to it's rightful owner, the first thing they do is have sex with it. To be honest, I would. I had totally given up seeing that phone again the second I realised that it had gone.
But it was found by Kevin, a man too good for this harsh, cruel world. He found it and immediately did the right thing. He phoned my Mum, left a message with her, gave details on how I could pick up the phone and then had sex with it. I assume.
How nice is that? Someone ACTUALLY did the decent thing and returned a lost phone. He didn't phone Australia, text "Suk mi u beeeeaaatch" to my sister or put it up his bum, like the rest of us would have. Kevin, I thank you. You are the last of a dying breed. So, you know, don't die.
Other good people on this planet are, of course, John and Tracey Morter who started the campaign to stop the X-Factor winner's single becoming the Christmas number one. Rage Against The Machine got to number one with a song that wasn't a single and has the fuck-word in it. Pretty amazing. I love the fact that the nation has come together to say bum off to Simon Cowell. Yeah, yeah, yeah where were these angry people when it came to voting day and two BNP members got in? But since when has politics and fascism been as important an issue as pop?
I'm tired, OK?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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