Thursday, September 30, 2010

Cabbin' Fever

It appears over the last few days I've become some sort of terrible human being. I'm not sure what's changed me, but after laughing at the man with the funny walk the other day, I then ruined a cab driver's evening because his accent was so strong I couldn't understand him, or therefore find him and it was raining, so I buggered off. This might not seem that unreasonable I suppose, but when these sorts of things occur I spend ages wondering about the poor bloke sitting in his cab waiting for me to appear at the window so he can earn his keep, whilst unbeknownst to him, I'm in someone else's cab all snug and on my way. Its a mean form of rejection. Almost like cheating, but in the transport world. If I ever booked that cab again, would he accept me back? Or would he think that now I've lied to him once I could so easily do it again? To be fair, the chances of going back to Hatfield for any reason are slim enough as it is, and so I think I should be ok. But now I'll just be remembered as 'Tiernan, the man who wasn't there,' which actually, is pretty cool. I'd like to be known as the 'Man Who Wasn't There'. It has an air of mystery and intrigue. Especially if it relates to someone who was there, but no one knew it. I suppose the title is only shit if its used in relation to friend's birthdays or important family things. Hmm. Maybe its not a great moniker to have. Either way, that cab driver probably hates me and would hate my face but he never saw it.

Not entirely my fault though. Hertfordshire University is set over three campuses and no one seems to know which one is which. On the way there the cab driver insisted he knew which bit I was going to, and dropped me off in the pouring rain at a place that seemed 'uni' like. I mean like a University. Not the tiny horned horse from Dungeons and Dragons. That would be all magical and also hugely unhelpful in terms of getting to my gig. Unless Dungeon Master also appeared and gave me a riddle as to where I was meant to be which I could then try and work out but ultimately never find it or get home. Saying that, any of that sort of mayhem would have been better than dumping my unprepared for rain self on the opposite side of the campus to where I was meant to be, with only ten mins to go till I needed to be on stage. Various students gave me directions that all seemed to involve going up ramps or down stairs or under a bridge. There were points where I expected to climb through tunnels and scale 'The Wall' like some sort of Wipeout challenge.

Turning up at the gig, walking onstage like a bedraggled soaked through bear, and ultimately just being stared at by 60 apathetic bored students is by far, not my favourite way to start a Wednesday. I ploughed through got off, raced out, booked a cab and then told them exactly where to meet me. I asked a student which campus we were on and he told me the name, I gave it to the cab office and ultimately, their cabbie ended up at the wrong site. Brilliant. Then followed me running around the campus I was on, in the rain, to find a cabbie that was on a completely different campus trying to find me, in the rain. His constant phone calls with extremely strong accent and bad signal meant I kept misinterpreting what he'd said and his repetition of 'Hatfield' combined with my 'yes, I am wearing a hat' responses, meant it was never going to be.

This combined with the train journey there, where we were told the train left from platform 2, then whilst on the train were told it was the other train on the same platform. Then when the entire train full of people had sat down, we were told the train we needed was now on Platform 0 ( a platform that surely, due to its name, should not exist? Platform nothing. It is less than the 1st platform? How can we possibly stand or wait for a train on a platform that has a value of 0? We should be waiting for ever) and so the entire train load of people had to move again. No one was certain we'd ever get there.

Today I have the car again. I will grumble about the M1 and the M6. I will hate trying to find somewhere to park, yet all the while, I will be dry and can wail along to music I like and will ultimately know where to find my car at the end of the night. Though I will be in Birmingham so it's possible it may have moved when I return to it. Ha. Joke Brum types. But also not.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Brain Doodles

I'm in a rush today. In terms of time that is. I'm not trapped in a single leaf of a water based plant. I'd have to be smaller to do that. I wasn't in a rush an hour ago, and then I realised as time has slowly ticked away that I had I planned today correctly, I would not be in a rush now. I am constantly amazed at people that forward plan. I do it a bit, but what I actually suffer from is, as my friend Mat calls it, an over developed sense of urgency. What this does is manifest itself in my head as though its forward planning, I then race off thinking I've got everything sussed, end up where I'm meant to be far earlier than I should be but missing whatever bit of paper or information I needed when I got there because I left it behind rushing out. Then I sit around bored in a place for a while till I'm meant to do whatever it was I was there for. I would be the worst hit man ever. Had I been employed to kill JFK, - and who says I wasn't? Well me. And the lack of time travel. Were it to have a voice. If it did have a voice I believe it would mostly shout 'there's no time travel' and be hugely monotonous until they day that time travel is invented and it'd get all excited, but during its new found excitement it would disappear from existence - I'd turn up to the grassy knoll at least a day or so before he was due to drive by and I'd have forgotten to bring a gun of any sort. So, yes, in a rush now, and much like yesterday's blog, divulging in why I wasn't responsible for killing one of the most iconic Presidents of the USA doesn't help this rush whatsoever.

Neither has sitting on my bed reading, deciding to tidy my room, or doodling a small picture of a snail wearing a giant shoe. None of these in any way, has slowed down time and made me rush less. Maybe I should've doodled concentric circles or something more time slowing? At least snails are slow. Maybe that was the thought process behind it. Not that there was much thought or process behind drawing a snail in a shoe. Bloody love doodles. Its like your brain is sicking out through an ink pen. Or pencil depending on preferred doodle tool. Doodle is also an awesome word. Its has connotations of meaning something easy, much like doddle, only with more flair and 'oooo'. Or not. I suppose Doodle is only bad when teamed with 'bug'. I also find it annoying when teamed with 'Yankee'. I like it rhymed with noodle and oodle. Oodle is not a word.

Oh god, and now I'm really late. Today's blog has been nothing but a tepid splurge of brain. I do apologise. Tomorrow's will be full of form and construct and people will take it and put it in museums and read it out aloud in parks. And lo, other people in those parks will get annoyed and find my blog and smash it up into tiny pieces with a hammer and lo, those pieces shall be spread across the Earth only to be discovered in 2000 years time when people are half human half space thingies and they will piece it together and ultimately realise that humans didn't really evolve much at all until the 22nd Century.


Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Let Them Entertain Me

After only having three hours sleep, being hungover (yes, again. Shut up. Yes you. You specifically. Frowny McFrownerson with your morals and that) and leaving Camarthen at 7am this morning to drive 250 miles home, there is not much brain capacity left for a blog. Don't fret though people, people who are solely dependant on reading this blog everyday or they'll die. People who need these words to filter through their eye holes into their brains to feed into the section of the brain called the Tiernanamus Worduloma otherwise they'll cease breathing (this is what I like to believe in order to have a reason to keep blogging. If you tell me this is not true, I will just stop. If you ever wanted me to blog more than once a day, you would write in and tell me little Timmy has a deficient Tiernanmus Woruloma and needs at least 2500 words from me a day to stay alive. Then I'd have a sponsored blogathon where myself and several others would blog for 24 hours while shit celebrities did dances and sang, which ultimately would distract me from blogging and then Timmy would die anyway. So, in fact, don't write in and do that. Its for the best). Yeah don't worry all of youse types, because there will be a blog, but much like a party themed entirely on the most basic of card games, I shall keep it snappy. Yes, I could have used crocodile. Or alligator. In fact using either of those as an example instead of what I did would have made this blog snappier. Well, blogees, let it be said I am a 'well known term' maverick. And even blog brevity will not keep me from doing so. Look before you backflip. See? Don't put all your eggs in a goldfish bowl and then kick it. There's no stopping me. Deal with it.

I did something terrible today. Its only 2.30pm and already I've managed to gain several hell points. For some people they might seem easy, but usually, its only after dark and during drinking that I become evil Tiernan, whereas today, he appeared early. I was sitting in my car at the traffic lights when I saw across the road a rather short man in a suit. He must've been about 4'10" but was not of a 'diminutive stature' or whatever the correct term is (Smurf? or Borrower?), as he was too tall for that. He was wearing a smart grey suit with a blue tie and was carrying a grey walking stick. Now, he obviously had some sort of physical disability, which, of course should never be laughed at. Ever. You terrible people. Don't do it. Except for this time. Because whatever was wrong meant that when he stepped his left leg forward, his right arm would go up as though he was doing jazz hands. The right leg going forward would do the same only, he'd swing his cane in the air. Every step looked as though he was parading down a staircase that would light up as he traversed it, moving to the beat of a big band. I started humming Rat Pack songs in time with his movements and he seemed to be the jazziest man around town. It was brilliant. Now, ok, I know essentially what I was doing is laughing at someone's disability, but I like to think that I was in awe of it rather than mocking. I hope he embraces this and gets his own big band to walk everywhere he goes. Surely if you are to have some sort of physical difficulty in life, you'd want one that makes you constantly seem like the guy from Singin' In The Rain who sings about girls. Not Gene Kelly. That other dude. Not the funny one. No and not Gene Kelly. You know the other dude. No I'm not going to IMDB it. No. You do it. NO ITS NOT GENE KELLY. Jesus. No its not him either and that's not a funny joke. Its a dad joke. Now stop it. Part of me hopes he just walks like that because he wants to and that would be both a) brilliant and b) make me seem like less of an arsehole. Maybe we should all walk like that to make him feel ok? I'm not helping my case am I? No. Clearly not.

Though he did it unintentionally, he was one of two people who have entertained me unexpectedly in the last 24 hours. The other, who was acting quite deliberately was a big Welsh techy from Camarthen who decided I would be the sort of person to have such conversations with him like:

'If I wear a clown suit to church, why should I be discriminated against? Just 'cos I like dressing up like a clown, doesn't mean I can't like God does it? Look at the Pope. He wears a dress and a stupid hat and red shoes, yet he's allowed in churches. But I bet if I rocked up on a Sunday wearing a clown suit they'd make me leave. A Nazi who covers up child abuse in a stupid hat and red shoes would frown upon me wearing a clown suit in a church. Its bloomin' bonkers.'

Pretty much a flawless argument as far as I was concerned. Conversation two revolved around:

'If people wear leather and those 'orrible women wear foxes or minks, then I want to know why I can't wear a dolphin jacket? All the skin of a dolphin. Or a people jacket. Its the same innit? Loads of dead dolphins from the tuna fishing. Why waste their skin? All dead people from wars and that. Its the same. We're all mammals aren't we? I think people's is hypocrites.'

