This is my first blog written on my brand new laptop. I've written nearly 500 blogs and almost all of them were written on my very knackered laptop with an Ood sticker on it. I know absolutely nothing about computers at all but I was recommended, by geek friends, that I should get one with Windows 7, an Intel Core processor (dual, preferably), at least 320GB of memory on it's hard drive and at least 3 GB of RAM. With this in mind, I picked one that was red. I like red. Red is like a big fire engine. NER-NER! NER-NER!
So off I went to PC World to buy my new laptop. Buying an electrical item from places like PC World is an almighty pain in the arse. Sure, picking the laptop takes 10 seconds (red tends to stand out) but actually trying to just pay for the thing and leave takes hours. What a shitty admittance to failure the whole "Would you like insurance with that?" begging plea is. You know I don't want fucking insurance because I didn't ask for insurance. Every fucking shop you go into now is McDonalds. Would you like fries with that? Would you like a large bar of chocolate for only £1? Any sandwiches or muffins to go with your drink? That's £2.99 for the hat, would you like to buy a fucking wardrobe to put it in? JUST LEAVE US ALONE! If we want it, we'll ask. Even fucking Holland & Barrett have tried pushing men's fitness magazines on me which means I have to buy twice the amount of camomile tea because my stress levels have gone right up. Oh, they know what they're doing, the health concious hippy bastards.
So I went up to one pale-faced dick who worked there and said I'd like to buy a laptop. He looked like I'd just told him his parents had died. I really thought he was going to cry. There he was, innocently skiving behind the Norton PC Protection boxes when an evil cunt (me) found him and asked for help. What a bastard I am. Why didn't I just shoot him in the face and then fuck the bullet hole (pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaassssseeee give me a TV series, Channel 4)? He told me that going into a warehouse, picking up a box and bringing it to me wasn't his department. Fine, he's in charge of hiding behind software, so I went off to find someone else. A shop assistant came right up to me and asked if he could help. I said yes but I was wrong. Again, going to get that box about 20 feet away was not in his job description. He's simply employed to ask if you want any help but nowhere in his contract does it say he actually has to do anything after that. Finally I found the guy in charge. He seemed nice. He also looked crestfallen that I didn't want any insurance. Then he looked melancholy when I refused a PC protection kit. And speakers. And a mouse. And a laptop bag. And insurance again. But at least he got me my red laptop. All I had to do was take it to the counter and pay for it.
NO!
Laptops are very special. You can't just pay for it like a tin of beans or an orphan. There's paperwork to be filled in. They need to know my date of birth and my postcode and my top three favourite Sugababes members. They needed this information for their computer. Their big, evil, PC World computer that must not be questioned or lied to. Their big, evil, PC World computer that can lazer-beam you into it's components and make you compete in the Light Cycle races against the Master Computer. Their big, evil, PC World computer that...doesn't work.
PC World's computer crashed right in front of me. The guy in charge took me to another big, evil, PC World computer. It didn't work either. I looked at him and said "Would you like insurance with that?"
It felt good.
www.michaellegge.info
Friday, 3 December 2010
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Utterly Youthless.
Was I hard on Morgana? Maybe. It's tough watching something that just lazily throws its dung at you in the hope that you'll be happy enough that it didn't get in your hair, especially when you know there is great talent out there. Did you go to All Day Edinburgh? You should have done. There wasn't a single person on that bill (except me) that doesn't deserve to have a TV show with time, money and care in it offered to them. Thanks to everyone who came and to all the performers who gave their time for a good cause. Speaking of which, I should probably give Shelter that money because at the moment I feel like Father Ted. "It's just resting in my account". Thanks, everyone.
But Morgana is young. If I was offered my own TV show where I would "have" to point and laugh at people with special needs, would I turn it down? Well, yes I would. But the point is that she might just be naive (although THAT naive? Is anyone?) and could easily be pressured into making the show she made. A lot of TV producers/commissioners/broadcasters want their shows to appeal to everyone and therefore they pretty much always appeal to no-one. EVERYONE loves the Fern Cotton impression though so she'll do well. She's young. She's only about 23. So what's Frankie Boyle's excuse for the women-love-getting-raped sketch? He should know better what with being 40 (presumably).
But acting your age isn't always easy. I find it very difficult. I'm a professional writer (in a way) and want to be taken seriously, yet here I am blogging to you, dear reader, in my Star Wars pants while watching Wallace & Gromit.
And why is acting your age nearly always meant in a behaving older way? In Lewisham, the snow has forced kids who are shit at being kids outside to play. They're pathetic. Yesterday I saw kids building a snowman. Or kicking one to death, it was hard to tell from looking at their creation. It looked like they were using snow to bury a goat. Fucking useless crap children. Then there was the kid on the sledge. Good God! Do you know what skill goes into riding a sledge? The same skill that goes into sitting down. That's it. You sit down, Daddy pushes you, you slide to the bottom of the hill. I watched this 7 year old dick fall off about 18 times in a row. It wasn't even a big hill. All he needed to do was sit still for 5 seconds and he'd be at the bottom. But the little cunt couldn't even do that. He should be aborted (plllllleeeeeeeassssse, give me a TV series, Channel 4).
The worst kids I saw were the teenagers. There were about eight 14/15 year olds hanging around the train station, throwing snowballs at people who walked under the bridge or down the steps. They are young and have every right to do that. They are acting their age perfectly. Or I thought they were. I saw them and as I passed I just knew I'd get pelted. Of course I'm going to get pelted. I have a big, stupid Russian hat with puppy-dog ear flaps on. If they miss out on pelting the cunt with the hat then I have no respect for them. I prepared myself and even smiled while waiting to be hit. Snow doesn't hurt. It'll be funny. Here goes. The first snowball came.
