Yes, I did enjoy myself at the weekend. Is that such a crime? I had a lot of fun but as with every single time I start to enjoy myself it has to be ruined. It's like if I smile the entire universe starts to shake and the only way to redress the balance is by shitting on me from a great height. Why was I born such a beautiful martyr?
I enjoyed The Fall and that's where I made my mistake. Not all of All Tomorrow's Parties was for me but I loved The Fall. Mark E. Smith's arrogant way of walking around the stage twiddling the knobs of audio equipment that had nothing to do with him and occasionally pushing the keyboard player out of the way so he could punch the keyboard really appealed to me. The music was excellent but Mark E. Smith's way of roaming around the stage, bored and looking for something to do, while waiting for the time when he can just walk off is what makes a quality Fall show. After the encore the entire audience left the room. That's when grumpy Mark decided to come back on and, as a result, caused a mad rush of 40-something unfit blobs in Frenz Experiment t-shirts nearly killing themselves to get to the front. He knew what he was doing. And well done him.
I enjoyed that and so must pay the price. That's when one of Minehead's fattest seagulls shat on me.
It was a huge shit. A really massive, runny, long, white, grey-flecked shit right on my shoulder that ran it's natural course right down the front and back of my jacket. My emotions just bottle-necked. I was grossed out, angry, thought it was funny, disgusted, impressed by the accuracy, depressed that I'll have to clean it and happy that this beautiful animal is so free that it can just shit wherever it likes in public without even noticing. Surely that is something that man has always dreamt of. To soar high above the rooftops, the mountains, the clouds. Casually shitting everywhere without even blinking an eyelid. When will evolution catch up with man's vision of perfection?
So I got shat on, as I was saying, and it made me feel a series of conflicting emotions. My friends could only muster the one emotion however: joy. Sheer joy at me being shat on. The pointing, the laughing, the constant photography...my predicament only seemed to make their weekend more enjoyable. Who would have thought that a simple, horrific stream of excrement on a shoulder could bring so much happiness into the lives of indie people who seem to live their lives being misunderstood and emotionally beaten? Probably for the first time in their limited edition 7" plastic lives they are smiling and happy and laughing and alive. It's like halfway through the film Awakenings but with more runny, runny shit. There I am with all this liquid poo running down my front and back, so white that I consider I'd been ejaculated on by a seagull and not merely scatalogically targeted by one, and all I can see is joy. These mentally ill, whiny, indie fans with their Emily The Strange notepads full of their empty thoughts and their Belle & Sebastian brooches are all smiling and laughing and happy and I am their Patch Adams but with a lot less runny, runny shit.
I paid the price for my joy but maybe it all evened out. I mean, in my job, when am I likely to see such laughter again?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Band Camp.
I went to Butlins for the weekend. Don't worry, it was all very ironic and clever and smug. All Tomorrows Parties took over the poor, thick people's one and only joy in life outside of drugs and having babies for the entire weekend it and filled it with lots of middle-class white people who walked around wearing their Nan's clothes and laughed at the preposterousness of ACTUALLY being there. It was all very dignified.
All Tomorrow's Parties do this a lot. A few times a year they take over Butlins in Minehead and hold a three-day indie music festival that is curated by someone you've never heard of. That said, the previous weekend was curated by Matt Groening who is uncharacteristically actually famous but the weekend that I went to was all organised by 90's indie also-rans Pavement.
I missed the first day because I had to be up early to join Andrew Collins on 6music and that was lovely. You can judge the loveliness for yourself on iPlayer for the next few days (http://bit.ly/dBqdcu). There's also a podcast but it leaves out "Braile dog-poo" and my extended shouting and you don't want to miss that, do you? So after all that I arrived at Butlins a day and a half late but just in time to see Mark Eitzel who I absolutely love. His voice is just so broken and beautiful and his songs are horrible and gorgeous. On stage he appears like a cross between a homeless Frank Sinatra and a dying Paul Foot. How could you not love him? Plus, his pianist was Rory from Doctor Who (it really was). Sadly, a couple of people beside me didn't quite love Mark as much as I did. They shouted loudly throughout the show and generally behaved in a ridiculous, obnoxious manner. They even looked as bad as they sounded. One man was 5ft tall and wore a cravat and a Victorian moustache. Even if he was mute I'd want to punch him. We asked several times for them to be quiet but they didn't give a fuck. So I glared at the dwarf in cunt's clothing and mouthed "That's your last chance". The thing about indie people is they don't expect violence. They live in a twee, we-make-our-own-clothes-out-of-fuzzy-felt, lovely-skippy little world and think that everyone else at an indie festival will be the same. But I am clever. I know that he doesn't know that I am too cowardly to hit him and that is all I need. They shut up pretty soon after that.
Eitzel couldn't be ruined, of course. He is superb and it would take much more than a short-arsed twat in a boater to stop his majesty. But what after Eitzel? To be honest, I hadn't heard of any of these bands. Pavement passed me by and no way was I ever going to be intrigued by bands with names like Camera Obscura (slappable indie wets) or Atlas Sound (I didn't bother). I'd have to wait a full 24 hours before I'd see another band I liked. The Fall closed the main stage on Sunday but that was ages away. Fuck it, I'll give Boris a go.
Boris are my favourite band.
Boris are Japanese and play the intro's to Black Sabbath songs. For an hour. They are so bassy and growly and dirty and thick and loud surely only whales could like their low, low music. It must be killing these indie picnic-ers. I stayed to watch in case they made any of the fey bunch cry but I just ended up loving them and their "music". In fact, they had me right from the start. They walked on, none of their instruments worked, they fucked off. Without a word. WHAT AN INTRO! Take that, Freddie Mercury! Boris are showmen.
I loved them so much that I went back to see them the next day. This time they performed their album Feedbacker in it's entirety. Feedbacker is as it sounds. FOR AN HOUR. Charming.
