Everyone @ Chortle

Ive spent a large amount of time in the last week suffering the curse of comedy that is having to spend a lot of time by yourself in tiny remote seaside towns with little in the way of entertainment. The first of these occasions was not so bad, as I was stranded in Weston Super Mare between gigs. Now yes, you are right, that does sound bad, but at least there were places to walk around and I managed to waste several hours by watching Iron Man. I was the only adult in the cinema that wasn't accompanying a child which meant I looked immensely suspicious. More so when I laughed out loud at Westwood looking like the king of dicks in the new Radio 1 advert before the film started. Its an advert that really shows why some people have a face for radio, especially Steve Lamacq. Poor poor ugly ugly Steve Lamacq. More importantly than that though, the advert shows that Westwood really deserves to be beaten up for speaking and acting like a mega twat. It can only be a matter of time before someone tries to shoot him again.

Iron Man itself wasn't too bad. I feel very wrong for saying that the main let down of it all was the lack of fighting and too much storyline. I've never ever said that before, but I really wanted to see the metal man kick seven shades of shit out of more things and it just didn't happen. I can only hope the new Hulk film doesn't disappoint in the same way. Filmmakers need to realise that most people don't give a damn about love stories when they could see a radioactive green man smash a building up. 'Nuff said.

So I survived the Weston Super Mare weekend relatively unscathed, but yesterday and today were truly bleak times that will need some recovery from. 10 hours of train journeying to get to and back from Aberystwyth, a place that is truly at the end of everything. There is nothing further than Aberystwyth. Its so far away that I was sure that when I was looking out at the coast I could see the point where the world ended. The town itself is quite a pretty place with a beautiful beach, and a bustling student population although I'm fairly sure that many of them visited the town for the open day and could never be bothered to travel all the way back.

Once there things were ok, but it was the travelling that sucked. The trains there do not cater in any way for the bored. Having only discovered the wonders of free train wi-fi several months ago I had packed my laptop with hopes of scrabulous fun and some writing opportunity. Instead there was no wi-fi. There were also no plug sockets to charge said laptop for any aforementioned writing opportunities. As well as the lack of these things, by my seat there was also a lack of window, a lack of leg room, air flow of any kind, and seat cushion that cushioned anything larger than a gnat's arse. So uncomfortable and bored, I was pleased to remember that I had packed my book. Unfortunately for me the book of choice happened to be the brilliant but bleak as hell 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy. Its a riveting read, but its essentially about a man and his son trying to survive in a world that has been burnt away, leaving just ashes and several mad cannibals.

As I got further and further into the book, my journey took me further and further into the desolate Welsh countryside. All I could see where parallels between the book and outside. The man and his son travel for days and weeks without seeing another living human being. I saw some people between Welsh Pool and Borth but I'm not sure they were alive inside. The entire Earth had been burnt leaving just a wasteland, which is what several of the stops looked like. In the book the skies are gray and always overcast, and in real life let me re-iterate, I was in Wales. I breathed such a sigh of relief when I finally got to my destination and the locals weren't waiting for me with shotguns and masks. Although to be fair, had they known I was coming they might have been prepared.

Lucky for me I'm back off to Wales again on Friday. I'm going to have to choose my next book a little more carefully before I board any more trains I reckon. I might just skim through a holiday brochure and a Beano...

So my favourite man in the entire world (bar Bowie) is in town. That's right, Morton Harket of A-ha fame is here on the mean streets of London. What must he think of all the stabbings? I expect he's outraged.... as am I Morton, as am I. I saw him on Loose Women yesterday and he seemed subdued. I expect that's because theres an inexplicable gaping void in his life. (which is me)

Remember that day Morton? Remember that day when The Sun Always Shines on TV was playing on the radio and I was 6 yrs old and it came on the air waves and I started crying cause I wanted all my family out of the room so I could listen to it alone. And remember that day when I got that T-shirt of A-ha printed up at Butlins and then when my mum washed it, all your faces went wrinkly, even Pal's. Rememeber that day when I got the words to The Sun Always Shines On TV out of "Lookin" mag and I got my dad to photocopy them at his work and I handed them out to all my friends at school? And finally, do you remember that day when I discovered that the WHORE in the Take On Me Video (Bunty her name is) was actually your real life girlfriend. I think you can imagine what my reaction was. (they've split now FYI)

I'm going to Sweden (stockholm) on business in the next couple of weeks so I plan to make some norwegian contacts during my time there. Hopefully this will lead to the marriage of Morton and I. Fingers Crossed.

I'm off to the gym in a minute. I just can't face Ibiza with this much extra flabbage, its just not cricket. Oh if only I was one of those naturally skinny birds who can trough as many burgers as they desire. I desire many you see. I just want to want not to eat. Like one of those girls who say things like "Oops I forgot to eat". See I forget I have eaten and double my portion size consequently. When I split with my ex I was over come with grief so couldn't eat which was GREAT. I lost like a stone, but have since put it pretty much all back on cause all's well in my world.

So I'm thinking colonic irrigation. Me and a mate were talking about this saturday and I'm thinking its the way forward. Then I saw Gina Yashere on Loose Women and she's a shadow of her former self having had this procedure. She looked really slim and she says that there's like 20lbs of waste-age in most people. That would explain it completely with me. I think I would be really embarrassed, not because of the bottom exposure but more cause of the smell. Contrary to popular belief (and I know you all believe this) but my poo poo doesn't smell like roses. Imagine the poor lady doing the sucking. She must have to wear like a gas mask. If anyone reading this blog has any info on this procedure, it would be greatly appreciated.

Right better go and fat about down the gym.

I had my eyes tested the other week, and now I have funky new glasses that make me look like an ad exec or the director of a fringe arty theatre piece. I know, I'm finding it hard not to punch myself in the face on a daily basis. But it only occurred to me over the weekend, while killing time in Liverpool for three days (I was hoping to spend the 3 days watching the new Indiana Jones film again and again, but I watched it once and never want to see it again), that the sight test I had was different from the old days. And it took two weeks to realise why...

I had a sudden realisation, when passing a Dollond and Aitchison on Sunday (I should never have eaten it), that the familiar sight test - the one with the massive letter at the top, then three on the next row, and so on - was made up this time of only a handful of letters. In my youth I remembered that the letters never repeated themselves (which was a way of cheating in itself - how could that little letter be a Z, when we had a Z on the previous line...?). But this new version had a bunch of As, a few Os, a T or two... Then it dawned on me:

They only use letters that look the same when mirrored and not mirrored.

