Elementary Level Tourette’s

I have already had one of those moments today where I’ve scowled at my own needs overriding my viewpoints on society. I am in full support of Wikipedia’s blackout against the US’s SOPA law which will affect internet freedom across the globe, but at the same time, I’ve tried to find a two things out today where I automatically went to said site, only to be greeted by the ‘blackout’ screen and a stream of expletives that flowed freely from my gob. It’s a horrible instinctive viewpoint Tourette’s that I sometimes have. All in all, I know what they are doing is right. While I’m partially against internet piracy, I am a downloader of sorts, and by that, I mean I download things illegally. And sometimes legally. But mostly only after downloading them illegally then deciding they are worthy of money. However, I nearly always buy the CDs or see the bands live that I download and eventually get the films I like in Blu-Ray just so I can pretend to be snobbish about ‘the picture’ quality, which is usually the same as if its from my computer anyway. But, I do believe that while it loses some creative types money, overall, it spreads the word about them around the world. Further to that, if the SOPA law comes in, it will affect the way website run and ultimately the way in which information is spread around the world. And if that’s all to stop me downloading episode of Adventure Time then its all bit petty.

Yet, if protesting against a law I really don’t like means that today I couldn’t find out who the manager of FC Barcelona was for a competition answer then fuck you wikipedia, I am no longer a friend of the cause. I’m not sure where this lack of patience or tolerance for things I don’t like has arisen from, but its definitely got more evident as I’ve got older. On Sunday Nat was watching Sherlock in the living room and while I said that was fine, I found it impossible to point out consistently why I thought it was shit, what annoys me about it and then read a HP Lovecraft graphic novel while constantly explaining why the storyline in that was better. I am, if nothing else, a really annoying flatmate. And yes, I can already guess that some of you are absolutely enraged as to me not liking Sherlock. Though blogs, Facebook and tweets, you had probably assumed that I was one of the cool kids and therefore down with everything everyone else is. This would prove you hadn’t read my blog of Sunday but on all other accounts, yes, you’d be right. Except for Sherlock which I have never liked. Reasons are as follows: 1) If you are going to make a new detective show based in the 21st century, then why does it have to be a future version of Sherlock Holmes? Why do you have to take an absolute classic and modernise it when you could just write a story about a new autistic detective? Its as though originality has been sucked from the world once again. I’ve been rewatching The Wire again just to remember how television can be made if it goes back to the days where it didn’t patronise its viewers. 2) It’s all too slick. The reason the original Holmes was amazing was because technology didn’t exist, they couldn’t just grab a criminal by his DNA and therefore his deducing skills were incredible. Cumberbatch’s Holmes feels very one dimensional in comparison with just his Rain Man like qualities and lack of drug addiction. ‘Jim’ Moriarty more so for using phone apps. The whole thing bounces along at such a pace it doesn’t feel like much of a mystery at all and uses this technique to gloss over plot holes and improbabilities. Look, to be honest, I may like it if he wasn’t called ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and the stories weren’t bastardised versions of Conan-Doyle’s originals.

It’s that that upsets me the most. Its the way that since the TV show has been on, I’ve found myself in a bookshop looking at a copy of ‘Hound Of The Baskervilles’ with Cumberbatch and Freeman’s face on with the blurb ‘you’ve seen the series, now see where the story comes from!’ which made my miserly Tourette’s throw out a retch and a ‘fuck off’ much to the disconcertion of those in Waterstones York. US TV station CBS have now just announced too that they are also doing their own version of Sherlock set in New York in the 21st Century. WHY? JUST WRITE A NEW DETECTIVE SHOW! Is it that hard? Clearly it is. Or clearly they’ve realised they can just patronise audiences with substandard TV and because its not as shit as Take Me Out, everyone thinks its gold. I honestly think that Sherlock Holmes himself would deduce that pretty damn quickly.

See? That’s what I mean. I didn’t want to write about Sherlock today because I know you, the public, will lambast me. You’ll tell me how great it is because text messages pop up on screen in writing so you don’t have to make any assumptions as to what they say. You’ll say that it means you don’t have to struggle with working it out as it spells it all out for you. You’ll say that Martin Freeman is great as Watson because he’s meant to be just like Tim from the Office and Arthur Dent in the Douglas Adams raping film version of Hitchiker’s Guide To The Galaxy. You’ll say that it doesn’t matter that we lose a large part of the mystery because we now have action sequences instead and its far easier to sit while drool escapes our mouths when explosions happen than try and work anything out with brain power we may need to work out where our mouths are to shovel chips in at a later time. If you disagree then maybe use the internet before SOPA kicks in to download some of the Sherlock Holmes episodes Jeremy Brett did. I would point you to links for the wiki page for all of those but I can’t. Because of its bloody great, shitty, brilliant protest.

