Keep Moving

I'm currently stealing the wi-fi from my parent's house to write this as our new flat currently has no internet powers. Knowing BT and how long these things seem to take it's unlikely we'll have the internet until 2012. Considering wi-fi just seems to just hang around in the air or space or whatever, I can't understand why the people at BT can't just take a deep breath and blow it over our way for a bit. It's clear I don't understand these things, but also clear they are rubbish at putting landlines in even though we are now in the future. Stealing wi-fi isn't as good as stealing other things as you can't really take it with you. Unlike various bits of food I've scavenged since popping in half an hour ago, I can't just pocket some wi-fi and head back. Its a shame really, although lack of internet may mean I actually sort the place out a bit.

I forgot how tiring moving is. Yesterday was a fluster of carrying heavy things then moving heavy things then trying to rebuild heavy things. I learnt quite quickly that I am much better at dismantling a bed than putting it back together and that there are far too many possible types of Alan Key. I'm not sure who this Alan Key chap was, but he was definitely a fickle man. I'm now constantly in fear that I will turn over too quickly whilst asleep one night and end up amongst large planks of wood and a sense of dismay and discomfort. My room in general looks as though its been hit by a bomb. A bomb made of CDs, DVDs and clothes mind you, as though Al Qaida have turned to HMV and various bits of Oxford St for its component parts. I reckon if they had done such a thing, people wouldn't find them anyway as much of a threat. I would certainly hang around possible threat areas in hope of increasing my blu-ray collection. The kitchen also looks like bad things have happened to it and that was partly before we moved anything in to be fair.

The previous tenants obviously thought they were being nice when they scrubbed the place as best as they can, but in the same way if a child cleans up something thinking they're being helpful, you often have to go round after picking up all the baked beans they've neatly arranged on the carpet and cleaning the neat picture they've drawn on the wall. We were left a mushroom, some paper plates and marks on the bathroom wall that I honestly couldn't tell you what from or how they got there. Its partly like an exciting detective mystery working it out and partly a delve into how trolls live. Still it will all be nice in but a few days once we've done the token Ikea trip and shouted at each other, then actually bought some food. I've already paraded around in my onesi, Nat's already temporarily stolen my onesi and Tom has spent some time walking around in a huge pair of pants, so its almost certainly our home.

I shall leave this here, but just a quick note to say I'm very much thinking of all the students protesting today in this terrible weather and with the aggressive police. Reading twitter, I honestly can't believe that 'our brave police force' are kettling in and being violent towards kids and young students. What sort of horrible country are we living in where that happens? I did a small gig in Islington last night and ensured I did my new stuff about how angry it makes me that people aren't caring enough. What was nice was that the audience listened, laughed and also all seemed to care. I now just have to make it so it ends with some sort of nice solution/funny bit rather than leave everyone feeling like we're living inside Orwell's 1984. Sorry I can't be on the protest today to all taking part but hope it has some semblance of a peaceful one before the authorities get violent. Keep on keeping on.

Occupying The Occupiers

IMG_4969
Originally uploaded by ucloccupation

A pre-written blog today. Not that you'd be able to tell if I hadn't put that. I doubt any of you read this blog as soon as it goes out and so technically, its always pre-written. Unless you were able to read the words as I typed them, it will never be live. And no one can do that as I only ever write this in a secret location. Like a batcave. Only for blogs. Not bats. And its not a cave. Or that secret. Either way if you were peering over my shoulder reading this I'd be hugely freaked out and probably unable to write so it would be detrimental to the process. Anyway, what I mean is, I'm writing this on Sunday eve rather than on Monday for two main reasons. One is that the gig I've just done made me want to come home and write about straight away and two, because when you read this, I'll probably be fighting with furniture whilst moving into the new T Boudoir. Yes that is what I'm calling it. No I don't expect calling it that will ever help me get a girlfriend. I would opt for the moniker of 'T-Pad' but that sounds either like a crap version of an Apple device or something for urinary problems, so T Boudoir is better.

Anyway, back to reason one. I don't want to get all sentimental or anything and I know that this is not what you've come to expect from such a blog. Maybe the 'mental' bit eh eh eh eh? Sigh. No, what I mean is I would hate this to sound wanky, so trust me, its heartfelt and must be read in the correct fashion. If I detect a hint of sarcasm in the reading voice in your head then you are not allowed to read this blog ever again. Sincerity only please. Yes you can use an accent. As long as its a sincere accent. So here you go:

I've just returned from the loveliest and most inspirational gig I've done in a long time. The audience was 150+ students at UCL, who have been occupying the Jeremy Bentham building since Wednesday in protest against the proposed rise of tuition fees. It was actually quite an honor to walk out in front of people who are actually doing something about the horrors that are happening to this country, people who actually care and are proactive in battling against it. There is often some sort of notion that we should learn from our elders, but I stood there looking out at a room full of people nearly 10 years younger than me who were more clued up on current affairs and doing more to fight against the cuts than I have been. Chris Coltrane had assembled a group of acts including myself, Tiffany Stevenson, Matt Kirshen, Nick Doody, Stephen Hill, Jay Foreman, Matt Green and Mark Thomas to keep them entertained and support the cause on this freezing Sunday evening and it really was a joy to do.

I got to the gig early to scope things out and walking in I was overwhelmed by the sleeping bags on the floor of those who'd been there for 5 days now, the posters on the walls and the unity of the students. They were having their general meeting and proposing all sorts of ideas of what to do next and how to deal with the government not listening to their demands. Each person with an idea took the microphone and spoke in turn while everyone respected and listened. It was brilliant to see. When so many other people out there are not giving a shit that this country is rapidly being designed to cater only for the rich and leave everyone else, literally in some cases, out in the cold. It was brilliant too, to know that there were enough acts willing to come and give up their Sunday evening to do this. Each and every one did some material on their thoughts on the matter and it felt great to hear comics actually caring about something for the first time in years. That is proper comedy. Not hoping you can churn out material about whether or not anyone's noticed something bland and hoping it means you can sell out the O2. No, it was acts doing comedy because they care about doing stand-up and in performing a set can say their piece of mind and support a very worthy cause. I really hope this isn't a one off. We are in a privileged position as comedians where we have a captive audience of people who will listen to us, and while tonight's audience were perhaps already the converted and so easier to preach to than most, it'd be nice to think more acts will be brave enough to do that sort of material on the normal circuit too.

I realise that probably sounds all 'a bit harping' on of me, but I've been a tad disheartened lately with people who just don't care. People who complain that the students are all 'tax dodgers who shouldn't be complaining with their flat screen TV's, loans and constant drinking' etc etc. These are the same people who don't care to think that most of the students demonstrating now won't be affected by the tuition fee rises when they come in as they'll be likely to have left university by then. No, they are doing it for future generations who want to learn and will otherwise denied unless they can afford vast sums for tuition fees every year. How in anyway is that selfish or smug? Affordable or free education is surely a right everyone should have? It strikes me that there is some fear of saying that you agree with activists. Some sort of social worry that the upper echelons of class will see you only as a scuzzy anarchist should you say you don't like what's happening and that you're actually worried about everything. Well, we shouldn't worry. Mark Thomas gave a message at the end of his set where he said the most important thing was that we all unify and stick together through this, and he was right. If everyone who cared switched off X-Factor for an evening, ignored that Prince William and Kate Middleton are about to have the sort of wedding normal people won't be able to afford a fraction of, and stopped caring about how their opinions are perceived and just said that they do want a government who cares about the people again, then maybe it will actually change things. With our only hope being useless fucking 'maybe tomorrow' Milliband, its unlikely anyone else is going to stand up for us.

Right, sorry if that was all ranty, but it needed to be said. Or rather, typed. If I'd said it out loud no one would have been around to hear it. Apart from the weirdo reading this blog over my shoulder. Hmm. Now I've typed 'weirdo' they are looking awkward. I'd better wrap this up and then question how on earth they got in my house. So to conclude, students of UCL, all who are running and working for UCL Occupation, and all students occupying their university buildings around the country, you are an inspiration. If only more would follow in your example of peaceful, fun and yet determined protesting. Keep strong and don't give in until the government give up to your demands. For all interested follow @UCLOccupation on Twitter or go to their website for updates here:

http://ucloccupation.wordpress.com/

Lets hope they don't have to occupy the building too long before Clegg and Cameron actually listen. And to the person who read that blog in a very good Cartman voice, well done for somehow making it sincere. I am very impressed with your inside head acting skills. Tomorrow's blog shall be written from the T Boudair. Excited? You shouldn't be.

Packing It In

I hate packing. It seems so futile to spend ages putting lots of things into boxes and bags to then only take them out of boxes and bags not long after. Sure, if I didn't put them in boxes and bags then transporting them to a different location would be even more fiddly and tiresome, but it still feels pointless to me in the same way I don't understand the need to clean a bath when its full of water and soap most of the time anyway. Of course it gets full of dirt from people using the bath or shower too and therefore my point is rendered pointless. Except that I still like to believe I'm right and the same goes for packing. Its stupid. Even though its totally not. I am, essentially, constantly having arguments in my head with my own stupid self, but at the same time being proud I'm stubborn enough to stick to my guns. Like a cowboy with glue on their hands. Tee hee. So far most things are done, with some odd collaborations of clothes and my xbox, toiletries and various DVDs, and now all that's left are the weird little bits and bobs that won't rightfully fit anywhere. How on earth, for example, do I pack my R2D2 alarm clock, three bottles of single malt whisky and my collector's edition Radiohead vinyl together? One of those will break and depending on which one, it could damage the others too. See, this is why packing is stupid.