Brilliant. The conversational delights then continued with such subjects as to how he likes to sign into the Big Brother C4 forum under an alias, pretend he went to school with one of the contestants and say what an arsehole they were to cause trouble, why he wrote a letter to Corned Beef manufacturers about their lack of easy tin, how his friend has written letters complaining about True Blood as it shows vampires as having feelings and that would mean should we ever get attacked by vampires we will unprepared for the soulless evil creatures they actually are, and why comedians shouldn't be allowed to use the word 'gig' as there is no rock involved. My personal favourite was when he asked if I like the sound of my own voice when I hear it played back to me. I said no. He then said I was using the voice other people can hear to talk to him, yet I don't like that voice. That meant I was being rude to him and I should've put on an accent. Amazing.

Well done other people. You've been very entertaining this week. Keep it up and I can quit. Now to walk to the bank to the tune of Dean Martin's 'Ain't That A Kick In The Head'. Hope that was enough words to keep you from dying. Should any of you start gasping, let me know and I'll add a sentence or two.

Monday, September 27, 2010


There's nothing that can sum up the highs and lows of a comedy career quite like gigging to just under 500 students, storming it, and then returning full of adrenaline to the sort of bleak Travelodge hell that I'm currently sitting in. The kind of room where they have discarded all attempt at art apart from an oversized version of the Dulux chart to make you realise there are other colours than grey in the world. The room has been designed to cater for the depressed. There is a bottle opener on the side of the desk, knowing full well the only way you'll survive a night in this room without contemplating your own sorry existence is by drinking through it. Then, should you wish to try and throw yourself into the wasteland quarry that the picturesque scene outside provides, the window is 'restricted' for your own health and safety. Room with a view. A view to a kill. Kill yourself. Joy. I'm sitting watching children's TV in an attempt to see something where people at least smile. The irony of children's TV showing in this place is that I'm sure no one has or ever will bring children here. In fact, I'm fairly sure most people that stay here aren't allowed near their kids anymore if they have any or, in fact, aren't allowed near any kids ever. It is a building designed by someone who wanted to replicate the idea of you never leaving a 9 to 5, even when you're asleep. Travel-odge. Or Trave-lodge. Not Travel-lodge. In no way does it want you to think its a both somewhere for weary travelers, or a lodge to stay. It can only be one or the other. What is an odge? I assume exactly this. Its the sort of noise you might make when trying to heave yourself through the restricted window.

Their new mascot appears to be a small bear who keeps popping up around the building saying slogans like ' You Do Not Disturb This Room. Understand?' The fact he is wearing a lab coat and then follows the initial instruction with 'understand', makes him appear like some sort of terrifying East End gangster hit bear. The sort of bear that gets called into dispose of a body by throwing it into a bath of acid. Or to some pigs. Or to some pigs on acid. In no way at any point has this bear made me feel more comfortable. Saying all this, it is clean, and the bed and shower are good, so I can't really complain. I have, over the years, stayed in far worse places for the sake of comedy. The worst was possibly the B&B in Loughborough where the doors didn't have locks and a creepy old lady wandered the corridors at night with a torch tapping the walls. I never been so afraid to sleep in my life.

The gig was brilliant last night. I've realised that now, at my age, students gigs are becoming harder and harder to do. I am constantly at odds with looking at these pretty young people, all excited about their lives and futures and wanting to entertain them, and yet being so hugely spiteful of their youth and naivety that I can't help but want to crush their dreams by saying how pointless all studying in this world of international deficit and unemployment is and they should all learn trade skills. I'm not sure how this has happened. One very attractive girl last night engaged me in conversation about how she had taken film studies because a) she wanted to go to uni but didn't know what to do and b) because she wants to make porn movies at some point. This was then followed by her telling Tony Lee (the hypnotist I was supporting) that she will get on stage and do anything except 'sex in chairs'. Several years ago, I may have seen this as an exciting if hugely shallow invitation of some sort. Now, I frowned upon her choice of life decision, spent several minutes being horribly sarcastic and then thought about seeking shelter in the chair department of Ikea, before hiding backstage and reading some of my book. This and returning to the Travel-odge slightly drunk and singing 'Travelodge' to the tune of David Grey's Babylon in the empty corridors to myself, honestly make me wonder what's happened to me.

Today is driving to Camarthen in Wales. Quite a trek, but a pretty drive some of the way. Not only that, but thanks to a chat with my friend Katy the other day, I have a renewed love for all the old Ninja Tune records I haven't listened to in ages. The car is stacked with CDs of oddly trippy ambient experimental breakbeat madness for the duration of my cruising. I used to be, and would like to think that despite losing touch with some it, such a big Ninja Tune fan. Its their 20th anniversary this year and discovering that made me slightly sad to find my 10th year anniversary CD box set, and remember how seven years ago I spent a month and half being a runner for them, getting paid only in CDs and free gigs. I spent several nights at the excellent Xen shows and witnessed Kid Koala and Cinematic Orchestra among many others, play amazing sets. Ninja Tune records were introduced to me by my friend Luke in my second year of University, along with DJ Shadow and various other Trip Hop and breakbeat bands. Hearing a mix of music blends I'd never heard and some stuff, that to be honest like Funki Porcini, was almost inaudible and we only persevered thinking we were left field and cool, made me feel like I had been let in on a world that no one else knew about. The downside of this of course was that when Luke went to live in America, and my other few friends who were into it, Louis and Andrea, all moved away or got their own busy lives, I've been left with no one to go see any of this again, and instead I'm reduced to singing David Grey parodies in the 21st Century Bleak House. Still, speaking to Katy the other day, who is all young, but still knows about Ninja Tunes - a total revelation - I have decided to get back into it. Even if I go by myself. And hide in the dark at the back. Not unlike a ninja, ironically. A shit ninja. A really really shit old ninja.

'Heeey heeeeeeeeeeeeey, Travvveeeelllll-ooooodddgeeeee.......'

Sunday, September 26, 2010

A Slice of Serious Pie

A fairly seriousish blog today. Not sure what's happened but see it as reading a page in the Sunday Times supplement or somesuch and we'll all get by. If its too serious at any point, then please just imagine a penguin with a small woolly hat on bopping left and right. There. That will get you through.


Now, I'm not going to pretend that I've been following politics at all closely lately. I could try and pretend but within minutes I'd be either making policies that didn't exist such as the 'reconstitution of the mountain goat in Lime Regis' or something, or I'd just make panicky noises and run away. In fact since Edinburgh fever hit around June time I pretty much switched my mind away from trying to figure out all the many ways the coalition were screwing Britain sideways and instead focused my mind on other matters. Now, post August, trying to catch up on it all, I'd be lying if I didn't say I was struggling to maintain interest in any of it. Ignorant I know, and I'm not pleased with myself about it, but for some reason as I glance over comments about the UK needing a 'radical overhaul' and then it being followed by various different ways the lower classes will be worse off, I just switch off hoping that my ignorance might mean some sort of bliss and I can dwell in a happy land of stupidity. Essentially I have become one of the people I loathe for their contentment at knowing nothing about the world. So, in the last few days I've tried to keep an eye on the whole Labour leadership contest, with an actual element of interest to know who'll be taking on the society destroying double act of Cameron and Clegg.

I don't know how the leadership thing worked. I assume it was to do with audience text voting as everything else is, or perhaps they had to joust each other, or maybe all names went in a hat. I just don't know. Either way it appears Ed Milliband has won, and that means he gets to have more potatoes at Christmas than David or something. I'm not sure how I feel about Ed being the new leader. He seems to be a good speaker, have a determined view of where he'd like to take the party and he's far less creepy looking than David who I'm fairly sure, along with George Osbourne, is the reason David Icke believes in lizard people. What annoys me already about Ed however, is his quickness to discard the idea that under him the party will lurch to the left. I'm not saying he should adopt a strong Communist stand point and oppose Cameregg / Cleggaron with Stalinesque regime tactics whereby we reduce the deficit by executing a bunch of criminals till there's more dosh to go round. No, I don't expect or hope for far left extremist views, but for a man who's father was a revered Marxist and who at one time, was an intern under the great Tony Benn, you'd hope he'd be proud of having left wing views and provide a party who actually offer something different to the Tories. There seems to be some fear that if we are allowed to call him 'Red Ed' that society will back away, but if anything, his insistence that he is not like that, makes me further worry that once again, another posh Oxford boy will be throwing the same shit at the same wall as the other team leaving us disillusioned and bored with our government as per usual. He may just be playing his cards very carefully which I respect, and I like his backing of the unions, so I hope he proves me wrong. Time will only tell, and no doubt I'll not read the papers for several weeks again anyway and get all confused. Oh to be more receptive to political banter. On day Douieb, one day.


After the show yesterday I encountered a very weeny Essex lady who insisted I had been the funniest on the bill. Now, I'm not one to blow my own trumpet, or in fact, anyone else's trumpet. I'm hugely unmusical. It would just make a raspberry noise and there'd be more saliva than notes. What I mean is, I hate saying that people have said I've done well for fear I sound like an arrogant twazzock, but I tell you this because whilst her compliments were lovely, she followed it up by saying that she'd never been to comedy before and that I should 'totally be on that TV program, you know the one, you should be on The Inbetweeners. I love that show,' before then telling me all the other telly shows I should be on and how I should play the big theatre near where she lives. Now, like I said, she was very sweet, but a part of me couldn't help but sigh inside at her low level of understanding of the comedy world. This implausible idea that the only reason I'm not all over the telly is because I don't want to be or hadn't thought of it. I wish that were the case, I really do. Admittedly, I'd feel like a complete tool if, after doing comedy for 7 years I needed an audience member to point it out to me. 'Oh yeah telly, of course! Right I'll just go and have my own sitcom now then. Easy as pie.' This I realise, is hugely unfair to the lady and by simply manifesting my own bitterness, I shouldn't be disregarding her niceties.

Saying that, she was with a man who told me he wanted to fight me because I'd insulted Middlesborough. He then told me it was joke. Then he said it wasn't. He kept this toing an froing right till the end of the night when he came to speak to me, was all friendly then told me not to go to the 'Boro as he'd be waiting. I genuinely felt a tad worried. He then laughed and said he was only kidding. At no point was it ever funny. I long to understand how threatening someone is the funniest thing ever. Perhaps if I want to get on the Inbetweeners I need to carry around a knife, tell people I'm going to cut them, then tell them it was all a giggle. Maybe that's what I'm missing out on.


