Sucker.

And now for a Small story about the future. I love tales of time travel so it seems only fair that I should be in one. My future happened a week ago.

I got on to a tube train, sat down, got my Kindle out, the doors closed and the train started to move. That's when I heard the noise. It wasn't a particularly loud noise or a long noise. In fact, it was a very brief noise. But it kept happening. It's hard to describe the noise. If I wrote it down it would probably be "TET". The noise was tiny but revolting, sharp and it KEPT HAPPENING. I looked over to my left and there was an old lady sucking a lozenge. A lozenge that wouldn't go away, wouldn't get any smaller and it kept pecking away at my ear. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET.

Before getting up from my seat and smashing the old lady in the face with a cricket bat, I decided to glance over and give a look of "Would you mind not making that disgusting TET TET TET sound, please?" When I made eye contact, she looked straight through me like I wasn't there, or was there but was selling the Big Issue. She looked at me but she didn't see me. She just sat there with her dead, long face going TET TET TET TET TET. She had every right not to see me, of course. She was 70, I reckon, and I'm a comedian. Even if she could see, there was nothing of interest to look at. So I just went back to reading. Or trying to read, at least.

TET. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET. TET.

Right. She's had a good innings and now it's time for her and her fucking deafening lozenge to die. I will destroy this evil TET witch with the power of my mind. I looked over again and tried a bit harder with the eye contact. Didn't work. She just sat there, not looking at anything and acting all innocent, like lozenges wouldn't melt in her mouth. I mean, how the fuck can she not see me? I'm really only a few feet away from her and I'm STARING RIGHT AT HER. I stare longer but all I get back are glazed eyes and TET TET TET TET TET. I'm not giving up. I stare longer. NOTHING! Nothing except TET TET TET TET TET. Fine, I'll just stare even longer. I'll do it forever if I have to. I will not give up. She'll have to notice my powerful glare soon. TET TET TET TET TET. Why can't she see me? TET TET TET TET TET. I'm trying to give you a slightly hard time, you old bag. At least notice that I'm all up in your grill. TET TET TET TET TET. Just look at me! TET TET TET TET TET. Right. I'm giving up.

I looked away and put my iPhone earphones in. If I put music on I'll drown out that sweet, elderly, fucking evil lump of TETTING septuagenarian mess. The music was on, I got back to reading and I was finally free.

"Stand in the place where you live, TET, now face north, TET, think about direction, TET, wonder why you haven't before, TET, Now stand TET in the place TET where you work, TET, Now TET face west, TET, Think TET about the TET place where TET you live, TET, wonder TET why TET you TET haven't TET before TET". TET TET TET TET TET.

It was unbearable. How can a noise that doesn't change volume at all become louder and louder and louder and the noise, Doctor, can't you hear it? That constant sound of drums. TET TET TET TET. TET TET TET TET. TET TET TET TET.

I have no choice. I'm going to have to turn to a frail old lady who is travelling alone at night on a tube train to stop making noise with her lozenge. Yes, yes, yes, I could get up and move away but where's the blog in that? See? I'M ONLY THINKING OF YOU. It takes guts to turn round and telling an old lady to shut up but, thanks to my mental breakdown, I am the right person at the right time. I took a deep breath and turned to the old lady.

Before I could get the chance to do anything she stood up. The train was coming in to a station and she was getting off. It was going. That noise was leaving the train and I could get back to not being completely insane PLUS I hadn't stooped so low as to tell an elderly woman off for making a very tiny noise. I would have been embarrassed with myself later if I'd done that. And I was going to do it. I was going to tell off this clearly innocent, sweet lady who was just sitting there doing nothing. As she passed I felt a bit ashamed of myself.

That's when she leaned right in to my face and went TET TET TET TET TET loudly and angrily. I burst out laughing. As she got off, I thought to myself "I like her". It wasn't until later that I realised that that's what I'll be like in 27 years. On trains annoying people just like I always have been. I'm lucky. Not everyone knows what the future holds. We all wonder if we'll be rich or famous or loved or happy. Me? I'm going to be a rude old black lady.


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

Bravepenis.

How come when I read about people who are terminally ill or people who have been the casualties of war or starvation I'm not always moved? Sometimes that sort of empathy with another human being just doesnt connect. It makes me feel cold, when I think about it. I have such a comfortable life. A roof over my head, food in my fridge, too many Doctor Who DVDs, some bubble bath and a family who I assume love me. I must call them sometime. I don't think I'm a bad person, it's just that there's so much pain in life that it's hard to take it all in and sometimes I just don't feel anything when I'm faced with a story of incredible human bravery. But I'm not always like that. Sometimes I hear of something that is so brave, so selfless, so...kind that I just can't help but be moved. That's exactly how I felt the very first time I heard of Jeff Leach.

I had never heard of the comedian Jeff Leach at all until about 2 o'clock yesterday morning. Maybe it was my own feeling of vulnerabilty so late at night and alone but when I switched on BBC3 and started watching his documentary "Confessions Of A Sex Addict" it was like Jeff Leach had found the smallest room in my soul and deposited something in there. Jeff Leach might be the bravest man in the world.