I've said this before but one day they will invent a winzip for real stuff and I'll be really pleased. Instead of having to hire a van, I'd just winzip my cupboard and bed, stick it in my pocket and stroll leisurely to my new flat. Of course the new flat would have to have the correct winzip installed otherwise my cupboard and bed would just appear as a large bit of white paper covered in gobbledegook and that could be awkward. Still it could be used as a lovely art piece that I could look at as I trip up on my clothes that are all over the floor. Its nearly a working idea, no? I mean imagine how much easier carrying my cactus would be if I made it the size of a pea? So much easier. Instead it stands like two huge thorny swords and I have yet, over the 4 years I've had it, worked out a way to carry it without injuring myself in some way. I tend to emerge from a short journey looking like I've been attacked by all the cats. Every one.

Still, I'm excited really. Being one of the boomerang generation hasn't been ideal. Boomerang generation, by the way, are those who've managed to escape the clutches of living at home with their parents and yet then have been forced back into it via circumstance or financial issues. Its possibly also because like a boomerang, no one really knows what to do with us. I've had a boomerang before and tried to throw it using all instructions given, but it just lamely flopped to the ground several feet infront of me. Had I got it to work, how long could I really be content playing with it? Its very much a lonely man's catch. I've now been at home since May of this year (less a month when I was in Edinburgh) and whilst I my parents have been ace, and I will miss their fridge, the notion of having my own place again is very nice. No longer will I be confined to my room like a moody teenager, unless of course Tom insists on wandering around the house in his yellow y-fronts, in which case I may have to for my own health and safety.

9.30am we get the keys tomorrow and from then on I will be back in the world of having to remember to buy food, not drinking so I can pay the gas bill and spending long hours doing little else but watching zombie films and my Mysterious Cities of Gold box set. Joy. Sheer joy. Now to work out just how to put my weights in the same box as as my favourite Mr Scruff mugs....

Going Nowhere

I promised an uber blog today. This was hugely stupid of me as I hadn't predicted that my night last night would occur in the fashion it did and that today would be covered with a booze mist leaving me so steaming drunk that I could single handedly have walked around the North this morning melting all the snow with my breath. I have been mostly spending today lying in bed following the tweeting from @UCLOccupation watching in full respect of the students actually taking action not only for their future but for the futures of prospective university students. It has made me feel a tad awful that while they are doing brilliant things I have been trying to find ways to lie down that don't make me sick. It feels a little as though in comparison, I am really not helping the world in any way. And I'm not. I have mostly been detrimental to the Earth's motions since last night when I failed to get myself and 3 other acts to a lovely gig in Tenbury Wells thanks to horrendous traffic and instead had to let 150 get turned away as we sat staring at the lights of other frustrated trapped cars on the North Circular. It took nearly 3 hours to go about 3 miles. I was almost certain there were snails ding a leisurely stroll past us and giggling. If snails can giggle. Its something I've never contemplated before, but I would assume with their lack of mouth, they don't. Which must make the life of a snail pretty miserable. Apart from moving house, which they are experts at.

There is something so horrible about not being able to do a single thing to make the situation any better. Long time blogees may remember the only other time this has ever happened to me: CARDIFFICULTY. I had horrific flashbacks of that trip as we attempted and failed to get to the show on time last night. We all sat in my car watching the predicted time on the sat nav tick by until we were due to be well over an hour late. Banter died off about two hours in when we realised we could potentially be stuck on the North Circular for the rest of our lives, and there was only a tiny moment of respite when Simon Mayo read out a text Benny Boot had sent him on drivetime radio 2 saying that despite it being all comics in a car, none of us were being funny. Eventually at 7ish we received a call saying to just turn around and get home. 'Celebration' conveniently played on the radio and it took less than a quarter of the time to go back the way we'd just been on the other side of the road. Less an attempt to get to a gig and more a comedians gathering in a claustrophobic venue. It was as though the A406 had decided it would use the current police kettling methods to stop us from getting anywhere. Rubbish. Sorry Tenbury Wellians. We did try.

So yes, then, to cut a long story incredibly short, I then decided to appease the situation by trying to drink all the booze. Apparently there is still some left but it can't be much. And instead of trying to gain back that lost time on the road by being hugely pro-active, I have done nothing I planned to do today and instead have been hugely useless. Two wrongs very much do not make a right. Unless is two wrong turns which could result in a right turn as part of that. I'm not helping anyone with this am I? I pity the crowd at tonight's gig. They may well wish I'd got stuck in traffic on the way there too.

Writing is difficult today. I will attempt a proper blog tomorrow. Promise. I can't help but feel I've gone down the Nick Clegg route of promises with my blog lately, but I really will try. In the meantime, the excellent @BECKintl has done a sketch based on a tweet I did a few days ago:

OLD DEAR

Go Blog Elsewhere

I don't actually have any time for a blog today. Inbetween filming a small thing for Nat for an item on the One Show she's doing next week and driving through the snow like an arctic trooper to Tenbury Wells for my gig this evening, I have zilch time for Things To Say And Douieb. Very sorry folks. What I will do, which I don't normally, is recommend you read Nat's blog if you don't already:

NAT LUURTSEMA - NOCTURNAL DAYDREAMER

Its mostly about living at home with her parents again, which is what her bit on the One Show will be about. I met her parents today and they were both lovely and lived up to their expectations. After reading Nat's blog for some time, it was not dissimilar to meeting my favourite fictional characters from a book. No disrespect to her parents, but I do still hope I get to meet Aslan one day.

Anyway, crack on with that whilst I'm away and uber blog tomorrow.

New Kid In Town

I've thoroughly enjoyed doing the last two days of blogs and putting actual substance in them, but this enjoyment must be, to put it lightly, shot to shit today as once again I find time is of the essence. Unfortunately the essence is eau d' shot to shit as the afternoon's minute and second resources were mostly used on making inane banter with my soon to be flatmates whilst a lady in Santander tried to find reason as to why joint accounts now only allow a maximum of two people on them. Yes. That apparently is a new rule within the ever deceitful money laundering establishment that is the banking system. No more than two names on a single account, just incase the bank's screw everyone over again and there is power in number when 3+ people shout at them for the ever increasing interest on their overdraft yet decreasing interest on their savings. Or something. And I mean 3+ as in 'more than three people' not toddlers waving poo filled nappies at a startled cashier. So there was much discussion as to whose names should be on the account and sensible debate about responsibility. Actually, I lie. In about 10 seconds we reckoned Tom should certainly have no part in money accountability and shunned him from form filling. Then, despite all the hoards of cash they've gained in bonuses, their own investment and the harvesting of children's souls (probably) the system was being slow and so instead we made comment on inane childish subjects such as wee clouds until they almost drove us out.

So, to cut a long dull story short, even though you've heard many parts of it already since flat hunting started some time ago, I now have a flat to live in. Moving procedures will happen on Monday and as of that point I will be what's known as a Muswell Hillian. I join the ranks of such mega stars as Clive Owen and probably some people from Eastenders. That's right. I'm going up in the world. Oddly by living slightly on a downhill slope. Of course, you could look at it as an upwards climb, but I don't. Its definitely a downhill slope. I sincerely hope that on Monday the residents of the leafy North London area are out in the masses, waving us into our new abode with flags, rose petals and a 21 gun salute. Not that they have guns in Muswell Hill. They leave that for the Wood Green lot. In reality, I'm terrified the other residents of our area will peer out of their 6 bed houses at our tiny corner based granny annex of a building and say comments such as 'there goes the neighbourhood', 'that'll decrease the value of our building' and ' Why does one insist on only wearing his yellow pants everywhere while the other is always dressed as a blue wolf?'

It will be a new era for me, and a new era for Muswell Hill as I live in it like a parasite. I have intentions of perusing Ally Pally (see I even call it that, its like I live there already) on a morning stroll before going somewhere sophisticated for a coffee whilst I write that day's blog. No longer will be it be about such inane things as they currently are. No, thanks to my surroundings I will be typing Haiku (better than Lowku or Byeku. Arf) about the beautiful things in life. Stuff like:

Oh bourbon biscuit
Three layers of fondness but
diabetic trauma

Amazing huh? No? No. Sigh. I fear the locals may soon be lighting burning sticks and trying to make us leave within a week...

Comic's Comics

Warning, this is probably the geekiest blog I've ever written. If you have this constant image of me as hella cool and badass, which I know most of you do, then turn away. I'm sure many of you style your hair like the Tiernan flick and constantly ask yourself 'What Would Douieb Do?' and I wouldn't want this to detract from any of that. If you like, read it in a sarcastic voice and then pretend at the end the ever cool me flushes geek me's head down a loo or something. Brace yourselves. Or your trousers may fall down.

I'm one of those people that's always collected something. The first few items I ever collected were pretty dull. There was a very brief spell of stamp collecting - this was thrust upon me by family members thinking I might be at all interested in collecting something which has the sole purpose of being used to send letters, and sticking it into a book that using its collective postage could be sent round the world three times over but ultimately sits on a shelf until someone appropriate turns up to be bored by it. Then coins, until at a very young age I realised that collecting and spending money on money you can't spend was hugely pointless. There were of course the obligatory Star Wars toys, Beanos, Dandys and whatever else a boy aged 6-11 was generally into and this need to have a collection of something has continued way into my adult life. Its been somewhat curbed over the last few years due to expenditure, but I still keep adding to my vast amount of CDs like there is no tomorrow. I maintain that while they take up space in my room that I could use for other more important things or even piece of mind, I can't just live on mp3s as I enjoy the tangibility of a CD. The booklet, the case, the artwork. I can't help but feel the digital era is destroying an element of the full enjoyment of an album. Similarly the day I walk into a library where instead of rifling through old books of a bygone time, I am instead subjected to either a kindle or an iPad, I will shed a tear. Though not too near the equipment incase they take away my membership card.

