Everyone @ Chortle

a comic says funny things; a comedian says things funny.

i've always felt that was bullshit.

yes, there are people who are more about material and others primarily about manner but comedian and comic are more or less interchangeable; they refer to performers who specialize in making people laugh. as for me, i'm clever, but my priority is being in the funny place. so, when i haven't performed for a while, i get insecure and begin to doubt myself.

unfortunately, new york, as i've written before, is divided into a cliquish (and impressive) alternative scene and a more mainstream scene, which is mostly repulsive.

at present, i am in neither.

sure, they can be penetrated, but it takes a full-time commitment, which i haven't had the time or inclination to muster and, as a result, my recent appearances have been rare.

that's why it came as a bit of surprise to me over the last couple days to find out that i'm really funny.

on the line, waiting a full day (and then some) for iphones, we were mauled by cameras and barraged by interview requests. it made you understand how miserable it can be to be lindsay lohan or paris hilton or any of those who are constantly harassed by media. by the end of the thing we just didn't want to talk to anybody anymore.

but for a while, the attention was fun and i had these people in stitches; they couldn't contain themselves.

the mtv news guys were actually falling over themselves during a lengthy session with me, which may air on monday.

and i was making my line-mates -- strangers all -- laugh for the better part of 24 hours -- teens, oldsters, regular folk, oddballs, blacks, whites . . . it was like being reintroduced to a long-lost me

it felt good.

it made me mad at people for holding me back.

i can't wait for edinburgh.

i did another electra elf this week? i thought i was very good (which means i probably was awful).

i utilized some insight derived from watching previous episodes, which, in a way, wasn't good because i saw a couple of the episodes after sucking in ambient pot smoke, so the insights may have been illegitimately gained through the offices of illicit drugs.

on the other hand, technically speaking, i didn't do anything i hadn't done before.

still, my thoughts were different, since i was remembering having seen myself do these things rather than being completely in the moment or strictly intuitive.

i wonder if that will make the result somehow different. (it'll be interesting to see.)

oh, yeah -- and i shaved off my beard for the shoot.

i'm just me again.

tonight and tomorrow while i'm supposed to be waiting on line for less than minimum wage so a friend of a friend can be the first on his block to own an iphone.

people who really do this stuff have material to hang over their "area" in the event of inclement weather but i don't have that kind of stuff (and can't afford it on what the guy is paying me).

i can't flake out on him -- he's had his heart set on this and i said i'd do it. so, it's gonna have to be up to him to decide whether he values a person more than an iphone.

for some green room acts and, god, arranging for international flights has become hell. they keep wanting more and more information that you don't expect and don't have ready because they never wanted it before -- dates of birth, passport numbers, passport expiration dates.

this is just since last year. what has happened since last year?

it can take so long to buy tickets that the tickets you're buying aren't even available anymore by the time you're ready to complete the purchase, a point i haven't made it to, 'cause i'm still waiting for someone's passport inf.

i think i may have missed a fare discount and i don't have all day -- in this case not just an expression. i'm getting like a hundred bucks to sit in line as proxy for a guy who wants an iphone and i gotta be there before 6.

not much cash for 24 hours of duty but i need the money.

this is my life.

It seems that bribery is a forgotten art these days.

Indeed, when I attempted to bribe Steve Bennett (the big boss fella off of Chortle.co.uk) to be punctual in his uploading of Episode Three of The Ray Peacock Podcast with a signed photo of Noel Edmonds (acquired last week during my Deal or no Deal warming up), he then went on to not manage to upload the podcast on the Monday as planned.

In fact, he actually originally threw the photo away with the packaging that contained the cd of Episode Three and had to be told to go and root through the bins outside Chortle Towers to retrieve it (which was particularly unfair as he had probably done that once that day already).

(Yes that's right! I have his address! We'll start the bidding for the address at one hundred pounds...one hundred? anybody...thankyou, bidding is at one hundred pounds with Clyde West*...Do I hear one-fifty? JoJo?...)

However, after a shitload of fuss with internet nonsense and servers and space and all of that bollocks that nobody really understands if they are totally honest, the eagerly-awaited Episode Three of "The Ray Peacock Podcast" is now available...

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN

The Ray Peacock Podcast on Chortle

The Ray Peacock Podcast on iTunes

*and if you win the auction Clyde, don't just send fucking £70...

at a comic book convention my artist friend invited me to and was greeted with the smell of sweat and hygienic inattentiveness, so i knew i was in the right place. (location was the hotel pennsylvania, famous from glen miller's "pennsylvania 6-5000", and, clearly, its elegance was still intact.)

such comicons feature all manner of minor celebs, so i excitedly met larry storch, who played agarn on "f-troop" and was a nightclub comic as far back as the '40s. he was terrific in "the aristocrats" and is a wonderful mimic who's supplied many cartoon voices over the years. (i'm particularly fond of the obscure warner bros. character, "cool cat".)

and -- speaking of mimics -- i also met "mally" lewis, daughter of the late puppeteer shari lewis, who has inherited the family sock, said sock decked out as that cute little bit of mutton-in-waiting, "lamb chop".

i wanted to know about something her mother did called "honey halfwitch", an obscure theatrical cartoon series (i see a theme developing), but she knew nothing about it, so i ended up having to tell her what it was.

and -- speaking of celebrity offspring -- i also met gary lewis (sans playboys), no relation to shari/mally but son of jerry lewis and famous for '60s pop hits like "this diamond ring". my friend showed him an album his grandfather -- jerry lewis' father -- recorded and he knew as much about it as mally lewis knew about her mother's cartoon series.

don't members of showbiz families talk to each other?

then again, i didn't know until recently that my father's childhood doctor was his great-uncle, so who am i to talk?

