Two Things (Plus Bonus Thing)

Two things:


Thing 1. I watched the X-Factor for the first time this season this morning. I don't feel like I need to explain to you why I did it, but lets say a level of curiosity, a severe hangover and an inability to cope with the other channel showing Fearne Cotton gazing into space as though someone had asked her to think about anything ever, or Hollyoaks, meant I did. Now, I know I'm jumping on this bandwagon particularly late. I don't like bandwagons as it is. I mean, we have cars now, no need for wagons anymore at all. Apart from their tasty wheels of course. And I'm not in a band so really don't need that much space on my wagon should I have one. All this aside, I felt I should write about now having witnessed the appalling display that is ITV's most popular show. While in the past I have seen people on X-Factor display a level of talent that somehow, beyond the unoriginality of belting out someone else song only without any emotion and trying not to think about how much of the planet is being destroyed everytime they turn the studio lights on, actually makes you think, 'well its a talent contest of some sort'. I know one of the finalists from the very first series and she can really sing, dance and act and is a hugely talented person, so I bore no grudge at the time that it helped her do well. What appears to have happened since however, is that's just become a pub karaoke night with more money. A collection of talentless freaks and weirdos that we can all just rejoice in seeing them whore their dignity live on TV with a dance display and back beat reminiscent of the worst of European television.

On today's show, I witnessed a man who couldn't possibly be more bland if he tried sing about bleeding in an out of tune way that made me ears almost drip with blood themselves, only for all four judges to tell him he was great. I presume this is the bad parenting thing, whereby by constantly telling him he's good even when he's not, the fall he receives after the show as he disappears back into obscurity to upset people as a guest spot in home county night clubs, will be devastating. Cruel and calculated. Then Don King turned up, after having appeared to have given up on the whole boxing thing. He was surprisingly nothing. He was followed by the dad from the Munsters and then a women who appeared to be made out of the plastic they discard from faulty Barbie dolls. Both did performances that I would physically go out of my way to avoid ever seeing or hearing again. Then some 12 year old boys with conjunctivitis oddly sang about having 'bright eyes' despite the fact a better choice would have been 'Mixamatosis' by Radiohead. I nearly punched the telly at this point, but it wasn't my telly so I abstained. Lucky for you telly. Next time you choose to show me such evils I will not be so kind. I know its Halloween but you started with Theresa May on Andrew Marr's show, then that display of absolute cock rot. No fair. Finally some offcut of Helena Bonham Carter sounded like she was in pain for a few minutes and she was told she put every emotion into her performance. My friend Mickey pointed out that nowhere did she include 'cynicism'. The whole show concluded with Dermot, who if you look into his eyes, you can see he is actually now officially dead inside. If the whole thing had been immediately followed by the best advert I've ever seen about Italian food (see below: Bonus Thing), I would have given up on life.

I can only presume the meeting about this year's show went along the lines of 'Talent? Who needs talent? Why don't we get some incompetent half wits and watch them struggle week on week as we revel in the schadenfreude of their failure more than an Austrian Neurologist under a parasol?' At that point they all cheered, rubbed each other homoerotically, ritualistically took turns to vomit in a bin and then took the day off. Probably. I think they need to go all out next series and just make it like a sing-a-long night in a shit bar. I want a series of alcoholics to mumble out Neil Diamond tracks, middle age Japanese men to sing Bon Jovi with all the wrong lyrics and a girl group called 'Hen Do' who's lead singer starts crying when singing 'I will survive' and then breaks down because 'the bastard' hits her when he comes home drunk. Failing this ever materialising, I'd like the show to be muted and re-dubbed in Spanish as I found it far more entertaining trying that for myself. I don't know Spanish. This is probably why it worked so well.


Thing 2:

Yesterday I looked like this:



And my friend Mickey looked like this:



Despite an evening of solid drinking and merriment (Mickey used the sentence 'I had to coax my puma down from the tree' in fully acceptable context. Amazing) I still berated our running for the bus to get to the party, as zombies don't run. I'd like to think that I deserve some acknowledgement for this.



Bonus thing:

There is currently an advert on TV for some sort of pasta thing, that hearkens back to the days of the 80s with its storyline and presentation. Its so unashamedly shit, that I've decided its my favourite thing on TV ever. A man knocks on a sexy Italian women's door with a burnt pot of food and the remit that he has someone coming round for dinner so needs her help. Already we've hit several problems. We have the sexist notion that men can't cook and that women have to save them from culinary disasters. Then we have the possibility that a) everyone just has a sexy Italian neighbour and b) they would be absolutely fine with you barging round and expecting them to help you out. The women happily invites him in, opens her fridge to find a pack of tortellini, which she then cooks up in a matter of seconds to produce an Italian meal. The man then serves her the food and tells the women the person he was having round for dinner was in fact, none other than her. So what he's saying is that his way of wooing women is by turning up at their house, making them cook, then serving them their own food on their own table, claiming all the credit for a romantic meal. He is nothing but a glorified butler. She is clearly an idiot or remarkably tolerant of idiots. Amazing.

Unusual Suspect

I wanted to mention a lot of things in today's blog but a combination of a hangover and wasting time looking round places that are advertised as 3 bedroom houses but in fact only have one bedroom and two cupboards - unless the cupboards leads to Narnia, you cannot live in it! - or somewhere that when Tom asked me who would possibly live there at the moment the only reasonable answer I could give was 'goblins', I don't have time to relay much. Wow that was a long sentence. Possibly the longest one I've ever written. No need for that type of sentence length again. If anything, it merely uses up the minute amount of minutes (look at that, two words spelt the same bit mean different things. Ooh la la Mr Douieb, you be fancy with the vocab games today) that I have left. I need to churn this out quicker than a cement mixer being operated by a fairground operator who can hear screams. That was a terrible analogy. Sorry. So here are some things I wanted to talk about but can't:

- Apparently to dress up as a zombie you have to think about how you became a zombie. I don't like this. I want less effort in Halloween costumes thanks. I don't want to have to study Strasbourg in order to groan a bit and stick fake blood down my shirt. I was thinking of wearing my wolf onesi, but I fear something might happen to it and that would be awful. Instead, if I can find my zombie stuff, I'm just going to be undead me. I got bitten while being me, somewhere on the way somewhere else. Will that do gore impersonating puritans?

- Craig Campbell's 'Not So Incredible Hulk' is my favourite Halloween costume so far.

- My gig last night was so dire, that I told people at the party as I had died earlier that evening and yet was still roaming around, I had come dressed as a comedy zombie.

- Last night's 'compere' was the worst comedian I've ever seen ever. I won't say who it is, as that's mean, but his name rhymes with Smiles Smawford. I'd heard tales about this man, and can't for the life of me work out how is ever hired for anything ever. I'd find it funnier to watch someone walk on stage and start hacking away at their own limbs with a saw blade. FACT. I rarely would ever insult anyone about their act or be so harshly bitchy but the only joke I could possibly fathom might be contained in this man's act is the actual manifestation of his comedy career.

Right so with that done, now to tell you about the best thing I witnessed yesterday before I depart blog wise. Woodstock Road, a street between my home and Finsbury Park station, has recently become my favourite freak spotting point ever since a few months back I witnessed a man fighting a hedge there with a stupidly high level of animosity. He wasn't mucking about, and in no way was beating around the bush as much as just going straight for it. Yesterday's oddball took the biscuit though. I swear this is true and I was open mouthed in confusion as I saw this. An Arabic looking man, probably in his 40's, left his front door on a crutch, hobbling out of the home as he hugged his wife and kids and waved them goodbye. They stood in the door was as he took his time limping away with some sort of obvious foot injury. I was walking behind him, and as they closed the door, and he got two minutes down the road, he swiftly picked up his crutch with his left hand, lit a cigarette and raced off down the road in an incredibly fast paced. Amazing. Like the Kasier Solze moment in Usual Suspects. What? You haven't seen it? Oh. Sorry. Although your fault for not seeing one of the best films ever. I have no comment to make on this man. No insight as to why he might have done that. Just sheer amazement. Sheer and utter amazement.

Ponder that dudes and dudettes. I'm off to get undead and start trying to think of moments in my life where I've felt undead to empathise with my character. This morning, at about 9am is probably a good starting point.

Unnecessary Grumbles

Oh dear. There is a combination of late night Thai food and beer in my gut and they seem to have collaborated in a tag team effect to make today difficult as they sit there churning like an over enthusiastic cement mixer. I'm fairly sure this sort of thing didn't used to bother me, but at the same time I think it may just be I've been constantly ignorant to it previously and have just pretended I'm immune to night time debauchery of an edible basis. Instead I am adding this to the long list of things my aging body is not coping with anymore and just assuming I've always been this shit. A real low point was a few days ago when I noticed the passenger wing mirror in the car was bent inwards. I waited till I was stopped at a red light and was almost 100% certain I could just reach across and knock it back. I was right, I could. Unfortunately my penance for such an excessive stretching motion was a pain across my entire torso that made me genuinely concerned I might just snap and then keep over. It felt like the sort of warning signal a cow might get if it walks into an electric fence trying to stray away from the herd. Sharp, vicious and most certainly letting me know never ever to do it again. Next time I will just drive without knowledge of the left hand side of me.