Aside from CDs, most of my old collections, once my interest had waned, were swiftly dumped, handed on, or confined to a cupboard or attic in my parents house for someone to discover many years later and use detective like skills to discover I was a really boring human being. The one thing I miss though and will always harbour a desire for is comic books. From the ages of 11 to about 17 I avidly collected thousands of comics ranging from mostly Marvel and 2000AD to the odd independent and DC when it was something special. I would spend hours looking at the artwork, indulging myself in the stories and generally acting like a complete geek at Forbidden Planet on a weekend. I had special hologram covers, full limited edition series and some really old collectors books that I'd managed to get my often greasy mitts on. I could lecture people for hours, mostly against their will, about the entire lifespan of Peter Parker or the varying team of the X-Men. There are probably several of you reading this already pitying me. You needn't do such a thing. I happily balanced this with having friends - most of them real ones - and eventually as I bought less and less, I decided to sell the lot in order to save money for my eventual university life. Without too much of a thought I took the whole lot to a comic shop in Seven Sisters Rd and pocketed about £800 for everything which ended up in my savings till a year later it would be almost entirely wasted on beer at Kent University. Did I care that all those years of collecting, of escapism into other worlds, of absorbing the inking and artwork that I longed to be able to draw, was suddenly discarded in place of a substance that more often than not left me with no memories let alone good ones? Well at the time, no.

Then lately its started to bother me. I've always found it hard to walk past a comic book store without peeking in and rifling through pages of old favourites, no with no clue of where they are and what's going on. But this week, on a whim, I bought the graphic novels 1-4 of The Walking Dead and it reminded me just why I was such a fan. The Walking Dead is up there with some of my favourite zombie fiction I've ever had the pleasure to read or see. As all good zombie horror should, it doesn't focus on the evils of the undead and instead on how humans react and behave when put under extreme circumstances. The odd needs, desire and impulses that go against all moral codes of a normal existence. Its nothing less than amazing, even if it has got me back in the mindset I had when over indulging in zombie fiction for my '09 Edinburgh show, where I am constantly reassessing whether or not the building I'm in can be made undead proof. Two hours yesterday disappeared as I got through vol 3-4 and I enjoyed it more than most films I've seen recently. It reminded me of all my favourite comic book stories and of amazing graphic novels such as Watchmen or Kid Koala's Nufonia Must Fall - a story of a robot who lives his life through headphones until a young girl persuades him to hear the music of the natural world. Not only is it a beautiful book, but it comes with a CD with each track indicating what point in the book to listen to it. Amazing. Comics don't have restrictions like TV shows, they don't end like books. They just keep going and that character can be followed until, and only when, you stop reading.

I'll probably never collect comic books again but I like to imagine that if I came into a lot of wealth I'd start getting just a few of my favourite and spend a few days re-reading Judge Dredd's time traversing the Cursed Earth or the X-Men's Age Of Apocalypse storyline. Then I'll go to my vault of CDs which could all by that pint feasibly be contained in a micro-peanut or an iPea or something that they'll have made and the tickets from the live gigs I saw them at will fall out of the sleeves. I'll sit there and my son Tiernan and daughter Tiernanette will tell me they want to collect electronic stamps. I'll gaze at them adoringly and tell them no way in hell will my kids be such huge fucking losers before demanding they go outside and play with their ninja knives.

Annnnnd....back to cool Tiernan. I'm gonna go put on a leather jacket and ride a motorbike somewhere before having a cigarette.

All The Animals Come Out at 1pm

In the short while in which I was out - in fact in the short while in which I was out and in the area surrounding Finsbury Park station - I witnessed a small collection of oddities all occur in sequence. Its not like this is irregular for the area. Regular blogees will know that I often see denizens of the mad roaming the North London streets in a daytime on an almost weekly occurrence, but sometimes, despite knowing this, it still catches me out. I always try and see if there is some sort of explanation. The judgemental and snobbish side to me ponders on the notion that people who are around during the day are either loony creative types like myself, unemployed people, elderly people or people who have a reason as to why they can't work. This provides an eclectic mix of public clashing into each other around the ever popular hub that is the tube station and no doubt, madness may prevail and partially sighted bent over old lady crashes head first into angry disillusioned youth while some twat tries to do an oil painting of the fracas. Then again I also wonder if there are just some days where something is in the air that means there is a tendency to be more barmy then usual.

I mean the incidents I saw today weren't the only odd thing I've witness so far. Whilst getting my haircut, the hairdresser (who has cut my hair for sometime due to a) my loyalty to such things and b) the fact she is quite good and doesn't just insist on making me look like a fat kid in the army like some barbers, or charging me £25 to look like a Shoreditch twat/girl/loser) said to me today that sometimes she can 'feel people's hair'. This was her excuse for not cutting it any shorter today as she knew she shouldn't. I sat quietly as she then did her usual razor blade cutting technique, wondering just how I ended up putting my life in the hands of someone who wields a sharp object by my face and talks to a filamentous biomaterial. Yes I looked that term up. No, I'm not that clever. The conversation, rather than delve into the usual diatribe of holidays and work before I resort to staring at my own face for 40 mins and find new and exciting ways to loathe it - today it was the constant habit of speaking mostly out of the right side of my face) entered new realms of her starting a psychic hair salon, and then for some reasons into her hatred of charities and finally the political situation in Cuba which she put down to Fidel's awful beard. Luckily I'm pleased with the hair cut though I am a tad scared she's shaved incantations into the back of my neck with me knowing.

Then following that hair raising experience - arf - on my walk back home an elderly man roared at me like a lion and I then witnessed a woman running for the bus, before realising halfway down the street that she had left behind her pram with her two children in it. Now, I'm not even going to begin to try and explain either of these. Quite why the old man made a noise like a lion, I don't know. Feral instinct? Fear I was trying to claim his territory? Wanting to point out he's the mane man - arf again, I'm on a roll. Downhill - or perhaps he just thinks he's a lion? It wasn't a very scary roar, but a roar it was. I looked at him quizzically and then he nearly fell over his own feet as he ambled past me down the road. Possibily to hunt gazelle. And the woman? Er, well. I'm not sure how you just forget about two kids. I mean, what excuse was she going to provide when she got home and someone asks where her children are? How badly did she need to get on that bus? Of course, they could not be her kids at all and she could have been doubling back realising she could steal someone else's. Either way, she's clearly a bad person.

I love that bit of Taxi Driver where Robert De Niro's character harps on about how 'All the animals come out at night'. I would like to remake that film but set in Finsbury Park on a Tuesday afternoon. Angry cabbie's are run of the mill round here. Combine that with his hairdresser probably refusing to give him a mohican on account of the hair's feelings, and any further rage would be quelled with confusion when a man roars at him, then concern as he sees random people leaving babies everywhere.

Tiernan Comments

Regular readers may have noticed that I haven't written much in terms of my thoughts on current political things for the last few weeks. This is mostly because in being occupied with other areas of life, I've not been keeping up with it and this means generally I'm a tad confused on what's just happened. Its a bit like a soap opera where if you miss one episode you have no idea what's happening for at least the next few weeks till the next storyline takes place. At least, I assume that happens in soap operas. I tend to avoid all of them as they mostly appear to be visual vehicles for conveying fictional misery about areas of life you may otherwise feasibly avoid and retain happiness. I'm not necessarily even talking about the storylines, just the terrible acting. By avoiding Hollyoaks I can completely ignore the my bitterness at knowing people out there - whose performance range goes the lengths of 'slightly stupid and confused' to all the expressions and emotions of 'really stupid and more confused' - are on telly and I'm not. So here is a quick summary of what I can gather and my ill-informed thoughts about such things:

- Ireland is getting a bail out from the EU and possibly then another from the UK. I'm not going to pretend to know the ins and outs of the Irish situation, so I won't. I tried to learn a bit when I was there a few weeks back but it appeared to be like the UK's but worse and people kept talking about a dead tiger or something and I got all confused. I assume a bail out will help, but at the same time its bad for a few major reasons. One is pride. It must be pretty embarrassing for a country to need a bail out from the EU and even more damaging to moral for Ireland if they take money from the Brits, a country they've fought Independence from for hundreds of years. I can't help but feel George Osbourne is rubbing his overly rich, probably sweaty hands together hoping that this puts Eire back in the UK's pockets. No one should ever be in debt to Osbourne. I can only imagine that borrowing off him comes with small print that says if its not returned with 400% interest within a certain time limit, he'll kidnap your children. He has that air of super villain about him that even were a neighbour to borrow a spade or coffee or something irrelevant, that he'd see it as confirmation that he could now call you up at 2am requesting you to kill his enemy in cold blood or face the consequences.

The other reasons, slightly repeating what I've just said, is that the conditions of a loan are that you pay it back. Borrowing now, is just going to render Ireland into worse debt later no? And all the money borrowed will be going to the banks and not the people who need it, who will again borrow from the banks, who will then crash again and this time be in double the debt as they owe the EU. It feels like somewhat of a downward spiral as far as I can see. I'm also selfishly sad because the Euro has risen as a result of this bail out, and I'm off to France in two weeks so it'll cost me more for a croissant than I want. Bah.

Good luck Ireland. Hope the general election goes through and you get rid of the idiots in charge. If not, I'm there in January and will happily kick someone for you if you give me whisky.


- Ed Milliband today has promised he is going to make a 'profound change to Labour'. That'd be nice wouldn't it? I mean, not even the 'profound change bit' more just that he is going to do anything ever. It does concern me that he keeps putting it off. If you've ever seen the epic play 'The Iceman Cometh' by Eugene O'Neill, Milliband's constant non-realising promises are not dissimilar to the continuing pipes dreams of 'tomorrow I'll do it' chants of the play's no hopers. So far he's agreed with things the coalition are doing that he shouldn't be agreeing with and not really doing much about anything else. And saying he'll be starting with a 'blank piece of paper' doesn't sound impressive. If he wrote on paper that was already covered in notes and scribbles, he'd never see what he was doing. I always start with blank paper. Idiot.