And flew right by me. I looked round and saw loads of snowballs coming my way.
Well, not directly my way. They all missed. For fuck sake, really? Have you seen the size of my hat? It's like I have a fucking St. Bernard on my head. You can't miss my hat. For fuck's sake, children. Act your age.
The train station was closed so I had to come back up the steps. This was their chance to finally get me. I was face to face with them and POW!!! All the snowballs flew right by me and hit the ground. I have never been so disappointed by the youth of Britain in my life.
As I walked past them I put on my best teacher voice and said "Pathetic. Must try harder". The kids laughed as I walked past, obviously ready to get me when I was a safe distance away from them. One snowball flew past. That was their THIRD CHANCE. I looked round and laughed. They all looked a bit embarrassed, decided to not chance throwing at me again and went back to throwing snow at people under the bridge. One day those young men could be in the military. We'll be invaded by 2015, I reckon.
But the snow has made me happy. I like this snow. It's spongy but firm. Not sloppy or slippy. Plus I saw something today that lifted my spirits right up. I saw a man in a wheelchair, not struggling, but getting through the snow with ease.
If that isn't the biggest FUCK YOU to our train companies then I don't know what is.
www.michaellegge.info
But Morgana is young. If I was offered my own TV show where I would "have" to point and laugh at people with special needs, would I turn it down? Well, yes I would. But the point is that she might just be naive (although THAT naive? Is anyone?) and could easily be pressured into making the show she made. A lot of TV producers/commissioners/broadcasters want their shows to appeal to everyone and therefore they pretty much always appeal to no-one. EVERYONE loves the Fern Cotton impression though so she'll do well. She's young. She's only about 23. So what's Frankie Boyle's excuse for the women-love-getting-raped sketch? He should know better what with being 40 (presumably).
But acting your age isn't always easy. I find it very difficult. I'm a professional writer (in a way) and want to be taken seriously, yet here I am blogging to you, dear reader, in my Star Wars pants while watching Wallace & Gromit.
And why is acting your age nearly always meant in a behaving older way? In Lewisham, the snow has forced kids who are shit at being kids outside to play. They're pathetic. Yesterday I saw kids building a snowman. Or kicking one to death, it was hard to tell from looking at their creation. It looked like they were using snow to bury a goat. Fucking useless crap children. Then there was the kid on the sledge. Good God! Do you know what skill goes into riding a sledge? The same skill that goes into sitting down. That's it. You sit down, Daddy pushes you, you slide to the bottom of the hill. I watched this 7 year old dick fall off about 18 times in a row. It wasn't even a big hill. All he needed to do was sit still for 5 seconds and he'd be at the bottom. But the little cunt couldn't even do that. He should be aborted (plllllleeeeeeeassssse, give me a TV series, Channel 4).
The worst kids I saw were the teenagers. There were about eight 14/15 year olds hanging around the train station, throwing snowballs at people who walked under the bridge or down the steps. They are young and have every right to do that. They are acting their age perfectly. Or I thought they were. I saw them and as I passed I just knew I'd get pelted. Of course I'm going to get pelted. I have a big, stupid Russian hat with puppy-dog ear flaps on. If they miss out on pelting the cunt with the hat then I have no respect for them. I prepared myself and even smiled while waiting to be hit. Snow doesn't hurt. It'll be funny. Here goes. The first snowball came.
And flew right by me. I looked round and saw loads of snowballs coming my way.
Well, not directly my way. They all missed. For fuck sake, really? Have you seen the size of my hat? It's like I have a fucking St. Bernard on my head. You can't miss my hat. For fuck's sake, children. Act your age.
The train station was closed so I had to come back up the steps. This was their chance to finally get me. I was face to face with them and POW!!! All the snowballs flew right by me and hit the ground. I have never been so disappointed by the youth of Britain in my life.
As I walked past them I put on my best teacher voice and said "Pathetic. Must try harder". The kids laughed as I walked past, obviously ready to get me when I was a safe distance away from them. One snowball flew past. That was their THIRD CHANCE. I looked round and laughed. They all looked a bit embarrassed, decided to not chance throwing at me again and went back to throwing snow at people under the bridge. One day those young men could be in the military. We'll be invaded by 2015, I reckon.
But the snow has made me happy. I like this snow. It's spongy but firm. Not sloppy or slippy. Plus I saw something today that lifted my spirits right up. I saw a man in a wheelchair, not struggling, but getting through the snow with ease.
If that isn't the biggest FUCK YOU to our train companies then I don't know what is.
www.michaellegge.info
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Cold.
I was going to blog about yet another insult to comedy that happened just last night but I've decided against it. I haven't blogged for weeks (I wanted a break) and I now think that coming back and just moaning won't do. This needs to be more dynamic. A bit of action and adventure. Something that will draw the reader in and, eventually, let them know a bit about me and the kind of man I am.
Last week I stabbed my own fridge to death.
It's true. I was angry, I lifted a big knife and I stabbed the fucker. Oh, yes. I could have defrosted it. I could have easily defrosted it. But I'm not a woman, am I? I'm not Michelle Legge. I'm MICHAEL Legge. A real man with a real man's name. And don't bring up Michael Learned or Princess Michael of Kent because they were obviously once men who simply accidentally defrosted a fridge instead of stabbing it. I wanted something from the freezer. The fridge wouldn't give it to me so I threatened it. I WASN'T GOING TO HURT IT. I just threatened it with a knife, just knocking off bits of it's ice from around the edges of one of it's drawers. But it kept refusing me. So I lunged at it. The red mist in my eyes, the steel blade in my hand. How dare this frigid bitch not let me in to get what I want? I went mad. Uncontrollable. And plunged the knife right in.
I didn't mean to cut her freezer line. Oh, God. There was so much cold air pouring out. I tried to heal it but I couldn't. It just...died.
