This week was pretty rubbish. I was into my third week in a row of gigging every night, therefore, I spent a lot of time sleeping in.
The beginning of the week started with me buying hair wax off Ebay. I know what you’re thinking and the answer is “yes” that does mean I’m doing pretty well for myself. Tuesday was pretty action packed. I let my cleaner into the flat, who rather than ring the bell insists of waiting outside for me to peep out on her. Pathetically I spend more time a month with her than any other woman. If I was a 1970s comedian I’d now make a joke about how good it is hanging out with a woman who doesn’t talk and cleans everything. I explained to her that my sink was blocked so to not to try and clean it although I realised late in the week it wasn’t broken; I just had the plughole shut. I managed to open the plug up after already tipping a whole bottle of drain cleaner into the sink: that’s the most literal example of pouring money down the drain. Me= unpractical man= bellend.
I managed to squeeze in a game of comedians football in Crystal Palace before rushing to get a lift to Chichester. I love playing football so much that I’ll endure a 3 hour round trip and do a gig still smelling of sweat and men without hesitation. My team also won, which makes any trip to play far more satisfying. I just realised that last sentence makes me sound like a 9 year old child writing an essay.
Carl Donnelly and me also recorded a podcast this week. When he comes over, it is the closest to being 10 I feel. When he comes over we talk bollocks and then play computer games with intervals to consume a large amount of tea and biscuit based boodles. So it’s like a cross between a play date and a mothers’ meeting. I even bought milk in preparation for the tea drinking. All I seem to do nowadays is buy milk. How long does it take once you move out to not mind buying annoying necessities such as milk? If I had a time machine I’d go back to when everyone used a milkman, so the dairy products would magically appear on the doormat. Alternatively I could probably just do some research and arrange for the milkman to add us to his route; this may be easier than buying/building a time machine.
I managed to make it to the gym 3 times. I didn’t go to any classes but instead the main gym where the Gym Monkey girl seems to be wearing tighter leggings every time I go. She probably should wear some baggier clothes as it’s difficult for me to lift weights with a semi. Joking aside there was a bloke working out in a vest and pants. There should be some rules about clothing skimpiness. When he walked past me it was like he’d bunched his cock and balls up into a ceremonial basket and was presenting them to me as some sort of peace offering. “No I don’t want your bits and bobs, you tight garment wearing weirdo”. Maybe he'd forgotten his kit for the first time since gym class and thought that meant he had to work out in only a vest and pants; maybe he was just a socially unaware exhibitionist helmet. Answers on a postcard ...
Wednesday 31 March 2010
Monday 22 March 2010
March 15th-20th
So I’ve realised writing a blog 5 days a week is actually quite hard and takes a lot of time. Therefore I will try to give a summary of what happen during my working week. That way I don’t have to put in pointless details such as “I had eggs for breakfast”. It really exemplifies just how incapable of a routine job I am that I’ve given up writing a daily blog after 2 weeks. To be fair, I do have to spend some of my time actually writing some funny jokes and stuff: judging by some of my material I definitely need to spend more time making it funnier.
I got my hair cut, which in my mind counts as a serious achievement in my daytime. It was in a fancy/trendy hairdressers, called Rush. I go there because my mate James’s sister, Natalie, gives me half price cuts. They still cost the fat end of £20 but you get free beer; something, which I avoid because after a few drinks I’d think any haircut was good. They could shave a cock in the back and I’d think, “stylish”.
I also got into a fully fledged conversation with Andy, the Body Pump instructor. He was walking parallel to me on route to the changing room so I felt compelled to ask, “do you teach just one lesson a day or several?” As you can tell by that icebreaker we had an absolutely fascinating chat. All I needed to do was talk about the weather and the traffic to complete the world’s shittest conversation.
My week consisted of lots of sleeping because I was gigging out of town pretty much every night of the week. One highlight or in retrospect lowlight of my week was when Charlie came over to mine on Friday. Obviously I was delighted to have a mate at mine to keep me company. We went for a belting lunch at The Regent, then Charlie popped into William Hill to play electronic roulette. There is something depressingly bleak and vapid about being in a bookmakers at 2pm on a Friday. Whenever you walk into one of those establishments the smell of regret, Special Brew and Silk Cut drifts up your nostrils and you realise you shouldn’t gamble; or at the very least do it online from the comfort of your home.