Dear All,

I've finally made it into the secret bunker at the back end of chortle and am going to try and keep a blog of what's happening.

I've tried keeping a blog once before and at the start fell madly in love with it, became so obsessed with it that I did nothing else, basically ended up living via my blog to the extent where I never got out, before tiring of the blog and now we don't talk much any more...so this is my new blog and I feel excited, like I'm cheating on my old blog with this new one...perhaps I've entered the realms of the blog tart...in this exciting new world, I thought I'd try and share how the run into Edinburgh is going this year.

Currently, as some of you know, I'm working on three shows for the festival this year - that's a lot for me - but all three of them just seemed like such good ideas that I wanted to try and be open to them all so that I'd never be thinking - I wish I'd done that other one too...The shows are - The Man Who Discovered The Kama Sutra, All Aboard and Flanders and Swann...oh and I'll be playing with Maxwell at Fullmooners...either I'll have a great Edinburgh ("too much of a good thing is never enough" being the principle) or end it with a nervous collapse...

The weather has finally turned in my favour - it's the really irritating part of what I've been trying to do for the Kama Sutra show - in that I needed really good weather to do it (I know - the Kama Sutra and the great outdoors - it's a worrying combination) and have finally got the weather and the time free but am now just a few short weeks from opening at the Pleasance and really would like to have finished the show by now and previewed it hundreds of times...why can't we have really good weather in winter? Or move Edinburgh from August to March - do people like March? All I do in March is sit by a fire and watch the rain. Wouldn't it be better to have a great arts festival in March when there's not too much going on?

Actually, I suggest we start a petition here and now to move this year's Edinburgh Festival to March - and I'm not just saying that as I'm worried about opening the shows - but selflessly thinking of the all the little children who might have a birthday in March and would then really have something to look forward to. Move the Edinburgh Festival to March for the little children.

i was telling miss ives about a high school friend whose father was a venerable coney business owner.

said friend was a girl on whom i'd had a long-term crush and the irony of my telling ives about her was much in my consciousness.

y'see, i'd prized valerie (the crush) above people who really were interested in me.

in fact, once, when a girl i met at mcsorley's -- a sure thing in rob reiner parlance -- hooked up with me in california. i blew her off 'cause the crush showed unexpectedly.

i spent the rest of the night having ice thrown on my ardor while my sure thing did her thing elsewhere.

so, now, miss ives -- like the crush -- is a compelling package who has never seemed interested, hanging with me only when we run into each other and no one better's around.

on saturday, we again connected randomly; her friends hadn't shown, so we embarked on adventures together.

i had other invitations.

but i clung to her like a barnacle.

Taken from The Times (the real one), arts section:

Podcast Of The Week

Ray Peacock could be described as a Yorkshire version of Justin Lee Collins, merely on account of the shared comic occupation and sheer hairiness, but evidently he possesses infinitely more talent and outspokenness if his well-read blog is anything to go by.

Adding to his “performance media” portfolio, Peacock has entered the world of podcasting along with a random comedian mate (another mate couldn’t get time off work, apparently). Recorded in his conservatory, what you get is rambling chat in the style of Ricky Gervais’s record-breaking series, touching upon acceptable swearing, rugby league and wishing the Goblin King would take away his crying baby.

An amusing listen that’s sure to improve once he gets used to this podcast malarkey. blogs.chortle.co.uk/ ray_peacock; www.chortle. co.uk/raypeacock

Just saying like...

A little bit of factual incorrectness in so far as I am not from Yorkshire and I do not have a baby, but I am more than happy with being favourably compared with JLC and Gervais. I am especially happy with Little Raji James being dismissed in print as "a random comedian mate".

And they never mentioned glory holes, Doctor Who conventions or Raji reviewing porn and being outspoken about the whole Leslie Grantham webcam thing (last two things are in Episode Three tomorrow).

Still, podcast of the week though...

You'll perhaps want to see/hear what all the fuss is about?

The Ray Peacock Podcast on Chortle

The Ray Peacock Podcast on iTunes

and spilled that green sauce you get with indian food all over my computer bag, i wouldn't have expected the smith street fair had anything more to offer me. but then i ran into shannon, who'd been a waitress at brooklyn's no-longer-extant blah blah lounge, where a guy once came up to me to tell me he'd also seen me at the frog and bucket in manchester.

at first she didn't recognize me but then a smile came over her face and she said, "look at you -- all scruffy and -- " (i wasn't anything besides scruffy, so it stopped there.)

she introduced me to her boyfriend who owns a neighborhood restaurant and hugged me tightly and warmly.

genuine affection.

i felt good until i realized i might have been holding myself in a way that made me look like i had man-tits. depending on the pressure of the chest against the shirt, i either look like i have muscles or mammalia.

