Ten years ago today that Big And Daft started. You should always try and start a relationship on a day like Halloween or something, cos then you have no problem remembering anniversaries...little free tip for you there...

Right, this is going to get complicated now. This is part two of the Big And Daft story, but it is only the first part of part two as I am currently sitting in Cafe Nero in Edinburgh (I'm playing the Uni this evening) and I'm fucked if I am going to spend more than two quid on updating this blog. So, just put up with it for now and when I get back home I might edit it so that it's less jumbled.

I probably won't.

So, where were we?

Oh yes, about to deal with the positive (for the moment) fall out from our first fringe.

Right, well not too long after we had signed up with dear old Auntie BBC, we did a gig at Madame Jo Jo's in Soho. It was memorable for two reasons;

First up because Jon fell off the stage. I am certain that to this day I haven't seen anything as funny as that in my life. In fact, to clarify, the reason it was so funny is because I didn't actually see it. Nobody did. If you've ever been into Madame Jo Jo's you'll know (if it is still the same) that on the left of the stage (from where you normal people are sitting) there is a little ledge that runs along in front of one of the wings (side of stage). As most Big And Daft sketches ended with a blackout (nowt wrong with that - you can fuck off) you had to know where you were going in the dark. The last we saw was Jon walking towards the wings. Then a blackout. Then a bang. Then lights up. No Jon. And the stage at Madame Jo Jo's is pretty fucking high up too.

The second reason the night was memorable is because we signed with Real Talent management that evening. Well, I say signed. There was never a contract. "Handshake" agreements were to be prevalent at our time with the company.

With the passage of time, I think I can probably see the experience of being with Real Talent far clearer now. At the time there was far too much emotion mixed with ill-feeling and disappointment. Don't get too excited about hearing juicy gossip on here because that won't happen until the "Big And Daft (part three)" post, which will be later in the week after the second part of 'part two' (you following this?). It won't even be gossip. It'll just be me telling you what happened from my point of view. Legal minefield probably but as long as I keep putting 'allegedly' and 'in my opinion' then I reckon I'll get away with it. Plus I never fucking signed anything to say I wouldn't...

But back to part two (first part) of the B.A.D story - still all positive at this stage. We are talking the year 2000.

We'd been given a sponsorship deal by VVL for our video rights, and we'd had a few quid off the BBC, so were feeling far more confident in doing a bigger show than the year before at the fringe, whilst retaining the same show premise.

We played three brothers, all with different mothers but the same father. They had to live together for a period of three years (three shows) in order to receive their inheritance money. But, here's the thing, they all had conflicting personalities. My mum was a "thief" (changed from "whore" in year one), Jon's mum a "teacher" and Rob's mum a "simpleton". You can probably gauge from that what the characters we played were like. Pretty much, as I said in the last post, extensions of ourselves.

We agreed to set the show in space. This was because it was such an obvious thing to do, such a basic idea, and probably the first one that any A Level drama group would have come up with. For some reason we found that appealing. I designed a fucking kick-ass poster (possibly the best ever poster on the fringe...no actually, that was my nudey one from my show this year, but close though...) and we enlisted Norman Lovett to do the opening voice over as "Holly" from Red Dwarf - I had done it in 1999 - and set to work on the show. About half way through rehearsals we got a call asking us to do a TV show on UKPlay...

Shit my money is running out on this computer.

Oh well...you'll have to wait for the rest.

I have posters on my walls from shows I have done.

I'm not sure if this is down to egomania, narcisissm or just pride but they are there regardless. They are mostly solo shows now, Comedy Network posters, "Ray Peacock" stuff, but tucked away in my office (spare room), just beneath the framed "Rugby Leaguer" cover from 2001 declaring "St Helens do the treble" there is a frame filled with four "Big And Daft" flyers. Two at the top, two at the bottom. It's just by the door, and the reason I mention it is because the final date of the tour flyer corresponds with today's date. It was five years ago today that Big And Daft performed together onstage for the very last time.

It was at Carnegie Hall in Dunfermline, Scotland, and was the last date of our 2001 tour. We all knew it was the last time we would perform onstage together, after the show we binned the props, had a beer, gave each other cuddles and generally felt a bit weird and numb around each other.

Big And Daft (or B.A.D as I always wished it to be known) was essentially a live sitcom, performed by myelf, Rob Rouse and Jon Williams. It had started as a sketch show at the Torrington Arms in North Finchley (it's a Starbucks now).

I'd wanted to put together a five piece comedy team and had recruited Jon (who I had been to University with) to help me. I was running the comedy nights at the Torrington as a straight stand up night, 'compering' it myself, and booking the acts and stuff. Jon would usually be on the door, or on some evenings he would dress up as "Spiderman" and dance behind me as I started the evening (I enjoyed singing a song at the beginning of the show but that was usually as far ahead as I got with planning my performance). It was a monthly show and about three months in I had booked an act called "Cyril" who had called me for an open spot. As I said I was doing the booking of the club, but I didn't even know what an "open spot" was, as far as I was concerned if you rang you were on. So Cyril got a gig at The B.A.D comedy nite.

He was a decent act. He had a guitar, was exuberant, was rude, and got on very well with myself and Jon - it immediately felt as though we had known each other for much longer than we had - like a successful date. After the gig, Jon and I went back to my flat with a bottle and discussed the evening. We spoke about Cyril (or Rob - as that's who it was) a lot and the following morning I gave him a ring and told him about the sketch team idea. He was immediately keen. It was still the plan to have another two members but after a few weeks of 'working' together, somewhere along the line we stopped looking.

The first official Big And Daft performance with the three of us on together was on 31st October 1997 (ten years ago this Tuesday - oh the anniversaries I remember...). We opened the show with "Relight my fire" (Jon and me wearing devil horns and Rob in a dress as Lulu) and did sketches in between the stand up acts. The shows would last in excess of three hours, until eventually the amount of acts on the bill were reduced to accomodate our bits.

We would go out into Finchley and film ourselves on the day of the gigs - no editing - we just showed what we had filmed as the audience were coming in. Just us fucking about on Finchley High Road. Highlights of the films included Rob sexing cuddly toys in the Tally Ho discount shop, me running around a car park with my cock out shouting "look at me everybody", and Jon standing looking at the camera saying "nothing interesting ever happens to me" whilst there was an actual car crash behind him. The car crash tape was used by one of the drivers in evidence during a court case.