Talking of gambling, I introduced Charlie to chatroulette.com (check that mother fucking segway). He found it equally as hilarious as I initially did and the bonus was we only saw 5 or 6 erect male pipes. To spice things up I dropped the bombshell that I had a vast range of fancy dress garments in my room. If anyone had broken into my flat on Friday 19th at 3:30pm they would have seen two grown men dressed as a monkey and a crocodile, for the amusement of perverts on the internet. That really does epitomize two people with too much time on their hands: we invented dress down Friday for the unemployed….
I got my hair cut, which in my mind counts as a serious achievement in my daytime. It was in a fancy/trendy hairdressers, called Rush. I go there because my mate James’s sister, Natalie, gives me half price cuts. They still cost the fat end of £20 but you get free beer; something, which I avoid because after a few drinks I’d think any haircut was good. They could shave a cock in the back and I’d think, “stylish”.
I also got into a fully fledged conversation with Andy, the Body Pump instructor. He was walking parallel to me on route to the changing room so I felt compelled to ask, “do you teach just one lesson a day or several?” As you can tell by that icebreaker we had an absolutely fascinating chat. All I needed to do was talk about the weather and the traffic to complete the world’s shittest conversation.
My week consisted of lots of sleeping because I was gigging out of town pretty much every night of the week. One highlight or in retrospect lowlight of my week was when Charlie came over to mine on Friday. Obviously I was delighted to have a mate at mine to keep me company. We went for a belting lunch at The Regent, then Charlie popped into William Hill to play electronic roulette. There is something depressingly bleak and vapid about being in a bookmakers at 2pm on a Friday. Whenever you walk into one of those establishments the smell of regret, Special Brew and Silk Cut drifts up your nostrils and you realise you shouldn’t gamble; or at the very least do it online from the comfort of your home.
Talking of gambling, I introduced Charlie to chatroulette.com (check that mother fucking segway). He found it equally as hilarious as I initially did and the bonus was we only saw 5 or 6 erect male pipes. To spice things up I dropped the bombshell that I had a vast range of fancy dress garments in my room. If anyone had broken into my flat on Friday 19th at 3:30pm they would have seen two grown men dressed as a monkey and a crocodile, for the amusement of perverts on the internet. That really does epitomize two people with too much time on their hands: we invented dress down Friday for the unemployed….
Friday 12 March 2010
March 10th: being a student again
Let’s call this ‘the half day’. I woke up at 12:30 like some sort of languid, waste of space student. This is probably because my friend Max and I ended up at a horrible student night in Central London the night before. I’ve never felt a lot older than people on a night out until Wednesday night when I was chatting to someone wearing braces about their A levels. I made sure I had a cold shower when I got home at 3am. Going out 2 nights in a row is a massive struggle nowadays, so I needed to have a sleep that bordered on hibernation.
The day ended up being a real throw back to University as my mate Nick, who is at law school, came over and we played computer games all afternoon. I say throw back, however, I left University under 2 years ago so it’s not like I had to think back 20 years to something completely alien to me. I also had a chicken that needed roasting. So we comically had a roast chicken and gravy lunch on a Thursday. There’s nothing wrong with this but having a roast on a weekday is slightly unusual. You know your time frame is different to most of the western world when you’re roasting potatoes during Countdown….
The day ended up being a real throw back to University as my mate Nick, who is at law school, came over and we played computer games all afternoon. I say throw back, however, I left University under 2 years ago so it’s not like I had to think back 20 years to something completely alien to me. I also had a chicken that needed roasting. So we comically had a roast chicken and gravy lunch on a Thursday. There’s nothing wrong with this but having a roast on a weekday is slightly unusual. You know your time frame is different to most of the western world when you’re roasting potatoes during Countdown….
March 10th- Don’t drink lot’s of Guinness
I woke up in my hotel room at 9:30, wrapped in the bed sheet with Sky Sports News blaring, feeling like bag of faeces with a cat turd on top. I tried to turn off the TV, but couldn’t find the tiny remote provided. It must have been in bed with me when I passed out yet it had completely disappeared from the room. I was slightly worried that I rolled onto it in the night and it had got lodged somewhere: I would be checking my stool with vigor all day.
I made sure I got my free omelette before 10am. I was still completely bloated because of several pints of Guinness and two trips to the Subway, which is open till 4am on a Tuesday. You know you have a serious eating problem when, like the woman behind me in the queue at 3:55am, you know the name of the server in Subway and ask for “the usual”. I didn’t feel like eating but breakfast was included so I legally had to finish it, I don’t think that means I have an eating problem; instead I’m just a bit tight, tight and painfully full.
