This weekend I have the duty of feeding my friend Mat's cat. I like how that unintentionally rhymes. It has, several times, sat on Mat and I believe all involved were pleased with the rhyming eloquence of the situation. I'm very happy to feed Zeppy, as over the years, Mat and Hannah have looked after cats when I've had them, several times. Its one of those things that friends do and its a high level of trust to be guarded with someone else's pet's welfare. Should they return to find a dead cat, I daresay our relationship as friends would be somewhat tainted. Even if the cat was hit by a car or specifically targeted by a cat burglar whilst I was elsewhere, I still feel the responsibility would be mine. Its what happens as people get older. You look after their cats, then eventually their kids and all the while you bear that worry that you might screw up and break them. Hour after hour of checking cat/kid hasn't climbed into the washing machine or isn't trying to eat a knife or a fire or something. Endless nightmare. I'm fairly good with cats though. I used to own some, I've seen them before. They are like dogs only smaller and fall better out of windows. I'm pretty much an expert. So they were right to trust me with Zeppy's welfare. Last night it only took me 30 minutes to find where the cat food was, and then only another 30 mins to stop panicking about the fact she was outside when fireworks were going off and trying to get her in before giving up and leaving. I went through a series of calls ranging from the simple 'Zeppy' in various ranges of voice, all the way to 'seriously there are no dogs or er, cat killers, or or cat death traps in here. Promise!' Again, this was in various pitches of voice. Either way she didn't trust me and there was no sign. I was expecting her to waltz in as I was leaving at which point she'd knock her dried food out its bowl and arrange it to say 'go away, you're not my real owner. I'll come in when I like.' Instead I locked the cat flap so that once she'd got back from her Guy Fawkes party she'd be unable to leave. Haha! Winner. I am the Cat King! I am Cat Stevens, Cat Deeley, Cat Man Do!
This morning I arrived and a very wide eyed Zeppy was staring at me as I opened the door. She meowed and skulked away, leaving me to discover the small present of a frog so terrified it was unable to move, sitting by the bathroom door. I originally assumed it was a present, and was mostly upset she hadn't got me chocolates or beer. Either would have been preferable. I wondered if it was one of those presents you get for someone hoping they'll give it back to you and immediately classed Zeppy as the selfish kind. Apparently its worse than that. I was informed by @MadgeHooks on Twitter that they give you animals like that because they assume you are crap at hunting. I feel like I've been slapped with a tiny cat glove and challenged to a duel. I fully intend to return tonight with a huge dead Emperor Stag, lay it on the living room carpet and tell the cat that if she doesn't do what I say she'll be sent to a cat home. The war is on. More likely I'll return without any kill and instead find a hoard of dead frogs lining all the floors and walls with Zeppy sitting proudly in the middle waving a sparkler to spell out 'Fuck You' in the air. Bloody cats.
That's all for today as I've got Comedy 4 Kids to do and tell them all about how putting sparklers in a bucket of water makes sparkling water and they should all drink it afterwards. I expect at least three complaints.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Galway pt 3 / Bonfire Night
Its only bloomin' Guy Fawkes night tonight and I will be sadly having to view most of it from a plane window. I'm not sure if this will be brilliant or hugely terrifying, with thoughts that my the last thing I ever see is a banger heading into the left propeller wing with a dazzling array of colours and a scream that matches that of the passengers. I doubt it very much, but I am sad not to be on the ground in as many layers as possible, eating a baked potato and trying my best not to give away that I still get a bit excited by fireworks. I will harp on time and time again about how its the same old ones every year: the big screamy ones that go 'boom' and then shower the sky, the ones the shoot streams into the sky and they slowly flutter down, the large plooms of different coloured flames and those mostly quiet ones that just sort of fart about while everyone gets the good ones ready. I consistently say how I can't wait for technology to create the sort of fireworks like in Lord of the Rings where Gandalf's magic explosions create huge roaring dragons, when in fact, I am quite content with things as they are. I was recently wowed by the brilliant display at this year's Bestival and I'll never forget - whether it was sheer coincidence, my own warped imagination or planned - the fireworks that exploded in the shape of Mickey Mouse's face and ears at DisneyWorld when I was 8 years old. But I won't get any of that this evening. Not just because I'll be on a plane, but also because my local fireworks display, the best one in London as far as I was concerned - Alexandra Palace fireworks - has been cancelled this year due to lack of funding. Yes, in this current recession its probably best not to spend final pennies on things that are going to just get exploded anyway, but I'd also state that if anything people need some bloody god fireworks displays now more than ever to cheer them up.