The sketches we did (such as they were) were the usual stuff you would expect from three cocky northern lads with little experience in the comedy world - "Transvestite cops" about two of New York's finest trying on dresses, "At Home with Darth Vader" where the Lord of Sith, sounding very much like the character of Ray Peacock, would come home and complain to his wife about what "our Luke has done", and "Millenium Fever" in which the three of us would pitch our own ideas for millenium merchandise (such as the Millenium Starfish).

You get the idea.

Naive as we were though, we were still clued up enough to know what was working, and as the months flew by it was clear that the best bits were when we played extensions of ourselves rather than characters. It wasn't long before the character stuff was falling by the wayside, just as the stand up acts had. The shows were becoming about the three of us.

In August 1998, Rob ran away to the Edinburgh festival and came back with the "So You Think You're Funny" award, sending Jon and me into a panic as we dreaded the impending break up of our little family whilst he went off to do all the gigs he was suddenly being offered. To Rob's credit, he never did run away forever, and when Karen Koren of the Gilded Balloon offered him a spot at the following years festival to do a stand up show, he turned it down in favour of using it for B.A.D's first show. Karen was unsure and so came down to see us at the Canal Cafe. After the show, she offered us the slot, advising us that we should get a girl into the show to improve the dynamic. Jon asked her with a straight face "But are girls funny?". Karen never tried to offer us advice again.

One of Rob's biggest problems at that time was his inability not to try to please everyone. It was as endearing as it was irritating. He would regularly be set projects by myself and Jon to write things, and would lie and tell us he had done it. When we arrived in Edinburgh in 1999 he was meant to have written two sketches to complete the show. He said he had, but then admitted when he arrived in Scotland that he hadn't. It was funny at first, but thinking back - even that early on - it was the first fracture. It was also our first row. On the plus side, the last minute scribbling meant the show was fresh (and edgy apparently).

Edinburgh 1999 was a very successful year for us. We sold lots of tickets (due to good word of mouth and the fact that we would flyer for it ourselves whilst doing pathetic publicity stunts in the Gilded Balloon bar - stuff like Jon carrying me around on his back). We actually made a profit of fifty pounds for the whole run, but as it was Rob's job to invoice the Gilded Balloon we never actually got it. Too late now...the records of the finances were mysteriously destroyed in a fire a few years later. Bit of an extreme solution to get out of paying fifty quid but there you go.

Our time in the Wee Room at the Gilded Balloon in 1999 was a good three weeks, with brilliant reviews from Stephen Armstrong in the Sunday Times, Malcolm Hay at Time Out and Ella Kenyon in The Independent. Everyone it seemed thought we were as good as we did, them two went and networked with proper comedians whilst I got off (and sometimes fell in love) with girls, and we left the festival with two television development deals on the table.

The BBC and Chrysalis TV were vying for our attention.

Gary Reich at Chrysalis had been at the BBC, and had worked with Sacha Baron Cohen and that lot on Comedy Nation. He'd moved to Chrysalis after being headhunted to form and develop a comedy and entertainment wing. Producer Myfanwy Moore at the BBC was working with Lucas and Walliams on Rock Profiles for UK Play, and convinced us that they were heading for great things by being brought through the ranks slowly.

We had several meetings with both companies. The Chrysalis meetings were usually on the roof and always a laugh, mainly at the expense of Gary Reich being a gay man. Not that we were childish. Well, Rob was. A meeting there was never complete without some pseudo-homophobic comment about bumming or how come Gary didn't have a wife. Gary would stare at us as only Gary can as we snorted like children. Gary blanked me in Edinburgh this year and I'm sure it was because he remembers. It was made worse by the fact that he was talking to Andrew Lawrence at the time...but I digress.

The BBC meetings on the other hand were far more sensible affairs, probably due in no small part to overwhelming feeling when suddenly finding yourself in TV centre. You just couldn't shout so much in there - although we did run riot in the Blue Peter Garden once, but we tidied up afterwards. In fact, thinking about it, I reckon it was being allowed in the Blue Peter garden that eventually swung us to signing with the BBC.

We really had that little idea.

Ironically, as it would turn out, the only television programme we ever made was a joint venture between Chrysalis and the BBC. It all felt very exciting, as though the script was running exactly to plan - we'd made a splash at the festival and now we were going to save the BBC.

We should probably get a manager...

Have just got back from Birmingham again.

I don't have another gig in Birmingham for a while which is quite a relief. Not that I have any problem with the city, I actually find it very agreeable, but as I said the other day I do seem to have spent an awful lot of time there in the last twelve months, so it's good to not have to return for a while. I think my GPS machine knew that I wasn't going to go back there so it took me, once again, on a little tour of every other single fucking place I have ever been to in Birmingham before - every hotel, every gig, and the airport on the way home.

I am going to change the voice on my GPS machine - it is beginning to annoy me with all these sightseeing diversions and I have started to believe that it is the American lady speaking and not the actual machine that is being impish.

So you want to hear about my gig or not?

I was headlining at the Comedy Kav in Mosely (Birmingham - don't know if I mentioned that), and after the last few gigs I have done/endured it was a breath of fresh air. There were the usual conversations with the audience, and for some reason I had to explain to them how I acquired my bench socks. It had something to do with the fact that brilliant resident compere James Cook had been telling them where he got his new suit from before bringing me on, so the fashion histories had to continue.

Further to the story of the socks, the audience were also lucky enough to hear that my T-shirt (the black sexy one with the wide neck) was from Marks & Spencers, my jeans were boot-cut from Burtons, and my trainers were from a little skater shop in Cardiff. I couldn't remember where I got my hat from, but as I was driving home I realised that it was one of the ones from the Manchester gig when Dave Turquoise (comedy 'promoter' from St Helens) bought the entire audience black hats to take the piss out of me.

Dave Turquoise is terminally ill now so I think I can safely say that I had the last laugh.

The audience were lovely tonight though - none of the hostility I have become accustomed to in recent times, yet still sharp enough to give me friendly grief. We also discovered that my legs are not 'normal' (32" inside leg is normal apparently - not 29" like mine), and that a bloke in the audience nearly had a threesome but when it all started he was simply "too tired". There are some things you wake yourself up for. Although line of the night belongs to the lady in the audience who explained that when the man said he 'nearly' had a threesome, he meant he was just one person short of it.

So, I can heartily recommend the Comedy Kav gig to any punters in the midlands, and any comics who want to play a brilliant room of people that are there purely for the comedy and up for a laugh.

And I think that's me for this evening. I am going to be doing some work tomorrow I think as I don't have a gig tomorrow night and want to get cracking on with this thing that me and Steve Morrison are writing together which I am still not going to tell you about...

