Do not EVER use the Quiet Coach on a train. It is the loudest place on Earth. It's as if every single evil bastard moron that goes into the Quiet Coach has decided to treat it as a challenge: Let's see who can be the most annoying.
On my way to Newcastle I took my seat on the Quiet Coach so that I can read and work without being disturbed. Now, I know fully well that there is no room for silence or manners or respect or decency in the Quiet Coach but I always pretend that it's all going to be fine. I am always wrong. It is never fine. If I had a pound for every time I had to ask someone on the Quiet Coach to keep the noise down, I'd have enough money to hire a comedy writer to write a punchline to this sentence. The sign Quiet Coach is fucking everywhere you look but I just assume that humans get on board and think "I didn't pay all this money to read that sign" and therefore they have no idea that shouting down the phone, listening to loud, awful music and firing guns randomly are prohibited in this part of the train. They are the bulk of British people. Horrible, thick, lazy, selfish British people. Will someone please just invade us and save us from ourselves? PLEASE?
But there is one thing worse than the nasty fucks who don't give a shit about other people on the Quiet Coach and that is The Friendly Man.
God, I fucking hate The Friendly Man. The Friendly Man is an idiot who can talk for months about absolutely nothing at all while breaking the world grinning record over and over and over again. He winks and smiles and talks and has no capabilities to read body language. And I got stuck with the cunt yesterday.
Muki and I sat near him and his dead wife and immediately noticed that Muki had a bag of crisps. FUCKING BRILLIANT!, he must have thought. NOW I HAVE A SURE FIRE ICE BREAKER TO USE AND I CAN GIVE THESE TWO LUCKY TRAVELLERS THE GIFT OF MY POINTLESS CONVERSATION!!!!!
"What's for lunch then?", he said through his punchable smile.
I got slapped with the fear. Muki is a very friendly person and from nowhere The Friendly Man has decided to talk to her. This will be a nightmare. They will both talk to one another. They will laugh and chit-chat and he will offer her a Tic-Tac and they will become lifelong fucking bumchums and I will hate every tomorrow until the charitable kiss of death. But Muki knows her limits. She is friendly, not psychotic (people often get those confused). She saw his grin and his wink and went through his opening line again and again in her head. This man was not for her. You really have to take this very seriously, reader. When Muki, someone who loves EVERYONE, thinks you're a cunt then you most definitely are a cunt. She is an instant jury. She needs only seconds and if there is no good in you she will respond accordingly. For the first time since I have known Muki, she grunted in response to someone and got our her iPhone so that she could hide in it.
This didn't stop The Friendly Man of course. He is The Terminator of the train. Every time you think that he is finally destroyed he just comes out marching from the blazing inferno of tedium with a lovely big, metallic, cyborg grin on his face.
He sat there telling us about the way train seating should work and how he's staying with friends "oop t'nurth" (he couldn't say up north any other way, the fucking cunt), all with the absolutely insane belief that anyone at all would ever be in any way interested. Where is the guy in the Quiet Coach with a gun when you need him?
Finally a woman appeared and informed The Friendly Man that he was sitting in her seat. This was fantastic news for him because, although he had to move, it meant that he could talk to the woman and show her how unfunny and bastard boring he is. His dead wife stayed where she was but The Friendly Man sat right behind me and beside his next victim. All I heard was The Friendly Man bore on and on about blank oblivion while the man next to him occassionally went "Mmm". Why can't this cunt take the hint? Why can't he see that NO-ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT HIS OPINION. Why won't he just SHUT UP? Then he started talking to his dead wife which meant that he had to lean much closer to me, something he relished talking about. He basically said something about me and him being gay lovers in a way that suggested all gay people are fictional and homosexuality is too ridiculous to be true. I had no choice but to ignore his homophobia because another important issue had come up: his stinking breath. It was like he'd swallowed my Four Seasons shower cap.
Eventually he got his original seat back and started up our lovely chit-chat again. Muki and I had yet to talk about this man. Muki is never rude so she would wait until he had left before talking about him, something I always forget to do. We hadn't talked about him or worked out a plan on how to deal with him but from nowhere we acted as one. 12 years of knowing one another is now in action. We both ignored him and it was beautiful.
He spoke and neither of us responded. He spoke again and we just kept on reading and pretending he was as dead as the woman he married. "Hmmm.", he thought. "They're boring".
We smiled.
I told that story to someone in Newcastle last night and he laughed and said "You can't talk on the train? Typical Londoners". No, not typical Londoners. Typical fucking idiots. If someone is reading, DON'T TALK TO THEM. If someone has their earphones in, DON'T TALK TO THEM. If someone is sitting in front of you with a grin that lasts forever and you see they're about to talk, RUN. This is MY head, YOU aren't allowed in it.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Friday, 28 May 2010
Toilet's Revenge.
Someone on Twitter recently remarked that I was obsessed with shit. I pooh-poohed the comment thinking nothing could be further from the truth. But maybe they're right.
I'm lucky enough to pick up shit every day. It's one of the glories of owning a dog. Firm stools, liquid splats, chunky with no colour known to Man. Yes, I've picked up every kind of shit there is thanks to my dog and, sometimes, some other dogs. I don't mind my dog's shit at all. I don't love it but I'm very happy to tolerate it, after all, it came from the strained anus of my little princess. But there is very little more icky than bending over to pick up your dogs poo to find it cold and then realising you've picked up another dog's poo. Other dog's poo is disgusting. Other dog's poo is shit.
I should point out that I use a bag to pick it up, just in case you really did think I was that relaxed about it.
So my dog's poo I'm fine with, other dog's poo I can pretty much handle. I tell you what poo I can't stand. My poo.
I may have mentioned that I spent a few days in Doha at the glamourous Four Seasons hotel. "Gazing over the Arabian Gulf, with its own private beach and a marina curved at its feet, Four Seasons is a traveller’s haven fashioned to the finest international standards", it says. Everywhere you go in the hotel you see money. Exclusive spa, fine dining, windows. This hotel has the lot and you can't help but feel more refined as a human being just by being there.
Which is exactly why I couldn't ring reception to tell them I'd blocked up the toilet with all my shit.
The Sunday night of our stay was rehearsal night. We were driven from the hotel to the incredible Qatar Foundation where the Doha Debates are filmed. I got into the cab and told the others that I had just done the most disgusting thing that anyone has ever done at the Four Seasons in Doha. Sadly, I was still too traumatised to actually tell them what it was.
