Olympricks.

The Olympics and Paralympics are over. Thank the fuck fuck. I've been pretty decent about you over the last six weeks but now it's my turn to talk. All you've spouted since the end of July has been about how inspired you are and what an inspiration the whole event has been and how we as a nation have inspired the world with our inspiring inspiration and our inspiration to inpire inspiring inspirotwats. Well, I've got a question that needs answering: what's wrong with being uninspired?

I love being uninspired. It's brilliant. Putting the flaming torch of dreams upside down in a bucket of water means that I can lie on my arse all day watching telly, scratching my ball and drinking the finest wine £4 will get you. I've taken the dog for walks, been to the pub a few times, seen some films, read some books and generally had a lovely time all thanks to a complete lack of motivation. What have you been doing? Oh, you've been inspired, have you? So, you've spent six weeks sitting on your arse watching telly all day, scratching your ball and drinking cheap booze while occasionally shouting "Come on, Team GB"? DO YOU KNOW WHAT INSPIRED MEANS? You're no different to me so please stop saying how inspired you fucking are.

Everywhere you go now it's all fucking inspiration. "Be the best that you can be". I am being the best that I can be. See this ridiculous heap of bad clothes and white, white flesh? That's ME. That's the best that I can offer. Stop assuming that I can do better. I can't. And has it ever crossed your alert, sharp, physically fit mind that I don't want to? Every advert that you see on TV, every song on the radio, every t-shirt that you pass on the street is basically a reminder that I'm shit. I don't need reminding. I'm actually happy being shit. I know that ruins your miserable optimism but it's a fact. This country used to be proud of it's pessimism. We would slouch together as a nation and smile at our many failures and lack of abilities. Am I the only one who has kept with tradition? In my day you could leave your front door open because no one could be bothered to burgle and there wasn't a motivated face in the street. Not like now. Once we heard a load of bloody foreigners were coming over we decided we had to change. Well, it sickens me. Seen the latest Levi's advert? It's insane: "You're going to be great...you'll find the cure...You're a king...You're the next leader of the world...This is a pair of Levi's". Now, I agree with the last bit but Jesus Christ that is a pair of jeans that expects way too much of me. I don't know how to drive a fucking car. How the hell does this pair of jeans expect me to be great? It's not going to happen, mate. "I'm gonna win", sing Muse in their awful song Survival. "I won't give in because I choose to thrive". Good for you, fella, but that has nothing to do with me whatsoever. I gave in because I choose to snooze. 

These people just haven't thought of me once. I met Richard Whitehead on Sunday. He won the men's 200m race at the Paralympics and is one of the most normal and down-to-earth, friendly people you could wish to meet. He's a gold medal winning runner despite not having legs and why does he do this? Because he wanted to push himself to the limit and, now that he's got people's attention, he wants to inspire people to better themselves, not just in sport but in all areas of life. He ran a marathon without prosethetic legs as a symbol to others that if they focus then they can achieve. The reason he does what he does is so that other people will be motivated to do well themselves. What a bastard. I mean, he fucking met me. He could clearly see what sort of person I am and yet he still went on about just wanting to help and inspire others. HE DIDN'T EVEN APOLOGISE TO ME. If I go out running now and have a heart attack then that is Richard Whitehead's fault. If I die there will be blood on his hands. What a horrible, manipulative, ice cold dick he really is. I know what he's trying to do. I know what you're all trying to do. Well, it won't work. Your inspiration has no effect on me. I'm made of stronger stuff, you'll see. None of your speeches and songs and ad campaigns will get to me. And unless Nike's new campaign is "Nike: Do Fuck All", I won't be buying the t-shirt.

I went to the Paralympics and it was fantastic. I saw the wheelchair fencing finals and the men were very sporting and gentlemanly and dull while the women behaved like their opponents had stolen their baby. It was brilliant. The only bad thing about being at the paralymics was absolutely everything except for the athletes. Everyone in the crowd (except me) was an arsehole. If painting your face and screaming is your way of showing pride on your country then clearly your country has driven you insane. And don't get me started on the price of beer. I actually got suckered in, JUST FOR A MINUTE, with the whole "inspiration of the Olympics" bullshit and when I had to pay £4.50 for a plastic cup of warm lager my inspiration slammed the door and ran up to it's room to listen to Morrissey. I also watched the opening of the Paralympics on TV because....well, I guess I was inspired. It was awful. I mean calling the team of athletes from Great Britain and Northern Ireland "Team GB" is one thing but why have the fucking British military hoisting the flag at the ceremony? Jesus, Northern Ireland just isn't welcome with you guys, is it? Also, it's the fucking Paralympics. I hate to point out the obvious but our brave boys might just have made some of the foreign competitors so maybe have someone else fly the flag? The whole world loves Doctor Who. Get Colin Baker to do it, NOT THE ARMY. Then yesterday I went to see the film Dredd. I'm trying not to be lazy at the moment (God, I hope that doesn't inspire you) so I walked from Lewisham into the centre of London. The great thing was that I was out strolling and not taking a train. Well, it was great until I got to the Strand and saw the Olympic parade. Roads were closed off and thousands of pricks crowded the streets. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! I mean there were thousands of them. And they'd all been given free flags. And they waved them because they wanted to show Team GB what an inspiration it had been. That's right, Team GB had inspired thousands of people to stand in the street and wave. Look at our Union Jacks!!! We're all waving Union Jacks!! Well, it's a Union Jack on one side and a Samsung ad on the other but we're so inspired by Team GB that it makes us proud to be the tool of a major electronics company from Korea.

