Going back to a semi-political blog today after a long absence away. Not that I've been keeping up on anything going on and therefore feel once again out of the loop of exactly how the world is going wrong this week. Not only that but if anything, I feel I haven't been helping matters much at all. Instead yesterday I spent over 4 hours playing Call of Duty: Black Ops with Mat where I was willingly shouting things like 'shoot him in the face' as our American character used military oppression to fight in a simulation of the highly wrong Vietnam War. I like to think that its quite ok to disagree with the circumstances of such a game's storyline while at the same time fully immersing myself in its virtual nature and yet cheering to neighbour annoying levels when we find a gun called the 'Grim Reaper' that can blow up tanks. This was then followed with a lack of the right TV channels to watch the Oscars and instead just an imagining of what it was probably like with me occasionally tweeting Mila Kunis because I think its funny. Meanwhile I'm flitting between all the news on the Middle East and finding it all too depressing to comment on. I've seen several comics make 'hilarious' plays on the name Gaddafi and such, but I honestly keep seeing the death toll rise and shying away from even trying to make light of it. Instead I'm stabbing Russian's in the eye and setting explosives to Cuban's trucks. Yes, my morals are perhaps all askew.
I'm doing a gig for Yes to AV tonight, along with Josie Long and Terry Saunders. It should be a lovely gig and its a top bill, but there is part of me that is struggling to work out what I'm going to be talking to the crowd about. No, its not just because I instantly said yes at first, being a huge fan of the TV channel that the Wii works through and then felt like a stupid when I worked out I was wrong. No, here's my issue and the moment this blog lurches forward into hopefully making sense: I understand that AV voting will allow, to an extent, the people to have more choice by offering us a 2nd, 3rd, and 4th choice on the ballot paper, perhaps meaning that it will give a better representation of what people actually want and where. However, and this is a big however, my problem is that I still don't think that there is anyone out there I want for any of my 4 choices. When we no longer seem to have politicians, but instead businessmen intent on privatising the country for their own selfish money making needs, I can't imagine how putting them in order of preference will help. It seems to me as though someone is offering to rank CH4's Top 100 Dictators and we get to say which ones we like more due to their cheeky smile. Oh so we get to choose between the Tories who don't really care about the people, the Lib Dems who don't really care about the people, Labour who don't seem to know what they're doing, or anyone of many other parties who's dent in the political world is so small a gnat couldn't have a snooze in it.
Then again, I understand I am just being difficult here. If it means we are one step further to having the MP's crap themselves over who will actually get to have our votes, then there is at least more pressure on them than before and that means we are slightly higher on the lever of power. Not much, but a bit. And much like with Tesco's operation, every little helps, which I always think sounds like a horrible sweatshop slogan in broken English. Also as much as I insulted the many other political parties in my paragraph above, it does mean they'll have more chance of making a change. Bad news in the case of the BNP or Christian Party, but great news for the Greens. And if anyone thinks that if AV comes through that I won't be giving at least one vote every time to the Monster Raving Loony Party, then you are hugely underestimating me. I'm sorry, but they've kind of had my vote since 1987 when they said that as well as a hot and cold tap, there would be a custard and jelly tap in every house. Bring it.
So I'll be saying some of that tonight and then probably backtracking when people tell me I haven't got a clue.
If you are interested in one of the only choices we're going to get to have under this government, and you really should be interested or forfeit another nugget of human rights we have, then please check out this website:
http://www.yestofairervotes.org/
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Barrels
Occasionally I am asked just what its like living with two other comedians and whether or not its a constant barrel of laughs. Barrels of laughs are second only in the line of best barrels ever, after barrel of monkeys. Double barreled shotguns are somewhere near the bottom unless the barrel in said gun is one of laughs or monkeys and then shooting someone with it will no doubt be a bundle of joyous capuchin or giggle based antics. Same applies for when rolling out said barrel. So anyway, regardless of quality of barrel (third in line by the way is any barrel containing booze of any sort), I usually reply by saying that its not and just nice and we all just get along in the same way any other flatmates would. I then point out that we probably have more conversations than most about just how it is that when Craine has a shave he covers all the walls in foam to an extent that I constantly expect to find a group of confused Ibiza holiday goers having a rave in there.
The truth is of course, that it is actually a shedload of fun. Again this is the best sort of shed based contents. Some people fill their sheds with gardening tools and all manner of unwanted household goods. If you ever pop your head inside a shed to find it is filled to the rims with fun, you'll be a happy gardener indeed. As an example of just how much fun it is, we have just returned from our almost weekly Sunday breakfast/lunch/brunch outing. This has become a regular occurrence if we are all in the flat. Tom will declare that we should go get food somewhere, myself and Nat will agree. Then we will sit around till about 1-2pm, waiting to the point of absolute starvation until we shout at Tom as to why he's still not ready then spend 20 minutes trying to help him find his shoes and eventually head towards a food serving based premises before remembering that Nat has left some candles burning in the bathroom and weighing up the possibility of whether or not they'll set the house on fire if we don't go back and put them out. Today we decided they wouldn't. I can't imagine our science of the high possibilities of tealights falling directly into the sink or the toilet and avoiding the bathmat would gain any insurance companies approval. We have several favourite haunts, and by that I mean places to eat, not venues where we dress up as ghosts and scare people, though its only a matter of time before someone thinks this is a good idea. Each possible venue depends on amount of effort required to get there and so more and more frequently we end up in Rex's Cafe in Muswell Hill.
There are a number of reasons why we like this place so much. One is that the staff are so lovely that they don't seem to mind the amount of questions Tom poses to them about what they would recommended and what exactly all the food comes with before he decides he won't get that dish anyway and starts all the questions again from the beginning. Two, they don't question Nat having red wine with her breakfast. If anything, they seem to encourage it. Three, there is one waitress who is extremely cute, thinks me and Tom have the best tshirts ever and has now been labelled by Tom and Nat as 'my wife'. Today Tom tried to get me to woo her by starting conversations with me when she was near that sounded as though they might be exciting. One particularly ill thought out preposition began 'So I can't believe you actually caught that hawk!' To her credit, she still spoke to us afterwards. I might actually marry her. This all ties into reason number four, which is that they put up with our inane batshit banter that seems to rise above the rest of the restaurant noise causes tables nearby to either chuckle along (preferable) or really not enjoy their food as bowl based discussion occurs (not preferable).
Today's banter involved Nat telling a story about conditioner that made myself and Tom pretend to sleep out of sheer boredom, Tom's dismay at finishing a milkshake too quick and the waitress (not my wife)'s note that only men order strawberry milkshakes, the fact that Tom looks like a slow loris - see:
(Tom is on the left. Uncanny huh?)
- a 15 minute punning session about using tennis parlance in a restaurant ie 'is service included?' 'could I have a deuce please?' etc etc; then a large amount of insulting revolving around whatever we could to up the stakes on meanness including Tom telling me I had diabetes and then explaining that he'd blocked my twitter feed, which I explained was for the best incase he learnt what a real joke looked like and various moments where it was explained that Nat's new haircut makes her look like a 'moody bean'. Much much fun. For us. For the rest of Rex's Cafe, I can't help but feel they were wondering who the dicks in the corner were, though it might explain why once again, we were placed in the corner rather than in the centre. My poor wife.
So, to cut a long story a paragraph or two less, yes, it is a barrel of monkey laughs. I very much like our flat and I will like it even more when we can remove those weird Ibiza clubbers from dancing around the sink.
The truth is of course, that it is actually a shedload of fun. Again this is the best sort of shed based contents. Some people fill their sheds with gardening tools and all manner of unwanted household goods. If you ever pop your head inside a shed to find it is filled to the rims with fun, you'll be a happy gardener indeed. As an example of just how much fun it is, we have just returned from our almost weekly Sunday breakfast/lunch/brunch outing. This has become a regular occurrence if we are all in the flat. Tom will declare that we should go get food somewhere, myself and Nat will agree. Then we will sit around till about 1-2pm, waiting to the point of absolute starvation until we shout at Tom as to why he's still not ready then spend 20 minutes trying to help him find his shoes and eventually head towards a food serving based premises before remembering that Nat has left some candles burning in the bathroom and weighing up the possibility of whether or not they'll set the house on fire if we don't go back and put them out. Today we decided they wouldn't. I can't imagine our science of the high possibilities of tealights falling directly into the sink or the toilet and avoiding the bathmat would gain any insurance companies approval. We have several favourite haunts, and by that I mean places to eat, not venues where we dress up as ghosts and scare people, though its only a matter of time before someone thinks this is a good idea. Each possible venue depends on amount of effort required to get there and so more and more frequently we end up in Rex's Cafe in Muswell Hill.
There are a number of reasons why we like this place so much. One is that the staff are so lovely that they don't seem to mind the amount of questions Tom poses to them about what they would recommended and what exactly all the food comes with before he decides he won't get that dish anyway and starts all the questions again from the beginning. Two, they don't question Nat having red wine with her breakfast. If anything, they seem to encourage it. Three, there is one waitress who is extremely cute, thinks me and Tom have the best tshirts ever and has now been labelled by Tom and Nat as 'my wife'. Today Tom tried to get me to woo her by starting conversations with me when she was near that sounded as though they might be exciting. One particularly ill thought out preposition began 'So I can't believe you actually caught that hawk!' To her credit, she still spoke to us afterwards. I might actually marry her. This all ties into reason number four, which is that they put up with our inane batshit banter that seems to rise above the rest of the restaurant noise causes tables nearby to either chuckle along (preferable) or really not enjoy their food as bowl based discussion occurs (not preferable).
Today's banter involved Nat telling a story about conditioner that made myself and Tom pretend to sleep out of sheer boredom, Tom's dismay at finishing a milkshake too quick and the waitress (not my wife)'s note that only men order strawberry milkshakes, the fact that Tom looks like a slow loris - see:
(Tom is on the left. Uncanny huh?)
- a 15 minute punning session about using tennis parlance in a restaurant ie 'is service included?' 'could I have a deuce please?' etc etc; then a large amount of insulting revolving around whatever we could to up the stakes on meanness including Tom telling me I had diabetes and then explaining that he'd blocked my twitter feed, which I explained was for the best incase he learnt what a real joke looked like and various moments where it was explained that Nat's new haircut makes her look like a 'moody bean'. Much much fun. For us. For the rest of Rex's Cafe, I can't help but feel they were wondering who the dicks in the corner were, though it might explain why once again, we were placed in the corner rather than in the centre. My poor wife.
So, to cut a long story a paragraph or two less, yes, it is a barrel of monkey laughs. I very much like our flat and I will like it even more when we can remove those weird Ibiza clubbers from dancing around the sink.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Harry Sheep
Not really a blog today, despite there being much to say about many a thing including the excellence of lion costumes in Bedworth, filth Countdown in Frankie and Benny's with Helen Arney, and the party car. But I'm off to Comedy Club 4 Kids and won't get a chance to type again today so why not just imagine what all of those things may be, and chances are, you'll have a better time than if I actually told you about them. Except for the party car. That was amazing.
Anyway, so instead, here's a small audition tape for a CBBC thingy I'm doing next week. Its a character called Harry Sheep. You'll see why when you watch it. I got the CBBC thingy (more on this soon) but I'm doing another thing, so this became mostly redundant. Until that is, Comedy Rush on Thursday when I added swearing and did 60 seconds of it infront of a fuck load of people. I'm leaving it online for only a few days, so watch while you can, make horrible racist youtube comments below like everyone does and then in ages to come when archaeologists look back through my blog they won't have a clue what it was all about.
HARRY SHEEP, UNDERCOVER WOODLAND OFFICER
More soon? If demand calls for it I may go filming some in Highgate Woods and shout at squirrels......
Anyway, so instead, here's a small audition tape for a CBBC thingy I'm doing next week. Its a character called Harry Sheep. You'll see why when you watch it. I got the CBBC thingy (more on this soon) but I'm doing another thing, so this became mostly redundant. Until that is, Comedy Rush on Thursday when I added swearing and did 60 seconds of it infront of a fuck load of people. I'm leaving it online for only a few days, so watch while you can, make horrible racist youtube comments below like everyone does and then in ages to come when archaeologists look back through my blog they won't have a clue what it was all about.
HARRY SHEEP, UNDERCOVER WOODLAND OFFICER
More soon? If demand calls for it I may go filming some in Highgate Woods and shout at squirrels......
Friday, February 25, 2011
Wolves and Ducks
Today's blog comes to your face direct from EAT in Birmingham centre. Oh yes, I blog from all the classy locations. See me as your blog version of Alan Wicker, giving you in words small glimpses of the exotic world around us, that you, the ordinary punter may not get to see on your menial scummy living budget. To boast even more, sitting opposite me is the lovely Helen Arney (who was nearly Carol Vorderman but she's not bitter) who I made get up at 9am this morning to drag along to a children's show I was doing, despite my gig with her not being till the evening. The other alternative was to leave her stranded in London with high train fares to tonight's show and so saying she had an option is like saying Sophie took too long over her choice. This is, yet again, another day that my half closed eyes show the world that I do silly things for money. Yesterday I took to stage infront of 1500 people dressed as a wolf and proclaiming to be a undercover woodland detective for a whole 60 seconds, and on this Friday my afternoon started with a small 6 year old boy called Adnav telling me I look like a duck. This was then justified by a girl called Shania telling me I was at least a deformed duck, and me eliciting a confused noise response proving I had no clue if this made anything in the slightest better. I honestly don't know if it did. I like to think she meant a duck that was so deformed it looked like a small bearded man, but there is a chance that she just meant that not only did I look like a duck, but one with a gammy leg and a smashed in face. This is definitely a way to lift the day.
Last night was an odd one too. I haven't felt stressed about a gig in a long time and yet as it dawned on me that I would be taking part in Comedy Rush a show featuring 60 acts all doing a 1 minute set each, I started to worry about what I would be doing. This is a hugely ridiculous thing to worry about. I can do hour shows, how on earth can one 60th of that worry me so much? But it did. And it worried everyone backstage too. Having to prepare a minute is terrifying. How can you cram what's needed to entertain an audience, especially a large one at the Shaftsbury Theatre at that, in a mere 60 seconds? I realised that had I been an open spot this probably would have been easy. Those first days of struggling to write a 5 minute set would've had me on that stage with a well prepared minute with ease. Of course it wouldn't have been funny. Nor would have been well performed, with my younger self probably shaking with nerves for that whole brief amount of time to the extent people would have witnessed merely a blur shuffle across the stage. But now, with two hours shows under my belt - not literally. It would make my trousers very uncomfortable - and more material on top of that, a minute seemed just bonkers. Luckily I chose, with help from Rohan to do a character and so romped onstage in my big blue wolf onesi and called people 'slags'.
I don't really remember it, as the minute flew by, but it seemed to get work. My only fleeting memory is noticing just how comfortable it was to be onstage in my onesi and I worry this will now become somewhat of a habit. I'm all for comfortable gigs - one of my favourites was the Twitter Comedy Club where I sat at home in my PJs drinking a cuppa soup while typing. So maybe this now will be the way forward? How better to make an audience relax too, then make them all wear onesis? Hmm, although they may get too comfy and have a snooze. There's definitely something here. I feel inventiveness for the sake of laziness coming on. I will ignore the fact that organising a onesi based gig will take more effort than the comfort gained for wearing one and so technically put my chillaxing state into negative gain. Wow, that last sentence surprised me too. Anyway, ultimately yesterday eve was much much fun and it was great watching all the other acts try their different things from sketch and street performance to some very sharp gags from people like Mike Wozniak and Hal Cruttenden. All I know though, is that I was the only one dressed as a wolf, and one day, I'll work out if that was a good or bad thing. Either way, its still better than being a deformed duck.