The people that dressed up at Bestival as the Yip Yip aliens left a nice comment on my Bestival blog from a few weeks back saying that the were the wearers of such awesome costumes. They've sent me an FB link to a pic to prove it, but I can't access it. So this here really, is just a quick note to say to those people, that if you read this blog again, damn well done, and please post the link again to somewhere I can actually see the pics.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Unliving For The Day

Whoever said 'live for the day' was a bellend. I mean, what else are you meant to do for the day? Die? I mean, I'm sure some people do, otherwise the whole world would be horribly over populated, I just think that the very least I can do, per day, is live. I've done it for quite a while now. I don't want to boast, but I think I've got the whole breathing, eating and all that nailed. I mean today for example, I'm definitely living right now. Thanks to booze, I do feel somewhat undead, but knowing that I'm about to eat weetabix and not brains confirms I'm not. I like to think of that as the definitive 'Check If You're A Zombie Test'. If you find that you're worried about your living, dead or undead status, then just say to yourself, when peckish 'What do I feel like eating? What am I hungry for today?' If your answer is along the lines of 'I could murder a cheese and pickle sandwich' then you're ok. The fact you want to massacre food in an immoral way is a worry that will have to be dealt with at another time. I only hope for your sake that you don't stroll into a bakers, lose all willpower and ruin your life by stabbing some innocent baguettes. If however, your answer is 'Braaaaaiiiinnnnnnsssssss', then you are undead and you should probably cut your own head off nowish. There. If your answer is ' ' then you're dead and you don't need to eat which will save you a lot of money on food shopping so well done. Worryingly, I check this most days. Today however, I fancy weetabix, so at ease zombie hunters. Phew.

Actually to be fair my first thought this morning was that I wanted to eat nothing as by pummeling my stomach with whisky and then later some horrible halloumi concoction from a takeaway restaurant who's health and safety standards were highly debatable has left it more than a tad upset with me. That's where the term 'upset stomach' comes from. When you punish your gut to the extent where it exacts petty revenge. If you really piss it off, it bursts. I often try and steer away from such things by giving it occasional chocolates to make it happy. Then my second thought was, 'actually it might be quite nice being dead, or at least undead today.' Not for any miserable suicide reasons or anything. Chill with the still and all that worriers. No, its because today is the day the comedy starts properly again. From tonight I only have 1 night off until the 12th of October and then after that there's another long run of endlessly doing the funnies until around Christmas. The more astute of you will note that I often complain when I am not busy. This, yes, is hugely true. And no, I should totally not be annoyed with having enough work to live and gaining the monies and all that. But at the same time, I really like not working. This combined with the fact that since Edinburgh I have written all of about two new jokes and generally felt like idea of coming with more material would be harder than finding a well built Commonwealth Games Stadium in Delhi. That's the level of shit comparisons I've been making. I haven't even read about the Commonwealth games. I honestly couldn't care less. I just checked BBC News, saw that on the front page, considered making a joke about it being harder than 'being a Labour leader candidate that wasn't a Milliband', realised that will be old/irrelevant/wrong about an hour after writing this, and gave up. Sigh.

This is the problem with being self-employed. Its mostly that my boss is a wanker. Everyone has a wanker boss, that's sort of a fact about life. Every now and then you come across someone who is generally happy with their workplace overlord, but it will often be the case that the uber boss above them is such a total prick, that it balances out. With self employment, you just end up hating yourself in order to fit in with everyone else. Sometimes I even accidentally send myself emails slagging myself off, and then have to have a disciplinary chat. Its all very awkward. I was offered a gig last night, I turned it down in order to drink with friends, I spent the rest of the night berating myself about it. Did I have fun drinking with friends? Yes. Did I prefer that to gigging? Yes. Was I still annoyed at myself? Yes. Hugely. And now to reverse all that, here I am, annoyed that over the next few weeks I won't have a break to do more drinking with friends or generally just have a life. Yet were I to cancel gigs to do those things I'd spend the nights thinking 'I should be gigging' and again the circle of self loathing starts.

I'm currently reading Stewart Lee's book. I'm not going to harp on about it, as it appears to be in everyone's blog right now. As it should rightfully be, because its ace. I just thought that I should point out how bloody lovely, as a comic, it is to realise everyone goes through the same highs and lows, the same crap gigs then brilliant gigs and weird gigs, and that overall, its a very silly business. Years ago, as a struggling open spot (I am now fully able to say I'm a struggling comedian. Winner) a book called Ha Bloody Ha by William Cook did much the same as I read interviews with Harry Hill and Eddie Izzard speaking of the trials of making it. Its hugely reassuring, reaffirming and overall makes you realise its really not that bad as a job whatsoever. In fact its brilliant. Unless, like me you're hungover and feel it necessary to book a meeting in with yourself about drinking on a school night, and how my punctuality has been less than perfect. Dead people don't have to deal with this. Neither do zombies. I'm going to go eat some brain flavoured weetabix and hope for the best.

Friday, September 24, 2010


Altogether now: dangdanandanandandandandandang ooooweeeeeooooooooo oooooooweeeeoooooooo wwwwweeeeeooooooweeeeeoooooooooooooweeeeeee. No its not the sound of Dan and Dan being chased by the police. Nor is it the sound of a camp robot. Its the Doctor Who music, which as of yesterday, is now my theme tune. That's right ladies, gentlemen, bears and wizards, it was discovered during my journey to Northampton University last night, that I am indeed a time lord. Oh yes. I, using merely my mind, my car and faster driving than I probably should have done, travelled through time. Not sideways, or backwards. Not even horizontally or through alternate dimensions. No, I did it chronologically, like most people. Only I did chronologically the way that say Jack Bauer would do his food shopping ie he'd fuck it right up. He'd storm in kick over the triangle of stacked beans, shoot someone in the freezer section and then steal someone's trolley while saying 'I need it, I can't tell you why, you're gonna have to trust me'. Yeah like that. What I'm saying is that last night, on the eve of the Harvest Moon, I beat my satnav by a whole 9 minutes. 'Oh yeah' you say, 'beating your satnav isn't time travel'. Well Moany McMoanerson, Picky McPickerson, that all depends on what your concept of time is doesn't it? Does your concept of time mean that you could only be travelling through it if you visible see the clocks going backwards or dramatically forwards and your surrounding areas and scenery change in appropriate fashion? Does your concept of time mean that until we discover a way to bend light to point where we can traverse between dimensions using some clever quantum mechanics that I will never understand not least because I don't listen to it when people say stuff in the first place? Yeah, well, mine doesn't. My concept of time means that if I beat my satnav and end up - despite distance calculated by speed travelled - somewhere earlier than I should be, then HG Wells can kiss my future denying derriere.

So now I know I have these powers, how to use them appropriately? Well I mean, for a start, when I say I'm meeting someone somewhere, I can leave 9 minutes later than I would and still end up there on time, which is pretty sweet. Think of what those 9 minutes could be used for? Thumb twiddling. Biscuit eating. Staring into space. Its like I've opened up whole new avenues of life. And surely what starts at just being 9 minutes early will get more and more as I hone my new skills. Soon I'll be 20-30 years early and meeting up with Jimi Hendrix for a cuppa instead of my friends. Then I'll be aiming to get to a gig but instead I'll be sitting with Julias Ceasar telling him what Brutus said behind his back the other day, or telling Hannibal how his name has been used for both the A Team and Silence of the Lambs. So many possibilities. Of course, I have to be careful as so far, I've only been able to be earlier than anticipated which may mean I can never go forwards, thus trapping myself in the past, and I like electricity and not having the plague.

There's a lot to think about, and I'll be honest, though it was tough, I chose not to say anything to the students as I walked on stage. No, it was their freshers week and they had enough on their plate. Mostly booze. Why they had booze on plates and not in glasses, no one knows. I said nothing about how just minutes before we headed into a 21 mile tail back on the M1 with 3 hours of delays we conveniently turned the radio on and heard about such things, turning off in the nick of time. Nick of Time is another time lord. He is responsible for stealing hours away from you. You know when you say things like 'how is it 4p already? Where's the time gone?' Nick took it. Or when you get drunk and you lose hours. Nick did that. Nick's an arsehole.

No instead of telling the students all that sort of stuff, I merely warned them how all the people they meet in freshers week they will hate for the next 3 years, insulted a man who's nickname was 'Splitz' and then informed them all that the only way to get around the union poster saying 'you'll be banned if in possession of controlled drugs' was to only carry uncontrolled drugs that you have no idea what they contain. Hopefully I will return in a year's time to find most of them have left full of disillusion and hope. Its a tough job doing this, but having been into the future (I haven't been to the future) its totally for the best, and I can say that with full knowledge of how true that is (I can't). Must go, I have to be somewhere at 1. What time shall I leave to get there? Maybe I should dabble with leaving ten minutes after one and see if I can arrive by 12.30? Maybe I should leave tomorrow and get there yesterday? Muthafrikkin timelord I tell ya.

I'm going to leave in ten mins cos its important and I'll lose money if I'm late. Wish I was a real time lord. Sigh.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Autumnally Yours

What a horribly grey day outside. Its pissing down with a harshness that suggests the rain has some sort of vengeance on the ground and needs to smack the shit out of it, and generally the air feels damp with glum. That's right, Summer is dead. Instead, in its place, several months of looking out the window and wondering whether you can see the sky or if the House of Lords has decided to relocate outside your home and press all their miserable, dead eyed faces against the glass. I could pretend I don't suffer from Seasonal Affected Depression but then that would mean that by sitting in my room in my PJs huffing and puffing about 'the rain bastard' whilst listening to Radiohead I'm just a miserable human being, and I prefer the former. This is officially Radiohead day by the way. As Summer disappears, bye goes the upbeat music I've been bopping about to and playing loudly in the car, and instead swoop in the wailing sounds of Thom Yorke's larynx followed by the most evil 90's gangsta rap I can find. I think this is far more appropriate for Sept-Feb and there should be some sort of law that means people can only listen to similar veins of tune appropriate to the weather. The best bit of this would be around Christmas where instead of Mariah Carey making sounds that upset dogs would be piped out of shops, we'd instead get Nick Drake, Leonard Cohen, Jackson C Frank and Public Enemy making people walk into Next and leave immediately for fear of bursting into tears or punching someone. Its a wonder I don't run the retail industry really.