My hotel room was definitely supposed to be for a disabled person. There was no bath, which is fine by me as I haven’t had a bath for about 10 years but instead there was a shower with a stool provided. I’ve never had a proper sit down shower and I must say it’s pretty good. Disabled people get all the perks, bigger toilets, a stool in the shower, great parking spaces: lucky bastards. The rest of day was mainly spent in transit.
We flew out from George Best airport. I’m sure someone has already noted this but naming an airport, where planes need to be controlled by highly skilled and concentrated human beings, after a notorious alcoholic is not exactly apt. That’s a bit like naming an oven ‘The Sylvia Plath”…well not really but you see what I’m getting at. I had the company of Rob for the travel back to Liverpool street, a lovely man, who is obsessed with the Isle of Man. He’s from there and like a giddy kid kept trying to look for his brother’s house from the plane; I didn’t really see the point because it’s not like he’d be able to see his brother waving at him or anything…
Spent the rest of the day chilling out in Brixton at my friend Charlie’s flat. She also has a Polish cleaner present. It’s weird that in 3 days I’ve spent more time with Polish cleaning ladies than anyone else. Maybe I should just become a Polish cleaner. I definitely don’t have the work ethic for it.
I made sure I got my free omelette before 10am. I was still completely bloated because of several pints of Guinness and two trips to the Subway, which is open till 4am on a Tuesday. You know you have a serious eating problem when, like the woman behind me in the queue at 3:55am, you know the name of the server in Subway and ask for “the usual”. I didn’t feel like eating but breakfast was included so I legally had to finish it, I don’t think that means I have an eating problem; instead I’m just a bit tight, tight and painfully full.
My hotel room was definitely supposed to be for a disabled person. There was no bath, which is fine by me as I haven’t had a bath for about 10 years but instead there was a shower with a stool provided. I’ve never had a proper sit down shower and I must say it’s pretty good. Disabled people get all the perks, bigger toilets, a stool in the shower, great parking spaces: lucky bastards. The rest of day was mainly spent in transit.
We flew out from George Best airport. I’m sure someone has already noted this but naming an airport, where planes need to be controlled by highly skilled and concentrated human beings, after a notorious alcoholic is not exactly apt. That’s a bit like naming an oven ‘The Sylvia Plath”…well not really but you see what I’m getting at. I had the company of Rob for the travel back to Liverpool street, a lovely man, who is obsessed with the Isle of Man. He’s from there and like a giddy kid kept trying to look for his brother’s house from the plane; I didn’t really see the point because it’s not like he’d be able to see his brother waving at him or anything…
Spent the rest of the day chilling out in Brixton at my friend Charlie’s flat. She also has a Polish cleaner present. It’s weird that in 3 days I’ve spent more time with Polish cleaning ladies than anyone else. Maybe I should just become a Polish cleaner. I definitely don’t have the work ethic for it.
Thursday 11 March 2010
March 9th: To Belfast
I managed to get up in time for the arrival of our new cleaner at 9:30. She didn’t go for the standard ring on the doorbell to get into the flat approach; instead when I opened my living room curtains she was waving in the street. Pretty normal. If I was hoping for a conversation exchange and some company, my hope was misplaced. This was down to the fact she spoke no English. I tried to explain to her for about 5 minutes that I was popping out to the gym and the bank. I eventually had to show her a picture of HSBC on my laptop: thanks Google maps.
I got to the gym but hadn’t left enough time to get back before the cleaner left. I wish I knew her name, so I sound like less of slave owner but getting that info out of her would have involved a water board and a Polish dictionary. I had just enough time in the gym to see the gang of rudeboys talk shite and walk around trying to look big. I also overheard two of them in the changing rooms have an in depth discussion about protein shakes: being part of the gym really is like being part of Mensa. There is actually one Gym Monkey Boy who is in fact a Gym Monkey Girl, who I fancy. I don’t even think she’s that attractive but she wears those spandex ¾ length leggings that make all women hot. I realized that I was drifting off half way through a set of exercises to check her out using a series of mirrors dotted around the room. I felt like a perverted spy: so James Bond.