See, that was me writing about a simple and stupid situation where I thought I could chip away some ice from my fridge with a knife and then I ended up breaking it. But what I did was end up writing it like I was threatening it and wanting to rape it. That's the kind of thing that gets you on at Channel 4 these days. Plus I also implied that men are better/different than women which will get you talked about if you are on Channel 4 these days. Last night's TV was fucking awful.
Balls. I'm writing about it, aren't I?
I really like Frankie Boyle's stand up and was delighted that he had his own series. But...well. I don't know. Is calling everyone a cunt in the first 10 seconds then following it up with a rape sketch what either Channel 4 or Frankie Boyle would or should approve of? I wouldn't have thought so. I'm pretty sure their back catalogue's are better than that. Some of the stand up stuff was good but...well...a rape sketch is hard to shake off especially when the woman starts off being scared of the rape but then ends up loving it. It just seemed more than dated. It seemed uncomfortably dated. Like Jim Davidson had come out of the grave to haunt TV again. I can only imagine Frankie has reached the age of 40 a few years early.
Then there was The Morgana Show. I'm not going to lie to you, I was really looking forward to watching this. I saw Morgana Robinson on TNT months ago and wanted to die of shame right there and then. Her sole character in TNT was a special needs kid who interviews nearly-famous people while trying to make them feel uncomfortable by doing that mong acting we all used to do on the school bus when we were 12. The sketch never worked because her "victims" never embarrassed themselves, they just reacted in a sensitive way to someone they assumed had special needs and not just some fucking cunt being a fucking cunt. If only she'd revealed herself before the sketch ended and we got to see the celebrities violent and bloody reactions. That would have made good telly.
She went on to do impressions of Cheryl Cole and Fern Cotton that were a bit like them but had no jokes whatsoever. Even if they had you still couldn't help but scream DID SHE JUST DO A SPECIAL NEEDS CHARACTER? One sketch consisted of Lady Ga-Ga ironing. Yep. That was it. My fatal mistake was going on Twitter and seeing the amount of support this show was getting plus the amount of people pointing out that Morgana is female like they were totally shocked that a woman should be on TV.
Is it good to see female performers on TV? No. Not if they're this awful. Equally if Morgana was male is would be just as bad and therefore NO-ONE SHOULD BE ON TV. I'm happy with that. Because you can't play the sex card if the sex card has shit all over it. No-one will accept it. Where's the Hour of Telly Live TV series? Cunts.
I shouldn't have watched it so it's all my fault. Plus I have enough faith in Frankie Boyle to think that it might be me not him. At least there's The Trip. Seen The Trip? Let me tell you about it. Two very funny people have a camera pointed at them while they are funny. It's a bit pretentious but it's so utterly naturally funny without even caring about how other comedies on TV are and sticking to that formula, instead they ride on their natural abilities and fuck cutting edge.
The Morgana Show was described as cutting by a moron who writes a Guardian blog. The only thing that's cutting are the wrists of her suicidal viewers.
Nice to be back. See you soon.
www.michaellegge.info
Last week I stabbed my own fridge to death.
It's true. I was angry, I lifted a big knife and I stabbed the fucker. Oh, yes. I could have defrosted it. I could have easily defrosted it. But I'm not a woman, am I? I'm not Michelle Legge. I'm MICHAEL Legge. A real man with a real man's name. And don't bring up Michael Learned or Princess Michael of Kent because they were obviously once men who simply accidentally defrosted a fridge instead of stabbing it. I wanted something from the freezer. The fridge wouldn't give it to me so I threatened it. I WASN'T GOING TO HURT IT. I just threatened it with a knife, just knocking off bits of it's ice from around the edges of one of it's drawers. But it kept refusing me. So I lunged at it. The red mist in my eyes, the steel blade in my hand. How dare this frigid bitch not let me in to get what I want? I went mad. Uncontrollable. And plunged the knife right in.
I didn't mean to cut her freezer line. Oh, God. There was so much cold air pouring out. I tried to heal it but I couldn't. It just...died.
See, that was me writing about a simple and stupid situation where I thought I could chip away some ice from my fridge with a knife and then I ended up breaking it. But what I did was end up writing it like I was threatening it and wanting to rape it. That's the kind of thing that gets you on at Channel 4 these days. Plus I also implied that men are better/different than women which will get you talked about if you are on Channel 4 these days. Last night's TV was fucking awful.
Balls. I'm writing about it, aren't I?
I really like Frankie Boyle's stand up and was delighted that he had his own series. But...well. I don't know. Is calling everyone a cunt in the first 10 seconds then following it up with a rape sketch what either Channel 4 or Frankie Boyle would or should approve of? I wouldn't have thought so. I'm pretty sure their back catalogue's are better than that. Some of the stand up stuff was good but...well...a rape sketch is hard to shake off especially when the woman starts off being scared of the rape but then ends up loving it. It just seemed more than dated. It seemed uncomfortably dated. Like Jim Davidson had come out of the grave to haunt TV again. I can only imagine Frankie has reached the age of 40 a few years early.
Then there was The Morgana Show. I'm not going to lie to you, I was really looking forward to watching this. I saw Morgana Robinson on TNT months ago and wanted to die of shame right there and then. Her sole character in TNT was a special needs kid who interviews nearly-famous people while trying to make them feel uncomfortable by doing that mong acting we all used to do on the school bus when we were 12. The sketch never worked because her "victims" never embarrassed themselves, they just reacted in a sensitive way to someone they assumed had special needs and not just some fucking cunt being a fucking cunt. If only she'd revealed herself before the sketch ended and we got to see the celebrities violent and bloody reactions. That would have made good telly.