Okay - I'll tell you that it is a sitcom. Pretty brilliant idea eh? Writing a sitcom! Nobody does that anymore - I reckon me and Steve Morrison are probably the only people in the comedy community currently working on a sitcom so it's bound to get made into a series.

And here's an interesting fact - did you know that Steve Morrison was one of the cub scouts that ate food on the Revolution at Blackpool Pleasure Beach on Jim'll Fix It?

No - neither did I till today.

Night x

PS. Erm...feel I should add that, as far as I know, Dave Turquoise isn't actually terminally ill in real life. He just has a shaved head and looks like he is. Thought I'd better mention that before someone starts organising a benefit for him (like that would happen...).

I have another of my great days off, but as I am 'prolific' I am using it to do work.

This blog counts as work by the way, and I will be looking at the email that my brilliant new writing partner Steve Morrison (idle twat) sent me with all his ideas for this thing we are writing together which I'm not going to tell you about. I might even try and get a gig somewhere, as I seem to be getting more gigs pulled than pushed. I have just sent a text to attempt to rectify the problem.

So, Monday and Tuesday were spent filming on set.

I am murder on sets, it is one of those times when I actually start annoying myself, so fuck knows what the people around me are thinking. One of the other actors (Sam Bond - very good) said that I should get paid double for 'entertaining' the cast and crew but that is never my intention. I just get soooo bored that I turn into a five year old problem child. Why would somebody deliberately try (and succeed) to sabotage takes by making other cast members lose their concentration and laugh to the point that make up has to be called in? And you wouldn't think that the phrase "You did" or the word "Hey" could do this to professional performers, but it got to the point where that was all I had to say to make Diane Morgan describe me as 'lethal'. I was beginning to suspect that despite their laughter it was pissing them off, so I just did it another ten or eleven times to make sure, then stopped.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

It is boring though on sets. There's only so long you can talk about what you did at the weekend or flirt with the runners before you start losing the will to live. And yet I found the project on the whole really enjoyable...just little things like meeting and working with new people, discussing Blackadder with Richard Boden (which must bore the fucking pants off him) and sitting smugly in traffic on the M25 surrounded by people going to 'proper' jobs. All the cast were great, and I've just realised that the only member of the cast I haven't mentioned on here over the past few weeks has been Emma Ruth. So I'm mentioning her now. Emma Ruth. There we go.

Last night we had a "Wrap" party (despite the fact that they will probably have to re-record sound as someone forgot to press the right button the first time).

I am rubbish at parties.

Thing is, nobody has ever explained to me what you are meant to do. I don't really know what a party is for. I can sit and chat with people quite happily, but when does that become a party? I am one of those folk who just tend to "show their face" and then fuck off. I find them dreadfully impersonal, and the only time I have ever enjoyed one is when I have suddenly had a reason to get away from the party. Maybe they are just elaborate foreplay.

I don't bother with the parties in Edinburgh, and I always struggle at the yearly decadence that is the Avalon effort (which gets further and further away from Christmas every year...I reckon it will soon be a summer fete...but as long as they still have little people serving drinks I will be happy). I don't know what to say you see. You're either stuck with people you speak to regularly anyway so nothing is new, or you're suddenly thrown in with people you haven't seen since the last one, and there's normally a reason for that.

I realise I must sound like an utter bore in this post, but please don't get me wrong - if I knew what to do, or what they were for, I might enjoy one. But at the moment I assess them as forced 'fun'. Plus I'm not a big drinker - am uninhibited without alcohol, and have only ever used it to prolong 'wallowing'. Add to this the fact that whenever anyone produces a joint I have an overwhelming desire to punch them in the face, and you see my predicament? I think potheads are the dullest fucks in the entire universe and am happy to go on the record with that comment.

I'll stop this attack now, I'm starting to feel like someone's dad.

Let's just say that my hedonism takes a different form to sitting around drinking.

I realised on my drive home last night that I forgot to tell you that Julie (from the Pleasance Hut team) popped into my gig in Bristol on Saturday night. It was so lovely to see her. I've missed the people from Edinburgh. I was meant to meet up with Kat (you remember Kat, my stage manager) this week but she hasn't called. Julie gave me a badge and I spoke to her German friend in German. It always surprises people when they find out I can speak German. I think I may start to learn properly again as I was a little rusty, but I do enjoy speaking a different language. If anyone wants to know in German how to get to the train station from The Comedy Box in Bristol - I'm your man.

I also like hearing different languages. If I can't sleep in a hotel room I tend to put on a foreign channel. There's something about a foreign language that I find very soothing. Just try it - put on a dvd with a foreign audio track and close your eyes - it's lovely. It has to be a language you don't understand though (or only understand a little of). I was listening to Delia (the French actress I mentioned the other day) speaking in French on her mobile yesterday and I could have happily drifted off listening to it. That sounds both seedy and insulting all at the same time...I know what I mean...

Anyhow, I've taken up enough of your time.

Just quickly want to send well wishes and support to Bruce Devlin after his ordeal and hope he has a very speedy recovery. Every cloud has a silver lining and hopefully Bruce, you will be able to do more with your new and improved jaw than you could before (which, from what I have heard, will be saying something). And if anyone thinks I am being inappropriate, please do bear in mind that I am talking about Bruce "tactful" Devlin. Lots of love to you Bruce (not like that) xxx

I didn't get a reply from my text so I should get gone and be a bit more pro-active. At the least I should try and distract myself from the fact that I have to go to fucking Birmingham a-fucking-gain tomorrow night.

I might just move there...

I think it's good to properly lose your temper at work sometimes.

I have driven home from my gig tonight at the Birmingham University of Cakes or whatever it was fucking called at top speed. I wanted to stay as angry as I was at the gig so you could have some idea of the frustration I felt this evening.

Not going to go over the whole details, but suffice to say I have had enough of stupid people.

Like seriously though, end of my tether.

I got drawn into a heckling battle with some girl called Jess and at one point called her a 'rude-bitch'. She and her friends took great exception to this, particularly the use of the word 'bitch' but as you can see it was hyphenated and I felt that from the two words the former was the predominantly applicable one. They countered my comment by saying that it was me who was rude for calling her that. The fact that no acknowledgment was made of the hypocrisy of a girl sat at the front of a comedy night having to look up from reading a text to call the performer in front of her 'rude' tells you probably all you need to know. I deliberately went on to call her a cunt, idiot, slag, witch etc etc, all of which were happily taken at face value and continued to upset her and her entourage (in between texts of course).

To those of the audience who completely understood what I was doing, and shouted out "legend" at me - I salute you. As I said this evening on stage it is you that I care about, and you that I wish my comedy to speak to. To those of you in the audience who thought it was offensive - well it was - but you may have missed the point. It was deliberately offensive. There was a point to it, but if you can't work it out then you won't understand even if I explain it here either so I won't bother.

