London 0 - Irish 0.

I love television. I think it's wonderful that there is a place that nutures talent and let's imaginations flow, creating brand new landscapes for intelligent minds to wander in wonder. But I also like that there's television; a dumping ground for half-formed fuckwits to writhe around in their own shit, using their constant stream of tears as lubricant so they can freely go and fuck themselves. 

If that sounds negative then let me reassure you that I don't mean to be. Television has suffered for years and only now is it beginning to throw off the chains of oppression. OPPRESSION.

We supposedly live in a free country but television has always been the victim of people who would rather silence than listen to the freedom of the people, if only the people really had that freedom. For the past few decades television has been on trial and has always been found guilty. YOU CAN'T SAY THAT ABOUT THAT MINORITY! the "man" would say and poor, tiny, frightened telly would shed a tear and comply. AND YOU CAN'T SAY THAT ABOUT THAT MINORITY EITHER! demanded Herr Commandant Man again and, like a child that only wanted to be loved, television did as it was ordered. Soon, practically all groups that form our society were treated with cold, clinical, almost Nazi-esque respect. Irrational mockery of minorities (ie, our culture) was being "cleansed" and there wasn't a single faction of society that wasn't horribly protected. Not a single one. Not a heterosexual male one anyway. It seemed that television was being forced to include absolutely everyone. Everyone except one final osctracised cluster of everyday folk: the prejudiced.

It hasn't been easy to be prejudiced and then relax with a bit of telly at the end of the day since hate had it's 70's heyday. Television has been manipulated into opening it's arms to everyone for years but in doing so it has naturally closed a door on those that hate fucking every fucking one. Well, television has fought back. If everyone MUST be included, then everyone WILL be included. Finally, those people with a chip on their shoulder and hate in their hearts have the medium they loved returned to them after 30 years of banishment. Finally, the apartheid is over.

Yes, the left are well catered for with an array of culturally significant programmes (X-Factor, Celebrity Big Brother, Strictly Come Dancing are all programmes that our liberal, intelligent friends constantly post tweets about) but isn't it wonderful that in 2013 television has decided to turn the clock back and welcome the return of hate into our living rooms? Big Fat Gypsy Wedding (stupid Irish cunts), Embarrassing Bodies (stupid fat cunts) and The Only Way Is Essex (stupid fucking stupid cunts from Essex, fucking typical of fucking Essex they is, fucking stupid Essex home of fucking Billy Bragg, Ian Holm, Darren Hayman, Luke Wright, Phill Jupitus (sort of) and, of course, Charlotte fucking Rampling. They're SCUUUUUM.). Those are just three of the many shows that television has bravely gifted to the prejudiced so they can look down their noses at other people who, no matter how awful, will still be better than anyone who watches these programmes. But it's not just reality TV that caters so well for people with kindness difficulties. Sit-coms are in on the action too. Take London Irish for example.

Where to fucking begin? Well, it's a comedy about Northern Irish people living in London and as a Northern Irish person living in London and vaguely working in comedy, I thought this would be right up my street. But, no. Television did not make this programme for me. It already makes more than enough TV programmes for me, thank you very much. Doctor Who, It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia....er...that's it. Clearly television wanted this show to get the approval of anyone who thinks all stinking paddys are thick, so no stereotype was left out at all. London Irish follows four completely unlikeable cunts who say "retard" in an accent that isn't from Earth. It's utterly amazing to me to watch Northern Irish people putting on a Northern Irish accent. I mean, they've already got one.

Not all of the main cast are actually from Northern Ireland, of course. Some are from Ireland but, sure, that's near enough. We can't expect television executives to research things AND feed their coke habit. The opening scene, JUST IN CASE YOU WEREN'T SURE IF THIS WAS A PROGRAMME ABOUT PADDYS OR NOT, features all four members of the main cast saying stupid things while drinking heavily. This was a chance to show how funny, inventive, charismatic and individual the people of Northern Ireland can be...but, wait...then we're being prejudiced towards prejudiced people again. Let's just make them thick and wankered, eh? Oh, and just to make sure, have one of them piss themselves.

So. That's the first 30 seconds taken care of. What about the rest? Well, they're Northern Irish so they're constantly hating one another. And there's women in it. Good to see in the year that Bridget Christie wins the Edinburgh Award for a very funny show about feminism that television is bravely bucking the trend and making the female leads slags. And if none of that appeals to you then don't worry because London Irish also stars Ardal O'Hanlon as a man who has a car.