I'll admit, this blog got waylaid by being half written before I left the house and now me writing the word 'idiot' and this sentence since returning. I was going to make silly remarks about how 'housing reforms' sound like it should be the work of an architect but I've forgotten anything else I was going to say about it, so my political commentary ends here. Instead I will wrap things up by saying that I have discovered the ideal way to induce nightmares, should that be your thing. If you ever sit just before bed and think 'what I want now is the sort of uneasy rest that makes me wake up in a cold panic', then may I prescribe to you the combination of late night viewings of awesome zombie TV show 'The Walking Dead' (which I might add closely followed me reading the graphic novels all day) and the vast consumption of blue cheese. If you don't experience something similar to my subconscious panic of watching Sian Evans ruin my carefully constructed zombie proof base at TVC centre by insisting she needed fresh air for 'her skin' and opening up the door to 600 zombies, then your brain is stronger than mine.

David Tennant

I'm currently scrabbling through my phone book trying to find the most reliable person I know. I know lots of reliable people but whether or not they can be seen as reliable in the eyes of a landlord is something different. It's only really occurred to me in the last few days just how awkward the world of comedy is in terms of writing down anyone's job title or relationship to me, whilst still maintaining that person has any gravitas whatsover. It has to be a character reference, but it can't be my agent or a relative. Which just leaves people who may or may not be awake were a landlord to call them, some people who's sketchy promoter/PR/director/artist credentials don't sound like real jobs if you try and explain them to anyone who'll doesn't know, and then there are all the people I can't trust not to say that they know me through getting drunk in Edinburgh or for a laugh tell the landlord I'm a dick and an expert at trashing houses. Then through the final lot I've filtered it down to, who sounds most like they are important/wise/trustworthy on the phone and then who have I spoken to recently enough that I can ask for a favour. Its not fair. Were I in the law business or a doctor or something along those lines, I'd have many of these. There'd also be a lot of people who would never have justice served due to my incompetence and several dead people due to incorrect diagnosis. To be fair, I think its all for the best.

Once I've sorted this bit out, I have to submit three months of bank statements which will conveniently include Edinburgh, the only month where I have no income and yet spend everything. It seems to become more and more apparent as to why I probably shouldn't live anywhere. Ever. I mean, obviously, off paper, I'm everyone's perfect tenant. Apart from David. I'm fairly tidy, I don't take up much space, and I can forage for my own food. Maybe, if this current living possibility falls through I could abandon the idea of renting somewhere and instead see if I can be employed as a pet in someone else's house? I could have a basket in the corner of the living room. As long as it was warm during winter I'd be fine. I get on with kids, could take myself for walks and entertain guests when they come round by chasing my own tail for hours. To those who think I don't have a tail, well my onesi suit does. So there. All I'd require in return is the occasional hug, the odd milkshake and somewhere to put my thousands of CDs. Any takers?

I should warn you, if you mistreat me, I can call the RSPCA by myself. And no, I won't be put in a home while you go on holiday. Nor will I go for long walks with you, bring you dead birds as presents or get you your slippers. However, I do make a nice cup of tea. Anyone? Anyone at all? No? Well ok. I'd better hope that they don't actually call my character reference and discover that David Tennant doesn't actually know who I am. Nor do I have his number. Bums. This doesn't bode well.

All together now: Maybe tomorrow, I hope to settle down, maybe tomorrow, I'll find my own home town........

List-less

Having returned from a Comedy 4 Kids gig where I was told my a 5 year old that I was performing underwater, and about to head to gig where enthusiasm levels could usually only be lower if they were physically lowered into the ground, I can't say I have much capacity for a blog today. Add this to the fact that whilst there have been several happenings in the last 24 hours that could make it into this blog, few are of any sort of exciting level that would make this anymore than a list of things, which, as we all know, isn't that exciting. Can't think of many lists that are exciting in general. Things on lists can be fun, but usually a bit of paper with things written on it, in itself, is not really full on joy building. I suppose Christmas lists used to be good, though it was less the list and more the short lived hope that you may get anything you've put on it. This would then only raise expectations so that they could be shattered again but from an even greater drop when the Super NES game is absent while three satsumas and an Atlas for kids sit staring at you with non-existent eyes, praying they'll be loved instead of seen with contempt. (I'd like to point out here that my parents were never so cruel. In fact Christmases have always been ace, but this is far less fun to write about and so, for the sake of this piece pretend they only ever gave me sticks or rewrapped things I already owned as gifts and that I had to live in a cupboard till I was 12). We made the executive decision about Christmas this year not to do presents. I suggested it and both the parents agreed. My brother will be away so it will just be us three. None of us really want anything and we can't be bothered with the stress of it all, so on Christmas Day we'll probably just go for a curry and have a nice day off. I can't tell you how pleased I was with all of this, until I walked past the West End's Christmas lights display, and Somerset House's ice rink with big tree outside and suddenly it felt like the worst choice in the world. Its not. I still stand by this year's non-Xmas, but will balance it with enough mulled wine to pretend I care, and the annual anger at how many people try to fit on Oxford Street's pavements at any one point like its some sort of competition for mass stacking of dawdling fuckwits.

The few things that are exciting I can't really blog about. Some, despite me saying I don't believe in all that, I am worried about jinxing them. I tell you people all about it, one of you puts a voodoo curse on me, it never happens and then I look like a hopeless dreamer. Which to be fair, is my standard day to day default setting so I'm not that worse off and I do have blog content. The other reason is that I have been temporarily banned as such by a friend from mentioning part of it until something else happens. Well, not to mention it, but merely to omit their name from it, but I like to pretend they have got all dictatory and abused our friendship by destroying my freedom of speech. It also because if I write about it now, I won't have anything to blog about when it happens. Confused? You should be.

So essentially, what I'm trying to say is that I have nothing to say. Two to three paragraphs have been hacked out describing nothing, giving nothing extra to your day, and yet I've sufficiently wasted some of your time. How much time depends on how quick a reader you are. Slow readers, I'm sorry for this being most of your day, but at the same time, sort it out. Stop reading it out aloud too. Especially in that voice. I don't sound like that.


A very small end note to this non-note, just to say how sad I was to hear on Chortle today about Mackenzie Taylor taking his life on Thursday. If you're not on the circuit, you may not know Mackenzie, but he suffered from a bipolar schizophrenic disorder and his manic depression caused him to take an overdose. One the occasions I worked with him he was always a lovely, warm and friendly man, very funny to boot too and its a real tragedy. RIP Mackenzie. Truly sad. Heartfelt condolences to his friends and family.

Toy Story

I was informed yesterday that my blog doesn't have enough sex in it, apparently. Some of you, out there, are wishing that inbetween my diabtribes about losing my PJ bottoms (pretty sexy stuff), ninjas (grrr sexy ninjas) and getting shin splints (raow, shin splints) there is a desire for more Mills and Boon esque romping in these passages. So to satiate these needs, I will be playing funky sexy bass guitar through this blog therefore 'sexing it up'. I hope you're not wearing much, because its going to get hot in here. Or you could open a window? Or turn the heating down. Don't do both or you'll get cold. And don't turn the heating up then open the window as that's a waste. I'm just saying. Bow chikka wow wow. Sexy?

Not that its any sort of a game, (bow chikka wow wow) nor is it a great indicator of my personality and need for attention, but often throwing down the 'I'm stand-up' card when someone asks you what you do at a social gathering, is the winning play. Don't get me wrong, I'm far more interested in what other people do, but its rare you get a job that entices as much excitement or banter when you casually drop it into play. (bow chikka wow wow) There are times and places though to not do this, in order, for example to avoid a ton of 'great jokes' people know that they insist on telling you despite obviously racist comment, but they are few and far between. However - and I'm fully aware that anyone reading this blog for the first time today will already hate me to a certain extent this far in. To be fair, you should read back through previous blogs, and you'll probably hate me anyway. Especially as they haven't been sexy enough - yesterday I met a dude (he was a dude) who had, what I consider to be, the best job in the whole world. This dude, Steve we'll call him, as Steve was his name and its appropriate to call people by their names I find, designed toys. (bow chikka wow wow)

Yep. Re-read that. Re-read it again. And again. And realise that that incredible job position exists. No, he's not one of Santa's elves. Nope. He's an actual dude who makes toys. The sort of thing I dreamed of doing as a kid, and several other kids did too. He's currently working on stuff for the next Batman film so has seen designs for the new film way before most people, and he's also designed the coolest scooter thing ever that I can't tell you about as its top secret. A TOP SECRET SCOOTER. IS THAT NOT THE MOST AMAZING THING YOU'VE EVER HEARD? (bow chikka wow wow) I quickly drove him away with endless questions about the best thing he's made (incidentally, its the top secret scooter) and classic toys and whether or not he worked in a secret lab in a batcave type place, where goblins and wizards help him make things, how I can have a toy of me, and whether or not Toy Story is based on a true story but was covered up by the government. (bow chikka wow wow)

I'd bloody love to design toys. I've got loads of ideas for toys. Like, er, big toys. And small ones. And medium ones. And ones that make the noise 'parp'. Bloody loads of ideas. (bow chikka wow wow) Needless to say I managed to wing the conversation around to the new Transformer toy called 'Spastic' and simultaneously proved why he has a more interesting job than mine. Steve's purpose is to make children happy all over the world. I occasionally tell someone their job is shit. I might start saying at parties I make toys....

