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….

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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.

Letter To The Burglars Of Methuen Park

Dear the people who burgled our flat last night,

I like to think that as I’m typing this up, you’re reading it from my laptop somewhere a bit scummy. I can only assume that if you spend your life prising open windows before racing in, grabbing other people’s property and legging it, you are probably based in a shed somewhere, or a cave and right now your sitting there feeling all smug about yourself for taking some of our stuff. I know we don’t live in a great property in terms of security. I have often worried about the possibilities of a zombie apocalypse and how we would defend ourselves in a ground floor flat with large windows onto our patio and a weak bamboo fence for defence, and the results always end up in me hiding somewhere else entirely or being eaten alive. Not that I’m saying you’re zombies or anything. I assume you have more intelligence than that and due to lack of damage on the bamboo fence I reckon you can climb which zombies can’t. Either that or you’re a panda sympathiser. To be honest I don’t know who you are or what your reasons were but basically its bloody well not on, alright?

Yes its tremendously exciting that a ‘crime scene investigator’ is coming round. I will pretend I’m in CSI Muswell Hill for the entire duration of his stay and say things about ‘carrying out bacterial DNA analysis’ and talking about getting the FTIR to work and so on. Yes I liked being given a CAD number and will now use this for whenever I am a slight rogue about something. And yes, soon I will be getting a brand new shiny laptop thanks to insurance. Its amazing that whilst insurance is an entire industry based on the misfortune of others there are times like this when I truly applaud their doings, and I will swing my new macbook around and around when I get it exclaiming that by making such a purchase I am fighting crime. I hope that really stings as you run your fingers over my grease stained keyboard with breadcrumbs in all the indents and that sharp plastic snapped bit at the front digging into your wrists as you stare as the smudged, never wiped screen. Ha.

But while there are those benefits, really what you’ve done is bloody horrible for a number of reasons. Firstly, that laptop you took was full of 5 years of writing and photos that I haven’t backed up. Sure a lot of it has been sent in emails and posted on Facebook from where I can retrieve them, but there was also a lot that wasn’t. You could blame me for such things, perhaps its my laziness that meant I should’ve gained a back up drive to transfer it across, but after two of those have already died on me I was reluctant to do so. Besides you just shouldn’t be taking stuff in the first place – have you not read the ten commandments? – and judging by your lack of morals you probably would have taken the back up drive too wouldn’t you? Yes. Well then. If you are reading this then I’d very much like my scripts back, particularly a small drama I was trying to write and had got 6 scenes into and is now lost forever, and some of my photos please. Not all. But the ones of my old cats when they were kittens would be ace. As would my trip to Cuba, and all my Norway pics. Those were my favourites. No doubt you have my email as its automatically logged into when you open my laptop, so please just send them on and I’ll put them on my new Macbook when I get it and look at them through a non-smudged screen. Also please don’t look through the folder within the folder called ‘iPhone’. You won’t like it. And no, I can’t just get my flatmates to do those poses again. It took a lot of booze the first time round.

Then there is the fact that you only took my laptop. Yes I should be grateful that nothing else needs replacing, but as you prised open our front window with whatever criminal tool you used – was it a crowbar? Isn’t that really 80′s? – then stomped through the house, took Nat’s laptop (she has another that I’m using now so gutted chumpos) and her phone (bastards) you then went into my room. Apparently my sock drawer isn’t exciting enough for you? You opened it but took nothing and I want you to know that that hurts as my A-Team socks are pretty fucking cool. You missed out there big time and you clearly have no taste. Yes I know the orange pair has a small hole in but the Mr T green pair are still like new. And you didn’t want my old school Tribal breakdancing writsbands either? I hate you so much. Then you checked my cupboard and obviously have no fashion taste as nothing was missing there and you entirely by passed my awesome onesi, my kermit the frog and my King of Limbs special edition LP/CD. You’re clearly someone I wouldn’t want to hang out with ever. And you don’t even know how sad Tom is that you didn’t take a single one of his things. Though to be fair, I wouldn’t either.