Why is this OK now? How come we've gone back to pointing and mocking "Irish" people for being stupid? It seems to have started with Mrs. Brown's Boys and even Jason Byrne's new sitcom Father Figure, although nowhere near as bad, is basically a stupid paddy with a stupid paddy family. And now London Irish. How can television get away with making this sort of dated bullshit aimed only at encouraging people's prejudices? Easy. GET THE STUPID PADDYS TO DO IT THEMSELVES! As long as they're the ones being stupid then we can laugh at them all. Brilliant!

Not brilliant. It is actually possible to do Irish/Northern Irish comedy without lowering anyone's intelligence. Dave Allen is a pretty good example. Flann O'Brien is another. While reading his book, The Third Policeman, this week I couldn't help but think of London Irish. Yes, there are fools in Flann's book. And, yes, these fools are Irish. There are numerous mentions of places in Ulster anyway, but the difference is clear. Flann didn't hate the people he wrote about. He clearly loved them. He gave them the same charm, wit and originality that he saw in the people in his life. "Would it astonish you to hear that he is nearly half a bicycle?" is not a line that you're likely to hear in London Irish. I wonder why you don't see less stupid paddys on TV? Are people really that horrible? Well, yeah. They are.

My point is, there are good and great funny things from Ireland and Northern Ireland if you fancied taking a look. You don't need to be reminded about how much some people clearly hate themselves. Instead, give your attention to Flann, Dave, Colin Murphy, Seamus Heaney, Gráinne Maguire, Ruaidhrí Ward, any film with Michael Smiley in it (none of them are stereotypical), Dylan Moran, THE FUCKING UNDERTONES, Christian Talbot, Alan Irwin (there's a whole brilliant Northern Irish comedy scene on the rise), Maeve Higgins...look, there's loads. All funny people who don't hate themselves or other people from their country.

Imagine if they were all on telly though? I think the prejudiced might just change their minds and soon we'd have wiped them all out. A whole minority cleansed. 

And just in case you weren't that offended by the sound of London Irish then know this: the male lead is called Packey.

Jesus fucking Christ.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Mr. Cellophane.

Hello. My name is Michael. You don't know me because I've very cleverly gone under the radar. No TV station, production company, casting agent or publisher has ever noticed that I exist. It's so difficult to work in comedy and have absolutely no one notice you but to me it's been effortless. It's easy because I'm invisible.

I can go to parties and not be noticed, go to a bar and never get served because I'm not there. I've had friends tell me about what a good night they had the night before, I should have been there. I was there. When I walk towards automatic doors, they never open. I'm thinking of writing a book about what it's like to be the invisible man. I'm going to call it See-Through Guy. 

But there are a few, just a few, people who have noticed that I exist. And I hate one of them.

A few times a week I go to my local greasy spoon in Lewisham and have a hangover breakfast. I work so hard to get a hangover so I deserve a lovely, disgusting meal to treat myself. Then one day I noticed that the cafe had all completely new staff. It was still the same level of care and service (grunts, plate thrown at you) but the faces were new. Still desperately sad looking, but new. Well, not all of the faces were sad. One was joyous. One was a face belonging to the friendliest man in the world. A warm, welcoming smile that said how pleased it was to see you. He was a man who didn't just take your order and serve your food. He cared about you. He cared about how you were, how your day was, how life was treating you. Basically, he was a very good person.

And I hate him.

Every fucking time I go in there he fucking smiles and says hello like a total cunt. "How are you? What have you been up to? How's work?" JUST FUCK OFF. I come into a miserable greasy spoon cafe to be treated like the dying animal I am. If I wanted to hang around someone who actually cared about me I'd....well, I don't know what I'd do but I wouldn't come here. It got to the point where I was scared to go into the cafe. I was actually terrified of kindness. He's going to speak to me and, because I am still vaguely human, I'm going to have to talk back to him. I don't want a conversation. I don't want a friend. I just want to sit in a corner with grease and feel grey. WHAT'S SO WRONG WITH THAT?

But that's the thing about me. I can only take so much. I can only take so much and then I snap. Every single time I went in there he welcomed me, asked about how I was and then hoped I had a good day. Well, he pushed and he pushed and I just couldn't take it any more. I decided that if he was too friendly again that I would NEVER go back. It's harsh, I know, but if he wants me to stay he can wind his smile in and shut the fuck up. Just like everyone else. This is it. I'm going in. But if he so much as asks how I am then my decision is final: I AM NOT COMING BACK.

He took my order and my money and that was it.

No smile. No "How are you?". Nothing.

FUCKING BRILLIANT. Oh, joy. I have my old cafe back. Look, everyone is miserable. EVERYONE! Everyone including him. Oh, I'm so glad he's decided to assimilate. I should have told him resistance is futile in Lewisham. Even the food he threw down in front of me tasted better. I'm going to enjoy coming back here. It's a nice, quiet, dank place for me to go to and be ignored again. I love being The See-Through Guy.

