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. 

Dear Brendan O'Carroll...

I hate you. 

When you decided that you had to be famous instead of actually being good at something, you chose comedy as the medium that you would drag to the depths of braindead idiocy. You decided that if you were going to be big then you had to be bad (because there was no way you'd make it if you tried to be of merit), and because you wanted to be HUGE then that meant you were going to have to be the worst thing that has ever happened to television comedy since it began. In a way, you have to be congratulated on sticking to your guns and remaining doggedly focused on being utterly insultingly appalling at all times. You aimed low and you made it! Straight to the bottom. Or so you thought...

You see, O'Carroll, you THINK you're throwing diseased excrement into the yawning faces of the thick but you throw like a girl. And that shit in your hand? There's nowhere near as much hepatitis and E.coli in there as you thought. Oh, you're a racist, sexist, old joke telling, reactionary bullshitter but you're not the worst. Turns out, when you were licking your lips and looking at that piss soaked bag of blood and cum underneath the barrel, you were aiming too high. The worst you could come up with was Mrs. Brown's Boys. HA! Stand aside, amateur. Kookyville is here.

Kookyville is Channel 4's latest nail in it's coffin and it stars ordinary people being ordinary in ordinary situations. Oh, yes. With a pitch like that, you can see how it got made. Turns out Channel 4, like most TV stations and production houses, think that it's best to show ordinary, regular people at their very worst so that the middles classes and, let's face it, Channel 4 executives can point and laugh at all the stupid poor people again. It's basically Made In Chelsea but this time all situations are set up to appear like comedy sketches with these ordinary people just talking amongst themselves and trying to be funny. As you know, Brendan, ordinary people ARE funny. Graham Linehan is an ordinary man. He's funny. Louis CK is made of flesh and bone so he's just an ordinary man and he's very funny. Margaret Cabourn-Smith and Zoe Gardner are the two funniest people I've ever seen and trust me, I know them, they're incredibly ordinary. But you're not ordinary, Brendan. Although you almost are compared to the bacteria that screams it's way through Kookyville.

I'm sure, Brendan, you still see Channel 4 as that scary alternative television station but you should give it a go because I think you'd like it. It's terrible. In the 80's and 90's it used to be the home of the best comedy on TV but these days, with one or two exceptions, it seems to have looked at channel 5 for inspiration and then decided to totally eclipse it. Kookyville is basically two women being thick followed by an old woman saying "fuck" followed by a couple saying what a pain in the arse disabled people are followed by two men in a pub talking about "peedos" followed by the first two women again pointing and laughing at a dwarf. Hey! Stop laughing, Brendan, I'm trying to make a point. 

Kookyville is the brainabortion of a TV executive producer. And what happens when a TV executive producer says "we don't need good comedy actors or creative comedy writers" and then gets in a bunch of the most obnoxious, horrible, not-in-any-way-ordinary people to just film themselves being themselves? They get good comedy actors and creative comedy writers staring back at them and saying "On your knees and beg". If anyone works for Channel 4 again after Kookyville I'd be shocked (although I am available and do have some ideas). And here's the big claim, Brendan: I think Kookyville is the worst comedy ever made. Not just television, I mean comedy anything. Television, film, radio, christmas cracker joke, hidden camera stunt, that bleak fit of the giggles that you get at a funeral. EVERYTHING IS BETTER THAN KOOKYVILLE. Jesus Christ, even Two Girls/One Cup had some comparative integrity (the clear influence of John Waters was divine, no pun intended). And that is why I LOVE Kookyville. I LOVE IT!!!!

Look at you, Brendan. Pathetic. You tried so hard to be the most awful thing in your chosen field and you failed. You were insulting, obnoxious, offensive and you even sold out your own good Irish people and you're STILL not as bad as Kookyville. Ha! That's the first time you've made me laugh, Brendan. You're not even good at being the worst.

Lots of love, Michael xoxoxo

ps. If you want to read another letter about Kookyville then have a look at @mr_craig's open letter to Channel 4 here: http://mr-craig.tumblr.com/post/36584262187

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. 

Sit!

A few days ago this story was awful. In fact, it was pathetic. I recalled the story to neighbours who laughed mainly because they knew who and what I was talking about but also because they could see in my face how deeply disturbed I was by it. But time is a great healer. Sometimes when something awful happens to us we just need to be patient. Wait. It'll all sort itself out. And yesterday it did all sort itself out. If I was one of those karma believers that believed in karma I'd probably say it was karma or something. But I'm not. I'm a bloke who ends up in farcical situations all the time so it's probably just that. Again.