Suffice to say I had 40% of the audience on my side, 10% of the audience were on Jess' side, and the rest just wanted it to stop. If it's any consolation I have never been more angry on a stage in my life (and that's saying something) so you attended a unique evening. I think it will be remembered for a long time.

But I've had enough of these people. There used to be a time when I would tolerate idiots, when I would think it wasn't their fault they were stupid - they were just lumbered with it. That was before the arrogance of ignorant idiots started to become apparent. It's not just that they are stupid anymore - it's the fact that they seem to revel in it now, there appears to be a pride in it, and there is no comprehension for any other human beings but themselves. It's blinkered idiocy, and no matter how much you try to speak sense to them they still believe they are in the right.

Tonight at the gig I organised a court case as these girls had taken exception, and was represented by a guy called Miles from the audience (who was a true legend). The Jess girl kept shouting out that she "had witnesses" that I had called her a "rude-bitch", and no matter how simply I put the explanation she could not get her head around the fact that I wasn't denying saying it, I was just proving that it was true.

"But I've got witnesses that you said it" was her reply.

So you see what we are up against?

Simply not listening, or perhaps just not hearing. Perhaps not wanting to hear. The possibilities are depressingly endless.

Sick of them though. Sick of idiots. Don't think we should tolerate them any longer. Right thinking people need to rise up against these fucking stupid people. I've had enough - it's time to act - the cunts are growing in number and if we aren't careful they will take over.

They are everywhere and we need to fight them;

People who read Heat, People who talk and check their phones during films at the cinema, People who can't understand why fox hunting is banned, Men who are anti-abortion, People who bought Jordan's or Jade Goody's or Kerry Katona's autobiography and count that as a 'book' that they have 'read', Anyone who laid down flowers for Princess Diana, Anyone who has set a reminder for a reality TV show, Girls who say they hate anal sex but have never tried it, Anyone who thinks Laurel & Hardy is "just falling over", Men who use chat up lines, People who moan about "immigrants" because the country is "full"...

Just warming up now...


Proud drunks, Men who shout or beep their horns at girls from cars/vans, People who get upset by the word 'cunt', People who say they like a band because they know one fucking song, People who drive in the middle lane of the motorway and will not fucking move even when there is literally fucking nothing either fucking side of them, People that don't 'get' why Derek and Clive is funny...

I've not finished yet...

People who think black and white films are 'boring', People who don't indicate at roundabouts, Anyone who lists "American Pie" as one of their favourite "comedies", People who argue that their reason for not knowing something is that "it happened before I was born", Cyclists who ignore traffic lights, People who say they don't like porn, Anyone that believes Ernie Wise "wasn't funny", People who blank or ignore the homeless, People who whinge that the unemployed are taking their tax money, People that work for the council and think that it's important, Anyone who argues that blasphemy is relevant, Anyone who EVER use text speak EVER...

Oh you get the idea.

So who's with me? Come on, let's do this, let's reclaim the world.

Not tonight like, I've got to be up at 6am for a day of filming, but we'll do it soon. Let's stop putting up with them.

Right, gonna try and keep this brief today as I am tired and have to drive to Birmingham in an hour or so. Starting to hate driving to Birmingham I seem to do it so often.

Anyhow, last night I was at The Comedy Box which is at the Hen and Chicken which is in Bristol (www.thecomedybox.co.uk).

Interestingly enough, the Hen and Chicken is where the final Big And Daft show was almost six years ago to the day (final one in England, the very final one was in Dunfermline at Carnegie Hall...in the bar) and there is still a framed poster on the wall at The Comedy Box (at the time of going to press). My picture is hardly ever up at clubs that do that sort of thing so something inside me likes that, even if it is just that they haven't got round to taking it down yet.

It's a really great room for comedy, set out brilliantly, cool stage and a warm welcome from the people that run it. A benchmark in how to set up a gig I would say, it is little wonder that there has been a speight of prolific comedy talent emerging from Bristol in recent years, given the care taken of comedy there.

So the gig the gig the gig. What happened?

Fuck knows.

I think it was good. The more I have thought about it the more I have thought maybe it wasn't as good as I thought (brilliant sentence structure there).

Ok, here's what happened as I remember it; I was headlining and got off to my usual meandering start, finding my feet in the room as it had been an up and down gig in terms of the audience getting onto any sort of a roll. Nothing to do with the acts, just one of those Ford audiences (a Ford audience are relatively reliable but ocassionally need to be jump started).

So, all was going surprisingly well given how the audience had been. I was chatting away, doing old and new material, playing with hecklers (nice ones), threatening violence (nicely) and thoroughly enjoying myself for the first 35 minutes or so.

Then...

An old man started shouting at me.

It never became clear what his actual issue with me was, but from what I could gather he had a problem with my shirt. For the record my shirt was a red, St Helens RLFC T-shirt, with a white "stickman" Saint logo. We established that it wasn't a team rivalry problem he had because he kept asking me where I was from, despite the fact that I had said it twice at that point in my 'set' and, as I said, was wearing a t-shirt with "St Helens" written on it. No matter how many times I said I was from St Helens, he kept saying "come on - why won't you say where you're from...?".

Thing was though, he was sort of threatening. Well there was no 'sort of' about it, he was being vicious. Not in the sense that I felt he could physically hurt me, he was about a hundred and was a scrawny fucker, but he just seemed very angry, very quickly, and wouldn't stop.

Then a woman fell off her chair and hurt her arm and blamed me. She said that she'd been laughing so much that she'd fell off her chair, which would be sweet if it were true but I have it on good authority that she'd actually been to the bar and then just sat down in the wrong place (ie. not where her chair or indeed any chair was). Now, this interaction was all quite amiable, but then somebody in another part of the audience shouted at her to shut up. She stood up, said to me that she had been enoying my act but was going to leave as she wasn't taking that from a "Norwester" (I think I've got that right) which apparently is some sort of Bristolian local rivalry. And out she went - straight out the door in a strop.

The whole thing felt like one of those nights when you're out with mates and having a lovely time and then one of them, for reasons best known to themselves (usually beer), gets into a mood, gets stroppy and angry, and ruins the evening.

The gig ended fine, got myself a big cheer for my collection and the vast majority of the audience went home satisfied.