So much better than the big mistake of the weekend: Still Flyin'. Yes, I saw a band that chose to call itself Still Flyin'. The 11-piece happy-clappy bunch of embarrassing 30-something children were amazing only for one thing. Every member of the band was the band's Bez. Their songs were called things like Sunny Day Hug or Rainbow Pepsi-Cola Prom Panda. CUNTS! They all dressed from their big, fun dressing up box and jumped up and down and invited their friends on stage and got people to draw them and told everyone how much fun they all are and just FORCED people into going along with it in the same way that a tired and embarrassed parent has to be interested in it's talentless child's awful painting. I would send you a YouTube link but you deserve better. Kickable pricks.
So The Fall were excellent (seeing Stewart Lee "mosh" will take some time to get over) and Pavement were too, even though I know none of their songs and I insulted Stephen Malkmus. Tell you about that later. But it's the scale of the thing that impressed me most. Butlins is HUGE. All these streets made of little houses that go on for miles and the amount of activities and the state-of-the-art sound equipment in their huge venues...How come Butlins aims so low? Why does it want tedious entertainment for the Sky+ers to just veg out to? That's the only thing that's wrong with it. If there were pop Pub Quizzes and Boris on all year round I'd happily go there for a June fortnight. I like Butlins. Is that so wrong?
Thanks to James & Sarah for organising it (for me, not for everyone).
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
All Tomorrow's Parties do this a lot. A few times a year they take over Butlins in Minehead and hold a three-day indie music festival that is curated by someone you've never heard of. That said, the previous weekend was curated by Matt Groening who is uncharacteristically actually famous but the weekend that I went to was all organised by 90's indie also-rans Pavement.
I missed the first day because I had to be up early to join Andrew Collins on 6music and that was lovely. You can judge the loveliness for yourself on iPlayer for the next few days (http://bit.ly/dBqdcu). There's also a podcast but it leaves out "Braile dog-poo" and my extended shouting and you don't want to miss that, do you? So after all that I arrived at Butlins a day and a half late but just in time to see Mark Eitzel who I absolutely love. His voice is just so broken and beautiful and his songs are horrible and gorgeous. On stage he appears like a cross between a homeless Frank Sinatra and a dying Paul Foot. How could you not love him? Plus, his pianist was Rory from Doctor Who (it really was). Sadly, a couple of people beside me didn't quite love Mark as much as I did. They shouted loudly throughout the show and generally behaved in a ridiculous, obnoxious manner. They even looked as bad as they sounded. One man was 5ft tall and wore a cravat and a Victorian moustache. Even if he was mute I'd want to punch him. We asked several times for them to be quiet but they didn't give a fuck. So I glared at the dwarf in cunt's clothing and mouthed "That's your last chance". The thing about indie people is they don't expect violence. They live in a twee, we-make-our-own-clothes-out-of-fuzzy-felt, lovely-skippy little world and think that everyone else at an indie festival will be the same. But I am clever. I know that he doesn't know that I am too cowardly to hit him and that is all I need. They shut up pretty soon after that.
Eitzel couldn't be ruined, of course. He is superb and it would take much more than a short-arsed twat in a boater to stop his majesty. But what after Eitzel? To be honest, I hadn't heard of any of these bands. Pavement passed me by and no way was I ever going to be intrigued by bands with names like Camera Obscura (slappable indie wets) or Atlas Sound (I didn't bother). I'd have to wait a full 24 hours before I'd see another band I liked. The Fall closed the main stage on Sunday but that was ages away. Fuck it, I'll give Boris a go.
Boris are my favourite band.
Boris are Japanese and play the intro's to Black Sabbath songs. For an hour. They are so bassy and growly and dirty and thick and loud surely only whales could like their low, low music. It must be killing these indie picnic-ers. I stayed to watch in case they made any of the fey bunch cry but I just ended up loving them and their "music". In fact, they had me right from the start. They walked on, none of their instruments worked, they fucked off. Without a word. WHAT AN INTRO! Take that, Freddie Mercury! Boris are showmen.
I loved them so much that I went back to see them the next day. This time they performed their album Feedbacker in it's entirety. Feedbacker is as it sounds. FOR AN HOUR. Charming.
So much better than the big mistake of the weekend: Still Flyin'. Yes, I saw a band that chose to call itself Still Flyin'. The 11-piece happy-clappy bunch of embarrassing 30-something children were amazing only for one thing. Every member of the band was the band's Bez. Their songs were called things like Sunny Day Hug or Rainbow Pepsi-Cola Prom Panda. CUNTS! They all dressed from their big, fun dressing up box and jumped up and down and invited their friends on stage and got people to draw them and told everyone how much fun they all are and just FORCED people into going along with it in the same way that a tired and embarrassed parent has to be interested in it's talentless child's awful painting. I would send you a YouTube link but you deserve better. Kickable pricks.
So The Fall were excellent (seeing Stewart Lee "mosh" will take some time to get over) and Pavement were too, even though I know none of their songs and I insulted Stephen Malkmus. Tell you about that later. But it's the scale of the thing that impressed me most. Butlins is HUGE. All these streets made of little houses that go on for miles and the amount of activities and the state-of-the-art sound equipment in their huge venues...How come Butlins aims so low? Why does it want tedious entertainment for the Sky+ers to just veg out to? That's the only thing that's wrong with it. If there were pop Pub Quizzes and Boris on all year round I'd happily go there for a June fortnight. I like Butlins. Is that so wrong?
Thanks to James & Sarah for organising it (for me, not for everyone).
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Friday, 14 May 2010
Blood and Rears.
I have piles. Of course, I have piles. Why wouldn't I have piles? Piles seems, to me, to be the next obvious step in my evolution. Psoriasis, asthma, arthritis, funnel chest, fat feet, foot lumps, baggy eyes, run like a girl, tiny tiny penis and being thick just aren't enough for me. I needed something more and my body chose the obvious: piles. Now my arse is as furious as the rest of me.