I ended up having to walk back to Embankment, walking up the steps of the bridge to try to get into the back of Charing Cross station so that I could use the subway there to get out at St Martin-In-The-Fields. But no. There was a policeman on guard and he said there was no way he could let me through. I mean, there clearly was a way but he decided that he wasn't going to let me. I could understand if there was a huge crowd trying to get through but there wasn't. It was just me. He explained that he couldn't let anyone through until the Olympic parade was over and I said "But I don't give a fuck about the Olympics".

Isn't that fair? I don't like the Olympics, I don't want to support Team GB and I didn't want the Olympics happening in London anyway so surely I should be given a pass that says "DOESN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE OLYMPICS" that I could flash anytime I wanted to cross a road and the police would let me through. But no. He just said "Don't swear at me, Sir". I explained that I didn't swear at him, I swore with him. "Is that illegal?, I asked. I realised I was pushing my luck and ended up walking away and getting the tube to Leicester Square. All I wanted to do was avoid taking the train and try to keep myself fit but I wasn't allowed to because our inspiring Olympic team said I couldn't. Typical.

London was apparently amazing during August. I missed it because I was in Edinburgh but lots of people told me that the atmosphere here was wonderful. People went around smiling, being friendly and chatting with strangers. That sounds horrific and I'm glad I missed it. There is practically nothing good about sport. The worst thing about it is that it's mandatory. It takes over TV, pubs and even streets. There is no other hobby that does that. The athletes should be applauded, of course, and I genuinely did get a buzz from meeting Richard Whitehead and hearing of the amazing things he's done. But look at the rest of it. Awful. And when I saw thousands of moronic sports fans waving their Samsung adverts I realised the difference between them and the people they admire. Sports fans inspire groups to be as utterly thick as they can be, to be shameful and to disrupt other people's lives in the process. Athletes inspire individuals to be the best versions of themselves. I like athletes.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Pest of the Fest.

There's only one thing worse than going to the Edinburgh Fringe and that's coming back from the Edinburgh Fringe. It just all ends too harshly. Half the festival should be sent home at the beginning of the last week, then half the remaining lot should be sent home two days later, all the posters should be burned to death on the last Friday and all flyerers who are on stilts, are dressed in their stage clothes or are happy should be arrested and decked. We should be eased into the comedown of Edinburgh but we're not. It's very cruel. For a month we drink heavily, lounge around looking fabulous, bitching about awful shows and shout about not being Dave Gorman for at least an hour a day. And then, suddenly and brutally, it's over.

The train journey back from Edinburgh to London is the most miserable experience you'll ever go through. It's mournful, lonely and scenic. The beauty of the Scottish coast and countryside does not match the ugliness oozing throughout my insides on this unholy journey to reality. For weeks before the Fringe every shiny, happy fuckwit on the internet was cheerily posting their fucking embarrassing "Guide to Surviving Edinburgh" unfunny and pointless blogs full of spiteful tips such as "Drink plenty of water" and "blow your own dad for a Kitson ticket", but where are those smiling, optimistic pricks now? That's right, they're curled up in that cupboard under the sink with a gun to their head, crying and eating their Claudia O'Doherty ticket stubs. So, where's the survival guide to coming back from the Edinburgh Fringe? I don't know but here's some stuff you can try if you're still alive.

As soon as I arrived at Waverley Station yesterday my survival instincts kicked in. It's a long and heartbreaking journey ahead; I need champagne. DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS TRAIN JOURNEY SOBER. If you do you will remember happy things and you'll burst into tears. Constantly. Also, travel First Class. Don't even think about travelling with the other performers in Shit Class. It's more expensive but you CAN earn your money back if you work hard enough during the journey. Firstly, you get free wifi which means you can go online anonymously and criticise Craig Hill's poster (an important part of any relaxing train ride) plus you'll see tweets and Facebook posts from hundreds of other performers who are emotionally destroyed by the end of the festival and there is NOTHING cheerier than reading about another depressed performer. Really perks me right up. Secondly, a bottle of champagne doesn't last long and First Class gives you FREE BOOZE. I reckon I easily got another bottle and a half of wine out of them and that really helped a lot especially as I ended up having a 25 minute chat with the improviser Deborah Francis White and, thanks to FREE BOOZE, I can't remember any of the things I must have had to listen to. 

