Hangoverwatch.

5.23am.

I wake up for the first time today. My bladder is full and noisy but my body is numb and I'm surrounded by too much gravity. My mouth feels like it's been open since June. My hair is in agony. I've started to realise that I'm not dreaming about needing to have a piss and, in fact, I really am needing to have a piss. Why do we put on so much weight when we sleep? I'm not this heavy out of bed. The mind rules the body and I am a strong man with convictions and piss will not tell me what to do. Piss is a bully. Ignore bullies and they go away. Mind you, bullies also piss in your bed. You know what? I actually think that I could sleep in a piss soaked bed. Right at this moment, lying in piss doesn't sound so bad. It's certainly a lot better than reanimating my corpse and puppeteering it downstairs to the bathroom. I don't know how bakers and postmen and newsagents do it. They're all out there now starting their working day. I'm a lucky man. I bet they'd love to lie in my piss instead of having to work. Ha ha! Yes, Michael, you're brilliant. Not being a baker or a postman or a newsagent was the best idea you've ever had. So what if just this once you end up lying in your own piss? They metaphorically have to wade through piss every day. The piss in my bladder has solidified and expanded. Like my bladder just downed 5 pints. Nice try, bladder, but it's my move now and I refuse to move.

5.55am.

The bathroom is freezing and annoying. The light switch string thing keeps hitting me while it's swinging plus my piss is refusing to go quietly. It sounds like white noise played through Metallica's PA system. Piss isn't supposed to have feedback. Someone has built another 50 stairs onto my staircase.

6.30am

I wake up for the second time because my heart is having a party. I don't mind it enjoying itself as long as it does it quietly. I remembered something I said last night. I say "twat".

7.50am

I wake up for what will hopefully be the last time today. I feel like I'm coming out of an anaesthetic. I put the radio on and realise that all music is basically nagging. Songs are just so fucking demanding and bastardy. I want you to love me and I want you to take me to heaven and I want you to always be there and I want you to imagine a perfect world and I want you to hold me and I want you to hit me baby one more time. OH, FUCK OFF AND DO IT YOURSELF. Can't I have 5 fucking minutes peace without a song barking orders at me? There are no "Would You Like Me To Make You Tea and Toast and Then Leave You Alone?" songs. Why has that genre been skipped? You know what? I rarely need to hear that last night you had a dream that somebody was fucking thick and desperate enough to love you but right now I really need YOU to make me toast and to go away for years. The radio is either further away or my arm has got shorter or I can't move anymore. I used to be able to move a bit, I'm sure of it, although I have no memory of moving in excess. It's the duvet. It's cocooned me. It's trapped me, the scheming blanket bastard. My mouth is dry and I'm sweaty and I'm too hot and I might be sick but there is nothing I can do about it because my duvet has imprisoned me. Like so many people held captive against their will, I have developed Stockholm syndrome. I have fallen in love with the very thing that has confined me with his two henchmen, Green Blanket and Red Blanket. They have left me with no food or water and the heat, the sweltering heat, is starting to suffocate me and yet I still do not want to escape. I probably should though as I am about to make a lot of sick.

8.30am

I've spent 10 minutes painfully miming being sick into the toilet. Nothing came out except repressed memories. I wipe the tears from my eyes and lift myself to my feet like a newborn baby deer. A fat, shaking, smelly, ghost white, sweaty newborn baby deer.

9.30am

I've been lying in bed for almost an hour just thinking about places I've been sick in. It used to be so easy to be sick when I was young. I think it was even fun back then. Part of the evening. Meet your friends, have a few drinks, throw up, kiss a girl. That was all I wanted then. Everything really was so much better back then including being sick. Being sick was celebratory. How did we let being sick become awful? I've been sick in nightclubs, pubs, cafes, museums, concert halls, cinemas, bins, my friend's hand, schools and swimming pools and every single time it was an event that marked a beautiful time of my life. A time when I was young, I had fun, I was sick and I got on with it. Now look at me. I can't even bring myself to be sick in the comfort of my own home. If you're young and reading this please remember this advice from a much, much, much older person: enjoy every chunk. Soon it goes. I've been about to be sick thousands of times in my 40's but I don't think I've actually throw up since 1998. It's shameful. I pick up my book of sudokus and spend over an hour lying in bed doing and thinking nothing whatsoever but with a book of sudokus quite near my face. I decide to get up out of bed and start my day.