Enjoy looking at my life until you sell all that hard work and memory for however much on Gumtree. That’s where the police say you’ll sell it because I’m guessing you’re too cheap to pay eBay sellers fees. I daresay flicking through the folders you’ll see elements of a life that has achieved much more than you ever have. A person who’s never had to steal anything (except that jumper in Topman when I was 20 and a bit drunk. I am really sorry about that still. Really sorry. Oh and those candy matchsticks when I was 4, but I had no idea of morals then. Sorry again) to enjoy or get by in life. I’m sorry your life is so pathetic you can only carry on your existence by making others’ lives worse.

Oh and my next laptop will have a self-destruct mechanism on it. So there.

 

Yours, Burgelee Tiernan

Back Into Time

I was going to write a long blog about the May 5th vote and my opinions towards such things after various news stories and articles have wormed their way into mainstream media. However I’m going to save that for tomorrow because a) its hot and I’m tired and b) I’ve just spent 40 minutes having a discussion with Tom, PB and Mel based on a question recently posed by Josh Widdicombe about exactly what you would do if you knew you were going to be transported back to Victorian England in exactly 30 minutes time. I think you can all see just how this is far more important in terms of my freedom of expression, educating the masses and general providing intense topical satire on a lovely Saturday afternoon.

Here’s the criteria: In exactly half an hour you will teleported straight into the 1800′s, with no clothes, items or anything of use. So you have exactly that amount of time to gather a certain kind of information to help you to survive. A likely situation, I’m sure you’ll agree and one, that should it happen today, will really ruin my plans for the rest of the weekend. I’m meant to be at my friend Sam’s birthday at 7.30pm tonight and I was quite intent on watching Doctor Who as well, both of which would be hampered by my sudden displacement in the space/time continuum. That and I quite like the trousers I am wearing today and if they were to just disappear I’d be more than a tad gutted. I’d far prefer to be deprived of clothes on a day when I’m strutting around the flat in just some emergency boxers as at least then I’d arrive with the instant thought of ‘oh good, that saves me throwing them away.’

PB had several views about either entering the world of medicine with his now future knowledge of healing remedies, like, er, lemsip and er, lucozade. Tom insisted he would introduce the idea of the beef burger. Then there was some general consensus about writing classic novels first or making the Blair Witch Project or any number of insane profit making plans. All of these were hampered by the need to find clothes first and trying not to get arrested or killed perusing the streets of ancient London in ya nuddies. My initial ideas were that I would research where certain treasure would be discovered then go and find it first. I didn’t even contemplate the nudity problem and just thought I’d let my jangles swing in the wind while I promised the world some awesome bling, but it was pointed out I might seem crazy. After general consensus on stealing someone’s clothes or getting arrested and being sent to a Doctor to hopefully get clothes and help, I decided that I might spend my 30 mins previous researching all the Ripper killings and turn up just after the first or second one and shoot him, claiming my reward for stopping a serial killer. In reality I have a feeling I’d miss then get arrested for the crime I was standing by and generally fuck it up.

Worse than all this I’ve since realised that knowing me, I’d spend the half hour before having a shower as I’d miss those, playing some Xbox for the last time, then updating my Twitter and Facebook feeds to say cheerio to everyone. I’m not sure what my last tweet would be, but it would either be Doctor Who related, some gag about being so retro, or how my account is now history. I’d have to decide in the moment. It would definitely have the hashtag #timetravellingmaverick. Then on arriving I’d be so panicked I’d forget everything I’d learnt and spend my time trying to sell the script to Bad Boys 2 or something just as useless, before getting the plague and dying in an alley. Like I said, I’m fairly pleased this isn’t happening today.

I do think its important we ask ourselves these sorts of questions every now and then. Otherwise we’d never find out exactly what we’d learn should we only have a specific amount of time in the present before entering a specific area of the past. Then what would we do? Write a blog about the future of our country and its voting system? Yes, probably. Sigh.

