I returned home from my four day nap yesterday morning and immediately watched what could turn out to be THE television event of the year. It was incredible. The man looked uncomfortable with the questions, he obviously had no idea what he was talking about and it is no wonder that people protest at everything that he has done. I'm really glad I recorded I Believe In UFO's: Danny Dyer.
It was everything I hoped it would be. Danny fackin' believes in fackin' UFO's and no fackin' mistake, guv, leave it aht, fack off, do yerserlf a fayvah. It's that for an hour. It starts so well. The opening statement from Danny's own mouth is "Every six minutes, someone somewhere see's a UFO". No, they don't. "Every six minutes, an areshole somewhere see's a UFO". Fine, I'll go along with that. Danny then interviews Patrick Moore, a man with decades of experience looking at the night sky. His skills of garnering information from this font of knowledge are incredible and an inspiration.
Danny: "Is there life out there in space?"
Sir Patrick Moore, CBE, HonFRS, FRAS: "Maybe".
Danny: "Sir Patrick. I'll leave you there. You've got the cricket on, obviously. Loves the cricket. You've a glass of wine on the go. Sir, a proper gentleman".
And that was it. Danny can't waste time because Danny has nutters to meet. Crop circle nutters. How the fuck does anyone in 2010 still fall for crop circles? Well, fear not, there's plenty of people who do. Danny's one of them. But at least he shows a little scepticism. "Yeah, I'd look in the paper and see crop circles", he says. "But then I turn the page and look at a pair of tits". Why isn't he fronting more documentaries?
It goes on as you would expect. With twats thinking that every light in the sky is a form of extraterrestrial transport and every YouTube hoax is solid proof that we are being watched. "Is that a guy in a mask? I dunno". YES, IT FUCKING IS AND YOU DO KNOW. YOU FUCKING FILMED IT YOURSELF. The one thing that these lovable eccentrics have to make us unbelievers really question everything is this: dead cattle. Yeah, take that, Mr. Sceptic. I mean, we all know that humans have made it on to the moon and back but we just don't have the technology to kill a cow. Only spacemen from Mars can do that. The universe is infinite and if it's infinite then there is life out there but watch this programme to find out why life on other planets wouldn't give us Earthlings the time of day. We are shit.
My new year's resolution of not getting into arguments on trains will have to go. I travelled to Bournemouth yesterday and sat near some horrible drunk pricks who saw me watching Doctor Who. They started taking the piss out of me which I thought was very brave of them. I mean there's four of them having a go at someone wearing earphones and therefore "can't hear" them. They are heroes. They let a female co-worker sit near them and talk to them and join in with their witty banter while they plied her with wine. All four of them did this because all four of them wanted to fuck her. All I'm saying is, I missed out on a really good argument and I'm just not sure I can do that again. Please forgive me. I nearly got through all of January without an argument but if one like that comes up again I HAVE to take it. Anyway, the cunts knew nothing about Doctor Who. "Darleks" are NOT robots. Stupid cunts.
Then I was charmed by a cab driver who, it turns out, knows the comedy business and how it works inside and out. He asked if I was off work this weekend and I told him that he was taking me to work. I'll be in the venue and out again in no time, I bragged. He asked more questions and once he realised that I was a stand-up comedian he started throwing his knowledge at me. "You're on first then, yeah?", he said. "So, you just starting out in this then?" You'd be forgiven for thinking so if you ever saw my act but I've been going for a stupidly long time. "Right. So you're just doing a little spot are you? What is that? 45 minutes?" Er...no. I'm doing half an hour. "I see. Well, half an hour's not long" Well, cunt, be my guest. Get up there and do half an hour. "So, you go on and then what? A professional goes on after you?". Fuck you. I'm on a bill with Tim Clarke and Junior Simpson. There are no professionals on after me. I started to point out the gentleman's error just as we got to the venue. "That'll be £7. I hope you don't get booed off, eh?". Keep calm, Michael. Just hand him the money and say goodbye. "All the best, mate. I hope your career takes off some day".
LOOK, YOU CUNT. YOU'RE THE BLOKE WHO DROVE THE FUCKING CAREERLESS COMEDIAN TO HIS BOOED-OFF-STAGE GIG SO WHAT DOES THAT MAKE YOU? Other than £7 richer, I mean.
As it turns out the gig was just what I needed. I was utterly self-indulgent throughout, constantly referring to the Bournemouth audience as being very, very old (they weren't) which meant I could repeat everything I had just said to them a bit louder. I like shouting.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Friday, 29 January 2010
I Know You Did Fuck All Last Summer.
Now, when I say holiday I don't mean holiday holiday. I didn't go away to an exotic island for a couple of weeks to bronze myself while beautiful women serve me delicious cocktails. That's for quitters. I went to a log cabin in the middle of fuck not nowhere for a few days and topped up my incredibly pale skin tone.