I had an interesting chat with Steve who runs the gig in the dressing room, where we discussed, amongst other things, why I get heckled so much. In fact, not 'heckled', rather why audiences talk to me so much. My style, such as it is, is very conversational - I try to perform on stage like a chat (I think this blog is written in a similar way too). We sort of deduced that audiences buy into that to the extent that they actually feel that they should be contributing to the conversation too, so really I guess it's a sort of flattery. My heckles are rarely people saying I'm shit - that does happen of course - but mostly people just 'joining in'.

I like it I think. I can't remember the last time I did a gig where I didn't feel like I had 'met' certain members of the audience. There have been some that I wish I hadn't met (like that old tramp cunt last night), but also many more that I'm glad I did.

So there we go. Gonna go to Birmingham now and make some more friends. It's a more hands on and satisfying approach than MySpace.

(Although if you can't make the gigs then MySpace will do - www.myspace.com/raypeacock - oh pleeease like me...)

I'm covered in bruises.

There will have to come a day when I realise that I'm no longer able to throw my body around like I used to.

Despite my muscular (cumbersome and fat) frame I have always been very agile. I did really well when I was playing Rugby League in my younger days mainly because the opposing teams didn't think I would move as fast as I did. I could run really fast - you wouldn't reckon it would you? That's why it worked.

This is also why when I did breakdancing or cartwheels at the Free Beer Show up in Edinburgh it would always raise the roof (and damage the floor). It's just unexpected that I would be able to move like that.

Can you even begin to imagine how brilliant I must be in bed?

But it's not as easy any more, I noticed the aches starting during the fringe and I certainly can see the bruises all over me this morning after yesterdays "blocking" day on set of the sitcom thing (blocking is when you work out where you are going to be stood when you say things and which camera is filming you and that..it's incredibly tedious). For some reason I keep getting jobs that involve me falling over, or being knocked over, or having to have fights, or be punched. I came home black and blue from the set of "Doctors" as well. The show I am currently filming involves all of these things.

Here is a list of my bruises:

Inside top of right arm (looks like one of those 'rough sex' bruises)
Outside top of left arm.
Right bosom (pec), bruise stretches round to my back.
Left ribs.
Left hip.
Left thigh.
Left knee (bad).

I think I must have fallen badly on the left side...call it a hunch (which is what I'll probably end up getting if I keep battering my body).

I just feel so old today. I'm 33 and I'm not sure if that actually is old or not, but my body is creaking. I don't think it helps that I started doing exercise on Thursday (Doctors orders) - I did sit ups (don't try and imagine it) and some weights stuff up top, so I would probably be aching anyway even without acting like Colt Seavers all day yesterday. I tried to do some exercise this morning too, but it had to be abandoned. Did most of it, but fuck it hurt. I might just buy some of them electric things that you can put on yourself that do the exercises for you whilst you watch telly or something.

The day on set yesterday was enjoyable enough though.

In the show my character is particularly objectionable to a guy in a wheelchair for a lot of the episode. The guy in the wheelchair is played by David Toole (www.dtoole.co.uk) and he, of course, is in a wheelchair for real. He doesn't have to be because he can move quicker on his hands than I can on my feet these days, but you kind of forget sometimes that you are abusing (in character) someone that does actually live with the disablilty you are mocking. And it took me fucking ages to work out the wording for the last part of the last sentence - I'm still not happy with it, but you get the idea.

When I am doing acting stuff, I tend to spend time daydreaming a little bit between scenes and during travel time, working out the best way of doing it. In a traffic jam on the M25 yesterday morning I realised I was being stared at by the girl in the car next to me. I intitially thought she was flirting with me (such is my misguided ego) but then I realised that I had been acting my lines out loud for about five or ten minutes. I managed to sneekily get my hands-free phone thing into my ear and then made sure she could see it, so I think I got away with it, but she started avoiding eye contact and put her foot down once the traffic cleared.

On set, in between abusing David's character, I have found myself sitting and sneering at him. Just looking him up and down with disdain. Now, I promise this is just me doing the daydreamy thing, but I think at first it genuinely upset him. He told me he was sitting there thinking "what the fuck am I meant to have done?" whilst I gave him demon eyes, but I have addressed it with him now. He's a really cool and funny bloke from Leeds, and he has an air of no-nonsense about him. He's also quite clearly hard as fucking nails and would knock the shit out of me in a fight. I wrote "kick" the shit out of me in a fight originally, but he doesn't have any legs so I changed it. Fucking knife edge isn't it?

Anyway, I have found the best way of dealing with the awkwardness on set is to be up front about it. I've made sure that Dave knows that I'm just 'getting into character' and that it isn't personal, and he has been totally cool with it, even suggesting that I pat him on the head in scenes as this is particularly insulting, but I still feel a slight cunt.

Not enough to stop me improvising in a scene yesterday and calling him "Davros" like, but it balances itself out as the vast majority of the bruises I am suffering with today were brought about by him...

In "character"...

I think...

Gonna have a crack at getting some sleep now to see if that helps the healing process any before a mental few days of work. Am doing Bristol tonight, Birmingham tomorrow, and then filming properly on Monday and Tuesday.

So keen am I to not be predictable.

Back again. Only had a few hours of restless sleep and was up at 8 this morning. Have just tried unsuccessfully to get back to sleep and so have decided to spend a bit of time with you on here, hope that's ok. Part of the reason that I couldn't sleep was because I kept thinking "I must write that thing about Jim Davidson before it goes off the front page of Chortle".

Yes, these are the things that I worry about.

And it has gone off the front page of Chortle now but that is the story of my career - either too far ahead of the trends or just behind them.

So, to recap, here is the article as it was written by Mr Bennett:

Jim Davidson is in the midst of another controversy after a cancer sufferer stormed out of his show over his jokes about cancer patients, blind people, the disabled and the stabbing of 10-year-old Damilola Taylor.
But the comic, who has never shied away from causing outrage, has vehemently denied making any such gags – saying he would have deserved a mass walkout if he had.
Mum-of-two Jacqueline Isherwood, 56, told the Bournemouth Echo: ‘Davidson made a cruel joke about breast cancer which really hit home. I was diagnosed with skin cancer two years ago.
‘When Davidson poked fun at a lady in a wheelchair and made jokes about blind people I couldn't stand any more and walked out.’
But Davidson defended his show at the town’s BIC venue, telling the paper: ‘She obviously wasn't listening. I'm sorry that this one lady missed the point. And miss the point she most certainly did.
‘If I had made jokes about cancer and blind people I would have expected the whole audience to get up and walk out. If what she is saying is true I would have got up and left myself.
‘I don't normally complain or explain but I will put on record that far from joking about Damilola Taylor my actual remark was that I thought the killers should be locked away forever. And if she objects to that then that is her prerogative.
Jacqueline's husband Graham added: ‘We were expecting Jim Davidson to be controversial but didn't expect him to be so offensive. This was totally unacceptable.’
Davidson has previously been slated after he tried to ban people in wheelchairs from the front row of his audience in Plymouth, saying they would put him off his performance.