Jerk Reactions

On a W7 bus this morning, the driver accidentally careered into a postbox. She was driving straight on the usual bus route, then out of nowhere, swerved left into a postbox. No one was particularly sure what happened and there was a good five minutes of everyone wondering what the thump was and why the bus had stopped. The confused bus driver got out, checked the postbox, checked the bus, then spent most of eternity reversing until we were back on track and nothing more was said. An old lady continued to look distressed throughout the rest of the journey as though she suffers from reoccuring nightmares about being sent second class delivery abroad in a small bus via Royal Mail.

 

I have these moments all the time. Occasionally eating soup or something that inevitably will cause mess should it be flicked somewhere, I will accidentally just have a jerk reaction and flick that food everywhere. Its called a jerk reaction because it is a total jerk thing for your muscles to do and in no way benefits anyone. Except the cleaning industry.

 

Its amazing I don’t notice this sort of thing more often. Everyone does it all the time. Only a few weeks back Craine managed to elbow an entire plate of rice onto his lap. There was general laughter, some pointing and the assumption he always does that sort of thing because, well, he does. I think its just more laughable when its rice and not an entire bus and a postbox. Perhaps if you are prone to such things then maybe you should get tested before you’re given any sort of job with responsibility like that. Before you are allowed to drive a bus, you have to career a go kart around lots of china plates with jelly on. Then you have to ride a bicycle around some children and so on until its proven you’re not a clutz. I’d be out in seconds. That’s why for the benefit of postboxes I don’t drive a bus.

Whingy McWhingerson

I think I’ve become a bit of a whinger lately. My general response, again today to people I hardly know, when asked the question ‘how are you?’ was to roll my eyes slightly, sigh and say that I’m extremely tired. Its not a lie, I am. After a week in Denmark I’ve been thrown into all sorts of work, a perpetual lack of sleep and no day anytime soon where I can just sit in the park and absorb sunlight until I inevitably burn, use up all my body’s energy to deal with the burn and feel even worse than I did before. I seem to have a consistent sore throat, slightly swollen tongue and if I walk up stairs too quickly I feel like I might have to have a lie down. None of these are particularly good things. See? Whinging. I never used to do this and I can probably blame a large part of it on myself burning the candle at both ends, am activity made only more stupid by the question of where the candle would be held in the first place. If it is in the middle of the candle then its highly likely it was designed to be burned at both ends, otherwise finding the wick on the end not designed for fire activity would be hard to find and far too much effort. I’m jus’ sayin’. It is also nothing that I should be able to complain about. I know that there are people out there that would love to get paid to work abroad and then return to a heap of work that they find fun. So essentially I am just making life sound far worse than I really should. But I would like a holiday.

I prefer to respond with a genuine answer to someone questioning my current state of being. I’m sick of saying fine as its such a dull and common response. If you are indeed feeling fine then perhaps use others words to jazz it up: ‘I’m feeling adequate,’ ‘I’m about three degrees below chipper but ten paces forward from misery’ or go all abstract with ‘ not dissimilar to the slow lemur when it is discovered that a pear it previously thought inedible is in fact edible but tastes bland.’ If nothing else it will stump the person asking you into assessing their own life and we can all get on with our days feeling slightly less secure than before. See again? Whingy. This all peaked yesterday when I wrote a rather stern letter to the company who represent our landlord. Tom and Nat are still sleeping in the living after four months of having dangerous black mould in their room. If it was anyone else in there I’d have gone slightly loony at the prospect of having no living room, but its not been the end of the world, especially as I have worked out to make some sort of indication I’m leaving my room in the morning so as not to catch Tom in his pants.

But either way, its a disgraceful amount of time to leave the problem alone and we have been constantly reassured that they want to get it sorted quicker then we do and other such false statements. They aren’t living in a place that has been reduced by one third of the size due to a fungal beast. The mould isn’t paying rent. Nor is it a particularly sociable creature and all in all, we’d quite like it gone now. So, I wrote an email. An email that contained a few possible court threats and such and they responded with a slightly venomous reply, but a reply nonetheless and that feels like a win. It will all be dealt with, but most importantly as I hit the send button I was overwhelmed with a great feeling of joy as though I had just stuck it to the man. Not sure which man and I worry that by sticking to the one we need to, he’ll be too busy trying to remove said stick to fix the mould, therefore ruining the whole situation. Now of course I actually have to speak to the landlord via the phone and I fear the wordiness of my email will be replaced by a slightly more humble wuss chat where nothing continues to happen. I’m revving myself up with enough coffee to do otherwise.

