Do you actually pay your TV licence fee? WELL DON'T. Look at what YOU are funding, you evil bastard. God, I hate you. If it wasn't for you there would be no Horne & Corden, no My Family, no Cunts Dancing Like Cunts or whatever it's called. But no, YOU had to actually pay for all these things and ruin my fucking life. And now you have crossed the line, as if Torchwood wasn't utterly shit enough, you give money so this can happen. What were you thinking? What was going through your mind when YOU decided to make Tonight's The Night with John Barrowman.
How this bootable, annoying ball-ache of a man ever became popular is completely beyond me. He smiles for a living. That's all he does. Smile and patronise. Smile and patronise. Sing a song. Smile and patronise. Smile and patronise. Sing a song. Goodbye wink. Smile and patronise. That's the entire show. The smarmy fuck-nut dances around, talking down to "ordinary" people and blessing us all with his presence. The premise of the show is this: Do you know someone very special? Then let Tonight's The Night reward them by being in the same room as John Barrowman himself. What a prize! Has your entire family been wiped out with AIDS and your dog been shot dead and now you spend all your time trying to stop wolves from eating orphan babies? Well, we're going to let you touch John Barrowman's lovely golden hand. My favourite bit in the show is when they get someone who's life is so shit that their friend's lose their minds and ask John Barrowman if he would be so gracious as to make a dream come true for the poor sap. What about singing live in the studio with Russell Watson? Well, he wanted to go to Disneyland but, fuck it, why not? Then they drag him to the studio, let him sing two lines then Russell Watson steps in to prove how pathetic ordinary members of the public are when they start thinking slightly above their station. Barrowman also plays God by making different groups in the community compete in the Devil's own karaoke. Different groups in the community like plumbers, firemen, waitresses and rapists proudly show off their lack of dignity at the court of King John while he claps and throws his own shit at them. He's such a smarmy, untrustworthy cunt. Why can't we have John Leslie back? Better the Devil you know, that's all I'm saying....
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Tonight's The Night then has a competition where idiots dress up as aliens and Barrowman and others just as bad as him pick the best one. The prize is too horrible to even think about. The winner gets to be in an episode of Doctor Who in a scene filmed on the TARDIS. I AM NEVER PAYING MY LICENCE FEE EVER AGAIN. Why not get them to dress up as corpses and the best one gets to be in an episode of the News?
iPlayer is becoming the bane of my life. I shouldn't be waking up, switching the computer on and just upsetting myself. It's depressing. How long is this crappy variety TV going to go on for? Fucking ballroom dancing and cheesey singing and Britains Got Bastards and all that other crap that gets flung at us. I'm telling you now, BBC (because they read this), if you made better programmes people would still watch them. Don't be afraid to make good programmes because you think that thick people will switch off. The entire country watched I, Claudius. That was good, that.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Thursday, 21 May 2009
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Having a Fit.
Something really weird happened to me yesterday, something a little bit out of character. There I was lying on my sofa mumbling at the TV while hungover (hang on, we're getting to the weird bit) when all of a sudden I took a look at myself, decided that what I saw was awful and went for a two mile run.
I went running! That's about as likely as Stephen Hawking doing Jazzercise, but somehow it happened. It's incredible the amount of energy a spot of proper self-loathing will give you. The thing is, I was lying on that sofa, crying and dribbling, for hours. I think I watched about 8 episodes of Family guy while continually telling myself that I will get up and do something in five more minutes even if its just to open the curtains. That's exercise, in a way. I think I was just giving myself a warning. Two miles isn't that much to run but it knackered me and if I lie on the sofa doing fuck all for hours and hours ever again THIS is what will happen. I'll be wearing shorts (bad enough) and out there running (nightmare).
I'm very glad I did it though. It made me feel a lot better despite me thinking I was going to throw up my own heart at the end of it. It's a good way to sort your head out as well as your body. Just running on your own gives you time to think clearly, take stock of what's happening and what needs to be done. Turns out, I'm fucked. But it was nice to spend time with Jerk who ran along side me the whole time, constantly looking up to me as if to say "What the fuck are you attempting, you fat wheezing embarrassment?" Then, just before my chest exploded with the shock of me moving around, I saw something that made getting off my lazy, stupid, pale arse all worthwhile. I saw three ducks having a race on a proper running track. They ran for about a minute and even had a lane each. It was like one of those sweetly nearly-amusing moments that you see on You've Been Framed but did I have my video camera with me? NO! That's another £50 that's slipped through my fingers. As I was looking for an excuse to stop running, I watched the competitive little ducks, smiling while my body screamed for mercy. It was fun to watch. Not in a Beat The Horse way (despite the heavy breathing and floods of sweat coming from me), that would be wrong, I thought. It's fine to masturbate competitively while watching horses. Horse racing is the sport of Kings and therefore Beat The Horse is the way a King would wank, obviously. But Beat The Duck? That's just wrong. If you wank while looking at a duck then you're a paedophile and you disgust me. Oh, the mallard won, by the way.