I'm sure that didn't deserve its own paragraph, but in order to make this blog dramatic, I have to ask how Dan Brown would write it.

So, opticians nowadays - who of course view the back-to-front version of the sight test, cos they don't have a mirror to look in to read it - don't want to have to interpret mirrored letters. Probably some open letter was sent to the Journal of Optometrists (inevitably called 'Looking Forward' or 'Life Through A Lens' or something), complaining about the basic human right to be able to read letters that aren't mirrored in one's workplace. So the powers-that-be responded by making these sight tests much much easier by only using letters that baffle a mirror's attempts to confuse them.

So next time you go, you'll probably find it's all As, Hs, Is, Ms, Ns, Os, Ts, Us, Vs, Ws, and Xs. And if you're stuck and wondering if that's a T or an F, it's a T, okay? You should have spotted that as soon as you walked in the room, because now the letters work both ways, you can read it perfectly when you walk in, memorise it, and cheat. You may come away with glasses that don't work, but you'll at least have a great sense of victory.

for Memorial . . . Day . . . Weekend.

. . . So . . much . . . food . . .

(The ellipses are me struggling to breathe.)

Barbecued Steak and Australian lamb chops and cold cuts and cheeses and chips and cookies; smoked salmon and bagels; lasagna and mussels; Caesar Salad with whole anchovies and burgers and hot dogs and fried chicken and roast chicken and . . .

Only one day with swimming weather and one walk along the beach and one walk by the big houses and one walk through Sag Harbor.

I . . . feel . . greasy . . . and . . .

. . . fat.

( . . . Good . . .

. . . weekend . . . )

I've become even more obsessed with Alex Wotherspoon of The Apprentice. I've only just caught up with this week's episode and it was the funniest yet.... Although I was sorry to see little Raef go. BOO. Oh Alex, I know I'm five years your senior and a bit on the tubby side, but lets run away and get married, you can start a business and I'll do your typing. I'm really rather good - 60wpm.

I think I must be in season cause last night I had a dream about Sexy Psycho Sean off Eastenders. I know why I dreamt of him, its cause I was watching 'stenders the other day and I was thinking how very lucky Tanya was, cause she's got Sexy Psycho after her AND that nice man from The Bill. I bet Minty's well gutted being lumbered with Hevver. haahaa. Anyway, in my dream Psycho Sean was being all Kill-y. He said he wanted to kill me! I "convinced" him not to. heh heh heh. Good old psycho dreams.

This week's been fun. I went to see a mate in a show which was pretty good. A few years back we'd had a little, ya know.. thing. Anyway I always try to be reserved whenever I see him but as alcohol's usually involved this never normally works. This situation was no different for I distinctly remember towards the end of the evening, casually pointing at him whilst chatting to his mate and declaring knowingly, "He's well good at shagging he is". Great days.

Good news. Catface Comedy (stand-up) show is BACK! Starting 3rd July and it's going to be better than ever. SOOOOOOOOO exciting. It's on at the Slaughtered Lamb in Clerkenwell the first thursday of every month. The room's well nice, really kitsch (hate that word but only adjective for it) and all coool like down with the kids etc. Come along its going to be ACE.

Tonight my friend Okse is coming to stay, we're doing podcast stuff and catching up etc. And tomorrow I have LAVIS FEST in Oxford. Should be much fun. Monday I have drinks in Southbank and then I'm going to go watch the Gong at the Comedy Store cause one of my friend's is in it so want to support. Bank Holiday is always mental there and last time I went I found the audience most unruly.

You have yourselves a good bank holiday ya hear.

I haven't blogged in a week or so, so here's the essential need-to-know stuff:

- I have lately spent most of my time in barns.
- I have new glasses. It's a radical departure for me.
- I bought a puppet last week.
- I went to an excellent reunion of people from my student theatre days. I organised it, and I'm happy to say that 25 attended, all were good eggs, and no one had aged badly.
- Today I saw a video of my bladder.

But mainly lately I've found myself immersed - accidentally - in Agatha Christie. I found myself last week booking tickets for And Then There Were None (the play coming to Guildford next week), while watching the Agatha Christie episode of Dr Who, while playing the And Then There Were None PC game from several years back. Is Dame Aggie undergoing a mini-revival, and I'm being caught up in it? Or is it coincidence? I'm not entirely sure. Worth investigating perhaps... No, it isn't.

I have always been a fan. And Then There Were None (aka Ten Little Indians, aka Ten Little other things) is my Desert Island Book, and over my teenage years I collected almost all of her 80 books. I loved 'em. Give me a Poirot over a Miss Marple any day, but any would do really. I was a particular fan of, apart from the aforementioned ATTWN, The Big Four, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder On The Orient Express (of course), The ABC Murders, Cat Among The Pigeons... I could go on. I think that the only one I sussed out early on was Dead Man's Folly. So if you fancy trying outsmart her, start with that one.

The PC game I'm currently playing, based on And Then There Were None but with a different ending (otherwise it would be easy), is proving great fun - the first computer game I've played in years that wasn't Minesweeper, Freecell, or a simple one on Facebook. It's one of those point-and-click adventure games, where you can pick up objects, walk around, and talk to badly-rendered versions of people. It's hardly Grand Theft Auto, but one step at a time.

And the Dr Who episode. See it? If you did, did you spot the continuous references to Agatha Christie novels? Probably not, but there were loads. Here are the ones I spotted:

Why Didn't They Ask Evans
N or M
Nemesis
The Moving Finger
Appointment With Death
The Body In The Library
Cards On The Table
Sparkling Cyanide
They Do It With Mirrors
Crooked House
And Then There Were None
Death Comes As The End
Endless Night

...and I'm sure there were more too. Any other closet Agatha fans out there? Join me, before we all get killed off.

So, I searched for and found another on the web, received a coupon via e-mail, printed it at FedEx/Kinkos, and, with true dedication, ventured forth in the rain.

Got there and the gym wasn't even open yet. Won't be open 'til June 27th. (They did offer to let me see the floor plan, but it probably wouldn't have worked up much of a sweat.)

Oh, well.

Killed a few hours in the book and grocery stores of Manhattan and headed off toward the highlight of my week -- "Joe McGinty's Keyboard Karaoke".

Entered the showroom to find it wasn't happening.

And the cutie-pie "ukulele girl" on stage just didn't send me.

So -- though a ukulele girl with more gravitas went on after her -- I decided to simply go home, a task made more difficult by the fact that a portion of the G line wasn't operating.

What a waste of a day and night.

Except . . .

I ran into Kim, who I spent a lot of time with two years ago and who looked great.