I presume this is all age and a lack of tolerance for people being dicks. The more time goes on, the more I realise I am too busy for people that consume time like its made of peanut butter and they have a food consumption problem. Tonight I’m off to for a rare trip to the theatre where I will turn my phone off and spend the evening being unnecessary judgmental about people’s acting abilities. And should anyone at the end of the evening even so much as enquire how I am, I will burst into a monologue of my own until they have heard at least twelve different ways of describing my exhausted state of madness.

If I was a 70′s sci-fi underwater puppet show, I’d be Whingeray. If I was a terrible musical about nothing in particular, I’d be Whistle Down The Whinge. Gone With The Whinge. Oh The Whinge Of A Dove etc etc etc until you claw your own ears off….

On a much nicer note, if you’re around on May 19th then you should head along to this very good gig, in aid of an excellent and often unnoticed charity.

Are You Taking The Peace? – http://www.thebloomsbury.com/event/run/1552

Kidulthood

It’s Mothering Sunday or Mother’s Day if you will, and although this blog shall have little to do with it, I feel it should be mentioned incase its already worrying many of you that I’d forgotten. Well I haven’t. Generic M+S flowers have been bought, a visit home will be made in a few hours, my parents will once again note that its an overblown celebration that began with the basis of war and religion (it comes from returning to the Mother church and then later the day soldiers were allowed home to see their parents) and is now a cruel by product of card companies and marketing. But my mum will still like the flowers. The joys of having parents who were heavily influenced by the late 1960′s early 70′s heydays. I think the concept of Mother’s Day is lovely, but much like with Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day or any other where you are told you ‘must’ show your love for someone close to you on a specific day, I always question whether this allows people to shun doing such things on every other day? I very much love my parents whatever the day, and I’d like to think that in and amongst the borrowing money, free dinners and stealing my Dad’s wellies for Bestival, I make this clear most of the year. I often wonder how many people don’t speak to their parents at all, building up to the one day of the year they feel they probably should, give a card and flowers and are done with it. If I ruled the world, which let’s be realistic, won’t happen for at least another few years yet (I have stuff to do before then), I would ban all celebrations bar birthdays, and traditional ancient religious ones ie Christmas, Hannukah, Eid etc etc. In its place I would just enforce that you appreciate people at all times unless you hate them then they don’t even have to get a text on New Years or a friend request on Facebook. I’d also make the postman deliver free pancakes every morning, encourage random acts of dancing and make saying ‘literally’ when its obvious that what you are saying is literal, literally illegal.

Keeping the vague theme of parents in mind, I had a moment last night where I remembered just how great it is being an adult. I still get those even at 30. Occasional mornings where I wake up and think ‘I don’t have to go to school! Yey!’ and it still feels brilliant. Going to the supermarket and just buying the worst, most sugary cereal possible and not having someone tell me I can’t. Moments like that. I wonder if I’ll ever grow out of it, and fear that one day as a parent myself I’ll say such things to my children and realise that’s the point it all goes wrong. Or worse, not say it, allow them to dodge school and only live on Frosties and realise that’s the point it all goes wrong. It feels a tad doomed either way. Yesterday’s moment was on my way back from a lovely gig at Leeds Hi-Fi Club. Its a top night at the worst of times and despite being a tad quiet I very much enjoyed ribbing a man who worked in ‘sports travel’. He stated his job was getting people to sports events, I retorted by saying ‘I don’t mean to dampen your spirits, but isn’t that what people have been doing themselves for years?’ Cue much fun banter all at the detriment of him and his career. After the gig I dropped by Sheffield to pick up Tom from his gig and speeding down the motorway we both mentioned several times how hungry we were.