I'm contemplating taking the mantle myself and marching up the hill with a bucket of gunpowder and a lot of enthusiasm. I don't really know how fireworks work fire in the way they do, but I assume it cant be that hard. Knowing my luck I'll just get accused of terrorism. Which is essentially what Guy Fawkes has been classed as anyway. That is my main problem with the whole event, if I have any at all. Its one of the few British events that is still based on historical events, which is great. However, what we are essentially doing is celebrating a man's failure by showing him how to actually blow things up. Its mockery in its highest form. If there is some sort of afterlife, every year Guy Fawkes in ghostly form has to witness everyone from the elderly to kids waving around sparklers as if to say 'its that easy, you were total shit.' It would be similar to us having a day in 100 years from now where we set fire to a load of printer cartridges. Not only that, but British fables and legends often glamourise and praise those who fought against the hierarchy Robin Hood, William Tell, Dick Turpin - yet here we are celebrating how Guy Fawkes failed to destroy parliament. I can't help but feel that if he'd tried now we'd be a lot more disappointed that the barrels didn't go off.
It's my last day in Galway today and with no gig to worry about, I'm going to brave the rain, walk along the promenade and actually indulge in a nice stroll around town. Its such a pretty place with cobbled streets and the canal running through it, yet every now and then throws you off with a huge terrifying statue of what looks like the female version of Han Solo in carbonite leaping out to get you. Odd. It feels like one of those places full of secret corners and things to discover. Last night, after having a lovely 50 min set at the University, supported by the excellent Foil, Arms and Hog, a group of us headed over the the Roisin Dubh for further late night drinking. Choosing the upstairs bar we joked as the band that were playing took well over an hour to set up their incredibly elaborate kit. And then they played, and it was amazing. Tucked away in this small wooden panelled bar, with a crammed crowd of about 40 people huddled round the listen, there was a wave of amazing post-rock Sigur Ros-esque music. They are called Halves and I couldn't recommend them enough. I think that fulfills the magic quota for these few days away quite nicely. If I can't have the joy of visual fireworks, I'll feel content I heard some aural ones. Galway, you've been a bloody delight. Expect me back very soon.
I'm contemplating taking the mantle myself and marching up the hill with a bucket of gunpowder and a lot of enthusiasm. I don't really know how fireworks work fire in the way they do, but I assume it cant be that hard. Knowing my luck I'll just get accused of terrorism. Which is essentially what Guy Fawkes has been classed as anyway. That is my main problem with the whole event, if I have any at all. Its one of the few British events that is still based on historical events, which is great. However, what we are essentially doing is celebrating a man's failure by showing him how to actually blow things up. Its mockery in its highest form. If there is some sort of afterlife, every year Guy Fawkes in ghostly form has to witness everyone from the elderly to kids waving around sparklers as if to say 'its that easy, you were total shit.' It would be similar to us having a day in 100 years from now where we set fire to a load of printer cartridges. Not only that, but British fables and legends often glamourise and praise those who fought against the hierarchy Robin Hood, William Tell, Dick Turpin - yet here we are celebrating how Guy Fawkes failed to destroy parliament. I can't help but feel that if he'd tried now we'd be a lot more disappointed that the barrels didn't go off.
It's my last day in Galway today and with no gig to worry about, I'm going to brave the rain, walk along the promenade and actually indulge in a nice stroll around town. Its such a pretty place with cobbled streets and the canal running through it, yet every now and then throws you off with a huge terrifying statue of what looks like the female version of Han Solo in carbonite leaping out to get you. Odd. It feels like one of those places full of secret corners and things to discover. Last night, after having a lovely 50 min set at the University, supported by the excellent Foil, Arms and Hog, a group of us headed over the the Roisin Dubh for further late night drinking. Choosing the upstairs bar we joked as the band that were playing took well over an hour to set up their incredibly elaborate kit. And then they played, and it was amazing. Tucked away in this small wooden panelled bar, with a crammed crowd of about 40 people huddled round the listen, there was a wave of amazing post-rock Sigur Ros-esque music. They are called Halves and I couldn't recommend them enough. I think that fulfills the magic quota for these few days away quite nicely. If I can't have the joy of visual fireworks, I'll feel content I heard some aural ones. Galway, you've been a bloody delight. Expect me back very soon.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Galway Round 2
It is still raining. Its been raining since I arrived in Ireland and its yet to stop. Not even for a bit. Just relentless downpour. In a way, I admire the weather. If I rained that often, that consistently, I'd need a few minutes breather here and there. The cloud equivalent of a fag break. A fog break if you will. This weather however, doesn't seem to need it. Galway is far more intent on proving it has all the water than letting up for a second to allow the sun to have a say. In this beautiful miniature city they hoard not only shedloads of rain, but also a canal, a river and the sea. Take into account the bottled and running water and some might say they were being greedy about their H2O supplies while other parts of the world have severe drought. I say let them have it. Its a brilliant place and they deserve all the water they like if they want it. Were you to ever dispute just how ace Galway is, the toilet graffiti I witnessed only an hour ago proves such things. Someone had written ' No One Cares' in scrawly letters on the cubicle door. Underneath written in capitals was 'I DO!' and a big smiley face. Take that Banksy, you may be making political and artistic statements, but here in Galway the Samaritans help people via toilet doors.