So that's the journey home taken care of but what happens when you get home? Easy. Sure you can go out for a meal and discuss your exciting month with your loved ones, family and friends but that means your missing out in one of the major Fringe experiences: Talking to yourself. What I like to do is come back to an empty house and open and close every cupboard 35 times and then stand by the living room window for an hour just staring. After an hour, I open the curtains and stare for another hour. Then I close the curtains and agree with myself that staring this way is much better. It's time to pour yourself another drink but don't forget to forget to buy any more alcohol so that you can waste more time scrambling around the house looking for any booze at all that you can find. After relaxing with a refreshing glass of Baileys, Fanta Lemon and Mead, it's time to turn the telly on. Why not wind down from the Edinburgh Fringe by watching lots of people who didn't need to go this year because they've already made it big? That'll put you in the right mood. But don't actually watch anything. Concentrating on anything is not part of the Edinburgh comedown experience. Just flick through all the channels. Then do it again but this time, time yourself. Then do it again but this time try to break your record. When you stop crying, have another brandy and veggie gravy.

Look, that's just one way of passing the time. There are lots of things to do (and I have actually done some of these): Read all your takeaway menus and then throw them in the bin, realise you've never lied facedown on your living room floor before and then do that for a destructive amount of time, walk to the back of the garden just to touch the shed and then walk back again, realise that there aren't that many friends that live near you, get excited about next year's show before remembering that your idea has already been done by Reginald D. Hunter and people would think you doing it would be a bit racist anyway, alphabetise your problems, scream, watch The Twin Dilemma, curl up on the sofa and, through the streaming tears rolling down your face, say your show out loud to your dog.

What I'm trying to say is, the day it's all over is crap. And somehow we forget all that in time for next year. For the last month I've had a brilliant time showing off and partying. Today I'm cleaning my whole house and spraying all the furniture because Jerk has fleas. Is it right to come back from the Edinburgh Fringe to spend time dealing with irritating parasites that you can't avoid? Aw, it's like I'm still there. Thanks, Jerk!

Thanks to the brilliant Stand Comedy Club for being so good to me this year. They're the best comedy club in the country and it's baffling to me why anyone would go anywhere else during the Fringe. I love them. And thanks to Diane for the lovely flat (can I stay there next year, please?). If you came to my show then I'm incredibly grateful. It was a fun year. Now to try to get through the next few days. A glass of pernod and water?

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Seagullible.

Never been to the Edinburgh festival? Well, let me tell you exactly what it's like.

A couple of days ago I needed some things in Sainsbury's but I had very little time to do it because I had to get to my show. I'd spent the morning doing an interview for BBC Breakfast, getting my picture taken for a GQ Edinburgh Fringe special and script editing my new TV series. And by all that I mean I woke up, urinated for 26 minutes and then fell asleep on the sofa watching cartoons. It's all much the same thing. I shuffled my equivalent of a body towards Sainsbury's and spent the journey worrying. I've a lot to buy and very little money and next to no time. Why can't I be more organised? Why don't I do something better for a living? Why didn't I go to Sainsbury's yesterday instead of drinking? Why don't I do something that will earn me lots of money? Why am I here?

Just a few feet away from Sainsbury's, a very large seagull did a massive shit on me.

I have to say, top marks for aim and quantity to that seagull. In that way, I'm impressed. And his timing couldn't have been better. I have a proper massive splatter of seagull excrement on my shoulder, all down the left side of my t-shirt and even some on my neck PLUS I have no time to go back and change. So, I went shopping around Sainsbury's with more than the recommended amout of animal faeces on me. Lovely. About 10 minutes of walking up and down aisles while freaking out customers and upsetting staff while they all pointed in horror and tried not to be sick.

THAT is what it's like up here. You worry and fret but you convince yourself that you're doing the right thing but once you get here you realise you're just dragging shit around that makes other people disgusted at you. 