The cleaner was only being paid to do 3 hours work but did nearly 4. Could she be any more Polish? Doing unpaid overtime voluntarily. Once she timidly left,I had to head off to Stansted. I had no reason to be late but something in my genetic make up always causes me to get prepared 2 minutes before I need to leave. I always end up leaving 5 minutes late then jog to the station to ensure a thoroughly sweaty day of travel. I traveled with fellow comedian Rob Heeney. I’d forgotten all the rules about liquid, so to be safe I brought none. That means I had no deodorant or toothpaste- I pity anyone who stood near me or spoke to me for the rest of the day. I’d brought hope made sandwiches like a real gimp. I suddenly had a moment where I worried if I was allowed to bring them through security, then I remembered that there has never been a baguette bomber: so I was fine.
The Ryan Air flight was the usual clichéd crap journey where they try to flog you any old crap. The best thing was the little pikey looking air hostess dude told us we should buy a scratch card because someone won 10,000 Euros a couple of weeks earlier but then ate the card. Honestly, someone so fat or stupid won 10, 000 and demanded the money instantly. When they didn’t give it to him, he ate his scratch card, which achieved nothing apart from to show how stupid he is. Maybe it was because all the food is so overpriced and he was genuinely starving. What kind of a moron thinks they are going to have that much cash on an airline so pikey that you have to pay for a dump. Also, why did he need it? Was he desperate to spend it all on tiny bottle of alcohol and fizzy drinks. The bellend got exactly what he deserved. Nothing.
A relatively action packed 9-5 for me.
I got to the gym but hadn’t left enough time to get back before the cleaner left. I wish I knew her name, so I sound like less of slave owner but getting that info out of her would have involved a water board and a Polish dictionary. I had just enough time in the gym to see the gang of rudeboys talk shite and walk around trying to look big. I also overheard two of them in the changing rooms have an in depth discussion about protein shakes: being part of the gym really is like being part of Mensa. There is actually one Gym Monkey Boy who is in fact a Gym Monkey Girl, who I fancy. I don’t even think she’s that attractive but she wears those spandex ¾ length leggings that make all women hot. I realized that I was drifting off half way through a set of exercises to check her out using a series of mirrors dotted around the room. I felt like a perverted spy: so James Bond.
The cleaner was only being paid to do 3 hours work but did nearly 4. Could she be any more Polish? Doing unpaid overtime voluntarily. Once she timidly left,I had to head off to Stansted. I had no reason to be late but something in my genetic make up always causes me to get prepared 2 minutes before I need to leave. I always end up leaving 5 minutes late then jog to the station to ensure a thoroughly sweaty day of travel. I traveled with fellow comedian Rob Heeney. I’d forgotten all the rules about liquid, so to be safe I brought none. That means I had no deodorant or toothpaste- I pity anyone who stood near me or spoke to me for the rest of the day. I’d brought hope made sandwiches like a real gimp. I suddenly had a moment where I worried if I was allowed to bring them through security, then I remembered that there has never been a baguette bomber: so I was fine.
The Ryan Air flight was the usual clichéd crap journey where they try to flog you any old crap. The best thing was the little pikey looking air hostess dude told us we should buy a scratch card because someone won 10,000 Euros a couple of weeks earlier but then ate the card. Honestly, someone so fat or stupid won 10, 000 and demanded the money instantly. When they didn’t give it to him, he ate his scratch card, which achieved nothing apart from to show how stupid he is. Maybe it was because all the food is so overpriced and he was genuinely starving. What kind of a moron thinks they are going to have that much cash on an airline so pikey that you have to pay for a dump. Also, why did he need it? Was he desperate to spend it all on tiny bottle of alcohol and fizzy drinks. The bellend got exactly what he deserved. Nothing.
A relatively action packed 9-5 for me.
