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