What the fuck is going on with pubs? More specifically, what the fuck is going on with pubs in the West End of London? Why are they trying to bleed us dry? And why are we letting them? I mean, besides the whole needing booze to survive thing.
On Tuesday night, Bennett Arron and I went to a pub in Covent Garden called The Marquess of Anglesey. It describes itself as "a wonderful traditional pub" which it isn't. A wonderful traditional pub would be one that welcomes it's customers and offers reasonably priced drinks. Maybe there would be a lovely log fire there with a beautiful Red Setter sleeping in front of it while old men get distracted from their dominoes game by the quite old-fashioned but still strangely attractive bar maid who is singing while she picks up empty glasses. The Marquess of Anglesey is a bar full of cunts run by cunts who treat you like a cunt. £4.40 for a pint of fucking lager? How is that fucking justified? I went to the bar and asked the bored stiff ghost who was "serving" for a pint of lager and a pint of Guinness. She shuffled back with the drinks and said "£8.45".
I asked for a pint of lager and a pint of Guinness, not a pint of Lager and pint of Guinness and a hardback copy of Saturday Night Peter (that goes for about £3 now, right?). She must have got it wrong. Like so many choices she has made in her grey spiteful life, she must have got this wrong. But no. That's what the Marquess of Anglesey chooses to charge in an ordinary pub during our credit crunch.
Fine. That's the way they want to play, fine. I just won't ever return. That'll show them. I mean, no one is going to pay these prices. This place will close in a week.
I would have really believed that if it wasn't for the fact that the pub was rammed full. Full of cunts, like I say, but full nonetheless. Of course the Marquess of Anglesey can charge whatever it likes. These idiots are more than happy to pay without actually even considering that they're being ripped off. The whole clientèle is made up for four different types of people: Office workers who love to play who can shout the loudest when out with the very people they despise (their workmates), arseholes who think that going to see Dirty Dancing The Musical is a night at the theatre, Bennett Arron and me.
The Marquess of Anglesey is not alone in this destruction of my beloved pub culture. Every pub we went to that night was charging over £4 a pint. Why has this happened all of a sudden? Why are they doing this to me? I don't want to come across all Four Yorkshiremen (I do, that's really funny) but when I first went to a pub it costs 68p for a pint. I remember when it was coming close to £1 a pint and saying that once it hits a quid I'm stopping drinking. These bastards aren't going to rip me off.
And that is what a blog is all about. Complaining about something you have no intentions of doing anything about whatsoever. I have done my job.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Taxis Don't Need To Be Taxing.
Yesterday was yet another lost day for me. Hangovers are just becoming more and more difficult to deal with it. It's as if I'm getting old or something. Still, at least I got to lie on the sofa moaning and watching Planes, Trains and Auto-mobiles. Mind you, I'd rather have watched a film (BRILLIANT! You can have that).
That joke actually isn't as awful as the joke I opened with at a gig last night in Canterbury. The great thing was that the audience were very generous in showing me how unfunny it was by giving me the loudest staring ovation I've ever witnessed. Look, there could have been a very good reason that I started so badly. I had missed my stop at Canterbury West and ended up in a dark, rainy crossroads called Sturry (that's really a place) and then I was unfortunate enough to get the most tedious cab driver in the world to take me to the gig.
The most tedious cab driver in the world. Just think about the competition he's up against with that title. I guarantee that no matter how awful any cab journey you've taken has been it was nothing compared to the 10 minutes I spent with the long slow ghost of death behind the wheel.
I wanted to kill him even if it meant taking my own life. It would have been worth it. "You don't get many people (five second pause) phoning for cabs in (five second pause) Sturry, of all (10 second pause) places" was his opening gambit and those pauses? They never, ever stopped.
"This weather is (five second pause) dreadful (five second pause) today"
It was raining heavily so, although I didn't need his weather report, I agreed with him. "Mm", I said.
"Raining".
Yeah, to be honest I had spotted the rain. It's that water that is falling from the sky and hitting the ground, yes?
"Mind you, better than snow, I (10 second pause) suppose".
"Mm", I excitedly exclaimed in anticipation of the next reason to commit suicide.
"Not that I hate the snow. I like (five second pause) snow. Driving in the snow is (five second pause) great (five second pause) fun. You know, (five second pause) if you're up for it. Not many cab (five second pause) drivers like the snow. I know of (five second pause) very few anyway, I don't know about (five second pause) yourself. I'll always work when it (five second pause) snows. He who dares (five second pause) wins. You know? As the (five second pause) man said. Del-boy Trotter. (five second pause) Lewis Collins".
My hangover was now laughing and pointing at me. I'm not sure how much more I can take. Surely if I don't respond to anything he says he'll just shut up.
Nope.
"I got a call from a woman in (five second pause) Ashford once. Snowing very heavily (five second pause) that day. No one in Ashford would come out for (five second pause) her but I would. She was very grateful, (five second pause) you know? In fact (ten second pause) I took a man from Ashford to the place you're going (five second pause) to. It was very funny (doubtful). We got to the (five second pause) the (five second pause) the (five second pause) the (five second pause) venue and it was full. He couldn't get (five second pause) in. I took him to The Dolphin instead. (Ten second pause) Which is a pub (five second pause) in town, (five second pause) you know? (Five second pause) Good for drinking (five second pause) and that".
Where the fuck is this venue and why does it seem to be getting further and further away? The cab driver then changed the subject to football. Oh, Christ. "I have no interest in (five second pause) football". Phew. Thank fuck for that. He has no interest in football. God, that's good. That's great. Maybe now he'll stop talking.
Nope.