It wasn't even that remote either. I stayed in Tilford Woods in Surrey (it had to be close because Jerk doesn't like trains) and was surrounded by an incredible mass of natural beauty. I saw next to none of it. Without exaggerating each day was like this: I woke up, had breakfast, had a nap, walked Jerk in the woods for an hour, have a hot chocolate, have a nap, walk Jerk, cook dinner, have a nap, let Jerk out for a pee, go to bed. It was fucking brilliant and I realise that I've just invented a new MEGA-PASTIME!!! A mega-pastime that I call Extreme Sleeping.
The great thing about Extreme Sleeping is that it can be done by almost anyone (dead people aren't allowed to participate. Sorry to be racist but that's considered cheating) and there is little to no training involved. All you do is eat a load of food, stick the central heating on full and BANG! You're playing Extreme Sleeping. When I realised that I had been sleeping for an average of 16 and a half hours a day I wasn't alarmed or embarrassed, I just realised that I had found an activity that I'm good at. I'm very much a glass half full kind of guy or, at the very least, a lovely hot water bottle half full kind of guy. It may seem like laziness, to the untrained eye, to go to bed straight after breakfast but to me it shows commitment to my new hobby. I now know how those snowboarders and bungee jumpers and putting-your-cock-in-a-lions-mouth people feel like. They're laughed at by the masses because they live life to the EXTREME. Like me.
"No-one can sleep for that amount of time and be happy, ...er...what's your name again. Martin? No, Michael. Yes, that's it. Michael", I hear you say but you are SO wrong. I just had a 30 minute sports-sleep right after that last paragraph. WHOOO!! The rush I now get from just sliding away from all conciousness, awareness and responsibility is freakin' AWESOME! I would get a tattoo that says "Bedtime All The Time" but I can't be bothered.
All I'm saying is that when I visit a friend who has been on a fucking safari in Africa and wants to show me his photos of him feeding Rhinos and nursing a Zebra back to health and then he asks me if I have any photos of my recent trip I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "No". No, because my holiday was better than yours. My holiday was the dream lifestyle of those lucky, lucky few coma patients that win life's lottery and manage to step away from EVERYTHING. No fear of being attacked by a lion, no frustration at the Germans taking all the loungers at the pool, no talking to people who "always come here at this time of year. We know the place really well. Here, let me show you around. We can go for a drink together later in the Kon-Tiki Fun Pub".
Just sleep. Blessed, blessed sleep.
And the occasional sound of a fucking Chinook helicopter ruining everything. Why do the military like the middle of nowhere as much as I do?
Well, I didn't say it was perfect but being away and sleeping for four days has left me feeling great. And get this: I have no idea what an iPad is. Night night.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
It wasn't even that remote either. I stayed in Tilford Woods in Surrey (it had to be close because Jerk doesn't like trains) and was surrounded by an incredible mass of natural beauty. I saw next to none of it. Without exaggerating each day was like this: I woke up, had breakfast, had a nap, walked Jerk in the woods for an hour, have a hot chocolate, have a nap, walk Jerk, cook dinner, have a nap, let Jerk out for a pee, go to bed. It was fucking brilliant and I realise that I've just invented a new MEGA-PASTIME!!! A mega-pastime that I call Extreme Sleeping.
The great thing about Extreme Sleeping is that it can be done by almost anyone (dead people aren't allowed to participate. Sorry to be racist but that's considered cheating) and there is little to no training involved. All you do is eat a load of food, stick the central heating on full and BANG! You're playing Extreme Sleeping. When I realised that I had been sleeping for an average of 16 and a half hours a day I wasn't alarmed or embarrassed, I just realised that I had found an activity that I'm good at. I'm very much a glass half full kind of guy or, at the very least, a lovely hot water bottle half full kind of guy. It may seem like laziness, to the untrained eye, to go to bed straight after breakfast but to me it shows commitment to my new hobby. I now know how those snowboarders and bungee jumpers and putting-your-cock-in-a-lions-mouth people feel like. They're laughed at by the masses because they live life to the EXTREME. Like me.
"No-one can sleep for that amount of time and be happy, ...er...what's your name again. Martin? No, Michael. Yes, that's it. Michael", I hear you say but you are SO wrong. I just had a 30 minute sports-sleep right after that last paragraph. WHOOO!! The rush I now get from just sliding away from all conciousness, awareness and responsibility is freakin' AWESOME! I would get a tattoo that says "Bedtime All The Time" but I can't be bothered.
All I'm saying is that when I visit a friend who has been on a fucking safari in Africa and wants to show me his photos of him feeding Rhinos and nursing a Zebra back to health and then he asks me if I have any photos of my recent trip I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "No". No, because my holiday was better than yours. My holiday was the dream lifestyle of those lucky, lucky few coma patients that win life's lottery and manage to step away from EVERYTHING. No fear of being attacked by a lion, no frustration at the Germans taking all the loungers at the pool, no talking to people who "always come here at this time of year. We know the place really well. Here, let me show you around. We can go for a drink together later in the Kon-Tiki Fun Pub".