There we go.

Now, to begin, I feel I must say that I am not a fan of Davidson for all the normal reasons, but - and it is a big but - I have to take his side on this.

Fucking hell that was a horrible thing to write.

What has been reported here is a major fucking gripe of mine. To be honest, I couldn't give a toss what he did or didn't say on stage, it is the reaction he has provoked that gets my goat. It says all you need to know about Mr and Mrs Isherwood in there. I fucking hate when an audience member turns because suddenly they take something personally. Are we going to get to a stage where comedians have to take a survey before beginning their acts?

The problem I think I have with it is the sheer arrogance it displays. If you look at the quotes from them in the article it's clear that they have no moral code other than for when things affect them directly - not that a moral code is relevant in comedy anyway, for all humour must put someone or something into a derogatory position, any joke can offend if the person being told it is sensitive enough. Yet, they were prepared for Davidson to be, as they put it, "controversial". What does that mean? When does controversial become offensive? Where is the line drawn for them? Quite clearly when it is something that triggers a relation to their personal lives. Their argument is monumentally flawed.

"Davidson made a cruel joke about breast cancer which really hit home. I was diagnosed with skin cancer two years ago."

So?

I really don't see the issue.

And, if we are going to be picky, breast cancer is completely different to skin cancer so it's not relevant even if we accept the premise.

I find the quote from Graham Isherwood particularly objectionable: "We were expecting Jim Davidson to be controversial but didn't expect him to be so offensive. This was totally unacceptable". I read that as him saying "We thought he might have a pop at the pakis but my wife has cancer! That is out of bounds!".

Look, I'm not saying that an audience member is unjustified in feeling discomfort when something strikes a chord in them. We can't decided what does and doesn't upset us. Any number of strange things can stir a melancholic emotion in me these days, but it is how we then react that is key I feel. If I felt the need to complain every time I was upset I'd be calling radio stations all day long demanding they no longer play the song that tipped me to tears, and denouncing the fact that they had the nerve to do so in the first place.

In the months following the London bombings you could observe audiences and pinpoint who had been directly affected by their body language when comedians discussed it. You could also see, in the main, that whilst this may have caused a degree of discomfort, they understood that part of the role of comedy is to take on difficult topics and find the humour in them, and so a respect for the convention and art was observed.

I'm not so sure that Jim Davidson would have thought about it in quite so much depth, but the principle remains the same. The fact that Mr and Mrs Isherwood ran to the press with the story makes my blood boil, and it's made even worse by the fact that they commit the additional cardinal sin (in my eyes) of being offended on behalf of someone else...but I don't think I need to go into that, we all have our own stories on that front.

I've had three incidents in my career (actually four - I just remembered another one) where I have upset audience members with the topic of material. Don't get me wrong, I've upset hundreds of audiences, but only four times when it has baffled me. Not so much that they were upset, more the reason for them being upset.

There was a time in Gloucester when I mentioned the word 'suicide' and a group of people made a big fuss and walked out. I'd mentioned the word, that's all. It wasn't a joke about suicide (although I believe that would still be acceptable).

Then there was the time earlier this year at the Glee Club in Birmingham. I'd said that there was a time and a place for laughing at disabled people...and it's the para-olympics.

Not clever, but it was naughty and so provoked a laugh.

Take the comment at face value and it's offensive, put it in within the context of the convention of a comedy club and we are closer to justification. However, the reaction I got from one lady threw me like I have never been thrown on stage before. She stood up and said that her husband was upset with me. I asked why. She said that it was because their daughter was pregnant and they had just found out that the baby was, and I quote, 'backward'.

Now.

I don't know what she expected to happen. I don't know what her ideal outcome would have been. I'm fucking good but I can't undo genetics. I just didn't get her point. It was such a tenuous link, so far out of my grasp of understanding. And she just stayed stood up, just looking at me as I looked around the rest of the room with a look of complete befuddlement. There was silence for a good twenty seconds. Then one bloke in the audience simply said "What???" and the rest of them joined in. I had no need to address it, the rest of the audience did it for me. Then the sound man at the Glee put his twopenneth in by playing "The Girl Is Mine" by Richard Cheese during the interval. If you don't know, it's a cover of the Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney song, and features a duet between Richard Cheese and a (parodied) Stephen Hawking.

That's why I love the Glee Birmingham (but I sill prefer Cardiff).

The other two incidents involve that old favourite, September 11th 2001, and these take some beating. Again, not the fact that people were upset, more their reasons...wait till you hear these...

First one was at Imperial College in London. I'd been doing stuff about Sept 11th, and it was at the time that I was doing the character so the humour was based predominantly around his ignorance of the situation, stuff like saying it wasn't Bin Laden who was responsible it would just be "kids messing about...happens all the time in Leeds..." that sort of thing.

There was a young American girl down the front (like she would be anywhere else - bit of casual xenophobia there).

"Can't talk about that! It's too sensistive!" she screamed at me.

"what's up with you?" I asked.

"Don't you realise?" she shouted, seemingly on the verge of tears.

"Realise what?"

This was her reason for being upset:

Ready?

"Those were the tallest buidings in America!"

Can you fucking believe that? What the fuck? Luckily I am blessed with such devastating wit that my response of "Well now they're the widest" sorted out the altercation decisively. In my defence I had to say something and fast.

But the final thing I am going to tell you about tops that I reckon. For an audience member's reason for taking offence it really can't be topped.

Edinburgh 2002, "Comedy Zone", Saturday Night, Pleasance Cabaret Bar, Sold Out.

Always raucous in the "Zone" at the weekends, mainly a local crowd, very beered up and very shouty. My favourite type of audience (well it was when I was doing the character).

I'm banging on about September 11th, almost everyone is laughing. I say 'almost' as I can see from the stage that there is a man right in the middle of the lower level who is seriously pissed off. He's glaring at me with hatred that I hadn't seen since leaving my previous girlfriend, and as I am a cunt about these sort of things I just keep on pushing it whilst looking directly at him, almost daring him to make his move.

He did make his move. A fucking Jedi wouldn't have been able to see this coming.

He stood up.

"SHUT UP!"

The entire room did, it fell eerily silent.

"Shut up shut up shut up shut up" he carried on, clearly not noticing that we all had.

"I've shut up..." I said, "What?"

