Wednesday, September 30, 2009

God Bothered

I live around the corner from the Rainbow Theatre, a building that since its construction has witnessed many incredible things. The walls could tell you many tales of old film screenings from when it was one of the largest cinema's in London during the 1930's. Then during the 60s it held music concerts from the likes of Frank Sinatra, The Beach Boys, The Beatles and Otis Redding to name a few. This was followed up in the 70s by gigs from The Who, Frank Zappa, Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley. After it was graced with the presence of such amazing musicians, the Rainbow Theatre was home to several boxing matches before it lay derelict till 1995. Since then arguably it has become home to its greatest spectacle's yet, spiritual healinings, exorcisms and general shitty god waffle thanks to the UCKG, the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God. I'm sure Jimi Hendrix is spinning in his grave and its not just because he took so much acid during his life that its still affecting his corpse. It makes me so angry that that's what this incredible building is now being used for. I would do anything to have a brilliant rock venue around the corner from my house rather than a bunch of people who are fairly sure that by singing about a non-existant deity that they can cure AIDS. Sure, you might say that having a music venue nearby would cause large amounts of drunken fans loitering at night perhaps causing mayhem. This may be true, but I prefer them to a group of God botherers who insist on posting preachy bits of paper through my door and covering the area in overly dramatic posters.

Now, I'm not usually that venomous to religious people. I like to think that its their choice to believe in what they like and one day hopefully they'll grow up, but I won't get too upset if they don't. What I can't stand about the UCKG is things like the like fact that they have been accused of fraud several times before and are under constant investigation for money laundering, fraud and their founder Bishop Macedo was imprisoned for tax evasion. If this wasn't enough then the two responsible for the abuse and death of Victoria Climbe were both members and did it because they believed the eight year old was possessed by Satan. I think that in all circumstances I would prefer 2000 Iron Maiden fans walking the streets of Finsbury Park rather than anyone like that. This is not just because Iron Maiden fans are now all middle aged and massively harmless. Now admittedly, I am rarely harassed by these funda-mentalists, but they manage to irritate me even when they are not trying to enlist my beliefs. Things like this just annoy the fuck out of me:

Sadly my iPhone camera isn't all that amazing (thanks very much Steve Jobs), but if you can't read it, the text says 'The God Who Answers By Fire. He is God.' I would have thought that the god who answers by fire is either an arsonist, or a dragon. Whichever of those he is, I wouldn't recommend worshipping them, as it will only lead to mayhem. Maybe I'm wrong and the faithful have a lot of time for the Church of Keith Flint. Also this advert, surely this is just asking for someone to set fire to their church after they've done a bit of chanting? I'm certainly considering it. If that building does burn down on Oct 11th I think there are some insurance questions that need to be answered. Although worryingly if they ask them to god, he may respond in more fire.

The other two signs that they have up at the moment are one about the Sunday Afternoon of Power, which just sounds gash and a giant picture of a boat in rocky waters with a lighthouse shining onto it. The tagline says 'Are you sinking? Then come to the lighthouse.' What they have failed to take into consideration is that if your boat is sinking, it may be rather hard to steer towards a lighthouse. What they need is a life boat. That is quite different and has a far greater level of flotation. Essentially by shining a large beam of light into the sailors faces as they slowly drown, you are merely mocking them and allowing them to see their own demise even more clearly. Along with these signs they have a regular paper which I occasionally read and chuckle along with, whilst worrying its destroying my mind. Its called 'City News' and frequently fails to have any news whatsoever. Instead it specialises in telling stories about people who have been raped/drug dealers/had their family killed but then found god and now everything's la di da. Every one of these stories goes through the process of just how awful their lives were before they discovered the UCKG and never seems to notice that god is a real bastard for not helping them out before all of this happened. Not only that but they always have to find him, as though he is like one of those council workers who is always on answerphone and never at his desk. More and more they are convincing me that should a higher power exist, he's really not very nice. The only thing that will sway such a decision is if he does set fire to the Rainbow Theatre on Oct 11th and rid our area of such purveyors of anti-social behaviour.

Oh and Fat Tuesday was brilliant yesterday. Maxwell, Doody and Ramsey were all ace, but the star of the night was Chris Smith, a man who reads the news on Radio 1. I made him say things in his news voice and it was the best thing ever. If you weren't there you are a stupid. I'm going to play badminton today with Tom, Nat and Josh (Widdicombe). I will wear my Bjorn Borg headband as given to me by Jon Maisey (@MaiseyJon). This means I will definitely win everything. Then off to Mat's for Halo ODST and pizza. Today has the markings of goodness.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Snot Fair

I'm full of snot. I don't know where its all come from but I have suspicions that someone has built a snot factory within my head and is churning out more than the usual production rate. I'm not really sure why they would do this. Snot has little value in today's climate. In fact, snot has little value in any climate. Its a shame really as I could be making quite a bit of dosh right now if it was. I don't like being snotty. I don't feel remotely ill or man/woman/swine/bird fluey. I just have lots of snot. There are some suspicions that I have caught whatever Layla had, only my immune system is clearly able to deal with nearly all of it. It must be hard to deal with snot. If you punch it, it gets stuck to your hand. If you set fire to it you burn your nose. If you eat it, you're disgusting. There was a boy at my primary school called Humphrey who spent all day eating his own snot. He had a constantly running nose throughout the year and so there was always a stream for him to indulge in. On certain days he wouldn't even have to use the aid of his fingers as it was like a waterfall of green snackery straight into his gob. How we, as mean 5 year olds, used to mock his nasty ways. Thing is, if there was ever a famine or food shortage in the world, Humphrey would have been completely able to sustain himself while we all starved. Sad, but true.

I could do without all this today, as its the first Fat Tuesday back tonight. I'm really looking forward to it, but need to discipline myself to write some things for the regulars that are in the crowd. Luckily its not heaps of work as I scribbled a few things for my gig last night that was sadly cancelled. I say sadly but it meant I got some fresh air before getting to come home again, see Layla and eat macaroni cheese. Macaroni cheese is undoubtedly one of the best dishes known to humankind. I can never work out exactly what makes it so brilliant. Its definitely partly down to the cheese, this is obvious. But the macaroni. Well its just pasta isn't it? Just because its tiny pasta should not make it taste any better. I'm fairly sure its a psychological thing. The Derren Brown of Italian cuisine if you will. We assume that its minuscule tubage makes it better than its older brother penne, who's size of hole in the middle means there is more air and less pasta. It just confirms the old adage that all good things come in small packages. With the exception of cars, and other brilliant big things. There is a wealth of innuendo that could follow this statement but I will leave it to you to work out.

Tonight will be great, with the rather excellent line-up of Andrew Maxwell, Nick Doody and Chris Ramsey. In fact I reckon the whole night will be just over par, mostly because that's a bogey. Must go blow my nose.

There are still some tickets for tonight's awesomeness right here:

Monday, September 28, 2009

Funny World and Psychic Spies

A man came round this morning to help me sort out debt things. I won't go into it as while its ultimately a good thing this blog is not about money misery and I don't want you to revel in the thoughts of Barclaycard making me give them fingers or knees as a last resort repayment option. I wouldn't want to lose either of these things as I quite like both my fingers and knees. Its a shame they didn't ask for my appendix as it is only useful to me when imitating a rabbit as accurately as possible.I would like to stress that it is rare I have to do such impressions but you never know. I would happily put said rabbit moments to one side if Barclaycard would accept my appendix. 'If you don't want to mention this Tiernan then why are you?' I hear you cry. Well, once again I would ask you not to cry, unless you are peeling onions as you read or have perhaps seen a particularly sad accident in your peripheral vision as you look at the webpage. The reason, as there is always a reason, is that the very nice man who came round asked me what my job was. I was completely honest and told him the nature of my comedy living, to which he replied that his best friend's son is also a stand-up of whom I have heard. While it was lovely and led him to understand the madness of my money situation a little better, it is also the umpteen billionth time I have met someone who also knows a comedian in the last few weeks. That, by the way, is an exact number. What this means, I have realised, is that either there are far too many comedians in the world, or that a series of people are saying they do comedy when they do not. I'm not sure why you would want to pretend to have this job as to really make people believe you are a stand-up you'd have to spend a good amount of time driving up and down motorways and it would be more than a little awkward when people ask you to tell some jokes. Saying that, its more than a little awkward when people ask me to tell them a joke anyway. Although it could mean I'm not a proper comedian and I'm merely lying. If this is true then points must be given for the extent I have taken that lie, including actually gigging and making sure I don't receive most payments for doing so until months afterwards. I'm a pretty good liar.

If there are, as the other theory suggests, too many comics, then my fear is that numbers will continue to rise until there are more comics than society can sustain and the environment will be irreparably damaged. The world will be in desperate need of people who can do actual jobs such as plumbing or clever things and instead they will have an overwhelming amount of people who can make jokes about plumbing or clever things. A rather horrifying image I think you'll agree. On the plus side, while the world is collapsing and falling apart, we will all be able to laugh about it. This will of course upset all the emos, but they like being upset so it sort of works out for them too. I'm starting to bring myself round to liking this idea. Maybe I will make myself king, who by default, will also be his own court jester. If all of this scares you then next time you see a comedian, kill them. That's the only way to avoid such terrors. Oh dear this is clearly what happens when I get up too early.