Just sleep. Blessed, blessed sleep.
And the occasional sound of a fucking Chinook helicopter ruining everything. Why do the military like the middle of nowhere as much as I do?
Well, I didn't say it was perfect but being away and sleeping for four days has left me feeling great. And get this: I have no idea what an iPad is. Night night.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 25 January 2010
Good Vs. Evil.
Lots of gigs at the weekend as well as recording the latest Precious Little so I felt that yesterday's doing fuck all was justified. To be honest, doing fuck all was always the plan. I love fuck all, me.
Spent the day with my friends, Rob and Linda, and their 10 month old son, Jamie. I like Jamie. He took us to the pub. Or we took him. I can't remember. I was a bit drunk. Then I spent the night catching up on very important telly. The best programme on this week was undoubtedly 9 Lessons and Carols for Godless People on BBC4. I'm really glad this has made it on to TV. It's so well deserved. It's an incredible show full of intelligent people celebrating that underused little shit-stirrer known as facts. Robin Ince is just superb throughout. He's probably the best stand-up in the UK but no-one must ever tell him this. Confidence will destroy him. Of course, I have a middle-aged man-crush on Robyn Hitchcock so I feel compelled to say that he is the best thing in the show but then he opens his mouth and the first thing that comes out is just fantastic. He is the best thing in every show. "What you call God, I call evolution. What you call faith, I call Mum and Dad", he sings and I love him. It's still the comedy that appeals to me most about these shows even though Ben Goldacre is as fascinating as he is modest (I am being sarcastic. That said, he looks like Colin Baker playing the part of Chris Addison and that is as cool as any human can ever appear). Mark Steel, Richard Herring (wearing his one and only jumper) and Shappi Khorsandi are fantastic and Barry Cryer & Ronnie Golden's finale is furiously joyful. It's a welcome surprise that something this good and unique ends up on TV. Ironically, it restores faith.
Well, nearly. At the same time as BBC4 is trying to expand a mind or two, BBC3 is celebrating arse. The thickest of all channels has decided to show a series of celebrity led documentaries looking at the unknown. I sat through all of I Believe In Ghosts: Joe Swash. It lasted an hour and traced the journey of a man no-one in the entire world has ever heard of as he tries to uncover proof of things that are completely proven to not exist. Not that it wasn't entertaining. It was. But only in the same way that the first few episodes of X Factor are. You know, when we all get to laugh and point at people who are clearly mentally ill.
Joe, whoever the fuck he is, met a 17 year old who can speak to the dead (he can't, it's impossible) and I can see why he has chosen the dead to communicate with. No living being would ever give that bucktoothed piss the time of day. He is the world's youngest professional medium. Just think about that for a minute. He is the youngest man in the world to get paid to lie to the chronically insecure. Or, in other word's, he is the world's youngest evil cunt. Still, at least he doesn't drag his knuckles behind him and live in his own shit like the man who tell's Joe that a ghost tries to rape him every night. "How do you know he's trying to have sex with you?", says the celebrity that doesn't exist. "Because he's trying to fuck me" comes the reply that completely proves everything. Of course, the most incredible thing about the doc is that even though all of these nutters believe in the walking dead not one of them, not ONE of them, asks Joe who he is. They just somehow believe that he is a celebrity. Like I said, it's very far-fetched. The next episode is I Believe In UFO's: Danny Dyer. That is not to be missed.
I'm off on holiday now. BYE!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Spent the day with my friends, Rob and Linda, and their 10 month old son, Jamie. I like Jamie. He took us to the pub. Or we took him. I can't remember. I was a bit drunk. Then I spent the night catching up on very important telly. The best programme on this week was undoubtedly 9 Lessons and Carols for Godless People on BBC4. I'm really glad this has made it on to TV. It's so well deserved. It's an incredible show full of intelligent people celebrating that underused little shit-stirrer known as facts. Robin Ince is just superb throughout. He's probably the best stand-up in the UK but no-one must ever tell him this. Confidence will destroy him. Of course, I have a middle-aged man-crush on Robyn Hitchcock so I feel compelled to say that he is the best thing in the show but then he opens his mouth and the first thing that comes out is just fantastic. He is the best thing in every show. "What you call God, I call evolution. What you call faith, I call Mum and Dad", he sings and I love him. It's still the comedy that appeals to me most about these shows even though Ben Goldacre is as fascinating as he is modest (I am being sarcastic. That said, he looks like Colin Baker playing the part of Chris Addison and that is as cool as any human can ever appear). Mark Steel, Richard Herring (wearing his one and only jumper) and Shappi Khorsandi are fantastic and Barry Cryer & Ronnie Golden's finale is furiously joyful. It's a welcome surprise that something this good and unique ends up on TV. Ironically, it restores faith.