If you had sex with over 300 people, would you be brave enough to admit it? It must have taken all of Jeff Leach's strength, humility and bravery to go on camera and tell the world that not only had he had sex with over 300 people but he'd also selflessly and bravely kept a spreadsheet database of the names of all those people on his brave, brave laptop. I know that, when I lost my virginity, the very second that I ejaculated I thought to myself "Michael, you must now do the decent thing and respect this beautiful bond you've experienced with your first sexual partner by beginning a ledger clearly registering her name just in case you're a sex addict. You must leave this bed, the bed you shared with your first sexual partner, and respectfully begin a spreadsheet database because you might have more than one sexual partner in your life and you have to bravely accept that you may or may not be a sex addict". But I didn't bravely leave my first sexual partner lying there and couragously begin that spreadsheet database. I was a total dick about it. I just lay there and cuddled for a while and then shared some jokes with her. I might as well have just kicked her in the cunt. Oh, I thought about bravely leaping from the bed, nobly slapping her bum and chivalrously telling her to get the bloody Wet Ones herself just so I could benevolently begin this important list of all the sexual partners that I would ever have but I was too scared. I was scared that if I kept a list of the names of people that I'd slept with that people wouldn't believe me. I was a coward who thought that what if, just if, my list gets to, say, 300 or more and then I told people about it, maybe they would think I'd made almost every name on that list up. I was too vain to start my spreadsheet database just because I worried that every single time that a fellow comedian met me, talked to me or even looked at me they would think that I was a fucking massive liar. But Jeff Leach is braver than that.

Jeff has bravely come to accept that he has an addiction to sex and wanted to share his story with all the millions and millions of other sex addicts in Britain so that they would know they're not alone. I mean, they probably know they're not alone. What sort of sex addict is on their own all the time? That's just wanking. Who could ever look at Jeff Leach and think "Wanker"? Not BBC3, thankfully. While other documentaries focus on greedy African children or moaning sick people, BBC3 saw something in brave graphic sexism and idiocy that might appeal to their viewers. A man with not only the courage to admit that he has an addiction and a list of girl's names but also the humility of meeting up with two or three of the girls that actually exist and asking them whether or not he was good at fucking. I sometimes think of all the things I've done in my life and get depressed that I'll never be brave enough to not care that everyone I know will think, say and be completely right about me making a DUH-cumentary on being a bit of a cheeky lad just so it would be a good career move and not something I actually felt was good. It's incredible that some bastard comedians will focus on their material or stagecraft and hope that that alone will show they're good enough instead of openly sharing something that is of no consequence whatsoever. Some fuckers actually think simply doing good comedic work and having none of the fame or plaudits that occassionally go with it is enough. But Jeff Leach is braver than that.

Hopefully, Jeff Leach's bravery has led the way for other comedians to be open and honest about their lives. I only hope the day comes when we can all switch on BBC3 to watch Holly Walsh's I Am A Rapist and Nick Helm: I Have Filled Everything With Spunk. Maybe one day I'll be that brave too. Brave enough to admit that I'm addicted to my own vanity, to bravely keep a list of everyone I've disappointed and to bravely base a stand up set on my experiences and courageously remove all the jokes and just fearlessly keep a load of sentences that said nothing in the finished documentary.

How come Chortle haven't even ASKED me to write for them?



www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

Christ On A Bus.

I have a problem. I'm not saying I'm right all the time but I do know when people are wrong and it is one of the most uncomfortable feelings you can experience when everyone around you is on the side of the bad guy. I'm fairly convinced that my brilliant skills at complaining will get me compensation from stupid National Express but I'm not so sure about the only other complaint I've currently logged. I think I'm really going to enjoy properly complaining in 2012 even though this particular case has left me with serious doubts. Not just about the customer service industry in the UK but also doubting in my fellow man. Actually, I don't have a fellow man. I'm nothing like those bunch of bastards. I don't tweet pictures of my dinner or consider The Apprentice gripping or support a team or say the word vajazzle and then laugh like a goat trying to regurgitate it's own skeleton. I pretty much hate my unfellow man and never more so than when I'm on public transport and neverer morer soer than when I was on a bus just before Christmas. I don't say this lightly, my dear friends, but it was the worst journey that I have ever been on. Remember: that's ME saying that.

I was travelling from Surrey Quays to Ladywell Village, the desperately-needy named eye of the Lewisham storm. The bus pulled up and I paid my fare but as I took my ticket I was gripped by an unsettling feeling. I thought to myself, "Was the bus driver singing just then?"

