Pathetic. I couldn’t even go two whole fucking days. My 5-day detox failed miserably last night due to, well, me. I mean, it wasn’t totally my fault. Someone bought me a beer. Obviously I could have said no but that would have been rude. I am never rude. Plus I was with my lovely friend John and I couldn’t just sit there while he had a beer and I didn’t. Like I say, PATHETIC.
And I tried. I am drinking this detox crap and I’m eating fruit and avoiding everything that I like. Yesterday I ate a Beetroot and mixed pulse salad. You know, like a cunt would. I had vegetarian sushi. And a pomegranate. I ate a fucking pomegranate. I don’t even know what a pomegranate is and yet I put one in my mouth and swallowed it. I hate detox. Yes, yes, yes, it’s only 5 days but all my habits are a habit. I like habits. And when you give up one habit you just replace it for another one. My new habit is weird. I like to pay for strange men to urinate.
It’s happened twice in the last week now. And in the same place. There’s just something about Charing Cross station that makes me want to urinate. I don’t know if it’s the beautiful Victorian architecture or the amount of liquid I drink but I always seem to pee when I’m there. Luckily, there is a toilet there so the embarrassment is normally minimal. Normally. Last week I went downstairs to the toilet lair and I saw a man standing right by the turnstiles. I had my 30p-To-Pee ready in my hand and was ready to just skip right in and wee myself to Heaven and back but the man stopped me. He asked if I had change of a pound so that he too could urine his brains out. My cousin, Patti, used to have this incredibly generous thing when it came to toll booths. She lives in America and America had 50 billion squillion toll booths so inevitably she would come across one every few feet while driving. She’d pay her dollar (or whatever they call “money” there) and then pay for the car behind too. I was always impressed by that. It’s a really kind thing to do. Well, this was my chance to be just as kind. I had lots of change so instead of paying for someone who I don’t know to drive through a highway toll booth I would pay for someone who I don’t know to expel their urine. Their urine would be my pleasure. I gave him the 30p and told him to not even worry about it. He looked very pleased. So pleased that he walked with me to my urinal and used the one next to me, all the while thanking me and telling me how desperate he was to pee. I didn’t like that bit. I don’t mind helping someone out if they really are in need but I do insist that they fuck off as soon as I’ve done it. I will NEVER do that again.
As you know, I did it again.
Last night pretty much the same thing happened except for two things. One, he needed change for a 50p piece and two, I stupidly made a “joke”. When I gave him the 30p he tried to give me his 50p. I said that he didn’t need to worry about it and when he tried to push the 50p on me I stupidly said “Your piss in on me”.
He laughed.
He laughed for ages. He laughed while taking my money, through the turnstile and on the way to the urinal. He stood right beside me laughing all the while. Apparently I had “tickled him”. Something I feel a bit weird about a strange man saying while we both have our cocks out. He then asked my name, my job, where I lived, where I was going and told me how much he was enjoying his piss. The piss that I paid for. But all his talk was stopping my piss from coming out. An achievement in itself as the detox crap that I’ve been drinking has meant that I’m spending about 100% of my time in the toilet (surely there is NOTHING left in me?). He pissed, zipped up, patted my back and thanked me again then left. I must have stood there for 3 minutes mentally shouting at my piss and ordering it to get out. I don’t know. There’s just something about getting patted while trying to piss that puts me and my penis right off the experience. I will NEVER do that again.
2 days of crap detox to go.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Hellthy.
I have been to hell.
I'm not saying I've been to hell and back because I haven't. I have yet to return from hell. I am in hell right now and, you know what, it's really unpleasant. Hell is not the hot party town full of the decadent people that the Bible would let you think. On the contrary. Hell's rubbish. But I'm here for a good reason. Or a bad one, I haven't made up my mind. Stupidly, I've decided to go on a 5-day detox.
5 days. 5 whole days with no booze, no caffeine, no dairy, no wheat, no happiness, no joy. It started yesterday so I still have 4 more versions of boring, boring yesterday to follow. I ate fruit yesterday. FRUIT. Not chocolate or anything. No. FRUIT. Loads of it. Plums, apples, bananas and...erm...what are those really tiny oranges called? You know, the tiny oranges? Christmas fruit, that's right. God, I ate so much fruit yesterday because yesterday was boring and awful and lonely and frustrating and, fuck me, it was dull. Did you know that some people actually go every single day without beer, chocolate, Diet Coke, bread, cheese and breakfast wine? That's how they live their icy cold, jet black lives. Yet they claim to be happy. LIARS! They go to work after eating nuts and berries and sit in their office making yearly plans and improvement charts and instead of eating chips for lunch they go to the cunting gym where they will meet more robots built by the same tedious Professor Dickhead like they were and then they will stay late in the office, NOT BECAUSE THEY WERE TOLD TO BUT BECAUSE THEY FUCKING WANT TO, and then fucking cycle home instead of rushing to the pub to forget, forget, forget. Then they will steam some awful inedible beige cloth that they claim is food and eat it while watching Grey's Anatomy before drinking a glass of water and going to bed at 10.30 instead of drinking beer all alone and watching Family Guy and repeating "That's a shame" all over Russell Howard's Good News. Then the cunts wake up the next day and happily do it all over again.
I'm on a 5-day detox and, yes I might be overreacting, but I hate it. It's not like I pour awful shit down my throat excessively every day but I was designed to be lazy and things that are convenient to eat or drink are my favourite things to devour. Muesli just looks like a chore to eat. Toast and peanut butter is easy and delicious but basically wheat (which the whole fucking world is allergic to, apparently) and fat. A salad is just so much effort to make and has very little to give back once you've done it whereas chips are just there. Ready and waiting. Mmmmmm...tasty and it might kill me. That's how I like my food, like I like my women: Delicious, deadly and unwrapped. With vinegar. And bread and butter. And given to me by a man who never washes his hands.
