Match of the Dad - The Red Nose Diaries.

Why do I hate football? Perhaps a better question is why am I not more like a real man? That one I can answer. The answer is: My Dad.

My Dad can do things. He can drive and fix clocks and get women pregnant 5 times. Well, one woman. All of these things he has never shared with me and, although I'm delighted that he's never shared the experience of getting my Mum pregnant with me, I wish he'd told me more stuff when I was a kid. How can my Dad fix a clock and I can't? I mean, if I had a child and I knew how to fix a clock, I'd share that knowledge with them. It would bring us closer together and it would give that child something to pass on to someone else later in life. Why don't I know how to fix a clock? Why did my Dad never want to show me how to fix a clock? Sometimes I wonder why I broke the clock in the first place.

Yesterday, Dad and I went shopping. I didn't know what we were shopping for because Dad never says why he's going to the shops. Readers of this blog might remember my last shopping spree with Dad. After 15 minutes wandering around Lidl, I asked him why we were here. He said "I want a bag of grapes and a hammer". I stopped asking questions after that. 

Dad needed snow chains for the tyres on his car. I should point out that he most definitely didn't need them but he said he did because, really, he just wanted them. So there I was. With my Dad. Looking at snow chains for car tyres. Because my Dad is a man and I am, in his presence, a boy. He kept tutting and saying numbers that I didn't understand about tyre size. Dad must have known about the sizes of tyres for 50-odd years yet he's never shared this information with me so I don't know how to respond. Just like when he talks about driving or fixing clocks. I just don't know how to be as manly as him. "Son", he said to me, once again forgetting my name. "Can you ask that man if they have any snow chains for 235-50 tyres?".

He knows I can't.

Well, if Dad isn't going to make me more of a man then I'm going to have to make him make me more of a man. I have to do this stupid Comic Relief thing and my Dad loves sport so me and my Dad should watch sport together. He can explain football to me and I'll finally get some knowledge from him. Yes, He's mainly a huge Formula 1 fan but he's also a life long Manchester City supporter. Not that he ever shared his love of his team with me. He barely mentioned them. But he did have a manly sticker on his manly car that had a picture of Sylvester the cat wearing a Man City shirt and saying "Hear the Man City ROAR!" on it. It was time for Dad and I to bond.

We sat together to watch Match of the Day, a Loose Women-style programme for people who like to watch little bits of football but mainly love seeing other people just sit there talking about it. Dad was very happy to sit with me and watch although, obviously, I wasn't keen. Maybe if he sat and watched it with me when I was a child we wouldn't have this problem but he didn't. He kept his precious football to himself. Manchester City was his and his alone. I'd never have known he even knew who Man City were unless Sylvester thaid it to me. But that's the past. And this is now and my father and I are going to bond.

I have to give Match of the Day it's dues. It really, really tried to get me to like it. The opening credits are a montage of things I know nothing about. Things like goals and cheering and numbers on the back of shirts. Then, for no reason other than to get me interested, Tom Baker appears dressed as Doctor Who. Two seconds later The Young Ones pop up. Guys, that was SO lovely of you. You've made me feel really welcome. Then they played The Smiths! Bloody hell! Is football trying to get off with me? I'm getting wooed.

It didn't last. Gary Lineker, a man I know little about but for some reason I like him, introduced us to Alan Shearer and Danny Murphy. Both men had a look as if to say "do we have to talk about football?" which made me laugh immediately. Dad didn't laugh though. To be fair, I understood. Football isn't my thing but it is something my Dad loves and if we're going to bond at all then I better take it seriously. We watched the three men briefly discuss that day's football and I sat back and waited for my Dad's knowledge to pour out. He said nothing.

Come on, Dad. BOND!

The first match highlights began. It was Chelsea vs Manchester City. Brilliant. Not only have I seen this, and therefore can somewhat discuss it, but it's Dad's favourite team. Perfect. "Did you watch this match?", I asked. Dad said no and we immediately went back to silence. Right. "I won't tell you the score then", I said. 

"One all", said Dad. 

Ah, of course. He didn't see the match but of course he kept up with it because he loves Man City. That's his team. Of course he knows the score. Stupid of me. We aren't going to bond if I'm going to be this stupid. I better say something clever. "That first goal by Remy was good".

I had no idea if it was good but one thing I did know for sure was that Dad would know. He'll explain why it was good or bad and pass his knowledge on to me and we will bond. But he said nothing. As silent about his love of football as ever. What he shared with a fictional cat, he would never share with me. And Match of the Day went on...