She went on to do impressions of Cheryl Cole and Fern Cotton that were a bit like them but had no jokes whatsoever. Even if they had you still couldn't help but scream DID SHE JUST DO A SPECIAL NEEDS CHARACTER? One sketch consisted of Lady Ga-Ga ironing. Yep. That was it. My fatal mistake was going on Twitter and seeing the amount of support this show was getting plus the amount of people pointing out that Morgana is female like they were totally shocked that a woman should be on TV.
Is it good to see female performers on TV? No. Not if they're this awful. Equally if Morgana was male is would be just as bad and therefore NO-ONE SHOULD BE ON TV. I'm happy with that. Because you can't play the sex card if the sex card has shit all over it. No-one will accept it. Where's the Hour of Telly Live TV series? Cunts.
I shouldn't have watched it so it's all my fault. Plus I have enough faith in Frankie Boyle to think that it might be me not him. At least there's The Trip. Seen The Trip? Let me tell you about it. Two very funny people have a camera pointed at them while they are funny. It's a bit pretentious but it's so utterly naturally funny without even caring about how other comedies on TV are and sticking to that formula, instead they ride on their natural abilities and fuck cutting edge.
The Morgana Show was described as cutting by a moron who writes a Guardian blog. The only thing that's cutting are the wrists of her suicidal viewers.
Nice to be back. See you soon.
www.michaellegge.info
Sunday, 14 November 2010
No Punchline.
Perhaps I should just stay away from Lewisham Shopping Centre. Perhaps you should too. No good happens there. In fact, it's the very home of insanity. Monday to Friday is bad enough. The weird walking dead of the daytime people with fuck all to do brings a lovely depression to the massively strong floodlights and the Level 42 background music. Plus seeing people walk out of Ann Summers with their secret bags of secret underwear and going straight next door into Greggs for a pie is a lovely image that no amount of booze can destroy. But it's the weekend that Lewisham Shopping Centre's madness comes into it's own because during the weekend it's not just all about Argos or British Home Stores or that shop that only ever sells one thing and always closes down then re-opens the next week selling a different one thing (quite often Peter Andre's Insania cologne). At the weekend it's all about the community.
On Saturdays and Sundays I'm used to seeing face painting for kids, creepy men making balloon animals and the painful choking of community choirs. But recently it's changed. Lewisham Shopping Centre has totally gone 21st century on our asses. It's wicked there now. Boss. Aces. Fucking awful. Now they have things like X-Factah! or Lewisham's Got Talent and I am mesmerised every time I see them. Not that I'm a fan of children singing "Poker Face" but there really is nothing more enjoyable than watching a 9 year old burst into tears after being told by a grown adult that he or she is shit. I could watch that all day. But this weekend has been different. There is crime in Lewisham and the community wants to sort that out. The community want the youths of Lewisham to put down their knives. They want the youths of Lewisham to say no to violence. Hmmmm...but how do we get them to do that? Well, apparently the best way to stop young people getting into violence is by teaching them how to box. Lewisham Shopping Centre had a fucking boxing ring right in between the Sony shop and Adams'. Leaflets were being handed out and young people were all encouraged to start punching each other and to stamp out violence. I looked at the leaflet and it genuinely said that this was a "Punchathon" as part of the "Jab Don't Stab" campaign. It was then that I wondered if Graham Linehan is writing Lewisham Shopping Centre.
It's a fucking surreal place.
Don't forget, it's All Day Edinburgh on Sunday 21st December at The Phoenix. Great comedians in a great venue all day. No word on Ticketweb selling tickets yet (sigh...) but as soon as I know, you'll know. Even better if you follow All Day Edinburgh on Twitter. Acts are being added all the time and it's going to be a fantastic gig all in aid of Shelter. We will also be encouraging the youth of Lewisham to give up knife crime with out "Gags Not Stabs" campaign.
In the meantime, try to figure out how this happened: http://bit.ly/49rdov
@AllDayEdinburgh
www.michaellegge.info
On Saturdays and Sundays I'm used to seeing face painting for kids, creepy men making balloon animals and the painful choking of community choirs. But recently it's changed. Lewisham Shopping Centre has totally gone 21st century on our asses. It's wicked there now. Boss. Aces. Fucking awful. Now they have things like X-Factah! or Lewisham's Got Talent and I am mesmerised every time I see them. Not that I'm a fan of children singing "Poker Face" but there really is nothing more enjoyable than watching a 9 year old burst into tears after being told by a grown adult that he or she is shit. I could watch that all day. But this weekend has been different. There is crime in Lewisham and the community wants to sort that out. The community want the youths of Lewisham to put down their knives. They want the youths of Lewisham to say no to violence. Hmmmm...but how do we get them to do that? Well, apparently the best way to stop young people getting into violence is by teaching them how to box. Lewisham Shopping Centre had a fucking boxing ring right in between the Sony shop and Adams'. Leaflets were being handed out and young people were all encouraged to start punching each other and to stamp out violence. I looked at the leaflet and it genuinely said that this was a "Punchathon" as part of the "Jab Don't Stab" campaign. It was then that I wondered if Graham Linehan is writing Lewisham Shopping Centre.
It's a fucking surreal place.
Don't forget, it's All Day Edinburgh on Sunday 21st December at The Phoenix. Great comedians in a great venue all day. No word on Ticketweb selling tickets yet (sigh...) but as soon as I know, you'll know. Even better if you follow All Day Edinburgh on Twitter. Acts are being added all the time and it's going to be a fantastic gig all in aid of Shelter. We will also be encouraging the youth of Lewisham to give up knife crime with out "Gags Not Stabs" campaign.
In the meantime, try to figure out how this happened: http://bit.ly/49rdov
@AllDayEdinburgh
www.michaellegge.info
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Lost.