I had a very nice night last night though, so such ills are worth it I think. My friend Mary has some truly good tales to keep an evening entertaining beyond normal chat endurance. Last night's winner was the tragic tale of someone holding a 'Come As A Cunt' party, where one bloke turned up dressed as himself thinking it would be funny. Sadly, four other people also turned up as him. Both horrible yet truly hilarious. I love it when people have a natural magnetism to either bear witness to, or take part in such odd occurrences, as I never seem to. That one is fairly self explanatory. The things I attend people just seem to get drunk, or not get drunk. Either way, nothing particularly spectacular or worth telling people about happens and I wonder if either I'm failing to notice them, or I lead a seriously dull existence? I'm hoping its the former. At least then I claim ignorance and revel in its bliss. If its the latter I may have to dispose of all my current friends in search of people who willingly will use their face as a sponge (another of Mary's stories) to mop up split beer. My only fear is that I won't like any of them and their constant need to not only go out and drink but to combine it something completely bonkers will get tiresome. I'll find myself being the miserable one saying 'David, now is not the time to try and lasso a police offer. Put down the whisky and let's go home', and consequently be left out of future happenings.

Its the second time this week, after Wednesday's demo desertion, that I've realised my spontaneity gene is somewhat dwindling with age. Its not ever really been there, but more and more I'm opting for the comfortable and less stressful in terms of mind and body option. When people have asked about a last minute drink or doing something, I have been replying mostly with 'will there be seats? Will it be noisy?' and ultimately witnessing stares as though I've metamorphosed into an 80 year old man infront of their eyes. I'm not sure what the cure is for such things, or if there is one. Perhaps I need people to just kidnap me and take me places I would otherwise hate. Though I suspect I would still hate them, and even more due to the unreasonable kidnap element. I will not enjoy an 80s cheese night anymore were I to be tied up and bundled into a van first. Maybe I should just embrace it? But to even further levels? Perhaps start going to places wearing slippers and a dressing gown and insisting on only ever sitting in the corner and reading the paper. Or maybe just not go out.

Tonight I'm gigging at London Bridge. This means it is entirely possible for me to be home by 10pm. Or go out afterwards like fun people do on a fun Friday night. Tough call. Though I know I can definitely sit down at home so it might be a clear winner. I'm off to go shout at some kids for enjoying their lives. Grumble grumble.


Last note:

After yesterday's blog, iTunes did update their site and the direct link to the podcast is now here:

http://bit.ly/ajHGoI

Please download and tell others to too!

Tiernan vs The Cuts - New Podcast

The reason a blog hasn't happened yet today is because I've put some new material on my podcast about the cuts and you can have it all here for free:

iTunes: http://bit.ly/atUeGD (this may change in an hour or so, as iTunes hasn't actually added it yet. But I will update. Fear not blog peoples! Or just fear a tiny bit. Makes me feel important)

Non-iTunes: http://bit.ly/91NBpE


So yeah, you can't expect free audio stuff and then a blurble on here too can you? I mean, how much can one man deliver? Postmen aside of course. But even they have limits. Mostly postcode based limits. I mean a normal dude like me. Who just happens to have super spidey powers. No wait. Sorry, wrong person again. Look, I've been driving on the M1 for four and a half hours today. All I'm saying is any further words from me and it'll all go not only tits up, but also tits sideways and tits falling over.

Anyways, please download and tell other people to download. This material will only stay current for a certain amount of time and I wanted to get it out there while it still makes sense. Enjoy!

Inactivist

Its only 11.30am and I've managed to be a huge wuss once already today. Not entirely knowing what I was attending, but knowing it was against the cuts, I travelled along to spot someone with an orange umbrella outside the Ritz at 9.30am this morning, to await further instructions with fellow dissenters. Already this mere instruction filled me with a mix of excitable energy, feeling somewhat like a low key spy - hoping not only would he have an orange umbrella but perhaps a sharp black suit with red hanky peeping out of the top pocket, a bowler and a password response to allow proceedings to continue - and some concern not entirely knowing what it was I was about to take part in. A small gathering huddled around as we were told that there would be a peaceful sit in at the Vodafone flagship store to force its closure in protest of them owing the same amount in taxes that is being taken off the disability benefit. Its a horrible fact and further proof of this country's downward spiral to complete capitalist structure when big companies like that can skimp on millions while those who need it suffer. A very good thing to protest about indeed. However I was already worried that we might be protesting somewhere that needed a SOCPA license, let alone sitting in a shop a la guerrilla stylee and I walked at the back of the marching group like a total wuss. Then, near the shop, a group of police ran to the front of the group to confront them and I immediately, without even seeing what would happen, pissed off to get a coffee with my friend Rosie and left the hardcore protesters to it. Now before you quickly judge my huge inability to be a provocative activist or perhaps question my care about such matters, let me put my excuses into two bands.

Firstly, here's my pathetic excuses for escape:

1) Today I have to drive four and half hours to do a benefit gig for a children's hospice. Being arrested or even just sitting in the shop for too long would mean I wouldn't leave in time and would ultimately be screwing up another good cause.

2) Were things to go wrong, getting arrested really isn't in my top list of fun things to do. Yes I had a slip of paper telling me what to do if it happened, yes I know some of my rights about it all, but if I ever want a career in kids TV or various other areas of where I want to go in my life, I can't imagine it'd help to any extent. Even a pic of me being there could be detrimental in some ways.

Ok, and now, the real reasons:

I AM A BIG WUSS. True story. I'm reading Chris Coltrane's tweet updates (follow him @chris_coltrane) from the protest now and it all appears to be pretty peaceful and I feel stupid. Properly stupid that I deserted the camp. If it had all gone tits up then at least, much like I did at the G20 demo when I left just before the police cordoned everyone in and beat a man to death, then at least I'd have some sort of knowledge that it might've been for the best. I constantly worry that we live in an age of CCTV and DNA samples, meaning that you are never off record books if they have you in their sight. Instead I now just reside in the fact I've never be a rebel. I've always harbored dreams of taking down 'The Man'. I've assumed it would just be a simple case of pushing him over or sticking a leg out as he walked past, but in actuality, I'm all mouth till I get there and realise 'The Man' is 6'8" and skilled in kung fu. At that point I just pretend I'm merely loitering and depart. I've never been a fan of trouble of any sorts, even if its entirely for the right reasons. At school I was only ever given a detention in the 3rd year (year 9 for you young un's) by my art teacher because I had never had a detention before and she was mean. Then I got a few later on for doing all my work but distracting other people by talking because I'd finished everything I'd done so quickly. Not entirely that much of a protagonist, more a super nerd pushed to mild disruption by being too bloody good two shoes in the first place. Sickening.

Now, with the current state of things, I really want to have my say in changing it. I am happy to do this via stand-up and by going on demonstrations, but as soon as it steps out of that realm of comfort I'm all a bit crap and it makes me sad. I look at my parents who went on several demos and tussled with the police on many occasion. I look at famous protests through history and how their desire to make a stand against the government meant they cared not about their own health and safety. Then I look at me, today, seeing two running policemen and taking a sharp about turn into Starbucks to have a skinny flat white like a total cock. So far it appears they are all still at the Vodafone store and it remains closed despite police intervention. I have the utmost respect for them and hope it makes the news and highlights the situation. I, in the meanwhile, will fully accept my position as head wuss and hope that I can do something with my own less active ways. Sigh.

Tongue Biting Stuff

My blog today is a bit of a chore. I skived out of yesterday's so feel as though some typing must happen, but I have a small list of things that need to be done today and this is very much keeping me from list completion. If anything, I am purely a victim of my own doing. I suspect that were today's blog not to happen it mostly go by unnoticed by the general population, but it is under my own duress that words should be rapped out over the internet or else I will spend the whole day feeling like I've forgotten something. This is an odd sensation considering I am not forced to write this blog. The world will not end if this blog stops. My fingers will not fall off and my brain cease to be if I stop relaying my thoughts (if they can be conceived as thoughts and not just mental diarrhea) and adventures (if they can be called adventures. I suspect 'meanderings' or 'things that are slightly more interesting than boring, but not much' would be more apt) to the internet. By internet I mean one person that really has nothing else to do. That's you that is. Sorry about that. I'd like to believe you have many other things to do but my blog is so integral to your day that you stop all else to read it, but I know in reality the only time I ever read anyone else's blogs is when I'm trying my best to do some work myself and hugely failing. Saying that, my blog is the bestest. I hope you read that last sentence as tongue in cheek. Its easy to read things tongue in cheek. Saying them like that though is hugely difficult due to the inability to make most pronunciations whilst your fleshy taste receptacle is firmly lodged in your mouth's side pockets.

What I'm saying is...well, I have no idea, and once again this blog, much like the blogs of days gone by, has no point to it whatsoever. I've been busy is all. I'm sorry, I've had words to type elsewhere, actual people to meet - y'know, not just ones on Twitter - and gigs to do in the real world. I feel somewhat I've been neglecting the cyber peeps and I fear that come the Matrix or all this 'cyber crime' that the government are predicting, that I'll no longer be able to disguise myself as one of the enemy and escape unscathed. I do often muse that perhaps were such things to happen that my constant adding of virtual friends on Facebook or ability to speak in just 140 characters would enable me superb double agent status. Of course the reality is, I'd be destroyed on site while the true geeks shout at each other in binary, rejoicing in the day that the geeks have inherited the earth.