I wish I liked footsie because Match of the Day actually seems quite fun. There's smiley chat with some guys and little jokes keep popping up in graphics across the screen and the whole thing is quite jolly. It's basically a podcast that's done really well. I just wish it had more Tom Baker in it. It's clearly not for me but it's definitely a really great programme. And it introduced me to my new football hero. His name is Kane and he plays for Tottenham Hotspur and every time he scores he seems really happy. Like someone has given him a Valentine's card. He just looks chuffed. I didn't know footballers did chuffed. Anyway, I liked him and Dad never gave an opinion on him so it was time to give bonding another go. "Who's your favourite footballer?", I asked.

"There are a lot of good players now.", he replied. "Who's yours?"

"Dee Hepburn".

Dad said nothing. A shame as I had thought of that gag two days previously and was really hoping to get it into this conversation but Dad either didn't get it or didn't care. Come on, Dad. I'm really trying. I'm sitting here watching something you love and wanted you to share that with me. Open up. Bond with me, Dad. BOND WITH ME.

"Do we have to watch this?", he said.

What? I explained to him that, although I was doing this for Comic Relief, I was also using it as an opportunity to spend time with Dad and appreciating something that he loves.

"But I hate football".

WHAT? But what about us bonding? But what about your support of Manchester City? What about the sticker? The cat in a football shirt? What about the Man City ROAR, Dad?

"It was just a sticker, son".

It was just a sticker?

"I haven't liked football since I was 5. My Da took me to see Bangor play and Bap Dunlop kicked the ball into the crowd and it hit me in the face. It wasn't Man City I liked, it was Sylvester".

My childhood was full of fear because of football. I was made to play it at school and was terrified of the ball or any of the players coming anywhere near me. I was scared of football being played in the park, the school playground and on TV. To me, it was just bullying with some rules attached. I didn't like football because I was scared of it. And my father was the same. I was scared of football, not because my Dad didn't share it with me and gave me confidence, but because Bap Dunlop is a prick. A huge man who kicked a ball way too hard into the face of a child. My father and I sat together in front of Match of the Day and we bonded.

And that's why I am who I am. Sometimes, I mess up because I just don't have the confidence or strength of character that maybe I would have if it wasn't for the arrogance and cruelty of Bap Dunlop. Every mistake I have ever made, every ridiculous step I have taken, every opportunity missed is solely down to the spite for humanity that boiled in the very blood of Bap Dunlop. And who knows how many people he has destroyed through his hatred? Dad? Yes. Me? Yes. You...?

All I know is that the next time I screw up in work, in love, in life... I will turn to the person I have upset, and you can do this too, and I will say "No. Do not blame me. It was Bap Dunlop's fault".

You're welcome.




www.twitter.com/michaellegge 


I set my target at £500. Although I've already hit it, please keep donating. It will be a horrible month for me so that should make you a little bit happy. So PAY UP: http://my.rednoseday.com/sponsor/michaellegge

Soccer Punch - The Red Nose Diaries.

Ever since I was a boy I have had a dream that one day I'd be good enough to finally get to Wembley Stadium and burn it to the ground. Simply put, I hate football. I think it's the worst thing that's ever happened. How can something that anti-social and violent be so paint-dryingly dull? 

I have only watched one footsie match from beginning to end. I didn't want to, obviously, but I was persuaded to by my two footsie fan friends who were watching the match in a pub near my house. I wanted to drink. They were there. I had to watch a match. 

It was Liverpool vs AC Milan in the final of the 2005 UEFA Champions League Cup. No. I don't know what that is either. I mean, I know what a cup is but other than that it was all a mystery. The only thing that I was certain about was that I hated football and I was guaranteed to suffer one of the most boring nights of my life. Oh, how wrong I was. My two friends are such fans of Liverpool FC that they were even born in Liverpool and at the end of the first half AC Milan had scored 3 goals and Liverpool had completely forgotten to score any. God, I laughed SO MUCH. Looking at these two stupid fucking thick cunts (my friends) getting really upset over a tedious game was brilliant. Maybe this is my sport? I can go to stadiums and watch men look sad over ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Or pay Sky a fortune to subscribe to their "Disappointed Lads" package of channels? For every tear, I let out a cheer! (Hey! That's almost a chant!) Then the second half started and I settled down with my beer so that we could both enjoy another 45 minutes of laughing at two useless awful twats (my friends).

Liverpool scored 3 goals and it was now a draw.

FUCKING HELL! I was totally sucked in. It was one of the greatest dramas I have ever seen. Liverpool, the underdogs, have turned the whole thing round. They had nothing, NOTHING, in the first half and now they're focused, they're united, they're a fucking force to be reckoned with and all that came from nowhere... FROM NOTHING. It was like watching an eagle having the bandages removed from its once broken wing and seeing it soar. It's gone from 3-0 to 3-3. There's a chance Liverpool could win, I thought. Liverpool could win! WE could win!