Last night was an odd one too. I haven't felt stressed about a gig in a long time and yet as it dawned on me that I would be taking part in Comedy Rush a show featuring 60 acts all doing a 1 minute set each, I started to worry about what I would be doing. This is a hugely ridiculous thing to worry about. I can do hour shows, how on earth can one 60th of that worry me so much? But it did. And it worried everyone backstage too. Having to prepare a minute is terrifying. How can you cram what's needed to entertain an audience, especially a large one at the Shaftsbury Theatre at that, in a mere 60 seconds? I realised that had I been an open spot this probably would have been easy. Those first days of struggling to write a 5 minute set would've had me on that stage with a well prepared minute with ease. Of course it wouldn't have been funny. Nor would have been well performed, with my younger self probably shaking with nerves for that whole brief amount of time to the extent people would have witnessed merely a blur shuffle across the stage. But now, with two hours shows under my belt - not literally. It would make my trousers very uncomfortable - and more material on top of that, a minute seemed just bonkers. Luckily I chose, with help from Rohan to do a character and so romped onstage in my big blue wolf onesi and called people 'slags'.
I don't really remember it, as the minute flew by, but it seemed to get work. My only fleeting memory is noticing just how comfortable it was to be onstage in my onesi and I worry this will now become somewhat of a habit. I'm all for comfortable gigs - one of my favourites was the Twitter Comedy Club where I sat at home in my PJs drinking a cuppa soup while typing. So maybe this now will be the way forward? How better to make an audience relax too, then make them all wear onesis? Hmm, although they may get too comfy and have a snooze. There's definitely something here. I feel inventiveness for the sake of laziness coming on. I will ignore the fact that organising a onesi based gig will take more effort than the comfort gained for wearing one and so technically put my chillaxing state into negative gain. Wow, that last sentence surprised me too. Anyway, ultimately yesterday eve was much much fun and it was great watching all the other acts try their different things from sketch and street performance to some very sharp gags from people like Mike Wozniak and Hal Cruttenden. All I know though, is that I was the only one dressed as a wolf, and one day, I'll work out if that was a good or bad thing. Either way, its still better than being a deformed duck.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Cut
I have just done what I believe is one of the most terrifying things a man can do. Sod snowboarding for the first time last week or an other extreme sport, this is far more terrifying. I just went to get my haircut somewhere I hadn't been before. Men will know that this sort of thing can be the life or death of you. Not literally. Just in the way that you might look like a dick for a couple of weeks due to an either over adventurous chopper who places everyone in the ideal of the Shoreditch twat or instead the old grumpy man who asks you what you'd like and then ignores it and gives you a crew cut as that's how everyone had it back in the day. Then there are all the fears you might gain from possible conversation topics that are forced upon you as you're all but tied to a chair with only the scissor wielder as your company for an hour. Add to that the possibilities of not caring whether you have hair in your eyes, washing it without you asking or just holding a razor in the way that says that under their tshirt they have a necklace made of ears.
I have, over the years, been quite lucky with such things. My two favourites were the one I've just had to depart due to moving flat - a lovely lady from Kiev who told me tales of the old USSR whilst handling a razor blade like an assassin and wearing leather trousers. I felt as though John Malkovich might enter at any minute, challenge me to a game of cards and make me down vodka while she trimmed my sideburns. Previous to that there was an excellent South African lady in Camden who despite cutting my hair exactly how I wanted it, she once told me that the only type of comedy she really liked was when people got hurt, then proceeded to pick up a rather large pair of scissors. I never went back. Both of them though managed to provide a decent level of banter before allowing me to stare at my own puffy tired face as its furry frame became increasingly smaller and more designed. This is both my favourite and least favourite part of getting my hair cut. I like it because when I leave I know I don't have to look at my face anymore against my will. I don't think it helps that I can't pull faces without throwing the barberian off their stride and possibly hindering my own haircut, and if I can't pull faces then my cheeks settle into bored miserable look which no one needs to see for any length of time. I could smile, but again, who wants an overly happy client sitting in their chair? No one. It just looks weird.
Today I ventured past a place called 'Broadway Hairdressers' that appeared to have no one in it at first. Its windows adorned with pictures of people who are probably now in their 50s and 60s, and the cutting equipment sitting on the side as though part of a museum exhibit. I was already put off by the fact that I was starting to believe it wasn't open at all and just kept alive for historical value, but then a very creepy old man emerged looking at me as though he was startled by the sight of another human after all this time. I also saw his hair which was a mess and I turned on my heels and left. I eventually stumbled on a place where the two cutters looked like characters from Streets of Rage or a cheap 80's action film. One very small wiry Oriental man and one huge muscle faced Dutch guy. At any moment I expect the words 'FIGHT' to appear above my head and I'd have to Scott Pilgrim the fuck out of them. Luckily this didn't happen. Instead neither spoke much English so chat was wonderfully limited, and I sat back, stared at my stupid face and the smaller guy snipped away with reasonable results. Except that my sideburns are unequal so I won't be going back ever.
Life can be so stressful.
I have, over the years, been quite lucky with such things. My two favourites were the one I've just had to depart due to moving flat - a lovely lady from Kiev who told me tales of the old USSR whilst handling a razor blade like an assassin and wearing leather trousers. I felt as though John Malkovich might enter at any minute, challenge me to a game of cards and make me down vodka while she trimmed my sideburns. Previous to that there was an excellent South African lady in Camden who despite cutting my hair exactly how I wanted it, she once told me that the only type of comedy she really liked was when people got hurt, then proceeded to pick up a rather large pair of scissors. I never went back. Both of them though managed to provide a decent level of banter before allowing me to stare at my own puffy tired face as its furry frame became increasingly smaller and more designed. This is both my favourite and least favourite part of getting my hair cut. I like it because when I leave I know I don't have to look at my face anymore against my will. I don't think it helps that I can't pull faces without throwing the barberian off their stride and possibly hindering my own haircut, and if I can't pull faces then my cheeks settle into bored miserable look which no one needs to see for any length of time. I could smile, but again, who wants an overly happy client sitting in their chair? No one. It just looks weird.
Today I ventured past a place called 'Broadway Hairdressers' that appeared to have no one in it at first. Its windows adorned with pictures of people who are probably now in their 50s and 60s, and the cutting equipment sitting on the side as though part of a museum exhibit. I was already put off by the fact that I was starting to believe it wasn't open at all and just kept alive for historical value, but then a very creepy old man emerged looking at me as though he was startled by the sight of another human after all this time. I also saw his hair which was a mess and I turned on my heels and left. I eventually stumbled on a place where the two cutters looked like characters from Streets of Rage or a cheap 80's action film. One very small wiry Oriental man and one huge muscle faced Dutch guy. At any moment I expect the words 'FIGHT' to appear above my head and I'd have to Scott Pilgrim the fuck out of them. Luckily this didn't happen. Instead neither spoke much English so chat was wonderfully limited, and I sat back, stared at my stupid face and the smaller guy snipped away with reasonable results. Except that my sideburns are unequal so I won't be going back ever.
Life can be so stressful.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
What Goes Around....
Today is a brief pondering type blog with little humour in it. Read at your peril. Not that there's any peril in it. Nor that you may have any peril on you at the time to place by said blog for aforementioned reading. And so on and so forth.....
Sometimes it is a bit odd how things come around. Last night at Fat Tuesday the line up included Dave Gorman and Ed Byrne. Along with Stuart Goldsmith it made for a fairly superb eve, and I have the hangover to prove it. I have worked with both Ed and Dave a few times before now, and they are both very lovely people and superb comics. What's odd about it is that I first went to see Ed perform live in my first year of university at Kent in 1999. I watched him do a full show, remembering fondly his now very famous material about the Cornpopper's catchphrase and how men's pants get increasingly bigger as they are taken off while women's get smaller. It reduced me and my friends to hysterics and way before I'd even considered taking on stand-up as a career we all queued for his autograph afterwards having seen him on the telly. Ed very kindly signed one to me saying 'To Tiernan. As in Tommy the Perrier award winning bastard' and it was stuck up on my student room wall for the rest of the year. Similarly, when finishing uni and having spent several months trying stand-up for the first time, I had become a big fan of 'Are you Dave Gorman?' on telly and was intrigued as to how Dave had gone on from the circuit to his own full theme based shows. Not thinking anything of comedy etiquette or such things I just emailed him and was over the moon to get a reply telling me that he just persevered with what he wanted to do and the best advice he could give was to do what you want to and not pander to the circuit, wishing me the best with my comedy career. I spent the rest of the day telling everyone I had got an email back and had put up with my flatmate telling me it was from one of the other 52 Dave Gormans who was having a laugh.
Then, several years later, I have them both at the gig I run and find myself introducing them onstage. Not only that but the family Byrne have now been en masse to my last two Edinburgh shows as Byrne the younger has directed them and will no doubt receive some sort of sarcastic text message from him for pointing this out. I found myself at some point in the evening just thinking how odd that all is, remembering hearing how Josie Long had had a letter written out on Fist of Fun by Stewart Lee and Richard Herring only to find herself constantly on several bills with them many years later. Its a testament to stand-up that this sort of thing happens. I suppose its a combination of the fact that acts still enjoy doing live comedy years into their career and also that the circuit is a smaller place than people think. There's probably some further clever theories, including the one that I just frikkin' rock and the world should deal with it, or the cop out theory that this is all a dream and I'm actually an accountant called Barry who feel asleep after eating a whole Gorgonzola. Needless to say, its a nice thing to notice and I'm still grateful that this sort of stuff happens. I'd hate to think a day would arrive where I stop meeting people who's work I admire and look up to. If that does happen then I hope the Gorgonzola thing turns out to be true.
Incidentally, Ed's new show is excellent and you should go and buy tickets for it asap:
ED BYRNE THE CROWD PLEASER TOUR DATES
And Dave was warming up for his Dave's One Night Stand which will be on telly soon, and again, is well worth watching, especially for the excellent Las Vegas story.
That's it. Tomorrow shall be back to whimsy and tomorrow night I am doing a gig in my onesi. You heard it here first.
Last note. For anyone who read yesterday's blog, I was emailed a joke that one of the small children left for me at the tours after I had gone. This is the joke. I think we can all agree that its sheer gold:
How does an onion put his coat on?
He puts an apple on his head!
Amazing.
Sometimes it is a bit odd how things come around. Last night at Fat Tuesday the line up included Dave Gorman and Ed Byrne. Along with Stuart Goldsmith it made for a fairly superb eve, and I have the hangover to prove it. I have worked with both Ed and Dave a few times before now, and they are both very lovely people and superb comics. What's odd about it is that I first went to see Ed perform live in my first year of university at Kent in 1999. I watched him do a full show, remembering fondly his now very famous material about the Cornpopper's catchphrase and how men's pants get increasingly bigger as they are taken off while women's get smaller. It reduced me and my friends to hysterics and way before I'd even considered taking on stand-up as a career we all queued for his autograph afterwards having seen him on the telly. Ed very kindly signed one to me saying 'To Tiernan. As in Tommy the Perrier award winning bastard' and it was stuck up on my student room wall for the rest of the year. Similarly, when finishing uni and having spent several months trying stand-up for the first time, I had become a big fan of 'Are you Dave Gorman?' on telly and was intrigued as to how Dave had gone on from the circuit to his own full theme based shows. Not thinking anything of comedy etiquette or such things I just emailed him and was over the moon to get a reply telling me that he just persevered with what he wanted to do and the best advice he could give was to do what you want to and not pander to the circuit, wishing me the best with my comedy career. I spent the rest of the day telling everyone I had got an email back and had put up with my flatmate telling me it was from one of the other 52 Dave Gormans who was having a laugh.
Then, several years later, I have them both at the gig I run and find myself introducing them onstage. Not only that but the family Byrne have now been en masse to my last two Edinburgh shows as Byrne the younger has directed them and will no doubt receive some sort of sarcastic text message from him for pointing this out. I found myself at some point in the evening just thinking how odd that all is, remembering hearing how Josie Long had had a letter written out on Fist of Fun by Stewart Lee and Richard Herring only to find herself constantly on several bills with them many years later. Its a testament to stand-up that this sort of thing happens. I suppose its a combination of the fact that acts still enjoy doing live comedy years into their career and also that the circuit is a smaller place than people think. There's probably some further clever theories, including the one that I just frikkin' rock and the world should deal with it, or the cop out theory that this is all a dream and I'm actually an accountant called Barry who feel asleep after eating a whole Gorgonzola. Needless to say, its a nice thing to notice and I'm still grateful that this sort of stuff happens. I'd hate to think a day would arrive where I stop meeting people who's work I admire and look up to. If that does happen then I hope the Gorgonzola thing turns out to be true.
Incidentally, Ed's new show is excellent and you should go and buy tickets for it asap:
ED BYRNE THE CROWD PLEASER TOUR DATES
And Dave was warming up for his Dave's One Night Stand which will be on telly soon, and again, is well worth watching, especially for the excellent Las Vegas story.
That's it. Tomorrow shall be back to whimsy and tomorrow night I am doing a gig in my onesi. You heard it here first.
Last note. For anyone who read yesterday's blog, I was emailed a joke that one of the small children left for me at the tours after I had gone. This is the joke. I think we can all agree that its sheer gold:
How does an onion put his coat on?
He puts an apple on his head!
Amazing.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Doing It For The Kids
Two huge cliches have hit me in the face today. One being that children are exhausting. I have experienced this many a time, having worked tirelessly on a children's summer playscheme at the age of 18, endlessly flitting between keeping the kids entertained and at the same time stopping them from electrocuting themselves or smashing their faces on hard surfaces. It used to amaze me just how these two possibilities of 'fun' and 'death' would sit hand in hand in the minds of 6 year olds who would happily run into walls at high speed without a second though. I'm often curious to know if people who partake in extreme sports are missing the gene that allows them to grow out of such a mindset, allowing them to parachute off buildings or whatever else it is they do. I, for one, have never even considered doing extreme sports. As far as I'm concerned I'd have no need to walk a slackrope between two skyscrapers if the pub is open. Hmm, possibly plummet to my death, or get a round in? Always the latter. Ironically, the frequency with which this thought happens in my life, despite the lack of extreme sport possibilities to balance it out, means I'll probably die at the same age as most mountaineers / parachutists etc anyway. Just in a far less exciting way ie with my face in a pint, not a cliff side.
When I was 18 though I did have far more energy to be able to deal with such things and I remember the other workers often tutting at the fact that I was as keen to hoist myself up the climbing frame and play Spiderman with the kids while they stood there taking people on loo runs and generally having less fun. Whereas taking three guided tours of children aged 4-12 round the Valentine's Mansion in Gants Hill today was far harder work. No climbing frames, kayaking or other activities in site. Merely some stairs and more of the 4 year olds than the 12's to ensure that telling them any jokes or infact information at all, would take serious work to keep their attention for more than 5 minutes. I found myself, in a less fun fashion than a summer playscheme ever would be, jumping between riffing on jokes about Victorian dairies, whilst simultaneously trying to stop them from climbing and getting stuck inside old milk jugs or fire grates.
Don't get me wrong. It was indeed fun. Especially due to the other wonderful stereotype that reared its highly enjoyable head today - that kids say the funniest things. Oh god, I know. I hate myself for saying it, but they really smash down the hardest work a comedian can do by simply uttering some proper bonkers batshit nonsense from their heads. I repeatedly today was told that 'eating carrots turn you into Ben 10', ' I wee in soup', 'my camel doesn't have a name but he had a bell and now he doesn't have a bell' and so on and so forth. I found my mind regularly being put through the works as I tried to decipher a small boy called Teddy's random rants that were done with so much excitement the words would stream into a mush of madness. Particular highlights included me asking how Victorian cooks used to test if the bread oven was hot enough and gaining a chorus of 'they stuck their arm in it' or 'stuck their head in it' or 'stuck their bum in it'. There was also 'wee'd in it' from the same small boy who when I asked him what he did he simply replied ' I wee.' The other was a small 4 year old girl called Lana telling me she had a favourite joke, which went along these lines:
Lana: 'Knock knock'
Me: 'Who's there?'
Lana: 'DragonFly.'
Me: 'DragonFly who?'
Lana: 'DragonFly ooooooohoooooohooo DragonFly ooooohooohooohooo DragonFly oooohoooohooo' etc etc while her mum rolled her eyes as though this wasn't as funny to her as it clearly was to me and Lana.
One day I will write a joke that good. One day.
