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.