(bow chikka wow wow)


Oh and Carnaby St have the most amazing Christmas lights and and and I've got a new hat. Everyone's a winner. Except you. You're a loser. (bow chikka wow wow)

Hagar The Small

This blog comes to you after an hour and a half of brainstorming telly ideas and whilst that should mean I'm on a huge mental rush and about to deliver a blog d'resistance, I'm actually now just knackered and too full of coffee to be able to type properly. I've managed to plan all the things I need to do today in a very bad way, meaning I'm stuck in the West End of London all day, with two very long gaps between meetings. First was at 10.30, next is at 3pm, last one is 7pm. Rather than bother to go home inbetween, I've been frequenting coffee shops like some sort of java junkie, and spending too much on wifi, knowing full well that elsewhere it resides for free. I always feel like paying for wifi is somewhat like paying for tap water, or indeed air. They already have it for free, I'm merely being charged for sitting somewhere. This is why I always try my best to download as much stuff as possible on their bandwith as penance. Today, the entire video versions of the Encyclopedia Britannica A-Z (I don't know if this exists, but I like to imagine if it does, its all read out by David Attenborough, Brian Blessed and Pete Postlethwaite and takes up 6 trillion gigabites). They are however now playing one of my fave tracks from Radiohead's Hail To The Thief album so I will pause the download out of respect. I hate having to waste time. In my head, I'll go all poetic and roam the streets of London writing the most genius gags as my mind wanders from whimsical thought to creative wonder. In reality, I'll go and look at things I can't afford, waste all my phone's battery life playing Angry Birds (Halloween edition, I'm not that out of the loop) and twittering, and drinking so much caffeine that the day is a write off due to feeling to float to do anything.

It does worry me my inability to fill free time well. I hope its purely because I know I have arrangements either side of it which takes away an element of 'free' about it, and makes it more 'glorified waiting'. If its not that, then I'm in trouble as last night, on a whim, I booked myself a holiday for straight after my 30th birthday, where I'll be spending at least 4 days with nothing but my own company. I'm hugely excited about it, and so far the plan is to hit Dublin with the excellent beard wonder that is Keith Farnan for a few days before then scooting off to the far North of Norway to try and see the Northern Lights. I am nothing but brimming with anticipation about dressing up all warm, stomping through the snow and hopefully seeing the sky explode before electric boogalooing with a polar bear then having a husky race. Ok, maybe not the polar bear bit. That's even further North than I'm heading apparently. So in theory, it should be some awesome soul searching, writing, chilling me time. In practice, I'm worried I'll spend the whole time looking at things I can't afford, wasting my phone bill and battery life, and drinking so much caffeine I'll need a wee just as the Northern Lights appear.

My other fear is that I'll just realise I like that sort of solitary time far too much, become a new age viking, set up camp on the side of a mountain, praying to Odin and never return. I've booked into a hotel called Thor's, so it feels like some sort of omen. I've always liked the idea of drinking booze through a horn and wearing bear fur. Less so the raping and pillaging. Or stabbing people. Maybe the new age bit of it can be less of all that? I think, after now being in this Starbucks for 20 mins, its more than likely that all that will happen is I will entertain these sorts of thoughts for 4 days straight with no vent for them but this blog (if I can) and come back even more weird than I already am. If anyone knows anyone in Norway, give them warning now that in early January to watch out for a 30 year old man roaming the streets of Tromso, wearing a horned hat and shouting about breakdancing polar bears so they are prepared.

Now to go and stare at the Adidas Stormtrooper hoodie they are currently selling and try and work out if buying it will a) make me look like a geek, b) make me look like a chav (its white), c) make me look like a geeky chav, or d) make me look like a hella cool stormtrooper hoodie wearing legend. I'm almost definitely certain it'll be c). Might just search for viking gear instead.

At A Loss

In the last 24 hours I've managed to lose both my Oyster Card and my pajama bottoms. I don't think I did it at the same time, though if I did then I've been undertaking some very questionable nighttime activities. Such as sleep busing or tubing. Its like a faster, more efficient way of sleep walking. If this is the case then I hope I take it up another level and look forward to the day I wake up having lost my boxers (Ladies? Ladies?) and all my airmiles have also been used up. I assume I'd be in a different country at the time too, unless I'd only gone for internal flights, which is possible as I don't have many airmiles. So far I currently hold enough to get on a plane, walk to the end of it then get off the steps at the back. I can't see me having the holiday of a lifetime anytime soon. So no oyster card means extortionate travel until I can get a new one and no PJ bottoms means cold legs while I sit here typing things. Yes, I could get a new oyster card, and yes I could also put on any other trousers I have, for I don't want to boast or anything, but I have a few pairs. I've always been good like that on the trouser front. Its sort of frowned upon if you walk around without any, so I decided to fit in with society I'd get some. Anyway, combine these two losses with the loss of my favourite hat on Sunday and it appears I've become somewhat of a scatter brain.

This worries me a bit, as I've never forgotten things. I mean, yes, here and there I will leave the house without my keys. Occasionally I won't reply to an email for months as its not registered in my brain that I need to. Once I forgot the main prop I needed for a sketch thing I was doing. So in fact, I have forgotten things. I do indeed forget things. I take it back. I'd obviously forgotten that I'm like that. But never have I misplaced such easy things in such a short space of time. My PJ bottoms haven't left my room. My Oyster card should only be in a series of pockets. My hat was on my head for most of the evening. I can only assume that someone is using super powers to slow time and steal things from me. Or its a bunch of mischievous ninjas. 'But how did they get in your room to take your PJs off you Tiernan?' Stupid. They are ninjas. They can do what they like. There are several in your room right now. Just hanging out. Waiting around incase you spot them and they have to kill you. You'll never spot them. They still might kill you anyway.

If it's not either of those things then I need to start attaching things to me in ways I can't lose them. Some sort of piercing or bungee cord attachment might work. Though I'd worry the latter would catch on a lamppost or something and I'd forever be pinging back and forth down the road until I was freed. I can't be having this. Maybe I just need to not have any possessions anymore? This would make a lot of things easier such as looking for a new flat - no storage needed. Would never get mugged. Not that I do anyway, but I definitely wouldn't if I had nothing. It would also get cold. And boring. Sigh. Mess. I'll just get a new oyster and put some trousers on.


Quick final note to say that last night's Fat Tuesday was amazing and huge thanks to all the millions of acts we had: Simon Munnery, Luke Toulson, Mark Steel, Ginger and Black, Tim Minchin and Adam Bloom. Every one was amazing. Our club is the bestest. Whoop!

No News Is Good News

Is it wrong to be annoyed that anyone cares that Prince William and Kate Middleton are getting married? Don't get me wrong, well done to people getting married, how nice to celebrate love for each other blah blah blah vomit in your own mouth blah blah blah, but should it really be top item on BBC News's webpage? I read that page several times a day in order to try and make some semblance of a joke somewhere and more often than not I'm disheartened by what seems to deemed as important stories. Today, the William/Kate story is top. Below it is the important story about Guantanamo detainees finally being given some sort of apology for all the unfair torture they received. I'd argue that cash is never going to get away the nightmare's of waterboarding, but there you go. Then below that is the story that the entire Eurozone may collapse. One of the world's main currencies is about to go under, which would have catastrophic consequences for the financial stability of a large part of the world. With Ireland already in severe crisis and Greece having only scraped by on an EU bailout, its a terrifying thought. But do we care? No. The media is more concerned with informing us that a rich twat who lives off our taxes is marrying another rich twat.

I know this has always been the case and its partly society's fault for demanding such things like the gullible good news loving idiots we are. I remember when the terrible earthquake happened in China few years back, 10,000 people died, and yet that was only second on the BBC's most emailed links, under 'Dog suckles both puppies and kittens'. Essentially a story about interspecies breeding overtakes mass human death in the public's interest. Though I'm sure if it had been 'Woman suckles weasels' it wouldn't have roused the same level of attention. No wait. It probably would have got more. Either way I suppose it all plays to the fact that Mr and Mrs average human now prefer to deal with a level of escapism rather than indulge in the reality of life. No longer is the 'nice' item saved for the end of the news but very much shoved to the forefront in order to buffer us from the general horrors of actual existence. No we don't want you to tell us we'll all freeze ever winter due to extortionate gas bills or the several ways in which the Coalition will ensure everyone under a £100k paycheck will be homeless and broke within four years at the expense of the rich, we'd all prefer to read this story about a llama that saved his farmer in Palma, and the whole thing can sneak up on us and kick us in the face when we're not looking. That way when we live in a cave and don't have tellys anymore, feeding of the bones of those that have already died, we can chuckle about Dave the Llamas antics. Or something.

I'm very happy today. I'm not sure where this rant has come from, but its just another notch on the endless tirade of humanity's current level of stupidity. I'm going to formulate a plan whereby the news becomes only cute and hilarious items but filled with subliminal messages that over time will infiltrate ideas that make the masses rise up against The Man. No one will see that shaved into the side of the kitten that performed mouth to mouth resuscitation on its elderly owner saving their life, will be a series of digits that when translated by the brain say ' fight the cuts' or something perhaps more provocative like 'give Cameron a wedgie'.

I just hope that amongst all this William and Kate realise the current state of the country and have it all at the Wood Green registry office to save the taxpayer's money.

What A Brother Know?

I often profess to being a skeptic of sorts when in fact I'm somewhat of a fraudster in saying so. I'm not saying I believe religion over science or swear blind on homeopathy or anything, but you stick me in a derelict castle on a winter's night and I'll have to spend the night persuading myself it's not full of ghosts. That's if I make it through the night without running out screaming. On a less supernatural level, I have, especially in recent years, come to believe in some sort of karmic balance of things. For example, this morning I attempted to go for a run for the first time in 2 months, with my new shin splint combating new trainers. I lasted 10 minutes before my legs entirely seized up in worse pain than ever and I hobbled home. Couple this with the three flats I'd called that had been online for an hour and had already gone and losing my favourite hat last night and you would assume I was just having a bad day. But in my odd head, I've decided that its all due to me having what I consider to be a pretty goddamn amazing day yesterday.