You see, I have this thing where I can't bare anyone ever seeing my shit. I'm not saying that my shit is weird or different to other people's shit. It isn't. My shit is average, I assume. But I just don't want anyone to ever witness what comes out of my botty. Is that so awful? I knew that my first long term relationship was doomed the day that I lay in the bath and my girlfriend came into the bathroom and had a shit. IT'S SHIT, FOR GOD'S SAKE! KEEP IT PRIVATE.
So there was no way that I could just call reception and speak to someone who deals with oil barons and diamond encrusted wives of tycoons to tell them that all my shit won't flush. I had to come up with a plan. Luckily, I'm razor sharp. I flushed the toilet again but this time I watched it while shouting "Come on. Come on. Come on". Unbelievably, it didn't work.
This situation wouldn't have been a problem if only the Four Seasons provided a toilet brush but I can only assume that the wealthy never shit so this has yet to set the hotel a challenge. I flushed several more times but this toilet was just not accepting my waste. Every time I flushed, the water rose to the very top of the toilet bowl just to terrify me and show me my swirling, unwanted faeces. 20 times I must have flushed and shouted at that toilet but it refused to co-operate. My "no-one must ever see my shit rule" was screaming in my head and I realised I had little choice but to deal with it hands on.
Don't get all queasy. Trust me, I dealt with the situation in a totally dignified manner suited to my surroundings. Yes, that's right, everyone. I found myself on my knees at the Four Seasons, Doha, with a shower cap wrapped round my hand down a toilet squashing my own shit.
It would take a long while to get over this.
I flushed the toilet and my excrement laughed at me all the way down the u-bend. I must have lay beside the toilet for 5 long minutes with the shower cap on my hand and hearing "Deep Blue Day" by Brian Eno playing in my head. Surrounded by glamour, once again, I find myself on the floor with a shit stained shower cap on my hand.
Thank you for listening.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I'm lucky enough to pick up shit every day. It's one of the glories of owning a dog. Firm stools, liquid splats, chunky with no colour known to Man. Yes, I've picked up every kind of shit there is thanks to my dog and, sometimes, some other dogs. I don't mind my dog's shit at all. I don't love it but I'm very happy to tolerate it, after all, it came from the strained anus of my little princess. But there is very little more icky than bending over to pick up your dogs poo to find it cold and then realising you've picked up another dog's poo. Other dog's poo is disgusting. Other dog's poo is shit.
I should point out that I use a bag to pick it up, just in case you really did think I was that relaxed about it.
So my dog's poo I'm fine with, other dog's poo I can pretty much handle. I tell you what poo I can't stand. My poo.
I may have mentioned that I spent a few days in Doha at the glamourous Four Seasons hotel. "Gazing over the Arabian Gulf, with its own private beach and a marina curved at its feet, Four Seasons is a traveller’s haven fashioned to the finest international standards", it says. Everywhere you go in the hotel you see money. Exclusive spa, fine dining, windows. This hotel has the lot and you can't help but feel more refined as a human being just by being there.
Which is exactly why I couldn't ring reception to tell them I'd blocked up the toilet with all my shit.
The Sunday night of our stay was rehearsal night. We were driven from the hotel to the incredible Qatar Foundation where the Doha Debates are filmed. I got into the cab and told the others that I had just done the most disgusting thing that anyone has ever done at the Four Seasons in Doha. Sadly, I was still too traumatised to actually tell them what it was.
You see, I have this thing where I can't bare anyone ever seeing my shit. I'm not saying that my shit is weird or different to other people's shit. It isn't. My shit is average, I assume. But I just don't want anyone to ever witness what comes out of my botty. Is that so awful? I knew that my first long term relationship was doomed the day that I lay in the bath and my girlfriend came into the bathroom and had a shit. IT'S SHIT, FOR GOD'S SAKE! KEEP IT PRIVATE.
So there was no way that I could just call reception and speak to someone who deals with oil barons and diamond encrusted wives of tycoons to tell them that all my shit won't flush. I had to come up with a plan. Luckily, I'm razor sharp. I flushed the toilet again but this time I watched it while shouting "Come on. Come on. Come on". Unbelievably, it didn't work.
This situation wouldn't have been a problem if only the Four Seasons provided a toilet brush but I can only assume that the wealthy never shit so this has yet to set the hotel a challenge. I flushed several more times but this toilet was just not accepting my waste. Every time I flushed, the water rose to the very top of the toilet bowl just to terrify me and show me my swirling, unwanted faeces. 20 times I must have flushed and shouted at that toilet but it refused to co-operate. My "no-one must ever see my shit rule" was screaming in my head and I realised I had little choice but to deal with it hands on.
Don't get all queasy. Trust me, I dealt with the situation in a totally dignified manner suited to my surroundings. Yes, that's right, everyone. I found myself on my knees at the Four Seasons, Doha, with a shower cap wrapped round my hand down a toilet squashing my own shit.
It would take a long while to get over this.
I flushed the toilet and my excrement laughed at me all the way down the u-bend. I must have lay beside the toilet for 5 long minutes with the shower cap on my hand and hearing "Deep Blue Day" by Brian Eno playing in my head. Surrounded by glamour, once again, I find myself on the floor with a shit stained shower cap on my hand.
Thank you for listening.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Bless.
The best part of my few days in Doha was that it was the complete opposite of a normal weekend working away with comedians. I mean, obviously there's always at least one cunt but besides that it was very different. It was just very civilised. Not much drinking, doing some work (well, a bit) and staying in a really, really, really nice hotel. That's not how I do it normally. Normally it's do the gig, get very pissed and cry myself to sleep in a single bed next door to a couple who are fighting and fucking into a huge PA system.
And it was healthy. Sun does you the world of good. I ate good food and I saw a culture that I think I'm supposed to be afraid of. Middle East's Muslims don't always get good press, I don't know if you've noticed, and I certainly have little to no tolerance of any religion so to be in a country where strict religious beliefs are the norm is...odd. I just don't feel that comfortable around people who's faith dictates the way they treat other people and even how they dress. It's too alien to me and makes me question the freedom of their thought. Of course, our press doesn't help but, luckily, I'm nearly smart enough to ignore all that. Nearly. I guess my problem has always been the view that we must respect all beliefs and show tolerance for people who think differently than we do. I really don't know why we should respect all beliefs. Some beliefs just aren't worth respecting. I was raised Catholic but lapsed pretty much when I was a child. Using terrifying images of crucifixion and blood to keep people in check just seemed suspicious to me even then, and after all the paedophile covering up that The Pope has done I just think that any Catholic who sets foot back into their chapel really is living in complete denial. When the head of your church, and the man who speaks directly to God on your behalf, claims that we are all loved by God yet wants to "correct" gays and let's his workmates fuck children, it's time to rethink your religious stance.