What's the fucking point in helping anyone ever? Not only are you almost certainly rushing to the aid of a prick but every prick on this planet will get in your way of doing it. If you have any intention of ever helping anyone, do what everyone else does. You know, nothing. Being nice and thoughtful is one of the most stressful things you'll ever go through and I don't recommend it. I was going to write about this anyway today but now I'm fired up by what happened to my adorable friend Liz today. A man was getting off a train, she saw a wallet lying there, ran after him and gave it to him. SHE HELPED HIM. THE FUCKING IDIOT. He took the wallet, took the money from it, gave it back to her and ran off the train. Of course he did. Liz is a helper and helper's are shat on. I'm begging you, don't even think of lending a hand or sparing a thought or gooding a Samaritan. There should be a fucking government warning on helping. We had safe sex and stop smoking shoved down our throats and I don't think either of them will kill me. The stress of helping? That'll see me to the grave.
Last week I was walking into Lewisham Shopping Centre, where they film all of George A. Romero's films every single day, and I saw a wallet lying on the ground. My immediate reaction was BRILLIANT! FREE MONEY! but within a half second the guilt hit me. There is no way I can keep this. I must find the person and give it to them because I suffer from being nice. Like a dick. Even though I'm fully aware that the owner of this wallet will be a prick who will never appreciate what I've done, I'm going to get it to them anyway. Did Li Ping teach me nothing? It's not like I want to be thanked. I don't. I did William Orbit a big favour a couple of months ago by pointing him out to his driver at the airport thus stopping poor William from wandering around looking all lost. Did he thank me? NO. Did he even know I'd done it? NO. It was the good deed itself that was my reward. Mind you, that good deed was piss easy, this one was going to be a lot harder.
I looked in the wallet and saw that whoever had dropped it was now down over £200 cash. This had to get back to him. He had several Barclays bank cards so I reasoned that the best thing to do was to phone Barclays, let them know I've found the guy's wallet, they could phone him and he could come get his wallet. No cards would have to be cancelled and no money would be lost. I'm a fucking hero.
Barclays had other plans.
I was told by Arsebot 3000 on the other end of the phone that she couldn't phone him. It was against Barclays policy. All she could do was cancel his cards.
"But you don't need to cancel his cards. I'm at Lewisham Shopping Centre. He probably is too. Give him my number and he can call me and pick up the wallet".
"Yeah. We can't do that".
"Why not?"
"We just can't. All we can do is cancel his cards".
"You can't just phone one of your own customers? You'd rather cancel cards then produce new ones?"
"That's all we can do. Do you have an account with Barclays?"
"No. What's that got to do with anything?"
"You haven't got an account so I can't phone him".
"WHAT? How? What?....SO. You COULD call him if I DID have an account?"
"Yes".
Let's just think about this for a second. Don't you think that we're all better off without this person? It doesn't matter if it's Barclays policy. That's irrelevant. She could still just call him and give him my number but she just couldn't get her head round the idea of helping. This is a person too many. Admit it, if you could just press a button and she would disappear forever that button would be worn out on seconds.
Fuck the woman from Barclays. I'm keeping this wallet. I tried to help and that bastard wanted none of it. That money is mine. I looked in the wallet and right in amongst his money and his cards was a photo. A photo of a woman. A really disapproving, disappointed woman. She knew what I was doing and she hated me for it. FINE. I'll hand it in. Handing it in is a good thing. Mummy always told me to hand things in if I found something and now I'm taking Mummy's advice. The Barclays phone call had exhausted me anyway. I was giving up the will to help. But that photograph gave me such a telling off that I knew I had to do this one more thing. I went to the information desk and handed the wallet to a security idiot.
He looked at the wallet like he couldn't quite work out what it was. He then gave the same look to me. "I found it just outside". He looked even more confused. "It was just lying on the ground". He looked even more confused. "I thought I'd hand it in". His face almost swallowed itself.
"Maybe you could make an announcement over the tannoy?" His face now looked like he vaguely remembered this from his training. He even started to smile. Like he remembered that helping was good. "I'll do it right away", he said and off he went.
That was nice. It took him a while but he finally got it. If he helped someone then they would feel better and he would feel good about himself. Off he went to the tannoy to save the day. I had done the best I could and now he was going to do the same. Good for him.
I was in Lewisham Shopping Centre for a further half hour. No tannoy announcement was made.
So that's it. If I find anything belonging to you, IT'S MINE. I'm not putting myself through that again. Never ever help anyone.
Except Shelter. Always help Shelter. I'll even make it easy for you. I'm organising a little gig on the 21st November at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London and it is full of the very best comedy shows from this year's Edinburgh Fringe. The line up includes Tony Law, Paul Sinha, The Penny Dreadfuls, Pappys, Robin Ince & me, Sara Pascoe, Nick Helm, Mat Ricardo, Storytellers, Alex Zane, An Hour of Telly Live, The Trap (even though they haven't done Edinburgh for years) and a lot more. Some we have to keep ssshh about. It's called All Day Edinburgh, starts 2pm and I'll let you know how to get tickets as soon I know. It's very exciting. You'll be helping Shelter but I won't tell anyone.
@AllDayEdinburgh
www.michaellegge.info
Last week I was walking into Lewisham Shopping Centre, where they film all of George A. Romero's films every single day, and I saw a wallet lying on the ground. My immediate reaction was BRILLIANT! FREE MONEY! but within a half second the guilt hit me. There is no way I can keep this. I must find the person and give it to them because I suffer from being nice. Like a dick. Even though I'm fully aware that the owner of this wallet will be a prick who will never appreciate what I've done, I'm going to get it to them anyway. Did Li Ping teach me nothing? It's not like I want to be thanked. I don't. I did William Orbit a big favour a couple of months ago by pointing him out to his driver at the airport thus stopping poor William from wandering around looking all lost. Did he thank me? NO. Did he even know I'd done it? NO. It was the good deed itself that was my reward. Mind you, that good deed was piss easy, this one was going to be a lot harder.