I realise how grumpy this blog sounds and I should point out that part of this is due to waking up at least two hours before I wanted to today, knowing I have to drive to Northampton later, and noticing a diary entry that states 'Hospital 2pm' without any clue as to what that's for and no appointment letter to back it up. I'm slightly worried I've made a psychic prediction that I'm going to get horribly injured at around 1pm, and optimistically hope the ambulance will arrive and get me to the Whittington within an hour despite me only living 15 minutes away. Hey, at least I wouldn't have to go to Northampton. Every cloud. Is grey. Bah. I shouldn't lie actually. There are bits about Autumn I'm really looking forward to. For a start, I can fully utilise the warmth from my beard that up until now, has just been itchy. Soon however it will come into action as a permanent face scarf once the timing is right. This coupled with being able to wear my favourite warm hat will make my head a beacon of heat that people in pubs may well gather round to warm their hands against. I have been wearing my fave warm hat for the last few days in a desperate hope that as comfy as it is, it may also get cold enough for me to justify doing it. It hasn't and instead my head has just got hot and itchy. Then I have to take the hat off, leaving me with hat hair and the sort of classy look that suggests I've just woken up and my sleep was spent being slowly dragged through holly bushes. Holly Bushes sounds like the name of a shit TV presenter. Jus' sayin' innit.

I also like kicking dried autumn leaves around, strolling in the rain when donned in fully waterproof gear and being up high places when its windy. All of these are areas where, temporarily, I get to pretend I can beat the elements. Take that trees, the water cycle and air currents! I do live in slight terror that all of this will be built up in a karmic field until at some point in 20 years time I'm stuck in a country with torrential floods, where, while I'm trying to swim to escape, a hurricane swoops up a tree and hits me in the face with it. I like the boom in business of comedy during October and November when everyone else gets miserable about the weather too, and the fact there are less stag and hen dos than usual due to the fact that only idiots get married in the cold and wet. I like that I can wear my Timberlands again which make me feel alternately like a lumberjack or a rapper, depending on the day and amount of forestry that surrounds me. I like sitting in pubs with fires, putting the heating on high in my car and putting an extra layer on my bed so that it becomes a comfy straightjacket that's so difficult to escape from I often won't bother.

Ultimately Autumn rocks. But as today is day one, I haven't realised that yet and I shall mope about like its the end of the world and I'm fed up with everything that exists. Pah. Stupid seasons. Time for Kid A....

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Fatty Nobhead and Lamp Man

This blog follows another morning of flat viewings. I won't harp on about them too much here as I realise that a) the regularity with which such viewings may occur will get make the repetition of what I write about become somewhat tedious and b) I can't play the harp. Boom! Sigh. What I will state though is how on earth some estate agents ever walk into a property that looks like its been designed by a damaged child on a Sinclair Spectrum and give themselves the willpower to tell other people that having a living room the size of a crumpled matchbox is a good thing. Somewhere, deep inside their souls, these estate agents must know that taking around a group of hopefuls such as Nat, Matt and myself to a place so conveniently located near a pub with its own driveway will only spark unfair excitement that they know will instantly disappear when its pointed out that one of the bedrooms is as large as the others, but only vertically and unless you plan on standing up at all times, is otherwise barely a cupboard. Still despite what we're being told about a huge lack of property at the moment and how we should snap somewhere up, we are all remaining cool, calm and as collected as three comedians and a musician who have to shout 'we have guarantors' as quickly as possible to just sign on a estate agents register, can be. I have absolutely no doubt that with time and patience we will soon be living in our dirt cheap mansion with swimming pool, sports field and helicopter pad before you can say 'you'll live with your parents forever and never escape'. I have all the doubts. Sigh again.


Yesterday I witnessed two men doing things that made me realise I love people for all their oddities and madness. Much like penis straw woman last week, these people were indicative of what happens when people give up and stop caring. The first was a man walking down Upper Street at about 5pm last night. Wearing tracksuit bottoms, shiny new trainers and sporting a very round skinhead, this man was yelling down his phone about having 'fucking post fucking Bestival fucking flu'. This caught my attention not only due to his insistence to punctuate every gap between words with a swear but also knowing that Bestival finished over a week and half ago, I admired his ability to pretend he still hadn't recovered. The dialogue that made my day however was this. Please imagine this said in full wideboy accent and shouted far louder than it needed to be considering it wasn't too noisy around him and it was directed into a phone:

'Nobhead? Nobhead? What nobhead? What fucking nobhead? What fucking nobhead? Oh Fatty Nobhead. What's he up to?'

Amazing. I would like to know just how many people he knows that are referred to with the moniker 'Nobhead'. I don't have a single friend or acquaintance I would refer to as Nobhead to the extent where I would need to differentiate between them and other friends by a further insulting addition to the nickname. I hope that this man lives an existence where he and all his friends are 'The Nobheads' and automatically respond to being as such as long as the correct first name is used, all of which are not dissimilar to an adult version of Snow White. Druggy Nobhead, Spazzy Nobhead, Fucky Nobhead etc etc. I would like to find out what sort of Nobhead he was, but I will never know. It was clear he was definitely a Nobhead of some kind.

He was only trumped later when strolling by Finsbury Park station with my brother at around 10pmish where a man walked past us holding an empty lampshade and scanned us with it. Corin at first thought it may be a dog's flea collar, but the floral print suggested otherwise unless dog owners have got even more whimsical than sticking their pets in tiny bags. What's next? Dog crochet? No. So clearly a lamp shade. He made no noise as he waved it past us, but had hugely wide eyes as though expectant to find something from such a scan. Perhaps he had a lamp in their just moments ago and wanted us to be as surprised by the disappearance of lamp as he was? Again, something I will never know, but I applaud his weirdness


I was informed yesterday that a gag I wrote many moons ago in 2004 and have used on stage almost consistently since (primarily because I can't write anything better) was printed in Viz this month, but someone emailing it in anonymously. Now, I'm sure someone else could have come up with the concept that 'Lionel Richie is both rich and looks like a lion', but that's been my signature sign off for sometime and I worry that from now on, people will accuse me of stealing it from Viz. It saddens me when people take gags without asking. After Cheggersgate and all the furore that that caused I can't understand how people might still think such a thing is ok. Sadly as it was sent it anonymously I have no way of knowing who did it and can't really do much about it. If however it happens again I will find the person responsible and kill them and their family. Or have to write new gags instead. Possibly the latter.

Nothing else for you today. Its all this property hunting. It makes me pretty tired. You could say I'm 'flat out'. Huh? Hey? Steal that Viz readers you fuckers! Sigh the third.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

An Education

I have so far, already today, assembled a table (which I might add, I de-assembled last night, moved and then today have reassembled following a bit of polyfilling in several holes in walls) and dismantled an old wardrobe. Whilst the citizens of Narnia might cry out in dismay at the latter, it cannot be doubted that starting your day unscrewing stuff, screwing stuff and generally carrying wood makes you feel like a proper man. Wow that sounds like a terrible euphemism. Somehow within sentences, this blog has transformed from a man talking about doing good old manual labour like proper man things and transformed into a den of filth. Well how dare you readers. You noticed that first and I think you should all feel ashamed for sullying it. Hopefully you'll be so embarrassed by the whole ordeal that you won't read this next sentence where I explain that while de-assembling the table last night I may have lost two of the vital screws for one of the legs and now am typing this at the table whilst balancing its lower left corner against my knee so everything doesn't just crash down on me. This of course will prove doubly difficult when trying to get up and do anything else. 'You're no man!' I hear you wail, 'if you can't even put a leg back on a table'. Well yeah you might say that, but then consider how much of a man Atlas was, carrying the whole earth on his back for eternity. Here I am confined to balance a table on my leg, at least until help can arrive, somewhat like a mini-Atlas. Perhaps more an A-Z. Just one of a small town. Sigh.

Some other thoughts while I concentrate on tensing my leg for the sake of humanity:

- I popped along to Old Rope last night. This is partly because if I stay at home for any duration of time without specific things to do, I just get cabin fever and have to go do something before I start clawing at the walls and building animals out of objects in my room. I will keep telling people this until they realise how true it is and how often I need to be entertained. The other reason, and main reason was because Uncle Mike aka Mike Wilmot was closing the show and I look forward to seeing his sets everytime he's in the country. Last night was a proper education in comedy. I still can't work out how someone manages to make the most graphic and crude material seem so charming. It was a strong bill overall, but I sat next to Alex Zane at the end and we both just marveled at his ability to make us laugh quite so long on the subject of 'tits' while seemingly covering ground about them that no one else has. I often find that having now done comedy for 7 years, there is little that really gets me gut laughing. There are loads of acts I think are amazing and I'm often surprised by a gag here or there that I didn't see coming, but when someone like Wilmot gets you time and time again its a joy. That's something only years of experience makes you able to do. Just brilliant. For the first time since, I raced home and wrote a crapload of new material. I've since looked at it this morning and its all toss. Hey ho.

- When I got my diabetic pump, I signed up to a whole load of mailing lists and forums about the pump, thinking I may need help as to how to use it. Turns out I might well still need help, but along with my insistency to take apart tables without thinking that I may need to keep all the tools or earlier pulling out cables from the wifi by accident and just sticking them back wherever they fitted, I have charged into using my pump with barely a manual in sight and I'm not dead so so far I'm winning. However, where I lose is that I seem to receive this endless emails about things I honestly couldn't care less about. If there is some sort of diabetic society, I'm very happy being the lone dog outside of it, that occasionally gets brought to council because I've pushed over a fellow glucose intolerant member or drank a lucozade and didn't care. They would then question my morals and why I insist on defying the group that I am so clearly part of, and I would scream that I am 'an individual, I am not an insulin dependent automaton' before climbing over the city walls into the Forbidden lands of Dextrosia to fend for myself. Or something.