Well, I think I have piles. Basically, my bum hurts A LOT but I have yet to seek a professional medical opinion on my bum. A lot of people have given their amateur opinion on my bum more times than I can remember over the years but I've yet to seek a Doctor's advice. And why would I? I'm a man. Men never go to the Doctor. It's a sign of weakness and we men never ever get ill and we live forever. Plus I'm a bit embarrassed and don't think I'm mature enough to sit in front of a Doctor and go "Well, it's about my bum..." Of course, I'm not mature enough. I mean, look at me. I can't even write the word Doctor without giving it a capital D. That's how my complex and intriguing mind works: If I have to see a GP the he HAS to be a Time Lord.
The great thing about having or assuming you have piles is that all of a sudden you have a whole new group of friends. People with piles love to talk about piles. They are proud of their piles. No matter how much pain you are in it's nothing compared to their arse agony. "One time, I burst every one of my hemorrhoids while shitting and the toilet bowl looked like Saw III", they say with a beaming smile normally reserved for the day your child takes it's first steps. It's incredible. These people live for their piles and if you have piles too then you are instantly their bestest friend in the whole wide world. My arse is in nine bits but, all of a sudden, I feel like I belong.
And if I go to the Doctor I might get given cream and my piles will vanish along with my new ice-breaker at parties. Piles has given me so much more than a bloody hole. It's given me a social in. Who knows where that could take me? No doubt a fellow piles sufferer will discover that I have piles and do me a favour. Maybe introduce me to a producer at the BBC. And when that producer at the BBC see's that, like him, I have piles he'll realise that I'm great and set me up with a meeting to brainstorm a new sit-com and when the sit-com people find out that, like them, I have piles they will suddenly love all my comedy ideas and want to make my sit-com. And then my sit-com will be on TV and piles "sufferers" will love it and it will become a cult hit and because the piles "sufferers" love it they demand that TV offers me more work and that's when the BBC beg me to return so they can get me to sign the most expensive writer's contract in history, one that I can't possibly refuse, and tell me that I'll be writing the new prime time comedy vehicle for king of the piles himself, Paddy McGuinness. That is when every single one of my precious, precious bum grapes explode right there and then as I stand in the middle fountain thing at the BBC but instead of a hundred record-breaking tap-dancing children surrounding me it'll just be an ocean of my arse-blood destroying everything.
What I need, right now, is a Doctor.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Well, I think I have piles. Basically, my bum hurts A LOT but I have yet to seek a professional medical opinion on my bum. A lot of people have given their amateur opinion on my bum more times than I can remember over the years but I've yet to seek a Doctor's advice. And why would I? I'm a man. Men never go to the Doctor. It's a sign of weakness and we men never ever get ill and we live forever. Plus I'm a bit embarrassed and don't think I'm mature enough to sit in front of a Doctor and go "Well, it's about my bum..." Of course, I'm not mature enough. I mean, look at me. I can't even write the word Doctor without giving it a capital D. That's how my complex and intriguing mind works: If I have to see a GP the he HAS to be a Time Lord.
The great thing about having or assuming you have piles is that all of a sudden you have a whole new group of friends. People with piles love to talk about piles. They are proud of their piles. No matter how much pain you are in it's nothing compared to their arse agony. "One time, I burst every one of my hemorrhoids while shitting and the toilet bowl looked like Saw III", they say with a beaming smile normally reserved for the day your child takes it's first steps. It's incredible. These people live for their piles and if you have piles too then you are instantly their bestest friend in the whole wide world. My arse is in nine bits but, all of a sudden, I feel like I belong.
And if I go to the Doctor I might get given cream and my piles will vanish along with my new ice-breaker at parties. Piles has given me so much more than a bloody hole. It's given me a social in. Who knows where that could take me? No doubt a fellow piles sufferer will discover that I have piles and do me a favour. Maybe introduce me to a producer at the BBC. And when that producer at the BBC see's that, like him, I have piles he'll realise that I'm great and set me up with a meeting to brainstorm a new sit-com and when the sit-com people find out that, like them, I have piles they will suddenly love all my comedy ideas and want to make my sit-com. And then my sit-com will be on TV and piles "sufferers" will love it and it will become a cult hit and because the piles "sufferers" love it they demand that TV offers me more work and that's when the BBC beg me to return so they can get me to sign the most expensive writer's contract in history, one that I can't possibly refuse, and tell me that I'll be writing the new prime time comedy vehicle for king of the piles himself, Paddy McGuinness. That is when every single one of my precious, precious bum grapes explode right there and then as I stand in the middle fountain thing at the BBC but instead of a hundred record-breaking tap-dancing children surrounding me it'll just be an ocean of my arse-blood destroying everything.
What I need, right now, is a Doctor.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
A New Hopeless.
I was halfway through a blog about loud, drunk women being thrown out of a comedy club but, like The One Show, this blog has been interrupted to bring you this breaking opinion.
Balls.
Yep, that's my thoughts on it. Balls. I pretty much knew that David Cameron would get in well before election day but what I didn't know was that I would end up voting for him. I am incredibly disillusioned by the Labour party, even though I think Gordon Brown is a much better politician than most, and I would never ever even think about voting Tory. It's just in my bones and blood. You DON'T vote Tory. They are evil. The other two main parties might be wrong but Tories are evil. Ben Elton told me that and he should know. So, as a result, I voted Lib-Dem because I thought Nick Clegg might be the least cunty of the list of cunts that I was offered. Nick Clegg. Stupid, stupid Nick Clegg. The UK's political Anakin Skywalker.