Despite how much I've been enjoying it here, last night's gig was a toughie. I haven't struggled with a crowd like that for ages, but a combination of poor weather, a recent comedy festival, a huge student demo and Halloween, meant there were only a handful of people there compared to usual figures. This of course meant everyone felt slightly more self conscious than before and ultimately no one wanted to respond to or speak to me at any point of the compereing apart from 5 girls studying law who talked not only to me but each other throughout the entire show. I also forgot how difficult it is compereing somewhere that's not in the UK. Whilst so many of the references are the same here in Ireland, I would slip up every now and then and say something that referred to the audience as British or along those lines. This didn't do me any favours. Despite how much I'd like to believe that my act is performed as though its a fresh thought every time, when they aren't responding and you churn out lines with inappropriate words to your environment, that its so hugely a script in my brain. Still free drinks vouchers helped as did a night of drunken debauchery finishing at 5am after being persuaded to try buckfast. I'm not sure how I became convinced to do this but I'm certain now that its named after what a horse would do if you stuck it in its nosebag. I'm pleased I did it though as now I can be sure I will never ever drink it ever again. Its as though someone's poured canderel in port. Truly vile. No I'm not sure why I did it and yes, whatever standard of human being I was before, its definitely been lowered substantially. I'm not ashamed. Much.
Doing an hour tonight at the students union which should be much fun, then heading back to Roisin Dubh to hopefully catch God Is An Astronaut. Never heard or seen them before but on the basis of their name I'm hooked already. To be fair it doesn't really matter what they are like, I will no doubt be drunk again on the unfortunately named Galway Hooker, which believe me, is constantly awkward to ask for.
Last note as I'm in desperate need of an afternoon sleepfest: We didn't get our flat sadly. The search continues for somewhere nice to live. If it doesn't happen soon then I will just give up, and never sleep, therefore not needing to live anywhere. I will be like Cain from Kung Fu, only instead of walking the world barefoot in search of justice, I will probably just mosey around a bit and generally be in the way. Unless it's raining that is. Then I'll be on your sofa.
Despite how much I've been enjoying it here, last night's gig was a toughie. I haven't struggled with a crowd like that for ages, but a combination of poor weather, a recent comedy festival, a huge student demo and Halloween, meant there were only a handful of people there compared to usual figures. This of course meant everyone felt slightly more self conscious than before and ultimately no one wanted to respond to or speak to me at any point of the compereing apart from 5 girls studying law who talked not only to me but each other throughout the entire show. I also forgot how difficult it is compereing somewhere that's not in the UK. Whilst so many of the references are the same here in Ireland, I would slip up every now and then and say something that referred to the audience as British or along those lines. This didn't do me any favours. Despite how much I'd like to believe that my act is performed as though its a fresh thought every time, when they aren't responding and you churn out lines with inappropriate words to your environment, that its so hugely a script in my brain. Still free drinks vouchers helped as did a night of drunken debauchery finishing at 5am after being persuaded to try buckfast. I'm not sure how I became convinced to do this but I'm certain now that its named after what a horse would do if you stuck it in its nosebag. I'm pleased I did it though as now I can be sure I will never ever drink it ever again. Its as though someone's poured canderel in port. Truly vile. No I'm not sure why I did it and yes, whatever standard of human being I was before, its definitely been lowered substantially. I'm not ashamed. Much.
Doing an hour tonight at the students union which should be much fun, then heading back to Roisin Dubh to hopefully catch God Is An Astronaut. Never heard or seen them before but on the basis of their name I'm hooked already. To be fair it doesn't really matter what they are like, I will no doubt be drunk again on the unfortunately named Galway Hooker, which believe me, is constantly awkward to ask for.
Last note as I'm in desperate need of an afternoon sleepfest: We didn't get our flat sadly. The search continues for somewhere nice to live. If it doesn't happen soon then I will just give up, and never sleep, therefore not needing to live anywhere. I will be like Cain from Kung Fu, only instead of walking the world barefoot in search of justice, I will probably just mosey around a bit and generally be in the way. Unless it's raining that is. Then I'll be on your sofa.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Birds
Didn't think I'd get a chance to blog today but it turns out there is wifi in the flat I'm staying in so my notions of avoiding the internet for a few days have been sharply put to rest. I won't say its a good thing as part of me needs a few days of not tweeting every moment of every day, checking every two mins to see if anyones 'likes' the shit I say on FB or hammering out 300 words on my goings on. It would be a useful break for several reasons. Firstly you all would get a momentary rest from my endless internet violation, but also, one day, when I look back on 2010 and can easily categorise every day with this online diary, it'd be nice to have a small gap where I can actually challenge my memory into working. Otherwise I fear that by 2022 when all seconds of my life are on some cctv camera somewhere, my need for road directions has been rendered void by phone maps and satnavs, my phone is remembering all my numbers, calculators do all the simple mathematics, photos destroy the need for visual memories and even saved passwords on my laptop mean I don't need to store those, it will be the only way to save myself from becoming a human goldfish. I suppose my gigs might become interesting with me constantly repeating the same observation over and over again, starting with laughter at the first time I mention my hilarious quip on how different robot cats and electric dogs are, then quiet as I repeat exactly the same words 4 maybe 5 times over. Then hilarity again as I hit the 60th or 70th repetition ad infinitum till I day. If nothing else, they will respect my unknowing persistence with a failing gag.