The bus started moving and I quickly convinced myself that I had to be mistaken. I mean, he's a bus driver. Why would he sing? Shouting for help, yes, but not singing. It was barely seconds into the journey when I realised that, terrifyingly, my first assumption was correct. The bastard was singing. The bastard bastard bus driver was singing like it was a normal thing to do. There is nothing normal about singing. Anyone who sings at any time clearly has severe mental problems and may even be violently deranged. I mean, look at Little Mix. There's no way they're not arsonists and animal pornographers. There's just no way. But I left it for a few minutes. Surely he'd shut up soon and we could all go back to pretending that everything is tip-top and peachy. But it didn't stop. It went on and on and fucking on. And just to make it worse, he was singing GOSPEL.

Panic was setting in as the song got into it's fifth or sixth minute. The bus driver constantly bellowing out "It's all about you. It's aaaallll about you. Jesus". Looking around the bus didn't do me any good either. Pretty much everyone on the bus could hear his very loud voice and how did they react? They laughed. Old women laughing. Teenage boys laughing. Mums with babies in prams just standing there laughing. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? Do you not realise who's in charge of this bus? Don't you know that Jesus's buddy is in charge here? CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THIS MAN THINKS WE WON'T ALL BE TRULY HAPPY AND ENLIGHTENED UNTIL WE'RE DEAD AND TRANSPORT FOR LONDON HAVE PUT HIM IN CHARGE OF A THREE TONNE VEHICLE?? He can't wait to die because then he'll see some gates made of pearls and naked children playing harps. He's going to have a lovely time if he kills us all. But they just kept laughing. My head started to set fire to itself as the bus driver started his second song.

I don't know if you remember my Christmas blog of a couple of years ago when I couldn't go to the toilet because the toilet attendant kept singing the same thing over and over again? Well, this was similar. Except this time the lunatic singing is the captain of the massive metal death trap I've found myself in. But like last time, I can remember every word of the song he sang. It was this:

(LOUD VOICE) He'll do it again.
(QUIETER SQUEAKY VOICE) He'll do it again.
(LOUD VOICE) And he'll do it again.
(QUIETER SQUEAKY VOICE) He'll do it again.
(LOUD VOICE) He'll do it again, our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.

Well done for spotting the two different types of singing he used in that never ending loop of a song. Yes, that's right. He did his own backing vocals.

I'd had enough and just snapped. I walked over to the cab and said "Can you stop singing, please?" He said he couldn't because we should all be singing and raising our voices to God. I completely agree with him IF this was a church bus but it wasn't. It was a normal every day bus full of piss and graffiti and it was beyond saving. Plus, I really don't feel comfortable that this man is driving while singing insanity to a fictional ghost. I argued with him saying that his singing was making me and other people on the bus uncomfortable, maybe using the bus you're driving to advertise your faith isn't a good idea and also it's just a terrible noise. But he kept insisting that he had to sing to show his love for our father. I told him I would ring my father if he wanted to praise him, he didn't have to make a disturbing racket on public transport. And that's when the rest of the bus joined in.

"Leave him alone". "Sit down, mate". "Fucking shut up. He's only singing".

Yep, people on the bus were defending the driver who sings his way to Jesus and our doom. I argued back with these people but it was useless. I was shouted down by practically everyone. My favourite was a woman who shouted "At least he's trying to do something". WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? "It's Christmas", she explained. "What have you done for Christmas?"

So, that's a Christmas tradition now. All drivers on public transport, just like in the days of yore, traditionally sing their faces off while making our journey's just that bit more uncomfortable. I couldn't take it so got off the bus two stops early to jeers and sarcastic GOODBYEs from the passengers. How could they turn on me like that? The bus driver is in charge so they take his side? Do what he says? I just wanted to save these people and was persecuted for it. I felt like going to bed for three days.

I complained, of course. I called Transport For London and, to be very fair, had a really good laugh about it with the woman I spoke to. Was I being a party pooper getting angry at a man singing at Christmas time? Am I justified in feeling vulnerable being on a bus driven by someone who really gets lost in a book? Sigh....this complaining thing is going to be tough but one thing is for sure; expect help from your fellow man and you'll be damned.

If you want to hear a little snippit of the bus driver singing, and trust me, you definitely don't, then go to this link: http://soundcloud.com/michaellegge/why-do-i-ever-take-public

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

Tomorrow Belongs To Me.

I've decided that you need to change. I've been thinking about you a lot lately and, although you seem lovely, you're all wrong. It's a new year and you've decided to start it positively but clearly you have no idea what positively means. You're going to read at least one book a week in 2012? WHAT FUCKING GOOD WILL THAT DO? You're going to do more travelling? POINTLESS. YOU CAN'T GET AWAY FROM YOURSELF SO IT'LL BE AWFUL. You're going to start going to the gym? I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO PUNCH YOU IN EVERY ONE OF YOUR INTERNAL ORGANS WITH AN 8 FOOT TALL METALLIC FIST. TWICE.