Stirring shit is the main part of any political agenda when it comes to an election and when we had all lost faith in Gordon Brown (Chancellor Valorum) a lot of us believed via bullshit press that there was only one other person we could turn to. No-one else was likely to get in and Nick Clegg, although promising, was just a padawan in a weird organisation that remarkably has lasted as long as it has. These confused and lost people turned to David Cameron (Chancellor Palpatine) which just made anyone watching very upset. I mean WE can see that Cameron is evil, why can't they? That made us RELY on Clegg. He was new, he was naive but he felt he could offer something. When will people take him seriously as a politician? He should have a seat in the Government now. He could bring balance to the country.
So, we were split. Most were supporting Cameron and we knew that Brown was over, out of the race. Maybe, just maybe, Clegg could come along and save the day. He seemed to look to the old ways of the Tories (Darkside) and the old ways of Labour (Jedi, once) and offered an alternative. It was why he got into this in the first place.
But he was young, foolish, reckless. Easily seduced. After the election, it all broke down. Our hopes and Clegg's chances. At the last minute, a lot of us saw what a bad actor he was and he didn't do as well as he thought and that must have made him angry. Soon, we found out that Cameron had summoned Clegg to talk about a coalition (probably in a private box watching a big purple ghost opera) and Clegg dropped to his knees. This way he could save his wife (Padme) from utter political-failure embarrassment and could learn how to use evil for good. Weird, really, as Labour have killed a lot more Sandpeople in recent years.
By then, we who had trusted Clegg could see his orange fiery eyes and felt the betrayal. We are going to have to wait until we land on planet teddy-bear and Cameron and him have a massive fight before he sees the error of his ways.
It's a horrible story and would make a terrible film but it's one that will stay with me for a while. I might be slightly jumping the gun here, and I fear I'm not, but Nick Clegg has made me vote Tory. I voted for someone who said he might have a better way of doing things and now he is telling me that he believed in the thing I hate. I feel like an idiot. A stupid, unforgiving, unforgetting idiot.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da-dum...
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Balls.
Yep, that's my thoughts on it. Balls. I pretty much knew that David Cameron would get in well before election day but what I didn't know was that I would end up voting for him. I am incredibly disillusioned by the Labour party, even though I think Gordon Brown is a much better politician than most, and I would never ever even think about voting Tory. It's just in my bones and blood. You DON'T vote Tory. They are evil. The other two main parties might be wrong but Tories are evil. Ben Elton told me that and he should know. So, as a result, I voted Lib-Dem because I thought Nick Clegg might be the least cunty of the list of cunts that I was offered. Nick Clegg. Stupid, stupid Nick Clegg. The UK's political Anakin Skywalker.
Stirring shit is the main part of any political agenda when it comes to an election and when we had all lost faith in Gordon Brown (Chancellor Valorum) a lot of us believed via bullshit press that there was only one other person we could turn to. No-one else was likely to get in and Nick Clegg, although promising, was just a padawan in a weird organisation that remarkably has lasted as long as it has. These confused and lost people turned to David Cameron (Chancellor Palpatine) which just made anyone watching very upset. I mean WE can see that Cameron is evil, why can't they? That made us RELY on Clegg. He was new, he was naive but he felt he could offer something. When will people take him seriously as a politician? He should have a seat in the Government now. He could bring balance to the country.
So, we were split. Most were supporting Cameron and we knew that Brown was over, out of the race. Maybe, just maybe, Clegg could come along and save the day. He seemed to look to the old ways of the Tories (Darkside) and the old ways of Labour (Jedi, once) and offered an alternative. It was why he got into this in the first place.
But he was young, foolish, reckless. Easily seduced. After the election, it all broke down. Our hopes and Clegg's chances. At the last minute, a lot of us saw what a bad actor he was and he didn't do as well as he thought and that must have made him angry. Soon, we found out that Cameron had summoned Clegg to talk about a coalition (probably in a private box watching a big purple ghost opera) and Clegg dropped to his knees. This way he could save his wife (Padme) from utter political-failure embarrassment and could learn how to use evil for good. Weird, really, as Labour have killed a lot more Sandpeople in recent years.
By then, we who had trusted Clegg could see his orange fiery eyes and felt the betrayal. We are going to have to wait until we land on planet teddy-bear and Cameron and him have a massive fight before he sees the error of his ways.
It's a horrible story and would make a terrible film but it's one that will stay with me for a while. I might be slightly jumping the gun here, and I fear I'm not, but Nick Clegg has made me vote Tory. I voted for someone who said he might have a better way of doing things and now he is telling me that he believed in the thing I hate. I feel like an idiot. A stupid, unforgiving, unforgetting idiot.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da-dum...
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Monday, 10 May 2010
Eat The Rich.
I woke up early on Saturday morning to spend the day with my friend, Phat Paul, and to celebrate his birthday. There was a time when Phat Paul and I would have gone out, got drunk and got into a hilarious scrape involving a Mum, her daughter and a big Nun but those days seem to have changed. We don't celebrate birthday's like we used to. That's why I woke up at 7.30am on Saturday to go mushroom picking.
Yep. That's what he wanted to do.
I've never gone mushroom picking before (I know, it's a shock) and I can't imagine I'll go again. There was nothing wrong with it, of course, it's just that the actual picking of mushrooms is a bit dull. I mean, we walked all round Hampstead Heath while people looked solely at the ground and ignored the beautiful scenery around them. It was if they were completely unaware that mushrooms are available in the shops. They also behaved slightly like mushrooms are the cure for cancer and we all needed mushrooms, and only mushrooms, to survive. But, as we were there for four hours and there are only about six mushrooms in the entire place, I couldn't help but think that Hampstead Heath has more interesting things to offer. In fact, due to the Heath's reputation and complete lack of mushrooms, this birthday day out was quickly turning into a cum-filled condom finding expedition. I think at one point we managed to walk fifteen feet without seeing a spunky little ghost lying exhausted on a branch.
