This week was the start of me feeling Christmassy. Not because I sat on a sex offender’s lap, who uses the guise of Santa to get his creepy kicks in December, or that every shop I go into has a bellend behind a till wearing a 1.99 red hat but because I’d started eating way too much and sleeping in the afternoon. By the end of the previous week I’d had three Christmas meals over the space of four days but cannot tell you anything about them because they were not between nine and five. You can probably guess that they involved Turkey, someone getting too drunk, someone getting too emotional and bargain basement gubbins otherwise known as “Secret Santa”. It’s hilarious to see someone receive a £10 gift that has a had a bit of thought put into it juxtaposed with someone receiving one with no thought behind it. The recipient has to put on a brave face and pretend they really like it, but 3 hours later once they’re absolutely Prince Naseem Hammered they have to tell everyone near them how crap it is. Luckily between friends this is all harmless and amusing; I’m delighted I don’t work in an office where people who don’t really like each other buy each other useless crap. I saw a hilarious Ebay listing last week where some bloke hadn’t opened any of his presents and titles it “6 unopened & unwrapped Secret Santa presents given to me by female co-workers”. Ungrateful genius.
This excess of food combined with journeys to Edinburgh and back meant that I napped everyday of the week. The best example of me wasting a day was when I arrived in this lovely boutique hotel in Edinburgh at 1pm, where you get a 4 poster Tudor style bed and an x-box, I went to sleep, woke up, did my gig then went back to bed. The owners thought I was mental as it must have seemed like I’d travelled all the way to Scotland to have an expensive kip. When I arrived the woman at reception asked, “will your other half be joining you later?”. Being single at this time of year can be depressing in itself but when a stranger acts like you’d be mental to stay in a nice hotel alone, it rubs seriously coarse rock salt into your open puss-filled wounds. It made my already shameful hotel masturbation session even more pathetic and pretty much forced me into a mid December crank (crying & wanking). I don’t work in a hotel but if I did I would suggest that you never assume someone has another half otherwise you will cause them to desecrate your lovely 4 poster beds; I may or may not have done this.
Let’s hope next week involves less sleeping and more human company.
Monday 19 December 2011
Wednesday 14 December 2011
5-9th Dec: Hand me the Nurofen
I’ve been ill several times in my life but this is one of the most frustrating occasions because I’m pretty sure I know exactly how I contracted my illness. At the end of the previous week I left my flat at the same time as my neighbour, Roberto (not Alessandro as I thought for several months). He spent the 5 minute walk towards the station with me explaining that he’d been ill for days, then as we parted ways he shook my hand. Now, I’ve never been overly OCD but knowing someone’s flu covered hand has touched mine, made me extremely paranoid. So paranoid in fact, I diverted my route to the station to go via the pharmacy to purchase some of that hand sanitizer gel. I did so petrified of letting my hand touch any other part of my body, so was wafting it around like it was covered in dick sick. After this panic buy, I still contracted flu, which makes me think either that hand gel is a gimmick for idiots like myself or Roberto’s flu virus was quicker working than a 5 year old ADD sufferer on speed. I got ill in the least cool way ever; the cool ways being from snogging someone or playing paintball in the winter in old a t-shirt and shorts.
I was only a bit sick. The worst type of sick. If you’re fully ill, where you can’t eat or move then you can lie on a sofa watching action movies and masturbating without any sense of guilt. When you’re only under the weather you flit between wanting to be pro-active and wanting to do zero things. It’s the human equivalent of a semi-erect penis (if you catch my drift): if you had to get the job done you could, but you wouldn’t enjoy it or think you’ve done your best. Apologies for this slightly crass blog but I’ve been ill so leave me alone and bring me some soup.
I also made my first ever chicken soup that week. It tasted mainly of chicken stock.
I was only a bit sick. The worst type of sick. If you’re fully ill, where you can’t eat or move then you can lie on a sofa watching action movies and masturbating without any sense of guilt. When you’re only under the weather you flit between wanting to be pro-active and wanting to do zero things. It’s the human equivalent of a semi-erect penis (if you catch my drift): if you had to get the job done you could, but you wouldn’t enjoy it or think you’ve done your best. Apologies for this slightly crass blog but I’ve been ill so leave me alone and bring me some soup.
I also made my first ever chicken soup that week. It tasted mainly of chicken stock.
Wednesday 7 December 2011
Nov 28th- 2nd Dec. Bye, Bye, sex offender!
The moustache finally had to go. I was briefly tempted to keep it on my face but when whipped cream from a seriously tasty hot chocolate got stuck in it, I knew it was time to remove the top lip bush. I think it almost reached the level where people started to think I was wise. I nearly made the mo leap when people go from changing direction when they see you in the street to asking for directions from you. Now, I’m back to having just an all over crap beard which suits me fine. We managed to raise over 2k as comedians, which is pretty damn good: hopefully enough to contribute to preventing a few cases of dick and ball cancer.
Despite this good deed, it was generally a sad week for sport and comedy. The passing away of Gary Speed, Socrates and Patrice O’Neal (Youtube him now) all happened in the space of a few days. Although I didn’t know any of them personally, they were all exceptional in their fields and they should be remembered for bringing joy to the people that watched them. I find it intriguing how in this day and age all tributes are essentially done online. It’s rare now that people will write a card and leave flowers. Instead people will tweet “RIP”, followed by a tweet about what they ate for breakfast. This used to annoy me but I guess this is the way the world is changing. In 20 years when someone else famous dies I suspect no one will even bother writing “RIP” but instead just think it in their minds and then this gets scrawled on a robot re-incarnation of the body. Due to the inherently selfish nature of humans, when something like this happens to others you think about it happening to you. I’ve decided that if and when I play Connect 4 with Diana in the sky, whether you tweet or not about it please do not go on my Facebook and click “like” button under, “Chris Martin is dead”.
Despite this good deed, it was generally a sad week for sport and comedy. The passing away of Gary Speed, Socrates and Patrice O’Neal (Youtube him now) all happened in the space of a few days. Although I didn’t know any of them personally, they were all exceptional in their fields and they should be remembered for bringing joy to the people that watched them. I find it intriguing how in this day and age all tributes are essentially done online. It’s rare now that people will write a card and leave flowers. Instead people will tweet “RIP”, followed by a tweet about what they ate for breakfast. This used to annoy me but I guess this is the way the world is changing. In 20 years when someone else famous dies I suspect no one will even bother writing “RIP” but instead just think it in their minds and then this gets scrawled on a robot re-incarnation of the body. Due to the inherently selfish nature of humans, when something like this happens to others you think about it happening to you. I’ve decided that if and when I play Connect 4 with Diana in the sky, whether you tweet or not about it please do not go on my Facebook and click “like” button under, “Chris Martin is dead”.
Wednesday 30 November 2011
21-25th Trucking and Clucking
The worst thing about this job by an urban mile is having to do long car journeys on your own. Unlike the train, it’s generally frowned upon to watch an action movie whilst in transit. Therefore you have to spend most of your time listening to average radio, where you are guaranteed to hear one David Guetta or N-Dubz song every 15 minutes.
I had a drive to Leeds to do on a Friday. This meant I spent the whole week stressing about the prospect of sitting in my car in traffic trying to leave London. I was losing sleep over the whole debacle. Despite me panicking to the extent that I set off from London at 10:45am so I could not only dodge a jam and check into my hotel early, to get maximum value from my stay, I still got stuck in an hour’s worth of tossing traffic.
A couple of things I noticed from a long journey are: why do we ration out toilet stops? Why do people get shout outs on the radio? The former is utterly ridiculous. Despite needing to urinate when I’m 1 mile from a services I’ll try and last till the next service station 44 miles away in some sort of piss based endurance game where best case scenario my journey takes the just as long and worst case scenario I write off a perfectly good pair of pants. It literally makes no difference to your travel time, but for some reason once you get into a metal moving thing, you’re loath to stop and get out too soon. The latter also makes no sense. Radio 1 is just loads of shout-outs. Why are we fascinated with getting a person who has a little bit of notoriety reading out on the radio “shout out to Carey in Chigwell who’s stuck indoors revising today”? It’s not like that will make them work harder:
“why did you do so well on your GCSEs?”