"You can not discuss that in a comedic fashion"

I must confess that this alone was enough to throw me. Especially given that so far that evening the most eloquent heckle I had got was "Fat cunt". Suddenly there was a 'gentleman' challenging me.

"What's your problem?" I asked.

This was his reason for being upset about me discussing Spetember 11th:

Ready?

"I was there on the tenth".

I shit you not, that is what his argument was. For a moment I thought maybe he meant he was on the tenth floor, and was preparing to dig in my heels for a 'proper' argument and discussion about the validity of my comedy, but then he clarified it without being asked.

"I was there on the tenth of September".

It almost didn't dignify a response. I was fucking fuming with him. Mainly because he was having a pop at me for using it as material when he was essentially showing off that he's missed catastrophe by 24 hours. I bet even to this day he tells people that at bus stops, or at the job centre or wherever the fuck he goes. But it doesn't fucking mean anything. It is so far from relevant. And like I said, it almost didn't dignify a response.

Again, I say 'almost' because I had got a good one, and I was damned if I was going to let dignity get in the way.

"Well you're a fucking jinx mate...nobody come here tomorrow night for fuck's sake!"

I know, I know, you can say it...I'm amazing...

I'm so not in the mood to write this blog today, but as it is this or moping about, I am opting for this.

I will now tell you what I have been up to.

Here it comes now.

Last night I went to the cinema again. I felt that after my scathing yet expertly written review of "World Trade Centre" (God, it was rubbish) I should pursue further film reviews just in case somebody wants me to do it professionally (which I would be fucking brilliant at by the way) but in order to do that I would have to see more films at the cinema. So last night I went to see "Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning".

I thought it was good. Bit full on from time to time, but I liked it.

Yeah, that'll do for that review.

Today I was just about managing to get in some sleep this afternoon when I was rudely awoken by my mobile phone. I've recently taken to turning my mobile phone off from time to time as I had pinpointed it as a source of stress for me. It's kind of a double-edged sword though, as I have found that turning it back on again and getting no messages adds equal anxiety. How does that work? How can either your phone not stopping ringing or nobody calling you make you depressed? Can't bloody win me.

Anyway, today my phone was left on and, like I say, it rang this afternoon. It was Simon Streeting. Now, if you recall, Simon had something to do with my Edinburgh Fringe show. I'm not entirely sure myself what it was, but it had something to do with planning or technical stuff or something. He was calling me as this evening he was working on the touring stage show of "Grumpy Old Women" which today arrived at the St Albans Arena (which is where I live - St Albans - not the Arena - I don't need that much space). As I haven't seen Simon since we bade each other goodbye on the final night of the Fringe, I thought it would be nice to go down and see him. He's always good value is Simon, and is rarely without some sort of gossipy story. I walked down into town (yes - walked...it's fucking three miles or so but I am kind of athletic these days) to meet him.

We went for a drink in a pub called The Cock, which - if you knew Simon - seemed as appropriate as any, and he brought me up to date with all his news, and told me about all the girls he has been going out with. This took no time as there were none. I have tried on many many occasions to sort Simon out with a girl but even my considerable charm with the ladies hasn't been able to swing it for him. He steadfastly maintains that he isn't gay. I have seen people wide-eyed with shock when he has announced this claim.

I think he's great. I first met Simon when I was in "The Comedy Zone" at the festival in 2002 and have mercilessly ripped on him consistently ever since. He sometimes gets angry but that makes me do it more. Every now and then he gets so angry that he hits me, but it is worth it to see the look of abject fear on his face when he realises what he has done and that it will mean he has to pay the price. I have slapped Simon hard across the face more times than I care to remember. Don't know what it is, he just brings out the bully in me.

In fact, I think it does go back to "The Comedy Zone". I was late for the technical rehearsal (very unlike me - I don't like being late and get myself very worked up when I am), and he had a real go at me when I finally arrived. Now, I could have been apologetic when I saw how angry he was, but there was something about his stupid contorted face that really made me laugh. I decided there and then that Simon Streeting would be my bitch till the day he died. He took verbal hammerings off me (or I suppose technically the "character" of Ray) from the stage every single night of that year's "Comedy Zone", especially when he used to flash a stupid little light at me to tell me I was overrunning (again). During last year's "Edinburgh and Beyond" tour (which he was Tour Manager of - a fact that actually made me cry with happiness when I found it out) I was able to abuse him in theatres up and down the land and on the tour bus as well. The one and only reason I called shotgun was because I wanted to be as close as possible to Simon (who was driving it) in order to maximise the bullying opportunities. There was a button on the dashboard that made the seats go hot. Can you imagine how annoyed he got at around the three thousandth time I pressed it?

Yet I am protective over him. For example, during the technical rehearsal for "Ray Peacock & Son" at the 2005 fringe, a member of staff at the venue (who shall remain nameless but we all know which cunt I am on about) came in and started having a pop at Simon. It was done in such a way as to belittle him in front of all the people that were there. I wasn't fucking having that. First off, I knew what this person was saying about Simon was untrue as I had been present when he did what this other person said he didn't, and second off, nobody - and I mean fucking nobody - belittles Simon Streeting other than me. He is my whipping boy, if other people want one then they need to put in the hours that I have, not just come swanning into a room and starting. Can't believe I'm still angry about that over a year later...

Anyway, that's enough personal stuff about Simon Streeting. I know that he is reading this in a hotel in Reading (which he will probably complain in - he always complains - it's one of the most hilarious things you could ever see and, again, it gets funnier the more upset he gets) and he'll be getting all worked up, so I shall say as conclusion, despite all my brilliant japes, there is nobody better at their job than that lad and I love him dearly.

After our drink and some 'chunky chips' I accompanied him back to the theatre to sit in on the sound check. Had a brief yet lovely chat with Jenny Eclair (who co-wrote and co-stars in the show) and we discussed my Edinburgh experience. I was trying to explain that I had enjoyed it, yet felt it slipping away during the final week. She was telling me that her daughter has just completed her second fringe and that she (Jenny) had told her that the Fringe would provide some of the best and worst days of her life. That's about as concise a conclusion as can be made about the Fringe, and it was certainly the case for me during this year's August. I'm starting to feel though that I'd rather have a rollercoaster than stability. There's something awfully predictable about stability, I'm sort of a fan of the times that the heart pounds, in both a good and bad way. It has something to do with passion I think.

I don't know.

I'll have to think about it some more.

And on that note, I'm fucking off.

Hey Kids

Yep - back again...miss me? Thought not.