Then another customer walked in and went up to the counter to give his order. "HELLO!", I heard. "How are you? Good to see you, my friend. You look great today. Let me get you something nice. What would you like?"

Aw, no! It was a one-off. I clearly got the cheery cafe worker at a good moment when he couldn't be bothered to be cheery and now he's back to his former upsettingly happy self. Shit. I wanted a Diet Coke to take away with me and now I'm going to have to get it with him being all fucking happy again. I'll go up there and it'll be all "HEY! My friend! Good to see you! How are you today?". Crap. Still, best get it all over with. 

I went up to the counter and asked for a Diet Coke. He gave it to me and said "£1.20".

That was it.

No smile. No "How are you?". No nothing.

What have I done? He...he used to love me. He asked about me nearly every day. He kept saying how good it was to see me. He used to tell me how beautiful I looked. Well, not beautiful... but good. But now it felt like he had told me I was beautiful...it felt like he had cared...it feels like he was the only one who did care. He saw me. He saw The See-Through Guy. I just didn't know what I had and now...it's gone.

I've been back to the cafe almost every day since and every day is the same. I walk in, he says nothing, he welcomes everyone but me and then I leave. Why can't he see me? 

I decided to walk in with a huge smile on my face. "HELLO!", I'd say. He would turn and look straight through me, sighing and rattling phlegm as he jotted down my order. I'd ask him how he was. He just turned his back and repeated the order to the cook.

The other day, I noticed he had a football calendar. It featured various sport players from the Red Team. I decided to find out the real name of the Red Team and chat to him about them. That's right, I was willing to actually have a conversation about football with this guy. I know it seems extreme but sometimes you just have to really compromise for love. And I was willing to do that. The Red Team's name was Arsenal and even though that name made me giggle, I was going to take this very seriously. For him. I did some research and rehearsed it in my head all the way to the cafe. "So, you like Arsenal, eh? Me too. I think it's brilliant that they're an English Premier League football club based in Holloway. Founded in 1886, eh, mate? Brilliant. And what about that Tottenham Hotspur? That's a rivalry that's long-standing".

I'd definitely done all the work but just as I said "So, you like Arsenal, eh?", he said "Not my calendar" and walked away. HOW CAN I GET HIM TO LOVE ME? Then another customer appeared and the cafe man beamed a huge smile and shook his hand. Sigh...

Just a few days ago, it was sunny. A really hot sunny beautiful day. Not that I enjoyed it. I couldn't because I still couldn't get the cafe man to notice me again. I went to the cafe, as usual, determined for him to see me. I hate being The See-Through Guy.

Nothing. I was ignored completely so I just sat down and ate. Then the Cafe Man walked over to the doorway and just stood in it, soaking up the sun. I ate my food quickly then ran up to buy my takeaway Diet Coke just so I could pass Cafe Man in the doorway and talk to him. HE'S IN A DOORWAY! THERE'S NOWHERE ELSE TO GO! He HAS to talk to me...

I stood right beside him in the doorway and realised that it was now or never. This was my moment. "Lovely day", I said.

"Uuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmm.....", he replied. "I suppose".

WHAT THE FUCK WAS IT WITH THE LONG UUUUUUUMMMMMMM? Did he actually want time to find fault in this sunny day so he could disagree with me? I've got him trapped in a doorway. He has NO CHOICE but to see me but he would actually rather deny that it was a nice day than speak to me? I stormed off, hurt, as I heard him welcome another customer to the cafe. Why does my heart feel so bad?

Just two days ago I went back to the cafe. He was there. His huge smile wasn't. I'm not sure I cared.

I ordered my breakfast and sat in my usual grey corner. The radio was playing something awful from the 80's. I half listened as I ate my breakfast. I started thinking back to when I first saw the Cafe Man. "I'm not denying, we're flying above it all", went the song as I thought about all the times we talked to each other. His huge smile. "Hold my hand, don't let me fall". We used to actually laugh about other customers, together. "You've such amazing grace". And he'd say it was good to see me. "I've never felt this way".

I finished my breakfast but before I could get up to get my usual takeway Diet Coke, one appeared in front of me. The Cafe Man patted me on the back and said "On the house" and then walked away.

I sat there for a moment looking at the drink. I smiled and listened to the bad 80's music.

"oh, ooh, oh, show me heaven...cover me, leave me breathless".

I left the cafe, walking taller. Hey, we're not where we once were but it's a start at a time when all I could see was the end. As I crossed the road a car drove past and skidded. The driver was completely out of control of the car. It then reversed towards me at speed and I thought this is it. I'm actually going to die. The car missed me by a few feet and crashed into a wall. I don't think the driver meant to speed towards me while trying to get control of his car. I just think he didn't see me.