4 useless, dull days to go. It will be interesting only to see if I do it without cheating at all. I'm on at the London Comedy Improv at The Phoenix tonight and that will be a test. I normally turn up there and eat unhealthy, lovely food and then there is the booze, booze, booze afterwards. Probably best for me to bolt out the door as soon as the show is finished.
I mean, it's only 4 days, right? 4 days is easy. And I'm giving up all this bad stuff simply because ...erm ...God, I have no idea why I'm doing this.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I'm not saying I've been to hell and back because I haven't. I have yet to return from hell. I am in hell right now and, you know what, it's really unpleasant. Hell is not the hot party town full of the decadent people that the Bible would let you think. On the contrary. Hell's rubbish. But I'm here for a good reason. Or a bad one, I haven't made up my mind. Stupidly, I've decided to go on a 5-day detox.
5 days. 5 whole days with no booze, no caffeine, no dairy, no wheat, no happiness, no joy. It started yesterday so I still have 4 more versions of boring, boring yesterday to follow. I ate fruit yesterday. FRUIT. Not chocolate or anything. No. FRUIT. Loads of it. Plums, apples, bananas and...erm...what are those really tiny oranges called? You know, the tiny oranges? Christmas fruit, that's right. God, I ate so much fruit yesterday because yesterday was boring and awful and lonely and frustrating and, fuck me, it was dull. Did you know that some people actually go every single day without beer, chocolate, Diet Coke, bread, cheese and breakfast wine? That's how they live their icy cold, jet black lives. Yet they claim to be happy. LIARS! They go to work after eating nuts and berries and sit in their office making yearly plans and improvement charts and instead of eating chips for lunch they go to the cunting gym where they will meet more robots built by the same tedious Professor Dickhead like they were and then they will stay late in the office, NOT BECAUSE THEY WERE TOLD TO BUT BECAUSE THEY FUCKING WANT TO, and then fucking cycle home instead of rushing to the pub to forget, forget, forget. Then they will steam some awful inedible beige cloth that they claim is food and eat it while watching Grey's Anatomy before drinking a glass of water and going to bed at 10.30 instead of drinking beer all alone and watching Family Guy and repeating "That's a shame" all over Russell Howard's Good News. Then the cunts wake up the next day and happily do it all over again.
I'm on a 5-day detox and, yes I might be overreacting, but I hate it. It's not like I pour awful shit down my throat excessively every day but I was designed to be lazy and things that are convenient to eat or drink are my favourite things to devour. Muesli just looks like a chore to eat. Toast and peanut butter is easy and delicious but basically wheat (which the whole fucking world is allergic to, apparently) and fat. A salad is just so much effort to make and has very little to give back once you've done it whereas chips are just there. Ready and waiting. Mmmmmm...tasty and it might kill me. That's how I like my food, like I like my women: Delicious, deadly and unwrapped. With vinegar. And bread and butter. And given to me by a man who never washes his hands.
4 useless, dull days to go. It will be interesting only to see if I do it without cheating at all. I'm on at the London Comedy Improv at The Phoenix tonight and that will be a test. I normally turn up there and eat unhealthy, lovely food and then there is the booze, booze, booze afterwards. Probably best for me to bolt out the door as soon as the show is finished.
I mean, it's only 4 days, right? 4 days is easy. And I'm giving up all this bad stuff simply because ...erm ...God, I have no idea why I'm doing this.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Borderline Rude.
Ah, youth. What a great excuse they have to be as stupid as they want. "They're too young". That's the excuse for them breaking stuff, throwing stuff, shouting stuff, puking stuff, peeing in stuff and giving commentary to people walking around the park. They are funny.
I took Jerk to the park on Sunday for a quick run around. Right at the park's entrance I saw two boys sitting on a park bench. I threw the ball for Jerk and she bolted after it. "Whoah!", said the boys.
They were right to Whoah! Jerk is a very impressive runner and when's she in full throttle she's just beautiful. The focus, the speed, the grace. So much more impressive than me wheezing and limping after it when Jerk suddenly gets bored with our ball throwing game and refuses to chase anymore. The boys kept watching while Jerk ran up and down the hill, returning the ball to me in return for a biscuit. After a while, they decided to give a running commentary to everything they saw.
"The ball goes flying and the dog is neeeeaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrr...And he catches it on the second bounce! YES!!! That dog is so fast, isn't it, Calvin?"
"You're right, Bobby. And look at it running up the hill. It drops the ball and wins food."
"BOOM! The ball is going down the hill again, Calvin. Will the dog get it before it goes in the river?"
"YES! That was amazing, Bobby. He got it just before it splashed in the water".
The two boys went on like that for about 5 minutes and it was really making me laugh. They put on posh/serious voices "just like commentators" and even their constant referring to my little Princess as "he" couldn't stop them from being absolutely brilliant. In fact, they only got funnier.
After a while, seeing a dog run up and down a hill got boring so they decided to commentate on other things. It started off quite sweetly but soon turned horrible. Funny but horrible.
"That bike went really fast over that bridge. What do you think, Calvin?"
"It was very fast, Bobby. And this man running up the hill looks so tired. He might not make it to the top, Bobby".
"He's got lots of sweat, Calvin. This ugly old woman looks like she doesn't know where she's going".
"She's mad, Bobby. She looks like she stinks".
"Will the bridge break when this fat man walks over it, Calvin?"
"Yes, it will, Bobby".
The thing is, the commentary wasn't quiet. They were shouting everything they saw and what they thought of it. And the people they were referring to kept turning round to give two dirty looks. One to the little boys who don't know any better and one to the 41 year old man who kept laughing. I'm pretty sure that the boys were doing it just to entertain me because every time I laughed they just got louder and more rude. Eventually, Bobby asked if he could throw the ball for Jerk. I gave him the ball launcher and told him how to use it. He threw the ball.