This is when the moment happened. Tom suggested we stop somewhere and get a curry. Somewhere off the M1. This would mean just completely throwing the idea of going straight home into the wind and stuffing our faces somewhere we really didn’t need to be. Exciting times. Googling away we found a place in Leicester that stayed open till one and the plan was set. You can’t do that as a kid. Not least because you aren’t allowed to drive. But also because you’d be told it wasn’t sensible and to come home. Same with some relationships. But not me and Tom. We drove 15 miles out of our way, ate a curry and then went home making up raps to Ugly Duckling beats because we are grown ups! Yeah! The curry was slightly marred by the only other table in the restaurant being three old Brummie men who made all possible bodily noises during the course of their meal. A sneeze would be followed by a low guttural moan, which would be complimented by a burp from one of the others and punctuated by the last one’s fart. Myself and Tom found it hilarious at first, especially the odd moaning post sneeze sounds, but after a while it became nothing but disturbing. The waiter had to stand elsewhere in the restaurant while these men made all sorts of physical cacophony. We wondered if it would be a matter of time before all three synchronised and formed some sort of disgusting beat box medley. We didn’t stick around to find out. Knowing that they too were not only grown ups but even older ones sort of ruined the whole thing. Although saying that, maybe they were just relishing that no one was telling them they couldn’t?

I’m off to Denmark at 4am tomorrow morning so blogging may occur at odd times and with delirious sleepless rambling. Sometimes being a grown up sucks.

What A Guy

I don’t want to pretend that I’m a hella cool hard man or anything but there are very few things that make me ever weep a tear. Besides hayfever or unnecessary wind blown grit, its hard to lure a drop of salt water from these peepers without it being something fairly drastic. I’m not made of stone by any means, which is lucky as it’d be hard to move anywhere and I’d find it difficult using paper of scissors. I mean normal sad things will work such as bereavements, spilling a plate of food when I’m starving, and the first ten minutes of Up, but past that my visual receptacles are drier than Steve Wright’s wit. Except for, and this is a fairly recent development, when watching certain music concerts. Its happened a few times lately that when watching a band I really love suddenly leap into that track you’ve been dying to hear they just well up a tad. I’m not quite sure why or whether in older age I’ve become some sort of big Softy Softerson, but during the Elbow concert last night I came close to erupting like an anti-volcano (ie water instead of fire) about umpteen million times as Guy Garvey bellowed those gravelly tones and beautiful lyrics to some of my very favourite songs.

I became an Elbow fan slightly later than a lot of people. I’ve had a habit of doing this in my life. Having been brought up through school on a strict diet of hip-hop, garage and drum n bass, I found the Brit Pop scene several years after everyone else, and it was only at uni I got into Radiohead, Tom Waits and Jeff Buckley long after he’d died. Later still, as much as I did like Blur when I was 15-16 years old, its only many moons later that I’ve become a big Albarn fan and shelled out to see them at Hyde Park last year. I feel a bit like those people who decide to support a football team once they’ve already won things rather than loyalty. Elbow I just missed at Bestival two years ago. The sound system was rubbish that year and I’d already had the Fleet Foxes ruined by being unable to hear anything they played unless I was standing in the comedy tent on the other side of the field. So knowing I needed to head home on the Sunday night, realising I wouldn’t be able to hear them well anyway and feeling like I desperately needed a shower, I escaped while everyone else was watching them play as the sun set. I still very much regret this. A month or two later I heard Mirrorball on Mark Radcliffe’s show on Radio 2 and found myself sitting in complete silence as I listened to the words and raced home to eagerly get everything they’d ever made. Their current album has been on repeat constantly since I bought it two weeks ago and I’m worried there’ll be a point where I have to have it constantly playing on earphones wherever I go.