Chuck D, on It Takes A Nation Of Millions iconic opening track 'Bring The Noise' enquires, after querying just how low a bass can indeed go, just what a brother knows. Well using my brother Corin as a case study, quite a lot. While both of us strayed away from my parents' careers of child protection and helping society, I went for comedy while my brother hit up the music scene. He's very good at the many things he does too, from DJing and producing to music PR and generally scamming freebies for good stuff. I credit myself on this, thanks to my years of tormenting him as a child through physical and mental violence, I think he has had to learn to harness various skills to survive. These skills are now being utilised in being far more useful than me at having the right connections to ensure we have a pretty awesome night of musical mayhem. Its been an amazing week of seeing bands I love this week, starting with Marina and the Diamonds on Tuesday, then Hot Chip and LCD Soundsystem on Weds. This all culminated with what I consider to be a heavyweight of artist combinations, with managing last night to see old school buddy Sway, followed by the Gorillaz and finishing with the muthafrikkin' Public Enemy. Yep. All that. Sway and PE I knew were on the cards but a chance moment of skillful juggling by Corin meant that as PE were running late, we raced across the O2 building and took our seats right near the stage to watch Damon and crew belt out some of my favourite tunes from the past three albums. They were amazing live, with guests such as Bootie Brown, De La Soul, Mark E Smith (who kept wondering off, fiddling with switches on the amps and being coerced back by various band members) and Little Dragon (who I love a bit), and the most excellent visuals. There was a perma-grin on my face as they launched into Empire Ants, my favourite track off Plastic Beach. We had to miss their encore but headed into Indigo2 just as PE were starting and played the intro to Bring The Noise and it felt as though someone had pretty much planned the evening around my personal music preferences.



Chuck D looked like he hadn't aged a day, still ever sharp on the lyrics and messages of morality, berating people who act for image rather than being who they really are, and anyone who follows in America's stupid footsteps. Flava Flav looked like he'd aged a century but threw himself around the stage like some sort of hip hop imp. I don't think I will ever get tired of hearing that man yell 'yeeeeeaaahhhh bwwwooooy'. Genius. I had a small moment of realising that in one evening I'd managed to see De La Soul, on fourth of the original Pharcyde and Public Enemy and felt more content than a contents page of a big book with lots of chapters in it.

Then I lost my hat. The day had decided I'd had far too much fun and my favourite green peaked beanie hat that had firmly been in my pocket all day long, was snatched from me by the law of sod. I checked with the bar and lost property, all of which had been handed various green peaked beanie hats, but none of them were mine. I have a deceivingly small head and therefore need deceivingly small head wear. To replace such an item may take some searching or a special order to the Borrowers tailor. As some consolation, it appeared I'd been nodding my head more than a plastic car dog and so needed no headgear whatsoever on leaving the premises. Still, I bloody liked that hat. I'm going to try my best not to tick off any more bands on my list of people to see anytime soon or else I lose my new favourite zip-up, jacket or trainers. Let's hope Tom Waits, Portishead and Mogwai don't all do a joint concert together or I'll have to walk home naked. Or if they do, at least hope they do it in summer.

I can't really complain. A lost hat isn't much to be sad about considering it was a very good day. According to Ice Cube's 'good day' criteria I didn't even have to use my AK, so we can definitely say it was a good day. Myself and Corin have decided that at some point we need to complete all elements of Ice Cube's track and have, by his definition, a good day. After much discussing, the hardest bit may well be getting a 'Goodyear blimp' to say 'Ice Cube's a pimp'. But if we get saving now, I'm sure it can be done.

Yeeeeaaahhhhh Bwwwoooooyyy

I'm going to see Public Enemy tonight courtesy of my brother. I couldn't be more excited. I mean, I could but it'd irritate everyone by being all jumpy and constantly shouting 'I'm Louder Than a Bomb' and asking the bass just exactly how low it may feel its able to go. I've wanted to see the PE, Chuck D, Terminator X and most importantly Flava Flav shouting 'Yeeeeeaaahhhh Bwwooooooy' live since about 1992. There is a small chance after this week of pretty excellent music gigs this will be the one that causes me to explode or at least embarrass myself over the next week by holding my first in the air at random and demanding we fight the powers that be. It'd be like a hip hop political tourettes. I may shout swear words but they will always be followed by a member of parliament or government that I'll be swearing at. In fact I like that idea anyway. Lets all suddenly become afflicted by that. Now. I like to think that PE's general message is as important now as it was back in the early 90's. Its about opposing an oppressive government, fighting for equal rights and er, wondering why she, er watches er channel zero. Ok, so maybe not the last one.

I will now spend the rest of the day in the tiny conundrum of what to wear for the gig. Its a very girl thing to do and rarely do such things ever bother me, but over the years my appropriate clothes for hip hop gigs have been worn away and give to charity shops in place of the more sensible clothes from Gap and UniGlo as I embrace old age with open but slighty achy arms. Gone are the days I'd wear my over baggy Tribal jeans, Air Max trainers, hoodie and cap with graff emblazoned on the front. Instead I've got several shirts and cardies in a series of bland colours so they always match. While I imagine a large portion of Public Enemy's fanbase has also got older, I can't help but feel rocking up tonight pumping my fist in the air whilst wearing a polo shirt and cashmere sweater is really going to be appropriate. Don't get me wrong, I still have some hella cool stuff. A tshirt with a robot on it - I mean, when will robots not be cool? (The Matrix and future possibilities of AI taking over notwithstanding) I've also still got a breakdancing longsleeve tshirt that has fire based graffiti all down the sleeves and, er, I've got some socks with the A-Team on. I've just read that back and I wonder if should hand tonight's ticket over to someone else while I retire in my slippers by the fire and listen to someone bland play guitar.

Or, as it has been said by rap singers* many times, hip hop is a 'state of mind' and I'd like to think that my years of listening to it, once spray painting the inside of a tunnel near our university, knowing an incredibly small amount of breakdancing moves and knowing all the lyrics to the Pharcyde Labcabincalifornia album mean I qualify for watching the X scratch some wax. See, I said a DJ type phrase. Maybe I might also hear Chuck D drop some rhymes. I'm totally there people. Totally there. Maybe just maybe I'll see Flava Flav do some shouty things like a cool shouty man. Sigh. Its gone. I fully expect to get to the door and be asked to leave in seconds....


Couple of other things:

- Thanks to Messer Chris Cox, I watched the entire disc 1 of Modern Family last night. What a brilliant sitcom. Every episode actually made me laugh with its characters amazing nuances and awkward moments. If you haven't seen it, I'd recommend it asap.

- Read this: http://is.gd/h1Gye via @RachelvsPublic and @shepy on Twitter. You should esp follow Rachel as her blog is ace.

- I didn't leave the house once yesterday. Its called playing the game 'House Arrest'. I pretended I was under house arrest for 24 hours and I wasn't allowed to go outside. I won. Its a great game. The only way you can make it better is to have a friend constantly patrol the front door and occasionally aim a gun at the windows if it looks like you might open them. None of my friends wanted to do this.

* This is a knowing nod to a Stewart Lee gag. If you didn't get it, you're an idiot. Even though it makes it look like I'm an idiot. So there.

Nothin' Doin'

I'm refusing to leave the house today unless something incredibly exciting comes up. Donned in PJs, armed with Xbox, various DVD's to catch up on (Modern Family disc 1 courtesy of Chris Cox, Mysterious Cities of Gold entire season, new Robin Hood film that I'm not that fussed about but will happen if I run out of options), two books, a load of new CDS to listen to, a lot of tea and a desire to stay as close to my bed as possible, today shall be the day the lazy man reigns. Saying that, reigning stuff can take some effort so I'm ok if someone else wants to reign and I'll just recline and watch. My gig tonight has been cancelled, all work I have to do is quite ok to take a back seat, or infact sit in the boot, until tomorrow. So, henceforth until the 13th November I can avoid all responsibility of any sort. With great power comes great responsibility and I can honestly say I have no power whatsoever today so I'm happy discarding all of the stuff that comes with it too.

I will probably feel guilty about doing nothing all day at some point though. Its almost impossible for me to reside in complete slobbery without at some point knowing I should be working. There's various elements of today's news I want to write about and add to my set. For example the oddity that is Andrew Lansley's decision to appoint high up officials of Unilever, McDonalds and PepsiCo to help write the new health legislations. Right ok. What's next? Asking Nick Griffin to help on Immigration policies? I mean what a stupid decision. I assume its not only to help huge private businesses rather than the people, but also to get future voters onside by providing big macs at school dinners. Well more fool the government as all those kids will be dead before 18. Also thanks to today's Guardian I've been reading a lot about the Northern Lights and have very much decided I want to go, and soonish. I think a trip to the Arctic may be due in Jan/Feb. I'm slightly worried about going by myself incase I'm eaten by a polar bear or something similar, but I'm also excited by the prospect of dressing up like an Inuit and traversing the icy lakes to see crazy sky colours. I also must find a trip that involves somehow finding a Golden Compass and gaining a daemon whilst I'm there. Essentially what's happened is today's papers have influenced me far too much.

Playing the 'justifying my laziness' game I reckon I can get away with the fact that it took over 3 hours 45 mins to drive to Chichester last night, accompanied by top passenger Brett Vincent. He gained his 'top passenger' status over several incidents, but my favourite being when during slow moving traffic, he jumped out of my slowly moving car, pelted it to a shop and returned with chocolate whilst the car was still in motion. That is a skill that only some can master. Look what happened to Brian Harvey. Exactly. We sped through wind, rain and idiot learner drivers to get to the Chichester theatre, where on arrival I had about 15 mins to calm down before following Jo Caulfield's storming set to perform to 900 people. Luckily, it was an amazing gig, with a lovely crowd. I did mostly oldish material, with the odd new gag and local reference (there is a nearby place called Cocking. It had to be done), took a bow, then 3 mins later drove me and Brett all the way home. In itself, that sort of mad driving should have earned me a day off. Top that with the fact that I usually perform to that many people over two days, and I feel it's probably ok. This was all then followed by late night drinks in Camden which oddly resulted in stroking Ian Lamb's florescent socks. Sometimes I do wonder what sort of life I lead.