He blabbered on for 72 decades about how his sons like football and one of them likes Arsenal and one of them likes Chelsea so you can imagine what it's like at his house when there's a match on telly. "Especially if it's Arsenal versus (five second pause) Chelsea", he needlessly and cruelly added.
I zoned out after that. He waffled and waffled and I heard next to nothing for the rest of the journey. Just in case you think I'm being needlessly cruel and the cab driver probably wasn't that bad then let me tell you one thing I heard as I drifted in and out of conciousness. "I tell you were I saw a big puddle". That was it. My mind switched off.
I stumbled out of the cab shaking. My hangover and his conversation were now lovers continually loudly and athletically fucking in my head. Then when I got on stage I opened my mouth and got nothing. I even left it five seconds thinking that maybe everyone round here leaves pauses. They don't. I was just shit.
Luckily, the gig improved a lot and the two new bits I did seemed to work even if I didn't. In fact, it was a really lovely gig. Next time, I hope I'm completely there to enjoy it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
That joke actually isn't as awful as the joke I opened with at a gig last night in Canterbury. The great thing was that the audience were very generous in showing me how unfunny it was by giving me the loudest staring ovation I've ever witnessed. Look, there could have been a very good reason that I started so badly. I had missed my stop at Canterbury West and ended up in a dark, rainy crossroads called Sturry (that's really a place) and then I was unfortunate enough to get the most tedious cab driver in the world to take me to the gig.
The most tedious cab driver in the world. Just think about the competition he's up against with that title. I guarantee that no matter how awful any cab journey you've taken has been it was nothing compared to the 10 minutes I spent with the long slow ghost of death behind the wheel.
I wanted to kill him even if it meant taking my own life. It would have been worth it. "You don't get many people (five second pause) phoning for cabs in (five second pause) Sturry, of all (10 second pause) places" was his opening gambit and those pauses? They never, ever stopped.
"This weather is (five second pause) dreadful (five second pause) today"
It was raining heavily so, although I didn't need his weather report, I agreed with him. "Mm", I said.
"Raining".
Yeah, to be honest I had spotted the rain. It's that water that is falling from the sky and hitting the ground, yes?
"Mind you, better than snow, I (10 second pause) suppose".
"Mm", I excitedly exclaimed in anticipation of the next reason to commit suicide.
"Not that I hate the snow. I like (five second pause) snow. Driving in the snow is (five second pause) great (five second pause) fun. You know, (five second pause) if you're up for it. Not many cab (five second pause) drivers like the snow. I know of (five second pause) very few anyway, I don't know about (five second pause) yourself. I'll always work when it (five second pause) snows. He who dares (five second pause) wins. You know? As the (five second pause) man said. Del-boy Trotter. (five second pause) Lewis Collins".
My hangover was now laughing and pointing at me. I'm not sure how much more I can take. Surely if I don't respond to anything he says he'll just shut up.
Nope.
"I got a call from a woman in (five second pause) Ashford once. Snowing very heavily (five second pause) that day. No one in Ashford would come out for (five second pause) her but I would. She was very grateful, (five second pause) you know? In fact (ten second pause) I took a man from Ashford to the place you're going (five second pause) to. It was very funny (doubtful). We got to the (five second pause) the (five second pause) the (five second pause) the (five second pause) venue and it was full. He couldn't get (five second pause) in. I took him to The Dolphin instead. (Ten second pause) Which is a pub (five second pause) in town, (five second pause) you know? (Five second pause) Good for drinking (five second pause) and that".
Where the fuck is this venue and why does it seem to be getting further and further away? The cab driver then changed the subject to football. Oh, Christ. "I have no interest in (five second pause) football". Phew. Thank fuck for that. He has no interest in football. God, that's good. That's great. Maybe now he'll stop talking.
Nope.
He blabbered on for 72 decades about how his sons like football and one of them likes Arsenal and one of them likes Chelsea so you can imagine what it's like at his house when there's a match on telly. "Especially if it's Arsenal versus (five second pause) Chelsea", he needlessly and cruelly added.
I zoned out after that. He waffled and waffled and I heard next to nothing for the rest of the journey. Just in case you think I'm being needlessly cruel and the cab driver probably wasn't that bad then let me tell you one thing I heard as I drifted in and out of conciousness. "I tell you were I saw a big puddle". That was it. My mind switched off.
I stumbled out of the cab shaking. My hangover and his conversation were now lovers continually loudly and athletically fucking in my head. Then when I got on stage I opened my mouth and got nothing. I even left it five seconds thinking that maybe everyone round here leaves pauses. They don't. I was just shit.
Luckily, the gig improved a lot and the two new bits I did seemed to work even if I didn't. In fact, it was a really lovely gig. Next time, I hope I'm completely there to enjoy it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 22 February 2010
The Lung Wants, The Bladder Dictates.
My weekend was full of Michael Legge-esque, typical annoyance. The gigs were good but, you know, I find it hard to avoid shit.
I went up to Preston on a National Express coach so I have no one to blame but myself. To cut a long story short, I started to loath the fact that I had to share air with the other people on the bus. Then when I got to Preston I noticed it was closed. An odd town. Full of beautiful Victorian architecture that's obscured either by pound shops or empty buildings that used to be pound shops. Also, on the second night of the gigs, I got heckled by someone who was clearly mentally ill. No, he wasn't a "character". He wasn't the funniest one in the office or even an aggressive prick. He was mentally ill. Lucky he was sitting at the front and shouting otherwise I might have missed him. It's hard to put a person with mental illness down but, somehow, I found several ways to do it before just ignoring him. Then during Stuart Hudson's brilliant set the man took exception to one of his jokes and starts shouting a lot. The audience and staff were very patient with him. He calmed down and Stuart finished his set but during the interval the man started upsetting other punters and was asked to leave. His friends said they would look after him and they all left. There. All over, no harm done.