I'd been thinking about her earlier in the day. (Even thought about calling her.)

Of course, I wasn't thinking about her when she tried to catch my attention while I was lost in thought on the sidewalk.

Then, I was thinking 'bout Edinburgh.

I stopped to check out my reflection in the window of a car.

Satisfied I looked beautiful in my dressy jacket and linen trousers, I stepped away from the reflection and immediately felt something squishy under my shoe.

I so hoped it wasn't shit.

And it wasn't.

It was a moldering rat.

Got to the event just as the service was starting and, I guess, with decomposing rodent on the sole of my shoe, technically, I was defiling the synagogue.

Fortunately, it was a reform temple.

Last night, due to audience pressure, I downed two pints on stage. It wasn't one straight after the other thank god, or I may have chucked up over the front row, but it was still pint downing and that's not something I've done for at least 5 or 6 years. The reason I haven't is because I've learnt through trial and error that the best way to enjoy a pint and life is not to open your gullet as wide as possible and chuck a fizzy alcoholic beverage down it. Age, and the fact that beer is pricey, mean I can sup a lager over a very long time rather successfully. Also, I've only ever been physically sick from alcohol five times in my life and three of those were from downing eight pints in a row back when I was a stupid stupid student who had time on his hands to spend crouched over a lavvy, revisiting my night out in the least pleasurable way.

Since those days I don't drink even half as much. Partly because I drive to loads of gigs and if I do feel like I cheeky beer, the law means I just drink a bottle of a piss weak one with a lime in it so I can feel extra rubbish. They say the lime was originally to keep the flies out of the bottle of beer in hot countries. In the UK this is rendered useless so its just for people that can't handle the taste of a nice drink without some citrus in it to soften the blow. Grrr, I felt seriously manly typing that.

The other part is choice. Gigging regularly on weekends means you get a sober view of what drinking does to people. What it doesn't do is make them clever or at all wondrous as examples of the human race. And I'm not getting preachy here. I have been, many a time, a culprit of such behaviour, having woken up at least two times with toothpaste and salad dressing all over my face and hair, and twice managed to urinate on my own carpet. I'm not proud of any of these. Although one of the weeing times, I did say 'I'm awaiting confirmation' before I let loose, and that's definitely a phrase of genius.

So Saturdays occurrence was an odd one. A rowdy Saturday night club in the heart of London. Most of the audience were lovely, except for a bunch of pissed up football players at the back of the room. I say players, but it was hardly like they were professional. At anything. They said they were there celebrating a football presentation, which as far as I'm concerned sounds like something you have at school. Anyway, they were lively but harmless and I had a lot of fun in the first section and the first act went down a storm as he always does. Then the problem arose in the second section. I decided to do my material about not drinking because I'm diabetic. A lie, but a nice lead in to my gag. Within seconds however, one of the alco-fools had run up on a stage with a pint in his hand for me. I thought it was a nice gesture until I put two and two together and twigged it was his intention to screw me up by making me drink it. So I did the honorable thing and put the pint down and continued with my oh so witty banter.

Then the crowd started chanting those evil words...DOWN IT, DOWN IT, DOWN IT. So I caved in. I picked it up, downed it in one, held back my gag reflex and said to them all politely 'f*ck you all, I did it hahahaha'. This then received much applause and laughter, the football lads went quiet and the room became more brilliant than it was. Yey and woo.

Had I won or merely caved in by dong what the audience had wanted? I had thought won, because I had beaten them at their game. Until the third section when they made me do it again on the promise they would behave for the last act. So I did, and they didn't, and the last act had a bit of a nightmare. Suddenly my crowd control went to pot and I finished the night never really knowing if I'd won their respect or just been their organ monkey.

Either way I got two free pints so I guess its not all bad.

I excitedly went to the newly-renovated Kentucky Fried Chicken in my neighborhood, partly because it was a welcome addition to the culinary landscape of the area (and all shiny and new) and partly because I had gone to KFC a number of times with someone I liked in London and wanted to feel connected and magical by doing the same thing here.

But they ruined it by giving me what seemed to be Extra Crispy instead of Original.

I wasn't sure because it had the Original Recipe taste but was dry and crispier than normal -- kind of a hybrid. I liked it, actually, but didn't think it was sufficient to render me magically connected. (And this disconnection may have been at the root of later troubles.)

Anyway, the other day I went again and this time, for sure (I think), they gave me Extra Crispy.

Then, they replaced it with . . .

Extra Crispy?

The hybrid?

It was impossible to tell, so I ate them both and left. (I got an extra biscuit, too.)

Later that night, I was at a bar, after hours, with the cute puppeteer.

She asked me if I wanted a beer, then went off and got herself a Guinness.

But she gave me a Stella. (I didn't even get a biscuit.)

Good god, what am I doing up at this time?

it's 10:30 and I'm over at Jonathan Mayors house having picked him up from the train station.

It's international day vs. homophobia today and we're off to Oldham.

I reckon homophobia will win this one.

I need a cup of tea. But there's a wasp in the sink.

My head hurts.

I'm not made for mornings.

until next time I love you all xXx

When approached by a teenager with his top of exposing his pale skin an badly done home tattooes whilst his ratty looking friend in ill fitting trackie bottoms lurks nearby I feel a it intimidated, moreso when the topless youth is carrying what appears to be a petrol can, especially when he seems to think that the most appropriate way of opening a conversation is by going in loud so as not to appear intimidatng.

"Have either of you got a light?" He says looking at me and my girlfriend. I look at him and the ratty friend to check that they're not showing signs of this being a trap, it doesn't look like it. I look down at the can of petrol in his hand. I pause and consider the outcome of this request, knowing that I do have a light.

Weighing up the odds I say "Sure." (Like a Goth to a flame)and poduce it from my pocket. the ratty friend starts shouting and calling him a "Fucking cock" before taking the can off him I light his cigarettte and he hands me back the lighter "ta love." he walks off and as we carry on my girlfriend and I can hear him in the distance arguing with his friend asking him to give him back the can of petrol.

Maybe next time.

I found out what happened with my keys, in the middle of the night my ace flat mate Amber's boyfriend Bob wandered through to the kitchen and saw them, thinking they were Amber's he took them through to her room.

I'm not a secret mental drunk after all. All this came too late in the day for me to do anything about it though, I'd handed my last little bits of work after saying aquick hello to the proffessor who was sat outside the main office, it would appear getting stoned in the sunshine. Walking further round Crewe that afternoon my girlfriend and I got stared at by pretty much every passing driver, passenger and pedestrian. But like in Washington when the kid leaned over the balcony and incredulously shouted out "them two are holding hands! It's like they're poofs or something!" before pausing to think and concluding "Lady-poofs?" with a tone of unbridalled confusion in his voice.