About 5 feet in front of him. He was pathetic. But he gave it another go. He was still shit. In fact, he was shit time and time again and Jerk was getting frustrated while he was getting embarrassed. Mainly because Calvin had continued the commentary and I had joined him. Basically, I found myself siding with a small boy while we both ganged up and bullied another small boy. It was great fun and I heartily recommend it.
That said, Bobby hated it. After about 10 pathetic attempts to throw the ball and constant laughter and abuse from a 50 year old (if you combined mine and Calvin's ages), Bobby threw the ball launcher down and sulked back to the commentator's bench.
I might be too old to have an excuse for my stupidity but I'm grateful for life occasionally letting me be as childish as I want. Especially if it means upsetting a child.
I think something great happened to me last night. I think it's great. It might be great. You tell me.
I think I've shaken Glee. I really like Glee although, to be honest, I can't justify why I like it. I mean, it makes me laugh but all of the characters are annoying and the musical numbers are embarrassing. But last night's Madonna special was just shit. It wasn't funny. It was simply an advert for Madonna's back catalogue. It was selling Madonna and forgetting the jokes. Usually there's 3 or 4 songs, there must have been 12 in last night's episode. Plus, all of a sudden, Sue Sylvester has a musical idol that she's worshipped her entire life but, you know, it just hasn't ever come up until last night's BUY MADONNA special. It was balls. Terrible. Really, really awful.
And I felt great.
Thank fuck that's over. Now back to boy's spaceship programmes. YAY!!!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I took Jerk to the park on Sunday for a quick run around. Right at the park's entrance I saw two boys sitting on a park bench. I threw the ball for Jerk and she bolted after it. "Whoah!", said the boys.
They were right to Whoah! Jerk is a very impressive runner and when's she in full throttle she's just beautiful. The focus, the speed, the grace. So much more impressive than me wheezing and limping after it when Jerk suddenly gets bored with our ball throwing game and refuses to chase anymore. The boys kept watching while Jerk ran up and down the hill, returning the ball to me in return for a biscuit. After a while, they decided to give a running commentary to everything they saw.
"The ball goes flying and the dog is neeeeaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrr...And he catches it on the second bounce! YES!!! That dog is so fast, isn't it, Calvin?"
"You're right, Bobby. And look at it running up the hill. It drops the ball and wins food."
"BOOM! The ball is going down the hill again, Calvin. Will the dog get it before it goes in the river?"
"YES! That was amazing, Bobby. He got it just before it splashed in the water".
The two boys went on like that for about 5 minutes and it was really making me laugh. They put on posh/serious voices "just like commentators" and even their constant referring to my little Princess as "he" couldn't stop them from being absolutely brilliant. In fact, they only got funnier.
After a while, seeing a dog run up and down a hill got boring so they decided to commentate on other things. It started off quite sweetly but soon turned horrible. Funny but horrible.
"That bike went really fast over that bridge. What do you think, Calvin?"
"It was very fast, Bobby. And this man running up the hill looks so tired. He might not make it to the top, Bobby".
"He's got lots of sweat, Calvin. This ugly old woman looks like she doesn't know where she's going".
"She's mad, Bobby. She looks like she stinks".
"Will the bridge break when this fat man walks over it, Calvin?"
"Yes, it will, Bobby".
The thing is, the commentary wasn't quiet. They were shouting everything they saw and what they thought of it. And the people they were referring to kept turning round to give two dirty looks. One to the little boys who don't know any better and one to the 41 year old man who kept laughing. I'm pretty sure that the boys were doing it just to entertain me because every time I laughed they just got louder and more rude. Eventually, Bobby asked if he could throw the ball for Jerk. I gave him the ball launcher and told him how to use it. He threw the ball.
About 5 feet in front of him. He was pathetic. But he gave it another go. He was still shit. In fact, he was shit time and time again and Jerk was getting frustrated while he was getting embarrassed. Mainly because Calvin had continued the commentary and I had joined him. Basically, I found myself siding with a small boy while we both ganged up and bullied another small boy. It was great fun and I heartily recommend it.
That said, Bobby hated it. After about 10 pathetic attempts to throw the ball and constant laughter and abuse from a 50 year old (if you combined mine and Calvin's ages), Bobby threw the ball launcher down and sulked back to the commentator's bench.
I might be too old to have an excuse for my stupidity but I'm grateful for life occasionally letting me be as childish as I want. Especially if it means upsetting a child.
I think something great happened to me last night. I think it's great. It might be great. You tell me.
I think I've shaken Glee. I really like Glee although, to be honest, I can't justify why I like it. I mean, it makes me laugh but all of the characters are annoying and the musical numbers are embarrassing. But last night's Madonna special was just shit. It wasn't funny. It was simply an advert for Madonna's back catalogue. It was selling Madonna and forgetting the jokes. Usually there's 3 or 4 songs, there must have been 12 in last night's episode. Plus, all of a sudden, Sue Sylvester has a musical idol that she's worshipped her entire life but, you know, it just hasn't ever come up until last night's BUY MADONNA special. It was balls. Terrible. Really, really awful.
And I felt great.
Thank fuck that's over. Now back to boy's spaceship programmes. YAY!!!
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 26 April 2010
The Wrong Time.
What the fuck were the BBC thinking? I mean they have a long history of crapping all over Doctor Who. Pretty much since day one. But you'd think now that it is the BBC's most popular drama series they might just give it a bit of respect. Well, you're fucking wrong, aren't you? I'm used to the BBC doing their best to ruin my favourite TV programme. They don't give it a strictly regular time of transmission like, say, ever single other programme they make and they even make sure that we have to miss out on seeing it for one week every series so that nothing gets in the way of the incredibly important Eurovision Song Contest. The BBC clearly hate Doctor Who. But this new insult? Christ Almighty.