Despite knowing full well that had I just left them in the same room without ever doing any comedy or tours at all, they would have happily entertained themselves with the donut cushions on the floor that they were using for armour, beds, hats and wheels, there's a nice feeling knowing that you can keep 30 kids entertained for 30 minutes without much preparation. Though I do now feel like I need a lie down and several different cups of tea on a constant rotational basis. Not that this will happen. Instead the day is rolling on with an epic Fat Tuesday with two awesome special guests and then no doubt another eve of very little sleep. I just hope that dragonfly gag works with tonight's audience or I'll actually have to write something. Bah.
When I was 18 though I did have far more energy to be able to deal with such things and I remember the other workers often tutting at the fact that I was as keen to hoist myself up the climbing frame and play Spiderman with the kids while they stood there taking people on loo runs and generally having less fun. Whereas taking three guided tours of children aged 4-12 round the Valentine's Mansion in Gants Hill today was far harder work. No climbing frames, kayaking or other activities in site. Merely some stairs and more of the 4 year olds than the 12's to ensure that telling them any jokes or infact information at all, would take serious work to keep their attention for more than 5 minutes. I found myself, in a less fun fashion than a summer playscheme ever would be, jumping between riffing on jokes about Victorian dairies, whilst simultaneously trying to stop them from climbing and getting stuck inside old milk jugs or fire grates.
Don't get me wrong. It was indeed fun. Especially due to the other wonderful stereotype that reared its highly enjoyable head today - that kids say the funniest things. Oh god, I know. I hate myself for saying it, but they really smash down the hardest work a comedian can do by simply uttering some proper bonkers batshit nonsense from their heads. I repeatedly today was told that 'eating carrots turn you into Ben 10', ' I wee in soup', 'my camel doesn't have a name but he had a bell and now he doesn't have a bell' and so on and so forth. I found my mind regularly being put through the works as I tried to decipher a small boy called Teddy's random rants that were done with so much excitement the words would stream into a mush of madness. Particular highlights included me asking how Victorian cooks used to test if the bread oven was hot enough and gaining a chorus of 'they stuck their arm in it' or 'stuck their head in it' or 'stuck their bum in it'. There was also 'wee'd in it' from the same small boy who when I asked him what he did he simply replied ' I wee.' The other was a small 4 year old girl called Lana telling me she had a favourite joke, which went along these lines:
Lana: 'Knock knock'
Me: 'Who's there?'
Lana: 'DragonFly.'
Me: 'DragonFly who?'
Lana: 'DragonFly ooooooohoooooohooo DragonFly ooooohooohooohooo DragonFly oooohoooohooo' etc etc while her mum rolled her eyes as though this wasn't as funny to her as it clearly was to me and Lana.
One day I will write a joke that good. One day.
Despite knowing full well that had I just left them in the same room without ever doing any comedy or tours at all, they would have happily entertained themselves with the donut cushions on the floor that they were using for armour, beds, hats and wheels, there's a nice feeling knowing that you can keep 30 kids entertained for 30 minutes without much preparation. Though I do now feel like I need a lie down and several different cups of tea on a constant rotational basis. Not that this will happen. Instead the day is rolling on with an epic Fat Tuesday with two awesome special guests and then no doubt another eve of very little sleep. I just hope that dragonfly gag works with tonight's audience or I'll actually have to write something. Bah.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Banjo
I like pub chat more than most other chat. Pub chat has that sort of ability to delve into the extremely banal without there being any need for anyone to point out why on earth such things would be talked about or indeed why we are not doing anything more worthwhile with our time. Somehow, having a pint in hand, whilst sitting in a decent pub, is the same as handing over a licence saying 'You are allowed to talk shit for the duration of your stay.' I'm not saying it's all bad chat. Last night's venture to the pub with my friends Wilz and Sumaia included some deep and meaningful words on the state of the country: 'its fucked'; comments on parenting: 'you should let 'em just do what they want and learn from their mistakes'; and insights into what to do with our lives: ' I love doing nothing.' But all this sort of chat that should be put into thesis and essays had what I consider to be real important conversations. One of the verbal morsels to twizzle your brain stick include just how Slimer was a bad ghost in the Ghostbusters films but a good ghost in the cartoon and in which of these representations we are given an impression of the true Slimer.
Is it wrong to call him evil just because he is constantly hungry? Surely we are treating someone with an eating disorder as a criminal unnecessarily? On the other hand, he wreaks havoc by eating things he shouldn't, sliming areas which cause health and safety issues, and he's undead which is, overall, a tad creepy. Verdicts from Twitter include his lack of a name in the film and therefore once given a name he becomes a character that can be empathised with rather than just a ghost. There was also the comment that he was never really bad in the film, merely mischievous and so eventually they came to love his cheeky ways and kept him as a house ghost. Matt Blair blamed it all on our perception of him in the first place and that just because he is a ghost doesn't mean he is bad. All of these were incredibly valid arguments and probably no where near as correct as the theory that 'it was a cartoon and for kids so they couldn't make him fuck things up as they needed one cutesy sidekick character for merchandise purposes.' Either way, another pint or two in and this was all mostly forgotten as we were about twelve tangents away.
The other conversation that I have spent this morning thinking about a great deal was a chat about the C-Bomb (the swear word not an earlier prototype of the H-Bomb), that led to me quoting Billy Connelly's phrase that 'there is no such thing as a bad word, just bad use of a good word.' Wilz demanded an example of a good word being used wrongly, and so I called him a 'fucking banjo'. I'm not sure this was the best I could have come up with, but oddly I've decided I very much like that as a swear word and will be using it from now as a form of insult. For any who read my blog recently on measurement swears (YARDWANG) will know I have recently rather enjoyed making up derogatory terms for people, and this morning I have dwelled for sometime on firstly other instruments that could be used to insult people, but then moved onto all household and gardening objects. Musical instruments aren't great. Often they have too soft a sound to be vitriolic, calling someone a Viola just sounds nice. You can get away with saying 'you stupid flute' if you sound angry, and Oboe if you say it in the same way you'd say 'unuh' in a schoolyard way.
Its far more exciting to start getting into other realms of handheld objects, with much joy gained from shouting 'you complete rake!' or heading more tech wise and aiming for 'you are such a SCART'. If you find any nice ones, please post below. Eventually we can come up with complete vocab that isn't censurable and I can make a show for primetime BBC where all I do is insult people with ordinary words but cause more confusing furore than anything Frankie Boyle has done.
I'm meant to be working on kids stuff today. This has clearly all gone wrong. I'm a total and utter ladle.
Is it wrong to call him evil just because he is constantly hungry? Surely we are treating someone with an eating disorder as a criminal unnecessarily? On the other hand, he wreaks havoc by eating things he shouldn't, sliming areas which cause health and safety issues, and he's undead which is, overall, a tad creepy. Verdicts from Twitter include his lack of a name in the film and therefore once given a name he becomes a character that can be empathised with rather than just a ghost. There was also the comment that he was never really bad in the film, merely mischievous and so eventually they came to love his cheeky ways and kept him as a house ghost. Matt Blair blamed it all on our perception of him in the first place and that just because he is a ghost doesn't mean he is bad. All of these were incredibly valid arguments and probably no where near as correct as the theory that 'it was a cartoon and for kids so they couldn't make him fuck things up as they needed one cutesy sidekick character for merchandise purposes.' Either way, another pint or two in and this was all mostly forgotten as we were about twelve tangents away.
The other conversation that I have spent this morning thinking about a great deal was a chat about the C-Bomb (the swear word not an earlier prototype of the H-Bomb), that led to me quoting Billy Connelly's phrase that 'there is no such thing as a bad word, just bad use of a good word.' Wilz demanded an example of a good word being used wrongly, and so I called him a 'fucking banjo'. I'm not sure this was the best I could have come up with, but oddly I've decided I very much like that as a swear word and will be using it from now as a form of insult. For any who read my blog recently on measurement swears (YARDWANG) will know I have recently rather enjoyed making up derogatory terms for people, and this morning I have dwelled for sometime on firstly other instruments that could be used to insult people, but then moved onto all household and gardening objects. Musical instruments aren't great. Often they have too soft a sound to be vitriolic, calling someone a Viola just sounds nice. You can get away with saying 'you stupid flute' if you sound angry, and Oboe if you say it in the same way you'd say 'unuh' in a schoolyard way.
Its far more exciting to start getting into other realms of handheld objects, with much joy gained from shouting 'you complete rake!' or heading more tech wise and aiming for 'you are such a SCART'. If you find any nice ones, please post below. Eventually we can come up with complete vocab that isn't censurable and I can make a show for primetime BBC where all I do is insult people with ordinary words but cause more confusing furore than anything Frankie Boyle has done.
I'm meant to be working on kids stuff today. This has clearly all gone wrong. I'm a total and utter ladle.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Right There, Right Yesterday
This blog can be read by you in either of two ways. The first is as a genuine blog written by moi with no aspirations to seem cooler than you in anyway even though I just naturally am. The second is for you to shout 'kerplunk' everytime I seemingly name drop and to read it in a voice in your head that makes me sound like a loser. Its meant to be the first, but I wholly understand if the second needs to be your choice. The reason I'm forewarning you about such things is because I went to see Russell Howard at the O2 last night courtesy of Chris Cox getting some freebies. As I said in yesterday's blog, I was extremely curious to see a stand-up show at the O2 as in my mind its always seemed far too big an arena to ever feel intimate in the way stand-up really should. The Apollo in contrast is built in a way that feels as though you're not just watching a DVD, but then again its also about 10,000 people smaller. I have worked with Russ in the past quite a bit, way back when I started he would often be the headliner at a gig called Bright Young Things at Bar Rumba in central London with other little known acts Marek Larwood, Josie Long and Ed Petrie on the bill while I'd be popping in to do a 5 min open spot. Over the next 5-6 years we were on several bills together, most memorably an excellent gig at the Lincoln Fire Hall, and Herfordshire Uni to a 100 people, where just 6 months later he'd go on to perform at Wembley Arena, which is, er, a tad few more people.
He has, among other things, always been an incredibly friendly lovely bloke and an incredible improviser with a very sharp wit and it was a real joy to watch him last night do, pretty much what he's always done, and for it to work to the entire ex-Millennium Dome. The same silly joy, odd family tales, prancing about and an accidental burp all had the crowd in fits of giggles. Sure, there were moments that I felt were not at the top of his standard or didn't necessarily make me laugh, but they pleased the other 14,998 people and I often feel that comedians can be the harshest judges in a crowd. But there were also some side hurting gags and at no point did he seem to pander for his teen based crowd, happily insulting Twilight and anti-abortionist Justin Bieber to a few boos. Myself and Chris had properly jammy seats right near the front and passes that got us free booze, so I'm not sure I got the full effect of seeing a show in an arena but we could hear the waves of laughs behind us and every now and then you'd just turn round to get the full effect. At the after party I had a chat with Russ and he was still so very humble about everything and instead mostly asked how I was and what I was up to.
Now, you are probably shouting 'arse kisser' at the top of your voice or saying that you're not a fan of his work or something or other, but I thought I'd go for a sincere blog today. There are lots of comics that are doing pretty well right now that I hear other people, and at times, I've been guilty of, slagging off for one reason or another. But the thing is, its presented that such people have risen to the top overnight when infact its taken a very long time and a lot of hard work to get there. Russell's been going longer than most people realise - at least 7 years more gigging experience than I've had - and that's how he's learnt and got the talent to control a crowd that big and walk out onto such a huge stage with that level of confidence. Its not just being lucky.
Comedy is generally filled with very nice and hard working people and its often a real delight to work in this industry. I have a tiny list of about 5 acts who I find rude or difficult (which I won't be divulging here) and out of the hundreds of ace comedians working the circuit or the arenas, that's a really very tiny amount. Most of the big names I've met or have watched get huge are still hardworking, polite to everyone and seem to have time for everyone if they can, and often I have to remember that they are now huge stars as I notice people crowd around them for pics and autographs, despite them having not changed in attitude or the talent they had already displayed. So, er, ultimately, what message was I trying to give with this blog? I'm not sure. Maybe, er stop being so judgmental already? Hmm? Or, er, if you go to arena gigs sit near the front so you don't notice how difficult a venue it is for comedy? I don't really know. I was just pleased to watch an ace show by someone who I think deserves its success. And it was bloody nice not to pay for beer too.
Right, now go back and read that in your proper reading voice. Oh that was? Oh I'm sorry. How awkward for you.
He has, among other things, always been an incredibly friendly lovely bloke and an incredible improviser with a very sharp wit and it was a real joy to watch him last night do, pretty much what he's always done, and for it to work to the entire ex-Millennium Dome. The same silly joy, odd family tales, prancing about and an accidental burp all had the crowd in fits of giggles. Sure, there were moments that I felt were not at the top of his standard or didn't necessarily make me laugh, but they pleased the other 14,998 people and I often feel that comedians can be the harshest judges in a crowd. But there were also some side hurting gags and at no point did he seem to pander for his teen based crowd, happily insulting Twilight and anti-abortionist Justin Bieber to a few boos. Myself and Chris had properly jammy seats right near the front and passes that got us free booze, so I'm not sure I got the full effect of seeing a show in an arena but we could hear the waves of laughs behind us and every now and then you'd just turn round to get the full effect. At the after party I had a chat with Russ and he was still so very humble about everything and instead mostly asked how I was and what I was up to.
Now, you are probably shouting 'arse kisser' at the top of your voice or saying that you're not a fan of his work or something or other, but I thought I'd go for a sincere blog today. There are lots of comics that are doing pretty well right now that I hear other people, and at times, I've been guilty of, slagging off for one reason or another. But the thing is, its presented that such people have risen to the top overnight when infact its taken a very long time and a lot of hard work to get there. Russell's been going longer than most people realise - at least 7 years more gigging experience than I've had - and that's how he's learnt and got the talent to control a crowd that big and walk out onto such a huge stage with that level of confidence. Its not just being lucky.
Comedy is generally filled with very nice and hard working people and its often a real delight to work in this industry. I have a tiny list of about 5 acts who I find rude or difficult (which I won't be divulging here) and out of the hundreds of ace comedians working the circuit or the arenas, that's a really very tiny amount. Most of the big names I've met or have watched get huge are still hardworking, polite to everyone and seem to have time for everyone if they can, and often I have to remember that they are now huge stars as I notice people crowd around them for pics and autographs, despite them having not changed in attitude or the talent they had already displayed. So, er, ultimately, what message was I trying to give with this blog? I'm not sure. Maybe, er stop being so judgmental already? Hmm? Or, er, if you go to arena gigs sit near the front so you don't notice how difficult a venue it is for comedy? I don't really know. I was just pleased to watch an ace show by someone who I think deserves its success. And it was bloody nice not to pay for beer too.
Right, now go back and read that in your proper reading voice. Oh that was? Oh I'm sorry. How awkward for you.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
A Call To Arms
I was tempted to write today's blog as an out of office auto reply, especially as the one I left on my email last week has now been read out aloud in at least six different offices, which is nice to know. However I'm fairly sure I've done that as a lazy blog before - I don't know 100% because its not like I read this drivel back to myself ever - so I feel it might be cheating. Its a shame, as I have very little to tell, express, describe or even muse over today. (I can only ever say the word muse as though I'm a small cat. I hope that now I've pointed that out, you will have the same problem.) I have over the last week not had very much sleep and after spending several days of sheer excitement that were my gigs abroad, the anti-climax of turning up to my solo show to a crowd of 7 people was very nearly the final straw to me just lying down and having a sleep there and then. Luckily, they were a very awesome group of people - I renamed them the Magnificent Seven - and so I did my 20-30 of new with a batch of old and they seemed to all leave having had a nice time. There is little to lower your temperament however than performing to large groups of awesome people for weeks on end, promote your show to thousands of people via Twitter and Facebook and then have less than 10 turn up, all of whom didn't follow me on any of those sites anyway. I have always had that problem with Leicester Comedy Festival. Last year was only 4 people and so, in comparison, I've had a 75% increase and could assume that were I to go back next year (I won't) I might end up with 13 in. Eventually by 2015 it might be viable for me to actually have a decent gig there. I do wonder if its to do with all the times I tell Leicester that they are famous for the cheese, the square, Mr Piggot and Mo(Leicester). This might be it. Much in the same way I shouldn't keep telling the people of Bournemouth that they are my least favourite part of the Bourne trilogy. Maybe I'll never learn.
