Do you believe in the spirit of Christmas? It’s difficult, isn’t it? People constantly smiling and wishing you well, happy music playing wherever you go, the cold and empty hollow sound of children laughing. It’s a fucking horrible time of year. Be honest, is there anyone on this planet who hasn’t put a bullet through their televisions the very second that David Jason says “Consider yourself at home”? As if that wasn’t enough, Matt Smith and Karen Gillan also appear in the eye-rape that is the BBC Christmas trailer. Fine if they want to embarrass themselves but why drag a Cyberman down to that level? And then Scarlett Johansson made this bucket of awful: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_Lj58hsOO4
I should make it perfectly clear: YOU MUST NEVER CLICK ON THAT LINK. I hope I wasn’t too late. Yes, Christmas can be a trying time and joy never comes along like it does in the movies. Christmas miracles don’t really exist. At least, I thought they didn’t.
I was on my way to a gig in Milton Keynes on Wednesday and the train was full of Christmas misery. It was crowded plus at least half the people on board had, for some reason, brought their Christmas shopping to London for the day. I was already in a bad mood because I missed an earlier train due to my bank being dicks. My card was declined at the train station and when I called my bank they said they had put a block on my account because they were suspicious that my card was being used fraudulently. “We noticed an increased use of your card so the fraud department were contacted”, they said. Increased use? At Christmas? Give me fucking strength.
So the busy train started its journey to Milton Keynes and I relaxed with a book. For about 12 seconds.
A family sat next to me. Mum, Dad, brother, sister. All very sweet and Christmassy except that daughter decided to listen to her iPod and was, in the spirit of Christmas, sharing her shit music with us all by playing it loudly. I immediately tensed up and, as my blood turned to lava, I decided to think carefully about my next move. They’re a family who’ve been out for a day in London together and they seem perfectly nice and cheery. On the other hand, they are clearly ignoring the fact that their daughter is a turd. I pondered for quite a while. In fact, I pondered for almost my entire journey but, with only 10 minutes to go before arriving at Milton Keynes, I broke. It’s not too much to ask for her to turn her music off. It’ll be fine.
That’s when the shouting started. Despite me being very polite to the girl, Mum just exploded. “Why are you talking to my daughter? Why are you talking to my daughter?” I answered both those questions clearly, calmly and politely but that wasn’t enough for this screaming hate-witch. I was continually told by Scary Mum that her daughter wasn’t bothering me which was incredibly factually inaccurate. She was bothering me to shit. Scary Mum then went on about how her daughter had every right to listen to her music despite the fact that she doesn’t and to tell me that I had no right to ask her to turn it off despite the fact that I do. Then she gave her husband a stare. I could tell by his face that he had received this stare before and he wearily went through the drill. “Would you leave us alone now, please?”, he said. I will as soon as she turns her music off, OK? “I don’t think she’s going to”. Scary Mum had had enough of Tired Dad and of me. She pointed in my face and shouted “You have no right. She’s just a child”. That’s when I shouted back “No. She’s just YOUR child. Don’t you have any control over your own children?”
She went a bit quiet then but the look she gave me could be heard by the dead. “She’s listening to her music”, she said much quieter than before. “Get used to it”.
OK, I said and got my iPhone out, scrolled down my iTunes to find Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t and played it loudly while holding it directly at Scary Mum. I am 43.
Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t is a loud, aggressive piece of thrash metal. I like it very much but I can see why it wouldn’t be everybody’s cup of tea. It certainly wasn’t to Scary Mum’s taste. She shouted at me and threatened to report me to transport police and also pointed out several times that I was Irish. Don’t know why as I already knew I was Irish. But after a minute of Anthrax I noticed some of the other passengers faces. They looked embarrassed. Let’s face it, they looked embarrassed for me. I’m a grown man doing battle against a protective mother with the power of heavy metal. I started going red. Crap. I’m going to have to switch the music off and give up. All I wanted to do was point out to someone that they might want to be more considerate to others but now it’s gone too far and I look stupid again. Why does it always have to be me that asks someone to turn their music down? Why does it always have to be me that makes a stand? Why does it always have to be me that makes a solid gold arse of himself? Will I always be alone?
And what happened then? Well, on London Midland trains they say that Michael Legge's small heart grew three sizes that day. A man sitting behind Scary Mum leaned over and pointed his iPod at her. It was playing heavy metal. I don’t know what it was but it was the most magical, wonderful, CHRISTMASSY heavy metal I’ve ever heard. Someone stood up and joined in. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? It’s about friendship, sharing joy and banishing the baddies. Some people started smiling…laughing. Two grown men in their 40’s ringing in Christmas cheer and uniting everyone in their festive, glowing hatred of dicks who play music too loudly on public transport. Tired Dad leaned over and asked his daughter for her iPod and then turned it off. Scary Mum looked furious but said nothing. Me and the guy switched our satanic carols off, thanked one another and sat down. I looked around and there were enough happy faces near me to make me think that, yes, Christmas is a special time of year. Maybe we should be more like this all year round. Hey, maybe we WILL. And just then, in the carriage of the London Midland train to Milton Keynes, it started to snow.
Merry Christmas, everybody.
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
The Long Weird Friday.
Friday’s are exciting, aren’t they? The beginning of a weekend of possibilities. The start of a couple of days of freedom to do whatever you want. To break loose, go wild, be whoever you really are deep in your heart. Mind you, it’s mainly full of sick. Friday night is basically 6 hours of sick no matter where you are or how you spend it. A charming evening at The Ivy drinking champagne with Stephen Fry sounds lovely but never forget that you have to get the train home later. A train full of noise, idiots, fighting and sick. Just so much sick. In bins, on seats, in your hair. You stand on it, you walk through it, you fall in it, you breathe it in. And that’s just the beginning of the weekend. You have another 48 hours of this and look at you already. Surrounded by sick. But that was your Friday night. How was mine?
It started brilliantly. I’ve worked apathetically to get where I am today and I totally appreciate it when that total lack of focus and drive pays off. I was booked to play the excellent Tattershall Castle on Friday but, due to a double-booking error, was told that I didn’t need to turn up and would still get paid. This is every idle bastard’s dream come true. It doesn’t matter what I do on Friday night now because I’ll be getting paid for it. Staying in on my own watching Weekend at Bernie’s II on video? AND GETTING PAID FOR IT? It’s almost too much to dream of. Surely life could never be that kind? Well, you’re right. It couldn’t. I was asked to perform at a charity do. FUCKING HELL! I mean, I had big plans already made concerning me, a cheeky bottle of Blue Nun and a certain little corpse called Bernie but, once again, life drills a hole in the back of my skull and fornicates with my head. I mean, who in their right fucking mind would ever say yes to a charity gig? THEY DON’T PAY. But the person who asked me knew I was free that night and getting paid for doing nothing. What an evil bastard he really is. Organising a charity benefit to raise money for someone who needs medical care and then asking me ON MY PAID NIGHT OFF to do it. Sigh. I couldn’t say no. Damn.