"muscles or mammalia" is the "she loves me, she loves me not" of my torso, my chest-on-shirt pressure variations taking the place of the sequentially plucked daisy petals.

i know she loved me but i fear my chest said, "love me not."

behind the torah at last week's bat mitzvah, i felt my posture made me look ridiculous.

then, i looked into the crowd and saw a guy with a video camera recording the proceedings.

well, sheesh, except for the badly trimmed beard and the flyaway hair, i didn't look ridiculous all day. the configuration of the bima may have caused me to stand as i did.

but the permanent record of the event will show me to be an aesthetic goofball.

god, it used to be you could win with personality, transcending superficial insufficiencies. but now you're being recorded all the time, everywhere you go and these recordings will define you in people's memories and for all time.

but they lie.

see, when your personality more than compensates for being overweight or underdressed (or whatever), that's the real you winning (except if you're a master manipulator). but video only shows what it shows.

it's two-dimensional; it shows the outside. (plus it adds fifteen pounds.)

for instance, i once did a one-man show that was acclaimed by all, but the tape didn't record the greatness -- it evened everything out.

the best stuff seemed not as strong; the worst, not as weak.

it didn't accurately show what i did

if it weren't for one of my frequent storage tragedies, that tape might still be around to lie about me.

Coming soon

i woke last saturday to discover that my beard looked perfect, which meant i'd be ruining it by taking a shower -- a shower the rest of me sorely needed.

but i figured it out, washing body and hair while carefully avoiding getting water on the beard.

. . . which worked out fine.

. . . except for a tiny bit of beard hair, which i cut.

. . . hastily.

. . . and a little too much.

so, at the bat mitzvah, there was a little dent in my beard. and i was so concerned about the dent that i neglected to notice the flyaway hairs that had developed above my left ear.

the very ear the photographer had me turn toward him for the requisite extended family photo.

i heard my father ask aloud if he had room on the wall for one more of these photographs.

god, i hope not.

Right, let’s make an effort to feign some sort of commitment to this…

As I said in the last post, most of the time I would spend writing these has been utilised in editing the libel out of the podcast, so blog posts shall remain thin on the ground until the present series of The Ray Peacock Podcast is completed or banned.

Incidentally, episode 2 is up now, you can find it HERE, and the series is also available via iTunes HERE, which means it is legitimate art and a real proper thing, rather than an occasionally lacking in technical quality recording of two blokes arguing. It would be nice if you found the time to have a listen to it.

So, to the gigs – despite evidence to the contrary on the Chortle gigs listings, I have actually been working most nights.

After doing the audience warm up again for Deal or no deal on Tuesday (during which I made history by being the first person to breakdance on the set to a standing ovation from the studio audience, badly cutting my knee in the process the running right across the east and west wing of contestants high-fiving them all, so fast that my trousers fell down) I went on to do a run of gigs in South Wales.

Three gigs, three belters – the first one was a naughty night were all acts misbehaved on stage with material that I choose not to repeat here, and I closed the show by playing Silky’s guitar and singing my melancholic indie version of “Simon Smith and the amazing dancing bear” for the first time in six months. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

The second night I battled the audience for forty minutes (in a friendly yet cut-throat way) and was then joined onstage by Silky to close the show with (fuck knows why) “I wanna be like you” from The Jungle Book.

Third night I did a proper gig. A real life one with material and everything. That worked too.

All three shows were lovely, and Silky said to me on the second night that the shows had reminded him why he started doing comedy in the first place, which was a lovely thing to say and totally mutual. Those nights where unpredictability is the key to the magic are always a great treasure to behold, and the reason why live entertainment will always stand head and shoulders above recorded media. You may have noticed I am quite the fan or creation over rehearsal.

Last Friday had been playing on my mind for the whole week before it, as I was doing the audience warm up “French & Saunders” at TV Centre.

As you may have gleaned from my gushing blog around Christmas time last year about Rik Mayall, I was greatly influenced by (and a massive genuine fan of) the members of The Comic Strip in the eighties. There was a strange feeling of full circle when I arrived to essentially compere F&S on Friday evening, but I was determined to hold it together and not let any fanboy aspects get the better of me.

Determination is not always enough though - and that didn’t last too long.

After my first section on, with all going great with the fantastic studio audience, I just about managed to hold my cool together when introduced to ‘the girls’, and there was a genuine relief when I looked up at the ‘guests’ section of the studio audience and saw no signs of their other halves - that would have made my nerves unmanageable.

The show was a treat, and I found myself laughing out loud in between the sections where I had to go on to fill gaps in filming. Don’t get me wrong – I always laugh out loud at these recordings, as the warm-up you have to – can’t expect the audience to be laughing if you’re not – but it is almost always forced for that very reason. However, there was no need for faking on Friday – great and very funny show.

Given what happened next, the relief I felt at doing well with the audience was incredible. During a bit where I was setting up three lads with the three girls sat in front of them, I heard a massive booming laugh right at the very back of the studio, looked up, and caught sight of Lenny Henry creased up with laughter, with Adrian Edmondson sat beside him in a similar state. They weren't sat in the middle in the guests section - they were sat on the back row.

