Once in a while, life becomes almost worth living. Not often but definitely sometimes.
Yesterday, I got on the train at Ladywell station to go into London's exciting West End. Before boarding the train I stepped to one side to let a woman, her baby in a pram and her three other children on first. I'm very polite like that. But it was a mistake. You should NEVER let children on anything ever at any time ever ever. They immediately ran on to the train and boxed a woman into that little area where there's a bit of foam to lean on instead of a seat. They started screaming at one another and generally annoying everyone within earshot while Mum texted. Lovely. The woman, who I guessed was Spanish because she had dark hair and a big flower behind her ear, put her newspaper down and stared at Mum in a way as if to say "Can you control these things, please?" Eventually, once the kids started to run around the train, the "Spanish" woman said very, very clearly "Little bastards". Mum must have totally agreed because she did nothing about someone calling her own children bastards. And bastards they were. The shouting and running went on past Lewisham (as shouting and running always does) until a businessman lost his fucking mind with them.
He shouted at texting Mum. "Can you control your children?", he screamed. "They're running amok and it's very annoying"
Thank God someone said something. It's always me and I really wasn't in the mood. Then Mum came off with the evergreen classic. Oh yes: "They're only children". These might the most horrible words ever and I seem to hear them at least once a week. They're not only children, they're cunts. Awful, awful cunts. Cunts that YOU made, you cunt. But, hey, this wasn't my argument. It was Businessman vs. Texting Mum.
They continued arguing. Really shouting at one another but the kids continued running around. Eventually other passengers joined in, attacking Texting Mum for being shit. She was VERY shit. Then, as the train approached St. Johns, the businessman got up to leave, red-faced with fury. Sadly, Texting Mum was getting ready to get off at the same stop. She called one of her little bastards to come and hold Mummy's hand (She'd had to put the phone away and everything) but as the little girl ran past the businessman something wonderful and unexpected happened: her hair got caught round the button on his jacket.
The doors opened and the little girl was crying because her hair had been pulled. The businessman tried to free the little girls hair but couldn't because she was jumping around so much. Texting Mum then started pulling at both the hair and the businessman's jacket but this just ended up freaking the little girl out so she screamed even more. The "We're about to close" beep-beep-beep of the doors started and there was PANIC. The businessman lifted the little girl up so Texting Mum could try to free the hair without the little girl jumping. She fiddled with it, pulled at it, untied it....and freed it! Just in time for the doors to close.
They had all missed their stop but, worse than that, now had to stand beside one another until the train approached New Cross. They stood in silence. Even the children were quiet except for the tiny sobs of the little girl. Three minutes went by. Three long, long minutes. Then the train arrived at New Cross, the doors opened and they all got off. The businessman hurried away while Texting Mum stood on the platform for a second to get her head together. The train doors closed.
Pretty much the whole carriage erupted with laughter. It was like we'd all been punched by sweet relief. Passengers started actually talking to one another and laughing at what they'd just seen. It was a genuinely lovely moment that pretty much NEVER happens in London, people talking and having fun. Admittedly, it was at the cost of others but...well, it was very funny. It'll be a while before something that fun happens on a train again as I realised when I got the last train back from Peterborough last night. Christ, almighty. They were REAL cunts.
Yesterday, Patti and I decided to have a look at places we used to go to back in 1989 when we were both new to London. Camden Town, Primrose Hill, The Washington Pub in Belsize Park. She used to live in a lovely, big house in Belsize Park and we thought we'd have a peep to see how it was. It looked the same to me but there were builders around so changes were definitely happening. Then the owner of Patti's old house turned up. It was Tim Burton.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Friday, 29 May 2009
Don't Talk To Me About People Who Are Nice.
Meeting people is not something that I would ever recommend. Often people are nice and that leads to being pleasant, which is the last thing that you could ever want to be. Yesterday I met two very nice people. It could have all gone very, very wrong at any minute.
