Things To Say and Douieb

Moving Blog Home / Blome

2011-03-28T15:10:00.002+01:00

Some of you might be thinking 'where on earth is Tiernan's blog today?' well, considering you are reading this, it sort of is a blog and goes against the whole point I'm about to make. Basically, I've consolidated all my daily blog homes into one large blog base. Why not, from now on, follow my antics here:

http://blog.tiernandouieb.co.uk/

Farewell blogspot, its been a joy. See y'all on my website side.

x

Demonstrating Peacefully

2011-03-27T19:57:00.004+01:00

Ignore what you've read on the news today, yesterday's protest was nothing but a peaceful affair full of a happy unity between all those who felt they needed to speak out against the cuts happening in the UK. It really saddens me to read that over 150 harmless UK Uncut activists - the same people that sat patiently watching our gig in Soho Square yesterday afternoon, applauding and laughing away, the same people who were reported on Twitter by customers at Fortnum and Mason being respectful to the shop as they occupied it, posing neither a threat or a menace while making their point - have been locked up at various police stations around London. Once again, despite knowing that they too may be soon losing their jobs, there are reports of police attacking protesters with little provocation, a friend of mine witnessing a huge bulk of a cop punch a man passing by, letting the situation escalate into a full blown scuffle. On top of this several witnesses have stated that they saw a Sky News reporter pay someone to throw a brick at a bank window for the camera. What began as a wonderful day has again been twisted and warped by media and authority so that the people that want to be heard are dismissed as being associated with vandals.

I had a brilliant day yesterday. Starting with a hilarious incident on the tube, as it sat stuck in a tunnel before Waterloo, there was the usual huffing and puffing of annoyance with TFL. Then suddenly a man from Shropshire TUC shouted 'They're kettling us before we've even begun!' and laughter erupted down the carriage. I walked from the station across the river, stopping to take pictures of the incredible march that seemed to go on forever. Banners both serious and humorous (my favourite was 'I wish my boyfriend was as dirty as your policies'. Brilliant), musicians playing instruments, the less musically capable playing vuvuzelas, and everyone chanting, laughing, meeting new people and having fun. I darted through bits of the march to meet my friends Suze and Marlon at Trafalgar Square and it seemed as though London was filled with people who had no intention of causing trouble, but wanted the world to know they were unhappy with the way we have all been treated.

Joining the rest of the UK Uncut lot at Soho Square I has some apprehensions about occupying a bank to do our gig in. This is mainly because I am a wuss at such things, and being handed a 'bust card' (note: this doesn't mean I can touch boobs when I like unfortunately), I didn't give the reponse of appreciation that others did, but more a sigh of worry at the idea of being arrested. The police were already crowding round, and several helicopters circling overhead. As we headed towards our place of occupation, we discovered that the cops had done their research and closed all the banks and tax dodging shops in anticipation so we darted back into Soho Square. There, to at least 100 people, Chris Coltrane hosted a gig that featured Josie Long, Mark Thomas, several other acts and myself, that caused a response of exhilaration, excitement and giggles. Each using gags to have a go at current issues, it felt like (and without fear of sounding wanky) we were doing comedy with a purpose, something that was cemented by being notified of this on the Guardian website:

FULL ARTICLE HERE

'4.17pm: Jamie Kelsey, a contributing editor of the New Internationalist magazine who is at the demonstration, says that the protest is providing a political education to many young people in attendance.

We're at Oxford Circus at the moment and it's a really excellent festival atmosphere. I just spoke to two teenagers aged 17 and 19 who have come from the comedy show in Soho Square, and they said that what they heard there made them think more than anything they have ever learnt at school. It's their first demonstration and when I asked why they came they said they realised that the demonstration is about more than just the UK.

They can understand the connection between the shops and the banks that people are target ting and the global situation that is effecting everyone. They've heard Mark Thomas and a disabled comedian and Johann Hari speak. For these teenagers the protest is absolutely opening their minds to a much wider picture. It's very exciting.'

And that makes it worth it as far as I'm concerned. Hopefully events like that, the majority of the march and all those who enjoyed yesterday will go away and spread the word that the news isn't telling the truth and there is a point to protesting. Yes Vince Cable today said they wouldn't be changing anything, but at least they know that we aren't going to just sit down and take it. Protests will keep happening and hopefully the worse things get the more people will join in stating their upset. I hope that all those who are currently in police stations for merely standing up for what they believe in and opposing large companies stealing money from this country while disability benefits are being cut, are all ok. Thoughts go to you and everyone who suffered unnecessary violence and victimisation at what would have been, sans police, a truly brilliant day. For anyone who wasn't there, all I ask is you read @PennyRed, @JohannHari101 and @chris_coltrane's Twitter feed as well as accounts of people who were there to find out what really happened and not how Murdoch and Cameron have told the press to say it.

Right I shall get off my high Shetland pony now and return to the non-activism I've been exhibiting all day as I stay on the sofa.

March March March March

2011-03-26T10:40:00.002Z

Can't blog for long as getting ready to race off to join the march against the cuts in Central London today. I rather foolishly decided, after returning home from gigging in the Isle of Wight quite late last night, that I would merely rock up to the march after a sleep-in, then peruse around town till this at 2pm: http://is.gd/qTRX42. It has since struck me that at least 100,000 people will be on today's march and there won't be much chance of perusing anything. So in an attempt to gain back some of my political integrity - not that I had any to begin with - I'm wolfing down my Sainbury's own rice krispies in a fashion that will make only my stomach go snip, krickle and pap (the sounds of a fake) and racing out of the door to get my chanty stomp on. I have a feeling today is going to be brilliant. As I watch from my laptop, already the crowds at Southbank stretch all the way back to St Paul's cathedral. I just hope that it stays peaceful, and by that I mean I hope that the police don't intrude and screw things up. If all is left to its path then I think it should proceed as planned, everyone have a good day expressing their dismay at the coalition and the IPCC can have a bit of a breather for once.

I am a tad worried about occupying a bank later. I hate to be selfish about these things but if I get kettled then I might not make it to my gig tonight and that's a pay cheque I could do with and many people that'll be let down. Its a worrying concern when money overrides my need to complain about people's greed. I can't help but feel its probably a bit contradictory. Then again you could argue that were the arseholes in the banking world less hoarding with the country's cash that maybe we could all earn a bit less and still survive. Or just as likely, I need extra funding for the pub. Sigh. Still if I am kettled at least it will be with other comics I like and Johann Hari who I look forward to meeting. I am bringing some water and a banana so that should sustain me for a while and if all else fails I can pull the excellent 'I'm a diabetic' card and see if it works. It shouldn't work. Us diabetics are pretty resilient. Apart from the shit one in Con Air who makes me constantly sad. He complains that he needs his insulin or he'll die - rubbish, he'd just have high blood sugars for a while. Then he gets his insulin and someone shoots him. As far as I'm concerned he was never part of our fraternity.

Anyway, I hope you're on the march too. Today is one of those opportunities to have a say about the way in which our country is run (into the ground - ooh satire) and for every person that assumes 'oh well there are enough people there already' that's another point on Cameron's score card. Without meaning to get on my high Shetland pony (I'm only small. A horse would be too big) it strikes me as amazing that anyone would be happy with what's going on right now and if you give an iota of a crap you should say so. That's my opinion anyway and everyone's entitled to one. Raaa and other proactive noises. I'm off to go shout 'down with things' and that. See you at the gig at 2pm!

FYI: OMG LOL

2011-03-25T11:58:00.004Z

Language is constantly changing. In the time I've been alive 'bad' has come to mean good, 'ming' is no longer just a type of vase and 'shit off' is a valid phrase. Yet today Twitter is in uproar about the acronyms OMG, FYI and LOL being added to the Oxford English Dictionary. I can't say I've ever been a huge fan of any of these phrases. FYI sometimes leaks its way into my emails to save me typing any further sentence or explanation and assuming the receiver can just read the below without further prompt. For that I applaud it's use. OMG however and LOL are both terms that I have only ever used with extreme sarcasm, often to point out the extensive levels of boredom something has caused or how incredibly unfunny something might be. Nat and Tom have a very funny game where sometimes they email each other incredibly dull tweets with the subject line 'OMG look what so and so's written!' only to click and discover that person is 'having a cup of tea' or something as equally mind numbing. Its three letters that can instantly sum up the user's personality in a second. If said in an over the top, taking the piss tone, then you can assume the speaker is a hilarious wit and an all together good egg. If used with serious excitement, genuine concern or in fact any emotion rather than sheer mockery, its likely they are a vacuous waste of human flesh ie Peaches Geldof. If the OED definition uses this as its rightful meaning I will be extremely proud.

LOL similarly should be used with caution. Its extremely rare that anything I have ever read on a screen has ever made me Laugh Out Loud. There have been several smirks, the occasional smile, and millions of non-plussed noises. So when something has actually made me guffaw to myself whilst sitting at my laptop, it feels churlish to merely reduce such joy to three letters. Not only that but I worry that it will destroy the meaning of the word 'loll' which ironically probably describes most users of 'LOL'. Other words that have entered include 'dotbomb' a phrase which I have never heard before and was worried was a new type of dangerous micro weapon, 'ego-surfing' which I am a victim of and often wave my fists in the air wishing I had a name that would disappear into google more easily, and the heart symbol, which will help anyone who only reads Wingdings.

But overall we should look at the positives of all this. Firstly Scrabble will become easier. Especially when playing against elderly relatives who won't have a clue what 'FYI' means as you slam it down on the board, scoring a 9 pointer at least and then as they check the dictionary for proof, lampooning them with a victory dance as you kick over their ridiculous classic words and spit cold tea in their face screaming 'Take that Nan! Your time is up!' Then there are all those school kids who up until now have suffered low exam results for text speak spelling, suddenly becoming high scorers, progressing to Oxford and running our government until the Houses of Parliament are all shouting 'LOL' everytime someone says something that vaguely resembles a joke. Then we have the possibilities that over time all speak will be abbreviated until there is more time in everyone's lives and boring conversations will fly by in seconds, meetings will be reduced to one dullard saying 'SWHROT (So we haven't reached our targets) TCIGIL (The Company is going into liquidation) YAF (you're all fired)' everyone else saying 'OMG' and then they all leave.

All I'm saying is that it can all only be a good thing. I look forward to the day this all progresses and we all end up talking Nadsat, right right droogs?

Quick other note, as I will talk about this more tomorrow, but there is a big protest against the cuts tomorrow. Do you hate the cuts? If you say no, you're an idiot, or very rich. Either way you should probably stop reading this blog as it will either have confused or upset you many times by now. Anyway, the protest will be excellent, and at 2pm I'll be taking part in occupying a bank or tax dodging company shop to do a gig in it with Josie Long, Mark Thomas and Chris Coltrane among others. It will be awesome. Come protest and laugh. Laughtest. Prough. Details below.

STAND UP FOR THE ALTERNATIVE

Mini Beasts

2011-03-24T11:24:00.003Z

I love Spring. I like all the things that happen when Spring happens. Like the sunshine, the flowers blooming, the birds singing, the tiny spiders in my room and the ants in the living room.....oh. Oh dear. As Nat pointed out when I found the four scurrying scouts preparing to send back word about all the food crumbs on our homely floor, our flat seems to become more and more like a shack everyday that goes by. Her and Tom are still sleeping in the living room due to the mould in their room. It still hasn't paid rent. Nor has it ever made us a cup of tea or even socialised with us on an evening and its starting to feel like a squatter who hasn't even bothered to see if the house is vacated let alone look into its rights. Combine this with the windows that don't open properly, the shower guard that doesn't, the kitchen cupboard door that is falling off its hinges and the odd amounts of dust this place gathers as though we must shed skin quicker than a snake on speed, and you could say our home has a lot of character if nothing else. And now, to give depth to that character two seasons in, we appear to have a small amount of ants that want to hang out. Well we don't want them to hang out. I've never been a fan of ants, yet throughout my life, they appear to be a fan of me. Most places I have lived in, have at some point or another, had a lot of ants maraud through in a blurry black line of food theft. My student house in the second year where my housemates and I had parties of legendary quality, would always be left the day after such an event in a state of sheer disarray. Beer spilt on the floor, mud, mess, general mayhem and yet, through all of this, there would also always be a long line of ants. Starting near the front door and making their way all round the living room far wall, to the kitchen door, through the kitchen and around that wall and out through the back door to the garden. You could have neatly cut around the dotted line they made and pulled half of the house off its foundations.

Joining our new found ant buddies were two tiny spiders I found in my room yesterday. One found its way onto my arm somehow and then found its way flung outside via my pen and some fury. The other one scrabbling around my keyboard as though trying to type a message of help. I disregarded such a warning and flicked it somewhere else in the room thus not really removing the problem. I have never liked spiders either. Too many legs and eyes for any creature and throughly selfish when you consider the plight of the worm which has neither. I'm not a fan of any creepy crawlies, giving maybe a moment's thought for a bee thanks to honey making or a ladybird because it looks all fancy. Butterflies don't hold any water with me, not least because they can't physically hold water with such tiny legs, but also because while they look all pretty wingwise, look closer and they still have stupid horrible insect faces. Something they should really think about sorting out should they ever want to be friends with me. Above all though, spiders are definitely the worst of the mini-beasts. They have powers we just can't understand. I once found one on my arm whilst in an open field. It left my arm by climbing up a web that appeared to be attached to the sky and it continued to climb until it had entirely disappeared. I am still disturbed by this. I am more disturbed by the idea of it raining spiders. I hate spiders. Though I am now worried that the one on my keyboard was trying to tell me something. And maybe the ants in the kitchen are crawling around in the pattern of an ancient prophecy? If the wasps that used to live in our bathroom return and die in a pattern in the bath spelling 'the apocalypse is now' then I'll really start to worry.

More likely however, is that we just need to hoover again. I suspect I'll be seeing many more of the wee monsters very soon. Hooray for Spring. Sigh.

Budgeting

2011-03-23T12:31:00.004Z

Its probably slightly premature to write this blog during the budget. If I was sensible, I'd write this beyond the aftermath, fill it with commentary on the poormageddon Osborne has unleashed while simultaneously providing a travel guide of the best places to emigrate to instead. However, its sunny outside, and I can only watch Osborne's smug lizard face for so long before having to just hope that 'meeting the target' is slang for someone having him shot. But I'm not sensible and it is clearly actually Spring outside, with a beautiful sunny day to sit outside in, sans jacket, realise I should've had a jacket, and head back indoors again. This is all part of the Spring ritual, much like the first few days of actual summer where you go outside without sun cream, get horribly burnt then complain the rest of the time that its far too hot. I feel to deny any of this would be detrimental to my Britishness and general way of thinking.

I know how the budget will go anyway. We've been told its all about growth but without specifying exactly what growth and we can presume it won't be that of the job sector, nor the NHS or anything that's remotely useful. I am partly worried that due to earlier talk of Britain still keeping nuclear power, and then this 'growth' chat that a vast amount of money will go into creating Godzilla. If only so Osborne feels like he has an older brother. So far the budget appears to have included nothing to actually help anyone who's finding all the food and VAT rises difficult and at the same time done nothing about getting more money off those rich companies and people who keep their taxes offshore. There have, as far as my bored tired brain can understand, been several comments about how tax avoidance isn't fair, and yet there is little to reign any of it in from the people that are really dodging large payments such as Vodafone. Essentially it seems like Osborne needn't really have bothered doing a budget at all. I wonder if he just likes to carry a small red case and advertise just how much he likes to inflict fear and disappointment in everyone.

Oh no wait. The budget's over. There was a slight drop in fuel tax which was nice I suppose. I always feel that any slight decent thing that's done by the coalition hides something else. Growth appeared to not actually grow which means I suppose that its not really growth is it? Surely he should've said to begin with that this budget is all about shrinking? A 10% cut on inheritance tax when people hand over their estate to the next generation, a cut that once again I reckon will only help those who are rich enough to own estate's in the first place. Unless they mean family cars? Gift Aid being reduced seems to mean charities get taxed more and someone clever has just pointed out on Twitter that personal tax allowance being increased by CPI rather than RPI means it's less of an increase than it sounds. I don't understand, assuming that CPI is something you use to ressusitate people, but yes, it all sounds once again like a lie wrapped in a tortilla of clever words and terms. I wish I was more clever.

Oh the whole thing is a bit rubbish. I will probably just abandon it now and sit in the sun. Thank god for sunshine eh? It doesn't cost much. Yet. I fully expect that that'll be in the bit of the budget I miss out on. Thank god none of this comes into effect until midnight on Sunday. I'll go soak up as much as possible till then and save it for the next few weeks.

Trip To Whiney Street

2011-03-22T09:49:00.003Z

Dear people. I like you. I really do. As a species you've done some top things. For example the toasted cheese sandwich maker, the slinky, breakdancing, ice cream and Jaws. Those are just a few of the many many things that humanity has done really bloody well with. Oh yeah sure, there are loads of things we've screwed up at including wars, inequality of wealth distribution, sexism, racism, Justin Bieber, that list goes on and on too, but I'm usually prepared to ignore such things in the face of high fiving someone for creating the word 'shizzle' or coming up with the concept of the theme park. However, sometimes, just sometimes, you do a few things that make me lose all faith in the world. Today is one of those something days. This blog is now about to go straight to Moan Town, with a quick diversion via Whingeville and park up in Complaintopolis.

Its Fat Tuesday tonight and on the bill we have a comic who as far as I and many many other comedians think, is a mac daddy and a daddy mac of stand-up. Having been gigging internationally for many years, the last time I watched Mike Wilmot it was like a masterclass in humour, leagues about tons of the stuff you get on the tellybox. In Stewart Lee's recent autobiography, he described Mike as being able to do crudity with an honesty and wit unbeknownst to anyone else on the scene. And yet, and yet indeed, we've barely sold any tickets. I know. The reason? Well I'm not one to presume, but besides a recent appearance on Live At The Apollo, Mike hasn't done as much UK TV recently as many of the other acts we've had at Fat Tuesday and therefore our audience who used to fully trust whoever we booked, don't now want to spend a night watching acts they don't know. It may not be that. It may be that today is National Stay At Home Night, it may be that its because its sunny, but more and more I'm noticing with our gig, and many others, that unless there is the guest appearance of a telly name, it just won't sell.

Thats really sad. Its sad because I'll lose a ton of money, making putting on other gigs quite tough, but more so because there are so many amazing comics that deserve to be seen by brilliant audiences that just won't get that same chance if this continues. I have a long list of acts I would love to book to headline FT but I know full well that if I do, we won't sell much and I'll be out of pocket again. I constantly try and find reasons to quit running my gig. It takes a silly amount of time for very little profit, but when it goes well its so much fun its seems to make it all worth it. However if this is how things are going to continue to go it really seems like there might not be much point.

Its very much the celebrity culture of nowadays which has sadly really overshadowed some of the best elements of live comedy. There used to be nothing more exciting than rocking up to a comedy club and seeing an act you've never seen before tear the roof off the place. Introduce you to new gags and stories, mannerisms and words that would send you into giggling fits. The Edinburgh fringe used to be a place to hunt down new acts before they became big, finding those golden nuggets of comedy within the myriad of shows. Yet now everyone is too obsessed with it being someone who's on the same panel show every week or some similar issue. Don't get me wrong, its great at FT when we get big names popping along, but that shouldn't be the only reason our gig runs. It should run because we always get good comedians whether you've heard of them or not. After 6 years of continuous shows it shouldn't even be questioned that they wouldn't be.

There are still tickets for tonight and there really shouldn't be. If you fancy coming along to witness what will be nothing less than excellent then please grab some here:

http://www.wegottickets.com/event/104603

Or on the door this eve.

Oh and don't worry people, you still came up with coleslaw, funk and wink murder so you're alright really.

Banter

2011-03-21T00:32:00.002Z

BANTER

There are several words I probably use too much at the moment. Among these are 'ace' which I very much like using as I remember using it way back in the 90's and its verbal resurrection gives me both nostalgia and the confidence that it is a word that, through concerted historical effort, gives gravitas to its slang meaning. There are few people out there who upon hearing something was 'ace' would be unsure of its goodness. Unless you were the opposing player at a series of high stake card games. The other word I'm using a fair amount is 'hella'. I like this word and its used fully tongue in cheek, having gained it from a South Park episode many years ago and its taken some time to properly infiltrate my vocab. Now its here and I'm hella pleased about it. See? That was its correct use. To take a biblical ideology, cut off the corners and put it unnecessarily amongst other words it doesn't hang out with. There are quite a few others but the that bothered Nat the other day is 'banter', berated me for using it instead of 'conversation' or 'chat'. Thing is, banter is a whole different ball game to those other words. Whilst conversation could be about a mortgage or paint drying or Boring McBoreason's Boring Dog Boreface, banter is always more jovial than that. There is, supposedly an art to conversation. Well I would suggest that while that art is perhaps Constable or something sensible like that, banter is the art that people would actually put up on their walls to make a room look more exciting. I would name people but I know full that whoever I say there will be some criticism of my choice. Art is very much enjoyed on a personal level and one man's Pollock is very much another's 3 year old painting baboon. I am that second man. Sigh.

Last night, when meeting my friend Jacqui, we definitely had 'banter'. To describe it as anything less would be insulting. I've known Jacqui for donkey's years (I am assuming that most donkeys are about 12 years old) and she is one of my favourite people to chat absolute shit with. Sure there was some actual chat in there, some life commentary and that, but there was also a lengthy discussion about how we would survive if the world was attacked by zombies, robots and natural disasters all at once. Through some careful planning, we have managed to create a fool proof plan, although should an earthquake open up the ground underneath us, we'd fail. Aside from that, we'd have a floating house in the middle of a lake (inland, no danger of tsunamis), that's anchored in place. The lake would have a 100ft moat around the edge allowing all zombies to fall in it and be trapped. The house would have its own EMP system to destroy all robots that managed to get through the lake in the first place, and we would travel around on jet skis to a small ramp that contained our armoured truck. I think you'll find we'll be fine. Start bidding for your place in our hella pad right now. That is banter. Right frikkin' there. I choose to maintain the use of this word in its correct and appropriate usage and when I choose to merely have a conversation, I shall do so. Until then zombies, robots and er, natural disasters, beware.

LIBYA

Ok so Gaddiffi is a bad guy. This is all very obvious. But at the same time, has no one learnt anything from the war in Iraq? This all feels like a terrible reprise of such events with already 64 people being killed over the weekend from missile strikes. The government are being very quick to say they don't want to hurt any civilians, whilst at no point confirming if that's who's died in the first place. Sure there have been an airstrike or two that have been cancelled due to civilians being spotted etc but I fear its only a matter of time before this caution is ignored. In the words of Han Solo 'I got a bad feeling about this.' If only Western leaders would realise that nearly everytime they create one of these monsters through arms deals and oil bidding, they have to remove them at the expense of innocent lives. Again that always seems to come second to getting money in their pockets. Well more fool them as when the robot zombie disaster apocalypse comes money will be irrelevant. Idiots.

So yeah, thoroughly depressing news that I'm finding it hard to make light of in anyway. The best so far I can do is to read every statement from the MoD as though it says Mod, and its being made by a 1960's ska fan in a pork pie hat. This doesn't work that much.

Terminal Problems

2011-03-20T16:39:00.003Z

I remember when Terminal 5 at Heathrow was about to built and many people protested about such happenings. There was rightful outcry about the damage it would cause to the environment, but also the noise pollution for nearby residents, traffic issues and various other problems. I thought very little of it at the time, but today, after picking up my brother's girlfriend from the said terminal, I am seriously thinking about starting up those protests again. Not for the same reasons by any means. No, it should be shut down on the sheer principle that nowhere should make it quite that hard to get to the 'pick-up' area. A veritable winding maze of barriers, car parks and exit signs that lead nowhere, its as though King Minos himself had structured such evil as a trap for his enemies. I followed the signs to the 'pick up' area twice and both times found myself somehow outside of the airport again. After the first time I was convinced this was me being a moron, unable to read the simplest of directions. But after the second time, I realised there was no alternative. Even asking a car park attendant which turning I'm meant to be taking when it clearly says 'pick up' area and leads you away from the terminal, was met by the response 'dunno.' I'm fairly sure there is no pick up area and its all an elaborate ruse to make me increasingly angry. It worked. Well done BAA. Despite the fact your name makes you sound like a corporation for sheep, you are far more clever than that.

Above all else, it also costs just to drive to the pick up area. £2.70 for 0-30 mins stay. Technically, if you've never been, you've stayed there for 0 minutes and we should all be constantly paying £2.70 for nothing. I'm glad we're not but I do feel that either they should stop being quite so evil or follow through with it properly. I'm just saying that none of these things need to be anywhere near as difficult as they are and yet somehow someone has decided that ease of use is not within the criteria for a functioning airport. As I finally gave up and parked in a bay diagonally as a mark of vengeance, taking out two other bays from use all at once, I noticed several other cars just aimlessly driving around looking upset. Many had the appearance of fear, perhaps worried they were trapped in an Escher painting or some sort of delusional hell. Finally driving away the car at the exit barrier next to me just stopped there for some time, perhaps trying to figure out if they'd have to loop the whole way round again or if maybe, they could just leave their family member or loved one to fend for themselves and get the train. How many jetlagged souls are still wandering around looking for their pick up, unknown to them that mere feet away, their pick up is looking for them with no means of meeting. Damn you terminal 5, I wish you'd never been built.

Deal With It

2011-03-19T17:46:00.001Z

Look I'm just too busy being dressed like this today to do a blog, ok? Yeesh.

Some Relief

2011-03-18T14:11:00.003Z

Twitter is swamped with Comic Relief pledges today and all across the UK people are doing silly things in the name of charity. Even the bank clerk at the desk today was wearing an Arsenal tshirt instead of the usual smart dress. At least I assume she was doing that for Comic Relief. Otherwise standards have seriously dropped. Either way it didn't seem to help her deal with the loony man who's sister was on Dragon's Den and insisted on telling us where its difficult to get Halal meat thanks to all the 'bloody Arabs'. I swiftly left. Anyway, in amongst all this charity goodness, I am doing a normal gig tonight. For money. Do I feel guilty? A bit. I haven't really done much for Comic Relief ever in my life. Today I've text donated a fiver and on Wednesday with my croaky voice I recorded some donation pleas for Radio 3's Red Nose Day airings. They originally asked me to do six of them, but after I rasped my way through the first one , they then decided I should do only three. I then did another one and they told me we were all done and I left, sniffling my way through Western House.