When we finally got back to the flat to make food, my not so ace flatmate Victoria, (who I had a stand-up knock down row with a week or so ago about her opening my mail, her argument "you shouldn't take this so seriously." my argument "Stop opening my mail." Her reply "you're over reacting" my reply "Don't open my mail." Her reply "I have seen two of my brothers killed in front of me by soldiers and I left my child in Namibia to come here." My argument. "don't open my post.") was in the lounge braiding her friend's hair.

We decided to head back to Manchester, but first I got a call from a friend who's going to hospital for the same surgery as I had, she was asking a few questionsso I told her everything truthfully, whilst my girlfriend alternatedly winced and mouthed "don't tell her that you'll scare her." after an hour or so I think I'd covered all the questions. and the call ended, it was time to start thinking about going, then my mum called. I told her I'd just been talking my friend through what she can expect from her gender reassignment surgery, and my mum said "did you tell her she'll need a mum? does she have a mum?" I said "I think so." She said, "tell her if she doesn't I'll do it."

"Ok I will do."

"I'll be better at it this time." She said.

"I Don't see how, you were perfect at it last time." I said.

We chatted for ages and then the Mrs and myself jumped in the car and started driving to Manchester. I started thinking of all the stuff my mum had done for me, and how she was there for me when I was in hospital, and before, how she'd helped me in and out of the bath for weeks on end, how she'd helped with some of the most embarrassing things I'd ever been through and all the times I'd not been as good to her as I should have.

I cried a bit, and my girlfriend told me to pull over for a bit.

there was a ball of tension in my stomach as we headed back to her flat, which only got worse as we got to Manchester City Centre. the streets were flooded with Rangers fans and in the parlance of the Kriss Kristopherson movie Convoy there were several "bears in the air", along with a number of meat waggons, sirens blaring all heading down Great Ancoats street to were it looked like they'd tried to loot JD Sports.

The streets were teaming with idiots draped in Union Flags stepping in front of my fast moving car./ I thought ot Bill Hicks suggestion "just speed up and switch your windscreen wipers on."

I swerved a number of times to get past various rangers fans and finally made it to the flat, as I held the fob up to the security lock the Mrs said "Are you Ok?" "no." was all I could answer. as we got down to 73, my space. I reversed in and had to open the door. I was nearly sick. I hate driving a little bit more every day. in between worrying about getting speeding tickets (even though I don't speed, and only do 56 on the motorway", the cost of fuel, and the fact my car will probably break down soon, I can't deal with that sort of situation.

It took a while but I calmed down, and teh evening was salvaged by dying my hair black again.

within seconds I suddenly felt a lot better. I love my black hair, I'm never trying to grow it out again.

anyway time to go, but until tomorrow I love you all.

BB xXx

it'd been a bit stressful and we were both tired

Wow.

Except for a couple of not-completely-energized hours, I slept from about 4 AM Wednesday 'til around 8:30 this morning.

Not sure why.

Been (in my half-assed way) "on the go" since I lost 3 days to allergy medicine a couple weeks ago.

In fact, Tuesday, I did like a 90-minute cardio workout at the gym (12th and, I guess, last consecutive day there), sang many songs (badly) at The Living Room, ate veggie dogs at Whole Foods, hung out 'til the wee hours with a cute puppeteer (girl).

I guess I needed a rest or break or something. (I think I was kinda depressed.)

But I missed seeing William Shatner plugging his book at Barnes and Noble.

I knew it was time to go but I kept thinking I would sleep just a little while longer.

Life is mean.

I've lost my feckin' keys, I had them last night, but I can't find them. Plus one of my rings has disappeared, it was on my thumb last night and now it's gone. Normally you have to be some kind of drunk for things like that to happen.

I've never felt quite as useless in my life, and in front of my mrs, she says she loves me anyway, but I can't be so sure.

anyway we were walking down to uni today to drop off some books and get some more David Lynch movies to watch and walking down the street she put her arm round me and I round her, and within three seconds three mouth breathing bottom feders had leaned out of their cars to either stare or shout "Queers!" at us.

people tell me that homophobia doesn't exist anymore. It does, clearly and it's nice to live in the little protective bubble that Manchester and the Gay village provides, but it's also good to remember that outside the cities people are still as backward as ever.

Down the road from m Stonewall had one of those billboards "SOME PEOPLE ARE GAY, GET OVER IT." and this being Crewe, someone had written underneath it "Yeah, puffs." this is the level we're dealing with, people who don't even know that the correct spelling is "Poofs" As Wil Hodgeson said "Have some pride in your insults."

Anyway, big congratulations go to one of my biggest heroes in comedy, the man who took me under his wing when I started and who has been a constant halp and who persuaded me to do my edinburgh show this year, Jason Cook, who won the award for best international act at the New Zealand comedy festival.

I'm so proud of him and glad to know him, both he and Toby Hadoke have made a big difference to me.

Also congratulations to Toby Hadoke for his Sony nomination. It seems like everything creative is alligning correctly His show was fantastic and it is well deserved.

And now back to me, as this is my blog and perhaps the most self indulgent of all artforms even beyond comedy.

It's good to be surrounded with creative people, and in a few weeks I'm moving back to manchester in with Dug Shelmerdine and Jonathan Mayor and I can't wait. On top of that I'm working with Michael J Dolan on my show for edinburgh. I got a Best Debut show nomination at Leicester and I'm hoping to capitalise on that success and make this show the best I can and remember 2008 is my year.

It's a weird number thing that I have, where I give things certain significance based on coincidental repetitions of numbers.

I was born at 20:08 on 24th December 1978.

20:08, so 2008. 24th December= Nearly Jesus, (Jesus was 30 when he made it big with his stand-up, highly underrated in his day and lots of people missed the point of his Kaufmanesque commitment to his art combined with a Peter Kay level of accessibility and observational stuff "How blessed are the meek?" etc.) on top of that, like Russell Brand I was born dead having strangled myself with the umbilical chord. so I've already done the ressurrection trick. Along with the Lazarus rebirth thing (hence the name Bethany)

I'm 30 this year, in the year of 20:08 which corresponds with the time I was born.

so in the 12 hour clock that's 8:08pm. the Edinburgh festival is in August, the eighth month, the first proper Friday of the festival is 8/08/08 So I'm reckoning I'll sell out on that date, and get my first good reviews.