Finally seeing them at the O2 last night I found yet another reason to be a fan. Live, Elbow are amazing. I’m not sure how exactly they made a crowd of 15000 seem intimate, but Guy managed to reach even us at the very back and make it feel like it was our own special gig. He said at the top of the show that there would be audience participation of the cheesiest level all the way through and he kept his word. Getting us all to pronounce ‘love’ as though we were Northern, demanding a standing ovation for row z, block 108 as they were the furthest away from the stage and making sure that every track had an introduction or banter to check we were ok. Guy Garvey’s voice is amazing too. Several shivers were sent down my spine during ‘The Night Will Always Win’ and ‘Great Expectations’. Every track caused myself and Tom to lean over and say ‘This one’s brilliant!’ to the point where we just gave up as we’d become repetitive. After an hour and 45 minutes the gig finished and I found myself still wanting more. Truly one of the best gigs I’ve seen in a long time and if I can manage to stop playing one of their CDs at any point today I’ll be surprised.

That was a very gushy blog but much deserved. If you haven’t listened to them before or aren’t fussed, sorry for putting you through that, but its your fault for having no taste or being too slow. I heart Elbow.

PS Its also very worth mentioning that Villagers who supported them were just brilliant too and they have also gained a new fan. They haven’t made me well up yet though so they don’t get a whole blog to themselves just yet. And no readers, you can’t just try and find ways to make me weep just to get a blog mention. That’s not how it works, so no poking me in the eye next time I see you. Thanks.

FYI: OMG LOL

Language is constantly changing. In the time I’ve been alive ‘bad’ has come to mean good, ‘ming’ is no longer just a type of vase and ‘shit off’ is a valid phrase. Yet today Twitter is in uproar about the acronyms OMG, FYI and LOL being added to the Oxford English Dictionary. I can’t say I’ve ever been a huge fan of any of these phrases. FYI sometimes leaks its way into my emails to save me typing any further sentence or explanation and assuming the receiver can just read the below without further prompt. For that I applaud it’s use. OMG however and LOL are both terms that I have only ever used with extreme sarcasm, often to point out the extensive levels of boredom something has caused or how incredibly unfunny something might be. Nat and Tom have a very funny game where sometimes they email each other incredibly dull tweets with the subject line ‘OMG look what so and so’s written!’ only to click and discover that person is ‘having a cup of tea’ or something as equally mind numbing. Its three letters that can instantly sum up the user’s personality in a second. If said in an over the top, taking the piss tone, then you can assume the speaker is a hilarious wit and an all together good egg. If used with serious excitement, genuine concern or in fact any emotion rather than sheer mockery, its likely they are a vacuous waste of human flesh ie Peaches Geldof. If the OED definition uses this as its rightful meaning I will be extremely proud.

LOL similarly should be used with caution. Its extremely rare that anything I have ever read on a screen has ever made me Laugh Out Loud. There have been several smirks, the occasional smile, and millions of non-plussed noises. So when something has actually made me guffaw to myself whilst sitting at my laptop, it feels churlish to merely reduce such joy to three letters. Not only that but I worry that it will destroy the meaning of the word ‘loll’ which ironically probably describes most users of ‘LOL’. Other words that have entered include ‘dotbomb’ a phrase which I have never heard before and was worried was a new type of dangerous micro weapon, ‘ego-surfing’ which I am a victim of and often wave my fists in the air wishing I had a name that would disappear into google more easily, and the heart symbol, which will help anyone who only reads Wingdings.

But overall we should look at the positives of all this. Firstly Scrabble will become easier. Especially when playing against elderly relatives who won’t have a clue what ‘FYI’ means as you slam it down on the board, scoring a 9 pointer at least and then as they check the dictionary for proof, lampooning them with a victory dance as you kick over their ridiculous classic words and spit cold tea in their face screaming ‘Take that Nan! Your time is up!’ Then there are all those school kids who up until now have suffered low exam results for text speak spelling, suddenly becoming high scorers, progressing to Oxford and running our government until the Houses of Parliament are all shouting ‘LOL’ everytime someone says something that vaguely resembles a joke. Then we have the possibilities that over time all speak will be abbreviated until there is more time in everyone’s lives and boring conversations will fly by in seconds, meetings will be reduced to one dullard saying ‘SWHROT (So we haven’t reached our targets) TCIGIL (The Company is going into liquidation) YAF (you’re all fired)’ everyone else saying ‘OMG’ and then they all leave.