But other than that I haven't really done anything. I don't want to be a cynic as I'm sure Comic Relief does loads and loads for people around the world, but part of me sat at TV centre yesterday, watching as a large poster of Jack Whitehall was being plastered to the outside walls, wondering just why they need to go so over the top with everything. Let's Dance, for example, must cost a shedload to produce. While I don't discredit any of the acts that do it, as it all seems like a lot of fun, but I wonder how much money could be given to the charity if the cameras weren't hired, lighting turned off etc etc. Fair play if its all done at a loss, but sometimes I just question why people need so much encouragement to help others. Do we always need a plethora of celebrities to say 'stop children starving'? Does anyone ever need Chris Moyles on air for any length of time let alone 52 hours? I suppose its just a sad indictment of society rather than anything else.

Still, I feel I should probably contribute more. I have decided via Twitter that I will do various tasks if others donate. So far I've said that I'm meant to be in Bournemouth tonight with Josh Widdicombe and Roisin Conaty, but if someone donates over £2k then I will drive us to their town instead. No response. I will now state that if you donate £3k I will leave either Josh or Roisin at the 7th service station we pass, with no hope of ever getting to the gig on time. Get donating people, and by ruining a gig for people in Bournemouth you could be helping others around the world. Hmm. This seems slightly detrimental doesn't it? Ok. Maybe you should just donate what you like to who you like when you like. Or perhaps give an actual comic 'relief' and send me all your savings? If you like I'll then send you a letter every year telling you exactly what your money has been used for and how I'm doing. Plan?

Alternatively donate some dosh to Red Nose Day. I did it by text because I'm super lazy. I understand you can just text GIVE to 70011 to give a quid, 70005 for a fiver and 70010 for a tenner. Or turn on radio 3 and wait for me to tell you do it whilst seemingly gargling gravel.

Rambling Man

2011-03-17T16:25:00.003Z

Hello blog. You are being crowbarred into my day today in a way that were you a living being of sorts you'd probably find it difficult to breathe and when you finally got out would have uncomfortable cramps in odd places. It has been, as the last few weeks seems to be, another odd whirlwind of a day that, so far all in all, have revolved around me suggesting things and the suggestees saying 'no' to different degrees of politeness. I have, thanks to this line of work, become a master at handling rejection. From industry types that is. I still falter at such things from women unless I'm so tanked up on booze I can't notice, and I get very upset when Tiffany Stevenson's cat runs away from me as soon as I walk in the door. Aside from that though, you say no to this face and this face will totally take it. Like a weak, non-argumentative, self doubting Thomas. I always wondered why Thomas was so doubting. Tom who I live with is fairly doubting, but I have met a few others that definitely weren't. Its apparently based on the dude who didn't believe Jesus was back from the dead, but then, after seeing him, he did believe. I think that this means its not a great term for skeptics or non-believers due to his scaredy cat reforming at the end. I think Thomas should have stoically defended his point of view, hitting Jesus with sticks and treading on his toes until there was undeniable proof it was him, only to them turn around and say that its probably a look a like in a wig. That would be a true doubting Thomas. But instead, once again, a biblical character is praised once again for something that is, overall, a bit rubbish. Much like today being Saint Patrick's Day where a man is hailed for ridding a country that very likely never had snakes, from snakes. I feel that I should parade around the UK saying I have got rid of all the lions just so I can be a saint. Though knowing my luck, I'd be taken to the lions in the zoo and be told to get rid of them too, resulting in huge death in the face via lion paw/teeth.

What's nice is that today's 'no's were occasionally interspersed with some 'hmm's and a few, and very rare 'yes's, along with some stares, and general awkward silences. Its often that these meetings can feel somewhat like the very worst of Pinter plays. I haven't yet ever worked out how exactly how do these sorts of events and I wonder how anyone ever learns. Some people are easy, and you sit down, banter ensues, everyone's happy, you leave with a kick in your step and find out five weeks later they want nothing from you. Others seem more difficult at first and then two years later get you in for something. Then some just stare through your eyes into your soul, knowing full well your existence will be of little help to anyone ever. Now, at least, after being in this stupid job for several blue moons, it tends to be more and more the first two. Eventually I will just be able to work it down to the first option whereby I can constantly raise my hopes up high for at least a day or so, before wondering why it is I can't pay the bills again.

Actually, that paragraph was far too miserable. Truth is, stuff's all good, but that's dull isn't it? Essentially, as readers, you probably want to know about me battling lions or getting the plague or something that keeps it all gritty, don't you? Well, you're horrible. Why can't you just wish someone well for once? Meanies. Yeah. I said it. You all go out tonight, pretend you're Irish so you can drink more and we'll see who's enjoying themselves. Oh. Yeah, its you isn't it? Yeah, well you go and have fun. Go on. Manners.

I have no idea where today's blog is going. For your sake you'd better hope all these meetings come to nothing so that this blog can start to make sense again. What do you mean of course they'll come to nothing? Bloody doubting Thomas.

Cowboys and Doggs

2011-03-16T12:12:00.004Z

GRITTY TRUTH

Yes I know I'm light years behind the rest of the world but I finally saw True Grit last night. Thanks to a gig being cancelled due to a huge lack of attendance, the cinema called. Not literally, that'd be odd. It just felt like the next most sensible thing to do. Sure the entire reason I was heading to Edinburgh in the first place, and yes you wouldn't be the first person to point out that there are indeed cinemas in London near where I live. Sigh. Anyway, the fillum is amazing. I don't need to tell you that. You've probably already seen it, read it, seen the original, bought the tshirt and eaten the breakfast cereal. Which I assume, would be quite difficult to chew and rather tasteless. Much like grit. Its the first good Western I've seen in ages and after spending far too much of my time playing Red Dead Redemption last year I sat like an excited child watching Jeff Bridges in a stetson and eye patch shoot at things while saying cool stuff in old western speak. Much like most small people, I often liked the notion of being a cowboy, catching outlaws and generally shooting tins of beans off walls. But as the film progressed it dawned on me that I wouldn't survive 10 mins in the Wild West. I'm fairly sure my career as a cowboy would involve me falling off a horse for 9 minutes, then getting up and being shot by ol' Ned or someone with a similar name. If I made it past that, then generally sleeping in forests, having to ride a horse, or even just not washing very often would have me just lie down and wait for death rather than put up with it. I mean, this morning, in my very nice hotel in Edinburgh, I grumbled that the shower wasn't as powerful as our one at home. I'd be a dead cowboy. Dead in the face.

This now adds to the long list of things I thought of being as a kid that have now not become possible. Jedi - I have tried using the force lots of times and apart from waving my hand when I walk through automatic doors, it doesn't work. Astronaut - I think I'd throw up with the G Force. I can't handle particularly scary rollercoasters. Lion Tamer - If I was allowed a taser gun, yes. But I'd still stand outside a fence. An electric fence. Spiderman - I hate heights. I am going to start to tell all children I meet to get more realistic with their adult options to avoid disappointment. What's that little Suzie? You want to be stuck in a 9-5 in council job in an open plan office with people you don't like working on something that due to government cuts merely keeps nudging a tide of mostly pointless work that you'll be made redundant from within the year? Well done Suzie.

NATE DOGG

I was extremely sad to hear about the death of Nate Dogg this morning. I have banged on about my love of the hippety hop in this blog before, and have definitely mentioned my introduction into the genre being Snoop Doggy Dogg's Doggystyle at the back of 7H's science class. Nate Dogg being one of the collaborater's on that album, I have, over the years, taken for granted that deep voice bellowing G Funk over a Westside beat many a time. Sure he was often there mentioning that 'it ain't no fun if the homies can't have none' and other possible gang rape style lyrics, all of which were hugely wrong, but y'know, he sung them with panache. There are few others in the world that can sing about turning bodies cold and make you want to sing along without, at any point, questioning the fact that he's basically a murder. The more I'm writing this, the more I realise he sang bad bad things about terrible stuff. But I still thought he was awesome. You gotta have an exception to the rule haven't you? I'm currently listening to 'Lay Low' in tribute and let me tell you, that if anyone was going to warn you about needing to stay undercover for a while if you've been grassing up other g's, then it'd have been Nate Dogg and no one else. I would pour a sip of gin on the streets, but er, I don't like gin and I don't have any. Rest in peace.

TIME TO GET ILL

I still have a sore throat. This seems ridiculous now. I mean, I've done everything I can to make it better: whisky, beer, late nights, shouting at people down a microphone. Yet none of it, and I mean none of it seems to have made it better. Its just bizarre. I have to do a radio interview today. Expect it to be the sexiest interview I've ever done. Especially the sexy coughing and spluttering. That'll be real sexy. Or maybe I'll just sound tough? Like I got true grit? Or just like a coughing spluttering ill face. Sigh again.

ANDREW LANSLEY

If that many doctors are telling you the NHS reform won't work, and yet you're still going ahead with it, how can we trust your opinion on anything? These people know how to save lives, they are one of the most important group of people in the country and the way in which the foundations of our society works, yet you aren't listening? I really hope you get a seriously dangerous illness and choose to ignore them then too. God I hate the Tories.

Real Gigs

2011-03-15T12:10:00.002Z

It is wet in Edinburgh. Read that sentence with all possible surprise completely void from your tone. It is always wet in Edinburgh, its part of the nature of the place. I sometimes worry that locals would suffer from dehydration if it stopped being wet. I also rarely see them drinking water so I think its just absorbed through the air like plants do. It is a silly place. I do love it though and despite it being out of Fringe season I have already embraced it in exactly the same way ie with a lot of whisky and a great gig. The whisky was because I have now definitely all but lost my voice. I thought that as I have no option of resting it, the next best thing would be to drink hod toddies till either it comes back at full volume or I get drunk enough to not care. Sadly neither happened even with Rosie at the Stand's constant help but making it less and less a toddy and more a vat of booze with some hot water in. The efforts were appreciated by all but my throat and liver. I have decided that tonight I will just rasp my way through my set and the students at Edinburgh University will just presume I am either saying wise things or being decidedly jazzy.

The great gig however was just because it was at the Stand and the Stand is just one of the very best gigs ever. I was going to write about this sort of thing on Friday after doing one of the other very best gigs ever, The Comedy Cellar, in Bracknell, but it becomes more and more clear everytime I gig just what makes a room work quite so well. The Stand have it absolutely nailed. Lovely staff, care over who they book, rigid rules to stop bellends being in the crowd, low ceilings, proper lighting, good sound and great visibility of the stage pretty much wherever you are in the room. That's it. That's all you need. The Comedy Cellar similarly rocks in the same way. And the most important thing is that its run by people who care about comedy. The acts feel looked after so they perform better. The audience feel looked after so they behave and enjoy themselves. Consequently everyone leaves feeling like they've had a great night, albeit full of too much whisky.

It just strikes me as odd that people can't get that blend of things right. Its not that difficult. If a room isn't good for comedy, don't run a gig there. If you are setting out to exploit acts or audience, don't run a gig. If you don't have a mic or decent lighting, don't run a gig. There are about 600 more reasons why people shouldn't run gigs including 'if you just want to compere yourself despite no intention of learning how or ever writing jokes' and 'if you want to run a special night where comedy and live bands are mixed' as well as ' if you just want an avenue to meet people otherwise you will continue to just sit at home by yourself crying'. I'm all for people starting gigs, not least because it gives me more work, but I just wish people would realise how much hard work it is to do it properly and that that should be respected. If you ever consider doing so, make a trip to a good gig and see how its done first. Then run your gig miles away from theirs so its not in competition.

Last night was awesome in that way only a great gig can be. I got to watch some excellent new acts, spoke like a horse whisperer throughout and was repeatedly handed whisky by Rosie. There is little that can be flawed about such things.

Sorry, not a particularly funny blog today, but my funny efforts are being placed into other writing for the moment. They are filled with funny right now. Were you to even read a glimpse you'd laugh till you were unable to breath and then you'd die. This is why I'm not putting them here and I'm balancing out this blog with non-funniness so that I don't feel tempted to read my own stuff then die. Or you could also read that whole bit as 'I haven't written anything yet.' One of those is the truth.

On another note 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaay' (please sing) and on another note to that, my website has been remade all nice, new shiny and with lots of new clicky things (here's a tip, click on the pics of my many disguises for more captions than a man should write). Have a look and let me know your thoughts. About the website that is. Or just anything. Any thoughts are fine:

www.tiernandouieb.co.uk

Plane Sailing

2011-03-14T14:27:00.003Z

They say that there is a first for everything. This is, once again, another thing they say that makes you wonder why 'they' are allowed to ever speak their stupid minds. Of course there is a first for everything. Its how numbers work. If you did something having never done it before but discovered it was the second time this had happened then you would need to closely investigate the possibilities of you time traveling as a prank on your self. Of course firsts happen first. Today, I missed a flight for the first time ever in my life. Ever. The neurotic little man inside my shell of a neurotic little man is dealing with this whole occurrence far better than I had expected it ever would. It helps that there are other flights. This is one of the benefits of this here future that we're in, that flights happen all the blooming time. Sure it means the ozone is being destroyed, the environment is collapsing and terrible situations like what's currently happening in Japan are probably all directly linked to it, but I'm really pleased I can just hop on the next flight to Edinburgh for the neat sum of most of my life's savings. Actually that's not true. It was more money than I wanted to spend but for once, despite the ever sarcastic look on the man at the check in desks face as he informed me that as of 3 minutes ago they weren't letting anyone else onto the plan, Easyjet lived up to their name and sorted everything else out in a jiffy. That's an ancient parent type term for quick. I wasn't expressing that they handed me all documents in a padded envelope.

Oh and yes, 3 minutes is all I missed my flight by. That's it. Waking up this morning with a sniffly nose, and most of my voice whispering hoarsely in a way that only benefits me if I want to do a Tom Waits impression (its currently very good. Do ask if you see me. I won't do it for you. I'm not your performing monkey. Do ask anyway though. And I'll tell you to fuck off. Like Tom Waits would) today hurriedly seemed like it was against me. Cue rushing to Finsbury Park station on the slowest bus in the universe, only to find when I got there that I'd left my cash card at home, involving a journey back on the same bus, which now, having to do the route in reverse, seemed even more confused. Getting home I grabbed my card and my car - one was not a dyslexic mistake for the other - and drove like the wind on a stupidly small amount of petrol to Stanstead. The transfer bus from the parking place seemed to be driven by a relative of the earlier bus driver and when I finally made it I was 3 whole minutes too late. Was the plane still there? Yes they said. Was it boarding yet? No they said. Would I feasibly have time to get to it and on it without holding it up? Yes, easily. Can I check in? No. The logic of this completely evaded me. It felt as though I was being berated by someone who clearly missed out on school trips because they hit snooze on the alarm too many times and were now exacting their revenge.

I'm never late for anything. I have, what my friend Mat refers to, as an overdeveloped sense of urgency. This usually means I am places irritatingly early and bored out of my mind as a result. Even when I try my best to be on time or a tiny bit late, something will occur such as the bus driver being an F1 reject and I'll end up early again. So today there must be some misalignment of the stars, some cosmic entity messing things up or perhaps I'm just a bit full of a cold and slower than normal. Who knows? But now I can comfortably sit down, eat a Pret brownie and chill for 2 hours, I'm wondering if I should try this again soon. My flight back on Wednesday is very early. I could just get a later one. There's still time to have a first for missing a plane intentionally...

Pet Likes

2011-03-13T12:13:00.002Z

Its often said that people are like their dogs, yet watching Crufts this morning I can't see any of those pedigree owners running through hoops and allowing their fur to be curled in the way they force upon their pets. Its an odd idea of love when small animals that have little choice are groomed and trained so their normally lonely and otherwise pointlessly existing owners can project their own failures onto the successes of their canine friends. Saying that, its bloody entertaining and the flat has been filled with giggles as small dogs catch tennis balls or run through tunnels. I'm fairly sure that were dogs ever to exist as free animals in nature again that these wouldn't be their normal past times. Running through woods to find wild squeaky toys and savage rouge packs of pedigree chum. It strikes me as strange that someone one day decided that all their natural instincts were obviously wrong and these animals should really be bred to dance on two hind legs while their owner claps like a damaged seal. We had several conversations about what dog we'd get as a flat, but everytime it concluding with the possibility of Craine dropping things on it, sitting on it, not feeding it, setting it on fire or generally just preventing it from living for longer than a week. There was also an audible sigh of misery when the notion of having to walk such an animal was mentioned. I think its safe to say we won't be venturing into such pet based depths. A few days ago Tom mentioned the notion of fish, but again outside of wanting our home to become some sort of watery morgue, we have vetoed the idea. I'm starting to worry about if Tom and Nat ever have kids and how long it will be before it turns out they haven't been fed for 6 days and Tom keeps misplacing one in the fridge or behind the sofa.

An animal of a different kind, I went to watch Kid Koala last night. Ok, so he's not an animal at all, but I felt the need to create a link in this blog like I might do with a heap of material that doesn't quite fit together when I'm performing it on stage. Sure I could've just made separate headings but where is the challenge in that? Also I'm sure dogs and koalas are linked somewhere on the evolutionary scale. They both have eyes. I have been a fan of Kid Koala for years and years but haven't seen him live since about 2005 where I remember him scratching 8 different turntables at once, each playing a different jazz instrument, until combined it formed a whole new jazz piece. It left me more confused and in awe than seeing Derren Brown spontaneously combusting a goat with his mind. I haven't seen that, but I bet it would leave me pretty confused and in awe. Some people are highly cynical about scratch DJing but it's truly amazing art form when done properly. Last night I watched as KK mixed track after track, hip hop into Karen O, Somewhere Over the Rainbow into funk, creating whole new beats by mixing tracks together and all the while not wearing headphones. I could never be in tune with music like that and I would put it up there with watching a top class musician play a classical concerto or other equally amazing feats of instrument playing. And to top it all off, he was dressed in a koala onesi and made two people have a pillow fight to his beats.

The Electric, Polar Bear and Mr Thing all did amazing sets too, and drinking beers with my brother (who awesomely sorted tickets out once again. I sometimes feel that the brothers Douieb have worked things out perfectly by spreading our time between comedy and music. He gets me freebies for gigs and I er, hmm, tell him about comedy stuff...er...hmmm) and watching all this from upstairs at Koko, I realised I very much miss going to good live music gigs. Stand-up rather selfishly, happens at the same time as these things do and I think its mean that everything should be so night based. There isn't enough time in the world. Yesterday at the Comedy Club 4 Kids Stu Goldsmith asked a small child what she'd do if she had a clone and she said she'd send it to school for her. Amazing idea. I'd send mine to either do my comedy gigs or watch live music gigs and report back to me. I'd also use them to mess people up so after they speak to me and turn away I'd suddenly be standing in front of them again. Oh and I'd relearn breakdancing with them so we could do awesome synchronised moves. And I'd get them to try different beard and hairstyles so I didn't look like a dick if they went wrong. I totally want a clone. I feel this blog's gone off on a tangent I hadn't expected, but it's also occurred to me that better than a dog, fish or even koala, I might just get another me. Although I bet I'll come home to find Craine hasn't fed it and I'll find it all grubby and malnourished, sitting in the corner of the room and we'll have to leave it outside a pet shelter in a brown paper bag due to neglect.

End Of The World

2011-03-12T01:25:00.002Z

Starting your day by waking up, turning on the news and seeing the line 'Nuclear Reactor Emergency' is definitely one way of making you want to go back to bed. I don't want to appear over dramatic but it does all seem a bit like many of the disaster films I've watched over my lifetime what with the seemingly constant spate of earthquakes on the other side of the planet, the tsunamis and all the immanent destruction caused by it. If Jake Gyllanhal suddenly announces he's going to try and get on with his father better I will just give up and stay in bed. I worry that is what I'd do if the world was about to end. I've entertained the thought that I'd try and save people, survive by gathering supplies and digging a base underground, or even just cram in lots of things I've always wanted to do as quickly as possible. This would probably involved having several road accidents while I try and drive over ramps like a stuntman and through crates of watermelons, getting in a lot of trouble as I try to take a tiger from the zoo to take it for a walk in the park, and several women being sick as I hurriedly ask them out before everyone's face melts. It worries me that I was trying to write a really substantial list of things I'd have to do, but that's all I could come up with and I haven't even written about my desire to blow up a tower block using a T-Detonator like you used to see footage of. I presume if the world was ending doing something like that wouldn't help matters so I'd leave it be. But ultimately, based on this morning's slight panic, I'd not leave my bedroom, I'd play REM's 'End Of The World As We Know It' on repeat and generally just feel sad.

It goes without saying that everything that's happening in Japan is pretty horrifying. Watching the footage of entire buildings just being swept away is pretty hard to stop watching. Its so unreal I keep expecting some CGI beast to appear in amongst it and Nicholas Cage trying to punch it while acting badly. My brother knows lots of people over there, and despite never having met them I keep asking him for updates as to how they are. He's on Skype checking with them hourly, and luckily they live near the mountains and so seem to be safe. The world's such an ultimately small place now what with planes, the internet and teleporting - ok, not teleporting - its impossible to feel entirely detached from something even that far away. I just hope the quakes stop soon, the nuclear reactor calms down and the world realises we should probably stop using things that can only blow things up even more. I was hearing about a water powered radio on the radio last night and thinking the whole time about why, if such things can exist, we'd even bother with nuclear? So you can use something that already exists and at worst, you might get wet, or create an energy that if it all goes wrong we either turn to ashes akin to When The Wind Blows, or we all grow extra eyes, twelve legs and insect wings and spend the rest of our lives eating the young. It would nice to think that this sort of happening changes some viewpoints and we stop punching the environment in its face for a while so the world can calm down.

If the world was to end today, I'd make some point of telling the man that bought me a drink last night at my gig that I had to hide it and didn't drink it at all. He seemed like a lovely bloke and the drink was bought with full lovely intentions - him saying that he really enjoyed my set - but he had also not listened to me saying I wasn't drinking due to driving and completely ignored it. So I, like the overly paranoid over analytic man I am, decided he wasn't listening and it meant nothing. I hid the drink, finished my coffee and went home. I sometimes worry about myself that I can't just take these sorts of things as very nice compliments and get on with it. Saying that, I still would've hid the drink so it wouldn't have made much difference. To be fair, if the world was ending I doubt one of the last images that man would want is me appearing out of nowhere to tell him such things as everything sets on fire around him. Films never do that bit do they? Just as the hero is about to kiss his family goodbye, its never interrupted by someone looting, or a neighbour ruining the last speech by asking for their gardening shears back or any of the other behavior that would probably be active? I'm sure mine would involve me falling down the steps to our house in a really awkward way while everyone else on the street saw and laughed, then we'd die. It'd be just my luck. Hence why I think I'll just stay in bed.

On a final note, the new Elbow album ' Build A Rocket Boys!' is probably my current new favourite thing. It has been on constant repeat and the combination of such beautiful lyrics and incredible music has rendered me silent several times. Up to this day one of my favourite lyrics of all time is from Mirrorball from Seldom Seen Kid which says 'we took the town to town last night, we kissed like we invented it'. So simple yet absolutely poetic. I think the entire track 'Lippy Kids' from the new album has superceded that with every line. Just go get it. Before the world ends.

Looming Thoughts

2011-03-11T17:05:00.003Z

This blog isn't about weaving. Sorry weaving fans. Sorry Hugo Weaving.

Its early March and already this afternoon has been spent organising the whole of August. Its not the first time this year I've had to think about the 8th month of 2011, and nor will it be the last. Its all Edinburgh Fringe nonsense and once again it appears I will be attending the 24 day work fest, struggling with the lack of sleep, more than moderate booze intake and ridiculous levels of adrenaline that pile through me during my show's run. This year it seems that having not learnt anything from putting myself through the endurance test several four times before, I will be doing more than just one show. I tell myself there is some logic in this, involving the idea that the busier I am, the less time I can spend in the bar. Truth be told it will just mean I spend exactly the same amount of time in the bar but consequently feel even worse than normal in September.

Its amazing how something can be so exciting and yet fill me with so much dread all at once. Various people I've spoken to that tell me they aren't attending this year say it with a kick in their step and a smile on their face, knowing full well they might get the chance of actually seeing the sunshine during the summer and not riddling themselves with stress over the whole situation. Yet come August they will feel left out, missing the joy of sitting in the Pleasance Courtyard with a beer or loitering the Loft bar with a beer or just having a beer somewhere at some point. I think about all the work it will involve and I shudder a bit. I think about all the money it will cost and I shudder a bit more. I have to willingly stop thinking about it or risk shuddering continuously until I dislodge something permanently. Yet I'm hooked. I totally have to be there. Despite shuddering. Which will have to stop or I'll spill my beer.

Final confirmations need to be made, two shows need to be written and one needs to be booked, flats found, posters designed, costs paid, blurbs written and a new rain jacket bought. Eventually, one day, I'll get to have a sleep again. One day.

Strands

2011-03-10T15:51:00.002Z

Today's blog has two strands. Like if London was copied and pasted somewhere just alongside it wiping out Buckinghamshire or Essex or something. Probably something. The reason for this is because I would like to tell you all about Derren Brown's new show that I went to see last night but I'm not allowed. Its so awesome and mind fuckery that even revealing the slightest thing would ruin it for you and your face, so let it just be known that you should go and see it. I didn't take a tin foil hat with me yesterday due to a lack of time to prepare, so there is also a chance that if I try and remember it he's already put a mind block on me and my brain would fizzle out anyway. Instead of using literature to weave the ins and outs of the mind man's trickery, and yes I'm proud of that small collection of words I just put together, here is Strand 1:

THE MESSAGE

I have spent well over 20 minutes - and by that I mean about 23 minutes - recording a new answerphone message. I was pleased with the last one as it was recorded in a spur of the moment brain dump and caused many a nice response. Working along the lines of telling people to leave me a message or not leave me a message and leave me in a constant state of enigma and paranoia as to who called and why, it struck a chord with many a folk. By that, I mean by the first call they sniggered and by the second, third and consecutive rings (everyone calls the T more than once to hear my dulcet tones. Fo sheezy) they were immensely bored, felt it went on too long and stopped leaving me messages going entirely against the point of my message. This had clearly got on some people's nerves more than others and today Brett sent me an email with his own suggestions of voicemails I could record just so I wouldn't have that one anymore. So, to rile the message Nazi, I spent some time trying to record a long tale about the discovery of the 'beep' in my best old wise man film voice (think John Hurt, Ian McKellen etc) over the Tron Soundtrack. It now goes on for ever and I am immensely proud. Brett likes it, but give him a week and it will grate. Martyne left me a message saying 'you are a numpty'. More will fall. Or I'll just change it in a week's time. I feel all of this is a perfectly reasonable way to waste a large portion of my afternoon when I should be working.