Has every other year of your unnecessary, tear-strewn life taught you nothing? Making personal changes makes no difference to anything at any time ever. Self-improvement? Selfish bastard, more like. By improving yourself all you're really doing is making the rest of us look bad. When you go to bed at 10pm every night, just like you promised yourself you would do, do you ever think of me still awake until 4am sitting in my pants and socks watching Toddlers & Tiaras while eating biscuit after biscuit of dry Weetabix? Well, stop thinking of me doing that. It's not doing anyone any good. But that's typical of you. Why would you care about other people now that you've taken up painting or started volunteering at a local shelter for slapped cats? I think what pisses me off most about you is your new 2012 approach to work. It's a new year so I'm going to really knuckle down and work hard and get that promotion I deserve. WHY? ALL JOBS ARE SHIT. No matter what you do for a living, it's agony. Whether you're a toilet cleaner in a diarrhea hospital or a Hollywood movie star, it's all the same. Every day you're up to your knees in shit. Think Michael McIntyre's happy? Well, of course he is but he's clearly mentally ill so that's a terrible example. I don't know why you brought him up. All these self-improvements are improving nothing. So listen, Sugartits (or on the bizarre off chance that you're a man, Liquoricepenis), you need to buck up your ideas in 2012. You need to stop being so selfish. You need to start complaining.

The British are well known to be constasntly moaning but never complaining. If a hairdresser gives us a shit haircut we will smile and say it's nice and then walk home, pile furniture up against the front door, hide in a wardrobe and then, when we thought it was completely safe to do so, we tut a little bit. The last thing we would ever do is actually complain out loud that a professional that we've paid has left us looking like a dead pensioner's garden. We've been like this all our lives, friends. Ever wondered why everything is so completely terrible all the time? IT'S OUR FAULT. We let it happen. Because we don't like to cause a fuss, the trains are always late. Because we don't like to make a scene, our food in restaurants is cold. Because we musn't grumble, 9/11.

Those are all simple facts. Do we want to keep going with everything being broken, delayed, tasteless and rude? No? Then let's start complaining. It's my New Year's resolution. If I've paid for it and it's not right then I WANT COMPENSATION. I want my money back, I want an apology and, if I'm in the mood, I want a song and dance routine. And there's only one way I'll get those things. COMPLAINING!

I've started already and I can't wait to let you know how I get on. I'm expecting my money back from National Express for a trip I made to Newcastle just before Christmas. Actually, I don't just want my money back. I want free National Express travel for life. NO ONE should have to pay for that sort of torture and I think I deserve to be begged by National Express for me to ever set foot in their Moving Hell Boxes ever again. The coach...fuck it, let's call it what it really is...the bus started and for the first three minutes of the journey it was fine. Only another 8 and a half hours to go. The seat was uncomfortable, it was freezing cold then boiling hot and the sound of everyone elses personal stereos filled the airless bus. So, it was all perfectly normal until this git walked up the aisle.

I don't know how to describe this git. I know he wasn't the driver because the driver was just behind the steering wheel and he seemed to be driving. No, this git was something else. I'm going to call him The Driver's Elf. It seemed to be his job to walk up the aisle counting how many heads people had. He stopped right in front of me, not to talk to me but to talk to the passenger on the other side of the aisle beside me. The Driver's Elf didn't look at the passenger or even excuse himself to talk to the passenger, instead he looked at the celing and said "What are you doing?"

What The Driver's Elf meant to say was "Excuse me. I'm very sorry but unfortunately we don't allow hot food on the coach. Would you mind wrapping it up and I'll give it back to you when you get off, please?" Instead of that, The Driver's Elf looked at the celing and said "What are you doing?" Now, considering the passenger was listening to music, reading a magazine, sitting on a bus and eating chips, it was confusing as to what the correct answer to this rude question should be. The Driver's Elf then went on to say "There's no hot food allowed on the coach. You know that".

Wow. This man hired by National Express actually said that. "You know that". It never ever crossed his fat mind that maybe the passenger didn't know that or had forgotten that, no, HE KNEW THAT. He got on board with Burger King chips with the sole intention of completely undermining the rules, guidelines and values of National Express. And he would have got away with it if it wasn't for The Driver's Elf. The passenger then went on to explain that he didn't know and The Driver's Elf tried to reassure him that he definitely did know. The passenger wasn't being rude but The Driver's Elf's attitude was clearly getting to him and I can't blame him. Soon, the threats starting to come out with "You'll be thrown off at the next stop" being shouted on a loop. The Driver's Elf was just getting angrier even though the passenger was being compliant and calm. Then he said "You can eat a sandwich if you want" and the passenger pointed out that he also had a sandwich so, while The Driver's Elf started spouting more pointless information about National Express policy, he got his sandwich out. His sandwich was a hamburger.

Rude, I thought, but somewhat justified. The Driver's Elf was plainly nasty so being rude back seemed OK to me. The Driver's Elf did his best Don't-You-Dare dance and got furious again and that's when the passenger said "But you were eating a burger when I got on board".

YES! Very good move. I started to like the passenger but The Driver's Elf still had more up his sleeve. "I can do whatever I want", he childishly cried. A pathetic comeback but I didn't expect much more. Oh, but what happened next was just perfect. Beautiful. A textbook case of how not to speak to the public. He leaned over to the passenger and said "Why are you being an arsehole?"