Yesterday's show was proof of that. The room was hot and stuffy and about 10 minutes before the end a woman right at the front row started to faint. Her boyfriend/husband/owner (I didn't ask) motioned to me that they were both about to leave due to the heat and it definitely had nothing at all to do with the never popular "Pie Chart" segment of my show. He got up but she didn't. She stared at me longer than any woman has ever been able to stare at me so I knew something bad had happened. I asked if she was OK, did she need water and who won the World Snooker Championship in 1982 and she didn't answer at all. She just stared. Right. Time to panic. I opened the window, someone opened the doors and I asked if anyone knew CPR. I don't know if CPR is even the thing that's needed right now but I knew that snooker trivia wasn't going to help. Simon Donald was at the back of the room and rushed to her aid. "Put your head between your legs", he said to the woman just as he has done for 25 years in his comic. She started to feel a bit better almost immediately. What a total hero. It was a brilliantly weird moment when you think to yourself "God, that woman looked like she might have died right in front of me. Thank God the creator of Viz was in".

Simon, I love you and thanks also to my other friend Simon who spent the last 10 minutes of my show holding up a window to let air in despite getting pins and needles. People are lovely at the Fringe.

I've decided to try to follow the lead for the lovely Fringe folk. If you're up here and on Twitter then please check the #LetsSellThisGigOut hashtag every day. The first one is tonight and it could only be Simon Donald with his School For Swearing at The Stand 2 at 10.30pm. Come along!

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Get more Legge embarrassment at the Edinburgh Fringe. I'm very proud and happy to say that my show, Michael Legge: What a Shame, is on nearly every day of the fringe at the fantastic Stand Comedy Club. Here's info: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/michael-legge-what-a-shame  

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Bad Review.

I am in Edinburgh. I mean, I'm definitely in Edinburgh now. You're not really at the Edinburgh Fringe until something awful or upsetting or completely stupid happens. Well, I had my first one of those yesterday. 

As I left The Stand Comedy Club's Best of Irish show (that's right. I'm one of the very best Irish things ever), I walked up York Place and a Scottish lady stopped me to ask for directions. She was very, very, very, very Scottish. Her accent was amazing. "Excuse me", she said. "Do you know where The Stand is, please?" I did know where The Stand was. It's one of the loveliest places in the world and it was right at the end of this road. I gave the lady the information and then, in an accent thicker than a vomiting man with a lisp, she said "SHIT HEAD".

Brilliant. I've got myself in my first fight of the Fringe. It never takes long so I wasn't that surprised. I thanked the lady and once again she stared at me and loudly said "SHIT HEAD". 

Yeah, alright, love. So maybe I'm NOT one of the best things about Ireland but I never made the claim. Blame The Stand. They booked me. I suppose The Undertones, Tayto crisps and the Giant's Causeway were busy so they were lumped with me. It's not my fault. I don't deserve to be shouted at like that. I gave the woman one of my looks (you know the one. I'll have looked at you like that before, I'm sure) and I said "What's your problem?" She looked at me like she was talking to the stupidest man on Earth and slowed her accent way down. "IS. IT. STRAIGHT. AHEAD?"

Ah, Edinburgh. There you are.

I have a new thing to hate about posters on the Fringe too. That's fun. I've seen the same really pointless press quote on a lot of posters and I can't even begin to understand what it means: "Refreshingly honest". How the fuck can anything be refreshingly honest? Isn't being honest utterly normal? Who the hell have these critics been watching that they think ANYONE is refreshingly honest? Has Richard Nixon got a one man show? Did they all take Pinocchio THAT seriously? Is Joe Power the only person that they have ever seen in their entire lives? And why would a comedian want the quote "Refreshingly honest" on their poster anyway? It doesn't say anything. No one gets excited by the truth. No one leaves a comedy show happily saying "I never laughed once but, Jesus Christ, I never doubted that guy for a second. I feel like I've just stepped out of a citrus shower. I am so fucking amazingly god damned refreshed". No, the only reason that a comedian would have "Refreshingly honest" is because they're delighted that, once again, they've got away with lying. 

I've seen two shows so far and I can highly recommend them both: Bad Musical on at the Gilded Balloon at 5pm and Claudia O'Doherty at Underbelly at 7.45pm. My show was great fun yesterday. It's still a complete mess but a fun mess. Plus it's mostly true stories. Mostly. There are two complete lies in it and one stretching of the truth, I can admit that. Which is so refreshing.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Get more Legge embarrassment at the Edinburgh Fringe. I'm very proud and happy to say that my show, Michael Legge: What a Shame, is on nearly every day of the fringe at the fantastic Stand Comedy Club. Here's info: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/michael-legge-what-a-shame  

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Sore Ed.

So here I am once more, in the playground of the broken hearts...

Balls. Why in the name of fuck have I come back to the Edinburgh fucking Fringe? Why didn't you stop me from coming back? This is all your fault, you massive bastard. Now I have 4 weeks of being leapt on by young people who are really happy to tell you about their improvised musical semi-autobiographical one man juggling topical sketch revue play and 4 weeks of avoiding comedians who "sold out again tonight" and 4 weeks of rain, misery and failure.