And now, Strand 2:

ALL ABOARD...THE NIGHT BUS

There is general consent that getting the night bus is a stressful event in one's life. Many a time I have been unfortunate to be sitting next to vomiting, shouting weird people all crawling their way onto the only means to drag their damaged selves home after a solid night of enjoyment. Then there are the eventide preachers who want you to know that God is coming, has been, once popped by or generally has lost all care. Sometimes you might be really lucky and just get the dangerous types who fight each other or someone else until the bus stops, and kicks everyone off so now you have the fortune of being left on the side of the street with said dangerous people which is far worse than the confines of a bus.

And now, after nodding your head along to all the stereotypes that I've just portrayed of the nightime transport crew like it was a McIntyre style observation, discard them all again as I am about to blow your judgemental minds. Here's a bit of a secret, so hush hush now. Despite my oh so glamorous lifestyle of living in a house filled with mould and Tom, eating out of service stations and playing in clubs where the backroom is toilet behind the stage, I do often get nightbuses. I know, I know. It must be a shock for all you 'normals' that I don't get chauffeur driven around by a man named 'Alfred' or have my own helicopter, but that's because I like to keep it real, and stay down with the kids and other phrases that are nothing but patronising to teenagers. Generally, I like them. Yes indeedy. I like the nightbus and last night was a prime example of exactly why they be the metal steed of the dark.

After a superb evening of mind messing and a much fun train ride home where myself and my friend and Derren ticket giver Corrie, ate enough cheese puffs to make a horse sick, I found myself at London Bridge many minutes after the last tube had gone. Waiting at a bus stop in the cold to be delivered an hour away to Muswell Hill by the wondrous 43, I saw a woman carrying a huge double bass struggling to look at the bus times. I decided that despite the possibility of seeming creepy at 1am by a bus stop that I would help her out, give her the information needed and then have a chat because I my phone battery had died and I was bored. Conversation struck up in seconds and it turned out she is one of the premiere female double bass players in the country, rocking her giant string instrument across the land with various groups. Amazing. It occurred to me that anyone with a less exciting job would probably not be waiting at a night bus stop at London Bridge at 1am in the morning on a Wednesday. Myself excluded of course. Much brilliant banter ensued including the notion of her using her double bass as a giant guitar like a reverse ukulele, and the idea of a real life Winzip so she wouldn't have to carry around an instrument that was the same size as her everywhere she went. Conversation made time fly and the bus finally arrived.

Niceties on a night bus you say? Well that wasn't all. During the journey it became apparent our driver was a hero of a high moral degree. Firstly berating a man to the joy of the other passengers because he had been rude as he got on the bus, the driver hit a peak when a man stumbled out of the doors, into a wall, smacked his head on some steps and fell over. Driver dude started to pull away, then quickly stopped and began to race out of his own bus to see if the man was ok. I said I would check so he wouldn't have to leave his till etc unattended and hopped off to find a very drunk man with a very sore head who assured me he was fine. I told the driver and he made some quips about him waking up tomorrow with 'two heads' which I think was an insinuation of the size of the bump he'd get rather than some sort of terrible freak genetic accident. Then we chuckled one of those chuckles you might see in a heartwarming drama about the North, and he drove us home.

I was tempted to stay on board till Barnet to see what else might happen, but I like to think that as I hopped off at my stop he went on to stop someone being mugged and rescued a kitten from a tree. All hail the night bus driver! May he continue to work anti-social hours for the benefit of society for ever more.

Sans Tin Hat

2011-03-09T10:15:00.002Z

Day three of Tiernan's slow descent into hallucination via lack of food or rest. Today is a barnstorm of different things that I somehow need to slightly adjust my brain before each one. This sort of talk sounds like I've gone properly bonkers, but I do feel like I need to have a different mind set to work on say kids comedy, than for adult comedy. Or to work on sketches or write a script. I'm not capable of just flitting between them all. This is probably because I'm a tool. And not a useful too like a drill. One that sits in B&Q that no one really knows what it does and they occasionally sell just one to someone who's curiosity evades them, the try and fix a cupboard it, break the cupboard and it sits in a box under the stairs for ever more. Or it could also be because they do in fact need different mindsets. I'm getting better at doing several different comedy things in one day, but I fear that one day I will just implode into a 12 personalities freak who stands there shouting things about bogies to adults while swearing at kids and constantly being in character as a man in a wolf suit. What's extremely worrying about today is that I'm doing kids stuff first, then adult stuff, and then I'm off to my annual Derren Brown excursion in Brighton where no doubt he'll wipe my mind and I'll be back at square one again anyway.

I haven't got time to prepare for seeing the Derren this eve. No foil hat making can happen, so I will be at full mind violation risk probability. With my frail state of tiredness and mental disarray its highly likely that this could be the worst mistake in the world. Tomorrow's blog could be all about me drinking a pint of vinegar then walking on glass because he said so. Or worse, it'll just be blank as I fail to remember anything at all, let alone how to type. Yes, I'm scared. A bit. Saying that, if my mind is wiped I'll probably have to spend several days in bed while other people help me eat stuff? Hmm. I mean tweet him now with a subtle proposition. For brain wiping that is. Not marriage. I'm not sure how anyone could ever marry Derren Brown. Though I suppose if he decided he wanted to marry you, you'd have little choice. I bet he has a harem of mind washed man wives just wandering around his mansion, all of whom are unable to see each other, while Derren sits in his chair shaped like a crystal ball, only with a bit cut out otherwise he'd just slide off.

See? I'm clearly still bonkers. Just. Need. To. Get. To. Sunday....

Last note: Yesterday's Fat Tuesday was actually on a Fat Tuesday which was all very exciting. It was made more exciting by the excellent sets from Jay Foreman, Danielle Ward, Foil, Arms & Hog and Greg Davies. Go see all of them all the time. Hurry up.

Thumb Wars

2011-03-08T16:12:00.002Z

Another iPhone blog today and once again I tap my way towards an arthritic right thumb that will have very few life benefits bar being able to never lose at thumb war through default of joints not working as they should. I dont have small hands - they are of reasonable man hand size, and able to feasibly grip a hefty orange in each with room for finger movement should such a situation ever be necessary - but my days of thumb war fighting never really took off the ground at school. I put this down to being a lover and not a fighter and the difficulties that occurred when asking to play thumb love. However it's more to do with my low tolerance for pain and thumbs that bend quicker than spoon that loves Uri Geller. I often dream of getting an iPad, watching today, again for the umpteenth time, someone I'm working with just playfully whizz their digits across a virtual book. I have no need at all for such things. I have real books. I have a phone. I have a computer. There is nothing such a device could provide me with that I need in my life apart from an overwhelming feeling of smug that would be neutralised by the knowledge that I had bought something that is essentially useless yet expensive. Oh and some thumb relief. Ill have to get one.

It's pancake day today and I'm pretty sure I won't get to eat any. I didn't last year or the year before and it appears to be a running theme in my life that despite naming my comedy club after such an event I am no longer allowed to celebrate it. Then again I suppose it's fair in that I do choose to fully embrace the scoffing of sweet and savoury crepe delights whilst entirely ignoring the next however many days of Lent. That's how I roll. Like someone who has absolutely no regard for religion at all. Sure I'll take Christmas, pancakes & Easter but you try and get me to give a shit about Whitsun Day or whatever it's called and I'll show you the door. You won't be that impressed by the door and we'll probably both question why I'd let you in in the first place, before I put it all down to taking metaphor too far about a day I'm not even sure is religious anyway and will know better for next time. I'd still just really like some pancakes.

It was another day with small children today and I have heard endlessly about how many pancakes they have had or will be having. One boy told me all he ever ever eats are pancakes, before then telling me other things he eats. These are the sorts of things that are important to children and we pretend dont matter as much in later life but they could see in my eyes I'm jealous. I'm jealous of the pancakes, I'm jealous of them being able to pretend to be Jedi's all day, and I'm jealous that they can talk absolute nonsense for hours about going to the moon with their sister and people would still sit next to them on a nightbus. I think that growing up is hugely overrated. Saying that, kids aren't allowed iPods so it's all relative I guess. If I ever see a kid with an iPad, shit will indeed go down.

I will finish today's blog here. Not just for thumb's sake but also for brain's. This week has been so busy I fear that until Sunday this blog will continue to descend into incoherent babbling. In many years to come I'll be able to look back on it and think 'wow I wrote some real shit'. More of that same shit tomorrow.

Puppet Master

2011-03-07T15:35:00.004Z

There comes a time in a 30 year old man's life where he needs to take a long hard look at exactly how things are panning out for him. After today where I appear to have been beaten in the art of sock puppet crafting by six 4 year old children, I think today is that time. Dont get me wrong, my puppet Rufus is a dude, sporting a green Mohican and a thin green beard & moustache, atop a red & black striped face and huge goggley eyes. I'd add a picture but im restricted to iPhone blogging today and I cant work out how. But he also has a lopsided mouth as though victim of a serious stroke and various, rather ominous, dried glue stains. None of the children's puppets had either of these things. The princess was perfectly made, the policeman looked great and even the, er, manmum mumman looked like it had had more than two hours taken over it and hadn't been repeatedly slapped beardless into a table.

Much like Friday, I can't tell you much about the work I'm doing this week, but it does involve such puppet antics and small children, both of which have entertained me enough to temporarily forget I haven't had enough sleep to cope with the noise levels that the combination of these two things create. Highlights so far have included the children standing in a row & introducing their puppets: 'Hi I'm Millie!' 'Hi I'm George!' 'Hi I'm Jedi Alien Warrior Luke Skywalker with a lightsaver!' There then followed 10 minutes of arguments between two of the boys as to whether it was a lightsaber or a lightsaver that I couldn't intervene on as I was laughing too hard.

I didn't need to be there toad but 'conveniently' popped in so I could make my own puppet & hopefully learn a few tricks. I'd put the Muppets and Sesame Street as an influence on my humour way before any comedian had a chance to introduce me to concept of jokes, and even at the age I am now, I'll giggle like a kid at almost anything the Swedish Chef, Dr Bunsen and Beaker or Animal does. So now being able to stick my arm in Someone's old hosiery, give it a gruff voice & have banal chats with children about being a punk rocker or punk soccer as I prefer. There is a small part of me that would like to send every teacher that ever put on my reports that I doodled and chatted too much a small video of everything I do now to earn a living with the 'haha I win' written underneath.

Not that I had many if any of those teachers. I was fairly good at school and would generally cause bafflement by talking and doodling all the way through class but then producing finished work before the end. This meant they couldn't complain I wasn't doing my work and instead resorted to blaming me for other people not finishing theirs. My argument that I couldn't be guilty for their lack of mental capacity was often ignored in place of a detention. Sigh.

Like everytime I type a blog on my tPhone, my thumb is giving in around now. Let it just be known that Rufus is safely in my bag for a possible appearance at Old Rope tonight if I can think of a joke, and that yesterday I played Quirkle for the first time and won at Quirkle. This makes me, and my companion in Team Awesome, Lyndsey, are now undefeated Quirkle champions. I will never play again on principal. Or any other member of school staff. HA! Bye.

Death Of The tPod

2011-03-06T12:18:00.002Z

My iPod died for what appears to be the final time yesterday. Its currently sitting on my desk making gurgling fizzing noises that shouldn't be coming from a robot sinking into a swap, let alone a piece of music technology. Tom has just asked me if I'm playing Aphex Twin's new album. It's done this many time, as previous blogs have well noted, but each time I've managed to resuscitate it using a number of tricks and when I say tricks I mean looking at things on the net, rebooting it, and crossing my fingers at the same time. But yesterday in the car as I tried to play 'King Of Limbs' for the fifty billionth time through the stereo, it started doing its mechanical stroke noises and displayed a large red circle with a cross in it. Not at all dissimilar to the X-Men logo and I was temporarily led to believe I had a mutant pod which is why it had previous healed itself. I had all sorts of notions of cranking it up to play some Ice Cube or Rage Against The Machine so it would go into a Wolverine berserker fury, or some Daft Punk so it shoot lasers from its 'i'. Sadly, it just croaked some more and died. Then I was left with Radio 2 for company until I picked up Robert White to take to our gig.

I'm all for Radio, Radio's the 2 and the 6 being my favourites. Its just that I am unable to switch track when they do play something shit. Or talk too much. Or have some sort of phone in with morons. Or the reception goes funny. Or they don't play 'King Of Limbs' six times in a row. I hate radio and I honestly don't know what I'm going to do without my iPod, or, as I renamed it, the tPod. See? I even named it? Its been with me around the world. I bought it in the Greenwich Village Apple Store in New York and since then it has provided me with amazing music at the best of times. At the worst of times its snuck on a track from one of my ex-girlfriend's iTunes so that suddenly while in the car with friends or other comics, Avril Lavigne bursts out and ruins everything. I mean bursts out of the stereo musically, not actually bursts out. I think that would be surprising and possibly more enjoyable than any of her whining poptastic tunes. But ignoring those moments, its given me running music, driving music, tubing music, holiday music and even sometimes just sitting music when other people around me are being boring. I've managed to ignore so many inane conversations on the bus, I once avoided getting mugged because it was on too loud and only noticed someone shouting at me after they'd tried to grab my shoulder once I was too far away. At the same time its nearly got me run over as I blasted music at top volume while crossing the road in the rain, hood up, unable to see to the side or hear beeping. Ok, so that wasn't just the tPod. It was a collaboration to kill me with the hood. That hood's influenced a lot of people in evil ways. That's why people raised in the hood are pretty violent. HAHAHHAHAHAHAAH. Sorry.

Sure I could go buy a *shudder* iPod touch, with its limited memory, inability to be dropped on the floor quite as hard when drunk and general expensiveness. Sure I could put music on my tPhone even though the OCDness in me can't really cope with using the device I have as a phone for music too. Also that means I can't listen to tunes and play with my phone at the same time. Its a whole can of shitty iPodless worms. I want my classic back. I want to occasionally wipe half of it, realise I don't have the songs on my iTunes to put them back on, and my CD drive of my Macbook is broken and then spend ages missing all those songs on a long journey. I want to annoy people by insisting they listen to something I have on my tPod that they don't have, proffering them an earphone that's been stuck in my lughole for most of the day. I want to be able to play DJ Hazard's 'Machete' as I race through a train station or the Tron Soundtrack as I go anywhere so that everything seems more exciting. But instead I am reduced to a life of real noise. I'll miss you tPod. I'll miss you and your small wheel of joy. Sob sob.

On another note, I was in Poole last night at the Lighthouse Arts Centre. Its easily the very best gig in the area. Great venue, truly lovely crowd and much much fun was had yesterday even though nobody wanted me to do any political material. I also met two Twitter followers, Jon and Lisa, in the real world. I like this. If you do follow me and are at a gig, please do actually come and say hello. It's much better than me just assuming you are a bot employed by the Matrix to get my guard down. True story.

Slammin'

2011-03-05T12:30:00.004Z

Telly's oh so glamorous people say. That's what they say they do. Its the life of fame, fun and other things beginning with f, like er, femur, and fromage. Maybe not those things. Anyway, today's blog, much like the oh so shocking (please read this in as sarcastic a voice as possible. Wow, you're good at that) open letter to the Daily Star editor by its ex-journalist stating he was forced to write lies. What do you mean? You mean its lies? You mean to say that all those incredibly ludicrous and in no-way believable stories about celebrities that no one really cares about, weren't true? Well I am, to say the least, flabbergasted. Next you'll be telling me that children's fairy tales aren't truth and that Sooty isn't an actual bear. Jeeesus, people. Seriously. Also the fact that Richard Peppiatt seemed to hand his open letter over first to the Guardian, suggests that all the bigots who read the Star will never see it anyway and their racist, bullshit filled equilibrium will never be shattered. Waste. Of. Everyone's. Time. True story. Unlike most of his.

Back to the hood of things, as someone cooler might say, I did some telly yesterday. Yes. Moi. Some actual tellybox work. I won't say what its for as I can't give too much away, but here's a picture of my dressing room sign, which gives it all away:

But it's not going to be screened till September so I can't tell you anything about who else is on, even though they were all awesome, especially the Capoeria dancers, the Irish hand dancers and the snowglobe ballet dancers....oh, er...oops. No more. I shan't reveal no more. Even though none of you are 8 years old and probably won't see it anyway. First and foremost, this isn't really an expose on anyone or anything at all. Everyone working on that show is bloody lovely. Absolute truth. Its a real joy to be doing filming work with people that will happily have a giggle about stuff and never seem too stressed or demanding even when everything's running over time. Meeting Ted Robbins, who plays the Governor, was ace, and I heard some excellent stories about the old school world of comedians such as Les Dawson and Ken Dodd. A truly lovely and very funny man, he was asking me what the circuit was like today and we swapped a few tales of differing worlds, mine now sadly far more filled with people who've seen it on the telly and think they can earn money from it, than those with actual joy for the job. Then again, mine is also not as filled with people stealing each other's jokes or being racist. Swings and roundabouts.

What I wanted to say though was, for everyone out there who thinks telly is a riot, well its not. A riot is a riot. That's why it's called a riot. It'd be very confusing if we heard the news on our riot about police being called to stop a television. I'm not saying it wasn't fun yesterday, but arriving at 9am and finishing at 7.30pm is a long long day. 'Some of us work that everyday' say you, you who do such things. Yeah, but I bet you actually work those hours. Whereas I spent a lot of those hours, ironically for a show about a prison, being contained within my dressing room, doing nothing. Oh sure I could've gone outside, but you might have noticed, the Brits, that things are stupidly cold for March. Stupidly cold, like the season have got confused or like some far fetched possibility that humans destroying the planet for centuries is actually having a direct impact on the weather. So I stayed in my room, by the radiator, fashioning a bed out of a few chairs and a small coffee table, and tried to snooze. Again, you are probably complaining that this doesn't sound stressful in anyway, but as much as you try to actually rest, you know you might be called up to do your bit at any minute. So you don't actually rest at all. You just sit there, not working or doing anything else incase you forget the bit you're meant to be doing for the telly, and in the end just exhaust yourself through doing nothing.

This is, of course, probably not what seasoned professionals do. Me not being at all covered in salt and pepper - HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA - did just that. I also assume that when it's warmer outside that everyone swan's around in the sun, upsetting make-up as they get redder by the minute and need re-doing, and the production runner pulls their teeth out trying to find out where everyone is. Of course, when you see it on telly, none of this waiting around will be evident. Except for the bit where I nearly forgot a line. Which hopefully will be edited out. Or the bit where a child said I was 'rubbish'. Sigh. Still I got to keep my make-up on after I left completely by accident and managed to fully experience just how horrible it must feel for all women and make-up wearing men everywhere who have gunk on their fizzog till they get home. But I sure did look real purty.

I'll be sure to shout all over the net when its going to be on and I honestly can't wait to do such things or work with such a lovely team again. Although next time I'll bring a book.

Tonight I'm in Poole. I just thought you should know.

Crumpets and Crummy People

2011-03-03T23:43:00.003Z

This blog is pre-written. I point this out every time I write a pre-written blog that unless you have some sort of super internet that means you can see each letter as I type it, it will always always be pre-written by the time it gets into your eyes and is shat out into your cerebral cortex only for you're brainial lobes to wonder why on earth you'd punish it in such a way. Oh dear, this is what happens when I log before I go to bed rather than at a time of day when my mind is still fresh. So far this evening I've done a gig in a room that I wasn't sure would work then totally worked and shouted things at Question Time. Oh and I bought some crumpets. However that last one won't be making the final cut of this blog so just ignore it, or revel in the knowledge that tomorrow morning when I wake up at stupid o'clock or normal time as you regular types call it, my choice of breakfast is secured. Mmm mmm crumpets. I bloody love crumpets. Whenever a woman is described as a thinking man's crumpet I wonder if that means a non-thinking man just has a crumpet for their crumpet? I like to assume I think a fair amount and yet tomorrow if someone offered me a hot woman covered in butter and marmite or a crumpet for breakfast, I'd probably take the latter. Oh I'd seriously consider the former, but I will be in a rush tomorrow and I'm not sure the breakfast lady would provide me with the carbohydrates I'd need for the rest of the day. Ah, who am I kidding? I'd totally take the former, then starve and survive on biscuits at the expense of a bigger sexual appetite than actual one. Stupid life. I hope that choice is never offered for fear of diabetic repercussions.

In fact I didn't really want to dwell on any of it. The gig was nice, fact, and it was wrong of me to judge it in anyway before I went on as I do with so many other gigs. Its become staple now to assume a show won't work unless it has the absolute proper lighting and sound system, but the crowd were so lovely that it didn't matter. I discarded with the mic like a thespian twat, and proceeded to project my voice in a way that I do all the time to the annoyance of most, but especially Adam Bloom. Its something I was taught to do at weekend drama classes as a kid - yes, I went to those. Yes, judge me all you like - and also sort of did from a young age anyway. I think it's my way of overcompensating for my small stature and squeaky voice by being able to send it to the far reaches of a room against all wishes of the people within it. This has, in its time, been useful. As a waiter in my uni years I could bellow things across a noisy room, and when I have actually done shows acapella, there has rarely been a moment where those paying attention were missing out. Alternatively, several car passengers of mine have gone deaf as have a lot of call centre workers. Its not great. So yeah, top gig, lovely crowd, much fun was had.

Whereas Question Time forced me to side with Ian Duncan Smith temporarily as he said it was correct to disallow two parents the right to foster if they were homophobic. This was met with the oddest of responses from a series of twats including and primarily David Starkey the League of Gentlemen character who made a point of saying that as a gay man he felt some homophobia was necessary. This leads me to believe that if he's willing as a gay man to accept that prejudice then there should be some agreement across the nation for all homophobics to direct their horrid name calling towards him and allow all the other homosexual individuals in the UK to get on with their lives without fear of social segregation. To cut it short: he's a twat. This was then backed up by another twat from the UN and Liam Hallegen from the Telegraph. You know its a panel of utter dicks when you have to side with the Tory minister. Very sad times. Thank god for Dimbleby being the sole force of good amongst them.

My main gripe once again though, as it always is with these sorts of situations, was the constant passing of blame. 'Oh it isn't our fault, it's the last governments' repeated over and over again regardless of which government came before them. Its a well know phrase that when the party in charge does something well its their doing, but when its done badly, its all to do with the previous cabinet. Its a nasty predicament when your country is run by the adult equivalent of playground children. There was a moment when it was pointed out that Blair sold weapons to Gaddifi and many New Labour MP's made links with Libya in previous years despite their dictator's dangerous potential. Yes they did and its fucking awful. But at no point was it mentioned that this current government have also sold them weapons, as the did the Tory government before them. Its a money making industry and as always rich people being able to sit in their jacuzzi farting out bank notes will be a priority over the lives of others. Stop blaming each other and care about humanity please. Bunch of arseholes. Grrr. Rant over.

That is what Question Time does to me. It's odd. It never used to maintain interest in my life at all. In fact the only real important QT moment in my entire life until a few years back was when I saw a video of my friend Pat asking a question while he had long hair and Dimbleby referred to him as the 'lady at the back'. Hilarious! So its clear I've grown up since then. Though I'd still find watching that hilarious. Haha they though Pat was a lady. Brilliant.

Oh god. I really hope those crumpets get me through tomorrow.....

Reasons To Not Blog

2011-03-03T13:25:00.003Z

I am not blogging today for these reasons:

- I am meant to be prepping hard for a full days filming for a CBBC thingy tomorrow. More news on this soon and no doubt a pre-written blog tonight as I won't have time in the morning, or the capacity for using my fingers and brain at the same time to type anything when I wake up at 6am. True story. However, despite me really needing to work on something I really really want to work on, I am consistently procrastinating with 101 other things such as this non-blog blog, Twitter, various emails, making myself an egg bread sandwich (this is something I learnt from a TV show when I was a kid. No, I'm not sure which one, nor how old I was, but it's been an occasional time wasting breakfast ever since. What you do is use a glass to cut a circle of bread out of a slice of toast, then you pop it in a frying pan, and crack an egg inside the bread. Then the egg fries into the bread like a beady toast eye of yolky joy. Awesome times. Tom says I experiment with food in the same way the Nazi's experimented with humans.) and spending far too long working out what music I should listen to while I work. So far its gone from the XX, to the Gil Scott Heron and Jamie from the XX album to Fat Freddy's Drop. I haven't done any work so far. I worry these are all bad choices. I will have to do more research.

- I want to write about my fears that Rupert Murdoch is taking over the world - today's announcement that conveniently after he has sponsored the government with heaps of money and advocated all their raping of everyone but the very rich, he now, completely by coincidence, is allowed to buy all the rest of BSkyB which means he is going to own an incredibly large portion of the world's media. Does this not worry anyone? I've read 1984 and it strikes me as only a matter of time before such a man owns every channel, entirely dictates what we see, and therefore can sway the public knowledge in whatever way is needed. A bit like how China operate. Next we'll have thought police and I'll get in trouble on regular occasion due to a stupid wandering imagination. My only hope is that as he becomes more and more like a Bond villian or Lex Luthor in Superman or the Kingpin from Marvel, that someone of the exact opposite nature will take him down and he'll die in an overly elaborate way involving laser sharks or being fired into space - but I haven't really researched it enough to type anything about it.

- I would like to tell you all about how good Keith Farnan's show 'Sex Traffic' at the Soho theatre was last night, and how since Edinburgh he's added lots of lovely stories about situations bits of the show have put him in with angry punters - but having several drinks beforehand and few after and then running to meet the Los Quattros Cvnts lot for a drink with them after their mega show featuring Al Murray, means I don't really have the capacity to do so. Nor can I comprehend telling you that you Keith is on at the Soho Theatre every night till Saturday so go along as its ace. Tickets are here:

KEITH FARNAN - SEX TRAFFIC - SOHO THEATRE

So yeah, ahem. No blog today. Sorry.

Say Argh

2011-03-02T13:07:00.004Z

I have to go to the dentist today. I don't necessarily fear the dentist, despite having seen Marathon Man at least three times, but I do really dislike having to keep my mouth open for that long while people prod things into it. Yes, you can now make a noise like Kenneth Williams. However, it isn't ever a nice thing to do. Yes, I maintain a job that mostly requires me opening my gob and making stupid noises, but when the best laugh to can emit is from a man in a mask when you accidentally swallow some of that horrible pink mouthwash, you don't really feel like you've got the gratification you've been seeking. My least favourite bit is when they just get a pointed metal thing and poke it in your gums. T this day I've never really understood what that does other than allow a wannabe Guantanamo torturer the maximum enjoyment allowed from such antics before he's arrested. So now my whole day is geared towards this half an hour in a chair with bright lights shining in my eyes and someone poking at my teeth with all the care of a tunneler trying to break through a blockade.