Tuesday 9 March 2010
March 8th
Today was admin filled, therefore, pretty boring to write about. So strap in for the next couple of minutes, it’s going to be a boring ride. I would have got up earlier and gone to ‘Body Pump’ with that git Andy but I was feeling sore from football on the weekend. On Saturday I’d played 2 games in an afternoon and someone had kicked me hard in the shin. Not going to the gym because my shin hurts is a pretty pathetic and childish excuse but who did I have to convince? Just me and while I was still in bed at 10am I thought it was a more than adequate excuse. The guy who horrendously fouled me wasn’t remorseful and his mum didn’t pick him up after the game; if he’d cried and his mum had collected him it would have meant it was an accident according to the logic of Tony Pulis, the Stoke manager.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/teams/a/arsenal/8541140.stm
After 2 hours of refreshing my emails I needed to get out of the house. I did a big shop in Sainsbury’s. I also remembered to bring the used plastic bags that have been accrued over the last month. I was hoping for a round of applause or a hand job but instead the woman on the till said “well done”: perhaps a sexual favour would have been inappropriate, as there was a large queue behind me. I, also, made a list and used a pen to tick off the items I needed: I felt like a real adult. I somehow managed to spend £77. When I’m pushing a trolley around, even if I have everything on the list I can’t help but buy every item with an orange “only £3” sticker on it. It could be only a bag of 50g crisps; but if it says “3 bags for £20”, I’m chucking them in the trolley. It turns out I’m a massive sucker for anything that has big colours and numbers under it.
After getting back, I unpacked and realised I’d bought too much food for the space available in the flat. I’ve effectively forced my flat mates to eat out until my supplies diminish. It’s not my fault. I blame those bloody bargains! After eating a tiny percentage of my war rations, I did some writing and I hit 5pm without speaking to a single human being. I was tempted to knock on the door of the flat below to ask for a cup of sugar, just to talk to someone. However, it’s not 1950’s America and I’m a bit scared of the guy in that flat. I don’t want my obituary to read, “Chris Martin: Stabbed over Tate and Lyle misunderstanding”.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/teams/a/arsenal/8541140.stm
After 2 hours of refreshing my emails I needed to get out of the house. I did a big shop in Sainsbury’s. I also remembered to bring the used plastic bags that have been accrued over the last month. I was hoping for a round of applause or a hand job but instead the woman on the till said “well done”: perhaps a sexual favour would have been inappropriate, as there was a large queue behind me. I, also, made a list and used a pen to tick off the items I needed: I felt like a real adult. I somehow managed to spend £77. When I’m pushing a trolley around, even if I have everything on the list I can’t help but buy every item with an orange “only £3” sticker on it. It could be only a bag of 50g crisps; but if it says “3 bags for £20”, I’m chucking them in the trolley. It turns out I’m a massive sucker for anything that has big colours and numbers under it.
After getting back, I unpacked and realised I’d bought too much food for the space available in the flat. I’ve effectively forced my flat mates to eat out until my supplies diminish. It’s not my fault. I blame those bloody bargains! After eating a tiny percentage of my war rations, I did some writing and I hit 5pm without speaking to a single human being. I was tempted to knock on the door of the flat below to ask for a cup of sugar, just to talk to someone. However, it’s not 1950’s America and I’m a bit scared of the guy in that flat. I don’t want my obituary to read, “Chris Martin: Stabbed over Tate and Lyle misunderstanding”.
Monday 8 March 2010
Friday March 5th
This day was a little bit of a write off. I woke up late and didn’t leave the house or do anything of note. I flittered between writing jokes and playing Fifa. I got another England cap for C-unit (that’s my dude’s name) and I hung up some washing. Since moving out of the house all I seem to do is hang up wet clothes. When your mum doesn’t do your washing, the turnover of dirty sheets and clothes seems to increase 10 fold (excuse the pun). I have a new found respect for my mother and the amount of hanging up she used to do for me. My mum didn’t just have to hang up her clothes but also mine, my sister’s and my Dad’s (and he’s massive); she must have barely been able to eat or sleep with that much garment sorting on her agenda.
The other thing I spent over an hour doing was attempting to book a reasonably placed train ticket to Middlesbrough. I did that schoolboy error of waiting till a week in advance to book this. Somehow train tickets exponentially raise in price to the point where you just think National Rail are asking a kid to make up the prices: “How much shall we make it to Middlesbrough the day before travelling young man?”, “a million pounds”, “yup, that sounds reasonable”. It would have been cheaper to book a bus but this is one of the few things I’m properly snobby about. I hate coaches in Britain. If I’m out of the country I’ve no qualms getting in one but I’m allergic to 7hr road trips to the North East surrounded by poor people. For someone as gregarious as me I can’t stomach the clientele on the National Express: it’s like a council estate threw up onto a bus. I instead opted for a £50 return train ticket: making my profit from the gig about £10. Annoyingly I have only myself to blame.