The thing about nice people is that they take an interest in you and when people take an interest in me I normally find that that's the end of our relationship. I was with Patti yesterday, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and tastes and touches of London, and we were due to meet our friend Rosie who only appears every 15 years or so in our lives. Bizarrely, considering they hadn't seen each other in so long, the fucking idiots decided that they would go to watch a recording of QI at London Studios. They would meet 10 minutes before hand than go in and sit quietly for three long hours while QI made sure that it had 24 minutes of usable stuff for one episode. That's not much of a 15 year catch-up, is it? I spent most of the day telling Patti that this was a really stupid idea and that she would be stuck in there too long and it would be boring and she'd be throwing a night away in London to see something that won't be as good as the finished TV show. Plus Alan Davies is a cunt.
But Patti is loyal to Rosie. She didn't want to let Rosie down. This meant that I would not be going out drinking with her or at all. I am not giving a night of my entire life over to sobriety. That would be a waste. So I went on and on and on about how she would have a much better time going from bar to bar with me. Patti felt terrible (good). I'd put her off going. I got my way. Even better, Rosie queued up to go in and was turned away because it was full. Hooray for me. I got to spend the night drinking with my friends. Again. But this time, one of my friends brought two of their friends and they were, God help me, really nice.
There I was, trapped with two of the loveliest people you could ever meet, when one of them asked "So, what do you do for a living?" It is times like this that I wish I was a hired killer or a traffic warden or a professional child abductor, anything less embarrassing that a comedian. Because when you say "comedian" to people who have never heard of you all they hear is "comedian I've never heard of". So last night while I was explaining that I've never been on Live At The Apollo, Mock The Week, Have I Got News For You, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Dad's Army, Homes Under The Hammer, The Dog Whisperer or any other TV show they mentioned they just looked at me as if I was a liar. How can you be a comedian if you haven't been on TV? (Apparently Street Cred Sudoko doesn't count) I don't really know how to answer that question so that people who don't work in comedy will understand. Fuck Off just isn't a good enough answer although it is brief.
So, I sat there squirming and being reminded that I'm the least famous comedian in the world and I could accept that, although it was tough. I explained that I made a good living and I was "happy", hoping that would be a good enough answer for anyone. Then they got up to leave and I soon realised that all my talk had fallen on deaf ears. "Best of luck with the comedy thing" said the "nice" lady as she left. Fucking patronising bitch.
Well, fucking "best of luck" seeing comedy, fuckface! She couldn't even get in to a free fucking show. HA! I win. I'm drinking, I'm with my REAL friends and I don't have to answer any questions about my least favourite subject: Me. I win. I win. I WIN!!!
After a few drinks we leave the bar and bump into Rob Rouse who was doing warm-up for QI. One of the guests was David Tennant.
Shit.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
The thing about nice people is that they take an interest in you and when people take an interest in me I normally find that that's the end of our relationship. I was with Patti yesterday, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and tastes and touches of London, and we were due to meet our friend Rosie who only appears every 15 years or so in our lives. Bizarrely, considering they hadn't seen each other in so long, the fucking idiots decided that they would go to watch a recording of QI at London Studios. They would meet 10 minutes before hand than go in and sit quietly for three long hours while QI made sure that it had 24 minutes of usable stuff for one episode. That's not much of a 15 year catch-up, is it? I spent most of the day telling Patti that this was a really stupid idea and that she would be stuck in there too long and it would be boring and she'd be throwing a night away in London to see something that won't be as good as the finished TV show. Plus Alan Davies is a cunt.
But Patti is loyal to Rosie. She didn't want to let Rosie down. This meant that I would not be going out drinking with her or at all. I am not giving a night of my entire life over to sobriety. That would be a waste. So I went on and on and on about how she would have a much better time going from bar to bar with me. Patti felt terrible (good). I'd put her off going. I got my way. Even better, Rosie queued up to go in and was turned away because it was full. Hooray for me. I got to spend the night drinking with my friends. Again. But this time, one of my friends brought two of their friends and they were, God help me, really nice.
There I was, trapped with two of the loveliest people you could ever meet, when one of them asked "So, what do you do for a living?" It is times like this that I wish I was a hired killer or a traffic warden or a professional child abductor, anything less embarrassing that a comedian. Because when you say "comedian" to people who have never heard of you all they hear is "comedian I've never heard of". So last night while I was explaining that I've never been on Live At The Apollo, Mock The Week, Have I Got News For You, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Dad's Army, Homes Under The Hammer, The Dog Whisperer or any other TV show they mentioned they just looked at me as if I was a liar. How can you be a comedian if you haven't been on TV? (Apparently Street Cred Sudoko doesn't count) I don't really know how to answer that question so that people who don't work in comedy will understand. Fuck Off just isn't a good enough answer although it is brief.