You know what? If you want to wank while looking at ducks, go ahead. Sorry for what I said earlier, it was a bit right-wing of me to force my own views on to you but I have an excuse. I'm very easily manipulated and, when I came home to do all my post-run collapsing, I noticed that the BNP had posted a leaflet through my letterbox. Now, I'm not saying that the BNP have all or any of the answers (Unless the question is "Was Hitler lovely?"), but you have to admire/be alarmed at their massive balls. They come to your house and post right-wing arsery through your letterbox, not as a threat but as an invitation. Incredible! Firstly, the leaflet tells you all the things that the BNP are saying no to (pretty much everything) then it tells you the one thing they're saying yes to: British people. By British people they mean white British people. It then goes on to remind us how "we" have earned our rights in this country by listing some wars that none of us were in. Wars like The Battle of Trafalgar, The Somme and The Time War. My favourite bit though is the back of the leaflet where it says "Why We're ALL Voting BNP" and then gives the opinion of two people. One's a doctor who will now surely be struck off for showing prejudice and the other is an old person smiling broadly at the thought of sending the asylum seekers he never sees or has anything to do with back on the boat they came over on. Who the fuck would agree to have their photo on a BNP leaflet? Are you that stupid that you won't think that everyone is going to loathe you? On the front there's an entire family of cunts smiling at the camera. Well done, you two pricks, for dragging your own children into your pool of hate. By the way, it gives you a number to call if you want a free poster to display in your window. I might get one. I need to get new windows but I don't want to pay to have the old ones removed. At the bottom of the leaflet it says "Please Recycle". I can't believe I'm doing something the BNP told me to do.
I'm forgetting too much stuff to put in my blog. I should keep notes. On Saturday, Johnny and I saw a headline on the front page of the Manchester Evening News that read "Go on, Jade! You can do it!" Nice sentiment if rather late.
It's not that weird for me to go out running. I used to do it a lot a few years ago but then I started getting in to Buffy and Lost and Dexter so it got put to one side. Even after the run I sat down and watched Crank. Thank fuck that's not a TV series as it's the greatest thing I've ever seen ever ever and my life would be ruined if I had to devote time to that as well as all my other time-wasting activities. Think I'll dust off my bicycle today.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
I went running! That's about as likely as Stephen Hawking doing Jazzercise, but somehow it happened. It's incredible the amount of energy a spot of proper self-loathing will give you. The thing is, I was lying on that sofa, crying and dribbling, for hours. I think I watched about 8 episodes of Family guy while continually telling myself that I will get up and do something in five more minutes even if its just to open the curtains. That's exercise, in a way. I think I was just giving myself a warning. Two miles isn't that much to run but it knackered me and if I lie on the sofa doing fuck all for hours and hours ever again THIS is what will happen. I'll be wearing shorts (bad enough) and out there running (nightmare).
I'm very glad I did it though. It made me feel a lot better despite me thinking I was going to throw up my own heart at the end of it. It's a good way to sort your head out as well as your body. Just running on your own gives you time to think clearly, take stock of what's happening and what needs to be done. Turns out, I'm fucked. But it was nice to spend time with Jerk who ran along side me the whole time, constantly looking up to me as if to say "What the fuck are you attempting, you fat wheezing embarrassment?" Then, just before my chest exploded with the shock of me moving around, I saw something that made getting off my lazy, stupid, pale arse all worthwhile. I saw three ducks having a race on a proper running track. They ran for about a minute and even had a lane each. It was like one of those sweetly nearly-amusing moments that you see on You've Been Framed but did I have my video camera with me? NO! That's another £50 that's slipped through my fingers. As I was looking for an excuse to stop running, I watched the competitive little ducks, smiling while my body screamed for mercy. It was fun to watch. Not in a Beat The Horse way (despite the heavy breathing and floods of sweat coming from me), that would be wrong, I thought. It's fine to masturbate competitively while watching horses. Horse racing is the sport of Kings and therefore Beat The Horse is the way a King would wank, obviously. But Beat The Duck? That's just wrong. If you wank while looking at a duck then you're a paedophile and you disgust me. Oh, the mallard won, by the way.