Please come to see my show.

To be very honest, I'm having a breakdown already. Yesterday was Day One and already I've gone mad. It's the loneliness, you see. I've never done Edinburgh on my own before and it's horribly lonely. It's really hard doing a show without Johnny Candon or Robin Ince. Really hard. I mean, it's not as hard as doing a show with Johnny Candon or Robin Ince but it's bloody tough. I miss those guys. And it's been lonely right from the beginning. As soon as I got to King's Cross station on Monday I met Dan Mersh and Paul Litchfield of The Trap and we celebrated the beginning of a month of hell by them immediately going to standard class on the train and me to first class. Oh, I might be wealthy enough to be able to afford luxury but it's lonely at the top of the mountain. I sat on my own while they went with the other poor people to play fiddles, drink whisky, dance and shag our wealthy fiances. I just sat on my own and worried. It wasn't all bad. I met Les Dennis on the train and we are now best friends. He calls me Leggy. Well, I hope he will one day. I love Les. I wonder if he'll ever call me? It's been 3 days now. Please don't leave me alone up here, Les. I need you.

I'm jealous of everyone up here this year. Everyone is more successful and funnier than me. And none of them are lonely. The Trap make me sick. Not only do they have 3 people in their sketch group but also they have about 5 other people on their team. One to direct the show, one produce it, one to tech it, one to usher it and one to write "CUNTS" on all the Idiots Of Ants posters. I could have done that. Why can't I be in a team? Why do I have to be alone? Being solo is shit. Even more so if you're me. I'm the last person I want to work with. 

I wonder if the really successful solo stand up comedians feel like this? I hope not. I wouldn't wish any of them to feel this alone and frightened and sick. I mean, I hope most of them do but in theory I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone. Mind you, Edinburgh is keeping me too busy to feel genuinely sorry for myself. And when I say busy, I mean furiously angry. Today I saw a cunt flyering his show while he had his pants round his ankles. If anyone punches him I will buy them a helicopter. Last night a woman sang me a description of her fucking awful show. If anyone punches her I will buy them a helicopter full of wine. But, for the billionth year running, the real cunts of the Edinburgh Fringe are the wankers who INSIST on putting "Star of..." on their posters. What do you mean "Star of the Michael McIntyre Comedy Roadshow"? Are you Michael Mcintyre? "Star of 8 Out Of 10 Cats"? Are you Jimmy Carr? ARE YOU JIMMY CARR? No. You're not. You're Josh Widdecombe and don't you forget it.

My show started yesterday. I was delighted that anyone at all came to see it. Thank you to those who did. It was fun but it's not quite there yet. I've come up with a brand new beginning and ending that I think is very funny. Mind you, I've had to drop one of my favourite bits which I also thought was very funny but ABSOLUTELY EVERYONE DISAGREED. That's fine. I like the show changing. Come see it now and then again at the end. You can play Spot The Difference.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Get more Legge embarrassment at the Edinburgh Fringe. I'm very proud and happy to say that my show, Michael Legge: What a Shame, is on nearly every day of the fringe at the fantastic Stand Comedy Club. Here's info: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/michael-legge-what-a-shame  

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Socialnetworkiopath.

I will die because of Twitter. One way or another Twitter will kill me. 

Last night I played the 2,300 seater Royal Festival Hall in London and my support act, Stewart Lee, said that he never looks on Twitter because it's dangerous. He's right. Of course, that didn't stop me and my beautiful vanity from looking up my own name on Twitter after the show. It was quite pleasant that some people said nice things but really it was the two negative tweets that had the most impact. "Loud and boorish" is quite accurate, I suppose, so I can't really argue but "really bad" is a terrible thing to say. I mean, if I thought a comedian was really bad I wouldn't say "Oh, he was really bad". I'd say something like "Fuck me, I've seen funnier things crawl out of my Granny's corpse" (that was Tweeted to me in October last year) or "If you're a comedian then I'm King Bigcock, you cunt" (Tweeted to me in March). I mean that was probably that man's one and only chance to see me or even hear of me and therefore his only chance to have his opinion thrown into the void and he blew it. "Really bad". That is a tedious thing to say. If he thinks he can review comedy or give his opinion on comedy then he can "Fuck off, get AIDS and die" (Tweeted to me about 18 months ago).

And, by the way, before you say anything, Stewart Lee WAS my support act at the Royal Festival Hall. I was NOT his support act. I didn't pay him, I didn't offer him an opportunity to be seen by a couple of thousand people who wouldn't know me from Douieb. HE supported ME. So get that right, OK?