Anyway, yesterday I got an email entitled: 'Come and Join Me At No-Sugar Poetry Meet Up'. No. I never ever will. I couldn't imagine anything more dull and mind numbingly boring than a load of diabetics all rhyming 'eating a cake ain't no sin, as long as you take extra insulin' or 'yeah I got a broke pancreas, but if you think I care you can kiss my ass' or some similarly droll bullshit. You go play all your diabetic games over there and I'll quietly munch a toffee over here and see long it takes for me to get enough hyper energy to break everything I own and then lose my eyesight. Pow! God it makes me angry.

- The new Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly album is excellent.

- I have discovered it makes people angry if I insist on referring to The XX as 'The Cross Cross'. So far three people have been irritated. I will keep this up until more hate me.

- The first few line-ups for Fat Tuesday are up online at .You should look. They are a bit goddamn awesome.

That's all for now as my leg is really hurting and I want to go out. Atlas must've been so bored having to take Earth with him everywhere. Parties, day trips, even the loo. Poor chap. But I totally sympathise. I think I may have to keep this table by my leg wherever I venture. You know, for the people. If you see me, feel free to bring some plates and dinner and we'll have lunch.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Itty Bits

A quick itty bitty blog today, partly because I bloody love the words itty and bitty together, especially as itty is not in anyway a word and it messes up the spellcheck. Take that conventional Oxford Dictionary agreed English! Slam! The other main reason is I've got a busy day filled with sorting out things and flathunting. That's right, flathunting. I can type it again if you like. Oh you don't like? Well deal with this fools: flathunting. Oh no I didn't! Oh yes I did. Yep, myself and the Maaa Blaaa are getting a huge gun and the biggest net we can find and gonna hunt them motherfrikkin' flats down. I aim to have at least 6 flat heads up on mounts on my wall by the end of the day. Oh sure, the conservationists say, 'you shouldn't hunt flats just for fun. There's so few at the moment that they're hard to find, you can't just take down any you fancy or they'll be extinct.' Well fancy Dan, I say to you the lack of flats is not my fault, but merely that of a vicious sandwich of credit crunch and the current influx of students looking for new places right now and yeah, bite down on that. Its not tasty is it? Put some sauce in it? Still a bit chewy? Well that's why we're taking the proverbial building based bull by its cement laden horns and gonna go find somewhere before I'm destined to live at my parents for ever and have haunting nightmares of TLC singing 'No Scrubs' at me repeatedly. So while I man up and get all the vocab right so I can deal with estate agents saying things like 'well sure you can only fit one leg in this bedroom but its spacious for what you'll find in this area', and 'maybe it doesn't have a toilet but the skirting boards are the original Victorian design', here's a couple of quick things for you:


Yesterday, whilst in a mutually hungover chat, my friend Louis told me that on Saturday night he had played 'Cheese Jenga'. I feel this is all fairly self expanatory, but I bring it to your attention that it amazes me that this hasn't been thought of before. The game in question was played using a variety of different cheeses including blue and camembert. I stated that perhaps it would be best with many mini-cheddar sticks from the super market as they are already in Jenga block form. However, it was pointed out by Louis that you try to remove a cheese slice from under a large block of edam, and you'll see how challenging it is. Fair point. I think we should all play this game. Its far more mature than you might think. Arf.


I decided to mess up Sunday by going to buy a computer game. Yeah Sunday, you didn't see that shit coming did you? I jumped in the car, wallet in hand, and raced to Angel GAME to purchase something that would keep me indoors for several hours. Inside game an extremely fat 10 year old was running around by himself in a black tracksuit and a pair of crocs. He insisted on annoying the people behind the till by asking them for an empty games case despite their constant responses of 'we don't sell empty games cases'. The combination of his need for attention and stupidity meant he would wander round the shop, speaking to everyone and calling them 'boss' before returning to ask the people at the counter for an empty games case again. I felt both pity for him, irritation at his existence and yet some respect for the fact that by calling everyone boss, he already knew his status in the world was to work under everyone else. He will never be in charge of anything. He barged past me in the queue and said 'sorry boss', and I grunted at him and just pushed back past him. Idiot. I then went to pay for my game, my card was declined and it was like Sunday karma had hit me in the face. The fat kid pushed back past me and did not call me 'boss' this time. Its fair to say he had won. He bought a game, without its case, said goodbye to everyone behind the till, all of whom ignored him and I strolled out trying to work out how I had become less cool than that.


I've plugged it on here before but my friend Wilz in Uganda is occasionally writing a blog. Today's entry is very sad but excellently written. Do read:


I've started saying 'wordistan' as a greeting. Its like saying 'Kurdistan' only with 'word' in it. Im finding myself on a fine line as to whether it could be deemed cool vocab or if, once again, its the sort of thing a fat kid would stop calling me boss for. Please try it and let me know your results.


Between starting this blog and finishing it, I've already been to see a flat. In fact its the only flat we're booked into see all day. So much for the hunt. Still, amongst other things it brought me this image. Placed in the kitchen, masking taped to the wall, was this shoddy hand drawn picture of a clock. Have the current occupants fallen on really hard times? (yes pun intended. And delivered) Maybe its their attempt to stop the future from occurring? Maybe they just have a really stupid housemate who constantly thinks its 9.50 all the time? Who knows? More importantly, who cares? Even more importantly, isn't it weird I can roam around someone else's house and take pictures? Yes. Yes it is.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Days Of Future Past

I hate days like this. Fact is I really don't want to leave my bed. My hangover is giving me every reason to move as little as possible and horizontal is most definitely the preferred stance on such matters. However, not moving doesn't give me much room for entertainment and I'm currently bored. Do I move to find amusement but then coil in sadness at having to do said movement or stay in motionless joy cursing my attention deficit mind and inability to be satisfied with doing as little as possible? Its a conundrum that a lesser man would die rattling his brain over. I won't be rattling my brain at all, though that's partly because it was rattled through most of the evening and now would very much like to be left alone somewhere quiet. I did temporarily head downstairs at one point to make myself and my friend Jacqui a cuppa, but my dad decided it was an appropriate time to grind coffee beans in a coffee bean grinder thingy (I felt I should point out that's what he did it in incase you all had odd images of him smacking the shit of out java with a hammer or attempting to grind them with an egg whisk and failing) and the result was a noise that quaked my very hungover soul and drove me back under the duvet. Jacqui is both a brilliant and yet irritating friend at times like these. This is all down to the fact she doesn't drink. During the evening's drinking she therefore becomes a very good carer of sorts. She makes sure you get home ok, don't leave things in bars and generally makes sure no one dies. That's all well and useful. However, the tables turn when you wake up the next day feeling like the sky is caving in on your mind, and she is all chirpy, happy and booze free. I react to this with a mix of sheer jealousy, hate and oddly respect for her sensible living.

Not only that but she has a sleeping bag suit which, as far as I'm concerned, should only be allowed for people with hangovers as its exactly what I need. Were I to be donned head to toe in full sleeping bag regalia then I could happily move towards somewhere with things to keep me entertained whilst convincing my body I'm definitely still in bed. I would be Derren Browning my own self. I'm still intent on getting an animal onesi, even more so now I've witnessed Jacqui's sleeping bag suit and my brother showed me his full bear onesi from Japan that he now mostly lives in. I think this may be the fashion for the twenty teens or whatever we're calling them. I hope that by the Olympics, Londoners will be confusing all the other nations by strutting round as an assortment of happy bears, lions and rabbits, while all our competing athletes kick away their starting blocks with their non slip leapord feet. This may well slow them down, but at least they'd be comfy and I think any disappointment from not winning would be easily ignored knowing they could lie down and sleep where ever they liked.

As you know, I try and not make this blog a mini-diary but often seem to fail and witter on about the happenings in my day due to lack of insight about anything else. On this occasion however its necessary to partly describe last night's events in order to reflect on the stage I'm clearly at in my life. It was Mat's 30th birthday drinks last night and the whole eve started all very civil at a very nice pub in the Kentish Town area. That's right, Kentish Town. That's how we roll. To slightly expensive areas which cleverly border the bourgeoisie and the bleak like a toff with a top hat but no shoes. It was after that that the oddness occurred. Not wanting the drinking to stop, the survivors - myself included- decided things needed to continue and therefore cabbery was called and the movement travelled to a club in Crouch End called 'Moors'. I think its name refers to the ancient peoples rather than the place the Yorkshire Ripper took his victims, though on entering I was less sure. We were, baring in mind the recent age increase of our party, the youngest people in there. Surrounding us, was, as politely put by several of the crew, a 'sausage fest' of middle aged men and the occasional woman looking slightly worried about her safety. This went some way to explaining why men had to pay to get in and women didn't, an idea that is hugely flawed by men's inability to see this as a possible way of saying 'there are too many men in this club' rather than 'it must be packed full of ladies if they can just stroll in'. When will we learn? It appears, never.

They played some excellent old school tunes, but witnessing a South African rugby team of big men lollop around as though their bones had been magically turned to jelly can pretty much ruin any moment of realisation that they are playing something you haven't heard in years. Much fun was had, largely due to our group being enough that we could ward away ne'er do wells and ne'er very wells, and also because shots were involved. Drinking kind I mean. I didn't get so upset with the state of things that I got violent, though it'd have kept things interesting. There was talk of drinking games at various points, mostly by Jacqui who doesn't play them due to her non-drinking and therefore witnesses everyone around her slowly die. It dawns on me more and more how evil and manipulative these non-drinkers are. I abstained from said games and just played my favourite drinking pursuit called 'drink when I like'. This involves me drinking exactly when I want to drink. I'm very good at it and tend to always win. Last night I definitely got the gold.

What upset me though, was the realisation that this is perhaps the sort of club I am now destined to go to. Long have the days of clubbing till 6am surrounded by youthful vibrancy passed me by and instead am I now confined to watching small mustachioed sexual predators grind away at the air as though eventually the atmosphere will give in and let them take it home? I really hope not. I'd like to think this was a one off and my next foray into the world of late night music indulgence will be in amongst 20 somethings and beautiful people strutting like they know how. Saying that, I was able to sit down last night and chat to my friends as the music wasn't too loud which was nice. OH GOD WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?