But the walk itself around the Heath is just gorgeous. I took joy in ignoring the mushrooms (that aren't there anyway) and looking at all the wealthy people's beautiful pedigree dogs. They all seemed to gracefully run around with an air of importance and superiority that really suited them. Still not as beautiful as my mutt, though. But that was the really annoying thing. I hadn't really paid attention to where we were going or what we were actually going to be doing so, in essence, I ended up paying a dog-sitter to look after my dog so I could go to the park. I'm a fucking stupid penis. Jerk would have loved it on the Heath. She'd be able to fight with a much better class of dog than she's used to.
The mushroom non-picking didn't bother me at all. I like mushrooms but I don't care how many types there are or how they grow or how you dry and store them. If I want mushrooms, I will go to the shop and buy them. I'm walking around a beautiful part of London and no-one can spoil it.
Except for absolutely everyone here.
What a horrible bunch of fucking alien cunts this heath attracts. The people who constantly fuck behind bushes are fine but the other people? They're awful. The mushroom pickers are bad enough. They SQUEEEEEEEAL when they see a small clump of mushrooms and that horrible noise just attracts the others to rush over and start clambering over themselves to get a mushroom too. Dignity is something that never occurs to them. There are mushrooms there so they MUST have some. At all costs. No matter what. Pushing, grabbing, shoving, pulling and for what? Mushrooms. Mushrooms that these wealthy fucks can easily afford yet would rather die than pay for. They acted like cunts, which is fair enough because they looked like cunts. One grown man walked around with a BASKET. A FUCKING BASKET. Like the one Little Red Riding Hood carried before her Grandmother was raped and murdered by an animal. He carried a fucking BASKET around like it was the most normal thing in the world. Fuck, manbags. Manbaskets are the thing REAL twee little bastards are seen with these days. And every time he found a mushroom, which was about twice, he smugly popped it into his BASKET and smugly looked at it as if it was his little earth baby that he loved more than anything he had ever known. He wasn't going to take that mushroom home, chop it up and stir-fry it to death like the rest of us might. NO! He was going to clean it, clothe it, educate it, love it and make it the sole heir to his incredible pastel-coloured fabrics empire.
And he was far from the worst. One cunt, who carried a mushroom identification book with him CONSTANTLY, wouldn't leave us the fuck alone. He kept talking about the dishes he's made all over the world without any acceptance of my body language screaming "I DON'T TALK TO PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW. GO THE FUCK AWAY, PLEASE". I smiled and nodded but as soon as he said "I haven't actually paid for a mushroom in two decades" I sped up and got away from him.
He got more time from me than the "guide" did though. I dunno, there's something about a man who describes himself as a Druid that I can't take seriously. The cunt. He isn't a druid and I say that for a very good reason. NO-ONE IS A DRUID. Grow up.
But it was the people who live near the Heath that upset me most. Yes, yes, yes. I'm jealous of them. Of course, I'm jealous of them. They have everything they want. I just think that there should be a line and, when people of incredible wealth cross it, ALL of their money is passed on to someone else. Someone who might appreciate it and not spend it in the most ridiculously pompous way that they do.
At one point I saw two children on wooden bicycles. Are you seriously trying to tell me that if you had seen two children on wooden bicycles that you would be certain that you wouldn't start punching them to death? I just wanted to deck them. Two little twats OPENLY riding WOODEN bicycles. Are they INSANE? No, they're not. They are children. The insane ones are their parents. The people who bought these two little boys, that they have barely met, wooden bicycles and named them after an exotic holiday destination or a salad and dressed them up little country gentlemen. How could anyone NOT want to batter these children? THEY RIDE WOODEN BICYCLES? Don't tell me I'm wrong, OK? I'm right. I'M RIGHT, I'M RIGHT, I'M RIGHT! No, I'm not losing it, you're losing it. Shut up.
A perfectly lovely walk tarnished by the human race. Again. Luckily, gigs this weekend have been excellent. The Kings Head in Crouch End was just lovely and the Comedy Cafe was a lot of fun too. Allow me to tell you about the table of HERE COME THE GIRLS that had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, out of the venue. Tomorrow...
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Yep. That's what he wanted to do.
I've never gone mushroom picking before (I know, it's a shock) and I can't imagine I'll go again. There was nothing wrong with it, of course, it's just that the actual picking of mushrooms is a bit dull. I mean, we walked all round Hampstead Heath while people looked solely at the ground and ignored the beautiful scenery around them. It was if they were completely unaware that mushrooms are available in the shops. They also behaved slightly like mushrooms are the cure for cancer and we all needed mushrooms, and only mushrooms, to survive. But, as we were there for four hours and there are only about six mushrooms in the entire place, I couldn't help but think that Hampstead Heath has more interesting things to offer. In fact, due to the Heath's reputation and complete lack of mushrooms, this birthday day out was quickly turning into a cum-filled condom finding expedition. I think at one point we managed to walk fifteen feet without seeing a spunky little ghost lying exhausted on a branch.
But the walk itself around the Heath is just gorgeous. I took joy in ignoring the mushrooms (that aren't there anyway) and looking at all the wealthy people's beautiful pedigree dogs. They all seemed to gracefully run around with an air of importance and superiority that really suited them. Still not as beautiful as my mutt, though. But that was the really annoying thing. I hadn't really paid attention to where we were going or what we were actually going to be doing so, in essence, I ended up paying a dog-sitter to look after my dog so I could go to the park. I'm a fucking stupid penis. Jerk would have loved it on the Heath. She'd be able to fight with a much better class of dog than she's used to.
The mushroom non-picking didn't bother me at all. I like mushrooms but I don't care how many types there are or how they grow or how you dry and store them. If I want mushrooms, I will go to the shop and buy them. I'm walking around a beautiful part of London and no-one can spoil it.
Except for absolutely everyone here.