On Saturday night, just before the episode ended, right at the very cliffhanger, at the moment of suspense designed to keep us all excited until next week...the BBC put up a cartoon Graham Norton on the screen to remind us to watch Over The fucking Rainbow.
You stupid bastards.
I mean, for fuck's sake, Over The fucking Rainbow is the NEXT programme on. The actual programme itself would be on in 60 seconds time. Did they actually need to remind us of something that was literally about to happen? Or, you know, and I'm just saying, did they do it on purpose?
All I know is that it would NEVER happen during any sport on TV. Doctor Who? That's fine. We can shit all over that. It's just the best TV programme the BBC have but, hey, it's nowhere near as important or as religiously enlightening as golf. Go on, BBC. Where's your balls? I DARE you to advertise Over The fucking Rainbow in the middle of any sport you broadcast with my money.
Not that that will make up for their ridiculous mistake. It won't. The BBC have issued a half-hearted who-gives-a-shit apology for the cartoon Graham Norton and that's just not good enough. If they're really sorry for upsetting Doctor Who fans then they have to make amends. During the tedious World Cup, every time England are about to score a goal, the BBC must scroll a cartoon of Dale Winton screaming COO-EEE, SHUT YER FACE, SEEMS LIKE A NICE BOY across the screen. Then, maybe then, will I start getting a sense of humour about this trivial bit of nothing. But until then, I'm furious.
Apart from that, it was great. I love Matt Smith, me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
On Saturday night, just before the episode ended, right at the very cliffhanger, at the moment of suspense designed to keep us all excited until next week...the BBC put up a cartoon Graham Norton on the screen to remind us to watch Over The fucking Rainbow.
You stupid bastards.
I mean, for fuck's sake, Over The fucking Rainbow is the NEXT programme on. The actual programme itself would be on in 60 seconds time. Did they actually need to remind us of something that was literally about to happen? Or, you know, and I'm just saying, did they do it on purpose?
All I know is that it would NEVER happen during any sport on TV. Doctor Who? That's fine. We can shit all over that. It's just the best TV programme the BBC have but, hey, it's nowhere near as important or as religiously enlightening as golf. Go on, BBC. Where's your balls? I DARE you to advertise Over The fucking Rainbow in the middle of any sport you broadcast with my money.
Not that that will make up for their ridiculous mistake. It won't. The BBC have issued a half-hearted who-gives-a-shit apology for the cartoon Graham Norton and that's just not good enough. If they're really sorry for upsetting Doctor Who fans then they have to make amends. During the tedious World Cup, every time England are about to score a goal, the BBC must scroll a cartoon of Dale Winton screaming COO-EEE, SHUT YER FACE, SEEMS LIKE A NICE BOY across the screen. Then, maybe then, will I start getting a sense of humour about this trivial bit of nothing. But until then, I'm furious.
Apart from that, it was great. I love Matt Smith, me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Apple Sauce.
Warming up a TV show is definitely the oddest of the jobs that I do. It's really half great, half shit. It's also incredibly lonely.
Luckily, I've yet to do warm-up for a TV show that constantly needs a warm-up. Normally it's a panel show so I go on at the beginning, do 15 minutes then I might go on somewhere in the middle and a very short bit near the end. Pretty much like comparing a gig, albeit with an audience who are constantly looking straight through you in the hope of seeing a TV camera move, a lighting bloke climb a ladder or, even worse, Colin Murray. Last night I warmed up the audience for Would I Lie To You? and I had no idea what to expect. I'd never seen the show before (I'll be very honest, I'd never even heard of it) and my default setting for TV warm-ups is I AM GOING TO DIE ON MY ARSE AND THEY WILL HATE ME.
Before I went into the studio (Pinewood, don't you know?) I bumped into Ray Peacock and, despite his insane views on the moon landing, I was both happy to see him and incredibly jealous of him. He was warming up for The IT Crowd, a comedy series that I actually like. In fact I love The IT Crowd. Here I am, in the home of Star Wars but with no time to look around, about to warm up a show that I will doubtless hate, to an audience who will doubtless hate me and I will be constantly asked to keep going on because of the stupid amount of breaks throughout the show. Each time pissing away my dwindling arsenal of unfunny jokes in front of people that would rather do time for my murder than hear my pathetic opinion on cats and dogs. While Peacock will be swanning around Studio One, having a clever, interested audience in the palm of his hand and watching one of the best sit-coms on TV being made right before his lucky, lucky eyes. He'll be being cheered by the crowd, drinking beer with Chris O'Dowd, Graham Linehan will laugh at his jokes and say "Man, that was great. Can I use that line?" and Katherine Parkinson will put everything she owns in his bum while I will be abused and tortured and spat on and despised.
That's the way of the warm-up.
Turns out the audience for Would I Lie To You? were very nice and I had to do a grand total of 8 minutes. That was it. OVER. 8 really lovely minutes. All that stress for nothing. I just went on at the top, they were lovely and 8 minutes later it was over. All that fuss and all I had to do was 8 minutes. 8 minutes. 8 frigging minutes. Why the fuck would they put me through such mental torture if they're just going to end up being lovely and I'm only going to be on for 8 minutes? The fucking evil cunts. I hate them.
And, hey, Would I Lie To You? is good. I really enjoyed watching it. It's a TV comedy and, somehow, I liked it. I would be great on that show. Come on, Zeppotron, let me be on that show. Don't be sly.