Fuck you Dan Brown!!! this is better than the DaVinci code!!!

I'm fully aware that the above makes me look mental. But it's some more of that hippy dippy positive thinking and "stepping into the future that you've created" stuff that makes this life a lot easier than being defeatist.

Right I'm off now do watch The Lost highway and eat Ice lollies.

until next time, I love you all.

BB xXx

Not such a clever titled blog this week. I'd love to pretend that this is a clever political blog about our crap Prime Minister's failing at keeping the country from heading speedily towards a massive recession, but its not. Even though that is something that I have felt particularly string about since seeing my accountant this week and finding out exactly how poor I'm going to be for a while. No this blog is about the mental damage inflicted on me by seeing clever magic man Derren Brown's live show last week.

Since last week I have done some nice things, including spending much time in the sunshine lapping up the rays, opening the door for all the sunburn and inevitable skin cancer that I'll be rewarded with. Despite how nice all of this is, as I lie back into the sun, or in fact do anything that allows my brain to churn the same single thought has been popping into my head. This thought is simply 'How the f*ck did Derren do what he did do in his show last week?' Now its rare that I will rant on about a show like this, but I could well be brain washed to this week.

Now obviously I can't tell you what he did 'cos that would ruin it in case you go, but it was stuff that was truly truly brilliant and also completely baffling. The only time I've ever felt like this before is when I saw his last show, where, upon leaving, neither my girlfriend or I could talk for about 45 minutes because we had felt, for want of a better term, well and truly 'mind-raped'. God knows how the people involved in the tricks feel. During neither of these shows was I picked to go on stage, which is something I've been very grateful for. Derren's technique for choosing 'volunteers' was to fling Frisbees into the crowd at random so I was very careful to duck my head at appropriate moments. I truly enjoyed being able to sit back and watch Derren's show knowing fully well that I would just be a non-critical punter looking forward to some crazy trickery. Sit back I did, for about 5 minutes, until he first screwed with our brains and then I was on the edge of my seat hoping that at some point he didn't turn us into his zombie army through subliminal messaging. Well that's not strictly true. He is a brilliant showman making the whole room feel very comfortable about being there, even though in reality he probably had 500 little zombie army helmets backstage.

I've got no clue about magic at all. I once learnt a very crap card trick, spent most of my eighth year of age trying it out on family and getting it wrong over and over again helping to increase their boredom with my antics considerably. So having remained mainly ignorant to it all, I still marvel at great tricks. As far as I'm concerned it makes me feel like a kid again, and I am fully willing to be sucked in to thinking that the magician I am watching could be the child of Gandalf and that everything they do is all real. Its the same for music, because I am musically inept, and therefore a great live band is astounding to me. Whereas comedy, with some exceptions, has slightly less wonder about it because even though there are many amazing stand-ups out there that I don't compare to, I know how they do what they do. I did a bit painting and artwork when I was younger and as arrogant as it sounds I get the same knowledge awareness when I walk through even the most impressive of art galleries. "Mona Lisa? He just did that with oil paints on canvas then copied her face didn't 'e? Easy bloody peasy I tell ya.'

So after Wednesday's show I have decided that Derren Brown is a wizard and should probably be burnt alive or something. Either that or he should stop pissing about and just rule things by making people do what he wants. He seems like a nice bloke, or so I think, when infact he's projected that thought into my mind against my will. Even so I reckon he'd be a great PM, well, better than the other Brown anyway because even if he stole all my money in tax payments I'd be mind-wiped to enjoy it. I highly recommend going to see 'Mind Reader'. There's not really anything else out there at the moment that manages to capture that old fashioned vaudevillian show style while at the same time being genuinely impressive magic. Just maybe wear a tin foil hat so that he can't enter your brain and steal your memories. Or something.

By the way, despite the respect i have for the man, I still love the Daily Star's inspired genius when he came out as gay a few weeks ago. Headline of the article was 'Derren is a mind-bender'. So wrong but so funny.

Regular readers know how I feel about the Fringe Society. They think they are "The Fringe" and are doing the shows/acts a favor by deigning to imbue them -- for a fee -- with legitimacy.

In reality, the shows and acts are the Fringe and the society is just a collective back office to assist us. We imbue them with legitimacy.

As I've said, we would exist without them, but they wouldn't exist without us. (And as I overheard the head of the International Festival say last year, basically, the only thing the head of the Fringe runs is a box office.)

Anyway, for reasons I may address in more detail at another time, my free Counting House show won't be in the printed programme this year, so I haven't paid the steep (especially in American money) fee charged by the Fringe.

My inclination is to use their logo on my materials anyway. (What can they do to me?)

Well it never really egets any easier.

I'm into week two of my being a full time comedian and I'm now trying to book gigs in to fill up my diary enough that I don't have to live off whatever food gets thrown out into the bins outside McDonald's. Which now that I'm vegetarian again would be even worse than last time!

after an initially good start, phoning round all afternoon one day last week, my efforts are faltering this week. yesterday I didn't really do anything and today I'm realising that having phoned everyone last Thursday, there are few people left to phone, and so I'm now drawing a blank.

on the upside my Mrs has just passed her second year in her fine art degree and I'm sat next to her, and we've got a fantastic afternoon and evening ahead of us. Plus as it's very warm I'm wandering round wearing a stetson and a vest top with my skinny fit jeans with turn ups. I look like I've escaped from a John Waters or David Lynch Movie set in the 1950's.

I've also discovered I've got a talent for poker this week. This is a bad thing. I've got an addictive personality, I've managed to make myself sick from eating an entire gatteaux or a couple of pints of Ben And Jerry's on at least 3 occasions in the last month.

It's strange thinking that after getting Alcohol and other drugs (except nicotine and caffine, and occasionally poppers) out of my life that my addictice tendancies are still on the rampage!

I'm now convinced that if I actually try poker in the real world there's a good chance I'll end up losing my car, or the house I rent. So for now I'm just sticking to world poker series on the DS.

My Edinburgh Preview that was supposed to be this Thursday in London has been cancelled too.

Anyway, my Mrs has just asked if we can go soon, though she says that she is enjoying watching my sexy typing. I don't understand that fully. But who am I to argue?

Anyway until next time, when I hope my life's been a bit more interesting, I love you all

BB xXx

I had my Speed Awareness Course yesterday, to ensure that I don't get yet another 3 points on my licence. A bright summer's day, stuck inside on a weekend, being punished along with other strangers... I was in The Breakfast Club. One of them even looked like Judd Nelson (only 50 - so, actually how he might look now, ish).