The game went to penalties. The final score was 3-3 but, due to a rule that I fear I will never understand, Liverpool FC won 3-2. Holy fucking shit. It was amazing. The pub cheered. It rose to its feet. I cheered and jumped around with them. I hugged my friends (the lovely cunts) and we drank and we cheered and we cheered some more. Both friends crying, they'd seen their team all the way to this match. This Champions League final. And they saw their men come so far to be kicked, battered and demoralised in 45 minutes... Saving the very best to last. I had electricity belting through my bones at the end of that match so I can only imagine how they felt as their team captain lifted the cup. OK, I admitted. I get football now. I understand.

They turned to me and said "Never ever watch another football match. They'll never come close to that".

And that was that. I had finally got footsie and already I was told to hang my boots up.

In the last 10 years, I've been firmly back to my position of hating football. My friends were right. Nothing will come close to that Liverpool win. Every time I see it, I'm bored senseless. I hate the money involved, the players, the fans, the sponsorship, the hatred of women... All of it. And with that loathing in mind, former comedian Mark Watson asked me to get involved in his 27 Hour Show, raising money for Comic Relief, and he suggested I tackle football. Watch a match every day from 1st Feb until Red Nose Day and blog/tweet about it. People like seeing me sad or angry so it might raise a couple of quid for a good cause. So, I accept the challenge. I am going to watch football every day until Red Nose Day. I will talk to footsie fans, I will learn the rules, I will watch it on TV, I will go to matches... Fuck it, I'll even play a game. I will hate every second of it but I'll do it. 

So... to my first match.

1st Feb was a day I had to spend with my family so I decided to skip that day but start a day early also, just to make up for it. On Saturday, I watched Chelsea vs Manchester City.

As the day wore on, I started to feel a bit sick. A month of football? A MONTH? And it hasn't started yet. It hasn't begun and I feel sick and scared and alone already. Alone was OK though. That was actually the good part. If I'm going to get this horrible month to build then I better start small. Just me. Alone. Watching a... (dry throat)... Match.

I phoned my local pub to ask if they were screening the match. It was like I had decided to just call a random person in Japan and wing speaking Japanese to them. Fuck it, I've heard some of those sounds. I can do it. How hard can it be? "Are you showing the Chelsea match tonight?", I said in a voice that went deeper on it's own. It was like I didn't trust myself with those words so my voice just naturally compensated for my lack of manliness. The person on the other end of the phone let out a heavy sigh and said "Yes, we can do that for you".

I DON'T FUCKING WANT YOU TO. THIS ISN'T MY IDEA. IT'S CUNTING LENNY HENRY MAKING ME DO HIS FUCKING DIRTY WORK FOR HIM. I don't want you to screen the fucking match. Don't get arsey about it. Just say no and we'll both be happy and I can just lie and say I watched it and tell everyone how jolly exciting the whole thing was.

But I did watch the match.

It was tedious.

In many ways this really was the perfect start. Alone, watching a game I didn't understand with the sound off and no subtitles. It meant I had no choice but to just watch and try to figure it all out. It was impossible, like staring at a brick wall and trying to guess what it's thinking. Kick. Kick. Pass. Kick. Pass. Kick. Kick. Fall a bit. Kick. Pass. Kick. Flag.  That was what I watched. For ages. I didn't know what was going on or who anyone was. Then, 30-odd minutes in, the camera closes in on a player's face and his name appears on the screen. "John Terry". Ah, John Terry. I've heard of him. So he must be a cunt. I've said it before but if it wasn't for violence against minorities, I'd never know a thing about football. 

Years later, the game ended on a 1-1 draw and absolute indifference from the world. Basically, nothing happened. That didn't stop three men going into hysterical analysis on nothing after the match on Sky Sports, of course. But, hey, I can't let my first match of this torture month be a negative experience. The whole point of all this is for me to learn to love footsie. So, what can I say about it positively.

The gardener does a good job. He does, doesn't he? That grass was lovely and neat and green. Does the gardener ever get any recognition? To be fair, the sound was off so those three men getting excited on Sky Sports could have been talking about the grass and I don't blame them. It was lovely. So, if anyone knows who does the gardening for football, let them know I'm a huge fan.

Of course, I can't go much further with this if I don't know how footsie is played so today I'm watching Match Of The Day, a sort of Loose Women for pricks, today with my Dad. He can explain everything. One match done. Will I make it? I'm not completely sure. Still only 4 weeks to go.

RED NOSE DAY IS IN 6 WEEKS? Ah, fuck....

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

I set my target at £500. Although I've already hit it, please keep donating. It will be a horrible month for me so that should make you a little bit happy. So PAY UP: http://my.rednoseday.com/sponsor/michaellegge

The Boy Done Bad.

Why is wrestling thought of as any less of a sport than the others? I've heard this so many times from sports fans. "Wrestling? That's not a real sport". I'm confused. It's not a real sport? But... But matches are rigged, players are paid way too much for what they do and they are adored by fans for doing something that is of no consequence whatsoever. Like football. Hmmm... Except wrestling doesn't seem to have quite as many high-profile rapists. Is that what makes it less worthy?

