Most of the time my job is cool. If I want to, I can just sit in my pants all day watching films and mosey around coffee shops staring at people (not in my pants). However, sometimes I have weeks where I’m predominantly in transit. Last week, for example, I spent most of my time knocking around Manchester and Sheffield before a brief return to London. It’s impossible to feel fully comfortable when you’re away from home. You can’t write properly, you can’t think properly, you can’t touch yourself properly (if you’re into that). Therefore, I have very few interesting incidents that I can remember from my trips that are worth writing down.
One thing I noticed about my time in Manchester is that the people are a lot friendlier to you than in London. Bus drivers don’t treat you like a man in a dirty mackintosh if you try to pay for a ticket with a note. If you try to give the driver cash in London they act like you’ve ruined their entire day. If I were a driver I’d probably find this the most exciting part of the day as you get to break up your routine of pressing the door buttons and driving. This is the reason I’m not a bus driver. The other bit of friendliness that occurred was when I was at a bar. I thought I was standing next to a comedian called Vince Atta, so naturally I said, “Hi mate” and shook his hand. He shook my hand back then walked off. Only ten minutes later did it dawn on me that it might not have been him. It was not him. It was just a different mixed race guy. The fact that I mistook a mixed race person for a different one means I’m only classified as half racist. I don’t know who this bloke is but I love the fact that he shook my hand without even questioning who I was and how I knew him. He must have just been a big fan of handshakes.
In Sheffield, due to me being a boring arsehole who isn’t really drinking at the moment, I have to amuse myself in my own way. Now I know this is technically after 5pm but I think it’s worth retelling so I’m breaking my own made up rules. I went to Wagamama on my own on the Friday after my gig. It was prime dinner time, therefore, the fact I was on my own on a Friday night was magnified. I might as well have been wearing a badge that said “Sad Twat” on it. I had a decent bit of conversation with the waitress as I was desperately trying to compensate for the fact I had no friends with me. The next day, I went into the same restaurant at the same time, wearing the same outfit (from my gig) and I was served by the same waitress. She came over and said “good to see you again”. I then went “again? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She looked really confused and a bit taken aback. I then proceeded to order exactly the same thing as I did the night before. (chicken katsu and chicken gyoza). As she walked off I laughed to myself. I may well have got some free turd in my curry but it was worth it for the look on her face.
Now I can look forward to a week of lying in my own bed and getting treated like a terrorist by the London bus drivers. Bliss.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Sunday, 4 March 2012
27th Feb- 2nd March: Mean Women and Nice Guys
I may have mentioned this on here before but just to re-iterate: if you want to witness a bust-up in the day time, get your argument-loving ass down to the parking permit renewal shop. Normally you get some irate middle-aged man shouting at the jobsworth behind the counter. This time, however, there was a vile lady (I think) who managed to make a whole room of strangers hate her within seconds. From the moment she opened her toilet of a mouth you could feel everyone else think “please have an aneurism right now”.
She walked in with her kid, took one look at the queue and said, “Come on man. This queue is stupid. I don’t even want to be here. I’m here for my neighbour, innit. No one minds if I go to the front do they?” Everyone minded. No one said anything. This is because we all suffer from the crippling illness that is being a polite Brit. Eventually a man in his sixties at the front piped up, “I do actually mind”
“Why? You’re well old. You’ve got nothing else to do. I don’t want to be here”
The big geezer in front of me rightly said, “None of us want to be here”
I’m nodding along…in my head. On the outside I showed no sign of siding with anyone. As soon as she left the room to go and be racist to a parking warden who had the audacity to give her a ticket for being parked on a double yellow, I was the bravest man on the planet. I was saying, “who does she think she is?” Then the geezer in front of me earned a virtual high five by saying, “she’s a fucking donkey”. I’ve never heard this used as an insult but I liked it and I wanted to become friends with this man. She then returned and loudly called us all mean and grumpy on the phone to her mum. People like this make me so angry. She clearly has some bad things happening in her life but to subject us all to her deep rooted anger is selfish. I think when someone like this enters a public room you should legally be allowed to tranquilise them. Everyone should be given a blow pipe and ketamin filled dart, which then becomes as essential to any excursion as a mobile phone and keys. As soon as you get a bully ruining the vibe of a queue, then “bosh”: society will be much better for it.