But all religions are suspicious. Muslim women are covered up (for reasons that I can never fathom no matter how often it's explained to me) and having sex out of wedlock can land you in jail or, occasionally, stoned. And I mean bad stoned. Christianity is just complete hypocrisy. It's based on forgiveness, something that they never, ever do. And how the fuck in 2010 circumcision is still performed by Jewish and Islamic faiths is beyond me. That is just barbaric. That's not your cock to go chopping. It's a cock, for fuck's sake. How the fuck can you justify that? At least let the cock grow up and let it decide for itself.
Maybe my mind has changed over the last few days. Not about cock chopping but about tolerance of beliefs. After the Doha Debates show on Monday most of the audience wanted to meet the comedians, have their photographs taken with them and laugh with them. They were good fun people. The audience were 80% Muslim and dressed as their take on their religion dictates. Warm, lovely people who wanted to connect with the people who had been debating something that never needed debating in the first place. I say their take on religion because that's what finally dawned on me. You can read the Bible or the Koran or any other self-help book and take what you want from it. Take what makes your life feel better. It's when people start seeing things in these books that aren't there or, worse, never reading them in the first place but happily quote stuff from it that was never there that it gets terrifying.
This blog is naive and stupid. I'm aware of that. Partly because I just wrote it in 20 minutes without looking over it or editing but also because religion is a door I closed firmly a long time ago. I know I'll never believe in the supernatural but after this weekend I might just open the door a little bit and have a peek around.
Some of these weirdos are quite fun.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
And it was healthy. Sun does you the world of good. I ate good food and I saw a culture that I think I'm supposed to be afraid of. Middle East's Muslims don't always get good press, I don't know if you've noticed, and I certainly have little to no tolerance of any religion so to be in a country where strict religious beliefs are the norm is...odd. I just don't feel that comfortable around people who's faith dictates the way they treat other people and even how they dress. It's too alien to me and makes me question the freedom of their thought. Of course, our press doesn't help but, luckily, I'm nearly smart enough to ignore all that. Nearly. I guess my problem has always been the view that we must respect all beliefs and show tolerance for people who think differently than we do. I really don't know why we should respect all beliefs. Some beliefs just aren't worth respecting. I was raised Catholic but lapsed pretty much when I was a child. Using terrifying images of crucifixion and blood to keep people in check just seemed suspicious to me even then, and after all the paedophile covering up that The Pope has done I just think that any Catholic who sets foot back into their chapel really is living in complete denial. When the head of your church, and the man who speaks directly to God on your behalf, claims that we are all loved by God yet wants to "correct" gays and let's his workmates fuck children, it's time to rethink your religious stance.
But all religions are suspicious. Muslim women are covered up (for reasons that I can never fathom no matter how often it's explained to me) and having sex out of wedlock can land you in jail or, occasionally, stoned. And I mean bad stoned. Christianity is just complete hypocrisy. It's based on forgiveness, something that they never, ever do. And how the fuck in 2010 circumcision is still performed by Jewish and Islamic faiths is beyond me. That is just barbaric. That's not your cock to go chopping. It's a cock, for fuck's sake. How the fuck can you justify that? At least let the cock grow up and let it decide for itself.
Maybe my mind has changed over the last few days. Not about cock chopping but about tolerance of beliefs. After the Doha Debates show on Monday most of the audience wanted to meet the comedians, have their photographs taken with them and laugh with them. They were good fun people. The audience were 80% Muslim and dressed as their take on their religion dictates. Warm, lovely people who wanted to connect with the people who had been debating something that never needed debating in the first place. I say their take on religion because that's what finally dawned on me. You can read the Bible or the Koran or any other self-help book and take what you want from it. Take what makes your life feel better. It's when people start seeing things in these books that aren't there or, worse, never reading them in the first place but happily quote stuff from it that was never there that it gets terrifying.
This blog is naive and stupid. I'm aware of that. Partly because I just wrote it in 20 minutes without looking over it or editing but also because religion is a door I closed firmly a long time ago. I know I'll never believe in the supernatural but after this weekend I might just open the door a little bit and have a peek around.
Some of these weirdos are quite fun.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Putting the DOH! into Doha.
So what did I do on my weekend? Well, I warmed up a TV show. I've done this a fair bit over the years but normally it's for panel game shows or quiz shows or pilots that no-one will ever see. This time it was different. This time I was doing warm-up for The News.
BBC World News has a monthly political programme called The Doha Debates which I'm not going to pretend that I've ever heard of but you can. Normally the host, Tim Sebastian, has four guest speakers who debate subjects such as Barack Obama's influence on peace in the Middle East and the treatment of Muslims in India. Obviously a show like that would definitely need me and my stories of loud vaginas and shit supermarkets to get the audience in the right mood to furiously argue with one another. The theme of the debate this time was "The house believes that women are superior to men". It was the last in the series so they decided to make it a bit more light-hearted and go for a Doha Debates Comedy special with guests Robin Ince, Caroline Quinlan, and Azhar Usman. For some insane reason, they decided they needed a warm-up man to warm-up an incredibly lovely and funny audience for 15 minutes so they flew me out to Doha business class and put me up in the Four Seasons Hotel and even paid me. It was a good gig.
The show was great fun. Robin and Caroline were funny, as usual, while taking the stance of opposing the debate (hearing Robin Ince complain about how stupid and useless women are was worth it just to see the look of 'I'm sure I don't believe what I'm saying' on his face) and Azhar was agreeing with the house while being incredibly American about it. You know, he was going to win no matter what. That said, I thought Azhar was very funny.