It was surprisingly unpatronising. And interesting, at times. Although there was a lot of the usual "If you drive at 35mph, you're 5mph more likely to kill someone that at 30miph", but also I learned:

- that if you see no reminders for ages of what speed limit you're in, it's a 30, or a dual carriageway, or a motorway. So if you're wondering if it's a 30 or a 40, it's a 30. This is because legally they have to place reminders every km or so if it's a 40 or a 50, but if it's a 30, they only have to tell you once. So there.
- that minibuses, caravans, lorries etc aren't allowed to go at 60mph in a national speed limit like the rest of us; they have to go at 50mph. And speed cameras can tell the difference in size of vehicle.
- that lorries can physically only get up to 56mph on a flat road. Unless, of course, they've been fiddled with, which ain't legal.

Anyway, I passed (although you pass just by turning up), so no point for me. Apart from the 6 on my licence already. Oh, and the woman who ran the speed awareness course yesterday turned out to be the woman who taught be to drive 12 years ago. I was pleasantly surprised by this; she wasn't. I guess it's not good for her as an instructor to see one of her pupils show up as, well, practically a criminal...

A friend of mine points out that many people have been using the name "Edinburgh Comedy Festival" for years to describe the Fringe, so couldn't the argument be made that the name is well-established as being in the public domain?

I suggest everyone who's not in an official "ECF" venue, use the words Edinburgh Comedy Festival on their flyers; just don't put a "TM" next to it or use the "official" ECF font. You're simply using the phrase as it's always been used.

Way to remove the separatist value and elitist cache of the name, eh? (What can they do to you?)

Essentially the University Library doesn't open on a sunday, and I've to get a short piece of work in for tomorrow that I really needed to look at stuff in the Library for.

It's sad really, as on Wednesday I handed in my final piece of work.

10 years it took to get this degree, and I mentioned that earlier, but it was really strange at 6am on Wednesday, sat in my room in my flat. Books strewn across the floor along with dirty clothes and bags of shoes and oither detritus. the warm summer sun cascading through the windows and hitting the back of my neck as I finished off a 4000 word essay on Freud's notion of the uncanny and the German notion of Heimat in relation to the German TV series of the same name.

New Dawn Fades by Joy division finds itself starting up on my itunes, and I sit back and light a cigarette and watch the smoke spiral round in the air and early morning shafts of light.

I've finished. Done. Finito.

Did I think ten years ago that I'd be here?

No. I was going to be a rockstar by 22, fucked up and addicted to Heroin and crack by 25, going crazy in hotel rooms in Japan and LA by 26 before dying of heart failure in the Chelsea Hotel in New York at the age of 27, emaciated, drawn and still 7 and a half stone.

I'm two years older than I ever expected to be, which I already consider a win. but it's not the only one.

Handing in that Assignment at 3:30 that afternoon and talking to my coursemates who'd also just finished their degrees, they were asking "so what do we do now?"

I already knew the answer to this. I've spent my time here trying to sort it all out.

As of three thirty on Wednesday 7th May 2008 I'd handed in the final piece of work of this kind that I was ever going to have to do. aged 29 years-old and with a beautiful girlfriend who I know is the one, and who loves me the same, I now have no other work or income than comedy. I'm happy, fulfilled, sober, clean and looking forward to spending the rest of my life doing the job I love.

I was saying about not having much money or enough gigs booked in to live off and my Mrs gave me the reason that I love her and the reason that she's the one for me in the form of the sentance "Day jobs are death. You can't do them and you know you can't, you just get working and book as much in as you can. Don't worry about the money side of things, we can sort that, you just get on with youir career."

So here I am. Bethany Black, Professional Stand-up comedian.

That night we'd gone out for some food to celebrate and on the way back to the car I got a call from Captain Tassles at the Frog, Jason Cook is in New Zealand and it's his show, The Asylum, tonight and they need acts. I'm about 20 minutes away so I head down there and it's a great night, I'm supposed to be doing ten minutes form my Show, Beth Becomes Her.

If you're not familiar with my work, or my show or me, then the quick run down is that Beth Becomes Her is the show about the last 8 years or so of my life, about me realising I was transsexual, coming out to family and friends and going through transition and surgery and eventually coming out the other end realising that I'm now a lot happier than I've ever been. It's a show that starts with Suicide attempts, abortions and nervous breakdowns and ends with me finding true love.

Anyway the act before me was doing a character who was quite bigotted, and the main crux of his rant was about going to see the Ladyboys of Bangkok. it's the sort of thing that doesn't challenge and prejudices but essentially reinforces them. This all adds to make it a little more difficult for me, so I decided not to do any of the stuff from my show.

Dave Longley who was compereing for the night then went on to introduce me and told them that I was doing 10 minutes from my show, and that I'd been nominated for an award, and how great it was and how there's some media interest in the show.

Suddenly I've got no choice. But I go on and do the first ten minutes and it flies by, and for the first time ever I've got a crowd begging me to stay and finish off telling the story. But I've only got 10 minutes, and the full story's 6 times longer than that.

Afterwards a number of the audience and quite a few of the comics and people who work at the Frog ask when I'm doing a full Edinburgh Preview as they want to come and see it. People really are starting to take an interest in this show. and I'm not entirely sure how to deal with that.

Thursday is day two of being a full time comedian, and I'm looking at my virtually empty diary (as a result of spending the last 3 months working on making sure I'd got my degree work done) and so I start phoning round.

Not having a landline or contract phone makes this more difficult, as just to do one quick sweep of the numbers in my phone costs £16 in credit and the result is that I've got 4 open spots or tryouts depending on your point of view for some bigger clubs, and nothing else. It's annoying, but it's a start, and 4 gigs booked in one day is more than enough, especially as the majority of gigs I do are paid it's rare that I'll get an unpaid spot, but there you go.

I call Silky who's looking for an act for his gig in Clwyd that evening so I jump in the car and head down there. It's an arts centre gig, which are lovely, but occasionally not ones for the darker stuff. I'm on with Gary Delaney and Tony Law.

I love working with Gary and Tony's my favourite comedian on the circuit, who I've only ever gigged with once, and he was doubling up so only turned up after I'd been on.

Tonight though he was there from the start, and Silky had given me some good advice about easing them into the stuff I was going to do, and so I did, but the stuff that was in my show made me nervous. It's something that I'm trying to get over, I know it's good stuff, but it really requires an audience to go with it.

I lose confidence, the audience loses confidence. At one point I'm building up a silence for a pay off in one of my suicide stories when someone behind the bar, with perfect rhythmical timing manages to drop a full tray of glasses.