Don't Feed The Trolls is often a phrase read on Twitter. Mean people writing to celebrities and me saying nasty things and we're supposed to ignore them. They're meaningless. They just want attention.

But what if we did feed them?

A few months ago a man on Twitter wrote to me saying "You're about as funny as famine. Give up". Clearly, this man hasn't seen the hilarious antics of Lenny Henry and Jonathan Ross on Comic Relief that prove how side-splittingly wacky famine can be. But I wrote back to him and thanked him for the advice. He then wrote again saying "I hope you die of cancer". Now, that's not very nice, is it? I let that stew in my brain for a while. I remembered what everyone said. "Don't feed the trolls". Don't reply, Michael. That's what he wants.

But why let him off?

I started to get angry. Mainly angry at Twitter for coming up with such a spineless, wet, namby pampy statement like "Do not feed the trolls". Fuck off, Twitter. I'm going to feed the trolls. I'm going to force feed the trolls. I'm going to shove everything down their fucking cowardly throats. 

My blood boiled so I thought I'd reply with something scathing but it was just then that I realised this man's Twitter name was his real name. My heard pounded and my mind punched me in the balls. LOOK HIM UP ON FACEBOOK, MICHAEL. FIND THE FUCKER. Shut up, Twitter. WELL, IF YOU'RE GOING TO IGNORE OUR ADVICE YOU MIGHT AS WELL GO ALL THE WAY. FIND HIM. LET'S HUNT THE CUNT. No. No, I just want to call him a big wally. I don't want to be mean. SHUT UP. WE TOLD YOU NOT TO FEED THE TROLLS. YOU'RE FEEDING THEM. NOW LET'S MAKE THEM PUKE ALL OF IT BACK UP AGAIN.

My hand moved on it's own. I grabbed the mouse on my computer and clicked on to Facebook. Involuntarily, my hands jumped on to the keyboard. I don't want to do this, Twitter. TOO FUCKING BAD. WE'RE DOING THIS TOGETHER, MICHAEL. I looked at my hands. They were bright red and sweaty. Each of my knuckles had grown a tiny demon face that laughed at my fear of what I was about to do. The demon faces typed in the name of the man who had simply and innocently hoped that I would die. And there he was. This man who had only made a joke about me dying. He was only having a laugh and now I'd turned into this horrible, twisted man who must live in the shadows. A man hunting human flesh. I closed my eyes but my eyelashes turned into the arms and hands of bats and they forced my eyelids open. I could see this man's Facebook page in front of me. It had his place of work on it. It's an office in Manchester.

GOOGLE IT.

I will not Google it, Twitter. Leave this poor man alone. We unknown comedians and celebrities can't just go around bullying people who wish death upon us. It's their right to abuse us. After all, we knew people would want us to die when we took the job. FUCKING GOOGLE IT, I SAID. My hands pissed themselves laughing as they ran across they keys typing the man's workplace into Google. There it was. I had his name, his workplace, his work phone number plus the name of his boss and his girlfriend.

RING HIM.

No. That's too much. He hasn't done anything wrong. He's just having a laugh. FUCKING RING THE LITTLE SHIT. From the waist down my body had turned into that of a snake. Oh, Twitter, please don't do this. I slithered across the living room and my laughing demon hands grabbed the phone and dialled the numbers. I was terrified. Twitter was laughing. The phone rang and rang and laughed and rang. My heart pounded and my mind started eating itself. Please don't do this, Twitter. What have you done to me?

A receptionist answered. I said nothing. I can't say anything. This is madness. Why am I calling a troll? Why is Twitter doing this to me? It can't make me talk. I'll say nothing and the receptionist will just hang up. That's when Twitter itself came out of my mouth.

CAN YOU PUT ME THROUGH TO **** ********, PLEASE?

Oh, God. No. Please, no. The receptionist was pleasant and courteous like the damned and she cheerily put me through. What twisted hell this is. Can't you see that when people are mean to us, we just want to laugh it off? Why has Twitter changed me into this monster?

"Hello, **** ******** speaking".

RIGHT. BEFORE I SAY ANYTHING ELSE I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I'VE BEEN PUT THROUGH TO YOU VIA A SWITCHBOARD. IF YOU HANG UP, I'LL JUST CALL AGAIN AND GO THROUGH TO YOUR BOSS.

"Who is this?"

IT'S MICHAEL LEGGE.

The silence was long, heavy and loud. It wasn't Michael Legge. It was the paranoia that is Twitter. I could have just let this guy off with it. Blocked him. Carry on with my life and be happy. But no. I am a Twitter subscriber and therefore I am a wreck. People say horrible things all the time and look, I've snapped. Who could have seen that coming?

"Look, I'm really sorry. I was out of order. I'll delete those tweets now".