But that was all last night, so much more happened before that. I don't know how you poor people travel Economy Class. It must be awful for you. I'm so glad there was a curtain separating me from the likes of you because I don't think I could bare to actually witness your squalor. Robin and I sat there with our delicious food, delicious wine and acres and acres of leg room and tried not to think about you while reclining on our flat beds and watching The Office (US) on a proper telly, not the tiny little thing they throw at the poor. I think what I liked about it most was the attention you get in Business Class. You won't know this but they just give you everything you want and constantly make sure that you are comfortable or if you need anything. Anything at all. One stewardess, who looked like a cross between a supermodel and an even superermodel, constantly refreshed my glass, plumped up my pillows, enquired about my well being and give me that smile that suggested I could definitely have sex with her if I wanted to easily. In fact, as the flight went on I realised that I was the only person she was giving this amount of attention to. At first I just assumed that's how it is when you're a Business Class person like what I am but that just wasn't the case. She was being nice to me. Only me. I was the best, greatest, most good looking passenger that she had ever seen and she had no problem in letting me know. After all, this could be her one chance to find the perfect man and, to her, I was the perfect man. She had just laid eyes on me but had instantly fallen in love. To her, psoriasis, asthma and piles are the kind of flaws that make the rest of me seem even better. They make me human and that is the part of me that she wants to tend to for the rest of her life. Yes, yes, yes, she's instantly fallen for my interesting hair, annoying laugh and out of context face but she sees more than that. Something to adore, yes, but also to care for. She looked at me and she saw the rest of her life and she was happy. About half an hour before we landed she came right over to me, NOT TO ANYONE ELSE, knelt beside me and looked deep into my eyes and said "Thank you so much for flying with us today. It was a pleasure having you on board. I look forward to seeing you again".
That poor girl. She had fallen so deeply in love and yet I could not commit to her. I had to turn my back and hope that she would get over me. There are plenty of other good men out there and I really hope that she finds that person. He's a lucky man whoever he is. I sat there thinking of how good the attention felt but how bitter-sweet our meeting had become.
Then Robin reminded me that I asked if I could swap seats with someone really important so that I could sit next to him. The stewardess saw only the seat number and assumed I was him.
The fucking bitch.
We arrived at our glamorous hotel, had a quick drink with Caroline and then all went to bed. Seperate beds. We're just the kind of important people that TV companies will splash out for seperate rooms on.
Next day was full of sunshine. 102 degree heat and doing very little. Doha didn't really exist 10 years ago so they're really only getting round to building it now. There's a lot to look at but very little to do so hanging round the hotel seemed the best bet. I walked around the small beach, the swimming pools and sat reading on the loungers for as long as I could in that heat (about half an hour) and it was just delightful. Relaxing and exotic and jammy. When I'm in a place like this I always like to listen to particularly British music and as Robin and I had been talking about The Cure and I was staring at the sea I decided to listen to Staring At The Sea by The Cure. Felt a bit odd listening to Killing An Arab while in the Middle East, mind you.
In the morning, we had a meeting with Tim Sebastian, Catherine Hart and other production crew from the show. It was me first (getting warm-up just right takes months of preparation for every show) but we were soon joined by Caroline and Robin and then someone else.
PLEASE NOTE: This blog has been edited from the original. Some people involved in The Doha Debates were unhappy with what I wrote and in respect to them I've edited out the most horrible parts. To be honest, what I wrote wasn't worth complaining about anyway but the real reason I've edited this is because the Doha Debates people were lovely and If I've offended any of them then writing a load of old moany crap would hardly be worth it. Basically, I was very much rubbed up the wrong way by another comedian and it doesn't really matter why. That said, it still really upsets me that I've met someone who thought it was OK to be so continually egotistical and horrible. That said, this blog is a big negative and everyone who reads it knows this, it's up to you to figure out whether I mean it or not. Also there is just one part of it that I feel I cannot edit. It's just too important (only to me, probably). I've left this, our only conversation together, here to give you an idea what I mean. It should be enough. The rest I've deleted because the other people I met there are a lot more worthy of thanks than this one person is worthy of extreme criticism. It might help you to know that the comedian is American but continually talked of her Palestinian background...
She started the conversation with this line: "I'm just so glad that I'm out drinking with an Englishman".
"I'm not English".
"Oh. Are you Australian?"
"No."
"What are you?"
"Irish".
"I LOVE IRISH PEOPLE! That is so cool. Hey, you guys trained us".
That's when the atmosphere got worse. I knew exactly what she meant but I wanted her to say it.
"Trained you?"
"Yeah, Palestinian fighters were trained by the IRA".
That's what the idiot said. She tried to make friends with me by saying that. Unbelievable.
"The IRA isn't "me". What made you think I'd be happy to hear that?"
"I don't support violence of any kind but...."
And I stopped listening. I'm a simple man. It only takes only incredibly stupid and offensive remark like that to make me hate you. She did very well. It goes without saying that she's not Palestinian either. She's American. And the most "American comedian" American comedian I have ever met. She's a walking CV with no geography skills.
But she couldn't ruin the trip. I just ignored her for the rest of my stay and enjoyed the company of genuinely lovely people. Robin, Caroline, Tim, Catherine, Paul, Patrick, Azhar and many others enjoying working and playing together. It was a great trip. And, hey, it's me. Obviously if I get sent to paradise I'll find something to complain about.
Sincere thanks to The Doha Debates for being so incredibly nice to me. You should watch the debate yourself. It's good. There's more on it here: http://www.thedohadebates.com/news/item.asp?n=9442
ANOTHER PLEASE NOTE: This was edited purely to respect the people that I worked with. They didn't ask me to edit or change it in anyway. They've been incredibly nice about everything. Apologies for offence to them.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
BBC World News has a monthly political programme called The Doha Debates which I'm not going to pretend that I've ever heard of but you can. Normally the host, Tim Sebastian, has four guest speakers who debate subjects such as Barack Obama's influence on peace in the Middle East and the treatment of Muslims in India. Obviously a show like that would definitely need me and my stories of loud vaginas and shit supermarkets to get the audience in the right mood to furiously argue with one another. The theme of the debate this time was "The house believes that women are superior to men". It was the last in the series so they decided to make it a bit more light-hearted and go for a Doha Debates Comedy special with guests Robin Ince, Caroline Quinlan, and Azhar Usman. For some insane reason, they decided they needed a warm-up man to warm-up an incredibly lovely and funny audience for 15 minutes so they flew me out to Doha business class and put me up in the Four Seasons Hotel and even paid me. It was a good gig.
The show was great fun. Robin and Caroline were funny, as usual, while taking the stance of opposing the debate (hearing Robin Ince complain about how stupid and useless women are was worth it just to see the look of 'I'm sure I don't believe what I'm saying' on his face) and Azhar was agreeing with the house while being incredibly American about it. You know, he was going to win no matter what. That said, I thought Azhar was very funny.