11.45am

I've been lying on the floor for ages now. Negotiations with clothes went badly. I wanted to treat my trousers to a brisk walk around the park but as soon as I tried to get in them they tackled me to the ground. I realise now that I will starve to death on this floor. Then I remember that cafes do food. I don't need to break my back labouring over toast. Someone can do it for me. My trousers and I argue further but eventually come to an understanding after an hour or so. Finally, they're on. My underpants arrive and apologise for being late.

1.00pm

I'm out of the house. It's awful. The cold is picking on me. Because I'm hungover and old, one of my feet is colder than the other. I have no idea why this happens when I'm hungover but it always happens. I get to a nearby cafe and decide to get myself some fuel. I need something greasy. The guy that works there looks like an expert on grease. I order loads of food. I may not be able to eat for a while so I need to stock up. Toast, mushrooms, hash browns, beans, tomatoes, veggie burger, chips, tea, diet coke and a Lucozadey drink. That should help. I'll be fine after that. I sit down and await my feast. The very thought of it is making me feel better already. Sadly, sitting down is making me dizzy. That's how my body works. Even doing fuck all makes me nauseous. A man near me is singing. It's good that he's making the song up and has decided to show his work in progress to us. "Da da da da dada da, for the way da dada da, near da da dada dada and you da da da da dada da dada da da Chiswick". I'm near the door and near the radiator. I'm sweating to death and freezing to death. My food arrives and immediately turns itself into poison. I can't eat it. My breakast is diet coke and looking at food.

2.00pm

I'm home and lying down. If I just put a film on then I can just lie here and die and be happy. I put on Schindler's List. It's on for 7 minutes when I realise that no one in their right mind finds comfort in Schindler's List. Who the fuck watches Schindler's List while hungover? Michael Legge does. I mean, I do. I'm at that stage of the hangover where I'm convinced something this awful can't be happening to me. I must be someone else. I sigh loudly but it squeaks. I feel tired and emasculated all at once. Schindler's List isn't right. I should be watching Cool Runnings or Liar Liar. Something fun that doesn't matter. Schindler's List is too depressing. I take it off and put on Tyrannosaur. In the first 30 seconds a dog is kicked to death. It's rare that so soon into a film that I see a character I can identify with so fully.

2.50pm

I have fallen in love with Olivia Coleman or whatever she's called. She's so sweet and lovely. I think I'd like to go out with a religious person. They mean well, don't they? I look up the name of the actor who plays her husband on IMDb because I want to kick his fucking head in. I know he's just an actor but I make note of his name just in case he's method. If I ever meet Olivia Coleman or whatever her name is, I shall tell her I've done this. Defending a woman's honour always impresses them. I burp and smell very old dinners. I go out for tea.

4.20pm

A tool is sat near me in the coffee shop. I'm wrecked and the last thing I need right now is a tool. He's the most awful looking cunt that you've ever clapped eyes on. He's in a coffee shop, his beard is crap, he's wearing an Inca hat indoors. Everything about him is contemptible. To make things worse, he has TWO laptops. What a fucking boring cliche he is. I don't want a single, solitary nice thing to ever happen to him and my head hurts. I overhear him say "Of course you travel, you must. How else do you know who you are?" I find that statement worse than genocide. Fuck off, twat hat. You were born, you're a dick. You went nowhere, you're a dick. You went to India once, you're a dick. No matter what that guy would ever do ever, he'd be a dick. Hating him is helping. I'm actually feeling better. When he speaks, the blood in my veins circulates at speed and I can feel myself coming to life. Is that how I work? Dicks open their mouths and I feel energised by loathing them? Wow. I'm really unpleasant. But I am feeling better.