I should point out that you are allowed to like Sherlock, in the same way I’m allowed not to like it. That’s the lovely way the world works. And the lovely way the internet works is that we can see everyone’s opinions and make our own based on all the facts and views. Let’s hope the law doesn’t ever change that.

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‘A Note’

I’m in a perpetual state of fug today. You can go for days not having enough sleep and feeling tired and then one day, like today, have too much sleep and feel tired. Is this just how its meant to be from now on? Trying desperately to work out the exact right amount of sleep to have to ensure that I don’t wander around aimlessly for hours with a constantly confused look on my face wondering where I am or why I am. Today’s state has so far caused a small moment of neighbourly awkwardness as I was caught out trying to put ‘a note’ on a car blocking our driveway. I put ‘a note’ in inverted commas because it was one of those notes. The notes that without actually containing any rude words, seems to hide the venom in the spaces between words or in other hidden methods. Mine today had three exclamation marks at the end of the first sentence and no punctuation at the end of the second. I like to feel that this denotes my sheer rage at first, followed by my anger peaking so much I can’t even bring myself to end it correctly, deeming the recipient not worthy of correct grammar.

There seemed to be a good reason for ‘the note’. I loathe making ‘notes’. They embody everything petty about the world and leaving one means you’ve lost being able to cope with things but are too chicken to do something proper about them. I once left ‘a note’ for my flatmates in my second year of university on account of them having no idea what cleaning was and two months of washing up had begun to move in ways crockery shouldn’t. I think it was the point when I found maggots happily creating a homestead amongst some old cuppa soups that ‘the note’ was made and left duly on the stairs as you walked in whilst I left the house in protest. Sadly I returned later to find the washing up not done and ‘a note’ directed towards me from the flatmates telling what a cock I was for leaving ‘a note’. It took about three weeks for things to be resolved during which time the maggots took over the kitchen, set up their own community and I still ended up having to deal with them whilst retching continuously over a four hour stint. Somehow, I had totally lost in every way, proving to me, that ‘notes’ were a tad overrated.

However, in recent times they have appeared again. This is because myself and Nat use our driveway all the time, everyday, and yet people insist on parking right in front of it meaning I have learnt reversing manoeuvres that combine skills only expert snooker playing cab drivers have previously discovered. So, finally, after telling people again and again not to do it and yet still seeing them do it when there is more than enough adequate parking space nearby on our non-permitted road, ‘the notes’ have returned. Often starting with a ‘please’ to disarm them following with utilising exclamation marks where needed and occasionally following up with a guilt laden extra sentence explaining why they are irritating dicks of human beings. In the last three weeks about 4 notes have been placed and nothing has changed. So today, when myself and Nat walked out of our flat, up the hill, and we saw a flash silver car (this is the extent of my car knowledge. It was nice looking, it was silver), the pen and paper appeared.

I had scribbled half of my note when the car beneath my pad clicked and unlocked and I noticed a cheery looking woman staring at me in a bemused fashion as she returned to her car. Myself and Nat began to defensively explain why she shouldn’t be parked there, only for her to apologise profusely, and explain that she lived across the road but the branches on their tree were being cut so she had parked it across the road for 15 minutes. A perfectly reasonable excuse. One so reasonable that I found myself back tracking, complaining about other drivers while screwing up the note in my hand just out of her eyeline. One again ‘the note’ has failed. I honestly feel like today I have entirely validated the phrase ‘you snooze, you lose’. Big stupid loser. Sigh.

Season-Hell Greetings

Our flat is ready for Christmas. No I don’t mean that all our valuables are hidden as we’re more likely to get burgled now than ever despite our frequency for such occurrences. What I mean is it is now adorned with a veritable hamper of pound shop’s worth of pound shop Christmas decorations and some weird things Nat got from home. Despite my occasional ‘bah humbug’ attitude to this festive season, its mostly only towards the corporate crap and in reality, I love it, and I especially like humbugs. Even though we will probably not have any round over Xmas, but there still feels a need to welcome the shiny cheese elements of it all with open bauble covered arms. Our decorations this year have embraced the Christmas spirit by being a mix of Christmas and evil spirits. There is tinsel hanging above the door frames which falls every two seconds on account of it a) being shit tinsel and b) it being shit cello tape on c) a shit door, and there is a star garland hanging so low in the hallway that even I may have to start ducking under it soon.