On the other hand I think all shops should be legally made to hire a nice person to walk around making you feel good about yourself. I went to buy some sushi on the same day and a really friendly man standing next to me cheered me up. Firstly he made me laugh by asking where a certain road in Wimbledon was and when I had no idea, he went “It’s ok I’ll just check my Google maps.” This whole question was therefore so pointless it made me laugh and convinced me that he was an angel sent down by god to make my day. He then complimented me on my sushi selection and bantered about how the owners were Korean not Japanese. I don’t know anything about this man. All I know is his aura gave my soul a semi. He made me want to commute to the same shop at the same time just to see him.
So there you have it. If you vote for me as Prime Minister I promise you all blow darts full of ketamin and shops full of nice guys. I’m off to find my new best pal.
She walked in with her kid, took one look at the queue and said, “Come on man. This queue is stupid. I don’t even want to be here. I’m here for my neighbour, innit. No one minds if I go to the front do they?” Everyone minded. No one said anything. This is because we all suffer from the crippling illness that is being a polite Brit. Eventually a man in his sixties at the front piped up, “I do actually mind”
“Why? You’re well old. You’ve got nothing else to do. I don’t want to be here”
The big geezer in front of me rightly said, “None of us want to be here”
I’m nodding along…in my head. On the outside I showed no sign of siding with anyone. As soon as she left the room to go and be racist to a parking warden who had the audacity to give her a ticket for being parked on a double yellow, I was the bravest man on the planet. I was saying, “who does she think she is?” Then the geezer in front of me earned a virtual high five by saying, “she’s a fucking donkey”. I’ve never heard this used as an insult but I liked it and I wanted to become friends with this man. She then returned and loudly called us all mean and grumpy on the phone to her mum. People like this make me so angry. She clearly has some bad things happening in her life but to subject us all to her deep rooted anger is selfish. I think when someone like this enters a public room you should legally be allowed to tranquilise them. Everyone should be given a blow pipe and ketamin filled dart, which then becomes as essential to any excursion as a mobile phone and keys. As soon as you get a bully ruining the vibe of a queue, then “bosh”: society will be much better for it.
On the other hand I think all shops should be legally made to hire a nice person to walk around making you feel good about yourself. I went to buy some sushi on the same day and a really friendly man standing next to me cheered me up. Firstly he made me laugh by asking where a certain road in Wimbledon was and when I had no idea, he went “It’s ok I’ll just check my Google maps.” This whole question was therefore so pointless it made me laugh and convinced me that he was an angel sent down by god to make my day. He then complimented me on my sushi selection and bantered about how the owners were Korean not Japanese. I don’t know anything about this man. All I know is his aura gave my soul a semi. He made me want to commute to the same shop at the same time just to see him.
So there you have it. If you vote for me as Prime Minister I promise you all blow darts full of ketamin and shops full of nice guys. I’m off to find my new best pal.
Friday, 2 March 2012
20-24 Feb: Growing Up & Then Back Down Again
Do you ever think you’re maturing at an alarming rate? You start worrying about taxes, savings and get excited by purchasing a new selection of plates for your house. All these things have been happening to me recently. On Wednesday I did a couple of bit of behaviour that really pushed my maturity level up to a disturbingly high number. I bought my dad a Blackberry as a birthday present, followed by a piece of art for myself. Get the Pampers ready because I’m speedily moving towards old age and becoming a senile man with a stick.
If you thought buying a phone was tedious; try doing it with your eccentric dad. When you don’t happen to know about the latest technology the people that work in phone shops look at you like you just asked them to sniff the bit of your arm under your watch strap. Add into this already precarious situation a man who says phrases such as: “what does that do?”, “Do I get a charger?”, “how do I get my email?”, “what’s an email?” & my personal favourite “I don’t want the pink cover because I’m not a gay”, then you’re sure to be on the receiving end of some exceptionally rude customer service.