I don't want to garble or perhaps gargle on about the state of my dental hygiene (which by the way I think is ok. I have, in the last few months tried to understand the benefits of flossing. As yet, there appear to be none. It serves merely to garrote your own flesh until it bleeds and then you have to brush your teeth again. Why anyone would recommend this is beyond me. Unless of course you work on my theory of dentists enjoying others' pain) so instead I will do a small time warp and tell of an eve that happened to me some time ago and I don't believe is in the world of blog due to it happening at least two months before I started this endless tirade of words. I was reminded of such a thing today when I did an interview with Amazing Radio who are an excellent Newcastle based digital radio station who promote new music, which is a great thing. Thanks to them I have discovered a band called Daughter who I'm now slightly hooked on. Hunt them down, put them in your ears now. Not literally. I don't think they'd like that. Anyway, the lovely presenter Georgie, unaware that I had been awake for only mere minutes and didn't have a thinking head on in any way, asked what the highlight of my career so far was. I am terrible with these sorts of questions as while there have been many brilliant moments, until I get to have a pet tiger, get the moon named after me and be able to command a robot army, I won't believe there has been a highlight. So I fumbled about supporting Jim Jeffries and a few other gigs, bits and pieces, until Georgie very brilliantly reminded me of the time I had to follow Robin Williams.

Yes. That Robin Williams. The Robin Williams. I had to follow him. Its amazing how easily I forget something like that, but it was so surreal that its fairly easy to convince myself it didn't happen. It was in Oct 2008 at the excellent Outside The Box Club in Kingston. I knew Robin was trying stuff around London to prepare for doing Prince Charles's 60th Birthday gig, but didn't realise he was going to be there that night. I arrived ready to go on first, only to be told that Zoe Lyons was on first and I'd be going on later. That was absolutely fine with me. Then Zoe went on, they had an interval, and during that interval Omid Dijali and Al Murray appeared to go on in the middle section. Again, slightly flustered by such things but I had met and worked with both of them before. Then however a big black car pulled up outside and quite discreetly Robin Williams walked in, followed by a much less discreet entourage of about 8 people dressed like the Men in Black. I would have to be following all of them.

Backstage Robin was amazing. Despite being star struck by people far less globally famous, Robin was so friendly and the whole situation was so odd that it was easy to have a chat with him. He told me a lovely tale of having to follow an act who was huge in New York at the time while he was an unknown and how he'd been terrified but it'd been great and he made me feel ok about the whole thing. Maff then went onstage to announce 'give it up for Robin Williams' which created a reasonable applause that erupted into mania when they realised it was 'the Robin Williams'. He went on and tore the place apart for 15 minutes. It was amazing to watch. He then walked off stage, said goodbye to everyone, and got back into his car followed by the MIB's. The interval passed and I stumbled onstage, mentioned something about having some pretty good warm up acts that night, and went on to have a truly amazing gig due to the energy that had been created. Truly mad and very special indeed. So yeah, I guess that was a highlight.

I'll be thinking of that as I'm asked to say 'aaaaaaa' for the 12th time and praying at no point I'm asked 'is it safe?' Bloody dentists.

Too Cruel For School

2011-03-01T16:13:00.003Z

Sometimes I worry about how much I've indulged zombie literature, films, media and survival tactics against the undead in general over the last few years. Sure its all been fun and should an undead apocalypse happen I feel that I'd probably survive a good deal greater than those who have no idea of the best household implement to use to attack a zombie's brain or haven't already scoured their nearby area for best hiding holes, food supplies and fuel. At the same time, while all of this may well be the reason I end up being humanities last saviour (this is unlikely in general. It will probably be Craig Campbell), it is also hugely unhealthy to have all these sorts of thoughts as you are sitting on a W3 and there are what seems to be hordes of riotous schoolchildren outside all trying to sneak on the bus, bang on the windows and generally cause mayhem in a way that would make the walking dead seem mostly tame. As the bus pulled into its stop at the bottom of Ferne Park Road, a swarm of heads atop black and white uniform piled in through all possible doors, as I sat at the back of the bus and all I could think to myself was that if I knocked the heads off the three nearest to me to clear a path, I could then throw the child sitting next to me into the middle of them as bait while I pushed open the emergency door. Failing that I could throw the child next to me into them first, then kick out the back window and escape round the side of the bus. Or as a last resort I could use the child next to me as a battering ram, charge directly into them hoping my speed and violence would help me to avoid getting marked or scarred in way so that I too didn't turn into an obnoxious teenager, then make my way to the top of the bus where I could break out of any window, leap onto the bus stop below, scream 'This is Sparta!' for the sake of it and sprint off towards Crouch End.

Of course this wouldn't actually help matters and sadly for the poor kid next to me, their fate would be sealed whatever happened. I couldn't bear to tell her this and she chewed on her own earmuffs while her mother looked sadly on hoping that by this stage she may well be playing the piano, speaking French or reading Proust instead of munching away on Winter wear. There are always victims in these sorts of situations and if she continues to eat synthetic fur she'll die soon anyway so it only seems fair. I didn't do any of this of course. Instead I watched as they took over the bus like a plague, ringing the bell multiple times for each stop because they thought it was funny, pushing each other and generally making everyone wish they'd got the bus at least 30 minutes earlier. I had a small reality check where I assured myself I was like that at their age and that I had no reason to scowl. Then I realised that despite them coming from the same school I went to, I was never like that, and continued visibly scowling which meant they all moved out of my way anyway. Apart from one particularly tall and rotund girl who didn't seem to want to budge for anyone. Luckily I had a bag with two very pointy boxes of trainers in and proceeded to just lightly stab the backs of her knees with it till she muttered something rude and moved quickly out of the way.

I'm not sure when I became like this. I have always though of myself as someone who can see the good in people. Last night for example, at a very excellent gig for the Yes To A Fairer Vote people, I had to deal with a heckler at the very top of the show. His name was Martin and I had been warned that he liked to get up in meetings and make a lot of racket about things. It was all very left wing, good natured racket, but a disruptive one nonetheless. His grey hair and duffel coat made me wonder if he was indeed the class raconteur back in the day, but here in amongst modern day activists he could only be heard if he shouted stupid things. Then before the show started when I did the 5 minute call he immediately started yelling things at me and calling himself Martin the Matador. I very politely told him not to. He then was pervy to one of the organisers and I decided he must be dealt with. So the first few minutes of the show were me insulting a man who was not a comedy regular, didn't realise that this was any different from a rally meeting and subsequently looked stupid. I then felt very bad as the whole point of the gig was unity and working together to change the voting system and country for the better, yet here I was ruining this already for a man who probably thought his intentions were right. If he had been a right wing advocator or even just a trouble maker it would have felt better. Instead he was just a bit sad and subsequently left half way through the show. Still, that makes me the winner.

So there I am feeling sorry for a man who was generally being a twat, yet if you had replaced him with any of the school children on today's bus, I'd have quickly yelled several swear words without second thought and felt good about it. Odd. Maybe, just maybe, I've become agist, ironically, in my older age. I look forward to the day I get much older and just hate everyone younger than me. Oh wait, maybe that's what had happened to Martin. Poor man.

Incidentally, the gig last night was superb and after my ill educated blog yesterday I can say I fully understand the benefits of AV. Sure it may not change the country as much as we'd like but its another significant step towards making things better and gaining some power back for the public. If the reasons on www.yestofairervotes.org don't sway you then at least look at the fact that No to AV's advocators are David Cameron and Rupert Murdoch among many others and their advertising campaign involves saying that if we vote for voting reform, premature babies won't get incubators. This is said despite all facts proving that money used for a new voting system a) won't cost very much and b) won't have any impact on the NHS at all. Ironic considering just how few babies will get the incubators they need when the Coalition are done tearing the health service to shreds anyway. So if you are for a bunch of rich people who use overly ludicrous lies to promote their opinion then fair dos. Otherwise I'd say you should do a bit of research and vote wisely on May 5th. There, I've said my bit. I'm now off to punch school children.

AV

2011-02-28T13:01:00.002Z

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/

Barrels

2011-02-27T15:54:00.005Z

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.

Harry Sheep

2011-02-26T10:45:00.003Z

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......

Wolves and Ducks

2011-02-25T15:00:00.003Z

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.

The Cut

2011-02-24T13:21:00.002Z

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.

What Goes Around....

2011-02-23T13:51:00.002Z

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.

Doing It For The Kids

2011-02-22T15:56:00.003Z

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.

Banjo

2011-02-21T12:31:00.003Z

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.

Right There, Right Yesterday

2011-02-20T15:02:00.003Z

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.

A Call To Arms

2011-02-19T16:39:00.003Z

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.

The Come Down

2011-02-18T07:49:00.003Z

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.

Meribelled

2011-02-17T14:31:00.003Z

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.

Downhill Slope

2011-02-16T12:10:00.002Z

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.

Snow Plough King

2011-02-15T18:23:00.003Z

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.

Valentine's Moussaka

2011-02-14T13:27:00.002Z

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.

Throw Yourselves Into The Road Darlings

2011-02-13T12:52:00.002Z

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

Skylight Of Doom

2011-02-12T12:06:00.003Z

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.

Never Trust Robots

2011-02-11T12:02:00.004Z

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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Mingin' In The Rain

2011-02-10T13:20:00.003Z

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.

What's In A Name?

2011-02-09T14:18:00.002Z

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.

Evil Drunk Tiernan

2011-02-08T12:09:00.003Z

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.

Celebrity Hunter Professionale

2011-02-07T11:34:00.002Z

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.

Continue?

2011-02-06T16:44:00.002Z

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.

Save Libraries

2011-02-05T13:02:00.004Z

I love libraries. As far as I'm concerned there is nothing more exciting than walking into a room filled to the brim of ancient texts and writings from all over the world. Well, that's not true. Rollercoasters are more exciting. As is the new series of Doctor Who. But you know what I mean. Libraries are brilliant. Recently walking into the Long Room at Dublin's Trinity College, I was in awe of the big oak paneled hall, lined with spines written in ancient fonts. Same happens whenever I step into the British library, or in fact any library that's well stocked. It feels like you could just take any book off the wall and delve into the past - thousands of words written for a purpose or to tale a tale, that have been trapped within those covers for years and years. Sure many are actually encyclopedias or dull index books, and in the big libraries you can't just look at them without a special bit of paper and non-greasy hands. I never have either of those. Throughout my life though libraries have been incredibly useful to me. I saw a Button Moon puppet show at Hanley Road library aged 3 which pretty much made my life, even if occasionally Mr Spoon seemed to have a thumb protruding from his leg. Then the same library became the source of many a graphic novel, fantasy, fiction or audio borrow - one 2000AD compilation still, ahem, sitting on my shelf now. I can only imagine what sort of fine that's incurred and I would like to publicly say I'm very sorry about such things, but 12 year old me was a rascal. I'll bring it back next week. Maybe.

What I'd have done without Crouch End, Haringay and my university library in terms of studying and passing my exams, or even just finding somewhere very quite to work, I'm really not sure. Ok, so I'm a tad old and the internet wasn't quite what it is now when I was at school, which may have changed some aspects of learning, but at least libraries didn't have the procrastinary options of switching to Facebook or Twitter every two minutes instead of actually ploughing on with my essay. Instead I'd grow very quickly bored with doodling on my notepad and get straight back to absorbing information. All I'm saying is I have a fond spot for such places and still occasionally pop into one to write a few notes or a bit of stand-up knowing I won't be interrupted or forced to drink so much coffee my eyes try to leave my face. Yes, the counter arguments will contest, but your local library doesn't have many books, only has one table that is constantly sat upon by a man who has plastic bags filled with things you never want to know about or see, and constantly smells a bit of wee, so what use is it to anyone?

Well, here's the thing. All those problems with it - being understocked, under furnished and er, smelling of wee - have all come into play ever since the government many moons ago stopped taking an interest in libraries being a public source of learning and information. In many an ancient civilisation the library was a treasured source of knowledge for the future, but this appears to have been a sideline thought in every government since Thatcher, each capitalist government knowing full well those buildings would make lovely offices or flats. So far every argument against it is all to do with the lack of use of libraries, which is mostly down to how depleted they've become over the years. When I was recently in Norway the Tromso library looked like this:

Hella cool huh? The shelves were filled with books, it also had free internet and the whole place was constantly buzzing with people going in and out to further their minds. So you can argue that libraries have no use, but I'd say its more that crap, uncared for libraries have no use. That doesn't mean they should be shut down, it just means we need to be putting our attentions back into the things that make society a nice place to be. One of the other arguments for the proposal to close the 450 libraries across the UK, is that by saving them, they will have to make other cuts that affect the elderly. Again, this is another way of passing the blame. Make us feel guilty for elderly suffering because we want our public resources kept open, when in fact we should be blaming the government for making all these unnecessary cuts in the first place will the banks still dish out bonuses. We shouldn't feel guilty for any of these oppressive rules. The Prime Minister and his cohorts should.

Sorry, today's blog seems to have lost all humour, but I just can't find most of these proposed moves that funny. I like having public forests to walk in and feel like I've escaped the city, I like that the post office, despite all its crapness, is our national institution and I like that I can walk into any library across the country and find a quiet corner to scribble or rifle through reams of archived words, reading random passages from whatever I find interesting. I have had horrible flashbacks of passages from Michel Houellebecq's The Possibility Of An Island, which I read the actual book of, with pages and everything. The central character lives in an era where he sits inside his own individual pod, connected to the world, but never leaving his own little shell, until one day he breaks free to see the world around him. Its an ace book, and well worth a read. I just don't want to be forced into being stuck at my computer all day long, looking at pictures of forests I used to be able to walk in, getting sore eyes from trying to read books online and paying £25 to send a letter across London. Ok, so I'm over exaggerating. I never send letters. We have email. Oh god. Its already happening.....

That all got waylaid at the end. One day I'll be able to spout my views on things in a more coherent manner. For now, ignore the bit about Mr Spoon's thumb foot. I'm sure it didn't really happen. And if you do care about your local library then do go along today and whenever you can to prove these places are still needed before you find that that previous hive of information becomes a few Ikea spinning chairs and the sort of people who revel in work that really doesn't add to anyone's quality of life except their own.

Pants and Rants

2011-02-04T14:15:00.002Z

Here's how I like to start my day usually, and feel to butt in with comments such as 'you lazy arse' or other such derivatives. I like to get up without an alarm, my natural body clock usually serving the purpose of working entirely in sync with my regime of not actually having a regime. This is then followed by eating whatever is in the kitchen and can possibly be considered breakfast time food, before sloping around in my PJs till I decide to do otherwise. As far as I'm concerned, mornings are there to be embraced like a big fat man hugging a small cat. Slowly, but with the knowing that should I need to snap its neck into action, I could. This morning took my ideals and pissed in their singular idyllic face with a cocktail of out of the ordinary moments. I'll spare you my gripes and groans of the ills of waking up early or commuting the rat race as many of you will just continue the shouts you made earlier only louder and with more venom like a big ole shouty snake person. No, I don't know why that popped in my mind either. Its a scary image though. The forked tongue and fangs really don't suit you. Anyway, what I meant to say was that at 10am this morning I was beginning my day walking around infront of a camera in nowt but a pair of skimpy red yfronts - ladies? - a ginger wig - ladies? - and then snogging a very pretty blonde 24 year old girl - don't worry ladies, it was nothing serious. I'd love to say that's just how I roll. Like a Lib Dem MP from the late 90's. But no, it was the level I was willing to go lower to for the sake of an advert casting.

Its a lovely idea that stand-ups shouldn't do adverts due to personal principles and that stand-up - as I do often harp on - is the last bastion of freedom of speech and we shouldn't bow down to The Man just for oodles of cash. But, and its a big hairy but, if that oodles of cash comes from advertising something you are not morally against, and could possibly save your year financially just for hanging around in your pants and kissing a pretty girl for three days in Milan, then strap me to the Man so I can lick his face. Regardless of morals in terms of taking such offers were they to come through, the biggest issues I had were a) why was I so blahzay about stripping off to my pants in front of two men and woman I didn't know, and b) the trials and tribulations of kissing a rather sexy lady - who I might add was fairly, er, method about her acting - whilst only wearing this incredibly skimpy pair of aforementioned smalls which, at their best, barely hid any, er, excitement were it to have, ahem, arisen. Needless to say I'm not sure I did very well due to the mix of thoughts concerning both enjoying the moment and trying not to enjoy it too much, all before my brain had fully woken up. The director at one point told me he couldn't see my eyes as they were a tad closed, and I explained that it was early for me and so they weren't yet open. Cue a lack of surprise. Cue me taking a mental note that here was a man who jokingly asked the women in the waiting room to strip to their pants too, and all in all any jokes I may have made would probably not register in his seemingly sex offender mind. After the 'event' I quickly redressed and raced to casting number two, followed closely by the snogee of the piece. It quickly occurred to me that while, from my point of view, I got to get lippy with a hottie, she had had to pucker up to my hairy belly, a ginger wig and those pants. I instantly felt a big guilty and as I held the door open for her, apologised for the way in which her day had to begin. She proffered a rather lovely smile and told me not to be silly, before skipping off. I can only assume that her fantasy is to date a squat Scottish nudist.

Casting two then involved me doing all the dance moves to Kylie Minogue's 'Cant Get You Out Of My Head' to a fairly top comedy director, but by that point al shame had been beaten out of me early on in the day and I could probably have gone on to do several castings involving naked wrestling with pigs or wearing a tutu and shouting lude messages at passers by. Actually, I'd probably enjoy the latter. I'm really not sure what's happened to me, or indeed, my dignity.

POLITICALS

Just some quick notes as I'm feeling politically charged today after an evening of shouting at Question Time last night which provided wonderful rage fodder of journalistic fascist Melanie Phillips, Tory twat features Damien Green and Noreen Hertz who occasionally said things I liked but said them all at the pace of a brain damaged tortoise which made me hate her. After some vitriloic tweeting on the matter here are some quick views on recently passed notions by the ConDems:

Big Society - The argument on the Jeremy Vine show on Radio 2 today was of the ilk that why should people complain that there isn't the funding for supporting the 'Big Society' ideal that the government is proposing, when its all based on people helping voluntarily with institutions such as welfare and public services. What at no point did this argument mention was just how ludicrous it is that these multi-millionaire MPs are telling members of the public that they have to give up their own time voluntarily to make society better, when they themselves could help with putting money back into these institutions so properly trained staff and people who need these jobs can do them for a wage. Do they really think any of the thousands upon thousands of unemployed people are sitting there waiting for a voluntary lollipop lady job to come along when they are worrying about how they'll eat, pay their rent or just survive in general now they've been made redundant? Big Society appears to be only correct in that its a big like a neglectful parent telling their child 'your big enough now, you deal with the mess yourself', only failing to point out they've made the mess themselves. Which by the way, is my other huge issue at the moment should you be asking. I know you're not, but its my blog and I'll rant if I want to. My other bug bare - which I always like to think of as a bug bear, or a tiny bear with insect wings - is that the ConDems keep blaming everything that's going on on the previous government. This is fine, some of it was their fault. However, don't keep saying that when you are making it worse. This feels a bit like complaining about a stain on your sofa caused by the previous owner while you take a piss on it. Pathetic. Just fix the problems or fuck off. Grrr. There you go. That's my anger for today. I wanted to rant about forests and libraries as well but I'll save that for tomorrow.

Historically Yours

2011-02-03T17:48:00.003Z

I don't think I can ever say that my field of work on a day to day basis is anything less than varied. Today for example I spent time wondering around a Georgian mansion to find jokes that can be used to entertain three groups of children on a historical tours in two week's time, and tomorrow I have to do two auditions for two different adverts both of which require me in very small pants. Some might say 'but Tiernan that simply appears to be a downhill trip through dignity loss as your week continues, but I say nay to those naysayers, it is merely the erratic nature of a clown's job to be riffing on the concept of the Dovecote being tiny jackets for birds and then the next minute to be shaking his tushy in gold hot pants to Kylie's 'Spinning Around'. That's just the kind of multi talented guy I am / sort of person who will do almost anything for money. Yep. Sigh.

I will save further tales of tomorrow's tiny panted antics for tomorrow's blog as no doubt it will require memoirs of its own if my last venture into a casting in Superman y-fronts was anything to go by (see NORWEGIAN SEA LIFE DISCO ) so I shall instead regale you with today's adventures. Due to my inability to say yes and constant yearning to never sit down or sleep again due to workload, I have agreed to lead some family friendly tours in a few weeks time around the recently refurbished Valentine's Mansion in Gants Hill, a veritable structural piece of sweetcorn in the grey turd that is Ilford. The notion of doing such a thing sounded immediately fun - romping around grounds making up lies to confuse 6 year olds while fully pretending its all historical fact - what on earth could be better? And indeed who better for the job than someone like me, a man who during history lessons as a child would instead draw weird doodles of a moose dressed up as a viking and spend exams working out the best way to balance the text book on my knees so I could just copy the answers. I have over years managed to convince myself that I like history. When I think about the past and the prospect of discovering more about it, expanding my worldly knowledge of how things, people, places and civilisations all came to be, I can't help but assume that I am the sort of person that will happily romp around museums absorbing it all through my overly wide eyes. Check me out for I am History McHistorian.

Truth is, unless its the Vikings, Egyptians or some awesome bit to do with swords, wars, myths or curses I'm instantly hugely bored. I have never cared for the Tudor crop rotation system, or the way in a which people cooked in the 1600's. None of that, thankyoo. If the maid gets her head cut off while making tea, or a farmer drives a cannon to sow his carrot seeds then we are in Tiernan interestville, but otherwise I'm not remotely bothered. Sadly I forget that history has these dull parts. Of course it does. In the same way in 2150 there will be children in schools whining that they don't want to learn about the 'accountants' of 2011 or watercolour challenge. History has to have these bits as otherwise no one would do them and no one would learn the lesson that television should never ever be made about a beardy old man making other people paint flowers with colours so see through they may as well leave the paper blank for an hour.

So arriving at the mansion today, with Nat tagging along for comedy input, I suddenly realised that 30 minutes is a very long time to take children around a place I know absolutely nothing about, have no recollection of and wasn't 100% that I'd want to relate information about. Luckily, I was hugely wrong. After dispelling all easily distractional mindsets early on by seeing a really fat squirrel -

SEE! LOOK HOW FAT IT IS??? - a very colourful duck and a moorhen who's feet were disproportionately large in comparison to its body, we were lucky enough to get a private tour around the mansion itself which was otherwise closed to the public till Sunday. Our rather nice tour guide Chris took time out of his office duties to walk us around each and every room showing us the original features of the house, giving facts about the Belgian refugees housed there during World War One, the issue with Georgian wigs and exactly what a Ha Ha was for. Many many notes were taken and I'm hopefully returning on Sunday to have another tour from someone pretending to be the last owner Mrs Ingleby. Far from being bored at all I found myself being amazed that such a beautiful building with such varied history is still standing in an otherwise highly urban area. I mean urban there as in built up, not RnB music or in a faux racist manner. So hopefully I shall be able to lead the children around making the foibles of a Victorian kitchen actually fun, and do my bit for their learning. Either that or I'll have to find a way to make that fat squirrel dance.

Should you be from near that way and want to come, there are a handful of tickets left for Feb 22nd. Have a look:

GIGGLES AT THE MANSION

Also, please don't forget that you can now download the podcast of my 2010 Edinburgh show Littlest Things right here:

LITTLEST THINGS PODCAST

Right, I'm off to practice my dance moves....

Best Things In Life.....

2011-02-02T16:44:00.002Z

....are free as Janet Jackon and Luther Vandross once sang. Ironically that single cost money to buy obviously proving it was in no way a best thing. Anyway, rather than give you free typed words today, I thought you may instead like my actual voice doing some funnies in your ear via your stereo/computer/iPod/electric goldfish with speakers for eyes*.

So - small fanfare please - here, finally, is my 2010 Edinburgh show as a free podcast just for you. Please download it, listen to it and tell other people to do the same. Also, you may notice there is a small link to a paypal account. This is because it cost money to record and tech and all the other things, so any donation small or tall towards these costs so I can keep doing such things, is much appreciated.

LITTLEST THINGS

There's links on that page to iTunes and non-iTunes. GET DOWNLOADING AND LISTENING!

Also should you have small people who like to do a laughing, please check out our new Comedy Club 4 Kids website too at:

www.comedyclub4kids.co.uk

* these are very rare

Wood

2011-02-01T13:48:00.002Z

I am hungover. Its not fun. Its possibly the opposite of fun. Which I remember once being described by Corey on Boy Meets World - a hugely underrated show in my humble opinion and yes, I still fancy Danielle Fisher even though she's clearly bonkers now - as being 'wood'. I don't think this is true. I'm fairly sure people have used wood for fun before. Or at least indirectly ie you know using paper to er, make fun things or erm, a lump of wood to er sit on in a fun way. Hmm. Maybe they were right. Either way, this hangover is whatever that definition is - maybe it's coal? I mean how much fun is coal? Surely its less fun than wood? Or concrete? That's pretty dull - and I don't like it. Not a bit. But that's not what today's blog is about. No. See this paragraph as the Alfred Hitchcock deceiving beginning before you launch into the main crux of plot. Its also a bit to do with the wayward way in which my hungover brain is working, so bear with me. If you didn't growl like a bear then you can't be my friend. FACT. Right so, proper blog bit now:

I bloody love people. Not in a 'well why don't you just go and marry them then' way. Or a 'why don't you just sexytime people then huh bloody People Lovey McLoverson?' More in a constant fascination about how their lives and minds work and a never ending curiosity to learn about them. Well, most people anyway. Oddly, this fascination normally ends with drivers. Not just any drivers but the people that are specifically sent to pick you up when you do telly stuff. That's right telly stuff. Look at me all Johnny Big Britches. All the drivers I've had for the warm up work I've been doing this last week have operated on a 'he clearly doesn't want to talk to us, we won't talk to him' and we've acknowledged that chances are we'll have as much in common as someone with emotions and George Osbourne. So then 45 minutes of silent driving occurs, I sit and think about things generally enjoying life and playing on my phone till we get there and I politely say thanks and run away. Yesterday morning's driver tried to foil this plan in his desperate need for chat by throwing a few curve balls at me. He started by talking about football, but I was too quick and bluntly told him I really don't like football, causing all chat to cease immediately, while he cackled at shit jokes on TalkSport. I thought we were done, but unfortunately he was cut up by a man in a car on his mobile phone and this prompted a spew of insults followed by a very boring run down of this man's road safety ideals. I offered little back with some oh's and 'yes people are terrible aren't they?' hoping he would stop but he took a swift segueway into chat about bad times to drive during the day and it felt like we were on a rollercoaster ride into boredom town. Or Woodsville if you like. And I do. Luckily we were only 15 minutes away from the studio and with sheer determination I got through the yawns before leaping out of the car with superb speed.