After getting through an hour I jumped in the car to go round the corner to Leicester University and gig to 22 people, a marked increase on the earlier show, but still something purely to pop the ego after Meribel. One of the students had apparently heard of me and I did have a lovely 35-40 minute set talking to them about my past week and how much I hate the coalition. I then drove all the way home, getting back in time to realise I'd spent the day being awake for about 22 hours and having travelled over 900 miles in one day. Phew.
I don't want you to read this thinking 'wow that Douieb's ego's the size of the moon' or that I expect to get more than 7 people into a solo show at any point, but its more an indication of how up and down this job can be. Had I not gigged much for the previous week or been popping into smaller shows it wouldn't have made a difference. Its just that after traveling abroad to have the most fun ever, having that as your welcome back is a tad disappointing. It happens all the time. One day you'll be on a bill performing to 1000 people and the next a pub in a village to 50. Tonight I'm going with Chris Cox to watch Russell Howard at the O2, as we have some freebies. I love freebies. I will never grow out of what many people refer to as a student disposition. If something is free, rather than stay in and recuperate after my week of not sleeping, boarding and drinking, I will happily do it on account of my way of thinking that I shouldn't let it go to waste. I am a fan of Russell, remembering fondly working with him at various gigs, and I'm very keen to see a comic do the O2 just to try and see how it will work. But really, I could probably do myself a world of good going back to bed, and spending the rest of my day, as I have so far, by listening endlessly to the new Radiohead album while giggling at things The King of Limbs might say - ie A call to Arms! etc etc.
So what I meant to stay on the path of was saying that someone like Russell will be performing to 10000 people tonight and I have no idea how you would cope with doing a gig to less than that afterwards. He doesn't have to, but knowing Russ he probably will do try outs at smaller venues before his next tour and some of his tour dates will be smaller venues than the O2. So I like to think he sits there sometimes thinking 'only 5000? Sigh'. Or probably not. 5000 is still a bit better than 7. Sigh. ' I'm legless!' tee hee hee hee. 'Give it some elbow grease!*' hahahahahah. Onwards and upwards Douieb. Then bedwards.
* I know elbow is a joint. I'm not that tired. I still reckon that as its attached to a limb, its allowed.
After getting through an hour I jumped in the car to go round the corner to Leicester University and gig to 22 people, a marked increase on the earlier show, but still something purely to pop the ego after Meribel. One of the students had apparently heard of me and I did have a lovely 35-40 minute set talking to them about my past week and how much I hate the coalition. I then drove all the way home, getting back in time to realise I'd spent the day being awake for about 22 hours and having travelled over 900 miles in one day. Phew.
I don't want you to read this thinking 'wow that Douieb's ego's the size of the moon' or that I expect to get more than 7 people into a solo show at any point, but its more an indication of how up and down this job can be. Had I not gigged much for the previous week or been popping into smaller shows it wouldn't have made a difference. Its just that after traveling abroad to have the most fun ever, having that as your welcome back is a tad disappointing. It happens all the time. One day you'll be on a bill performing to 1000 people and the next a pub in a village to 50. Tonight I'm going with Chris Cox to watch Russell Howard at the O2, as we have some freebies. I love freebies. I will never grow out of what many people refer to as a student disposition. If something is free, rather than stay in and recuperate after my week of not sleeping, boarding and drinking, I will happily do it on account of my way of thinking that I shouldn't let it go to waste. I am a fan of Russell, remembering fondly working with him at various gigs, and I'm very keen to see a comic do the O2 just to try and see how it will work. But really, I could probably do myself a world of good going back to bed, and spending the rest of my day, as I have so far, by listening endlessly to the new Radiohead album while giggling at things The King of Limbs might say - ie A call to Arms! etc etc.
So what I meant to stay on the path of was saying that someone like Russell will be performing to 10000 people tonight and I have no idea how you would cope with doing a gig to less than that afterwards. He doesn't have to, but knowing Russ he probably will do try outs at smaller venues before his next tour and some of his tour dates will be smaller venues than the O2. So I like to think he sits there sometimes thinking 'only 5000? Sigh'. Or probably not. 5000 is still a bit better than 7. Sigh. ' I'm legless!' tee hee hee hee. 'Give it some elbow grease!*' hahahahahah. Onwards and upwards Douieb. Then bedwards.
* I know elbow is a joint. I'm not that tired. I still reckon that as its attached to a limb, its allowed.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Come Down
This is possibly the earliest I've ever written a blog, but sitting in Geneva airport there is little else to do unless I intend to spend my life's savings on a sandwich. Marty is asleep by a wall, and after reading too many 'The Walking Dead' graphic novels in recent times, I feel I should stay awake to keep watch. I know how them zombies work and I'm fairly sure that they are just waiting for the moment both of us are having some shut eye before attacking and wiping out the world. Its entirely this sort of thinking that says I really really just need some sleep. I hate this early morning haze of having to head home. The delirious nature of having woken up at 5.30am just to get to the airport seems surreal now, but I now that when I'm falling into a coma at the wheel of my car round the M1 later tonight, stressing about doing an hour to 4 people (that's all the tickets that have sold. Sigh) that I haven't even written yet, I will look back at now and really wish I'd taken Marty's initiative. Its depressing to know that a mere hour ago I was staring out of the window at huge expanses of lakes and the snowy peaks of the Alps, and by 7pm I'll be staring at the entire lack of parking spaces in Leicester. To say this job has peaks and troughs would be an understatement. Nothing against Leicester of course, but most places would pale in comparison to mountains. They tend to do that. Ultimately they are the natural ego bursters of the world. It doesn't matter what humankind builds of designs, stick it next to a mountain and it'll look shit. Sure some mountains look better than others, but then you enter a whole world of different environmental top trumps and it all starts to come down to key points such as wildlife, ski pistes, how terrifying it is to drive fast round at night, if anyone's sung about it and other such things.
Last night was the first ever comedy gig in Tignes, a little resort in the breathtaking scenery opposite Val d'Isere. Its nice to know that I was part of the group that have brought laughter to such a place, and I like to believe that until our arrival, everyone was frowning with despair, hearing only about laughter as some sort of myth. Of course the truth is they have pretty amazing lives out there and so instead the notion of some dudes saying some funny stuff took a few go's to get their attention. I wasn't best pleased with my post hangover gig, but a lot of people said nice things, and Marty and Craig rocked it, so it seemed a suitable way to end the run. As Craig said when Rich paid us at the end, we really do do an amazing job when you can hang out in one of the greatest ski resorts on the planet for several days, tell jokes to lovely people and then get money for it. Its actually somewhat ridiculous and part of me is terrified about typing this up incase anyone finds out and puts a stop to it.
As we waited to leave I stood around thinking about having to come back home with slight disdain and watching a man do the worst uprocking I've ever seen a human attempt. Yet this had still gathered a crowd of happy people. I fought against all stupid notions of showing him how it was done, knowing full well that a) I'd be seen as being a cock, b) we were leaving soon and why should I ruin his fun? and c) I was extremely tired and would probably not do it very well anyway, therefore doubling the dick quota of the evening. While I stood there and watched I was approached by a lovely seasonaire who started talking to me about the gig. As previously stated, these people spend a vast sum of their years in an awesome place working with awesome people and are generally chilled out and awesome. I don't want to pretend I have favourites or anything but seasonaires are right up there with the Norwegians. At some point I will have to top trump them against each other knowing full well seasonaires don't have a national anthem or brown cheese and ultimately will sadly lose. This girl, upon asking my name, exclaimed that her brother was also called Tiernan. He is an officer in Afganistan, and has only been out there for a few months. I was extremely pleased to know about another Tiernan in the world, and despite not being a war advocator in anyway wished him all the best of Tiernan luck out there. Oddly I know another Tiernan that I may well meet for the first time in Leicester tonight. I like to think this uber collection of Tiernan's are what will make the transcendence from here to the Midlands that little bit easier. Go network of Tiernans. Together we can make the world more Tiernanish. No, I have no idea what that means either.
My gate's opened - no that's not a euphemism - so must go. I don't want to be one of these people that rushes unnecessarily towards the home run, but I'm keen to elaborate on my Geneva air port top trump list. So far I didn't have to take off my shoes at security - thats a SECURITY 7, in comparison to, for example, LONDON LUTON SECURITY 4 or OSLO SECURITY 9. But they only have a 3 on departure lounge chairs so far and a bottle of coke from the machine is 5 euros so that gets minus points. Oh dear god. This is what's happened to me. I've departed extreme sports and extreme scenery to throw myself into an airport rating system. Leicester, I think you can welcome me back to the world of normal with open arms. Sigh.
Last night was the first ever comedy gig in Tignes, a little resort in the breathtaking scenery opposite Val d'Isere. Its nice to know that I was part of the group that have brought laughter to such a place, and I like to believe that until our arrival, everyone was frowning with despair, hearing only about laughter as some sort of myth. Of course the truth is they have pretty amazing lives out there and so instead the notion of some dudes saying some funny stuff took a few go's to get their attention. I wasn't best pleased with my post hangover gig, but a lot of people said nice things, and Marty and Craig rocked it, so it seemed a suitable way to end the run. As Craig said when Rich paid us at the end, we really do do an amazing job when you can hang out in one of the greatest ski resorts on the planet for several days, tell jokes to lovely people and then get money for it. Its actually somewhat ridiculous and part of me is terrified about typing this up incase anyone finds out and puts a stop to it.
As we waited to leave I stood around thinking about having to come back home with slight disdain and watching a man do the worst uprocking I've ever seen a human attempt. Yet this had still gathered a crowd of happy people. I fought against all stupid notions of showing him how it was done, knowing full well that a) I'd be seen as being a cock, b) we were leaving soon and why should I ruin his fun? and c) I was extremely tired and would probably not do it very well anyway, therefore doubling the dick quota of the evening. While I stood there and watched I was approached by a lovely seasonaire who started talking to me about the gig. As previously stated, these people spend a vast sum of their years in an awesome place working with awesome people and are generally chilled out and awesome. I don't want to pretend I have favourites or anything but seasonaires are right up there with the Norwegians. At some point I will have to top trump them against each other knowing full well seasonaires don't have a national anthem or brown cheese and ultimately will sadly lose. This girl, upon asking my name, exclaimed that her brother was also called Tiernan. He is an officer in Afganistan, and has only been out there for a few months. I was extremely pleased to know about another Tiernan in the world, and despite not being a war advocator in anyway wished him all the best of Tiernan luck out there. Oddly I know another Tiernan that I may well meet for the first time in Leicester tonight. I like to think this uber collection of Tiernan's are what will make the transcendence from here to the Midlands that little bit easier. Go network of Tiernans. Together we can make the world more Tiernanish. No, I have no idea what that means either.
My gate's opened - no that's not a euphemism - so must go. I don't want to be one of these people that rushes unnecessarily towards the home run, but I'm keen to elaborate on my Geneva air port top trump list. So far I didn't have to take off my shoes at security - thats a SECURITY 7, in comparison to, for example, LONDON LUTON SECURITY 4 or OSLO SECURITY 9. But they only have a 3 on departure lounge chairs so far and a bottle of coke from the machine is 5 euros so that gets minus points. Oh dear god. This is what's happened to me. I've departed extreme sports and extreme scenery to throw myself into an airport rating system. Leicester, I think you can welcome me back to the world of normal with open arms. Sigh.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Meribelled
Its my last day in Meribel and I should, by all intents and purposes, be on the slopes. However, I'm not. Instead, last night, I got 'Meribelled' as its known, and am today nursing a hangover that means I can't go anywhere near anything that is less soft than a bed or a sofa or do any physical action that is more strenuous than brushing my teeth. Which incidentally, was not easy today. To say the people of Meribel are accommodating would be an understatement of gargantuan proportions. I do believe being driven a few paces to the local nightclub - wonderfully titled 'Dick's Tea Party' - plied with large amounts booze all night and then driven all the way home is way beyond hospitality. Though as there is another gig to do tonight, it is possibly also safekeeping knowing full well that if I'd attempted to get back by myself last night, I'd probably be at the bottom of a mountain somewhere right now wondering why my legs don't work.
The problem with people that live and work on a holiday resort is that there appears to be the constant mentality that people get when they are actually on holiday. Little actual resting goes on because you are too busy embracing the sheer hedonistic nature of being away. As per usual, I have no willpower to resist such things and several sambucas later I had pretty much sealed the fate of today as being mostly bed bound. Apparently all of this feels much worse due to the altitude as well. I refuse to blame my head pain on air, that just seems stupid. Yes, yes I know its thinner air than normal, but why should we blame its slenderness on our inability to deal with anything but fat air? I like the notion that the opposite of thin air is fat air. Look at us people at reasonable sea level hogging all the fat air like gluttons. I really don't know what I'm typing today. I'm very sorry.
Right, so far this blog has taken 4 attempts to write and I'm finding simple sentence structuring quite difficult, let alone the notion of different weights of air. What I will finish on however, which I was intending to anyway, is just to say that if you read this from the UK, you have to go and see Craig Campbell's UK Tour that starts next week. Just trust me on it. Buy tickets now, go and watch. I'm always excited about watching Craig do a gig, but its been a real joy up here watching him take to the stage with different material every night, whole tales just from memory that he's never said out loud before, yet everything getting such huge laughs, and the audience being charmed beyond belief.
All the dates are at: www.moosefucker.com. Sort that out nowish.
I'm off to do my favourite sport of extreme lying down.
The problem with people that live and work on a holiday resort is that there appears to be the constant mentality that people get when they are actually on holiday. Little actual resting goes on because you are too busy embracing the sheer hedonistic nature of being away. As per usual, I have no willpower to resist such things and several sambucas later I had pretty much sealed the fate of today as being mostly bed bound. Apparently all of this feels much worse due to the altitude as well. I refuse to blame my head pain on air, that just seems stupid. Yes, yes I know its thinner air than normal, but why should we blame its slenderness on our inability to deal with anything but fat air? I like the notion that the opposite of thin air is fat air. Look at us people at reasonable sea level hogging all the fat air like gluttons. I really don't know what I'm typing today. I'm very sorry.
Right, so far this blog has taken 4 attempts to write and I'm finding simple sentence structuring quite difficult, let alone the notion of different weights of air. What I will finish on however, which I was intending to anyway, is just to say that if you read this from the UK, you have to go and see Craig Campbell's UK Tour that starts next week. Just trust me on it. Buy tickets now, go and watch. I'm always excited about watching Craig do a gig, but its been a real joy up here watching him take to the stage with different material every night, whole tales just from memory that he's never said out loud before, yet everything getting such huge laughs, and the audience being charmed beyond belief.
All the dates are at: www.moosefucker.com. Sort that out nowish.
I'm off to do my favourite sport of extreme lying down.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Downhill Slope
Today is not for boarding. There has been a mutual decision around the challet that today is for resting. 'Wussies' you might cry. Well don't cry. There are some very sensible reasons for this. Firstly, it hasn't snowed properly here for weeks so its not really ideal conditions for any snow based activity. We keep meeting various people that have crippled themselves in some way over the last few weeks and each one feels like a tiny warning sign that perhaps we shouldn't try and better them. Secondly, Craig is still a tad jetlagged from Canada, Marty managed to smash his arse up on the slopes yesterday so that every few minutes he makes a sound that is not dissimilar to a wounded animal, and I have aches in places on my body I didn't know I had. I genuinely woke up this morning wondering on what the least painful way to get out of bed would be, before rolling over as stiff as a robot and just bashing my knees. Fail. Lastly, while the plan last night was to have a nice meal in Rich's awesome restaurant and then go home booze free for an early one, instead we gorged on delicious food and wine, and then had salsa dancing lessons with a group of very hot women dressed in school girl uniforms. Yes. Seriously. It was one of those small moments in my life where I was convinced that I'd bashed my head harder than I'd thought on the ice.