I don't care. It's still great to be The See-Through Guy.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Edinburgh Fringe 2013.

What gets me through the Edinburgh Fringe? What makes me want to go to a place filled with pretentious arseholes and desperate attention seekers? How can anyone find a reason to go to a place where every single day is taken up with dodging flyers and other people's good reviews? Fucking slow moving tourists constantly in your way and sitting through your good friend's bullshit "show" in a damp, boiling hot anus of a venue. How the hell can anyone survive a day knowing they have to walk under that underpass just before Bristo Square? It's fine at night time. You'll probably just be shot or beheaded but during the day it's a piss-soaked, concrete nightmare filled with street untertainers. Halfway through Fringe, I passed two musicians who stopped playing so one of them could say "Shall we hang this song and grab some chow for the gang?". It is the single most spiteful and disgusting sentence I have ever heard. I mean, how the fuck do I actually function at this festering festival without killing absolutely every single person who has ever lived? Well, for me every day has a highlight and that highlight is my show. I love doing my show because when it's over I can go back to my rented flat and open the front door.

God, I loved opening that front door. I remember the first time I did it. It was right after my first show and I was miserable. My show wasn't a show. It was a 10 minute collection of Post-It note scribbles stretched out to 50 minutes. The walk back to the flat was depressing. Is this how it's going to be every single day for a month? Do I really have to perform that terrible bag of bollocks every day? Then I got to the flat, took my key out of my pocket and slid it into the keyhole.

And I mean it slid. Listen, guys, I am telling you: you have never felt a smoother action in your life. It just eased itself in. I have just never felt anything so smooth in my life: Satin, the hide of a thoroughbred horse, pouring baby oil on the flesh of a thousand supermodels. Sure, those things are smooth but this key went into that lock like liquid pouring into a crystal bucket. That door opened with the gentle ease of Diana cutting the ribbon of a freshly opened care centre. I glided that key softly into that lock and it wasn't just a door I opened, it was also my mind. Has anything ever been so gentle as the movement this key and lock afforded me? My mind raced. This Fringe has just got interesting.

Every day, it was the same. I got addicted. I had to feel my key in that lock. I sped through my show and bolted from the venue. My head so full of what was to come, my body electric with excitement. I ran. I ran all the way to feel that perfection one more time. Sometimes I'd come to a halt at the gate and just look at the door for a while. I just wanted to stand there and look at it. My eyes as gentle and loving as key and lock action itself. Is it raining? I hadn't noticed. Then I'd walk slowly towards that door and, although my hand was firm, the motion I took was tender and I was inside.

My show was improving. Of course, it was. I had found a muse. But even on the show's very best day it was all I could do not to rush back to that door. Every day, that beautifully smooth action awaiting me. I felt like I could have thrown my key to the lock and it would have easily floated in. But I never wanted that. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel that beauty in my hands. Nothing else around me was important. Yeah, yeah, sure. I suppose it's good that the Edinburgh Awards went to two Free Fringe shows and a show at The Stand and therefore now no one can justify charging £10,000 to hire out their venue but really, that pales into insignificance next to my Fringe. My key. That lock. That perfection.

I sit here now on my deck, refilling my pipe, and I think of what I had. Last night, as I took that long train journey home, a tear rolled down my cheek. At home, I unpacked and as I opened my suitcase what did I find? My key. I'd forgotten to leave it behind.

Forgotten? Never. I'll be back.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

One Man Show.

Some people really are in love with themselves, aren't they? They work so hard on looking perfect, not for the rest of the world, but for themselves. After all, they're just so gorgeous in every way, why wouldn't they preen themselves to the hilt and distort themselves into the exact person they'd want to fuck? No one is good enough for them except themselves. Nowhere is this more evident than here at the Edinburgh Fringe. Poster after poster of people adoring no one but themselves. Age-ignoring Russells with next year's hairdo blissfully unaware that their teenage trousers hate their old man so much that they're suffocating him. It must be so much hard work being in love with yourself. I would never be in love with myself. I am simply obsessed with myself.

There is barely a day that goes by without me studying me. The way I eat, how I walk, that stupid thing I just said. I follow myself around and note every idiotic move, rarely taking my eyes off me. Yesterday morning I went into a shop and looked around for a bottle of Diet Coke. They had pretty much every drink but that one. The shopkeeper said "Can I help you?". Very friendly, I thought. I wonder if he can help me? "Yes", I said. "Do you have Diet Coke?"

"No", he said. "But there's one in your hand".