The gig was in a place called the Irish Centre in Camden. This will suit perfectly actually because my agent, Kate, was off to see another of her clients perform a one-man show at Camden’s Roundhouse so I could hang out with her afterwards. Brilliant. I would go off and basically save a man’s life with my comedic genius, then go out and get elegantly wasted with Kate. For the first time ever, I left the house without looking at the address of the gig (I might have done this a few times, to be honest). That was OK because I was told it was in Camden, I’ll just check the address when I get out of the tube. I have plenty of time anyway because I got to Camden 50 minutes before the gig was due to start.
Balls. It’s not in Camden. It’s in Kilburn High Road.
I ran back down to the tube and headed for Euston where I could get a speedy overground train to Kilburn. Easy. Except all the trains cancelled. AAAARRRGGGHH! It was getting closer to the gig’s start time so I ran back down to the tube and took the long, multiple-changes journey to Kilburn. I got there at 8pm. I was due on stage at 8.05pm. I ran (walked quickly) up Kilburn High Road to Quex Road where the venue was. I’m just in time. I can go straight on stage as soon as I get there. Or I would if the venue hadn’t been demolished.
Cancelled gig and then a demolished venue? Look, if you don’t want me to perform just say so. No need to be rude about it.
There wasn’t much I could do about it. I’d been given the wrong address and I was far away from the Irish Centre. There was nothing left to do other than get back on the annoying tube journey to Camden and get drunk on my paid night off. I got to the Roundhouse just before 9. Perfect. It’s a one-man show so it should only be an hour long. I’ll just check by asking a member of staff. Hmmm. There are no members of staff here. Anywhere. I’ll ask the guy at the desk of the dance studio next door. It’s connected to the Roundhouse, it’s part of the Roundhouse and the dance studio and main Roundhouse venue have connecting doors. This will be no problem at all.
“Hello. Could you tell me what time the show in the Roundhouse ends, please?”
“Sorry. This isn’t the Roundhouse”.
“Oh, I know. But you’re connected. I was just wonderi…”
“You’ll have to ask a member of box office staff”.
“There aren’t any around. Could you call or ask someone in there, please?”
“I can’t leave this desk, I’m afraid”.
“But you could just open the door there and ask”.
“I have to man the desk”.
“But the door is 6 feet away from you and there’s no one but me here. You could just open it and ask those people in there”.
“I can’t, I’m sorry”.
“I could shout and they could hear me. If you could just…”
“I said no”.
Wow. I mean, I have met some FUCK YOU people in my time but that was just incredible. An absolute refusal to walk 6 feet to help just in case the second his back was turned a thousand 12 year old Glee fans would turn up begging for dance lessons. And with that I was invited to leave.
I finally found a security man who, after asking two other people, told me that the show ends at 9.45. Not as short a show as I’d hoped. That’s OK. I’ll go for a pint. I walked across the road to Joe’s, a very nice bar with a good atmosphere and patronised by glamorous late 20’s types and fashionable people wearing trucker clothes. It looked nice but maybe too trendy for the likes of me so I walked away. That’s when I heard someone calling my name. It was really nice to see a face I recognised. And that’s where the problem lay. I recognised the guy, I know his face so well, but this was out of context. Who the fuck was he?
It’s not like I don’t know him. I do. But from where and how and, oh for God’s sake, who the hell is he? I tried my very best to get it out of him. “How’s things?”, “What have you been up to?”, “Keeping busy?” NONE of those got any information out of him. “So, you working?”, I said. “Yeah”, he replied. “Here”. Right, that’s good. He’s a bar manager. Come on, Michael. THINK. How many bar managers do you know? None. OK, let’s thing of something else. “So, what’s new?” I said. “Well”. He replied. “I work here now”. HE GAVE ME NOTHING. But he knew me and I know that I know him but my brain is dusty and cluttered and I’ve just found out that a charity gig would rather be bulldozed to the ground than have me perform at it so my head is all over the place. If you’re reading this then I’m so sorry and I know when the penny drops I will kick myself. He’s probably my brother or someone. But he gave me NO CLUE. Instead he gave me a free beer and I thank that kind stranger that I know well for it. I took my beer and sat down. That’s when one of the truckers joined me.
This guy was very thin, and like a few people in the bar (including one of the barmen), he had a huge beard, a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, mirror sunglasses and a trucker cap on top of his mullet. He also had a surprisingly well-spoken English accent. He asked how my night was, what my plans were for the evening and he offered to buy me a drink. I pointed out that I had just started drinking my pint so I was fine, thanks. He seemed happy with that and went on to talk about a couple of bars that “we” should go to or some clubs if I was “into that sort of thing”. It was confusing. Eventually I said “Are you chatting me up?” He laughed and said that he might be but the funniest part was when I thanked him for the flattering thought and told him, regrettably, that I was straight and his response was “Oh, shut up”. It was like I had just told him that I had Roger Moore’s foot in my bag. The very idea of me being straight was just ridiculous.
I mean, do I look gay? What does a gay man look like? I’m not sure but there’s one thing I do know and that’s gay men just don’t look like rednecks. You just don’t get redneck homosexuals. Well, you do but they just get angry and violent about it, they certainly don’t offer to buy you a drink in a cool bar in fashionable Camden Town. All I’m saying is, don’t assume I’m gay if you’re going to appear THAT straight. That’s cheating.
After drinks with Kate, that was my Friday night over. It is a confusing place. I’m actually happier working and keeping away from real life at the weekend, I thought as I got on the train home and stood in some sick.
www.michaellegge.info
It started brilliantly. I’ve worked apathetically to get where I am today and I totally appreciate it when that total lack of focus and drive pays off. I was booked to play the excellent Tattershall Castle on Friday but, due to a double-booking error, was told that I didn’t need to turn up and would still get paid. This is every idle bastard’s dream come true. It doesn’t matter what I do on Friday night now because I’ll be getting paid for it. Staying in on my own watching Weekend at Bernie’s II on video? AND GETTING PAID FOR IT? It’s almost too much to dream of. Surely life could never be that kind? Well, you’re right. It couldn’t. I was asked to perform at a charity do. FUCKING HELL! I mean, I had big plans already made concerning me, a cheeky bottle of Blue Nun and a certain little corpse called Bernie but, once again, life drills a hole in the back of my skull and fornicates with my head. I mean, who in their right fucking mind would ever say yes to a charity gig? THEY DON’T PAY. But the person who asked me knew I was free that night and getting paid for doing nothing. What an evil bastard he really is. Organising a charity benefit to raise money for someone who needs medical care and then asking me ON MY PAID NIGHT OFF to do it. Sigh. I couldn’t say no. Damn.
The gig was in a place called the Irish Centre in Camden. This will suit perfectly actually because my agent, Kate, was off to see another of her clients perform a one-man show at Camden’s Roundhouse so I could hang out with her afterwards. Brilliant. I would go off and basically save a man’s life with my comedic genius, then go out and get elegantly wasted with Kate. For the first time ever, I left the house without looking at the address of the gig (I might have done this a few times, to be honest). That was OK because I was told it was in Camden, I’ll just check the address when I get out of the tube. I have plenty of time anyway because I got to Camden 50 minutes before the gig was due to start.
Balls. It’s not in Camden. It’s in Kilburn High Road.
