Fakes On A Plane.

I am ashamed of myself. Constantly. If I'm not doing something really embarrassing then I'm thinking about something embarrassing I did in the past. The confusing thing is I'm proud of being ashamed. All those times that I've let myself down and looked stupid will either have entertained someone else or made someone feel better that they're not me. When you make a tit of yourself you're not just doing a stupid thing, you're providing a service. By lowering oneself we only raise others. Through my continuous lifelong display of cack-handedness and oafishness, I have become Jesus. In a way. I'm not interested in making sure that I come across as perfect at all times and I pity anyone who is. It's just not...human. When I fall on my arse, do I not bleed? Actually, that's quite a horrible image but I hope my point is clear. When you embarrass yourself it's not all about you. It's about everyone laghing at you. If you're the kind of person who, when they fall over in the street, immediately checks to see that no one saw you then I'm afraid I have no respect for you. When I fall over in the street the first thing I do is check that someone saw and enjoyed it. If there's no one there, I lie there until someone turns up. All those cock-ups? That's who I am. All your awful moments? Don't hide them. Those moments are all you. What's wrong with being you? You're alright.

But some people are terrified of being themselves.

Recently I was on a plane flying from London to Belfast. On board the plane was a very rowdy, loud and obnoxious stag party. Well, there was actually only four men in the stag party. It was more of a stag cull. Now, no one wants to sit next to a stag do on a plane UNLESS you’re the two Australian women sat in front of them who thought everything they’d ever heard in their entire lives was funny.

“HA! I might get something to eat later! Ha ha ha ha! We should land by about half eight! Ha ha ha ha! I saw the Bourne Identity. Couldn’t make it up! Ha ha ha ha!”

You could make it up. They did make it up. The Bourne Identity never happened. Those two ladies were like that for practically the entire journey. Laughing at the fact that they might take their shoes off during the flight and pissing themselves over having two lip balms with them. It’s the Mrs Brown’s Boys demographic. Laughing to forget they're dying.

Now before I pass judgement on this stag party I should say this: I couldn’t ever go on a stag night. I’m not that good at drinking, I don’t like dressing up as Wally and when I see a large group of scantily clad women all I do is worry. They’ll be freezing later. Or worse. Yes, I’m rubbish at being a stag night man but secretly so were these guys. They were clearly ashamed about not being laddy so they over-compensated. Which is bad because I think they’re probably lovely. They’re the loveliest stag do ever. Yes, they wore matching t-shirts, yes they were loud and yes they clearly thought there was some weight to those Lynx adverts judging by the smell of them but they made two incredible errors that no self-disrespecting stag do would ever let happen.

The first was when the stewardess came round with the refreshment trolly and they immediately started screaming “Lager!”. Keep in mind that all four of these guys had that spikey Northern Irish accent that ALL Northern Irish men fake when around other Northern Irish men. It's somewhere between a shout and a shriek. Like the sound of two barcodes arguing.

“Four cans of Stella there, love. No. Eight. Eight cans of Stella”.

Oooh…two cans each. Such tough guys! Have you seen the size of cans of lager on aeroplanes? That’s normally the kind of can tomato puree comes in. You are NOT hard.

“Two cans of wife beater each!”

THEY'RE TWO REALLY TINY CANS! Your wife won’t even get a barbed comment.

Even though they all had their cans of lager, these so-called lads still couldn't stop shouting. “Stella”, they shouted. "Stella!"

“Way-hey! Stella!"

"Stelllllaaaa!"

"STEEELLLAAA!!”

Hang on, they’re quoting A Streetcar Named Desire. These hard-as-nails booze machines have seen the film A Streetcar Named Desire.

“That was a fucking good play that”.

Holy shit! They're quoting the PLAY A Streetcar Named Desire.

“I saw it at the barbican a while ago, so I did”.

“Aye, sure, I was with you, you big bollocks”.