After the show I got to hang out with all the celebrities and by that I mean I got to hang out near the celebrities. I'm afraid I'm just not very good at talking to people I don't know. I realise that that's what you're supposed to do if you want your career to go forward, just march up to a celeb and say "Hi. M'name's Mike. Great show tonight. Hey, I gots m'self a little ol' sit-com script and would love you to cast your eyes on it", but I just can't do that. It's the work of the arsehole. Instead I'll stand in the room completely on my own and look at Twitter but pretend I'm going through loads of really important texts. Yes, even though everyone is ignoring me, I must look really important. Yeah, I bet anyone seeing me would think I must be incredibly big time if it wasn't for the fact that I am completely invisible. I'm just waiting on a cab so I have to be here. It's not like I can leave yet. But God, it's dull. Everyone knows everyone except me. I know Lee Mack but he's talking to David Mitchell and Ben Fogle and I just don't have the confidence to interrupt that conversation with "Hi, all! I have a podcast and I'm in a sketch group called Los Quattros Cvnts".
But I'm on my own. I warmed your fucking audience up for you. I gave 8 minutes of my blood, sweat and tears. Besides the fee I'm being paid, you fuckers owe me.
I marched right over there and barged right into their fucking world!
And it was lovely. Again, pressure over nothing. Why do they insist on doing that to me? What possible pleasure can they get out of forcing me to get stressed out about talking to them and then, when I've pathetically made my move, they just turn out to be really nice. I mean, they're just sick really. David Mitchell was very lovely indeed. Isn't that great to know? He's great on TV and nice in real life. He never once punched me or talked about my Mum's bucket. He was nice. And there I was, hanging with the celebrities. Lee, David (I can call him that now), Ben Fogle (we're still on that basis), Kate Silverton and Rob Brydon. Look at us. A great bunch of mates just having a laugh together. Muckers throwing giggles back and forward and sharing a couple of drinks. HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF THIS? What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
Then I did the coolest thing I've ever done in my life. I left first. I was with the celebs and I was the one who abandoned the party first.
Sure, they could have been over the moon that I had gone or, even though I was talking with them, they didn't even notice I had been there in the first place but I felt good. "Yeah, guys, guys, guys. Caoi for now, yeah? Laters", I may or may not have said as I walked away from them begging or not begging me to stay. God, I'm the coolest.
It was a great night though. Zeppotron people are nice people (go on, Zeppotron, please let me be on Would I Lie To You?) and I found out David Mitchell is nice. That's a good day for me. Plus someone working on The IT Crowd recognised my voice from Precious Little. That was funny and made me happy.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Luckily, I've yet to do warm-up for a TV show that constantly needs a warm-up. Normally it's a panel show so I go on at the beginning, do 15 minutes then I might go on somewhere in the middle and a very short bit near the end. Pretty much like comparing a gig, albeit with an audience who are constantly looking straight through you in the hope of seeing a TV camera move, a lighting bloke climb a ladder or, even worse, Colin Murray. Last night I warmed up the audience for Would I Lie To You? and I had no idea what to expect. I'd never seen the show before (I'll be very honest, I'd never even heard of it) and my default setting for TV warm-ups is I AM GOING TO DIE ON MY ARSE AND THEY WILL HATE ME.
Before I went into the studio (Pinewood, don't you know?) I bumped into Ray Peacock and, despite his insane views on the moon landing, I was both happy to see him and incredibly jealous of him. He was warming up for The IT Crowd, a comedy series that I actually like. In fact I love The IT Crowd. Here I am, in the home of Star Wars but with no time to look around, about to warm up a show that I will doubtless hate, to an audience who will doubtless hate me and I will be constantly asked to keep going on because of the stupid amount of breaks throughout the show. Each time pissing away my dwindling arsenal of unfunny jokes in front of people that would rather do time for my murder than hear my pathetic opinion on cats and dogs. While Peacock will be swanning around Studio One, having a clever, interested audience in the palm of his hand and watching one of the best sit-coms on TV being made right before his lucky, lucky eyes. He'll be being cheered by the crowd, drinking beer with Chris O'Dowd, Graham Linehan will laugh at his jokes and say "Man, that was great. Can I use that line?" and Katherine Parkinson will put everything she owns in his bum while I will be abused and tortured and spat on and despised.
That's the way of the warm-up.
Turns out the audience for Would I Lie To You? were very nice and I had to do a grand total of 8 minutes. That was it. OVER. 8 really lovely minutes. All that stress for nothing. I just went on at the top, they were lovely and 8 minutes later it was over. All that fuss and all I had to do was 8 minutes. 8 minutes. 8 frigging minutes. Why the fuck would they put me through such mental torture if they're just going to end up being lovely and I'm only going to be on for 8 minutes? The fucking evil cunts. I hate them.
And, hey, Would I Lie To You? is good. I really enjoyed watching it. It's a TV comedy and, somehow, I liked it. I would be great on that show. Come on, Zeppotron, let me be on that show. Don't be sly.
After the show I got to hang out with all the celebrities and by that I mean I got to hang out near the celebrities. I'm afraid I'm just not very good at talking to people I don't know. I realise that that's what you're supposed to do if you want your career to go forward, just march up to a celeb and say "Hi. M'name's Mike. Great show tonight. Hey, I gots m'self a little ol' sit-com script and would love you to cast your eyes on it", but I just can't do that. It's the work of the arsehole. Instead I'll stand in the room completely on my own and look at Twitter but pretend I'm going through loads of really important texts. Yes, even though everyone is ignoring me, I must look really important. Yeah, I bet anyone seeing me would think I must be incredibly big time if it wasn't for the fact that I am completely invisible. I'm just waiting on a cab so I have to be here. It's not like I can leave yet. But God, it's dull. Everyone knows everyone except me. I know Lee Mack but he's talking to David Mitchell and Ben Fogle and I just don't have the confidence to interrupt that conversation with "Hi, all! I have a podcast and I'm in a sketch group called Los Quattros Cvnts".
But I'm on my own. I warmed your fucking audience up for you. I gave 8 minutes of my blood, sweat and tears. Besides the fee I'm being paid, you fuckers owe me.
I marched right over there and barged right into their fucking world!