The other thing I spent over an hour doing was attempting to book a reasonably placed train ticket to Middlesbrough. I did that schoolboy error of waiting till a week in advance to book this. Somehow train tickets exponentially raise in price to the point where you just think National Rail are asking a kid to make up the prices: “How much shall we make it to Middlesbrough the day before travelling young man?”, “a million pounds”, “yup, that sounds reasonable”. It would have been cheaper to book a bus but this is one of the few things I’m properly snobby about. I hate coaches in Britain. If I’m out of the country I’ve no qualms getting in one but I’m allergic to 7hr road trips to the North East surrounded by poor people. For someone as gregarious as me I can’t stomach the clientele on the National Express: it’s like a council estate threw up onto a bus. I instead opted for a £50 return train ticket: making my profit from the gig about £10. Annoyingly I have only myself to blame.
Friday 5 March 2010
Thursday March 4th
Woke up late. Was stirred by phone call from my childhood pal Tom Halford. He is a chef in Stockholm and has been working in Michelin Star restaurants in Europe for the last 5 years. I’m not sure why a tyre manufacturer is the best judge of good food but nevertheless he is a brilliant cook. He is back in the country till Saturday and wanted to come see my flat. I therefore, stayed in bed writing till he got to my ends.
We went to ‘The Diner’, in Kensal Rise. It’s one of those American chain restaurants. The monster fry up was belting. My only qualm with the place is they do free coffee refills but don’t have the same offer on tea. I love tea and my taste buds are still not mature enough to handle Coffee. My friend Mat and I, go on holiday every year and are the only ones out of friends who don’t drink coffee and can’t sunbathe; we have to kick a football around instead, like a couple of ADD children. One day I will be mature enough to do both these things but till that moment I still have to endure this tea racism.
Tom came back to mine and we had a very leisurely afternoon. We watched a film called ‘Hanging with the Homeboys’ that James Gibb gave me as an intentionally/ironically shit Christmas present. For a minute I actually thought it might be a good film; it wasn’t.
The only thing of note that happened before 5pm was this. I got a phone call from a promoter saying I was going to have to be removed from a gig I was supposed to do next week. I did a gig for them, to a company last week and long story short used the word ‘bukake’ on stage in the first 30 seconds. I will not give specifics about the company/gig as I’ve got into trouble online with names etc before. It definitely wasn’t my fault as no one told me what I could or couldn’t say on stage. Now I’m not a dirty comedian so could easily have done a clean set if asked…it’s not the end of the world but still slightly irksome. I guess the moral of the story is: if in doubt, don’t reference several men spaffing into a woman’s face in the first few seconds of your set.
I’m sure some of you will be Googling ‘bukake’ now. Make sure you delete your history afterwards.
We went to ‘The Diner’, in Kensal Rise. It’s one of those American chain restaurants. The monster fry up was belting. My only qualm with the place is they do free coffee refills but don’t have the same offer on tea. I love tea and my taste buds are still not mature enough to handle Coffee. My friend Mat and I, go on holiday every year and are the only ones out of friends who don’t drink coffee and can’t sunbathe; we have to kick a football around instead, like a couple of ADD children. One day I will be mature enough to do both these things but till that moment I still have to endure this tea racism.
Tom came back to mine and we had a very leisurely afternoon. We watched a film called ‘Hanging with the Homeboys’ that James Gibb gave me as an intentionally/ironically shit Christmas present. For a minute I actually thought it might be a good film; it wasn’t.
The only thing of note that happened before 5pm was this. I got a phone call from a promoter saying I was going to have to be removed from a gig I was supposed to do next week. I did a gig for them, to a company last week and long story short used the word ‘bukake’ on stage in the first 30 seconds. I will not give specifics about the company/gig as I’ve got into trouble online with names etc before. It definitely wasn’t my fault as no one told me what I could or couldn’t say on stage. Now I’m not a dirty comedian so could easily have done a clean set if asked…it’s not the end of the world but still slightly irksome. I guess the moral of the story is: if in doubt, don’t reference several men spaffing into a woman’s face in the first few seconds of your set.
I’m sure some of you will be Googling ‘bukake’ now. Make sure you delete your history afterwards.
Thursday 4 March 2010
Wednesday 3rd March
Today was exciting for me as I was having friends over for lunch. Human interaction: my favourite.