The Fog. Yep, you can't see much. Neither could I.
That wasn't what this blog was meant to be about. No. I wanted to let you know that I've just been attacked by pigeons. Myself and Simon Munnery went for a lovely stroll along the Galway promenade. We watched the fog slowly make the distance disappear and we stumbled across Mutton Island to the point where only authorised access is allowed. With no clue of what actually happens in this place, we assumed that due to the large gates surrounding what appears to be a country house facade and the other side bleak industrial mayhem, that its some sort of front for SPECTRE. All very exciting I think you'll agree. Then we tried, under Mr Kevin Healy's recommendation, to feed the swans some tasty soda bread. The swans all very gallant - despite hearing an amazing story today about a certain comic punching one in the face in self defence - were rather reasonable about this. The pigeons, one crow and several swallows however were not and in a scene reminiscent from Hitchcock's The Birds I found myself actually surrounded by avian scavengers.
Them swarming round my feet. Doesn't look as impressive as it was but bear in mind I kept having to swot pigeons away from my face while taking this.
I know some people are bothered by the flappy winged beakers but I've never found myself remotely scared by birds of any sort. Often I've thought were I in a situation like the one in the aforementioned film, I'd probably just kick some of their faces off. But then, when surrounded by them, I panicked. Pigeons were flying up and landing on my hands trying to peck at the bread. One flew at my face and I literally twatted one out of the sky. I threw the rest of the bread so aggressively at a swan that were it aimed right he'd have gone blind and I pegged it towards Simon who was busy waving his hands at several other in flight marauders. Now, for ever more, I am a teeny bit scared of birds. I mean, I hit that pigeon good, but if they all ganged up on me, they could totally have squawked me to death. And all for a bit of bread. Times in birdland must be hard. Maybe we all need to eliminate this threat now before they demand bread from everyone in such a violent manner? I say we rally troops and attack Turkey, the only possible HQ.
In other brief news:
- At the airport today my bag got held at security. I cockily remarked 'Oh I suppose that'll be my diabetic bloodtesting kit won't it? Security shook his head and said no. I then quipped that perhaps it was my diabetic insulin or pump equipment bits. Again he said no. All confused, I asked why he'd held it back and he pointed out the large bottle of water I'd completely forgotten to remove. What a dick.
- We may now not have a flat. Bloody hate the presumptions that comics can't pay bills. Just because they are right doesn't mean its fair. Boo and indeed hiss.
- Fat Tuesday last night was awesome. Much kudos to the excellent line-up of Andrew Lawrence, Terry Alderton, Luke Benson and Chris Cox.
The Fog. Yep, you can't see much. Neither could I.
That wasn't what this blog was meant to be about. No. I wanted to let you know that I've just been attacked by pigeons. Myself and Simon Munnery went for a lovely stroll along the Galway promenade. We watched the fog slowly make the distance disappear and we stumbled across Mutton Island to the point where only authorised access is allowed. With no clue of what actually happens in this place, we assumed that due to the large gates surrounding what appears to be a country house facade and the other side bleak industrial mayhem, that its some sort of front for SPECTRE. All very exciting I think you'll agree. Then we tried, under Mr Kevin Healy's recommendation, to feed the swans some tasty soda bread. The swans all very gallant - despite hearing an amazing story today about a certain comic punching one in the face in self defence - were rather reasonable about this. The pigeons, one crow and several swallows however were not and in a scene reminiscent from Hitchcock's The Birds I found myself actually surrounded by avian scavengers.
Them swarming round my feet. Doesn't look as impressive as it was but bear in mind I kept having to swot pigeons away from my face while taking this.
I know some people are bothered by the flappy winged beakers but I've never found myself remotely scared by birds of any sort. Often I've thought were I in a situation like the one in the aforementioned film, I'd probably just kick some of their faces off. But then, when surrounded by them, I panicked. Pigeons were flying up and landing on my hands trying to peck at the bread. One flew at my face and I literally twatted one out of the sky. I threw the rest of the bread so aggressively at a swan that were it aimed right he'd have gone blind and I pegged it towards Simon who was busy waving his hands at several other in flight marauders. Now, for ever more, I am a teeny bit scared of birds. I mean, I hit that pigeon good, but if they all ganged up on me, they could totally have squawked me to death. And all for a bit of bread. Times in birdland must be hard. Maybe we all need to eliminate this threat now before they demand bread from everyone in such a violent manner? I say we rally troops and attack Turkey, the only possible HQ.
In other brief news:
- At the airport today my bag got held at security. I cockily remarked 'Oh I suppose that'll be my diabetic bloodtesting kit won't it? Security shook his head and said no. I then quipped that perhaps it was my diabetic insulin or pump equipment bits. Again he said no. All confused, I asked why he'd held it back and he pointed out the large bottle of water I'd completely forgotten to remove. What a dick.
- We may now not have a flat. Bloody hate the presumptions that comics can't pay bills. Just because they are right doesn't mean its fair. Boo and indeed hiss.