I was dreading similar chat on the way home, and had prepping in my head all the ways to deflect driving talk. Perhaps shouting 'GOD CARS ARE SO FUCKING BORING' or something like that might work. But as I approached the car a tiny old white haired Italian man wearing racing gloves appeared. He bounded over to the car with more energy than a man of that age should have and instantly started asking me about my name. I felt it necessary to ask him where he was from due to his accent and within minutes was being told his tales of growing up in the mountains near Venice and being in the Italian 1956 Winter Olympics slalom team. I sat enthralled by all the stories of the training and determination but the sad defeat at landing only 23rd place and the immediate end of his professional skiing career. With a few simple conversational prompts from myself I learnt all about his romance with, as he wonderfully referred to her, 'a beautiful English rose', his catering industry that collapsed due to Italian family issues that all sounded quite Godfatherish, and the remarkable story of the day he got caught up in pillow fight between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton at the Dorchester. Now, after all of this, he's a driver while his English rose is sadly homebound due to hip problems. I didn't want to upset him but I was amazed at how a man who's had such excitement in his life can now be happy with his far more restricted life. His response was merely that he loves his wife, has amazing kids and grandchildren and can drive round the West End better than anyone else because that's his 'turf'. Amazing. I hopped out of the car never having known this man's name but feeling privy to a whole lifestory I might never have known if I'd just stacked up 'I HATE FOOTBALL' in my head and checked Twitter every two minutes.

This isn't to say that's not what I'll do next time. What will happen is that it'll happen once, and I'll start a conversation before finding myself embroiled in dull chat about getting tyres changed or why it is that people don't say thanks when they cross the road and I'll start thinking I'd be having more fun in a wood factory. So what am I saying with this blog? Be more open to people as you never know what might happen? Or that there is an exception to every rule including the one that all drivers are fucking dull? Or maybe that old Italian men are really good at lying as I've checked wikipedia and 23rd place in the 1956 slalom is a Polish man. Hmm. Maybe its just that I should have Nurofen in the house for times exactly like this, when my head feels not dissimilar to wood.

Hot Headed Weirdness

2011-01-31T11:26:00.003Z

The heating was accidentally left on overnight. I was curious as to why I woke up in a pool of myself and Nat and Tom are now complaining of feeling as though someone has baked their heads. I am not going to tell them that in addition to the heating being on, I did try to bake their heads. Its horrible existing in a tiny bubble of warmth, leaving the shower only to feel like you are still in the shower, realising you are still in the shower and then actually leaving it to feel as though you are still in it. What's worse, is that as Nat keeps pointing out, we have to pay for this heat so she is refusing to open a window or door to let it escape. I honestly can't see how keeping it in will help. We won't be able to use it again later. Also I don't trust we'll look after it well. I bet within a few hours we'll have forgotten all about it and it'll have escaped. Keeping heat is something only real adults should do. Then they care for it day in day out until it grows up really big into a fire or a huge gas explosion and everyone admits I should've just opened the door and let it back into the wilderness where it belongs slowly heating squirrels and warming bees.

See? This is already the sort of blog I write when under the influence of a hot house. My evening yesterday consisted of watching a series of odd things on the box all of which haven't helped. Starting with a program called Boob Envy - which wasn't about people who are jealous of Peter Andre - with Tom and us shouting at women who weren't happy with their breastal regions despite having lovely ones. Some uninteresting journalist bloke kept going on and on about how its actually impossible for women to be happy with their bodies, whilst no one at all blamed media or society's stupid obsession with bodies in any way, which was odd. Essentially what it ended up being was a way to make a cheap program with tits in it and make absolutely no statement about anything whatsoever. Still, I have to say, it sort of worked. I don't want anyone to try and fire me from a job at Sky Sports, but I do have to say that sadly, despite shouting, complaining and whinging about the quality of the program and its hugely sexist point of view, this was all sandwiched in between occasional shouts of 'get 'em out' and 'phwoooar', only some of which were ironic. Sorry everyone.

This was followed by King of Kong a film about a man who dedicates a large part of his life to become the highest scorer on Donkey Kong in the world, beating the current champion who has a hair do that makes the 80's shudder. Nat had joined us by this point so we didn't shout for anyone's boobs to be shown at any point. Which I suppose is lucky as most of them would have been geeky man boobs on the bodies of very very sad people. It is a good film, but I was constantly berated by the pair of them for commentating on the loser rating of each and every one of the 40 year old men who still play arcade games from the 70's. Nat insists that at least these people have a passion for something rather than some people she knows that don't care or dream about doing anything with their lives. I sort of agree, but I also think that if your passion is for having a weak moustache, no friends and gaining RSI from a game who's graphics and noises cause migraines, then maybe you should re-evaluate life. I played Donkey Kong for the first time in years when I went to Dublin at the classic games exhibition. Its stupidly hard. Thing is, while something being quite so tough should make being a champion special, it also means that getting good at it requires such a high level of geekdom and studying that I think that it cancels out any coolness you might have for being a champion. There is a point when the main protagonist is being harassed by his little son to help him go to the loo, whilst he's about to get a high score. So he neglects the kid. At no point does anyone say to him 'excuse me, you're letting your kid have a shitty arse because you think its more important to jump over virtual barrels. Please re-asses your whole existence.' Apparently the conclusion is that I'm the dweeby one with the glasses who adjudicates game scores and Tom's dad is the Centipede Champion. Don't ever let it be said that our household doesn't have measured and well made discussions.

Then the evening finished with a quick go on the Dead Space 2 demo, which is the sort of game that would make everyone in King Of Kong cry tears of nerd. There were several screams and jumps across the sofa from fear as half dismembered creatures with blades for arms race towards you wanting to cut off your head and small dead babies try and eat your face. It's worse for nightmares than eating blue cheese with blue cheese dressing before sleepytimes. And with all that in my head my radiator cooked up some sort of mega storms of weirdness, boobs, nerds and scary freaks to make me find myself soaked through and trapped in my own duvet as I woke up. And now I have to go and entertain kids. I can't help but feel today may be difficult.

Nanspudbeardfest

2011-01-30T17:00:00.005Z

I've been to see my tiny Nan today. No matter what possible conversation may occur, be it about something as mundane as - like today - what different shades of paint can do to a room or the benefits of an over 60's oyster card, she will always always pull something out of the conversational bag to prove she is an uber-nan of comedy sorts. Today's remark of choice appeared halfway through a tin of chocolate biscuits where she produced an invite to a birthday party of another elderly lady in the home she lives in. This rather tame flyer was proffered to myself my mum and my dad with my nan asking if 'any of you fancy a rave-up?' Golden. Just golden. I like to think this is where my comedy genes have indeed come from.

Lots to mention today, but with little substance to any of them so here I present all items under individual headings for you to muse over. By that I mean read and think about, not play an alternative rock reworking of 'Feeling Good' over. Had to clarify that.

CAPES AND BEARDS

Every act last night had a beard. Three of the four acts also had a similar peaked hat, a different three of the four had a similar jacket and two of us had very similar scarves. I don't think this was planned but what the people of Leicester experienced was a lovely beardfest, or perhaps, depending on your preference, a bearfest. I'm not sure if that many beards on a stage make a difference to a gig, but it really couldn't have been nicer. Much banter backstage lead to walking onstage with little clue of what would entail but the crowd were so lovely it didn't really matter. Towards the end Ray Peacock made me wear a cape and nobody questioned it. That's how nice it was.

I think perhaps that all people know that those with beards are either very very evil or very awesome and wise. It being a comedy gig there is probably little chance of evil so I reckon they all immediately relaxed into knowing we were all nice. They are of course horribly wrong. Ray Peacock kills puppies, Joe Wilkinson once called an old lady a prick and Sean Hughes spits in people's gardens if they have crazy paving.* I might only do gigs with other beardies from now on. We could even perform some of them upside down and people would think our heads were still the right way up.

OLD FRIENDS

After returning from Leicester I raced to a friend's birthday party last night. Wilz is an exceptionally old chum from school. Old as in I've known him for ages, not that he's 104 years of age. He's been away in Uganda for some time and so last night was a combination of a welcome back and a 'oh shit you're now 30 too ahahahaha'. What was really nice is that lots of other people there I hadn't seen in a long time. Some its only been a year or two, but others about 12 years, since we all left 6th form. This kind of gap in friendship can often be intimidating. Some people, you know it will be fine. My friend Omar and I only see each other once or twice a year then meet up like nothing's changed. This routine works fine with our silly lives and we just know there won't be any awkward chat when we catch up. But with others you just don't know what's happened to them in that time, what sort of person they are now and more importantly just what the chances of them now having transformed into a bellend are? Well they hadn't. None of them. Crap for stories, but lovely for real life. Everyone's scooted off down their own paths and all seem to be quite content. Odd huh? Not at all like soap operas or films? No one had died. No one had lost an eye or killed a man accidentally while driving to their holiday in Palm Springs only to them be chased and stalked by a mysterious killer for the next 6 months. None of that. Well, I mean, I didn't get to chat to everyone. But even those I didn't smiled, so I reckon they were fine.

Don't really have a comment or a message or anything to add to this other than 'haha my friends are awesome'.

BAKED POTATO

Tonight, I'm going to eat a baked potato. This means this has been in my head all day:

BAKED POTATO

THE POETRY TAKEAWAY

Final thing for today. Are you a rich benefactor? Or someone who has at least £5 to spare? Then why not fund this incredibly exciting project:

THE POETRY TAKEAWAY

I've given a whole £15 to get my own poem. You should too. Its clearly going to be better than most things you might waste time watching on the telly.

* none of this is true. Maybe.

Ignoraymoose

2011-01-29T16:09:00.003Z

Wow the world's a mess isn't? Sure that's a rather large and bold statement to make to kick off a blog, and I am probably generalising a tad. I mean, I'm sure in the entirety of the world some bits are probably all a bit lovely. Way deep in the sea for example, or the jungles that aren't being torn down, or even just my room. My room's well tidy. Apart from my desk but I'll do that in a minute. Stop nagging me, you're not my real dad. I just keep fleetingly catching the news amidst my rather busy week of things and feeling as though the people of the world are pretty sick of the way things have been running for a while. Then I stop watching the news, go off to a gig, complain about my height, forget it all for a bit, then put the news on and feel engrossed in it all again. It's an odd one this wanting to care business. I fully and utterly would have liked to have been on the student demonstration against the fees today but once again my day has been filled with Comedy Club 4 Kids and a gig tonight in Leicester making it all unfeasible. Sure, you might say, if you really cared you'd turn down work to be on these things? Well, er, you may say that maysayer, but being self employed things aren't so simple. Essentially its all well and good fighting for rights but if you can't march anyway as due to malnourishment and poverty your legs don't work, it sort of works against any sort of fighting or righting at all.

Yes, this is another blog where, rather than just type about something you might enjoy reading, I am once again providing feeble excuses as to why I'm not being remotely politically active despite pretending that I am. Its been a downhill slope since Christmas and my news knowledge has been swept under the rug a tad. The rug is now on top of a heap of dust, several of Tom's socks and a very useful argument about why any possible reasoning for high tuition fees are good is wrong. I'd like that last one back please. Tom's socks can stay. It's so easy to become overwhelmed with the ever changing policies of people that rarely hold their ground unless its to the detriment of others. I am very good at saying sentences like that though which make me sound like I'm all clever about it when I'm not. Essentially I have the basics ie Tories, filthy rich capitalists, dictators and racists are all bad and evil. Lib Dems are liars. Labour and lots of other people are rubbish and I'm pretty damn good. Ok, not the last bit. Worldwise, I quite like Obama but I don't really know why. I hate the Tea Party even though they sound like they should be lovely, Kim Jong Il is bonkers and the Middle East confuses me. There I said it.

I mean Egypt, at the moment, is horrific. I applaud the people for fighting for a change of regime and I am appalled at the violence of people firing both rubber and real bullets aimed at people's heads who are merely asking for a say in how their country is run. But beyond that, I don't really have a clue what's going on. Again, got the basics. Nobody likes Mubarack because of corruption and poverty caused by him. Mubarack has been President for ages even though no one likes him. He's still President even though no one wants him to be. Essentially it sounds to me like a dictatorship. But all the clever ins and outs I don't know. Sometimes I wish it were as simple as I just put it. Perhaps we scale back politics and just have the news saying 'look he's evil and they're good. But evil is winning' or something like that. Except the news sort of does do that but mostly with confusing messages and lies depending on who owns whichever channel or paper you're viewing. So my idea doesn't really work.

Things like this are very very useful (ta to @Chris_Coltrane for the link):

MOTHER JONES - WHAT'S HAPPENING IN EGYPT EXPLAINED

But ultimately I'm still in the dark. And I've got both my main light and desk lamp on. I constantly question whether or not ignorance is indeed bliss. So far, after much research I think it depends on the levels of ignorance. Today for example if I knew absolutely nothing about anything going on in the world I'd probably feel less guilty than I do knowing about it, but now knowing enough. Still, now in this position I have no desire to go backwards and shall instead keep learning, then never have a holiday again. In the meantime, if you are a student or someone in Egypt who's managed to get access to the internet or in fact anyone who's currently opposing oppression then good luck to you and you have my utmost respect and support. It is so upsetting to know people are being hurt for believing in having human rights and I hope this ever rising dissent from the people who are affected by such happenings indicates a change in the way the Earth is run. However if you're fighting something slightly more complicated than that, I'll have to look it over a few times and let you know once I've worked out if what you're fighting against can be put under my Skeletor or He-Man column on my wall chart of worldly happenings. God, I'm an idiot.

Star Stricken

2011-01-28T11:06:00.005Z

Warning: This blog is essentially me being a twat. There is more gushing here than at Old Faithful in Yellowstone Park. I have gone on about my inability to be cool when meeting people I admire before on this here blog, but yesterday I had a total loser gushfest when meeting one of my comedy heroines of all times. I strolled into Pinewood studios feeling all pretty calm about the notion of warming up 100 kids for Dick and Dom's Funny Business. Far from being a tough job I just get to insult children and make them have shoe races for 3 hours. Its the most fun I could get paid for, and I get tea made for me and a driver. Ok, so the driver bit is awkward. Despite it being a merc with blacked out windows which means passers by think I'm hella famous only to then peer in and feel hugely disappointed with my beardy mug, every driver I've had has had the conversational ability of a dead vole and the hour long drive is spent in silence with me looking out the window like that overly hopeful child from the 80's promotional advert for Milton Keynes. Remember that? Do ya? Funny weren't it? Eh? Cos a kid looked out a window? Remember when kids looked out windows eh? Sorry. Excuse me. Just went all Peter Kay there. So yes, having a driver is awkward. But endless tea rocks, shoe races rock. Having my name on a door like this rocks:

Which is nice. I mean, its slightly down the hall from everyone else's because you know, they get to actually be on the telly whereas I just make children pull faces at each other. So totally fair really. But I still get excited my name's on the door and pretend I'm on the telly a bit. All the people that work on the show are bloody lovely which is another bonus, and as well as the crew, producers etc its nice to have people such as Abandoman and Chris Cox about to banter with as though we were backstage at a gig, only its a gig for mental kids and not drunk twats. Oh and Dick and Dom are properly funny which is a lovely thing to see. I've never watched kids fall about and giggle quite as hard as watching Dom tell them he hates them all and they make him want to sick down his own trouser leg, then take his trousers off and sick down his own leg. Just brilliant. So anyway, what I'm setting up here is that within a few days, I've realised I'm all quite chilled about this rather lovely job.

Until I asked who the guest was for yesterday's show, and I was told it was Jessica Hynes. I almost instantly got a tad too excited and confessed just how much I think she's hella awesome. I am, and always will be, in awe of Spaced. I think it will reign in my time as what I consider to be the best sitcom ever ever. And she was bloody well in it. And wrote it. Then acted in lots of other awesome stuff including Doctor Who. I was a small mess, and asked the producer if there'd be anyway I could meet her. He very kindly said he'd see what he can do and I instantly felt I had crossed the line from being a super cool professional warm up man to goofy idiot fanboy. I was ashamed of such a thing, and decided that in no way would I be annoying and get in the way of everything in order for a selfish snap. At the same time my head kept reminding me that I'd met Pegg, worked with Eldon and Smiley, and now only needed to meet Jessica, Frost and Heap to get the full set (yes, ok there's still Julia Deakin and Katy Carmicheal but I once got a letter from Julia about a pub's licensing issues when I worked for Camden council so it sort of counts). This would then be closely followed by my brain saying in a slightly different tone of voice that I am a huge mega loser.

I found myself in the same green room as Jessica a few times and didn't really say much as I felt like merely the warm-up dude, but she was bloody lovely and friendly. I left fairly sharpish as had to get on with controlling a lot of children to including one mad boy called Tommy who said he knew magic and could make me disappear. When I asked how he would do it, he said he'd push me off a cliff. Lovely. As the show finished I raced back to my dressing room with my name on it to get my stuff and as I walked out she was a few doors down asking Dick and Dom for their autographs for her kids. She didn't have a pen so I gladly lent her my shitty biro and asked in return for a pic. This wasn't really a fair swap. Its a piss poor biro and had I thought it through or had more time I'd have offered my black Pilot pen which is of a much higher standard. Everyone knows where they stand with a Pilot pen. I bet Obama uses a Pilot pen. She was more than happy to do this and I felt like such a buffoon for even asking, but skipped away with this:

And then awkwardly realised I would have to walk down the stairs behind here after mumbling that she was brilliant several times, so stood back a bit and hid till she had left. Such. A. Loser. Though Chris Cox said she did comment on my warm up work backstage and ask what my name was and he promised he wasn't lying. Though that doesn't mean he didn't mess with her mind to make her say that. One day this might stop happening to me. I think the problem is that there are so few people that truly influenced my comedy taste as a teenager that those that are responsible for my current career will always be a bit humbling to meet. Let's hope I never bump into Chris Morris or I will probably wee myself. To be fair, I bet he already has a Pilot pen. Monday's guest is someone I know so we should be back on super cool turf, if I'm allowed anywhere near the stars ever again.

Last note of today's blog. I finally saw 10 o'Clock Live last night and, er, it wasn't bad. That's a fairly diplomatic way of saying it. Bits were funny, but very little of it was opinionated enough to really make it feel like a political comedy show. There was a small section on Serco that Lauren Laverne presented that was excellent though (and I'm sorry to our new neighbour for saying such things) but she did read it as though it was just on the autocue in front of her. I mean, it probably was, but that's not the point. David Mitchell's interview with Alistair Campbell provided neither enough laughs or enough cutting questions to make it worthwhile and his other interview with the professor of terrorism studies, the man wrongly accused of being a terrorist and a barrister who deals with terrorism laws, was excellent. However, this was mostly to do with the heated banter between the three guests about the changing laws rather than anything Mitchell said. Don't get me wrong, I like all the presenters. Brooker's bits are great, though exactly like Newswipe. Jimmy Carr's funny but not at all political - 'there have been a lot of economics on TV haven't there?' - and Laverne is kind of left to do all the bits no one else seems to want to. Its got a very odd feel to it. So far its the best thing on telly in terms of commenting on current issues in anyway and I hope they all find their feet and give it a sharper tongue. Then again several people on Twitter were saying how the Serco bit didn't work and I can't help but feel its idiots like that that assume Carr making a joke about flying the Nimrod planes into the Middle East is political, therefore stopping any actual desire for good satire and commentary from appearing on our tellies anytime soon. Please Channel 4, please prove me wrong.

After my day of fun yesterday, tonight I'm off to Milton Keynes. No I won't be gawping out of the window like that kid in the advert - you know? You remember eh? - as I'm driving and will die. Every cloud as they say.

Better Way To Start The Day

2011-01-27T11:47:00.003Z

I have a completely vacant head today. Utterly empty. Part of me is tempted to advertise it in Loot for London prices and see what I can get. Of course I'd have to seriously vet all possible tenants. Part brain emptiness was starting the day by paying a gas bill and then talking to Nat and Tom about the mould that is currently occupying their room. Unlike the metaphorical earlier sentence about someone living in my head, the mould, or perhaps we should refer to it at The Mould, is completely occupying Nat and Tom's room. It's moved in, covered the walls, and their bed and is one step away from demanding tea in the mornings. This has meant until our landlords sort it out, and they appear to be in no immediate rush, they are both sleeping in the living room, meaning our flat has decreased by roughly a third. Its for the best, lest they get some sort of horrible mould based illness, but it also means that with one opening of my door in the mornings I am immediately part of a conversation that often begins with 'how is your mould?' So far the landlord's way of dealing with this is by telling us we can all move out and break the contract if we want. This didn't seem remotely reasonable. Much like someone in a hospital with a broken leg being told, 'well you can just not walk on it again if you like' as some sort of cop out. Begrudgingly some men were sent round today while I was still asleep and they muttered something about broken lead piping which has merely lead to further fears about lead poisoning and mould. That sentence contained a lot of lead. Hope it wasn't heavy reading. BOOM!

This is, by no means, the best way to start a day. Far from it. I like to start a day without any hint as possible adult hood which then allows me to start churning bonkers ideas around like a hyperactive child. Instead when all begins with gas bills and household damage the rest of the day knows I'm a grown up and now all I can think about are boring things such as my finances and complete lack of them. No wonder adults are so dull. Yet every kid is so desperate to grow up. If only we showed children aged 10 exactly the kind of drab ways in which you can start a day, perhaps they will change their minds. Alternatively, my better idea, would be to change the mornings for everyone. All post, except birthday cards, should arrive early evening when you are braindead from work and therefore aren't really thinking about it. Instead somebody should knock quietly on the door at 10am then push a load of crayons and paper through the door with a small notice saying what you should draw that day ie penguin with a hat on, or lovely sunny day in the jungle, then you spend 5 mins having a good old scribble before anything else.

Think about it. How is your day going so far? Shit? Oh. Sorry to hear that. Well how much better would it be if today started with some jelly and custard then a quick scribble of a lion? Oh. That doesn't really help getting made unemployed. No. Sorry. How about you? No, no. You're right. That doesn't really help someone setting your hair on fire by accident when you arrived. How did that even happen? They were rubbing it really vigorously with some sticks? Er. Where do you work? Council? Oh. Well maybe if that person had drawn a big elephant playing a guitar then they wouldn't feel the need to have done that. That's all I'm saying.

Yesterday at my gig I asked a man how his day had been and he said 'great'. When I asked why, he merely said he woke up. I like that kind of simple optimism. That's how all days should begin, by being bloody cheery to be alive. Then crayons. None of this gas and rotting walls crap. I demand a refund on my day start please. Oh wait, sorry, have to leave things here. The Mould's calling for some toast.......

Sun, Sex and Suspicious Opinions

2011-01-26T14:14:00.003Z

This is attempt number two of my blog today. It was already filled with some amazing insights, the sorts of theories and philosophies that many of you would have printed off, or to save trees, emailed round, with the headline 'IMPORTANT' knowing it would change the face of the planet. Within minutes, people of all religious denominations would be denouncing their gods in place of my stratagem, world leaders would be calling me for advice, global warming would just quit it and give us all lovely sunshine, and sharks would stop eating people and eat hobnobs instead. But then my computer crashed and I don't remember what any of it said. Sorry. Really sorry about that. My computer shouldn't have crashed either. Its a Macbook. I remember being told 'oh Mac's don't crash', 'oh Macs are so wonderful, they don't get viruses or nothing', 'Macs are better than my partner, I wish I could marry one' etc etc. For a while I was totally Captain Apple Lover on board the good ship Jobs. But recently my Mac's got all wheezy and tired and has decided it no longer wants to live the dream. So it has teamed up with my gmail account, who after 5 years of storing various inane messages and boring streams of gchat has now told me my inbox is full and stuff must be deleted. Fuck you machines. Fuck you all.

So here is attempt at blog number two, deciding not to let the future letting me down get in the way. I was going to wittle on about how I had a pivotal moment last night that made me realise I have definitely become more of an adult than I used to be. This moment was in front of the TV at 1am in the morning, and the program in question was called, of all things, 'Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents.' Now before you judge me in anyway, and most of you already will have done, I was very much braindead from an overly long day at work. Four hours of doing telly warm up for kids, despite being incredible fun, is destructive. Constantly having to have a response about every odd question about dogs, people, what's going on, why do I look like James Corden (god that made me angry) and so on and so on, as well as finding new ways to keep them entertained while sets are changed is a huge strain on the brain. Luckily for me, Dick (of Dick and Dom fame)'s dad was in the audience and Alan Anddom was a lovely man who let me field some questions his way. The sheer concept that Dick and Dom even have parents blew many of the kids minds and I was given two minutes of respite as they asked him what Dick's favourite colour was, when his birthday is, was he good at spelling at school and just how many tins of baked beans he could eat in one go. This whirlwind of children's entertainment was followed swiftly by jumping in a car straight to Fat Tuesday and hosting a very nice gig for two hours. By 11pm I was a shell of a man. You could have put me to your ear and heard the sea. Maybe.

So when home, all I could do was persuade Tom to stop listening to Jurassic Park at 8x times slower speed on his laptop (no I don't know why either. He was lying prone with his head to the speakers listening to dinosaurs growl very slowly), and flick through the late night TV atrocities. Finally we settled on the aforementioned horror show. It's premise is to follow young women on holiday, while their parents, unbeknownst to the girls, follow them and watch what they get up to. Its horribly voyeuristic, a huge infringement on privacy and also, I believe, a cheap way to film a lot of boobs (both literally, and metaphorically). Myself and Tom sat there with usual comments on how on earth such a pile of shit could ever be allowed to be made and, far more importantly, how Russell Bovey, who was doing the voiceover, is on everything on BBC3 ever. But slowly, through watching for a while, something happened. We started to become quite engaged in the show. Not because, as you might think, being young males there were lots of bikini'd bods on the screen, no, not at all. Instead we were enthralled with how the parents were with their kids. One set was incredibly controlling, demanding they have influence over what their daughter wore, how she behaved and where she went, while the others were lovely liberal people just happy seeing their daughter have a good time, but with some reasonable moral standing points when they saw her being sick on her own shoes. Tom and I found ourselves sitting their discussing nature and nurture, the dangers of mollycoddling children and cheering everytime Chelsea's dad said something nice.