So, I sat there squirming and being reminded that I'm the least famous comedian in the world and I could accept that, although it was tough. I explained that I made a good living and I was "happy", hoping that would be a good enough answer for anyone. Then they got up to leave and I soon realised that all my talk had fallen on deaf ears. "Best of luck with the comedy thing" said the "nice" lady as she left. Fucking patronising bitch.
Well, fucking "best of luck" seeing comedy, fuckface! She couldn't even get in to a free fucking show. HA! I win. I'm drinking, I'm with my REAL friends and I don't have to answer any questions about my least favourite subject: Me. I win. I win. I WIN!!!
After a few drinks we leave the bar and bump into Rob Rouse who was doing warm-up for QI. One of the guests was David Tennant.
Shit.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Thursday, 28 May 2009
The Idiot.
Even when I do nothing I get into trouble.
I went to a horrible, horrible bar in The Players Theatre underneath Charing Cross station last night. It's such a wanky bum-hole of a place filled with very pretentious drama students who either seem to be waving their 8x10's around, doing bits of their audition speeches or, most horrible of all, singing. It goes without saying that there was nowhere else nearby to drink in. There's a piano in the bar and normally I love piano bars but not when there's a bunch of pretentious cunts singing in fucking harmonies all around me. It was like a Wetherspoons had been invaded by The Kids from Fame who are all now drunk and crap.
There I was just standing there, minding my own business, quietly seething to myself when this idiot turned to me and said "Are you just jealous because she got a better reception than you?" I was a bit baffled by this. It didn't link to anything that was going on at all. I asked the idiot to repeat himself. He pointed to the woman playing piano and said "You're just pissed off because she's doing better than you" By now I had assumed he'd checked out my career and found out that I wasn't doing as well as someone playing piano once a week in a crap bar under a train station. He's right, of course, but I didn't come out to have my nose rubbed in it. I told the idiot that I wasn't a fan of this sort of thing ie Extras from The Bill so drunk that they think they're in Rent. He then pointed out that the piano player got a much better response than I did when I played. Now I was very baffled. "Er...That wasn't me. I can't play the piano", I told him. He went very red and turned away to face his friends. I laughed a lot. Then John Voce arrived and I told him what had happened. We both laughed. The idiot's friend tapped John on the shoulder and said "Tell your friend to stop talking about my friend". That's just stupid. I had every right to talk to my friend about the idiot. The idiot had tried to start an argument and realised it was a case of mistaken identity. He could have said sorry but no, he just turned his back to me.
The thing is, they were drama students - quite possibly the least scary (but most annoying) people in existence. John and I have had encounters with very pretentious drama students before. We once told a drama student that we were producers and were casting at the moment. He got very intense with us so, to see if he was right for the part, we asked him to repeatedly punch himself in the face. He did this willingly. The massive twat. So, being threatened by a drama student is a bit like being bitten by a leaf. It's not going to hurt. Eventually, the idiot's two friends started talking to John and they all got on well but the idiot still refused to turn round and acknowledge that he'd just been unnecessarily rude to a complete stranger. The piano player who he thought was me then returned for a few more songs. He was very handsome. Thanks, mate.
I was out drinking in strange places because my cousin, Patti, is visiting from San Francisco. Patti and I moved to London together nearly 20 years ago and there's no way I would have had the sense to make a move like that. I am forever in her debt. She pointed London out to me as well as The Smiths and how I didn't need to have a mullett or wear stonewash jeans all the time. In many ways, Patti invented me so if you have a problem with anything or everything that I do then go and talk to her. It's all her fault. I love her dearly but, of course, will never tell her that because that would be well gay.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
I went to a horrible, horrible bar in The Players Theatre underneath Charing Cross station last night. It's such a wanky bum-hole of a place filled with very pretentious drama students who either seem to be waving their 8x10's around, doing bits of their audition speeches or, most horrible of all, singing. It goes without saying that there was nowhere else nearby to drink in. There's a piano in the bar and normally I love piano bars but not when there's a bunch of pretentious cunts singing in fucking harmonies all around me. It was like a Wetherspoons had been invaded by The Kids from Fame who are all now drunk and crap.