Well, nearly. At the same time as BBC4 is trying to expand a mind or two, BBC3 is celebrating arse. The thickest of all channels has decided to show a series of celebrity led documentaries looking at the unknown. I sat through all of I Believe In Ghosts: Joe Swash. It lasted an hour and traced the journey of a man no-one in the entire world has ever heard of as he tries to uncover proof of things that are completely proven to not exist. Not that it wasn't entertaining. It was. But only in the same way that the first few episodes of X Factor are. You know, when we all get to laugh and point at people who are clearly mentally ill.
Joe, whoever the fuck he is, met a 17 year old who can speak to the dead (he can't, it's impossible) and I can see why he has chosen the dead to communicate with. No living being would ever give that bucktoothed piss the time of day. He is the world's youngest professional medium. Just think about that for a minute. He is the youngest man in the world to get paid to lie to the chronically insecure. Or, in other word's, he is the world's youngest evil cunt. Still, at least he doesn't drag his knuckles behind him and live in his own shit like the man who tell's Joe that a ghost tries to rape him every night. "How do you know he's trying to have sex with you?", says the celebrity that doesn't exist. "Because he's trying to fuck me" comes the reply that completely proves everything. Of course, the most incredible thing about the doc is that even though all of these nutters believe in the walking dead not one of them, not ONE of them, asks Joe who he is. They just somehow believe that he is a celebrity. Like I said, it's very far-fetched. The next episode is I Believe In UFO's: Danny Dyer. That is not to be missed.
I'm off on holiday now. BYE!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Fuck Is a Four-Letter Word.
Scrabble gets you laid now? That's how people end up fucking one another these days? Scrabble? In my day, you got them drunk, listened to their tedious stories and, if you were luck, you got to see a bit of their bra. That was the very best you could hope for. But now Scrabble gets you blown. UNFAIR!
Last night I had a lovely gig at the Comedy Cafe and a pretty questionable one at Monkey Business in Hampstead. Some bright spark thought it would be clever to put me on after Mitch Benn. To be honest, my stories of large women having bakeries up their vaginas and shouting "SCUM!" at the poorest looking person in the room just couldn't compete with Mitch's songs. I was fucked from the word go. I didn't die (which surprised me) but I didn't exactly rock either. I got heckled by two men who, as is always the case, turned out to be friends of the promoter and the stage backdrop collapsed while I was in the middle of my ingenious hilarity. I just about got away with it.
Luckily, an open spot went on before me. He's a very nice man but he's very new and the audience liked some bits but could see his inexperience. That was SUCH a fucking fluke for me. If I'd gone on straight after Mitch I wouldn't have survived a minute. The new act, on the other hand, did his time admirably and cushioned the blow for my shit. Afterwards, we had a drink together and he told me that he get's laid by playing Scrabble. I should have chinned the cunt right there.
If you want to fuck someone via Scrabble you should at least have the common decency to play the game face to face and seduce one another. Like in The Thomas Crown Affair. You should be making suggestive come to bed eyes to her while laying down a seven letter word as see stares at you sucking on a tile with X on it. But no. He plays Scrabble online and after a few wins women can't resist him. Is this how it is these days? How cowardly can you get? I don't remember meeting women off the back of Daley Thompson's Decathalon. I didn't get to finger anyone because I played Jet-Pac. I distinctly remembering reading "You will have a wank on your own again tonight" in The Hobbit and that's as good as I got. Why the fuck is it so easy these days for people to get laid?
We need another sexual health scare.
I spoke to the guy for a while longer. We talked about Dr. Who but even when he was discussing the brilliance of The Green Death all I could think of was that this guy gets fucked by playing Scrabble. I got a cab home and bored the arse off the driver by shouting about what happens during Scrabble these days.
He drove off without giving me a receipt but he looked like he felt sorry for me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Last night I had a lovely gig at the Comedy Cafe and a pretty questionable one at Monkey Business in Hampstead. Some bright spark thought it would be clever to put me on after Mitch Benn. To be honest, my stories of large women having bakeries up their vaginas and shouting "SCUM!" at the poorest looking person in the room just couldn't compete with Mitch's songs. I was fucked from the word go. I didn't die (which surprised me) but I didn't exactly rock either. I got heckled by two men who, as is always the case, turned out to be friends of the promoter and the stage backdrop collapsed while I was in the middle of my ingenious hilarity. I just about got away with it.
Luckily, an open spot went on before me. He's a very nice man but he's very new and the audience liked some bits but could see his inexperience. That was SUCH a fucking fluke for me. If I'd gone on straight after Mitch I wouldn't have survived a minute. The new act, on the other hand, did his time admirably and cushioned the blow for my shit. Afterwards, we had a drink together and he told me that he get's laid by playing Scrabble. I should have chinned the cunt right there.