6.20pm

My journey home feels bracing. The cold air feels pleasant now. It's making me walk briskly with my back straight and my head up. I see a teenager get thrown out of a chip shop and think "My GOD!! I'd love some chips". After food I feel better. Properly better. Why do I do it to myself? Drinking too much when I know the next day will be wasted? So stupid. But I got angry and felt better. Had some tea, felt even better. A teenager being shouted at and some chips made me feel great. I threw my day away but at least I know that. At least I realised it was a waste and to do something like that again would be stupid. I like having a full day. Getting up, walking the dog, doing work. I like that. Tonight I'm staying in. I'm drinking water and looking after myself. A night in and a full day tomorrow.

8.00pm

Just realised the Comedy Awards are on tonight. I can't watch that sober.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Your Tworoscope.

Hello. My name is Michael Legge and I am an astrologer. I see your future. I have a regular column in This'll Do magazine and I famously once nearly read Princess Diana's palm almost. Now read on for Your Tworoscope....

ARIES: Your money worries will soon be over but things get worse before they get better. A family member punches poison into you on Friday.

TAURUS: A horse or maybe a man will carry you semi-safely to Rhyl. Don't forget to be wankered at noon.

GEMINI: Job prospects look good this week. An old flame returns and burns down your children.

CANCER: You have aids.

LEO: It's a good time to get some shopping in and to plot revenge. Why not stock up the larder and smash that dicks face in?

VIRGO: What's wrong with your eye?

LIBRA: A work colleague shows interest in you and murder. As a water sign, you spend most of tomorrow telling a kettle to fuck off.

SCORPIO: You're still grieving over your own death. It's time to pick yourself up and start haunting. A blonde ghost makes Thursday fun.

SAGITTARIUS AND CAPRICORN: No one has ever liked you.

AQUARIUS: A rash decision has brought on a rash. A chance meeting with a beautiful stranger brings huge fights. Soup's off.

PISCES: Your wife, children and house leave you for another man. Luckily, it's you! Be wary of Tuesday. Tuesday is a big lion.

And that is YOUR future, believers. I predict that I may or may not return soon....IN THE FUTURE! #YourTworoscope

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Warped.

Music is the soundtrack to memories. It's also the soundtrack to Batman Begins but my point is that we all have a song that reminds us of that special time in our lives. A song for the time we went to that special place, a song for the time we fell in love, a song for the time we hated that one awful dick. There's nothing that we do in life that isn't enhanced by music. In fact, that's really all we have in life. Food, water, air and music. That's the big four that keeps us from perishing. It's my favourite part of my day. Putting on a record, washing some grub down with a nice glass of water and having a big old breathe. And those other three just wouldn't be the same without a good song to back it up. Everything is better with music. Shame it's going to go.

You know it's going, right? It is. No one buys music anymore so what's the point in making it anymore? I know not everyone can afford to buy music but there are plenty of people who can and they don't. What an odd thing to choose not to buy. It's the best thing we have and, because it's so easy to steal, everyone nicks it. There was a time when all we needed was music and chips. Why have we decided now that all we need is chips? Chips was never the nourishing part of that combo. It was never the good bit of it. Chips was never food. The only reason we do anything is because we have The Smiths and Beastie Boys and David Bowie and Nick Cave and Bjork and Steven Sondheim and The Undertones and PJ Harvey and John Barry and the first three albums by Marillion. Shut up, they're great. Why are we now rejecting the only decent thing we've got? 

I remember 1985. It was very exciting. Iron Maiden released Live After Death and I went to Zepplin Records in Newtownards to buy it. On my way home I sat on a bench to just look at the cover. It was beautiful. A double album in a gatefold sleeve featuring a reanimated corpse on the front and a bunch of grown, hairy men in spandex on the inside. I fell madly, deeply in love with it. And that was before I even heard the record itself. It was just so exciting to have bought some new music that I couldn't walk all the way home without sitting down and catching my breath. That is how music should make us feel. Utterly excited. It's how it made me feel in 1985 and it's how it makes me feel now. It makes you feel that way too. So why are we letting it die?