The centre piece in all of this is one small Christmas Tree. It is a very small Christmas tree, but a Christmas tree nonetheless and that’s what matters right? So what if putting a star at the top would probably make the whole thing topple over? Its not what matters right? So what if it’s size means that when it sits by the telly nobody passing by the front windows will see it due to it being entirely obscured? S’not what matters right? So what if getting a proper Christmas tree means you risk abuse from Anti-Fir protestors? Arf.  What matters is that our little flat looks all the more festive for the next few weeks until we mercilessly dispose of an entire tree just for a ridiculous fad that involves our only dining/coffee table being wholly useless during that entire time and me constantly getting pines in my feet whenever I walk around barefoot. That’s what matters. What also matters is the series of tiny lights that have had their cases shattered due to clumsy feet and the tiny porcelain Santa that sits by it that looks like it has mould.

Then there is this. This is by far the most terrifying angel I’ve ever seen. Nat’s dad wanted it out of their house as he found it terrifying, so now of course, we’ve got it and myself, L and Nat will have to live in fear of our of own festive additions. I’m sure that twice already its head has spun round slightly just to look at me, and I’m consistently concerned that I’ll wake up one more, open my door and find it standing right outside. I just can’t conceive who would ever make such a thing, let along sell it. Look at the eyes. No pupils, just solid blue as though it may start spewing green bile in a minute and asking us to lick it. This in no way brings the message of Christmas, Jesus, Santa or Cliff Richard to a household, and more the notion that while you are asleep demons will use it as a portal to come and take your soul as their present.

I like this as a Christmas theme. Season of good will and fear. Tis the season to be jolly scared shitless and all that. Maybe people would be more appreciative of those presents they aren’t sure about if they were terrified into liking them. I know for a fact that if I unwrapped a shit jumped from under the tree with that angel on and someone told me the jumper would stop it slitting my throat in my sleep, then I’d wear it 24/7. I suggest that if we survive this Christmas, we’ll bury the angel in the garden under a chalk pentagon and dig it up next year, hanging it on the wall next to a skeleton of a witch and a scream mask with a Santa hat on. Season-hell greetings one and all.

 

Two small side notes:

1) Yes I know I didn’t blog yesterday. This is frequently becoming a thing whereby I don’t blog everyday as I just don’t have a lot to say. I figure its better to wait until I do, like today when I have such important things to type about, rather than force myself to write nothings. I can’t imagine anyone will complain about this but if you want to, just do and enough people actually want a daily blog then I’ll try my best to not be lazy again, but until then, deal with it.

2) Here is a video of me at Comedy Club 4 Kids being confused by vague children:

ME BEING CONFUSED BY VAGUE CHILDREN

 

Grumpy Old Man

I am a grumpy old man. Here’s proof:

 

TRYING TIMES

Of all the days I’ve chosen to drive to Wales (I say chosen, but there is a Comedy Club 4 Kids gig there that needs hosting and whilst I may have had some part in choosing the date, I can’t take all the blame) I appear to have picked the one day Wales is playing France in the Rugby World Cup Final. Sure, I suppose that means the roads will actually be empty as everyone is stationary watching it, but it could also mean if they win, all my audiences (including the kids) will be mental. If they lose it could mean that all my audiences (including the kids) will be mental. It really feels like I’ve done this badly. It doesn’t help either that I have no interest in rugby at all. I mean, I prefer it to football on account of the fact that it seems to happen less, requires men not being all pathetic if they get hurt and the players don’t get paid such ludicrous amounts.

Thing is, I don’t think I can ever like rugby that much after having met the rugby team that went to my university who’d spend a large amount of time making an effort to be a massive bunch of dicks. Every year they’d do an initiation ceremony whereby they’d all have to dress up, mostly as women which I’m sure actually confused several of them being only 18 and not fully aware of who they are, and then run around with bananas between their legs stealing various things from campus to earn drinks rewards. Traffic cones, road signs, the usual banal toss. The only one I ever respected was the one player who was dared to steal a monk from the nearby monastery and he did. With approval from the monk. Seeing a bulky lad run across the uni walkways with a man in robes on his shoulder, fireman lift fashion, was fairly entertaining. Its just the group mentality I don’t like and never have. I’ve dealt with rugby teams at gigs who seem to need to prove that they have muscles and brute force by being loud at every opportunity and generally they aren’t my favourite people.