“Fern Cotton said my name out loud at 11:30am”
It’s not like anyone else cares or will remember it 3 seconds later. I’ve never arrived at party and gone, “guys, have you heard the news? It’s Mark from Braintree’s birthday today!” For some reason we seem obsessed to the point where we will get terrible DJs in horrendous clubs to give shout-outs. Maybe, if those nutters in the streets shouting about God did shout outs they’d become more popular.
If you’re wondering why there is clucking in the title, it’s because I once again ate Nandos on my own. I’m living the Per-Peri dream.
Before I sign off just want to give a shout out to my friend Gary Smilehat, who became a dad today.
Toodles
I had a drive to Leeds to do on a Friday. This meant I spent the whole week stressing about the prospect of sitting in my car in traffic trying to leave London. I was losing sleep over the whole debacle. Despite me panicking to the extent that I set off from London at 10:45am so I could not only dodge a jam and check into my hotel early, to get maximum value from my stay, I still got stuck in an hour’s worth of tossing traffic.
A couple of things I noticed from a long journey are: why do we ration out toilet stops? Why do people get shout outs on the radio? The former is utterly ridiculous. Despite needing to urinate when I’m 1 mile from a services I’ll try and last till the next service station 44 miles away in some sort of piss based endurance game where best case scenario my journey takes the just as long and worst case scenario I write off a perfectly good pair of pants. It literally makes no difference to your travel time, but for some reason once you get into a metal moving thing, you’re loath to stop and get out too soon. The latter also makes no sense. Radio 1 is just loads of shout-outs. Why are we fascinated with getting a person who has a little bit of notoriety reading out on the radio “shout out to Carey in Chigwell who’s stuck indoors revising today”? It’s not like that will make them work harder:
“why did you do so well on your GCSEs?”
“Fern Cotton said my name out loud at 11:30am”
It’s not like anyone else cares or will remember it 3 seconds later. I’ve never arrived at party and gone, “guys, have you heard the news? It’s Mark from Braintree’s birthday today!” For some reason we seem obsessed to the point where we will get terrible DJs in horrendous clubs to give shout-outs. Maybe, if those nutters in the streets shouting about God did shout outs they’d become more popular.
If you’re wondering why there is clucking in the title, it’s because I once again ate Nandos on my own. I’m living the Per-Peri dream.
Before I sign off just want to give a shout out to my friend Gary Smilehat, who became a dad today.
Toodles
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Nov 14-18th: Watching War Crimes in Nandos
I really can’t remember much about the week, apart from trying to write amusing things and playing football. The only aspect that is engrained in my head is my end of the week travels. I travelled from Cheltenham to Nottingham after spending the night in a hotel, which had curtains made of bath mats. (photo attached).
The invention of the laptop really has made train journeys quite enjoyable. If it’s just over 2 hours then you can easily squeeze in 1 feature film or 2 and a half episodes of an American box set (if the episodes are 45 minutes long: yes you’re correct, I am amazing at maths). For some reason my timings were off and started watching the 2 hour movie “Rescue Dawn”, where Christian Bale is a prisoner of war in Laos., but only got half way through it. I worked out the reason for my delay was that the person sitting opposite me on a train subconsciously influences me. I was initially sitting opposite quite an attractive female, so tried to act important and cool by reading a book and writing in mine; as soon as she got off, I wacked on a film about war and started picking my nose. I’m now convinced if you ever want to get anything constructive done in your life you need to get a model to sit within a 3-metre radius of you. A cure for HIV would be found inside a month if the lab was in the centre of a Swedish nightclub dance floor.
This awful time management led to me heading for lunch in Nottingham with my head in a Laos but my body in a shopping centre in the Midlands. So rather than eating rice and worms, I headed for Nandos, a place where the service is not that dissimilar to a POW camp. Eating on your own in a restaurant is depressing enough but I decided to whip out the laptop and continue watching the movie. I’m pretty sure this is frowned upon, but when you’ve got earphones lodged in you head, the rest of the world seems arbitrary. I thoroughly recommend watching films in restaurants and trying to see how classy a joint you can get away with this. My new ambition in life is to try and watch the Lord of the Ring’s trilogy in The Ivy.
Right, now I need to pay my taxes. Rock n Roll!!!!
The invention of the laptop really has made train journeys quite enjoyable. If it’s just over 2 hours then you can easily squeeze in 1 feature film or 2 and a half episodes of an American box set (if the episodes are 45 minutes long: yes you’re correct, I am amazing at maths). For some reason my timings were off and started watching the 2 hour movie “Rescue Dawn”, where Christian Bale is a prisoner of war in Laos., but only got half way through it. I worked out the reason for my delay was that the person sitting opposite me on a train subconsciously influences me. I was initially sitting opposite quite an attractive female, so tried to act important and cool by reading a book and writing in mine; as soon as she got off, I wacked on a film about war and started picking my nose. I’m now convinced if you ever want to get anything constructive done in your life you need to get a model to sit within a 3-metre radius of you. A cure for HIV would be found inside a month if the lab was in the centre of a Swedish nightclub dance floor.
This awful time management led to me heading for lunch in Nottingham with my head in a Laos but my body in a shopping centre in the Midlands. So rather than eating rice and worms, I headed for Nandos, a place where the service is not that dissimilar to a POW camp. Eating on your own in a restaurant is depressing enough but I decided to whip out the laptop and continue watching the movie. I’m pretty sure this is frowned upon, but when you’ve got earphones lodged in you head, the rest of the world seems arbitrary. I thoroughly recommend watching films in restaurants and trying to see how classy a joint you can get away with this. My new ambition in life is to try and watch the Lord of the Ring’s trilogy in The Ivy.
Right, now I need to pay my taxes. Rock n Roll!!!!
Tuesday 15 November 2011
7-11th Nov: Perv Burgers
As part of Movember or Mexicanrapistlook-a-like-ember, one of the accidental perks I was unaware of is you get some treats for raising over a certain amount of cash. Me and Carl Donnelly became eligible for free burgers at the meat patty joint, Byron. For my money the best Burger chain in town (if you don’t live in a town then move to one as they’re way better than the countryside). The offer was available between the hours of 3-6pm, so basically meant only comedians and unemployed people would be able to take full advantage of it.
When we arrived, we saw a table of 4 tached up men and gave them a knowing nod. Rather than unemployed, they looked like businessmen who’d taken an exceptionally late lunch to save themselves a few quid. As well as raising money for charity, the other great thing about Movember is I feel part of a brotherhood. You give other men donning the bit tickler a knowing nod or a rye smile. I don’t think I’m in any way exaggerating when I say that if I saw another moustache wearer getting attacked, me and any other top lip townie would step in and help our hairy brother.
After taking down these complimentary tasty treats, we went to the cinema and due to the fact there was nothing on, saw Tintin. It has got a lot of good reviews, so I’ll give my no nonsense appraisal of it. Visually it’s excellent but after about 30 minutes, I realised I was watching a well spoken bellend with a crap quiff take his dog for a really long and tedious walk. I had absolutely no vested interested in any of the characters. So if you’re going to go to see it, bring an ipod.
Right, I’m off to scare some children.
When we arrived, we saw a table of 4 tached up men and gave them a knowing nod. Rather than unemployed, they looked like businessmen who’d taken an exceptionally late lunch to save themselves a few quid. As well as raising money for charity, the other great thing about Movember is I feel part of a brotherhood. You give other men donning the bit tickler a knowing nod or a rye smile. I don’t think I’m in any way exaggerating when I say that if I saw another moustache wearer getting attacked, me and any other top lip townie would step in and help our hairy brother.