- Fat Tuesday last night was awesome. Much kudos to the excellent line-up of Andrew Lawrence, Terry Alderton, Luke Benson and Chris Cox.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Not A Musical Expedition
I wanted to make a delve into music journalism today by explaining the virtues and important of the Pharcyde's 1995 album Labcabincalifornia, after having my annual rediscovery of it last night. I was going to explain how it was the hip hop album that proved my theory to my friend Pat that there is hip hop for everyone, winning over his usually stoically trance like taste with its combination of jazzy beats and stoney tripnotic lyricism. This would then lead into several paragraphs about my overall theory that it is impossible to entirely hate a whole genre of music as there will usually be at least one artist within that genre that somehow transforms or liberates the musical class with a personal twist or experiment. I used to profess how much I hated country and western, until, at far too late an age, I heard Johnny Cash and then even later the brilliant Josh Rouse's album Nashville. This has led to several other purchases of similar things and I now fully take it back. I would still totally throw a brick at Garth Brooks though. I have done the same with a lot of others too, easily dismissing pop, death metal and various others until proved wrong time and time again. Already you are probably gripped now. Excited about the dramatic change in today's blog from nonsensical brain splurges to actual journalism. Now here's where I let you down. I just found a flat and have to do stuff, so that blog is no longer going to happen.
Instead, while I would like to be rejoicing about no longer being a littlest hobo or endlessly high fiving Tom, Nat and Matt, about the possibilities of us all getting onesis and roaming the house like very comfortable animals, I have to do all the boring stuff. Here goes an afternoon wanting to write material for tonight's Fat Tuesday but instead trying to persuade my parents that I will pay my rent every month so of course it'll be perfectly safe being my guarantor (guarantor - the most reliable of minotaurs), and somehow making sure that my accountant doesn't just say 'he can barely live on what he earns' when they call him about my wages. Then there is the logistics of what furniture is needed where, who we will make stand in the 'grief hole' cupboard in the living room for wring doings first and what exactly we need to do to get banned from our new local across the road.
So no music chat from me. Instead I've written a small list of things to do involving packing for tomorrow's three day excursion to the Emerald Isle, not screwing up living in what will be a bloody lovely place to live, and writing material that isn't the above minotaur/guarantor gag. Just imagine how exciting this blog could be. Imagine it. You could have walked away with a whole new notion on music that would expand your brain and make you hunt through audio archives for notes, bridges and crescendos you'd never heard before. Or like Nat, you could just say you still hate all music and I will class you as dead inside. But that won't happen, so instead, watch one of my fave music vids, directed by Spike Jonze no less, of one of my fave tracks from Labcabincalifornia and rest in the knowledge that I know and can rap 98% of all the words to this:
THE PHARCYDE - DROP
I will try and blog from Galway over the next few days but I also may not. In this blog's absence I suggest you just give up on life for the 2 minutes it would usually take you to read it and bang your head against whatever hard surface is nearest till it returns.
Instead, while I would like to be rejoicing about no longer being a littlest hobo or endlessly high fiving Tom, Nat and Matt, about the possibilities of us all getting onesis and roaming the house like very comfortable animals, I have to do all the boring stuff. Here goes an afternoon wanting to write material for tonight's Fat Tuesday but instead trying to persuade my parents that I will pay my rent every month so of course it'll be perfectly safe being my guarantor (guarantor - the most reliable of minotaurs), and somehow making sure that my accountant doesn't just say 'he can barely live on what he earns' when they call him about my wages. Then there is the logistics of what furniture is needed where, who we will make stand in the 'grief hole' cupboard in the living room for wring doings first and what exactly we need to do to get banned from our new local across the road.
So no music chat from me. Instead I've written a small list of things to do involving packing for tomorrow's three day excursion to the Emerald Isle, not screwing up living in what will be a bloody lovely place to live, and writing material that isn't the above minotaur/guarantor gag. Just imagine how exciting this blog could be. Imagine it. You could have walked away with a whole new notion on music that would expand your brain and make you hunt through audio archives for notes, bridges and crescendos you'd never heard before. Or like Nat, you could just say you still hate all music and I will class you as dead inside. But that won't happen, so instead, watch one of my fave music vids, directed by Spike Jonze no less, of one of my fave tracks from Labcabincalifornia and rest in the knowledge that I know and can rap 98% of all the words to this:
THE PHARCYDE - DROP
I will try and blog from Galway over the next few days but I also may not. In this blog's absence I suggest you just give up on life for the 2 minutes it would usually take you to read it and bang your head against whatever hard surface is nearest till it returns.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Muffin of Deathly Dry
So far Starbucks in Westfield is doing many right things. Firstly, they are playing The Shins. Well done them. Secondly, because its in Westfield, they may have tried to lure me to pay for BT Openzone first, but being a smartypants (yes I am, and I don't mean I have underwear made of sweets), I knew to look for the free Westfield wifi which I am now hogging like a net pig. I don't know what a net pig is, but were there such a thing, I would be embracing its oinky interweb characteristics right now. Hmm, worried that actually I sound more like a web boar. Boom. I also have a skinny muffin, which feels like the most pointless invention of all time. I can't imagine there is much in this muffin that makes it remotely different from its 'fat' friends, but by sucking out whatever lard arse element was previously there, it has just become slightly more dry and chewy than it should be. My only understanding as to how it may make you lose weight is because you get so cotton mouthed you only make it halfway through the snack before having to leave it be in search of thirst parchment. Still I feel its deserved as its only 11.24am (yeah I is being all precise and shizzle) and I've already had to spend 15 minutes of my morning performing stand-up to three people and a camera. This is not stand-ups ideal audience. Sure back in the day of open mic, I did do the odd gig to 2-3 people but it wasn't fun. In fact it was just like I was the most irritating in a group of friends with my Showy McShowerson attitude and overly forced gags. In fact, it was just like when I am in my group of friends. Sigh.