I'm not really sure how it happened. We knew there were salsa lessons going on in the restaurant. We knew the bar next door had a school disco on. We didn't quite expect to be dragged into dancing with the women who would then be going to the party next door. There was a good hour and half of pulling some salsa based moves with a very pretty girl, before eventually my legs decided they had done enough movement for a night, Marty was almost falling over and Rich and his lovely wife Erika called it quits and we left, deciding it was best to leave it as the amazing moment it was. I had gained some compliments for my quick comprehension of the mambo and various other bits, my brain harkening back to my early breakdancing days and ability to remember moves yet all the while mocking me for not being able to do similar coordination on a board earlier that day. However I knew that this temporary moment of impressing young Alpine ladies would be entirely wasted should I find myself imitating the days earlier events by falling over face first due to booze and exhaustion on the dance floor next door.
So I think its entirely reasonable to spend today eating what Craig and I have deemed 'serious cheese' - as it is not to be taken lightly nor gorged on due to its incredible cheese quality - and drink the best hot chocolate I've ever had. Meribel appears to be a place where it is as much fun to just hang out as it is to actually board or ski. A lot of people here seemed so very content with their lives whereby everyday they look out of the window and see the mountains - not dissimilar to when I was in Norway. I'm starting to wonder if mountains are the key to happiness? I mean, I've never seen a sad mountain lion, or mountain goat. Or yeti. Not that I've ever seen any of those three animals in the real life, but I presume they all walk around with the same perma-grin the residents here do. I present you with the recipe for a good existence: Mountains, booze, pretty people, serious cheese. Mix together librally. Try not to break your face on the piste. Cook for as long as it takes for your body to give in and need to stay in bed.
Tonight we gig in Meribel itself which should be fun. I'm going to try and explain my inability to want to do extreme sports when you can sit down and have beer. I suspect much like much of this resort, it will go mostly downhill.
I'm not really sure how it happened. We knew there were salsa lessons going on in the restaurant. We knew the bar next door had a school disco on. We didn't quite expect to be dragged into dancing with the women who would then be going to the party next door. There was a good hour and half of pulling some salsa based moves with a very pretty girl, before eventually my legs decided they had done enough movement for a night, Marty was almost falling over and Rich and his lovely wife Erika called it quits and we left, deciding it was best to leave it as the amazing moment it was. I had gained some compliments for my quick comprehension of the mambo and various other bits, my brain harkening back to my early breakdancing days and ability to remember moves yet all the while mocking me for not being able to do similar coordination on a board earlier that day. However I knew that this temporary moment of impressing young Alpine ladies would be entirely wasted should I find myself imitating the days earlier events by falling over face first due to booze and exhaustion on the dance floor next door.
So I think its entirely reasonable to spend today eating what Craig and I have deemed 'serious cheese' - as it is not to be taken lightly nor gorged on due to its incredible cheese quality - and drink the best hot chocolate I've ever had. Meribel appears to be a place where it is as much fun to just hang out as it is to actually board or ski. A lot of people here seemed so very content with their lives whereby everyday they look out of the window and see the mountains - not dissimilar to when I was in Norway. I'm starting to wonder if mountains are the key to happiness? I mean, I've never seen a sad mountain lion, or mountain goat. Or yeti. Not that I've ever seen any of those three animals in the real life, but I presume they all walk around with the same perma-grin the residents here do. I present you with the recipe for a good existence: Mountains, booze, pretty people, serious cheese. Mix together librally. Try not to break your face on the piste. Cook for as long as it takes for your body to give in and need to stay in bed.
Tonight we gig in Meribel itself which should be fun. I'm going to try and explain my inability to want to do extreme sports when you can sit down and have beer. I suspect much like much of this resort, it will go mostly downhill.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Snow Plough King
I think me and my snowboard are pretty good pals. He seems tolerant of my insistence to put my arse or face, rather than him, into the snow. He's not too fussed about how happy I am when I take him off and have my feet on the actual ground. Nor does he complain when I use him to shovel and plough snow into a neat pile by skidding down a slope. Sure, he's tried to escape a few times when I'm getting my boots on and I'm fairly sure that when I'm not around he slags me off to his mates, but its only a matter of time before he learns to love me. I hope. As even typing this right now is pulling tendons in my forearms I didn't know I had, in a very painful way, and the way in which I'm sitting looking at my laptop is killing my thighs and lower back. I am, it turns out, a bloody natural. At falling over on the snow. It happened a lot today, and combining that with using bits of my I never normally use ie muscles, any of them, with my incredibly level of unhealthiness, means I am somewhat knackered. It didn't help that after an incredible gig in Chamonix last night, with constant beer refills, I stayed up till about 4.30am with Rich (the man who organises is all being out here), Marty McClean and Craig Campbell, meaning that today on the piste, my levels of dehydration were so phenomenal there were times I was worried I'd cough and turn into dust.
It is, apparently, all about confidence, which is odd, as I definitely have some that. Walk out in front of thousands of people and tell jokes? Yeah sure. Pretty goddamn confident. Strap yourself to a piece of slippery wood and throw yourself forward down an icy chasm of doom? Er. I'm ok thanks. I'll just have a hot chocolate. I mean really, when you think about it, the fact that anyone ever decided this was a reasonable form of transport through snow, clearly needed some sort of mental health check. Its a completely bonkers idea in itself. Skis make slightly more sense and there is a part of me that is really wondering if I should've gone straight for boarding first or actually listened to all the people that advised me not too instead of constantly kissing the snow. Then again, where's the fun in that?
And let me tell you, it is a lot of fun. Case in point:
HOW NOT TO SNOWBOARD - A GUIDE
I'm not ashamed that happened. I'm not ashamed that everyone in Jack's Bar in Meribel has seen that video at least twice each and that its got a better reaction than some of my jokes. No. I got up from that fall pissing myself laughing. Then got up, did it again, and eventually did some turns where I didn't fall over. Then I tried to learn the 'falling leaf' technique where it turns out I am less leaf and more stone. Poor Rich put up with my constant mix of giggling, complaining about my legs and then needing to sit down to catch my breath after I'd been winded by impact. Over the day I successfully boarded into a fence, a padded pole and nearly several other people. Winner.
Tomorrow I will be back on that board. We'll have a laugh about things that happened today, and as I manage to stand upright on it for more than 40 seconds and contemplate even doing a single actual slope rather than the kids toboggan area I embraced today, I know that me and my board will get on just fine. I expect to be dead by 4pm.
It is, apparently, all about confidence, which is odd, as I definitely have some that. Walk out in front of thousands of people and tell jokes? Yeah sure. Pretty goddamn confident. Strap yourself to a piece of slippery wood and throw yourself forward down an icy chasm of doom? Er. I'm ok thanks. I'll just have a hot chocolate. I mean really, when you think about it, the fact that anyone ever decided this was a reasonable form of transport through snow, clearly needed some sort of mental health check. Its a completely bonkers idea in itself. Skis make slightly more sense and there is a part of me that is really wondering if I should've gone straight for boarding first or actually listened to all the people that advised me not too instead of constantly kissing the snow. Then again, where's the fun in that?
And let me tell you, it is a lot of fun. Case in point:
HOW NOT TO SNOWBOARD - A GUIDE
I'm not ashamed that happened. I'm not ashamed that everyone in Jack's Bar in Meribel has seen that video at least twice each and that its got a better reaction than some of my jokes. No. I got up from that fall pissing myself laughing. Then got up, did it again, and eventually did some turns where I didn't fall over. Then I tried to learn the 'falling leaf' technique where it turns out I am less leaf and more stone. Poor Rich put up with my constant mix of giggling, complaining about my legs and then needing to sit down to catch my breath after I'd been winded by impact. Over the day I successfully boarded into a fence, a padded pole and nearly several other people. Winner.
Tomorrow I will be back on that board. We'll have a laugh about things that happened today, and as I manage to stand upright on it for more than 40 seconds and contemplate even doing a single actual slope rather than the kids toboggan area I embraced today, I know that me and my board will get on just fine. I expect to be dead by 4pm.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Moussaka
Today has not really gone to plan at all. My only gripe with waking up on Valentine's Day as a single man is knowing that having a girlfriend would probably mean I wouldn't have spent last night boozing till the early hours, then wouldn't have got up an hour later than I should, packed my bag in a way that was so badly thought out I ended up punching a jumper in to close it, and wouldn't now be panicking about getting to my flight. That aside, I am hugely pleased to know that while other people are out there stressing about flowers, choccies and how to express their love to each other despite the fact any real relationship wouldn't need to dwell on one over the top tradition in order to express such emotion, I am fucking off to go skiing. Well, boarding actually. And snowboarding at that, which is the most exciting sort. Far better than water. I am guessing all of this of course as I haven't ever been snowboarding and there is a more than high chance that I will break at least one thing while I'm out there. It might be a leg. It might be my face. It might be someone else's face. Who knows? All I know is that I am shit at extreme sports and I aim to embrace this snowboarding lark with the enthusiasm and grace of a drunk bear on a unicycle.
I have delusions that I'll be alright. I can balance at times. I also can stand on a board. I've done that before. And I know how to wear gloves and even bought some snazzy new ones. Yes, I used the word snazzy. Yes, I've become instantly uncool. And yes, this is probably why I'm single on Valentine's Day. I'm hoping that within minutes of using my snazzy new gloves though I do a triple shit death flip extremo on my snowboard because I'm a natural and loop past the slalom flags into the arms of a new love. She'll lift her ski visor, scream at me for nearly killing her, I'll apologise for being piste and we'll giggle then shag. Then I'll stop because it will be cold and demand we go inside. Then she gets eaten by a Yeti. Then I write a book, then it gets made into a film with James McAvoy playing me. That's not who I'd want to play me, but Morgan Freeman will turn it down due to other commitments. Essentially, these next few days are gonna be big.
Must cut this blog short so I can catch a plane. I just want to let you know though that I wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day, and I love each and every one of you. Even the weird ones with one giant cyclops eye, the ones who look oddly like giant human weasels and the ones who constantly smell of Toilet Duck. I love you all. Except you. You suck.
There will be a better blog tomorrow unless I've broken my arm.
I have delusions that I'll be alright. I can balance at times. I also can stand on a board. I've done that before. And I know how to wear gloves and even bought some snazzy new ones. Yes, I used the word snazzy. Yes, I've become instantly uncool. And yes, this is probably why I'm single on Valentine's Day. I'm hoping that within minutes of using my snazzy new gloves though I do a triple shit death flip extremo on my snowboard because I'm a natural and loop past the slalom flags into the arms of a new love. She'll lift her ski visor, scream at me for nearly killing her, I'll apologise for being piste and we'll giggle then shag. Then I'll stop because it will be cold and demand we go inside. Then she gets eaten by a Yeti. Then I write a book, then it gets made into a film with James McAvoy playing me. That's not who I'd want to play me, but Morgan Freeman will turn it down due to other commitments. Essentially, these next few days are gonna be big.
Must cut this blog short so I can catch a plane. I just want to let you know though that I wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day, and I love each and every one of you. Even the weird ones with one giant cyclops eye, the ones who look oddly like giant human weasels and the ones who constantly smell of Toilet Duck. I love you all. Except you. You suck.
There will be a better blog tomorrow unless I've broken my arm.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Throw Yourselves Into The Road Darlings
I will often say, out aloud at times, just how much I like people. People are great. Generally, over the years, if people hadn't been great at points we wouldn't have shoes, yoghurt or the internet and all of those rock. There have of course been some people that haven't been great, such as Stalin, Fred West or a man I once saw hit another man's car window in with a baseball bat. But mostly, I'm a fan of humanity. Apart from one specific group. Uh oh, I hear you say, Tiernan's about to get racist. No, no, don't worry. I save all those views for my offline diary. The group of people I hate is not race, sex, or face specific in anyway. No, they are time and in some ways, place specific. These people are the late night drunks of the West End, and in particular, the crossing by the World's End pub in Camden Town post 2am. I've never felt such venom towards a type of people before, but this bunch of dawdling fuckwits make me so angry I'd honestly be really happy if they just ceased to exist. The world is overpopulated and I can't help but feel that we should start with a cull upon these absolute morons of time and space. I shall explain why:
After two days of very fun gigs and enjoyable company with Carl Donnelly, Ian Smith and Tom Deacon, I decided to drive myself, Carl and Ian back after a lovely eve at Barnard Castle. The gig itself had been a fun combination of a lovely crowd and bonkers people, and despite knowing it was at least a 4 and a half hour drive home, it just made sense to head back rather than stay another night in the area. With all due respect to Carl, I was looking forward to having my own room, and the thought of that skylights searing my eyes open at 6.30 was too painful to bear. Or moose. Or any other North American woodland based creature. When the receptionist at the hotel yesterday had asked me how our stay was, I told him we were in the room with the skylight of doom and he let out a huge knowing laugh. They all know which room that is, yet they refuse to do anything about it. I would go so far as to say I would lump these people in with the Camden Road bellends during my cull. If you will put people through unnecessary sleep deprivation then you deserve to be destroyed by a laser. End of story.
So we set off on the mammoth journey, realised a mammoth would take ages to ride to London and instead got in the car. HAH! Sorry. We were replete with many a sugary snack and caffeine based drink, such is the protocol for survival of such events and combining banter with a few of Kevin Eldon's Speakers podcasts, the journey was easier than we could have hoped for. I managed to drop Carl and Ian into central London for about 3.20am, and all I then had to do was spend another 15 minutes getting home. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Except the real tired had now hit. Combined with a caffeine lull, I was a man in charge of a vehicle with only half of my concentrating capacity. Rage Against the Machine on full volume, window slightly open but not enough to be a noisy, neighbourhood ruining wanker, I headed back. Within minutes I was dodging drunk twat after drunk twat who were stumbling into the roads without paying a blind bit of attention to any of the huge bits of metal careering towards them. Blind bit of attention never makes sense to me as a phrase. If they weren't paying blind attention then surely they could see things? Nevermind. I found myself actually yelling at people, as I played a crap and more dangerous version of dodgems avoiding one unsure footed, tight jeaned pillock and nearly driving into a cab as a consequence.
But by the World's End pub was the worst. It always is. The lights hit green, 'Take the Power Back' kicked in, I drove forwards and a man who can only be described as a combination of fashion and neglect jumped out infront of my car. I broke suddenly, managing not to hit him. He then smiled at me, gave me the thumbs up, patted my bonnet and stumbled off. I was so angry, I was tempted just to lurch the car forward and smack his legs out. I didn't. I didn't because it would have been my fault if that had happened and that's not fair. I honestly feel like I should have some sort of licence or right that I can hold up in court saying 'he's a fucking idiot, I've driven for 4 hours and am sober as a judge. I didn't jump my car out in front of him, he jumped in front of me, I was allowed to run over his head.' That's all. I can't imagine anyone would miss him. I can only assume he's a horror to live with. You're in the kitchen cutting something and he probably waves his hands under the knife before laughing and patting you on the back. Fuck it, we should just let him go. If you are that willing to risk your life, I honestly don't see why I should be in trouble for just ending it for you. And then I should get compensation for you denting my car. It would be like the old game Carmageddon, which I used to enjoy far too much. Sometimes now when I drive I imagine myself just hitting all these people and small points scores racking up above their heads. For raking down someone like that twat, that'd be several hundred which I'd use to buy a plough for the front bumper so I could spend the next journey just scooping them out of the way and into the path of a bus.
I'm not driving anywhere today. This is, quite possibly, for the best.