After taking down these complimentary tasty treats, we went to the cinema and due to the fact there was nothing on, saw Tintin. It has got a lot of good reviews, so I’ll give my no nonsense appraisal of it. Visually it’s excellent but after about 30 minutes, I realised I was watching a well spoken bellend with a crap quiff take his dog for a really long and tedious walk. I had absolutely no vested interested in any of the characters. So if you’re going to go to see it, bring an ipod.
Right, I’m off to scare some children.
Monday 7 November 2011
Oct 31st- 4th Nov: Growing me a bit tickler
This is a week where traditionally most people dress up to look scary and watch over-rated explosions in the sky; it’s now become a period where womene dress like prosties and men grow silly facial hair for dick cancer. I’m doing the latter. As far as the former goes, I’m all for a seeing a good costume but when I went to gym on Monday, all the staff were in fancy dress. Getting told what to do by the gym staff is annoying enough as it, let alone when one of them is dressed as a wolf.
I managed to wrack up somewhere in the region of 300000 miles in 5 days for various gigs I was performing at, so spent almost all my daytime hours sitting on trains and desperately trying to find bread-free food due to my new “I’m a massive tosser” diet. Long story short, I ended up eating cooked chicken with my barehands whilst aimlessly walking through the streets of Ipswich. That sounds like a start to the world’s crappest poem.
So in reality, all I did was will my moustache to grow out to an acceptable length. By acceptable, I mean past the point of looking like a sex bandit. It has not grown past that point yet. Essentially I don’t think I can smile at kids for the rest of the month without getting vilifying stares from parents. I think they should rename Movember, “Sexbanitember”, however, I doubt it would be such a popular cause.
Please sponsor me and my bit tickler: http://mobro.co/chrismocomedy
I managed to wrack up somewhere in the region of 300000 miles in 5 days for various gigs I was performing at, so spent almost all my daytime hours sitting on trains and desperately trying to find bread-free food due to my new “I’m a massive tosser” diet. Long story short, I ended up eating cooked chicken with my barehands whilst aimlessly walking through the streets of Ipswich. That sounds like a start to the world’s crappest poem.
So in reality, all I did was will my moustache to grow out to an acceptable length. By acceptable, I mean past the point of looking like a sex bandit. It has not grown past that point yet. Essentially I don’t think I can smile at kids for the rest of the month without getting vilifying stares from parents. I think they should rename Movember, “Sexbanitember”, however, I doubt it would be such a popular cause.
Please sponsor me and my bit tickler: http://mobro.co/chrismocomedy
Sunday 30 October 2011
Oct 24-28th: The Big Issues: Getting a Haircut
The blog is back: bigger, blacker and badder than ever. As always it’s been on holiday due to me being busy (watching a lot of “Breaking Bad”).
I’d been in the market for a new hairdresser ever since my one moved to Australia. I know she’s gone there to enjoy weather and build a new life but all in all it’s pretty selfish because it meant I was going to have to find someone as good as her for the same money. Baring in mind she only charged me half price as she was my friend James’s sister, this was a pretty tricky task. The first one I got was about 6 weeks ago at a local salon; not only did it cost £25 (£7 more) but it took 90 minutes. Now although I would rather someone take their time and ensure they did a good job, my hair should not take the duration of a football match to cut. You may be thinking this is a good thing as it significantly eats into my vacuous daytime but it was far too long a stint for me to maintain benal chit-chat. Once you start asking how old they were when they decided to become a hairdresser, it’s pretty much time to run out the salon without paying. She also did it too short, I’d say 90% of men would agree that their hair is always too short for the first 2 weeks. If any hairdressers read this, word of advice: longer is better (insert really obvious, terrible penis based joke here in your potty minds).
The one I got this week was top notch. Turns out if you ring Headmasters (wanky salon) on the day, you can get a hair cut by one of their most experienced hairdressers for only £18. You know it’s a classy joint because rather than calling their hairdressers, “hairdressers” they have ridiculously grand titles like, “hair technician”, “colour craftsman”, “weave magician”. I also got a head massage with some sort of mint shampoo. Now if you’ve ever put mint shower gel on your body, you will know it’s like giving your pores an orgasm; add a head massage into the equation and you will spend the next 30 minutes trying to find your mind…which you just lost. I also got a free pot of tea. I’m pretty sure mint shower products, a massage and a lovely cup of breakfast tea could bring peace to the Middle East and solve any financial crisis in Europe in an instant.
So there you go, after a few months off, my blog has returned and now is less about comedy and more about getting a hair cut. Unfortunately, that was the most exciting thing I did between 9-5 and this blog is a slave to my daytime activities. Hopefully next week I’ll have some top recommendations for nail salons. I hope you all had a good Halloween weekend, where you either got in a fight or had to do a walk of shame dressed as Mr T.
I’d been in the market for a new hairdresser ever since my one moved to Australia. I know she’s gone there to enjoy weather and build a new life but all in all it’s pretty selfish because it meant I was going to have to find someone as good as her for the same money. Baring in mind she only charged me half price as she was my friend James’s sister, this was a pretty tricky task. The first one I got was about 6 weeks ago at a local salon; not only did it cost £25 (£7 more) but it took 90 minutes. Now although I would rather someone take their time and ensure they did a good job, my hair should not take the duration of a football match to cut. You may be thinking this is a good thing as it significantly eats into my vacuous daytime but it was far too long a stint for me to maintain benal chit-chat. Once you start asking how old they were when they decided to become a hairdresser, it’s pretty much time to run out the salon without paying. She also did it too short, I’d say 90% of men would agree that their hair is always too short for the first 2 weeks. If any hairdressers read this, word of advice: longer is better (insert really obvious, terrible penis based joke here in your potty minds).
The one I got this week was top notch. Turns out if you ring Headmasters (wanky salon) on the day, you can get a hair cut by one of their most experienced hairdressers for only £18. You know it’s a classy joint because rather than calling their hairdressers, “hairdressers” they have ridiculously grand titles like, “hair technician”, “colour craftsman”, “weave magician”. I also got a head massage with some sort of mint shampoo. Now if you’ve ever put mint shower gel on your body, you will know it’s like giving your pores an orgasm; add a head massage into the equation and you will spend the next 30 minutes trying to find your mind…which you just lost. I also got a free pot of tea. I’m pretty sure mint shower products, a massage and a lovely cup of breakfast tea could bring peace to the Middle East and solve any financial crisis in Europe in an instant.
So there you go, after a few months off, my blog has returned and now is less about comedy and more about getting a hair cut. Unfortunately, that was the most exciting thing I did between 9-5 and this blog is a slave to my daytime activities. Hopefully next week I’ll have some top recommendations for nail salons. I hope you all had a good Halloween weekend, where you either got in a fight or had to do a walk of shame dressed as Mr T.
Tuesday 6 September 2011
August 8th-Sept 2nd
My Dad has started harassing me about not updating my blog. Getting told off as an adult about something you do for no particular reason apart from enjoyment has to be a world's first.
So to appease John Martin:
EDINBURGH WAS FUN
So to appease John Martin:
EDINBURGH WAS FUN
Friday 12 August 2011
August 1-5th: Edinburgh begins
Rather than bore you about Edinburgh festival things I will tell you about our 9am journey up to Scotland in the 1st class carriage.
Me, Benny Boot, Carl Donnelly embarked on our Edinburgh adventure by scaring away a man on our table. Within 30 seconds of the train departing we made him get up and move to a new seat by loudly swearing and taking photographs of ourselves. If you sit 3 excited men on a table in any environment I would say it’s actually impossible for a 4th person to hold his ground. Luckily comedian Steve Hall was in the carriage so we subbed him in.
We talked a lot of gubbins, cashed in on free water, sandwiches and got competitive about tea. Essentially every time they offered tea, Steve accepted it and even though me and Carl were nearly sick of it we for some reason went drink for drink with him. This is much less rock n roll than it sounds. Rather than smash the carriage up it just meant my number of pisses was in double figures by the time we arrived.
Tune in to the next blog to see how I have been passing my time in the festival day times.