And it was lovely. Again, pressure over nothing. Why do they insist on doing that to me? What possible pleasure can they get out of forcing me to get stressed out about talking to them and then, when I've pathetically made my move, they just turn out to be really nice. I mean, they're just sick really. David Mitchell was very lovely indeed. Isn't that great to know? He's great on TV and nice in real life. He never once punched me or talked about my Mum's bucket. He was nice. And there I was, hanging with the celebrities. Lee, David (I can call him that now), Ben Fogle (we're still on that basis), Kate Silverton and Rob Brydon. Look at us. A great bunch of mates just having a laugh together. Muckers throwing giggles back and forward and sharing a couple of drinks. HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OUT OF THIS? What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
Then I did the coolest thing I've ever done in my life. I left first. I was with the celebs and I was the one who abandoned the party first.
Sure, they could have been over the moon that I had gone or, even though I was talking with them, they didn't even notice I had been there in the first place but I felt good. "Yeah, guys, guys, guys. Caoi for now, yeah? Laters", I may or may not have said as I walked away from them begging or not begging me to stay. God, I'm the coolest.
It was a great night though. Zeppotron people are nice people (go on, Zeppotron, please let me be on Would I Lie To You?) and I found out David Mitchell is nice. That's a good day for me. Plus someone working on The IT Crowd recognised my voice from Precious Little. That was funny and made me happy.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
The Song On The Bus Goes Round and Round.
So, this happened to me a week ago today. I'm late blogging it because just because. As you know, I occasionally get into slight altercations on public transport. Well, this is one of those blogs.
I had been going through stuff for my Work-In-Progress shows with Stella Duffy and on the way back on the bus I met a little girl. I didn't arrange to meet the little girl, I'm not a big weirdo, I just happened to make her acquaintance while on the bus. I sat just across from her and started reading as soon as I sat down. Now, I never really think of the bus as the perfect place to do some work, even if you're a bus driver, but I had to look over notes that Stella made before I forgot what they meant. I suffer from Memento and have to write things down quickly or they will be gone from my head forever. I don't do the tattoo thing though. You'd have thought that Memento, the lead character in Memento, would have made his first tattoo "Just get a notepad and write these things down" but I suppose that's what happens when you suffer from Memento like I do. You just don't know what to think all the time. So there I am reading and writing and trying to figure a few things out when the music starts. There's always music on public transport. Fucking awful music.
The little girl was, as is always the way, playing loud music out of her phone without wearing earphones. Just letting it all blast out so that we could all revel in her shit taste in music. At least when I was her age I liked David Bowie. I mean, I liked the music to Why Don't You? better but I definitely think I liked Bowie. Either way, I wouldn't have listened to THAT music when I was a little girl on a bus.
She was 10 years old, I'd say, and was happily singing along to the crap that was coming out of her phone. You're probably thinking that I should just let it go. She's only a little girl. She doesn't know any better. Just get over it. Well, you'll be glad to know that I just sat there saying nothing to her (for as long as I could) but it wasn't because she's a little girl and I should just get over it. No. It was worse than that.
The little girl just looked weird. Really weird. I was so close to turning to her and politely asking her to turn her music off but I took one look at her beach ball eyes and concrete hair and thought maybe she's got enough on her plate. She's too weird to be told off. Good for her. She'll get away with anything for the rest of her life.
But the music was too much and it was only one song. She played it over and over and over again. It was one of those songs that you know quite well but don't know what it's called or who made it because...well...it's fucking terrible. Like Delta Goodrem. Something like that. All screaming passion about absolutely nothing at all. Over and over and over again. I'm trying to figure out what notes mean what and all I can hear is that it's a lonely, lonely bed without ya, babe, over and over and over and over and over and over again. I can't take it. It's time to look into the eyes of The Medusa and say "I know you're only a little Gorgon but your music is fat balls in a pie".
I turned to the little girl and looked her spiralling collage of a face and said "Excuse me. Would you mind switching your music off for me, please? I'm trying to read and it's a bit distracting. Thank you".
Polite, firm and not too patronising. She's only 10 but no need to talk down to her. She stared at me (I think, it's hard to tell with her) for about 5 awkward seconds. Oh, dear. This isn't going well. I kept my smile on my face for as long as I could while waiting for her to respond. Come on, you mad looking 10 year old cunt. Say something.
She turned to a woman who was sitting quite far from her, not beside her, and said "Mum?"
Now, I would have gone to Mum first in a situation like this. No point me freaking out children when I can get their parents to do it. But I couldn't tell who Mum was. No one around this little girl looked like her. Obviously when this little girl was made they broke the mold. Or perhaps it was just before she was made. All I'm saying is...er...she must take after her Dad. Look, I just couldn't tell who Mum was OK?
The woman ignored her little girl, just staring out the bus window instead. "Mum?", the girl repeated. If this woman was this girl's Mum she was obviously not that into the roll. She just sat there staring out the window like she couldn't hear her own daughter. She couldn't hear her own daughter say "Mum?" or her own daughter's shit music coming out of her earphoneless phone. "MUM?", the girl said quite loudly.
Mum then looked up at the little girl and gave a look as if to say "What?".
The girl said nothing but looked over at me again and then back over at Mum. Mum gave the "What?" look again.
Is this really how these two fuckers communicate? I mean, at least point, for Christ's sake!
The girl looked over at me. Mum just looked confused. She didn't know that a man had asked her daughter to switch her music off and the way they were communicating she might never know. Then, all of a sudden, Mum realised that she needed to actually use words with her daughter. That really might help. "What is it?", she said.
"This man wants something", said the girl.
Mum took her earphones off and said "What?"
Aah! That's why the little girl isn't using her earphones. Mum has them. Mum is sitting far away from her daughter and listening to music through earphones while staring out the window. Brilliant. What an absolutely charming woman. The girl repeated her sentence and Mum looked over to me. "I just asked her if she could switch her music off, if that's OK? Very distracting. Thanks".