I ran back down to the tube and headed for Euston where I could get a speedy overground train to Kilburn. Easy. Except all the trains cancelled. AAAARRRGGGHH! It was getting closer to the gig’s start time so I ran back down to the tube and took the long, multiple-changes journey to Kilburn. I got there at 8pm. I was due on stage at 8.05pm. I ran (walked quickly) up Kilburn High Road to Quex Road where the venue was. I’m just in time. I can go straight on stage as soon as I get there. Or I would if the venue hadn’t been demolished.
Cancelled gig and then a demolished venue? Look, if you don’t want me to perform just say so. No need to be rude about it.
There wasn’t much I could do about it. I’d been given the wrong address and I was far away from the Irish Centre. There was nothing left to do other than get back on the annoying tube journey to Camden and get drunk on my paid night off. I got to the Roundhouse just before 9. Perfect. It’s a one-man show so it should only be an hour long. I’ll just check by asking a member of staff. Hmmm. There are no members of staff here. Anywhere. I’ll ask the guy at the desk of the dance studio next door. It’s connected to the Roundhouse, it’s part of the Roundhouse and the dance studio and main Roundhouse venue have connecting doors. This will be no problem at all.
“Hello. Could you tell me what time the show in the Roundhouse ends, please?”
“Sorry. This isn’t the Roundhouse”.
“Oh, I know. But you’re connected. I was just wonderi…”
“You’ll have to ask a member of box office staff”.
“There aren’t any around. Could you call or ask someone in there, please?”
“I can’t leave this desk, I’m afraid”.
“But you could just open the door there and ask”.
“I have to man the desk”.
“But the door is 6 feet away from you and there’s no one but me here. You could just open it and ask those people in there”.
“I can’t, I’m sorry”.
“I could shout and they could hear me. If you could just…”
“I said no”.
Wow. I mean, I have met some FUCK YOU people in my time but that was just incredible. An absolute refusal to walk 6 feet to help just in case the second his back was turned a thousand 12 year old Glee fans would turn up begging for dance lessons. And with that I was invited to leave.
I finally found a security man who, after asking two other people, told me that the show ends at 9.45. Not as short a show as I’d hoped. That’s OK. I’ll go for a pint. I walked across the road to Joe’s, a very nice bar with a good atmosphere and patronised by glamorous late 20’s types and fashionable people wearing trucker clothes. It looked nice but maybe too trendy for the likes of me so I walked away. That’s when I heard someone calling my name. It was really nice to see a face I recognised. And that’s where the problem lay. I recognised the guy, I know his face so well, but this was out of context. Who the fuck was he?
It’s not like I don’t know him. I do. But from where and how and, oh for God’s sake, who the hell is he? I tried my very best to get it out of him. “How’s things?”, “What have you been up to?”, “Keeping busy?” NONE of those got any information out of him. “So, you working?”, I said. “Yeah”, he replied. “Here”. Right, that’s good. He’s a bar manager. Come on, Michael. THINK. How many bar managers do you know? None. OK, let’s thing of something else. “So, what’s new?” I said. “Well”. He replied. “I work here now”. HE GAVE ME NOTHING. But he knew me and I know that I know him but my brain is dusty and cluttered and I’ve just found out that a charity gig would rather be bulldozed to the ground than have me perform at it so my head is all over the place. If you’re reading this then I’m so sorry and I know when the penny drops I will kick myself. He’s probably my brother or someone. But he gave me NO CLUE. Instead he gave me a free beer and I thank that kind stranger that I know well for it. I took my beer and sat down. That’s when one of the truckers joined me.
This guy was very thin, and like a few people in the bar (including one of the barmen), he had a huge beard, a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, mirror sunglasses and a trucker cap on top of his mullet. He also had a surprisingly well-spoken English accent. He asked how my night was, what my plans were for the evening and he offered to buy me a drink. I pointed out that I had just started drinking my pint so I was fine, thanks. He seemed happy with that and went on to talk about a couple of bars that “we” should go to or some clubs if I was “into that sort of thing”. It was confusing. Eventually I said “Are you chatting me up?” He laughed and said that he might be but the funniest part was when I thanked him for the flattering thought and told him, regrettably, that I was straight and his response was “Oh, shut up”. It was like I had just told him that I had Roger Moore’s foot in my bag. The very idea of me being straight was just ridiculous.
I mean, do I look gay? What does a gay man look like? I’m not sure but there’s one thing I do know and that’s gay men just don’t look like rednecks. You just don’t get redneck homosexuals. Well, you do but they just get angry and violent about it, they certainly don’t offer to buy you a drink in a cool bar in fashionable Camden Town. All I’m saying is, don’t assume I’m gay if you’re going to appear THAT straight. That’s cheating.
After drinks with Kate, that was my Friday night over. It is a confusing place. I’m actually happier working and keeping away from real life at the weekend, I thought as I got on the train home and stood in some sick.
www.michaellegge.info
Monday, 24 October 2011
The Shaming of Michael Legge.
I’m easy. That’s the best way to describe me. I’m easily confused, I’m easily riled, I’m easily pleased and I’m easily embarrassed. Sometimes all of these happen at the same time, like recently when I was on a train to Manchester and I saw a man clipping his nails. Why would he think that that was OK to do in public, the ignorant, disgusting idiot? Then I laughed out loud when he realised that bits of his fingernails had been landing in his houmous, which made me go red in the face when he gave me a dirty look.
Trains are embarrassing places anyway. I’m always going red on them and not always with anger. I missed my stop but pretend I haven’t, my phone going in and out of signal so I have to repeat “Hello?” over and over again, being 43 and reading Doctor Who Magazine. Yes, it’s very rare that I’m not embarrassed while on a train. I remember once being really hot in a stuffy carriage so I thought I‘d open my bottle of water. It felt really good. How clever of me to have bought it before getting on board. It tasted so cool and refreshing and I was halfway through the 1 litre bottle when I thought to myself “Hang on. I didn’t buy a bottle of water”. The man beside me was furious and I went red. Again.
I’m guaranteed to go beetroot when the ticket inspector comes round. I bought my ticket and I KNOW it’s in my wallet but as soon as I see the ticker inspector I immediately become convinced that my ticket is lost or invalid or I’m on the wrong train. “You want to go to Birmingham? But this is the train to Imaginaryland. You’re going in the opposite direction and the next stop is 17 hours away. You massive twat”. On my way back from Manchester, the ticket inspector appeared and I should have got more embarrassed than I’ve ever felt in my life but luckily something so weird happened at the same time that somehow it all seemed OK.
There I was in First Class, relaxing back with a good film and having a perfectly nice time. I watched The Killing of Sister George. I’d never seen it before. I’d always heard good things about it and I knew it was definitely one of those films that I had to see before I saw Bridesmaids (yes, I am still going on about that). I didn’t even know what it was about. Turns out, it’s about lesbians. Good old fashioned BRITISH lesbians from the 60’s. Women who were simply flatmates. Filthy, dirty, hated-by-God flatmates. Women who would drink beer and hang out with other women and maybe, I’M JUST SAYING MAYBE, dance with them. There was certainly none of that modern lesbianism going on. No touching, no talking about it and DEFINITELY no glamorous lesbian power-couples. It’s a pretty good film about, among other things, the lack of acceptance of homosexuals and Beryl Reid is utterly fantastic in it. It’s a two hour long film with no graphic sex scenes in it whatsoever. Well, not until the last 10 minutes. Guess when the ticket inspector turned up?