We all steal a bit of music. I've done it. I've illegally downloaded a lot of Queen albums but I bought the originals years ago and it's Queen. They are loaded. One of them is so rich that he's dead. Imagine being able to afford to retire that early. From everything. I think a lot of us justify stealing music by paying money to go to gigs. That's crap though, isn't it? No live concert can match the experience of hearing your favourite artist the way you want to hear them. In your house, away from dickheads. I love going to gigs but, let's face it, the same cunts that never buy records ever are the same cunts that spend the entire gig standing in front of you, holding their phone up and taking photos. That's the "live experience" for these dicks now. No respect for music being sold in shops and online and no respect for the band right in front of them. I know this because I've seen it way too often. Last night, for instance. I sat behind four 50-something music haters at a Robyn Hitchcock gig and they took photos on phones and digital cameras constantly throughout the gig. They knew they were annoying people but they're cunts so it was never going to have any effect on them. It goes without saying that I ended up agreeing to go outside for a fight with one of them after the gig. It was pathetic. Two old men agreeing to fight at the end of a Robyn Hitchcock gig. Like either of us had the strength to make a fist. But, Christ, they were irritating. Holding up camera phones at a One Direction gig? Fine. At a Robyn Hitchcock gig at the English Folk Dance and Song Society? That's embarrassing.

Buy some music today if you can. It's brilliant and there's loads of it but there won't be any more unless we support it. I know all old music is way better than anything that is in the hit parade these-a-days but I've heard some great albums this year. Martin Rossiter's new album and Human Don't Be Angry by Human Don't Be Angry are my favourites of the year. Dexys, Bob Lind, Mac Demarco and Bat For Lashes aren't far behind them. Buying a song on iTunes costs less than buying two bags of crisps. If you've bought two bags of crisps and no music this week then you just have to face facts. You are a dick. The Guardian costs £1.20 and it's fucking awful. Everyone knows that. If you've bought The Guardian this week and not bought Every Day When I Come Home I Expect To Find You Gone by Jim Bob for 79p then you just have to face facts. You are a dick. If you've bought a Rolex watch for £18,000 this week and not bought 3ft High and Rising then you need to fucking open your crap eyes and face facts. You're the biggest dick in the world. Who gives a shit what time it is if you don't have 3ft High and Rising?

Buy music today. When you go to gigs, keep your phone in your pocket. You might enjoy yourself. 

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Really Long Encounter.

Goodbyes are hard.

I don't do emotional goodbyes. If you're saying goodbye to someone that you think you're going to miss then just say goodbye to them and go. No holding them for too long or staring into their eyes. Just fuck off. You're only making it worse. Just smile, say "great seeing you" and go. Then when they're out of sight you are completely free to collapse on the ground in a sea of your own tears and snot. I have swam those murky, salty, snotty waters before. I know how it feels. But sometimes you just have to do it. It's dignified. Say goodbye and go.

I am not a hoarder. If there's something in my house that I don't need, I get rid of it. I have boxes of Star Wars toys from when I was a child and they're all ready to be sold. I'm going to take them to a car boot sale and get rid of them. I loved them once but that once was when I was 12. Sadly, I have been 12 for over 30 years and it's time to let go. My Doctor Who toys too. All going. And I don't care. I have an emotional attachment to what they meant to me a long time ago (and a not so long time ago) but not to the physical things themselves. They're bits of plastic and they're useless to me. I will say goodbye to them and go. And that's how I am with non-sentient, and the odd sentient, things. Except this sofa.

My sofa is leaving today. It's being replaced by a new, more sophisticated, mature sofa. I'm trying to spend as much time with the old sofa as I can before The Red Cross take it away to be put down or whatever it is The Red Cross do with old furniture. It's blue, it's filthy, it's lumpy. It's basically me: the furniture. I met it in 1999 and we have been practically inseperable ever since. It knows me. It knows my ridiculous shape and it clearly wants to show its love only to me. Practically anyone who has ever sat on my sofa complains about how uncomfortable it is. Yet when I lie on it it hugs me, looks after my back and it even seems to sigh "close your eyes, Michael. Let me cradle you. No need to work or pay bills or feed the dog. Let sofa take care of everything. Ssshhhh..."