I'm going to go back to bed and pray that when I wake up I'll have somehow become 25 again. Sigh.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Wrapper's Delight

I have to go buy wrapping paper. Its one of those items that I can't help but slightly begrudge buying. Its an item that's purely bought for milliseconds of enjoyment before its torn to smithereens. Please can we all use the word smithereens more? Thanks. It always seems like a good idea as you search for appropriate wrapping paper for the person. Will it have robots on it? Or guns? It should be noted that that is always the sort of wrapping paper I buy for people whether they like it or not. This is because I usually have to spend a great deal longer looking at it than they do as I attempt to cover the present in said paper without it looking like its been kicked through a hedge. I have never ever not managed to do this. My wrapping skills would ensure I'd come last in a wrap battle, if such things existed and I wish they did. 8 Mile would've been a hugely different film if the final battle involved Eminem being handed a load of pink shiny and impossible to cellotape paper to put round a cactus while Doc has to use thin crepe paper to cover a helium filled balloon. It'd have been nothing but tense I tell you. This is exactly why I should make films. I'm just shit at managing to make it look all neat and sometimes I wonder if its nicer presentation not wrapping it, although the shoddy appearance does often produce a nice gasp when they open it up and its not a dead hedgehog like they assumed or a tramp's boot. But then even when I have spent arduous hours choosing the paper, smothering the pressie as though I'm trying to kill it and winding cellotape around its exterior as though creating a prison for Morph, the recipient always spends all of 30 seconds looking at it before aggressively attacking it to get to the present like a wolf to fresh meat. I can't handle all this wasted effort. Its the same way that while I like it when food is nicely presented, ultimately it will end up in my gob and therefore surely it doesn't matter? Its like the lesser equivalent of decorating someone's house just so they can detonate it, but at least it looks pretty as bricks fly through the air. Pointless.

I have googled why we do it and there is no answer. I've asked Jeeves, and he doesn't know. If he doesn't know, then its clear there is no reason as Jeeves knows everything, despite just being a butler. Essentially he is a constant reminder never to undermine anyone because of their working status. All the web told me is that every year the US wastes 5 billion tons of paper over Christmas on wrapping paper. Imagine being a tree - ok, that may be hard at first, unless you're a drama student in which case STOP WAVING YOUR ARMS IN THE BREEZE, I just meant in your head - and knowing some of your pals are about to become tables to be used in a family home for centuries to come, or to be turned into paper that's used for important literary journals heralded the world over. Then as you are being cut down by a saw wielding lumberjack - DRAMA STUDENTS, STOP SCREAMING - you overhear that your purpose is to be broiled down into thin streams of Barbie wrapping paper to then cover some overpriced dollop of plastic so that a fat unappreciative chump can tear you into strips and put you in a bin. That is no way to live a tree life. If I heard that as a tree, I'd kill myself and become withered wood so they couldn't use me.

I'm still going to go buy some. One day I'll get angry about something and see it through. Till then I'll keep collecting plastic bags, wrapping paper and occasionally killing endangered species by spraying CFC's into their eyes. JOKE! I use bags for life. Promise.

Couple of other quickies. Who doesn't like a quickie eh? Sloths. That's who.

- If I hear another comedian say the line 'Let me tell you a little bit about myself', I will storm onto the stage and start screaming in their face. People are already there to listen to you. We assume you are about to say things about you, as if you started saying things about everyone else, we would be freaked out. Unless you're Derren Brown, in which case its ok. DIE COMEDY CLICHES DIE! Its also never a little bit. That's the worst thing about it. You have braced us for a morsel of self-indulgent diatribe and yet you warble on about how life's so tough being ginger/middle class/fat/stupid/a complete arsehole, punishing us for ever wanting to pay attention in the first place. Cock off. If you want to tell us about you, just go into it. Link it somehow. Remember those? Links. NO NOT THE CHARACTER FROM ZELDA! The other ones. Hmm. Rant over. I'm going to punch some wrapping paper to fell better.

- My beard is at galactic itch levels. I honestly don't know how people cope with it. I'm trying my best and working on the basis that what doesn't kill me will make my stronger. The repetitive arm movements used to scratch my beard every two mins probably mean that I am in fact getting stronger through a mini workout so it may be true. I tried to do a breakdancing baby freeze yesterday - why? Because I was bored. Its dangerous me being bored. We've been through this - and managed it for the first time in about 8 years. I think this may be beard scratching's doing. I suggest everyone get a beard and scratch it and soon we will a mighty bearded race and able to take over the world. That's what the Spartans did. FACT.

These last two are boring, but necessary info if we are going to be friends:

- My telly now works. If I thought punching the air was cool, I would do it. Instead I intend to spend much of today watching the Bourne trilogy on Blu-Ray and cheering everytime violence happens.

- I rediscovered the Sneaker Pimps album Becoming X last night. It brilliant. Such a shame the women, Kelly Ali, left after that album because they were never as good after. I'd say if you're a fan of the XX then this must have influenced them in some way. 6 Underground and Spin Spin Sugar are classics. Classics that no one really remembers. Go listen to it now. God I'm old. Sigh.

Das ist alles.

Friday, September 17, 2010

TV Weeply

Warning: This blog is a sad tale of love that ends in misery. Its a tale of the greatest love known to human kind. That of a man for his telly. I finally collected my TV from my old flat last night. Its been a long time since we were together, plagued with difficult to's and fro's and meetings. We've had some good times over the years. I've watched some great things through that telly, my Spaced and Jam DVDs, Indiana Jones 1-3 (NOT FOUR) and who can ever forget the wii or Xbox hours or the first time I plugged my blu-ray player in and watched the Dark Knight? Not me, that's for sure. If we had a 'tune' it would be the Hans Zimmer soundtrack to the bit where Bale is on the converted batbike fucking things up royally. Sigh, such very good times. Of course there were harsh times. If it wasn't for my telly I may never have accidentally scarred my life with a clip of Horne and Corden's sketch show or various unnecessary skimming over excerpts of morons in several BB houses, slowly ebbing away at my intelligence. But all good relationships have arguments don't they? And how many of them allow you to end the bickering with a simple press of a button? Not many which is why my telly is special. Not many girlfriends tell you when a program is on that you may have forgotten about whilst watching another channel. No. Well ok. Some do.

So when life changed and my telly was left behind, things were pretty hard. There were the initial custody talks and I fought and I fought to declare it as mine. We'd been through more, it loved me the bestest. Who else bought it digital cable? Me. Only me. Who else programmed it and tuned it in to all the channels? Just the Tiernan. That's right. If telly could walk it would have, at several times, leapt off its wall mantle and hugged me. Of course it would have to have legs and arms to do that and I'm not sure I'd love a telly as much if it was all alive and creepy. During the leaping of the wall process I'd have queried how it would have undone all the bolts and screws itself and then what sort of witch craft had possessed it to go all Evil Edna on me, and I'd have long been out the door before it could wrap its terrestrial arms around me. So eventually it was decided the TV was mine. Then came the collection of the telly. It had to stay there a while, while the flat was still occupied, so I bided my time. Made plans for when we'd be together. Bought some blu-rays, borrows some X-Box games. So finally when the day rolled around for me to collect it, I turned up all ready for the big day. And then very quickly realised I hadn't brought the right screw driver to take it off the wall. Then my parking permit outside ran out. I left, empty handed, sans television. Why didn't you leap off the wall Edna? Why?

Yesterday I learnt my lesson and returned in the dead of night with my brother, bag packed with various wrenches, screwdrivers and something I found in the tool cupboard that looked like it could pull a dragon's teeth out if you needed to. I wouldn't need that one, but I was worried about late night dragon toothache call outs, not thinking of course about the dangers of getting a fire breathing lizard to say 'aaaah'. I also like picking up tools that look cool. Essentially we couldn't have looked more suspicious heading into a derelict house with a bunch of metal DIY weaponry with all intent of taking an expensive TV. We swooped in, got slightly distracted by a hilarious book about hats I forget I had, then quickly dismantled the wall mount grabbed the telly and escaped into the wind. I raced home, placed the telly on its stand and considered dancing with it a bit, but then realised I might drop it and that would be neglect and I may lose custody again. So instead I sat down and awaited TV Times.

I looked to plug it in, searching around the room assuming I had collected it on a previous visit but all looking was to no avail. I tried using the Xbox plug to see if it was the same, knowing full well this would only deny me using both at the same time were it work. It was as fruitless as a Greggs. My heart sank, realising the plug was clearly still back at the flat. I sat on the edge of the bed pressing the on button the remote control like a stuck record. Maybe this just isn't meant to be? Cue tiny violin.

One day telly. One day.

Thursday, September 16, 2010



The UK (and by UK I mean Twitter) is in uproar (that's when lions roar vertically skywards) by the Pope's visit to these here shores. I'm not particularly happy by his visit, or in fact, his child abuse condoning, racist, homophobic existence, but at the same time, I also can't really care less. At the moment him and his cardinals seem to be doing nothing to promote themselves in anyway and I feel that the Prince Phillip effect is already taking place and it can only be a few more days before he's dug himself so far into the ground he can discover for himself that hell clearly doesn't exist and he's chock full of archaic bullshit. Yes its wrong that our money (and I say 'our' loosely. Edinburgh costs tend to mean tax is something I've only ever heard about in fairy tales. Sorry all) is being used to get him here, but frankly if my taxes (again take that with a large fistful of salt. Quality sea salt) mean that someone else in his group says that Britain is a third world country or makes more ludicrous claims about AIDS, then I feel I have paid my bit into his eventual downfall. I mean really, how much time has the Pope got left? Not until he dies. I know that's impossible. Everytime a Pope dies he just regenerates into another host body, until at some point in the future he becomes Emperor Palpatine and starts trying to destroy the Alliance. FACT. No I mean, how much time has he got left for people to actually listen to anything he says? We are currently living in a country gripped by a 'new and aggressive atheism', which hopefully means we are only a few years off denying the Pope exists at all and relaying stories to our grandchildren about a batty old bigot that dressed all in white and drove around in his special white van slagging off impoverished nations.

I wish I had more of a point to make. I don't really. I just don't give a shit he's here and I think by making a big deal of it we are possibly giving him more credit than he's worth. If it all does really go tits up, then I say we declare war on Vatican City. I've been there. Its only small. Most of the security look elderly too, I reckon we could take them out with a few punches and declare it as our own. Who's with me? No one? Oh. You go back to scowling at the BBC coverage then. I'll go back to my world of knowing I understand nothing about these sorts of things and will let more intelligent people carry on.