* I should point out after earlier chattings on tongue in cheek issues, I have, mid blog, managed to bite both my own tongue and lip in a double mouth disabling effort. It was in attempt to get as much veggie sausage roll into my mouth as possible while not actually removing my hands from the keyboard. It appears that not only did I not eat any of my intended edible item, but consumption without use of hands only persuades self cannibalism. Duh to me. *

Anyway, so yeah, I've been busy. This blog is just one long excuse for not having anything to tell you. I mean, I do. I have loads, but I can't tell you all of it, and some of it is as inane and Seann Walsh getting very excited that he's finally pinpointed who I look like, and its the clock from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. He was worried I would be upset by this, but I think its actually good. At least clock's have faces. Not only that, but I am always on time, and it increases my chances of getting a role in Disney's On Ice productions. Not that I want to be involved in such things, but I'm fairly sure everyone has an inkling to get in a big cartoon suit and do a figure 8 on an unreasonably cold surface. No? No? No. Ok. I also met a real Tory yesterday and despite my constant attempts to try and see good in everyone (or at least, that's what I pretend I do. In fact, I much prefer the American courts view of 'guilty until proven innocent' as it means you are often more pleasantly surprised. If you go in with the view someone is nice and they are not, its pretty disappointing. However if you assume someone's a proper bellend and they are only mildly irritating, its far more tolerable) he was a prick. A smarmy prick who kept apologising for his very nice not smug friend who was asking me if I'd do a gig at LSE for their Labour group. He had nothing to apologise for, apart from his own beliefs in elitist privatisation and bumming the poor till they die. He didn't say that of course, but I got the impression that's what he thought. Not that he'd bum them himself of course. He'd probably pay someone to do it, then make them redundant before the job was done and force extra workload on someone who was already struggling whilst still cutting their salary by 27%. Grr. I cant help but worry that any attempt there to be remotely activist was hugely ruined by my constant use of the term 'bumming'.

Aside from that, some exciting things that I may inform you of if they don't dissipate before fruition like most exciting things appear to have a tendency to do in this industry. Oh and yesterday in the BBC foyer I saw the dude that plays Merlin. He had to queue up at the desk just like I did which made me think the perks of being a master of magic aren't quite what they used to be. If anything he just looked annoyed and tired. Which, oddly, made him look more wizened. BOOM! WIZARD/WIZENED. YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? No? No? No. Oh.

* During this last section I managed to bite my own lip again. This time, even more embarrassingly, it was while eating a yoghurt, a food substance that requires no bitey bitey action at all. I am beginning to wonder if my own teeth are rebelling against me. If I managed to devour myself, will I be the same but inside out? So many important questions, so little time. *

So that's me. And that's you. And now we're all up to date with stuff. Tomorrow's blog will be similarly ridiculous/brief/boring/damaged/words/argh/eye soreish (delete as appropriate) due to some heavy four hours of driving to the North East, and before that some demonstrationalism. If you wish to come to that by the way, and I hope you do, it is all here:

http://theircrisis.wordpress.com/

Hopefully see you there. I'll be the one with a clock face.

The Return of TiernART

I've got shedloads of stuff to do today, so there will be a huge lack of text in this blog. Instead, here's the latest bit of TiernART for you. Its been a short while since I doodled anything but promise I'll get on the case soon. Till then, enjoy 'Horses For Courses':

Bitty McClean

Argh where's Tiernan's blog today? Well sorry chaps, chapettes, chaplins and chapsticks. There isn't one. This here, what you're reading is merely a figment of your imagination. Yes that's right, your imagination is very verbose and witty in blog form. Well done you. AAAAAAAAA! Got ya. Psyche. You're not going bonkers (more use of the word bonkers in general vernacular please), this is my blog and sorry it's late. I am assuming of course that you read these as soon as they're created. Blog's are much better fresh of the screen. Otherwise they sit around for a while, the words go stale and get all a bit chewy. If you're reading this in two days time, apologies if it smells funny. I've had a huge Sunday lunch and found it quite hard to move for some time after that. I had 100% been convinced I'd beaten the roast in a battle of guts and yet about 15 minutes after the final mouthful it struck revenge from the inside like the dude in Innerspace or a reverse Trojan horse. I was ultimately rendered paralytic through stomach size and trapped in Camden, where on a Sunday its denizens insist on meandering around like half drunk faux goth zombies that have been rejected by the Halloween fraternity and left without purpose. Ducking and diving between the piercings and dangerously swooshing long leather coats without getting cut up to smithereens (more use of the word smithereens in general vernacular please) requires energy and effort and so it took at least an hour before I was capable of such an escape. But here I am to live to tell the mostly unexciting tale, and here, in turn, is today's blog entry. It's in bits today. If it was a 90's reggae singer, it'd be Bitty McClean ('when it's raining, it's raining'? You don't say Bitty. More exciting original observations please). If it was an excellent 90's TV show about computer games where Emily Booth would be in increasingly smaller clothing each episode, it'd be BITS. God I miss that show. Anyway. You get what I'm saying. Let us embark on bitdom:

SPOTS

My face has hugely rebelled against me today. I'm not sure if its because last night I was doing the Krater Comedy Club and my pores took that as hint, but if you joined the dots across my fizzog wth a heavy biro, people would accuse me of doing racist impersonations. I'd really like spots to stop now. I'm nearly thirty and while there are time my diet may be questionable, it seems highly unreasonable that on regular occasion my skin still thinks I'm going through puberty. At least think its doing all the other puberty bits too and let me gain some height, but no, its just the acne. I've tried several potions, brews, ointments, pagan rituals, old wives tales, facewashes and even that stupid thing someone once told me about putting toothpaste on them, which only gives me paranoid flashbacks off being 15 at a party, drunk, asleep and covered in toothpaste for a prank. I may have looked stupid but I was still more fresh than anyone else there. And my face had no plaque on it whatsoever. Ultimately the only thing that seems to work is going on holiday and getting a tan. Unfortunately that seems unlikely at the moment so I may just press my face up to my bedside light for a while and see what happens. If it fails I'll just give in and try and tell people spots are fashionable again and see how it is before people are rubbing chip grease into their cheek bones in a desperate attempts to please peers.

XFACTOR

I had a small moment of clarity yesterday where I realised that since being single, I don't have to watch the X-Factor, Strictly Come Dancing or heaps of other televisual shit anymore and hence, haven't seen any of the recent series. It struck me in that same exciting way that I wake up sometimes still excited that I don't have to go to school. Yes I do, and yes its still sometimes the best way to start any day. Try it. Strictly is reasonable as it teaches people about classic dancing but X-Factor I find manages to pollute both the television and music world with its constant derailing of taste and I'm super pleased I know have several hours each weekend not devoted to it. Well done me. I can now add this to a long list of things I don't do that other people do - church, football - and pretend I have a lot more life to use than everyone else. I will then collate all these hours and use then all at once at some point to freeze time and take over the world. Or something along those lines. You just wait and see. Except you won't as you'll be watching X-Factor just so I have no reference points to talk to you about when we meet. Shit.

R2D2 ALARM CLOCK

A few days ago I found my old R2D2 alarm clock from a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. It does this hella cool thing whereby it projects the numbers onto the wall like a small droid hologram. I bloody love it and I was delighted to find it still worked, despite it still having the same batteries it always did. Well, I was delighted, until I put it by my bed and attempted to use it. It only has two buttons and beyond all reason, no combination of pressing these buttons will program the time. However what I have managed to do is ensure it emits a high pitched shrill beep everyday at 8.30am. This is far from reasonable and puts me in the right mind to sell it to the jawas. Its just completely insane that someone would create such a thing, only give it two buttons and then program the control system to be of such complex design that it would make a man angry. Maybe now I know why it had been hidden in a cupboard for the last 6 years.


MUSEUM OF EVERYTHING

On leaving the pub today, I spotted a small sign saying 'Museum of Everything - £3' and quickly persuaded my friends Jacqui, Matt and Amy to accompany me. Well I say persuaded, I just wandered off like a distracted child and they had to follow me for fear I'd get run over or kidnapped as they are responsible. It was a clear case of curiosity persuading the cat to go into an odd display of Peter Blake's art collection containing the creepiest Punch and Judy puppets ever, pictures of midgets and stuff squirrels playing poker. It didn't have 'everything' at all. What it did was provide a clear indication that Peter Blake is completely bonkers and allow lots of Primrose Hill residents to walk around saying things like 'inspirational' when it really wasn't. Sometimes I fear I suffer from a cynical complex whereby I can't enjoy art that appears to just be hugely pretentious wank and maybe I'm missing something other people are intelligent enough to get. Then again, maybe its pretentious wank and I'm not a pretentious wanker. Still, I did like the endless pictures of circus midgets, a big canvas of a man fighting a bear and the funny mirrors made me do a giggle. Art connoisseur I am not.

Clueless

Its clear I should never be a detective. How on earth would I ever be able to piece clues together to find out who the murderer was, when I'm currently struggling to work out exactly what the last 30 minutes of my evening entailed last night. Shoes thrown across the floor, a brown jumper that's not mine, a text half written in my phone to someone I really shouldn't text while drunk and I'm very pleased didn't send, half a glass of water, two different ink stamps on my hand, vague memories of thinking I can dance to rockabilly (I can't) and a small amount of hope that I didn't upset anyone/ make a fool of myself/ break anything. These sorts of results would never make a great Sherlock Holmes novel, but there is a hint of hesitation and also excitement in figuring out exactly how I had the hand to eye co-ordination to open my front door and why that final shot of sambuca should never have happened. I say its a mystery, but the culprit is a fairly obvious one. Colonel booze, with the shot glass, in the bar at 4am.