Now, you’ve got to understand, this really could have seen me off – I was doing a gig for Lenny Henry and Ade Edmondson. Ade Edmondson out of The Young Ones, and Bottom, and all those other shows that shaped and influenced me in my teens, whilst behind me where Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders. To all those people that have bought into the idea that I don’t ‘try’ when I do gigs – you can fuck right off – I’ve never worked so hard to maintain my composure in my entire life. You’ve also no idea how much of a confidence boost it is to see these people laughing at what you are creating.

It’s so common to notice stoney-faced club comedians in a room when you are performing, as though they are focussing all their efforts into showing zero appreciation for your ability or mirth-making, and when this isn’t the case one notices. When the comedians in the audience are exceptionally successful heroes of yours, you notice like a motherfucker.

As I carried on the warm up, I cast glances their way. The laughter continued.

The show ended and I felt a weight of pressure lifted, even allowing myself to feel just a smidge of pride in myself for holding my own under such esteemed scrutiny, and I went on to the green room for the after show party feeling as though I had run a marathon, exhausted but with a feeling of satisfaction.

Modesty and lack of self-confidence would prevent me from telling all my tales from the green room, but to have these people approach me and genuinely sing my praises had a very odd effect on me, if I’d had a dictaphone with me I could have sorted myself out with a shitload of high profile quotations for my posters, and Lenny Henry did his bit for the ongoing saga of my stage name by walking around informing everbody that “it isn’t Ian – it’s Ray Peacock!”, Ade Edmondson indulged me in a conversation about The Young Ones, whilst all the time bringing the conversation back to how much he had enjoyed me, and Jennifer Saunders said some of the kindest things I have ever had said to or about me. A mental evening.

Most surreal moment of the evening came when I was leaving TV centre and I heard a booming voice shouting at me.

“Ian? Ian?”

I turned and saw Lenny Henry bounding towards me.

“Is Dawn still downstairs?”

Maybe you had to be there, but fuck that was weird.

Comedians will often analyse to themselves why they do comedy - what the endgame or ambition is. Driving back on Friday evening I came to the conclusion that acceptance and approval from those souls who tred the path in front of you, and who influenced and shaped your love of comedy must be one of the milestones of attainment. I very strongly felt as though I had passed a checkpoint of subconscious ambition.

And that’s me - I’ll speak to you soon.

Thanks to everyone who has sent me kind messages about the podcast. If you haven’t listened to it yet then please do should you get the chance, and it's best to subscribe rather than rely on me to remind you week by week. As I said, it is replacing this blog really for the time being. If you've scrolled down too far to be bothered scrolling back up, then here are the links again:

The Ray Peacock Podcast on Chortle

The Ray Peacock Podcast on iTunes

the chinatown bus to dc, an extremely large black man made unfortunate contact with me, seemingly unaware that his size and haste didn't work well on these city streets.

when i got to the bus, at the very last minute, i saw that he had been rushing there too.

he got on just ahead of me and by the time i made it to a seat, he was, for reasons unknown to me, refusing to give the bus company woman his ticket.

he began whining like a sniveling, little weakling about there being too little space for his enormous frame, like he was on the acela express and not a cheap-ass, halfway illegal, immigrant conveyance

then he searched for a better spot (as if there was variable spacing, seatwise) and finally moved behind me as i had not yet placed my seat in the reclining position and he figured that meant space.

helpfully, i warned him that once we were underway, i would be pushing my seat back, so if that factored into his move, he should, perhaps, recalculate.

the seemingly-oblivious-to-his-size giant pouted something along the lines of, "you don't care if someone is behind you?"

my answer, perhaps verbatim, was, "that's correct. i don't care." i told him i had paid for a ticket and that i planned to attain the maximum comfort available.

he moved again.

except for the bathroom smell, which didn't bother me much, it was a wonderful ride.

but over the last couple of weeks, for two bat mitzvahs, i bought two nice shirts.

when i got back to my sister's last night, after a day out with my nephew, my brother -in-law proudly informed me that, unasked, he had washed both of these shirts.

well, i'd been planning to be careful with them but he didn't read the labels and, in effect, ruined them, eliminating the shine from one and likely shrinking the other into goofy-looking tightness.

i'd been so happy about my wardrobe expansion. i don't have the money to buy more stuff.

when i saw what he had done, i plunged into sadness.

thanks for the help.

the summer was about to begin -- the first free concert of the year would be held that night in prospect park.

well, i usually manage to miss the first one and it's always someone good -- this year it was the neville brothers -- so i felt uncommonly lucky. i got there right on time and, though the place was packed, found a spot at the side of the stage from which i could see and hear everything. (like i said, lucky.)

then the show started and the guy to my left asked me to lift my arm from the fence in front of me.

?!

for whatever reason, i did it.

the guy thanked me, explaining that he liked to dance/move freely during the concert and didn't want my arm blocking his mobility. i looked at him like he was a weirdo and thought, "how was my arm resting on a fence going to get in the way of his dancing?!"

meanwhile, he just kept thanking me, again and again.

so i said, "fuck you."

he looked surprised and i said something along the lines of, "i like to put my arm on the fence. why is your dancing more important than my arm?"

i put my arm back on the fence as he said something like, "just don't put it in front of me."

he started moving to the music, making gentle contact with me as if i was in his way.

i pretended not to notice.

eventually, he was gone; replaced by a nice black couple.

boy, that aaron neville sings like an angel.

is a tape of me and him interacting when i was a teenager.

when he recorded it, he said he wanted to play it back for me years later to show me how i was acting. years later, when he found it, he heard how he sounded and it made him cry.

back then, he played it for me and, frankly, i wasn't freaked out by it since i knew how he sounded.

i asked him about it a couple weeks ago and he said he had always vowed he would destroy it if he came across it again but he had never again encountered it.

now he says maybe he did find it at some point in the past and threw it away.

hey -- this was a recording of our real life.

sure, it made him cry but why did he want to destroy it?