Me, Benny Boot, Carl Donnelly embarked on our Edinburgh adventure by scaring away a man on our table. Within 30 seconds of the train departing we made him get up and move to a new seat by loudly swearing and taking photographs of ourselves. If you sit 3 excited men on a table in any environment I would say it’s actually impossible for a 4th person to hold his ground. Luckily comedian Steve Hall was in the carriage so we subbed him in.
We talked a lot of gubbins, cashed in on free water, sandwiches and got competitive about tea. Essentially every time they offered tea, Steve accepted it and even though me and Carl were nearly sick of it we for some reason went drink for drink with him. This is much less rock n roll than it sounds. Rather than smash the carriage up it just meant my number of pisses was in double figures by the time we arrived.
Tune in to the next blog to see how I have been passing my time in the festival day times.
July 25-29th: It’s a tough life
This week was spent doing a lot of TV warm up. I will not bore you with that, just know that I got to meet a wide range of people including Amir Kahn, Imogen Thomas, some geezer who used to be in Grange Hill and loads of comedians who I already know.
The best thing about the whole week was that me and Paul McCaffrey both had a gig down in Eastbourne and decided to play a round of golf on the way down. It was only £6 pp, which was ridiculously cheap. I was worried there would be some people cottaging on the greens but it was perfectly acceptable especially for two people are what I would delicately describe as “toilet”.
It turns out though once you’ve had loads of fun playing golf with a mate, going to tell jokes to people just isn’t as fun. Lesson learned. Try not to play a round of golf before going to work: that is the most middle class & middle aged sentence you’re likely to see in blog form.
The best thing about the whole week was that me and Paul McCaffrey both had a gig down in Eastbourne and decided to play a round of golf on the way down. It was only £6 pp, which was ridiculously cheap. I was worried there would be some people cottaging on the greens but it was perfectly acceptable especially for two people are what I would delicately describe as “toilet”.
It turns out though once you’ve had loads of fun playing golf with a mate, going to tell jokes to people just isn’t as fun. Lesson learned. Try not to play a round of golf before going to work: that is the most middle class & middle aged sentence you’re likely to see in blog form.
Tuesday 26 July 2011
July 18-22nd: Hit the road, Chris
I go through phases of working in and around London so often forget the annoyance of ravelling to far flung corners of the country. I unfortunately had to go to such romantic hotspots as Northampton, Cheltenham and Northallerton. The only one that I visited between 9 and 5 was Cheltenham.
Cheltenham is a place I’ve been to a handful of times and really like. It’s got a posh veneer, which means the buildings and people are nice to look at but has a suitably scummy centre bubbling under the surface. This means not only are the gigs generally quite fun but it’s a pleasant place to parade around in the day time, with a large catchment of mentals to stare at. I stayed with my friends Hillsy who was part of the trip I did a while ago where I played cricket on Mount Everest. It was exciting because I got to catch up with someone I rarely see. He also has an awesome girlfriend, who made me feel very welcome. I felt so comfortable in fact, that I showed her about the Mitchell and Webb sketch about “wanking from home when you’re working from home”: she found it funny till it suddenly dawned on her that whilst they were at work on the Thursday there was a strong possibility I was touching myself on their furniture.
I slightly abused their good nature because on the day I left I had at least 2 hours to do the washing up as a way of saying thank you. Instead I spent the time writing the word “thanks” on their sitting room floor. There is something either genius or mental about how to show my appreciation for their hospitality I created more of a mess than cleaning up any previous mess. I have attached the photo.
It was an enjoyable week and illustrates that you should never leave me alone in your house or I will make some sort of mess….
Sunday 24 July 2011
July 11-15th: What time is your appointment with the Chinese Doctor?...1pm
This was a mixed week at best. It involved a friend’s birthday, a friend’s dad’s funeral and watching transformers 3: the latter of those events being the most tragic. I will not dwell on the sadness. All I will say is that you must watch that movie drunk and classical music at a funeral will always make you cry. Therefore, when my time comes I want to be carried down the aisle to “Wild Wild West” whilst everyone wears a Hawaiian shirt.
I visited a Chinese doctor for the first time and am in limbo as to whether it’s a complete con or a massive con. I decided to go due to perennially sunburnt nose and feeling a bit crap and there is a Chinese doctor’s near to my flat. An old Chinese woman got me to stick my tongue out and basically made me think I had aids. She was convinced that I must have been for 5 dumps a day and that my insides were melting. I ended up believing that I was indeed full of toxic waste because she was an old and Chinese. If she was old and white, I would have dismissed her theories as mental.
The result of this visit was that she said she’d give me a de-tox, which involved taking various tablets. Including some, where I take 15 in the morning and evening. The Chinese medical school seem to really emphasise the quantity not quality philosophy. I’m no pharmaceutical expert but surely someone put their hand up at a meeting and said, “why don’t we make the tablets bigger?” I can only presume this was met with cries of “stick your tongue out!” and “how many times have you done a big toilet today?”: “don’t listen to him he’s been toxified”
A week and a half I don’t feel noticeable different apart from slightly poorer and ironically have been visiting the toilet more than ever. Sayonara! (is that Chinese?)
I visited a Chinese doctor for the first time and am in limbo as to whether it’s a complete con or a massive con. I decided to go due to perennially sunburnt nose and feeling a bit crap and there is a Chinese doctor’s near to my flat. An old Chinese woman got me to stick my tongue out and basically made me think I had aids. She was convinced that I must have been for 5 dumps a day and that my insides were melting. I ended up believing that I was indeed full of toxic waste because she was an old and Chinese. If she was old and white, I would have dismissed her theories as mental.
The result of this visit was that she said she’d give me a de-tox, which involved taking various tablets. Including some, where I take 15 in the morning and evening. The Chinese medical school seem to really emphasise the quantity not quality philosophy. I’m no pharmaceutical expert but surely someone put their hand up at a meeting and said, “why don’t we make the tablets bigger?” I can only presume this was met with cries of “stick your tongue out!” and “how many times have you done a big toilet today?”: “don’t listen to him he’s been toxified”
A week and a half I don’t feel noticeable different apart from slightly poorer and ironically have been visiting the toilet more than ever. Sayonara! (is that Chinese?)
Friday 8 July 2011
Edinburgh is coming up
Alright? I haven't done one of these for ages. Lots of me not being bothered has got in the way/trying to write an hour of funnies for Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I will not bore you with details; you can look on my website for them and get bored in your own time.
I will try to do one of these a week in the run up to August and then do them throughout the festival. I now need to sum up what I've been up to in the last 2 months. A lot of cool stuff has happened but the only thing that I can actually remember (because it happened 3 days ago) is that I went on a jet ski. This was not in London. It was whilst I was telling jokes in Cyprus. I've never been on one but decided that there is no way life can be boring if you go on a jet ski for 20 min every day. If your whole family get killed, my advice: rent a jet ski. That's it really for now. I got mine up to 84km/h I'm pretty sure that makes me James Bond. Can any of you pussies beat that? I doubt it.
So I hope you all heed this knowledge and rent a jet ski. I hope that this does not have to be done due to a horrific family accident. Probably don't rent one if your family are killed on one.
Toodles
I will try to do one of these a week in the run up to August and then do them throughout the festival. I now need to sum up what I've been up to in the last 2 months. A lot of cool stuff has happened but the only thing that I can actually remember (because it happened 3 days ago) is that I went on a jet ski. This was not in London. It was whilst I was telling jokes in Cyprus. I've never been on one but decided that there is no way life can be boring if you go on a jet ski for 20 min every day. If your whole family get killed, my advice: rent a jet ski. That's it really for now. I got mine up to 84km/h I'm pretty sure that makes me James Bond. Can any of you pussies beat that? I doubt it.
So I hope you all heed this knowledge and rent a jet ski. I hope that this does not have to be done due to a horrific family accident. Probably don't rent one if your family are killed on one.