I got round to watching Derren Brown's 'How To Be A Psychic Spy' last night on the old 4oD. It's not old really, otherwise I'd be watching hieroglyphics of it on a parchment, which I can't imagine would be as good. For a start you'd know what the hidden shape was purely by reading further down on the scroll, which would be cheating. Anyway, once again the man made my head hurt, although I felt pleased to possibly work out that the public at the museum had drawn circles maybe because of all the subliminal circle shapes around the area they were in (ie on the wall behind the picture and on the railings behind Derren). Either way though he once again proved he is clearly evil. I did spend a large portion of last night wondering what it would be like to be a psychic spy and how much fun it would be seeing stuff through other people's eyes. I would spend a lot of time watching films I didn't have to pay for as that would be ace. I clearly don't have the ability to do such things as my guess at the hidden picture was a dragon with the second guess being a man who lived in a shoe and only his head could be seen. All these thoughts may well have been tainted by the vast amount of food I ate at Layla's parents house though as well as the booze and cake that made me a bit dizzy. On reflection I'd do much better as an anti-caking agent, if only to make myself avoid such consequences.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Surrealism and Cubism

I'm about to go and eat three tons of molokhia (pronounced as though you are coughing up some serious phlegm) and fatiya (pronounced 'Tiernan's favourite Arabic dough parcels') at Layla's parents house. I love their feasts and they have that typical Mediterranean/Arabic intention to not let you leave until you have eaten just about everything. I'm very good at feigning at politely saying I really don't want anymore before stuffing my face so full of grub I feel sick. I love Sunday eatings. Despite being completely nonreligious, I do like to think that Sunday is a special day in some sense, if only because it should be saved for serious eating. This then allows you to build up enough energy to keep you going through the week. It's what Jesus would have wanted. To be fair, even if he didn't want it, I couldn't care less and would happily dance with the Devil if he promised mega food Sundays. As well as food, little else should be done and part of me is very sad we have to drive to the food. Ideally, the food would arrive at our flat so leaving pajamas need never be an option. I long for the days of teleportation. Although I know that when it arrives I would horribly mistreat it. So many thoughts of appearing onstage next to Mika with a big mallet and just giving him a smack around the face before disappearing. Or temporarily appearing infront of moving cars before disappearing again to make the drivers go nuts. Or even better, teleporting inside a lion's cage at the zoo for a photo then getting out again before you get growled at. Or worse, get wee'd one by one of them. Apparently lion's wee contains so much ammonia you would have to burn your clothes if they got wee'd on as the smell would never ever leave. Although if you are close enough to a lion to get wee'd on, there are probably more important things to worry about. Ultimately, I would not be allowed to teleport.

Last night was very very lovely. I've known Louise since the beginning of university which is frighteningly ten years ago now. Her and Kieran have been together for quite a while and they seemed so happy to have finally tied the knot yesterday. The wedding was in one of the best settings I've seen in sometime - Fort Amherst. A bizarre maze of caves that were the underground passages to areas of a Napoleonic fort. The caverns were atmospheric and while I was very much enjoying being there, everytime I went into an area where not too many people were about, I did find myself getting very worried about ghosts. Quite a few Most Haunted's have been filmed there and there is definitely meant to be some scary activity going on. At one point myself, Brendan Pappy's (for that is what he shall be called in this blog) and his lovely wife Lo, were all looking for somewhere to put wedding cards. We were told there was a box 'upstairs', but not sure where, and as we ascended staircase after staircase, through windy corridors and arches, there came a point where we could no longer hear the music or chatter from downstairs. I felt it was my duty to tell Brendan and Lo that this is exactly how horror movies start and so we descended with cards still in hand. There were several people there who I hadn't seen in ages and ages, and it was really nice catching up. In particular I chatted for about an hour and a half with Oliver Double, the world's only doctor of comedy and the man that persuaded me to do stand-up in the first place. We chatted about many things, but he brought up how myself and Jimmy McGhie were the only two students that had done his stand-up course and pursued it as a career. Odd really, and a shame too. I can only assume that all those other students had decided they wanted some sort of regular income and a job that did not require ever having to do the Hyena in Newcastle. Both Ollie's sons are diabetic and he was telling me the merits of them having an insulin pump. I have always slighty objected to the idea of having something constantly attached to my body, like a robotic conjoined twin, but Ollie has almost persuaded me to give it a try. All I need to do now is convince my brain it would make me a bit like Robocop, only if Robocop had a problem with handling glucose intake.

So many people I know are getting married. It does feel like I've suddenly entered a certain area of adulthood where this happens. I spent ages talking to Brendan and Lo about their wedding and I had a real moment of clarity that none of us are 18 anymore. Next everyone will have babies, the retire, get arthritis and die. Terrifying. I say terrifying but its actually all pretty awesome and it made me feel all a bit soppy watching Louise and Kieran having their first dance and looking stupidly happy. I was also forever be jealous that Lou had arranged for Kieran to arrive to the wedding in the Knight Rider KITT car. So so jealous. The night would only have been made better had I drank my face off. Being designated driver that wasn't going to happen, but it did mean I refrained from any terrible dancing, accidentally saying something really offensive to someone I didn't know or trying to catch the bouquet. I think maybe I shouldn't drink at weddings more often.

Before I leave this blog for Sunday gluttony, I MC'd the Comedy Club 4 Kids yesterday at the Soho Theatre. It was a really great gig with a very full audience and great sets from David Morgan, Holly Walsh and the two 'kid' (they're both teenagers really) acts Frankie and Preston. However, one moment in particular completely tickled me. A small girl who must've been aged 7, was sat on the front row and said that she liked school. Her name was Tara and I asked her why she liked school. Her answer was that she liked school 'mostly because of one subject really, which is art.' Expecting the answer to be sticking pasta to sugar paper, or doing hand prints in paint, I enquired what Tara's favourite type of art was. Her reply, 'Surrealism and Cubism'. I almost fell over backwards in shock. Who says the education system is failing?

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Fourball Knockout

My eyes were really full of sleep this morning. I can only assume its some sort of bodily attempt to keep them shut in order to gain even more slumber. I've got to do the Comedy Club 4 Kids in a few hours though so that sleep needed to be dealt with. I don't get why its called 'sleep', because its not sleep. Its just things that appear while you sleep. Thats that same as if any symptoms that occurred while doing anything were just called the same name as whatever caused them. Its lazy, these things have proper names. You don't see warnings on bottles saying 'Bleach may occur if you drink bleach.' Or people saying 'I've gone completely wanking due to vigorous wanking'. Sleep does have two actual names. I know this because I wikipedia'd it and everything they say on wikipedia is clearly true. Even when its been listed by liars. The two other names for sleep are Gound and Rheum. I like the latter, purely because you can say the sentence 'I've had so much sleep I've got extra rheum' or when pointing to someone else's gound 'here's the guest rheum'. Maybe I'll keep all my rheum and put it in a bottle to sell on ebay as 'Bottled Sleep'.

I think I'm tired today because last night's gig felt like actual work. The venue itself was amazing. After turning off the road towards the hotel, you then have to drive through 5 minutes of grounds before getting to the actual Hanbury Manor Marriott. By that I don't mean they've put tons of coffee remenants on the floor. I'm talking acres of land. The main building is incredible and absolutely huge, complete with swimming pool several restaurants and golf club for the golf course behind it. I'll be honest, I completely felt like I shouldn't really be there. I have an odd instinct with these sort of places that its only a matter of time before someone spots I'm there and I have to be removed by security because 'there is some urchin loitering the property'. John Mann, who very kindly booked me for the gig, warned me not to use a certain swear word beginning with c, but other than that he said that the crowd of mostly golf members would be very nice and chatty, despite how they looked. A crowd of about 30-40 of them gathered in the golf club bar surrounded by trophies and pictures of past captains. I couldn't understand why Captain Nelson, Captain Kirk or any other famous captains weren't there, but apparently it was something to do with golf. John expertly compered the first half and as he brought me on my mind raced as to what on earth I could relate to these people. They wouldn't understand what it's like only having £10.50 to last me till next month. The first few mins lasted ok, as I made a joke about my lack of golf knowledge and how I thought Tiger Woods was just somewhere you shouldn't ramble. Then pointed out some of the plaques on the wall with the names of winners of certain tournaments. One was called Fourball Knockout (the tournament that is, not the winner) and there was much mileage on the possibilities of a game where you disable two men at once. Oh the hilarity. Then for some reason the light laughter and mild staring I was getting suddenly stopped and was replaced by sympathetic smiles and no sound whatsoever. I couldn't quite work out what I'd done, although I assumed it was the moment where they realised I probably shouldn't be allowed on the premises. Very weird and so I soldiered on for my 25 minutes, to nothing, unprofessionally telling them they'd been starey at the end. I shouldn't have done that at all, but I felt it must be known. John very kindly got me some free grub and I sat to watch the second half where John had some great stuff at the top and then Nick Revell stormed it. It was entirely playable, I just didn't play it.

I think I have an innate fear of performing to very rich people. Last year I did a gig in a barn in the Cotswalds. When I say barn, it was bigger than most houses. If Jesus had been born in it, the Three Wise Men wouldn't have bothered with gifts as it would have been clear he didn't need them. As I arrived I was handed a list of things I couldn't joke about, including the Tory party and Janet Street Porter. Inside was full of Lords, Ladies, David Cameron and Janet Street Porter, precisely all the people I'd been brought up to hate. I didn't really know what to do and rambled on for 15 minutes while the clientele wondered what on earth funk music was and why I would live in Finsbury Park. Then Ray Peacock went on and told them they were all cunts and they loved it. Not sure why this seems to bother me (not Ray's storming, the rich people bit) but its probably because I don't really get them either. Maybe I need to play a few rounds of golf and not care that anything I do is killing third world children or destroying the country's finances. I'm sure that helps.

After the kids show I'm heading to my friend Louise's wedding reception in Chatham, taking Mr Brendan Pappy's and his lovely wife. I am going to insist he does 200 sketches by himself on the journey there, or he'll have to get out and walk. Layla's still a bit too ill to come along which is a shame as I'm sure it'll be good fun. Although it is held in a Fort and if she's not there it does mean I can run around and pretend I'm a knight or in the Famous Five. Actually just the former, the latter may spurt uneccessary racism and sexism. Also I may discover some evil plot and have to ruin things. First though, a audience of 6-11 year olds. Lets hope they don't love golf and hate me.

Friday, September 25, 2009

It's a Real Job

I think it says something about the longevity of a relationship when 'playing doctors and nurses' actually means giving your partner Lemsips and tucking them up because they're not very well. Layla's got a nasty sinus infection and is all bunged up on the sofa making elephantine like blowing nose sounds. Its not very nice for her and I'm trying to be caring and helpful, but there's not much I can do other than make Lemsips. I think its a fairly good thing I don't work in the medical industry as that would be my default cure for everything. Headaches? Lemsip. Nausea? Lemsip. Leg fallen off? Lemsip. Had I written ER or even much less interesting and far more poorly written Holby City, each and every episode would involve many people dying as a Lemsip does not cure a knife wound or head injuries from a car crash. Oddly while those storylines would have ruined ER, I can't help but feel it would make Holby City a considerably better watch. I am designated carer until 5pm tonight when I head to my gig which is in the very posh Hanbury Manor Marriott in Ware. I am assured that this hotel is the five star premises that Robbie Williams and Oasis stay in when they do Knebworth. I hope that after I've done my gig there tonight my name will be added to that list of great guests. Its more likely I will try and nick a dressing gown and get kicked out.