'cause it reminded him of the truth?

so, he wouldn't have to change?

if so, he didn't really learn anything from listening to tape, did he?

funny how i rarely go to jersey but was there twice in the days leading up to the finale of the sopranos.

went on friday to get the last of the stuff i was taking from my father before his move and suddenly remembered the squeezy, black, rubber whale from mystic, connecticut that was my bathing companion when i was a kid and which in recent years has resided alongside my parents' tub.

well, he had thrown it out

i'd specifically asked him to be on the lookout for stuff we used as a family and stuff i had when i was a kid, yet with the very thing right under his nose, he failed me.

he wasn't looking out for my interests at all.

i loved that whale.

riding home tonight on the subway.

the lyrics are as follows:
"slee-py. ti-red. booored. frus-trat-ed.
slee-py. ti-red. booored. frus-trat-ed."

(if you want to hear the melody, ask me to sing it when you see me.)

we took the path back to new york, heading toward the world trade center rather than the more uptown stops. this meant a train ride through the pit at ground zero, 'round construction implements and the structural remnants of the twin towers.

what a ride.

i've always sort of scoffed at the tourists who come looking for ground zero because, one, there's nothing there other than a construction pit -- if you don't know what happened (or even if you do, really), there's nothing unusual to see.

two, i feel there's a morbid, rubbernecking quality to the desire to see the site of a massive tragedy.

but

if you're gonna see the site, a trip on a path train is the way to do it.

'cause being inside the pit seemed to communicate the nature and magnitude of the devastation (and the place) in a way that standing alongside it does not.

and -- as if that weren't enough -- once off the train, my friend pointed out one of the only pieces of the original trade center not only still intact but still being used -- the stairs that connected the center to the e train station.

the original flooring is still there -- i remember walking on it before and after visiting the subterranean mall to which it used to connect.

sheesh.

feelings. sometimes you have 'em.

Hello everyone.

Well, in 4 days time I'm off to South Africa, and as I'll be using that time to nail the finer (and final) points of my Edinburgh show, I'll do a blog while I'm there too, with photos and everything.

As ever, there will be a daily blog during Edinburgh with pictures and even videos too, for those of you too tired or hung over to 'read'. Think of it as a comic book without the Caroline Clifford style ability to make it as good as a comic book.

Stephen

in new jersey.

with her fist clanging like a bell-knocker into my gonads.

it kinda made me nostalgic. (see here and here for background.)

the ringing happened in newark, which my friend and i explored after accidentally taking the path train (the subway that runs between new york and new jersey) in the wrong direction. newark is cool (if that's a legit way to describe it) because, unlike many or most other depressed american cities, it seems to have made little or no recovery in recent years.

walking along its main street, looking at its underutilized buildings from the 19th and early 20th century felt like taking a time machine to the '70s. loud music blaring (this particularly bothered my friend), the sense that no one had money or prospects, the neglected look of things . . .

frankly -- i liked it.

y'see, one is hard-pressed to find an american city these days that is visually unbesmirched by unremarkable new skyscrapers and economic "success". newark is a survivor -- it may be covered by a coat of social and economic torpor but it's architecturally intact -- a real american city from the glory days of industrial america.

sure, i want the people there to get jobs. but not to the extent that anyone wants to build something out there.

hey, i've done okay without a job.

i don't like "series finales". they didn't used to have them and that was a good thing.

"the fugitive" didn't start a trend but "mary tyler moore" did and series began to "end," often in ways that undermined the years of episodes left behind to run in syndication and the minds of fans.

but a tv series is the episodes, the stuff that happens week in and week out, year in and year out -- it's not a book or a movie.

and generally tv characters don't change -- we are watching them in a particular period of their lives when the situations and characters are perfectly poised to create adventures that involve and delight us.

the most important thing tonight's "sopranos" did was to remind us that the point of the thing was the episodes made and experienced over the last eight years, not something that happened in a single episode in a single night.

it was a tv series and that's how it went out, returning to the form the "'twas ever thus" that had been sapped from it by simple minds.

I have simply been too busy. That's all it is. Too busy to update this.

And right now I am probably too tired to do it properly, yet am also duty bound to plug the fuck out of the podcast that was meant to be out last Monday, but has only gone up today.

There are several reasons why it was not out, but the main and probably sexiest reason was that it was banned. Well, it was pre-emptively banned, and then decided to be put back a week. There was a bit of content that I had second thoughts about on the grounds of taste, and also we discussed the episode of Doctor Who what I was brilliantly in, thinking it was on TV on 2nd June, when it was actually on TV on 9th June because the BBC put the series an episode behind so they could show the Eurovision Song Contest For Fucking Idiots Who Still Find That Sort Of Thing Amusing Because It It Kooky In Their Retarded Minds.

So to those of you who emailed me demanding where it was last week - that's what happened and I am sorry that you had to wait another week - particularly when you now discover what you were actually waiting for.