OH, I KNOW YOU'RE SORRY. BUT LET'S SEE HOW SORRY YOU REALLY ARE. HOW BIG IS YOUR OFFICE?

"Not very big".

IS IT OPEN PLAN?

"Yes".

HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU WORK WITH?

"12".

RIGHT. HERE'S WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO DO. YOU'RE GOING TO PUT THE PHONE RECEIVER DOWN ON YOUR DESK. THEN YOU'RE GOING TO STAND UP AND LOUDLY SAY "I'M A LITTLE PIGGY. OINK OINK OINK".

"What?"

YOU FUCKING HEARD ME.

"But I can't really..."

WELL, I'VE GOT YOUR BOSSES NUMBER AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND'S FACEBOOK ACCOUNT. SHALL I JUST LET THEM KNOW HOW YOU SPEND YOUR TIME?

He put the phone reciever down on his desk and I clearly heard him loudly say that he was a little piggy. He followed that statement by saying oink three times. He picked up the reciever and said "OK?". Twitter replied. THAT'S BETTER. MY LITTLE PIGGY ALWAYS DOES AS HE'S TOLD, DOESN'T HE? The man said yes and Twitter and I hung up.

I shook. Why the hell had that happened? Who would take Twitter that seriously? Why did I let Twitter take over? My snake body and bat eyes disappeared. My weird hands stayed as they were because, well, I have weird hands. Oh, Twitter. You're so fucking stupid.

A few days ago I was looking on my phone at Twitter. I was on my way to a meeting but only concentrating on scrolling through tweets. I slipped. I was fine though so kept walking and scrolling. Then I tripped over an iron bollard that was ripped open exposing sharp, pointy, dangerous metal. I was lucky to not be seriously hurt. That could have gashed my leg horribly. But I was OK so I kept on walking and scrolling. A few seconds later a man grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards. A car flew by in front of me. Jesus Christ. Twitter will kill me.

All I'm saying is, Twitter isn't that good.

But here's my account anyway: www.twitter.com/michaellegge 

Get more Legge embarrassment at the Edinburgh Fringe. I'm very proud and happy to say that my show, Michael Legge: What a Shame, is on nearly every day of the fringe at the fantastic Stand Comedy Club. Here's info: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/michael-legge-what-a-shame  

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.

Vim Fuego.

“Who is like unto the beast? Who is able to make war with him?” – Revelations, 13.4

There are only two places you’re likely to see a quote like that, if you don’t count this blog, and those places are some boring, rubbishy bible or the inner sleeve of a totally amazing Heavy Metal album. In this blog I would like to pose a very important question that I think each and every person on this accursed earth should ask themselves: Is Heavy Metal the most perfect form of music ever?

I’m going to stick my tattooed, headbanging neck out and say yes. Heavy Metal is the ONLY perfect musical art form. Not rock, not fucking soft rock but proper chunky, fast, galloping Heavy Metal. The difference between Heavy Metal and all other kinds of music should be pretty clear. It gives a shit. Other music wants you to relate, understand, sympathise or actually make you take stock of everything you’ve ever said or done. In other words, other music is manipulative. Other music is a liar. Heavy Metal isn’t like that. There is only one emotion in Heavy Metal and that emotion is FUCKYEAH! It just wants you to have a good time all of the time. No one has ever nursed a broken heart to Heavy Metal. It’s so infuriating when someone says “Every time I put the radio on, the song reminds me of him/her”. THEN LISTEN TO A METAL STATION, YOU TWAT. Heavy Metal won’t patronise you like indie music will. It doesn’t talk down to you, it lifts you up. Those guitar riffs are there to make you want to raise your fist in the air and shout “I ONLY HAVE ABOUT 85 YEARS ON THIS PLANET SO LET’S START LIVIIIIIIIIING!!!” Big, fat, cartoon guitar riffs and thundering bass lines and drums like bombs and lyrics that take you to the very heart of what it must be like to be an Orc.

And why not? Who in their right mind wants to wallow in real life? That’s why most indie music doesn’t make any sense. Music is escapism but if you listen to My Bloody Valentine or Arctic Monkeys or Ed fucking Sheeran where are you escaping to? Escaping to your own existence doesn’t seem like much of a journey to me. That’s the beauty of Heavy Metal. And it is beautiful, by the way. Heavy Metal isn’t about you (well, not unless you’re Genghis Khan), Heavy Metal is FOR you. It doesn’t want to see you down. It doesn’t want to remind you of your problems and it doesn’t want to hear your problems. Jump In The Fire by Metallica is a song that demands you get up off your cry-baby arse and join it, Crazy Train by Ozzy Osbourne is offering you a piggy-back and a slap in the face at the same time and if you put The Trooper by Iron Maiden on your iPod instead of Adele you will definitely walk taller and with a much more purposeful stride. And that’s good for your health. Healthy Metal.