Mum rolled her eyes and put her earphones back in.
Well, I guess it's you and me, Kid. I felt really sorry for this little girl but if someone else doesn't point out that it's rude to play loud music then she'll never learn. I asked her again to switch it off but she just called for her Mum again. Mum had no interest. I looked at the girl with a "Please, switch that off" look on my face.
"NO!", she screamed.
Right. Fine. Ignore them. Just try to look through my stuff while cunts get away with it again. "Pair of cunts", I said as I went back to my notes. I'm not that happy with that because Mum will never know that I called her 50% of a pair of cunts and only the little girl heard it. But on the other hand, best get her used to hearing it.
Mum and little girl got off one stop before me. As they passed I told Mum that I thought she was extremely rude. "Fuck off", she said. Nice.
"I think Britain is great", says Eddie Izzard in his Labour video. Take the bus, Eddie, and get back to us.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I had been going through stuff for my Work-In-Progress shows with Stella Duffy and on the way back on the bus I met a little girl. I didn't arrange to meet the little girl, I'm not a big weirdo, I just happened to make her acquaintance while on the bus. I sat just across from her and started reading as soon as I sat down. Now, I never really think of the bus as the perfect place to do some work, even if you're a bus driver, but I had to look over notes that Stella made before I forgot what they meant. I suffer from Memento and have to write things down quickly or they will be gone from my head forever. I don't do the tattoo thing though. You'd have thought that Memento, the lead character in Memento, would have made his first tattoo "Just get a notepad and write these things down" but I suppose that's what happens when you suffer from Memento like I do. You just don't know what to think all the time. So there I am reading and writing and trying to figure a few things out when the music starts. There's always music on public transport. Fucking awful music.
The little girl was, as is always the way, playing loud music out of her phone without wearing earphones. Just letting it all blast out so that we could all revel in her shit taste in music. At least when I was her age I liked David Bowie. I mean, I liked the music to Why Don't You? better but I definitely think I liked Bowie. Either way, I wouldn't have listened to THAT music when I was a little girl on a bus.
She was 10 years old, I'd say, and was happily singing along to the crap that was coming out of her phone. You're probably thinking that I should just let it go. She's only a little girl. She doesn't know any better. Just get over it. Well, you'll be glad to know that I just sat there saying nothing to her (for as long as I could) but it wasn't because she's a little girl and I should just get over it. No. It was worse than that.
The little girl just looked weird. Really weird. I was so close to turning to her and politely asking her to turn her music off but I took one look at her beach ball eyes and concrete hair and thought maybe she's got enough on her plate. She's too weird to be told off. Good for her. She'll get away with anything for the rest of her life.
But the music was too much and it was only one song. She played it over and over and over again. It was one of those songs that you know quite well but don't know what it's called or who made it because...well...it's fucking terrible. Like Delta Goodrem. Something like that. All screaming passion about absolutely nothing at all. Over and over and over again. I'm trying to figure out what notes mean what and all I can hear is that it's a lonely, lonely bed without ya, babe, over and over and over and over and over and over again. I can't take it. It's time to look into the eyes of The Medusa and say "I know you're only a little Gorgon but your music is fat balls in a pie".
I turned to the little girl and looked her spiralling collage of a face and said "Excuse me. Would you mind switching your music off for me, please? I'm trying to read and it's a bit distracting. Thank you".
Polite, firm and not too patronising. She's only 10 but no need to talk down to her. She stared at me (I think, it's hard to tell with her) for about 5 awkward seconds. Oh, dear. This isn't going well. I kept my smile on my face for as long as I could while waiting for her to respond. Come on, you mad looking 10 year old cunt. Say something.
She turned to a woman who was sitting quite far from her, not beside her, and said "Mum?"
Now, I would have gone to Mum first in a situation like this. No point me freaking out children when I can get their parents to do it. But I couldn't tell who Mum was. No one around this little girl looked like her. Obviously when this little girl was made they broke the mold. Or perhaps it was just before she was made. All I'm saying is...er...she must take after her Dad. Look, I just couldn't tell who Mum was OK?
The woman ignored her little girl, just staring out the bus window instead. "Mum?", the girl repeated. If this woman was this girl's Mum she was obviously not that into the roll. She just sat there staring out the window like she couldn't hear her own daughter. She couldn't hear her own daughter say "Mum?" or her own daughter's shit music coming out of her earphoneless phone. "MUM?", the girl said quite loudly.
Mum then looked up at the little girl and gave a look as if to say "What?".
The girl said nothing but looked over at me again and then back over at Mum. Mum gave the "What?" look again.
Is this really how these two fuckers communicate? I mean, at least point, for Christ's sake!
The girl looked over at me. Mum just looked confused. She didn't know that a man had asked her daughter to switch her music off and the way they were communicating she might never know. Then, all of a sudden, Mum realised that she needed to actually use words with her daughter. That really might help. "What is it?", she said.
"This man wants something", said the girl.
Mum took her earphones off and said "What?"
Aah! That's why the little girl isn't using her earphones. Mum has them. Mum is sitting far away from her daughter and listening to music through earphones while staring out the window. Brilliant. What an absolutely charming woman. The girl repeated her sentence and Mum looked over to me. "I just asked her if she could switch her music off, if that's OK? Very distracting. Thanks".
Mum rolled her eyes and put her earphones back in.
Well, I guess it's you and me, Kid. I felt really sorry for this little girl but if someone else doesn't point out that it's rude to play loud music then she'll never learn. I asked her again to switch it off but she just called for her Mum again. Mum had no interest. I looked at the girl with a "Please, switch that off" look on my face.
"NO!", she screamed.