So here are the links for the podcast - very very kindly hosted by Chortle.co.uk

CLICK THIS TO LISTEN TO EPISODE ONE

RIGHT CLICK THIS AND 'SAVE TARGET AS' TO DOWNLOAD EPISODE ONE
(Once downloaded right click file and select "open with". Then select iTunes to load to your iPod, or your Media player to listen on your PC)

CLICK THIS TO SUBSCRIBE TO THE RAY PEACOCK PODCAST

PLEASE NOTE: This episode has been recorded in stereo (in a way) so is best listened to through headphones so that you can pretend you are really there and that. The first section of the show isn't the best stereo in the world as Raji was trying to be a smart arse and overcomplicated the edit. He was so giddy when he did this that he did not make a back up file so it could be fixed after his experiment went wrong. The first section therefore has been repaired to the best of our ability (bearing in mind our only previous computer experience was searching Pornotube...).

As far as gigs are concerned I have had a full on time of it, especially being a fat bloke in all this stupid hot weather. I have left it too long to go into details proper about the gigs so here are brief summaries of each one since I last indulged your faceless stalking;

1st June - Bracknell - pleasure as always, usual stuff of me mucking about, trained an audience member as a comedian and he took the roof off, making it very difficult for the headliner.

1st/2nd June - Hatfield Uni Ball - god decided to spare me.

2nd June - Boston, Lincolnshire - lovely room, got very hot towards the end of the gig (when I was on), had a very funny turn onstage and considered actually coming off due to dizzyness and nausea, but masked the whole event by sitting at a piano in the corner and leading a rendition of "I would do anything for love (but I won't do that)". I've said it before and I'll say it again - I am a trooper.

3rd June - Rotherhite, London - fucking lovely gig. Genuinely. When you walk into a pub and see a mic in the corner it is invariably the kiss of death, but I swear it was one of the nicest gigs I've done this year, totally packed out despite the summer sun, and a proper up-for-a-laugh audience.

4th June - DVD and Spider-Man comic day - blissful until depression kicked in.

5th June - Fopp, London - two Edinburgh previews, two great shows, a competition between myself and little Raji James to see who could do the best Alec Guinness impression (which he won the audience vote for, but only because he was waving his arms about for them to applaud), as good as Fopp gets...

6th June - London - a private gig in a social club for civil servants. Like a working men's club, but literally a stones throw from Big Ben. Thought it would be shit when I got there, again was proved wrong. Very informal affair to an appreciative audience. Also got to spend some time with Roisin Conaty who I have not seen properly since I sacked her out of Ray Peacock & Son in 2005 for not being able to sing at all. She still hasn't let it go and told the audience before bringing me on...

7th June - Sheffield University - Myself and Mark Watson deserve medals for this lunchtime gig. It was a Chortle event - to thank Sheffield Uni for having the most people at the Chortle Student Competition heat. Ironically, nobody turned up to see me and Mark - they were just having a piss up because their exams had finished, we hadn't really been advertised as such. Myself and Mark worked as a team though - I did a bit of compering, then brought Mark on with me and we did an interview section (during which time Mark admitted if he had to have sex with any Simpsons character it would be Lisa because of her intelligence. I said Millhouse because he was a child who looked like a paedophile and it would confuse a jury to the point of aquittal...), then Mark did a sterling set and we left as quick as our legs would carry us. Replenished my Revels supply with a couple of boxes too though.

8th June - I had a casting (I had one on Tuesday as well) for a film. Sometimes when you get to castings you just know that the part has probably already been cast. I had a very strong incling that the casting director wasn't really taking much notice of me when she asked me to stand up so she could take a long shot of me on the video camera and asked me how tall I was. I said "Six foot five"...she said "okay". I didn't bother telling her I was actually five foot six...I doubt the camera was actually on anyway.

9th June - I starred in Doctor Who and the nation ovated. I was also informed I was on television by a ridiculous amount of texts. Some of the texts seemed to just be stunned exclamations that I didn't look as fat as I normally do on the telly.

10th June - Comedy Bar, Southampton - really lovely gig, suffered a bit myself from being too hot again, but got through it reasonably. I spent a lot of time standing on a table that really wasn't safe to be holding me, so that the audience could see how short my legs are, but other than that it was pretty run of the mill.

And that was that.

I am now going to be away from you for a load more days again as I am away all week in Bristol and Wales, doing warm up for Deal Or No Deal again and then three gigs in across the Severn Bridge (Tuesday 12th June - Muni Arts Centre, Gelliwastad Road, Pontypridd. Wednesday 13th June - Pontardawe Arts Centre, Herbert St, Pontardawe. Thursday 14th June - The Queens Hall, Town Moor, Narberth).

No, I can't understand a word of that bracketed information either really.

Apologies for the scatter post, but to be honest, for the weeks that the podcast is on I won't be writing as much on here as usual because I will be saying lots of it on there.

That's why it is in your best interest to listen to it.