If you want to fuck someone via Scrabble you should at least have the common decency to play the game face to face and seduce one another. Like in The Thomas Crown Affair. You should be making suggestive come to bed eyes to her while laying down a seven letter word as see stares at you sucking on a tile with X on it. But no. He plays Scrabble online and after a few wins women can't resist him. Is this how it is these days? How cowardly can you get? I don't remember meeting women off the back of Daley Thompson's Decathalon. I didn't get to finger anyone because I played Jet-Pac. I distinctly remembering reading "You will have a wank on your own again tonight" in The Hobbit and that's as good as I got. Why the fuck is it so easy these days for people to get laid?
We need another sexual health scare.
I spoke to the guy for a while longer. We talked about Dr. Who but even when he was discussing the brilliance of The Green Death all I could think of was that this guy gets fucked by playing Scrabble. I got a cab home and bored the arse off the driver by shouting about what happens during Scrabble these days.
He drove off without giving me a receipt but he looked like he felt sorry for me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Friday, 22 January 2010
Hmmmm and Her.
My experience with Li Ping has reminded me that this sort of thing has happened to me before. Gender confusion and me almost go hand in hand, in fact. I used to work with someone that I never saw. By that, I had to phone him every day and discuss Northern Irish newspaper things. Oh, yes. I used to have a proper job once. There was a time when I was considered "employable".
I worked in the Law Courts in Belfast for a year and after speaking to this guy for months and not knowing who he was I thought I should at least tell him I was leaving and it was nice working with a guy that was always so helpful. Oh, and I'm Michael, by the way. What's your name, mate?
Siobhan.
Of course, it is.
I had no idea that Siobhan was legend in this little world. She had a big man's voice. Like Paisley. Terrifying. My last week working there was too scary. Now that I knew Siobhan was a woman it was hard for me to discuss features in the Belfast Telegraph without imagining what she looked like. Pigtails, pink frock, eating half a wild boar while scratching her big, fat, hairy cock. I barely heard a word she said that last week. After this weeks Li Ping incident, I'm glad to see that over 20 years later I have really not changed a bit. Maturity isn't my bag, baby.
Siobhan was the influence for a character that Bennett Arron and I came up with for our failed sit-com scripts "Central General Emergency Hospital". The BBC loved the script, they thought that only the title needed to be changed. I can see their point. We had many very positive meetings with the BBC and in all that time only one thing was ever questioned. One of the "producers" was someone who is now called Lucy Lumsden although we knew her before she was married. She was called Whore then. That might not be the correct spelling but that was definitely her name. Anyway, Whore could not get her head around a female character who had a man's voice. Why did she have a man's voice, Whore would say, was there something in her past that could reveal the answer? It was a very childish script that relied heavily on idiocy but Whore felt this character needed a genuinely moving and traumatic back story so that we could explain her voice if people wrote in asking why she spoke like a man. I suggested if people wrote in asking why she spoke like a man we could either ignore them or tell them to fuck off. I never met Whore again.
The BBC then decided to go with the God awful TLC instead of our script. Bitter? Fucking yes. Whore, it goes without saying, went on to become Head of Comedy.
I have just realised that I have no idea why I wrote all this. Bye.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I worked in the Law Courts in Belfast for a year and after speaking to this guy for months and not knowing who he was I thought I should at least tell him I was leaving and it was nice working with a guy that was always so helpful. Oh, and I'm Michael, by the way. What's your name, mate?
Siobhan.
Of course, it is.
I had no idea that Siobhan was legend in this little world. She had a big man's voice. Like Paisley. Terrifying. My last week working there was too scary. Now that I knew Siobhan was a woman it was hard for me to discuss features in the Belfast Telegraph without imagining what she looked like. Pigtails, pink frock, eating half a wild boar while scratching her big, fat, hairy cock. I barely heard a word she said that last week. After this weeks Li Ping incident, I'm glad to see that over 20 years later I have really not changed a bit. Maturity isn't my bag, baby.
Siobhan was the influence for a character that Bennett Arron and I came up with for our failed sit-com scripts "Central General Emergency Hospital". The BBC loved the script, they thought that only the title needed to be changed. I can see their point. We had many very positive meetings with the BBC and in all that time only one thing was ever questioned. One of the "producers" was someone who is now called Lucy Lumsden although we knew her before she was married. She was called Whore then. That might not be the correct spelling but that was definitely her name. Anyway, Whore could not get her head around a female character who had a man's voice. Why did she have a man's voice, Whore would say, was there something in her past that could reveal the answer? It was a very childish script that relied heavily on idiocy but Whore felt this character needed a genuinely moving and traumatic back story so that we could explain her voice if people wrote in asking why she spoke like a man. I suggested if people wrote in asking why she spoke like a man we could either ignore them or tell them to fuck off. I never met Whore again.
The BBC then decided to go with the God awful TLC instead of our script. Bitter? Fucking yes. Whore, it goes without saying, went on to become Head of Comedy.
I have just realised that I have no idea why I wrote all this. Bye.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Good Frief II.