The venue last night was the Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes. No bowling happened, thank god, or I worry I would have killed someone with strike of unintended sorts, and instead we just reveled in the 50's theme of our surroundings. I have decided I'm a big fan of that current trend. Alongside my enjoyment of electro swing, I very much enjoy that polka dotted happy aura. I suppose people were happy in the 50's and early 60's. I mean Happy Days proves that doesn't it? I will be using that as a case study. Then you had the whole post-war vibes going down. I presume its nice not to be fighting anyone. Besides that, I don't know a lot. I could wikipedia it, but there's several years of reading to get through and my hangover is making staring at a computer screen harder than most things. All I'm saying is well done 50's themed stuff. Themed stuff is always better than the actual stuff as it just provides the fun bit of the era without all the other bits. 80's nights for example, provide stupid clothes and shit music, but luckily don't charge you poll tax as you walk in. Maybe I will start a themed night where its more realistic. I'll choose a medieval themed night and spray people with bubonic plague on the entrance door. I reckon it'll be a popular new thing.

Sigh. I need to stop writing this now. Thankfully I'm hosting a late show at the Komedia tonight, which gives me the maximum amount of hours I need to stop being in a mess. All I need to do now is go back through the clues and work out where I've left my brain.....

TOIF

Hello Friday. Sometimes its nice to greet the day. Mostly we just say hello to each other or say 'Good Day' which is mostly treating the day like a dog. No need to patronising. Most people like Fridays. Often they thank God for them, which I think is a tad overzealous and not thought through as surely should such a deity exist then he, she, or it also created Mondays as well and that's not acceptable at all. I mean, I say this from my point of view where all days blend into a mish mosh of timewasting, but I feel that as I have once spent time on the usual rigmarole of 9 until the 5, that I can sympathise with such appreciations of certain days. Normally I hate Fridays as its the day I have to perform to people who've been drinking since they've left work, and unleash all their mid week frustration on a small beardy dude trying to tell some funnies. Today however, my gig has been cancelled so it will be spent in a leisurely way, not unlike a Sunday, only with the added bonus of joining in on some other people's Friday night drinking. I'm tempted to find some way to exact revenge on other people that are out. Perhaps I will heckle them from across the bar, or merely question their ability to do their job in a sarcastic way even though it appears they are fully capable of doing whatever it is that they do, and my line of interrogation is more to do with the fact I'm a drunk prick. I can totally do Fridays.

Hmm, that wasn't where this blog was going today. Sorry Friday people. Especially our man Friday. And Girl Friday and that film with Ice Cube in it which I liked. Next Friday however, was wank. Poor Ice Cube. Once a pinnacle of West Coast gangsta rap, now melted somewhere due to global warming. I was going to go on and on about how proud I was to do some of my recent anti-cuts material to some rather rich Tory supporting people in West London last night and how it seemed to work. Or the fact that people are happy to protest over Wayne Fuckhead Rooney and yet not about the cuts - which I find just intolerable. Seriously, the career of a cheating troll is more important to you than the state of the UK? I won't do that though as I've realised that some people read this blog from abroad and need some sort of respite from me explaining how shit everything is going here whilst hugely neglecting where they live in any way. Odd. Unless they live in France, in which case, high fives to all of you. Can't believe the police over there are using tear gas on protesters? As if they are not sad enough already. One day I will stop being ignorant, learn French and hang out with all the other Douieb's out there. It is a small ambition of mine, but sadly falls further down the ladder than pushing the T-detonator on a tower block building, parachuting into a party or taking a tiger for a walk in the park.

Its tangent o'clock here today isn't it? I'l be honest this blog had no inspiration to begin with today. I thought about just giving you one of those 'this is what I'm up to blogs' but decided against it, then thought about typing up all the pros and cons of deciding I might start to become a believer in Norse gods, just cos you know, why not? They had cool stories, cool hats, really long boats and axes and swords. But then I realised that was my only basis for such actions. So not really a blog's worth is it? And so ultimately we're now three paragraphs in and I've done nothing but waste your eyes. And my 'i's. And other letters. Sigh. Sorry. Right. I might just give up for today. It is, after all, a Friday and surely that's the point? Thank Odin for that.

As a last note, I've finished Simon Pegg's book and its bloody superb. You should all read it. All of you. If you have any eyes left.

Ham and Egg Justice

Once again several hours of today have been spent looking at flats, just so I can get further ideas of places I never want to live. Today's gems included a place with '3 double bedrooms', that when inspected, had two rooms with single beds in it. On enquiry, Matt was told 'Well they used to have double beds in but they took up too much room'. Those, then, are not double bedrooms you massive twat. Flat number 2 was in an area so devoid of all life we would had to stay indoors and become agoraphobic or fear wandering the roads for days in search of any culture. It did however have a larder that we were fairly sure I could fit in if we removed a shelf. Flat three was entirely perfect in everyway, until we saw the third bedroom which was weeny. It would have been mean to put anyone in there compared to the other two lovely sized rooms, and despite talk of me getting a kids bed on stilts, I still wouldn't have been happy. Believe me, having a bed on stilts would nearly always make me happy, so we knew it wasn't right. The actually nice estate agent of the last one told us that due to all the cuts people aren't buying houses and can't afford mortgages, so instead everyone's renting, hence fewer properties. Once again, the coalition have ruined my day. I am going to directly blame Cameron and Osbourne everytime I see a flat I don't like. 'This place has no fridge, I bet David Cameron stole it.' 'This place has a kitchen in the bedroom and the loo is outside in a treehouse. I bet Osbourne did that.' If nothing else, it will make me feel better. This is number two of 'things I've done to cheer myself up today'. Number one is singing along to Dizzie Rascal's Bonkers but as though I'm actually bonkers. Trust me, its very entertaining. 'Some people think I'm bonkers, but I just say arrarrraghghghgbllllllbuuuubblllellelelel you've GOT LOVELY SHOES! I am a tiger raaaaaaaa'. Constant fun.

Before the ever wonderful London Comedy Improv last night (Where were you? Why didn't you go? I got to play a dead person. See what you missed?), I went along to the Coalition of Resistance demonstration for a full half an hour. This was not quite enough, but on reflection I got to shout a couple of things before being sheepish about my own vocalness, because I'm a loser, felt slightly worried about the police presence, heard a few great speeches and then left feeling like I'd stated my opinion on everything at least a little bit. I am, all-in-all, a bit shit at this activism stuff. To be fair, I would've stayed longer if I didn't have a show to do, but I still probably would've only joined in all the chanting if everyone else had, and I probably wouldn't have held banner as my hands were cold. Sigh. I really do admire the French at times like these. The speeches I saw were superb, moving and empowering knowing other people are angry about the way we're being treated. Tony Benn, someone's who's name I didn't catch and don't know, John McDonnell, and Bob Crow. However, my favourite bit was the Reverend Jesse Jackson. I love it when he does talks for several reasons - one main one being that it means if he has been called its definitely time for 'affirmative action' as LL Cool J said that once, so it must be true - but last night it was because he used the phrase 'Ham and Egg Justice'. I couldn't quite hear his reasoning or explanation for such a phrase and so I wasn't sure if we wanted 'ham and egg justice' or if it was something we were meant to oppose, but I really like the phrase and want it on a t-shirt.

Further investigation (thanks to @Welshracer on Twitter. Its like a friendly google sometimes) found this from an old Jesse Jackson speech:

'What we have now is ham-and-egg justice. What you mean? One time there was a national contest. They wanted a ham-and-egg sandwich, so they put a hog and a chicken up on the table on national television. The chicken went with the deal before the man finished explaining what the rules were. The chicken ain't got no problem with a ham-and-egg sandwich. The chicken dropped the egg and moved on. The hog was raising hell because the hog had to drop a leg, and he couldn't move on. Hogs don't like ham-and-egg sandwiches. Time for a Change.'

So I assume that we are all hogs in such an analogy. The chickens are those not standing up for themselves and the 18 multi-millionaires in the cabinet who are pretending they are all in this with us, are the people making the sandwich. Grand. I still almost preferred it when it didn't make as much sense and I am going to choose to use that phrase in sentences where it really doesn't belong. It shall be said to many an estate agent in the future, as well as anyone who does anything remotely in opposition to the way I like it. 'What do you mean you've run out my favourite beer because I've drunk it all? This is ham and egg justice!' ' What do you mean I shouldn't set fire to anything I like even though it looks all pretty? This is ham and egg justice!' Let us all use this phrase and bring it into general vernacular. What do you mean I shouldn't use that phrase willy-nilly as it demeans Jesse Jackson's brilliant speech with important political points? This is bloomin' ham and egg justice this is.

A Spending Review Review

Spending Review Review

*

Despite an overly confident manner, its not easy to warm to George Osbourne, not least due to his cold, calculating villainous eyes. However it would be churlish to base this reviewers review on a man's physical appearance, not least because its a terrifying lizard like one, so instead it shall be based on where this show really fails to win over any new fans ie the content. Cleverly taking the stance of pretending that we are going to be in safe hands, Osbourne has mastered the art of using such hollow phrases as 'Today is the day Britain steps back from the brink', before deceivingly hinting later that behind Britain is a Tory kneeling over waiting for him to fall backwards so that he can take its wallet and run away.