After struggling through this process I then went to trendy East London to buy a print from Ellah Sadkin (Google her, she’s very good). I know literally nothing about art, which made this an even more exciting experience. I really should have brought an art expert with me but instead brought Benny Boot, who is an expert in…making me laugh and forgetting stuff. Not an ideal art buying companion but I found a piece that I liked (it’s colourful and doesn’t contain any scary babies). She also agreed to paint a zombie version on Benny, so it wasn’t a completely wasted trip for him: the fact he already has the lips of a zombie will no doubt make the job easier for her. As I returned home that evening thinking I’d turned to a new mature chapter in my life, I spent most of Thursday…
…winding up a squirrel in my garden by hiding his nut. I would love to tell you the whole story but this is now a bit of material in my set. If you want to see it you’ll have to watch me live.
So if you thought I was going to start regularly writing about politics and economics, you thought wrong.
If you thought buying a phone was tedious; try doing it with your eccentric dad. When you don’t happen to know about the latest technology the people that work in phone shops look at you like you just asked them to sniff the bit of your arm under your watch strap. Add into this already precarious situation a man who says phrases such as: “what does that do?”, “Do I get a charger?”, “how do I get my email?”, “what’s an email?” & my personal favourite “I don’t want the pink cover because I’m not a gay”, then you’re sure to be on the receiving end of some exceptionally rude customer service.
After struggling through this process I then went to trendy East London to buy a print from Ellah Sadkin (Google her, she’s very good). I know literally nothing about art, which made this an even more exciting experience. I really should have brought an art expert with me but instead brought Benny Boot, who is an expert in…making me laugh and forgetting stuff. Not an ideal art buying companion but I found a piece that I liked (it’s colourful and doesn’t contain any scary babies). She also agreed to paint a zombie version on Benny, so it wasn’t a completely wasted trip for him: the fact he already has the lips of a zombie will no doubt make the job easier for her. As I returned home that evening thinking I’d turned to a new mature chapter in my life, I spent most of Thursday…
…winding up a squirrel in my garden by hiding his nut. I would love to tell you the whole story but this is now a bit of material in my set. If you want to see it you’ll have to watch me live.
So if you thought I was going to start regularly writing about politics and economics, you thought wrong.
Friday, 24 February 2012
13-17th Feb: Just floating along
“Love is in the air”, as well as on the floor, the shop windows, the restaurants, the street, the public toilets; it was everywhere due to the vastly over-rated Valentines day being at the start of the week. I could come across as a bit of a curmudgeon due to me being single but even people in relationships dislike the day. Everyone I know seems to celebrate it the day before or after, to avoid paying excessive money for average food and to avoid being surrounded by creepily in love people. This is alright in theory, however, if this is what everyone’s doing then presumably you then get surrounded by all these people on the 13th and 15th. If this is the case then the restaurants should keep their prices high for a three day period. I may well be over-thinking it. Something far more noteworthy happened during the week, which I need to tell you about…
….I went for a Friday lunch with my friend Kai Humphries (Google him and you’ll probably see a picture of his tattooed white arse), who was in town for the weekend with some friends. We went to this very nice but over-priced American diner type place where they actively encourage children to be there and the chef says stuff like “I suggest the chicken pie”; to me this always implies that everything else he cooked, is a bit shit.
I went for a pre-meal trip to the toilet. Despite always being packed they have the rather awkward, one toilet for men and women system. As someone was inside the cubicle and I’m not a weirdo, I waited just outside for them to finish. This does, however, mean you have a two second uncomfortable stare off with the producer of the smell you’re about to walk into. There was now a queue system where a woman was waiting to go in after me, so I was fully primed to be extra quick so there could be no ambiguity about my deployment of a number one. The person that exited before me was a very sheepish looking eight year old girl. Why was she looking so sheepish I hear you ask? Probably something to do with the massive floater she’d left in there for me.