Yes. There was. I bought it from another shop 90 seconds ago but, despite the actual thing I wanted being in my hand, I had been so busy obsessing over me that I had totally forgotten all about it. I even heard myself inside my own head say "Hmmm...I wonder how he's going to get out of this?". I am my own stalker.

Pretty much all year, while watching my every move, I've become interested in how much time I spend alone. I seem to be constantly amazed at how loneliness is the funniest of all emotions. The Fringe keeps you up late and me being old wakes me up early. I'm basically always awake and almost constantly alone. Waking at 7am and lying there alone for hours. Just lying there. Alone.

This morning I awoke at 6. An hour of looking at no one on Twitter later, I scratched my bum. I felt a hair on my bum and I tried to brush it off but it didn't move. It felt like a long hair. I pulled at the long hair and, as I lay there so early in the morning alone, I realised that the long hair was up my anus. I pulled it and, as I lay there so early in the morning alone, the hair slowly slid from my anus and I held it up to up to the light arguing through the curtains. It was black. A long jet black hair had found it's way from a head, after months or years of growth, and had journeyed that impossible journey all the way to my anus. I lay there alone looking at the hair and thinking about who she was. She had long jet black hair and, I decided, she was pretty and her name was Lisa. She studied drama at RADA but really it was always writing that she was good at. Her play last year was so successful that a large ethically sound business have sponsored her this year and her new play is in a much bigger venue while reviewers are in tears at the emotion she conjours with her words. And at some point, we passed. Just a fleeting moment between Lisa and I. We sat together. Me scrolling through Twitter, her drinking coconut water and replying to a text from her agent. If I'd noticed her, I could have said hello. Maybe she could have taken me out of this loneliness and influenced the dying fire within me to rise again. Instead, she brushed her long, dark hair and one fell loose and through sheer fate found its way into my anus. Then Lisa got up and left. I thought about all that and felt alone. Then I realised it could be a man's hair and I felt worse.

It doesn't matter how the hair got up my anus. The only thing that's important is that the hair DID get up my anus. To mock me as I lay alone. That's how obsessed with me I am. A hair is pulled from my anus and I assume it did it on purpose. But I'm trying to stop. Maybe if I stop obsessing over myself I'll be happier. If I think more about the world than I do about myself then maybe I'll be normal. I should think less of myself, just like everyone else does.

And it's working. Sometimes I actually feel myself empathising with other actual human beings. Sometimes when I least expect it.

I went to see a show on Monday night that looked so utterly offensive that I wanted to see how the comedian justified the horrible stereotypes depicted in his poster. Yes, yes, yes. I also wanted to laugh at how shit I assumed it would be but I genuinely was interested in seeing how, in 2013, racial stereotypes are accepted by audiences. But it wasn''t what I expected at all. It wasn't a big racist being a massive dick. It was just an ordinary man being tragic.

He walked on stage and informed everyone that he was from Pakistan and then did some lame jokes about that country. They all fell to silence. Then he decided to do some audience banter. "What about you?", he said to me. "Quickly. Quickly".

I didn't know how to answer the question and, to be honest, "What about you?" is not a great question to ask someone as self obsessed as me. "Where are you from?", he barked. 

His response to Northern Ireland was "Hey! Get away. I like my kneecaps" and I was offended. Not because of the stereotyping but because of the lies. He didn't like his kneecaps. He didn't like anything about himself at all. His kneecaps are a pair of cunts. Then he turned to a little Asian boy, the only person in the front row. "What age are you?", he asked. "12", the little boy replied. 

"12?", said the sad man. "You should be married. Where is your wife?"

"Oh", said the boy. "She died two years ago in a car accident".

I laughed for a year. The sad man did more racial stereotyping and got nothing from the audience so he returned to the boy. "You should remarry", he said to the boy. "I just want a dog", replied the boy.

"But you need to find someone to share your life with, to open your heart and find love".

"I just want to play frisbee".

This constant outwitting by a 12 year old boy went on and on and....it just wasn't fun. I couldn't laugh at an idiot being a racist idiot because he's a human being and he's just draining away to silence. He was completely shit and the audience hated him and that could easily be me. A man alone and being mocked. Every joke got silence, every routine ending with something like "And that...is my routine...about...arranged...marriages". At one point he forgot his own name. And that's when I forgot all about me and just wanted him to stop. Stop the show, stop the act, stop hating himself. I wanted to get up on that stage and hold him. I would hug him for as long as he wanted and I would tell him that it's all OK. He doesn't need to ever do that act again. If I had asked him to stop, would he have said "Thank you, my good good friend" and hugged me back? I don't know.