When did this happen? Suddenly I'm watching the trash end of TV, the sort of programming that proves humanity is devolving in many ways, and yet I'm needing to watch the end to ensure Laura's dad doesn't get too angry with her for wearing a short skirt as she's 18 and really should be able to do what she likes. Sigh. If I ever find myself sitting here telling you how 'Hotter Than My Daughter' is a modern day Aesop's Fables or how 'Snog, Marry, Avoid' is a parable for the foibles of human interaction, then I've definitely lost it and I hope you all stop reading for your own sake.

Entertaining the Youts

2011-01-25T11:53:00.002Z

I have this terrible inability to cope with one thing at a time. If I have several things to do in one day I tend to flit around them like a moth on a disco ball, doing little bits of each until eventually one gets done then I have a cup of tea, wander off and panic several hours later when I remember all the other stuff I've left over. Today is a day where I need to somehow compartmentalise my brain or there'll be various issues ahead. Tonight is the first Fat Tuesday back in 2011. Quite easy stuff. I'm so used to compereing that show and throwing in some new material, that it should be a breeze right? Well, normally yes. But before that I'm doing warm up for the new Dick and Dom show for around four hours to two large groups of school children. Already you can see where the crossover's might mess things up. If I tell the kids my jokes about the economy contracting and rock up to FT making people do their favourite animal noises, the whole thing will fall apart.

I'm feeling oddly nervous about having to entertain kids. Its something I do on a regular basis but never for more than an hour. Stand-up won't work for more than an hour. I'm going to have to devise games, banter and all sorts of stuff to keep them awake and laughing. Thing is, I can't get it out of my brain that the only thing that kept kids entertained at my school was tag, football, fighting and that time Daniel Marshall fell off his snakeboard in the middle of the playground and everyone saw. I'm not sure just how much of that I can incorporate into a TV studio without getting banned from the premises. I mean, I'll try. I've got my snakeboard packed already and I'm going to look out for the biggest kid to punch once we get started. Then beyond that, its all improvising.

Here is the big problem. Stand-up for kids does completely entertain them for up to an hour. But then, beyond that, their minds go off in all sorts of tangents and would much rather be running around the room doing their own thing. Sometimes I wonder if these shows should be performed to an audience of kids at all, or if they should just draft in very juvenile adults with high pitched voices. You know, like that one in the Krankies. Or Warwick Davies. Not that Warwick Davis is juvenile. But he's a great actor so I'm sure he could pull it off. God, imagine how scary that would be. The camera pans to the crowd who are full of cackling tiny people? Well that's my nightmares sorted for the next few years....

It should be fine though. Up until last night my mind was filled with my old Edinburgh show, which has now been discarded entirely from my mind and that portion of my brain can once again be used for things like useless facts about trifle and words such as discombobulate. Was a lovely last show too and many thanks to all those who came along. Even Rachel who managed to go to the loo just as I was about to do the crux of the entire show. It may have been the last performance but its not the last you'll see of that show. Vague? No thanks I'm trying to give up. Sorry. I mean, there's a vague hint for you, but keep your eyes peeled for things of the Littlest kind coming to an iTunes near you soonish....

Right off to go practice my fart noises and the rules of tag.

Pee Argh

2011-01-24T10:44:00.002Z

Today's blog is about two things. One, I'm going to be horribly self promotional. This I rarely do, but I have several things to promote and I feel that if you are avid blog readers then a) you'll realise this is an excuse that I have little to write about today and b) that you can probably endure me saying stuff live if you can read this on regular occasion. In fact I'd go so far as to say that me saying things live is often better than my blog due to clever things like intonation, performance ability and the fact that you can just leave the room and miss the show if needs be. The other bit will be me talking about how much I enjoyed watching Jackson's Way in a living room last night and then thirdly I will write about how odd it is that I made a joke about Aculpolco yesterday and today a man has been arrested for killing 22 people there. Ok, so that's three things but I only found out about the third one as I was writing that sentence. And I've sort of already said all there is to say about that so let's consider it a bonus thing and when you've got to the bottom of the page you may have forgotten all about it and be surprised by its addition. Or not.

Ok, so round one. Fight:

I've got bloomin' tons of things coming up at the moment. People are always always nagging me about when I'm performing near them etc and what I'm doing. This may well be so they can plan to be on the opposite side of the country from wherever its happening, but if not, here's some things you may want to come to:

Tonight

My show Littlest Things for the last ever time ever. Its at the Etcetera Theatre in Camden at 7.30pm for only £6.50. Yes. Cheaper than er, more expensive things. FACT. It had lovely reviews in Edinburgh and some other people said stuff that was nice about it too. So there you go. Tickets can be purchased here:

LITTLEST THINGS - ETCETERA THEATRE TONIGHT

There'll be more solo show stuff on its way in the lead up to Edinburgh, but those in the Midlands get me saying stuff at the Leicester Comedy Festival in but a month's time on February 18th. This will be a collection of new bits and no doubt stories from my gigs in the Alps that week. Unless I break my leg which I probably will. In which case it'll be sit down comedy. Arf.

TIERNAN DOUIEB SAYS STUFF - LEICESTER COMEDY FESTIVAL

For all other normal gigs I'm doing, check the gigs page on my website. I'm all over the country and abroad (Ireland, France and Denmark) between now and July so have a look. For other stuff there's:

FAT TUESDAY COMEDY CLUB - Back for another season with some lovely lovely line-ups. We are also running one of the venues at the Camden Crawl's Comedy Crawl this year with the excellent Old Rope, so have a look out for that.

LONDON COMEDY IMPROV - With Tara Flynn, Brendan Dempsey, Michael Legge, Rufus Hound, John Voce and Kirsty Newton. Always bloomin' good fun.

COMEDY CLUB 4 KIDS - This has had a bit of a facelift and this season we've got people such as Isy Suttie, Robin Ince, Howard Read and many more all coming along to perform to 6-11 year olds and families. How many times can someone say the word 'bum' to rapturous giggles? Come along to find out. Proper website for this is on its way soon.

Ok. Think that's it for now. Promise. Just thought I should throw them out there while I have your attention. It'd be nice if you could attend some of them otherwise I'd have to go back to a real job and then couldn't write the blog anymore. Or it'd all become graph charts and misery. Oh what? You've gone already. Sigh. Tomorrow will start again on more musings on yardwang or things that make the noise 'wooble'.

Both of those subjects infact were my only hurdle when watching Jackson's Way in our friend Isabelle's living room last night as one of the more peculiar venues on his 26 day tour. Its very difficult to embrace a character who's entire motivational speech is about working on the pointless things in life, when, all I ever do, is such a thing. Saying that, despite being crammed into a bay window in front of what must've been a rather intimidating group of people that all vaguely knew each other and contained several comedians, Will Adamsdale's character was amazing. One hour and 45 minutes of absolutely bonkers pointlessness delivered in what I think was the most original show I've seen in ages. Highly recommend catching one of his last 7 shows if you get a chance.

http://www.jacksons-way.com/

See, promoting someone else there as well, because I'm all about sharing. Or maybe I'm just using it as a distraction from this blog being entirely shameless promotion. Although its not, because, oh wait! Yeah so yesterday I made the shit joke on Twitter about:

Newsflash: Acapulco government desperate to find ways of dissuading tourists from turning up & going crazy as its damaging industry.

And rightfully, it was ignored. But then, but then indeed, today this happened:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-12263276

Weird huh? All I'm saying is that if you don't come to my shows I'll make jokes about your area and then we'll see what happens. Word to your mamas.

Like An Elephant

2011-01-23T12:32:00.003Z

There is little worse than having to relearn something you are stubbornly sure you already know. I do this far too often in life, just assuming that I could describe osmosis, square roots and other elements of early school life without ever researching how it works and often causing huge scientific disasters, fires, and massive money losses. Ok, none of those things. Generally I'll just give advice to a child and they'll get their homework wrong, causing a detention and a loss of respect for 'Uncle Tiernan'. Hmm, uncle Tiernan sounds creepy. What I'm trying to relearn now is my last Edinburgh show. Its 100% definitely definitely in my head. I repeated those words everyday for a month, I said them many times before that and rehearsed them in my own head and out aloud at least another 30 odd times. So they are totally and utterly embedded in my brain like a long need to avenge my father. My father doesn't need avenging, so that was a crap comparison. At least, I don't think he does. If he does he hasn't told me, which is good as I have a lot of other stuff to be getting on with.

So totally and utterly there. I'm not sure how many more times I could say it to reassure you that my brain is like a vault and only I have the key. Except, it appears I've lost the key. I might have eaten it or left it under a plant pot, but which one, I'm not sure. As I went through the show yesterday it had more holes in it than an Emmental cheese in a Hollyoaks script. I'd get 15 minutes in and have to go back to add something in from 7 minutes that's crucial for a callback later. How has this happened? Surely I should be able to access the depths of my brain and pull out that full hour in an instant and perform it to its fullest as though I'd be touring everyday for months, just without the bored, dead look in my eyes? The look that's saved for the audiences. Clearly not. So I'm revising. Hard. It'll be gold by tomorrow but today requires slugging through my own words which is akin to looking at photos of yourself aged 17 with curtains knowing full well that you looked like a div and trying to pretend they are fond memories. Well, that's not entirely true. I mean, I was a div at 17 and I did have curtains (on my head, and windows, fact fans), but I am still pleased with this show, its just that time away from it makes you critical and I feel Monday may have some added lines.

So cramming began yesterday which meant I spent several hours on Assassin's Creed, tidied up, cooked a curry from scratch and then watched the British Comedy Awards taking it in turn with Tom to shout or cheer for different people as they appeared. All good rehearsal then. I won't comment much on the awards as its the same result every year. I was annoyed Shappi, Sarah Millican and Isy didn't win anything, and I was very pleased for Horrible Histories and The Thick Of It. Aside from that it was merely an exercise in seeing how many offensive tweets I could write about everyone that appeared. Except Lauren Laverne as she lives down our road and I'm still working on plans to make her our friend.

The show is tomorrow by the way, should you wish to see it for its final time. I really feel like all that hard work needs a final send off before I bury it in the confines of my comedy notes graveyard (4th draw down in the chest of drawers by my desk, fact fans) and I really get going on show number 3 and 4 (yes, two of them). So if you could come and test my memory, please do. If all else fails I'll make my Warwick Davis joke from last night 15 times over. It will at least fit in with the theme 'Littlest Things'.

Tickets here: http://www.etceteratheatre.com/details.php?show_id=1000

Riddle Me This

2011-01-22T14:21:00.002Z

It's times like this that the internet is actually damaging to your wellbeing. Due to some ideal banter on Twitter I was forwarded this by @meganagitor:

ZAHADA

Up until clicking that, myself and Nat have been sitting on the sofa, in PJs, happily eating brunost on toast, using our laptops whilst watching The Two Towers. Occasionally one will warn the other that 'its the bit where the trees fight' and there'll be a momentary change of attention towards the telly. Then this link appeared and all focus has moved to wasting time we'll never get back on a series of riddles that, all in all, will never ever benefit my life ever. Nor are they particularly enjoyable, but due to my completest nature and the need to not be beaten by a machine for fear its how the Matrix will begin, means I've been scrabbling my brains over it for an hour now.

Despite being hooked, its a constant concern for me as to why anyone ever makes riddles anyway. Its just irritating. Sure back in the days when they didn't have encoding, passwords and PINSentry then ok, you probably needed to be sure you guard Thebes with some sort of security. Although if you are a giant Sphinx then I don't see why you needed people to answer a riddle incorrectly before you kill them anyway. I mean, you've got a giant cat body and a human head, just twat anyone you don't like. Because otherwise riddles are just smug. I don't care 'what has twelve eyes and speaks twice, but backwards is a dingy' or whatever. Why can't you just say 'What's your mother's maiden name?' Or 'what was the name of your first pet?' and we'll all be done with it.

Actually, saying that, and its as though a small lightbulb has popped above my head while typing this, a wonderful way for savings accounts to work would be to pose a riddle instead of a security question if you tried to withdraw money. That way you would save a lot more. If I tried to get £100 out to buy a box set of some 80's cartoon knowing full well it should go towards my eventual purchase of a car/ holiday/ mansion/ speed boat/ laser but was posed with ' On Monday its twelvty, but on Saturday its barren. Twice is its face and but Thrice is its mace, what is it?' then I'd just give up and leave it there to gain interest. Maybe, just maybe, I've solved the financial crisis.

I'm going to invent all my own riddles that have answers that don't make sense but work in my head and then sell them to the banks to give to a giant Sphinx that sits outside their stock exchange and doesn't let them fiddle with it unless they answer it correctly. If they don't, the Sphinx eats them. Er, excuse me David Cameron, step your elitist evil arse to one side, the Douieb runs tings now. Here's some examples of the kind of riddles I'd give. If you know the answers, please leave comments below:

1) Once I was a soldier, I fought on foreign lands for you, but twice I am an egg cup, three times a lady, George The Fourth Bridge, yes please. Who is my dad?

2) A man stands on his hands whilst playing in a band. Who are his band supporting on 12th July 2012?

3) No?

Good luck with squirming round those mental shitstorms. My work for the day is done. Its been found through the powers of google that parts of Zahada only work on a PC and I have a Mac because I'm all arty and cool. This also means I can pretend I would've got to level six billion where the Riddler himself does a lapdance for you because you're so clever, but as I can't I'll just watch a dwarf and and elf take bets on who can kill the most orcs.

Two O'Clock Show Not Live

2011-01-21T13:17:00.002Z

I have half a ton of things to say about the NHS reform, Blair's squirming his way through the Iraq war enquiry and how pleased I am that Coulson has gone on account of him being a huge twat, but I'll be honest, none of these things are particularly on my radar today. I thought I should let you know that I'm thinking about such things just incase any of you were worried that between Arctic adventures, watching films about a man cutting his own arm off and generally mocking my flatmates, that I was ignoring worldly goings on. Perhaps you feared I had let my guard down like an inflatable securicor man at the end of a shift, and had decided that after pursuing an avid interest in political and social matters for a few months had thrown all that interest away in replacement for more whimsical notions. Well, er, I have a bit. Sorry. Not because I want to you understand, but I've just been a bit crap in keeping up with it all with so many other things to do. I mean when I say I have half a ton of things to say (a to, or an on) about those things its a bit of a lie. I haven't really got a clue what's happening right now. I sometimes feel its like a soap opera you watched enough episodes of bad acting and poor plotlines to finally get a grasp of what's going on, only to go away for a week, come back and find all the characters you knew died in a fire and nothing makes sense.

So what I do sort of know is that the NHS budgets are being handed over to GPs which terrifies a diabetic like me. In the last four years my old GP tried to fob off all sorts of odd drugs to me in order to tick boxes that would mean certified bonuses from pharmaceutical companies. I would be wary of all these tablets and ask the specialists at my hospital if I should be on them, where I'd be warned against such things, only to then be berated by my GP for not taking them. It strikes me as a horror situation where everytime you're in A&E, perhaps a victim of a serious accident, you'll be packed off with a ton of blood pressure tablets and a flu jab so Doctor something or other can buy a new car this month. I know there are many others issues with the reform, such as the huge deficit the NHS is already in and how much cost a reshuffle will cost, ultimately not really gaining any money back, but I'm focusing on the selfish stuff as I don't want to be a human guinea pig. Saying that I suppose if it results in me turning into the Incredible Hulk or gaining Spidey powers from an experimental drugs test then I might be swayed.

As for the other top stories, well Blair should've been locked up for being a war criminal ages ago. Part of me thinks that if the slimy, lying twat escapes this second enquiry without serious consequences then we should all start wars with whoever we like, ignore any legal advice from ruling powers we are given and hide all documents that prove its wrong. If you can't beat them, then let's join them. My first war will be against Tony Blair. Lets all wear camouflage and get rocket launchers and sit outside his house. When he comes to the door complaining that its unfair as his children are innocents caught up in unnecessary conflict, we all shout 'hypocrite' and then fire away. Plan? Good.

As for Coulson, well I really haven't read up on the phone hacking accusations but a) he's a Tory and b) anyone that takes a cleaver to a receiver is an arse, Hey that was both the worst joke I think I've ever made and a poem. Brilliant. Today is full of wonders.

So that's kind of it. My shit summary of things. Take that C4's 10 o Clock Live Show which I didn't watch and can't judge, although if I bump into Lauren Laverne again I will say it was brilliant so that we can be friends.

127 Minutes

2011-01-20T14:31:00.002Z

Despite having all of the work in the world to do - yes, seriously. That much. All of it. Ever - instead of doing any of it last night, myself and Tom went on a cinema excursion. The wonders of living with someone who has the Orange Wednesday's deal suddenly came into play. Tom doesn't use this opportunity often enough normally. He'd probably tell you its due to gigging or being too busy, but in reality its because often him and Nat turn up at the cinema to use it and are told its not a Wednesday and they have to turn around and try all over again. I often wonder about how many tales of my flatmates mishaps I should relay on my blog incase it ends up in their stand-up or rather seems as though I'm being condescending about such things. Far from it. I consistently find such tales of idiocy entertaining and I would have laughed a considerable amount less this week if Tom had travelled up to Scotland for three days with more than one pair of pants. There is a lovely joy at knowing that this house is entertaining even when trying its utmost not to be.

The choice of film last night was 127 Hours. It was that or the King's Speech and whilst all I hear is about how great the latter is, I can't help but find a film about a stuttering monarch will always come second to a tale of anguish, adventure and severed limbs. If you don't know what 127 Hours is about you've probably been living on the moon for a while. If you do live on the moon, how are you getting my blog? I hope you're not stealing off the satellites or I will have to report you. Unless you are the man on the moon, in which case, you are allowed to do pretty much what you like on your giant cheese ball. Although I have checked my google stats for this blog and out of the two people that read, one if from the UK and the other is from the Ukraine oddly enough. Actually, truth be told, according to the stats I have readers in South Korea, the Netherlands, USA, Japan, Germany, Russia and Canada. If that's true then Привіт, 안녕하십니까, Goedendag, Howdy, こんにちは, Guten Tag, Здравствуйте and Hey. If you are one very avid travelling reader then I want you to know I hate you for making me trawl through a language page and spend far too much time on what was one very long and essentially pointless sentence. So anyway, you should all know, in all languages that 127 Hours is about a man who goes climbing, falls down a crevice (I love the word crevice), gets his arm trapped under a rock and has to cut his own limb off to escape after being trapped for 5 days. AND ITS ALL TRUE. A MAN ACTUALLY DID THAT. FOR REAL. I know. I know.

The film is both the most harrowing thing I've ever seen and also truly brilliant. Danny Boyle is a master of many things and has amazed me way back ever since Shallow Grave and just about everything he's done since, especially 28 Days Later. Now this, where he manages to make an hour and a half focuses on James Franco's face constantly gripping. Well done Mr B. Flippin' well done. A bit part of it is knowing full well that Aron Ralston did fall down a crevice and did have to cut his own arm off with a blunt knife and sitting agonising through the film waiting for the moment for it to happen. Its painful to watch the build up and its more painful to watch the pay off. Never in my life have I sat watching a film through my fingers like child does everytime Bruce Foresyth is on the telly. Truly horrifying. And at the end it says Aron is still a climber which makes you feel like he has learnt little to nothing of his experience. Its like if an episode of He-Man ended and instead of a moral they all just said 'well its a shame as Skeletor seems like a nice bloke really. I'm sure he won't do it again.' No. It all feels horribly wrong that anyone would go through such a terrible time and still happy do the sort of sports that lend themselves to ridiculous injuries. Myself and Tom left needing sharp drinks and happy things to watch to curb our minds from what we had seen. Worse though, far worse, is that ever since seeing it, all I can think about is what I would do in that situation.

I'd fail. That's what I'd do. I don't think I could ever cut my own arm off. Or even just get a scratch on my finger. Sure I inject all the time for diabeticals but that's different. Inflicting actual self harm seems like the most horrible thing ever. If I was stuck down a crevice, and I should point out that I never ever will be ever because I'm not a dick who would go climbing instead of just popping to the pub, then I think I'd just cry a lot, crap myself and then die. Like I said though, it won't happen. I was torn between feeling sadness for Aron Ralston and at the same time an overarching need to say 'well you're a proper bellend aren't you for a) doing stupidly dangerous things, and b) not telling anyone where you were going or taking a phone with you.' Then I'd sing 'told you so, told you so' and dance around going 'naaah naah naah naah naah naah eyyyyeyyyeyyyee naaah naah naaah' and so on and so forth. Here's the trick people: why do extreme sports when you can do other fun things where the worst that might happen is a hangover/sore eyes and thumbs from playing computer/ you really upset someone by being too gropey because you've had bourbon. Ahem. Excuse the last one. All I'm saying is yes what a feat for a man to achieve, surviving such things and being brave enough to cut himself out at the cost of an arm. But also, what a dick for finding himself in that situation anyway. Dick dick dick.

It was gripping though and I am tempted to find a way to incorporate such suspense in my performance. I'm considering doing an Edinburgh show called 127 Minutes where I balance a pebble on my wrist and punch myself till it falls off and I can escape. It can't sell any less tickets than last year's show. That's all I'm saying.

Yardwang

2011-01-19T11:38:00.003Z

Doing work is a total arse. Yes, that's my first sentence of today's blog. The sort of colloquialism and nothing statement a 15 year might make several years ago before they invented some new slang word for arse, probably. Its probably something like fong, or ching, or something else that sounds like it could be part of a Spike Milligan poem. They probably have a new word for work too, them kids with their vocab. I bet its something like blark or jagga or something shit like that. Yeah, take that kids, I've just destroyed your whole slang talking ethos by showing just how easy it is to make all that stuff up. I might even make my own language, leak it onto the streets using Chinese whispers and the few children I know and eventually you'll all be saying phrase like 'Doing blark is total ching.' Then who'll look stupid? Well me, again. Mostly because instead of doing the work I should be doing I'm instead inventing words no one will ever use and once again take a step forward into that dangerous adult territory where younger people look at you like you are both a) uncool and b) weird and c) should be avoided at all costs. Sigh.

Its admin work I need to do today, which is the most boring kind. Everyone assumes that comedy is this joyous life of farting about all day until you rock up to a gig do our 20 minutes then resume position on the sofa and carry on farting. Well, disbelievers, its far more than that. Aside from all the traveling of which I moan about on this blog on a regular basis, there is a tonfuck of work to do. Tonfuck is a word I've just made up. I reckon the kids will use that. Its both a swear and a measurement. Two uses for one word. I might make that the basis of my language. Sweary measurements. Something like Ounceshit. Footcock. Centimetrebellend. Hmm. This could so catch on. So yeah, admin. Loads of it. There's all the booking of gigs for yourself, if you run gigs you have to book them up too, material writing for gigs, sketches, whatever other pies you have your comedy finger in, press stuff and interviews, then you have all Edinburgh planning and taxes and there's probably more but as I'm typing this my brain is screaming. Hertzdouche.

So today, rather than sensibly doing one bit at a time, I'm attempting to do everything all at once. Ultimately this means I probably won't do anything and instead will sit here thinking of other swear measurements then running into the street to shout them at kids till they catch on. Wattdick. Admin's for losers. Decibelnob.

Some other quick things:

- Today me and Nat walked past Lauren Laverne. ON OUR ROAD! This means she must live ON OUR ROAD. Exciting times. Sarah Benetto had warned me she lived near us, but now I have proof I may have to spend some time actually finding out exactly which house and trying to be her friend. I bet she'd like me as a friend. We could totally hang out. I've heard the radio before. Essentially we have everything in common.

- I finished all the Scott Pilgrim books last night as kindly bought for me by my friends Mat, Sam and Stefen. I had previously argued the merits of the film against Sam saying how the books were much better. I now fully bow to his opinion. They are amazing.

- Please come to this. Its the last time I'll ever do this show. Several people have said they liked it. One said it was shit and that them and their friends who left 6 minutes in were far funnier. But most didn't. Anyway. Its your last chance to see this for yourself so come along if you're London or near London based. Etcetera Theatre in Camden, 7.30pm Monday January 24th. Ta:

LITTLEST THINGS - MONDAY 24TH JANUARY

- Tomorrow, unless something amazing happens, due to demand I will do an entire blog of Tiernan Talks Back. What this needs however is questions from you, or things you would like me to write about. So please leave comments, questions or just general offensive statements or your own measurement swears and I will respond accordingly tomorrow afternoon.

Back To Reality

2011-01-18T11:48:00.003Z

Only 18 hours ago I was staring at fjords and mountains, with a night sky filled with stars and the constellations in a cold, quiet air where only the snow crunching footsteps of a few chilly adventurers could be heard. Now I'm back in my flat where the heating has been on solid for two days so everything's steamy, there is no food in the fridge at all and my W7 bus ride involved overhearing a girl talk for ages about how she 'wore some make-up in year 7, and a bit more in year 8 yeah, but now I wear loads cos you gotta dress like you're always goin' out for the boys to fink you're tick innit?' Sigh. I hate the returning from holiday bit. I stepped off the plane and was handed a free Daily Mail as though the world knew I was feeling all relaxed and chilled from my trip and needed a well timed injection of bigoted hate. I raced my damaged suitcase with its 1 and a half wheels to the train back to Tottenham Hale and ran directly into a crowd of rush hour zombies, all of whom were so engorged in their need to mindless trek to a job they hated that they seemingly ignored the heavy bag I was carrying and barged me every which way but loose. Er, that doesn't make sense, but I'm very tired and I remembered that being a phrase. I've been up since 3am. I think I'm allowed.

Don't get me wrong, I've been looking forward to returning to the flat and in excitement texted Nat and Tom a countdown of minutes to my imminent return, aiming to burst through the door with a sitcom like shout of 'Funnies! I'm home'. I think that's hilarious and could easily be followed by some canned laughter and an awkward story about the One With The Bin Bag or something equally as dull. However Tom is currently in Scotland and Nat's phone doesn't work, so instead I burst through the door to find Nat getting dressed in the living room with a look of startled confusion. Not quite the plan. However its nice to back in our lovely home. What's not so nice is that within minutes of sitting down and putting my laptop on, work has already begun again with bookings to be booked, writing to be written and phonecalls and texts and emails and tweets and facebooks and on and on and on and on and all I'd really like to do is sleep and wake up back in a fjord. Well, not in it. That'd be freezing. And wet. By it. Definitely by it. I'm also stone cold broke due to stupid Norsk costs, we haven't even got any bread in and I'm currently chewing on the Toblerone I bought in the airport. Yeah I totally bought one with my leftover Norwegian Dollars. I've never done that whole 'buying a giant Toblerone thing' before and as I wielded it around like a lightsaber for sugar addicts, I wondered how on earth you can get nail scissors confiscated as security yet I could buy two of these and clobber someone to death baton-style with ease.