Just before I brought on the final act, Steve Harris, the man came back and took his seat at the front. I knew this wasn't going to go well but he calmed down and, because we were running late, I just brought Steve on. The audience loved Steve. So did the man who constantly interrupted and shouted. I had tried to be reasonable with him, doorstaff tried to be reasonable with him and the audience tried to be reasonable with him. None of this had worked so Steve tried a different approach. He started a fight with him. Well, it worked.
The man left, the show went on and I was happy. Normally I get the brunt of difficult situations so I was very happy that Stuart and Steve had decided to take some of the burden off my shoulders. Nice. Safe to go to the toilet then.
I mean, nothing bad ever happens in the toilet. It's a haven of safety where nothing awkward or embarrassing ever happens.
As soon as I had my beautiful penis cradled in my hand in preparation of expelling urine, a gentleman walked past and said well done on the show. That was nice. I started pissing. He immediately slipped and fell to the floor. Straight on his back. Right in front of me. And now he was going red and was gasping for air. He's obviously winded himself. Oh, shit. I had to help him.
But I can't. I'm pissing.
He looked right at me. "I've fallen", he must have thought. "But that man will surely help".
But I can't. I'm pissing.
His face is getting redder now and his gasping is being interrupted with a cough that sounds like a small dog is trapped in his neck. He's foaming at the mouth. This might actually be very serious. Christ almighty, Legge. Help that man!
I want to. But I can't. I'm having a wee-wee.
Once I start pissing I can't just stop. It has to run it's course. My penis doesn't have an off switch. My penis can only be turned on (you heard me). Oh, for fuck's sake. He's holding his hand out for me now. He's desperate. Well...maybe if I...stretch over a bit I can use my one free hand to help him? No. It's no use. I understand that this man is in pain and cannot breath but squirming and begging isn't going to help. He's just going to have to wait until I've finished. I'm sorry but if I go to him and save his life I will have to wee on him. I'm not pissing on this man. I don't even know him. If he'll just shut up then I can concentrate on pissing and I'll be finished quicker. And I have to tap-tap at the end. I always tap-tap. If I have to explain to the club manager that there's a dead body in the loo I don't want to do it with a little round pee stain on my trousers.
I finish just in time to see him enter his purple phase. I get him up and just tell him to breath normally through his nose and to remain calm. I have no knowledge about these things but it seemed to work. He's fine. He's breathing. He's standing up. He's returned to just red. Phew.
Now that he knows he's fine he feels he can now give me a bollocking. He was very, very angry. But I pleaded a good case: "I didn't want to wee on you". He burst out laughing (and coughing) and shook my hand. He even offered a drink.
I'm definitely not going to help anyone ever again. I made a friend and got booze.
Actually I never took the booze. I ran away.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I went up to Preston on a National Express coach so I have no one to blame but myself. To cut a long story short, I started to loath the fact that I had to share air with the other people on the bus. Then when I got to Preston I noticed it was closed. An odd town. Full of beautiful Victorian architecture that's obscured either by pound shops or empty buildings that used to be pound shops. Also, on the second night of the gigs, I got heckled by someone who was clearly mentally ill. No, he wasn't a "character". He wasn't the funniest one in the office or even an aggressive prick. He was mentally ill. Lucky he was sitting at the front and shouting otherwise I might have missed him. It's hard to put a person with mental illness down but, somehow, I found several ways to do it before just ignoring him. Then during Stuart Hudson's brilliant set the man took exception to one of his jokes and starts shouting a lot. The audience and staff were very patient with him. He calmed down and Stuart finished his set but during the interval the man started upsetting other punters and was asked to leave. His friends said they would look after him and they all left. There. All over, no harm done.
Just before I brought on the final act, Steve Harris, the man came back and took his seat at the front. I knew this wasn't going to go well but he calmed down and, because we were running late, I just brought Steve on. The audience loved Steve. So did the man who constantly interrupted and shouted. I had tried to be reasonable with him, doorstaff tried to be reasonable with him and the audience tried to be reasonable with him. None of this had worked so Steve tried a different approach. He started a fight with him. Well, it worked.
The man left, the show went on and I was happy. Normally I get the brunt of difficult situations so I was very happy that Stuart and Steve had decided to take some of the burden off my shoulders. Nice. Safe to go to the toilet then.
I mean, nothing bad ever happens in the toilet. It's a haven of safety where nothing awkward or embarrassing ever happens.
As soon as I had my beautiful penis cradled in my hand in preparation of expelling urine, a gentleman walked past and said well done on the show. That was nice. I started pissing. He immediately slipped and fell to the floor. Straight on his back. Right in front of me. And now he was going red and was gasping for air. He's obviously winded himself. Oh, shit. I had to help him.
But I can't. I'm pissing.
He looked right at me. "I've fallen", he must have thought. "But that man will surely help".
But I can't. I'm pissing.
His face is getting redder now and his gasping is being interrupted with a cough that sounds like a small dog is trapped in his neck. He's foaming at the mouth. This might actually be very serious. Christ almighty, Legge. Help that man!
I want to. But I can't. I'm having a wee-wee.
Once I start pissing I can't just stop. It has to run it's course. My penis doesn't have an off switch. My penis can only be turned on (you heard me). Oh, for fuck's sake. He's holding his hand out for me now. He's desperate. Well...maybe if I...stretch over a bit I can use my one free hand to help him? No. It's no use. I understand that this man is in pain and cannot breath but squirming and begging isn't going to help. He's just going to have to wait until I've finished. I'm sorry but if I go to him and save his life I will have to wee on him. I'm not pissing on this man. I don't even know him. If he'll just shut up then I can concentrate on pissing and I'll be finished quicker. And I have to tap-tap at the end. I always tap-tap. If I have to explain to the club manager that there's a dead body in the loo I don't want to do it with a little round pee stain on my trousers.