You know what? If you want to wank while looking at ducks, go ahead. Sorry for what I said earlier, it was a bit right-wing of me to force my own views on to you but I have an excuse. I'm very easily manipulated and, when I came home to do all my post-run collapsing, I noticed that the BNP had posted a leaflet through my letterbox. Now, I'm not saying that the BNP have all or any of the answers (Unless the question is "Was Hitler lovely?"), but you have to admire/be alarmed at their massive balls. They come to your house and post right-wing arsery through your letterbox, not as a threat but as an invitation. Incredible! Firstly, the leaflet tells you all the things that the BNP are saying no to (pretty much everything) then it tells you the one thing they're saying yes to: British people. By British people they mean white British people. It then goes on to remind us how "we" have earned our rights in this country by listing some wars that none of us were in. Wars like The Battle of Trafalgar, The Somme and The Time War. My favourite bit though is the back of the leaflet where it says "Why We're ALL Voting BNP" and then gives the opinion of two people. One's a doctor who will now surely be struck off for showing prejudice and the other is an old person smiling broadly at the thought of sending the asylum seekers he never sees or has anything to do with back on the boat they came over on. Who the fuck would agree to have their photo on a BNP leaflet? Are you that stupid that you won't think that everyone is going to loathe you? On the front there's an entire family of cunts smiling at the camera. Well done, you two pricks, for dragging your own children into your pool of hate. By the way, it gives you a number to call if you want a free poster to display in your window. I might get one. I need to get new windows but I don't want to pay to have the old ones removed. At the bottom of the leaflet it says "Please Recycle". I can't believe I'm doing something the BNP told me to do.
I'm forgetting too much stuff to put in my blog. I should keep notes. On Saturday, Johnny and I saw a headline on the front page of the Manchester Evening News that read "Go on, Jade! You can do it!" Nice sentiment if rather late.
It's not that weird for me to go out running. I used to do it a lot a few years ago but then I started getting in to Buffy and Lost and Dexter so it got put to one side. Even after the run I sat down and watched Crank. Thank fuck that's not a TV series as it's the greatest thing I've ever seen ever ever and my life would be ruined if I had to devote time to that as well as all my other time-wasting activities. Think I'll dust off my bicycle today.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Hanging Out The Back of Katie Price.
If there is one thing that I am not, it's a schmoozer. I don't feel the need to fake interest in people just to get slightly ahead in my career. There are plenty of other comedians who brown-nose their way into comedy clubs or TV but having my head shoved firmly up some promoters arse just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. In fact, the only reason that I would ever attend something as sycophantic as The Comedy Store 30th Anniversary Party is to make fun of it the next day in my blog. I'm glad I was turned away at the door.
Well. That's today's blog fucked then.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Well. That's today's blog fucked then.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Monday, 18 May 2009
Oh, Manchester. So Much To Answer For.
Football and trannies ruined a perfectly lovely date for me and my husband, Johnny, on Saturday in Manchester. There we were being regular, middle-aged men, buying comics and cybermen dollies and minding our own business when The Others decided to try to spoil our blissful time.
Johnny and I were walking down Canal Street discussing what was better, Firefox or Women, when we chanced upon a bar patronised by men who look like men in dresses. That's all perfectly fine, of course, but we both felt uncomfortable about it. There were two transvestites sitting outside the bar. They were being loud and shouting things at passers-by. They weren't quietly dignified transvestites, they were the over-the-top, screaming, absolutely fabulous types. You know. Wankers. Passing them was going to be awkward for Johnny and I because we hate random people in the street being funnier than us plus the case for Firefox was going really well. Also right outside the bar was a carpenter doing some work. This saved us. The carpenter was way more interesting to the transvestites. One of them awkwardly hobbled up to him and, while he was working, pretended to kiss the carpenter on the bum while laughing hysterically. Yeah. There would have been a time that this would have been OUTRAGEOUS but, you know, that was two fucking centuries ago. Of course, Johnny and I could have just ignored this incredibly minor incident, it was none of our business, but it was kind of interesting to watch a Transvestite try to annoy someone while he's using a circular saw. What a wasted opportunity.