I looked in the wallet and saw that whoever had dropped it was now down over £200 cash. This had to get back to him. He had several Barclays bank cards so I reasoned that the best thing to do was to phone Barclays, let them know I've found the guy's wallet, they could phone him and he could come get his wallet. No cards would have to be cancelled and no money would be lost. I'm a fucking hero.
Barclays had other plans.
I was told by Arsebot 3000 on the other end of the phone that she couldn't phone him. It was against Barclays policy. All she could do was cancel his cards.
"But you don't need to cancel his cards. I'm at Lewisham Shopping Centre. He probably is too. Give him my number and he can call me and pick up the wallet".
"Yeah. We can't do that".
"Why not?"
"We just can't. All we can do is cancel his cards".
"You can't just phone one of your own customers? You'd rather cancel cards then produce new ones?"
"That's all we can do. Do you have an account with Barclays?"
"No. What's that got to do with anything?"
"You haven't got an account so I can't phone him".
"WHAT? How? What?....SO. You COULD call him if I DID have an account?"
"Yes".
Let's just think about this for a second. Don't you think that we're all better off without this person? It doesn't matter if it's Barclays policy. That's irrelevant. She could still just call him and give him my number but she just couldn't get her head round the idea of helping. This is a person too many. Admit it, if you could just press a button and she would disappear forever that button would be worn out on seconds.
Fuck the woman from Barclays. I'm keeping this wallet. I tried to help and that bastard wanted none of it. That money is mine. I looked in the wallet and right in amongst his money and his cards was a photo. A photo of a woman. A really disapproving, disappointed woman. She knew what I was doing and she hated me for it. FINE. I'll hand it in. Handing it in is a good thing. Mummy always told me to hand things in if I found something and now I'm taking Mummy's advice. The Barclays phone call had exhausted me anyway. I was giving up the will to help. But that photograph gave me such a telling off that I knew I had to do this one more thing. I went to the information desk and handed the wallet to a security idiot.
He looked at the wallet like he couldn't quite work out what it was. He then gave the same look to me. "I found it just outside". He looked even more confused. "It was just lying on the ground". He looked even more confused. "I thought I'd hand it in". His face almost swallowed itself.
"Maybe you could make an announcement over the tannoy?" His face now looked like he vaguely remembered this from his training. He even started to smile. Like he remembered that helping was good. "I'll do it right away", he said and off he went.
That was nice. It took him a while but he finally got it. If he helped someone then they would feel better and he would feel good about himself. Off he went to the tannoy to save the day. I had done the best I could and now he was going to do the same. Good for him.
I was in Lewisham Shopping Centre for a further half hour. No tannoy announcement was made.
So that's it. If I find anything belonging to you, IT'S MINE. I'm not putting myself through that again. Never ever help anyone.
Except Shelter. Always help Shelter. I'll even make it easy for you. I'm organising a little gig on the 21st November at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London and it is full of the very best comedy shows from this year's Edinburgh Fringe. The line up includes Tony Law, Paul Sinha, The Penny Dreadfuls, Pappys, Robin Ince & me, Sara Pascoe, Nick Helm, Mat Ricardo, Storytellers, Alex Zane, An Hour of Telly Live, The Trap (even though they haven't done Edinburgh for years) and a lot more. Some we have to keep ssshh about. It's called All Day Edinburgh, starts 2pm and I'll let you know how to get tickets as soon I know. It's very exciting. You'll be helping Shelter but I won't tell anyone.
@AllDayEdinburgh
www.michaellegge.info
Friday, 5 November 2010
Scream Test.
Is this supposed to be a fucking joke? How am I supposed to react? What am I supposed to do with this news and how does anyone expect me to carry on? Two weeks ago I had a blood test. I'm 42 years old and I've never had a blood test. I drink too much, I eat bad food and I rarely if ever exercise. I have managed to convince myself that using the Wii is exercise. Not Wii Fit but Wii Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? I have not looked after myself and I have psoriasis, asthma, a foot lump, arthritis, a beer belly and funny eyes. I am fucked, basically. So this blood test has had me scared. My big foot is still uncomfortable and the blood test will no doubt reveal that I have gangrene. My cholesterol will be sky high and I will be forced to give up booze. I will be one of those people that find out if they have one more drink they'll be dead. I've heard that story a lot over the years and think it's a blessed miracle that these people discover what will kill them just before that one last final drink. It's a blessed miracle and not a big fat lie. No. And I will be one of them. I will have the dirtiest blood that any medical professional has ever seen. It will be full of cancer and AIDS and bile and faeces flakes that are swimming around my body clogging up my heart. I will have an ulcer the size of a bean bag and an aneurysm that is actually fucking my brain. My liver will be fictional and my spleen will be cursing me on it's deathbed. Everything else I will tick off on my donor card quickly because the warm, loving, gentle grave awaits. But I will have a few blogs still to go and people will comment on my bravery. They will write and tell me that I'm an inspiration. Children with terminal illnesses will wipe a tear while admiring my good humour in spite of the painful inevitable.
I will find this out today because I will go into Dr. Finch's office and he will tell me the results of my blood test. The very results that he HAD to tell me face to face. I go into his office knowing my fate. My bravery, a reminder to the world that strength in times of despair must be illustrated.
And the thing they HAD to tell me face to face? I'M TOO HEALTHY. I'm in perfect condition. I can only imagine that I'm so much the perfect...no.... THE ULTIMATE human being that they had to worry me for a week just so I could somehow come close to understanding what it must be like to be one of you pathetic, filthy blooded dweebs.