I went to the gym and GM number 2 was dominating the weights area. He is one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen, outside of the WWE. He is a skinhead geezer, who I’m guessing eats raw chickens for breakfast, whilst I have a penchant for blueberries on Weetabix. I go to a £70 a month gym in Notting Hill yet there is still a bucket load of adult rudeboys in there. A group of about 8 all seem to know each other through their mutual love for trying to beef up and the fact that they speak the language of the streets (don’t worry, I know how wanky a phrase “language of the streets” is). One guy walked over to everyone and announced “ain’t nothing but love in the gym right now!” Shut up and let me do my inferior bicep curls, please.
I managed to prepare a sausage and mash feast for my two mates Tara and Charlie. They are both 2 girls who tickle my funny bone. Charlie spent the whole afternoon slagging off my cooking, whilst Tara pretty much just smashed up my kitchen. They both left me to do all the washing up; still it’s a good way to pass the time. They did, however, show me one of the funniest websites around. It’s called www.Chatroulette.com. The premise of it is, all around the world anyone with a webcam and microphone can chat to you. If you get bored of someone you simply hit ‘next’. It’s a very simple idea and the only way to do it justice is to give it a go. The downside is most of the people on it are weird men and more often than not you stumble across an adult masturbating in the hope that he’ll find a hot girl. I’m sure it will soon get banned as there are children innocently using it. The girls said they saw Snoop Dogg on it when he was stoned, which sounds more fun than a bloke touching his bits. For a laugh, I made sure I was out of shot and got the girl’s to keep clicking ’next’ till they found someone masturbating. After 5 seconds, I would jump up and shout ‘stop Wanking! You sick freak’. It is funnier and less disturbing than it sounds. Give it a go.
The girls remained at mine watching DVDs till past 5. So all in all a fun human filled Wednesday for me.
I went to the gym and GM number 2 was dominating the weights area. He is one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen, outside of the WWE. He is a skinhead geezer, who I’m guessing eats raw chickens for breakfast, whilst I have a penchant for blueberries on Weetabix. I go to a £70 a month gym in Notting Hill yet there is still a bucket load of adult rudeboys in there. A group of about 8 all seem to know each other through their mutual love for trying to beef up and the fact that they speak the language of the streets (don’t worry, I know how wanky a phrase “language of the streets” is). One guy walked over to everyone and announced “ain’t nothing but love in the gym right now!” Shut up and let me do my inferior bicep curls, please.
I managed to prepare a sausage and mash feast for my two mates Tara and Charlie. They are both 2 girls who tickle my funny bone. Charlie spent the whole afternoon slagging off my cooking, whilst Tara pretty much just smashed up my kitchen. They both left me to do all the washing up; still it’s a good way to pass the time. They did, however, show me one of the funniest websites around. It’s called www.Chatroulette.com. The premise of it is, all around the world anyone with a webcam and microphone can chat to you. If you get bored of someone you simply hit ‘next’. It’s a very simple idea and the only way to do it justice is to give it a go. The downside is most of the people on it are weird men and more often than not you stumble across an adult masturbating in the hope that he’ll find a hot girl. I’m sure it will soon get banned as there are children innocently using it. The girls said they saw Snoop Dogg on it when he was stoned, which sounds more fun than a bloke touching his bits. For a laugh, I made sure I was out of shot and got the girl’s to keep clicking ’next’ till they found someone masturbating. After 5 seconds, I would jump up and shout ‘stop Wanking! You sick freak’. It is funnier and less disturbing than it sounds. Give it a go.
The girls remained at mine watching DVDs till past 5. So all in all a fun human filled Wednesday for me.
Tuesday 2nd March
I had a big sleep, in an attempt to shake off the miniature bout of food poisoning. I got up and did some token email based admin and checked my Facebook 30 times. In truth I was just killing time before I made my debut at Comedian’s football in Crystal Palace. To make a 2pm kick off I had to leave my house at 12:30. Travelling an hour and half to play a game of 6 aside football might seem extreme, but I love football and also I got to talk to some friends. Being alone when you’re ill is my idea of hell. Ideally when you’re ill you want your mummy to constantly bring you treats and check your temperature; getting a flat mate to do this is harder than you’d think.
The football game was worth the journey. Highlights included me scoring an own goal from the other half of the pitch and generally laughing a lot at the behaviour of Joe Wilkinson and Daniel Kitson. The downside to playing with professionally funny people is you can’t tell when they are joking. Andy Zaltzman did a theatrical dive in the penalty area: I laughed. Turns out he’d pretty much snapped his ankle. Nasty. I felt like a dick. My team were victorious, which makes playing sport much better. It’s the taking part that counts but it is lovely to win at stuff.