So today, much like every busy sporting event, while I hope Wales win with the tiny bit of loyalty I have to them being a) part of the UK and b) my grandad being Welsh, I also just wish they’d do it smaller, quieter and on another day. Or at least involve stealing monks as part of the process.

 

DOG SHIT

Two days ago (yes I meant to write about this then but Andrew Lansley got in the way) as L and I were walking past the driveway by our flat (driveway. I know. I know. We are Flash McHarrys) a family were walking past in the opposite direction with their whippet dog. The dog was sniffing around a small patch of grass near Nat’s car, and then, without hesitation, proceeded to shit there. The family gormlessly smiled as he did so and I stood in a slight state of shock that in lovely Muswell Hill people would have such a disregard for property. I decided to exclaim very loud ‘oh no, not in our driveway’ as someone doing this were I the culprit or culprit’s owner (the former sadly is more likely) that I would be so overwhelmed with guilt that I’d definitely remove my pet’s faeces from someone else’s home area. Instead they just continued to grin like moronic automatons, as the whippet continued doing the shit of all time. I walked past certain they’d do the pooper scoop thing most honourable people would, but instead they carried on smiling and just walked off. Yes, I should have said something more along the lines of ‘oi you fucking dickbags, don’t let your mongrel shit on our turf’, but if they were good people, that wouldn’t have been needed. Sure, maybe there’s some misunderstanding. Maybe hearing me say ‘oh no’ in such a negative way was translated into them thinking that I loved it when dogs shat in our driveway. Perhaps it was some sort of bourgeois code for ‘oh wait, I fucking love nasty dog turd right by our house and where our cars drive.’ Or maybe they were just the embodiment of evil. If you see three grinning idiots (mum, dad, and baby) walking around North London with a whippet, beware, they are merely there to shit on your doorstep.

 

LABOURING

I did a gig for the Labour party in Crystal Palace last night and bloody lovely it was too. Of course I omitted my ‘Ed Milliband is shit material’ and proceeded with 20 minutes having a go at the Tories and Lib Dems instead. All round lovely time. Then as I got in my car, I realised that what I had just done was comedy to order. Had I been less of a chicken I’d have explained to them that whilst I hate the coalition, I think they’re bloody useless too and I wouldn’t have pretended to have any such allegiance to a party who’s original morals have gone quite horribly array. But, y’know, I didn’t want to get heckled or die on my arse. Life’s tough eh?

Lansley, Tosser

I was going to try my best today to write about something other than Andrew Lansley and the NHS but its very difficult. I hate very much that such a loathsome man has taken over not only this week’s blogs but generally much of my thinking for the past week. It’s reached such an extent that last night I was seconds away from turning off Toy Story 3 (an amazing film. Except for the bit where they meet the Sex Toys) ten minutes before the end – you know, when it gets actually properly heart renting and sad? – just to watch that evil man, who’s hair looks like its been superimposed onto his head, squirm around trying to defend his frankly destructive bill. I didn’t stop the film you’ll be glad to hear, and Nat, L and I were all subject to a soaked face replete with pangs for our childhood playthings.

Question Time was amazing though. The audience were so very passionate about the NHS, Phil Hammond was brilliantly brutal at dealing with Lansley and Ken made me wonder how we ever let Boris become London mayor. All the while Mark Littlewood said obnoxious things whilst looking like Hitler and Sarah Sands showed why the Evening Standard is a shit paper. Most importantly, I enjoyed watching Lansley not make eye contact with anyone who asked him questions about the reform. I really enjoyed him making statements that made little sense – telling Phil Hammond, a doctor, that he’s not trusting doctors. Brilliant – followed by him stating that the UK is a great place to work. How dare he promote employment here in a country that has currently got the highest unemployment rate in 17 years? Has he no grounding in reality?

Judging by his plans to curb British obesity that were revealed yesterday, no. The strategy apparently is to ‘eat less, exercise more’. Well done Columbo. Any other horribly obvious plans you want to tell us? Why not tell us that the best way to stop fires is to ‘not set fire to things’ or have we tried ‘sleeping’ to stop tiredness?’ Eating less and exercising more is the best way to stop obesity, granted, but surely more effort should be placed in educating children how best to have a balanced diet and perhaps tackle those big companies that plough fat into their food? Sure Lansley claims they are aiming to reduce calories in their products but that’s not what will help. We need to stop the amount of processed foods available full stop. People need to know what else there is available. But will a Health Secretary who had help writing his health legislation from representatives from McDonalds, Unilever, Walkers and Pepsi do such a thing? No. Because much like with the NHS, he prefers the big companies filling his wallet at the expense of the public.