I do know that he's got jet black hair.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My show "Free Wifi" is on at The Stand Comedy Club, Edinburgh from the 31st July until the 25th August at 3.40pm. Please come along. You can buy tickets here:

http://www.thestand.co.uk/Fringe/Performance/Stand2/1033/Michael-Legge---Free-Wi-Fi

Not Cruelty Free.

All this good weather has made everything a lot more positive. No matter what problems we might have or how terrible this world seems to be, at least the sun is blazing bright in the sky. Flowers are beautiful, birds are singing and instead of wearing duffle coats and thermals we're wearing sandals and smiles. The glorious heat just makes you want to get out there and enjoy life for once. That's why I was especially happy two days ago when I saw a sewer explode and two men got covered in shit.

It's probably the greatest thing I've ever seen. Yes, it could just be the well being that the sun's rays beam down upon me, but seeing a sewer explode and two men get covered in shit made me laugh more than I've laughed in years. I mean, there is just so much shit when a sewer blows up. Loads of it. Like a brown fountain with two people cavorting in it in their swimming trunks to keep cool on this wonderful day. Except it wasn't a fountain, it was the excrement of a million people and these men were fully dressed and they weren't cavorting. They were saying "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck". But it's just these tiny little moments that make these sunny, sunny days completely perfect. The tiny moment of a sewer exploding and two men getting covered in wet shit. In 32 degree heat.

An hour later, I was coming to the end of a walk in the park with Jerk when a little boy on a scooter came up and said "That's a lovely dog you've got". I thanked him and thought to myself how charming this little lad had been to say such a nice thing but it was then that I noticed his mother's face grimace like she knew what was coming next. The little boy bent down to look between Jerk's legs. Then he stood up straight, looked at me and said "No willy. Girl!". I laughed and said "You're right. She is a girl". Then he said "No, I was talking about you".

I didn't even want to punch his tiny little 5 year old face in. THAT'S how lovely that day was. Plus, I'd just seen a sewer explode and two men get covered in shit so nothing could possibly spoil my good mood.

Until last night.

I was performing at the Top Secret Comedy Club in King Street, Covent Garden. It was boiling hot in there so, while I waited to go on stage, I took my beer outside for some air. Right across the street from the venue was a shop. A shop that sold skin care products. A shop that looked modern and exclusive and expensive. Basically, it was the exact kind of shop that I would never normally even notice. Except that it didn't have a proper sign over the shop. Instead it had a quote. A quote from Oliver Cromwell.

Who the fuck in their right mind is going to go into a shop that quotes Oliver Cromwell? He was a genocidal maniac. You might as well have "No Irish. No Blacks. No dogs" in your shop window. It's insane. Just think about it: they'll have had a meeting. They'll have sat round in a boardroom with advertising executives who have been paid money, actual money, to come up with an idea that will help promote good skin care and ethically produced products. "We could quote Oliver Cromwell", someone would have said. "Great!", the room would respond. "His slaughtering of the Irish and stealing Scottish land certainly does go hand in hand with our policy of bringing rich people the very best moisturisers and toners to help them look beautiful. What's his most famous quote?"

"Paint me as I am, warts and all".

"What's his second most famous quote?"

And that would have actually gone on and on until they congratulated themselves that they chosen the best quote from a murderer they could find: " Subtlety may deceive you; integrity never will".

It's not even a very good quote. In fact, it's rubbish. They took a rubbish quote from a slaughtering nutjob and they put it above their shop. "I have sworn to only live free" - that's a good quote. So is "Words build bridges into unexplored regions". I think "Don't drink at all, don't smoke, you must exercise and eat vegetables and fruit" are also great words to inspire a good life but that shop didn't use any of those quotes. I suppose they have something against Osama Bin Laden, Adolf Hitler and Robert Mugabe? 

I pointed out the shop sign to one of the other acts. He's English and said "What you have to understand is, we were taught that Oliver Cromwell was a hero". That's the thing; I don't have to understand that at all. Heroes generally don't try to wipe out the people of entire countries or force them into slavery. That's one of the many things I like about Indiana Jones. He never once slaughtered the Irish.

So, fuck that shop. It's called Aesop, by the way, and it's in King Street in Covent Garden. Clearly they don't want Irish or Scottish people anywhere near them. A fucking sign over a shop that quotes Oliver fucking Cromwell? It's the most offensive thing I've ever seen.

And I've seen two men covered in shit.


UPDATE (28/07/2013): Well, this is good news. After the blog and a couple of tweets, I got this reply from Aesop...

I'm very happy with the result and hope you are too. Thanks for reading and supporting and congratulations on getting something nasty removed. Well done!