There I was just standing there, minding my own business, quietly seething to myself when this idiot turned to me and said "Are you just jealous because she got a better reception than you?" I was a bit baffled by this. It didn't link to anything that was going on at all. I asked the idiot to repeat himself. He pointed to the woman playing piano and said "You're just pissed off because she's doing better than you" By now I had assumed he'd checked out my career and found out that I wasn't doing as well as someone playing piano once a week in a crap bar under a train station. He's right, of course, but I didn't come out to have my nose rubbed in it. I told the idiot that I wasn't a fan of this sort of thing ie Extras from The Bill so drunk that they think they're in Rent. He then pointed out that the piano player got a much better response than I did when I played. Now I was very baffled. "Er...That wasn't me. I can't play the piano", I told him. He went very red and turned away to face his friends. I laughed a lot. Then John Voce arrived and I told him what had happened. We both laughed. The idiot's friend tapped John on the shoulder and said "Tell your friend to stop talking about my friend". That's just stupid. I had every right to talk to my friend about the idiot. The idiot had tried to start an argument and realised it was a case of mistaken identity. He could have said sorry but no, he just turned his back to me.
The thing is, they were drama students - quite possibly the least scary (but most annoying) people in existence. John and I have had encounters with very pretentious drama students before. We once told a drama student that we were producers and were casting at the moment. He got very intense with us so, to see if he was right for the part, we asked him to repeatedly punch himself in the face. He did this willingly. The massive twat. So, being threatened by a drama student is a bit like being bitten by a leaf. It's not going to hurt. Eventually, the idiot's two friends started talking to John and they all got on well but the idiot still refused to turn round and acknowledge that he'd just been unnecessarily rude to a complete stranger. The piano player who he thought was me then returned for a few more songs. He was very handsome. Thanks, mate.
I was out drinking in strange places because my cousin, Patti, is visiting from San Francisco. Patti and I moved to London together nearly 20 years ago and there's no way I would have had the sense to make a move like that. I am forever in her debt. She pointed London out to me as well as The Smiths and how I didn't need to have a mullett or wear stonewash jeans all the time. In many ways, Patti invented me so if you have a problem with anything or everything that I do then go and talk to her. It's all her fault. I love her dearly but, of course, will never tell her that because that would be well gay.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
When Do I Get To Sing "My Way"?
Is there a point in watching Britain's Got Talent? Surprisingly, yes. Not every single act on the show is desperate for fame and comes across like they would kill their own children if it meant they'd get talked about for a little while. Some of these acts are simply there to waste people's time. That has to be admired.
A grown man got a three minute slot on prime time TV by wearing a Darth Vader helmet and lethargically shuffling around to a Michael Jackson song. He was called Darth Jackson. BRILLIANT! The man didn't even attempt to entertain, he just turned up and was the focus of the night's biggest TV show for a while. He took the piss. Therefore, I love him. I won't vote for him (that would take way more effort than he put in to his act) but I want him to win. Not long after Darth was a lady who's talent was being a bit pretty and being able to twirl a little bit. I don't know what she was supposed to be. A dancer, maybe? Or someone who was having a really slow nervous breakdown? Then came Nick Hell who was such a time waster that even the judges noticed. He came on stage, went out of his mind with a pick axe while his worn out girlfriend stood beside him passing him more and more dangerous objects to shove down his throat. In a way, it was like watching Brian Damage and Crystal but without the jokes, charm or joy.
That was pretty much the show. Yeah, there were a couple of boring turds who went on crying about how much this meant to them and how they were doing this for their dead gerbils and how they're going to give it their everything but, generally, people were just arsing around. I applaud them for it. Last year at the end of the Edinburgh Festival every comedian there talked about how they were going to put IF.COMEDY AWARD WINNER on their 2009 poster just to take the piss out of the pointlessness of it all. I pretty much knew then that everyone would chicken out of it and it looks like they have. But these people saw a chance to take the piss out of this addiction to crap variety that we have suffered from since the beginning of the 21st century and they took it. They are heroes.