“Uck, fuck, right enough. So you were, like. Fucking Frances O'Connor was brave and good, now. Fucking hard role to fucking pull off”.

Please get them on Newsnight Review.

“I saw it at the Barbican and I saw a wee fringe version at the Brighton Festival”.

WHAT? That’s the kind of lads they were: Lager, shouting and supporting independent theatre. Then the Australian ladies decided to get involved. “Hey, guys. When’s the sing song starting? Everyone’s really boring on this plane”.

Everyone is "boring" on this plane? What did she think we should be doing? The stewardess clearly said “Fire eating, strip poker and shark vajazzling are prohibited until after the seat belt sign has been switched off”

“Come on, lads", she continued. "Start a sing song. We’ll show these boring bastards”.

Now, what happened next was actually too much. If a bunch of Tennessee Williams fans want to pretend to be lads then that's fine but this? This was something that just couldn't be processed by something as simple and basic as the human brain. Put it this way, me and the other passengers plan to meet up once a week and talk about what happened just like survivors of plane crashes do. In fact, for a while that's what I assumed had happened. We've crashed. We've crashed and we're in Purgatory. It wasn't Heaven but it definitely wasn't Hell. It was just something we all went through until we moved to somewhere better. Or worse. One of the lager drinkin', Tennessee Williams lovin' stag night men was more than happy to assist the Australian lady with her need to liven up this terminally dull 50 minute aeroplane journey.

“Wee sing song, is it love? Get everyone joining in? If it’s a sing song you want, we’re your boys".

Then he made this noise. "Bum bum. Cha cha. Bum bum. Cha cha".

And that's when the other three stag night men joined in.

"Looking from a window above, it's like the story of love. Can you hear me?"

The whole plane froze. No one looked round. They couldn't. It was too much. And not just a minute of that song. They sang the SONG.

"All I needed was the love you gave".

"Bum bum. Cha cha".

"All I needed was another day".

"Bum bum. Cha cha".

"And all I ever knew....(Bum bum. Cha cha.)....Only you".

The song ended and everyone on board applauded. THEY GOT A STANDING OVATION ON AN EASYJET FLIGHT. Do you have ANY IDEA how tough a gig that is? But they did it. They won us over and we all applauded. All of us. Every single passenger. Except two now very quiet Australian ladettes who had just witnessed the sickest, most perverse sight in their lives.

I love that stag party and I only hope that they learn to love themselves too. If you have Tennesse Williams in your head and a song in your heart, what can stop you? Not two very tiny cans of Stella Artois, that's for sure.


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.

Gregg Jevin.

What can I say about Gregg Jevin that hasn't already been said? Nothing. Yesterday morning, Gregg Jevin, a man I had just made up sadly died and the worldwide outpouring of grief was as vast as it was unexpected. But that's Gregg all over. Even death and the fact he never existed could stop him from making a splash.

I think it's fair to say that I am the only person that was ever intimate with Gregg. Just before I tweeted the news of his death there was a brief moment, a fleeting second, where I was the only person in the world who knew him and no one on this earth knew that I knew him. For just one beautiful instant Gregg and I were alone. Together. He made me smile during that moment and I was happy having him around. That was when I knew I had to give him up. Gregg was too...beautiful to keep to myself and when the tributes started trickling in I quickly realised that other people saw the same beauty in Gregg that I did. Plus I realised that I had no idea who Gregg Jevin was at all.