ANDREW LANSLEY BANKROLLED BY PRIVATE SECTOR

MCDONALDS AND PEPSICO TO HELP WRITE HEALTH LEGISLATION

Even Jamie Oliver has dismissed yesterday’s obesity plans by saying that there are ‘eight-year-olds with more creative solutions to these problems.’ And that’s a man who ensured I never watch him on television again after he used the term ‘easy cheesy.’ I’m just saying. Ultimately its very clear that Andrew Lansley is a man who has very little idea or infact care of what the people of Britain need or want. The NHS bill not only needs to be stopped, but it needs to be stopped in a way that means Lansley has to step down and we get someone who perhaps cares about people’s health not the healthy state of their own bank account.

Living In A Shell

When there is a snail comfortably living under your sofa, I think its an indication that you need to clean the flat. It looked throughly upset to be disturbed, retreating into its shell with a look that almost conveyed dismay at the noise the hoover was causing and the upset and waking him up from his comfy slumber. I have no idea how long he’d been there but I unceremoniously lobbed him out into our garden with a lovely underhand bowl. We aren’t allowed sub letters in the flat. So that’s that. Now, instead of doing many of the trazillion things I should be doing I am making sure its a home for me and Nat again and not for slimy uninvited guests. There really are a lot of things I should be doing. Post-Edinburgh several things have popped up and all of them require the most boring of admin to get rolling. So knowing how important all these things are to further my career, I’ve spent time in the sunshine, listened to music I haven’t heard in ages and evicted a snail. I’m fully aware this is not helpful to anyone. Not least the snail. Who, to be fair, at least always has a home wherever he’s thrown, so it’s not too bad.

 

One thing I really should be doing is paying attention to the political situation of the UK. This is mostly because after writing an Edinburgh show about politics I have foolishly decided I should keep writing material on such a subject, happily jumping on board my high Shetland pony to spout what I think with jokes in it. Sadly I haven’t got much thought about anything at the moment. Hearing the unions are planning a national strike only confuses me as to my opinions. On the one hand – to be fair, the bigger hand – I am extremely pleased they are taking such action. Its really important that everyone sticks together and challenges all the proposed changes not only to pensions but also jobs and wages. This week we’ve seen both a rise in unemployment horribly juxtaposed alongside a banking reform that while it may be better for the economy is only going to affect personal customers charges most and leave the banks still gaining profit. So anyone that is willing to protest about that is a champion in my book. And my book is brilliant and only contains worthy champions. Like Danny. On the other hand, I know they will interrupt many people’s days, several things won’t work and I’m pretty sure that of all the days that I’m going to accidentally set myself on fire, it’ll be the day the Fire Brigade strike. Then as they put out my burning flesh and cradle me into an ambulance, I’m going to call my saviours ‘scabs’ and as a consequence be dropped from the ladder. Ok, so really, I’m just backing the strike, and I think, as I’ve said in my Edinburgh show, if you go on strike then you care about your job and you want to afford to be able to do it.

 

But beyond the strikes, I’ve really lost grasp of what’s going on. To be honest, it seems like a constant repetition of what’s gone before. More dismay about the causes for the riots, more upset about hacking to the extent the Met police have now hired a Liverpudlian Stazi leader to take over, and all the constituency boundaries are changing again despite only changing recently and once again probably benefitting someone or other in some way or other that I won’t understand. So that’s why I’m spending time creating snail mail instead. It is currently too dull to care about. This is terrible trap I have been in before and somehow must escape otherwise I’ll abandon all hope of continuing to be a political comedian and return to spouting the nuances of more mundane life. Or something. Hopefully the snail won’t move back in, Ken Clarke will say something racist or sexist and a former Nazi Youth officer will open a free school and we can be back on a roll anytime soon…