Toodles
Saturday 14 May 2011
May 2nd-6th. Being Tired… A Lot
No matter how long you leave the country for it always takes you about a week to recover. I reckon you could fly to Paris for a night and you’d still feel like lethargic sack of bones for seven days afterwards. Post-Portugal I could barely walk around for 15 minutes without needing a little sit down. I also had to have a self-imposed alcohol break due to the fact it hurt my belly every time I swallowed. I’m no medical expert but this can’t be a good thing, I’d even say it’s probably a bad thing. I’m still yet to see the GP but knowing what GP’s are like they’ll say “have a Strepsil, it will go away in a few days time’.
This fatigue affected me in an amusing way. I had to go to a casting on the Wednesday morning, in which I could barely keep my eyes open. I was supposed to sound really enthusiastic about some stupid product but after 1 or 2 goes the casting lady had to say, “can you try doing that bit slightly less…ummm…umm” I jumped in “sarcastic?”, “yes please”. I did not do it any less sarcastic and I did not get the job.
I also got to do a TV warm up for an online football show called “Score Board”: check it on Facebook, it’s hosted by the very funny Dougie Anderson and better than looking at photos of your neighbours Bah Mitzvah. The best thing about it was that I got to meet Scott Minto and Jason Cundy, two names that always feature when me and my friend play the game of “texting each other 90s Premiership footballers”: if you need more explanation about the game, you’re and idiot. Being the silly idiot that I am, I asked them both who was the longest in the shower when they played football. They were miffed by this and said they’d never been asked this question. I was sceptical and after a bit of cajoling found out that Scott Minto’s nomination was Ruud Gullit , whilst Jason’s was himself. Make of that what you will. I’ll try to find out who had the baggiest sack next week.
This fatigue affected me in an amusing way. I had to go to a casting on the Wednesday morning, in which I could barely keep my eyes open. I was supposed to sound really enthusiastic about some stupid product but after 1 or 2 goes the casting lady had to say, “can you try doing that bit slightly less…ummm…umm” I jumped in “sarcastic?”, “yes please”. I did not do it any less sarcastic and I did not get the job.
I also got to do a TV warm up for an online football show called “Score Board”: check it on Facebook, it’s hosted by the very funny Dougie Anderson and better than looking at photos of your neighbours Bah Mitzvah. The best thing about it was that I got to meet Scott Minto and Jason Cundy, two names that always feature when me and my friend play the game of “texting each other 90s Premiership footballers”: if you need more explanation about the game, you’re and idiot. Being the silly idiot that I am, I asked them both who was the longest in the shower when they played football. They were miffed by this and said they’d never been asked this question. I was sceptical and after a bit of cajoling found out that Scott Minto’s nomination was Ruud Gullit , whilst Jason’s was himself. Make of that what you will. I’ll try to find out who had the baggiest sack next week.
Friday 6 May 2011
April 25-29th: Royal Wedding hermits
The sun was out, which meant nothing got done all week. This was not for want of trying. Apparently the sun out and a royal wedding to watch meant no one wanted to leave their house all week and attend comedy events. I had every show cancelled due to low numbers. It seems the whole country needs 3 days to mentally prepare to watch the television. I was out of the country in Portugal for the wedding , however, it seems most of the nation weren’t preparing to watch a romantic unification of two loved-up individuals but instead they were gawping at Pippa Middleton’s rump. It never ceases to amaze me how almost anything in modern society can be brought down to a base pervy level. This brings me onto the Olympic ticket application.
I remembered to apply for mine on the last day and this event has only added to my pervy Britain theory. The Olympics is a once in a life time opportunity to watch athletes at the peak of their powers and what has every bloke I asked applied to watch: women’s beach volleyball. By every bloke, I include myself. I’m an idiot as is everyone else. With the amount of free pornography online why are we all splashing out hundreds of pounds to see women wearing items of clothing? The only thing worse than being a pervert is being a broke pervert. When July 2012 comes around there will be a stadium of idiots, watching clothed women keeping a ball in the air in East London, sodden because it will rain and no one will have any money left to buy an umbrella.
I’m going to go spend the rest of my overdraft on the final of the Wimbledon Women’s final.
I remembered to apply for mine on the last day and this event has only added to my pervy Britain theory. The Olympics is a once in a life time opportunity to watch athletes at the peak of their powers and what has every bloke I asked applied to watch: women’s beach volleyball. By every bloke, I include myself. I’m an idiot as is everyone else. With the amount of free pornography online why are we all splashing out hundreds of pounds to see women wearing items of clothing? The only thing worse than being a pervert is being a broke pervert. When July 2012 comes around there will be a stadium of idiots, watching clothed women keeping a ball in the air in East London, sodden because it will rain and no one will have any money left to buy an umbrella.
I’m going to go spend the rest of my overdraft on the final of the Wimbledon Women’s final.
Thursday 28 April 2011
April 18-22: Colin Murray is usurped
I ended my last entry by saying I wanted to see another celebrity taking part in a sporting activity. This week, my dream almost came true: I saw Charlotte Jackson at the driving range. If you’re not entirely sure who I mean then I’ll try and help you join the dots. She’s that blonde presenter from Sky Sports news…that doesn’t really narrow it down…the blonde fit one…ok just Google her (she’ll probably be in your internet history). The only way this could have been topped is if she was shooting a pheasant.
The sun was out for the whole week, which means that no one in Britain gets anything done. Instead, women drape their bikini-clad bodies across patches of grass and groups of people decide it’s a good idea to drink alcohol in the ROAD so they can catch an extra 3 minutes of sun on skin. Everyone in London is happier/tipsy? This mini wave of heat gives some insight into what it’s like to live in a genuinely hot country. The insight being, that no one actually gets any work done. It’s also almost impossible to be funny. The weather being toilet makes everyone miserable which in turn makes for more things to joke about. Which explains why I’ve never met any Hawaiian comedians. Instead everyone in that country drinks pina coladas and makes shirts for unfunny tubby uncles to wear. I didn’t expect this blog to end with a bit of casual racism to Hawaiians but that’s what happened….deal with it.
I’m off to sun burn my nose.
The sun was out for the whole week, which means that no one in Britain gets anything done. Instead, women drape their bikini-clad bodies across patches of grass and groups of people decide it’s a good idea to drink alcohol in the ROAD so they can catch an extra 3 minutes of sun on skin. Everyone in London is happier/tipsy? This mini wave of heat gives some insight into what it’s like to live in a genuinely hot country. The insight being, that no one actually gets any work done. It’s also almost impossible to be funny. The weather being toilet makes everyone miserable which in turn makes for more things to joke about. Which explains why I’ve never met any Hawaiian comedians. Instead everyone in that country drinks pina coladas and makes shirts for unfunny tubby uncles to wear. I didn’t expect this blog to end with a bit of casual racism to Hawaiians but that’s what happened….deal with it.
I’m off to sun burn my nose.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
4-8th April: Blog is back…and this time it’s golfier.
I’m back on the blog bus and the first stop is type-up town. I’ve been my usual mixture of lazy, distracted and a bit busy selling Renaults.
This week consisted of my new found love for golf. I’m going on a golf holiday at the end of the month, which I agreed to despite not liking golf or being able to play golf. It’s the equivalent of the Dali Lama going into the middle of Basra armed with a water pistol. The reason I agreed in the first place is because 15 friends were going and I didn’t want to be on my own. That illustrated the level of hatred I have for missing out on things and alone time: spending money on something I don’t like…idiot. I played the other day and was so toilet that I’ve shelled out for lessons. The prospect of playing 3 rounds of gold on foreign soil like an armless potato was harrowing, so I’ve thrown money at the situation. After one lesson, 2 trips to the range, 2 games of pitch and putt (1 on my own, yuk) and 9 holes with my friends, I can now hit a ball in the air.
That week I lived the life of a retired rich man, which is stupid, as I’m a working poor man.
Foooorrrrrrreeeeeeeee!