Last night's gig was unexpectedly odd, yet fun. It was at Kingston University, and sharing sentiment with Mr Han Solo, I had a bad feeling about it. The gig itself looked ok, but not great. The room was a funny shape, and there weren't too many students there, but they had gone to effort of putting signs up saying the pool tables and bar were closed while the acts were on, which is always nice. I sat in the 'comedian's area' with Danny Ward, waiting for the show to kick off, and as we chatted away and caught up on things, a young student couple strolled straight into the area, sat on the sofa infront of us and started heavy petting. The sofas were at right angles to each other and so even if Danny and I were to turn our heads away, the near shagging would have continued to be in our peripheral vision. We wanted to tell them it was the comic's area, but they were so into it I don't think they would have noticed. I remember some pretty frisky university moments, but they tended not to be in brightly lit room knowing there was a small audience. Still, not having a clue how to deal with is, I just stared right at them for a bit, pulling some faces, and twittering about their antics. They still didn't notice, and now I fear I've unknowingly made them celebrities. Saying that, some fame was definitely deserved. They seemed very good at it, and the guy was really grabbing the girl's boobs and they were only 4 days into uni so that's fast work. Sluts. All of them.

The crowd looked a bit rowdy, with some hooded rudeboys to the left side of the stage and some lairy lads running to sit right at the front and shout a bit, but when the gig started they were brilliant. I spent the first half of my MCing just shamelessly picking on them all. I even had a go at one of the guys in hoods and he just backed down and didn't stab me or anything. I wonder if this is the way to combat the youth. If we shepherd them all up, stick them in the Comedy Store and we'll get a load of comics to go onstage and tell them they're dickheads. It'll sort them out in no time. Or the comedy scene will suddenly have a lot less acts. Either way, its a win-win situation. Danny went on and had a great set, and then we strolled into the interval. This comedy break started very well, with lots of the students coming over and saying how much they were enjoying it and all that but then it went horribly wrong. There was no sign of our headliner Mr Brendon Burns. I left it a while as the bar was busy, and then getting panicky, I decided to give him a call. Poor Brendon had never had the gig in his diary and was sitting at home miles away from the show. This was no way his fault and these sort of things do seem to happen in the comedy world. Its by no means the first time its happened to a gig that I've been at. I was a tad angry, but only because I was jealous Brendon was still at home. I would have killed to still be in my flat, instead of sitting around watching teenagers make out. Saying that, there is a chance that had I sat at home I would have gone online to watch teenagers make out. So I guess staying at the gig was more cost effective. The promoter's phone was broken and there was initial panic from both of us, me and Brendon ringing round to see who else could do it. Brendon eventually decided like a trooper, that it would be best if he raced over but he wouldn't get there for at least an hour and a half. After worrying about what to do, I gave the students the option of a very long interval, or me doing some material for them, before having a second interval and bringing Brendon on, and they said yes to that. So I ended up doing a full set as well as MCing. I did loads of Edinburgh show stuff and old stuff and they seemed to really enjoy it. Then finally Burns made it and kicked arse. It ended up being very long but really good. Most importantly it was quite nice to know I can cover if needs be, although I don't really want to make a habit of it. Partly because I'm lazy and partly because you can't really do comedy in the same way you can do supply teaching. This is mostly because supply teachers get up really bloody early and then teach kids stuff though.

It did knacker me out doing that too. The night should've ended at 10.30pm and instead we were done by nearly midnight. Now, and yes this is the serious bit of the blog, I have had several jibes, especially on the world of Twitter, complaining as to how comedy can be tiring when most people work 8-9 hour days. Good point, and fair enough and all that. Yes it does appear that a day's work for a comedian lies somewhere in the region of 20-40 minutes and you would be right to think we shouldn't really complain about that. There are however, several factors that aren't taken into consideration here. Firstly, you have to put travel time into the equation. Last night's gig was only in Kingston, so it was about an hour's drive there and back, but a lot of the time gigs are quite far away, journeys being at least 2-3 hours one way. Then you get to the gig early and often I am driving someone there, so have to stay for the duration of the show which is a few more hours and if I'm MCing I have to be there anyway. Add to that the adrenalin that pumps through you standing on a stage dealing with people, always thinking and being on your feet, none of which you get sitting at a desk looking at facebook when you're meant to be working. The really hard working comics also spend their days writing and doing many other things. I mean I don't. I play Xbox. A lot of comics do though. All that together equals 8-9 hour days, with the depletion of adrenaline causing extra weariness and you may realise why I complain about being tired all the time. Although the real reason is of course sitting on Twitter till 3am every night. It might not appear like a real job, but it really can be at times. Last night was a case in point. Ran over. Tonight while I sit in a very posh five star hotel, getting a free very posh dinner and then only work for 20 minutes before driving 40 minutes home, I will think about just how hard my job is. Unless of course the headliner doesn't show for an hour....

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Food Scams

There is not much food in our house, and what there is consists of fruit and cake. Not much else, just fruit, and cake. I'd like to think that both those go someway to creating a balanced diet. Fruit is full of vitamins and natural glucose and er, fruit stuff. So no chance of scurvy or fruit deficient deaths there. Cake is full of fat, fat, fat and more fat, so no chance of dying of cold during the winter months there. Essentially you might argue that I need some other minerals and food parts in order to survive and I would wholeheartedly agree. Or, after all that cake, clogheartedly agree, which is more likely. I'm very much in the mood for savoury and I'm not really sure how to make either of those things work. I was tempted to put cheese on a cake, but realised that rather than creating something I might enjoy, I would just be ruining the memory of two of my favourite food stuffs. Then again cheesecake exists, but I'm fairly sure they don't use cheddar.

I've already had a busy day today, attending a meeting at the BBC TV Centre this morning about stuff what I can't tell you. Unlike the last time I attended that well known building, I arrived earlier than Kathleen (who I was meeting there), and sat with a confidence that I was meant to be there. Previous TV Centre visits have left me feeling like I might be kicked out at any moment for loitering, but I'm starting to get used to it now. Nobody stared at me oddly so I must've fitted in well. I think wearing the same outfit at the cleaning staff helped. (Please note, I did not wear the same outfit as the cleaning staff. I was just carrying a mop). The meeting was all a bit good, and more importantly, in my current state of poverty, Kathleen bought me a coffee and a bottle of water as did the Beeb person we met. This means I tallied three drinks and all I had to do was say words. I like this and I feel its one step closer to gaining Derren Brown abilities. Its more likely that the people I happened to be meeting with were very nice. One day I will offer to buy people drinks. It will be for only one day though, as after that day I will be poor again from having bought all the rounds.

This 'getting bought drinks' thing happened last night as well. While it makes me feel like an absolute scummy loser, it was quite nice that people were so lovely and accommodated my lack of dosh by providing booze for me on Layla's birthday. Don't worry, Layla was provided booze also, but I felt like the younger kid when its their older siblings birthday and they get jealous so are given a small present too. Being the older kid I didn't get any of that, so perhaps in the grand scheme of things last night was some sort of adult version of that. Or again, more likely that all the people we were out with were bloody lovely. Which might also explain why they are our friends and they were invited in the first place. Well clever. It was a very good night and Layla had a lot of fun which was most important. There was however, one bad moment. I say bad moment, it wasn't as though anyone dropped dead, or anything exploded (unfortunately. I love explosions). It was instead, an incident of unfairness in food. The bar we were in is a very nice place on Upper Street called Wax Jambu. Oddly enough it used to be called Kinky Mambo. I'm not sure if there is some sort of clause as to having part of the name sound like a character in the Lion King, but I'm reckoning if it changes again it'll either be Gimpy Pumba or Shitty Timon. Being a trendy bar, it had a trendy menu and I had my fat eyes set on a veggie Portabello Burger, complete with sides of onion rings and chips, from the second I scoured the food list. Sadly, when I went to order they told me they were completely out of this item. I assume they had been ram raided by a horde of veggies earlier in the day. By veggies, I mean vegetarians, not that lots of carrots and leeks barged in to reclaim there mushroom pals in a prison break out situation, although that would be hella cool. Or more likely, loads of meaty people decided that they would be healthy and took all my food. Either way I was forced into getting the only other veggie item on the menu, a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. I did not think this was such a bad choice. Until it arrived. Layla had ordered the beef burger, and when placed in front of her it resembled some sort of evil monstrous creation. If Dr Frankenstein had made his creature using a sesame bun, beef and gherkins, it would look something like Layla's food. I was very jealous. As her's had cost £7 and mine had cost £6.50, with my previous burger option being only £5.50, I assumed mine would be of similar gargantuan portions. The waitress pushed a tiny plate in front of my, with a tiny tiny sandwich on it. I sat and waited, hoping some sort of sides were to arrive, but there was nothing. No extras, no special salad or chips, just my tiny tiny sandwich. I despaired and sulked for a bit, before eating my sandwich in 35 seconds flat and then complaining I was still hungry. How dare they play with my mind like that? I can only assume they did have portobello burgers, but saw me walking in and decided I had to eat less. So, I did what any good hungry man would do, and I stole chips and onion rings off Layla.

I shouldn't really be upset by such things. Especially now as that sandwich seems so tantalizing in comparison to the fruit and cake combination I'm about to tuck into. I have to gig at Kingston University tonight. I only hope these grapes and toffee cupcake can keep me going till then.

Hmm, just re-read this blog back. I swear there are days that prove I definitely have problems. More sense tomorrow.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Headaches, Cakes, Lakes and Steaks (please note the latter two are not featured in this blog)

I really hate headaches. Its Layla's birthday today so I woke up with her at the stupid time of 6.30am in order to give her my poor man's present of a card I made and some flowers and make her breakfast before she went to work. My penance for doing such things is that when I then went back to bed I woke up a few hours later feeling as though my brain is trying to leave my head by bursting through my skull. That is not how karma is meant to work. I did nice things, so no headache should happen. It's from this that I have decided that karma is a load of balls and I am going to spend lots of time pushing people over expecting no consequence. The problem with headaches is you can't do much when you have one. Any other ache is bearable. A leg ache for example means I can still use the computer. As does an arm ache, foot ache or pancake. None of those are half as irritating as headaches. Luckily though, as painful as being up at ungodly hour was and even though it seemed to cause my body to retaliate by making my head die, Layla seemed to like her things and enjoy her first morning as a 29 year old. 29 years old. Thats just a bit terrifying. Its only a year now until she is 30 and that means only a year and a bit till I am too. Layla is a bit older than me which is cool for a few reasons. One, I get to say I'm going out with an older woman, tee hee, and two, she has to be 30 before I am 30. That means I am semi-braced for every new year of age by seeing how she handles it. The problem is, she is far more mature than me and handles all these things very well, whereas I just scream and cry a lot.