Which brings me to this: Why is Iron Maiden not opening the Olympics? That just doesn’t make any sense. They’re the biggest band ever from East London selling over 85 million records and they definitely know how to put on a show. Instead we have Duran Duran. Let’s think about that. How many athletes train while listening to pumped up Heavy Metal and how many have pushed themselves to the very limits while listening to “Save a Prayer”? Does the Daley Thompson/Lucozade/Phantom of the Opera advert mean nothing now? Also it would just be nice if the London Olympics were represented by a band from London. Duran Duran are from Birmingham and even if the Olympics were held in Birmingham, Duran Duran still shouldn’t be asked. It should be Black Sabbath. When I saw Black Sabbath performing one of their many last ever gigs in 1997 I genuinely felt an incredible outpouring of love. As soon as I saw Ozzy run (he sort of ran) on stage my heart just grew. The first song they performed was War Pigs and for the next two hours 8,000 people bounced. We bounced because it was two hours of music that wanted everything outside that room to just fuck off. War, famine, heartbreak, financial ruin…these were all tedious and insignificant nothings next to four old men being very, very loud.

And that volume is what it’s all about. Why listen to some acoustic boy wailing about how he doesn’t fit in with this cold, cold existence when you have noise that bricks up the outside world so we don’t have to even register it? I mean if a song doesn’t make you feel like you’re charging on a horse while thrusting a sword in front of yourself it can’t really be much of a song, can it? But then Heavy Metal is whatever you want it to be really. To some I suppose it must be dark and serious and meaningful. It’s even political sometimes. I’ve never got all that. To me it’s just fun, energetic and brilliantly daft. I’m sure there are Metal fans out there who don’t really like to admit this but there’s not too much difference between our superb music and a big, camp, brilliantly daft West End musical. Have I lost you with that bit? OK, let me try to win you back with two wonderful Heavy Metal facts. Firstly, Black Sabbath are a four-piece band with three vegan members (The Smiths only have one vegan member and it’s not even leather-wearing, cheese-eating Morrissey) and secondly, the song that toppled Mistletoe & Wine by Cliff Richard off the top of the charts was Iron Maiden’s Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter. God, I love Heavy Metal.

Of course, I love my indie music really but I’m glad I had those Heavy Metal teenage years. I can’t tell you how fucking fed up I am right now (mainly because I don’t know you and it’s none of your business) but it isn’t my Rough Trade 5-disc boxset I’m turning to. It’s Heavy Metal. Loud, obnoxious, unpopular and ridiculous Heavy Metal. I guess I just relate to it.

Recommended listening: The Real Thing by Faith No More, Among The Living by Anthrax, Iron Maiden by Iron Maiden, Powerslave by Iron Maiden, Master of Puppets by Metallica, Paranoid by Black Sabbath, Reign In Blood by Slayer, Holy Diver by Dio, Blizzard of Ozz by Ozzy Osbourne, British Steel by Judas Priest, Stay Hungry by Twisted Sister (Well, I like it), Antichrist Superstar by Marilyn Manson,  Peace Sells…But Who’s Buying? By Megadeth and pretty much any AC/DC album. It’s a basic, pretty obvious list but if you’ve never given Heavy Metal a go because you think it looks stupid just remember that looking stupid is fun and funny. Fun. Just remember fun when you’re next listening to your fucking indie music next time.

That’s the schmaltziest blog I’ve written in ages but I get the feeling tomorrow’s will be furious. I’ve noticed that the comedy world has decided that Mrs. Brown’s Boys is actually very funny indeed and, oh look, it’s won a BAFTA. I feel fucking sick.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge  

If you like being embarrassed as much as I do or just want to point and laugh at my many embarrassing moments then why not go to Michael Legge's Private Hell on the 3rd June with guests Richard Herring, Catie Wilkins and Dab & Tench or on the 1st July with Nick Helm and Bridget Christie? Shows start at 3pm at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London (nearest tube Oxford Circus) and it costs an unbelievable £5.  

Or you can get more Legge embarrassment at the Edinburgh Fringe. I'm very proud and happy to say that my show, Michael Legge: What a Shame, is on nearly every day of the fringe at the fantastic Stand Comedy Club. Here's info: http://www.edfringe.com/whats-on/comedy/michael-legge-what-a-shame  

If you're too lazy to read my blog or are in fact blind then why not subscribe to Blogging For The Blind at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or look up Michael Legge on iTunes and subscribe there for free also. Thanks.This blog is also available on Kindle but I don't recommend you get that. It's bollocks.