What a horrible bunch of fucking alien cunts this heath attracts. The people who constantly fuck behind bushes are fine but the other people? They're awful. The mushroom pickers are bad enough. They SQUEEEEEEEAL when they see a small clump of mushrooms and that horrible noise just attracts the others to rush over and start clambering over themselves to get a mushroom too. Dignity is something that never occurs to them. There are mushrooms there so they MUST have some. At all costs. No matter what. Pushing, grabbing, shoving, pulling and for what? Mushrooms. Mushrooms that these wealthy fucks can easily afford yet would rather die than pay for. They acted like cunts, which is fair enough because they looked like cunts. One grown man walked around with a BASKET. A FUCKING BASKET. Like the one Little Red Riding Hood carried before her Grandmother was raped and murdered by an animal. He carried a fucking BASKET around like it was the most normal thing in the world. Fuck, manbags. Manbaskets are the thing REAL twee little bastards are seen with these days. And every time he found a mushroom, which was about twice, he smugly popped it into his BASKET and smugly looked at it as if it was his little earth baby that he loved more than anything he had ever known. He wasn't going to take that mushroom home, chop it up and stir-fry it to death like the rest of us might. NO! He was going to clean it, clothe it, educate it, love it and make it the sole heir to his incredible pastel-coloured fabrics empire.
And he was far from the worst. One cunt, who carried a mushroom identification book with him CONSTANTLY, wouldn't leave us the fuck alone. He kept talking about the dishes he's made all over the world without any acceptance of my body language screaming "I DON'T TALK TO PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW. GO THE FUCK AWAY, PLEASE". I smiled and nodded but as soon as he said "I haven't actually paid for a mushroom in two decades" I sped up and got away from him.
He got more time from me than the "guide" did though. I dunno, there's something about a man who describes himself as a Druid that I can't take seriously. The cunt. He isn't a druid and I say that for a very good reason. NO-ONE IS A DRUID. Grow up.
But it was the people who live near the Heath that upset me most. Yes, yes, yes. I'm jealous of them. Of course, I'm jealous of them. They have everything they want. I just think that there should be a line and, when people of incredible wealth cross it, ALL of their money is passed on to someone else. Someone who might appreciate it and not spend it in the most ridiculously pompous way that they do.
At one point I saw two children on wooden bicycles. Are you seriously trying to tell me that if you had seen two children on wooden bicycles that you would be certain that you wouldn't start punching them to death? I just wanted to deck them. Two little twats OPENLY riding WOODEN bicycles. Are they INSANE? No, they're not. They are children. The insane ones are their parents. The people who bought these two little boys, that they have barely met, wooden bicycles and named them after an exotic holiday destination or a salad and dressed them up little country gentlemen. How could anyone NOT want to batter these children? THEY RIDE WOODEN BICYCLES? Don't tell me I'm wrong, OK? I'm right. I'M RIGHT, I'M RIGHT, I'M RIGHT! No, I'm not losing it, you're losing it. Shut up.
A perfectly lovely walk tarnished by the human race. Again. Luckily, gigs this weekend have been excellent. The Kings Head in Crouch End was just lovely and the Comedy Cafe was a lot of fun too. Allow me to tell you about the table of HERE COME THE GIRLS that had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, out of the venue. Tomorrow...
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Thursday, 6 May 2010
No Means Yes.
Maybe it's just because we're going through a time of change but I've been bumping into a lot more positive people lately. There just seems to be a lot more positive people around. All smiling and thinking that everything's going to be great and how you should believe in yourself and how amazing the world is. They're incredibly infuriating to be around.
I was with some friends the other night who were despairing of the cynical attitude shown by, as far as I'm concerned, not enough people these days. "If only people could look around and actually see how lucky we are. This world is amazing", said someone who is a grown adult that I thought I knew. I did the most positive thing I could do at the time. I kept my mouth shut and my hands in my pockets. Hence I didn't scream at her to fucking wake up and I didn't punch her to death with my bare fists. Not sure I could do that again, to be honest.
Brilliantly, a completely stupid cunt called David emailed me a few days ago and, without any sense of irony or humour, said "I don't read your blog to hear you complaining all the time".
I didn't reply but maybe I should. Why does David read my blog? I mean, I'm very happy that he does but what can he get from it if he finds complaining so tiresome? Is he that big a fan of typos? Caroline Quinlan made me laugh by saying she reads it "for the relentless optimism and almost childlike faith in humanity". Either she was joking or I have the complete wrong end of the stick about my own blog.
To be fair, the few furiously grumpy people who read this (and, thanks very much, by the way) are hardly going to fall into the positive people category. But these shiny happy people are out there, walking around being in awe of absolutely fucking everything and, hey, moving forward.
They're particularly upsetting today, of course. "I've voted", they say in every form they can. It's pretty much all that will come out of their mouths and they will Tweet it and Facebook it and MySpace it (they're optimists, after all) and let us all know that if you don't vote then the Rainbow Wizard from Bunnyrabbit Lane won't come down from the planet Lollypop and kiss away all the bad and shit solid joy in our wide open gormless mouths.
You must vote, they say. YOU MUST VOTE. I voted but I can think of nothing more negative than voting. It's literally the most hopeless you'll ever feel when you look down that list of candidates. No-one, not even the positive people, votes for who they think the best person to lead our country is. We all vote for who we think is the least shit. A whole list of useless, lying, evil cunts and we get to vote for whoever we think is the furthest away from Satan's Uncle Hitler. But you MUST vote, they say. It's your vote, your chance to have your say, your chance to do what you think is right, your chance to be heard, your chance to make a change. Sure. The least shit in a list of shits will save us all.