But that was all last night, so much more happened before that. I don't know how you poor people travel Economy Class. It must be awful for you. I'm so glad there was a curtain separating me from the likes of you because I don't think I could bare to actually witness your squalor. Robin and I sat there with our delicious food, delicious wine and acres and acres of leg room and tried not to think about you while reclining on our flat beds and watching The Office (US) on a proper telly, not the tiny little thing they throw at the poor. I think what I liked about it most was the attention you get in Business Class. You won't know this but they just give you everything you want and constantly make sure that you are comfortable or if you need anything. Anything at all. One stewardess, who looked like a cross between a supermodel and an even superermodel, constantly refreshed my glass, plumped up my pillows, enquired about my well being and give me that smile that suggested I could definitely have sex with her if I wanted to easily. In fact, as the flight went on I realised that I was the only person she was giving this amount of attention to. At first I just assumed that's how it is when you're a Business Class person like what I am but that just wasn't the case. She was being nice to me. Only me. I was the best, greatest, most good looking passenger that she had ever seen and she had no problem in letting me know. After all, this could be her one chance to find the perfect man and, to her, I was the perfect man. She had just laid eyes on me but had instantly fallen in love. To her, psoriasis, asthma and piles are the kind of flaws that make the rest of me seem even better. They make me human and that is the part of me that she wants to tend to for the rest of her life. Yes, yes, yes, she's instantly fallen for my interesting hair, annoying laugh and out of context face but she sees more than that. Something to adore, yes, but also to care for. She looked at me and she saw the rest of her life and she was happy. About half an hour before we landed she came right over to me, NOT TO ANYONE ELSE, knelt beside me and looked deep into my eyes and said "Thank you so much for flying with us today. It was a pleasure having you on board. I look forward to seeing you again".
That poor girl. She had fallen so deeply in love and yet I could not commit to her. I had to turn my back and hope that she would get over me. There are plenty of other good men out there and I really hope that she finds that person. He's a lucky man whoever he is. I sat there thinking of how good the attention felt but how bitter-sweet our meeting had become.
Then Robin reminded me that I asked if I could swap seats with someone really important so that I could sit next to him. The stewardess saw only the seat number and assumed I was him.
The fucking bitch.
We arrived at our glamorous hotel, had a quick drink with Caroline and then all went to bed. Seperate beds. We're just the kind of important people that TV companies will splash out for seperate rooms on.
Next day was full of sunshine. 102 degree heat and doing very little. Doha didn't really exist 10 years ago so they're really only getting round to building it now. There's a lot to look at but very little to do so hanging round the hotel seemed the best bet. I walked around the small beach, the swimming pools and sat reading on the loungers for as long as I could in that heat (about half an hour) and it was just delightful. Relaxing and exotic and jammy. When I'm in a place like this I always like to listen to particularly British music and as Robin and I had been talking about The Cure and I was staring at the sea I decided to listen to Staring At The Sea by The Cure. Felt a bit odd listening to Killing An Arab while in the Middle East, mind you.
In the morning, we had a meeting with Tim Sebastian, Catherine Hart and other production crew from the show. It was me first (getting warm-up just right takes months of preparation for every show) but we were soon joined by Caroline and Robin and then someone else.
PLEASE NOTE: This blog has been edited from the original. Some people involved in The Doha Debates were unhappy with what I wrote and in respect to them I've edited out the most horrible parts. To be honest, what I wrote wasn't worth complaining about anyway but the real reason I've edited this is because the Doha Debates people were lovely and If I've offended any of them then writing a load of old moany crap would hardly be worth it. Basically, I was very much rubbed up the wrong way by another comedian and it doesn't really matter why. That said, it still really upsets me that I've met someone who thought it was OK to be so continually egotistical and horrible. That said, this blog is a big negative and everyone who reads it knows this, it's up to you to figure out whether I mean it or not. Also there is just one part of it that I feel I cannot edit. It's just too important (only to me, probably). I've left this, our only conversation together, here to give you an idea what I mean. It should be enough. The rest I've deleted because the other people I met there are a lot more worthy of thanks than this one person is worthy of extreme criticism. It might help you to know that the comedian is American but continually talked of her Palestinian background...
She started the conversation with this line: "I'm just so glad that I'm out drinking with an Englishman".
"I'm not English".
"Oh. Are you Australian?"
"No."
"What are you?"
"Irish".
"I LOVE IRISH PEOPLE! That is so cool. Hey, you guys trained us".
That's when the atmosphere got worse. I knew exactly what she meant but I wanted her to say it.
"Trained you?"
"Yeah, Palestinian fighters were trained by the IRA".
That's what the idiot said. She tried to make friends with me by saying that. Unbelievable.
"The IRA isn't "me". What made you think I'd be happy to hear that?"
"I don't support violence of any kind but...."
And I stopped listening. I'm a simple man. It only takes only incredibly stupid and offensive remark like that to make me hate you. She did very well. It goes without saying that she's not Palestinian either. She's American. And the most "American comedian" American comedian I have ever met. She's a walking CV with no geography skills.
But she couldn't ruin the trip. I just ignored her for the rest of my stay and enjoyed the company of genuinely lovely people. Robin, Caroline, Tim, Catherine, Paul, Patrick, Azhar and many others enjoying working and playing together. It was a great trip. And, hey, it's me. Obviously if I get sent to paradise I'll find something to complain about.
Sincere thanks to The Doha Debates for being so incredibly nice to me. You should watch the debate yourself. It's good. There's more on it here: http://www.thedohadebates.com/news/item.asp?n=9442
ANOTHER PLEASE NOTE: This was edited purely to respect the people that I worked with. They didn't ask me to edit or change it in anyway. They've been incredibly nice about everything. Apologies for offence to them.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Saturday, 22 May 2010
On Your Bike.
I had a good day yesterday. I realise that that very statement ruins the ethics and morals of this blog but it can’t just be ignored. The weather was great, I got work done, I had a couple of drinks. It was a great day.
Of course, I’m loyal to the blog so I did try to have a horrible day. I woke up at 7, that should have ruined everything but the sun coming through the curtains felt so good that it made me want to spring out of bed. You know, like a cheery cunt that you hate. I went downstairs and Jerk was wagging her tail and seemed so happy to see me that I thought I’d take her for a walk right there and then. Well, not right there. I took her to the park instead. Even at 7.30am the sun felt warm and beautiful and the sight of the Lewisham Parakeets flying, playing and fucking only brought added joy to this old, jaded serial killer-in-waiting.