The three people were lovely, but not only did I race through it due to the swiftness of their laughs (three people laughing will never resonate around a room for more than a second or two. Unless one has a terrible laugh, which is all honestly is worse. If you laugh like a dick, please pursue sadness for my sake. I know, a comic that doesn't want laughs. Odd. But I want reasonable laughs, not the sort that sounds like a donkey being punched and makes everyone else never want to laugh again) but also it was kids material and they were all adults. I was further hindered by the lack of coffee that now resides in the BBC TVC foyer. There is usually a much needed little coffee cart sitting at reception, and as, without pass or someone to escort you through security, there is nowhere else to get such things in the building, its the only was any morning meetings are dealt with coherently. Last week when I turned up, it was closed. Today it was still closed. In its place is a picture of Wallace and Gromit looking unfeasibly happy with themselves. I might like Wallace and Gromit, but their inane plasticine smiles will not keep me awake.
Couple of things for you to think about, mainly because I need to leave Westfield in 10 mins and don't want to pay for wi-fi anywhere else. Call me a stinge if you like. I won't hear you. You'd just be calling your computer a stinge and people will think you're a stupid. Yeah, I called you a stupid. You heard it:
- Go see Despicable Me. Its quite simply the funniest film I've seen in ages.
- What does Jason Vorhees do on the other 364 days of the year? Or less if there are more than one Friday 13ths in that annum.
- Watching The Final Destination last night, I felt quite amazed that death has to slot people in on appointment times. In my head, I couldn't work out why he couldn't kill everyone seconds after they should have been killed, but it was decided its because he/she/it had to go and deal with other people. I wonder if people who are really old, like Cliff Richard, are just unable to get an appointment because they keep calling out of hours?
- It was decided yesterday that the Human Centipede was based on the conga, just fucked up.
- Paul B used the phrase 'get off your bicycle and talk to the postman'. I think this should be used in common parlance all the time.
Ok, so what have we learnt from today's blog people? Very little. True. Well I suggest you get your fulfillment of edutainment elsewhere then as I have eaten the whole muffin and subsequently need to find water in the next 10 mins or turn to dust.
The three people were lovely, but not only did I race through it due to the swiftness of their laughs (three people laughing will never resonate around a room for more than a second or two. Unless one has a terrible laugh, which is all honestly is worse. If you laugh like a dick, please pursue sadness for my sake. I know, a comic that doesn't want laughs. Odd. But I want reasonable laughs, not the sort that sounds like a donkey being punched and makes everyone else never want to laugh again) but also it was kids material and they were all adults. I was further hindered by the lack of coffee that now resides in the BBC TVC foyer. There is usually a much needed little coffee cart sitting at reception, and as, without pass or someone to escort you through security, there is nowhere else to get such things in the building, its the only was any morning meetings are dealt with coherently. Last week when I turned up, it was closed. Today it was still closed. In its place is a picture of Wallace and Gromit looking unfeasibly happy with themselves. I might like Wallace and Gromit, but their inane plasticine smiles will not keep me awake.
Couple of things for you to think about, mainly because I need to leave Westfield in 10 mins and don't want to pay for wi-fi anywhere else. Call me a stinge if you like. I won't hear you. You'd just be calling your computer a stinge and people will think you're a stupid. Yeah, I called you a stupid. You heard it:
- Go see Despicable Me. Its quite simply the funniest film I've seen in ages.
- What does Jason Vorhees do on the other 364 days of the year? Or less if there are more than one Friday 13ths in that annum.
- Watching The Final Destination last night, I felt quite amazed that death has to slot people in on appointment times. In my head, I couldn't work out why he couldn't kill everyone seconds after they should have been killed, but it was decided its because he/she/it had to go and deal with other people. I wonder if people who are really old, like Cliff Richard, are just unable to get an appointment because they keep calling out of hours?
- It was decided yesterday that the Human Centipede was based on the conga, just fucked up.
- Paul B used the phrase 'get off your bicycle and talk to the postman'. I think this should be used in common parlance all the time.