Shame Susan Boyle just isn't very good. Still, compared to Amanda cunting Holden she is talent personified. When the next semi-finalists were announced none of their disbelief could come close to the permanent look of surprise on Amanda's very expensive face.
Not only does Britain not have any talent but neither do I. I did a seemingly lovely gig in Tring last night that was going fine until I opened a door to a cunt called Adam. Not that it was completely his fault. I shouldn't have spoken to him at all. I should have ignored his contributions but I didn't and the more I let him have his say the more I could feel the audience just drift away from me. Shame because I think I would have had fun if I'd simply done my job. It wasn't totally awful. Adam went out to get beer at one point and I got the audience back with some very tried and tested material. A good time to get off stage, I thought. It wasn't the material I wanted to do but the staring ovation the audience gave me because of my Adam fuck-up meant I had to just bite the bullet. Robin Ince went on after me and was upsettingly superb. God, I hate him.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
A grown man got a three minute slot on prime time TV by wearing a Darth Vader helmet and lethargically shuffling around to a Michael Jackson song. He was called Darth Jackson. BRILLIANT! The man didn't even attempt to entertain, he just turned up and was the focus of the night's biggest TV show for a while. He took the piss. Therefore, I love him. I won't vote for him (that would take way more effort than he put in to his act) but I want him to win. Not long after Darth was a lady who's talent was being a bit pretty and being able to twirl a little bit. I don't know what she was supposed to be. A dancer, maybe? Or someone who was having a really slow nervous breakdown? Then came Nick Hell who was such a time waster that even the judges noticed. He came on stage, went out of his mind with a pick axe while his worn out girlfriend stood beside him passing him more and more dangerous objects to shove down his throat. In a way, it was like watching Brian Damage and Crystal but without the jokes, charm or joy.
That was pretty much the show. Yeah, there were a couple of boring turds who went on crying about how much this meant to them and how they were doing this for their dead gerbils and how they're going to give it their everything but, generally, people were just arsing around. I applaud them for it. Last year at the end of the Edinburgh Festival every comedian there talked about how they were going to put IF.COMEDY AWARD WINNER on their 2009 poster just to take the piss out of the pointlessness of it all. I pretty much knew then that everyone would chicken out of it and it looks like they have. But these people saw a chance to take the piss out of this addiction to crap variety that we have suffered from since the beginning of the 21st century and they took it. They are heroes.
Shame Susan Boyle just isn't very good. Still, compared to Amanda cunting Holden she is talent personified. When the next semi-finalists were announced none of their disbelief could come close to the permanent look of surprise on Amanda's very expensive face.
Not only does Britain not have any talent but neither do I. I did a seemingly lovely gig in Tring last night that was going fine until I opened a door to a cunt called Adam. Not that it was completely his fault. I shouldn't have spoken to him at all. I should have ignored his contributions but I didn't and the more I let him have his say the more I could feel the audience just drift away from me. Shame because I think I would have had fun if I'd simply done my job. It wasn't totally awful. Adam went out to get beer at one point and I got the audience back with some very tried and tested material. A good time to get off stage, I thought. It wasn't the material I wanted to do but the staring ovation the audience gave me because of my Adam fuck-up meant I had to just bite the bullet. Robin Ince went on after me and was upsettingly superb. God, I hate him.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Olli Nollicazet.
Why isn't Otiz Cannelloni huge?
It's because he's one of the funniest people in the country, isn't it? The fucking idiot. I saw him on Sunday night being his usual brilliant, naturally funny self and the audience loved him. You see, if a TV producer saw that he or she would just roll their eyes and not quite get the connection between getting lots of laughs and being good at getting lots of laughs. Well, they'd say, he's no Justin Lee Cunting Collins and then go off and fuck up another BBC3 series before falling asleep in their own mess. Not that all TV producers are like that. They can't be. How else could Life On Mars get made? Not Ashes To Ashes, of course, just Life On Mars. Not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS because there are still a few good programmes being made out there. I watched Little Howard's Big Question the other day and the fact that some exec out there saw the fun as well as the dark side of Howard Read's incredible work and how it would be a prefect way of entertaining kids without patronising them makes me happy and proves that not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS. Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle was produced by Armando Iannucci and he's brilliant so, you see, not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS. One of these smart people will see the brilliance of Otiz Cannelloni and put that brilliance into good use. They can't throw something that good away and I'm positive that they won't. Unless, of course, ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS.