Stealing Time

I wasn’t going to blog today. Today and tomorrow were going to be blog free as I’m currently in the midst of my early Sept hibernation period whereby words are hard to fathom as everything in me post Edinburgh Fringe has shut down. Instead of typing I should be lying prone, staring at the ceiling, drooling a bit and scowling at my phone when it rings. This is generally what I need to do every year until Bestival (which occurs next week) where I ruin my body again and I end up back at square one. Yet instead of me doing such things (and yes I am typing this in bed in my PJs) and gaining the rest that’s due, I’m here hacking this blog out. Why? Well because after 4 and half hours of train journey plus a further 45 minutes travel lugging a huge suitcase on top of a whole month of endless performance, I returned home yesterday evening to find our flat had been burgled, again. Some of you may remember this:

LETTER TO THE BURGLARS OF METHUEN PARK

Back in early June some pricks broke in and nicked Nat and my laptop and Nat’s iPhone. Finally managing to get things back through insurance we had locks changed and generally though that despite being in a vulnerable ground floor flat with loads of big windows, they might have learnt that self-employed people have little to give and hopefully would never return. However at some point between Nat’s house sitting friend leaving our abode on the 27th and us getting back yesterday, someone had got in, rummaged through all the draws and cupboards, threw back all the bedding and had a proper scour for valubles. They didn’t get anything I’m pleased to say, completely over looking items I thought may be of worth like my satnav, my superman fronts and my collectable Radiohead albums, because luckily we had anything that was of worth with us in Edinburgh. Its just bloody horrible though. Once again someone we don’t know has been in our flat touching our stuff.

Even more unnerving is that we can’t work out how they got in. No windows were broken or forced open. All the blinds were still down, and the door was double locked. This leads us to believe that either our burglars have keys to the flat or we were robbed by Eugene Tooms from season one of the X-Files who has stretchy limbs, could fit through air vents and ate people’s livers. I’m not sure which outcome I like most. So now front door locks are being changed, me and Nat are being even more vigilant and I guess we’ll have to start looking for a new flat soon or really reading into how much damage you can do to a burglar under ‘reasonable force’.

On the plus side, we are getting quite good at dealing with this. Nat was straight on the phone to the police. I was straight on the email to the landlord. Between us its all getting fixed pretty quickly and I’m starting to wonder if we could become professional victims of crime. If any of you, for example, think you may soon be subject to criminal activity, why not contact us and see if we can take your place for a day for a fee? We’ll endure all trauma and misery involved, sort out all the damage and you can return scott free of despair just in time to collect your new laptop via insurance. I’m sure it’ll be more profit making than my current career and I may end up actually owning stuff robbers might want to steal.

I’m going back to my coma now. Wake me up when they invent burglar alarms that shoot lasers at people.

Mouse Whisperer

It is usually as I sit on the East Coast train home struggling with the increasingly dire wifi connection that I like to reminisce over the last month. Year after year I’ve provided my Edinburgh statistics and figures about how much alcohol was consumed, how many flyerers I wounded, injuries gained, people’s names forgotten, cholesterol levels and bad Scottish accents attempted. However, not this year blogees. No. This year there is another tale, or infact tail, to tell in the aftermath of the Fringe. Not only that but I’ve paid £9.95 for internet so slow I’m sure a man is winding it up at the front of the train, pausing every now and then for a breather and some tea, letting the whole thing drop and my constant attempts at writing a blog disappear into the ether, the words hitting someone unknown web surfer in Korea. So yes, my love for typing today’s periodical is somewhat waning. But back to the first bit. What adventure could possibly outweigh Edinburgh numbers and figures? What could thwack it off its yearly appearance as regular and certain as the Queen’s speech at Christmas only far more interesting and done with emotion unlike her solid, blank face? Well, last night, I caught a mouse in a glass.

Yes. You can re-read that sentence again if you like and it won’t stop being true. I have previously mentioned in this blog the fat mouse Bernard that had been residing in our Edinburgh flat. Well during the last week Nat and L have heard more and more scuttles of tiny paws, and questions arose as to whether Bernard had got more adventurous having sensed our lack of care, or whether there was more than just one mouse. Then, last night we sat in the living room trying to finish all the food we had left in the flat and the remainder of the booze. I had created what may be now known as a Nero Salad (for it was even greater than a Caesar), containing all possible vegetable ingredients known to man and indeed woman, topped with croutons, mozzarella, and the Douieb dressing of all time. It fit in a bowl so large you could easily trap a badger in it, if that badger had contortion skills and a willingness to sit in bowls without scratching its captors eyes out. Consequently only a 5th of that bowl was eaten and I have escaped Edinburgh today leaving Nat with six tons of Pimp My Salad to contend with, having to face the guilt alone of throwing it away or the challenge of eating it all to the point of digestive horror.