The passenger was speechless and then The Driver's Elf only made it worse for himself. He turned round and brought me in. Stupid move. "You understand what I'm saying, don't you?" he said but I explained that the game was over. "You called him an arsehole. That's not National Express policy" I explained to him. "I don't care", he replied. "It's my last day tomorrow".

He continued to argue with the passenger and while he did it I phoned National Express. It took me a while but I got through to his department and explained the situation. By this time The Driver's Elf was red in the face with fury and the realisation that he's an idiot. My bag was sitting on the seat next to me. Normally, I wouldn't do that but as the bus was only a third full I felt confident that there would be enough seats for everyone and I could have my stuff next to me. The Driver's Elf didn't care about that. He'd argued with one passenger for ages and embarrassed himself and now he hated me too and needed to save face. "Your bag goes in the overhead rack. Seats aren't two for one". Once again, that was unneccesary rudeness but I had something good for him. "I've got your boss on the phone", I said.

"I don't care", he replied. "Call my boss if you like".

"No", I said. "I have your boss on the phone. Want to talk to him?" I then handed him my phone. He went even redder.

I'm not sure what was said on the phone but he was definitely a lot quieter when he handed my phone back. No more polite but definitely quieter. "Here's your phone", he grumped. I asked him to hold on for one moment while I spoke to the other man on the phone. "Is he leaving his job tomorrow?" I asked. There was a pause before I followed up with "Fully employed. That's what I thought".

What a pointless wanker. But that pointless wanker has pointed me in the direction that 2012 should be taking. I'm not paying for stuff that's going to make me feel horrible any more. I'm going to complain. I'm getting my money back. I'm going to be covered in compensation this year. So from now on, no more paying for an internet service that won't work every time I actually need it. No more accepting that people working in bars just don't know which wines are vegan. And if you work in a conveniece store then do me a favour and get off your fucking mobile phone when you're serving me because I AM A CUSTOMER AND I WILL HAVE RESPECT.

I'll let you know how it goes. Happy New Year.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Silent Night.

Do you believe in the spirit of Christmas? It’s difficult, isn’t it? People constantly smiling and wishing you well, happy music playing wherever you go, the cold and empty hollow sound of children laughing. It’s a fucking horrible time of year. Be honest, is there anyone on this planet who hasn’t put a bullet through their televisions the very second that David Jason says “Consider yourself at home”? As if that wasn’t enough, Matt Smith and Karen Gillan also appear in the eye-rape that is the BBC Christmas trailer. Fine if they want to embarrass themselves but why drag a Cyberman down to that level? And then Scarlett Johansson made this bucket of awful: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_Lj58hsOO4

I should make it perfectly clear: YOU MUST NEVER CLICK ON THAT LINK. I hope I wasn’t too late. Yes, Christmas can be a trying time and joy never comes along like it does in the movies. Christmas miracles don’t really exist. At least, I thought they didn’t.

I was on my way to a gig in Milton Keynes on Wednesday and the train was full of Christmas misery. It was crowded plus at least half the people on board had, for some reason, brought their Christmas shopping to London for the day. I was already in a bad mood because I missed an earlier train due to my bank being dicks. My card was declined at the train station and when I called my bank they said they had put a block on my account because they were suspicious that my card was being used fraudulently. “We noticed an increased use of your card so the fraud department were contacted”, they said. Increased use? At Christmas? Give me fucking strength.

So the busy train started its journey to Milton Keynes and I relaxed with a book. For about 12 seconds.

A family sat next to me. Mum, Dad, brother, sister. All very sweet and Christmassy except that daughter decided to listen to her iPod and was, in the spirit of Christmas, sharing her shit music with us all by playing it loudly. I immediately tensed up and, as my blood turned to lava, I decided to think carefully about my next move. They’re a family who’ve been out for a day in London together and they seem perfectly nice and cheery. On the other hand, they are clearly ignoring the fact that their daughter is a turd. I pondered for quite a while. In fact, I pondered for almost my entire journey but, with only 10 minutes to go before arriving at Milton Keynes, I broke. It’s not too much to ask for her to turn her music off. It’ll be fine.

That’s when the shouting started. Despite me being very polite to the girl, Mum just exploded. “Why are you talking to my daughter? Why are you talking to my daughter?” I answered both those questions clearly, calmly and politely but that wasn’t enough for this screaming hate-witch. I was continually told by Scary Mum that her daughter wasn’t bothering me which was incredibly factually inaccurate. She was bothering me to shit. Scary Mum then went on about how her daughter had every right to listen to her music despite the fact that she doesn’t and to tell me that I had no right to ask her to turn it off despite the fact that I do. Then she gave her husband a stare. I could tell by his face that he had received this stare before and he wearily went through the drill. “Would you leave us alone now, please?”, he said. I will as soon as she turns her music off, OK? “I don’t think she’s going to”. Scary Mum had had enough of Tired Dad and of me. She pointed in my face and shouted “You have no right. She’s just a child”. That’s when I shouted back “No. She’s just YOUR child. Don’t you have any control over your own children?”