I mean, they wrote me a letter in cold, you're-going-to-die, black ink (not even a fun font) and they said I must speak to my doctor about an abnormality they found. The abnormality was that I have slightly aggressive blood cells in my stomach that love B12 but my B12 levels are normal so they are passive. COULDN'T THEY HAVE SENT ME A CARD? A lovely card with a smiley face on it saying "RESULT!" and you open it and it says "Your results are A OK, Blood!!" Why a fucking ice cold invitation to dine with The Grim Reaper if I'm fine? And my cholesterol? Do you want to know what he said about my cholesterol? He said "You could cut out the results and frame them". My Cholesterol is perfect. Like the rest of me, apparently.
So that's my tear-jerking, heroic, slip into the next world blog gone. Thanks, Dr. Twat.
My foot is getting better too. What's the fucking point?
www.michaellegge.info
I will find this out today because I will go into Dr. Finch's office and he will tell me the results of my blood test. The very results that he HAD to tell me face to face. I go into his office knowing my fate. My bravery, a reminder to the world that strength in times of despair must be illustrated.
And the thing they HAD to tell me face to face? I'M TOO HEALTHY. I'm in perfect condition. I can only imagine that I'm so much the perfect...no.... THE ULTIMATE human being that they had to worry me for a week just so I could somehow come close to understanding what it must be like to be one of you pathetic, filthy blooded dweebs.
I mean, they wrote me a letter in cold, you're-going-to-die, black ink (not even a fun font) and they said I must speak to my doctor about an abnormality they found. The abnormality was that I have slightly aggressive blood cells in my stomach that love B12 but my B12 levels are normal so they are passive. COULDN'T THEY HAVE SENT ME A CARD? A lovely card with a smiley face on it saying "RESULT!" and you open it and it says "Your results are A OK, Blood!!" Why a fucking ice cold invitation to dine with The Grim Reaper if I'm fine? And my cholesterol? Do you want to know what he said about my cholesterol? He said "You could cut out the results and frame them". My Cholesterol is perfect. Like the rest of me, apparently.
So that's my tear-jerking, heroic, slip into the next world blog gone. Thanks, Dr. Twat.
My foot is getting better too. What's the fucking point?
www.michaellegge.info
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Pricks, Trains and Automobiles.
Not blogging is shit. Real life has got directly in the way of me complaining and it's a shame. It's not like the normal stupid things that happen to me have suddenly stopped happening to me. They definitely haven't. And thanks to real life not giving me any time to blog, I've had to keep this in since Saturday. I shouldn't ever keep these things in. Blogging is what keeps me from the High Street rifle massacre that's not that deep within me.
It goes without saying that Saturday's stupidity started on a train. Of course it fucking did. I was on my way to Manchester and was very much enjoying the quiet train journey. There were quite a few people on the train and they were all talking but not loudly or horribly. They were chatting happily to one another and, maybe this says a lot about most other train journeys I've taken, the atmosphere was cheery. I was even reading. A BOOK! I know, I wasn't watching some TV thing about spacemen, I was actually reading a book. This was a lovely relaxing train journey. Up until Stoke-On-Trent.
At Stoke-On-Trent, Fuck Face got on. Fuck Face is a very tired looking business man who has obviously had a bad day. He also looks like every day has been a bad day. Dishevelled, sweaty and red-faced; and that was just his hair. He put his bag down on the seat next to him which just happened to be the seat in front of me and then he collapsed into his own seat. He looked somehow incredibly spiteful of the world and happy to have a seat all at the same time. He phoned his friend and spoke about how many train delays and unexpected changes he'd had to make that day. He had to sit on the platform at Birmingham for over an hour. I could have almost felt sorry for him if it wasn't for him hating the other people near us chatting. He just hated the sound of them chatting. I should say that all the people near us were Chinese.
Oh now we're uncomfortable.
"I'm on China Airways", he said to his friend. "China Airways. I'm on China Airways. I'm on China Airways". He repeated this a billion times more than was necessary but his friend on the other end of the phone either didn't quite get what he was saying or he couldn't bare the fact that his friend is a stupid fucking racist. "I'm on China Airways", he continued while I stared at him. "Can't you hear them?"
It was then that he outstretched his arm and pointed his phone right at the chatting people. I tried to make my staring louder but he didn't notice and went back to his lovely phone call. "It's been like that since I got on. Ching chang chong ching". I slammed my hand on the table and we finally made eye contact. It took him about a half a nano second to completely understand my glare. He went quiet and wrapped up his call. Right after he hung up, I stepped in. "Really?", I said. "Do you think that was appropriate?"
"What?", he lied.
"Your racist conversation".
He sighed like he gets this all the flipping time.
"I'm not a racist", he claimed. "Why were you eavesdropping?"
EAVESDROPPING? You can't fucking eavesdrop on a phone being pointed at people who aren't speaking English and then a chorus of Ching Chang Chong. That's not eavesdropping. That's having awful shoved down your throat.
That's when I reminded him that he was being racist and pointed to the people who he was being racist about while saying "You were being racist about them" very loudly. He moved carriage.
I felt very smug and happy before the inevitable wave of you-really-are-going-to-get-your-teeth-kicked-in-one-day hit me.
But that was just a racist. I'd need a sexist as well to really make my day. I'm not saying that Fuck Face wasn't a sexist, I have every reason to think he most definitely is, but I have no proof. Luckily, a cab in Manchester provided me with one.
Right after the gig in Manchester, I decided to take a cab to the Frog & Bucket to catch The Boy With Tape On His Face. There was a lot of talk about him in Edinburgh but going to see shows in Edinburgh is boring and should never be encouraged. This was my chance to see him. As soon as I got in the cab, the conversation between the driver and me began. Here it is in it's entirety:
"Can you take me to the Frog & Bucket, please?"
"No problem, mate".
"Thank you".
"Lot of good looking women in town tonight".