Johnny and I found a bar and did something I never thought possible: we did some work. Now that's OUTRAGEOUS. The bar was empty, quiet and had big comfy chairs. Perfect for doing a spot of work, we thought. Why did we think that? It was ruined immediately by cunting football fans who magically just appeared and filled the place. If I could do anything to make this world a better place it would be to ban football and imprison anyone who had a passing interest in it. Everything stops for football. TV schedules get changed, roads are blocked off and pubs get so rammed with shouting arseholes that you can't enjoy a pint. It was even worse when I got on the train back to Leeds. Not only could I not get a seat because it was full of men who painted their faces red and their embarrassed children who's faces were naturally red, I had to listen to their fucking singing. Lovely songs, they were too. Especially considering most of these pissed up cunts had kids with them. Lovely songs like "Arsenal are fucking shit, Arsenal are fucking shit, Lets kill them with an axe and rape their wives with an axe, Arsenal are fucking shit". It's only a game. A game that these fat, wheezing, drastically out-of-tune pricks can never actually play. I HATE football.
The gigs in Leeds weren't that great that day either. Both shows had the same problems. Pretty much any punchline was ruined by either a Hen Night bursting into talk or a Stag Do dropping their drinks. Friday was a lot better. Still, yesterday was just perfect. Lizzie Roper invited me and several others to her flat for lunch, some drinks and for her to talk about her minge. Even though she tried to poison me with dead animal flesh, it was a lovely day. The lunch was delicious, the company fantastic and Lizzie's minge stories gripping. We even played a game about books that was surprisingly not as dull as it sounded, mainly due to Lizzie's various outbursts about her minge. Thanks, Lizzie. That was lovely that was.
Now to Margate to pick up Jerk. It's been over two weeks since I've seen Jerk. At least now I can get all cross about dickheads in the park again, eh, readers?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Johnny and I were walking down Canal Street discussing what was better, Firefox or Women, when we chanced upon a bar patronised by men who look like men in dresses. That's all perfectly fine, of course, but we both felt uncomfortable about it. There were two transvestites sitting outside the bar. They were being loud and shouting things at passers-by. They weren't quietly dignified transvestites, they were the over-the-top, screaming, absolutely fabulous types. You know. Wankers. Passing them was going to be awkward for Johnny and I because we hate random people in the street being funnier than us plus the case for Firefox was going really well. Also right outside the bar was a carpenter doing some work. This saved us. The carpenter was way more interesting to the transvestites. One of them awkwardly hobbled up to him and, while he was working, pretended to kiss the carpenter on the bum while laughing hysterically. Yeah. There would have been a time that this would have been OUTRAGEOUS but, you know, that was two fucking centuries ago. Of course, Johnny and I could have just ignored this incredibly minor incident, it was none of our business, but it was kind of interesting to watch a Transvestite try to annoy someone while he's using a circular saw. What a wasted opportunity.
Johnny and I found a bar and did something I never thought possible: we did some work. Now that's OUTRAGEOUS. The bar was empty, quiet and had big comfy chairs. Perfect for doing a spot of work, we thought. Why did we think that? It was ruined immediately by cunting football fans who magically just appeared and filled the place. If I could do anything to make this world a better place it would be to ban football and imprison anyone who had a passing interest in it. Everything stops for football. TV schedules get changed, roads are blocked off and pubs get so rammed with shouting arseholes that you can't enjoy a pint. It was even worse when I got on the train back to Leeds. Not only could I not get a seat because it was full of men who painted their faces red and their embarrassed children who's faces were naturally red, I had to listen to their fucking singing. Lovely songs, they were too. Especially considering most of these pissed up cunts had kids with them. Lovely songs like "Arsenal are fucking shit, Arsenal are fucking shit, Lets kill them with an axe and rape their wives with an axe, Arsenal are fucking shit". It's only a game. A game that these fat, wheezing, drastically out-of-tune pricks can never actually play. I HATE football.
The gigs in Leeds weren't that great that day either. Both shows had the same problems. Pretty much any punchline was ruined by either a Hen Night bursting into talk or a Stag Do dropping their drinks. Friday was a lot better. Still, yesterday was just perfect. Lizzie Roper invited me and several others to her flat for lunch, some drinks and for her to talk about her minge. Even though she tried to poison me with dead animal flesh, it was a lovely day. The lunch was delicious, the company fantastic and Lizzie's minge stories gripping. We even played a game about books that was surprisingly not as dull as it sounded, mainly due to Lizzie's various outbursts about her minge. Thanks, Lizzie. That was lovely that was.