It's ruined the punchline and the rhythm of the piece but it's at such a place that I can't just drop out of the joke.

Anyway I finish and I've done alright, no where near as good as I'd have liked but certainly not death. and the more I go with the stuff that I want to do the more I avoid mediocre gigs. They're all or nothing, and that's the way I like it, sometimes members of the crowd and members of the same table hating and loving it in equal measure.

I'm not for everyone. And that's just how I like it.

Both Tony and Silky give me the same advice. That they thought it was excellent, but "you just need to have the courage of your convictions" said Silky "that's the most nervous I've seen you in 4 years."

Tony said the same thing, I asked him if he'd any more advice and he said "don't listen to anyone else's advice unless you agree with it."

So it's Sunday afternoon, the sund's shining, and I've spent the weekend with my Mrs. We watched Dr Who and The L word, and talked about stuff to do with Edinburgh and her current exhibition and had a great time.

I just got my proof for the "Edinburgh Comedy Festival Brochure" through. It looks good, I think, I hope it'll have the desired effect. It should do, I've just spent £972.90 on my adverts for both brochures.

But more about that for next time.

I'm going to go and eat ice-cream.

until next time I love you all

xXx

So as one door closes another one opens for I have secured another date for next week! I have to admit, I've limited strength left with the whole sorry saga and I fear this will be my second to last shot at a spark with anymore gentleman from the Internet. I just can't be bothered.

Yes, it's all very pleasant and I've only had a couple of weird situations but its quite simply, draining. Like I'm currently in the middle of email chats with this guy who I am meeting next week and I'm finding it hard work. Don't get me wrong, he seems lovely but I am so over the pleasantries. Lets just have a row, I'll win, and then lets marry. It's not so difficult is it?

So I had a message on my Facebook wall today from someone who reads my blog to say that they read it cause it makes them feel better about their own non-existent sex life. ERM, just because I don't blabber on about sex doesn't mean I don't get any! Ever heard of an FB? (And I don't mean Facebook) Yeah thats right EFF. BEE. my friend... christ, who am I kidding, even that's not consistent of late. Plus the term FB makes me cringe. oh well. Feel even better now Andrew do ya? (Remember that time you fell over outside Caroline's and you landed NEXT to a banana skin? Great days!)

So I caught some of "Too fat to Toddle" t'other night on ITV1 and it was horrid and UNTRUE. Most of the kids were over toddler age and could walk. So... Too fat to walk more like. But they could walk - so it was basically a show full of untruths and just fatties who cried if they didn't get enough grub. I know that feeling.

I'm so looking forward to Peep Show tonight. What a great, great show. It didn't get an amazing review in the Metro - but I beg to differ, I loved it and watched the first episode twice. It's the best thing on TV at the moment, other than the Apprentice. Which incidently was extra great on Wednesday. Oh Alex you're so pretty but such a twat. Good riddance to that vile bitch Jennifer (not the irish one). She is disgusting. She reminds me of the first female manager I had when I started work in central London when I was 19. I was the "front of house" receptionist at a Car Show room in Park Lane. In those days I was WELL fit so it made all the business men want to buy cars...(in my head)

Some female bosses are mentalists. With balls of steel (or so they convey) and shoulder pads to match, they bark orders at work, make their staff cry and secretly love it. Then they go home to their pathetic friendless lives and hope and pray that the next day will come around soon so that they can make people feel shit at work again, because deep down they hate themselves more. That's Jennifer that is.

You know what that Claire reminds me of in The Apprentice? She reminds me of "Maz" off Holiday Reps. She has the same whiney voice and sentences that seem to finish on the same irritating note. And she talks a load of office jargon in the hope that people won't realise that she's actually extremely thick.

"Look" magazine is out now avec my feature in it. Its a bit cringey and not entirely accurate - saying that I get £100 a gig! Ha! I wish! They asked me what the most I'd been paid was and I told them £100 which is true for a 20 min spot. I also made it clear that I am only really paid consistently for compering but whatever, I'm in a glossy mag so 'ave it!

Have a nice weekend and congrats to Paul below too!

Brooklyn as Dream:
Delicate, pink, cherry blossoms in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, filling the air, falling on children, lovers and -- sprawled across the grass -- a bombastic blonde, fully dressed in the manner of a pre-hippie,'60s actress or model, looking like a classically-imagined stewardess in civilian clothes.

Brooklyn as Medieval Nightmare:
The healthy-looking, dead rat sprawled across the blacktop by the laundromat, looking ready for a photo shoot, a drop of something -- maybe blood -- not far from his head.

The sweet counter girl at Dunkin Donuts with her misshaped, darkened lip.

The delicate, pink, cherry blossoms in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden falling on Chassidic boys with Down's Syndrome.

...aka Ageing, part 5 (at least - even my 'ageing' blogs are getting old - blimey). The radio silence in blogland is cos I proposed on the weekend, and she said yes, so I am now an engaged man...

So, the inevitable questions of how, where, why, etc. Well the short answer is Dartmoor, on top of a waterfall. The only slightly less short answer is that Zoe took me away for a mystery surprise weekend (only slightly given away when she said two days before we went, "Don't worry if you don't get time to buy wellies before we go - you can get some in Devon." Ah. But still, the rest was a surprise, and indeed it's Britain's best kept secret. The little farmland area between Dartmouth and Salcome - I recommend it to everyone. We stayed in one of a lovely row of cottages on a converted farm, which now houses a swimming-pool, sauna, jacuzzi, tennis court, full-size snooker table, games room with x-box, table-tennis, table-football, 200 DVDs, and each cottage with a full kitchen, log-fire, TV, Sky, DVD player, free wifi, yet all also beamed and old-fashioned and homely and beautiful. Plus it's wonderful scenery, the beach is 10min walk away, you can cycle a-plenty (and we did), and there are really really excellent restaurants and pubs in neighbouring villages. What more could you ask for from a holiday destination?

Oh yes, nice weather. Well we had that too, so ha. On Saturday we decided to make the most of the nice weather and visit Castle Drogo on Dartmoor, just cos it sounds so sinister and we wanted to see if there be dragons. We also thought we'd take in Canonteign Falls - England's tallest waterfall, so we reached there, paid our £5.80 each to climb the falls, and atop it, I proposed. For me of course though, I can't resist doing something a little different, so I did it via a magic trick. I forced two cards on her (that's magician talk - there was no physical forcing of anything, I'm delighted to say, as that is less than romantic), so she thought she'd picked two random cards: the 2 of Hearts and the Ace of Diamonds. I got her to shut her eyes and convert those cards into a number and a suit, ie. 2 hearts and 1 diamond. She opened her eyes, and there was the diamond, there were 2 hearts (living in just one mind), me on one knee and all around were tourists chucking up at what they'd just seen. Well tough, it's our moment.