“Tickets, please” is what I heard when Coral Browne began touching Susannah York’s vagina. I quickly reached for my wallet. IT WASN’T THERE. The ticket inspector squinted as Susannah York started undressing. The wallet must be in my coat pocket. WHERE IS MY COAT POCKET?? Why did I put my coat in the overhead rack? I never do that. Susannah revealed her breasts while I stood up to get my coat and considered pressing pause. NO, MICHAEL! Don’t press pause. It’ll just pause on a shot of Susannah writhing. Just concentrate. Get the ticket and he’ll go away and you can get back to your porn. IT ISN’T PORN! It’s an arthouse film from the 60’s. Aw, shit. Does he think I’m watching porn? He does. He thinks that, because I’ve paid extra to sit in First Class, I feel it’s my right to masturbate as and when I feel like it. Why isn’t my wallet in my coat pocket? Try the inside pocket. Oh, for God’s sake. Coral is kissing Susannah’s breasts now and all that’s in my pocket are loads of Starburst wrappers. Just switch the laptop off. NO, MICHAEL! If you do that then he’ll KNOW you’re watching porn. The wallet must be in my bag. Coral’s hand moves all the way down Susannah’s body again. Susannah’s body rises and arches as Coral’s fingers slide inside her. I FOUND IT! It was in my bag! Susannah is starting to come. The ticket isn’t in here! What? I always keep my ticket in my wallet. Coral touches Susannah more firmly while Susannah’s moans get louder. Where is my ticket and where the hell is Beryl Reid? No one would think I was watching porn if Beryl Reid was in it. Come on, Beryl, you bastard. HELP ME! Susannah comes and Coral’s face looks turned on and powerful. HERE IT IS! Of course! I always keep my ticket under my laptop these days so that I don’t have that embarrassing where’s-my-ticket fumble when the ticket inspector turns up. Susannah holds on to Coral’s wrist firmly between her legs as she comes down from orgasm. There you go. There’s my ticket. Oh, and look. There’s Beryl Reid.
That lasted three long and awkward minutes. But I wasn’t really that embarrassed. The ticket inspector was but I wasn’t. How could I be? I mean the whole thing was completely weird. Not the lesbian sex scene playing publicly on a train carriage, that wasn’t weird at all. What was weird was the fact that, during all of this, Matthew Horne, the actor from Gavin and Stacey and Horne & Corden, was fast asleep at my feet. That’s why I pay the extra to go First Class. You can watch Susannah York coming while a TV celebrity is curled up at your feet like a dog. I don’t know how you poor people do it.
I’m back, baby. I haven’t blogged in about 7 weeks but expect more. Isn’t it good to know that stupid things still happen to me on trains? I’ve missed you.
www.michaellegge.info
Trains are embarrassing places anyway. I’m always going red on them and not always with anger. I missed my stop but pretend I haven’t, my phone going in and out of signal so I have to repeat “Hello?” over and over again, being 43 and reading Doctor Who Magazine. Yes, it’s very rare that I’m not embarrassed while on a train. I remember once being really hot in a stuffy carriage so I thought I‘d open my bottle of water. It felt really good. How clever of me to have bought it before getting on board. It tasted so cool and refreshing and I was halfway through the 1 litre bottle when I thought to myself “Hang on. I didn’t buy a bottle of water”. The man beside me was furious and I went red. Again.
I’m guaranteed to go beetroot when the ticket inspector comes round. I bought my ticket and I KNOW it’s in my wallet but as soon as I see the ticker inspector I immediately become convinced that my ticket is lost or invalid or I’m on the wrong train. “You want to go to Birmingham? But this is the train to Imaginaryland. You’re going in the opposite direction and the next stop is 17 hours away. You massive twat”. On my way back from Manchester, the ticket inspector appeared and I should have got more embarrassed than I’ve ever felt in my life but luckily something so weird happened at the same time that somehow it all seemed OK.
There I was in First Class, relaxing back with a good film and having a perfectly nice time. I watched The Killing of Sister George. I’d never seen it before. I’d always heard good things about it and I knew it was definitely one of those films that I had to see before I saw Bridesmaids (yes, I am still going on about that). I didn’t even know what it was about. Turns out, it’s about lesbians. Good old fashioned BRITISH lesbians from the 60’s. Women who were simply flatmates. Filthy, dirty, hated-by-God flatmates. Women who would drink beer and hang out with other women and maybe, I’M JUST SAYING MAYBE, dance with them. There was certainly none of that modern lesbianism going on. No touching, no talking about it and DEFINITELY no glamorous lesbian power-couples. It’s a pretty good film about, among other things, the lack of acceptance of homosexuals and Beryl Reid is utterly fantastic in it. It’s a two hour long film with no graphic sex scenes in it whatsoever. Well, not until the last 10 minutes. Guess when the ticket inspector turned up?
“Tickets, please” is what I heard when Coral Browne began touching Susannah York’s vagina. I quickly reached for my wallet. IT WASN’T THERE. The ticket inspector squinted as Susannah York started undressing. The wallet must be in my coat pocket. WHERE IS MY COAT POCKET?? Why did I put my coat in the overhead rack? I never do that. Susannah revealed her breasts while I stood up to get my coat and considered pressing pause. NO, MICHAEL! Don’t press pause. It’ll just pause on a shot of Susannah writhing. Just concentrate. Get the ticket and he’ll go away and you can get back to your porn. IT ISN’T PORN! It’s an arthouse film from the 60’s. Aw, shit. Does he think I’m watching porn? He does. He thinks that, because I’ve paid extra to sit in First Class, I feel it’s my right to masturbate as and when I feel like it. Why isn’t my wallet in my coat pocket? Try the inside pocket. Oh, for God’s sake. Coral is kissing Susannah’s breasts now and all that’s in my pocket are loads of Starburst wrappers. Just switch the laptop off. NO, MICHAEL! If you do that then he’ll KNOW you’re watching porn. The wallet must be in my bag. Coral’s hand moves all the way down Susannah’s body again. Susannah’s body rises and arches as Coral’s fingers slide inside her. I FOUND IT! It was in my bag! Susannah is starting to come. The ticket isn’t in here! What? I always keep my ticket in my wallet. Coral touches Susannah more firmly while Susannah’s moans get louder. Where is my ticket and where the hell is Beryl Reid? No one would think I was watching porn if Beryl Reid was in it. Come on, Beryl, you bastard. HELP ME! Susannah comes and Coral’s face looks turned on and powerful. HERE IT IS! Of course! I always keep my ticket under my laptop these days so that I don’t have that embarrassing where’s-my-ticket fumble when the ticket inspector turns up. Susannah holds on to Coral’s wrist firmly between her legs as she comes down from orgasm. There you go. There’s my ticket. Oh, and look. There’s Beryl Reid.