Layla spent most of last night baking cakes to take into her school today for the other members of staff. This is something I have never fully understood. If its your birthday then why do you have to take people cakes? I'm sure people have got this all very wrong. Layla should turn up to school and be showered with nice things and not have to make an effort at all. In fact as she got to the school gates the headteacher should've said 'ah don't worry about today' and sent her home with a goodie bag and a party hat. Instead she had to slave for several hours last night to treat everyone else. Admittedly Layla didn't have to cook things, but temporary poverty meant things could not be bought, and Layla's a mean cake maker. By that I mean she never makes them because she's mean. Tee hee. No, seriously she's a very good baker. I refuse to treat other people on my birthday. Its rare anyone ever gets days in which they can be entirely selfish. Well except maybe Rupert Murdoch or Kim Jong Il. For me, birthdays are the day when everyone else can get bent and if I want to, I'm fully allowed to spend the whole day doing what I want and pushing people over.

It was great fun making a card yesterday. I think I may well make cards more often. I used pritt stick, and felt tips and all the while hummed the music from HartBeat when they showed the gallery. It was truly exciting. I put several poor jokes on the card and ultimately, while many of the kids in Layla's class (they are 5-6 year olds) could probably do better, I think the effort made was important. I have however promised that when I get some dosh Layla can have a proper pressie. Making the card was so much fun though that I think I will just use the money to buy bits of fabric, some pasta and some glitter and just do her a collage. I like collages. I was always sad that I went to a 6th form at my school rather than, like some of the kids, a collage. I can only assume they had two years of fun doing their A Levels by sticking bits of string to sugar paper. I've always been a sucker for making stuff like that. When I was very young my mum once came home to find I'd opened a packet of her sanitary towels and stuck them all to the wall in a pattern. When she asked what on earth I was doing I merely exclaimed 'collage!' Sadly I wasn't allowed to send that one in to Tony Hart.

Tonight is for some booze and food with lots of friends in celebration of L's birthday. Should be fun. I have allocated a whole £10.50 to the enjoyment of this evening and intend to spend every penny of it. Even if things add up so I only have 6p left, I will argue with the bar man until I can have a teaspoon of whisky or perhaps ask him if I can buy him as a target for 6p then throw coins at his face. If he says no to either of these, I will push him over. Headache is now gone. Maybe its the powers of blog writing, though I'm fairly sure its more likely the Anadin Extra I took. I was kind of hoping the Extra bit would get rid of my diabetes but it appears to still be here. Ho hum, next time maybe.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Word Limit

More writing needs to happen today and so this blog must take the hit for it. I live in fear that I am only allocated a certain amount of words per day and if I filled four pages with this blog then I would lose all ability to write anything else for the rest of the day. I doubt this is true but I'm feel I have to take precautions. I wish people were allocated a daily word limit. Sometimes you talk to people who just talk at you for hours and hours and its very difficult to escape. With a word limit there would come a point where they would just have to stop and listen to you waffle on, or you could both sit there in uncomfortable silence. It'd be brilliant. The best would be mid-argument when suddenly one of you is unable to speak, like when a gun runs out of bullets mid fire fight. The default winner is the one who still has words so could just finish it with 'well then', which is my favourite non-sensical row concluder. It really finishes off most arguments if you say it with an air of cockiness that gives the false impression you are very confident that it means you have won, when you know that really you haven't made valid point whatsoever. For example:

Arguer 1: 'I can't believe you killed my cat for no reason!'
Arguer 2: 'Well then.'

It strangely works. Its up there with 'even Stevens' and sticking your fingers in your ears and singing 'la la la la la la' very loudly to no tune whatsoever until the other person just leaves. Or cries. Luckily me and Layla never argue. I think we've argued about four times ever in the last 6 years which is really very very few. At least four of those have been because I'd drunk Jack Daniels which makes me angry. One of those was an incident to do with buying or not buying a loaf of bread. We don't really remember which one it was or why it caused a problem between us but it will now forever be known as 'Breadgate' and is often brought up as a reminder that our arguments are lame and then we laugh.

I ended up doing a gig last night. I wasn't intending to. In fact as Layla was out I was fully hoping to spend the night doing some writing, then beating Prince of Persia on the Xbox. It's a stupidly easy game and I'm glad I'm borrowing it and didn't buy it. It's got beautiful graphics though and has really helped me to understand the situation in Iran. No wonder there is all this terrible dispute when Ahriman is using evil magic to corrupt the land and must be destroyed with light magic and by balancing on tiny ledges. It makes everything much clearer. But a gig came up and I said yes for two reasons. Firstly I needed the dosh. I need any dosh. It's getting the stage I'm willing to start mugging people. Only I know I'd be so rubbish at it I'd end up getting beaten up and mugged by the muggee and then getting arrested. Not dissimilar to a kid at our school who went up to people aggressively saying 'Oi, gimmie your money'. Then when you'd say 'No', he'd just shrug his shoulders sadly and say 'Oh, alright then' before lurching off. I think he wholly misunderstood what was meant to happen. Secondly, it was another of Maff Brown's gigs and the man he do run some lovely gigs. His gig Outside the Box is what I would consider to be the Fat Tuesday of South West London. Only he gets bigger names more regularly than we do. And is weekly. And it sells out weekly. Essentially I hate him. Last night on the bill was Tim Vine, Andy Parsons and Lee Mack, amongst others. Last time I did this gig was over a year ago and I had to follow Robin Williams. Yes, that Robin Williams. He was in London practising for a the Prince's Trust show he was doing and was a very very special guest at several small clubs around town. I was meant to open but something went wrong and I ended up being the act who followed the line-up of Omid Djalili, Al Murray and Robin bloody Williams. He stood backstage with an entourage and was a truly lovely man. I told him that I had to follow him and he was very friendly and told me about the time he had to follow a big act in New York when he was just starting out. Apparently most of the audience had left and he'd ploughed on. After that tale I had remained shitting myself about it all, while Robin went on and stormed the hell out of it. He was brilliant. The best was watching the crowd hear Maff announce 'Welcome to the stage Robin Williams' and they started to clap normally then as he reached the stage, and they realised who he was they went absolutely mental. Then I followed and surprisingly had an amazing gig. Robin had hyped the crowd up so well that they were superb.

Last night was no where near as daunting. I got to go on first which was nice, and I tried a few new gags, totally overran and subsequently left on a bit of a rubbish gag. It didn't matter as it all seemed to go well and I stayed for Tim Vine's brilliant new stuff after before heading home. And that's it. I'd better stop there as I'm near my word limit. What I will leave you on is if you live in South West London then do go to Outside the Box in Kingston as its by far one of the best clubs in London.

If however you live nearer North London then never fear for Fat Tuesday starts again next week with the indomitable Andrew Maxwell and the ace Nick Doody both being on. Double headliners eh? Pretty awesome if I do say so myself. For all line-ups lookie here:

And now back to the writing board/word doc. Its really not the same saying word doc is it?

Monday, September 21, 2009

Darling Clemetine (and Tolx Screwdriver)

There are times in my life where I really wonder exactly what I'm doing. As I walked down Seven Sisters Road with a bunch of clementines in one hand and a Tolx 27 screwdriver in the other, I had a moment of clarity where I realised that I must've looked like some sort of fruit DIY loon. What would people think of me I wondered. Perhaps thoughts of me heading home to try and attach clementines to my walls like citrus shelves or maybe just a madman who's going to go home and smash up fruit. I've been known to to do this before, so that thought wouldn't have been uncommon:

Instead all the people I passed didn't even bat an eyelid. I just joined the hoards of weirdos I live near, and I comfortably headed down my road waving at the mad lady dressed in leopard skin jacket and skirt singing to her 70's walkman loudly whilst dancing on the corner. I think I finally fit in.

Its already been an odd day. I had to wake up earlier than normal in an attempt to write this blog before I went to my audition. Sadly my interwebs have been playing up and I wasn't allowed access to the world. As we are all connected I can only assume all of you were affected this morning and everything just stopped for a while. It appears to all be fine now so I reckon someone hit the 'ON' switch or plugged it in or something as that's how it all works I understand. It was odd because it threw my morning out completely. My routine when I wake up is to stay in bed for ten minutes wondering why I need to leave bed. When I've finally persuaded myself with apt reasoning that I must leave - arguments for include things I may have to do, the need to pee and that I don't want bedsores - I turn the telly on to This Morning, have a wee, make some tea, check emails, facebook, write one tweet then blog. As I was up earlier than usual This Morning was not on, I couldn't use the net at all and I forgot to make tea. Needless to say everything was thrown out of control. Being the sort of chap I am, I manned up, got ready and headed out to my audition. I won't say much about it, incase anyone who does that sort of things is reading this, but lets just say 'reality tv' is not what I expected the 'topical' conversation to be about, and that I now understand how Dr Faustas felt when he sold his soul to the devil. We will see what happens.

What was nice was the collection of comics sitting in the Camden Coffee House who had all endured the same audition. A large group of comedians, were gathered together and we spent a good while drinking coffee and complaining about things. There was also some non-complaining and general chat, but what usually happens when you get that many comics in a room together is angst at comedy things and so we didn't let routine down. If comedians meet and don't get bitchy about something then all our brains fall out so it has to be done for survival. FACT. I was meant to escape early to go visit Georgie and finally meet his dog Howie, but Howie was not well and throwing up. Dog sick is not on my list of favourite things so I abstained. I'm not sure if anyone would put dog sick on their list of favourite things to be fair and if you have done then you really need to look at yourself and ask why. Dog sick is nowhere close to being as good as ice cream, pretending to be spiderman or hitting fruit with DIY tools. So wanting to avoid canine vomit, I stayed and the group whittled down to just myself Tiffany Stevenson, Carl Donnelly and Roison Conaty until we all decided that if we kept drinking caffeine things would go wrong and we all left.