Ah, the park. If walking around Lewisham ever seems a bit too mad for you then I invite you to get off the street and go to the park. You have no idea what mad is until you go there. In the park this week I've seen a man dressed in just shorts and shoes dangling off a bridge, two girls taking mouthfuls of milkshake and then spitting at each other and a man and a squirrel sitting on the same bench and singing reggae. I watched that for ages and I started to suspect that the squirrel knew none of the words. Is there anything more adorable than man and squirrel finally sitting together and bonding over Bob Marley? Yes, there is. It's a very tiny puppy in a red polo neck jumper. I was throwing a ball for Jerk who thinks running after a ball again and again is the greatest thing that has ever happened to anyone ever. No, I don't see the appeal either. I did it once and it was rubbish and the ball tasted disgusting. But Jerk was happy running around and bringing the ball back for more. I wasn't happy about it at all because my body seems to have seized up this week. Over the past few days my shoulders have become stiff and achy, my legs feel fragile and painful and, trust me, you don't even want to know about my anus. Pain or not, Jerk needed to be walked so there I was shuffling like an old man (I'm not old, remember? I'm very young) and crying a little bit every time I feebly threw a ball. This running and ball chasing sometimes catches the eye of other dogs and at the other side of the park I saw a group of mid-morning alfresco drinkers with their dogs constantly staring at Jerk running and the ball they all desperatley wanted. It was fine though. The dogs were quite far away and, no matter how much they wanted that ball, I knew they'd be too lazy to do anything about it.

Well, one of them wasn't that lazy. One of them really wanted that ball. Despite being that far away and being the smallest of all the dogs gathered round the inebriated outdoorsmen, the tiny ickle adorable puppy in the tiny ickle adorable red polo neck jumper ran all the way over to me and Jerk. You could fit this dog in the palm of your hand. I put Jerk on the lead just in case she thought this tiny ickle adorable puppy was tiny ickle adorable food. He may have been small in stature but he was huge in spirit, running straight up to Jerk and licking her face. Luckily it was just my heart that melted, my body was in a bad enough state as it was. Anyway, that's when the shouting started.

The tiny ickle adorable puppy's owner started screaming for his dog to return. I hadn't a clue what he was shouting so there was no way a new puppy was going to figure it out. I decided to walk over to the owner and his friends and the puppy would follow us back to the loving arms of the scary screaming man. I had briefly met this man before about two years ago. He was talking to another man and his dog. I knew that dog. It was a beautiful Lurcher called Wednesday. I was with Muki who fucking speaks to fucking everyone and sure enough as we passed the two gentlemen and the dog, Muki had to go over and cheerily say "Hi, Wednesday!". It was then that the future scary screaming man turned around to reveal a tiny one-eyed Jack Russell under his arm and he said "And hello to Mr. Awesome". 

Well, quite.

This guy was big and loud and, well, I didn't like him. Even though I was walking his dog back to him, he was still shouting incoherently constantly. If you need to picture him in your head, this is what he looks like...you know the scary Irish man from Withnail & I who calls I a ponce? Well, that's him. That is exactly him. So let's just refer to him as Ponce from now on. Right, Ponce was still shouting his face off even when Me, Jerk and tiny ickle adorable puppy were back over with the other dogs and the wine tasters enjoying the bracing weather. He thanked me for bringing his dog back, picked it up and hit it on the head.

I didn't like that.

I asked him not to hit his dog. He looked at me as if I'd asked him what flavour his mum is. I told him that that's probably why his dog isn't coming back. Why would anyone come back if they know they're going to get hit on the head? "It was only a little hit", he said. And then something really bad happened. He is a big man, I am in pain already and finding it hard to move, yet somehow I said this: "Well, what if I give you a little hit?"

I immediately mentally shat myself. I desperately hoped he thought I said "hat" not "hit" but I could tell pretty quickly that he had seen I'd thrown down the gauntlet. I hadn't thrown down the gauntlet though, I'm just too weak to hold a gauntlet at the moment. Why the hell would anyone put me in charge of carrying the gauntlet anyway? I'm bound to drop it. More screaming erupted. I got scared. More screaming about how I shouldn't tell anyone how to look after their dog and how he's been raising dogs for years and how I should fuck off. I agreed. I should fuck off right away. But there was a bit more screaming at me to do first. This upset me, people walking by and, worst of all, the other dogs. They all started barking in my direction. All except Jerk who was pulling on the lead to leave. The fucking back stabbing deserter. Stay and take my punishment with me. One of the other dogs was muzzled. All muzzled dogs are scary. They're muzzled for a reason. They like the taste of blood and I have blood that I greedily want to keep for myself. The muzzled dog barked the loudest. Of course it did. It's a muzzled dog. It has a reputation to uphold. It's standing in the pack is clearest. "I'm muzzled, dangerous and in charge". The muzzled dog was right up at me now, barking and showing it's teeth. I'm never scared of dogs but this fucker looked like he meant business. I backed off, the muzzled dog moved forward. Shit. Is this dog going to attack me? Is this dog going to leap at me, shake it's muzzle off and go for my throat? Is this dog a...a...poodle?