The rest of my 9-5 involved me sitting on a train back to my house: I might buy a second home in Crystal Palace for Tuesdays.
The football game was worth the journey. Highlights included me scoring an own goal from the other half of the pitch and generally laughing a lot at the behaviour of Joe Wilkinson and Daniel Kitson. The downside to playing with professionally funny people is you can’t tell when they are joking. Andy Zaltzman did a theatrical dive in the penalty area: I laughed. Turns out he’d pretty much snapped his ankle. Nasty. I felt like a dick. My team were victorious, which makes playing sport much better. It’s the taking part that counts but it is lovely to win at stuff.
The rest of my 9-5 involved me sitting on a train back to my house: I might buy a second home in Crystal Palace for Tuesdays.
Monday, March 1st
I was forced out of bed at 9am to visit my new doctor’s surgery. Usually I’m happy to get up this early but the weekend had seriously taken its toll. As my mother always says, I’d been burning the candle at both ends. The surgery is the smallest one I’ve ever seen; it should have been called the doctor’s hut. The minimal space made it even more annoying when a Polish baby started crying. I quite like kids but I really wanted to set off the fire extinguisher in the little git’s face. It’s illegal to hit a child but I’ve never read anything about the legal ramifications of firing water at them.
I then went to my now weekly body pump lesson at the gym. The guy who’s in charge is called Andy. He’s a squat, overly enthusiastic Scottish bloke who, doesn’t think he looks like a bellend wearing a Madonna microphone. The sort of bloke who’s zest for life conceals his deep depression at being a professional body pump instructor. Almost everyone in my class is a woman over the age of 30. There is one other bloke: him and me are on, “Hi mate” terms (probably because we are the only 2 people who have 2 testicles and no mic…I’m only assuming he has 2 balls; we don’t shower together yet).
After feeling ‘pumped’ and ‘emasculated’ I strode into Portobello market. I bought far too much stuff. I did that thing where I shopped like I had my car but didn’t; so was carrying an uncomfortably inconvenient amount of gubbins. I also bought fruit from the market. Everyone bangs on about market fruit being better than the supermarket (me being one of them), yet it seems to be injected with something that makes it bruise before you get home and go off in 24 hours. It’s cheap for a reason.
When I got back I started feeling horrendous. It turns out my flatmate, Be (short for Benedict), was sick at work after the Meatball Subway we’d shared the night before. Who knew warm meat from an outdoor Subway vendor in Leicester Square, shared with another man could make you sick? I felt guilty for napping the rest of the afternoon but it was either that or shitting myself. I felt the former less faeces ridden option was the preferred. So my Monday afternoon consisted of sleeping. You can’t do that that in your office job, can you? Or in you van driving job…well in most vehicle based jobs.
I then went to my now weekly body pump lesson at the gym. The guy who’s in charge is called Andy. He’s a squat, overly enthusiastic Scottish bloke who, doesn’t think he looks like a bellend wearing a Madonna microphone. The sort of bloke who’s zest for life conceals his deep depression at being a professional body pump instructor. Almost everyone in my class is a woman over the age of 30. There is one other bloke: him and me are on, “Hi mate” terms (probably because we are the only 2 people who have 2 testicles and no mic…I’m only assuming he has 2 balls; we don’t shower together yet).
After feeling ‘pumped’ and ‘emasculated’ I strode into Portobello market. I bought far too much stuff. I did that thing where I shopped like I had my car but didn’t; so was carrying an uncomfortably inconvenient amount of gubbins. I also bought fruit from the market. Everyone bangs on about market fruit being better than the supermarket (me being one of them), yet it seems to be injected with something that makes it bruise before you get home and go off in 24 hours. It’s cheap for a reason.
When I got back I started feeling horrendous. It turns out my flatmate, Be (short for Benedict), was sick at work after the Meatball Subway we’d shared the night before. Who knew warm meat from an outdoor Subway vendor in Leicester Square, shared with another man could make you sick? I felt guilty for napping the rest of the afternoon but it was either that or shitting myself. I felt the former less faeces ridden option was the preferred. So my Monday afternoon consisted of sleeping. You can’t do that that in your office job, can you? Or in you van driving job…well in most vehicle based jobs.
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