Ok, so what have we learnt from today's blog people? Very little. True. Well I suggest you get your fulfillment of edutainment elsewhere then as I have eaten the whole muffin and subsequently need to find water in the next 10 mins or turn to dust.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Two Things (Plus Bonus Thing)
Two things:
Thing 1. I watched the X-Factor for the first time this season this morning. I don't feel like I need to explain to you why I did it, but lets say a level of curiosity, a severe hangover and an inability to cope with the other channel showing Fearne Cotton gazing into space as though someone had asked her to think about anything ever, or Hollyoaks, meant I did. Now, I know I'm jumping on this bandwagon particularly late. I don't like bandwagons as it is. I mean, we have cars now, no need for wagons anymore at all. Apart from their tasty wheels of course. And I'm not in a band so really don't need that much space on my wagon should I have one. All this aside, I felt I should write about now having witnessed the appalling display that is ITV's most popular show. While in the past I have seen people on X-Factor display a level of talent that somehow, beyond the unoriginality of belting out someone else song only without any emotion and trying not to think about how much of the planet is being destroyed everytime they turn the studio lights on, actually makes you think, 'well its a talent contest of some sort'. I know one of the finalists from the very first series and she can really sing, dance and act and is a hugely talented person, so I bore no grudge at the time that it helped her do well. What appears to have happened since however, is that's just become a pub karaoke night with more money. A collection of talentless freaks and weirdos that we can all just rejoice in seeing them whore their dignity live on TV with a dance display and back beat reminiscent of the worst of European television.
On today's show, I witnessed a man who couldn't possibly be more bland if he tried sing about bleeding in an out of tune way that made me ears almost drip with blood themselves, only for all four judges to tell him he was great. I presume this is the bad parenting thing, whereby by constantly telling him he's good even when he's not, the fall he receives after the show as he disappears back into obscurity to upset people as a guest spot in home county night clubs, will be devastating. Cruel and calculated. Then Don King turned up, after having appeared to have given up on the whole boxing thing. He was surprisingly nothing. He was followed by the dad from the Munsters and then a women who appeared to be made out of the plastic they discard from faulty Barbie dolls. Both did performances that I would physically go out of my way to avoid ever seeing or hearing again. Then some 12 year old boys with conjunctivitis oddly sang about having 'bright eyes' despite the fact a better choice would have been 'Mixamatosis' by Radiohead. I nearly punched the telly at this point, but it wasn't my telly so I abstained. Lucky for you telly. Next time you choose to show me such evils I will not be so kind. I know its Halloween but you started with Theresa May on Andrew Marr's show, then that display of absolute cock rot. No fair. Finally some offcut of Helena Bonham Carter sounded like she was in pain for a few minutes and she was told she put every emotion into her performance. My friend Mickey pointed out that nowhere did she include 'cynicism'. The whole show concluded with Dermot, who if you look into his eyes, you can see he is actually now officially dead inside. If the whole thing had been immediately followed by the best advert I've ever seen about Italian food (see below: Bonus Thing), I would have given up on life.
I can only presume the meeting about this year's show went along the lines of 'Talent? Who needs talent? Why don't we get some incompetent half wits and watch them struggle week on week as we revel in the schadenfreude of their failure more than an Austrian Neurologist under a parasol?' At that point they all cheered, rubbed each other homoerotically, ritualistically took turns to vomit in a bin and then took the day off. Probably. I think they need to go all out next series and just make it like a sing-a-long night in a shit bar. I want a series of alcoholics to mumble out Neil Diamond tracks, middle age Japanese men to sing Bon Jovi with all the wrong lyrics and a girl group called 'Hen Do' who's lead singer starts crying when singing 'I will survive' and then breaks down because 'the bastard' hits her when he comes home drunk. Failing this ever materialising, I'd like the show to be muted and re-dubbed in Spanish as I found it far more entertaining trying that for myself. I don't know Spanish. This is probably why it worked so well.
Thing 2:
Yesterday I looked like this:
And my friend Mickey looked like this:
Despite an evening of solid drinking and merriment (Mickey used the sentence 'I had to coax my puma down from the tree' in fully acceptable context. Amazing) I still berated our running for the bus to get to the party, as zombies don't run. I'd like to think that I deserve some acknowledgement for this.
Bonus thing:
There is currently an advert on TV for some sort of pasta thing, that hearkens back to the days of the 80s with its storyline and presentation. Its so unashamedly shit, that I've decided its my favourite thing on TV ever. A man knocks on a sexy Italian women's door with a burnt pot of food and the remit that he has someone coming round for dinner so needs her help. Already we've hit several problems. We have the sexist notion that men can't cook and that women have to save them from culinary disasters. Then we have the possibility that a) everyone just has a sexy Italian neighbour and b) they would be absolutely fine with you barging round and expecting them to help you out. The women happily invites him in, opens her fridge to find a pack of tortellini, which she then cooks up in a matter of seconds to produce an Italian meal. The man then serves her the food and tells the women the person he was having round for dinner was in fact, none other than her. So what he's saying is that his way of wooing women is by turning up at their house, making them cook, then serving them their own food on their own table, claiming all the credit for a romantic meal. He is nothing but a glorified butler. She is clearly an idiot or remarkably tolerant of idiots. Amazing.