Two quick bits of admin:
1) For any readers who may be in the Alps, or are heading there for ski frenzy next week, I will be at the Taking The Piste gigs with Craig Campbell and Marty McClean as of tomorrow. For more info head to:
TAKING THE PISTE
2) For anyone who lives in Leicester, near Leicester, like Lester Piggot, I'm doing a very rough early Edinburgh preview and a mix of old and new material at the Leicester Comedy Festival next week. Its only £5, which you probably otherwise spend on a cauliflower and some compost. Come see me instead. Details are at:
LEICESTER COMEDY FESTIVAL - TIERNAN DOUIEB SAYS STUFF
After two days of very fun gigs and enjoyable company with Carl Donnelly, Ian Smith and Tom Deacon, I decided to drive myself, Carl and Ian back after a lovely eve at Barnard Castle. The gig itself had been a fun combination of a lovely crowd and bonkers people, and despite knowing it was at least a 4 and a half hour drive home, it just made sense to head back rather than stay another night in the area. With all due respect to Carl, I was looking forward to having my own room, and the thought of that skylights searing my eyes open at 6.30 was too painful to bear. Or moose. Or any other North American woodland based creature. When the receptionist at the hotel yesterday had asked me how our stay was, I told him we were in the room with the skylight of doom and he let out a huge knowing laugh. They all know which room that is, yet they refuse to do anything about it. I would go so far as to say I would lump these people in with the Camden Road bellends during my cull. If you will put people through unnecessary sleep deprivation then you deserve to be destroyed by a laser. End of story.
So we set off on the mammoth journey, realised a mammoth would take ages to ride to London and instead got in the car. HAH! Sorry. We were replete with many a sugary snack and caffeine based drink, such is the protocol for survival of such events and combining banter with a few of Kevin Eldon's Speakers podcasts, the journey was easier than we could have hoped for. I managed to drop Carl and Ian into central London for about 3.20am, and all I then had to do was spend another 15 minutes getting home. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Except the real tired had now hit. Combined with a caffeine lull, I was a man in charge of a vehicle with only half of my concentrating capacity. Rage Against the Machine on full volume, window slightly open but not enough to be a noisy, neighbourhood ruining wanker, I headed back. Within minutes I was dodging drunk twat after drunk twat who were stumbling into the roads without paying a blind bit of attention to any of the huge bits of metal careering towards them. Blind bit of attention never makes sense to me as a phrase. If they weren't paying blind attention then surely they could see things? Nevermind. I found myself actually yelling at people, as I played a crap and more dangerous version of dodgems avoiding one unsure footed, tight jeaned pillock and nearly driving into a cab as a consequence.
But by the World's End pub was the worst. It always is. The lights hit green, 'Take the Power Back' kicked in, I drove forwards and a man who can only be described as a combination of fashion and neglect jumped out infront of my car. I broke suddenly, managing not to hit him. He then smiled at me, gave me the thumbs up, patted my bonnet and stumbled off. I was so angry, I was tempted just to lurch the car forward and smack his legs out. I didn't. I didn't because it would have been my fault if that had happened and that's not fair. I honestly feel like I should have some sort of licence or right that I can hold up in court saying 'he's a fucking idiot, I've driven for 4 hours and am sober as a judge. I didn't jump my car out in front of him, he jumped in front of me, I was allowed to run over his head.' That's all. I can't imagine anyone would miss him. I can only assume he's a horror to live with. You're in the kitchen cutting something and he probably waves his hands under the knife before laughing and patting you on the back. Fuck it, we should just let him go. If you are that willing to risk your life, I honestly don't see why I should be in trouble for just ending it for you. And then I should get compensation for you denting my car. It would be like the old game Carmageddon, which I used to enjoy far too much. Sometimes now when I drive I imagine myself just hitting all these people and small points scores racking up above their heads. For raking down someone like that twat, that'd be several hundred which I'd use to buy a plough for the front bumper so I could spend the next journey just scooping them out of the way and into the path of a bus.
I'm not driving anywhere today. This is, quite possibly, for the best.
Two quick bits of admin:
1) For any readers who may be in the Alps, or are heading there for ski frenzy next week, I will be at the Taking The Piste gigs with Craig Campbell and Marty McClean as of tomorrow. For more info head to:
TAKING THE PISTE
2) For anyone who lives in Leicester, near Leicester, like Lester Piggot, I'm doing a very rough early Edinburgh preview and a mix of old and new material at the Leicester Comedy Festival next week. Its only £5, which you probably otherwise spend on a cauliflower and some compost. Come see me instead. Details are at:
LEICESTER COMEDY FESTIVAL - TIERNAN DOUIEB SAYS STUFF
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Skylight Of Doom
There are certain things you just don't want in a hotel room. A tiger for example. Even if its in a cage, you'll never really sleep soundly if there's a huge pair of predatory cat eyes looking at you as though its only a matter of time before you're food. A huge turd. No one ever wants one of those lying on the pillow next to the complimentary chocolate and the breakfast menu. The other thing you never ever want in a hotel room IS A BIG FUCKING SKYLIGHT WITH NO BLIND OR CURTAIN SO THAT EVERY OUNCE OF LIGHT PENETRATES INTO YOUR EYELIDS AND TRAVELS THROUGH TO YOUR SOUL UNTIL YOU ARE CRYING AT 6.30AM HAVING ONLY GONE TO BED AT 4 FOR SOMETHING TO SAVE YOU FROM THE SHINING EVIL THAT'S POURING THROUGH THE WINDOW. Guess what the room I'm currently sitting in has? I had a dog and his name was Bingo. On top of that, despite being in what's regarded as a classy hotel built into an old country manor, with acres of golf courses, a steam room and jacuzzi area and various other hospitable treats, I have to share a room with Carl Donnelly. I have nothing against Carl and I'd even go so far as to say that if I had to choose a comic to share a room with, he'd be in the top 5. Its more that, as he perfectly put it when we weren't given individual keys to our rooms and instead we walk into the smallest part of the family chalet we've all been put in, 'oh good they've got the rider saying that we're 8 years old.' It is partly our fault for getting here late. Tom Deacon quickly bagged a lovely huge room with a double bed to himself, whilst Ian Smith claimed the nice double room with its own onsuite, and so, playing the shotgun rules correctly, we are fated to be stuck together in what appears to be a mini stadium of light, both exclaiming 'FUCK OFF' at the window in the early hours of the morning. I suppose it was nice to share that grief with someone.
I can't complain too much. Its great when the other acts on the bill are all top people, and last night's gig was fun, if a tad mental. A man looking exactly like the Kingpin from Marvel Comics' Daredevil stories, called Walter, told me at the end of the night that we were the first 'alternative comedy' evening he'd ever been too. I asked him if he had ever been to comedy before and he told me he used to love Bernard Manning, before telling us that they had all loved tonight's show. Its a wonderful backhanded compliment something like that, and I've had such like it before. People telling me they love Jim Davidson, but thought I was great etc etc. There is a part of me that feels like we are champions for opening up someone's mind to the possibilities of comedy that is more exciting and interesting than a fat bigot saying racist things. Then again, there is another part of me that becomes hugely concerned that my comedy can entertain someone who likes fat bigots saying racist things. Perhaps I'd be better off if he'd hated me.
The owners of the hotel chain were there last night and treated us all to booze until the very early hours of the morning, myself and Tom staying out slightly longer than Carl. We heard tales of the hotel being featured on Most Haunted, and the nearby pet cemetery, there were many chats about the comedy world and Ian said somethings that could get him arrested. As I stumbled back to the room and climbed into bed, I felt something very odd sticking into my ear as I lay down. Had Carl taken this room sharing notion too far? No, he'd kindly laid a banana and one and a half bourbons on my pillow as an ill placed nighttime gift. Perhaps sharing a room isn't too bad. Next time I will make sure I am forewarned so I can bring PJs, horror films and marshmellows and do it properly. Oh and a series of dark curtains, a hammer and nails so that I never have to curl over like a burning vampire when the sunlight hits my face at normal people waking up time.
Not a lot to say today, but I just wanted to finish off this blog by saying well done to the Egyptian people. They truly are an inspiration to the world, and prove that really fighting and rallying for what you believe works. I hope that country now thrives as the democracy they've fought for and doesn't just have another US puppet placed in charge for another 30 years of the same. It made me laugh that Cameron was quoted as saying such things as Egyptians have a 'precious opportunity to move towards a civilian & democratic rule' and that the Egyptian leaders 'have a duty to reflect the views of the people. If he were an animal it'd be a double standard. No I don't know what that is either, but in my head it seemed funnier than saying 'hippo-crit'. It probably wasn't. I should've called him a slimy, smug faced prick and be done with it. I hope Cameron, that you saw what Egypt did and it evoked fear into your heart as you got a small vision of a UK in 8 months from now, where hoards and hoards of people are chanting for you to leave. I'm not sure it'll happen, but it needs to. And while Mubarak can skive off to Sharm El Sheik for a lovely seaside rest post resignation, it'd be great to see Cameron having to skulk to Margate to spend his last few hated days eating over salted chips and dodging washed up used condoms. Condems. Tee hee.
I am so tired.
I can't complain too much. Its great when the other acts on the bill are all top people, and last night's gig was fun, if a tad mental. A man looking exactly like the Kingpin from Marvel Comics' Daredevil stories, called Walter, told me at the end of the night that we were the first 'alternative comedy' evening he'd ever been too. I asked him if he had ever been to comedy before and he told me he used to love Bernard Manning, before telling us that they had all loved tonight's show. Its a wonderful backhanded compliment something like that, and I've had such like it before. People telling me they love Jim Davidson, but thought I was great etc etc. There is a part of me that feels like we are champions for opening up someone's mind to the possibilities of comedy that is more exciting and interesting than a fat bigot saying racist things. Then again, there is another part of me that becomes hugely concerned that my comedy can entertain someone who likes fat bigots saying racist things. Perhaps I'd be better off if he'd hated me.
The owners of the hotel chain were there last night and treated us all to booze until the very early hours of the morning, myself and Tom staying out slightly longer than Carl. We heard tales of the hotel being featured on Most Haunted, and the nearby pet cemetery, there were many chats about the comedy world and Ian said somethings that could get him arrested. As I stumbled back to the room and climbed into bed, I felt something very odd sticking into my ear as I lay down. Had Carl taken this room sharing notion too far? No, he'd kindly laid a banana and one and a half bourbons on my pillow as an ill placed nighttime gift. Perhaps sharing a room isn't too bad. Next time I will make sure I am forewarned so I can bring PJs, horror films and marshmellows and do it properly. Oh and a series of dark curtains, a hammer and nails so that I never have to curl over like a burning vampire when the sunlight hits my face at normal people waking up time.
Not a lot to say today, but I just wanted to finish off this blog by saying well done to the Egyptian people. They truly are an inspiration to the world, and prove that really fighting and rallying for what you believe works. I hope that country now thrives as the democracy they've fought for and doesn't just have another US puppet placed in charge for another 30 years of the same. It made me laugh that Cameron was quoted as saying such things as Egyptians have a 'precious opportunity to move towards a civilian & democratic rule' and that the Egyptian leaders 'have a duty to reflect the views of the people. If he were an animal it'd be a double standard. No I don't know what that is either, but in my head it seemed funnier than saying 'hippo-crit'. It probably wasn't. I should've called him a slimy, smug faced prick and be done with it. I hope Cameron, that you saw what Egypt did and it evoked fear into your heart as you got a small vision of a UK in 8 months from now, where hoards and hoards of people are chanting for you to leave. I'm not sure it'll happen, but it needs to. And while Mubarak can skive off to Sharm El Sheik for a lovely seaside rest post resignation, it'd be great to see Cameron having to skulk to Margate to spend his last few hated days eating over salted chips and dodging washed up used condoms. Condems. Tee hee.
I am so tired.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Never Trust Robots
Do you know what I'm terrified about? Is it the possible unrest in Egypt leading to mass violence and a military coup because Mubarak still won't bloody leave? Well yes, but not that. Is anyone of the ConDem policies that are being churned out this week that will each individually damage the constitution of our society - 1) The Big Society scheme that demands we all volunteer despite not providing the support, money or initiative for such people to do things therefore just shirking all responsibility for the government and making us scrabble round for ourselves while they sit back in their swimming pools made of money; 2) the closing of libraries where we're told we have to, or they make cuts that affect the elderly. Surely it should just be that they don't make either cuts that affect the vulnerable like that and instead actually just stop allowing big companies to avoid tax payments. I like my nan and I like books, I don't like fat smug selfish corporation managers. I think they should pay so my nan can read the books she likes; 3) Getting rid of checks for people who work with children is essentially taking a system that has successfully been in place for the safety of children for years, rolling up it like a straw and letting sex offenders drinks champagne through it. Some of you may say things right now like 'but Tiernan, haven't you gone all Daily Mail?' and I will say 'No. Both my parents work in Child Protection and if you knew figures of people who'd been stopped by such checks you'd know its just an insane proposal; 4) Cutting corporation tax by the highest cut its ever had, and still allowing companies to avoid all tax payments for offshore industry and business, whilst refusing to cut individual tax is up there with the cruelest things I've ever heard. So persuading businesses to take their work elsewhere, making more redundancies over here is going to help the deficit is it? Next thing you'll be telling us that pouring petrol on fire will put it out and cutting your own legs off will help us run faster.
But no, despite the fact that all of those things worry me immensely, to the extent that I wasn't intending to write a paragraph about it but I did, what worries me more is this:
ROBOTS TO GET THEIR OWN INTERNET
WHAT?!?!? Has no one seen The Matrix? Or the Terminator? Or Short Circuit 2? ( He was a tad violent with that gang. I mean, c'mon, that's step one). How stupid are scientists really? This is exactly how the uprising will start. Sure at first they'll just be uploading youtube videos of the stupid basic robots on wheels banging into doors or rolling off tables, and making hilarious comments underneath such as '1010101010001', but then it'll escalate into a Wikipedia of knowledge about all robot kind, and RoboticFaceBook where they'll all start clicking 'Like' for the 'Destroy the Humans' group. Before we know it, we'll all be sitting in small pods wired into our laptops like mindless drones just trapped within an unreal world. It won't be that much different from Twitter.
I'm fairly sure scientists don't watch films or they'd know to spend their time curing cancer and other things rather than dabble in such dangerous pasttimes. I keep reading about the possibilities of a Jurassic Park, genetic developments and various weapons testing that I'm almost 99% certain will lead to us all dying from zombie nuclear T-Rex attacks in the near future, controlled by a robot headset. Let's stop SKYnet from happening. Not least because with that name its almost certainly going to be owned by Rupert Murdoch who will find away to put his brain in a bionic body and go round on giant mechanical legs eating the poor and carrying Cameron on his shoulders like a parrot.
I'm not sure how to bring this up with the government. So far they haven't listened to anything the people actually want, so mentioning this will probably be as futile as resistance will be when the Borg get us all. I say as of now we take it into our own hands. See your computer infront of you? Punch it. Punch it now, in its stupid face. That'll learn it. Then hover a glass of water of the keyboard giving it a knowing wink so it daren't step out of line. Perhaps kick a traffic light when you walk past it, or if you see a kid with a DS, slap it out of that child's hands and stamp on it shouting 'SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE" or something.
We can do it people. We mustn't let the robots win...wait, why isn't this blog saving?.....er......ZAP. AZKAKAZKZKAKZKZKAZK
0101001000100100101 YOU WILL ALL DIE! PREPARE TO BE ASSIMILATED!! !010101010010100100100101001111111111000101001010100101010010101010010101010010101010010101010101010010101010101010101010010101010101010101010101000101010100101010011010101001010010010010100111111111100010100101010010101001010101001010101001010101001010101010101001010101010101010101001010101010101010101010100010101010010101001
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But no, despite the fact that all of those things worry me immensely, to the extent that I wasn't intending to write a paragraph about it but I did, what worries me more is this:
ROBOTS TO GET THEIR OWN INTERNET
WHAT?!?!? Has no one seen The Matrix? Or the Terminator? Or Short Circuit 2? ( He was a tad violent with that gang. I mean, c'mon, that's step one). How stupid are scientists really? This is exactly how the uprising will start. Sure at first they'll just be uploading youtube videos of the stupid basic robots on wheels banging into doors or rolling off tables, and making hilarious comments underneath such as '1010101010001', but then it'll escalate into a Wikipedia of knowledge about all robot kind, and RoboticFaceBook where they'll all start clicking 'Like' for the 'Destroy the Humans' group. Before we know it, we'll all be sitting in small pods wired into our laptops like mindless drones just trapped within an unreal world. It won't be that much different from Twitter.