How does the coalition government aim to win the British public over? Well with such lovely promises as increase in the budget for school education and a protection of the current NHS budget. Great stuff. We can all rest at ease knowing two key areas, the children and our welfare should be fine. It is only later when you realise that the university budget has been hugely cut, meaning well educated teenagers will reach 18 and unable to afford further education will be frustrated and trapped in their choice of career, and that the NHS budget increased by such tiny increments mean all the money will probably get sucked up into rising costs and interest rates anyway, leaving it at the same state of debit it was currently in. Not only that but with proposals to hand over hospital budgets to GP's, we can fully expect people with severe injuries to met with a Doctor idly flicking through a book before handing over some anti-biotics to treat a broken arm. This reviewer can only hope this leads to a society educated enough to know who to blame for the fact that not enough people can train to be doctors and save themselves.

Where the show was really let down was in the mention of the pension age rising to 66. This is of course assuming, with all the proposed unemployment that anyone will have work to retire from. Let alone worry about the rail fares when they won't be commuting anywhere in the first place, especially as they won't even have to head to the job centre with the possibility of qualifying for benefits being hugely reduced. If you are lucky enough to be working, chances are you will be working so hard that by the time people of my age need to retire, the pension age will have increased so much you'll probably be dead first. This does of course mean the DWP will have less work to do and consequently will allow them to reach their proposed cuts of savings from the £200bn benefit bill.

The Ministry of Justice budget being cut gives the distinct fear that it will lead to strict changes in the prisons and sentencing rules, which combined with the cuts to police that guarantee less police on the streets and I am led to believe that I should buy a shotgun to cope with the Mad Max like world of streets roaming with hungry, jobless criminals all fighting for survival. All whilst the rich bankers sit in their high rise towers watching the violence below, rather than the bland minimalistic BBC output on TV, limited by the frozen licence fees, cackling as they know that the £900 million used to target tax evasion will probably not be enough to round up the £40bn of corporate tax that they've helped avoid. Yes cuts do need to be made to fill the deficit, but I can't help but feel the wrong people are being made to pay for the mistakes of those that can afford to spare a little more towards the financial black hole.

Ok so maybe I've taken this idea of dystopian future a tad too far, but watching Osbourne one cannot help but picture a bleaker, harsher future. Of course, were this a satirical theatre piece or a one man monologue, this effect might be perfectly acceptable as a satirical take on Britain's current government, with Osbourne's performance as an alien from V, being extremely well portrayed. However, as a stand-alone serious piece its not remotely entertaining, or rewarding, merely depressing. I can only hope next year he returns with something more palatable for the middle and working classes, though I can't see this happening.


Reviewed By Timran Dobjab



I'm off to the march today at 6pm. I hope you are too. Sometimes I wish we were more like France, willing to actually protest rather than lie back and get dicked on by our government. A poll in London yesterday of 1004 idiots said people were ok with public sector and welfare cuts and only annoyed about transport rises. As stated above, I think their minds may change when they have nowhere to travel to on a daily basis. It distinctly reminds me of speaking to a girl after the G20 protests who told me she would never go on such things and couldn't understand why 'crusties' and 'horrible people' feel the need to shout about 'all of that'. She then went on to tell me she'd been made unemployed due to cuts at work and was quite sad about it. I couldn't have any sympathy for her if she wasn't willing to empathises with those trying to save people from losing their jobs.

PROTEST AGAINST THE CUTS

Politics and Policrosses

It is a constant frustration for me that I don't understand more about politics than I do. Sure you could argue that I could learn, but that's not what's holding me back. Its a complete in ability to take the knowledge in without feeling an immense desire to sleep. I sifted through the list of quangos that are to be closed down yesterday, in the hope of gaining some comedy gold from them to be used at last night's gig, and made it only halfway through before having to stand up and walk round the room or otherwise nap there and then. Luckily before that point I'd found the Child Maintenance Commission which I used for a shoddy gag about where on earth you'll be able to get your child MOT'd now that's gone. Yes, not great. Still, I'll be using it again tonight. Here's the crux: I really do care. I'm hugely terrified of a dystopian society destroyed by the privatisation of all public services, anyone without an Eton based education struggling to ever get to university and a health service that's only for the rich. I still can't understand why we, as the public (and yes I count myself as one of those) should be paying for this deficit with our jobs (and yes, I know I don't have a job as such), savings and benefits, when there are huge corporate machines that could clear it with one deposit of the taxes they avoid paying by keeping them offshore. Now, here's the trick, I just don't understand all the nuances, the figures and the fiddly important bits as to how that's all happened. I know the results, but if I had to show you the workings out, it'd featured several doodles of Cameron's face with knives in it and then I'd have got bored and written my own name in graffiti font a few times over for no real reason.

Last night's gig was nerve wracking because the audience were people that did know all of this stuff. They are people who actively campaign against it and who I hugely admire because they aren't just all talk. Somehow, I had to go onstage and do political material to people who at any point were within their full right to tell me I clearly didn't have a clue and should probably just go away. They didn't. They were very nice, but there were clearly things that didn't make sense or didn't quite work and thankfully they were forgiving. I still walked offstage with a determination that I will endeavor to work on it harder and come up with a set that sums up exactly how I feel about the coalition government and one that's actually funny too. There are several hurdles with this sort of comedy though. Firstly, as its topical, you can make a gag you feel really proud of, audiences love and then three days later, you can no longer use as everything's changed. Some people don't adhere to this policy and still insist on banging out old stuff - if you have a neat twist on it, there's no reason not to. If you don't there are many reasons. Then I have the problem where I can't find the funny so easily in things I find so infuriatingly anger making. How can I pluck humour out of a situation where, when I read about it, I just want to shout a lot? Its not easy. And then finally, my major issue, is making the jokes coherent, and mean something. Its the comedy krypton factor and I'm constantly in awe of people like Mark Thomas who manage it seemingly so easily.

Josie Long did a cracking set last night, where, despite her pre-stage gripes about whether or not it'd be any good, she completely smashed it with a series of honest, interesting and political gags. It was brilliant to watch. Chris Coltrane and Grainne Maguire also did top sets and there were several musicians and speakers that all provided us with some interesting info on what's actually going on. I listened to most of it, but being a huge stupid child, kept getting distracted by a small kitten that had wondered into the room and was being cute. Again, political fail. I worry that I'll eventually get to the stage of leading a demonstration against the empire in 2031, with a burning flag in one hand and a battle cry about how they will never take our freedom, only for someone to release a red balloon, I'll get distracted and then arrested. Or shot. Or both. Still baby steps as they say. Which is odd as most baby's can't walk. But I'm going to try my best to rectify this and keep reading the papers and keep writing stuff that I can understand.

Also, I fully aim to do stuff like this on Wednesday. if you're around in London and don't agree with what's happening - especially after seeing the spending review that morning - then be there:

PROTEST AGAINST THE CUTS AT DOWNING STREET, 6PM

And the group that set up yesterday's show are the brilliant The Cuts Won't Work. Check out their website here:

THE CUTS WON'T WORK

S'not Funny

Its around that time of year when I'm due to get a cold. Its much like the time of the year every year when the Northern line stops working or when someone on TV says something a bit racist and it takes up all the press for weeks on end rather than the person just being fired. I'm not a fan of colds. I like lots of stuff like cakes, computer games, girls, when lights go green just as I approach them, poking a spoon through that little silver bit on new coffee containers, saying the word 'barnacles', the list just goes on and on. But were you to read it end to end, colds would not be on there. Not even a bit. Pretending to speak like I have a cold is sometimes fun, but that's not the same. I hate having a nose blocked with snot. That's how I awoke this morning. Full of snot. Grim I know, but I didn't put it there so don't blame me. In fact, if I'd known someone would do that during the night, sneak in and fill my brain with mucus, then I'd have slept with corks in each nostril. Who is responsible for that? A fairy that was made redundant from the tooth job because she left the teeth there and added plaque? Doesn't wash and has a wand made from an old tea stirrer? I can only assume its some such mythical beast, for yesterday I felt pretty dandy. Yes, that's right, like a copy of an outdated children's British comic. Yesterday, should I have needed to, I could have leaped over lampposts and danced down the street. I didn't want to. That would have caused mayhem in North London and no one wants that on a Sunday. But despite previous feelings of almost invulnerability, today I feel more full of green stuff than Avocado Baby (if you get that reference you are one of my favourite people ever. FACT).

I'm refusing to complain about it too much as otherwise some self righteous woman will tell me I have man-flu and that its nothing. It is nothing and therefore is most certainly not 'man-flu'. I like to class man-flu as flu that is so goddamn bad that any lesser being would crumble under its horridness. Their eyes bleeding and nose streaming as their anti-bodies fail to deal with the germs inflicted upon them. However, men, real men, can totally cope with it - the flu only causing mild sniffles and the right to complain that they don't want to get out of bed. That's man-flu, and men let us gather and reclaim the term to mean such things. This is merely the start of the revolution and before you know it we'll have mandarin, mango, manual and Manchego back too. But what I have isn't a man-flu. Its just a cold. I know this because besides needing to blow my nose every two seconds, I feel pretty normal. I will still however use every opportunity to complain about my current state and possibly even use it as an excuse as to why I am less organised about tonight's gig where I have promised I'll do political material.