That lasted three long and awkward minutes. But I wasn’t really that embarrassed. The ticket inspector was but I wasn’t. How could I be? I mean the whole thing was completely weird. Not the lesbian sex scene playing publicly on a train carriage, that wasn’t weird at all. What was weird was the fact that, during all of this, Matthew Horne, the actor from Gavin and Stacey and Horne & Corden, was fast asleep at my feet. That’s why I pay the extra to go First Class. You can watch Susannah York coming while a TV celebrity is curled up at your feet like a dog. I don’t know how you poor people do it.
I’m back, baby. I haven’t blogged in about 7 weeks but expect more. Isn’t it good to know that stupid things still happen to me on trains? I’ve missed you.
www.michaellegge.info
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
:)
"Emotion is the complex psychophysiological experience of an individual's state of mind as interacting with biochemical (internal) and environmental (external) influences. In humans, emotion fundamentally involves "physiological arousal, expressive behaviors, and conscious experience." Emotion is associated with mood, temperament, personality, disposition and motivation. Motivations direct and energize behavior, while emotions provide the affective component to motivation, positive or negative".
Clearly, that came from Wikipedia and not me. It makes emotions sound intricate and labyrinthine which, as we all know, they're not. All emotions are just different Worzel Gummidge heads that we stick on when we feel like it and the only complex thing about them is that sometimes we rush in and pick up the wrong head by mistake. I know this because I'm often to blame for putting the wrong head on. I'm still not quite over the fact that I threw my first, and I hope last, ever Queenie Fit during the recording of the second Do The Right Thing Podcast in Edinburgh. I got told off twice by my team-mate for interrupting her even though I most definitely hadn't interrupted. The lovely Shappi Khorsandi, who I love and admire greatly, was pissed. It wasn't her fault. It was the fault of the publicity machine. The publicity machine demanded that Shappi guested at Arthur Smith's Pissed-Up Chat Show which meant she was contractually obliged to be hammered during the hour with the sober national treasure asking her questions and topping up her glass. Then she did our show. All very fair enough, I was a bit tipsy myself. Fuck it, it's late night in Edinburgh. What did you think you were paying for? After 10pm there are NO SOBER COMEDIANS. Anyway, the first time Shappi said I interrupted (EVEN THOUGH I HADN'T) I apologised and listened to her being funny. Shappi is always funny and, of course, being drunk just made the night all the more unpredictable and exciting. The second time, and to be very fair to Shappi she might not actually have been saying I interrupted but that is the way I took it, Shappi simply said "I thought we were supposed to be a team".
Now. I was in no way at all upset with Shappi. But the audience to my right all howled with approval. "Yeah", I heard in my own head. "Good for you, Shappi. Tell the stupid woman-hating man to shut his fucking rude mouth". That was it. I rushed into my very small bag of emotion heads to grab the Reserved Humility one but stupidly grabbed the WELLFUCKYOUTHEN head instead and put it on. I seethed throughout the rest of that podcast. I hate when people interrupt on Mock The Week and other laddish telly shouting and I have a paranoia that anyone would think that of me, especially, and I realise this is stupid, if I interrupt a woman. It's fine interrupting James during the Precious Little podcast because that is a godsend to us all but I'm not up for any interrupting during Do The Right Thing. After the recording I went to the bar, complained to everyone about how furious I was and then genuinely stormed off in a huff. I had a Queenie Fit for no reason. Emotions are dicks.
So, over the last few days I've been experimenting with emotions. I didn't mean to but I have. It's just amazing to me how basic and stupid emotions are despite Wikipedia's argument of their complexity. Put it this way, I wore my duckie jumper on Friday. If you haven't seen my duckie jumper then allow me to describe it. It's a jumper with duckies on it. Yes, it's adorable. Anyway, I was wearing it on Friday night when I got into the lift at my hotel. The doors opened and the lift was full. Seven men in the lift. All on a stag night. Plus me and my duckie jumper.
They laughed, they pointed, they call me a fucking twat. I pointed out that they would all catch their deaths going out in t-shirts late at night. Matching t-shirts. All with the same naked man on the front but with a different nickname on the back. I'm not saying I don't look like a twat but at least I'm not shouting in a lift, while wearing a naked man t-shirt with BIG DONG JOHN written on the back while hanging out with my best friend who is dressed like Tigger.
Plus, how could I mind them laughing? I'm only wearing a jumper and apparently that was too much for them. Maybe they only brought their Pointing and Laughing head out with them? In any case, here's what I've discovered. Men hate the duckie jumper and women like it. Not just one but two groups of female office workers waved at me this weekend because of the duckie jumper. I started counting the scowls from men and laughs/smiles from women while walking about but I lost count. Men were definitely winning though. I think there is nothing more appealing than living in a world where a jumper with pictures of ducks on it can upset and even seemingly offend blokes. Not that all blokes are like that. Last night after a gig in Swindon I got a bit chilly and took the duckie jumper out of my bag. The ticket inspector on the train said he really liked my duckie jumper. That was nice. Then he handed my ticket back to me and said "Thanks, babes"
I don't know if it was the jumper or maybe I'm just a bit of a babe at the moment but either way the ticket inspector shot off quickly (not like that). He obviously rushed for his Gratitude head and accidentally grabbed his Sleazey Geezer head by mistake. I understand. It's easily done.
www.michaellegge.info
Hey! Why not come to see DO THE RIGHT THING being recording live? It's great and I might get in a big huff again so it's definitely worth checking out. Here's the info: http://www.comedy.co.uk/podcasts/dotherightthing/
Also, come to see CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH, my very first ever solo show, at the Leicester Square Theatre from the 27th to the 29th September: http://leicestersquaretheatre.ticketsolve.com/shows/126518927/events
Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
Clearly, that came from Wikipedia and not me. It makes emotions sound intricate and labyrinthine which, as we all know, they're not. All emotions are just different Worzel Gummidge heads that we stick on when we feel like it and the only complex thing about them is that sometimes we rush in and pick up the wrong head by mistake. I know this because I'm often to blame for putting the wrong head on. I'm still not quite over the fact that I threw my first, and I hope last, ever Queenie Fit during the recording of the second Do The Right Thing Podcast in Edinburgh. I got told off twice by my team-mate for interrupting her even though I most definitely hadn't interrupted. The lovely Shappi Khorsandi, who I love and admire greatly, was pissed. It wasn't her fault. It was the fault of the publicity machine. The publicity machine demanded that Shappi guested at Arthur Smith's Pissed-Up Chat Show which meant she was contractually obliged to be hammered during the hour with the sober national treasure asking her questions and topping up her glass. Then she did our show. All very fair enough, I was a bit tipsy myself. Fuck it, it's late night in Edinburgh. What did you think you were paying for? After 10pm there are NO SOBER COMEDIANS. Anyway, the first time Shappi said I interrupted (EVEN THOUGH I HADN'T) I apologised and listened to her being funny. Shappi is always funny and, of course, being drunk just made the night all the more unpredictable and exciting. The second time, and to be very fair to Shappi she might not actually have been saying I interrupted but that is the way I took it, Shappi simply said "I thought we were supposed to be a team".