Minutes after I wrote yesterday’s blog I received a phonecall from Li Ping the cunt. The cunt said that he would meet me at Lewisham train station anytime I wanted. That’s more like it, you cunt.
As I’m Mr. Lovely 2010 I decided that I’d go along and see my good deed to it’s intended conclusion. This meant not putting Li Ping’s phone on eBay and getting about £50 for it. I had already decided that I was going to buy the upcoming Doctor Who Kamelion boxset with Li Ping’s money but now, thanks to my stupid loveliness, I’m going to have to buy that crappy boxset with MY money. Still, it’s the good deed itself that should be the reward. Sadly, I’m a realist and the good deed itself is a pain in the arse, not a reward. I hate good deeds.
I turned up at Lewisham Train station at 3 as agreed. He was late. It got to five past (not that late, I agree, but if it was my phone I would have made sure I was on time. I’m sorry but I’m just that sort of a prick) and he still hadn’t turned up. I called him and he said he was at Lewisham. I described what I looked like (Brad Pitt body with a Daniel Day-Lewis intense mature beauty about me. And a big Russian hat) thinking that he could easily pick me out. That plus I was the only person standing outside the train station. Five minutes go by and he still doesn’t appear. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Lewisham train station isn’t that big. You can’t get THAT lost in it. I get really pissed off, call him and say in a stern voice that I’m leaving. He keeps telling me that he can’t find the main exit but I am now so pissed off with the cunt that I don’t care about my good deed at all. I will never do another good deed again in my life. I hate Li Ping and I’m sorry that I ever tried to help him.
Well, I was sorry until he appeared.
“Are you Michael?”, said the very sweet looking young girl with a man’s voice.
I quickly handed her the phone and left. I had to leave. I had to leave because I had to laugh.
She was so grateful and thanked me a lot, just like I wanted but there was no way that I could pretend that I wasn’t surprised at her gender. I held it in for as long as I could and if it wasn’t for the sound of my eyebrows shooting off my face then I’m sure she’d have no clue that I was surprised. My casual walk away from Li Ping quickly turned into a speed walking frenzy. Li Ping is a girl.
I really didn’t expect that and the fact that my brain couldn’t process all the information in front of it just made the whole laborious malarkey of returning his…HER phone completely worth it. All of a sudden I really like Li Ping. She’s full of surprises. Or at least has one so big that there’s no room for any more surprises.
It made my day. Staying in and watching the National Television Awards obviously ruined it. What a God awful spectacle of dumbing down celebrations that was. A pubeless nothing opened the show with a song that should have been buried and forgotten about along with him and a billion airheads in frocks screamed their expensive breasts off to the very sight of a cunt from “Corrie”. I switched off pretty much when Gavin & Stacey won the Adolf Hitler Memorial Award for All That Is Wrong. We are fucked, Ladies and Gentlemen, we are fucked. Gavin & Stacey beat TV Burp and The Inbetweeners. You’d be really hard pushed to think of anything better made in Britain these days. Except maybe Cadbury’s chocolate. At least that has remained true to itself and not got all cheesey. HA HA HA HA HA HA! Well, fuck it. If this is what I have to do to get a writing job on ITV I’ll fucking do it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
As I’m Mr. Lovely 2010 I decided that I’d go along and see my good deed to it’s intended conclusion. This meant not putting Li Ping’s phone on eBay and getting about £50 for it. I had already decided that I was going to buy the upcoming Doctor Who Kamelion boxset with Li Ping’s money but now, thanks to my stupid loveliness, I’m going to have to buy that crappy boxset with MY money. Still, it’s the good deed itself that should be the reward. Sadly, I’m a realist and the good deed itself is a pain in the arse, not a reward. I hate good deeds.
I turned up at Lewisham Train station at 3 as agreed. He was late. It got to five past (not that late, I agree, but if it was my phone I would have made sure I was on time. I’m sorry but I’m just that sort of a prick) and he still hadn’t turned up. I called him and he said he was at Lewisham. I described what I looked like (Brad Pitt body with a Daniel Day-Lewis intense mature beauty about me. And a big Russian hat) thinking that he could easily pick me out. That plus I was the only person standing outside the train station. Five minutes go by and he still doesn’t appear. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Lewisham train station isn’t that big. You can’t get THAT lost in it. I get really pissed off, call him and say in a stern voice that I’m leaving. He keeps telling me that he can’t find the main exit but I am now so pissed off with the cunt that I don’t care about my good deed at all. I will never do another good deed again in my life. I hate Li Ping and I’m sorry that I ever tried to help him.
Well, I was sorry until he appeared.
“Are you Michael?”, said the very sweet looking young girl with a man’s voice.
I quickly handed her the phone and left. I had to leave. I had to leave because I had to laugh.
She was so grateful and thanked me a lot, just like I wanted but there was no way that I could pretend that I wasn’t surprised at her gender. I held it in for as long as I could and if it wasn’t for the sound of my eyebrows shooting off my face then I’m sure she’d have no clue that I was surprised. My casual walk away from Li Ping quickly turned into a speed walking frenzy. Li Ping is a girl.