If reports are to be believed, and they shouldn't be after all, Gregg had hundreds of jobs. He was a tightrope walker, a spy, a singer, a former Prime Minister, a priest...the list goes on and all this information was given to me by regular people around the UK who had been touched by Gregg's phenomenal and staggeringly brief life. Most people agreed that Gregg was a comedian despite me never once saying that he was. Even The Guardian claimed that Gregg was a comic (http://tinyurl.com/7qqb5tq) and why wouldn't The Guardian want to get involved? Thousands of other people were. Yes, tedious ordinary people loved Gregg but soon our beloved celebrities would be showing how much Gregg meant to them. Danny Baker said "Imagine the band Gregg is playing with in Heaven now!", Charlie Brooker was "Devastated by the loss of Gregg Jevin", 6Music discus jockey Lauren Laverne said "Wondering if I should play some of Gregg Jevin's band's music in his memory as well. Any suggestions?" and actor Hugh Bonneville cried "So long, Gregg Jevin. I always believed in you". Even the Radio Times itself, so wracked with grief and confusion, stopped everything to announce a change in our television schedule: "And we know you all be watching tribute programme Oh Well, Never Mind: The Gregg Jevin Story, 9:30pm, BBC2".

The list of names went on and on but not on and on and on. Danny Wallace, Dara O Briain, The Royal Albert Hall, Peter Serafinowicz, Huey Morgan, Waterstones Bookshop, Tim Burgess from The Charlatans, Rebecca Front, sport man Colin Jackson, Ian Rankin....the names were just lining up to give their thoughts on this great and fabricated man. It was overwhelming. Certainly by the time Graeme Garden posted "His performances I saw were effortless. I wish he'd tried at least a bit" I was overjoyed, so happy that Gregg meant so much to so many. I think, if you know me, you can imagine how filled with emotion I was when Colin Baker, the 6th Doctor, revealed this: "I got down to the last 2 for the double of The Ghost/Osric on tour in 1972. Gregg Jevin got it. I could have had his career".

But it was the ordinary folk who really made it all special. Although nowhere near as important as Colin Baker, they managed to make yesterday a celebration rather than a bereavement. Half an hour after I broke the news, Gregg Jevin was the 2nd most trending topic on Twitter in the UK. Within an hour Gregg was number one and number three worldwide at the same time. Message after message revealing stories of how Gregg changed people's lives. People were writing poems about him, making t-shirts with his name on it, writing songs about him. Someone even set up a Mrs Gregg Jevin Twitter account, a joke that will never stop no matter how unfunny it clearly is. And why? Because people loved Gregg and they wanted the world to know. Perhaps it was because they just realised they knew him, perhaps it was because some of us think that when someone dies it's a time for quiet relection rather than an excuse to post a sad face and retweet YouTube clips constantly? Who can tell? Whatever it was one thing was clear: Gregg inspired us all yesterday. I think that's what I like about the man most. Unlike characters like Mr Darcy or Chief Brody from Jaws, Gregg Jevin wasn't content with being fictional. Yes, I could have easily just not tweeted that Gregg Jevin had sat on his keys to death and he'd just have stayed locked in my mind but I knew that wasn't right as soon as I invented him. I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

What I'm trying to say is, thanks for yesterday. You restored some faith. There are now loads of links to Gregg. Just Google him and find out more.

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.

Chunks of Hope.

It's been a tough few weeks. My boiler completely died just as the snow arrives, Griff Rhys Jones annoyed me personally (the fucking never been funny, arrogant, completely unlikeable prick) and I was called a sectarian by someone on Twitter just because I don't like Ian Paisley. That's a bit like being called a racist for not liking Jim Davidson or a cunt for not liking Griff Rhys Jones. Sometimes I just think "Why does bad stuff only ever happen to me?" Like last week, I was out for the night with Bennett Arron. As if that wasn't bad enough, a total dick spilled an entire tray of booze all over me. You don't know low until you're cold, wet, stinking of sherry and listening to "of course, if I was a woman they'd have commissioned it" for the millionth time.

But that's at least partly why anyone would read this blog. My constant mishaps can only make other people feel better about themselves. I may have lost the use of my limbs, my house is on fire and my own children are currently kicking me to death but at least I'm not Michael Legge. That's the point of my blog. It's basically a public service and you're very welcome. Well, just a few weeks ago something happened to me that was so "Why does this only ever happen to me?" that it was the most "Why does this only ever happen to me?" moment of my life. It felt like destiny. It smelled awful.