Now. I was in no way at all upset with Shappi. But the audience to my right all howled with approval. "Yeah", I heard in my own head. "Good for you, Shappi. Tell the stupid woman-hating man to shut his fucking rude mouth". That was it. I rushed into my very small bag of emotion heads to grab the Reserved Humility one but stupidly grabbed the WELLFUCKYOUTHEN head instead and put it on. I seethed throughout the rest of that podcast. I hate when people interrupt on Mock The Week and other laddish telly shouting and I have a paranoia that anyone would think that of me, especially, and I realise this is stupid, if I interrupt a woman. It's fine interrupting James during the Precious Little podcast because that is a godsend to us all but I'm not up for any interrupting during Do The Right Thing. After the recording I went to the bar, complained to everyone about how furious I was and then genuinely stormed off in a huff. I had a Queenie Fit for no reason. Emotions are dicks.
So, over the last few days I've been experimenting with emotions. I didn't mean to but I have. It's just amazing to me how basic and stupid emotions are despite Wikipedia's argument of their complexity. Put it this way, I wore my duckie jumper on Friday. If you haven't seen my duckie jumper then allow me to describe it. It's a jumper with duckies on it. Yes, it's adorable. Anyway, I was wearing it on Friday night when I got into the lift at my hotel. The doors opened and the lift was full. Seven men in the lift. All on a stag night. Plus me and my duckie jumper.
They laughed, they pointed, they call me a fucking twat. I pointed out that they would all catch their deaths going out in t-shirts late at night. Matching t-shirts. All with the same naked man on the front but with a different nickname on the back. I'm not saying I don't look like a twat but at least I'm not shouting in a lift, while wearing a naked man t-shirt with BIG DONG JOHN written on the back while hanging out with my best friend who is dressed like Tigger.
Plus, how could I mind them laughing? I'm only wearing a jumper and apparently that was too much for them. Maybe they only brought their Pointing and Laughing head out with them? In any case, here's what I've discovered. Men hate the duckie jumper and women like it. Not just one but two groups of female office workers waved at me this weekend because of the duckie jumper. I started counting the scowls from men and laughs/smiles from women while walking about but I lost count. Men were definitely winning though. I think there is nothing more appealing than living in a world where a jumper with pictures of ducks on it can upset and even seemingly offend blokes. Not that all blokes are like that. Last night after a gig in Swindon I got a bit chilly and took the duckie jumper out of my bag. The ticket inspector on the train said he really liked my duckie jumper. That was nice. Then he handed my ticket back to me and said "Thanks, babes"
I don't know if it was the jumper or maybe I'm just a bit of a babe at the moment but either way the ticket inspector shot off quickly (not like that). He obviously rushed for his Gratitude head and accidentally grabbed his Sleazey Geezer head by mistake. I understand. It's easily done.
www.michaellegge.info
Hey! Why not come to see DO THE RIGHT THING being recording live? It's great and I might get in a big huff again so it's definitely worth checking out. Here's the info: http://www.comedy.co.uk/podcasts/dotherightthing/
Also, come to see CURSE SIR WALTER RALEIGH, my very first ever solo show, at the Leicester Square Theatre from the 27th to the 29th September: http://leicestersquaretheatre.ticketsolve.com/shows/126518927/events
Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Your Only Hope.
I just turned 43 in August but it wasn't until yesterday that I think I may have finally grown up. I've lived the life of a child for 43 years and I suppose it was inevitable that I would grow out of it, I just thought I might grow out of it when I was 14 or 15. I'm at least 28 years behind schedule. Don't worry, I still ignore bills, get bored with books in the first chapter and refuse to fix my collapsing house but I've definitely turned a corner in my development. Yesterday I was looking at my DVD collection and I saw the box that holds my Star Wars discs and I realised that I just have no interest in it.
This is actually much bigger news than it seems. About two years ago I confidently claimed that there is nothing better than Star Wars and I meant it. When I saw it (5 times) in 1977 nothing effected me more and I've yet to be hit by that all encompassing feeling since. No movie, no band, no relationship that I've ever encountered has changed my life so obsessively as Star Wars and that's actually depressing when you think about it. I've fallen in love but I've always managed to have some moments when I've not talked or thought about my romance even in the early stages but as a 9 year old I was a lot more enthusiastic about my new crush. And I took that film with me throughout my life. I never really wanted kids but the older I get the more often I'd daydream about sitting down with my child and watch them watch my favourite film of all time just to see if it did anything to their heads at all. Then, when it didn't, I'd know that this wasn't my child and it's mother is a WHORE. But that would be the original Star Wars. Back in 1977 the original Star Wars was known as Star Wars. I wasn't happy when on it's re-release it was changed to Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope. What was the point in that? It's called Star Wars so call it Star Wars. Then it got re-released again with new bits in it. Terrible, awful new bits. Then it came out on DVD with newer new bits and next week it will be released on Blu Ray with more new bits. In 1977, George Lucas gave me a present but ever since then he keeps taking it back and drawing all over it.
In the blu ray edition there is a new addition that George Lucas thought was absolutely imperative. It just had to be included because, like a Jawa falling off a dinosaur or Hayden Christensen turning up as ghost at the very end, it was always part of his original vision. In....sigh....Star Wars: Episode VI - Return Of The Jedi, Darth Vader finally sees the cruelty within The Emperor as he sees his son being electrified. Vader silently lifts The Emperor above his head, taking the dark force electric shock himself, and throws him down the shaft of the Death Star. Now, instead of the mighty silence of Vader's attack on his mentor, the new Blu Ray version comes with Vader shouting "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Why?
The thing is, George only owns the rights to these films and not the emotional impact they have all played in mine/our life/lives. He's been fucking with these films since the day he gave them to us and there is no sign of him ever stopping. Well, that's actually of no odds to me because, and I'm happy to declare this, I'm not a Star Wars fan. It's just a stupid sodding space film that's been battered by it's master it's whole life. But there is maybe, just maybe, a way that he can be stopped from doing this again to this beloved classic (well, it's not beloved by me. Not any more). Just do yourself a massive favour, DO NOT BUY STAR WARS ON BLU RAY. If no one buys it, he'll just go away. I'm not going to buy it and I was delighted that my good friend, Martin Wolfenden, went back to Amazon where he ordered his copy and decided to cancel his order. The reason he gave was "Darth Vader saying Nooooooo!" I'm incredibly proud of him.
I'm pretty sure that....sigh....Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace will be left alone as it was on the day of it's awful release because, let's face it, you can't polish a turd. But that doesn't mean you have to take the Mona Lisa and smear shit all over it. Yeah, I've moved on. I'm finally free of Star Wars and it's 34 year Force grip. I've finally grown up.