You don't know people that make you feel as good as a loyal sofa does. And it remains loyal no matter what. I've been sick on this sofa. More than once. But I cleaned it up and the sofa forgave me and made it's cushions fit round my weird shape once again. Jerk has grown up on this sofa. I've ripped it twice. Jerk has ripped it loads of times. And it's still sooooooo comfy. Just right. Not for everyone, it's not a slut. But it's always there for me and Jerk. I'm going to really miss it so much. I hope whoever The Red Cross give it to loves it as much as I do. I hope they get to see the beauty in its many stains, its numerous lumps and its loving smell. And, man, I've wanked on this so many times.

Hmmm...It's a major focus for my wanking and I have to just let it go. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Give Over.

If I had one wish I would ask for a drink that makes you piss tits. But if I had two wishes, I would ask for a perfect world. A world where there is no war, no suffering, no famine. A world where everyone has an equal share and every equal share is plenty. Everyone would have a roof over their heads, food to eat, someone to love them and a drink that makes you piss tits. A perfect world. And then we wouldn't have politicians, bosses, cold callers, police, army, traffic wardens, bouncers, bills and there would be no more charity. We wouldn't need it. And if there's no more charity then there won't be any charity workers. Yeah, those cunts.

Think of how peaceful this world would be if we didn't have any charity workers. You woudn't feel like a selfish prick every time that "very sad abandoned dog" advert came on, you wouldn't hear that upsetting sound of a bucket rattling and you could walk straight down the High Street on a Saturday afternoon in a minute instead of half an hour because of all the weaving. Of course, charity workers do great things but some of them are simply annoying bastards doing annoying things to annoy people. It's just a coincidence that they're holding a bucket with The Red Cross written on it. I stood 6 feet away from a charity worker for 15 minutes the other day and I thought I might actually punch the fucker.

I was meeting a friend at Vauxhall tube station and she was late. But to make it worse, I was early. But, hey, what's to complain about? I'm not outside in the cold. No, I'm inside in the cold, leaning up against a wall and watching a man dressed as a clown collecting money for charity. I have no idea what the charity was for because I couldn't understand what he was saying, despite him repeating it constantly. "The sane", he said. "The sane. The sane. The sane".

I mean, he can't be collecting money for people who suffer from sanity. Although I can see why that might be a worthy cause. But he was determined, that much was clear. "The sane", he said. "The sane. The sane. The sane".

Sure enough, after a few seconds he turned to me and said "The sane". I had no money on me so couldn't give him anything but even if I did I'm not sure that I would have. He's dressed as a clown. He wants the respect of grown adults so that they will acknowledge his need for urgent fund raising but...he's dressed as a clown. A fucking clown. During rush hour, London's most OH, JUST FUCK OFF time of day. And I can't see anything written on his bucket. And he keeps saying "The sane". Just keeps saying it. "The sane. The sane. The sane".

I have Kindle on my phone so I thought I'd do a bit of reading until my friend turned up. "The sane". I'm reading a book about Stalin. "The sane". He's a very interesting man, Stalin. "The sane". Did you know how he became the Premier of the USSR? "The sane". Well, by all accounts it was Trotsky that should have succeeded Lenin after his death. "The sane". But Stalin, who Lenin didn't trust at all, gave Trotsky the wrong date of Lenin's funeral. "The sane". Russia looked on as Stalin lead the funeral procession. "The sane". And the people took this as a sign of the bond of loyalty shared between Lenin and Stalin. "The sane". Stalin then..."the sane"...went on..."the sane"...to kill 20 million..."The sane"...OH, WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOU'RE DRIVING ME MAD.

It's widely believed that Stalin, like Hitler, was mentally ill but maybe they were actually driven man. They both started out socialists but as they gained more power they must have been surrounded by more and more people all committed to changing the world and among them was probably a charity worker constantly buzzing in his ear, constantly, all day every day "The sane, Stalin. The sane. The sane, the sane, the sane" until one day he just exploded and went RIGHT! FUCK THIS. I'M SENDING MILLIONS OF PEOPLE TO LABOUR CAMPS AND KILLING TROTSKY. I'M HAVING A RIGHT OLD TIME OF IT.