Since then I have been a proper man and fixed our washing machine. Hence the screwdriver. It was a very specific tolx screwdriver and I had to go to our local DIY store and ask for it which made me feel even more of a proper man. Then I got home, realised I'd got the wrong one and went back, completely detracting from any previous manly appearance. Its all sorted now though and there is a small mountain of washing to be done. Before washing I'm considering hiking up it for Sports Relief. So this will now be my next few days. An endless cycle (see what I did there) of clothes cleaning. Once again I look at my life and wonder exactly what I'm doing.

And no, you can't know what the clementines are for.

Sunday, September 20, 2009


I'm starting to believe that cat hairs don't necessarily come from cats. I'm almost certain they just appear from nowhere or perhaps grow on inanimate objects. Yesterday me and Layla spent a long time cleaning the flat, properly scrubbing and dusting and hoovering and all those things, and we found cat hairs in places we are fairly sure the cats can't get too. For example, half way up a wall. Not a wall they could jump to get onto things from, just a wall. Or in the bathroom cupboards which are always closed and also halfway up a wall. This was constantly confusing, but more so because we removed them all, spending ages hoovering them up or wiping them away, only today, for the flat to be covered in cat hairs again. I think M15 need to look into this. If they could put cameras into cat hair then they could get everywhere. Top secret location somewhere filled with terrorists and high level security so no one can get in? I bet there's some cat hairs in there. Maybe the universal code is party constructed by cat hairs. Of course it could just be that at night our cats get loads of their feline mates to help them create cat pyramids so they can balance and stick cat hairs all over the flat to create confusion. This second idea is highly possible. Rosie and Bella do have a habit of making things more difficult or irritating than they should be. For example Rosie at 4am this morning attacking Layla's foot so she woke up with a yelp, waking me up. Or three nights ago when Bella kept attacking a coat hanger at 5am making a horrible rattling noise until we both woke up. Cats are bloody annoying.

I have £21.50 for the forseeable future. I don't mean that I will always have that amount, what I mean is that is all I have funds wise until something else comes through. Some other stuff will be coming through, but I really don't know when. So I have been carefully budgeting. Last night I went out for my friend Mat's birthday and spent only £8.50. This now leaves me £11.50 for Layla's birthday on Wednesday and £10 to get petrol to drive to my gigs on Thursday and Friday, neither of which pay in cash, or I'd be fine. While this high level of poverty is rubbish, particularly in the case of Layla's birthday, there is something oddly refreshing about it. We have to be imaginative with food, which means actually cooking things and making stuff. Or if you're lazy like me, just eating toast and letting all your fruit and vegetables rot. It also meant I didn't stay out too late last night and I've suddenly realised why non-drinkers are less fun. There is nothing to enjoy about other people boozing when you're not and even less to enjoy about a bar that when forced inside, because the terrace is closed, is filled with shit music and people saying 'bruv' seriously. We weren't forced inside while I was there, but there was a warning that would happen and we left before it did. I've a horrible feeling the others were lured inside to a captive audience of chav and never escaped. I've been dangerously gambling with the idea that I could spend all my remaining cash on something fun, like booze, or an Xbox game or lots of ice cream. However this would make both Layla and the gig promoters very angry. Although Layla does like ice cream. And I'm sure the gig promoters would do too. If you have any suggestions what I should actually spend my last £21.50 on then please let me know. Alternatively if you know a way to fuel a car without petrol or a place I can get Layla a brilliant present for free then please leave comments below.

Going to have lunch at my parents today. This is a good way to keep hold of my £21.50. We are going to have soup which makes me excited. I remember two people at my uni having a regular 'Soup Day' when I was in my first year. They would line up cans of different flavours of soup and spend all day eating them. I could live like that. Soup is the adult equivalent of baby food. I would happily blend up most things I like to eat and have them as soup. Except crisps. No wait. Even crisps. Mmm crisp soup.

Also happy Eid for those that celebrate and happy 8 years since Bush announced a war on terror. The other day I got quite scared of a spider so its clear terror is still winning.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Ye Old Blogge September 19th 1464

As today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day (see here for info: , I thought rather than let you read my blog, why not dig up a blog from the archive of my ancestor Capt Doobeard the Grotty and post that up instead. So in honour of those salty sea dogs here's an excerpt from this day 545 years ago:

Ahoy there me diary. Today be another day onboard m' pretty vessel the Jolly Diaaaarbetic as we sail onwards towaaaards the Meditaaaarrrrrranean Ocean aftaaaar paaaarssin' through the Arrrrtlantic these paaaarst 3 months. Scrubbin' must be done for the deck be lookin' like one whiff could kill a Kraken, for the filth be worse than the bile from a bung hole. I be telling Roger the cabin boy that he be needin' to crawl on his hands and knees to be proparrrly gettin' it shiny, but 'ee be sayin' that on account o' his name 'ee be too afraid to make himself prone to a gropin'. I be understandin' this. 'Is name be unfortunate considerin' his choice of caaaarreer, but he must remembaaaar he be no worse orf than our sea buddy Able Seaman Drinker. 'Ee be one unlucky seadog. Once the ship be as clean as a dairy faaaaarmer's daughta', then we be orf to get celebratin' the birthday of our former Gunner, Master Wandless who sadly had to be leavin' us when he lost a leg during a battle 'gainst some landlubber who be catchin' 'im with his missus who'd bin smartly blowing on Wandless's 'ornpipe. After that o'course we found that landlubber and strung him up by his long johns till the vultures pecked out his eyes. Arhahahhahahah! Even with one leg, Gunner Mat be a jolly fellaaaaar, now biding 'is time in the port of Crouch End, which be where we sail now in the hopes of some grog and merriment this fine evenin'.

Sailin' be takin' longer than it should on accounts of losin' more or me crew yesterday. Darren of Brown persuaded many o' tha boys he could be stickin' them to their stools using some series of pictures. He alwas be playing his tricks that one and I for a long time now been suspiciaaarse that he be a witch o'some sorts, but me good lady Laaarlaaarr be sayin' I must leave 'im be. Well his own fate befall 'im now. For last night he sat down the boys and started with some tricks whereby he guessed what numbers they be thinkin', then knew that One-Eyed Jim be wantin' to be gettin' a giraffe called Frank. This left many in shock and curious by how this head trickery be happenin'. But they was enjoyin' themselves and so gasps and cheers of more did 'appen. Then, the most curious occurances did be. Brown showed them these pictures and a few said they had a head so fuzzy but they all did still move off their seats like they could on any day 'cept those after an eve on the grog. There were yells and shouts calling Darren a 'natterin' black spotted swabbie' and a 'barnacle covered gutless rogue' for his tricks did not work. Then just as Fighty Sampson be about to knock Brown about the head with the blunt side o' 'is scabbard, then we did all turn to see Pox-Faced Georgie struggling to 'scape his chair. He squirmed and squirmed but he be stuck to his seat like a squid to the face of a wet whore. The boys did rush over to try and get 'im out, but remained steadfast, and Brown was forced to turn back his evils and get Georgie out, but try as he might the boy stayed on his aaaarsse. Well we got no use for a man who can't be standin'. How can he be fightin' off the King's men while weak kneed and sittin'? So we did what all good pirates would do for a pal and threw Georgie and 'is chair into the ocean to be gobbled up by the sharks. We then told Darren the Brown 'ee must walk the plank too, for his witchery be never used again, 'is blood is that o' evil. Scabby Arnold took the witch to tha plank but instead of pushin' him orf, instead he threw 'is scabby self right off and into the gobblin' teeth of a great white. This be the curse of satan that that Brown 'ave so we let 'im stay for fear any more of us be going swimmin' 'gainst our will.

Less crew means more supplies for me, Larrlarr and the few bilge rats left aboard and once the Jolly Diarrrbetic be cleans, then we can gorge our faces on sea bass and drink rum till the 'morrow. I only hopes we find treasure in the month of Octobaaaarrrrr or that sea bass will dwindle and I'll be havin' to ask Darren to be gettin' rid o' more men sometime soon.

Signin' Orf

Capt Doobeard The Grotty

So there you go. Seems times were very different back them, If there is enough demand I will post more of his adventures on other days where I haven't really got much else to blog about.

As a post note here's an interview I did in Edinburg about interviews:

Now away with ye, ye bunch o' barnacle covered, bilge drinkin', black-spotted, scrappy natterin' cowardly rogues! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Friday, September 18, 2009


This is not going to be much of a blog today. I've actually had some progress in writing other stuff and the last thing I need is to write this instead of that, while I'm currently on a writing flow. I'll be honest, there is very little to say today as yesterday consisted of pacing round, trying to write and worrying about my lack of dosh, and today will be pretty much more of the same. The only difference is that tonight Derren Brown is on the telly trying to make everyone get stuck to their sofas. Well I've already planned to watch the show whilst standing up. Boom! Take that Derren! I win! I am now slightly scared that I will aim to stay standing but end up on the sofa and unable to move while Derren sends his cohorts round to burgle my house infront of my and slap my face while I give no resistance. I hope this doesn't happen.

So as a cheaty non-blog, here are some of my favourite links from the past week of things people have sent or shown me. Its a Friday, so just accept this as a cop out and enjoy them: - from my friend Manisha. I have wasted at least 2 hours on this today already. - Sent via my friend Stefan. Only the Matt Damon and Kevin Spacey ones are worth watching, but they are seriously worth watching. - This was on the Derren Brown blog and I've had several nightmares about it since - The Onion never stops being awesome. - Neither does Adam Buxton -Here is a weird interview I did about interviews.

And that should be all. Admin things: Fat Tuesday line-ups will be on over the weekend and are currently on here: with tickets available to buy for all dates on

Also the T-website will be fully up to date with new vids and stuff by the end of the weekend. Check it out T-Followers!