I've missed you like...

xx

it was like a modern version of the copa at the new york green room the other night.

and

eugene mirman greeted me warmly for the third time in a row. (even before he knew i had something to do with the venue.) he said he liked the space; that it was "warm".

i told him we hoped he'd do something there and he is -- he'll be on a show, along with todd barry, next month.

but

i didn't like being there as management when my peers (or as i like to think of them, my inferiors), were there as comedians.

i expressed this feeling and cal, who's in charge, asked me if i had some kind of show i could put together that would draw.

i said no.

it was like a modern version of the copa at the new york green room the other night.

the place was standing room only, with some 150 people enthusiastically watching a line-up that included arrested development's david cross, if.comeddie best newcomer nominees god's pottery and reggie watts, and the audience was filled with luminaries including eugene mirman, todd barry, the trachtenburg family slideshow players and manager/producer olivia wingate.

you might find the same people hangin' out somewhere like rififi any night of the week, but the expansiveness and theatricality of the venue, the size of the crowd, and, frankly, the higher ticket price made it feel more like an "important" nightclub of yesteryear than a back-of-the-bar comedy hang of today.

also, the relationship with the edinburgh green room was pretty clear as watts, the trachtenburgs, jessica delfino (also in the audience), and i are all doing shows at the scottish location. (and god's pottery will be at the pleasance. plus olivia has shows at the assembly.)

i guess the experience was presaged last week, when janey godley (who did 2 shows the week before) was hangin' with god's pottery, olivia and others.

additionally, the regular monday act, chris "shockwave" sullivan of freestyle love supreme, is an edinburgh veteran.

some kind of nouveau, big-time, transatlantic, showbiz axis seems to be forming.

that a scraggly beard doesn't really work with dressy clothes.

unfortunately, i was afraid to trim the beard, 'cause that often makes things worse.

so, i fussed with it, attempting to pat it into perfection.

but that only amplified the scraggle.

which might have worked had i worn a hat, but the hat wasn't dressy enough. (plus i looked a little orthodox to begin with -- for god's sake, my father kept referring to me as the rabbi.)

on top of that, my linen pants and shiny shirt worked well together, but not with my jacket, which should have matched the linen's looseness but was instead tight and formal. (and too small to boot).

so, i took the jacket off and hung it over my arm.

immediately becoming self-conscious about the fatness jacketlessness conveyed.

a self-consciousness not helped by the fact that my belt didn't seem to have a hole that would create a waistline i could maintain. (either the trousers slipped or the belt was too tight.)

so, i looked sloppy or clueless, except when returning from a readjustment trip to the rest room.

which, of course, caused an insecure stiffness that hid whatever catlike fluidity i might have had and, with my residual gout, prevented me from taking to the dance floor, a wallflowerish omission everybody seemed to have noticed.

boy, i sure showed 'em when i decided not to shave off that beard.

if i'd been clean shaven, i might have looked and felt beautiful at this family affair where i was judged by so many, establishing a character in their minds that will persist until the next affair, which could be a long time away.

if i hadn't showed up in that beard, there might have been no ill-judgments.

but i'd have remembered that girl who dismissed me as meaningless; who probably wouldn't have done so had i been clean cut.

and though i'd have been favorably assessed by my fellow revelers, i'd have known there might be dismissive, ugliness in their hearts.

better, perhaps, to have suffered the indignities of the beard.

i thought i heard a mouse in a glue trap by the window.

squeaking and maneuvering to survive; to escape its ugly fate.

like mobsters trying to escape a hit.


after an hour with thugs who have no regard for human life, turns out there were two mice glued to the trap's surface.

i threw them into a heavy duty plastic bag and walked to the garbage cans in front of the building, the bag's contours changing as the mice struggled within.

i felt bad about it, but whaddaya gonna do?

well, newton, actually.

greetings to all you people in old england from new england.

yesterday, i rode on the oldest electric subway in the world. (yes, it predates london.)

they're in the process of "renovating" it. (i hate that.)

anyway, i brought my laptop here and they have free wi-fi in the hotel but the laptop is locked in one of my sister's suitcases and i don't wanna wake my brother-in-law to get it 'cause he's already complained about my apnea-infused snoring.

so, i got fifteen minutes on the slightly complimentary lobby computer to tell you i'll write my real posts on the fung wah bus back to new york and put 'em up when i'm back at home.

what's to come?

well, let's just say the beard seems like it might not work without the hat, which, sadly, is too informal for a dress-up setting, so i was aesthetically adrift in a sea of celebration and, face it, i was not helped by the belt.

more later.

Better re-cap…

Last Thursday I did Barts Medical School and there’s little more to say about that.

I’d tell you they were drunken fucking idiots, lacking any moral conduct or basic manners, and displaying effortless sexism, racism and homophobia, but I fear by doing so they would consider me to have paid them a compliment. Suffice to say, they simply did not deserve any of the comedians on the bill that night. And you may accuse me of arrogance but if you had been there you would more than likely compliment my restraint…

Which brings us onto Weston Super-mare, and a weekend away at Jokers Comedy Club which is a brand new dedicated venue in the town centre.

First things first, it was a pleasure to be at a dedicated venue that really was just that – dedicated. So many dedicated venues appear to put the importance of food, drink, a raffle, fucking toilet breaks, anything, before the comedy, but that was not the case at Jokers. All the acts were looked after royally, and there was no pissing about with making us wait or be finished by certain times throughout the evening. So welcome and rare you will see the management of a venue be more interested in the show than the takings.