But you never know, I could meet my new enemy: Cycling Prick.
I met Cycling Prick just a few days ago in the park. Again it was really early in the morning and the last thing I needed at that crap, crap hour was rudeness. Luckily, cyclists and their eco-saving egos come with bodybags full of rudeness.
Normally, I get out of the way of bicycles. I don’t really like the idea of the front wheel of a 10-speed ending up in my arsehole. It was just how I was brought up. Strict Catholic, you see. That arsehole isn’t for bicycles, young man, I was told. That’s the Pope’s arsehole. Anyway, that’s not the point. Like I say, normally I get out of the way of bicycles but not when the prick on the bicycle is rude. A simple ding ding of the bell is enough of a gentle alert to make me want to stand aside for the oncoming bike. “COMING THROUGH!” is not an acceptable equivalent.
That’s what Cycling Prick shouted. “COMING THROUGH!” Like he was in any way important. Like the world better just stand to one side because Cycling Prick is here cutting down Co2 emissions and raising people’s blood pressure wherever he goes. Well, fuck Cycling Prick. Cycling Prick is a prick.
As he cycled past I said “Did you mean ‘Excuse me?’”
He screeched to a stop (pathetically) and aggressively said “What was that?”
Two can play at the first thing in the morning aggression thing. “You heard what I said”, I replied. “Is that your way of saying excuse me?”
“Look I could have run into you. I could have run into your dog”.
“Yes. Or you could have slowed right down so once you got near to us you could say excuse me instead of speeding up and shouting COMING THROUGH at me”.
“Well, maybe next time I’ll just hit you”, he said with a very smug look on his pointy, aerodynamic face.
“Or maybe next time I’ll hit you”, I said.
Now we were both in a difficult situation. We had both been aggressive and neither of us had had breakfast yet. One of us had to be a man and give in. Luckily, he’s a man and he gave in. He cycled off and I carried on walking. I didn’t feel like I’d bloody shown him. It was too early for that. It took me ages to realise that I’d almost started a fight. Even Jeremy Kyle’s Dickhead Farm hasn’t opened for fighting yet. And soon Cycling Prick was returning. Now, I don’t know why he decided to cycle past me again. It looked like he had been rushing to work earlier but maybe he had come back because he left something at home. Or maybe, and I’m just saying maybe, he had decided to give aggressive sarcasm another try. “Excuse me”, he said horribly as he passed.
“SEE? YOU’RE LEARNING”, I shouted happily.
He cycled on. He looked pretty frustrated but he cycled on. OK, I admit it. I felt I had bloody shown him by now.
So I looked for him yesterday in the hope that I could somehow ruin my lovely day and maybe write a better blog but he never appeared. You know what? Even if he had been there, he could not have ruined yesterday for me. I went home and finished off a bit of Los Quattros Cvnts writing (June 2nd, The Phoenix with special guest Richard Herring) and then did gardening like a daddy does. I sat in (what felt like) my new garden reading and saying hello to my new followers on Twitter. Chris Addison was kind enough to give me a plug and his fans obviously think so much of him that I had about 1000 new followers in a couple of hours. And they’re lovely. All full of Hello’s and good cheer. It was a lovely day.
And if I told you what I was up to this weekend you wouldn’t believe me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Of course, I’m loyal to the blog so I did try to have a horrible day. I woke up at 7, that should have ruined everything but the sun coming through the curtains felt so good that it made me want to spring out of bed. You know, like a cheery cunt that you hate. I went downstairs and Jerk was wagging her tail and seemed so happy to see me that I thought I’d take her for a walk right there and then. Well, not right there. I took her to the park instead. Even at 7.30am the sun felt warm and beautiful and the sight of the Lewisham Parakeets flying, playing and fucking only brought added joy to this old, jaded serial killer-in-waiting.
But you never know, I could meet my new enemy: Cycling Prick.
I met Cycling Prick just a few days ago in the park. Again it was really early in the morning and the last thing I needed at that crap, crap hour was rudeness. Luckily, cyclists and their eco-saving egos come with bodybags full of rudeness.
Normally, I get out of the way of bicycles. I don’t really like the idea of the front wheel of a 10-speed ending up in my arsehole. It was just how I was brought up. Strict Catholic, you see. That arsehole isn’t for bicycles, young man, I was told. That’s the Pope’s arsehole. Anyway, that’s not the point. Like I say, normally I get out of the way of bicycles but not when the prick on the bicycle is rude. A simple ding ding of the bell is enough of a gentle alert to make me want to stand aside for the oncoming bike. “COMING THROUGH!” is not an acceptable equivalent.
That’s what Cycling Prick shouted. “COMING THROUGH!” Like he was in any way important. Like the world better just stand to one side because Cycling Prick is here cutting down Co2 emissions and raising people’s blood pressure wherever he goes. Well, fuck Cycling Prick. Cycling Prick is a prick.
As he cycled past I said “Did you mean ‘Excuse me?’”
He screeched to a stop (pathetically) and aggressively said “What was that?”
Two can play at the first thing in the morning aggression thing. “You heard what I said”, I replied. “Is that your way of saying excuse me?”
“Look I could have run into you. I could have run into your dog”.
“Yes. Or you could have slowed right down so once you got near to us you could say excuse me instead of speeding up and shouting COMING THROUGH at me”.
“Well, maybe next time I’ll just hit you”, he said with a very smug look on his pointy, aerodynamic face.
“Or maybe next time I’ll hit you”, I said.
Now we were both in a difficult situation. We had both been aggressive and neither of us had had breakfast yet. One of us had to be a man and give in. Luckily, he’s a man and he gave in. He cycled off and I carried on walking. I didn’t feel like I’d bloody shown him. It was too early for that. It took me ages to realise that I’d almost started a fight. Even Jeremy Kyle’s Dickhead Farm hasn’t opened for fighting yet. And soon Cycling Prick was returning. Now, I don’t know why he decided to cycle past me again. It looked like he had been rushing to work earlier but maybe he had come back because he left something at home. Or maybe, and I’m just saying maybe, he had decided to give aggressive sarcasm another try. “Excuse me”, he said horribly as he passed.
“SEE? YOU’RE LEARNING”, I shouted happily.
He cycled on. He looked pretty frustrated but he cycled on. OK, I admit it. I felt I had bloody shown him by now.