I'm catching up on news about floods, street massacres and the UK government handing the NHS over to people who are swayed more by pharmaceutical companies than actual welfare and ultimately, as a result, I'm already wondering how to plan another holiday. I had such an amazing time in Norway that I very much want to go back, possibly on the Whale tour trip of the Northern towns. The Norwegians are pretty awesome people. They do very little wrong. I mean, they have free wi-fi everywhere, they eat brown cheese, they smile and talk to you and lots of them are pretty. Also after a trip to Tromso museum yesterday afternoon I saw just how environmentally friendly they are as a nation, just how important science and evolution is to them and how dedicated they are to bringing their children up well. I mean really, how can you fault them? Oh wait. Everything's stupidly expensive and they like whaling. Ok expensive you can get buy. I mean, they have a good economy because they still cleverly have things to export unlike our wonderful society that managed to sell only money that didn't exist. Yeah well done. Why not make huge shipments of unicorn meat next dickheads? Norway on the other hand has oil, gas, wood and fish among others. So, not really bad for them that the economy is all going well.

But whaling? Whaling? Its odd that a country's vice seems so at odds with its other principles. They had a series of touch screen videos in the museum that you could play with. Often they would include humorous sketches such as a women reading the 100,000 year weather forecast explaining Norway's landmass or a fashion commentary on weapons through the ages. It worked. Then others were opinion polls. One for example said 'Do you believe man is responsible for global warming?' and there was a button for English/Abroad and one for Norsk. With that one and most of the others the Norwegian response was always on the ball. However, with the question about whether whaling should be stopped, abroad said 80% yes and Norway said 75% no. They are adamantly keen on saving the polar bears, the seals, many arctic birds, foxes and other species. Yet those big hulking masses of blubber can happily be harpooned for the sake of some chewing gum. Horrible times. I love whales and it makes me really sad. I guess maybe that's why they are so good at everything else. And they had the vikings with all that raping and pillaging so I suppose brown cheese and the nicest smiles go some way to try and make up for that.

I like to think that by liking beer I can probably be a bit shitty with some people and not have to amp the niceness up to mega as I like to kick puppies in my spare time or something. That's my views. Anyway, overall, Norway really rocks, and I will be back to see all the things I couldn't this time such as the Northern Lights, moose, bears and whales. Happy whales. Till then, holiday's clearly over. I'm going to begrudgingly get on with work and see if there's anyway some of the brown cheese I smuggled back will go with Toblerone.

Tromso Long

2011-01-17T10:15:00.007Z

Its my last day in Tromso today which is both sad and yet about right timing wise. I'm starting to very much miss the sunlight. It turns out I quite like sunlight and a distinct absence of it, whilst fun for a while - you can pretend you're a vampire or you live underground or in that shit film with Vin Diesel in it - is just a bit miserable after a while. I have no idea how people cope here for 6 whole months. I suppose its because no matter how dark it gets, it does look very nice. I mean, there's places that look horrible in the dark, like Hackney, and then there's places that look like this:

Not bad huh? Yeah take that Hackney. When you get a fjord then you can make a stand about such things. I really like fjords. I like saying the word and they rock. I mean, honestly, I'm yet to understand what makes them different from a lake or a sea or any of those other things, but they are definitely great. That picture there was taken from up a mountain. I like mountains too. I can understand why in Hitchikers Guide To The Galaxy, Slartibaartfast is very proud of Norway. Full of fjords and mountains. The mountain I took that picture from was especially good as once up there I got to eat these waffles:

Which I got for free because the very cute waitress was amazed I was a foreigner that liked brown cheese. Hooray! For once my gluttonous sweet tooth wins. And then double win as I ate them up a mountain. Eating waffles up a mountain will probably be the title of my autobiography should I ever write one. It will be followed by inevitable sequels such as 'Having Chips In A Swamp' and 'Downing A Pint In A Lagoon'. I'm all for eating and drinking nice things in extreme situations. Somehow I feel this is a sport that has been overlooked for far too long and after yesterday I'm very pleased to say I will happily take up such a challenge. As well as waffles I took a shedload of pics with the camera which I think I'm getting better at. I can't understand why face recognition thought the top of another mountain was a face. Or why it though a telegraph pole was a face. It did the same for the moon, which I think is to do with it having romantic notions of the man up there, so that's ok. I'm starting to wonder however if its just a bit of a nuts piece of equipment with its daydreaming ideals and anthropomorphising everything. Then again, I'm talking about it as though its a tiny metal rascal. Its highly likely all manhandling of such images is entirely my useless fault. There are at least three settings that could work for any one picture up here. Snow, Night Sky or Starry Sky and yet none seem to be able to take a sunset. All I want is a setting that says 'great picture'. Is that so hard? When will they make a camera for idiots? Anyway, here's some of my handy work:

Essentially I'm just very lucky that everywhere looks so nice that its hard to screw up. Very photogenic is Tromso. Doesn't even have to open its eyes or smile. Amazing work.

Right I have to check out in 10 mins before stomping my way to the museums for today's expedition, so quick run down of other excellent things from yesterday:

- I met a man called Rob. He was from Wales and worked in a charity saving whales. Brilliant. Sadly he wasn't wailing which would have gained him maximum points. Though at the same time I probably wouldn't have spoken to him as he'd have seemed weird. He was a top chap though and spends his year flying round the world making people stop whaling, which is brilliant. I'd very much like to do such things though I can only imagine I'd be crap at it.

Me: 'Please stop whaling. Its really not nice. Whales are great, even if they look sad all the time and make that noise like they are in distress.'
Whalers: 'No.'
Me: 'Shit.'

So well done Rob. It must be a pretty tough job. He also saves dolphins. I imagine this is easier as they do that thing like Flipper does where they tell you when stuff is wrong through a series of squeak noises.

Bugger out of time. Other points of note before I get fined were that I've seen the Arctic Cathedral, at least 7 people that look like Santa Claus, about 15 that look like Scarlett Johansson, several billions that look like Thor, two that look like Orlando Bloom and 4 that look like those little trolls figurines.

I'll write my Norway case study for you all tomorrow. Ta ra Tromso, its been much fun. Apart from the darkness and that icy wind that made me stay in last night. Tak.

No-Then Lights

2011-01-16T09:26:00.004Z

I'm officially in love with this part of the world. I don't think I've ever gawped so much as on the coach to our Northern Lights expedition last night, staring out the windows as we passed snow covered mountain, fjord and forest. Its the sort of scenery I've only ever seen in films before. Admittedly those films were Alive, Insomnia and 30 Days of Night, all of which are about terrifying deaths in one way or another. I did then start thinking about how in the dark you could be killed and buried in the snow for days and no one would find your body till the Spring. Then I saw a 'moose crossing' sign on the side of the road and forgot all about it. I had made the mistake of talking to the first person I saw waiting for the trip, and rather than choose the attractive girls standing the other side of me, that had walked by me twice already that day in town and acknowledged such things with a smiling nod, I instead started to speak to a German lady who had the ability to kill all banter with a few sentences. An engineer for dairy plant cleaning fluids I chose to stem all banter, or lack of, by just observing the scenery and remembering that I am on holiday and therefore don't actually have to talk to anyone for once.

As we got nearer to Lyngsfjord the temperature reader on the coach went from -7 degrees to -23 degrees and I couldn't help but feel excited. I've never been that cold before. I'm sure that's not something I should have been looking forward to. It wouldn't work in the opposite direction. I've been in 42 degree heat before and if someone offered me the opportunity to be in 72 degree heat and fry my face off, I'd be wary. I'd still probably say yes because I am nothing but an adventurer. Minus 23! That's insane cold. As we stepped off the bus my beard began to freeze and we raced indoors to be fitted with giant thermal suits that were to be put on top all other clothes restricting movement to a shuffle akin to Frankenstein's monster, and huge boots with extra woolen socks to go over your own. It was all necessary. The twix in my bag had become an instant ice lolly and my camera battery had died almost instantly of cold, ruining all possibilities of good pics of the event. I had, all in all, 6 layers on and was tempted to go round asking people to punch me to see if I could feel a thing. I didn't know these people though and chances were the German lady would somehow make it too boring to see through.

All dressed up in uniform there was an odd feeling between everyone that we had bonded. We would be seeking out the Northern Lights together, all looking like shiny jelly babies, and as small talk and banter was thrown between our international crowd, Roy stepped up. Roy the tour guide. Roy the survival expert. Roy with his odd glasses, stupid hat and Norwegian enthusiasm. He found out everyone's name and then lead us out into the snow with tales of how the last week has brought the brightest Northern Lights he has ever seen and that we should be in luck. We trudged along a well worn path, every step outside it causing you to sink knee deep into the glistening snow. I'm not just stabbing my hand at travel writing here, it actually was glistening. I'm not sure if it was planning a big night out, but there was seemingly more sparkly glitter in the cold dust than at nightclub run by pixies. We dodged dog sleds and snow bikes that needed to go past, and Roy would stop every few paces to check whether or not we had frozen yet and to give us details about the wildlife - wolverines and lynx - or make us chew on a bit of pine tree that he swore was edible. I'll tell you now that next Christmas I shan't be discarding dinner to have a munch on the decorations instead. He asked at one point who liked gin and there was a joyous 'yes' from most of the group, praying that there would be a small token of booze to carry our journey on, but instead we got to eat some juniper, which gin comes from, its bristly pines not going down the same way as a decent G&T.

Then we stood under the starry sky, with the bright half moon and waited. And waited. And nothing. Nothing at all. Clouds hovered over and soon it was too cloudy for anything to appear. We walked in file back to the Saami tent with a sense of disappointment. No matter how amazing the mountains and landscape, we had all taken this trip to see one thing, and it didn't happen. We sat around the fire and were handed bowls of non-descript soup. I, as a veggie, got some cauliflower concoction that seemed ok but I was pleased I couldn't see it too well in the dark. Roy came round and showed us his pictures of the lights from a week before. He meant well, but his amazing photos and constant reminders that he saw them all the time just felt a bit like he was rubbing it in. Full of food and a feeling of being let down by inexplainable solar activity we got back to the main camp, discarded our heavy suits and spent the next two hours on the coach staring at the mountains hoping for a glimpse of Lights before we got to bed.

No such luck and instead I stayed out drinking till 3am with Chris and Vic (Vik?), a lovely couple from London that I met on the trip and had no such chat about dairy plant cleaner. This was their third holiday to try and see the Lights having been to Sweden and Iceland before with no luck. They had started to believe it was all a scam, begun by Joanna Lumley to scam tourists of cash. We had decided that to cheer us all up meant we must hit other ventures instead and resigned ourselves to the fact that yes it would cost £20 for a round of three beers, but beers were really needed. Walking past bar after bar of girls in high heels and miniskirts despite arctic temperatures (it happens all over the world apparently), playing the sort of music that sounds like a heart monitor in an earthquake, we discovered the only 'quiet' bar in the area and huddled in the corner amongst other old people and had a really nice night.

One last chance to see the Lights again tonight, though Auroral forecast is low and there's clouds again in the sky, so it doesn't seem likely. If not, well, I'll just have to come back. Till then I'm going up a mountain to eat waffles. You heard me.

Sorry if today's entry was more travel journal than comical entry, but Mack's beer is more potent than I thought.

Tromso Pretty

2011-01-15T09:37:00.008Z

Tromso is a bit lovely. Aside from the fact that its almost always constantly dark which makes me have to fight the urge to stay in bed and the fact that its abominably cold which makes me have to fight the urge to stay in bed, its a beautiful place. On my first night here in this party capital of Norway, guess what this madman did? Guess what this crazy, all about town, hounddog of a guy did? That's right, I had an early night. Er...yep. In a place where the Northern Lights mostly appear between 10pm and 2am and the bars stay open till everyone leaves, I was all tucked up in my lovely warm duvet by 11pm. Wuss o'clock. But I'm proud. No, I really am. Much snoozing was needed after a mammoth day of flying, getting trains, dragging round a suitcase which has had half of its left wheel somehow shaved off meaning its not disimilar to how I imagine Obelix felt dragging round his, er, obelisks, and seeing a lot of Oslo in two hours. With Jonathan very kindly being my 'drive-by' tour guide, in a very short space of time I'd walked round the Vigeland sculpture park which included such David Icke like tributes as this:

You can't see it properly, but its a lizard sexually harassing a naked woman. No, I have no idea why either. Wikipedia doesn't seem to know why either. Essentially, its just creepy. As were most of the other statues that are apparently a tribute to the 'human condition'. Yes, ok, but that doesn't explain why:

This one is riding in a stag's antlers. Or why:

This one is playing keepy uppy with babies. Or why:

These two are doing moves to a Steps dance. There are many more odd ones too. I can only assume that when Gustav Vigeland created the park, he based it on his 'human condition' which was clearly bonkers, and not that of others.

Here's my impression of the Sinnataggen or “Angry Boy”.

And here's Jonathan's impression of the, er, not so angry boy.

The whole place looked amazing in the show and we raced from their to the palace where they have real soldier guards and everything, then the National Theatre with its statue of Ibsen and finally to the train where I could embark to my flight further North. And now, well now I'm not sure what to do with my day. Last night I had a walk round in the dark and cold. I checked out the harbour and I very briefly popped my head into the 'Northernmost brewery' but it was full of old people doing karaoke and a huge stuff polar bear. I lasted two minutes and ran away. The polar bear was fine, but those warbling tones were terrifying. So now I'm just waiting to see if some Arctic Guide has space for me on his Northern Lights expedition tonight or if I have to do a cheaper but less guaranteed sightseeing trip. All I really want to do here is see the lights. There's a high chance I won't. There are a few selfish clouds in the sky and Geophysical Institure Aurora Forecast page says chances are only moderate (yes, really. See here: http://www.gedds.alaska.edu/AuroraForecast/Default.asp?Date=20110115), but if I don't try at least then I'll feel like a chump. Of course if I spend ludicrous amounts of money trying, and then don't, I'll feel like more of a chump. But still probably less of a chump than one that goes to bed early. Either way, tonight I will go seek out the bars. And end out warbling old people and stuffed polar bears. Go team! Though it is very dark and cold and that bed does look lovely.....

Norway Norway, Mnnmnmnah

2011-01-14T10:16:00.009Z

Firstly, sorry about the title of today's blog. Its been in my head for days and I needed to inflict it on someone else. Secondly, yeah, I'm totally in Oslo and shizzle, where the streets are paved with er...well...pavements. But on top of the pavement is shedloads of snow! Ok pedants, actually I'm not in Oslo, I'm currently in Asker. Asker what? Asker anything you like. BOOM! But I was in Oslo last night and I'll be back in Oslo again today, so there. Have that in your pipe and smoke it. No! Wait! Don't smoke Oslo! It seems nice! Despite its lack of obvious directions, its incredibly difficult train ticket machines that meant I bought a return instead of a single, and the constant warnings of pickpockets, its awesome. For a start there's snow everywhere and yet everything runs fine. I know! I know! Last night my plane landed on a snow covered runway. Totally. And it was a Ryanair flight at that. And there were only 7 people on it which meant I spent the whole journey mumbling out loud 'its mah private jet mo fo's' and got me several odd stares from the cabin crew. It was hard enough stifling giggles when they were doing the safety bit to each other as no one else was paying attention. Nice flight though. And due to boredom I rewrote some of Ryanair's safety card:

Shooting your eye lasers will cause a fire

Once you've caused the fire, sneak out as quickly as possible. Everyone will be too distracted to notice.

Then throw custard all over the doorway

Then dress like a dog

Then when you get shot in the kidney, put your lipstick on.

Yeah so I'm totally in Asker, staying with my friend Jonathan who greeted me yesterday with Norwegian food and drink goods such as brunost, which is brown cheese made from the whey that everyone else throws away. It tastes of butter and caramel and I've become horribly addicted. I think it only exists in Scandinavia because its probably too dangerous to have anywhere else. There is some infront of me right now and I'm doing all I can to avoid chomping into it with a spoon. Why would this be hidden from us Brits? Why do we not deserve the golden brown cheese? I have decided this is actually what the Stranglers were singing about. I endeavor to smuggle a load back and get some contacts to become a high class brunost dealer for the UK. There was also Gilde Aquavite which tastes like booze mixed with booze and whilst enjoyable becomes easier and easier to drink and then in the morning your throat has seized up and your head hurts. Its like some sort of Scandinavian magic. Jonathan also told me about odd Icelandic customs such as shark meat that's been buried and peed on and Dung Smoked Salmon which he tried despite it smelling of shit. Nothing in my mind can possibly work out why you would do such a thing, but being a polite guest I only questioned it for a whole five minutes. Bonkers.

So today is for actually seeing whatever we can see in Oslo, snow restricting. I mean, everything's still running, but I'm cold and its not great to stand outside for ages. No one here does it. I saw one man in a thin tracksuit top and jeans and little else, but I suspect he's from Newcastle, not here. Still thermals are on, as is big wooly jumper, hat and gloves and I'm gonna just eat some more brunost to get some energy up. And then maybe some more after that. And then some more. Mmmmm brunost. Then tonight, Tromso! Where they'd better have brunost or I'm coming back to Oslo.

Jonathan's garden. Better snowy pictures tomorrow. Couldn't work out how to take good ones in the dark yesterday. I'm an idiot.

Picture of Foolishness

2011-01-13T12:46:00.007Z

And so my mini-Dublin trip comes to an end as tonight I fly to Oslo for part deux of Tiernan's impulsive holiday adventure. Today shall transcend my journey from its lovely chilled hanging with Keith and Ginny into snow storm Bear Grylls type adventure as I have to kill polar bears with my bear hands (these are the hands I use just for killing bears with) and surf on whales and high five a yeti. Well you know, after I stay with my friend Jonathan in Oslo for a night and er, ahem, check out of my hotel in Tromso. If there's time between all that and flying home. Survival! Of the shittest. You're just lucky this time polar bears. Just bloomin' lucky. That's all.

What I've learnt in my short time in Dublin, aside from a ton of interesting Irish politics and history, is that I am crap with a camera. My parents bought me a swanky (yes I used that word, don't judge me) new digital camera for my birthday, and so far in Ireland I've used it twice. That's it. Twice. Once was for this:

That's Keith playing Mario Kart on the SNES at the Game On exhibition. He looks that gormless as he can't believe I've kicked his arse quite so hard on the first go. There were a few other photos of this but due to me moving before the shutter had closed or brightness of the games screen they all look like a series of pictures used for some sort of subliminal hypnosis. That is, if you wanted to hypnotise someone into thinking they were a shit photographer. The other picture was this:

Which is an ancient Irish deer or elk or moose (I didn't really pay attention) in Trinity College. Whatever it is, it looked awesome and I'd like one in our flat back home. You could use the antlers as a hat stand. Bonus. I did want to take other pictures. Particularly of The Long Room, which is the old library at the university. It's more Hogwarts than anything I've seen or read about in Harry Potter and its vast hall contains incredible looking books of yore. I'm sure if I was actually allowed to read them they'd contain dull reference indexes and such, but in my head they are all full of spells apart from one which causes the shelves to revolve and reveal a secret passage where they keep goblins and treasure. I did try to have a closer look at things but there was a scary looking female security guard keeping her eye on my and Ginny. This may have been to do with my exclaiming slightly too loud that some of the pictures of Catholics being tortured in 1641 were 'awesome'. I did of course mean the artwork. Of course. Oh and finding out that when St Lawrence was being grilled alive he said ' this side's done, turn me over and have a bite.' Legendary. Take that John McClane, St Lawrence was a proper hard ass. Or crispy ass I suppose.

Apparently the Dean of Trinity College is allowed to hang one Catholic per annum from the Campanile on the campus and yet hasn't for years. I'm amazed that these laws are kept up on principal. Nothing against Catholics of course, but if you're totally allowed to do that, there could be a vote and they could get rid of some real arseholes. Same with the law in Chester that you can shoot a Welshman with a bow and arrow within the city walls after midnight. Let's all get together and kill Duffy. Ok, ok welshman. We'll paint a 'tache on her first. All I'm saying is that they're all there for a reason, we shouldn't let it go to waste.

So back to the point, I've always relied on other people's photos or my memory to capture things, eventually warping them into how I'd like to remember them and sullying any real recollection of events. I hate people that sit through music gigs taking pictures or seeing amazing views through a lens instead of actually just seeing them. Until I get home that is, they show me all the awesome pictures and I'm hugely unable to remember most of the occasion because beer has taken my brain away. Consequently lots of things are lost and people with cameras win. So I'm gonna get my snapshots on in Norway. Prepare for lots of half arsed pictures of my feet in snow, my pocket and my glove covered thumb.

Game On

2011-01-12T11:23:00.003Z

I think, when you do the comedy, its near impossible to ever switch off doing any work. The sole purpose of me going away for a week was to avoid all comedy based activities and just enjoy some sort of a holiday. Yet already three days in and I've done several emails that 'needed' to be sent, invoiced a few things that I'm hoping will mean I can enjoy the rest of the holiday without just eating sandwiches, jotted down a few gags and here I am, once again, blogging. Don't get me wrong, this is the bit I enjoy, but I've become increasingly aware that in trying to switch my brain off from such activities I've not been paying any attention to anything you might remotely find enjoyable as a reader. Take yesterday for example. I mean, don't take it. That would create a gaping hole in the time continuum and really upset the general happenings of everyday existence. That wasn't what I meant at all. Neither do I want you to look at yesterday as that would require some sort of amazing past vision, you'd be heralded as a witch and then dunked in a pond till you drowned (they do still do that don't they? Although now its just called being a crap diver). What I mean is, let's take yesterday as an example.

Keith (of the Farnan variety) and his girlfriend Ginny (of the Gilbert variety) are the bestest hosts ever. Despite just being general fun and top banter merchants, there has been no pressure to really do much while being here. Much as I have been told by many others, there isn't heaps to see in Dublin (complain at will Dublinites who say otherwise), so all sight seeing has been restricted to excellent pubs before eating pizza and watching - what is arguably one of the greatest films ever - Ghostbusters. As far as I'm concerned, there is little all else you could want on a holiday. Except cake. That was there as well, making Keith and Ginny medal worthy and should probably gain their own Michelin stars for such service. However being slightly more adventurous yesterday, myself and Keith embarked on something that has been planned for months, a visit to the Game On exhibition, a collection of retro computer games. Suddenly with that sentence I can feel the 25-40 something male readers (all two of them) grin ear to ear with reminiscent visions of kicking each others faces off on Streetfighter 2, or already humming the horribly irritating plinky tones of the Bubble Bobble theme. Meanwhile women of the same age quietly close the browser expecting the rest of this blog to get the train to yawnsville and younger readers laugh knowing that they live in an age where computer games are so good they're used to train fighter pilots (this fact is true. I am well clever).

Purchasing a two hour ticket, knowing full well hours and hours of our lives could be wasted away inside, we entered the game zone. Being two of only four people in there on a Tuesday afternoon, we had run of the place. The aim was to start chronologically and so we started with Pong, until realising 15 minutes in we had wasted an 8th of our time on Pong. Its amazingly addictive until you realise you'll go blind watching the same paddle and ball for ages on end, the same blip noise has been penetrating your skull and ultimately there really are more exciting things to be done. Galaxian, Mario Kart, Sonic Stream, Neo Geo games, Virtua Fighter, Street Fighter and many others all happened within the rather odd, dark hallway lined with arcades and consoles. Several minutes were spent boxing each other to death on Monkey Ball. There is very little in life as enjoyable as watching monkeys in bubbles punch each other with giant boxing gloves. It strikes me as nothing but amazing that telly hasn't indulged in such things. Sure animal cruelty and all that, I suppose, but I bet they'd enjoy it. I mean, I'd enjoy it. Maybe just stick me in a bubble with a boxing glove and I'll happily hit things. I just don't think people would enjoy seeing that as much as watching a capuchin uppercut a gorilla. That's all I'm saying.

Anyway, so it was all much fun. Until we started to play Halo on the Xbox 360 which they had set up for 4 players. Myself and Keith leaped on this as opportunity to shoot each other until intermittently other, younger, better gamers would join for 5 minutes, and kill us both. Keith would be killed and he'd ask if I did that. I'd reply that I couldn't work out where he was on the game map and then start jumping against a wall all confused, as I'd be shot in the back of the head and a skinhead fat kid opposite us would smirk then move on. This happened again, and again, and again. Eventually we moved back to the old games, but by now, the magic of nostalgia had long since passed and instead clunky controls and graphics that could cause an epileptic fit in a second just didn't seem as fun. There was nothing in the way of information about the game or the history of computing and for clever, ahem and mature, ahem people like us, it felt like the whole thing was an exercise in brain draining. Keith redeemed times by giving 'Lizardman' a character in Soul Caliber, his own theme song, but ultimately, with 3 minutes to spare on our tickets we rubbed our sore eyes and left, glad that technology has taken a step forward. Still, much fun overall and things were all healed with a hot whisky nearby.

Now what I could do, is end this here blog with a clever insight into how memories create these rose tinted images of things that were ultimately shit. About how the gaming world is no country for old men. Or even about how there is always a tubby, skinheaded child at all of these events, that somehow, beyond comprehension, will piss you off in one way or another. But I won't do any of these things. I'm on holiday. Instead you can have meaningless anecdotes. Then when I return I will bestow Confucius like wisdom on all yo' asses. Sorry, confused wisdom. That's what I meant. Confused.

The Black Stuff

2011-01-11T12:02:00.002Z

I really don't want to be one of those wankers that jumps onboard the cliched bandwagon and fires off all the well known cylinders of yawn but I don't really have a choice. Guinness really does taste better in Dublin. I've tried it in many places including other parts of Ireland, Northern Ireland, various parts of the globe, the back of a car, on top of Alexandra Palace and out of a can. I have, despite levels of drunkness, always thought it tasted like someone had ruined some double cream. Then, yesterday, as I got off the coach at Trinity College, Keith appeared and frog marched straight to the pub where I had a pint of the black stuff and thoroughly enjoyed it. Every last drop. Maybe, just maybe, its because I'm now 30. Maybe my taste buds have just given up and decided that I'm allowed to like Guinness, in the same way a few years back I started to indulge in blue cheese despite previously assuming it came from someone's fungal infection and tasting as such. Or, it could be, that the rumours be true and it does just taste better here. I'm not going to take any chances and will continue to drink it in Dublin to make sure it wasn't just a one off.