So does all that mean I can chill? Probably not really. And as much as I'll try to sit still I'm sure it'll only be a few hours before I call people to see if they're out and about, end up back outside in the shit weather and putting off all my DVD viewings for a time that never comes. I was always the kid that would ruin 'Sleeping Lions' at parties by getting up and running around as soon as we started as I couldn't care for sitting or lying still. It appears some things never change.

In Addendum: I recorded Tom Craine's penultimate radio show with him this week. We talk about many things including Danny's shit game. It is a shit game. We demonstrate on air for proof. Have a listen via iPlayer here:

THE TOM CRAINE RADIO SHOW - NOVEMBER 14TH

Gigs to Dogs and Cats

Another rushed blog today I'm afraid. It's only midday and already today has had more ups and downs than a bipolar hill walking society exhibition. A combination of some exciting gigs being booked in, an exciting gig tonight, my brother sorting out what may be the best Sunday night in the history of everything and then all neatly slammed downwards to misery town by two more flat viewings of places that were less living spaces and more art pieces expressing misery through realisation. Actually I say that, but one was quite nice if cramped and too expensive considering that it'd be difficult to take two steps without nuzzling Tom and Nat. They might like that, I'm not sure. Also the biggest turn up for the books was that the estate agents were generally lovely people. One man who both Nat and I insisted was very much a lovely dad who gave us tips on how to avoid landlord charges and his views on the evil government, and an actor from Cardiff who's going back into the trade in just a few weeks time and so officially was the first estate agent to understand what we do for a living.

So, erm anyway, before I do all the bazillion things I'm meant to today and then head to Chichester for this evening's gig at the Festival Theatre, here's some quick thoughts:

- Yesterday's gig in Frome was rather lovely. Owing to the promoter Tracy saying that Mark Thomas had said nice things about me (they went to college together), I thought I'd do my new topical stuff on the cuts thinking it might work. It, er, sort of didn't. I can't work out if I lost them on it, or if it was too sore a subject as they are still awaiting to hear about the Somerset Arts Funding being cut by 100%. Either way, I was pleased I said it and got them back at the end so all ok. Think I'll be skipping it for tonight's gig in Chichester though which is a primarily a Tory hotspot. I'd love to be ballsy enough to go for it, but its a 900-1000 seater venue and I can't help but feel that getting that crowd back after losing them might be pretty tough.

- There was a dog and a cat at the gig last night. I wasn't sure what material would appeal to both of them. I did one joke about foxes. I assume that's a natural enemy. Neither of them waited around to say they enjoyed it at the end, so I don't think they liked it.

- Professor Bruce Hood aka top academic in developmental psychology and neuroscience aka professional Robin Ince impersonator came along to the gig last night as he only lived nearby and saw me tweet about being in Frome. I've met him once before through Shappi and he's a highly interesting dude. He gave me a copy of his new book SuperSense which explores why people are superstitious. I aim to read it fairly soon but can't start today as I'm worried that reading on a Friday will make unlucky things happen.

- The results of the Twitter Joke Trial were ridiculous. If you don't know about it, have a read here:

TWITTER JOKE TRIAL - GUARDIAN ARTICLE

Has it really come to this, that everything we tweet is potentially a 'menace' to society if someone in a position of authority can't get a joke? Its a worrying infringement of freedom of speech. What Paul Chambers wrote was oh so clearly a gag and it must be nothing less than extremely obvious that that is the case to the police and judiciary involved. They must also have better things to do with their time, eg chasing actual terrorists, than wasting time and money on things like this? I assume its to make some sort of statement about our new 1984 like society whereby everything we do is monitored by Big Brother. If so, I'm going to put up various statements about my bodily functions so they will just feel a bit sick and hugely regret it.

- Lastly, I've finally booked in a last performance for 'Littlest Things', my Edinburgh 2010 show. It'll be on Monday 24th January at the Etcetera Theatre at 7.30pm. I'll post links up as soon as I have them. I'm never ever going to do this show again, so it'd be very nice if you could attend and make it a great last run.

Token Beerage

I have, at most, 8 minutes to write this blog before I go to Bath. The place that is. I'm not basing my entire day on washing habits. As if I ever wash. Seriously, what do you think of me? No today is mostly West Country based with a collection of a Mr Thomas Craine in Bath, then recording his penultimate radio show in Bristol, then off to Frome. I have no idea where Frome is, but I presume all froads lead there. Arf. So with now 7 mins 30 seconds to spare, here's some quick fire blogging:

- I saw LCD Soundsystem and Hot Chip last night. Both were nothing less than excellent. Much kudos especially to James Murphy of LCD who at one point said he'd had to take steroids because 'I've left my voice in Barcelona.' Before following that by saying 'That's a Tribe Called Quest song isn't it?' Brilliant. If you don't get it, you are no way as cool as me. FACT. What definitely wasn't anywhere near as cool as me was the venue. Alexandra Palace, sort your music hosting self out. I can't just get a beer from the bar? I have to queue up for beer tokens first, then queue up again for the bar, thus missing out at least 2-3 songs of the people I've come to see? What next? That I have to queue up to stand in a special line to drink my beer only to then later join the inevitable queue for the loos. There was more waiting going on than at a posh restaurant. Ridiculous.

Still on the plus side, I was taught but my friends Jude and Helen, how to use a tall person that's on your side to your advantage. Two very tall people stood right in front of them so they sent Jude's boyfriend Conor, who's stupid tall, to stand in front of them as revenge. They got annoyed, moved, Conor moved back, situation dealt with. I need my own giant for such times.


- Its sad how the media once again have focused on the wrong area of the student demo yesterday. I wasn't there and so don't have a first hand opinion, but several people I know were and assure me it was mostly a peaceful demo. A few twats cause mayhem at Millbank and it means that the whole protest is demeaned as a violent riot and instead of focusing on why these students are angry today is being spent talking to the Met about how to deal with rioters better. Its not what was intended and now I bet Cameron will get away with putting through his Draconian methods anyway. Add to that the media docking the numbers that attended and its no wonder people did get violent I suppose. If anything, maybe the only plus point is that its provided the message that society is pretty angry about all this.


- I saw Burke and Hare yesterday with my friend Ali. We both er, thought it was crap. After reading Simon Pegg's book I really really wanted it to be good. But its not. Its just, sort of, well 'meh'. Isla Fisher couldn't act her way out of a wet paper bag, the accents all round are toss, the script is shit. There really is very little going for it. Except the hats. They wore some lovely hats.


Time's up. There was much to discuss but it will all be compiled tomorrow. Or not, more likely. Onwards and Westwards....

Runner Sneed

RUNNING BEAN

I did something I've never done before yesterday: buy something specifically for the use of exercise. Well I say never before but in the past there have been half hearted purchases of dumbbells which still sit on my bedroom floor waiting for their once monthly use where I reignite my memory of just how weak I am but don't ever use them frequently enough to change this. Its less an exercise incentive and more just a regular check incase I've developed super strength in my sleep. One day that will happen. I have also, over the years bought things that were additional to various classes I attended. Judo robes, a squash racquet and breakdancing wrist bands all sit somewhere within the cupboards and boxes of my parents house knowing full well the only time they will ever see the light of day again is in thousands of years from now when archaeologists discover them all at once and presume there was a sport that involved dressing up in martial arts clothes to hit a shuttle cock whilst doing hand stands.

Well yesterday that trend changed when I bought some trainers specifically for going running in. That's right. Running shoes. I haven't been running for about two months now due to shin splints which insisted on making me hobble around my designated racing path like someone attempting to do the robot badly for too long. So on recommendation I trudged to a shop in Central London that specialise in making you get on a treadmill with your jeans rolled up so they can see just how malco-ordinated you look and everyone walking past outside can't point and laugh. It turns out my left leg is a twat, and so after a few minutes of explaining this to me in kinder words, they pulled some trainers off the shelf and said that by parting with my hard earned cash, I can run again like a happy Forest Gump. I bought them yesterday. I haven't been running today. This is already bad as it seems that now there are just a ghastly yellow and silver (they swore the ones I needed were only in that colour) are already wasting away. It can only be a matter of time before 'Kung-fu Squash Stands' gains an added element of fancy footwear.


STUDENT DEMO

Muchos respect to all the students on the demo today. I should be there but along with my complete failure to go running today, my failure to go marching has joined it hand in hand. I very much hope it makes a difference and its brilliant to see on the news that at least 24000 are out there. Knowing journalism, that means probably about 40000. It really upsets me that Cameron is currently telling student in Beijing that democracy is the best way, yet conveniently managing to avoid showing them the £9k proposed education fees as a case study. I really worry that he's out there purely to find out how far he deny people their human rights without a UN sanction.

Good luck all marchers today. Hope its a peaceful affair that will highlight how important affordable education is.


MAAAAARRRIIIIINNNAAAAA

Marina and the Diamonds were amazing last night. After an amazingly 80's montage of fluorescent images on the backdrop, she strutted out in style and belted out pretty much all the tracks we wanted her to. I love her. Corrie, who accompanied me to the evenings musicalness, gained some sort of a girl crush. The two lesbian women who stood in front of us and insisted on continuously putting their hands down each others trousers (note men: this was in no way attractive at all. More importantly one of their quiffs kept getting in the way of my sight line), wouldn't stop wolf whistling. Her voice was awesome live. And at one point she has a glowing heart belt and a giant plastic hamburger taken from a 1994 Blur tour. Basically I love her. I was tempted to try and write up some clever critical analysis and get all wordy on your ass, but its difficult when overall it was just brilliant and I love her.