Today's blog was going to be about something else but I was told not to write about it. Shame. You would have been furious. It certainly made my blood boil. It was about someone horrible being horrible. I'm off now to put pressure on my friend so I can write the story.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
It's because he's one of the funniest people in the country, isn't it? The fucking idiot. I saw him on Sunday night being his usual brilliant, naturally funny self and the audience loved him. You see, if a TV producer saw that he or she would just roll their eyes and not quite get the connection between getting lots of laughs and being good at getting lots of laughs. Well, they'd say, he's no Justin Lee Cunting Collins and then go off and fuck up another BBC3 series before falling asleep in their own mess. Not that all TV producers are like that. They can't be. How else could Life On Mars get made? Not Ashes To Ashes, of course, just Life On Mars. Not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS because there are still a few good programmes being made out there. I watched Little Howard's Big Question the other day and the fact that some exec out there saw the fun as well as the dark side of Howard Read's incredible work and how it would be a prefect way of entertaining kids without patronising them makes me happy and proves that not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS. Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle was produced by Armando Iannucci and he's brilliant so, you see, not ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS. One of these smart people will see the brilliance of Otiz Cannelloni and put that brilliance into good use. They can't throw something that good away and I'm positive that they won't. Unless, of course, ALL TV PRODUCERS ARE CUNTS.
Today's blog was going to be about something else but I was told not to write about it. Shame. You would have been furious. It certainly made my blood boil. It was about someone horrible being horrible. I'm off now to put pressure on my friend so I can write the story.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Why I?
I spent an hour drinking tea in Times Square yesterday just watching people come and go. I love New York. It's an incredible, vibrant, scary, exciting, buzzing metropolis and people watching there can entertain you for hours. Sadly, I was in Times Square in Newcastle which looks like it was designed by an Etch-A-Sketch and decorated by a Tellytubby bomb.
Not that I have anything against Newcastle, far from it. They've got a Sci-Fi Charity Shop, for fuck's sake. How bad can a place be when it's got one of those? Something a bit weird always happens in Newcastle. You just have to wait for it. I was in Forbidden Planet yesterday when I saw a man collapse in a diabetic seizure. Well, I heard him crash to the ground anyway. He lay on his back with his arms raised and shaking while his body convulsed and his mouth foamed. It was a really disturbing thing to see. What was almost as shocking was not the one member of staff who quickly phoned an ambulance but the other members of staff who just stood there staring at him. It was probably the most Sci-Fi thing they'd ever actually seen in their lives and no amount of comic books had prepared them to deal with it. It was real life, that has NOTHING to do with them. Eventually, someone put two Watchmen sweatshirts under the guy's head to support it. I can't help but think he would have liked that. He was fine, by the way, though that must be horrible to live with. If you're a diabetic sufferer then please go and have some sugar. Or have less sugar. I don't know. Might have to check Wikipedia rather than my blog.
Later, too much happened in one go for me. It was actually too much for my brain to take in all at once. I got flirted at by a 6' 5" Thai waiter with a strong Geordie accent. He kept touching me and he was too tall and he looked exotic but he had that voice and he was a man and...I had to have a lie down. Alone.
The gig last night was great, as was the company. Probably because that cunt Mohammed wasn't there.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Not that I have anything against Newcastle, far from it. They've got a Sci-Fi Charity Shop, for fuck's sake. How bad can a place be when it's got one of those? Something a bit weird always happens in Newcastle. You just have to wait for it. I was in Forbidden Planet yesterday when I saw a man collapse in a diabetic seizure. Well, I heard him crash to the ground anyway. He lay on his back with his arms raised and shaking while his body convulsed and his mouth foamed. It was a really disturbing thing to see. What was almost as shocking was not the one member of staff who quickly phoned an ambulance but the other members of staff who just stood there staring at him. It was probably the most Sci-Fi thing they'd ever actually seen in their lives and no amount of comic books had prepared them to deal with it. It was real life, that has NOTHING to do with them. Eventually, someone put two Watchmen sweatshirts under the guy's head to support it. I can't help but think he would have liked that. He was fine, by the way, though that must be horrible to live with. If you're a diabetic sufferer then please go and have some sugar. Or have less sugar. I don't know. Might have to check Wikipedia rather than my blog.