So I looked for him yesterday in the hope that I could somehow ruin my lovely day and maybe write a better blog but he never appeared. You know what? Even if he had been there, he could not have ruined yesterday for me. I went home and finished off a bit of Los Quattros Cvnts writing (June 2nd, The Phoenix with special guest Richard Herring) and then did gardening like a daddy does. I sat in (what felt like) my new garden reading and saying hello to my new followers on Twitter. Chris Addison was kind enough to give me a plug and his fans obviously think so much of him that I had about 1000 new followers in a couple of hours. And they’re lovely. All full of Hello’s and good cheer. It was a lovely day.
And if I told you what I was up to this weekend you wouldn’t believe me.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Friday, 21 May 2010
Low Society.
You can't buy class. You can have all the money in the world but class is something you're just born with. Or you learn. Or is pointed out to you. But you CAN'T buy it.
I went for a couple of drinks around West Hampstead on Wednesday with my friend Bennett Arron. Now, admittedly West Hampstead is nothing compared to say Hampstead but it thinks it is. Bars are more expensive there. People eat and drink "Al Fresco", or for those without class "In The Rain". They have sushi instead of kebabs. It's a wannabe high class part of London but it will never get there. Because the people there are fucking trash just like the rest of us. Mutton dressed as Nigella.
The first bar we went to was The Lion. Good name, The Lion. It suggests it's a real pub. A proper pub. a man's pub. But no. Inside it's like a wine bar with dining area and wine patio. Nice, really. A wine patio sounds great. Except for two things. One, everyone in the tiny garden was smoking so it smelled like Amy Winehouse's jumper (ZING!). Two, a fucking stupid cunt decided that it was absolutely fine to change her baby's shitty nappy ON A TABLE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. As if it wasn't bad enough that the thoughtless prick had decided to take her baby to a really smoky area so that she could add more smoke to it and blow it directly on to her own child, she was just feet away from a nappy changing area. Are all parents these days just completely shit? Do we need to take these fuck-nuts away from their babies and put them into care. I mean put the parents into care not the babies. The babies will learn to look after themselves and are definitely better off being far away from their parents who hate this whole baby-hobby thing. I HAVE A BABY AND I CAN DO WHAT I LIKE WHEN I LIKE, the ridiculous mother told us all by showing us the brilliant shit her baby can make on a table that someone else will be sitting at soon. The great part was, as we left, we saw the baby kick the fucking cous-cous eating bitch's wine over. I like that baby.
We moved on to the next bar. Can't remember the name of it but it's the one after The Lion if you're heading back to the tube. It seemed ever fancier than The Lion. Lots of outdoor seating for the chain smoking elite and fancy food that is the culinary world's equivalent to Paris Hilton. You know, looks good but tastes awful. And is full of Chef-Cum (ZING!). I ordered two beers but they were flat and horrible (Hello again, Paris. ZING!) so I asked for a different type of beer. They were more than happy to deal with my request. Why wouldn't they? This is a classy West Hampstead establishment after all. They changed my Peroni for Staropramen with an apology and a smile. Very nice of them.
Then they gave my two rejected drinks to another customer.
I'm never going there again. And West Hampstead is Kilburn so it can get over itself, the pretentious cunts.
Yesterday I came out of my Outnumbered closet. Outnumbered is a very nice, middle-class, cosy sit-com and I should hate it but I don't. It's very clever and it's done that there thing that TV comedy never does. Good writing, strong characters and great acting. So there you have it. I like Outnumbered. In fact, I love Outnumbered. If you haven't seen it I urge you to as soon as you can. Of course, if I like Outnumbered then I must absolutely HATE something new-ish to balance everything out. The universe would fall into the sea if I only liked something and forgot to HATE something. Don't worry, I do really HATE something. It's called Coming Of Age. It's the worst thing on TV at the moment and I'm including news footage of the clashes in Bangkok in this. Just in case you haven't seen it, here it is in a nutshell:
SLAG: Now that you've fucked my arsehole off me, do you fancy a cup of tea?
IDIOT BOY: Well, I'd rather drink tea than suck my Dad's spunk out of my dead Nana's quim.
Repeat ad nauseum.
It's like a really childish version of Rent-A-Ghost. I know it's for teenagers but I had The Young Ones. That's all I'm saying. Anyway, here's a clip: http://bit.ly/9FIGuK
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I went for a couple of drinks around West Hampstead on Wednesday with my friend Bennett Arron. Now, admittedly West Hampstead is nothing compared to say Hampstead but it thinks it is. Bars are more expensive there. People eat and drink "Al Fresco", or for those without class "In The Rain". They have sushi instead of kebabs. It's a wannabe high class part of London but it will never get there. Because the people there are fucking trash just like the rest of us. Mutton dressed as Nigella.
The first bar we went to was The Lion. Good name, The Lion. It suggests it's a real pub. A proper pub. a man's pub. But no. Inside it's like a wine bar with dining area and wine patio. Nice, really. A wine patio sounds great. Except for two things. One, everyone in the tiny garden was smoking so it smelled like Amy Winehouse's jumper (ZING!). Two, a fucking stupid cunt decided that it was absolutely fine to change her baby's shitty nappy ON A TABLE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. As if it wasn't bad enough that the thoughtless prick had decided to take her baby to a really smoky area so that she could add more smoke to it and blow it directly on to her own child, she was just feet away from a nappy changing area. Are all parents these days just completely shit? Do we need to take these fuck-nuts away from their babies and put them into care. I mean put the parents into care not the babies. The babies will learn to look after themselves and are definitely better off being far away from their parents who hate this whole baby-hobby thing. I HAVE A BABY AND I CAN DO WHAT I LIKE WHEN I LIKE, the ridiculous mother told us all by showing us the brilliant shit her baby can make on a table that someone else will be sitting at soon. The great part was, as we left, we saw the baby kick the fucking cous-cous eating bitch's wine over. I like that baby.
We moved on to the next bar. Can't remember the name of it but it's the one after The Lion if you're heading back to the tube. It seemed ever fancier than The Lion. Lots of outdoor seating for the chain smoking elite and fancy food that is the culinary world's equivalent to Paris Hilton. You know, looks good but tastes awful. And is full of Chef-Cum (ZING!). I ordered two beers but they were flat and horrible (Hello again, Paris. ZING!) so I asked for a different type of beer. They were more than happy to deal with my request. Why wouldn't they? This is a classy West Hampstead establishment after all. They changed my Peroni for Staropramen with an apology and a smile. Very nice of them.