"Yes. But you know how it is when you get to our age. It goes from fancying them to worrying about them".
"What?"
"I mean, like a few years ago you'd see young girls wearing next to nothing and you'd go PHWOAR and now you just look at them and you think 'They'll be freezing later'".
"Don't you like women?"
"Er...no. I do. I just mean that it's easy to worry about these girls. You'd like to think they'll be OK".
The cab pulls over to the side of the road. "Right. Get out. You sound queer, mate".
And that was it. I was thrown out of the cab. Thrown out of the cab for not ogling women. I say that was it. It wasn't quite. It was just so funny and shocking to be asked to leave a cab so soon into the journey that I got the giggles. Knowing fully well what I was doing, I said "Fair enough. How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Just get out".
My day was complete. You never really actually meet racists or sexists, unless you are racist or sexist, so to meet two in one day was really refreshingly depressing. I got another cab about 30 seconds later and told the cab driver what had just happened. He said "That could be one of a million cab drivers in Manchester. But I think I know who he is".
I think it's time to get back to blogging now. Two a week isn't enough. There will certainly be one tomorrow because today I go back to my doctor to discuss my blood test. My blood test that has come up with abnormalities. Abnormalities that he has to talk to me about face to face.
Gulp.
www.michaellegge.info
It goes without saying that Saturday's stupidity started on a train. Of course it fucking did. I was on my way to Manchester and was very much enjoying the quiet train journey. There were quite a few people on the train and they were all talking but not loudly or horribly. They were chatting happily to one another and, maybe this says a lot about most other train journeys I've taken, the atmosphere was cheery. I was even reading. A BOOK! I know, I wasn't watching some TV thing about spacemen, I was actually reading a book. This was a lovely relaxing train journey. Up until Stoke-On-Trent.
At Stoke-On-Trent, Fuck Face got on. Fuck Face is a very tired looking business man who has obviously had a bad day. He also looks like every day has been a bad day. Dishevelled, sweaty and red-faced; and that was just his hair. He put his bag down on the seat next to him which just happened to be the seat in front of me and then he collapsed into his own seat. He looked somehow incredibly spiteful of the world and happy to have a seat all at the same time. He phoned his friend and spoke about how many train delays and unexpected changes he'd had to make that day. He had to sit on the platform at Birmingham for over an hour. I could have almost felt sorry for him if it wasn't for him hating the other people near us chatting. He just hated the sound of them chatting. I should say that all the people near us were Chinese.
Oh now we're uncomfortable.
"I'm on China Airways", he said to his friend. "China Airways. I'm on China Airways. I'm on China Airways". He repeated this a billion times more than was necessary but his friend on the other end of the phone either didn't quite get what he was saying or he couldn't bare the fact that his friend is a stupid fucking racist. "I'm on China Airways", he continued while I stared at him. "Can't you hear them?"
It was then that he outstretched his arm and pointed his phone right at the chatting people. I tried to make my staring louder but he didn't notice and went back to his lovely phone call. "It's been like that since I got on. Ching chang chong ching". I slammed my hand on the table and we finally made eye contact. It took him about a half a nano second to completely understand my glare. He went quiet and wrapped up his call. Right after he hung up, I stepped in. "Really?", I said. "Do you think that was appropriate?"
"What?", he lied.
"Your racist conversation".
He sighed like he gets this all the flipping time.
"I'm not a racist", he claimed. "Why were you eavesdropping?"
EAVESDROPPING? You can't fucking eavesdrop on a phone being pointed at people who aren't speaking English and then a chorus of Ching Chang Chong. That's not eavesdropping. That's having awful shoved down your throat.
That's when I reminded him that he was being racist and pointed to the people who he was being racist about while saying "You were being racist about them" very loudly. He moved carriage.
I felt very smug and happy before the inevitable wave of you-really-are-going-to-get-your-teeth-kicked-in-one-day hit me.
But that was just a racist. I'd need a sexist as well to really make my day. I'm not saying that Fuck Face wasn't a sexist, I have every reason to think he most definitely is, but I have no proof. Luckily, a cab in Manchester provided me with one.
Right after the gig in Manchester, I decided to take a cab to the Frog & Bucket to catch The Boy With Tape On His Face. There was a lot of talk about him in Edinburgh but going to see shows in Edinburgh is boring and should never be encouraged. This was my chance to see him. As soon as I got in the cab, the conversation between the driver and me began. Here it is in it's entirety:
"Can you take me to the Frog & Bucket, please?"
"No problem, mate".
"Thank you".
"Lot of good looking women in town tonight".
"Yes. But you know how it is when you get to our age. It goes from fancying them to worrying about them".
"What?"
"I mean, like a few years ago you'd see young girls wearing next to nothing and you'd go PHWOAR and now you just look at them and you think 'They'll be freezing later'".
"Don't you like women?"
"Er...no. I do. I just mean that it's easy to worry about these girls. You'd like to think they'll be OK".
The cab pulls over to the side of the road. "Right. Get out. You sound queer, mate".
And that was it. I was thrown out of the cab. Thrown out of the cab for not ogling women. I say that was it. It wasn't quite. It was just so funny and shocking to be asked to leave a cab so soon into the journey that I got the giggles. Knowing fully well what I was doing, I said "Fair enough. How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Just get out".
My day was complete. You never really actually meet racists or sexists, unless you are racist or sexist, so to meet two in one day was really refreshingly depressing. I got another cab about 30 seconds later and told the cab driver what had just happened. He said "That could be one of a million cab drivers in Manchester. But I think I know who he is".
I think it's time to get back to blogging now. Two a week isn't enough. There will certainly be one tomorrow because today I go back to my doctor to discuss my blood test. My blood test that has come up with abnormalities. Abnormalities that he has to talk to me about face to face.
Gulp.
www.michaellegge.info
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