Clearly, I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm not in any way a sport fan and I will never, ever understand sport fans. I'm sure there are all sorts of rapists and murderers in the world of wrestling and I apologise to any fans if I insinuated there wasn't. There just doesn't seem to be as many as in the beautiful game of football. Those are the ones I hear about most anyway. To be honest, if it wasn't for violence against women, I wouldn't have a clue about sport. And I think that's what I can't quite get my head around. Tickets to watch other men play a game you're not allowed to join in with costs a lot of money. I just looked on a random footsie club website, Oldham Athletic FC, and saw they charge £42 to sit at the front row and watch them play their game thing with Doncaster Rovers. Surely no one on Earth can be possibly interested in seeing that? 42 quid! AND you have to do your own singing? No thank you very much, please. But footsie fans all over the country will pay that and more to support... What? I mean, it's not their local team, is it? It's just the name of their town with one or two players from the area among the other 15 or so (I really don't know how footsie teams work). You pay £42 to watch very wealthy men enjoy their hobby. You support these wealthy men, both financially and for their own morale, whether they score some goals or not. Or even if they're a rapist.

Of course, thankfully, plenty of footsie fans refuse to support highly paid sports rapists, and good for them, but nowhere near all do. Not even all teams or players refuse to support them. The manager of Oldham Athletic has said that his club are facing a "very difficult decision" as to whether or not they should sign sports rapist Ched Evans to their troupe. That is a heavy decision to make. If only there was a way to make this tricky situation better. If only, say, the club owner or the team coach or, I dunno, one of the other players could take the manager to one side and whisper in his ear "DON'T SIGN THE FUCKING RAPIST" then maybe his burden would be eased? But, like I say, I know nothing about sport. 

Thousands have signed a petition asking Oldham not to sign Ched but still (at the time of writing) the club haven't made a decision. Maybe they'll change their mind now that Verlin Rainwater Solutions has withdrawn their sponsorship of their main stand. Who knows? Maybe when it comes to rape, it's Verlin Rainwater Solutions that finally make people see sense. But go on Twitter and the support for Ched is clearly there. People happy to have their community represented by a rapist. The fact that Oldham didn't just immediately say no is also depressing. And sports journalism, something I know a lot about (I don't know anything about it), seems keen to back their sports rapist hero. I say sports journalism, The Daily Mail's Martin Samuel wrote "If we believe in redemption, Ched Evans MUST be allowed to play football again". No. We don't have to redeem him, he has to redeem himself. Martin has clearly got redemption and being-rewarded-for-raping-someone very mixed up. But I wonder if that's where my problem with all sport lies? It's the competition. Winning is everything. So if he wins, he's redeemed. If Ched Evans, the convicted rapist, joins Oldham Athletic and then uses his phenomenal skill to somehow get them through to the Embassy Snooker World Championships, is that all the redemption sport needs? 

I'm safer out of it, with my Doctor Who DVDs and my comics. Sport isn't for me. And if there was something good in sport then surely these people would stand up and say no to Ched Evans's return? Men... Sportsmen... Standing up, speaking out and making a united front against violence towards women. If there has been sportsmen speaking out then I deeply apologise. I can't find a record of any. Well done to Jessica Ennis and sports presenters Charlie Webster and Gary Lineker but it would have been better if some actual current sportsMEN spoke out. He had sex with a woman too drunk to know where she was after being texted "I've got a bird" by his friend, his brother watched through a window and tried filming it on his phone and after being convicted he didn't even do his time and yet still no footballers speak out? Why do you like football again? It's an unfunny old game. And poor Oldham Athletic still stuck with that difficult decision. Bloody typical! Don't you know the offside rule? YOU. DON'T. RAPE. 

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Satisfied, Thatcher?

I've never enjoyed the British Comedy Awards. I've never respected the "comedy talent" sitting there watching it, I've not liked the terrible cheap booze provided, the leery atmosphere is loud and embarrassing and my house is too draughty and smelly to enjoy a night of telly alone. Why I watch it three or four times every year is beyond me. 

The thing is, the British Comedy Awards actually offends me. I realise they're not supposed to be for me. They're there to backslap popular light entertainment. What has popularity or entertainment got to do with me? Nothing. I don't care that an entire awards ceremony is set up to acknowledge large viewing figures or huge DVD sales. There are plenty of sales figures and business achievement awards all year round and I don't get angry about them (although I still think I was robbed of the Vauxhall Dealership of the Year AGAIN). What I get cross about is the few, the very few, awards given to the ART of comedy. THIS IS A SALES AWARDS SHOW! WHY ARE YOU DRAGGING ART INTO IT?