This week consisted of my new found love for golf. I’m going on a golf holiday at the end of the month, which I agreed to despite not liking golf or being able to play golf. It’s the equivalent of the Dali Lama going into the middle of Basra armed with a water pistol. The reason I agreed in the first place is because 15 friends were going and I didn’t want to be on my own. That illustrated the level of hatred I have for missing out on things and alone time: spending money on something I don’t like…idiot. I played the other day and was so toilet that I’ve shelled out for lessons. The prospect of playing 3 rounds of gold on foreign soil like an armless potato was harrowing, so I’ve thrown money at the situation. After one lesson, 2 trips to the range, 2 games of pitch and putt (1 on my own, yuk) and 9 holes with my friends, I can now hit a ball in the air.
That week I lived the life of a retired rich man, which is stupid, as I’m a working poor man.
Foooorrrrrrreeeeeeeee!
Friday 11 March 2011
Feb 21st-25th: Having a Big Fat Dad Lunch
The one daytime activity that stuck out for me this week was going for lunch meeting with my dad and an accountant. You know you’re getting old when you’re A. going for a lunch and B. doing it with an accountant, however, you know you’re still a pikey student when your main motive for going is to get a free meal.
It was enjoyable, although a part of my brain is still very childish so often during an adult conversation I will drift off as soon as the phrase “income tax” or “mortgage” gets mentioned. I’ll instead start looking around the restaurant playing a game called “Guess who’s killed a man?” It’s pretty self-explanatory you just look around a room and decide who you think has murdered someone/has a person buried under their patio. Make sure you keep the results to yourself, no one wants to be told that information. That’s why I need someone to do my accounts for me, because I do not have the mental capacity to concentrate on a boring thing for more than 3 minutes.
The one thing that I noticed from having lunch with men who are middle aged is that they are over-grown children. During a two hour lunch at least half of the time was spent telling rude jokes to each other. It’s comforting to know, that no matter what you end up doing for a job and what age you get to you, mentally you remain a 12 year old in a playground. The other think that I didn’t realise more senior gents do is, rather than be polite, if someone tells a clanger of a gag they get rinsed. After one gag someone announced “don’t give up your day job!” So not only did I get a free meal, I also got a comforting look into the future.
It was enjoyable, although a part of my brain is still very childish so often during an adult conversation I will drift off as soon as the phrase “income tax” or “mortgage” gets mentioned. I’ll instead start looking around the restaurant playing a game called “Guess who’s killed a man?” It’s pretty self-explanatory you just look around a room and decide who you think has murdered someone/has a person buried under their patio. Make sure you keep the results to yourself, no one wants to be told that information. That’s why I need someone to do my accounts for me, because I do not have the mental capacity to concentrate on a boring thing for more than 3 minutes.
The one thing that I noticed from having lunch with men who are middle aged is that they are over-grown children. During a two hour lunch at least half of the time was spent telling rude jokes to each other. It’s comforting to know, that no matter what you end up doing for a job and what age you get to you, mentally you remain a 12 year old in a playground. The other think that I didn’t realise more senior gents do is, rather than be polite, if someone tells a clanger of a gag they get rinsed. After one gag someone announced “don’t give up your day job!” So not only did I get a free meal, I also got a comforting look into the future.
Sunday 20 February 2011
24th Jan- 18th Feb: Better Late than never
Right I’m going to attempt to summarise the last month in one blog. The reason for my lack of writing is I’ve had ME….well not really but that would have been a pretty good excuse. In truth I’ve moved flats and spent most of my time on the phone to Sky trying to get broadband installed…I’d rather have ME.
I’ve actually spent a lot of time with human beings in the last month, which is great news although every waking minute alone is spent talking to Sky or getting our new landlord to make our house smell less of faeces. I don’t know if anyone else has had to deal with a landlord before but every time I send an email with a new gripe I’m certain he puts it into a folder marked “stuff I couldn’t give a toss about”. The funniest feature of the new abode is BJ’s room still smells of cigarettes a month after moving in as the previous resident evidently smoked like a 1950’s American private investigator. I say it still stinks but BJ is the only one who can still smell it: I’m convinced he drunkenly got a cigarette lodged in his nostril. The guy has become so obsessed that he’s been googling and reading up on ways of removing the scent. His latest brain wave is that leaving bowls of vinegar in his room helps remove the smell. To be fair as I already mentioned it doesn’t smell of smoke anymore, instead it wreaks of vinegar. Drunk people have started knocking on his door at 2am trying to buy chips. Surely the point of removing a smell is also to make the room smell nice not just replace it with an equally pungent odour. Do you know what else removes the smell of smoke and vinegar? Human piss. If someone could put this advice high enough on google then I’m sure we can get a lot of morons to make their room urine scented.
This gaff also has a sitting room on the ground floor and a kitchen 2 floors above. It’s amazing how little you can be bothered to cook when there are two flights of stairs to ascend. To be honest it’s amazing how you can’t even be bothered to eat food. If anyone wants to lose weight I suggest renting an upside down house. I can’t understand what kind of a chump would design a house that way. Was it some fitness fanatic who thought, “before I eat food I need to burn off the calories so why don’t I set up an assault course between the kitchen and dining room”? Plum.
I also live extremely close to a Bikram yoga studio and a spy shop. That means I can get really sweaty then follow someone with surveillance equipment, to really enhance the creepiness of a good old fashioned stalking. Don’t really know why I’d want to do that? I guess it’s better than abseiling from my kitchen on my own.
Right, I’ve not really told you about anything that’s happened in my life. I’ve just given a detailed description of my new home. This blog has essentially been a much crapper version of “Through the Keyhole”. I miss Lloyd Grossman.
I’ve actually spent a lot of time with human beings in the last month, which is great news although every waking minute alone is spent talking to Sky or getting our new landlord to make our house smell less of faeces. I don’t know if anyone else has had to deal with a landlord before but every time I send an email with a new gripe I’m certain he puts it into a folder marked “stuff I couldn’t give a toss about”. The funniest feature of the new abode is BJ’s room still smells of cigarettes a month after moving in as the previous resident evidently smoked like a 1950’s American private investigator. I say it still stinks but BJ is the only one who can still smell it: I’m convinced he drunkenly got a cigarette lodged in his nostril. The guy has become so obsessed that he’s been googling and reading up on ways of removing the scent. His latest brain wave is that leaving bowls of vinegar in his room helps remove the smell. To be fair as I already mentioned it doesn’t smell of smoke anymore, instead it wreaks of vinegar. Drunk people have started knocking on his door at 2am trying to buy chips. Surely the point of removing a smell is also to make the room smell nice not just replace it with an equally pungent odour. Do you know what else removes the smell of smoke and vinegar? Human piss. If someone could put this advice high enough on google then I’m sure we can get a lot of morons to make their room urine scented.
This gaff also has a sitting room on the ground floor and a kitchen 2 floors above. It’s amazing how little you can be bothered to cook when there are two flights of stairs to ascend. To be honest it’s amazing how you can’t even be bothered to eat food. If anyone wants to lose weight I suggest renting an upside down house. I can’t understand what kind of a chump would design a house that way. Was it some fitness fanatic who thought, “before I eat food I need to burn off the calories so why don’t I set up an assault course between the kitchen and dining room”? Plum.
I also live extremely close to a Bikram yoga studio and a spy shop. That means I can get really sweaty then follow someone with surveillance equipment, to really enhance the creepiness of a good old fashioned stalking. Don’t really know why I’d want to do that? I guess it’s better than abseiling from my kitchen on my own.
Right, I’ve not really told you about anything that’s happened in my life. I’ve just given a detailed description of my new home. This blog has essentially been a much crapper version of “Through the Keyhole”. I miss Lloyd Grossman.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
January 17-21st: Mussels, yachts and Gheff’s weapon
The beauty of the job is that you often get to gig abroad. Normally the gigs are lovely and if you go with lovely people it can feel like a holiday with a couple of gig thrown in. When I accepted these gigs on the French Riviera I thought it would be hot, because even though France is quite close to London, I’m a complete moron. It was actually t-shirt weather some days so my retarded geographical knowledge paid off to some extent.