Now to Margate to pick up Jerk. It's been over two weeks since I've seen Jerk. At least now I can get all cross about dickheads in the park again, eh, readers?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Leeds!
We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds. We all fucking hate Leeds.
I'm in Leeds. Although Leeds is a lovely place and gigs here are generally great I'm always reminded of my favourite football chant any time I come here. It's an amazing song. Shorter than Song 2, more passionate that I Know It's Over and simpler than Happy Birthday. Brilliant. Thanks to Rob Hitchmough for teaching me that song about 20 years ago. It's stuck with me and certainly lifted my spirits at difficult times. Sing it now, if you fancy.
But Leeds is great. Last night's gig was fantastic and it's made me think that pretty much any actual enjoyable weekend I've spent away from home being a stand-up comedian has happened in Leeds. Good gigs happen fairly frequently, which is nice, but nice weekends are a lot rarer. You never know what cunt you're going to be stuck in Birmingham with for three days. But every time I've come to Leeds I've been with good people. Aah, that weekend years ago where Jamie Mathieson and I did some Sci-Fi shopping then bitched about comedians or the lovely time that Gordon Southern pissed in an ice bucket WHILE ASLEEP and then we bitched about comedians. Great days. Or that great weekend where Steve Harris, Stefano Paolini and I had a few drinks every night and then bitched about comedians and even last night hanging out watching a young, cool indie band with Richard Morton and Ron Vaudry while we bitched about comedians was excellent. Great, great days. I say WE bitched about comedians, we didn't really. I did, but WE didn't. And I say young, cool indie band they were more like a hospice. Covers bands aren't good at the best of times but these guys took a turd, used spit instead of Brasso, gave it a rub and said "That'll do". They were ageing songs by The Killers and Kings of Leon while throwing ye olde rock shapes to some of the drunkest people the north could provide. There's nothing wrong with getting older but to this band birthdays, all their many, many birthdays, came as a spirit-battering insult. They looked like Black Lace for fucks sake. When they said "We're gonna do one more number" they hadn't run out of songs it's just that their bladders can be a lot more unpredictable these days.
Not that I could enjoy the band properly, anyway. We were standing at the bar which is the exact place that everyone in Leeds comes to do all their pushing and shoving. I got into a lovely argument with one blob who rugby tackled her way to the front of the bar while making sure I knew what it felt like to have her fall on me. She was awful, made of shit and elbows. When I made my views clear on how I didn't appreciate her fucking existence she laughably told me that there was no need to be rude. It turned into a pointless argument that went on way too long and took too much time away from bitching about comedians. Some cunts have no manners.
I'm staying in an absolutely beautiful hotel here but, instead of relaxing in it's splendour, I'm going to Manchester to meet Johnny Candon. We're going to "work". Shame I'm not hanging out in the hotel today. There's racing from Newmarket today on Channel 4 and I fancy my chances.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
I'm in Leeds. Although Leeds is a lovely place and gigs here are generally great I'm always reminded of my favourite football chant any time I come here. It's an amazing song. Shorter than Song 2, more passionate that I Know It's Over and simpler than Happy Birthday. Brilliant. Thanks to Rob Hitchmough for teaching me that song about 20 years ago. It's stuck with me and certainly lifted my spirits at difficult times. Sing it now, if you fancy.
But Leeds is great. Last night's gig was fantastic and it's made me think that pretty much any actual enjoyable weekend I've spent away from home being a stand-up comedian has happened in Leeds. Good gigs happen fairly frequently, which is nice, but nice weekends are a lot rarer. You never know what cunt you're going to be stuck in Birmingham with for three days. But every time I've come to Leeds I've been with good people. Aah, that weekend years ago where Jamie Mathieson and I did some Sci-Fi shopping then bitched about comedians or the lovely time that Gordon Southern pissed in an ice bucket WHILE ASLEEP and then we bitched about comedians. Great days. Or that great weekend where Steve Harris, Stefano Paolini and I had a few drinks every night and then bitched about comedians and even last night hanging out watching a young, cool indie band with Richard Morton and Ron Vaudry while we bitched about comedians was excellent. Great, great days. I say WE bitched about comedians, we didn't really. I did, but WE didn't. And I say young, cool indie band they were more like a hospice. Covers bands aren't good at the best of times but these guys took a turd, used spit instead of Brasso, gave it a rub and said "That'll do". They were ageing songs by The Killers and Kings of Leon while throwing ye olde rock shapes to some of the drunkest people the north could provide. There's nothing wrong with getting older but to this band birthdays, all their many, many birthdays, came as a spirit-battering insult. They looked like Black Lace for fucks sake. When they said "We're gonna do one more number" they hadn't run out of songs it's just that their bladders can be a lot more unpredictable these days.