I have totally convinced myself that that is what I will be doing and what I want to be doing, especially as the gig is for the very good cause The Cuts Won't Work, who, as their name suggest, completely oppose what the current government are doing. Alongside some other ace comics who will no doubt lay down some clever satire, I was sure I too could deliver such things. Then I started to read the list of all the proposed cuts and nearly fell asleep, instead played some Xbox and went out for a few pints with my friend. Fail. Mega fail. What I'd really like is for politicians to start doing stuff in more interesting and exciting ways. Sure, if its boring people take less interest and they can get away with more and more diabolical things, but if, for example, they passed proposals with fire fights between those for and against, at least I'd watch some of it. It would also be pretty obvious who'd won. Just saying. Anyway, maybe I am clever enough to read it all, only due to this doggone cold (yes, doggone) I couldn't focus. Yes. That's what I'll tell them. That's what I'll tell the world. Mwahahahahahah. Sorry. Its the cold.

Should you want to come tonight, and you should, details for the gig are here and other acts include Josie Long, Chris Coltrane and Graine McGuire. Oh and me complaining about my cold:

THE CUTS WON'T WORK

Book Covers

It doesn't matter how long I've been doing this comedy lark, you really can't ever quite work out what a gig will be like. Last night I did that stupid thing of judging a book entirely by its cover. This can sometimes work. Such as with the Dictionary. Or a book about famous covers of books. I bet there is one of those. No I'm not going to google it. You expect me to do bloody everything with this blog don't you? Right well sod you. If you're gonna be like that, I'm going......


....yeah how'd you like that? Struggled a bit? All a bit panicky? That's right. You'll have to start pulling your weight around here or I'll do it again. Yes that weight there. The only with the handles. Get dragging. Why? I don't know. Its another one of those phrases that I can only assume ruins a lot of carpets. So back on track, like a comedy train, I drove into the venue and automatically started to worry. It was at the Port Solent marina - I generally like marinas. I like the one from Stingray. I like the one with diamonds - which is a large centre for shops and bars. The place the gig was in was an area called the Boardwalk. I can only assume all the fun was happening underneath it, as the general area looked pretty empty. I strolled into the gym, as I'd been directed to, and into a lounge that for all intents and purposes had been designed specifically never to have comedy in it ever ever. The architect must have had his parents killed by a comedian or something along those lines and he set out to design somewhere where sound would dissipate into the walls, pillars would obstruct all view points and the lay out of comfy sofas and odd lighting would ensure an audience could never feel comfortable as one. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about individuality normally, but when I'm on stage I want you all to react as though you've been assimilated by the Borg and only have one thought between you. Preferably this thought should be along the lines of 'laugh at funny man'. Sometimes its 'why is this man still talking?'

I can't blame the venue organisers as its only after gigging that you realise what works and what doesn't in a room. Their needs to be adequate sound so that the performer can be heard, but its also helpful if the performer can hear the audience so that we don't feel like we're being completely ignored and our egos crushed because we're such horribly needy types. Performers should be well lit, but audiences not. The other way round and things just get confusing and end up with a comedian watching a room of people not doing a very good show. Also instead of individual tables or spaced out chairs, everyone should be bunched up as closely together as possible. Trust me, it all makes a huge difference. From the word go, this gig didn't really start. The compere and first act did a good job, but nothing seemed to get them rolling and it felt like someone had secretly snuck in before the gig and vacuumed all of the atmosphere away. All the ticket money was going to a good cause, raising money for a sports scheme for under-privileged kids, and you couldn't help but wonder if the punters had been forced in via middle class guilt, whilst wishing they'd stayed in and watched X-Factor. They were smiling and listening but the only way to have provoked a bigger reaction from anyone would've been to individually shake each one in turn.

After the break it was announced they'd be playing 'heads and tails', a game that strikes fear into my heart during the middle of a gig. Everyone touching their own heads or arses until they get a prize for being the cleverest monkey, is not normally conducive to then sitting and watching some idiot talk about being diabetic for 20 minutes. Worryingly they reacted to 'heads and tails' better than they had to anything thus far, and I grumbled to myself knowing I'd have to go dead behind the eyes, reel out my set and just leave. Then, strangely, I had a brilliant gig. I've no idea quite why. I started with some impro'd jokes about them and the room. The charity was called 'Round Table' and I said it was nice we were helping all the unemployed medieval knights in today's current climate. From then on, it just rolled. I have no idea if it was me now knowing how to deal with these sorts of gigs, or them suddenly being ready for comedy, but I walked off after a longer set than I intended and felt pretty pleased with myself. I still grabbed my pay, jumped straight in my car and ran away but that's not the point.

So yes. This blog is essentially me harping on about my skills at battling the odds. Sorry about that, but I felt it necessary to type up as I'm still trying to figure out exactly why it ended up being nice and why I couldn't see that before. Perhaps I've just become an aging pessimist and they were lovely to begin with? Or perhaps every gig should have 'heads and tails' played in the interval? I really hope its the former. Really really hope. Either that or I'll start spreading the rumour that the game is only to be played with dismembered animal parts and hopefully it'll get banned.

Couple of other quick things for youse:

- Tomorrow I'm doing a very good gig for a very good cause with the excellent Josie Long, Graine McGuire and Chris Coltrane. Its all for the Cuts Won't Work, a group who very much oppose all the crap the government is currently proposing. I will be doing political material which is a rarity for me, mostly as I'm too stupid to do it more often. If you fancy catching that then trust me, it'll be ace. Details here:

CUTS WON'T WORK GIG - BETHNAL GREEN WORKING MEN'S CLUB - OCT 18TH

- I got stuck in horrible traffic on the North Circular last night on the way home. There is nothing more infuriating than being 3 miles away from where you live, at 1am in the morning and not going anywhere. I started shouting, and yelling at nothing from the inside of my car. Then my iPod dished out this track, followed by O.P.P - Naughty By Nature, and some old Nina Simone, and it was the shuffle of calm. Well done tPod. Try ever being angry to the Brothers Johnson. Today's road rage is sponsored by the letter Q:

Q - THE BROTHERS JOHNSON



- The other track I heard yesterday that I think is just brilliant - and I know there will be dissenters to this, but really, listen before you complain - is Kate Nash 'I Hate Seagulls.' Truly lovely song. Its amazing how Gnasher and Gnippers niece can make such great music.

Das ist alles.

The Wild Wild Jest

I recently got Red Dead Redemption for the Xbox (yes women fall asleep now, its for the best. Men, yes I'm years behind everyone else in terms of game buying) and as well as making me addicted to staying indoors and hitting buttons like an agoraphobic panto hater, its very much made me realise I'd have quite like to have been a cowboy. Imagine if at this age I was riding around the Wild West shooting bears and outlaws, drinking whisky and generally being goddamn cool rather than today's morning spent watching the washing machine go round for 20 minutes anticipating its eventual cycle end so I could put my sheets on. In, not on. Putting sheets on is just doing a feeble ghost impression. I've always wondered what would happen if someone died whilst wearing a pathetic ghost sheet costume. Would they then come back to haunt people with the sheets as part of their apparition? No. Because ghosts don't exist. Really if I was to properly think about it, I'd be a terrible cowboy. I'd probably be dead within days. If not killed in a shoot out, then probably just from some sort of disease or illness from back then or even just getting suckered into drinking one of those 'miracle cures' from a salesman and chucking my own insides out. I suppose its just a tiny glimpse into a more exciting life. In my head I'd totally lasso stuff, gallop around and when I walked into bars the man playing the piano would stop tinkling away. Tinkling away? That's make it sound like he's pissing. My words are all over the shop today. Its a book shop. BOOM! Sorry.

People like to assume that comedy is an exciting job and there are probably some of you (presuming more than one of you reads this) who are thinking 'why Tiernan do you need to be a cowboy when you're a master of pun-slinging at 30 paces anyway?' Well, I'd like to draw your attention to last night's highly pleasant car journey back from my gig in Swadlincote Ski Centre, where Mr James Dowdeswell was very kindly driving. After a nice enough gig, whilst traversing the tarmac of the M1 in the early hours, myself and James noted that we knew all the M1 services up to Junction 25 off by heart and in order. This is one of those moments where you give yourself momentary praise for knowing exactly how far away a coffee is, but then sort of self loathing occurs whereby you realise that this sort of information is blocking out part of your brain that could be filled with the sort of genius that would stop me having to be on a lonely motorway at 1am. Cowboys didn't have to do this. Admittedly, its partly because they didn't have motorways. Or Costa Coffees. If they did, I presume there'd be a lot less bar brawls and more wide eyed caffeine highs where cattle would get rounded up a lot quicker than usual.

This sort of glum moment of clarity fell off the back of doing a gig after 3 days off. The last gig I'd done was on Monday to 600 students, and then last night was to 80 very nice people upstairs in a building by a dry ski slope that people were using in the rain, which seemed to defeat the point. I spent the time before the gig pacing round trying to find energy of any kind and getting so annoyed with a small sign on the wall that spelt 'you're' as 'your' that I had to graffiti it with a pen. I think this is anti-graffiti. Surely if my addition to the sign of an apostrophe and a 'e' helps it to be grammatically correct then I am less a menace to society and more a minor nuisance to the illiterate? The gig itself was really nice despite my lack of quick retorts for environmental health officers or geology students - I've since thought of 'why can't you study other letters of the alphabet?'. But on leaving the adrenaline rush never really hit, then the motorway services realisation happened, and finally I was back at home, alone and spending far too much time trying to shoot 5 rabbits to gain a 'Sharp Shooter level 2 achievement'. I managed to do it by the way, so, er, pretty slick, yeah? Ladies? Ladies? Er ladies? Hello? Oh. You're all asleep.