Proper T-Blogs resume tomorrow.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Writer's Lack of Effort (and some crap about music)

I'm meant to write things today and so far I have done everything but write. Even this blog is happening two hours after I intended to write it because I really have been avoiding writing. I've only managed to convince myself to blog now by saying that this here is typing, not writing, and as I just splurge this blog out from my brain, no actual effort or thinking is involved. Its only now, since I've started that I've realised I've Derren Browned myself and am now already several sentences into what will be a slog for a few minutes. Damn my brain and ability to self-deceive. Not sure why I have writer's block today, although its not so much writer's block as writer's resistance to do anything due to lack of effort or energy, but that doesn't sound anyway as catchy. To be fair, were the term 'Writer's Block' non-existant I would not have been able to come up with anything as snappy to describe said syndrome and instead would have had to write horrible lengthy sentences to try and convey the difficulty I am having with words. I've been thinking of ways I could write instead, like just pointing at random words in a dictionary and then slapping them on a word doc, but I don't think Drapes Penguin Vanity Poppycock really creates any kind of interesting narrative. Although saying that I have already started to think about a story concerning a curtain making penguin who is far too self obsessed and suffers from very mild tourettes. Like I said that method doesn't create any kind of interesting narrative.

So far today, instead of write, I've tidied up, washed the dishes, had a shave, looked for a book I knew I'd leant to someone just so looking for it would take a while, actually spent time stroking my cats, and now I'm actually contemplating re-arranging my overly large CD collection. It is overly large and its also the reason why my escalating level of poverty has hit such devastating heights. I'm barely unable to afford my bills this month because when I was student I decided to delve into the world of overdraft and credit cards in order to fuel my constantly growing music interest. Now, many years later, I might not be able to eat properly till October and my credit rating is only one star, but I've got bloody loads of CDs. I'm not sure if credit ratings happen in stars. I'd like it if they did, possibly with a critical review per person:

Credit rating ** - Whilst making the occasional wise purchase, his bank statement is littered with bar tabs and porn mags and frankly shows a waste of what could've been some rather wise investments. Still some bills have been paid on time and this shows possible promise for something greater next year.

So to punish my CDs for thoroughly destroying my bank (along with booze, clothes, going out in general, Edinburgh festival and large amounts of cake) I thought maybe I should rearrange them a bit. I'm not really sure how this is punishment. If anything its more a punishment to me as my CD player no longer plays CDs and the CD drive on my mac refuses to read CDs. Its as though they are all in sync with forcing me into the future. Will I will download the occasional mp3 I will never completely submit to their electronic ways. I like the physical CD booklet and case. Yes I know iTunes are starting to do electronic booklets and album covers with album purchases, but you can't get an artist to sign an e-booklet. Unless that artist is on second life, or one of the Gorillaz. Amongst the CDs are some personal favourites including the Jazzanova album In Between due to its funky spiral case, the DJ Shadow CD Diminishing Returns, with coasters and stickers all contained in an old school plastic bag type pack, and my No Doubt 'Tragic Kingdom' CD which is signed by Gwen Stefani herself. Yes I know she's a massive dick bag nowadays but if you were a teenager in the 90's try admitting to yourself you didn't love 'Don't Speak'. Go on, try. Its impossible.

See what I've started typing about to avoid typing about things I need to be typing about? Its bloody impossible I tell you. Why can't writing be as easy as this typing malarky. Bah.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Plane and Simple

At Gatwick Airport yesterday there was a woman going through security with her husband, who, quite possibly, was one of the most stupid people I have ever overheard. I would hazard a guess that she was in her 60's and spoke with an accent that meant she was no doubt at least upper middle to upper class. This guess was further certified by her sensible cardigan complimented with the worst sort of compliment, weird flowery trousers with no definable shape, and she was being led by her husband, dressed in suit jacket and the sort of patterned jumper that would epileptics seize up. It had taken a while to get to security, as once again, Easyjet had decided to be anything but easy and had opened all the check in desks for all flights. This led to mass confusion, very long queues and generally upset people. It was as though they had sat down, worked out exactly what the easiest way for people to proceed through the airport process was, wrote it on some paper and got several people in suits to shit all over it. What Easyjet have demonstrated for the umpteen billionth time is that they like to provide the exact opposite of customer service, cackling in glee as people once again lose time that they will never get back. When this fiasco had finally been completed I joined the overly long queue only to stand behind the idiot woman. As we approached the security desk she got more and more exasperated at the signs that asked you to prepare for the x-ray machines. The first simply read 'remove your belts', which caused her to gasp and then say to her husband 'belts? Why on earth must we remove our belts? What has the world come to? Belts? What damage could belts do?' completely failing to remember that some belts have metal bits on. Then the next sign asking to take keys and change and put them inside your jackets. 'Oh now its keys!' she exclaimed. 'I don't understand this at all. Why don't they just take everything off you? Ludicrous! Why on earth do they want keys? You have to put them in jacket? What is all this?' Then when asked to take jackets off a similar rant occurred, followed by mass confusion as to why to had to take give your bags in to go through the machine and yet take out certain items from your bag (ie liquids). 'Why take them out when they have to scan the whole bag? Just stupid. The world has gone mad.' This bizarre upset at the way in which airports function continued all the way until we reached the security gate, where the woman held up the whole queue because she wouldn't put her handbag through the machine. According to her it wasn't 'hand luggage' because it was a 'hand bag'. I was tempted to shout that she wasn't a 'human being' she was an 'old bag', and violently push her out of the way, but instead I did as the whole queue did and sighed and looked at her with some disgust. I won't lie, I've often complained about the needing to discard bottles of water, or occasionally having to take my shoes off, but never have I not questioned the removal of metal items as they'll set off the alarm. Its the most obvious thing that you could do. And yet as this woman finally conceded giving her bag to the security officer and then setting the alarm off three times because she hadn't removed her wallet with keys attached, she stumbled off with hubby shouting about how 'I bet that's all those bloody terrorists' fault.' I quietly hoped her plane exploded.

After the festival Edinburgh loses all its mental drunk performers dressed up as animals, pirates and other tedious costumes and within the space of two weeks they are replaced with mental drunk students dressed up as animals, pirates and other tedious costumes. I pity Edinburgh, it appears unable to escape the wrath of boozy twats. It felt far too soon to be going back yesterday. The hotel I was staying at was oddly at the end of the road of the flat I had been living in for the month and then I had to take the same stroll down Nicholson Street and towards the Pleasance (which is part of Edinburgh University) as I had done a few times in August. It was very much like Groundhog Day just without Bill Murray, a groundhog, or jokes. It was nothing like Groundhog Day. The Pleasance looks particularly odd during non-festival times. For a start there are cars parked in the Courtyard. You can't park cars there during August, or you'll run over a flyerer. They should park cars there in August. I didn't feel all too well anyway after the flight and general post-Bestival tiredness and so I anticipated that I would make a massive shambles of the gig. I'd previously spent 45 minutes in my hotel room trying to work out what to talk about and instead just watched Scottish news to hear sad tales about redundancies at a rocket test factory in the Western Isles. I love how that news would never be on in London as there are actual things going on that need priority. To be fair front page of The Scotsman was 'Man Fires Shotgun at OAP's Door', which sounded severe and I wondered whether the 'Man' knew they had a doorbell he could've just pressed. Stupid man. In the end the gig was really really bloody lovely. Nicely MC'd by Ro Campbell, I walked on and just fired 35 minutes of material out of my head. I linked things that I haven't linked in such ways before, berated some American student's for not understanding things and won another diabetic top trumps session, which it has since been said, I should not really be proud about. It was bloody awesome and I finally felt back on the set game after my not too great sets at Bestival. Nice to know my brain makes material come out of my mouth when I don't expect it too. Then I strolled home via the Tesco's I spent much of the Fringe in, bought two cakes and a milkshake and passed out at the hotel. Score.

Couple of nights off now which is brilliant. Must sort Fat Tuesday crap out and some other admin bits, such as diary filling and other useful things. Yawn yawn yawn. None of those things make for happy blog reading so I will endeavour to do at least something retarded everyday just for you starting with today. I'll finish this blog then see how flammable my t-shirt is whilst still wearing it. Don't say I don't love you all.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Flashbacks from Edinburgh

I have to fly to Edinburgh in a couple of hours. It doesn't feel quite right going back this soon after the festival. Its feels a bit like returning to the battlefield after having been flown out of there in the nick of time. I'm half expecting to see the legless remains of another comic I know, or the dog tags of a street performer just lying in the streets. Whether these things are there or not, it will be weird, that's for sure. I think what makes it worse for me is I feel I haven't really been home very much. Considering last time I went away to Edinburgh I came home to find several parts of our flat no longer working, I am worried that its slowly giving up on me. At least its only a brief trip. I'm flying straight there this afternoon, doing the show tonight and then flying back in the early early hours tomorrow. I was given the option of leaving at the sensible 4pm flight tomorrow of the 8.55am one, and wanting to get home I chose the latter. I am slowly realising how much I hate myself for doing this. Still my plan is just to sit in my hotel room and write until the show, do it, then head straight back to be a hermit and write more before passing out. What this actually means is I will spend ages tweeting Patrick Swayze and Keith Floyd gags until I pass out with tiredness. While its all a bit sad that those two celebs have died today, we must all realise that this is 2 minutes of grace for all comedians everywhere. Celebrity double death days are also famed for being comedic ingenious days. I look forward to the rush of terrible gags at Floyd and Swayze's expense. The venue I'm doing tonight is Edinburgh University, during their freshers' week. I have a feeling none of them will be old enough to know who either of those two celebrities are and so my plan on using the tragedy of someone for a few giggles is rightfully dispersed.

I used to really love University gigs, but its dawning on me more and more that they are all getting a lot younger and I am consistantly getting older. Once me and them student types had bloody loads in common - unclean flats, pilfering of tax payers, eating food that was several days past its best before date etc but now I can't help but feel we know nothing of each others lives. I mean, how often do they sleep in every day? Or sit around for hours pretending to do work but actually doing nothing? Or drink too much so that they lose their voice? I bet they never do that....what? Oh. Still don't really know what bits of my Edinburgh show to put into a set at the moment, so have a feeling that tonight will be a tad shoddy, hence the writing beforehand. The voice is also still a bit weak so no doing that 15 minutes on shouting that I usually do. I don't have a bit on shouting. I wish I did. Maybe I'll write some, athough I'm not sure just how it would project to the crowd. Arf. Right, I'll stop there.

Finally watch the Derren Brown show from Friday and I think he's a big bag of liar liar pants on fire. He either did rig it or has done something else equally devious and won't let us know till the end of all the Events series, or ever. Anyways, as sent over by webmaster James Hingley, if you haven't seen this, have a look:

I repeat, Derren is a witch.