Don't forget, Doctor Who's on this Saturday.
www.michaellegge.info
Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
This is actually much bigger news than it seems. About two years ago I confidently claimed that there is nothing better than Star Wars and I meant it. When I saw it (5 times) in 1977 nothing effected me more and I've yet to be hit by that all encompassing feeling since. No movie, no band, no relationship that I've ever encountered has changed my life so obsessively as Star Wars and that's actually depressing when you think about it. I've fallen in love but I've always managed to have some moments when I've not talked or thought about my romance even in the early stages but as a 9 year old I was a lot more enthusiastic about my new crush. And I took that film with me throughout my life. I never really wanted kids but the older I get the more often I'd daydream about sitting down with my child and watch them watch my favourite film of all time just to see if it did anything to their heads at all. Then, when it didn't, I'd know that this wasn't my child and it's mother is a WHORE. But that would be the original Star Wars. Back in 1977 the original Star Wars was known as Star Wars. I wasn't happy when on it's re-release it was changed to Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope. What was the point in that? It's called Star Wars so call it Star Wars. Then it got re-released again with new bits in it. Terrible, awful new bits. Then it came out on DVD with newer new bits and next week it will be released on Blu Ray with more new bits. In 1977, George Lucas gave me a present but ever since then he keeps taking it back and drawing all over it.
In the blu ray edition there is a new addition that George Lucas thought was absolutely imperative. It just had to be included because, like a Jawa falling off a dinosaur or Hayden Christensen turning up as ghost at the very end, it was always part of his original vision. In....sigh....Star Wars: Episode VI - Return Of The Jedi, Darth Vader finally sees the cruelty within The Emperor as he sees his son being electrified. Vader silently lifts The Emperor above his head, taking the dark force electric shock himself, and throws him down the shaft of the Death Star. Now, instead of the mighty silence of Vader's attack on his mentor, the new Blu Ray version comes with Vader shouting "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Why?
The thing is, George only owns the rights to these films and not the emotional impact they have all played in mine/our life/lives. He's been fucking with these films since the day he gave them to us and there is no sign of him ever stopping. Well, that's actually of no odds to me because, and I'm happy to declare this, I'm not a Star Wars fan. It's just a stupid sodding space film that's been battered by it's master it's whole life. But there is maybe, just maybe, a way that he can be stopped from doing this again to this beloved classic (well, it's not beloved by me. Not any more). Just do yourself a massive favour, DO NOT BUY STAR WARS ON BLU RAY. If no one buys it, he'll just go away. I'm not going to buy it and I was delighted that my good friend, Martin Wolfenden, went back to Amazon where he ordered his copy and decided to cancel his order. The reason he gave was "Darth Vader saying Nooooooo!" I'm incredibly proud of him.
I'm pretty sure that....sigh....Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace will be left alone as it was on the day of it's awful release because, let's face it, you can't polish a turd. But that doesn't mean you have to take the Mona Lisa and smear shit all over it. Yeah, I've moved on. I'm finally free of Star Wars and it's 34 year Force grip. I've finally grown up.
Don't forget, Doctor Who's on this Saturday.
www.michaellegge.info
Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Say Again?
I'm back. I really feel like I'm back. Not just back from Edinburgh but actually back. For a month I've been happy (in a way) and feeling incredibly fortunate. I wake up every day and walk through the beautiful Meadows of Edinburgh and I get to do a show I love with my friend Robin Ince. You'll notice that I wrote that it's a show that I love. I love it. I'm not quoting anyone elses opinion or cutting and pasting anyone elses reviews of the show, I'm just telling you I love the show. Isn't that nice? Isn't that nice to actually enjoy the thing you do? It's that enough? Why do we need anyone elses opinion about anything? AND WHY THE FUCK DO COMEDIANS INSIST ON RTing THEIR PRAISE ON TWITTER?
Look, you stupid fucknuts. People follow you on Twitter, right. That suggests they like you. THEY ALREADY LIKE YOU. Why then would you feel the desperate need to tell all the people who already like you that you are liked? They know you're liked, THEY LIKE YOU. Why they like you is a complete mystery to me but they do like you. So you really don't need to tell them that The Scotsman love you or that someone Tweeted that your show was "good". It's the most trivial and needy thing you can do. When I see anyone RTing their own praise it just stinks of someone thinking "Wow, I hate my show and it makes me sick and nervous but someone likes it so I must be great. Look, everyone! I'm great! A child on the internet said so".
I mean, what lack of faith do you have in yourself when someone elses opinion is more important to you than your own? I mean, I'd give it more credit if the same people RT'd when they got negative feedback. I mean, it's just as relevant.
I made a friend of mine upset on Twitter because I was very mean about his constant praising of himself or RTing praise others gave him. I am genuinely sorry about that. To be honest, I'm not sure any amount of explaining of how when you either praise yourself or brag about praise given just detracts from you as a performer and a person would make a difference. It's my problem, really. If people are happy to do that then they should be able to without my wrath. But why stop there?
Surely, you have been praised at other things. Nice parking? Tell us about it. Made a lovely cup of tea? Well, why are you keeping that to yourself? Urinated without getting a drop on the seat or the floor? Then let us all give you a massive fucking round of applause, you big headed, needy, egotistical shitbag. (I am NOT still having a go at my friend here, he at least hasn't praised himself today) Let's see your school reports and scout badges and sports trophies and book tokens and premium bonds and completed crosswords and sponsored walk forms and Worlds Best Dad mugs and whatever the fuck it was you got in your Kinder Egg. Show us it all because it's exactly the same. Or...
You could just be happy that you like your show and carry on with some dignity. Either way, I thank you for reading this. You're really great (don't RT that I said that please).
Yes, I'm home and the second I got on the train from Edinburgh to London I had a brilliant Fringe moment. OK, I'm leaving the Fringe but I'm still counting it. I opened up my laptop and started watching the latest Doctor Who on iPlayer. This made Steven Moffat, who was on his way back from the loo to his seat, do a double take. YESSSS!!! Then I met him in the queue for taxis and told him the story of how my badge featuring the face of Peter Davison was mistaken for a badge featuring the face of Anders Behring Breivik. I love the fact that that story has such a strong chance of now getting back to the 5th Doctor. Now, all I need to find a friend of Anders Behring Breivik and the circle is complete. Also, Steven definitely said that he was bored of Matt Thingy and was interested in a 43 year old with psoriasis as the next Doctor. I can even pick my own companion, I imagine. Now, which one of you will it be? Hmmmm...
www.michaellegge.info
PS I'm really sorry for being mean to my friend. He's an idiot but I pushed it too far. I am also an idiot.
Look, you stupid fucknuts. People follow you on Twitter, right. That suggests they like you. THEY ALREADY LIKE YOU. Why then would you feel the desperate need to tell all the people who already like you that you are liked? They know you're liked, THEY LIKE YOU. Why they like you is a complete mystery to me but they do like you. So you really don't need to tell them that The Scotsman love you or that someone Tweeted that your show was "good". It's the most trivial and needy thing you can do. When I see anyone RTing their own praise it just stinks of someone thinking "Wow, I hate my show and it makes me sick and nervous but someone likes it so I must be great. Look, everyone! I'm great! A child on the internet said so".
I mean, what lack of faith do you have in yourself when someone elses opinion is more important to you than your own? I mean, I'd give it more credit if the same people RT'd when they got negative feedback. I mean, it's just as relevant.
I made a friend of mine upset on Twitter because I was very mean about his constant praising of himself or RTing praise others gave him. I am genuinely sorry about that. To be honest, I'm not sure any amount of explaining of how when you either praise yourself or brag about praise given just detracts from you as a performer and a person would make a difference. It's my problem, really. If people are happy to do that then they should be able to without my wrath. But why stop there?