I really didn’t expect that and the fact that my brain couldn’t process all the information in front of it just made the whole laborious malarkey of returning his…HER phone completely worth it. All of a sudden I really like Li Ping. She’s full of surprises. Or at least has one so big that there’s no room for any more surprises.
It made my day. Staying in and watching the National Television Awards obviously ruined it. What a God awful spectacle of dumbing down celebrations that was. A pubeless nothing opened the show with a song that should have been buried and forgotten about along with him and a billion airheads in frocks screamed their expensive breasts off to the very sight of a cunt from “Corrie”. I switched off pretty much when Gavin & Stacey won the Adolf Hitler Memorial Award for All That Is Wrong. We are fucked, Ladies and Gentlemen, we are fucked. Gavin & Stacey beat TV Burp and The Inbetweeners. You’d be really hard pushed to think of anything better made in Britain these days. Except maybe Cadbury’s chocolate. At least that has remained true to itself and not got all cheesey. HA HA HA HA HA HA! Well, fuck it. If this is what I have to do to get a writing job on ITV I’ll fucking do it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Good Grief.
God, Li Ping is a cunt. Seriously, a fucking cunt. You know what? You try to help someone but really, what's the point? There is no fucking point. Ever.
I lost my phone about a month ago and it was found by a very nice man called Kevin. Kevin called my Mum. My Mum called me. I called Kevin and then went to his workplace to pick it up. It was that simple. But Li Ping is a cunt and making things simple is just not his style.
2010 is my year of being really nice to people. No arguing, no getting upset by other people's thoughtless behaviour and much more helping. Kevin is my influence. He found my phone and, instead of phoning everyone in Australia or texting photos of his cock to my Mum, he made sure I got it back. I would NEVER do that. Not until now. On Monday night I found Li Ping's phone on the train. Li Ping is a cunt.
I immediately contacted a couple of people on his phone and the next afternoon he called me. Even though I left my number for him he called on his own phone. I should have known then what an arsehole he was. When I answered the phone one thing became apparent. Li Ping loves pauses. "Hello", I said. Then about 20 seconds later Li Ping said Hello back. "Are you calling about your phone?", I enquired and after much soul-searching and reflecting he said yes.
This was going to take ages.
English isn't Li Ping's first language but he definitely knows it better than I do. He used words like bothersome and grapple. Words I forget to use all the time. If I have one thing nice to say about Li Ping it's that I like his vocabulary. He likes quite old fashioned sounding words. It's just that there is a lifetime between each one and talking to the cunt on the phone takes every ounce of my patience. I actually had to borrow some patience from St. Monica because within no time at all I found myself daydreaming about kicking Li Ping's severed head around my back garden. I would have enjoyed that. Time passed and eventually Li Ping and I got round to the business of him picking up his phone. My good deed was coming to fruition. Soon he would be picking up his phone and thanking me profusely for being so incredibly benevolent. Showering me with gifts and kind yet frustrating drawn out words. Well, that would happen if Li Ping wasn't such a cunt.
I first of all offered to meet him at Lewisham train station even though it's about a 15 minute walk for me. I'm doing a good deed after all. Sometimes good deeds are 15 minutes away. He didn't like that idea. Despite the fact that he lived a couple of minutes away from the station he just didn't know when he could get there. Fine. As he's so near the station I'll drop it off at his house. He didn't like that at all. After all, he doesn't know me. I could be a serial killer. You know, the type of serial killer who likes to give his victims their lost phones back before he fucks their corpse. Right. Well, where would Li Ping like to meet me?
He was going to be in a bar in Blackheath that night. I'm not going to Blackheath just to give the guy his phone back.
He could come to my house. No. If I'm not allowed in his house, he's not allowed in mine. That's law, that is.
He changes his mind and says that he WILL pick it up from Lewisham train station. Somewhere between 4 and 6. FUCK RIGHT OFF.
Finally we agree to meet at Costa Coffee, Shaftsbury Avenue at 3pm. It's where I'm meeting The Trap to discuss the upcoming Los Quattros Cvnts show. He sighs at the very idea of having to meet me there. It's a big inconvenience to him, it's way out of his way but as it's me (and the fact that he's just round the corner at the time) he will grapple with making the effort despite the bothersome nature of it all. Then he calls me back and asks for the address again. I give him the full address and the correct tube station that it's near and he agrees he knows the place. But, you know, could I now text him the address because he doesn't have a pen at the moment. Fucking cunt.
It goes without saying that half an hour after texting him the details I received a reply from him saying that he "couldn't" make it and could I meet him at Lewisham train station sometime the next night. FOR FUCK'S SAKE! All I want is a lot of praise from a complete stranger but I had no idea it would be this much of a cock-pain.