Cowboys don't have these issues. They just shoot rabbits all the time, sit by campfires and generally tell people to get off horses and drink calcium rich beverages. Tonight I'm in Portsmouth - a place I like to think is spelt like a disease sailors get. I may wear my stetson (as mentioned in yesterday's blog avid reader(s)). I can't imagine it will help the gig much, but it's slightly big so I won't be able to see and won't notice any consequences of me doing an entire cowboy based set. 'What's a cowboys favourite football team? Spurs' etc etc.....

Hats Hats Hats

Motivation. That's what I need today. I'm not being a slob or anything, I am just merely doing everything but the writing I should be doing. So far procrastination has led me to tidy up my room, eat a bigger breakfast than I felt like purely as it would take longer to make, pay bills that aren't due for months and now, I've resorted to sniggering at a book called ' Hats Hats Hats' that my brother got me as a joke some years ago. It is brilliant though and contains several images of disgruntled kids wearing ridiculous hats:



HAHAHAHAHAHA



HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH they look so unhappy HAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAH

I'm not sure why I find this book entertaining. Its much akin to a tiny torn out Donald Duck hand holding a peanut that I once out into a small plastic golden frame to give to my brother as a present, that when looked upon would send us both into hysterics. I still don't really know why, but thinking about it is making me smirk. Hee hee Donald holding a peanut. Hee hee hee. The hats book has a similar effect though I think part of it id definitely down to oddness of some of the images. There is a masochistic element to the fact that some parent somewhere has stuck his or her kids in yellow hoods or elbowed them in the face while wearing a Mickey Mouse hat, that makes me laugh. A lot.

This one looks as though a little girl is being eaten alive by a robot while a fat pervy man watches and laughs:



See?

I think the other reason I like it so much is because I bloody love hats. I mean, how good are hats? They sit on your head, so you don't have to carry them or anything. They disguise your head should someone be on the look out for it. They protect it from rain or bird poo. Sometimes you can do tricks with them. Hat tricks. And er, when you lay one down that place automatically, by law, becomes your home. It is impossible not to try on at least a few hats if you're in a hat shop. Even if you really don't want a hat. Hats are great. I have several hats, but don't wear a lot of them. I wish I did, but some seem inappropriate for today's fashion. For example, the stetson I bought in the Rocky Mountains, can't really be worn outside of fancy dress parties or when I play Red Dead Redemption at home by myself. My trilby I would wear more often but I find it takes a certain level of confidence I rarely have to pull it off. My viking hat would scare people and my bowler hat is too big and falls over my eyes meaning I constantly walk into things. My favourite hat is my peaked beanie which is both a beanie and a cap which makes it a double hat. Its stupid warm and whenever I wear it I like to pretend I'm in New York during the snow.

Losing a hat is a sad time and over the years I've lost some pretty great ones. The best cap I've ever had disappeared at the first Edinburgh festival I ever went to. It was from the breakin' clothing label 'Tribal' and had that sprawled across the front in red and white graffitti on a black cap. It was, quite easily, the coolest cap ever made by anyone ever. Then I got drunk and left it somewhere amongst the mess of the fringe festival never for it to be seen again. Truly sad times, and not entirely dissimilar to the scarring event of losing my favourite red cap when I was six. I say lose, but it became caught on part of the school fence as I raced past pretending to be Batman, snagging and tearing the entire thing in two. I cried so hard my face resembled the headgear's bright crimson colour.

Hats are bloody great. Sometimes I wish I could wear more than one hat at a time. I've tried but your head gets pretty hot. Also sometimes its difficult to balance them depending on which hat you've put on first. TIP: Never put a stetson or a top hat on first.



That kid on the bottom pick looks like a dick.

So yeah. Motivation. That's what I wanted to look for. Maybe I need to put on my thinking cap till I'm brimming with ideas. Hahaha more hats. Hahahaha.

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SOME OTHER QUICK THINGS:

LONDON COMEDY IMPROV returns next week. I be doing it again along with the superb talents of Brendan Dempsey, Michael Legge, Tara Flynn, John Voce and Kirsty Newton. Please do come, it'll be brilliant. All details here:

LONDON COMEDY IMPROV OCTOBER 20TH

FAT TUESDAY only has a few tickets left for next week with MILTON JONES and DAN ANTOPOLSKI. It'll be pretty damn smashin'. Tickets here:

FAT TUESDAY OCTOBER 19TH - TICKETS

LASTLY, my friend Wilz has written another excellent blog about the political situation in Uganda. Highly recommend checking it out:

FAILURE TO FATHOM

Divvy Fizzogs

I'm hungover, tired and writing this whilst sitting in my new onesi, which is by the way, the comfiest thing I have ever had the pleasure of wearing. Its like donning a duvet and being constantly hugged by it. I think the only way I could be more content right now would be if I was horizontal in a hammock. What I'm saying is that today's entry in the ever growing log journal diary blog thing of Douieb shall be short, lest I fall asleep with my face on the keyboard and wake up with an assortment of letters printed into my cheek, ensuring that people on the street think I'm some kind of prophetic monk or whoever it is that walks around with Aramaic on their fizzog. Yes, fizzog. That's the only way to end an overly rambling sentence like that. Fizzog. Its a word I rarely use, and purely save for special occasions. One more for the road? Fizzog. That's your lot for now. Here are some more mind bombs to explode your concious, or more likely, knock you into a dull slumber:

- Today's sorry state is due to being at Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly's gig at the Electric Ballroom last night. Not alot to say other than it completely fucking rocked, all the new tunes were excellent iive, and if you haven't got the album already then you're a div. Yes, div. Some old school words rockin' all out today. Div div div. It was an excellent eve with many a new person met, a place that sells booze 24 hours discovered in Archway, and home at 5am absolutely wasted. Solid work team.

- Last night a fashion student, who was already thin, complained that she was not thin enough for someone in fashion. This was, by far, the most terrible thing I've heard in ages. Well not true. All the cuts by the government are worse. And I accidentally heard a Michael Buble song around lunchtime today and still haven't really recovered. But other than that, it was wrong. And very sad. She was very pretty and if she is to get thinner, she'll only look ill. Yet what is demanded of her in the fashion industry is to look as emaciated as possible so she can wear clothes designed for poster tubes to wear. Who started this? And can they please stop it? As a man - and I am one of those - I like nothing more than a woman with curves. That's right. I went there. None of this ' were I to fall over my entire body would snap' crap. Can we get over this ridiculous need for girls to starve themselves? Its not healthy, its not attractive and no one likes people that don't eat. Eating is great. I was told a story today about a tramp who was eating snails out of a bag. It was a disgusting story, but silver lining and all that, at least he eats. That makes him less weird than someone who doesn't. Well, maybe. I haven't really thought this argument through have I? Ok. Rant over. Thanks.

- I did a casting yesterday where I had to pretend to be Santa along with several other 'Santas'. Casting aside - wooden much? Yes yes entirely - it was more the grim realisation that the festive season is rapidly approaching. If anyone has any ideas how to boycott Christmas this year, I'd be very interested to know. I'm wondering if we all decide not to talk about or mention it that maybe people will forget it's meant to happen and we can all just enjoy ourselves instead? Plan. Great.

- I'm going to get Simon Pegg's new autobiography in a bit. I still am a huge Simon Pegg fan, despite Run Fat Boy Run and that other film about friends and alienating long time fans or whatever it was. I met him briefly several years ago, when I was a budding young stand-up and he was very lovely to me. He spent quite a while chatting to me and asking all about what I wanted to do and gave me a very useful pep talk about how much he hated doing full time work before it all kicked off, and the trials and tribulations of being a frustrated comedian. It was, without sounding too cheesy, one of those inspirational moments that very much helped me continue with a career in comedy rather than give it all up and go into the sort of job where I hand my soul over in exchange for a suit. It was made even more memorable by the fact that two weeks later I was in the same pub with friends and Simon came over and said hello again. He'd remembered my name, was impressed with my Mr Scruff tshirt and once again had a lovely chat about everything and was telling me even more about Shaun of the Dead. I was probably a gushing twatty fan, but it completely made my week, if not my month and year.

All I'm saying is that if he hasn't included the pivotal moment in his life where he met me in the Kings Head in Crouch End, two weeks in a row, in the book, then I'm going to be making some pretty stern calls to his publishers as its clearly the most important bit of his life.

It so won't be in the book. Sigh.

All Mine

I'm trying to watch the Chilean miners rescue as I type this, so apologies if it goes off on odd tangents at times. They are currently winching out the diabetic one and I feel some sort of affiliation with this man. Once when I went to Pendarren on a school trip, I had to go caving and in front of me, a fat girl got stuck in a small tunnel called 'The Letterbox'. I had at least five minutes of sheer panic that I would die in a cave in a Wales because of someone's poor eating habits and that with my diabetes I probably wouldn't have survived a week. I can't imagine what it must've been like to be stuck down a mine for that long. Well I can. I reckon it was uncomfortable. Dark as well. Possibly damp too. Maybe full of monsters. Ok, not the latter. But I've seen the Descent, so you never know. Well either way, I'm proud of yet another diabetic proving we are formidable people, and once again proving that the diabetic in Con Air let us all down. 'Oh I can't survive without my insulin for a few days...' Bullshit you can't. One man survived the entirety of World War 2 without insulin and just ate mostly cucumber. Then after all the crying the diabetic finally gets his insulin and gets shot. Idiot. Well, well done Jose Ojeda for bringing it back.