All I’m saying is that it can all only be a good thing. I look forward to the day this all progresses and we all end up talking Nadsat, right right droogs?

Quick other note, as I will talk about this more tomorrow, but there is a big protest against the cuts tomorrow. Do you hate the cuts? If you say no, you’re an idiot, or very rich. Either way you should probably stop reading this blog as it will either have confused or upset you many times by now. Anyway, the protest will be excellent, and at 2pm I’ll be taking part in occupying a bank or tax dodging company shop to do a gig in it with Josie Long, Mark Thomas and Chris Coltrane among others. It will be awesome. Come protest and laugh. Laughtest. Prough. Details below.

STAND UP FOR THE ALTERNATIVE

Mini Beasts

I love Spring. I like all the things that happen when Spring happens. Like the sunshine, the flowers blooming, the birds singing, the tiny spiders in my room and the ants in the living room…..oh. Oh dear. As Nat pointed out when I found the four scurrying scouts preparing to send back word about all the food crumbs on our homely floor, our flat seems to become more and more like a shack everyday that goes by. Her and Tom are still sleeping in the living room due to the mould in their room. It still hasn’t paid rent. Nor has it ever made us a cup of tea or even socialised with us on an evening and its starting to feel like a squatter who hasn’t even bothered to see if the house is vacated let alone look into its rights. Combine this with the windows that don’t open properly, the shower guard that doesn’t, the kitchen cupboard door that is falling off its hinges and the odd amounts of dust this place gathers as though we must shed skin quicker than a snake on speed, and you could say our home has a lot of character if nothing else. And now, to give depth to that character two seasons in, we appear to have a small amount of ants that want to hang out. Well we don’t want them to hang out. I’ve never been a fan of ants, yet throughout my life, they appear to be a fan of me. Most places I have lived in, have at some point or another, had a lot of ants maraud through in a blurry black line of food theft. My student house in the second year where my housemates and I had parties of legendary quality, would always be left the day after such an event in a state of sheer disarray. Beer spilt on the floor, mud, mess, general mayhem and yet, through all of this, there would also always be a long line of ants. Starting near the front door and making their way all round the living room far wall, to the kitchen door, through the kitchen and around that wall and out through the back door to the garden. You could have neatly cut around the dotted line they made and pulled half of the house off its foundations.

Joining our new found ant buddies were two tiny spiders I found in my room yesterday. One found its way onto my arm somehow and then found its way flung outside via my pen and some fury. The other one scrabbling around my keyboard as though trying to type a message of help. I disregarded such a warning and flicked it somewhere else in the room thus not really removing the problem. I have never liked spiders either. Too many legs and eyes for any creature and throughly selfish when you consider the plight of the worm which has neither. I’m not a fan of any creepy crawlies, giving maybe a moment’s thought for a bee thanks to honey making or a ladybird because it looks all fancy. Butterflies don’t hold any water with me, not least because they can’t physically hold water with such tiny legs, but also because while they look all pretty wingwise, look closer and they still have stupid horrible insect faces. Something they should really think about sorting out should they ever want to be friends with me. Above all though, spiders are definitely the worst of the mini-beasts. They have powers we just can’t understand. I once found one on my arm whilst in an open field. It left my arm by climbing up a web that appeared to be attached to the sky and it continued to climb until it had entirely disappeared. I am still disturbed by this. I am more disturbed by the idea of it raining spiders. I hate spiders. Though I am now worried that the one on my keyboard was trying to tell me something. And maybe the ants in the kitchen are crawling around in the pattern of an ancient prophecy? If the wasps that used to live in our bathroom return and die in a pattern in the bath spelling ‘the apocalypse is now’ then I’ll really start to worry.

More likely however, is that we just need to hoover again. I suspect I’ll be seeing many more of the wee monsters very soon. Hooray for Spring. Sigh.