Not that I could enjoy the band properly, anyway. We were standing at the bar which is the exact place that everyone in Leeds comes to do all their pushing and shoving. I got into a lovely argument with one blob who rugby tackled her way to the front of the bar while making sure I knew what it felt like to have her fall on me. She was awful, made of shit and elbows. When I made my views clear on how I didn't appreciate her fucking existence she laughably told me that there was no need to be rude. It turned into a pointless argument that went on way too long and took too much time away from bitching about comedians. Some cunts have no manners.
I'm staying in an absolutely beautiful hotel here but, instead of relaxing in it's splendour, I'm going to Manchester to meet Johnny Candon. We're going to "work". Shame I'm not hanging out in the hotel today. There's racing from Newmarket today on Channel 4 and I fancy my chances.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Boldly Fuck Off.
Today hasn't started well. I woke up way too early due to beer the night before. I felt groggy, a little hungover and very grumpy. It was only 7.30 so I thought it was best to go downstairs, sit in my own mess and force my bastard eyes to watch Bring Back Star Trek.
Christ Almighty, does anyone actually like Justin Lee Collins and if so can you tell me why you like him? What does he do? It's like a top television executive saw someone who was quite good at singing at a karaoke bar one night and then, while having a brain haemorrhage, offered him whatever the fuck he wanted. Just because he has a ridiculous voice then we must just assume he's a laugh or, even fucking worse, lovable. He is neither. He is utterly upsetting and a cunt. I know a fair few people who know him and say that he's actually a really nice guy but I'm afraid he can't be. A nice guy wouldn't do what he does. I get called bitter a lot because of this blog and I often find that ridiculous. I'm not bitter (mostly), I just want things to be better. I'm not saying I can make them better but there are people out there who can. Justin Lee Collins is not one of them. BUT....I think I am bitter towards Justin Lee Collins. I'm bitter and angry and frustrated because I just cannot fathom what it is about him that anyone could like. Even Justin Lee Collins hates Justin Lee Collins. Look at his tired, sad face faking more energy and "fun" while his brown, shitty soul pours more and more of itself out of his colon and into his wacky underpants. He knows that we know but NO-ONE IS SAYING IT. WHY IS JUSTIN LEE COLLINS? That's the big question. I am bitter. I'm bitter as fuck because, as little as I have done, all I see is a fat hair-do who woke up, put on whatever hilarious t-shirt was lying nearest him and got a career. The fat fucking cunt. And bringing back Star Trek? For fuck sake! You can't bring back something that hasn't gone away. What next, Justin? Bring Back The Jonas Brothers? The News? The Sea? In summary: I hate Justin Lee Collins but, and here's the twist, I can't stop watching him. There's the rub. The reason that pathetic amount of flesh is famous is because of me and people like me. He's like a one-man version of Lost and we must keep watching until it's all explained. But so far, we're just left with mystery.