Thanks to @mattsymonds for the photo.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My show "Free Wifi" is on at The Stand Comedy Club, Edinburgh from the 31st July until the 25th August at 3.40pm. Please come along. You can buy tickets here:

http://www.thestand.co.uk/Fringe/Performance/Stand2/1033/Michael-Legge---Free-Wi-Fi

Croaked.

Have you ever been at a party, an occassion full of joy and celebration and dozens of people, and felt completely on your own? Or have you ever been out with your very closest friends, people who love you, and yet you feel utterly alone? Well, you're a bit of a wanker, aren't you? Loneliness is one of those words that gets on my nerves because of its constant overuse. He is not a GENIUS just because he carries a bottle opener on his keyring, she didn't get BULLIED just because everyone disagrees with her opinion on Community and you're not LONELY just because you had some shit nights in recently. 

Being alone is more damning than that. I'm probably very sensitive at the moment due to...well, everything. I'm trying to finish writing my show for this year's Edinburgh Fringe  and already the massive paranoia is having a good laugh at me inside my own head. I will be the oldest person at The Fringe. I will be the shittest person at The Fringe. None of my friends are going up this year. All the other comedians will be there with their sexy, hot, young clique that I'm too old to fit in with and their telly contracts and their sell out shows and their constant sex. Everyone banging away while I'll be up there completely on my own playing to an empty room whose very bricks and mortar know I'm a hack. Everyone fucking everyone at all times while I go back to my room alone and cry through another Doctor Who box set. Every single person sliding into every single hole while I sit alone in the wet stench of my own missed opportunity of an existence. What I'm saying is, you know that wanker I mentioned in the first paragraph? That wanker is me.

I might have a reason though. Maybe I've actually hit rock bottom. You might think that worrying about your contribution to this planet over the few months that you're on it coupled with the fear that everyone is having a better time than you is the worst you can feel. Perhaps you might consider that the very definition of loneliness. You're wrong. Because what if it wasn't just you alone while everyone is having a better time? What if every THING is having a better time? What if you saw proof that you're barely alive compared to absolutely every single thing on this planet? What if God herself told you that YOU. ARE. ALONE? Those noisy, cheery parties where I don't quite fit in seem like Michael Legge fan conventions now.

Being at a party seems such fun and there will be someone out there that knows you're at that party and is jealous of you having a great time. They don't know the truth. They don't know how apart from these other people you are. And going on holiday sounds great, too. I went on holiday last week and I'm sure there was someone out there that was jealous of me having a great time. But they weren't there. By the swimming pool, with a cocktail, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. Alone. They weren't there.

No one was.

That was when I saw the frog. A frog came along and joined me by the pool. I love animals and take great joy in being around them. Especially when I'm by a glamorous swimming pool and drinking a huge cocktail...in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. Alone. That frog came along and he became my friend. My sole companion in the darkness.

Then another frog appeared and he fucked it.

I wasn't feeling great before that frog came along and now that he's simply come along to have sex right in front of me, I'm not feeling any better. And I couldn't tear my eyes away. I watched two frogs fuck. From beginning to end. Does anyone even watch pornstars fucking from beginning to end? I doubt it but I was alone and it was dark and I was so far away...and I couldn't stop watching two frogs fucking. Two sexually charged amphibians who simply came along to show me that their life is carefree, exciting and infinitely superior to mine.

Then they finished and the female frog left. It was just me and the original frog, my frog, again. He had something special that he shared with someone and now she was gone. He was alone. Alone, just as I was. Well, frog my friend, it looks like we have only each other.

Then another two frogs appeared and he fucked them.

Two frogs just appeared and hopped over to the pool. ONE FROG WAS INSIDE THE OTHER FROG but they were still hopping, using the power of their fucking to transport them from the cool grass to the glamorous surroundings of the pool. And the original frog, MY FROG, fucked them. He fucked those frogs while they were fucking each other. I watched the whole thing. They just fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked and looked at me and my cocktail that I had instead of a life. I sat there, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, wearing sandals and I watched a frog threesome. Alone.

Then they finished and the two frogs, one still in the other, left. The original frog, my frog, stayed by me and looked at me. "I've fucked three people tonight", he said. "How's the cocktail?". I took a sip and it tasted of rust and cobwebs. But he can be as smug as he likes because, yes, he may have an amazing life full of experimental sex and swimming pools but he's as alone as I am now. That's my point. "Sooner or later, we all sleep alone", I said to him.

Then another frog appeared and he fucked it.

I went inside after that. How can you tell me that you're lonely and say for you that the sun don't shine? At least you didn't spend the night quoting Cher to a very horny frog. 

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though.

Michael's Taste: Behind The Candelabra.