I finish just in time to see him enter his purple phase. I get him up and just tell him to breath normally through his nose and to remain calm. I have no knowledge about these things but it seemed to work. He's fine. He's breathing. He's standing up. He's returned to just red. Phew.
Now that he knows he's fine he feels he can now give me a bollocking. He was very, very angry. But I pleaded a good case: "I didn't want to wee on you". He burst out laughing (and coughing) and shook my hand. He even offered a drink.
I'm definitely not going to help anyone ever again. I made a friend and got booze.
Actually I never took the booze. I ran away.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Friday, 19 February 2010
I Am a Child.
"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes."
Do you know who said that? You're right. It was the 4th Doctor. And how right he is. I am 41 years of age and have to deal with bills, complaints to the council and occasionally tidying up. Which is why I'm completely far more interested in acting like a 5 year old at every opportunity. Being childish is just fucking brilliant.
Maturity raised it's ugly head quite early on yesterday when I decided it was time to start packing away my Museum of Star Wars. It takes up 6 shelves in my spare room and is a complete fucking eyesore. Having one or two Star Wars related items round your house is acceptable but 6 shelves of it? Every time I look at it it feels like I'm just trying to get my virginity back.
But, of course, part of me wanted to keep the MoSW for all to see. By all, I mean Johnny Candon when he comes to stay. So, it was slightly depressing to be dusting these relics (some of which I've genuinely had since 1977) and putting them away in a box. I then did some writing work that I was behind on, wrote a letter to my accountant, did some laundry, washed dishes and cooked a proper meal. It was a "mature" day and my brain had had enough. By 10 o'clock Muki and I had sat down to watch the fucking Winter fucking Olympics (think you know how happy I was about that) and my brain started to wander. It needed something to do. Something stupid. Luckily I have an iPhone.
The iPhone is the most technologically advanced little trinket that you can own right now. I mean, it's reasonably cutting edge, isn't it? All those useless apps and the crappy camera and the compass... it's a fantastic piece of old toot. My new favourite thing is the Voice Control. You press the main button at the bottom of the iPhone for two seconds and then you say the name of the person you wish to contact and HEY PRESTO you are immediately calling them up. Well, that would be the case if it worked. It doesn't work. Ever. I tried dozens of names and it always started calling a different person. Useless.
My childish brain didn't think it was useless though. Oh, no. My childish brain is very much a "glass half full" kind of childish brain. Full of Sunny Delight and shouting. It was then that my brain invented my brain's favourite new game. Celebrity True Identity.
Did you know that celebrities aren't really who they say they are? No. They're people in your iPhone contacts. I spent an hour playing this and giggling. I pressed the Voice Control button and said "Elvis". It immediately started calling my friend Liz. I laughed. Far too long for a 41 year old. I pressed again and said "Madonna". Madonna is actually Tara Flynn. HA HA HA HA HA HA! P. Diddy? That's Bennett Arron. Ian Paisley is Susan Murray, Bungle is Will Smith, MC Hammer is Stephen Grant and Kylie Minogue is Woodlands Health Centre.
AN HOUR I spent on that. A FUCKING HOUR. Being thoroughly entertained. Thing is, once you start it's very hard to stop. I ran out of celebrities pretty quickly so went on to childish name calling (Helicopter Face is Paul Kerensa) and then, obviously, swearing. No one is cunt, no one is twat but Bastard is Stuart Goldsmith and, my personal favourite, Pigeon Balls is Tiernan Douieb which I think is an improvement. At least I didn't have to look up how to spell Pigeon Balls.
AN HOUR! An hour on that game. Remember, all you need is an iPhone, some contacts and an IQ of 4. Enjoy!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Do you know who said that? You're right. It was the 4th Doctor. And how right he is. I am 41 years of age and have to deal with bills, complaints to the council and occasionally tidying up. Which is why I'm completely far more interested in acting like a 5 year old at every opportunity. Being childish is just fucking brilliant.
Maturity raised it's ugly head quite early on yesterday when I decided it was time to start packing away my Museum of Star Wars. It takes up 6 shelves in my spare room and is a complete fucking eyesore. Having one or two Star Wars related items round your house is acceptable but 6 shelves of it? Every time I look at it it feels like I'm just trying to get my virginity back.
But, of course, part of me wanted to keep the MoSW for all to see. By all, I mean Johnny Candon when he comes to stay. So, it was slightly depressing to be dusting these relics (some of which I've genuinely had since 1977) and putting them away in a box. I then did some writing work that I was behind on, wrote a letter to my accountant, did some laundry, washed dishes and cooked a proper meal. It was a "mature" day and my brain had had enough. By 10 o'clock Muki and I had sat down to watch the fucking Winter fucking Olympics (think you know how happy I was about that) and my brain started to wander. It needed something to do. Something stupid. Luckily I have an iPhone.
The iPhone is the most technologically advanced little trinket that you can own right now. I mean, it's reasonably cutting edge, isn't it? All those useless apps and the crappy camera and the compass... it's a fantastic piece of old toot. My new favourite thing is the Voice Control. You press the main button at the bottom of the iPhone for two seconds and then you say the name of the person you wish to contact and HEY PRESTO you are immediately calling them up. Well, that would be the case if it worked. It doesn't work. Ever. I tried dozens of names and it always started calling a different person. Useless.
My childish brain didn't think it was useless though. Oh, no. My childish brain is very much a "glass half full" kind of childish brain. Full of Sunny Delight and shouting. It was then that my brain invented my brain's favourite new game. Celebrity True Identity.