Still, I saw Star Trek yesterday and it's great. It's very, very flawed but still great fun. It's main problem is the references. It just can't leave itself alone. In a way, it's a massive budget version of Bring Back Star Trek minus the cunt. Pretty much every line of dialogue was basically saying "Eh? Eh? Did you get that, Trekkies? That was for you". But that's trivial because it's a great film. Stupid and brilliant. Karl Urban as Bones is excellent, best thing in the film in fact. I'm glad Justin brought it back.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Christ Almighty, does anyone actually like Justin Lee Collins and if so can you tell me why you like him? What does he do? It's like a top television executive saw someone who was quite good at singing at a karaoke bar one night and then, while having a brain haemorrhage, offered him whatever the fuck he wanted. Just because he has a ridiculous voice then we must just assume he's a laugh or, even fucking worse, lovable. He is neither. He is utterly upsetting and a cunt. I know a fair few people who know him and say that he's actually a really nice guy but I'm afraid he can't be. A nice guy wouldn't do what he does. I get called bitter a lot because of this blog and I often find that ridiculous. I'm not bitter (mostly), I just want things to be better. I'm not saying I can make them better but there are people out there who can. Justin Lee Collins is not one of them. BUT....I think I am bitter towards Justin Lee Collins. I'm bitter and angry and frustrated because I just cannot fathom what it is about him that anyone could like. Even Justin Lee Collins hates Justin Lee Collins. Look at his tired, sad face faking more energy and "fun" while his brown, shitty soul pours more and more of itself out of his colon and into his wacky underpants. He knows that we know but NO-ONE IS SAYING IT. WHY IS JUSTIN LEE COLLINS? That's the big question. I am bitter. I'm bitter as fuck because, as little as I have done, all I see is a fat hair-do who woke up, put on whatever hilarious t-shirt was lying nearest him and got a career. The fat fucking cunt. And bringing back Star Trek? For fuck sake! You can't bring back something that hasn't gone away. What next, Justin? Bring Back The Jonas Brothers? The News? The Sea? In summary: I hate Justin Lee Collins but, and here's the twist, I can't stop watching him. There's the rub. The reason that pathetic amount of flesh is famous is because of me and people like me. He's like a one-man version of Lost and we must keep watching until it's all explained. But so far, we're just left with mystery.
Still, I saw Star Trek yesterday and it's great. It's very, very flawed but still great fun. It's main problem is the references. It just can't leave itself alone. In a way, it's a massive budget version of Bring Back Star Trek minus the cunt. Pretty much every line of dialogue was basically saying "Eh? Eh? Did you get that, Trekkies? That was for you". But that's trivial because it's a great film. Stupid and brilliant. Karl Urban as Bones is excellent, best thing in the film in fact. I'm glad Justin brought it back.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Lazy Legge.
I can't just go back to doing fuck all now that I'm back from holiday. It's the whole point of holiday, isn't it? You go away to recharge your batteries and mine are now full. All I have to do is actually use them.
Edinburgh is just around the corner, not geographically but time-wise. You know, a time-corner. If I just spend my time like I normally do watching Doctor Who, screaming at James Corden pictures and playing Beat The Horse then it's going to be pointless. Not that Beat The Horse is a complete waste of time. It isn't. At least now I know how many furlongs I can masturbate for (4, not that many but that's not the point of the game) and it doesn't bare thinking about how I could have easily gone to my grave ignorant of that fact. But it's so hard to be influenced when you come back to Blighty after a week in the hot, hot sun.
Pretty much as soon as I got off the plane I got fed up. Ugly British people pushing other ugly British people out of the way just so they can stand and wait beside a chewing gum-riddled luggage carousel for a bag that will never ever come, then you get on the train and the same ugly British people are sitting there watching their holiday loudly on their phones. CUNTS! Plus it's cold and wet and the train is smelly and I've got 200 messages from people who needed an answer 5 days ago and I'm home and I'm grumpy and it's not fair and bollocks. As soon as I sat on the train the first thing I saw was someone reading a copy of Metro with Peter Andre and Katie Price on the front page. Fucking depressing. I've just been hanging out in beautiful mountains and turquoise lakes, the last thing I want to see is the celebrated brain-dead. I almost read the story but stopped myself. I just knew it would be something along the lines of "Peter Andre and Katie Price are to be re-married for the 17th time this week in a diamond encrusted tit on the top of a pink pony's dream. McFly, Richard Madeley and Rose West are confirmed guests". I couldn't stomach that being the first thing I read after a holiday. I still haven't checked out why they were on the front cover of Metro so if Peter and Katie have accidentally walked in to a big Murder Factory and were sliced to death by Killotron 3000 then fed to their own kids, let me know. It would slightly cheer me up.
Even pushing back the front door and picking up the billion offers of further debt is just the bank's way of saying "Fuck you, you're back, get used to it". They won't just give you 5 minutes to think "Well, I'm back. Best make the most of it. I'll just put the kettle on. Maybe have a biscuit. Wonder if there's a horse race on?" Real life just can't wait to ram itself up your arse after a holiday. It doesn't want to hear how the holiday was or see photos or ask if you think you'll keep in touch with that nice couple you met. Real life just wants to batter and rape you. Or worse. And anyone who thinks that you can't possibly compare returning from a holiday to extreme violence obviously hasn't come home to find that you forgot to throw the rubbish in the kitchen out before you left. My house stinks. Fucking, fucking, FUCKING real life!