As I stared at this chunky heap of regret, it dawned on me that the woman after me would definitely think this was my handy work. Therefore, I urinated as hard as humanly possible onto this briquette, to break it up: to no avail. I had one saving grace, the flush: no luck. Then instinct took over and I’ve no idea why out of all my options I thought this was the best one: I wrapped toilet paper around my hand, picked it up and threw it in the bin. Feel free to vomit on your keyboard. I then used up all the soap that has ever existed on the planet washing my hands. This cleaning process took so long that the woman behind me probably thought I had in fact crimped one out.
When I returned to the table and told the story about how I had no other option but to do what I did after being stuck between a cronk and hard place. Kai replied simply with “why didn’t you just put paper on top of it? It would have then flushed away”. I did not know you could do this. I wish I had already known this. I wasn’t particularly hungry thanks to the eight year old girl that tried to frame me for leaving a dead body in the toilet. If you’re reading this little girl, thanks for ruining my chicken pie.
….I went for a Friday lunch with my friend Kai Humphries (Google him and you’ll probably see a picture of his tattooed white arse), who was in town for the weekend with some friends. We went to this very nice but over-priced American diner type place where they actively encourage children to be there and the chef says stuff like “I suggest the chicken pie”; to me this always implies that everything else he cooked, is a bit shit.
I went for a pre-meal trip to the toilet. Despite always being packed they have the rather awkward, one toilet for men and women system. As someone was inside the cubicle and I’m not a weirdo, I waited just outside for them to finish. This does, however, mean you have a two second uncomfortable stare off with the producer of the smell you’re about to walk into. There was now a queue system where a woman was waiting to go in after me, so I was fully primed to be extra quick so there could be no ambiguity about my deployment of a number one. The person that exited before me was a very sheepish looking eight year old girl. Why was she looking so sheepish I hear you ask? Probably something to do with the massive floater she’d left in there for me.
As I stared at this chunky heap of regret, it dawned on me that the woman after me would definitely think this was my handy work. Therefore, I urinated as hard as humanly possible onto this briquette, to break it up: to no avail. I had one saving grace, the flush: no luck. Then instinct took over and I’ve no idea why out of all my options I thought this was the best one: I wrapped toilet paper around my hand, picked it up and threw it in the bin. Feel free to vomit on your keyboard. I then used up all the soap that has ever existed on the planet washing my hands. This cleaning process took so long that the woman behind me probably thought I had in fact crimped one out.
When I returned to the table and told the story about how I had no other option but to do what I did after being stuck between a cronk and hard place. Kai replied simply with “why didn’t you just put paper on top of it? It would have then flushed away”. I did not know you could do this. I wish I had already known this. I wasn’t particularly hungry thanks to the eight year old girl that tried to frame me for leaving a dead body in the toilet. If you’re reading this little girl, thanks for ruining my chicken pie.
Saturday, 11 February 2012
6-10 Feb: Slovenly Slovenia
Highlight of this week was that I got to have less than a day in Slovenia to tell some jokes to the locals. By less than a day, I was in the country for 19 hours. It’s the first time I’d performed to a crowd where english isn’t their first language. It turns out they understood and found amusing almost everything. I say ‘almost’ because they didn’t know who Jensen Button was, which meant one of my jokes was greeted by 600 people just staring at me like I’d wiped my jaffas on their doormat.
Flying to a country on your own feels eerily soulless. Whenever I get on a plane it seems like it should be with at least one other person about to embark on an adventure whilst drinking pints in a J.D. Wetherpoons at 6:00am and eating copious amounts of Burger King. It just doesn’t feel right when I’m merely using it as a means to get to work and all I’m consuming is green tea and sushi. I feel like I’m breaking unwritten airport rules. Although, if I was on my own getting MC Hammered whist shoving a whopper in my face at 3:30pm on a Wednesday it might have raised a few more eyebrows. The plastic bag for your liquids still continues to baffle me and now riles me as you have to spend £1 on purchasing 4 bags from a glorified arcade machine. Ironically, the fact I had to buy these bags meant I actually had an urge to blow up my plane. All I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if there is increase in terrorism from prudent jet-setters.