Hey, everyone. It's time for another Michael's Taste blog. Let's have a night at the movies and see what I thought of outrageous Liberace biopic Behind The Candelabra.

I should say right now that this really should have been a review of The Stone Roses documentary, Made Of Stone, but I was in Sheffield on Saturday and the only cinema it was being shown in was on the other side of town and I'd been warned that walking around Sheffield that day might not be wise as the English Defence League are marching in town as part of Cunt Pride.

Luckily, the cinema was quite close by the hotel I was staying in so I could easily avoid the town centre where literally thousands of EDL members had come together to show their respects to a murdered soldier by silently standing at the War Memorial, bowing their heads and taking time to reflect. By that I mean there was maybe 200 of them shouting and Nazi saluting by a statue erected to commemorate those brave enough to fight fascism. That's right, the EDL want to keep England English. Just like dear old Uncle Adolf wanted.

But when I woke up, I was hungry and decided that I'm just going to have to be brave and go into the centre of town for food. Basically, I feel I can face fascism but not the price of a hotel breakfast. Also, it was 10am so I just assumed the EDL would all still be in their cots getting much needed ugly sleep. I wandered around town and saw nothing. Good old Sheffield. It's my favourite city in England and it's always a treat to walk around. I went to the brilliant vegetarian Blue Moon Cafe and ordered the full Mexican breakfast. Breakfast, afterall, is the most important anti-fascist statement meal of the day. Then on my way back to the hotel, I turned the wrong corner.

Basically, I walked down the street before the street by my hotel. It had a pub at the bottom of it and I could see some people enjoying the good weather by drinking beer outside. At 11am.

As I got closer it was clear there was around 30 men standing outside the pub and they must have cringed horribly when they met up there as they were all wearing the same outfit. Em-barra-siiiiiiiiiing!! They even all the same hair-do. Even their arms had the same drawings on them (angry puppy with flag, the sign of the Red Cross global volunteer network, uncomfortable affection towards own mother). There weren't many other people in this street and something told me that I should turn back and go the other way. I ignored something.

Don't worry, I didn't get hurt. All they did was shout. It wasn't even all of them. Only about four of them shouted and pointed at me. Then three of them stopped doing backing vocals and let the short, angry lead vocalist do it all himself. He shouted and pointed and pointed and shouted. "You white bastard! You white bastard!"

Now, this has got very confusing.

I want to be judged on who I am, not what I am. So the "bastard" thing is fine. No argument there. But since when do white supremicists get to condemn me because of the colour of my skin? The tiny thugette was soon ignored by his friends while he walked towards me still shouting "You white bastard!" but at least he took the time to explain himself. "Get used to it, mate", he said. "Get used to it. We're all fucking white bastards in this country, mate. We're all white bastards, mate. You're a white bastard. I'm a white bastard. Mate, get used to it, mate. Mate. Mate?"

As I walked away, I thought about how that all could have happened. I mean, there is something positive and uplifting about a member of the EDL suddenly realising he's a bastard but how did it happen in the first place? At what point in his life did he think it was better to hate? At what part of his life did he come to the conclusion that his country owed him something? At what part of someone's life do they accept fascism as a righteous cause? I've often been told by friends that when they first hold their new-born baby in their arms that they can't help but cry. I understand that. But I still think it's important to choke back the tears long enough to look into the eyes of this new and important little person and whisper, "Please, please don't be a cunt".

Of course, I'm well aware that people are complex and life isn't easy. But there isn't a person in the world who thinks that shouting angrily, oppression and violence is a good thing. Just because they do it doesn't mean they think it's right. And that's what I find so confusing. So I started thinking about Liberace. "It's so easy to laugh, it's so easy to hate. It takes strength to be gentle and kind", he once sang. And he was right. Hiding from the real world behind tattoos and even bigger tattooed friends is really easy. Anyone could do it. It's the cowards way. But there were properly thousands of people outside the Sheffield City Hall showing their condemnation of the EDL and all other hate groups in the country. While thugs came to shout and Nazi salute their way onto telly, good people with no violent intentions came out to say "No, thanks". They came out to defend England.

Going to see a film about Liberace isn't just about entertainment. It's about freedom. Go, don't go. It's completely up to you and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.




 
www.twitter.com/michaellegge


My blog is available on Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. It's daily Monday to Friday. Some blogs will be long, some very short. If you're too lazy to read my blog it's also available as a podcast at www.soundcloud.com/michaellegge or you can subscribe to it on iTunes. All formats are free. That means if I'm doing a gig near you, please come and support it. I give you free stuff. That's fair, right?

This blog is also available on Kindle. It costs 99p a month and I do not recommend it at all. It looks nice though.