Later, too much happened in one go for me. It was actually too much for my brain to take in all at once. I got flirted at by a 6' 5" Thai waiter with a strong Geordie accent. He kept touching me and he was too tall and he looked exotic but he had that voice and he was a man and...I had to have a lie down. Alone.
The gig last night was great, as was the company. Probably because that cunt Mohammed wasn't there.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Saturday, 23 May 2009
Staring at Young Boys.
Young people are lovely, aren’t they? So fresh faced, naïve and full of spunk. On Thursday I went to a new comedy night called The Ambassadors Comedy Reception at the good old Albany in Great Portland Street. Although I’m not a big fan of the Albany’s policies, I love the venue. So dark, intimate and full of spunk. You can never get served at the bar but, hey, what has the selling of alcohol got to do with a comedy club? Nothing, as we all know.
I met Rob Heeney there and we sat at the back of the room, like the two old men that we are, watching what can only be described as foetuses and a microphone. They were so young it was an insult. Don’t get me wrong, they were excellent but their youth just made me smile more than their jokes did. It’s great being that young. You don’t really know what you’re doing no matter what it is that you’re doing. I’m pretty sure that that lovely, gangly, “is this alright?” awkwardness on stage would happen to these new comics if they were wiring a plug or having sex or buying alcohol. When you’re that young everything is still pretty new and, basically, I’m jealous.
The compere was my favourite (sorry that I didn’t catch the acts names but if you know who they are let me know). He was so eager and smiley and excited to be there that you couldn’t help but love him. He asked someone in the room what they did for a living and when they said Biologist his young persons head could only reply “There’s lots of biology, isn’t there?” Fucking brilliant! He looked like a farmer had decided to model his scarecrow on Miss Joan and it came to life, all windmill arms and massive eyes. He’s fantastic and I wish I owned him. I think a baby was the first act on then after him was a Newcastle comedian who may even have had pubes (he was very good, jokes and everything) then came Boy From Norway. Again, about 10 years old, keen and I wanted to buy him and show him to my friends. He was soooooooooooooo new that he still kept apologising for everything he did despite him being pretty good. He can speak English perfectly but kept asking if what he just said was the right way to say that which made me laugh because I kept imagining comic Tony Gerrard doing the same for some reason (“Any fucking poofs in? Am I saying that right?”). Plus I’m going through a “Isn’t broken English hilarious?” spell at the moment. A new café owned by two very nice Polish ladies has just opened round the corner from me and every day it has a new sign outside it. “Well Come” it said on the first day and “Healty Food” the next. Yesterday I was delighted to find out that I could get a white black coff there for 90p or a crepe what you like for 1.65. Bargain. Anyway, Norway Boy was young and shy and eager and it was brilliant to watch him. Then they wheeled on Grampa Ben Norris who wheezed about the war and asked where the biscuits were for 10 minutes. The first half closed with The Ladybirds, a singing group in their very early twenties who probably felt old for the first time in their lives just being in the same room as some of the bairns on the bill. Lucky for those ladies, me and Rob Heeney were there to show them they have a good 30 or 40 years before they get to our age.
I left halfway through and missed middle-aged Rob and Nana Ava Vidal talk about how it was different in their day but I’m sure the second half was great. I’m not sure when the next Ambassadors Comedy Reception is but I think we should all go. All us comics who’ve been around for a while should come down and be reminded of that nervous excitement of youth. Maybe not Chris Langham. Ageing comedian or not, you should check it out. It’s a good gig. Let’s go.