Then they gave my two rejected drinks to another customer.
I'm never going there again. And West Hampstead is Kilburn so it can get over itself, the pretentious cunts.
Yesterday I came out of my Outnumbered closet. Outnumbered is a very nice, middle-class, cosy sit-com and I should hate it but I don't. It's very clever and it's done that there thing that TV comedy never does. Good writing, strong characters and great acting. So there you have it. I like Outnumbered. In fact, I love Outnumbered. If you haven't seen it I urge you to as soon as you can. Of course, if I like Outnumbered then I must absolutely HATE something new-ish to balance everything out. The universe would fall into the sea if I only liked something and forgot to HATE something. Don't worry, I do really HATE something. It's called Coming Of Age. It's the worst thing on TV at the moment and I'm including news footage of the clashes in Bangkok in this. Just in case you haven't seen it, here it is in a nutshell:
SLAG: Now that you've fucked my arsehole off me, do you fancy a cup of tea?
IDIOT BOY: Well, I'd rather drink tea than suck my Dad's spunk out of my dead Nana's quim.
Repeat ad nauseum.
It's like a really childish version of Rent-A-Ghost. I know it's for teenagers but I had The Young Ones. That's all I'm saying. Anyway, here's a clip: http://bit.ly/9FIGuK
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
The Tao of Shit.
Yes, I did enjoy myself at the weekend. Is that such a crime? I had a lot of fun but as with every single time I start to enjoy myself it has to be ruined. It's like if I smile the entire universe starts to shake and the only way to redress the balance is by shitting on me from a great height. Why was I born such a beautiful martyr?
I enjoyed The Fall and that's where I made my mistake. Not all of All Tomorrow's Parties was for me but I loved The Fall. Mark E. Smith's arrogant way of walking around the stage twiddling the knobs of audio equipment that had nothing to do with him and occasionally pushing the keyboard player out of the way so he could punch the keyboard really appealed to me. The music was excellent but Mark E. Smith's way of roaming around the stage, bored and looking for something to do, while waiting for the time when he can just walk off is what makes a quality Fall show. After the encore the entire audience left the room. That's when grumpy Mark decided to come back on and, as a result, caused a mad rush of 40-something unfit blobs in Frenz Experiment t-shirts nearly killing themselves to get to the front. He knew what he was doing. And well done him.
I enjoyed that and so must pay the price. That's when one of Minehead's fattest seagulls shat on me.
It was a huge shit. A really massive, runny, long, white, grey-flecked shit right on my shoulder that ran it's natural course right down the front and back of my jacket. My emotions just bottle-necked. I was grossed out, angry, thought it was funny, disgusted, impressed by the accuracy, depressed that I'll have to clean it and happy that this beautiful animal is so free that it can just shit wherever it likes in public without even noticing. Surely that is something that man has always dreamt of. To soar high above the rooftops, the mountains, the clouds. Casually shitting everywhere without even blinking an eyelid. When will evolution catch up with man's vision of perfection?
So I got shat on, as I was saying, and it made me feel a series of conflicting emotions. My friends could only muster the one emotion however: joy. Sheer joy at me being shat on. The pointing, the laughing, the constant photography...my predicament only seemed to make their weekend more enjoyable. Who would have thought that a simple, horrific stream of excrement on a shoulder could bring so much happiness into the lives of indie people who seem to live their lives being misunderstood and emotionally beaten? Probably for the first time in their limited edition 7" plastic lives they are smiling and happy and laughing and alive. It's like halfway through the film Awakenings but with more runny, runny shit. There I am with all this liquid poo running down my front and back, so white that I consider I'd been ejaculated on by a seagull and not merely scatalogically targeted by one, and all I can see is joy. These mentally ill, whiny, indie fans with their Emily The Strange notepads full of their empty thoughts and their Belle & Sebastian brooches are all smiling and laughing and happy and I am their Patch Adams but with a lot less runny, runny shit.
I paid the price for my joy but maybe it all evened out. I mean, in my job, when am I likely to see such laughter again?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I enjoyed The Fall and that's where I made my mistake. Not all of All Tomorrow's Parties was for me but I loved The Fall. Mark E. Smith's arrogant way of walking around the stage twiddling the knobs of audio equipment that had nothing to do with him and occasionally pushing the keyboard player out of the way so he could punch the keyboard really appealed to me. The music was excellent but Mark E. Smith's way of roaming around the stage, bored and looking for something to do, while waiting for the time when he can just walk off is what makes a quality Fall show. After the encore the entire audience left the room. That's when grumpy Mark decided to come back on and, as a result, caused a mad rush of 40-something unfit blobs in Frenz Experiment t-shirts nearly killing themselves to get to the front. He knew what he was doing. And well done him.
I enjoyed that and so must pay the price. That's when one of Minehead's fattest seagulls shat on me.
It was a huge shit. A really massive, runny, long, white, grey-flecked shit right on my shoulder that ran it's natural course right down the front and back of my jacket. My emotions just bottle-necked. I was grossed out, angry, thought it was funny, disgusted, impressed by the accuracy, depressed that I'll have to clean it and happy that this beautiful animal is so free that it can just shit wherever it likes in public without even noticing. Surely that is something that man has always dreamt of. To soar high above the rooftops, the mountains, the clouds. Casually shitting everywhere without even blinking an eyelid. When will evolution catch up with man's vision of perfection?
So I got shat on, as I was saying, and it made me feel a series of conflicting emotions. My friends could only muster the one emotion however: joy. Sheer joy at me being shat on. The pointing, the laughing, the constant photography...my predicament only seemed to make their weekend more enjoyable. Who would have thought that a simple, horrific stream of excrement on a shoulder could bring so much happiness into the lives of indie people who seem to live their lives being misunderstood and emotionally beaten? Probably for the first time in their limited edition 7" plastic lives they are smiling and happy and laughing and alive. It's like halfway through the film Awakenings but with more runny, runny shit. There I am with all this liquid poo running down my front and back, so white that I consider I'd been ejaculated on by a seagull and not merely scatalogically targeted by one, and all I can see is joy. These mentally ill, whiny, indie fans with their Emily The Strange notepads full of their empty thoughts and their Belle & Sebastian brooches are all smiling and laughing and happy and I am their Patch Adams but with a lot less runny, runny shit.
I paid the price for my joy but maybe it all evened out. I mean, in my job, when am I likely to see such laughter again?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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