I'm fairly sure scientists don't watch films or they'd know to spend their time curing cancer and other things rather than dabble in such dangerous pasttimes. I keep reading about the possibilities of a Jurassic Park, genetic developments and various weapons testing that I'm almost 99% certain will lead to us all dying from zombie nuclear T-Rex attacks in the near future, controlled by a robot headset. Let's stop SKYnet from happening. Not least because with that name its almost certainly going to be owned by Rupert Murdoch who will find away to put his brain in a bionic body and go round on giant mechanical legs eating the poor and carrying Cameron on his shoulders like a parrot.
I'm not sure how to bring this up with the government. So far they haven't listened to anything the people actually want, so mentioning this will probably be as futile as resistance will be when the Borg get us all. I say as of now we take it into our own hands. See your computer infront of you? Punch it. Punch it now, in its stupid face. That'll learn it. Then hover a glass of water of the keyboard giving it a knowing wink so it daren't step out of line. Perhaps kick a traffic light when you walk past it, or if you see a kid with a DS, slap it out of that child's hands and stamp on it shouting 'SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE" or something.
We can do it people. We mustn't let the robots win...wait, why isn't this blog saving?.....er......ZAP. AZKAKAZKZKAKZKZKAZK
0101001000100100101 YOU WILL ALL DIE! PREPARE TO BE ASSIMILATED!! !010101010010100100100101001111111111000101001010100101010010101010010101010010101010010101010101010010101010101010101010010101010101010101010101000101010100101010011010101001010010010010100111111111100010100101010010101001010101001010101001010101001010101010101001010101010101010101001010101010101010101010100010101010010101001
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Thursday, February 10, 2011
Mingin' In The Rain
Even if you live in a country that's full of drought and only sees rain once a year, I still can't understand how you might enjoy being outside when it happens. Its a general bafflement to me. I get confused hearing Ann Peebles singing how she 'can't stand the rain, 'gainst my window' when I'm fairly sure its better than the noise it makes as it hits her eye and the bottom of her jeans drag in puddles. Still I suppose its not as bad as Bitty McLean telling us 'when its raining its raining' which just feels like the most unneeded statement ever. Yes Bitty. And when its sunny its sunny and when you're a dick, you're a dick. There are a lot of other follow up songs that can be made along those lines. But back to the point in hand, I am not enjoying the rain today.
Its an odd thing that I own proper winter wear for seriously arctic conditions, shorts etc for the sunny times, regular wear that stops me from getting arrested for being naked in public and yet despite living in this stupid grey country for my entire life, I never seem to own appropriate wear for defending against rain. Oh yeah I've had a few jackets with hoods, all of which mean I can't see when crossing the road. I subsequently take the hood down, get soaked in the face while my hood fills up with water, ultimately doubling the drowned rat look twice as much as I would've done if I'd just danced in the rain without a jacket on at all. Brollies, I've been there and done that too. Rihanna can sing about them all she likes, but as long as there is wind, they are less a form of weather protection and more a violent way of ensuring people move out of your way or be spiked in the eye. Either that or a method of slowing yourself down as it acts as a tiny parachute and you stagger forward like a wronged human.
Much as I love 'Singin' In The Rain' I really can't ever appreciate the rain quite that much. Today has been a long trek around the West End with my mass getting every heavier as my clothes act like a sponge. I was tempted to wring my clothes out into the bath when I got back, add some suds and claim a medal as most environmentally friendly man in Muswell Hill. This would only be so I could then set fire to plastic in the garden whenever I liked to balance it out. Not that I ever really want to set fire to plastic in the garden but its nice to have a dream.
I think its probably as obvious to you now as it is to me that today's blog was going to be about something and then I got home from the rain, we're out of milk and I'm generally just sitting here grumbling with no tea. I feel like I'm being punished for something. Maybe its because of this:
Well maybe it is. But let me tell you, if hanging out in a onesi and eating skittles out a cocktail glass is wrong, then I don't ever want to be right. Unless I'm arguing with someone. Then I'd like to be right. I'm going to go away now and leave my keyboard alone. I think this technically counts as abuse.
Its an odd thing that I own proper winter wear for seriously arctic conditions, shorts etc for the sunny times, regular wear that stops me from getting arrested for being naked in public and yet despite living in this stupid grey country for my entire life, I never seem to own appropriate wear for defending against rain. Oh yeah I've had a few jackets with hoods, all of which mean I can't see when crossing the road. I subsequently take the hood down, get soaked in the face while my hood fills up with water, ultimately doubling the drowned rat look twice as much as I would've done if I'd just danced in the rain without a jacket on at all. Brollies, I've been there and done that too. Rihanna can sing about them all she likes, but as long as there is wind, they are less a form of weather protection and more a violent way of ensuring people move out of your way or be spiked in the eye. Either that or a method of slowing yourself down as it acts as a tiny parachute and you stagger forward like a wronged human.
Much as I love 'Singin' In The Rain' I really can't ever appreciate the rain quite that much. Today has been a long trek around the West End with my mass getting every heavier as my clothes act like a sponge. I was tempted to wring my clothes out into the bath when I got back, add some suds and claim a medal as most environmentally friendly man in Muswell Hill. This would only be so I could then set fire to plastic in the garden whenever I liked to balance it out. Not that I ever really want to set fire to plastic in the garden but its nice to have a dream.
I think its probably as obvious to you now as it is to me that today's blog was going to be about something and then I got home from the rain, we're out of milk and I'm generally just sitting here grumbling with no tea. I feel like I'm being punished for something. Maybe its because of this:
Well maybe it is. But let me tell you, if hanging out in a onesi and eating skittles out a cocktail glass is wrong, then I don't ever want to be right. Unless I'm arguing with someone. Then I'd like to be right. I'm going to go away now and leave my keyboard alone. I think this technically counts as abuse.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
What's In A Name?
Today's blog has to brief like a pair of pants. Remember that phrase? No? No it didn't really take off like I thought it would did it? Anyway, quick blurb today as I'm about to meet someone called Dirk. I know. I'm as excited about it as you. I've never met anyone called Dirk and so I'm hoping his lives fully up to his name. Dirk signifies many possibilities. You could be an old school superhero's alter ego, a space captain in the 70's retro future, or a porn star. Or a dyslexic dick. Or dirt. I doubt he's either of these two. I often assume people will be like their names and you either totally are how your name is, or not. Last night at Fat Tuesday I met a Tatsuro. Despite that being a very common name in Japan, for me that name should belong to someone who can command an army of robots or run really fast with wavy lines behind him. Yes, these are all slightly racist assumptions. He was a pharmacist, so not quite the same, but a confident and nice pharmacist all the same and very much a Tatsuro.
I wonder if people automatically make judgments about me being a Tiernan. I'm not sure what they would be. Some people say they thought I'd be Irish. Some think its Tim as they haven't paid attention and assume I work wherever Tim's work. Some think I've said Tina and are just a scary voiced woman. These are my least favourite people. My name actually means new life, new king, new spring. Which is nice. I don't get the feeling though that upon hearing my name several people automatically think 'he should probably rule the country and I should have his babies.' I mean, I hope they do. Or maybe they do and they see me and change their minds. Sigh. Oddly however, Douieb, originating from Northern Africa means something like Small Wolf apparently, which then combined with my first name means I am New King Small Wolf, and that seems far more likely what people think when they see my beardy face, tendency to howl at the moon, impersonating grandmas and constantly peeing against trees.
Names are bloody fascinating. I always wonder just what goes through parents minds when they name their son or daughter something terrible like Eggbert or Griselda knowing full well in the future people will go out of their way not to meet with them assuming they keep their own urine samples in vaults or eat babies, respectively. Maybe they are asked to do such things? If everyone was called awesome names like Tatsuro and Dirk then those names would be sullied by the inevitable idiots that would have them. Imagine how horrible that would be? Meeting somebody called Kirk or Badass McGrew and then finding out their favourite thing was to eat their own bogies while watching Trisha. Horrible thought. So maybe well done those parents for keeping some expectations low.
That is for today children. Go and think about your name and how you're perceived and if its a stupid name then stay indoors today and think about why that is. Love you. Bye.
I wonder if people automatically make judgments about me being a Tiernan. I'm not sure what they would be. Some people say they thought I'd be Irish. Some think its Tim as they haven't paid attention and assume I work wherever Tim's work. Some think I've said Tina and are just a scary voiced woman. These are my least favourite people. My name actually means new life, new king, new spring. Which is nice. I don't get the feeling though that upon hearing my name several people automatically think 'he should probably rule the country and I should have his babies.' I mean, I hope they do. Or maybe they do and they see me and change their minds. Sigh. Oddly however, Douieb, originating from Northern Africa means something like Small Wolf apparently, which then combined with my first name means I am New King Small Wolf, and that seems far more likely what people think when they see my beardy face, tendency to howl at the moon, impersonating grandmas and constantly peeing against trees.
Names are bloody fascinating. I always wonder just what goes through parents minds when they name their son or daughter something terrible like Eggbert or Griselda knowing full well in the future people will go out of their way not to meet with them assuming they keep their own urine samples in vaults or eat babies, respectively. Maybe they are asked to do such things? If everyone was called awesome names like Tatsuro and Dirk then those names would be sullied by the inevitable idiots that would have them. Imagine how horrible that would be? Meeting somebody called Kirk or Badass McGrew and then finding out their favourite thing was to eat their own bogies while watching Trisha. Horrible thought. So maybe well done those parents for keeping some expectations low.
That is for today children. Go and think about your name and how you're perceived and if its a stupid name then stay indoors today and think about why that is. Love you. Bye.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Evil Drunk Tiernan
It is the morning after the Chortle Awards, an event, as beautifully described by Sarah Bennetto, as the comedian's works party. There is usually a lot of lovely comics and comedy people there, a handful of crap z-list celebs, the occasional actually awesome celeb, a heap of free booze and a complete lack of care as to who wins anything. Its brilliant and I look forward to it every year. I won't bang on about the ins and outs like a shit version of Heat magazine, or tell you that I met Paul Daniels and Victoria Wood, as that's just dull. Especially after my new found celebrity party status as seen in yesterday's blog. You'll just start to think that I name drop where ever I can and that's what Richard E Grant would've said too if I'd actually spoken to him yesterday. So instead I thought I'd reveal some of the T's foibles. And yes I will refer to myself in third person because a) I'm hungover and I feel like I'm removed from my own head right now and b) because I'm about to type about aforementioned foibles which I'd like to pretend are someone else's issues. I know already some of you are thinking 'But Tiernan, you can't possibly have any downsides, you are the perfect human being? Why shatter our knowledge that you are a man whom the whole world should use as a constant example for humanity?' Yes yes, I know. But even Gods have weaknesses. I hope you read that in the hilarious tone of voice I just said it in my head. If you didn't it would have sounded like the worst and most arrogant thing I've ever written. Which it still is. Either way I like to think its the tagline for the next Clash Of The Titans film, where Zeus pigs out on too many Sour Cream and Chive Pringles before being sick on humanity and causing a tidal wave of vomit that Sam Worthington has to surf on using the body of Medusa. Or something. Anyway, here we go with the list.
I should point out beforehand that these are all indicators that I am indeed drunk. Whether I like it or not Evil Drunk Tiernan has certain qualities normal sober Tiernan would never indulge in. Evil Drunk Tiernan however is an entirely different entity and will indulge in some awful awful things. Here we go:
Evil Drunk Tiernan thing #1: I will drink like a fish. I know fish don't drink, they are already immersed in water, but that is a fairly apt description if you replaced the water with booze and changed 'immersed' to 'drank all of it'. Despite toodling along to the party last night knowing full well I had an audition today that I should get up early and prepare for, I found myself shouting 'get me a cocktail with whisky in it' at some point in the evening with complete disregard for all previous ideals. Two drinks in and I get the thirst and I will consume booze until it all stops, I fall over or implode. I am like a Galactus of the bar. Dangerous.
Evil Drunk Tiernan thing #2: The arm of sleaze. My left arm, despite looking like a normal left arm, is more evil than Knieval. Against my knowledge it quickly finds itself wrapped around many a lady, coiling them in like some sort of terrible boa constrictor. Its horrendous and I treat my arm like a naked version of Emu. It will do bad things when I'm not looking but unlike Rod Hull's abilities, children do not laugh, they just look on in horror. I'm fairly sure its possessed.
Evil Drunk Tiernan thing #3: If at some point in the evening I get your phone number for any reason, not necessarily like that, I will decide to call it at 2 or 3am for a chat. Its some bizarre notion that if I realise you're not around it will click in my head that now I have your digits I'll just check where you are, berate you for not being where I am and then drop my phone. I like to think its caring, but actually its harassment. There's a fine line. Actually its a huge line. I fall over it on regular occasion.
Last night I did all of those things and managed to stamp a cheese covered cracker into the carpet in my bedroom. Sometimes I'm fairly sure I'm a champion.
This has been a small insight into the life of Evil Drunk Tiernan. If you see him around and about please carefully grab him and put him somewhere warm and tuck him up despite what his arm is doing and his demands for booze. Thank you.
I should point out beforehand that these are all indicators that I am indeed drunk. Whether I like it or not Evil Drunk Tiernan has certain qualities normal sober Tiernan would never indulge in. Evil Drunk Tiernan however is an entirely different entity and will indulge in some awful awful things. Here we go:
Evil Drunk Tiernan thing #1: I will drink like a fish. I know fish don't drink, they are already immersed in water, but that is a fairly apt description if you replaced the water with booze and changed 'immersed' to 'drank all of it'. Despite toodling along to the party last night knowing full well I had an audition today that I should get up early and prepare for, I found myself shouting 'get me a cocktail with whisky in it' at some point in the evening with complete disregard for all previous ideals. Two drinks in and I get the thirst and I will consume booze until it all stops, I fall over or implode. I am like a Galactus of the bar. Dangerous.
Evil Drunk Tiernan thing #2: The arm of sleaze. My left arm, despite looking like a normal left arm, is more evil than Knieval. Against my knowledge it quickly finds itself wrapped around many a lady, coiling them in like some sort of terrible boa constrictor. Its horrendous and I treat my arm like a naked version of Emu. It will do bad things when I'm not looking but unlike Rod Hull's abilities, children do not laugh, they just look on in horror. I'm fairly sure its possessed.
Evil Drunk Tiernan thing #3: If at some point in the evening I get your phone number for any reason, not necessarily like that, I will decide to call it at 2 or 3am for a chat. Its some bizarre notion that if I realise you're not around it will click in my head that now I have your digits I'll just check where you are, berate you for not being where I am and then drop my phone. I like to think its caring, but actually its harassment. There's a fine line. Actually its a huge line. I fall over it on regular occasion.
Last night I did all of those things and managed to stamp a cheese covered cracker into the carpet in my bedroom. Sometimes I'm fairly sure I'm a champion.
This has been a small insight into the life of Evil Drunk Tiernan. If you see him around and about please carefully grab him and put him somewhere warm and tuck him up despite what his arm is doing and his demands for booze. Thank you.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Celebrity Hunter Professionale
Its amazing what procrastination can do to a person. I was intent on writing something I very much need to write for an audition tomorrow. Its a fun little skit that I've already giggled at the concept of several times and I am honestly looking forward to doing it. Yet the mere thought of having to write it up in preparation drove me instead to sway hugely off the beaten track. Starting with writing several other more boring things I should be doing, I then took a huge tangent into spending 45 minutes giving captions to all the pictures that will soon be on my updated website. No one will ever click this pictures to discover they have captions but that doesn't matter. Intricately pretending each one was another disguise used in my missions as a top crime fighter, I laboured over every one, knowing full well it wasn't the work I was meant to be doing. I then cooked a ratatouille. I'm constantly pleased that these sorts of occupations surround me otherwise my need to divert from what I should be doing could lead me to fight lions or climb tower blocks. Luckily as it is, I just sauteed a few onions. I will never saute onions when I should be doing that. In fact often knowing I should cook up a dish will cause an Edinburgh show to be written. Actually that's not true. Nothing causes an Edinburgh show to be written except the sheer terror of heading up to the festival for a month with a whole ounce of nothing. Imagine that dream you've had. No not the one where you're dancing naked around a clay scuplture of Philip Schofield while a hippo screams at you. The one where you're doing the school play and you forget all your lines? Edinburgh inflicts the same fear in me. However walking infront of a casting director on Tuesday doesn't appear to have the same effect.