Monday, September 14, 2009


Just returned home from a meeting in the bar at the top of Centrepoint. I like meetings that happen in places like that. I didn't really say much on account of me losing my voice once again, but I sat, listened, eat some chips that cost far more than they should and looked out the window at London. London looked alright today, if a tad grey. I don't blame London for that, although when it was designed, no one decided to paint any of the big buildings blue or puse, so generally things are grey, and when the clouds are also grey, it just all looks, well, very grey. I'm am generally a bit slow and braindead today, so staring at a grey London was quite enough mentally for one day and I have hurriedly rushed home to type this and then sit in my PJs for hours until Layla gets home and I have to try and say words again. I can't believe I am without vocals yet again. I lost it at least 3 times whilst at the Fringe and now thanks to Bestival I've well and truly lost my ability of speech once more. I say lost, but I know exactly where I left it. Its off its tits in a field on the Isle of Wight. That's where it is. I keep getting worried that if this is going to continue to happen I'll get those nodules or whatever they're called and then end up with a voice that sounds like I've got more tar in my lungs than there is on most motorway systems. I don't think that sort of husky voice would suit my act. I'm small and cheeky, I don't want to have amend all my material to suit some tiny, gravelly voiced shyster. However to stop this from happening I also need to have less fun in life and stop having weekends like the one I just did, and frankly, that would be rubbish. To say it was nothing at all like my pre-prepared autoblog from Saturday would be a lie. I did sunburn my face. Sadly that prophecy was fulfilled. I thought that after my week in Marbella sometime back in July, I would be immune to sun. I've dealt with it already this year, my body should know what the score is with sunshine and know what its doing. What appears to have happened between that time though is that going to Edinburgh has made my skin so grey that it just instantly bursts into flames when exposed to sunlight like a miserable Celtic vampire, and so this weekend's exposure has left me with a top of a spine more redneck than Billy Bob Thornton and Juliette Lewis lynching some black people. It is not nice and my t-shirts all seem to want to rub it up the wrong way. By that I mean they tell it its a shit neck and they've seen better ones on no-neck turtles. Luckily for me I'm heading back to Edinburgh tomorrow, which should instantly alleviate any sunburn pain once again.

As I said, it was one hell of a weekend and I am a bit of a broken human being today. I'm relishing having a loo that isn't already full of other people's doings and listening to music that isn't constantly crossed with music from four other tents behind me, but despite this, I'm a little anti-climatic from it all. Here, in handy bullet point format, are some of the weekends shenanigans:

- Lily Allen walked past me in the artist's area wearing only a towel.

- Pop up tents really need a pop down facility. Yes its all great and dandy that they are up and ready in 3 minutes, but this does not necessarily make up for the fact that I spent 30 minutes wrestling some canvas and pegs to try and fit it back into the bag while it kept popping back up into my face.

- I met a man dressed as an Ewok. I felt compelled to tell him it was the best costume I saw all weekend, as it was. He said 'thanks, but don't say I look like a fucking bear, cos I'm an ewok innit and they are little fucking bears, its obvious innit?' I told him I knew he was an ewok. I just didn't realise ewoks were quite so angry about their bear like status.

- Tiffany Stevenson is a trooper and did more spots in the comedy tent than anyone should. She stormed them all and was ace, but I couldn't work out how she had the energy or stamina to do so. Brett asked me if I would do an extra spot on the Sunday and I told him to 'fuck himself'. I worry that I am not as reliable or compliant as an act.

- If you are going to have a PA system for a main stage at a big festival, then you should probably spend enough money on it so that it doesn't cut out inappropriately or send all its sound over the heads of the crowd infront and instead right over to the comedy tent where it could be heard very clearly. Hence one of the many reasons why my sore throat exists. Trying to shout a set over MGMT to a room of very few is never going to be easy on the chords. It is also why halfway through Lily Allen's set all the sounds cut out and why the vocals of the Fleet Foxes couldn't be heard very well on the right side of the stage.

- Lily Allen walked past me in the artist's area wearing only a towel.

- The Correspondents are my new favourite group. Mixing swing jazz and drum and bass is a bloody clever idea. I still worry that it should be base and bass. I don't like drums in my shandy or fish.

- I have learnt never to ask Andrew Maxwell's son Flynn what it is he is holding thanks to his response being 'its a lightsaber stupid!', before flashing its lights in my eyes and hitting me square in the face with it.

- Matt Reed should get a job as a university letcherer. He is very professional at the job.

- Lily Allen performed a cover of 'Dub Be Good To Me' with a not great rapper called Professor Green. His not great rapping was worsened by the fact that he did not do the bit that goes 'Tank fly boss walk jam nitty gritty' etc. The rest of Lily's set was ace. As was her tiny dress and the fact that hours before she had walked past me, Georgie and others in the artist's area, wearing only a towel.

- Favourite audience members were two men in the front row when I MC'd the Friday afternoon. Their names apparently were 'Wooooooo' and 'Woo' and one had a very thin moustache painted on. I love festival weirdos.

- I did not make a space squirrel out of foil. I am saddened by this.

- I really couldn't do a festival the normal way after now being so used to going to artist's camping areas. There is nothing like waking up, strolling to get some free tea and then having a shower in a 'posh wash', then stealing bottles of vitamin water and sweets before commencing with festival activities. Oh and the loos flushed and had paintings on the walls. Class.

- 'Posh Wash' showers, despite the names, are not that posh. The one I used yesterday had mud all over the floor which meant I developed a very clever system of balancing on one leg in order to put my socks and shoes on. I am now very good at balancing on one leg.

- I paid £3.50 for 99 flake. This is all wrong and yet oddly I didn't contest it. I am a fool.

- Lily Allen walked past me in the artist's area wearing only a towel.

- iPhones suddenly become rubbish when at a festival. All that technology and yet they seem unable to just work and make a phone call when several thousand other people around you are trying to do the same thing. Sort it out Steve Jobs. However, during bouts of severe tiredness the 'Profanity' App did come in use.

- Me and Georgie laughed at the use of the word Uranus in the Times horoscopes for far far too long. Top winners were 'Uranus is up to high jinks' and 'rebellious Uranus'.

- Vietnamese Rum tastes of death. FACT.

- At some point at every festival, everyone gets some glitter on their face. No one really knows how it happens, but it does. Glitter is very powerful like that.

- I was in the festival program. Thanks to Brett, the final line of my biog read 'please do not mistake him for an ewok'. People didn't, but if they had done I would not have shouted at them for saying I looked like a bear.

- Craig Campbell knows a really good song about knowing a lot of places.

- Some people got food tickets to get free food. I asked if I could have one. They asked who I was, so I told them. They then said 'No. YOU can't have one.' I think someone had warned them that I would eat a lot.

- I saw a new act who was buzzing off his face do a set while wearing a space helmet and carrying a toy gun. I've never seen a group of monged people so quickly organise themselves into doing a slow hand clap. I thought it was hilarious.

- If you see Georgie, burst into a cockney jig. He won't be able to resist joining in. Despite his Welsh heritage I think he wishes he had been born in Stratford.

- I must remember that no matter how fucked I get, smoking is never ever a good idea. Ever.

- Very much enjoyed Matt Kirshen pointing out to the audience that despite the fire exit signs on the doors of the comedy tent, if the tent was to burn down, we would still just be standing in a field, so may as well stay where we are.

- There were lots of free packets of Roundtrees Randoms everywhere. Despite the name, they are not that random. I kept getting a lot of the same shapes of sweet. What I would like is a packet where when I open it I pull out a bit of glass, then a mint, then someone's finger, then an insect, then a copy of Country Life from the 80s. It wouldn't be nice, but it would be random.

- Brett's bowels do not like festivals. Fact.

- Lots of other people, while very happy to be at Bestival, were also sad they couldn't watch Derren Brown's show on Friday about how he is a witch and made the lottery do what he wanted.

- Lily Allen walked past me in the artist's area wearing only a towel. Admittedly I shouldn't have been wondering near her dressing room wearing only a towel. Security got upset, so did she and I had my wristbands confiscated.

- The above is not true. What is true is that Lily Allen walked past me in the artist's area wearing only a towel.

- I lost about an hour and fifteen minutes getting back to my tent on Saturday night. I don't know where this time went. I'm fairly sure all I did was walk back. I think I might be a time lord.

- They now have Jim Beam and Coke in a can! The world is better place because of this. And also a worse place the next day when you realise how much you drank.

- The Fleet Foxes are very very beardy men. More beardy than Beardyman. He needs to work on that.

- On the ferry home I wanted a scone. Paul had bought one for him and Tiffany and their was one left but the cafe lady put it aside for herself and wouldn't let me have it. She didn't even make a pun based gag about its fast disappearance. I was very saddened by this.

That is all. Well its not. There is a weekend of things that happened but I don't remember them all as I damaged my brain somewhat. I felt very sad I was unable to blog over the weekend but must thank Layla for her contribution yesterday and for posting my blog on Saturday. Does that still count as blogging everyday or have I broken the marathon of continuous blogging that I have self imposed? I do hope its not considered a gap or I'll have to start all over again, and I can barely remember what happened last December the 30th so it may take some time.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

No Blog Apologies

Apologies from the Isle of Wight...... Mr Douieb is otherwise engaged on festival business. Actual Tiernan shall resume blogging tomorrow.

Posted by Layla on behalf of Tiernan..........commission?!

Saturday, September 12, 2009


Tiernan is currently out of the office on festival business until very late on Sunday 13th September . He will not be answering any phone calls because he will pretend he has no reception even if he likes you. Chances are though he doesn’t like you because he is at a festival and will not like anyone or anything until he can get home and poo somewhere that doesn’t already smell of poo.
If you need to contact him incase of emergency, you’re probably better off contacting the emergency services. Tiernan is terrible in emergencies and tends to just get all panicky before crying a bit. Chances are you’ll be much better off with a policeman/ambulance person/fireman/Spiderman.
In his absence, here is a Do-It-Yourself Tiernan blog that has been kindly put up by his bloody lovely girlfriend Layla.