My Friday night gig was par for the course; I step onstage with the best intentions, some cunt in the audience thinks he’s funnier, I spend forty minutes (with a practical demonstration) proving that he’s not, don’t get to start act, mock another bloke for his slurry drunken speech (find out later he’d had a stroke – my bad), fight some more with the first bloke, leave the stage with a standing ovation etc etc.

Outside the gig I was chatting with a group of lady performing arts students who were doing a stand-up course, when the mouthy gent (not the stroke one) accosted me, haranguing me with accusations of not having an act and once again proclaiming, as his equally drunken friend looked on, that he was funnier than me.

Such a pain in the arse, it really is. It’s irritating enough onstage, but when you are finished and just having a moment, to have to carry on ‘defending’ yourself and humouring drunken fucking morons…

The drunken/altered state thing has niggled at me all week to be honest…I have quite the bee in my bonnet over it…

I looked at my nemesis as he continued his mutterings about how much funnier than me he was. I said, very calmly, that this may well be the case, but I was the one surrounded by girls hanging on my every word, whilst he was going to go home to catch the 10min freeview, indulge in a mutual masturbation session with his fat friend before retiring to bed, gazing at a photo of a lost love and falling asleep as the tears encrusted on his cheeks and the realisation dawns that he may never have lost her if he’d just kept his mouth shut and not been such a fucking dick.

He pushed for a reaction and got one.

I can be surprisingly eloquent in my ruthlessness sometimes.

After we left the gig, we were dragged out into the town by the lasses and taken around the finest hostelries that Weston has to offer, culminating in a fucking club for some reason.

Now, I may have given some indication in entries previous that clubs are not my happy place, made worse only by the clientele.

I so don’t want to come over as pompous, or as looking down my nose or any of that, but I can’t help assessing the evidence before me.

I simply do not get it.

I don’t know what is lacking in people’s lives that this can possibly fulfil. I’ve known very bright, lovely, intelligent people turn into obnoxious fucking pill-heads at the weekend, utterly self-absorbed and smashing any degree of life stability they have attained in the week previous and spending their Sundays zombified and mourning the amount of money they swallowed or snorted the night before, whilst all the time regretting actions they might have done if they could only recall what happened during their hours of oblivion. These people have only ever been brief visitors to my life, not least because for some inexplicable reason they will always put the importance of this infantile ritual above anything else.

So, given that I have set out my stall in the last paragraph, you may glean that the club we ended up in was not the place for me.

I’ve never met anyone who was drunk or high who I haven’t found utterly unattractive and objectionable. Literally not one.

Two fights in the club later and I’m trying my very best to figure out what these people get from it. The only plausible reason I could muster was that they go to pull. I know that on the few occasions I’ve found myself in this environment I have more often than not been patiently waiting for the noise to end so myself and whoever could go somewhere quieter and misbehave. That said, people as lovely as myself are rarely present, and looking around with intense judgement at the other chaps, I can’t begin to imagine what sort of girl would take any satisfaction from pulling the testosterone reeking Neanderthals that seem to exclusively frequent these environs.

Being put into a position where I had to physically push one of our female tour guides out of the way as two thugs pummelled into each other, trading punches to assert their masculinity with not a thought for the people stood around them, just wasn’t my best evening out. And you end up getting drawn in, finding myself putting both pugilists to the floor as they grappled each other, I realised how easy it is. In my defence I’m really quite strong me, but like Spider-Man I am aware of my responsibility with my strength, and would only use it when the honour and well-being of a pretty young lady is at stake…or if a heckler gets too mouthy...

However, despite the attention and column space I have afforded it here, this downside of the evening did not dominate. Overall, myself, Steve Hall and Ben Schofield had a very fun night out in Weston. I’ve over-laden this entry with arrogant damnation of club culture because I have made promises not to reveal the good stuff, but it did turn into an exceptionally surreal evening. Despite the fact that the gig itself hadn’t been particularly well attended, we were bizarrely recognised and complimented around every corner, and how certain members of our team took advantage of this would be the best blog in the world. But as I said – I promised I wouldn’t tell and I am a man of my word. If you are involved in the comedy community just keep your ear to the ground as these things have a habit of spreading like wildfire. After all, I only promised not to put it on the blog. And it’s worth hearing…I defy you not to laugh when you do…

Come the Saturday evening in Weston, and neither Steve Hall nor myself could handle the pace of such a kicking town so decided to head back home.

It's always an absolute pleasure to spend a car journey with Steve, we used to do the Comedy Network (uni gigs tour) together so have spent many an hour watching the street lights stream by. Since last years Fringe he has certainly grown as an act and in his own confidence. He truly deserves all the success he is enjoying with We Are Klang and the knock-on effect of this meaning he is no longer underrated as a stand-up will hopefully be imminent.

And the rest of the time I have been away has been spent putting together the podcast. It was meant to be out on 4th June, but I think that may now switch to late on the 5th as Mr Bennett from Chortle (who are hosting it) is away.

It’s really not worth getting overly excited by.

The quality is negligible in places, the language is choice and the content is from time-to-time factually incorrect…in fact, it is an uncannily accurate representation of my life.

The Ray Peacock Podcast Myspace Page

Tonight I am off to compere Bracknell (hooray) and then do a spot at Hatfield University's Ball at 1am...they won't be all drunk surely? I have every confidence it will be a dream gig...