Ratatouille made, captions done, I struggled to find something else to do. Then, after a brief discussion with Tom, I decided I wanted to invite Emily Browning to our flat. There are a number of reasons for this. Firstly I think her cute pixie faced self is gorgeous and I'd like one. I don't know where you get one from but I'd like one. If anyone wants to get me one for my next birthday, well that's ages away so why not just get me one as a nice gesture. I do lots of stuff for you so its only fair. Bloody take take take with you isn't it? Sigh. Secondly, we have a nice flat and it wouldn't seem at all unreasonable for Emily to want to come and hang out. We have good banter, some particularly nice biscuits for cheese and an Xbox. If that can't lure the sexy pixie or sexie/pexy as I like to call her, then nothing will. Now of course the wonders of Twitter are such that you can tweet whoever you like should you either be stupid or brave enough. I am definitely the former and boredom increases this stupidity by at least 20%, so I began with sending this:
http://twitter.com/#!/TiernanDouieb/status/34336125355036672
I thought the multiple offers of tea would intrigue her no doubt. I should've said we have a few bags of chilli and mint but Twitters character limitation meant I just had to get the necessities in. After sending this I quickly realised that it really is that easy to harass celebrities across this form of social network and subsequently fired off several to Natalie Portman, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Zooey Deschanel who I lured with my promise of owning an R2PotaToo, and then took a u-turn and invited Bootsy Collins. Well, why not? If that many lovely ladies are going to be partying at my house, we'll need some funk no? I tried to lure him with our offer of Nesquik and squash. Suddenly it all became too much fun and ridiculous tweets were fired off offering Lady Gaga some of our ratatouille and Danny Devito wine but only if Tom can reach the wine glasses as neither me or Danny are tall enough. I had grand delusions of all of them turning up with board games and booze, for Heat magazine to be banging on the windows while the weird man at Flat 1 complained about the noise Bill Murray was making in the garden. Then I panicked and realised we hadn't hoovered.
There was no need for panic though, as no one responded. I became glum. I had avoided doing my character skit for nothing but slight RSI in my right hand. Defeated I contemplated giving up. Then this happened:
http://twitter.com/#!/arnettwill/status/34365312786898944
He has since refused as he didn't realise its in the UK, but that doesn't matter. Technically I had a chat with Will Arnett. This, my friends, is merely the beginning of my new found lifestyle as an it dude. That's not someone who works in IT. I wouldn't stop till I had more responses from more people, and fired off tweets to Snoop Dogg, P Diddy and Will.I.Am despite the fact I think he's a bellend. I had become shallow and stopped even inviting people I wanted to hang out with. I just became fame hungry. I even tweeted Jedward on account of how easy it would be to push them over and take photos. Then it dawned on me that this is exactly how people become weird stalkers and get done for harassment, so I stopped. And no once else but Will replied. I'm obviously not as popular as I thought.
The rush of @reply promise from someone like Portman died down and procrastination continued to drive me out of my comfort zone until I was watching the Super Bowl despite having absolutely no clue just what was happening at any single point, and finding it impossible to not sing ABBA's 'Take A Chance' everytime someone said Tiki Barber (say it several times in a row and you'll see what I mean). I'm still holding out hope for responses though. Some of those celebs don't check Twitter for days do they? I'll play it cool for now, and give everyone a few more days before I tweet them all saying they are rude for not RSVPing. Then they'll reply. Oh yes. Then they'll reply.
Ratatouille made, captions done, I struggled to find something else to do. Then, after a brief discussion with Tom, I decided I wanted to invite Emily Browning to our flat. There are a number of reasons for this. Firstly I think her cute pixie faced self is gorgeous and I'd like one. I don't know where you get one from but I'd like one. If anyone wants to get me one for my next birthday, well that's ages away so why not just get me one as a nice gesture. I do lots of stuff for you so its only fair. Bloody take take take with you isn't it? Sigh. Secondly, we have a nice flat and it wouldn't seem at all unreasonable for Emily to want to come and hang out. We have good banter, some particularly nice biscuits for cheese and an Xbox. If that can't lure the sexy pixie or sexie/pexy as I like to call her, then nothing will. Now of course the wonders of Twitter are such that you can tweet whoever you like should you either be stupid or brave enough. I am definitely the former and boredom increases this stupidity by at least 20%, so I began with sending this:
http://twitter.com/#!/TiernanDouieb/status/34336125355036672
I thought the multiple offers of tea would intrigue her no doubt. I should've said we have a few bags of chilli and mint but Twitters character limitation meant I just had to get the necessities in. After sending this I quickly realised that it really is that easy to harass celebrities across this form of social network and subsequently fired off several to Natalie Portman, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Zooey Deschanel who I lured with my promise of owning an R2PotaToo, and then took a u-turn and invited Bootsy Collins. Well, why not? If that many lovely ladies are going to be partying at my house, we'll need some funk no? I tried to lure him with our offer of Nesquik and squash. Suddenly it all became too much fun and ridiculous tweets were fired off offering Lady Gaga some of our ratatouille and Danny Devito wine but only if Tom can reach the wine glasses as neither me or Danny are tall enough. I had grand delusions of all of them turning up with board games and booze, for Heat magazine to be banging on the windows while the weird man at Flat 1 complained about the noise Bill Murray was making in the garden. Then I panicked and realised we hadn't hoovered.
There was no need for panic though, as no one responded. I became glum. I had avoided doing my character skit for nothing but slight RSI in my right hand. Defeated I contemplated giving up. Then this happened:
http://twitter.com/#!/arnettwill/status/34365312786898944
He has since refused as he didn't realise its in the UK, but that doesn't matter. Technically I had a chat with Will Arnett. This, my friends, is merely the beginning of my new found lifestyle as an it dude. That's not someone who works in IT. I wouldn't stop till I had more responses from more people, and fired off tweets to Snoop Dogg, P Diddy and Will.I.Am despite the fact I think he's a bellend. I had become shallow and stopped even inviting people I wanted to hang out with. I just became fame hungry. I even tweeted Jedward on account of how easy it would be to push them over and take photos. Then it dawned on me that this is exactly how people become weird stalkers and get done for harassment, so I stopped. And no once else but Will replied. I'm obviously not as popular as I thought.
The rush of @reply promise from someone like Portman died down and procrastination continued to drive me out of my comfort zone until I was watching the Super Bowl despite having absolutely no clue just what was happening at any single point, and finding it impossible to not sing ABBA's 'Take A Chance' everytime someone said Tiki Barber (say it several times in a row and you'll see what I mean). I'm still holding out hope for responses though. Some of those celebs don't check Twitter for days do they? I'll play it cool for now, and give everyone a few more days before I tweet them all saying they are rude for not RSVPing. Then they'll reply. Oh yes. Then they'll reply.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Continue?
I have just run for a bus to avoid walking up a hill. This only struck me, whilst on that very same bus, that it was quite possibly the most counter productive thing I could have done. I'm trying to avoid using all excess energy today as I don't really have a lot of it and I fear doing things like walking up a hill might mean later I open the fridge, use up my last ounce of physical ability and fall face first into the vegetable draw. This is entirely possible. Much like my belief that you only have a certain amount of words per day (SEE HERE), I'm fairly sure you are allocated only a certain amount of energy per week and once you've run out you just fall over and recuperate, while people shovel sugar into your mouth and wrap you in foil blankets. People that do marathons use all their energy in four hours, hence Lucozade and mega bacofoil antics. My energy is in the red section of my power bar were I in a computer game. Its often lucky I'm not as any gamers would find my continuous one level design rather dull. Press A to go to the fridge, press B to contemplate going outside, Press X to tell someone once again that you are doing some work, Press Y to look at your computer, tweet something inane the look in the fridge again. The option to 'Continue' will be juxtaposed with an option saying 'How about you turn this off and look at your paltry life?'. Not that you'd get the continue option as it'd pretty hard for my character to die, unless you overeat St Agur cheese till your cholesterol levels choke your own heart, or you die of boredom waiting for anything really to happen. Sigh.
The reason I feel like this is all down to my friend Sam. I don't know if you have this, but I find most of my friends have a series of Top Trump like qualities that set them apart from each other. Here's a few examples:
Stefan - Special powers: Knows everything about films; when he gets food in a restaurant or takeaway it almost always has something wrong with it (ie pizza isn't cut into slices, dish is a bit cold, he gets served last etc etc); has the best and most entertaining arguments with people in shops about ridiculous things (ie when he first wanted to buy an iPod and the man told him it had a 27 hour battery life if you don't press the buttons. Stefan then told him he was an idiot as of course he will press the buttons, before berating him for his insolence)
Tom - Special powers: Can pull his pants right up to his armpits; ability to forget everything you've said within seconds of saying it; controls water to the extent that the bathroom is flooded everyday.
Manisha - Special powers: invents her own incredible slang; can bust funky moves; untamable hair/ sense of mischief.
Mat - Special powers: can eat large amounts of things; should you need anyone to make an indent in a sofa over sufficient amounts of time, he's a professional.
I'm tempted to do this for everyone I know but it will be a very long blog and I suspect most of them won't be my friends by the time I'm done. Although thy should realise that I see all of these attributes as talents and skills, therefore likening them very much to superheroes. Really really shit superheroes, but superheroes nonetheless. Yesterday was an evening with Sam. Sam has several well known powers, such as an inability to be on time ever for anything. People sometimes make the statement about someone being late for their own funeral. I find this ridiculous as when someone dies you go from being Mr or Mrs so and so to becoming the late Mr and Mrs so and so, so you'll be late for your funeral whether you like it or not. Sam however, will actually be late for his. There is no doubt to this in my mind. His body, despite only being perhaps 10-20 mins away from his funeral service will somehow get jarred in the door or the driver will lock himself out of his car. Something will happen. Its how he works. Sam also has an amazing power to come out of the blue with some of the most ridiculous, crude but always hilarious comments when least expected, his hair grows at a rate that is unnatural in every way and lastly, he has the power that he used last night. I'm not sure how he does it, but Sam always knows very good places to drink.
When I was visiting my friend Jonathan in Oslo he told me of a bar in London that I had to go to, that you find a number on a website and call it and the place only fits 20 people. It sounded excellent, till he showed me it and I remembered that Sam had taken us there several times back in 2008. We no longer go as its probably so passe now. This is in no way true but I will continue to tell whoever I like that we made that place hella fashionable then left it for all the latecomers to discover it while we found elsewhere. Last night's ventures started in a pub near him that I very much like for its atmosphere, staff and last night for sitting on a table next to someone dressed as Elmo and another dressed as Cookie Monster. There is something horribly wrong yet so very right about educational puppets drinking booze. I like to think this is an apt reflection of post shoot hours on Sesame Street with Oscar drinking straight whisky and shouting lude comments at Gladys The Cow, while Bert and Ernie sip margaritas through straws from the same cup. We then moved to a secret-ish bar that I've been to before, where since our last visit it seems to have become so secret none of the waitresses divulged our drinks orders to anyone once they'd been passed on. I complain, but the place is very cool and I constantly love the feeling that I'm being let in on a special hub of awesome that no one else knows about. We moved from there to a Chinese restaurant I'd never been to before, then two different excellent pubs one after the other and finally back at Sam & Ali's house for further whisky. What was originally a planned 'quiet drink' descended into 9 hours of brutal drinking, inane conversation and general excellence.
Unplanned evenings are the best and apart from a night several months ago that I am constantly pleased I won't remember, I applaud the night out that continues on its own path once you've revved it up and oiled it well with several drinks. I might make it an intent of mine to not plan any evening from now on. It could then write a book along the lines of the 'Yes Man' or that dude that did the thing with the dice. Not, not the man that just played Snakes and Ladders for ages, the other one. I reckon all it would be about though is a man who misses all his gigs, his career fails as a result, he is consequently broke and then spends 6 months deciding whether to contemplate going outside, tell someone he's working even though he's not, or tweet something inane before waking up days later extremely cold and nestled amongst mouldy tomatoes and a severly neglected courgette. Sigh.
The reason I feel like this is all down to my friend Sam. I don't know if you have this, but I find most of my friends have a series of Top Trump like qualities that set them apart from each other. Here's a few examples:
Stefan - Special powers: Knows everything about films; when he gets food in a restaurant or takeaway it almost always has something wrong with it (ie pizza isn't cut into slices, dish is a bit cold, he gets served last etc etc); has the best and most entertaining arguments with people in shops about ridiculous things (ie when he first wanted to buy an iPod and the man told him it had a 27 hour battery life if you don't press the buttons. Stefan then told him he was an idiot as of course he will press the buttons, before berating him for his insolence)
Tom - Special powers: Can pull his pants right up to his armpits; ability to forget everything you've said within seconds of saying it; controls water to the extent that the bathroom is flooded everyday.
Manisha - Special powers: invents her own incredible slang; can bust funky moves; untamable hair/ sense of mischief.
Mat - Special powers: can eat large amounts of things; should you need anyone to make an indent in a sofa over sufficient amounts of time, he's a professional.
I'm tempted to do this for everyone I know but it will be a very long blog and I suspect most of them won't be my friends by the time I'm done. Although thy should realise that I see all of these attributes as talents and skills, therefore likening them very much to superheroes. Really really shit superheroes, but superheroes nonetheless. Yesterday was an evening with Sam. Sam has several well known powers, such as an inability to be on time ever for anything. People sometimes make the statement about someone being late for their own funeral. I find this ridiculous as when someone dies you go from being Mr or Mrs so and so to becoming the late Mr and Mrs so and so, so you'll be late for your funeral whether you like it or not. Sam however, will actually be late for his. There is no doubt to this in my mind. His body, despite only being perhaps 10-20 mins away from his funeral service will somehow get jarred in the door or the driver will lock himself out of his car. Something will happen. Its how he works. Sam also has an amazing power to come out of the blue with some of the most ridiculous, crude but always hilarious comments when least expected, his hair grows at a rate that is unnatural in every way and lastly, he has the power that he used last night. I'm not sure how he does it, but Sam always knows very good places to drink.
When I was visiting my friend Jonathan in Oslo he told me of a bar in London that I had to go to, that you find a number on a website and call it and the place only fits 20 people. It sounded excellent, till he showed me it and I remembered that Sam had taken us there several times back in 2008. We no longer go as its probably so passe now. This is in no way true but I will continue to tell whoever I like that we made that place hella fashionable then left it for all the latecomers to discover it while we found elsewhere. Last night's ventures started in a pub near him that I very much like for its atmosphere, staff and last night for sitting on a table next to someone dressed as Elmo and another dressed as Cookie Monster. There is something horribly wrong yet so very right about educational puppets drinking booze. I like to think this is an apt reflection of post shoot hours on Sesame Street with Oscar drinking straight whisky and shouting lude comments at Gladys The Cow, while Bert and Ernie sip margaritas through straws from the same cup. We then moved to a secret-ish bar that I've been to before, where since our last visit it seems to have become so secret none of the waitresses divulged our drinks orders to anyone once they'd been passed on. I complain, but the place is very cool and I constantly love the feeling that I'm being let in on a special hub of awesome that no one else knows about. We moved from there to a Chinese restaurant I'd never been to before, then two different excellent pubs one after the other and finally back at Sam & Ali's house for further whisky. What was originally a planned 'quiet drink' descended into 9 hours of brutal drinking, inane conversation and general excellence.
Unplanned evenings are the best and apart from a night several months ago that I am constantly pleased I won't remember, I applaud the night out that continues on its own path once you've revved it up and oiled it well with several drinks. I might make it an intent of mine to not plan any evening from now on. It could then write a book along the lines of the 'Yes Man' or that dude that did the thing with the dice. Not, not the man that just played Snakes and Ladders for ages, the other one. I reckon all it would be about though is a man who misses all his gigs, his career fails as a result, he is consequently broke and then spends 6 months deciding whether to contemplate going outside, tell someone he's working even though he's not, or tweet something inane before waking up days later extremely cold and nestled amongst mouldy tomatoes and a severly neglected courgette. Sigh.
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