Did you know that celebrities aren't really who they say they are? No. They're people in your iPhone contacts. I spent an hour playing this and giggling. I pressed the Voice Control button and said "Elvis". It immediately started calling my friend Liz. I laughed. Far too long for a 41 year old. I pressed again and said "Madonna". Madonna is actually Tara Flynn. HA HA HA HA HA HA! P. Diddy? That's Bennett Arron. Ian Paisley is Susan Murray, Bungle is Will Smith, MC Hammer is Stephen Grant and Kylie Minogue is Woodlands Health Centre.
AN HOUR I spent on that. A FUCKING HOUR. Being thoroughly entertained. Thing is, once you start it's very hard to stop. I ran out of celebrities pretty quickly so went on to childish name calling (Helicopter Face is Paul Kerensa) and then, obviously, swearing. No one is cunt, no one is twat but Bastard is Stuart Goldsmith and, my personal favourite, Pigeon Balls is Tiernan Douieb which I think is an improvement. At least I didn't have to look up how to spell Pigeon Balls.
AN HOUR! An hour on that game. Remember, all you need is an iPhone, some contacts and an IQ of 4. Enjoy!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Crazy in Lewisham.
There's something on my mind and it's been there for the last week or so. It's a realisation really and probably really trivial but I can't quite shake it. There has barely been a moment over the last seven days that I haven't thought about it and it's starting to upset my sleep and make me drift off for hours during the day when I should be working. You see, sometimes I think that Beyonce Knowles and I have very different lives.
I never considered the gulf between Beyonce and I before. Perhaps I didn't want to. But it's there. Maybe I'm not the booty shakin' RnB diva that I just assume everyone thinks I am. Maybe.
It all started last week when I was in Exeter. After the delightful gig where I spent more time than I should have listening to the theatre manager telling me about her seven cats and how they all have jobs (except one. She's a retired lapdancer. Christ Almighty), I decided to go for chips. There was a really scary looking chip shop that I thought would be perfect. It wasn't.
The chips came in a polystyrene box. You know the sort that actually melts itself onto your food? And makes that noise that sends a kicking down your spine when you scrape your tiny, tiny, tiny plastic fork across it? Yeah? Well, that's what I was eating out of. Sadly, I had put a litre of vinegar on them by accident so when I got out of the shop and opened Pandora's Polystyrene Box my eyes were punched in the face by the smell. I was already a bit drunk plus it was raining. I really didn't need to be blind just now. That's when I heard a gentleman from the other side of the road shout "Wanker" just before throwing a bottle at me. He missed spectacularly but it smashed on the pavement and came with a general air of menace that I didn't want to deal with. And that was when it hit me (not another bottle): I'm wet, drunk, blind, eating chips and melted plastic and getting bottled. Beyonce and I have very different lives.
Now, I'm not saying that it's easy doing all that choreography rehearsing she must do. And all that constant support she gives to not some but ALL the single ladies must occasionally take it's toll. And she has to deal with Jay-Z. But it's not depressing, is it? When I was wiping vinegar out of my eye and drunkenly stumbling over broken glass I couldn't help but think that being Beyonce is probably great.
Two nights previous to this revelation I was given another clue that there was a good reason why I was never allowed in Destiny's Child. Again, it's chip shop based. I don't want you to think that I'm chip obsessed. I don't eat chips every day. I mean, I don't want arse the size of... well, it doesn't matter who has a big arse and who doesn't. I'm just saying that I don't eat chips every day. This was a rare week were there were two chip shop visits, that's all. I went into my local chippy and asked for chips. I should have been in and out of there in seconds but there was a gentlemen being served before me. He was buying everything that he would need to eat for the rest of his life. He was very drunk and was waving in the wind. I could tell he was looking at me so I avoided eye contact. It's incredibly difficult to avoid eye contact while being stared at. But I tried. I tried and I failed. That was all the reason he needed to be aggressive. "Do I look gay?", he said.
To be fair, he didn't look "traditionally" gay. He wasn't wearing all pink with a handbag that matched his boa. But you know, gays have moved on and maybe his point was clearly "don't be so prejudiced". He's right. A lot of gay men wear normal men's clothes these days and with that in mind I nervously said "No".
"Well, why are you fucking looking at me, then?"
I see. He's an idiot. Fair enough.
Not only did he just want to start a fight but he didn't understand the very basics of homosexuality. That I found more depressing than the aggression. "You stupid fucking cunt! YOU don't need to be gay for ME to find YOU sexually attractive. You fucking cretin. Surely if anyone is looking gay in this scenario it's ME because I was the one looking at you. Mind you, balls-face, even that doesn't work because YOU were the one looking at me in the first place. You stared at me for ages. You totally checked me out. You were undressing me with your one good eye. You really are the stupidest fucking, neanderthal, knuckle dragging brainless moron that ever walked this Earth. KILL YOURSELF", I thought quietly to myself as I took my chips and quickly left.
Beyonce never has this. Ever. She'll have someone who goes to the chip shop for her.
Last night was the last straw. At about 1am I tried to get a cab from Angel to Lewisham. There were plenty of cabs but none of them were stopping. It was cold, damp and boring. I was competing against horrible, horrible drunks for cab driver's attention and they were winning. What a boost for the ego it is to see a man successfully flag a cab while pissing in a bin at the same time. Eventually a cab stopped and when I said "Lewisham, please" he said "No fucking way" and drove off.
Great.
It was a while before I finally found a cab that pitied my existence enough to actually agree to go to Lewisham for money. Oh, Beyonce. We are the same. THE SAME. But the world seems to treat me so differently to you. We both strut, we both have soul and a great pop-sensibility and we both be gettin' all the shit from our mens. But where she glows, I get abused. Where she sings, I get silenced. Where she shows her true beautiful colours, I get blinded by vinegar.