I went with Paul McCaffrey and Stephen Grant, both excellent comedians and both excellent value. As Stephen had brought his wife Lucy (also lovely) with him Paul and I spent a dangerously large amount of time with one another; it wouldn’t have been inappropriate if I’d proposed to him on the last day. We were performing to ex-pat’s who mainly worked on yachts with the odd person owning a yachts. The owners were the hardest people to make laugh because there is not much they can relate to: if I went “you know when you’re on a train” they’d be thinking “nope”. With most of the gigs being at Irish bars and most of them allowing us free drinks Paul and I spent a lot of the time being Prince Naseem Hammered.
A few amusing incidents happened but the one and only I have to retell is about my encounter with a French man called Gheff. At 2am in yet another Irish bar me Paul, Nick and Ollie (the 2 guys running the gigs) befriended a random French man called Gheff purely because he called a Canadian man a tosser. Due to the fact that we all thought the same bloke was a tosser we assumed Gheff was not one. How wrong we were. Alarm bells should have rung when we noticed he was sporting a “Kickers” jumper, something only football hooligans and children wear. We walked with this French spy to another bar till about 4am and as we left he gave me a hug. This made me think he was definitely not a tosser. How wrong I was. Gheff then ran away very quickly with my mobile phone. Despite the potential dangers me and Paul gave chase, after 10 metres Paul ran out of breath, but it’s the thought that counts. All I had racing through my mind was that I didn’t want to set up one of those Facebook groups saying “numbers please”. After about 10 minutes I caught up with him in a park. Instead of punching him I shouted, “this is the last night of my holiday you’re ruining it!” I eventually managed to wrestle it off him.
I ran off and rung Paul, who didn’t believe it was me calling despite my name coming up on his phone. He drunkenly thought Gheff was such a git that he was ringing everyone in my phone to brag about robbing me. As the four of walk back to the hotel, stopping to get a cheeky can on the way, we discuss what a dick Gheff is and how he was lucky all 4 of us weren’t there. Then in a way you couldn’t write Gheff appear in front of us going “It’s me Gheff, what’s happening?” I’m there going “what’s happening? You robbed me you prick”. Ollie then without thinking ran in windmilling connecting precisely 0 times before Gheff ran away.
The weirdest feature of this whole story isn’t anything to do with Gheff’s Houdini-like reappearance; it’s the fact that for some unknown reason I have a photo on my phone of him urinating on a wall. I have to me the only human being in the world who has a photo’s of his mugger’s buried treasure on my phone. I wanted to report him to the police for the funniest police line up of all time. I tried to upload this photo to Facebook but it appears it now has penis recognition software so removed it before could even publish it. Gheff is the only criminal in the world who now needs to buy a knob disguise.
I know this story didn’t happen between 9am and 5pm but I think I’m allowed to bend the rules on this occasion.
Moral of the story: don’t befriend someone just because they call someone a tosser.
I went with Paul McCaffrey and Stephen Grant, both excellent comedians and both excellent value. As Stephen had brought his wife Lucy (also lovely) with him Paul and I spent a dangerously large amount of time with one another; it wouldn’t have been inappropriate if I’d proposed to him on the last day. We were performing to ex-pat’s who mainly worked on yachts with the odd person owning a yachts. The owners were the hardest people to make laugh because there is not much they can relate to: if I went “you know when you’re on a train” they’d be thinking “nope”. With most of the gigs being at Irish bars and most of them allowing us free drinks Paul and I spent a lot of the time being Prince Naseem Hammered.
A few amusing incidents happened but the one and only I have to retell is about my encounter with a French man called Gheff. At 2am in yet another Irish bar me Paul, Nick and Ollie (the 2 guys running the gigs) befriended a random French man called Gheff purely because he called a Canadian man a tosser. Due to the fact that we all thought the same bloke was a tosser we assumed Gheff was not one. How wrong we were. Alarm bells should have rung when we noticed he was sporting a “Kickers” jumper, something only football hooligans and children wear. We walked with this French spy to another bar till about 4am and as we left he gave me a hug. This made me think he was definitely not a tosser. How wrong I was. Gheff then ran away very quickly with my mobile phone. Despite the potential dangers me and Paul gave chase, after 10 metres Paul ran out of breath, but it’s the thought that counts. All I had racing through my mind was that I didn’t want to set up one of those Facebook groups saying “numbers please”. After about 10 minutes I caught up with him in a park. Instead of punching him I shouted, “this is the last night of my holiday you’re ruining it!” I eventually managed to wrestle it off him.
I ran off and rung Paul, who didn’t believe it was me calling despite my name coming up on his phone. He drunkenly thought Gheff was such a git that he was ringing everyone in my phone to brag about robbing me. As the four of walk back to the hotel, stopping to get a cheeky can on the way, we discuss what a dick Gheff is and how he was lucky all 4 of us weren’t there. Then in a way you couldn’t write Gheff appear in front of us going “It’s me Gheff, what’s happening?” I’m there going “what’s happening? You robbed me you prick”. Ollie then without thinking ran in windmilling connecting precisely 0 times before Gheff ran away.
The weirdest feature of this whole story isn’t anything to do with Gheff’s Houdini-like reappearance; it’s the fact that for some unknown reason I have a photo on my phone of him urinating on a wall. I have to me the only human being in the world who has a photo’s of his mugger’s buried treasure on my phone. I wanted to report him to the police for the funniest police line up of all time. I tried to upload this photo to Facebook but it appears it now has penis recognition software so removed it before could even publish it. Gheff is the only criminal in the world who now needs to buy a knob disguise.
I know this story didn’t happen between 9am and 5pm but I think I’m allowed to bend the rules on this occasion.
Moral of the story: don’t befriend someone just because they call someone a tosser.
10-14th January: Meeting Hamlet & Jumping on My Dad
This week I actually started to do vaguely constructive work again including have a meeting with an accountant. This was like a mid-twenties crisis signifier. If anyone had told me, as a teenager when I was on a school bus swearing at strangers out of the window, in a few years I’d be meeting accountants, I’d have spat my tropical Capri Sun out at them. The guy was absolutely lovely and in a weird sort of way learning loads of way to minimize your taxes is quite interesting: it’s like legal hustling.
The beauty of having nothing to do most days means I can meet up with people I haven’t seen for ages at random events no one else can get to. My old school tutor Sutters, who I hadn’t seen in two years invited me to a talk at the National Theatre at 3pm. I got the invite partly because we get on really well but mainly because I’m the only adult he knew who wasn’t at work. The talk itself was by Rory Kinnear, an awesome actor who Sutters used to teach, about what it’s like playing hamlet. Although the talk was belting a Q&A followed, which is an excuse for every self righteous, pompous idiot to ask banal questions that were previously answered just so their voices can be heard. The demographic of people that go to the theatre is very different to that of a comedy gig. The audience was 99% middle aged/old white middle class people, 0.5% teacher & 0.5 % comedian.
After the talk we went for a couple of drinks with my friend Nick Halewood, who also has nothing to do in the day: he is about to become a lawyer so will soon have lots to do in the day, including rolling around on bed made of crisp £50 notes. The best thing about Sutters is that he loves telling and hearing amusing anecdotes. Despite the fact he was technically my moral guidance tutor, he has got into some funny situations with me and my friends, especially one on my 18th birthday that heavily involved my dad. I cannot reveal too many details due to the public nature of the internet. Let’s just say it was very funny.
That is probably the worst end to a blog ever: I have a funny story that I cannot tell you. That’s the same as someone going, “I have a secret about Steve, but I can’t tell you”. I hate people who do that. I now hate myself. God day.
The beauty of having nothing to do most days means I can meet up with people I haven’t seen for ages at random events no one else can get to. My old school tutor Sutters, who I hadn’t seen in two years invited me to a talk at the National Theatre at 3pm. I got the invite partly because we get on really well but mainly because I’m the only adult he knew who wasn’t at work. The talk itself was by Rory Kinnear, an awesome actor who Sutters used to teach, about what it’s like playing hamlet. Although the talk was belting a Q&A followed, which is an excuse for every self righteous, pompous idiot to ask banal questions that were previously answered just so their voices can be heard. The demographic of people that go to the theatre is very different to that of a comedy gig. The audience was 99% middle aged/old white middle class people, 0.5% teacher & 0.5 % comedian.