It was a BIG poodle, OK? Not a little handbaggy toy poodle. It looked like two guys in a pantomime poodle suit so don't get all "It was only a poodle", alright? I started to move back quite quickly but I was stumbling because my legs hurt. I didn't fall but I thought I was going to. The confusion of walking backwards, the barking of a mad dog, the laughter of drunk men pointing at me and saying "He's scared of a poodle" made it hard to keep balance. Finally I turned my back on the dog and walked away as quickly as I could. Which was quite slowly. The dogs were still barking and the men were still laughing. I'll be very honest with you now: I felt pretty emasculated.

Don't get me wrong, even I think it's funny being attacked by a poodle but I can't help but think I'd have enjoyed it more if it had happened to you instead of me. I'm not saying the events of that day have haunted me ever since but they have popped into my head a few times. I got attacked by a poodle. Damn.

I don't think I'd ever have blogged this story unless there was a solid conclusion. And there is. Jerk and I returned to the park yesterday, just like we have done every day since the events of 25/11 (that's how we ALL refer to that day) and there were the guys drinking under a tree. The group was smaller this time but the poodle was there, the tiny ickle adorable puppy was there and Ponce was there. He laughed as soon as he saw me. I ignored him. I was feeling a lot better yesterday and I even thought "Yeah, I could fucking take him today" but no, best to ignore him. He called over a few times, "Any trouble and we'll set the poodle on you". But I ignored him. I'm above all that. "Get back, now. This poodle is deadly". God, I hate this prick. "Scared of a fucking poodle".

Fuck this. I stared right at Ponce and said "Do you think I give a fuck about being attacked by a mad, muzzled poodle? I couldn't give a shit. You hit your dog and I think you're a cunt and one more word from you and I'll boot your balls into your throat". That's what I said. IN MY HEAD. Instead, I just stared at him a bit while he laughed, threw his cigarette into a bin and confidently sat down on a bench.

The thing is, there was no bench there.

I watched him writhe about on the ground for a while as he swore his face off and the poodle started barking again. I felt that warm glow of joy return to my heart and I smiled...laughed even...as he eventually found his way to his feet. I know nothing of karma but I'm well aware of the joy someone falling over can bring when you're a bit down. Look at him, the big drunk shouty Jamelia. I get angry and upset a lot but look at all I need...look at what makes me happy. That's all my stress needs: slapstick. Cosmic slapstick.

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. 

Suspect.

I'll tell you what I hate: anyone who likes Helen Mirren.

I don't hate Helen Mirren, I barely have an opinion of her, but people who like Helen Mirren are dreadful, not to mention the most easily impressed people on the planet. I mean she seems a perfectly fine actress, I suppose, and she was in The Long Good Friday, so she must have something. She's not brilliant though, is she? But her fans seem to think she is. Just a had quick look on Twitter this morning and found hundreds of Mirren fans all praising their favourite actress. "Mirren is gorgeous playing the role of emerenc", "Helen Mirren looks amazing!" and "i FIND HER BEAUTIFUL" were pretty much the first three things that came up but, seeing as the last one was posted by a person called DidyLilMonster, we should probably ignore it all. Still, I think all those comments say a lot about how highly respected Helen Mirren's acting talent is.

Of course, the media are just as respectful of the art of Helen Mirren. In the role of Alfred Hitchcock's wife, Alma Reville, in the new film Hitchcock, the San Francisco Chronicle has said of the her performance "Mirren is still a woman who can wreck a man's life. The real Reville wasn't that kind of siren". She won an Oscar, didn't she, for that film The Queen? I remember that because at the time there were thousands of photographs in thousands of newspapers, magazines and websites telling us how beautiful the actress is. Even Esquire ran a What Lady Would We Like As A Brilliant Girlfriend competition and the magazine got pissed and shouted at everyone about how Helen Mirren was beating fellow actress Megan Fox to the number one position of Best Girlfriend Ever. I've seen a lot of Helen Mirren films and I'm just as impressed. Well, I'm impressed that I can't quite remember any of the films she's been in.

I can't really judge her work, to be fair, but I do know this about Helen Mirren: She's a very popular actress. What she isn't though is a FUCKING AGE DEFYING MIRACLE. You know what? You're allowed to look good in your 60's. It's not weird at all to be older than 22 and still look somewhat presentable. Not that you'd know that from the hoards of idiots who claim to love "actress" Helen Mirren. "Oooh, didn't Helen Mirren look great on the red carpet? She's 67, you know, and when I saw her I was hardly sick at all". "Yes, normally when I see anyone over the age of 30 I start to cry and wonder why the government hasn't shot them to put them out of our misery". "I know. But Helen looks like she's about 15...but, you know, ill".

I hate those people. 

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.