Yesterday I got paid to hug a lady, eat a pie and talk for 2 minutes to camera. These sorts of things don't occur very often but when they do, its hard not to be pleased by such prospects. I enjoy all of those things and I'd say I'm definitely a professional at hugging ladies and eating pies so there were no nerves involved whatsoever. Well, not until I watched the program it was due to be on. I won't say what it is but lets just say it rhymes with 'whodoyou jive' and it really is a terrible terrible program. As the show began with one of the hosts screaming while pirouetting about the idea of Kylie saying something irrefutably dull my finger hovered immediately over the off button as I felt not only my own brain cells dying, but the brain cells of all of those people on Twitter and Facebook I'd told to watch this. The guilt was unbearable. I'd asked people out of the kindness of their hearts to watch me hugging a lady and eating a pie and instead they had to sit through 25 minutes of the most vacuous excuse for news I've ever seen. Some twat from Shameless getting a gastric band is not news. FACT. The presenters giggled along as though they couldn't get over the fact they were on the telly, even though, it being that specific channel, the irony was, they weren't really. Much like the tree/forest example, does it count as telly if no one is there to see it?

Luckily my bit was well good. I made one funny, hugged one lady and eat a pie and drank a pint. I sometimes wonder if they might just ask me to take the whole show over and fix it a bit. I'd say no because I have class, but that's not the point. More likely they are scowling at the fact I didn't mention whatever Rooney's girlfriend's name is and then discuss nails and will probably never ask me to do anything for them again.


Yesterday my friend Katy said she liked my beardiness. She is both a) female and b) knows about clothes and fashions and things so in trusting her opinion, I am staying like this for a little while. Unfortunately I probably won't have a choice even if I didn't want to as I have scratched the itcyness so hard I'm not sure I have any skin underneath anyway and shaving would merely expose a fleshy chin akin to that bit in Face Off. You know the bit before anyone shot anything? (This is not true, people get shot at the very start).

I have to go to meeting now, so this blog endeth here. Hopefully by the time the meetings over, the Pope will have declared that he agrees with all of Hitler's views and we'll have bundled him into a cell in Wormwood Scrubs to watch his robes get dirtied by angry inmates.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Breaking The Rules

Sometimes you see people that make a mark on your day by the way in which they tackle the world. Its usually to do with an air of disregard for society's rules and a complete disregard for the state of equilibrium that is carrying on around them. These people, or life mavericks as I like to refer to them, are only ever spotted fleetingly, dashing through crowds wearing fancy dress in mid day or dancing on a passing bus and whenever I witness one, it gives me a certain want to tell the world to get fucked, put on a bear suit and breakdance in the middle of the road. The main reason I don't do this is because my want would be quickly overtaken by my sheer embarrassment and need to confirm to the normal ways. That and I don't own a bearsuit and wouldn't be able to breakdance well enough for cars to actually stop and watch rather than run me over. Let me tell you now, there is nothing sadder than a dead bear man in the middle of the road halfway through a jerky electric boogaloo. Except maybe a dead penguin man.

Yesterday I saw one of these life mavericks and was, as always duly impressed. Myself and Paul Byrne were standing outside the Kings Head in Crouch End at 3pm in the afternoon. These details, no matter how hugely dull they might seem, are all relevant. I promise I won't go into a Jane Austen like description of every tiny thing that surrounded us, such as the large glass windows reflecting the Broadway or the maroon coloured awning under which we stood, passing the time with small banter about days gone by. God I hate Jane Austen. Its lucky she's already dead or I'd write her several letters, all of which would say 'stop describing things and tell the bloody story you paper wasting fool!' Pride and Prejudice? Smide and Smedjudice more like. Anyway, as we stood there, the social rouge appeared and raced passed us. A smallish woman, about 5'3" ish - oh yes I can judge all heights below me like some sort of criminal investigator legend. All heights taller than me however are judged merely as 'huge' - with a slim frame, in a puffer jacket and pony tail, supping Super Tennents. Most of you, at this point, will be unfazed by such happenings. Super Tennents? Being drunk by someone who sounds a bit skanky in the afternoon? Well, you'd be right to guess that this is of usual standards, unless, like me, you are the holder of a mental jigsaw piece putting together brainium, and then, already, you will have noted that we are in Crouch End. Even the most homeless people here sup on Pimms and make sure that it was organically sourced. So for this woman to get the tramp killer drink, she'd have to try hard. But, and this is a big but to the extent you may call it a booty, she wasn't just drinking the Super Tennents out of the can. No! That would be too easy. That would be obeying the man. NO! She was drinking it out of a tiny hen-do straw shaped like a penis! TAKE THAT ALL EXPECTATIONS!

'What?' you ask. 'Why?' as well. Possibly 'who' and 'where' but I've answered one of those and the other I don't know, so those would be pointless asks. In fact I don't really have the answers for any of them, but what I will say, is that its clear that this women was doing such things for many reasons. Firstly, she likes drinking shit lager through a straw. Good for her. Its a tough drink to down so you may as well make the process as comfortable as possible. Not only that but she has chosen a durable hard plastic penis straw so it will last despite the corrosive aspects of a can of ST. Secondly, maybe she likes constantly sucking on a tiny tiny plastic dong. Why should we judge her for this? I most certainly won't. If anything I applaud it. I'd like to see more people drinking drinks from outrageous and inappropriate vestibules. I for one may start supping Diet Coke out of a squirrel carcass. I won't. But I might. I won't though. Either way, what we need to take away from this is that even if she doesn't like Super Tennents or penis straws, she clearly woke up one day and said 'I fully understand the fuddy duddy principles of the Crouch End crew and I am going to take them, and fuck them all upside their stupid head, whoop.' Maybe not in those words.

I discovered via Twitter that several people have seen this woman around the area doing exactly the same thing. I am very pleased to know she's consistent. If you spot her, please report in and if enough come through, I may well start a Facebook group. She deserves it.

Its my best mate Mat's 30th birthday today. This is a turning point for our group of friends as he is first to head into the wilderness of a fourth century of living. I'm pleased he does this 6 months before me, as I can watch and see exactly what will happen. So far, he has just stated that its a bit 'warmer' than before. I worry this means it hit midnight and his bladder gave up. I fully expect him to get interested in gardening soon and only listen to Radio 3. Mat doesn't realise that I constantly shall use him as an age scout, witnessing all his mishaps between now and my birthday in order to be prepared. I'm going to question him lots today about how it feels to be 30. I'm sure it feels exactly the same but I'm already dreading it, worried that I'll spend my 30th year regretting all the things I haven't done by that age and feeling as though life is a race. I have a long list of things I wanted to have done by now, including eating a prickly bear and dressing as a bear and breakdancing in the middle of the road. I hope what will actually happen is that I just don't really notice a change and one day I'll be supping on a Super Tennents through a penis straw and have a sudden moment of clarity, that, you know what? Nothing really matters.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Not Cool Flavour


This may be an indicator of how little I've done with myself over the last day or so, but it has been bothering me somewhat that tortilla chips have a level of arrogance that allows them to be the 'cool' flavour. In fact, it annoys me on a number of levels. Firstly, what's to dictate that out of all the possible food stuffs around, they are not only the coolest flavour of crisps, but they also signify the concept of cool within foods overall? Within merely the realm of crisps I would say Kettle chips are up there as more a-la-mode, with tortillas sometimes merely an afterthought on the party table. Or actually are Kettle chips too snobby to take the cool mantle? If so, then at least hand it to retro crisps like Quavers or Space Invaders who operate on the anti-cool level without even trying. They are the crisps who wear overly thick glasses and converse and yet have a band that gets thousands of followers. In comparison, tortillas 'cool' flavour wear leather jackets and talk to much at parties ensuring other people have to leave to avoid them. They are the coke takers of savoury delicacies. In terms of other food, last week at Chessington World of Adventures they sold a donut, with ice cream in it. Holy shit cakes, that is cool food. Doritos please renounce your title.

Secondly, how on earth has someone decided that 'cool' tastes like msg, cheese powder and seasoning? That is the taste of cool? That's what it'd be like if you licked the Fonz? That's what the Jets and the Sharks can taste whenever they cough? Its not even a very cooling taste. Were there a fire and you placed several of said flavour of tortillas on it, IT WOULD NOT HELP. I've seen cats eat them. That's all I'm saying. God I'm angry about this. I have no solution for it though. I can't imagine they'll change the name to 'unsatisfactory processed cheese flavour' which would be far more apt. Perhaps what they should do is re-evaluate all the flavours of all foods to state where it is on the high school popularity chart. I want to see food labelled with things like 'geek flavour', 'total dweeb flavour', Rustler's burgers could be 'jock flavour' and pot noodles 'fat billy no mates flavour'. I'm going to get a marker pen and some sticky labels and head over to Sainsbury's.


The eternal search for a new home started yesterday with myself and Nat taking it under our wings to begin the estate agent sign up, and estate agent sign up we did. After realising we only had an hour before they all closed we marched straight into the first one, told them what we wanted, put our names on a form and marched out. It was that easy. Soon we'd marched through three others, Nat had spoken to a woman in a cupboard who's colleagues didn't remember her name, and I had managed to knock £25 a week off a place we weren't interested in just for a laugh. We then took it in turns, each going into different ones individually signing up to see who was quickest. Nat mixed it up by giving my name and email in places just she was visiting. Soon we were the form filling king and queen and no estate agent in Crouch End could believe our speed and ability to say 'its my name but with a dot in it at' at such pace. Then we realised that after an hour of solid form filling, all estate agents had told us there wasn't really anything available right now and all we'd done was confuse getting a flat with form filling. Still, we'd make pretty damn good police peoples. The hunt continues. Oh and if anyone wonders, I was the fastest.