She went a bit quiet then but the look she gave me could be heard by the dead. “She’s listening to her music”, she said much quieter than before. “Get used to it”.

OK, I said and got my iPhone out, scrolled down my iTunes to find Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t and played it loudly while holding it directly at Scary Mum. I am 43.

Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t is a loud, aggressive piece of thrash metal. I like it very much but I can see why it wouldn’t be everybody’s cup of tea. It certainly wasn’t to Scary Mum’s taste. She shouted at me and threatened to report me to transport police and also pointed out several times that I was Irish. Don’t know why as I already knew I was Irish. But after a minute of Anthrax I noticed some of the other passengers faces. They looked embarrassed. Let’s face it, they looked embarrassed for me. I’m a grown man doing battle against a protective mother with the power of heavy metal. I started going red. Crap. I’m going to have to switch the music off and give up. All I wanted to do was point out to someone that they might want to be more considerate to others but now it’s gone too far and I look stupid again. Why does it always have to be me that asks someone to turn their music down? Why does it always have to be me that makes a stand? Why does it always have to be me that makes a solid gold arse of himself? Will I always be alone?

And what happened then? Well, on London Midland trains they say that Michael Legge's small heart grew three sizes that day. A man sitting behind Scary Mum leaned over and pointed his iPod at her. It was playing heavy metal. I don’t know what it was but it was the most magical, wonderful, CHRISTMASSY heavy metal I’ve ever heard. Someone stood up and joined in. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? It’s about friendship, sharing joy and banishing the baddies. Some people started smiling…laughing. Two grown men in their 40’s ringing in Christmas cheer and uniting everyone in their festive, glowing hatred of dicks who play music too loudly on public transport. Tired Dad leaned over and asked his daughter for her iPod and then turned it off. Scary Mum looked furious but said nothing. Me and the guy switched our satanic carols off, thanked one another and sat down. I looked around and there were enough happy faces near me to make me think that, yes, Christmas is a special time of year. Maybe we should be more like this all year round. Hey, maybe we WILL. And just then, in the carriage of the London Midland train to Milton Keynes, it started to snow.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

The Long Weird Friday.

Friday’s are exciting, aren’t they? The beginning of a weekend of possibilities. The start of a couple of days of freedom to do whatever you want. To break loose, go wild, be whoever you really are deep in your heart. Mind you, it’s mainly full of sick. Friday night is basically 6 hours of sick no matter where you are or how you spend it. A charming evening at The Ivy drinking champagne with Stephen Fry sounds lovely but never forget that you have to get the train home later. A train full of noise, idiots, fighting and sick. Just so much sick. In bins, on seats, in your hair. You stand on it, you walk through it, you fall in it, you breathe it in. And that’s just the beginning of the weekend. You have another 48 hours of this and look at you already. Surrounded by sick. But that was your Friday night. How was mine?

It started brilliantly. I’ve worked apathetically to get where I am today and I totally appreciate it when that total lack of focus and drive pays off. I was booked to play the excellent Tattershall Castle on Friday but, due to a double-booking error, was told that I didn’t need to turn up and would still get paid. This is every idle bastard’s dream come true. It doesn’t matter what I do on Friday night now because I’ll be getting paid for it. Staying in on my own watching Weekend at Bernie’s II on video? AND GETTING PAID FOR IT? It’s almost too much to dream of. Surely life could never be that kind? Well, you’re right. It couldn’t. I was asked to perform at a charity do. FUCKING HELL! I mean, I had big plans already made concerning me, a cheeky bottle of Blue Nun and a certain little corpse called Bernie but, once again, life drills a hole in the back of my skull and fornicates with my head. I mean, who in their right fucking mind would ever say yes to a charity gig? THEY DON’T PAY. But the person who asked me knew I was free that night and getting paid for doing nothing. What an evil bastard he really is. Organising a charity benefit to raise money for someone who needs medical care and then asking me ON MY PAID NIGHT OFF to do it. Sigh. I couldn’t say no. Damn.

The gig was in a place called the Irish Centre in Camden. This will suit perfectly actually because my agent, Kate, was off to see another of her clients perform a one-man show at Camden’s Roundhouse so I could hang out with her afterwards. Brilliant. I would go off and basically save a man’s life with my comedic genius, then go out and get elegantly wasted with Kate. For the first time ever, I left the house without looking at the address of the gig (I might have done this a few times, to be honest). That was OK because I was told it was in Camden, I’ll just check the address when I get out of the tube. I have plenty of time anyway because I got to Camden 50 minutes before the gig was due to start.

Balls. It’s not in Camden. It’s in Kilburn High Road.

I ran back down to the tube and headed for Euston where I could get a speedy overground train to Kilburn. Easy. Except all the trains cancelled. AAAARRRGGGHH! It was getting closer to the gig’s start time so I ran back down to the tube and took the long, multiple-changes journey to Kilburn. I got there at 8pm. I was due on stage at 8.05pm. I ran (walked quickly) up Kilburn High Road to Quex Road where the venue was. I’m just in time. I can go straight on stage as soon as I get there. Or I would if the venue hadn’t been demolished.