Despite having done several travels, I'd never been to the fair city before and I have to say I'm a big fan. I haven't seen lots of it yet, mostly only Keith and Ginny's very lovely flat, and two proper pubs, but that is enough to win me over. Keith and Ginny's flat is properly lovely with their suitable hostile cat Paris who firstly stared at me like she wanted my head to explode and has now taken to only using that stare when I stop stroking her. Fickle creatures them cats. And the pubs, well they were proper ones they were. You forget just how brilliant real pubs are living in London where everyone has been gutted and made Gastro or whatever the type where all taste, class and general atmosphere has been ripped from the walls in place of crap music, shiny surfaces and the sort of clientele that could make the Taj Mahal seem grotty if they were visiting. Real ones though, like the two we went in yesterday, including one, McDaid's, that is just a room and is featured in Constantine, have everything you want. Quiet, with good beer, friendly staff and mahogany wood everywhere so it feels as though you're sitting in a bit of Hogwarts. Old books and pictures on the walls and vintage whiskies in cabinets. What more could you want? Very little. I could pretty much live in a place like that. Sure the landlord's would get annoyed, but I'd be very happy tucked under a barstool for a few weeks.

Today is about seeing more of the city. Well actually, I say that, but there is a retro computer game exhibition on in town and me and Keith fully intend to play on as many of the old school consoles as possible, aiming for sheer square eyes to the extent we would only be able to wear stupid Kanye West glasses to cover them. Then Guinness. Lots and lots of Guinness. Bloody love Dublin.

Bon Voyage Me

2011-01-10T12:47:00.002Z

Bad planning has led to today's blog being typed on an iPhone from a departure gate in Gatwick. Despite how handy it is for many other things doing a blog on Steve Jobs's smaller robot baby is a hugely annoying and slow task. I'm keeping myself going by pretending I'm a huge giant using an iPad. Questions as to how they'll let a huge giant on a plane are being ignored, as are those about why I'm more wealthy as a giant. Though I presume I'd get some great acting work or at least get paid by old and small people to get stuff off shelves. Being a giant is obviously very profitable. Note that you can play this game in reverse if you have an iPad and pretend you're a tiny pixie playing on an iPhone. However then you don't get all the pretend dreams of riches that come with being unable to find big enough trousers ever and the ability to drink a pint like it's a shot.

Anyway I digress. I'm about to go on the first sort of holiday I've had in years and I'm excited. Well mostly excited. It's been so long since I've gone anywhere with the sole purpose of relaxing and having fun that the mere concept is causing panic about all the work I should be doing and what I'll have to do when I get back. Essentially I'm an idiot. I'm going to try my best not to. I'm also going to try my best not to do any work but have already agreed to email several things to people by tomorrow with heavy regret. Admittedly I will only do this after drinking with Keith Farnan in Dublin's fair city so the quality of such emails will also give the recipients heavy regret that they dared ever to ask me anything while I'm meant to be resting.

I'm getting RSI in my thumb from excessive typing so I'm going to abandon this soon, but I'll be blogging over the next week when I can to tell you of my adventures in Dublin, Oslo and Tromso. With luck I'll see the Northern Lights, go whalewatching and do whatever it is you're meant to do in Dublin. Drink possibly. Which if done enough may ruin all the other plans. Hmm. I may need to think this through

Mega Fucker Upper Dude

2011-01-09T12:35:00.002Z

So that's it. I'm now 30. You know how people say it doesn't feel any different when you have a birthday? Well they are wrong. As it struck midnight last night, I was suddenly bestowed with a green glow. I was in the bathroom at the pub we were drinking in and as I looked in the mirror my pupils went red and shot lasers at my reflection. I ducked and instead they rebounded into the heads of two other men having a wee who are now both deaded. Then I went to open the door accidentally pulled it right off its hinges decapitating 12 other people who are now also deaded, but proper deaded and then I flew out over the pub and kicked the faces off of some bad guys who are now super deaded. Basically I've discovered my latent mutant abilities and will now walk the planet barefoot in search of justice. Even though I can fly. Maybe I'll just fly over the dirty bits of road. All in all, I'm well good. I'll have to think of a name. Maybe Mega Fucker Upper Dude or something along those lines and the universe will never be the same. Birthdays are great.

Oh no. Wait. Wait there. Yeah. Yeah I was wrong. Sorry. I'm just a bit hungover. I can't fly at all. I can drink tea. Not even that well. I just spilt a bit. Sigh. Maybe the super powers arrive at 31. I might just go back to bed.

Last night was awesome. I have very lovely friends.

Bye Bye Twenties

2011-01-08T12:21:00.002Z

Well this is it. The last day I will ever spend in my twenties. Unless of course I get to live to my 120's, which I suppose is unlikely. Unless they invent super freeze stasis things or very good vitamins. Either way, it'd be nice to actually get to see jet packs (yes I know there are jet packs now, but not proper ones). The roaring twenties. I know that adheres to the time period of the 1920's but I like to think it surmounts to a period of life where you are allowed to make noises like a lion and not get judged on it. It's not true of course. If you only make noises like a lion from 20-29, you'll probably get sectioned, but it's a nice thought. Sometimes I really think we live in a fascist state. A man should be allowed to make lion noises if he wants. Or a woman. A woman make lion noises that is, not a man make woman noises. Which he should also be allowed to do. God this is all getting complicated. After the roaring twenties of course came the thirties and The Great Depression. I will choose to leave that analogy with its time slot of the 1930's and not carry it with me into tomorrow and the next ten years. No. If anything, I am going to embrace 30 with slightly drunk, wavy, possibly sleazy open arms and give it a big wet kiss on the lips and a hugely inappropriate grope on the bum.

I've definitely done lots I wanted to do in my 20s, so I'm definitely not filled with regrets. I mean I didn't get to have a pet tiger, or blow up a building (in a T-Detonator type way, not terrorism), or parachute into a party, but hey ho, there's still time for all of those things. If anything, the last ten years have been so ram jammed (that's a type of condiment made of sheep) that I wouldn't have had time for all that anyway. I mean between January 9th 2001 and tomorrow I'll have read at least one book, maybe two, definitely had several hot dinners, and I went to the zoo at least three times. If that's not a worthy decade then I don't know what is. Which is probably to do with a sheltered and ignorant existence.

Its evident as well that as I'm reaching the arc that is that of the 30 something, I'm adapting to it well, becoming a mature human being, one who can bestow wisdom on many another. Not just in words, no, but in a way of life and philosophy. For example my evening yesterday can only be described as an exercise in adulthood. Step back childhood to the dark recesses you already live in, move away teenage life filled with your spots I still seem to have and awkwardness with girls that I also manage to retain really well, and back off twenties with your pretty much the same existence as childhood and teenage life. For here be 30xT, a whole new decade of Douieb. That's right, last night I shunned all immaturity and spent the evening eating chips and skittles with Mat and Tom while we played Xbox till 3am. Not only that, but indulging in some old school games, we consistently laughed at Tom's team in Worms (a computer game, not just us all wriggling on the floor in sleeping bags making worm noises. Though we did that too) which was called 'Do A Big Poo'. Such mature wit. The game would begin and it would say 'Do a big poo Get Ready!' and we'd fall about laughing like idiots. His team members included Vince Cable, Mary Poopins and Shatner. Its safe to say that even after two hours of playing the same game, this was still funny. Very very funny.

So yes, er, fully ready for what 30 brings. I hope its mostly sweets, fun and going to the zoo. Just, er, you know, in a grown up way.

Ashen

2011-01-07T12:20:00.002Z

I so don't care about the Ashes. There. I said it. David Cameron said that the 'whole country is very proud of them'. Well, I'm not. They get paid far too much to play a game that's far too slow in a country that's too unfairly hot at this time of year. Cricket has, along with many other sports, landed itself in the lowest area of life priorities for me and in fact, I care even less about it than most of its other contenders for things to 'render me asleep within seconds of conversation' about it. Don't get me wrong, football chat is like a verbal assassin. Mere seconds can go by with someone telling me about transfers, and as soon as I realise it doesn't mean I can have a wash off tattoo of Optimus Prime and is instead about someone from Yawnsville FC being given £12 billion to go to BoreTown United, the little Mac shutdown noise goes off in my head. I know this puts me in a minority as sports fans are everywhere, but I think my reasons for not enjoying it are valid. The main one is that nearly all sports go on forever. The Ashes for example have been going on since 1882 and every 18 to 30 months the whole 'oooh who's going to win it this year debacle goes on and on'. Yet were anyone to sit and think about the pointlessness of winning a terracotta urn containing nothing but the long lost memory of a satirical obituary article in an British paper, that will then have to be played for again and again and again until cricket is banned or the world explodes, then maybe they'd just stop and we could all do something better with our lives.

All other sports have the same problem as far as I'm concerned. Yes your favourite football team may do well this season. But then next season they might not and then they might again then they might not and suddenly its 42 years later and you've done nothing with your life but wear a shit scarf and cry at men in shorts. When does it ever end? Why not have one big game and one team will just be the winners for ever and can own the other team's families or something? Actually have worthy trophies. It takes up so much time to do that too. If you want to support a team, that's several hours a week watching games, nearly every bloody month of the year. The Ashes has been going on for weeks now with all those interested having to stay up all night just to see if anything happens ever and if its ok to insult the Australians yet. In some sort of idealistic world according to how I'd run it, if all these sports stopped I imagine lots of people with a sudden lack of reason for prejudice and a lot of time on their hands all building schools, saving orphans and giving milk to the youth centre instead of telling the ref he's a wanker. I mean, I know that's not true. There'd be some other reason for violence or they'd all team up and attack me for banning all the sports and I wouldn't really like that.

Anyway, I suppose people have to care about something. I'd love to say that in all the time I gain by not watching sport that I'm doing some brilliant world saving work. In reality, while the Ashes was on last night, I was laughing at this:

WOMEN LAUGHING ALONE WITH SALAD

Then I ate cheese on toast at 3am in the morning and questioned my life. All in all, maybe I should have watched the Ashes.

One Flu Over the Cuckoo's Nest

2011-01-06T16:19:00.005Z

50 whole people have died from flu. 50! I know I know its like the whole world has come down with a new killer virus that will wipe out humanity, animalkind and even any aliens that so much as glimpse at a plague ridden Earth with its snotty assassin. How quickly have these 50 died? WHAT? Over an unexplained period of time? DEAR GOD NO! Daub red crosses on door of the sick, burn the bodies, its less a pandemic and more a giant wokdemic! Panic! Panic on the streets of the UK! Or, more likely, we could all look at these figures sensibly, realise that that few people die of illnesses and colds all the time due to poor immune systems or a tragic weakness towards such things and then calm down as we watch the news freak out of not having much to talk about. I mean, no one's actually scared are they? I can't imagine anyone's not heard this news, just popped a few extra Lemsips in the cupboard and got on with their lives looking forward to the possibilities of calling in sick to work for a couple of days. I can't but feel this is a half hearted attack to do some new fear spreading. I mean, we haven't had any of that in the news for a while have we? I mean we had a little bit of pretend vanilla terrorism with some stuff that nearly happened or wasn't going to happen or someone said something was 'da bomb' or other, but aside from that, nothing's really threatened humanity for some time.

Sure the government have just upped VAT which will affect everyone except those who don't need to worry about money (I mean the very rich, not those who through booze/drugs/a feng shui position have realised its foibles and are happy frolicking in grass and eating insects) but who ever died of VAT? Well not directly anyway. I suppose through prolonged overpayments and rising living costs some people have probably died, but where's the proof it was VAT's fault? VATs of acid have killed people. Maybe we should tell the Daily Mail its the same thing and see how long it takes to become front page news? Anyway, what I is saying is that them media types need to do some scaring of people like cheap shockjocks so here we are once again with flu fears. I hope they get bored of it soon. There must be better ways to terrify people? What happened to global warming? That was pretty scary. I've seen The Day After Tomorrow and if that happened our central heating wouldn't hold out very well so I'd definitely be miserable. Even in my onesi. Nuclear War? Bring that back. Also very worrying. Or zombies? Start peddling a zombie outbreak and you'll see how quickly even the smallest statistics cause me to board myself up in Nat and Tom's upstairs room with 12 tins of baked beans and a pointed stick.

But not flu. Even, as a diabetic, the core group that GPs wish to peddle their not very useful but money earning flu jab on, along the elderly, infirm and weird, I prefer to just eat fruit and veg and have an immune system thank you. Survival of the fittest and all that. What I am worried about though is all these birds dropping dead out of the sky in Sweden and the US. What on earth could be causing that? Well, after many moons of playing Angry Birds, I'm concerned the green pigs have stolen all the eggs and these birds have been catapulted and missed their intended targets. If those investigators are clever they'll keep an eye out on the horizon for some rather unwieldy avian catapults, that's all I'm saying.

Quick last bit. Last night I went to see the lovely Bethan Gorman's group The Pins. They've just supported Laura Marling on tour and after watching them you can totally see why. They rock. In a really lovely chilled rock but more folk type way. If you get a chance, check out their myspace (I know, it still exists. Mad huh? I bet Tom feels real lonely right now):

http://www.myspace.com/thepinsloveyou

Borcerer's Apprentice

2011-01-05T12:18:00.005Z

Have you ever been bored to the extent where its caused to actually cry out in despair and pain? Its not a common thing in grown ups. Children are extremely adept at letting you know just when things are numbing their brain with such a lack of stimuli that they will shout, scream and cry until the situation has changed. I was an expert at this as a child, as was my brother. Together, as a duo, we ruined many a trip to the supermarket or shopping centre. Cries of 'I'm bored' echoing round the happily dull minds of people aimlessly looking at furniture that's designed to quell all emotional response. I - and I realise this might make me sound mental - would get so bored at school in my first few years of primary that I would come home and yell or bang my head against things until someone got me something more interesting to do. Happiness only emerging when I was being creative instead or doing something that was actually a challenge. I'd love to say this means I was some sort of child prodigy, but this and the extra lessons that followed to help me cope, only lasted till secondary school, after which I realised it was far better to have friends and look at girls. Which is a prime indicator of why, as adults we don't complain enough when things are boring. Life teaches you social etiquette and correct response, allowing you, despite experiencing almost painful amounts of dull, to sit through the most boring of meetings or lectures. I've managed to quell all need to speak out about my frustration at something's ability to interest me by doodling, scribbling or now, thanks to the future, tweeting or Facebooking with my phone under the table. All of these are highly rude things to do, but at the same time I'd argue that its highly rude not making the effort to speak in a non-monotone manner or about things that would bore the hind legs of a donkey and then force the donkey to eat his own now removed legs in order to have to pay attention to anything other than his surroundings.

Last night, upon returning home from a long day, Nat, Tom and I decided to watch The Sorcerer's Apprentice, a film Nat was given on Blu-Ray from her voice over job. It didn't help that previously I had caught the end of Jumper, a film where Haydn Christensen realises just how shit the Star Wars prequels were and appropriately tries to end his own life. Regardless of how dull Jumper was though, with Sorcerer's Apprentice we only lasted 13 minutes. After that brief amount of time myself and Tom were actually rolling on the floor crying in pain. It was as though there was some sort of subliminal message buried within the absolutely nothing that was happening on screen that penetrated the very core of the mind and made it feel like what we were witnessing was extreme brain torture. I say nothing was happening on screen, but actually, what we were witnessing was a wizard battle that in other films or times would have been nothing but exciting. Who doesn't love a wizard? The Catholic church probably. But apart from them, seriously, who doesn't? Personally I think magic and violence are the exact recipe for excellence. Screw Jamie Oliver's 30 minute meals, if he shoved Merlin and a sword into bowl and mixed vigorously, well, he'd probably get turned into a frog then cut to pieces. That would be an amazing show. And yet, and yet, watching Nicholas Cage and Alfred Molina fight was akin to watching paint dry on a financial accountant. Somehow in 13 minutes, the time that other films have created some of the most memorable opening scenes ever, built up characters, established incredible stories and scripts, this film managed to provide absolutely nothing.

Nat became sad. She was enjoying the banal shitfest, and it required Tom and I to really shout and scream until it was forcibly removed from the Blu-Ray player and there was much discussion about whether we should put it in the bin or frisbee it down the hill. Tom suggested putting it up on eBay but I wouldn't dare inflict such horrors on anyone else. It'd be not dissimilar to The Ring. This single Blu-Ray getting passed around and upon watching, instead of something as exciting as a woman crawling out of the screen, the sheer lack of anything would cause viewers to gnaw off their own arm out of distress. All I'm saying is, if you ever think about watching it, please note you'd have more fun adding 400 pages of fiscal figures into Microsoft Excel will listening to 'O Superman' by Laurie Anderson on repeat for 8 hours. Yes, really. It has now been decided that life in our flat will, on the whole be happier, as whatever we're doing, no matter how painful, we can look back to that incident and know that we aren't watching Sorcerer's Apprentice, so things could be worse.

Only other thing I wanted to mention on this blog was about an article in the Evening Standard yesterday on the very sad case of Joanna Yeates. Now before you embark any further into this and immediately go all Daily Mail, shouting and screaming about how dare I insult or demean anything about this very tragic case, I want you to know that's not what I'm about to write about. I too watched the whole debacle unfold over Xmas and send my condolences to the family over what was a very sad event. However, once again the media's ability to report on it all is appalling. Firstly there was the immediate finger pointing at the weirdest looking man in the area, before any actual investigation had been carried out, like some sort of poorly headlined witchhunt. Then yesterday the paper was adorned with images of Joanna Yeates, aged 11, at school. The article stated that her killer was still on the loose, while pictures of her, aged 11 'had emerged'. Emerged? Pics of her from 14 years ago can't have just 'emerged'. Nor can they in anyway help any sort of investigation, or by printing them all over the media, help any of the family's grieving. I can't imagine someone out their is thinking 'well I hadn't remembered seeing her that night from all of those pictures of her as she was, but now I've seen what she looked like aged 11, I can totally help with evidence.' No. Please, the media, sort your shit out.

Games and Fighty Time

2011-01-04T15:18:00.004Z

Once again I am gracing the tables of a corporate coffee selling whore in order to be part of the world wide web. Whilst its irritating not being able to lie in bed and find out via wikipedia just what is the biggest sort of dog and who died yesterday in 1793, it does provide many a bonus. Firstly, I don't waste time trying to find out banal facts about the biggest sorts of dog or who died yesterday in 1793. Secondly, and more importantly, I get to overhear really interesting conversations. Today, opposite me, are two men in suits who are discussing something very important. Its obviously important as they keep saying things about 'public sector' and 'global means'. I however have decided for my own enjoyment that they are talking about top hats for pets. This is an amazing game to play as so far it has made everything they've said with their big serious faces oh so very funny. Examples are ' we have a really important product right here', 'your company are in bed with this sort of thing aren't they?' and ' we'll have to talk to some very big distribution companies, this is going to be global.' You should try it. Its one of several new games I've invented for 2011 to stop my ever bored mind from drifting into other territories such as seeing what things look like when they are on fire.

New game 1:

When someone says 'I'm all ears', shout 'Oh Dear God! Its a giant ear monster! Run as he can hear you coming for miles!' Then scream and run away. This is lots of fun.

New game 2:

When you hear people talking to themselves, pretend they are giving you instructions and you have to follow all their instructions to the last word. So far today, thanks to three odd people all by Euston station, I have to 'keep to the left or die', 'fight fight Jesus, fight him, fight him' and 'pish pish pish pish pish'. I have only done two wees today, so halfway through one of them. The others I'm working on, but have now nearly been run over twice and been shouted at by two priests.

New game 3:

Not a new game, but I intend to play it more this year. When someone says 'tell me about it', proceed to tell them all about it. Every single last detail, as lengthy and as boring as you can get. This will make them angry and as a result, you happy.

If you have any new games, let me know. If we try hard enough we'll get them into the Olympics in time for next year. In other news yesterday myself and my friend Honour witnessed a proper fight in a pub. I've never seen one of these before and contrary to belief no chairs were thrown, nobody stopped playing the piano (there wasn't a piano which didn't help), and at no point was it relevant for any one else in the pub to get involved and throw someone threw a window (which was lucky as it was one floor up). It was an odd thing to see. From what I gathered one man did something really petty to another man involving a) either pushing past and saying something rude or b) saying something rude or c) pushing past him. Essentially it appeared to be something that on a normal basis with normal people who aren't looking for a fight / dicks, it would have been left alone and everyone would carry on with things. However, this incident caused another man who had a face that looked like Mr Gumby from Monty Python if he had been hit square on in the nose with a stick, to shout stuff about 'how dare you say that to my brother' before doing some punches. The other man instead of making everything better by saying 'sorry' just punched back. Then some bar men stepped in and said things like 'calm down mate' which neither did, then a pint was thrown and it went over a lady who had nothing to do with it. She giggled a bit, then felt her back and frowned, then giggled again. Then another man did some shouting. All the while everyone else in the pub was staring, sniggering like children in a playground and then leaving via the other exit. It all felt rather exciting.

I view these sorts of things from two perspectives. Firstly, like some sort of nature program. I will never ever understand just why you would punch someone instead of sort something out. I mean, there are people I'd like to punch, and there are situations such as being chased by a shark, where a punch is necessary. Mostly though we have mouths and words come out of those mouths and so there is rarely a situation when the right words don't seem to sort things out. You've probably gathered I'm not a fighter in any way, shape or indeed form. I'd like to say I'm a lover instead but I think truth be told I'm just a hider or loser. I have experienced a few fighty moments in my life and all the way through each and every one of them my brain has been wondering 'sorry how have we got here? This all seems a bit unnecessary.' So witnessing these men with no reasons to make each other angry, make each other angry, fascinates me. Am I missing out something? Should I be approaching more situations with extreme violence? Would it be quicker than repeating 'no I just want to check my bank balance' over the phone 17 times? Or are they missing something? Like the ability to vocalise their life's frustrations without doing fisty time? I'll never know. Mostly because after three more minutes I viewed the situation from my other favourite fight perspective, which was from outside as far away from it all as possible.

Unless of course they were just playing a new game for 2011 too? Perhaps its called 'how to empty a pub awkwardly in 10 mins'. If so, I'll avoid that one. Or play it differently such as wearing a big sombrero, shorts and dancing and singing with a cat in each hand. Oooh sombreros for cats. I may suggest that to the businessmen....

Last quick notes:

Here is a round up of comedy in 2010 from londonisfunny.com and I'm proud to have been part of what was easily the weirdest gig of the year:

SOME THINGS YOU MAY HAVE MISSED - LONDONISFUNNY.COM

I wrote about it in my blog at the time if you can be arsed to find it.

Lastly, this very nice man Dan Mindless said in his funny blog that 'Littlest Things' was his favourite comedy show of 2010, which is lovely of him:

MINDLESS

Should you want to come and see it to see if he's right, I'm doing it for the last time ever ever on Jan 24th at the Etcetera Theatre. Tickets be here:

LITTLEST THINGS - 24th JAN ETCETERA THEATRE

Royal Ramble

2011-01-03T10:58:00.003Z

I'm about to go rambling. That's right, rambling. Some of you are thinking 'oh no, here goes a lengthy blog about frikkin' nothing once again' but no, I mean real actual 'doing one of them walk type things' rambling. Those long time readers may remember this New Year's idea happened about the same time in 2010, with the view for several further walks to happen and as the year drifted on, so did the organisation of such activities. Well, with a New Year comes new enthusiasm. Not from me, but from James and Helen who have sorted it all out. I am merely tagging along with walking boots in hand. Well, on foot. They'd be useless in hand and just provide sore feet and heavy arms. We are tackling the ever lovely Parkland Walk from Finsbury Park to Highgate today. Its the old disused railway line that is now overgrown with plant type things, or plants as some people know them, and provides a pleasing walkway through North London. It has also been the grounds for many a rape and murder, but y'know, that just provides character. And the knowledge about not straying too far off the path.

Personally I shall be treating the whole journey as though its a survival task. A combination of watching the appalling (sorry Rufus!) 'Famous and Fearless' last night followed by the Road has put the task of 'staying alive' right in the brain. Famous and Fearless, which was watched for the excellent Rufus Hound's efforts at BMXing - and it must be said I laughed a lot watching him fall off and kick a bike - was such a hugely boring let down. Apart from a few of the contenders, they weren't really famous at all, and the tasks were barely things to give the title of 'fearless' to its victors. Street Luge? Driving a car very slowly up a ramp till it falls over? No. Were they serious about this show they'd have fired Jenny Frost out of a cannon at an angry lion, or dropped Charlie 'Dear God I will' Boorman(kind) out of a plane and into a shark. That's the sort of show I wanted to see. Instead it felt like a ten minute show called 'Nothing types do mild things' with 10 minutes of actual content stretched more drastically than the last bit of Cher's actual skin. Come on Channel 4, please don't use the post Big Brother budget to just churn out nicely lit dullness. I want to see someone from a boyband actually on fire or nothing at all.

Then The Road. I remember reading the book of Cormac McCarthy's epic tale of misery and post apocalyptic nightmares and spending every page turning moment feeling pretty bleak and sad about everything. One journey in particular that became tougher than usual was the train to Aberystwyth, staring between pages of description about a 'scorched earth' then looking out the windows to see empty, grey, rainy Wales and thinking 'its happened. Its really happened.' The film, aside from a slightly annoying child, is just as disturbing. Made even more so by sitting in between Nat and Tom who, in turn, would freak out at the slightest bit of on-screen vomiting (Nat) or on-screen gruesome bodily harm (Tom). I have realised that to enjoy films in our house I think I may have tread carefully down the viewing paths of either Care Bears The Movie or little all else.

So with those in my mind I fully expect to tread through the North London 'countryside' with thoughts of survival in mind. I shall often walk off and return with whatever I can forage for food, which may well be such delights as old shoes and used condoms, constantly repeating about how we need to stay off the path and questioning whether or not someone is following us. They probably will be, its a fairly often used route. Or, more likely, due to excess Xmas consumption, I'll just complain alot about being tired and provide little conversation in order to try and breath properly. Go team!

Last point of today: Its hugely sad to hear about Pete Postlelthwaite dying. He was an amazing actor, really able to play almost any role. He died far too young. RIP.