I needed a haircut. Barbers cut hair so I went to one of them. It was 10am so I was pretty confident I wouldn't have to wait what with it being so early and, as I was about to find out, this barber is the worst barber since Sweeney Todd or that one that blew up the space shuttle. Firstly, he was young. I understand hairdressers being young but not barbers. No matter what age you are, your barber should always be older than you. Even if I live to be 100 I'd feel more comfortable and confident with an urn with a pair of scissors than a barber under the age of 25. It's just not natural. This guy, sadly, was about 20. He was young and cool and wicked. I would have hated him even if he was fictional but there he was right in front of me and preparing to cut my hair.

I sat down and as he began he decided to chat. It was frightening. He said "How are you?" What a prick. He knows exactly how I am. I'm letting a baby, whose only experience in haircraft is the Play-Doh Barbershop Activity Playset, fuck about with my skull while brandishing a really sharp object. I'm hardly fucking well, am I? "How are you?" What a total bastard. Of course I said "Fine, thanks" but then I did something that you must never ever do. I said "How are you?" back. WHY? Why did I do this? Why did I ask a young person how they are? Firstly, I don't care and secondly, I'm not going to understand when they tell me. Yes, I'm sure it really was "boss" being "fly" with the "bitches" at the "Then Jericho pop concert" but the fact is I just feel uncomfortable with youth culture despite the fact that I'm clearly good at keeping up with it. Or "bad" as they say nowadays. But I made my bed so I had to lie in it. I asked him how he was and now he was going to tell me. Sigh...

"I am wrecked, bruv. Seriously. I got the shakes".

Right. It's just that you're cutting my hair. With scissors. Near my ear. This was a terrible decision.

"I'm telling you. I was wasted last night, you know what I'm saying?"

No but I am dying to find out more.

"I was at the casino? Yeah? And I won £700? On the roulette?"

Well, that's good. By the way, why is everything you say a question? I mean, you're not really asking anything.

"It was not good, yeah? I drank the lot. The whole lot? I didn't get to bed until 7? I got two cabs home? That's how drunk I was. I don't know how I made it to work, you know what I'm saying?"

I do know what you're saying. I really, really do. You're saying that YOU'RE HOLDING A PAIR OF SCISSORS NEXT TO MY HEAD WHILE GIGGLING YOUR WAY OUT OF A HANGOVER. I mean, really, why? Why does this happen to me? Why does this ALWAYS happen to me? Why does this only happen to me?

It was then that he was sick on me.

I don't ask for much when I go to get my hair cut. In fact, getting my hair cut is pretty much all I want when I go to get my hair cut. I don't expect chatting or tea or details of how much was won at the casino last night but there is one thing that I really insist on: don't be sick on me. But he was sick on me. He was sick and I sat there while he went into another room and was sick again in a sink. There I was alone in a barber shop, looking at my reflection and the long streak of sick down my side. I thought, good. This is really good. It can't get worse than this. The only way is up. When that good Samaritan threw up on me what he was really doing, from the goodness of his own stomach, was saving me. Every bad occurance from this moment on will seem like a joyous event next to that one time that I sat alone in a barber's shop while covered in sick. Today's a new day, a brand new beginning. That young man has given me what I could never give myself; a second chance. To move upwards, to look positively, to learn new things. For starters, now I know why barbers make you wear a cape.

His boss arrived and took over my haircut. He was embarrassed and apologetic. Of course, he didn't know who he was messing with. I'm big on complaining and if a service is not up to scratch then I'm not paying and, let's face it, his employee had been sick on me. This might be the very worst part of the story. I paid...no, I INSISTED on paying...plus i gave him a tip. You might think that ridiculous but look again. When a man shows you what's inside him and you now see that life can only get better, don't you think he deserves your thanks?

Yes. It's the feel good story of 2012.


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.

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.


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.

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