Edinburgh Fringe 2013.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgotten? Never. I'll be back.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

One Man Show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I just want to play frisbee".

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

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

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Not Cruelty Free.

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

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

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

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

Until last night.

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

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

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

"What's his second most famous quote?"

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

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

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

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

And I've seen two men covered in shit.


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

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

Thanks to @mattsymonds for the photo.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Croaked.

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

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

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

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

No one was.

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

Then another frog appeared and he fucked it.

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

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

Then another two frogs appeared and he fucked them.

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

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

Then another frog appeared and he fucked it.

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

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Michael's Taste: Behind The Candelabra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, this has got very confusing.

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

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

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

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




 
www.twitter.com/michaellegge


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

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

Keep Yourself Alive.

Thank you for reading this blog, I very much appreciate it. Even if you've given up reading it after that first line I just want you to know that I'm very grateful that you gave it a go. There's no need for you to go out of your way and look here so, you know, thanks. By that I mean I'm not famous, I'm not on TV and there's still no word on me being the next Doctor (correct at time of posting blog). Sometimes I wish I was famous. It must be quite fun, being recognised wherever you go. Signing an autograph, having a catchphrase shouted at you, being asked if you'd quite like to have a spot of sex (politely).

I have a few famous friends and being famous seems to suit them. People come over to them and compliment them and ask to get their photo with them. I imagine it's slightly inconvenient at times but what a small price to pay for being told how great you are all the time. But I wonder if fame, as seductive and powerful as it looks, would ever suit me? 

Oh, I've had fame. Shitty fame. Loads of it. And I can't tell you which is worse: being recognised and them getting it right or being recognised because they think I'm someone else. Standing in the cold rain and feeling miserable during last year's Edinburgh Fringe, a complete stranger came up to me with a big smile and asked for my autograph. Well, they wanted Dave Gorman's autograph but it cheered me up for a second. I smiled and I signed their bit of paper and I hated them. I got stuck for an hour in a bar once being overly complimented on a TV series I'd never seen, nevermind the fact that I've never been in it. AN HOUR. I think it was the 20th or maybe 21st time that I told him that it's not me that he started informing me that I shouldn't get so arsey with fans. He put me where I am today, apparently, and he could put me back tomorrow. I've kept that in mind ever since. I got banned from the Guildfest Comedy Tent because of the large amount of paedophile material I perform on stage. I would accept that if I had ANY paedophile material. But all that is the price we ordinary people have to pay if we want to avoid being famous.

Of course, not only am I recognised as being someone else, I'm also often not recognised by people who have actually seen me. During an interval of a show I was doing a few years ago, a punter came up to me and asked "Do you work here?". I said I did tonight and he said "Will you tell that comedian that if he mentions the IRA one more time I'll kick his fucking head in?" I said that I'd let him know but I didn't say a word to him because he was me. Just a few weeks ago in Bristol I got off stage and walked straight to the bar for my comedian's free drink. The woman behind the bar said "You're one of the comedians? Well, I hope you're better than that first guy. He was shit". Seconds had past since I'd left the stage and that woman had completely forgotten what I looked like but, my God, the memory of my fecal turn will stay with her forever. If you think that's embarrassing, I was at a friend's house and he introduced me to his friend. I told her I recognised her. She said it's unlikely as she doesn't get to London much. I said "Leamington Spa. You've been to the comedy club there. You sit in the front row. I've seen you there. Twice". She said "Yeah, I've been a couple of times but I don't think you were on". That's me. I recognise my audience but they haven't a fucking clue who I am.

And then there are people who know me and know what I look like. This is the rarest group of all. Saturday night was one of those nights.

I sat on the last train back to Ladywell, next to a lady who was playing a game on her phone. She looked at me and from the corner of my eye I could feel her staring. I had my earphones in but wasn't playing any music, they were there simply to tell the whole world to fuck off. But this woman just kept staring and staring and staring. I didn't actually look at her but I could feel the stare. I then put music on to somehow drown out the noise of her eyes. Not loud music, of course. I don't do that. But after a while, I turned my music up bit by bit because I could hear her mumbling. Staring and mumbling. "Murgghhuurrrggghh... fucking arsehole... marrghermurrr... you're shit.... murrr... dickhead". 

So it's uncomfortable now and I think I'm justified in turning my music up just a little bit. That's when she turns her music on. No earphones, just loud music. She then puts her phone up to my face and with the loud music directed right at me she starts shouting "This is what you like. Fucking cunt. Look, loud music on a train. What are you going to fucking do about it? You like this. That's your thing. You're not fucking funny. Is loud music funny? You're not fucking funny".

Jesus, I thought. What "loud music on a train" routine has Dave Gorman done that's upset this woman so much? "Give me your fucking shoe", she shouted. OK, fair enough. It's definitely me she hates. She despises me. I mean you wouldn't play a loud song by Cast in the face of someone you liked. I try to explain to her that if she has a complaint about my comedy then she should write to ITV and tell them but all she does is shout and play more loud, horrible music. That's when people start shouting at her. No one likes Cast, it turns out. 