If none of you have been to Slovenia, specifically Ljunljana, I’ll give you a few little things I noticed in the 3 minutes I had to look around the place:
It is very small
the architecture is lovely
it is very cold
the people are friendly
If anyone reading this works for The Lonely Planet, I'd like to offer my services as a travel writer.
zbogom
Flying to a country on your own feels eerily soulless. Whenever I get on a plane it seems like it should be with at least one other person about to embark on an adventure whilst drinking pints in a J.D. Wetherpoons at 6:00am and eating copious amounts of Burger King. It just doesn’t feel right when I’m merely using it as a means to get to work and all I’m consuming is green tea and sushi. I feel like I’m breaking unwritten airport rules. Although, if I was on my own getting MC Hammered whist shoving a whopper in my face at 3:30pm on a Wednesday it might have raised a few more eyebrows. The plastic bag for your liquids still continues to baffle me and now riles me as you have to spend £1 on purchasing 4 bags from a glorified arcade machine. Ironically, the fact I had to buy these bags meant I actually had an urge to blow up my plane. All I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if there is increase in terrorism from prudent jet-setters.
If none of you have been to Slovenia, specifically Ljunljana, I’ll give you a few little things I noticed in the 3 minutes I had to look around the place:
It is very small
the architecture is lovely
it is very cold
the people are friendly
If anyone reading this works for The Lonely Planet, I'd like to offer my services as a travel writer.
zbogom
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
30 Jan- 3rd Feb: New House, Same Old Shit
I managed to accidentally arrange my diary so that I was in Bristol on the day we had to move house. My co-habiters, therefore, kindly moved all my stuff into the new pad. I like to use the term ‘pad’ because it makes it sound like it’s constantly full of babes whereas in actual fact it’s riddled with mice. They unfortunately didn’t go one step further and unpack all my belongings into various closets and drawers. This may also have been because there were no drawers in my room just mice.
Now don’t get me wrong, the “pad” is cracking, it’s just tempered somewhat by the fact I’m on the ground floor and after seeing a mouse run across the floor I’m now terrified I’m going to wake up with my face gnawed off. I’m not normally scared of mice; I mean I’ve once battered one to death with a bog brush holder (true story). Once, however, you see one in your bedroom, it’s a different story. It’s a story that results in my struggling to sleep and confirming my hatred of cheese. Despite me and Jerry becoming far too well acquainted this house is so much better than my last “pad”. Here are a list of things that are better:
-There is a kitchen on the ground floor and not the second floor
-There are no trains going past my bedroom window
-I can’t hear my housemates bonking
-There is an actual fire place for burning wood and chucking a photo of an ex-lover in (if I was in rom com)
Now I’ll leave you with that list and the cheery thought of my face being bitten to shit. Having said that the maintenance man, Peter, is going to lay some traps down where the mice will stick to a “pad” (not the house), then get destroyed (not by a bog brush holder).
Now don’t get me wrong, the “pad” is cracking, it’s just tempered somewhat by the fact I’m on the ground floor and after seeing a mouse run across the floor I’m now terrified I’m going to wake up with my face gnawed off. I’m not normally scared of mice; I mean I’ve once battered one to death with a bog brush holder (true story). Once, however, you see one in your bedroom, it’s a different story. It’s a story that results in my struggling to sleep and confirming my hatred of cheese. Despite me and Jerry becoming far too well acquainted this house is so much better than my last “pad”. Here are a list of things that are better:
-There is a kitchen on the ground floor and not the second floor
-There are no trains going past my bedroom window
-I can’t hear my housemates bonking
-There is an actual fire place for burning wood and chucking a photo of an ex-lover in (if I was in rom com)
Now I’ll leave you with that list and the cheery thought of my face being bitten to shit. Having said that the maintenance man, Peter, is going to lay some traps down where the mice will stick to a “pad” (not the house), then get destroyed (not by a bog brush holder).