After the talk we went for a couple of drinks with my friend Nick Halewood, who also has nothing to do in the day: he is about to become a lawyer so will soon have lots to do in the day, including rolling around on bed made of crisp £50 notes. The best thing about Sutters is that he loves telling and hearing amusing anecdotes. Despite the fact he was technically my moral guidance tutor, he has got into some funny situations with me and my friends, especially one on my 18th birthday that heavily involved my dad. I cannot reveal too many details due to the public nature of the internet. Let’s just say it was very funny.
That is probably the worst end to a blog ever: I have a funny story that I cannot tell you. That’s the same as someone going, “I have a secret about Steve, but I can’t tell you”. I hate people who do that. I now hate myself. God day.
Monday 10 January 2011
January 3-7th : Run Down and Running Out of Time
The title of this blog sounds like a sitcom about pensioners suffering from narcolepsy. That is mainly because this week I have felt like one.
After the fun and games of Christmas and New Year as well as a busy gig schedule the moment I got a few days off doing anything my body decided it fancied going on it’s own holiday. I had a siesta everyday of the week, I was like a primary school teacher except I didn’t get paid to nap. I never normally do this because I’m always paranoid that I’m missing out on stuff. In reality, the only thing I’m missing out of is a double bill of “Two and a Half Men” on Comedy Central. My only achievement in the daytime was working out how to get free Sky Movies on my Xbox. This is detrimental to anyone’s creativity: when you can watch a Steven Segal movie during breakfast, you know you’re going to learn nothing all day aside from a few cheesy quotations and that as a man you have to be double hard to pull off rocking a pony tail.
The highlight of my laziness was napping twice in one afternoon. Once during a film called “Thick as Thieves” with Freeman and Banderas and the other was during “Public Enemies”. That was pretty pathetic of me. Can’t wait to chat to some of my friends who are now qualified doctors. When they go, “I’ve just worked twenty hours straight, I’m shattered” I can go, “tell me about it! I just watched two middling movies and I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
We, also, still haven’t found a place to move into, which is perhaps because rather than looking for a place I’m snoozing. I’m now forever in contact with estate agentsto the point where I have two estate agents mobile numbers which is dangerous because when I’m hammered, the temptation to send an abusive text message will be so very great. Something along the lines of this, “this text message benefits from you being a stupid twat and is highly in demand amongst all the other human bellends that work in your industry.”
My mate showed me the best response to a spam email. After a man sent him an email advertising a product he had no interest in, he simply wrote:
“Fuck off”
This email was then battered back by the vendor with an email that simply said:
“Fuck you”
Pure genius. The details of the friend and product cannot be named for legal reasons.
As Rio Ferdinand calls all his Twitter followers tweeps, I’m going to bounce out of this blog by saying:
Laters Bleeps
After the fun and games of Christmas and New Year as well as a busy gig schedule the moment I got a few days off doing anything my body decided it fancied going on it’s own holiday. I had a siesta everyday of the week, I was like a primary school teacher except I didn’t get paid to nap. I never normally do this because I’m always paranoid that I’m missing out on stuff. In reality, the only thing I’m missing out of is a double bill of “Two and a Half Men” on Comedy Central. My only achievement in the daytime was working out how to get free Sky Movies on my Xbox. This is detrimental to anyone’s creativity: when you can watch a Steven Segal movie during breakfast, you know you’re going to learn nothing all day aside from a few cheesy quotations and that as a man you have to be double hard to pull off rocking a pony tail.
The highlight of my laziness was napping twice in one afternoon. Once during a film called “Thick as Thieves” with Freeman and Banderas and the other was during “Public Enemies”. That was pretty pathetic of me. Can’t wait to chat to some of my friends who are now qualified doctors. When they go, “I’ve just worked twenty hours straight, I’m shattered” I can go, “tell me about it! I just watched two middling movies and I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
We, also, still haven’t found a place to move into, which is perhaps because rather than looking for a place I’m snoozing. I’m now forever in contact with estate agentsto the point where I have two estate agents mobile numbers which is dangerous because when I’m hammered, the temptation to send an abusive text message will be so very great. Something along the lines of this, “this text message benefits from you being a stupid twat and is highly in demand amongst all the other human bellends that work in your industry.”
My mate showed me the best response to a spam email. After a man sent him an email advertising a product he had no interest in, he simply wrote:
“Fuck off”
This email was then battered back by the vendor with an email that simply said:
“Fuck you”
Pure genius. The details of the friend and product cannot be named for legal reasons.
As Rio Ferdinand calls all his Twitter followers tweeps, I’m going to bounce out of this blog by saying:
Laters Bleeps
Wednesday 5 January 2011
Dec 24th- January 1st: Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Noman’s Land
This time of the year is commonly known as the “write off period”. It is where I do nothing apart from eat, drink, nap and play football. It’s like being a cross between an 8 year old boy and a bear. I can’t really remember what happened on any specific day, so rather than retell the usual Christmas stories revolving around arguments and crackers I’ll share a few of the highlights.
Christmas eve: This is always a fun night where everyone from where I grew up goes to the pub and gets MC Hammered. The pub we normally go to slightly let us down as it had to close early for and I quote, “we don’t have enough glasses and a man got pushed out of his wheelchair”. Maybe he was pushed onto all of the spare glasses?
Watching the Darts: I went with 4 friends to watch darts at Alexandra Palace all dressed like complete helmets. In my fancy dress crew there was a Sonic the Hedgehog, Morph, leprachaun, monkey and crocodile. We got on television a lot; pretty encouraging to know that if I can’t get on TV through the medium of comedy all I need to do is dress as a chimp. The place was an absolute geezer fest, loads of funny things happened including a man picking me up, hugging me whilst jumping up and down shouting, “I’m shagging a monkey up the arse!”
Boxing day involved everyone wearing a Christmas jumper and getting munted. New Year’s Eve was a good fun despite everyone going “I’m not bothered what we do” until 3 days before when everyone panics and goes “we need something to do!” Noman’s Land is that week between Christmas and NYE where the real world is forgotten and all everyone does is watch movies, eat mixed nuts and touch themselves. It was a fun week but I’m still recovering. I can see how people become fat and lazy, once you get into the habit of lying on a sofa and snacking it’s hard to psyche yourself up for a trip to the toilet let alone doing any work.
Speaking of which, all this typing has knackered me out. In the words of Sou2Soul it’s time to get “back to life, back to reality”.
Christmas eve: This is always a fun night where everyone from where I grew up goes to the pub and gets MC Hammered. The pub we normally go to slightly let us down as it had to close early for and I quote, “we don’t have enough glasses and a man got pushed out of his wheelchair”. Maybe he was pushed onto all of the spare glasses?
Watching the Darts: I went with 4 friends to watch darts at Alexandra Palace all dressed like complete helmets. In my fancy dress crew there was a Sonic the Hedgehog, Morph, leprachaun, monkey and crocodile. We got on television a lot; pretty encouraging to know that if I can’t get on TV through the medium of comedy all I need to do is dress as a chimp. The place was an absolute geezer fest, loads of funny things happened including a man picking me up, hugging me whilst jumping up and down shouting, “I’m shagging a monkey up the arse!”
Boxing day involved everyone wearing a Christmas jumper and getting munted. New Year’s Eve was a good fun despite everyone going “I’m not bothered what we do” until 3 days before when everyone panics and goes “we need something to do!” Noman’s Land is that week between Christmas and NYE where the real world is forgotten and all everyone does is watch movies, eat mixed nuts and touch themselves. It was a fun week but I’m still recovering. I can see how people become fat and lazy, once you get into the habit of lying on a sofa and snacking it’s hard to psyche yourself up for a trip to the toilet let alone doing any work.
Speaking of which, all this typing has knackered me out. In the words of Sou2Soul it’s time to get “back to life, back to reality”.
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