She tries to explain everything by pointing at me and shouting "HE'S NOT FUNNY. HE'S MICHAEL LEGGE AND HE THINKS HE'S FUNNY". My station is so close, hurry up train. "Just turn the music off, OK?", a man reasons. "NO. IT'S FUCKING MICHAEL LEGGE. HE'S NOT FUNNY". Come on train. "Just switch the music off". "HE'S SHIT". Nearly there. "Just turn that fucking music off". "NO! HE'S MICHAEL LEGGE". And I get off the train. "Just switch that off. I don't give a fuck who he is".

And that's the last thing I heard from that train journey. My defender saying "I don't give a fuck who he is".

If you're reading this and you're about to do your first ever stand up comedy gig soon....I'm sorry, but someone had to tell you. This, my friend, is showbusiness. 

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Who? Her?

And there he goes. The very best actor to play the role of The Doctor is leaving Doctor Who at Christmas. He wasn't my favourite but he was the best. From his very first episode, Matt Smith was perfect as The Doctor. A young man with old, wise eyes. It was like we'd found a bunch of lost Troughton episodes and they were all perfect because he was in them. Like every Doctor to date, he'd frequently be let down by the writing but he never was less than brilliant at every chance. I shall miss him but I fully understand why he's going. Doctor Who is my favourite TV show but, let's face it, it's very, very predjudiced.

That's right. Doctor Who hates equality. 

For those of you who don't know, Doctor Who is a family science-fiction TV show that was brought to the screen for the very first time in 1963 by it's female producer and Indian director. This blatantly sexist programme also gave great roles to women in the characters of Barbara and Susan, not supporting roles - they were the main cast. Even the theme tune was recorded brilliantly (the original is still the best, creepiest version) by a woman. But these utterly trivial jobs of being a producer, actor and iconic theme tune provider were clearly just crumbs tossed from the table because the role of The Doctor was played by....A MAN!

It sickens me, too. Why didn't that part go to a woman? It's blatant sexism of the very worst kind. Then when that man decided to stop being The Doctor he was replaced by another man and another man and another man. FOR 50 YEARS! It doesn't matter that Sarah Jane Smith, Leela, Rose, Ace, Amy, Barbara, Liz, Romana, Romana II, Nyssa, Tegan and maybe even Clara if we give her time are utterly fantastic characters that are well played along with hundereds of other female roles in the series. That's not the point. A woman SHOULD play The Doctor. If you don't believe me, look at Twitter. Every third tweet is "A woman SHOULD play The Doctor". It's rarely anyone says that they'd like to see a woman play The Doctor or they can think of a woman who would be great at playing The Doctor, but so many know that a woman SHOULD play The Doctor. Because that's very important. Doctor Who HATES equality.

Anyway, the show was cancelled in 1989 by a white, middle-class man and was brought back years later by a gay guy and his woman co-producer. 

Twitter is always right though. Doctor Who doesn't give enough writing work to female writers and that's because it hates equality and isn't simply guilty of the equally embarrassing trait of handing out jobs for it's mates. I don't know how many women have been considered for the role of The Doctor but I imagine it's NONE because Doctor Who hates equality. I have absolutely no proof at all that it was NONE but it sounds like something that equality-hating TV show would do. And I stand by the Twitter clan who call for this incredibly important stand for equality because it has to stop NOW. Yes, yes, yes. I know that women are still being undervalued in the workplace and being stoned to death in the Middle East and being human-trafficked into lives of unimaginable horror but first things first: some ladies want to write for Primeval! 

And before you equality-bashers start yapping, no we don't think an Asian or a fat person or someone with disabilities or a transgender person should play The Doctor. Those people hardly suffer from predjudice, do they? Not like the women I know in my life in middle-class London and on Twitter. Do you know that I don't know a single woman who isn't successful in their job? I know female writers, comedians, coffee shop owners, civil servants, animal rights activists, peace activists, musicians, TV producers...all of whom have done well because they're good at what they do. It's got nothing to do with what they are. But FUCK THAT. The Doctor SHOULD be a woman or else you're a sexist.

You're living in a dream world if you think there will ever be a female Doctor. Or a black Doctor or a bald Doctor or a Doctor over 50 again or a gay Doctor or a short Doctor or an Asian lesbian Swedish Doctor with a stutter. I mean, that WILL happen because the role is a never ending changing character but it won't happen NOW. I mean, I have no idea if it will or won't happen now but I bet it won't because Doctor Who HATES equailty. Although, come to think of it, I suppose saying Doctor Who is sexist is about as insulting to how women are treated globally as you can get and maybe we should get our priorities straight. Maybe it's just not that important. Maybe it's just a TV show. Maybe the reason you haven't got a writing job on Doctor Who or any other TV programme has nothing to do with your gender or ethnicity. Maybe you're shit. I'm a white middle-class man and, so far, Stephen Moffat hasn't rang and offered a thing.

Anyway, as I was saying, Matt was great. And I look forward to the next Doctor immensely. They've been great 11 times in a row so I think we can safely hold out hope for a 12th no matter who she or he is.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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