Cancelled gig and then a demolished venue? Look, if you don’t want me to perform just say so. No need to be rude about it.

There wasn’t much I could do about it. I’d been given the wrong address and I was far away from the Irish Centre. There was nothing left to do other than get back on the annoying tube journey to Camden and get drunk on my paid night off. I got to the Roundhouse just before 9. Perfect. It’s a one-man show so it should only be an hour long. I’ll just check by asking a member of staff. Hmmm. There are no members of staff here. Anywhere. I’ll ask the guy at the desk of the dance studio next door. It’s connected to the Roundhouse, it’s part of the Roundhouse and the dance studio and main Roundhouse venue have connecting doors. This will be no problem at all.

“Hello. Could you tell me what time the show in the Roundhouse ends, please?”

“Sorry. This isn’t the Roundhouse”.

“Oh, I know. But you’re connected. I was just wonderi…”

“You’ll have to ask a member of box office staff”.

“There aren’t any around. Could you call or ask someone in there, please?”

“I can’t leave this desk, I’m afraid”.

“But you could just open the door there and ask”.

“I have to man the desk”.

“But the door is 6 feet away from you and there’s no one but me here. You could just open it and ask those people in there”.

“I can’t, I’m sorry”.

“I could shout and they could hear me. If you could just…”

“I said no”.

Wow. I mean, I have met some FUCK YOU people in my time but that was just incredible. An absolute refusal to walk 6 feet to help just in case the second his back was turned a thousand 12 year old Glee fans would turn up begging for dance lessons. And with that I was invited to leave.

I finally found a security man who, after asking two other people, told me that the show ends at 9.45. Not as short a show as I’d hoped. That’s OK. I’ll go for a pint. I walked across the road to Joe’s, a very nice bar with a good atmosphere and patronised by glamorous late 20’s types and fashionable people wearing trucker clothes. It looked nice but maybe too trendy for the likes of me so I walked away. That’s when I heard someone calling my name. It was really nice to see a face I recognised. And that’s where the problem lay. I recognised the guy, I know his face so well, but this was out of context. Who the fuck was he?

It’s not like I don’t know him. I do. But from where and how and, oh for God’s sake, who the hell is he? I tried my very best to get it out of him. “How’s things?”, “What have you been up to?”, “Keeping busy?” NONE of those got any information out of him. “So, you working?”, I said. “Yeah”, he replied. “Here”. Right, that’s good. He’s a bar manager. Come on, Michael. THINK. How many bar managers do you know? None. OK, let’s thing of something else. “So, what’s new?” I said. “Well”. He replied. “I work here now”. HE GAVE ME NOTHING. But he knew me and I know that I know him but my brain is dusty and cluttered and I’ve just found out that a charity gig would rather be bulldozed to the ground than have me perform at it so my head is all over the place. If you’re reading this then I’m so sorry and I know when the penny drops I will kick myself. He’s probably my brother or someone. But he gave me NO CLUE. Instead he gave me a free beer and I thank that kind stranger that I know well for it. I took my beer and sat down. That’s when one of the truckers joined me.

This guy was very thin, and like a few people in the bar (including one of the barmen), he had a huge beard, a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, mirror sunglasses and a trucker cap on top of his mullet. He also had a surprisingly well-spoken English accent. He asked how my night was, what my plans were for the evening and he offered to buy me a drink. I pointed out that I had just started drinking my pint so I was fine, thanks. He seemed happy with that and went on to talk about a couple of bars that “we” should go to or some clubs if I was “into that sort of thing”. It was confusing. Eventually I said “Are you chatting me up?” He laughed and said that he might be but the funniest part was when I thanked him for the flattering thought and told him, regrettably, that I was straight and his response was “Oh, shut up”. It was like I had just told him that I had Roger Moore’s foot in my bag. The very idea of me being straight was just ridiculous.

I mean, do I look gay? What does a gay man look like? I’m not sure but there’s one thing I do know and that’s gay men just don’t look like rednecks. You just don’t get redneck homosexuals. Well, you do but they just get angry and violent about it, they certainly don’t offer to buy you a drink in a cool bar in fashionable Camden Town. All I’m saying is, don’t assume I’m gay if you’re going to appear THAT straight. That’s cheating.

After drinks with Kate, that was my Friday night over. It is a confusing place. I’m actually happier working and keeping away from real life at the weekend, I thought as I got on the train home and stood in some sick.

www.michaellegge.info

The Shaming of Michael Legge.

I’m easy. That’s the best way to describe me. I’m easily confused, I’m easily riled, I’m easily pleased and I’m easily embarrassed. Sometimes all of these happen at the same time, like recently when I was on a train to Manchester and I saw a man clipping his nails. Why would he think that that was OK to do in public, the ignorant, disgusting idiot? Then I laughed out loud when he realised that bits of his fingernails had been landing in his houmous, which made me go red in the face when he gave me a dirty look.