I overheard a conversation today in the park. It's rude to eavesdrop but I couldn't help it. It just seemed like they were having the same conversation with each other that I've been having with myself. I can't be completely sure, word-for-word what it was they were talking about because they were quite far away and they were both parakeets but I have a feeling they were as confused as me. Some idiot let his parakeets go free in South London in the early 70's and, despite everything, these brightly coloured tropical beauties survived. There are parakeets all over South London now and Lewisham has plenty of them. If there is a reason to live here, it's them. I saw one in a tree talking to another one in a tree about 50 feet away. "What the fuck are we doing in this grey, dull shithole? We're tropical birds, for fucks sake!", sang one. "I know! This arse of a place doesn't even have sky. Just a cracked, damp ceiling. We're too beautiful for here. Where did we go wrong?", chirped the other.
Yes. That's right. I'm just like Beyonce and some tropical birds. Deal with it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I never considered the gulf between Beyonce and I before. Perhaps I didn't want to. But it's there. Maybe I'm not the booty shakin' RnB diva that I just assume everyone thinks I am. Maybe.
It all started last week when I was in Exeter. After the delightful gig where I spent more time than I should have listening to the theatre manager telling me about her seven cats and how they all have jobs (except one. She's a retired lapdancer. Christ Almighty), I decided to go for chips. There was a really scary looking chip shop that I thought would be perfect. It wasn't.
The chips came in a polystyrene box. You know the sort that actually melts itself onto your food? And makes that noise that sends a kicking down your spine when you scrape your tiny, tiny, tiny plastic fork across it? Yeah? Well, that's what I was eating out of. Sadly, I had put a litre of vinegar on them by accident so when I got out of the shop and opened Pandora's Polystyrene Box my eyes were punched in the face by the smell. I was already a bit drunk plus it was raining. I really didn't need to be blind just now. That's when I heard a gentleman from the other side of the road shout "Wanker" just before throwing a bottle at me. He missed spectacularly but it smashed on the pavement and came with a general air of menace that I didn't want to deal with. And that was when it hit me (not another bottle): I'm wet, drunk, blind, eating chips and melted plastic and getting bottled. Beyonce and I have very different lives.
Now, I'm not saying that it's easy doing all that choreography rehearsing she must do. And all that constant support she gives to not some but ALL the single ladies must occasionally take it's toll. And she has to deal with Jay-Z. But it's not depressing, is it? When I was wiping vinegar out of my eye and drunkenly stumbling over broken glass I couldn't help but think that being Beyonce is probably great.
Two nights previous to this revelation I was given another clue that there was a good reason why I was never allowed in Destiny's Child. Again, it's chip shop based. I don't want you to think that I'm chip obsessed. I don't eat chips every day. I mean, I don't want arse the size of... well, it doesn't matter who has a big arse and who doesn't. I'm just saying that I don't eat chips every day. This was a rare week were there were two chip shop visits, that's all. I went into my local chippy and asked for chips. I should have been in and out of there in seconds but there was a gentlemen being served before me. He was buying everything that he would need to eat for the rest of his life. He was very drunk and was waving in the wind. I could tell he was looking at me so I avoided eye contact. It's incredibly difficult to avoid eye contact while being stared at. But I tried. I tried and I failed. That was all the reason he needed to be aggressive. "Do I look gay?", he said.
To be fair, he didn't look "traditionally" gay. He wasn't wearing all pink with a handbag that matched his boa. But you know, gays have moved on and maybe his point was clearly "don't be so prejudiced". He's right. A lot of gay men wear normal men's clothes these days and with that in mind I nervously said "No".
"Well, why are you fucking looking at me, then?"
I see. He's an idiot. Fair enough.
Not only did he just want to start a fight but he didn't understand the very basics of homosexuality. That I found more depressing than the aggression. "You stupid fucking cunt! YOU don't need to be gay for ME to find YOU sexually attractive. You fucking cretin. Surely if anyone is looking gay in this scenario it's ME because I was the one looking at you. Mind you, balls-face, even that doesn't work because YOU were the one looking at me in the first place. You stared at me for ages. You totally checked me out. You were undressing me with your one good eye. You really are the stupidest fucking, neanderthal, knuckle dragging brainless moron that ever walked this Earth. KILL YOURSELF", I thought quietly to myself as I took my chips and quickly left.
Beyonce never has this. Ever. She'll have someone who goes to the chip shop for her.
Last night was the last straw. At about 1am I tried to get a cab from Angel to Lewisham. There were plenty of cabs but none of them were stopping. It was cold, damp and boring. I was competing against horrible, horrible drunks for cab driver's attention and they were winning. What a boost for the ego it is to see a man successfully flag a cab while pissing in a bin at the same time. Eventually a cab stopped and when I said "Lewisham, please" he said "No fucking way" and drove off.
Great.
It was a while before I finally found a cab that pitied my existence enough to actually agree to go to Lewisham for money. Oh, Beyonce. We are the same. THE SAME. But the world seems to treat me so differently to you. We both strut, we both have soul and a great pop-sensibility and we both be gettin' all the shit from our mens. But where she glows, I get abused. Where she sings, I get silenced. Where she shows her true beautiful colours, I get blinded by vinegar.
I overheard a conversation today in the park. It's rude to eavesdrop but I couldn't help it. It just seemed like they were having the same conversation with each other that I've been having with myself. I can't be completely sure, word-for-word what it was they were talking about because they were quite far away and they were both parakeets but I have a feeling they were as confused as me. Some idiot let his parakeets go free in South London in the early 70's and, despite everything, these brightly coloured tropical beauties survived. There are parakeets all over South London now and Lewisham has plenty of them. If there is a reason to live here, it's them. I saw one in a tree talking to another one in a tree about 50 feet away. "What the fuck are we doing in this grey, dull shithole? We're tropical birds, for fucks sake!", sang one. "I know! This arse of a place doesn't even have sky. Just a cracked, damp ceiling. We're too beautiful for here. Where did we go wrong?", chirped the other.
