This week was also spent just watching football. The games got better and England got worse. I'm actually too depressed to even write what went wrong with England.
The only small highlight of my week was getting drunk all Wednesday in "The Mason Arms" beer garden when England managed to smash the footballing powerhouse that was Slovenia. It's a brilliant thing that when England play football, the whole country decides to stop work, whilst I continue to still do no work. Nick, Benny and I all got drunk, which I think is fair enough but some people need to have a long hard look at themselves. Regardless of whether England are playing, no one should be snorting cocaine at 3:45pm on a Wednesday like several people in the toilet of the pub. Also for the whole match someone was openly smoking weed: the pub is a bit like an drinking hole you'd find in a Mad Max movie. The funniest thing about this lost society was that for the whole second half of the football it was actually more entertaining to watch the guys who'd hoovered up the naughty salt than the football. One bloke literally would have smiled if Slovenia had scored 12 goals in the second 45 minutes.
"Watching a man chew his face off is more exciting than watching England play football": someone show this quotation to the FA please.
Tuesday 29 June 2010
14-18th June: World Cup woes
This week all I did was watch 3 games of football a day as I'd caught world cup fever. Despite most of the 1st round games being utterly pony, watching football everyday seemed like a full time job for me. I've now watched so much that I have my favourite and least favourite pundits. Most of them are total wank: Mark Bright, Andy Townsend, Jim Beglin and Mick McCarthey to name a few. In case you're wondering I'm a big fan of Gareth Southgate and Lee Dixon. I've basically just played "Kill, marry, shag" with all these geezers.
There is not much else to say because this is all I've spent my time doing.
Also England are crap at kicking footballs.
There is not much else to say because this is all I've spent my time doing.
Also England are crap at kicking footballs.
Tuesday 22 June 2010
June 7-11: I’d happily have it off with Robert Downie Jr
This week was a great week because it contained my birthday. Some people hate people making a fuss about their birthdays and say stuff like, “it’s just another day, big deal”, whilst I think, “it’s my birthday give me loads of stuff and attention”. In terms of presents I got a few quid and some Robert Downie Jr paraphernalia. This is actually pretty good because I realised after the age of 21 you generally don’t get anything good, this really hit home when I only got a couple of books for my 22nd birthday; I like a book but when it comes to birthdays all I want are toys or DVDs. My sister gave the Robert Downie Jr key ring and bag to me, as she knows I have a huge man crush on him. He is the only man in the world I’d happily bum in the hope that some of his charisma gets transferred across to me.
On one of the other days I did a BBC casting with about 1million other comedians. It wasn’t actually that bad. I got to do it with Carl Donnelly so was much more fun than normal. Normally castings with comedians are like metaphorical dick swinging contests and if you’re not prepared to windmill you look like a tit. Luckily this wasn’t such a wind turbine environment and more of a fun hour with a few comedians I know, who were all prepared to laugh at each other. Afterwards me Carl and Tiff Stevenson (comic) had an all you can eat oriental buffet where it’s vegetarian food that tastes a bit like meat; it tastes much worse than the meat in question and gives you stomach aids, don’t ever go to the one of these places unless you’re constipated. What is the point in vegetarian food that looks and tastes a bit like meat? You’ve made your choice now stick with it: that’s like a straight man from time to time getting his girlfriend to wear a beard and call herself Geoff for the night (or in my case Robert Downie).
After that very confused and nonsensical analogy, I will leave you to continue to stare at a spread sheet.
On one of the other days I did a BBC casting with about 1million other comedians. It wasn’t actually that bad. I got to do it with Carl Donnelly so was much more fun than normal. Normally castings with comedians are like metaphorical dick swinging contests and if you’re not prepared to windmill you look like a tit. Luckily this wasn’t such a wind turbine environment and more of a fun hour with a few comedians I know, who were all prepared to laugh at each other. Afterwards me Carl and Tiff Stevenson (comic) had an all you can eat oriental buffet where it’s vegetarian food that tastes a bit like meat; it tastes much worse than the meat in question and gives you stomach aids, don’t ever go to the one of these places unless you’re constipated. What is the point in vegetarian food that looks and tastes a bit like meat? You’ve made your choice now stick with it: that’s like a straight man from time to time getting his girlfriend to wear a beard and call herself Geoff for the night (or in my case Robert Downie).
After that very confused and nonsensical analogy, I will leave you to continue to stare at a spread sheet.
Thursday 17 June 2010
June 1-5th: A week full of stingy wizards
This week was bookended by my mum’s birthday and helping my dad sell some old paper (this will be explained later).