I let him know that this is all a bit much. If he sends his address I'll just post it to him. I can at least get a tiny bit of pleasure from knowing that I've done the good deed. I finished what I stupidly started. Li Ping will have his phone back. He'll never be able to thank me properly but I'll get over that because, after all, I'm a nice person now. His response was "No. Just meet me at Lewisham".
I am putting Li Ping's phone on eBay. He is a cunt.
I checked his phone today and calls from this number are now barred. When I sell the phone I will let you know how much money I got and what I spent that money on. If I can't be told how great I am I can at least buy something really stupid.
Me being nice is supposed to be the "third act" of my possible Edinburgh show. It's going to be really, really tough that bit. I try to be nice and I'm not allowed. What's the fucking point? Cunts.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I lost my phone about a month ago and it was found by a very nice man called Kevin. Kevin called my Mum. My Mum called me. I called Kevin and then went to his workplace to pick it up. It was that simple. But Li Ping is a cunt and making things simple is just not his style.
2010 is my year of being really nice to people. No arguing, no getting upset by other people's thoughtless behaviour and much more helping. Kevin is my influence. He found my phone and, instead of phoning everyone in Australia or texting photos of his cock to my Mum, he made sure I got it back. I would NEVER do that. Not until now. On Monday night I found Li Ping's phone on the train. Li Ping is a cunt.
I immediately contacted a couple of people on his phone and the next afternoon he called me. Even though I left my number for him he called on his own phone. I should have known then what an arsehole he was. When I answered the phone one thing became apparent. Li Ping loves pauses. "Hello", I said. Then about 20 seconds later Li Ping said Hello back. "Are you calling about your phone?", I enquired and after much soul-searching and reflecting he said yes.
This was going to take ages.
English isn't Li Ping's first language but he definitely knows it better than I do. He used words like bothersome and grapple. Words I forget to use all the time. If I have one thing nice to say about Li Ping it's that I like his vocabulary. He likes quite old fashioned sounding words. It's just that there is a lifetime between each one and talking to the cunt on the phone takes every ounce of my patience. I actually had to borrow some patience from St. Monica because within no time at all I found myself daydreaming about kicking Li Ping's severed head around my back garden. I would have enjoyed that. Time passed and eventually Li Ping and I got round to the business of him picking up his phone. My good deed was coming to fruition. Soon he would be picking up his phone and thanking me profusely for being so incredibly benevolent. Showering me with gifts and kind yet frustrating drawn out words. Well, that would happen if Li Ping wasn't such a cunt.
I first of all offered to meet him at Lewisham train station even though it's about a 15 minute walk for me. I'm doing a good deed after all. Sometimes good deeds are 15 minutes away. He didn't like that idea. Despite the fact that he lived a couple of minutes away from the station he just didn't know when he could get there. Fine. As he's so near the station I'll drop it off at his house. He didn't like that at all. After all, he doesn't know me. I could be a serial killer. You know, the type of serial killer who likes to give his victims their lost phones back before he fucks their corpse. Right. Well, where would Li Ping like to meet me?
He was going to be in a bar in Blackheath that night. I'm not going to Blackheath just to give the guy his phone back.
He could come to my house. No. If I'm not allowed in his house, he's not allowed in mine. That's law, that is.
He changes his mind and says that he WILL pick it up from Lewisham train station. Somewhere between 4 and 6. FUCK RIGHT OFF.
Finally we agree to meet at Costa Coffee, Shaftsbury Avenue at 3pm. It's where I'm meeting The Trap to discuss the upcoming Los Quattros Cvnts show. He sighs at the very idea of having to meet me there. It's a big inconvenience to him, it's way out of his way but as it's me (and the fact that he's just round the corner at the time) he will grapple with making the effort despite the bothersome nature of it all. Then he calls me back and asks for the address again. I give him the full address and the correct tube station that it's near and he agrees he knows the place. But, you know, could I now text him the address because he doesn't have a pen at the moment. Fucking cunt.
It goes without saying that half an hour after texting him the details I received a reply from him saying that he "couldn't" make it and could I meet him at Lewisham train station sometime the next night. FOR FUCK'S SAKE! All I want is a lot of praise from a complete stranger but I had no idea it would be this much of a cock-pain.
I let him know that this is all a bit much. If he sends his address I'll just post it to him. I can at least get a tiny bit of pleasure from knowing that I've done the good deed. I finished what I stupidly started. Li Ping will have his phone back. He'll never be able to thank me properly but I'll get over that because, after all, I'm a nice person now. His response was "No. Just meet me at Lewisham".
I am putting Li Ping's phone on eBay. He is a cunt.
I checked his phone today and calls from this number are now barred. When I sell the phone I will let you know how much money I got and what I spent that money on. If I can't be told how great I am I can at least buy something really stupid.
Me being nice is supposed to be the "third act" of my possible Edinburgh show. It's going to be really, really tough that bit. I try to be nice and I'm not allowed. What's the fucking point? Cunts.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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