I'm negative. OK, I accept that not everyone has time for that (sorry, David) but I'm negative for a very positive reason. A world that is perfect, full of hope, joy and progression is what I want but I want it so badly that just looking at the way life is feels like a punch in the teeth every 4 or 5 seconds. "Hey, you have to think positively. This world IS amazing. We ARE special. Life IS good". Well, it's a nice thought but whoever gets voted in today (and, face it, it'll be that Tory cunt) will fuck it up again. Greedy, selfish, blinkered, evil people in power have a habit of shitting on us, in case you forgot. I hope I'm wrong but I'm not.
Yesterday, I bought a bottle of water from a stand just off Oxford Street. The 1ltr bottle cost me £1.80. £1 fucking 80 for water, from this overpriced vulture who knows that there are thousands of suckers like me in Oxford Street so he can charge what he likes. He also had a handwritten sign on his stall that read "If you want directions, buy a map". Yeah, this world IS amazing. I'm constantly amazed at how we haven't actually all killed one another by now. Later I saw this article online (http://bit.ly/dvzwA7), read the first line and got sad. Oh, dear.
I just find the negative people more positive than the positive people. Negative people are down to earth realists who see the world for what it is yet somehow still have the strength to drag themselves out of their beds every day and face another 24 hours of horror. The positive people smile, sing, dance and embrace the shit in the hopeless, hollow, dark, cold, empty chance that it'll all get better.
Plus, if this YouTube clip is an example of positivity, I want nothing to do with it:
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
I was with some friends the other night who were despairing of the cynical attitude shown by, as far as I'm concerned, not enough people these days. "If only people could look around and actually see how lucky we are. This world is amazing", said someone who is a grown adult that I thought I knew. I did the most positive thing I could do at the time. I kept my mouth shut and my hands in my pockets. Hence I didn't scream at her to fucking wake up and I didn't punch her to death with my bare fists. Not sure I could do that again, to be honest.
Brilliantly, a completely stupid cunt called David emailed me a few days ago and, without any sense of irony or humour, said "I don't read your blog to hear you complaining all the time".
I didn't reply but maybe I should. Why does David read my blog? I mean, I'm very happy that he does but what can he get from it if he finds complaining so tiresome? Is he that big a fan of typos? Caroline Quinlan made me laugh by saying she reads it "for the relentless optimism and almost childlike faith in humanity". Either she was joking or I have the complete wrong end of the stick about my own blog.
To be fair, the few furiously grumpy people who read this (and, thanks very much, by the way) are hardly going to fall into the positive people category. But these shiny happy people are out there, walking around being in awe of absolutely fucking everything and, hey, moving forward.
They're particularly upsetting today, of course. "I've voted", they say in every form they can. It's pretty much all that will come out of their mouths and they will Tweet it and Facebook it and MySpace it (they're optimists, after all) and let us all know that if you don't vote then the Rainbow Wizard from Bunnyrabbit Lane won't come down from the planet Lollypop and kiss away all the bad and shit solid joy in our wide open gormless mouths.
You must vote, they say. YOU MUST VOTE. I voted but I can think of nothing more negative than voting. It's literally the most hopeless you'll ever feel when you look down that list of candidates. No-one, not even the positive people, votes for who they think the best person to lead our country is. We all vote for who we think is the least shit. A whole list of useless, lying, evil cunts and we get to vote for whoever we think is the furthest away from Satan's Uncle Hitler. But you MUST vote, they say. It's your vote, your chance to have your say, your chance to do what you think is right, your chance to be heard, your chance to make a change. Sure. The least shit in a list of shits will save us all.
I'm negative. OK, I accept that not everyone has time for that (sorry, David) but I'm negative for a very positive reason. A world that is perfect, full of hope, joy and progression is what I want but I want it so badly that just looking at the way life is feels like a punch in the teeth every 4 or 5 seconds. "Hey, you have to think positively. This world IS amazing. We ARE special. Life IS good". Well, it's a nice thought but whoever gets voted in today (and, face it, it'll be that Tory cunt) will fuck it up again. Greedy, selfish, blinkered, evil people in power have a habit of shitting on us, in case you forgot. I hope I'm wrong but I'm not.
Yesterday, I bought a bottle of water from a stand just off Oxford Street. The 1ltr bottle cost me £1.80. £1 fucking 80 for water, from this overpriced vulture who knows that there are thousands of suckers like me in Oxford Street so he can charge what he likes. He also had a handwritten sign on his stall that read "If you want directions, buy a map". Yeah, this world IS amazing. I'm constantly amazed at how we haven't actually all killed one another by now. Later I saw this article online (http://bit.ly/dvzwA7), read the first line and got sad. Oh, dear.
I just find the negative people more positive than the positive people. Negative people are down to earth realists who see the world for what it is yet somehow still have the strength to drag themselves out of their beds every day and face another 24 hours of horror. The positive people smile, sing, dance and embrace the shit in the hopeless, hollow, dark, cold, empty chance that it'll all get better.
Plus, if this YouTube clip is an example of positivity, I want nothing to do with it:
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
Sunday, 2 May 2010
The Day After the 5-Day Detox.
And that's the end of that. My ridiculous and pointless 5-day detox is now over and I can return to killing myself. Phew! I cheated pretty much every day of the 5 days anyway. A beer on Wednesday, cheese on Thursday, two beers on Friday, five beers yesterday. That sort of thing. Other than that my body has been a temple. A cold, empty, tedious temple.
As yesterday was my last day I had decided to not give a crap. Just eat or drink anything I felt like. But I did feel guilty. I mean, it's just one more day. Surely another 24 hours isn't that hard? On my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little I stopped off at Bagel Factory. I would delight myself with evil BREAD and nasty, filthy, dirty CHEESE and angelic, pure sun-dried tomatoes to take some of the guilt away. I knew I shouldn't be eating it and as I unwrapped the bagel I felt pathetic. So close to the end but here I am eating the very things I should be avoiding just so I can take away the taste of the horrible detox "drink" I have to force down my throat. I took one bite of the bagel and it tasted so good. And so bad. I put it back in it's wrapper to savour the bite all the more. Just letting that one bite of cheesy bready evil have beautiful, beautiful sex with my tongue. I looked down at the bagel lying there like a whore in it's wrapper and I was ready for another bite. That was when I received a message from God.