The salad and wine combo was chomped down whilst watching ‘Bad Lieutenant’ with Harvey Keitel. He was in the film, not sitting with us, and between mouthfuls there would be occasional commentary about cleaning the flat or salad consumption as he indulged in crack pipes and prostitutes. This would have been more awkward if he was sitting with us but either way it felt an odd juxtaposition of themes. Then one of Nat’s normally (at this point in the evening) laconic comments with a half full gob became a louder and more high pitched one, replete with pointing as a mouse was spotted in the hallway. The tiny ball of fur hid behind our hallway mirror and I set it upon myself to catch the blighter. Yes, blighter. It felt right to call it that. L and Nat said there was no way I’d do such a thing on account of its speed and my lumbering stupidity, but using a glass and a DVD of the Godfather (which felt oddly appropriate), I squeezed the mirror so it was forced out of one side of the reflective adornment, and it raced into the glass, my ninja hands slamming the DVD down on top and catching myself a meeces.

What a small meeces it was too. Not a fat Bernard, but a minuscule cute ball of fluff who looked rather bewildered at three faces staring at him through a whisky glass, cooing over his tiny self. It was decided that while I’d like to take him as a pet (I later named him Billy. Or Billie if it was a girl) it would be best to remove him from the premises. Various debates raised about how far you take a mouse so it won’t return – 3 miles? A street? Should we buy him a plane ticket to a distant land like Fieval? – and eventually using a crust of quiche and a swift tipping motion, myself and Nat popped him out in the front garden with his overly middle class meal that would feed a single rodent for at least a week.

Just call me Francis of Assissi. I’m Dartagnion and the three Mouskateers. I’m Mousalini. I’m Doctor Dooloadsastuff. See? Much better than Edinburgh statistics, as after a day at the zoo, I too had saved an animal’s life. And where is Billy now? Well probably roaming the countryside with a tiny knapsack full of quiche and a skip in his step/crawl. Or he’s been killed by the neighbour’s cat as L pointed out this morning. Hmm. Oh well. It was a nice thought while it lasted.

Home in but two hours, where the real internet exists. I may blog tomorrow. I may also hibernate. You’ll have to sit tight and see. Like a mouse in a whisky glass.

Here We Go Again….

As per every annum, here’s my blog from the train to Edinburgh. I always like to feel that by typing this as I am in motion onwards to world of Edinburghers, you, by reading it, can too feel the speed of my train (i.e. snail’s pace if that snail was crippled and still), the speed of the train’s internet (i.e. snail’s pace if the snail was crippled, still and somebody had shot it in the face and placed it in stasis) and the excitement brimming with me as I head towards the fringe (i.e. none). Any actual joy at the idea of heading up again for the month has been repeatedly beaten out of me as I lugged my suitcase around various tube stations this morning, with L behind me bashing people out of the way with hers and occasionally tripping up children. Now, out of needing to feel some reward, we have decided to sit next to each other on the train despite not having the right seats. The person who will urserp me from my position of comfort won’t be joining till Peterborough and we are currently concocting ideas of how to make said traveller feel so upset with the idea of breaking us apart that they would sooner throw themselves from the train rather than destroy our seating arrangement. So far we have nothing except to embrace tightly then cry as I get up to sit in my chair. I suspect that they too will have had a morning of luggage carrying that will have rendered them heartless, only combined with their general misery of being from Peterborough. I will lose.

I’ve already lost the ‘How many comedians are on the train’ game with L. She went for 7. I said 4. There are exactly 7 so far and so unless there are nega-comedians or anti-matter comics on board there is no way I can go back. Despite my usual joy to see such lovely people as Al Stick and Stuart Goldsmith, their being on the train has kicked off my position as a failure for the month before we’ve even begun and I’m secretly hoping them, Nish Kumar, Meryl O’Rourke, John-Luke Roberts and Nadia Kamal all get off the train at the next stop. If nothing else, it’d also mean me and L could definitely sit together. Some people are so bloody selfish.