Oh, it's happened. Not all these awards get thrown into dung. Some of the good ones get these things forced on them. Look at Nick Helm. The awards insult him by acknowledging him and he rises above it all by being the funniest thing on the night. Toast of London wins Best New Show when it clearly deserves better. So it's not like these people are ignored entirely. It's just they choose a few good ones. Chosen wisely to make the awards look cool, the very thing it joyously brags that it's not. Even Charlie Brooker has won British Comedy Awards but only after being told to shut his fucking mouth and brush his hair.

That's why I have to respect the awards, because this year they actually showed some respect. There are some talents out there that are just too important and deserve to be remembered for what they've given and who they are. And the awards know that. 

Rik Mayall's death in June was sudden and shocking. But his memory was the most celebratory thing of the year. No one has a bad word to say about the talent of Rik Mayall. He was unique, he seemed to come from nowhere and he actually changed people's lives. I'm one of those people. Whatever Rik saw as the norm growing up in the 70's clearly offended him and that's why, instead of ignoring it or (even worse) accepting it, he decided to destroy comedy and then rebuild it in his own image. Kevin Turvey came on TV and I fell in love. Like my dad seeing my mum for the very first time or, more likely, John Peel hearing Teenage Kicks for the first time, I realised then and there that Rik Mayall was what I'd been looking for. I had no idea how bad things were in comedy at the time but I'm so glad Rik did.

Kevin, Rick, Richie, Alan, Flashheart... Rik Mayall was perfect in all he did. Shouting, gurning, pointing to his willie and making confidence lose all belief in itself. He was beyond confident. He was bigger than Hitler, better than Christ. This week I heard that some of the cast of Blackadder didn't like him because, after every scene, he'd turn to them and say "Well? Did I win?". All that says to me is that the adored and hallowed halls of Blackadder meant nothing to him. "That's the best thing on telly? Well, fuck it then. I'll just have to be better". I love Rik.

Yes, it was the whole early 80's alternative comedy scene that changed everything but Rik was even above that. And, for once, the best was also the favourite. He meant something then just as he does now. And the British Comedy Awards respected that... By totally forgetting him.

No mention of Rik was made at the awards. There was a very quick "in memory of" written at the very start but he wasn't mentioned. There was no tribute and THAT is the greatest tribute the British Comedy Awards could give Rik Mayall. In the same year that James Corden was remembered by the Queen, Rik Mayall was forgotten, quite rightly, by the comedy establishment. I've never been prouder of him. Think he'd care? Go to bed, spotty.

Imagine if he HAD been mentioned? He'd be just like the rest. Horrible, horrible thought.

Brendan O'Carroll was named Comedy Writer of the Year at the awards and that's quite right. That's how it should be. The Queen acknowledges James Corden for his services to entertainment and that is great. He's far from the worst and the Queen is not the establishment. Not of comedy. The British Comedy Awards are. And they know that. I thank them humbly for their respect this year.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Are You Getting?

If I owned a shop it would be the greatest shop in the world. It would sell indie CDs and books. Oh, and Doctor Who DVDs and Marvel Blu-Rays. Vegan food too. And Converse shoes and psoriasis cream and beer and ventolin and paintings of my dog and it would be called Legge's and no one except me would ever be allowed in. 

It's not a great business model, especially in the current financial crisis (I have no money), but what Legge's would do is actually think of it's customers as individuals. Not everyone is an averagely healthy, Apprentice watching meat eater. Some of us are wheezing, flaking, TARDIS obsessed plant eaters with little regard for the welfare of their feet and a near romantic attachment to their pets. And Legge's would appeal to those exact people. Those exact people who are called Michael Legge and are me. It would be a small, local business (I see little point in opening this shop far away from me) that would care for individuals. Well, individual. But it would also spare a thought for the rest of the general public too by not letting them in and having a sign outside that reads "There Is Nothing Of Interest For You In Here".

Yes, it would fail but surely even that is the spirit of Legge's? My empire built in my own image. But at least Legge's wouldn't be the icy cold, money grabbing, uncaring corporation that we're used to. A faceless business that has no clue who we are. Today, Amazon sent me an email recommending I buy Ed Sheeran's album. If a friend did that to me, I would never have anything to do with them again until their funeral where I would read their bastard email out aloud and everyone would then take turns to boot-fuck the corpse around the cemetery and then I'd seduce their widow/widower (Legge's is an equal opportunity establishment). 

In this day and age of terrible online offers from corporations who think we're all the same and supermarket self-service tills that ask "Would you like some half-price Trill?", it is good to know that some of the smaller, independent businesses do understand and respect the little guy. I have a couple of friends who like to eat Sugar Puffs at 7pm. I don't like these friends but I'm happy that a place has finally opened up in London just for them. Two bearded, tattooed caricatures of everyone in Shoreditch own a cereal cafe and I found it very upsetting to see so many people online hoping for the cafe's failure just because it sold cereal. I wanted it to fail because the owners are clearly wankers. I'd have had less of a problem with the place if it was owned by The Wests. But then I'm not fussed on cereal or wankers, so that shop's not for me and that's fine. I like a place that can get what I want and is willing to go the extra mile just for me.