On the day of her birthday I still hadn’t purchased a present for my mum so something last minute and potentially crap was on the cards. Being a mother must be rubbish for presents because despite how far the women’s movement has come in the last 100 years everyone child always thinks, “what kitchen gadget shall I buy her?” In the past I’ve bought her a bread maker, oven gloves and a blender; she really is lucky. This year I didn’t think I should buy her a kitchen item partly because it shows a lack of imagination and partly because she owned all the kitchen utilities in the world. So instead I bought her bathroom products. Bath soaps are the substitute option for a mum’s present closely followed by a scented candle. I also bought her some expensive cup cakes, they were actually lovely; I know this because I ate one, which shows they were very much a present for me as well. If I ever become a middle aged mum I will have a birthday present list but only contain stuff that I do not wish to be bought. The list will look like this, “nothing for the kitchen, nothing for the bathroom and no scented candles”.
On Friday, I helped my dad sell old books and paper at a book fair in Hammersmith. The collective name for this gubbins he sells is “ephemera”. I have helped my dad sell ephemera since I was a small child and I’ve always found it extremely monotonous and boring. It still is a long and generally tedious day, that involves sitting around and doing very little but the characters that go to these events are hilarious. I’m going to give a little overview of the creatures who crawl around this function room of the Hammersmith Novotel looking for a bargain.
For whatever reason most of the ephemera and book fair circuit is made up of homosexuals, Jewish people and homosexual Jewish people. Now before you clench your PC arse cheeks together, worried that I will going into a homophobic and anti-Semitic diatribe, I am merely stating a fact about the customer demographic not passing judgement on anyone. Most of the men walking around are over the ages of 50 and generally have wispy white hair and dodgy beards so look like an army of wizards. Unfortunately, none of them can do any magic; instead they spent most of their time trying use the power of the mind to convince you to part with an item for a third of the price. There was one man walking around the fair with white hair, a bow tie, a jacket and holding an old wooden stick that you’d find in the forest, which either a rambler or Gandalf would carry: even the walking sticks in this place are antiques.
There is normally a bloke, who wears the same rain mack, every time he comes, whatever the weather. It is one of the grimiest unwashed garments I have ever laid my eyes on and really adds to the sex offender look. Not only this, he refuses to pay over £2 for anything despite being wealthy; I used to be intimidated by him (due to the sex offender look) but as I’ve grown older and become more confident I normally berate him by saying, “that’s a bit out of your price range because it’s over a quid, you tight bastard”.
In his absence, there were plenty of other nutters knocking around. The stuff that people collect is both fascinating and hilarious. People came up to me and asked if I was selling anything on, puzzles, bees, trees, horses (just horses, nothing else but horses). There is one white guy, who has grown a Mr Myagi beard and ties his hair up with chopsticks and only wants stuff on Japan: weirdo. Despite being surrounded by bizarre people I was still pretty bored by the end of the day. I was also perturbed because the woman running the fair told me off twice for not tidying up the stall. Getting told off as an adult is the worst feeling in the world but at the age of 24 you’d think I be old enough o stand up for myself; instead I do my reliable trick of saying “sorry”, then muttering to myself and sulking. Mature.
If you ever want to watch a crazy group of individuals get your ass down to an Ephemera fair and dress like a wizard.
On the day of her birthday I still hadn’t purchased a present for my mum so something last minute and potentially crap was on the cards. Being a mother must be rubbish for presents because despite how far the women’s movement has come in the last 100 years everyone child always thinks, “what kitchen gadget shall I buy her?” In the past I’ve bought her a bread maker, oven gloves and a blender; she really is lucky. This year I didn’t think I should buy her a kitchen item partly because it shows a lack of imagination and partly because she owned all the kitchen utilities in the world. So instead I bought her bathroom products. Bath soaps are the substitute option for a mum’s present closely followed by a scented candle. I also bought her some expensive cup cakes, they were actually lovely; I know this because I ate one, which shows they were very much a present for me as well. If I ever become a middle aged mum I will have a birthday present list but only contain stuff that I do not wish to be bought. The list will look like this, “nothing for the kitchen, nothing for the bathroom and no scented candles”.
On Friday, I helped my dad sell old books and paper at a book fair in Hammersmith. The collective name for this gubbins he sells is “ephemera”. I have helped my dad sell ephemera since I was a small child and I’ve always found it extremely monotonous and boring. It still is a long and generally tedious day, that involves sitting around and doing very little but the characters that go to these events are hilarious. I’m going to give a little overview of the creatures who crawl around this function room of the Hammersmith Novotel looking for a bargain.
For whatever reason most of the ephemera and book fair circuit is made up of homosexuals, Jewish people and homosexual Jewish people. Now before you clench your PC arse cheeks together, worried that I will going into a homophobic and anti-Semitic diatribe, I am merely stating a fact about the customer demographic not passing judgement on anyone. Most of the men walking around are over the ages of 50 and generally have wispy white hair and dodgy beards so look like an army of wizards. Unfortunately, none of them can do any magic; instead they spent most of their time trying use the power of the mind to convince you to part with an item for a third of the price. There was one man walking around the fair with white hair, a bow tie, a jacket and holding an old wooden stick that you’d find in the forest, which either a rambler or Gandalf would carry: even the walking sticks in this place are antiques.