Here is a picture where you can't really see anything:



Tonight I'm seeing LCD Soundsystem and Hot Chip at Alexandra Palace. I win.

Simplify

A bitty blog today as I can't be arsed. Its sort of a day off for moi, with my only two prime objectives all day being 1) buy Scott Pilgrim on Blu-Ray and 2) go and see Marina and the Diamonds at the Forum tonight then persuade her to marry me. Ok, so the first part of the plan is pretty easy and the second not so easy, but I reckon if I tell her I have Obsessions and insist I know she's not a robot, I reckon she'll fall for me immediately. The T-Dawg always gets what the T-Dawg wants. And when I say always I mean 'mostly never'. I still to this day haven't got a house on wheels (not a caravan, a house. On wheels) or a pet tiger. Actually there's loads of stuff I want and really haven't got. I bet Marina could get it for me. But then it'd arrive and I'd look happy for a while until she repeatedly asked 'Are You Satisfied?' and it'd just annoy me. Its like I'm never allowed to win. Sigh.

So erm, some very quick things:

- Its got actually cold. Not sure how and when that happened, but someone sucked the warmth away and I only noticed last night. However, I was properly prepared by wearing all possible layers to the extent where I feel content that no possible cold could penetrate my being unless it used teleportation. The downside of this is being unfeasibly hot on the tube and not being able to use my iphone. I suddenly can see why the Luddites had a point.

- I did a nice new gig at The Millers near Guy's Hospital last night called Gig For Giggling. Was much fun and I recommend heading to the next one if you live round there. Most importantly there were some rather good new comics on which was always nice. Part of me sees new comics that are good and is genuinely pleased there is up and coming talent. Then part of me realises they may soon be taking all my work away in a year or so and I begin to plot there death. Bitter much? Yes. I'm sure Marina can order hit men for me.

- This was in the loo at the gig. Made me laugh a lot.



- I'm currently reading Coconut Unlimited by Nikesh Shukla. Apart from the fact that its brilliantly well written, contains great characters and is very funny, its currently stirring up some grand memories about my first discovery of hip-hop in the early '90s including seeing the cassette cover of 'Muse Sick An Hour Mess Age' by Public Enemy and being blown away by the drawing of a skeleton holding a gun to its head, or Karl Black playing me Snoop Dogg's Doggystyle for the first time at the back of the science class in Year 7. I'll be telling Marina all about this later.

That's it for today. Sorry for a half arsed blog but I will give you another half of an arse tomorrow and you can then sit down. I'm sure that's all you really want. With any luck Marina will write tomorrow's blog for me.

Kick Ass Angels

If there is such a thing as karma then myself, PB and Mickey now have enough of it stacked up to allow us to push over several children, kick some puppies and punch an old lady. Not that I believe in that sort of thing, but there is a small part of me that after last night's gallant events, we have somehow absorbed enough good will that within the cosmic system we must be owed something to balance out the way of the universe. I wish it did work like that. I'm constantly nice and yet usually what happens is that things are generally disappointing and you question just why you've spent so much time being nice to people when it'd have been far more satisfying just to set fire to the bank when they insist you have to queue all over again just to go to the next counter along because your counter 'can't take Euros'. But nonetheless, being helpful is a good thing and none of us thought twice about helping a man who's stupidity really should have meant we left him be.

Strolling our way to Victoria Park to see the fireworks display like three excitable children, we noticed a man cycling along with a huge Ikea flatpacked bookcase carried in a backpack on his bag as unsafely as possible. To say the very tall and heavy object was secure, wobbling side to side against the rather thin man's frame would be like saying Ann Widdicombe's skin snugly fits her body. Not only did he seem to be tempting danger with this item, but he had hung several bags of small mirrors and other items of home furnishing tittle tattle off either side and was strenuously peddling along the pavement as thought it were as steep as the side of Everest. We sniggered a bit when we first noticed him as he managed to get the top of the bookcase stuck between a traffic light and a road sign and took some negotiation wriggling out of it and remaining upright, but then as he cycled past us, his bicycle completely toppled to the left and he was trapped on the roadside unable to get back up. Stifling giggles, PB ran to help him up and I assisted in balancing the unwieldy shelves. It turned out he had been all the way to Ikea in Edmonton and cycled with this collection of heavy goods all the way to Clapton Road (about 7 miles for you non-Londoners), but then somewhere along the way something in the bag had snapped and it had all become rather difficult. He didn't seem to acknowledge at any point that what he was doing was completely ridiculous, dangerous and surely would have been made easier by getting it delivered or using a car. Still we got him back on his bike and watched as he made it across the road and proceeded to topple over like a weeble that had gone horribly wrong.

Running over we found he was only going two minutes down the road, and so with PB and Mickey carrying bits of his other purchases and me wheeling his bike, the man carried the bookcase on his back like a pathetic World's Strongest Man event. He told us he was fairly healthy and thought he'd be able to carry it, but its height and centre of gravity was all wrong. Mickey said it was very long in shape and without irony he said he'd 'held longer things before.' Once again we tried our best to keep straight faces. It became more and more difficult as he started to tell us about how it reminded him of travelling from Russia to Paris and Mickey insisted on asking him why he carried a bookcase that far. He remained oblivious to any kind of humour, though admittedly if I had a crapload of wood on my back I would too. Eventually we got him to the door and he had to get Paul and me to help him sit down so he could wriggle free and go indoors. Mickey rang the doorbell and a confused looking flatmate came out. When we explained her friend was on the floor with a bookcase, she glanced out in the most non-plussed manner, said hello to him, asked him why he'd bought a bookcase and then went back indoors. We refused his offer of a drink as a thanks, he called us 'angels' and with our small halos around our head skipped off to firework fun. And yes, we did skip in places. PB also brought up how we probably should have, in terms of survival of the fittest and evolution, just left him where he was as he was clearly an idiot. Had we not been there, how long would he have been trapped by shelves? Usurped by storage? Who knows. What I do know however is that Ghandi can eat my shoes for I helped an idiot get home and for that I think we all deserve tiny hearts of gold.

The fireworks was excellent too. Although it was put together in memory of the Bethnal Green tube disaster and yet the display included air raid sirens, as well as 1940's music and a crap load of explosions. I can't help but feel for any survivors of the incident that took place during the second world war, that this would seem slightly mocking and provoke unnecessary flashbacks and nightmares. Still, it was very pretty.

Lot O' Bottle

Using a series of short movements I've managed to get the laptop from my desk to my bed without remotely being horizontal once. This is the sort of achievement on a day like today, where I like to tell myself that essentially I've already over stepped the mark of greatness and may as well take the rest of Sunday off. At some point I will leave my bed, possibly make toast and then have to make myself some sort of medal for reaching more impressive heights than I thought my current state would allow. I got home at 6.45am this morning and I won't lie, I'm fairly proud. Despite low self awareness I got from an area of London I don't really know, all the way home and at one point grimaced at a lady in a bagel shop because they didn't have any cream cheese ones left. Her shrug of an apology was nowhere near enough and I told her as much, ensuring that she then handed me the smallest of all the plain cheese ones in her petty efforts to rid herself of a drunk idiot. It was less a bagel and more a doughy onion ring. Last night's venture was a good old fashioned house party. Not old fashioned in the sense that they had gas lamps and the plague, no. Just in the way that it compiled the simple ingredients of nice and interesting people, a place, lots of booze, music. Its an easy mix that prepared incorrectly or with the wrong amounts can go horribly wrong. Not enough people makes a bad party, as does not enough booze. No place can also be an issue as then its no longer a party and instead just people wondering around as per usual. There's a lot of things to think about. Last night however, was done well. Just enough of everything, nicely sauted together to equal a substantially fun mess. To summarise this entire paragraph: I hurt a lot. To winterise it: I'm cold and I hurt a lot. Arf.

At some point in the early hours I grabbed a bottle of beer. Not at all abnormal behaviour you would assume. I have been known to grab beers in the past. I am a man who likes a beer. You put those two facts together and it all makes good sense. Knowing full well that the only bottle opener in the room was crap, and in need of said beverage, I decided to just crack open the lid with my teeth. Not quite as normal knowing full well this isn't that sensible, and that I'm not particularly good at doing this. I've only done it successfully once before and it really hurt. But needs must, and so in the most lassaiz fare attitude I just did it. One quick bite, off goes lid, no pain but indeed some useful beer gain. I shocked myself at how easy it was, and I managed to gain the respect of several people around me, including one girl who's jaw dropped quiet noticeably at such things and meant a conversational point was rendered for further socialising. I think its easy to say its one of the most manly things I've done ever. So now what? There were no more bottles of beer that night and so I couldn't test to see if it was a one-off. Nor would I want to test it again in front of that crowd incase it failed and all the kudos I had gathered with my booze container destroying noshers might dissipate into embarrassment as bits of my canines fall onto the floor like calcium based cous cous.

At the same time, I want to know if this is a new super power I've recently gained. Maybe at some point I've been bitten by a radioactive pair of teeth. Maybe I can now roam the streets biting cars and lampposts with no issue. More importantly, I can be the dude at parties that opens everyone's beer with his teeth and ultimately doesn't ever get to kiss anyone because they are terrified he'll bite their faces off. Hmm. That last bits not a bonus. Maybe I'll just leave it as a one off awesome T moment that will go down in the annuls of history as something I once did. I say annuls of history, but what I mean is I'll remember it and no one else will. Meanwhile other people who bite lids off beer bottles all the time will just think I'm a dick. Essentially no change from normal. Sigh. Back to bed methinks.