The charity worker turned to me again and said "The sane". Again, I apologised for lack of funds and he turned to face the passing commuters and said "The sane". Always "The sane". "The sane, the sane, the sane". How can I enjoy the relaxing opinions of Stalin when all I can ever hear is "The sane". "The sane, the sane, the sane".

He turned to me again and said "The sane". I still had no money so he went back to the commuters. "The sane, the sane, the sane". Maybe I'll never stop hearing "the sane". Maybe he's not even saying "the sane". Maybe I'm just hearing "the sane". Maybe I'm the only one that can hear "the sane". "The sane, the sane, the sane".

He turned to me again and said "the sane". I didn't apologise for not having any money this time. I didn't even tell him that I didn't have any money. Instead, I breathed deeply, I counted to 10 and I gently screamed "JESUS CHRIST, I'VE SAID NO FOUR FUCKING TIMES. I'VE BEEN STANDING BESIDE YOU FOR FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES. IF I HAD MONEY, YOU'D HAVE GOT IT BY NOW. IT'S NOT LIKE I HAVEN'T NOTICED YOU. YOU'RE RIGHT BESIDE ME AND YOU'RE DRESSED LIKE A CLOWN. A CLOWN THAT SAYS "THE SANE, THE SANE, THE SANE". GO AWAY".

He turned around to the commuters and said "The sane".

My friend arrived and we walked to a gig at the Battersea Barge. She was telling me about some monkeys she knows but all I could hear was "The sane". It was a Phillip Jeays gig. He's brilliant and his music is wonderful but it was hard to hear over the noise of "The sane". But it was nice to be there and catch up with friends. Not that I could understand what they said. All I heard was "The sane". "The sane, the sane the sane". I hear it all the time now.

I suppose you have to hand it to charity workers. I mean if that guy didn't drive people mad, he'd be out of a job.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Get Inside Me.

Style. Charisma. Aids. Some people have just got it. You know when you see someone and they just radiate that indefinable something that just draws you straight to them? Something indefinable that actually defines them. Inwardly and outwardly beautiful people who can fill a room with their magnetic personality. People who can walk through the door and grab the attention of all simply because they possess that mysterious wow factor. I'm thinking of creating a TV show called The Wow Factor. The whole nation will tune in every week to be amazed  by people who are so much better than them. It's kind of like the complete opposite of The X-Factor where the whole nation tunes in every week to see the country's worst bag of bollocks make a noise like a dying whale before being told, via a phone-in voting system, that they're shit. Actually, if that's all The X-Factor was, I'd probably watch it. If they got rid of the horrible singing and the crap songs but just had a long, long line of people who step into an upside-down bin and get told they're shit before walking away crying, it might just be my favourite show.

I was forced to watch The X-Factor by a "friend". It's such a depressing programme. It's like trying to read a book while your child is in a pool doing the most tediously basic swimming and shouting "ARE YOU WATCHING? ARE YOU WATCHING? ARE YOU WATCHING?" Soon you just stare without taking anything in. Watching, but not actually seeing, that they're drowning. The worst part was seeing some hoop-jumping half-man from Liverpool begging people to like him. He put his hands together as if in prayer, looked into the camera and in a broad, desperate sounding Liverpudlian accent said "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaase vote for me. I'll be good next week. I promise. I'll do whatever you want. Anything. ANYTHING (makes blow-job face)" The week after condemning my eyes to X-Factor I was on my way to a gig in Heaven nightclub, just underneath Charing Cross Station. I checked who else was on but didn't recognise any of the names. That's not to say I don't know them, it's just that my memory is really bad. I thought, I'll probably recognise them when I get there. Sure enough, right outside the venue I saw one of the other comics. I recognise his face definitely. Don't know the guy's name but his face is familiar so we must have worked together somewhere. As he walked towards me I said "Hello, mate" but he walked straight past me and as he did he said "Aw, great, mate. Thanks so much" in a broad, desperate sounding Liverpudlian accent. I felt filthy. I recognised someone off fucking X-Factor and, to make things worse, he thinks I'm a fan. The next day I lay down in the shower and sobbed, occasionally hitting myself. Just like he does every day.