King of Everything must take up my time from now until Edinburgh. I can't go back to Lazy Legge. We've got some great new ideas for the show, my favourite being The Diary of Frank Anne (I think you can see where that joke is going), and we must book lots of previews. If you have a venue and need King of Everything then please contact me. My one glimpse of Oooh coming back was late last night when I saw an episode of Tim & Eric Awesome Show Great Job! It's a fantastic American comedy show that just goes to such ridiculous extremes but also barely does anything. All I know is that it's hilarious and that's the show that I'm going to steal from now. If you haven't seen it, please go way out of your way to do so. Even if you hate it I think you'll admire the balls of these people. I love it.
One last thing about Croatia for those still not sure where to go on holiday this year: You can buy XXX Hard Core porn on DVD at roadside garages. It's right by the Kids DVD section. Honestly. That, I think, is a bit strange but nowhere near as strange as a monthly publication they have out there that we don't have here. Or anyone has anywhere else. Seinfeld Magazine. Bizarre.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Edinburgh is just around the corner, not geographically but time-wise. You know, a time-corner. If I just spend my time like I normally do watching Doctor Who, screaming at James Corden pictures and playing Beat The Horse then it's going to be pointless. Not that Beat The Horse is a complete waste of time. It isn't. At least now I know how many furlongs I can masturbate for (4, not that many but that's not the point of the game) and it doesn't bare thinking about how I could have easily gone to my grave ignorant of that fact. But it's so hard to be influenced when you come back to Blighty after a week in the hot, hot sun.
Pretty much as soon as I got off the plane I got fed up. Ugly British people pushing other ugly British people out of the way just so they can stand and wait beside a chewing gum-riddled luggage carousel for a bag that will never ever come, then you get on the train and the same ugly British people are sitting there watching their holiday loudly on their phones. CUNTS! Plus it's cold and wet and the train is smelly and I've got 200 messages from people who needed an answer 5 days ago and I'm home and I'm grumpy and it's not fair and bollocks. As soon as I sat on the train the first thing I saw was someone reading a copy of Metro with Peter Andre and Katie Price on the front page. Fucking depressing. I've just been hanging out in beautiful mountains and turquoise lakes, the last thing I want to see is the celebrated brain-dead. I almost read the story but stopped myself. I just knew it would be something along the lines of "Peter Andre and Katie Price are to be re-married for the 17th time this week in a diamond encrusted tit on the top of a pink pony's dream. McFly, Richard Madeley and Rose West are confirmed guests". I couldn't stomach that being the first thing I read after a holiday. I still haven't checked out why they were on the front cover of Metro so if Peter and Katie have accidentally walked in to a big Murder Factory and were sliced to death by Killotron 3000 then fed to their own kids, let me know. It would slightly cheer me up.
Even pushing back the front door and picking up the billion offers of further debt is just the bank's way of saying "Fuck you, you're back, get used to it". They won't just give you 5 minutes to think "Well, I'm back. Best make the most of it. I'll just put the kettle on. Maybe have a biscuit. Wonder if there's a horse race on?" Real life just can't wait to ram itself up your arse after a holiday. It doesn't want to hear how the holiday was or see photos or ask if you think you'll keep in touch with that nice couple you met. Real life just wants to batter and rape you. Or worse. And anyone who thinks that you can't possibly compare returning from a holiday to extreme violence obviously hasn't come home to find that you forgot to throw the rubbish in the kitchen out before you left. My house stinks. Fucking, fucking, FUCKING real life!
King of Everything must take up my time from now until Edinburgh. I can't go back to Lazy Legge. We've got some great new ideas for the show, my favourite being The Diary of Frank Anne (I think you can see where that joke is going), and we must book lots of previews. If you have a venue and need King of Everything then please contact me. My one glimpse of Oooh coming back was late last night when I saw an episode of Tim & Eric Awesome Show Great Job! It's a fantastic American comedy show that just goes to such ridiculous extremes but also barely does anything. All I know is that it's hilarious and that's the show that I'm going to steal from now. If you haven't seen it, please go way out of your way to do so. Even if you hate it I think you'll admire the balls of these people. I love it.
One last thing about Croatia for those still not sure where to go on holiday this year: You can buy XXX Hard Core porn on DVD at roadside garages. It's right by the Kids DVD section. Honestly. That, I think, is a bit strange but nowhere near as strange as a monthly publication they have out there that we don't have here. Or anyone has anywhere else. Seinfeld Magazine. Bizarre.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
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