Thing 1. I watched the X-Factor for the first time this season this morning. I don't feel like I need to explain to you why I did it, but lets say a level of curiosity, a severe hangover and an inability to cope with the other channel showing Fearne Cotton gazing into space as though someone had asked her to think about anything ever, or Hollyoaks, meant I did. Now, I know I'm jumping on this bandwagon particularly late. I don't like bandwagons as it is. I mean, we have cars now, no need for wagons anymore at all. Apart from their tasty wheels of course. And I'm not in a band so really don't need that much space on my wagon should I have one. All this aside, I felt I should write about now having witnessed the appalling display that is ITV's most popular show. While in the past I have seen people on X-Factor display a level of talent that somehow, beyond the unoriginality of belting out someone else song only without any emotion and trying not to think about how much of the planet is being destroyed everytime they turn the studio lights on, actually makes you think, 'well its a talent contest of some sort'. I know one of the finalists from the very first series and she can really sing, dance and act and is a hugely talented person, so I bore no grudge at the time that it helped her do well. What appears to have happened since however, is that's just become a pub karaoke night with more money. A collection of talentless freaks and weirdos that we can all just rejoice in seeing them whore their dignity live on TV with a dance display and back beat reminiscent of the worst of European television.
On today's show, I witnessed a man who couldn't possibly be more bland if he tried sing about bleeding in an out of tune way that made me ears almost drip with blood themselves, only for all four judges to tell him he was great. I presume this is the bad parenting thing, whereby by constantly telling him he's good even when he's not, the fall he receives after the show as he disappears back into obscurity to upset people as a guest spot in home county night clubs, will be devastating. Cruel and calculated. Then Don King turned up, after having appeared to have given up on the whole boxing thing. He was surprisingly nothing. He was followed by the dad from the Munsters and then a women who appeared to be made out of the plastic they discard from faulty Barbie dolls. Both did performances that I would physically go out of my way to avoid ever seeing or hearing again. Then some 12 year old boys with conjunctivitis oddly sang about having 'bright eyes' despite the fact a better choice would have been 'Mixamatosis' by Radiohead. I nearly punched the telly at this point, but it wasn't my telly so I abstained. Lucky for you telly. Next time you choose to show me such evils I will not be so kind. I know its Halloween but you started with Theresa May on Andrew Marr's show, then that display of absolute cock rot. No fair. Finally some offcut of Helena Bonham Carter sounded like she was in pain for a few minutes and she was told she put every emotion into her performance. My friend Mickey pointed out that nowhere did she include 'cynicism'. The whole show concluded with Dermot, who if you look into his eyes, you can see he is actually now officially dead inside. If the whole thing had been immediately followed by the best advert I've ever seen about Italian food (see below: Bonus Thing), I would have given up on life.
I can only presume the meeting about this year's show went along the lines of 'Talent? Who needs talent? Why don't we get some incompetent half wits and watch them struggle week on week as we revel in the schadenfreude of their failure more than an Austrian Neurologist under a parasol?' At that point they all cheered, rubbed each other homoerotically, ritualistically took turns to vomit in a bin and then took the day off. Probably. I think they need to go all out next series and just make it like a sing-a-long night in a shit bar. I want a series of alcoholics to mumble out Neil Diamond tracks, middle age Japanese men to sing Bon Jovi with all the wrong lyrics and a girl group called 'Hen Do' who's lead singer starts crying when singing 'I will survive' and then breaks down because 'the bastard' hits her when he comes home drunk. Failing this ever materialising, I'd like the show to be muted and re-dubbed in Spanish as I found it far more entertaining trying that for myself. I don't know Spanish. This is probably why it worked so well.
Thing 2:
Yesterday I looked like this:
And my friend Mickey looked like this:
Despite an evening of solid drinking and merriment (Mickey used the sentence 'I had to coax my puma down from the tree' in fully acceptable context. Amazing) I still berated our running for the bus to get to the party, as zombies don't run. I'd like to think that I deserve some acknowledgement for this.
Bonus thing:
There is currently an advert on TV for some sort of pasta thing, that hearkens back to the days of the 80s with its storyline and presentation. Its so unashamedly shit, that I've decided its my favourite thing on TV ever. A man knocks on a sexy Italian women's door with a burnt pot of food and the remit that he has someone coming round for dinner so needs her help. Already we've hit several problems. We have the sexist notion that men can't cook and that women have to save them from culinary disasters. Then we have the possibility that a) everyone just has a sexy Italian neighbour and b) they would be absolutely fine with you barging round and expecting them to help you out. The women happily invites him in, opens her fridge to find a pack of tortellini, which she then cooks up in a matter of seconds to produce an Italian meal. The man then serves her the food and tells the women the person he was having round for dinner was in fact, none other than her. So what he's saying is that his way of wooing women is by turning up at their house, making them cook, then serving them their own food on their own table, claiming all the credit for a romantic meal. He is nothing but a glorified butler. She is clearly an idiot or remarkably tolerant of idiots. Amazing.
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