Its an amazing event. Much like previous series of Big Brother, I hadn't paid a lot of attention to the story of them all being trapped down there until these last few weeks. Not because I'm cold and heartless, no. Just because I was in Edinburgh when it happened and occasionally would grab a few glimpses of a paper, but overall had other things to think about. Then, when it emerged that they would be rescued, suddenly I became a tad obsessed with reading about their constant excellent morale and determination. Its one of those amazing tales of human endurance that will no doubt get cocked all over by a US TV or Film company where Antonia Banderas, Gael Garcia Bernal and whoever else they can find that can pass for a Chilean - possibly Angelina Jolie - play all the miners with horrible speeches about how they have to be strong for the people of America. Or something. The final scene will have them emerging from a tunnel in Chile but being met by the US president. The young 19 year old one will get a girl, the diabetic one will probably be killed off, and the evil one will be left down their screaming as the bore drill is turned off, as some sort of penance for touching people's arses in the dark despite cries of 'stop it, its really not funny anymore.'

I hope this doesn't happen. I hope we can remember these men as unfortunate victims of a terrible mishap and as heroes for pulling through it in the way they did. I hope we can see them as perfect examples of humanity, in opposition to everything David Cameron is doing to ensure people over here suffer as much as possible. I hope that when number 32 is pulled out, he doesn't deny that there were ever 33 of them, and does a burp that tastes of human.

I was going to type about getting new photos done today, but it seems that is just miner in comparison. BOOM! Ha! Sorry.

Shopping For Dummies

Every once in a blue moon - a phrase that much like many others, bothers the crap out of me. When is it ever a blue moon? Sure, that's why it indicates a rare occasion, but why use something that never happens? Why not, 'every once in an eclipsed moon? Jesus people. Sort it out - I have a day for me. This sounds horribly self-indulgent, and yes, yes it is. I have some dosh and I fully intend today to be spent using that dosh to buy some new trainers and new clothes. I rarely buy new clothes ever and as a consequence a large number of items I own are worn through to the point of looking like hand-me-downs. Add this to the fact that I am a tad more svelte than before (only a tad mind), means I only have about four tshirts I can actually wear and two pairs of jeans that I am so attached to, its a wonder they haven't grafted themselves onto my legs assuming that they are merely an outer layer of my skin. This would be useful during winter and should I ever fall off a bike, but showering would be difficult as I became ever more waterlogged and unable to leave the bathroom with any ease. I suppose another plus side would be that jeans never really go out of fashion, so at least I'd seem somewhat current all the time. But in reality, this shouldn't happen so I need to get some new snappy new gear, some trendy new threads, some kickin' wears and other phrases that prove I'm old and haven't got a clue anymore.

This is my main issue today. I really don't have much of a clue. I have been secretly hoping and waiting for the trend of fashion that's gone through retro 70's and retro 80's in the last few years to roll back round to retro 90's so that I can just stay wearing exactly the sort of thing I always have. Rather than being cool, I'd then seem way ahead of the game and get classed a fashion guru till it rolled round to retro 00's again, which in turn will be some counter form of retro 1870's or something. Previously when shopping for garments, I've had some sort of lady folk with me to help me not make stupid decisions. They have been there to state 'no don't buy that. It may make you look like a Transformer, but trust me, that's not cool', 'you're in the women's section, you need to go over there' and 'you don't need another plain black tshirt'. All of those sorts of comments have saved me from doing what I do whenever I shop by myself, and that's buy 3 things, 2 of which never ever get worn and eventually get thrown into the depths of charity shop collections as pristine as they ever were. The other things these female fashionatas have always helped me with is by making me try stuff I would never ever think of trying before. Such as holding up a colour that I would only ever associate with being sick or being a camp wizard, only for them to be insistent and I wear it, and it works. They have special women eyes for this sort of thing.

So today, I step forth into the breach by myself. I feel I've learnt enough over the years not to fuck this up too much hopefully. Sigh. I fully expect to come home with 6 black t-shirts, some women's jeans and a hat from the Disney shop.

Bad Workman

Yesterday in Bury St Edmunds at the Apex, for myself, Seann Walsh and Phil Nichol, our tools were shit. Im not saying we did a bad job, I'm just saying that were anyone to complain about anything that happened I think all blame can quite firmly be placed on the minimal equipment we needed for a gig to happen. That saying is a pile of toss anyway. Sure there are bad workmen out there who are probably given brilliant tools, do a crap job and say 'hey, my, er, my hammer was all broken. And my screwdriver works only backwards,' or something. But then I bet, I bloomin' bet, there are some good workmen out there, who are given shit tools, do the best job they can, still fail and blame their shit tools. This doesn't make them bad. If you have a spirit level that's not level, you'll make lopsided stuff. If you have a paint brush made of nails, it'll carve up a wall. If you have a drill that's made of jelly, it won't go through walls. I'm just saying, lay off some of those workmen ok? At least till you've properly investigated just how good their tools were. You are all so judgmental. Disgusting.

I got excited about gigging in the brand new venue as I walked in. Shiny walls and doors, fancy lights and a clean feeling and smell that made you know the Apex is all pretty new and fancy. Our dressing room was bigger than most places I've lived in and there was free root beer. Two of my favourite things. Unnecessary amounts of extra sugar, plus space to run around and burn it off in. However, we walked into the main auditorium and Seann quite rightly judged a book by its cover (oh yeah, I'm messing up all the proverbs today), and said it'd be tough due to the insanely high ceiling. He was right to say and do this. It turns out on this occasion the cover had been reprinted throughout the entire book. The building, on a second, less excitable opinion, was as though someone had got over excited in Ikea, gathered all the flat pack furniture and stuck it together to make a shed for a giant. For the first five minutes I struggled to work out why only the centre of the 500 people audience were laughing at anything. Did I only appeal to the middling comedy crowd? It felt like some sort of political analogy. Then, as a savour and curse to proceedings, just as I complained about all idiots that were scared something would happen on 10/10/10, the fire alarm went off. This has never happened to me at a gig before, and I stood onstage making faux air hostess gestures to get people out of the fire exits I could see, before realising that as the building was mostly made of wood, I should probably escape pretty quickly too. After recent readings of Steve Martin's book, I toyed with continuing the gig outside from the staircase, but I was rapidly cornered by many of the very lovely audience who explained that they were enjoying it but could barely hear from either side of the auditorium due to the terrible sound. Not only that, but due to my small stature, several of them couldn't see me due to the angle of the speakers either!

Now, if you were to ever set up a comedy gig, yes you, then there is a very small amount of things you need. I like to think us comics are pretty low maintenance overall. However, sound and clear visibility of the acts is a must. If it wasn't, believe me, I'd phone in most of my gigs as often as possible and let people strain to hear my whiny voice through the receiving end of a promoters mobile. In fact, with face calling now possible, at least they could try and lip read if they couldn't hear. Its so key and its also why people who are unable to see or hear rarely go to gigs. Neither do worms. I returned to the stage after all the mayhem and had to perform some sort of conducting act, speaking to each side of the room in turn as the speakers were adjusted, taking all the possible bullets for the team in my face, whilst dealing with a particularly poor heckler. ('Stand-up'. Yes har-de-har-har fucking funny. Pillock) I finally was able to bring Seann onto stage, whereby everyone could hear him and he tore the roof off. I would say 'set the roof on fire' but after the first fire alarm incident it felt inappropriate. The audience, despite the heckler, who shut up fairly quickly after I spoke to him, were so lovely and incredibly patient. I do have to applaud the people of Bury. The sound never got that much better and from the sides, although you could hear noise, you couldn't quite make out all the words the acts were saying. From stage, the laughter was sucked up into the 'apex' and it felt as though we were struggling more than we were. Phil had a stormer of a finale, but walked off, like the rest of us feeling deflated. They couldn't hear us properly, we couldn't hear them. It was like the gig version of the social night at old people's home.

So, without meaning to blow our own trumpets, not least because Seann might be uncomfortable with that and Phil might enjoy it too much, if we weren't such hella cool professionals, that gig could've gone horribly wrong. High fives all round. Take that bad workmen and good but poorly equipped workmen. Our tools were shit and we still managed. I don't want to be too unfair to the venue. It was their first show there and they've promised to sort it out by next time. If you are a Bury-ite, then do go along as they have great line-ups and please set the fire alarm off at 5 mins 30 secs in to maintain tradition.


Couple of other quick things for you regular blog readers, incase you were wondering how the many loose ends I often leave were all tied up. If I've left any out, please ask and I'll answer in comments or tomorrow's blog:

- I ordered my onesi. Its a blue wolf suit. Expect many pictures as soon as it arrives.

- I did my political material on Thursday. It worked. Hooray.

- Yesterday's nut roast was actually very good. The Ranelagh in Bounds Green does a bloody good lunch.

- This wasn't in a blog, but I've just got the Mysterious Cities of Gold box set on DVD. I just needed to tell someone.


Das ist alles.