A bluebottle fell on my bagel.
It didn't land on my bagel. It didn't land on my bagel and then just fly away. Oh, no. It fell. It fell from the ceiling of London Bridge tube station. It fell. Dead.
There it was this dead, filthy, disgusting, germy, fat little animal. Right in the middle of my illegal breakfast. And it spoke to me.
"Don't eat any more, Michael", begged the dead bluebottle. "You only have one more day to go. You can do this. This bagel is so unhealthy. Full of wheat and starch and fat. Plus, there's a dead bluebottle in it. You can't eat it. Just one more day".
I don't normally take advice from dead bluebottles but this one made total sense to me. I folded up the wrapper and closed my friend, the dead bluebottle, up in it's bagely, wrappery coffin and placed him respectfully in his bin grave. There would be no unhealthy eating from me today.
Then James Hingley made me an egg and white bread toast. Like a stupid cunt. Thanks, James. Thanks for trying to kill me. It really makes me feel good to know that a dead bluebottle that I only knew for about 6 seconds cares more about my health than my "friend" does.
In fact, pretty much all of my friends have been cunts the last 5 days. I'm trying (and, admittedly, failing) at trying to be a little bit healthier and they've treated me like a fuck-shaped cake at a kids birthday party. John Voce stared at me on Wednesday night because I wasn't drinking and just said "I don't recognise you". Pretty much everyone I talked to about this stupid detox has screwed up their face and said "What are you doing that for?" like looking after myself is the most out-there and irrational thing that I could possibly ever do. Plus, I don't know why I'm doing it. Surely no-one really knows why they want to reject comfort food and comfort lager. I'm doing it because I was told to. No other reason.
And now it's over I shall go back to eating nightmares and drinking poisons and being happy. But maybe that's the real nightmare. I'll be honest with you, over the last 5 days I've really got a taste for beetroot and pulse salads. I like vegetarian sushi, plums, clementines, three-bean salads and water now too. And over the past few days I've been more energetic. Bouncy, even. Cheery. I...I...I've been really...cheery. Yesterday, I put on two different Converse's on my feet, blue on my left, black on my right, because I thought it was fun. FUN! The real nightmare is that I have no intention of stopping that. To put it in the clearest of terms so that each and every one of you will all totally understand, it's like I've regenerated from William Hartnell straight to Colin Baker.
God help us.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
As yesterday was my last day I had decided to not give a crap. Just eat or drink anything I felt like. But I did feel guilty. I mean, it's just one more day. Surely another 24 hours isn't that hard? On my way to Hitchin to record Precious Little I stopped off at Bagel Factory. I would delight myself with evil BREAD and nasty, filthy, dirty CHEESE and angelic, pure sun-dried tomatoes to take some of the guilt away. I knew I shouldn't be eating it and as I unwrapped the bagel I felt pathetic. So close to the end but here I am eating the very things I should be avoiding just so I can take away the taste of the horrible detox "drink" I have to force down my throat. I took one bite of the bagel and it tasted so good. And so bad. I put it back in it's wrapper to savour the bite all the more. Just letting that one bite of cheesy bready evil have beautiful, beautiful sex with my tongue. I looked down at the bagel lying there like a whore in it's wrapper and I was ready for another bite. That was when I received a message from God.
A bluebottle fell on my bagel.
It didn't land on my bagel. It didn't land on my bagel and then just fly away. Oh, no. It fell. It fell from the ceiling of London Bridge tube station. It fell. Dead.
There it was this dead, filthy, disgusting, germy, fat little animal. Right in the middle of my illegal breakfast. And it spoke to me.
"Don't eat any more, Michael", begged the dead bluebottle. "You only have one more day to go. You can do this. This bagel is so unhealthy. Full of wheat and starch and fat. Plus, there's a dead bluebottle in it. You can't eat it. Just one more day".
I don't normally take advice from dead bluebottles but this one made total sense to me. I folded up the wrapper and closed my friend, the dead bluebottle, up in it's bagely, wrappery coffin and placed him respectfully in his bin grave. There would be no unhealthy eating from me today.
Then James Hingley made me an egg and white bread toast. Like a stupid cunt. Thanks, James. Thanks for trying to kill me. It really makes me feel good to know that a dead bluebottle that I only knew for about 6 seconds cares more about my health than my "friend" does.
In fact, pretty much all of my friends have been cunts the last 5 days. I'm trying (and, admittedly, failing) at trying to be a little bit healthier and they've treated me like a fuck-shaped cake at a kids birthday party. John Voce stared at me on Wednesday night because I wasn't drinking and just said "I don't recognise you". Pretty much everyone I talked to about this stupid detox has screwed up their face and said "What are you doing that for?" like looking after myself is the most out-there and irrational thing that I could possibly ever do. Plus, I don't know why I'm doing it. Surely no-one really knows why they want to reject comfort food and comfort lager. I'm doing it because I was told to. No other reason.
And now it's over I shall go back to eating nightmares and drinking poisons and being happy. But maybe that's the real nightmare. I'll be honest with you, over the last 5 days I've really got a taste for beetroot and pulse salads. I like vegetarian sushi, plums, clementines, three-bean salads and water now too. And over the past few days I've been more energetic. Bouncy, even. Cheery. I...I...I've been really...cheery. Yesterday, I put on two different Converse's on my feet, blue on my left, black on my right, because I thought it was fun. FUN! The real nightmare is that I have no intention of stopping that. To put it in the clearest of terms so that each and every one of you will all totally understand, it's like I've regenerated from William Hartnell straight to Colin Baker.
God help us.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.preciouslittlepodcast.co.uk
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