I found this website yesterday:


No its not for gay gangbanging musketeers. It is infact clearly the best pajama place in the world. I aim to buy one and roam the streets of London as a bear for ever more. I'll sit in parks and hide in bushes and people will think I'm a real bear. I'll get on the bus and people will think there is a bear on the bus. I'll walk around central London and people will think there is a bear in central London and then the RSPCA will come out with a tranq gun and I'll get shot and put in a zoo and no matter how many times I cry 'I'm not a bear, I'm a real boy' they'll leave me there for years until I have to hang out with other bears and accept my existence eating honey and salmon. Sigh. I'm still getting one.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Bestival '10

Hello blogees! Have you missed me? What did I lose out on while I was away? Anyone want to fill me in? Really? And that? Woah. No way? Cool. Ah that's nice. Great stuff. Oh that's a shame. Great, now we've caught up on everything, blogs can begin again. I am back from Bestival, clean, full of sleep and now with new added sore throat from yelling 'I've got the poison, I've got the remedy' slightly too loud. Once again my favourite festival proved its worth with several days of sheer enjoyment, face paint failure and being rude about Roxy Music. Essentially, as planned, we kicked the fuck out of Bestival. They may not be able to have another one as I doubt there is anything left after we annihilated the place with such extreme partying. Of course, I can't just summerise this all here in this mini-problog prologue, and not just because its now autumn and therefore things need to now be autumnised. No, I think what needs to entail is a Bestival blogstravaganza! Strap yourselves in people. It won't be a dangerous journey, but I am all about health and safety and its illegal not to have your seatbelt on. Saying that, its also illegal to read a blog whilst driving. GET OUT OF THE CAR! Oh wait, unstrap yourselves first, or you'll get all tangled. That's better. Now leave the car, sit down and tuck in. WAIT! Stop trying to eat the blog! Just read it you idiots. Bloody hell. Some people.


- Waterproof tent spray actually works. Shock to all involved but overall just joy that all my belongings weren't soaked through on Saturday. Till I spilt a bottle of water on some of my stuff inside the tent. Idiot.

- Best costume award goes to the men all dressed as the plastic soldiers from Toy Story. There were better costumes in terms of design but these guys won on account of never being out of character ever. I witness them surrounding and holding up several people and at one point one had a megaphone and was yelling into it ' I've got soul but I AM a soldier'. Class. Top marks also to the person dressed a mushroom with no apparent eye holes, the people dressed as the 'Yip Yip' aliens from Sesame Street and the man dressed in a red jump suit with the word 'C*nt' written on the back in felt tip. Brilliant.

- Jonsi is the best ever. Truly truly amazing set that left me and Ali unable to talk for several minutes after. Amazing how even when wearing the weirdest multi-coloured Native American headdress ever, you can still blow away several thousand people in a tent with the most awesome crescendo of a final track ever.

- Hill race results: PB 2 - T-Dog 0. Sigh.

- Vegetarian Haribo sweat. This is not right. Its sweets you idiots, sweets!

- I lost an hour and a half of my life queuing up to get my face painted, only to give up after it was taking so long, buying face paints myself to use on everyone and then not using them. Huge face paint fail.

- At one point on Friday, I was dancing to Dizzie Rascal whilst wearing a peaked army hat, and twirling two glow sticks with girls in wigs. I think this is the gayest I've ever been.

- Times I nearly slipped in mud and fell on my face: 3

- If I was in charge of all bands live performances they would be so much better. PB agrees. Small example: If I was in charge of the Prodijah's set, during 'Their Law' I'd have had all of the Isle of Wight police force race on stage and then have Quiche Flan attack them all with a big sword decapitating the last one and kicking their head into the crowd. After this they would have performed a cover of the Teddy Bears Picnic for the kids.

- Best suggestions of what to get painted on faces:

Appearance of jaundice
Your own face so you look defined
The end of the universe
A leopard compass
The back of your head so no one knows which way you're looking

- No one will ever dress as Where's Wally at Bestival again without fear of what Danny, Luke and Ali will do to them. What started as simply planning to follow them all round the festival saying 'found you' constantly, turned into something so much worse.

- Watching Vanilla Ice, it was proven that other than 'Ice Ice Baby' and the ability to make all the women get up on stage with him (and I mean 'all'), he really has nothing. As Danny put it 'He did some songs, we were bored. He did Ice Ice Baby, everyone went nuts, then left.' Somewhere deep down, he must feel a bit sad about all this.

- I managed to persuade someone to be my stalker but only do nice things like bring me cakes. We had a long discussion about what types of cakes I liked before I got a bit spooked out by how seriously she was taking it all and moved the conversation on.

- The Prodigy can now only be referred to as the 'Prodijah' said in the poshest voice possible. This makes talking about them a lot more fun than you'd think. Especially when you speak about their tracks in the same way. ie 'Smah mah bich up', 'Scharlea sars', 'Feir starteh'. It also means you can refer to Keith Flint as 'Quiche Flan'. Try it, you just might like it. I tried to persuade the Caberet tent during my set that when they went to see them, they do just this and at the very end we all just applaud like at the cricket. It would totally mess with Howlett's mind. No one did this. I am not a leader of people.

- According to someone called Rose, I have one of the top 6 best tshirts she's ever seen. Score.

- I have no idea what happened to me, or where I was between 2.30am and 4.00am on Friday night/Sat morning. One eyewitness (Amy) saw me at 2.30am and said I was surprisingly eloquent and supposedly on my way home. It then somehow took me an hour and a half to get back to my tent which was fifteen minutes away. If you have any idea where I was, please write to the below address and let me know. Ta.

- Bongo's drank: 2

- Milkshakes with crumbled cookies in, drank: 1

- Benson accidentally made a new drink by combining all other possible drinks into a vitamin water bottle. It shouldn't of worked. It did. I name this drink the Bestifucker.

- My set was done slightly dead behind the eyes. This was due to a lack of sleep and an over consumption of too much sugar free Red Bull before I walked on. I could barely hear the words I was saying due to my heart pumping to a drum n bass tempo. Not good.

- Apparently I have met 'the most terrifying woman you will ever meet'. She appeared to be able to break things on her six pack. I didn't stick around very long.

- Someone at Eri's school claimed to have fallen out of a rollercoaster while it was upside down, but luckily it came back round and they landed back in it just in time. Best lie ever.

- Need a festival flag? A meeting point that everyone can find? Try getting a Luke Benson. With his giant like height, when he holds his hands in the air, planes have to take care. Benson - portable festival flag.

- The posh wash showers at Bestival are better than my shower at home. They are instantly perfect temperature as soon as you turn them on. I have never known a shower to do this and I demand the posh wash people hand over their futuristic showernology to the masses to save everyone else from hot and cold bath dancing times.

- The XX are too popular for me to be able to see them. Stupid not big enough tent. Bah.

- Craig Campbell doesn't mess around when it comes to ferry chat.

- Unexpected musical treats that were stumbled upon #1: Glen Matlock (bass guitarist for the Sex Pistols) on the bandstand stage Saturday night, doing an acoustic set. Total highlight was 'God Save the Queen' acoustically done. Just amazing. This was all made better by being there with Scott who knew all the words to all songs and jumped around single handedly giving Glen a proper audience whilst the Flaming Lips stole everyone for the main stage.

- New phrase: 'Accidental Donnelly'. This started because apparently I said something the way Carl Donnelly would say it. This was then classed as an 'Accidental Donnelly'. This term was then decided that it now means some sort of terrible illness or injury you might get ie 'I'm suffering from an Accidental Donnelly'.

- Banoffee pie gives me super powers. However if I have too much I get 'banoffucked'. FACT.

- Top quotes of the fest. As a group of four big men sat down in a booth at Club Dada where a comatose girl painted gold was sleeping, one lifted her head and placed it on his lap. Her friend raced over concerned and they all said, almost in unison 'we're all big gays. She'll be fine.'

- Gil Scott Heron has still totally got all the soul. I'm not sure where he keeps it all but I suspect in his flat cap.

- Janelle Monae is proper weeny. Like really teeny weeny. I walked right past her and its possible you could pick her up and pop her in a coat pocket. When she sings 'Tightrope', the meaning behind the song is somewhat skewed by the fact that a tightrope for her, would clearly be a very balancable (its a word. Deal with it) platform as her feet are so diddy. She rocked the hell out of the Big Top, despite the sound being shit and her show being so funky even her hair couldn't take it. I wanted to say hello after but she dived into the back of a big 4x4 and ate chicken. True story.

- People will queue for anything. That includes me. If Danny hadn't shown initiative, we would still be queuing.

- I mustn't give away my moustaches to people just because they ask me to. I will only regret it.

- The Prodijah's bus driver likes Ed Byrne. True story.

- I would like to inflict a law at festivals where people are only allowed to move through crowds inbetween songs.

- Unexpected musical treats that were stumbled upon #2: Lazy Habits. A hip hop group with live band and brass section in the Club Dada tent on Sat night. They had replaced another band that couldn't be there and subsequently tore the place up. Not literally. That would have been tough and the audience would have been sad.

- Martyne is very good at singing along to songs she doesn't know. She is better at not finishing sentences.

- Danny does not like it when people tell him to jump.

- I had lunch next to Mr Motivator. I'm not sure what to do with that information but felt it needed to be shared.

- If you were born in Australia and then moved to Newcastle, it turns out you will have the oddest accent I've ever heard.

- Tent pegs, much like biros and singular socks, sometimes just disappear into the ether.

- There was a spiegaltent and therefore that means the tiny lady who says there wasn't owes me strudel. I didn't find her again and so the strudel is now outstanding.

- The crowd were all very young this year. Very young. Nothing signified this more than watching the Prodijah and seeing everyone go nuts to all the 'Invaders Must Die' tracks and yet not care all that much for earlier classics. At the end mostly older people were left and we all went nuts to 'Out of Space' while the kids got confused.

- Other excellent bands seen: Mumford and Sons, Fat Freddy's Drop, Rodney P and Skitz, The Correspondants, some dude with a banjo, Beardyman, The Cuban Brothers, Chase and Status, Rolf Harris.

- Chewing gum packets lost: 4

- Chewing gum packets found again when I got home: 4

There is more. A lot more. But I will probably only remember it once this blog has been posted and I've gone out of the house. Till then, let me just assure you that Bestival was properly dealt with in everyway and that if you ever need a team to help you really kick the shit out of a festival then you can't go wrong with me, Luke, Danny, Eri, Ali, PB, Marti and all our other comrades who joined in temporarily for various moments of mayhem. I am now going to search for my voice. I worry its still in a field in the Isle of Wight.....