Monday, 6 February 2012
23-27 Jan: Me over the Mersey
I spent all week in Liverpool getting up at normal adult times to go to work. This is because I was doing a cheeky bit of filming. Not sure I can disclose what I was filming yet but it wasn’t amateur pornography and it wasn’t part of a reconstruction for Crimewatch so it was something that was enjoyable to be in and will hopefully be a hoot to watch.
My own stupidity unpleasantly surprised me again. Even though I was filming in Liverpool I stayed with my friend in Manchester because I thought they were just down the road from one another. In fairness on a map they’re about a thumbnail apart but apparently that equates to about an hour on the train. I’m an arsehole. I’d never really seen Liverpool properly before and despite my cliched southern reservations about the place I have to say it’s pretty nice on the eyes. Around the centre there is a lot of nice buildings and less tracksuit clad people than I thought. I managed to win an award for being the most southern man in the world by ordering a Capri-Sun in a pub. In my defence, I haven’t ordered one since I was at my school tuck shop, so it was more of a nostalgic order than a pathetic one (still quite pathetic). The rumours about scousers always trying to be funny are most definitely true. I had one cab driver who thought he was the funniest man on the planet. He managed to coat off everyone from footballers to Hollyokes actors in the space of a 15 minute journey. I’m pretty sure he would have a couple of one liners about his own mother if she walked past us. If you haven’t been to Liverpool before I recommend going but be prepared to have the piss ripped out of you by a complete stranger.
There isn't really much else to tell as filming stuff mainly involves sitting around talking nonsense with actors. The highlight was meeting a guy called Phillip who was in the same scenes as me. He was one of those guys who managed to link anything you said to story about someone he'd had sex with. When the Welsh accent came up in conversation he'd just drift off and go "ahhhh, Newport girls are amazing...it reminds me of a time when I bedded this chick". He literally linked anything. You could talk about the death of a family member and he'd go "talking of funerals...I once met a girl"
People like Phillip are important to keeping you sane when you have to sit around for long periods of time. Thanks to Phil and Liverpool for looking after me and my juice loving tendencies.
My own stupidity unpleasantly surprised me again. Even though I was filming in Liverpool I stayed with my friend in Manchester because I thought they were just down the road from one another. In fairness on a map they’re about a thumbnail apart but apparently that equates to about an hour on the train. I’m an arsehole. I’d never really seen Liverpool properly before and despite my cliched southern reservations about the place I have to say it’s pretty nice on the eyes. Around the centre there is a lot of nice buildings and less tracksuit clad people than I thought. I managed to win an award for being the most southern man in the world by ordering a Capri-Sun in a pub. In my defence, I haven’t ordered one since I was at my school tuck shop, so it was more of a nostalgic order than a pathetic one (still quite pathetic). The rumours about scousers always trying to be funny are most definitely true. I had one cab driver who thought he was the funniest man on the planet. He managed to coat off everyone from footballers to Hollyokes actors in the space of a 15 minute journey. I’m pretty sure he would have a couple of one liners about his own mother if she walked past us. If you haven’t been to Liverpool before I recommend going but be prepared to have the piss ripped out of you by a complete stranger.
There isn't really much else to tell as filming stuff mainly involves sitting around talking nonsense with actors. The highlight was meeting a guy called Phillip who was in the same scenes as me. He was one of those guys who managed to link anything you said to story about someone he'd had sex with. When the Welsh accent came up in conversation he'd just drift off and go "ahhhh, Newport girls are amazing...it reminds me of a time when I bedded this chick". He literally linked anything. You could talk about the death of a family member and he'd go "talking of funerals...I once met a girl"
People like Phillip are important to keeping you sane when you have to sit around for long periods of time. Thanks to Phil and Liverpool for looking after me and my juice loving tendencies.
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