Surely, you have been praised at other things. Nice parking? Tell us about it. Made a lovely cup of tea? Well, why are you keeping that to yourself? Urinated without getting a drop on the seat or the floor? Then let us all give you a massive fucking round of applause, you big headed, needy, egotistical shitbag. (I am NOT still having a go at my friend here, he at least hasn't praised himself today) Let's see your school reports and scout badges and sports trophies and book tokens and premium bonds and completed crosswords and sponsored walk forms and Worlds Best Dad mugs and whatever the fuck it was you got in your Kinder Egg. Show us it all because it's exactly the same. Or...
You could just be happy that you like your show and carry on with some dignity. Either way, I thank you for reading this. You're really great (don't RT that I said that please).
Yes, I'm home and the second I got on the train from Edinburgh to London I had a brilliant Fringe moment. OK, I'm leaving the Fringe but I'm still counting it. I opened up my laptop and started watching the latest Doctor Who on iPlayer. This made Steven Moffat, who was on his way back from the loo to his seat, do a double take. YESSSS!!! Then I met him in the queue for taxis and told him the story of how my badge featuring the face of Peter Davison was mistaken for a badge featuring the face of Anders Behring Breivik. I love the fact that that story has such a strong chance of now getting back to the 5th Doctor. Now, all I need to find a friend of Anders Behring Breivik and the circle is complete. Also, Steven definitely said that he was bored of Matt Thingy and was interested in a 43 year old with psoriasis as the next Doctor. I can even pick my own companion, I imagine. Now, which one of you will it be? Hmmmm...
www.michaellegge.info
PS I'm really sorry for being mean to my friend. He's an idiot but I pushed it too far. I am also an idiot.
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Wonder Why You Haven't Before.
There is just a week left of Edinburgh Fringe. Hope you're enjoying it. Sad to say, I'm very much enjoying it. Remember the good old days of angry Fringe blogs? Those are years away. Mind you, I had a shit IWANNAGOHOME day three days ago. The thing is Edinburgh is great but the line from Anchorman, "We've been coming to the same party for 12 years, and in no way is that depressing", keeps popping in to my head. But it's the last week so my energy's up and my outlook sunny. But what to do in the next seven days?
Simple: go to The Stand.
The Stand comedy club in Edinburgh is the greatest comedy club in the world. It's also rare in the comedy world as it's sole purpose is comedy. When you go to The Stand what you get is comedy. NOT comedy and a disco, not comedy and a shout out on your birthday, just comedy. It books great established acts and nurtures new talent and it treats comedians and audience members with respect. It's also really decent to other clubs. They don't allow hen or stag nights in the club and instead recommend Highlight or Jongleurs if that's what you want. Not in a nasty "Why don't you fuck off there, you cunt with a stupid hat" way, no, it's a purely "I think you'd prefer this" kind of way. But really you should visit The Stand's five venues this Fringe because the show's there are of a higher quality than the so-called Big Four. If you don't make the effort over the next week to visit The Stand then you might as well not be at the Fringe at all.
Stewart Lee, Omid Djalili, Richard Herring, Phill Jupitus, Simon Munnery, Bridgest Christie, Andy Zaltzman, Todd Barry, Paul Sinha, Steve Gribbin, Tony Law, Simon Donald, Jo Neary, Tiffany Stevenson, Phil Nichol, Josh Howie, Craig Campbell, Wendy Wason, Alun Cochrane, Gavin Webster, Seymour Mace, Political Animal....That's just off the top of my head. I mean, you've only got a week left. A WEEK. Why would you think of going anywhere else? The Stand have a better line up, there's a better local pub (Lord Bodos across from The Stand 1) and you'll be happy knowing that you've put money into a club that's actually trying to look after you, comedians and the craft of comedy itself. Every member of staff at The Stand should feel proud of themselves because they're doing brilliant work this year and I would gladly buy all of them a pet swan if I could. I love them.
And hey, when you've seen a few shows there why not treat yourself to a free one at Peter Buckley Hill's Free Fringe? The Voodoo rooms are right around the corner from The Stand and Cariad Lloyd, one of the best shows I've seen this year, is on at 3.55 followed by Tara Flynn, one of the best shows I saw last year and will see again this year. It's all happening over this side of town so don't be a massive dick in the last week, come over and have fun. Oh, and me and Robin Ince are here at 2.35 too. I forgot about that.
Now, can someone kindly explain to me how The Pleasance got fucking charity status?
www.thestand.co.uk
www.michaellegge.info
Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l
Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
Simple: go to The Stand.
The Stand comedy club in Edinburgh is the greatest comedy club in the world. It's also rare in the comedy world as it's sole purpose is comedy. When you go to The Stand what you get is comedy. NOT comedy and a disco, not comedy and a shout out on your birthday, just comedy. It books great established acts and nurtures new talent and it treats comedians and audience members with respect. It's also really decent to other clubs. They don't allow hen or stag nights in the club and instead recommend Highlight or Jongleurs if that's what you want. Not in a nasty "Why don't you fuck off there, you cunt with a stupid hat" way, no, it's a purely "I think you'd prefer this" kind of way. But really you should visit The Stand's five venues this Fringe because the show's there are of a higher quality than the so-called Big Four. If you don't make the effort over the next week to visit The Stand then you might as well not be at the Fringe at all.
Stewart Lee, Omid Djalili, Richard Herring, Phill Jupitus, Simon Munnery, Bridgest Christie, Andy Zaltzman, Todd Barry, Paul Sinha, Steve Gribbin, Tony Law, Simon Donald, Jo Neary, Tiffany Stevenson, Phil Nichol, Josh Howie, Craig Campbell, Wendy Wason, Alun Cochrane, Gavin Webster, Seymour Mace, Political Animal....That's just off the top of my head. I mean, you've only got a week left. A WEEK. Why would you think of going anywhere else? The Stand have a better line up, there's a better local pub (Lord Bodos across from The Stand 1) and you'll be happy knowing that you've put money into a club that's actually trying to look after you, comedians and the craft of comedy itself. Every member of staff at The Stand should feel proud of themselves because they're doing brilliant work this year and I would gladly buy all of them a pet swan if I could. I love them.
And hey, when you've seen a few shows there why not treat yourself to a free one at Peter Buckley Hill's Free Fringe? The Voodoo rooms are right around the corner from The Stand and Cariad Lloyd, one of the best shows I've seen this year, is on at 3.55 followed by Tara Flynn, one of the best shows I saw last year and will see again this year. It's all happening over this side of town so don't be a massive dick in the last week, come over and have fun. Oh, and me and Robin Ince are here at 2.35 too. I forgot about that.
Now, can someone kindly explain to me how The Pleasance got fucking charity status?
www.thestand.co.uk
www.michaellegge.info
Tickets for POINTLESS ANGER, RIGHTEOUS IRE 2: BACK IN THE HABIT at this year's Edinburgh Fringe are now on sale here: http://tinyurl.com/6fclh2l
Kindle owners might like to know that my blog is now available to subscribe and read on your Kindle here:http://amzn.to/ho4Qr3
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