Anyway, she said yes, so woohoo. We clambered down the waterfall (I'll put some piccies up on facebook of the view from there), and sadly forewent Castle Drogo, in favour of finding a pub for a stiff drink. We found this pub in the middle of Dartmoor, in Widecombe-on-the-Moor. Middle of nowhere, and in that pub, who should we see, but comedian Gareth Richards. "On my way to a gig in Plymouth", he said. I think he's stalking me. Last time I saw him he was sat behind me in Odeon Guildford, and he doesn't even live in Guildford. I'm getting suspicious. If he turns up at the wedding and yells out that he loves me when the vicar asks if anyone knows any reason, etc etc, then I won't be surprised.

Oh yeah. The wedding. I'd fotgotten that's what happens after proposals. Well by dinner on Saturday evening, at a lovely Thai restaurant in Dartmouth, we'd decided on everything from who's doing the readings to what sort of car takes her to church. But that's all to be rethought, altered and debated further over the next year (for twill be about a year till any knot-tying), cos otherwise what else are we going to talk about?

Facebook have already started their 'targetted advertising' (that's why you've been getting adverts about bands you like recently), and as soon as I changed from 'In A Relationship' to 'Engaged', I'm being bombarded with ads for wedding photographers or strippers for stag dos (alright, just the former). And speaking of Facebook, did anyone notice that my status all last week was 'Paul is vacant'. Twas meant to be clever, ie. that I could change it to 'Paul is engaged'. Vacant? Engaged? Geddit? Yeah, no one else did - it turns out no one checks my status. Pah. I feel unloved. Except the opposite.

when you call someone who always thought you were preposterous and is now in a position of authority and they don't get back to you.

But when it's someone who clearly liked and, at least to some extent, respected you, it just makes them a superficial, arrogant, self-important (even if also actually important) shithead.

Such is the case with the now long-term editor of a once-important humor organization which has spent more than ten years living off the reputation others imbued it with a long time ago and which is now, kind of respectable, if not exactly respected.

For instance, yesterday, walking through Bed-Stuy, the sun touched me with just the right kind of gentle.

See what I did there with the title? Do you see? I was proud of that I have to say. Apologies in advance for any non London readers who will either find this dull or hilarious as you mock the idiocy of London voters. Ok ok, I know this is going to be a much over talked about subject for the next four years at least, but how the hell did London as one of the greatest cities in the world let Boris 'massive twat' Johnson in charge of mayoral duties? I honestly didn't think we would let it happen. I knew people were bored of Ken, and I knew there were many things people wanted to change, but Boris? Fucking Boris?

'Oh won't it be funny if we vote for that racist, homophobic rich bigot? hahahahah bloody ha.' What many people failed to see is that that such joke will now make an impact on our city and the way we are viewed by the world for much longer than most punchlines. I understand people's 'serious' reasons too. Congestion charge complaints (although it has made a massive difference in traffic in Central London), policing issues, spending large amounts of money on crap like the Olympics (especially as the British won't win any of the golds) etc etc, but lest we forget that of all the people that may remedy or attempt to remedy such gripes, Boris is the man who backed Thatcher on the poll tax. Anyone remember that? Strictly speaking I don't because of being of a young age at the time which meant that I only really hated Thatcher for taking away my milk at school. However I didn't hate her as much as the kid with a severe calcium deficiency who broke three weeks later while playing 'tag' on the tarmac. Despite this I do know from latter knowledge that poll tax was an invention of true evil, that deserved its welcome demise after crippling many working peoples lives.

Oh well what about bringing the people of London together? Creating public unity on the city's streets which is what we need in such a hostile time? Well I'm sure the Johnson with his homophobic views, public verbal bashing of the poor and well known racist remarks is the man for such unity creation. I could happily quote things that he has said and done, but it his backing of Section 28 is not by any means hidden knowledge, nor is his recent attack on the people of Liverpool or general use of such racist terms as 'picanninies'. Its the equivalent of voting Prince Phillip in, only if he had the stupid blonde hair of a some sort of seventies Swedish porn star. To be fair the thought of that is perhaps even more terrifying than Johnson himself.

Also, on a childish level, Johnson is one of many slang terms for 'dick', a fact that is especially well known to any fans of the Big Lebowski. Admittedly, Paddick also has 'dick' in it and 'Livingstone' sounds like a Golem, mystical and dangerous beast of stone. Those would be suitable London mayors either, but all in all its a rather silly null point. Boris also looks uncannily like Patrick Marber. No point there, just something that bothers me.

What I find fascinating is that nearly everyone I know that voted, did so for Ken to make sure Boris wouldn't win, and yet he did. So where are these many voters who are intent on the decline of London? I really don't know and as much as the whole thing angers and frightens me, I don't care. Its been done now and I suppose the only benefit is that (as I saw on someone's facebook status and will not claim the thought as my own) there will at least now be four years of easy material for comics everywhere.

I'm not a political comedian at all. Not because I don't want to be, but I never feel that I have the knowledge or skill to make such farcical events funny as this blog happily proves. However I managed to write a couple of bits on Boris on Thursday day, the day of the elections. As such since Thursday I haven't gigged in London once and the material is now a tad stale. Its a shame because topical gags work that on the basis of freshness of gag, even if its less well thought out that the rest of your material. There is something so exciting about news gags and yet so sad when they disappear like a really shit and poorly written moment of sharp wit. One of the gags I was most proud of was to do with a train crash that happened near Reading when a man parked his car on the tracks. Not a massive subject for comedy I agree, but there was one caption in a broadsheet that sad 'On impact the train had twisted like some sort of metal baguette'. Now it just so happens that the suicidal chap in the car used to be a chef, and so I merely commented that a 'twisted baguette' was perhaps what he would have wanted. I was damn pleased with that. Two weeks after it happened no one cared about the accident anymore enough for the gag to work. So not fair.

I can only hope Boris screws up so massively both for the benefit of London and for my gags to last that little bit longer. Is that so selfish?

If a guy came back from months of imprisonment craving an "American cheeseburger", it wouldn't likely be from Burger King.

and the search for love do not go well together.

It's difficult to meet someone from the depths of a Benadryl coma.

On the other hand, one becomes more keenly aware than ever of one's dreams even as the perpetual slumber limits their chances of coming true.

"Histamine Irony", I think it's called.