Right. Fine. Ignore them. Just try to look through my stuff while cunts get away with it again. "Pair of cunts", I said as I went back to my notes. I'm not that happy with that because Mum will never know that I called her 50% of a pair of cunts and only the little girl heard it. But on the other hand, best get her used to hearing it.
Mum and little girl got off one stop before me. As they passed I told Mum that I thought she was extremely rude. "Fuck off", she said. Nice.
"I think Britain is great", says Eddie Izzard in his Labour video. Take the bus, Eddie, and get back to us.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Homeless Wrecker.
You see, I really did want this blog to be either about me arguing with a little girl on the bus or my problems with the Black Eyed Peas (they are everywhere you go at all times) but sometimes something so incredible happens that other stories have to go to the side. This is my equivalent of breaking news.
I was on my way to last night's Work-In-Progress show at the Hen & Chickens when I realised I had no money so joined the queue at a cashpoint. Right by one of the machines was a homeless man. I didn't know this at the time but soon I would do the worst thing that you can possibly do to a homeless person. The worst thing ever.
I am a great supporter of the homeless. I mean, I don't support them being broke and without a home. To be honest, that's the thing about them that gets to me most. That must be shit. I support the homeless by giving money to Shelter and any spare change to homeless people when I can. The man said "Can you spare any change, please?" to the cashpoint queue but he really didn't need to say it to me. I was already going to give him my spare change. I am just that lovely.
The thing is, while I was in the queue and the homeless man was asking for change I did the thing of checking my pocket for change but not giving him eye contact. Look, I wanted to give him money but...well...I didn't want to talk to him. IS THAT SO BAD? It's not like he's hungry for conversation. He's just hungry. Plus, I know what would happen. We'll get into a chat and before long he'd be telling me where I've gone wrong in my career. It's the conversation I have with everyone. I just wasn't in the mood.
So, I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed a handful of change ready to give to the homeless man. I had lots of pub-last-night change in my pocket and was grabbing about half of it for him. I stepped to the cashpoint, did my cashpoint thing and all the while I was ready with a handful of change ready to spin round and give to the homeless man and quickly walk off without getting into the usual "Weren't you in Street-Cred Sudoku on UK Living about four years ago?" that I always get.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Like I said I was about to do the worst thing that anyone could do to a homeless man. The worst thing ever. And this is coming from someone who has physically got in between a homeless man and the evil cunt who was kicking him. That kicking man is a saint to the homeless compared to me now.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Along with my house keys.
It was an awkward two seconds as we both looked at the keys lying there in his hat. The keys. The keys to a house just lying there right in front of him. Centimetres away from his hand. Not as awkward as the moment that I reached into his hat, took the keys away from him and said "Can I have these back, please?"
For two seconds, two whole seconds, he had a home and like the evil shit I am I reached in and destroyed his new life. I am giving money to Shelter today. I really am.
Once again, the Work-In-Progress show was an absolute delight. If you were there, thanks very much. You're great and it was a lot of fun. If you weren't there then come along to the next one on the 31st May. Andrew Collins and I would love to see you. Again, I didn't get through as much material as I hoped (but that's a good thing) and again I forgot to say the name of the show: Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. But that's OK, I didn't actually get round to mentioning Raleigh either. What do you think of the title? Please let me know.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I was on my way to last night's Work-In-Progress show at the Hen & Chickens when I realised I had no money so joined the queue at a cashpoint. Right by one of the machines was a homeless man. I didn't know this at the time but soon I would do the worst thing that you can possibly do to a homeless person. The worst thing ever.
I am a great supporter of the homeless. I mean, I don't support them being broke and without a home. To be honest, that's the thing about them that gets to me most. That must be shit. I support the homeless by giving money to Shelter and any spare change to homeless people when I can. The man said "Can you spare any change, please?" to the cashpoint queue but he really didn't need to say it to me. I was already going to give him my spare change. I am just that lovely.
The thing is, while I was in the queue and the homeless man was asking for change I did the thing of checking my pocket for change but not giving him eye contact. Look, I wanted to give him money but...well...I didn't want to talk to him. IS THAT SO BAD? It's not like he's hungry for conversation. He's just hungry. Plus, I know what would happen. We'll get into a chat and before long he'd be telling me where I've gone wrong in my career. It's the conversation I have with everyone. I just wasn't in the mood.
So, I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed a handful of change ready to give to the homeless man. I had lots of pub-last-night change in my pocket and was grabbing about half of it for him. I stepped to the cashpoint, did my cashpoint thing and all the while I was ready with a handful of change ready to spin round and give to the homeless man and quickly walk off without getting into the usual "Weren't you in Street-Cred Sudoku on UK Living about four years ago?" that I always get.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Like I said I was about to do the worst thing that anyone could do to a homeless man. The worst thing ever. And this is coming from someone who has physically got in between a homeless man and the evil cunt who was kicking him. That kicking man is a saint to the homeless compared to me now.
I turned to him, took my hand out of my pocket and dropped the change into his hat on his lap. Along with my house keys.
It was an awkward two seconds as we both looked at the keys lying there in his hat. The keys. The keys to a house just lying there right in front of him. Centimetres away from his hand. Not as awkward as the moment that I reached into his hat, took the keys away from him and said "Can I have these back, please?"
For two seconds, two whole seconds, he had a home and like the evil shit I am I reached in and destroyed his new life. I am giving money to Shelter today. I really am.
Once again, the Work-In-Progress show was an absolute delight. If you were there, thanks very much. You're great and it was a lot of fun. If you weren't there then come along to the next one on the 31st May. Andrew Collins and I would love to see you. Again, I didn't get through as much material as I hoped (but that's a good thing) and again I forgot to say the name of the show: Curse Sir Walter Raleigh. But that's OK, I didn't actually get round to mentioning Raleigh either. What do you think of the title? Please let me know.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)