Two days ago, I fancied a Diet Coke. That's one of the things I like. I looked around Lewisham and saw that Legge's still hadn't opened so I sadly walked around to find somewhere that would have what I like, that would get what I want... Somewhere that knows me. And I found it.

A pop-up shop in Lewisham Shopping Centre. Perfect. I walked over and asked the enterprising young go-getter behind the counter for a Diet Coke. "No problem", he said. I liked that. I'd never been to this shop before but already they were on my side. They knew me. They knew I liked Diet Coke and I hated problems. Nice touch. I'm impressed. "Can or bottle?", he inquired.

A choice! This is a great shop. They know me well enough to know that sometimes I like Diet Coke from a can and sometimes I like it from a bottle. I don't feel like a statistic here. Like a nobody. I feel cared about because I'm thought of. It was lovely. "A bottle", I replied.

"Hmmm...", he said.

Uh-oh. Have we hit a problem? But... We were so close. He said no problem. He knew I wanted a Diet Coke. He knew I liked to choose what receptacle my Diet Coke comes in. This man KNOWS ME. I finally felt that a business had reached out to me and then I'm punched in the face with a "Hmmm"? What? Is there no Diet Coke? Is there only Diet Pepsi (ugh)? Is he going to recommend Ed Sheeran's album? "Hold on", he said.

Confidence back. He said "No problem" and he meant it. This was a business man who knew what made me happy and he cared enough to MAKE me happy. I asked for a Diet Coke, he said "No problem", he asked if I wanted a can or a bottle and when I said bottle he... He left the shop, went to another shop, bought a Diet Coke and then brought it back for me.

He left me standing in his shop for over a minute. I stood there, in HIS shop by MYSELF, for over a MINUTE. I even saw him in the other shop. He got his money out, he bought a Diet Coke and then he sold it to me. He could have said "We only have cans" like any normal, not insane person would have but instead he turned the whole buying-a-Diet-Coke thing into a pointless exercise in giving the people what they want. Why? Because he cared. He cared about the little man. He cared about me.

Anyway, I'm not going back.





www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Back To The Future 4.

And so it's not Christmas and what will you do?

As we awoke this morning we all discovered 2014's corpse lying in the bed next to us and its blood was all over our hands. Before the body was even cold, we couldn't wait to confess what we had done. "I had a tedious, empty 12 months and I'm only pretending that I'm in any way happy so that you'll feel worse about yourself", we all posted on Facebook. "It's been a rancid rhino ball of a year. Thanks for being part of it". Then just to prove we even had so much as a trace of a pulse in the last year, we listed our favourite things which were all way better favourite things than anyone else's favourite things. Best TV Programme: Russell Brand on Newsnight. Best Book: Russell Brand's book thing. Best Podcast: The last episode of Serial when Russell Brand brings that woman back to life and then fucks her.

I buried 2014 next to 2013 in an unmarked, shallow grave in my garden this morning. I do that every New Year's Day to each passing year except 1992-96 which I'm having trouble letting go of, obviously. I do this because I like to look forward. And by that I mean I like to want to look forward and then do absolutely nothing about improving my future. But 2015 is different. This year I mean it. I'm going to have a great year because I'm going to take risks and try new things. I'm going to travel and taste new foods. I'm going to ski and volunteer at an animal sanctuary. I'm going to learn Spanish and see the Northern Lights and watch The West Wing and hang out in a jazz club and climb a river and punch a mountain and read Tolstoy. Out loud. On the Orient Express. 2015 is my year, people. I will have no fear. I will accept all and rush with glee into the unknown. I will understand what the hell Robin Ince is talking about and I will only look forward. I will only see the future because, in 2014, my past sneaked up on me and whispered "Psst... Remember me?"

After 27 years, Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine finally stopped a few weeks ago at the Brixton Academy. It was an incredible gig. All energy, celebration and it was properly sold out. You know those sold out gigs you've been to at the Brixton Academy? They WEREN'T sold out. THIS was sold out. They couldn't have squeezed another person in there. There wasn't any room for air. It was uncomfortable, unhealthy, dangerous and utterly brilliant. Jim Bob and Fruitbat are the youngest men who ever lived and the venue itself bounced to their every beat. On my way to the gig I thought if this really is going to be the last time I ever see Carter... I'm going down the front. 

I never go down the front.

Why would I? I'm 46. I'm supposed to stand at the back and judge, I'm not supposed to get involved. Maybe I shouldn't go down the front. I know my place.