Anyway, I could harp on about the delights of the buffet cart or how quickly my arse will go numb on the East Coast train seats designed only to be sat on by humans who’ve had their buttocks replaced by a single triangular plastic funnel, but instead I thought it might be useful to you if I recommend my suggestions for this year’s Fringe, so if you’re heading up you can get some ideas of what to do, see and fall into:

SHOWS:

Ones I’ve very much liked so far include Jigsaw, Stuart Goldsmith (I’ll like it better if he gets off the train), Matt Green, Sarah Millican (though you just try and get tickets for that. Bet you can’t), Glenn Wool, Carl Donnelly, Josie Long (hooray for another comic slagging off politics), Bridget Christie, Tony Law, Kerry Godlimann, Keith Farnan, James Acaster, Josh Widdicombe (the last two are doing their first hour and both are far too good. Maybe don’t see them out of spite. No do. They are brilliant), and Shappi Khorsandi.

Aside from the ones I have seen, two of my favourite comics to watch over the last year are Craig Campbell and Andrew Maxwell and both are well worth seeing for a comedy masterclass. Tiffany Stevenson’s show will be ace too, from the little bits I’ve seen. And I’m definitely going to see Colin Hoult’s show as last year it was immense.

Don’t know much theatre stuff but Theatre Ad Infinitum did one of the best shows I saw last year and I can only assume this year’s show Translunar Paradise will be done with the same high level of storytelling expertise and theatrical wonder. And I can also highly recommend Andersen 2011 and Brilliant Books for Kids, especially if you are a small person i.e. child not midget. Thought I suspect those of definitive stature will enjoy them very much too.

Lastly, I heard a show called ‘Tiernan Douieb vs The World’ is meant to be incredible. As is ‘The Adventurer’s Club – The Great Arctic Caper’ which has the best polar bear suit ever in it and the Comedy Club 4 Kids which has super hella awesome line-ups. No I’m not biased. Shhh.

OTHER THINGS:

Buy a raincoat. It’ll be shit all month.

 

There. That’s all you need. With those show suggestions and a raincoat, you’ll be fine. Oh and you should probably eat at some point too, though it can be overrated.

Onwards to the ‘Burgh! Or at least to Peterborough where someone’s going to kick my arse off the train….

Moral Codes

Sometimes I bloody hate morals. This morning I went for a casting for something that I was 100% I didn’t want. Its for a program that if I get it would go against most of what I talk about in stand-up, would probably put all the readers of this blog off me, and generally gain me fans that I probably wouldn’t like. It’s about a subject I don’t care about, on a channel I never watch and it would start in the middle of Edinburgh and essentially make all the hard work I’m putting into my show and the kids shows, a complete waste of time. Yet it would pay me to the extent I wouldn’t have to worry about money for quite some time and, more importantly, I really enjoyed the screen test this morning and found it easy work and all the people working on it to be really lovely, despite what I had previously thought.

 

As a side note: Bridget Christie and Jigsaw both did brilliant brilliant Edinburgh previews at Fat Tuesday last night. If you can see both their shows at the Fringe it’ll be highly worth it.

 

These are both terrible lures. I have always said that I am not driven by money, but as I sit here waiting another cheque for gigs that was promised to be delivered to me over three weeks ago, wondering if my phone bill will bounce again and how I will pay £1175 towards my Edinburgh accomodation – three times what I pay to live in London for a month – you start to think otherwise. Then knowing that I quite enjoy talking to and interviewing people, and knowing it wouldn’t be that hard to be solidly in work till November, and morals start to fade. They won’t readers, I promise, and I’ve already decided I’ll be turning this down if I get it, but that choice doesn’t come too easy at all.

 

When I spoke to Mark Thomas a few weeks back, he gave me quite a brilliant speech about not doing the gigs that you don’t want to and not conforming to adverts or things that go against who you are, and I agreed. I’d lose a lot of respect for him if he suddenly did a Coca-Cola advert just for extra cash or was seen on a poster for BAE. Both of which I’m sure he never will. But I sometimes have to do gigs I hate because they pay me. And telly work is so scarce for me, I wonder where I’d draw the line if it means I don’t have to be so financially stressed anymore. Should it be a problem though? Why are we, as comedians, so thrown into the front line when it comes to what we represent?

 

Well I think its because we head into the public with our own voice, our own opinions and, especially the more kosher of us, our true selves. I can honestly say that apart from the odd surreal lie or bending of truth to make a narrative flow, I say pretty much only what I actually think when on stage and this year’s Edinburgh show, much like last year’s, will be another example of this. So anyone who enjoys what I do would be right to be upset if I suddenly started advertising for a company or people I loathe. And those people would be right to be upset if I hosted a show I didn’t believe in despite its financial and fame rewards. And I’d be upset with myself too. So I’m not going to. I just sometimes wish these options didn’t seem so bloody shiny.