Trains are embarrassing places anyway. I’m always going red on them and not always with anger. I missed my stop but pretend I haven’t, my phone going in and out of signal so I have to repeat “Hello?” over and over again, being 43 and reading Doctor Who Magazine. Yes, it’s very rare that I’m not embarrassed while on a train. I remember once being really hot in a stuffy carriage so I thought I‘d open my bottle of water. It felt really good. How clever of me to have bought it before getting on board. It tasted so cool and refreshing and I was halfway through the 1 litre bottle when I thought to myself “Hang on. I didn’t buy a bottle of water”. The man beside me was furious and I went red. Again.

I’m guaranteed to go beetroot when the ticket inspector comes round. I bought my ticket and I KNOW it’s in my wallet but as soon as I see the ticker inspector I immediately become convinced that my ticket is lost or invalid or I’m on the wrong train. “You want to go to Birmingham? But this is the train to Imaginaryland. You’re going in the opposite direction and the next stop is 17 hours away. You massive twat”. On my way back from Manchester, the ticket inspector appeared and I should have got more embarrassed than I’ve ever felt in my life but luckily something so weird happened at the same time that somehow it all seemed OK.

There I was in First Class, relaxing back with a good film and having a perfectly nice time. I watched The Killing of Sister George. I’d never seen it before. I’d always heard good things about it and I knew it was definitely one of those films that I had to see before I saw Bridesmaids (yes, I am still going on about that). I didn’t even know what it was about. Turns out, it’s about lesbians. Good old fashioned BRITISH lesbians from the 60’s. Women who were simply flatmates. Filthy, dirty, hated-by-God flatmates. Women who would drink beer and hang out with other women and maybe, I’M JUST SAYING MAYBE, dance with them. There was certainly none of that modern lesbianism going on. No touching, no talking about it and DEFINITELY no glamorous lesbian power-couples. It’s a pretty good film about, among other things, the lack of acceptance of homosexuals and Beryl Reid is utterly fantastic in it. It’s a two hour long film with no graphic sex scenes in it whatsoever. Well, not until the last 10 minutes. Guess when the ticket inspector turned up?

“Tickets, please” is what I heard when Coral Browne began touching Susannah York’s vagina. I quickly reached for my wallet. IT WASN’T THERE. The ticket inspector squinted as Susannah York started undressing. The wallet must be in my coat pocket. WHERE IS MY COAT POCKET?? Why did I put my coat in the overhead rack? I never do that. Susannah revealed her breasts while I stood up to get my coat and considered pressing pause. NO, MICHAEL! Don’t press pause. It’ll just pause on a shot of Susannah writhing. Just concentrate. Get the ticket and he’ll go away and you can get back to your porn. IT ISN’T PORN! It’s an arthouse film from the 60’s. Aw, shit. Does he think I’m watching porn? He does. He thinks that, because I’ve paid extra to sit in First Class, I feel it’s my right to masturbate as and when I feel like it. Why isn’t my wallet in my coat pocket? Try the inside pocket. Oh, for God’s sake. Coral is kissing Susannah’s breasts now and all that’s in my pocket are loads of Starburst wrappers. Just switch the laptop off. NO, MICHAEL! If you do that then he’ll KNOW you’re watching porn. The wallet must be in my bag. Coral’s hand moves all the way down Susannah’s body again. Susannah’s body rises and arches as Coral’s fingers slide inside her. I FOUND IT! It was in my bag! Susannah is starting to come. The ticket isn’t in here! What? I always keep my ticket in my wallet. Coral touches Susannah more firmly while Susannah’s moans get louder. Where is my ticket and where the hell is Beryl Reid? No one would think I was watching porn if Beryl Reid was in it. Come on, Beryl, you bastard. HELP ME! Susannah comes and Coral’s face looks turned on and powerful. HERE IT IS! Of course! I always keep my ticket under my laptop these days so that I don’t have that embarrassing where’s-my-ticket fumble when the ticket inspector turns up. Susannah holds on to Coral’s wrist firmly between her legs as she comes down from orgasm. There you go. There’s my ticket. Oh, and look. There’s Beryl Reid.

That lasted three long and awkward minutes. But I wasn’t really that embarrassed. The ticket inspector was but I wasn’t. How could I be? I mean the whole thing was completely weird. Not the lesbian sex scene playing publicly on a train carriage, that wasn’t weird at all. What was weird was the fact that, during all of this, Matthew Horne, the actor from Gavin and Stacey and Horne & Corden, was fast asleep at my feet. That’s why I pay the extra to go First Class. You can watch Susannah York coming while a TV celebrity is curled up at your feet like a dog. I don’t know how you poor people do it.

I’m back, baby. I haven’t blogged in about 7 weeks but expect more. Isn’t it good to know that stupid things still happen to me on trains? I’ve missed you.

www.michaellegge.info