There is normally a bloke, who wears the same rain mack, every time he comes, whatever the weather. It is one of the grimiest unwashed garments I have ever laid my eyes on and really adds to the sex offender look. Not only this, he refuses to pay over £2 for anything despite being wealthy; I used to be intimidated by him (due to the sex offender look) but as I’ve grown older and become more confident I normally berate him by saying, “that’s a bit out of your price range because it’s over a quid, you tight bastard”.
In his absence, there were plenty of other nutters knocking around. The stuff that people collect is both fascinating and hilarious. People came up to me and asked if I was selling anything on, puzzles, bees, trees, horses (just horses, nothing else but horses). There is one white guy, who has grown a Mr Myagi beard and ties his hair up with chopsticks and only wants stuff on Japan: weirdo. Despite being surrounded by bizarre people I was still pretty bored by the end of the day. I was also perturbed because the woman running the fair told me off twice for not tidying up the stall. Getting told off as an adult is the worst feeling in the world but at the age of 24 you’d think I be old enough o stand up for myself; instead I do my reliable trick of saying “sorry”, then muttering to myself and sulking. Mature.
If you ever want to watch a crazy group of individuals get your ass down to an Ephemera fair and dress like a wizard.
Thursday 10 June 2010
24-28th May
The Highlight of this week was preparing to do a debate at the Oxford Student Union. I had to debate against the motion, “Englishmen are funnier than Americans”. This was clearly going to be a difficult debate to win as American bashing is a British past time closely followed by calling your best mate a “wanker”.
I spent a full day researching and writing about American religion, which was a complete waste of time because I just ended up crowbarring in my stand up material. I was also told by Matt Lacey (aka the guy from the Gap Yah video) to wear a tux. Out of 400 people in the room I was one of only two people in a tux whilst everyone else was in fancy dress. So not only did I lose a debate I did so whilst claiming I’d dressed as James Bond. I felt like a sartorial bellend.
The even more annoying thing was I got it specially dry-cleaned. There is a place in Chiswick run by an Albanian con artist: that is not derogatory; he is a con artist who happens to be Albanian. He cocked up a suit I wanted cleaned last year and this time I noticed by the time I was in Oxford, he’d left a massive stain on my shirt. All I could think was I’m going to murder him and I won’t get caught because I’m going to take my blooded garments to a different dry-cleaners where they know to clean stains properly.
The debate was quite fun and proceeded with a posh meal. I hate eating posh meals, especially whilst overdressed. For some reason my conversational skills deteriorate and I end up just repeating phrases like, “this chicken is really tender”. We got put up in a top of the range hotel, which was generally great but I have one gripe about the Hollandaise sauce on my Eggs Benedict at breakfast: strap in for most middle class complaint ever. It turns out if Hollandaise sauce is a thin liquid it tastes disgusting. It was like some sort of beige soup,; it made the food at the Diner look Michelin star quality. I still ate it all because someone else paid for it and I wanted to cash in: I’m convinced I’d eat a bag of nails if it was how I was being paid for something.
Lesson learnt: never wear a tux based on word of mouth.
I spent a full day researching and writing about American religion, which was a complete waste of time because I just ended up crowbarring in my stand up material. I was also told by Matt Lacey (aka the guy from the Gap Yah video) to wear a tux. Out of 400 people in the room I was one of only two people in a tux whilst everyone else was in fancy dress. So not only did I lose a debate I did so whilst claiming I’d dressed as James Bond. I felt like a sartorial bellend.
The even more annoying thing was I got it specially dry-cleaned. There is a place in Chiswick run by an Albanian con artist: that is not derogatory; he is a con artist who happens to be Albanian. He cocked up a suit I wanted cleaned last year and this time I noticed by the time I was in Oxford, he’d left a massive stain on my shirt. All I could think was I’m going to murder him and I won’t get caught because I’m going to take my blooded garments to a different dry-cleaners where they know to clean stains properly.
The debate was quite fun and proceeded with a posh meal. I hate eating posh meals, especially whilst overdressed. For some reason my conversational skills deteriorate and I end up just repeating phrases like, “this chicken is really tender”. We got put up in a top of the range hotel, which was generally great but I have one gripe about the Hollandaise sauce on my Eggs Benedict at breakfast: strap in for most middle class complaint ever. It turns out if Hollandaise sauce is a thin liquid it tastes disgusting. It was like some sort of beige soup,; it made the food at the Diner look Michelin star quality. I still ate it all because someone else paid for it and I wanted to cash in: I’m convinced I’d eat a bag of nails if it was how I was being paid for something.
Lesson learnt: never wear a tux based on word of mouth.
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