Yes. That's right. I'm just like Beyonce and some tropical birds. Deal with it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Kraft Fair?
God, that has to be the smuggest title of a blog ever. Kraft Fair? Oh, fuck off. What was I thinking?
Anyway, I got two great messages yesterday. One from someone on Facebook and one an email. They both asked the same question but in slightly different ways. The first, in amongst the many exclamation marks, said "The Kraft takeover is only one of thousands like it. What makes you think you're an expert and why have you chosen this one? There are bigger things to get involved in. It's 20 years since Mandela got out!"
Is it? I didn't know that. But as he's been free for 20 years I feel there's very little need for me to give him my support. I can't keep following him around singing his one and only pop hit. If the lazy shit can't be bothered to write another fucking song he should be slung back into jail. With no dinner. Plus I'm not an expert on the Kraft takeover, I didn't say I was. I'm also not an expert on Nelson Mandela. I actually think he wrote that song when we all know he didn't. It was Madness or someone.
The second said "There are many more important issues to deal with before we attack a food company. Why aren't you this angry about the Haiti disaster? Why aren't you involved in that instead?"
Well, mainly because I don't think that the earthquake in Haiti was underhanded. There wasn't a committee of not very bright but deeply horrible, sly bastards who decided to have a big earthquake. Plus, "involved"? How the fuck am I "involved" in this? I'm a fat idiot who wrote a blog about not eating chocolate until the naughty men make nice again. It's hardly Martin Luther King. Dr. King would never refer to white chocolate in the graphic way that I do.
They did make me think, though. I never normally get all upset about things like this. I get upset about children dropping litter in the street and Amanda Holden's Fantasy Lives. Not politics. That's for Daddies. But I just started getting into the story. I like Cadbury. I didn't want anyone taking it over except, maybe, me. I certainly didn't want someone taking it over, telling people that their jobs were safe and then, as soon as they got the keys to the factory, threw 400 people out. It's OK to be angry about that, right?
Before I go can I do something that I've been meaning to do for a week and a half. Last Monday Andrew Collins and Richard Herring recorded the100th episode of their podcast and I needed two tickets so that my friends could join me. It was a sold out gig and it was becoming clear on the day that my friends would not be coming. That's when Flash McDonnell stepped in. He posted a tweet on Twitter saying he had two tickets that he then gave to me FOR FREE. What with the charitable bus drivers and Flash's incredible generosity is it any wonder that I'm influenced to do the decent thing and boycott a company to show support for it's workers? Thanks very, very much, Flash. Saviour of the universe.
Right. That's my last blog for a while. I need to do some work and all this online stuff is too much of a distraction. I still haven't started writing my fucking Edinburgh show and I totally blame the internet with it's tweets, pokes and naked womens. Shame I'm not blogging for a while really because this week I'm giving up bread, all Kraft products (including my beloved Wispa) and Twitter. I think shouting out the bus window will be my only way to vent for a while. See you later, everyone!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Anyway, I got two great messages yesterday. One from someone on Facebook and one an email. They both asked the same question but in slightly different ways. The first, in amongst the many exclamation marks, said "The Kraft takeover is only one of thousands like it. What makes you think you're an expert and why have you chosen this one? There are bigger things to get involved in. It's 20 years since Mandela got out!"
Is it? I didn't know that. But as he's been free for 20 years I feel there's very little need for me to give him my support. I can't keep following him around singing his one and only pop hit. If the lazy shit can't be bothered to write another fucking song he should be slung back into jail. With no dinner. Plus I'm not an expert on the Kraft takeover, I didn't say I was. I'm also not an expert on Nelson Mandela. I actually think he wrote that song when we all know he didn't. It was Madness or someone.
The second said "There are many more important issues to deal with before we attack a food company. Why aren't you this angry about the Haiti disaster? Why aren't you involved in that instead?"
Well, mainly because I don't think that the earthquake in Haiti was underhanded. There wasn't a committee of not very bright but deeply horrible, sly bastards who decided to have a big earthquake. Plus, "involved"? How the fuck am I "involved" in this? I'm a fat idiot who wrote a blog about not eating chocolate until the naughty men make nice again. It's hardly Martin Luther King. Dr. King would never refer to white chocolate in the graphic way that I do.
They did make me think, though. I never normally get all upset about things like this. I get upset about children dropping litter in the street and Amanda Holden's Fantasy Lives. Not politics. That's for Daddies. But I just started getting into the story. I like Cadbury. I didn't want anyone taking it over except, maybe, me. I certainly didn't want someone taking it over, telling people that their jobs were safe and then, as soon as they got the keys to the factory, threw 400 people out. It's OK to be angry about that, right?
Before I go can I do something that I've been meaning to do for a week and a half. Last Monday Andrew Collins and Richard Herring recorded the100th episode of their podcast and I needed two tickets so that my friends could join me. It was a sold out gig and it was becoming clear on the day that my friends would not be coming. That's when Flash McDonnell stepped in. He posted a tweet on Twitter saying he had two tickets that he then gave to me FOR FREE. What with the charitable bus drivers and Flash's incredible generosity is it any wonder that I'm influenced to do the decent thing and boycott a company to show support for it's workers? Thanks very, very much, Flash. Saviour of the universe.