1.) – Its raining heavily – please head to number 4
2.) - Its really nice and sunny – please head to number 5
3.) - The weather is temperate and there is nothing to complain about – please head to number 6

4.) Oh god its horrible. I’m so covered in mud that when the brown cocoon I’m trapped in eventually dries and cracks off I’m scared I will have metamorphosis into a different person. Or perhaps a beetle. It’s like a mud war here. Imagine mud. Yeah, it’s that but loads. Better still, imagine snow but its brown, very sticky, not cold and smells suspicious. Nothing like snow then. More like mud. We have lost several of our party and they are believed to be buried somewhere in the main festival field. The main stage has sunk and Lily Allen was last seen holding her arm up above her ever-sinking torso as she sank deep below the surface. She gave a thumbs up like in Terminator 2 and everyone wept a tear. I can’t wait to get home. I hate it here.
5.) Oh god its horrible. It’s so bloody sunny that I’ve burnt my face and even though I’ve managed to have a wash I still smell of festival sweat. My tent has become a little bubble of heat and I woke up this morning feeling as though I was in a Swedish sauna. It didn’t help that there was a naked Swedish man in there. No one needs this much sunshine. Except maybe rickets sufferers and people covered in solar panels. Lily Allen evaporated while on stage this afternoon. Everyone wept a tear. I can’t wait to get home. I hate it here.

6.) Oh god its horrible. I can’t wait to get home. I hate it here.

Thanks to Layla for posting this. Tomorrow’s blog maybe a bit late.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Off to Bestival

Oh god its early. Horribly early. Not for you. Or maybe you, but for me, getting up before double digits is not nice. Especially after a late night getting home from Brighton at 2am. I've woken in a sleepy stupor from my lovely comfortable bed and visited a clean bathroom for the last time till Sunday night. From now on, until then, it'll be snoozing in a tent and visiting crappers that smell of other people's crap. Yes a lot of people enjoy festivals. I however, am the not the greatest advocator for spending three days away when I could be at home in bed. I don't mean to sound overly miserable, but I am. At this moment in time I'd be very happy if someone said I didn't have to go. I would instantly climb back into bed, wake up at leisure and spend the whole day looking forward to Derren Brown revealing the secrets to his witchcraft tonight. Instead I've got to trek all the way to the Isle of Wight where no one actually lives or does anything. People say they do, but its so far away I think they're just lying. No one would really live there. There are only two roads. Why would you live somewhere with only two roads? It is a silly place. I can't just drive there either, I have to get a shitty ferry that will be full of shitty people and bad food and then when it finally docks I have to race to the Bestival site, pitch my tent and be onstage by 3.30 where I won't leave the stage for bloody hours and hours. I'm hoping it doesn't rain or that will make things all truly horrendous, with people sinking and dying in mud, young children sliding off into the distance never to be seen again, and everywhere looking like a giant turd.

I am being miserable. It'll probably be a bit fun. Just a bit though. At some point I'll wake up and I'll feel a lot better about things. I used to be a morning person. There was a time when getting up this early would've been easy and I would have been brimming with excitement about heading to a festival. Now my life has been jaded by comedy's late nights and I know I have to do work at the festival so can't get twatted straight away, which is pretty much what's making me sad. I mean, I can get twatted, but I'll have sustain twattishness for some hours without collapsing and I doubt that's possible. I could of course just really ruin the comedy tent by being horribly sick all over it, or just passing out on the stage and not moving for the duration of the three days. I think the latter might actually be a crowd puller.

Last night was a late one. Old Rope works wonderfully at the Komedia. The crowd are lovely and fully understanding of the new material evening. Quite a bit of new things worked, and I had one gag about the Prince of Persia computer games that seemed to work very well. Then there were also a few stinkers such as my terrible one liner ' Do you know what my pet hate is?....Dogs.' I counteracted these bad ones by using Derren Brown subliminal messaging and flashing a bit of paper that I'd written 'FORGET' on, hoping it might erase people's minds of the shit gags. Two of my flyerers from Edinburgh, Katy and Jen, came along as they are Brightonians (Jen is a proper Brightonian, Katy is a temporary Brightonian, but we don't mention it). It was ace to see them and they are not coping with post Edinburgh life too well. They expressed some difficulty is sustaining being near people they didn't know and not trying to sell them a show and flyer them. I wondered if I should cash in on that and give them lots of bits of paper saying where my gigs are around the country. Or, even better, just bits of paper asking them to send me cash. Or like Derren they could hand out bits of paper saying 'forget' and lots of people would wander around with amnesia.

Right, car is packed with tent, wellies, a small boat incase of rain, a bucket of sanity incase mine runs out, and a loo roll. I'll be fine. There shall be little tweeting for the next few days on account of no reception and lack of phone battery. My blog tomorrow will be pre-prepared and posted by Layla and please can none of you tell me how Derren did it till I get back as I'll just watch it then. Even though I'm sure his answer will be 'black magic'.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Derren Bloody Brown

I'm still thinking about how on Earth Derren Brown did that last night. I feel it will bother me for quite some time. Yes I know he'll be revealing it on Friday night, but sadly at that time I will be shouting at people in a field. I'm not an angry weekend farmer, I just mean I'll be at Bestival. Never have I wanted to be at a festival less. I'll have to find a way to see it. I can't sit and wait for several more days till its explained. Thing is, I know he won't really explain it. I know this, because he is an arse and likes to pretend he's letting you in on tricks and then leaves an element out so you are left to assume he is just evil. There are lots of theories to do with last night's show. Some people are fairly sure that he used camera trickery. Yes it was odd that a second camera was pointed out and then not used, and the whole shakey hand cam seemed odd. However, having seen Derren several times, camera tricks seem below him and I wonder if the second camera was to film something we'll see in the reveal. Then there are various numerology theories, that somehow he worked out all the possible combinations and predicted the most likely. Then there is one person on who reckons that on Friday we'll see a man all dressed in black walk up to the balls, put his fingers to his lips and say 'shhhh' before writing all the numbers on the balls. I like this idea the best. Derren has said its a trick, this series of events are about slight of hand and distraction so I'm sure it'll be a lot simpler than we think. My personal theory is that Derren did it using THE POWER OF SATAN! Basically he's proper evil and I still live in fear of the day that I wake up to see him hovering above London in a magic bubble telling people left, right and center what they were already thinking until they feel completely violated and cry. The second Derren Brown show last night confirmed to me exactly what sort of cruel bastard he is. It was called the Gathering. Now if I ever go to someone's gathering where I have to turn up in a coach with blacked out windows and when I get there he's not even around for a while and there aren't dips or anything, then I will be angry. Yes I have been to gatherings where I've forgotten what happened but its usually to do with self inflicted booze rather than because someone has flashed the words 'forget' at me till it hits my subconscious. That's no way as fun as downing Southern Comfort till you pull someone and try and fall asleep in a skip*. I suppose I am just a it jealous. I would love to use subliminal messages during my show. My messages would say things like 'laugh you bastards' and 'forget that joke it was shit'. People would then just leave knowing they hadn't really enjoyed it but couldn't remember why.

Very little else is in my head today. I am meant to be writing new material for tonight's Old Rope in Brighton, but everytime I start thinking about jokes, Derren appears in my head dangling his magically numbered balls and I just have to ask 'but why?' about 15 times over. It doesn't help that I have absolutely no new material either. Since Edinburgh I have not found anything I particularly want to write about. There are some vague thoughts that I may use for this evening, but I have a feeling they will all be shit. I found out yesterday that the ever awesome Mark Thomas saw I was doing a gig in Portsmouth in October and so plugged it at his tour gig this week saying I was 'funny and clever'. This is bloody lovely of him to do so, but now I am thoroughly worried that I have no political or clever material at all at the moment and several of his fanbase may be disappointed if they turn up. I was hoping that post Edinburgh the news would be filled with all sorts of mayhem for me to mock in an intelligent fashion, but instead its just some suicide bombings, which is so 2005, Obama going on about healthcare, and today's BBC news has a whole page on how to eat a jellyfish because the public has become stupid. Surely you eat a jellyfish with ice cream. Idiots. I wish Derren Brown would go into politics. This was an idea touted by @ObliViVion on Twitter, who was right in saying that he'd be able to predict any public crisis. Then again I suppose we could never mock or speak out against him as he'd know and then he'd mind-rape everyone. Maybe I don't want him to go into politics, maybe he just wants me to think that. Damn you Derren how did you do it you bastard?????

Must pack for Bestival in a minute as I head there tomorrow morning. Me and Layla went to Niki and Rosie's house last night for me to borrow a tent. While we were there, they also made us dinner which is quite possibly the best tent collection service I've ever had. Next time I borrow anything off anyone, I expect a full lovely dinner and nice chat to accompany it or they wont get the pleasure and honor of me borrowing their stuff. Niki and Rosie are a mum and daughter who I knew through their constant attendance at Fat Tuesday. Then last year Rosie got to be one of the judges on the if.comeddie panel and this year Niki was one of the judges. They are proper comedy geeks and we spent much time last night complaining about people that didn't get recognition and then talking about the Wire. Niki is a teacher too, so her and Layla spent much time saying how shit kids are. I love that generally whatever job you do, the people you deal with always become the enemy. I do comedy, so generally my audience are dicks, and when I worked for a housing association, all the tenants were dicks. I wonder if doctors sit there and get angry at those 'stupid ill bastards'. So thanks to them I have a tent, I have borrowed my dad's wellies and just incase it turns out as shit and muddy as last year, I'm considering hiring a small boat. My biggest worry, apart from missing Derren's explanation, is that I'm not sure how I'll blog from Bestival on Saturday. Its highly likely I will have no reception so won't even be able to do an iphone mini-blog, though I will try. I have done a blog everyday now since December 30th 2008. I feel if I break the ritual now, a small black hole may appear and bad things might happen. So far suggestions have been to write it on paper and take a photograph, but I still won't be able to upload it until I get home. Or there was the idea from @h2osarah on Twitter that I could project it into everyone's minds using Derren powers, but I don't think I'll manage that and I'll just get a headache trying. I'm considering asking Layla to do an apology note from me, which may be the best idea. Any other suggestions? Please leave them in comments below if you do.

I'm off to patent my anti-Derren hat, which is made of foil so he can't get into your brains. If you haven't seen it before have a look at this post from many moons ago ( I have been constantly mooning people since that blog):

* please note, I did this when 15 and have not fallen asleep in a skip since.