There's nothing good about the deluded on X-Factor but it must be amazing to be one of those people blessed with the wow factor. These are people who get compliments every day and just brush them off with "Well, that's just how I am". It must be amazing to just know how incredibly special you are. The thing is, I've always thought that I was special. I just didn't know if anyone else could ever see quite how special I am. Then I met him. That one guy who really gets me. That one person who took one look at me and saw what was within. And he's a doctor so he's got a good job and everything. 

Yesterday I visited the doctor because my thumb hurt. Pathetic, yes, but I thought it might be the beginning of something worse. I was thought that I had rheumatoid arthritis. I was sure of it in fact. It made sense. Everything else in life is shit so, yeah, why shouldn't I be getting old before my time as well. I'm so glad I went because I left that GP's surgery a different man. I went in as pathetic smudge yet walked out like Cary Grant. Tall, charming, confident and with dark hair. This doct...no...this soul-mate sat me down and told me that there's no way that I have rheumatoid arthritis. No, I have "wear and tear" arthritis. Also known as osteoarthritis. "Some people", he said "have bodies that just aren't supposed to move around that much". 

I knew it! All this time I've been given dirty looks and even dirtier words by people who just couldn't ever get me. But there's a reason that I am the way I am. There's a reason that I do what I do. There's a reason that I'm special. I AM BIOLOGICALLY LAZY. Science has proven it. Yes, I'm lying on the sofa doing fuck not nothing but that's because that's what I was born to do. It's 2 in the afternoon and I'm still in my pants because that is how I was created. Should I go the gym or do my taxes today? WHAT? AND DENY WHO I AM? No, thank you.

I feel so good that I now know who I am, finally. I am a lazy man. A special, unique lazy man. I hope you're happy for me, dear reader. We're not on this planet long so like Neil Armstrong, Albert Einstein and me, I really hope you find that special thing that you were put on this Earth for. Really there's only two things you can do in this life: get busy dying or put your feet up, have a nap and get busy living.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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

Blug.

OK, so yesterday I might have been a tiny bit mean. And that was the bit I enjoyed but today after saying how much I hate the two worst comedies on TV I think it's only fair to do some praising. I do all that hating due to being a "bitter, lonely, sad man" (a lady on Twitter, yesterday) but what do I actually like? Well, I really love Limmy's Show. It's very inventive and original and funny and, as a result, the BBC have decided not to show it nationally and instead are forcing people who love actual comedy to move to Scotland. Or you can watch it on iPlayer for free: http://goo.gl/VwiA2

There's a new podcast from The Trap called POTOm. It's completely brilliant despite not having the hot one from Los Quattros Cvnts in it. It's brand new sketches that they should be charging lots of money for. Instead, you can download it free here: http://goo.gl/07bjN

Got 99p on you? Then download my favourite book of 2012, Driving Jarvis Ham by Jim Bob. It's got that right mix of funny and tragic that we all love plus it's just a brilliant read. When you've read it, you'll recommend it too. It's one of those. You can get the Kindle version here: http://goo.gl/Wx8UA and the Kobo version here: http://goo.gl/QPlBI. There are probably other eBook vendors you can buy it from too but hurry, the book returns to it's normal price on Monday. That said, no matter how much it costs, it's worth it.

I can't recommend Martin Rossiter's new album enough. I've had it for a few months and there's barely a day goes by that I don't listen to it. 10 beautiful hymns that make church sexy again. Mmmm...church. There is a very strong chance that this will be your favourite album of the year and I couldn't live with myself if I kept it from you. You can buy it here: http://goo.gl/wDLbV or download it here: http://goo.gl/h20ql. 

Might as well plug me then. I'm performing at the Goldsmiths Comedy Society on Monday night. It costs £2. Dave Hill is also on. That's right: DAVE HILL FOR TWO FUCKING QUID. You are an insane dick if you miss that. The Facebook page is here: http://goo.gl/ymEs0

There. I hope you have a nice weekend with your new free/cheap things. If you have any free/cheap things you think people would like to know about then please leave the info as a comment. And feel free to let people know about this blog. There's free/cheap/great stuff here. We might as well let people know. Thanks.

www.twitter.com/michaellegge

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

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