I’m up in Newcastle this weekend. I’m playing at the Hyena Café which is a club I love doing because the audiences up there are generally good and the club is run by nice people. Yvonne and Della do a damn fine job despite the club’s owner being a massive prick. Last night’s crowd went from being slightly volatile to completely unplayable in the space of an hour. Admittedly, there were a fair few people there who wanted to see the show but the bulk of them were cunts. They would have been fine but the club’s prick owner told the bouncers to not throw anyone out. Stupid fucking cunt. Even though there were dickheads ruining a show that short-sighted prick wouldn’t remove any of them because then they wouldn’t spend money on booze. For fucks sake, what has the selling of alcohol got to do with a comedy club? Oh…hang on. Now I get it. Anyway, to summarise what I just said: Hyena in Newcastle is a lovely club with great staff but Mohammed, the owner, is a fucking cunt.
Hmmm….wonder if I’m still on the bill for tonight.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
I met Rob Heeney there and we sat at the back of the room, like the two old men that we are, watching what can only be described as foetuses and a microphone. They were so young it was an insult. Don’t get me wrong, they were excellent but their youth just made me smile more than their jokes did. It’s great being that young. You don’t really know what you’re doing no matter what it is that you’re doing. I’m pretty sure that that lovely, gangly, “is this alright?” awkwardness on stage would happen to these new comics if they were wiring a plug or having sex or buying alcohol. When you’re that young everything is still pretty new and, basically, I’m jealous.
The compere was my favourite (sorry that I didn’t catch the acts names but if you know who they are let me know). He was so eager and smiley and excited to be there that you couldn’t help but love him. He asked someone in the room what they did for a living and when they said Biologist his young persons head could only reply “There’s lots of biology, isn’t there?” Fucking brilliant! He looked like a farmer had decided to model his scarecrow on Miss Joan and it came to life, all windmill arms and massive eyes. He’s fantastic and I wish I owned him. I think a baby was the first act on then after him was a Newcastle comedian who may even have had pubes (he was very good, jokes and everything) then came Boy From Norway. Again, about 10 years old, keen and I wanted to buy him and show him to my friends. He was soooooooooooooo new that he still kept apologising for everything he did despite him being pretty good. He can speak English perfectly but kept asking if what he just said was the right way to say that which made me laugh because I kept imagining comic Tony Gerrard doing the same for some reason (“Any fucking poofs in? Am I saying that right?”). Plus I’m going through a “Isn’t broken English hilarious?” spell at the moment. A new café owned by two very nice Polish ladies has just opened round the corner from me and every day it has a new sign outside it. “Well Come” it said on the first day and “Healty Food” the next. Yesterday I was delighted to find out that I could get a white black coff there for 90p or a crepe what you like for 1.65. Bargain. Anyway, Norway Boy was young and shy and eager and it was brilliant to watch him. Then they wheeled on Grampa Ben Norris who wheezed about the war and asked where the biscuits were for 10 minutes. The first half closed with The Ladybirds, a singing group in their very early twenties who probably felt old for the first time in their lives just being in the same room as some of the bairns on the bill. Lucky for those ladies, me and Rob Heeney were there to show them they have a good 30 or 40 years before they get to our age.
I left halfway through and missed middle-aged Rob and Nana Ava Vidal talk about how it was different in their day but I’m sure the second half was great. I’m not sure when the next Ambassadors Comedy Reception is but I think we should all go. All us comics who’ve been around for a while should come down and be reminded of that nervous excitement of youth. Maybe not Chris Langham. Ageing comedian or not, you should check it out. It’s a good gig. Let’s go.
I’m up in Newcastle this weekend. I’m playing at the Hyena Café which is a club I love doing because the audiences up there are generally good and the club is run by nice people. Yvonne and Della do a damn fine job despite the club’s owner being a massive prick. Last night’s crowd went from being slightly volatile to completely unplayable in the space of an hour. Admittedly, there were a fair few people there who wanted to see the show but the bulk of them were cunts. They would have been fine but the club’s prick owner told the bouncers to not throw anyone out. Stupid fucking cunt. Even though there were dickheads ruining a show that short-sighted prick wouldn’t remove any of them because then they wouldn’t spend money on booze. For fucks sake, what has the selling of alcohol got to do with a comedy club? Oh…hang on. Now I get it. Anyway, to summarise what I just said: Hyena in Newcastle is a lovely club with great staff but Mohammed, the owner, is a fucking cunt.
Hmmm….wonder if I’m still on the bill for tonight.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
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