Right. That's my last blog for a while. I need to do some work and all this online stuff is too much of a distraction. I still haven't started writing my fucking Edinburgh show and I totally blame the internet with it's tweets, pokes and naked womens. Shame I'm not blogging for a while really because this week I'm giving up bread, all Kraft products (including my beloved Wispa) and Twitter. I think shouting out the bus window will be my only way to vent for a while. See you later, everyone!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Chocolate & Cheese.
There is power in a union. I totally agree with that. It's an inspirational ideal and one that proves itself time and time again. When huge amounts of people showed their disgust at the unfairness of Thatcher's insane Community Charge her own cabinet soon turned on her and she was gone. Similarly, it is only when a character in Glee has a change of heart and comes back to Glee Club that they realise the group have a shot at winning the regionals. That happens every single week.
There is power in a union and a union is needed right now to protest against the Kraft company's decision to close the Cadbury factory near Bristol which will result in the loss of over 400 jobs. Kraft, who just bought out Cadbury, have claimed it's too expensive to run and will move the production line to Poland. I know fuck not nothing about how these things are done but maybe just putting the price of a chocolate bar up by 5p might help, right? Has that been considered? I don't know. I just know that Kraft are closing this factory after repeatedly saying that it probably wouldn't close it. David Brent found it hard to be straight with his staff and tell them that some of them would be laid off but at least David Brent had the common decency to be fictional. It's also the first thing that Kraft have done since taking over. They haven't even swam in the chocolate rivers or kicked an Oompa Loompa yet. They went straight to being evil bastards.
So, what can we do? Well, it's easier said than done but, on paper, it's very simple. We stop buying all Kraft products until they change their minds (seriously, has putting the prices of chocolate bars up been looked into yet? I can't find it anywhere). Stopping buying Kraft products might be the most important and horribly difficult thing you ever do. I know because I've spent the morning looking at all the products these cheese cunts now own.
Whole Nut no more, Oreos no more, Dairylea Triangles no more, Ritz Crackers no more, Philadelphia Cheese no more, Buttons no more, Maxwell House Coffee no more (actually, I'm fine with that), Cadbury's Fingers no more, Curly Wurly no more, Twirl no more, Time Out no more, WISPA NO MORE!
This is going to be so hard for me but it has to be done....right? Yes, yes, it does, OK. Look, you don't understand what it's like for me, OK? I go through between 2 and 4 selection boxes a day. It's not like giving up fucking Nestle. Nestle is NOTHING. What have they got really? Milky Bars? DISGUSTING! All white chocolate is the solidified semen of paedophiles (Wikipedia, "Citation Needed"). Who cares about giving up Nestle? THIS IS CADBURY'S WE'RE TALKING ABOUT. What else has Britain got if it hasn't got Cadbury? Ever eaten American chocolate? Like eating a bookmark covered in sad, sad dust. To help life in this country I must practically end mine. I'm taking one for the team (also in every episode of Glee). Will you?
Remember, this is important. Very important. But it has it's pros as well as it's cons. The cons: Even if we go to an ice cream van now we can forget about a 99. Flakes are evil now. Deliciously evil but evil nonetheless. The pros: We don't have to join a fucking boring Facebook group. You can just ban Kraft products on your own without getting poked (in a bad way). Plus, if we all ban this crap for a while we might look and feel a bit better. Just a thought.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
There is power in a union and a union is needed right now to protest against the Kraft company's decision to close the Cadbury factory near Bristol which will result in the loss of over 400 jobs. Kraft, who just bought out Cadbury, have claimed it's too expensive to run and will move the production line to Poland. I know fuck not nothing about how these things are done but maybe just putting the price of a chocolate bar up by 5p might help, right? Has that been considered? I don't know. I just know that Kraft are closing this factory after repeatedly saying that it probably wouldn't close it. David Brent found it hard to be straight with his staff and tell them that some of them would be laid off but at least David Brent had the common decency to be fictional. It's also the first thing that Kraft have done since taking over. They haven't even swam in the chocolate rivers or kicked an Oompa Loompa yet. They went straight to being evil bastards.
So, what can we do? Well, it's easier said than done but, on paper, it's very simple. We stop buying all Kraft products until they change their minds (seriously, has putting the prices of chocolate bars up been looked into yet? I can't find it anywhere). Stopping buying Kraft products might be the most important and horribly difficult thing you ever do. I know because I've spent the morning looking at all the products these cheese cunts now own.
Whole Nut no more, Oreos no more, Dairylea Triangles no more, Ritz Crackers no more, Philadelphia Cheese no more, Buttons no more, Maxwell House Coffee no more (actually, I'm fine with that), Cadbury's Fingers no more, Curly Wurly no more, Twirl no more, Time Out no more, WISPA NO MORE!
This is going to be so hard for me but it has to be done....right? Yes, yes, it does, OK. Look, you don't understand what it's like for me, OK? I go through between 2 and 4 selection boxes a day. It's not like giving up fucking Nestle. Nestle is NOTHING. What have they got really? Milky Bars? DISGUSTING! All white chocolate is the solidified semen of paedophiles (Wikipedia, "Citation Needed"). Who cares about giving up Nestle? THIS IS CADBURY'S WE'RE TALKING ABOUT. What else has Britain got if it hasn't got Cadbury? Ever eaten American chocolate? Like eating a bookmark covered in sad, sad dust. To help life in this country I must practically end mine. I'm taking one for the team (also in every episode of Glee). Will you?
Remember, this is important. Very important. But it has it's pros as well as it's cons. The cons: Even if we go to an ice cream van now we can forget about a 99. Flakes are evil now. Deliciously evil but evil nonetheless. The pros: We don't have to join a fucking boring Facebook group. You can just ban Kraft products on your own without getting poked (in a bad way). Plus, if we all ban this crap for a while we might look and feel a bit better. Just a thought.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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