But I really wanted to go down the front.

It's a stupid idea. I'll get hurt.

No. I won't go down the front. It's ridiculous. I probably won't be able to get down there anyway. And by the time I do, the gig will be over. No. I'll stay at the back and take notes on how I think the band could have done things better and then hand the notes to them afterwards, just like I always do. Mind you, they never thank you, these rock stars. Rude. Still, I'll just stay here at the back and tweet about the gig like I did with Kate Bush. No good can ever come from going down the front. I'm staying here.

Then Danielle Ward and Simon Evans turned up. "We're going down the front", they said.

Have you ever seen a calf in the middle of a stampede of cattle? That's what being down the front is like. Or like drowning when the sea is made of large, sweaty men and every wave pushes you, grabs you and punches you in the head. Once you finally get down the front (certainly of a sold out Carter gig) you know that you will never return. You want it to stop but you look behind you and the shore is so far away as another wave of huge men lashes against you, the taste of their salt water in your mouth. I lost Danielle quickly but I remember seeing Simon's smiling face bobbing up and down a few times before the waves washed me away and he was gone forever. Do Re Me, So Far So Good ends and the waves settle for a fracture of a second before Let's Get Tattoos begins and the tsunami returns. And all you can do is join in. You have no choice. If the sea bounces, you bounce. If the waves crash forward, you crash forward. If the ocean pogos and punches the air, you pogo and punch the air. While clearly dying you are clearly living. Why have I said no to this for so long? This feeling of fear and fun all at the same time? I haven't been down the front since my 20's. Why? It's utterly amazing. It's completely terrifying. I am at the gig. The people at the back are on Twitter and I'm at the gig. Kate Bush was right. "Put your phone away, get down the front. Let's go mental 'cos I'm gonna do Babooshka", she said and she was right. And that's when I got kicked in the face.

Thousands of people crowd surfed over my head that night, each and every one trying their very best to break my lovely neck. Then one large human bit of flotsam was carried by the waves and as he passed, he kicked me right in the face. Hard. It genuinely felt like he'd left a footprint on me. And did I cry out in pain? No. I thought "Aww... That takes me back".

I got kicked in the face and it made me nostalgic.

This is what a gig is about. This is what I used to be about. Going down the front and living. What's the point in going somewhere if you're not going to go there? What's the point in doing something if you aren't going to do it? You wouldn't go to a restaurant, order a meal and then stand as far away from it as possible and just look at it. But I do similar all the time. I half-do things. I stand at the back of gigs, I go to a new restaurant and order the food I definitely know, I go to a foreign country and ignore it by reading a book. I ignore books by just seeing the film. But not after being down the front at the Brixton Academy. Not after getting kicked in the face. I needed the 90's to come back and tell me that 2015 is going to be THE year. Looking forward, moving forward. My face got kicked back to the past so that I could see the future. He kicked me and it felt like a kiss.

I finally made it back to shore. I escaped the waves of large men and came out invigorated, changed and covered in sweat. I was reborn.

Ignore your lists of the past and your status updates about last year. Let's make 2015 THE year. And, hey, let's all dig a shallow grave in the garden because Michael Legge is dead. LONG LIVE MICHAEL LEGGE.

Not the one from Angela's Ashes.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

Hello. If you really feel like you want to do something different in 2015 then why not give www.veganuary.com a try? Thank you.

#EverySingleFuckingDaySexism

It's 2014 but I think it was said best back in 1971 by the late Marvin Gaye: "What the fuck is going on?".

I liked the last couple of years. They were fun. Everyone seemed so excited by feminism. Bridget Christie made it funny and terrifying and it felt like something important was happening as we gathered together to laugh at how horrible the world we exist in is. I mean, that hasn't happened in comedy in a really long time. A comedian tackling a huge subject - a huge, terrible, frightening subject - and made people laugh at how ridiculous "normal" life is and perhaps how ridiculous, terrible and frightening we are too. It wasn't just Bridget that brought this to our attention, of course. There was EverydaySexism, there was Caitlin Moran (who I don't like because I think she's unfunny and often wrong but at least I think she's an unfunny wrong person and not an unfunny wrong woman and she got people talking about feminism so she's completely necessary. Maybe I do like her? Well, that's a revelation already), there was Twitter and Facebook and Instagram and every single person in the world coming together to post articles, share opinions, point fingers at inequality and, more importantly, celebrate equality. The last couple of years have felt positive. It felt like we were getting somewhere. So why is this year so very, very awful?

Obviously, I get it. I'm not that stupid. If something happens that people like then sooner or later there has to be a backlash. We did it with Bros, Pictionary and New Zealand so why not do it with decency and respect?

But it doesn't feel like a backlash. It feels more like a people's rights movement. People uniting and rising up to make sure other people have fewer and fewer rights as human beings. Were we too happy and too positive? Is that why Dapper Laughs came along to show us that respect was boring and probably queer or something? Is that why so many people immediately took to him? Is that why so many comedians that I work with support and defend Dapper Laughs? We wallowed in our selflessness and therefore something had to be done about it. We liked feminism too much for some people and we made an uncomfortable noise about it with our happiness so The Others had to fight back. I mean, it's freedom of speech, isn't it? Dapper's not doing any harm, is he? And if you don't like it then you've every right to say so. And The Others have every right to call you a slut and threaten to rape you. It's freedom of speech.

I've always thought of comedy as a very progressive place to work in. Luckily, it generally is. But there is definitely a rise in rape jokes just as their is a rise in women not being seen as equals on a bill. A venue dropping a woman from the comedy bill because "there are too many women" already performing is probably the funniest comedy story I've heard this year. Yes, it's horrible but, my God, that is some proud, proud sexism you're getting right there. No shame. Head held high. Say it loud! I'm a cunt and I'm proud!

And that's my big question: Why aren't people more ashamed of themselves? I'm ashamed of all my many, many faults. I'm unhealthy, I get angry at the most insignificant things (noise, litter, Kasabian) and I'm 46 with an in-order-of-broadcast complete Doctor Who DVD collection. I'm horrified at myself but, you know, at least I don't openly hate women. Unlike comedians (and others but it's the comedians that I feel most upset by) online who post their sexism with the same "normality" that we use to post pictures of our dinner. What I wouldn't give to see a photo of spaghetti hoops on Facebook again. Over the last few weeks I've spent far too much time arguing with comedians posting "Fucking feminism again" and "You shouldn't be on a panel show just because you're a woman". I don't want to argue with these people. There was a time when you might see one or two posts like that a week. Now it's every day. So, I guess, recently I snapped. In two weeks there hasn't been a day without arguing, capitalising the word cunt and blocking idiots.

It seems obvious (not to everyone, clearly) but... FEMINISM IS NOT ABOUT WOMEN GETTING MORE THAN MEN. IT'S ABOUT US BEING EQUAL.

God, I just never wanted to get into these boring and horrible arguments but in the last two weeks I've argued with comedians posting "I'm sick of people saying 'Violence against women'. What about the violence against men?" and "I'm on Dapper Laugh's side" and... it goes on. Luckily, one of these comedians describes himself as "The Dark Knight of Comedy" so his opinion on any subject is significantly less than worthless.

Sometimes I actually regret inventing online anger, especially when I see what some people have done with it.

Complaining about the worthiness of Malala Yousafzai's Nobel win (seriously, if you haven't seen these idiots online, then please look them up now. "How is getting shot and then still campaigning for rights peaceful?" Brilliant!), Gamergate supporters and the NotAllMen bullshit. It's EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And for those people who think Dapper Laughs and his cheeky, misogynistic antics are harmless then please check out Shoshana Roberts film of her walking down streets in New York and the subsequent rape threats she received on Twitter. #SheKnows you're a dick.

I'm trying not to think about all this and not get upset by it, despite it being a constant in our online (and therefore real) lives. Believe it or not, I don't like being angry. Andrew Lawrence's stupidity made me sigh and laugh in equal measure. He's an idiot. After all the support of Dapper, the "What about violence against men?"and the general "fucking feminism again"... I still didn't blog about it. I stopped blogging. Why have all that grumpiness all the time? But then I saw Sofie Hagen's recent Facebook post about her experience on the comedy circuit. A compere saying "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up one more time for Sofie Hagen. I would never rape her" made me want to punch him. I don't know who he is but I hate him. But if there's one good thing that's come from all of this, it's got me thinking of things I've said in the past and I'm ashamed. I've not said anything that awful but I'm not innocent either.

And maybe a few other people could change their attitudes too. At a recent gig, a woman entered the dressing room to give an act some food. When she left, the comedian said "Who ordered the escort?". Then I overheard another comedian say to the showmanager "Yeah, but you're supposed to be hot. I'm not saying I'd kick you out of bed because I wouldn't but a woman should wear heels".

Why aren't people more ashamed of themselves?

A backlash against decency and respect. But it doesn't feel the same as it did with Bros. We accepted When Will I Be Famous and I Owe You Nothing. Everything about them was on the up. Then we heard Cat Among The Pigeons and we called time. We united to end something before it went too far. You know what though? I'm starting to think reactions to Bros and reactions to feminism are very different things. People got bored with Bros but this feels like... fear.

What's to be scared of? I can't answer. I can't answer that.

I'm not expecting anyone to read this really, I'm certainly not expecting anyone who disagrees with my very obvious point will read it. If they do, they'll no doubt say it's whiny, unfunny and boring. But that's their fault, not mine.




www.twitter.com/michaellegge