Had a busy emotional rollercoaster of a weekend and I'm only now getting to sit down on here for any length of time to write. Just got back from my monthly doctors appointment. The good news is that my blood pressure has come down due to my brilliant weight loss/starvation programme, I am however still mental so I've been given a load more tablets to try and stop that. The depression thing has been pretty apparent this weekend, but I'll get to that.

First things first, St Helens Rugby League Football Club.

Indulge me - it's important.

In my teenage years, St Helens RLFC made sure that I never got too happy. At a time when all of us are going through turmoil and stress as our bodies and minds are adjusting to adulthood, I had the added pressure of being a committed supporter of Saints RL. Three Wembley finals ended in abject heartbreak, including a nilling in 1989 by arch rivals Wigan. We kept coming second in everything, almost getting there - raising the hopes of the faithful support but always falling at the last hurdle, to the point that the club began to be known as the 'bridesmaids'. At the time it was a living hell - you may have noticed that I have a tendency to overly emotionally react to things, and this is nowhere more true than where Saints are concerned. I'm not a sport person - as I believe I have mentioned before - don't follow a football team, or any of the major sporting events even casually, my only sporting passion is Rugby League despite the fact that it has caused me more sulks and strops than anything or anyone else in my life. But experiencing years of lows also means that when the highs come they are all the sweeter...

Saturday night capped a perfect season for Saints. A literally perfect season - here are the honours for the 2006 Super League XI season:

Challenge Cup Winners
Lance Todd Trophy Winner (Sean Long)
End of Season League Position #1
League Leaders Trophy Winners
Players Player of the Year Winner (Paul Wellens)
Young PLayer of the Year Winner (James Graham)
Coach of the Year Winner (Daniel Anderson)
Man Of Steel Winner (Paul Wellens)
Super League Grand Final Winners
Harry Sunderland Trophy Winner (Paul Wellens)

Clean sweep - the lot - perfection. I know it doesn't mean a thing to you but it does to me and as this is my blog I can put what I want so there it is.

Old Trafford on Saturday night was an emotional experience for me, looking up and around the stadium at 72,000 people and seeing half of them elated and half of them in despair, I've had both in my lifetime as a Saints supporter, it's difficult to truly enjoy victory when you are reminded of the hurt of defeat. As I left the ground I was walking behind a young lad with his dad, both Hull supporters (the losing team) and I could hear the dad saying there's always next year and all that sort of stuff. The same stuff my dad would say to me as we yet again walked down Wembley Way, trying to block out the gloating taunts from the Wigan 'fans' and choruses of "Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life", but it was never any consolation - next year was so far away. I really felt for that lad who was walking in front of me because I have been in his position and it's awful. The only comfort I could take is that I know that, like me, one day feeling that sorrow in defeat will make the glory days - that will come - shine brighter.

Which brings us to Sunday. True to form, following the relief and elation of the cup final the night before, my mood plummetted on Sunday daytime. Part of the problem with clinical depression is the mood swingy aspect of it. I don't know if it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy but I was kind of waiting for the fall. Driving over the M62 towards Hull on Sunday afternoon I got about as low as I ever have so far. Normally I find the drive over the Yorkshire Moors into Huddersfield and Bradford really quite relaxing, but on Sunday the beauty of the views was wasted on me.

I arrived in Hull fairly early and why I thought going to see "World Trade Centre" at the cinema was a good idea given my mood, I have no idea. Luckily it was rubbish (my film reviews are brilliant aren't they? None of your fannying about with making arguments for or against - I just say it was great or rubbish - it was rubbish though...).

Hull University is always a pleasure to play, even in the depths of depression. The students there are savvy and they love their comedy, I always find they afford you a greater level of indugence than many other clubs, enabling you as a performer to slow right down and be a bit more thoughtful and considered. I always end up dramatically overrunning at Hull Uni, and I always come out of the gig with more material than I arrived with. A lovely gig, and add to that the fact that loads of the audience cropped up on my MySpace page yesterday, and that support act Janice Phayre accidentally showed me her lower lady part in the dressing room and you have the next completed high of the emotional rollercoaster.

I didn't drive back South on Sunday, instead opting to cut back across the M62 to stay at my mum's house in the North West. This was partly because I was knackered and partly because I really wanted to buy the Rugby League papers on Monday morning (which I did - they will be framed by the end of the week). The M62 depressed me on the way back too.

Not very inspiring this blog today is it?

So that's me. I'm off today and tomorrow and then back to workiness on Thursday at the Celebrity Pub Quiz at EDC, and then a full studio day on the sitcom Friday. I really wanted to write about that Jim Davidson thing that was on Chortle's front page over the weekend but I can't be fussed doing it now.

I'm not sure I'm ready to say in public that I have sided with Jim Davidson on something either...

My sleep patterns continue to disrupt an already complicated existence.

Slight improvement on yesterday though I feel. To update, I DID see the night out without returning to slumber, my tiredness hitting me at around 10 am this morning (which, rather conveniently, was my on-set call time). I necked a can of Red Bull and went about my business. As I have been eating healthy and cut out things like Red Bull for the last few weeks, drinking it was a real shock to the system, like drinking acid. Just shows you how we get our bodies accustomed to things that probably don't belong in them.

So, as I said yesterday, my morning consisted of being filmed stalking a pretty French girl, played by Delia Remy. I don't have any lines in the location stuff, so it wasn't that difficult to perform under my lethargy. The scene was set in a newsagents in High Wycombe, and we pretty much took over the whole shop although, unusually for a shoot, the shop remained open.

It's strange being in someone's workplace for an alien reason, you find yourself doing things without thinking which, if you were there for the normal real-life reasons (like being a customer or something) would be totally unacceptable. Things like throwing swiss rolls at other performers or openly displaying the inside of porn mags. On that subject incidentally, I was going to tell you what shop we were actually in but I think they may be breaking the law with some of the pornography they had in there. Proper hardcore stuff which I was sure you were only able to stock in a licenced sex shop.

I was in my element...Surprised I did any work at all.

We wrapped at around midday, just as the thunder and lightning storm that had accompanied our shooting decided to move on to pastures new - St Albans as it turned out, following me home.

Got in, had some smoked salmon (my present faddy food of choice - have eaten three packs this week so far), and fell into bed, determined to only sleep till maybe 6pm. I woke up properly half an hour ago, and can't actually work out whether this is a good thing or not. I have a meeting at Avalon in London at midday, so I am daring to believe that I should be ok.

I am meeting with Steve Morrison, who is a comedy writer I have briefly worked with before, and our mutual manager has decided to throw us together on a project in a sort of Blind Date scenario. I think the idea behind it is that it will mean we mutually spur each other on thus taking the pressure off ourselves singularly to keep things moving. I'm not so sure this will work. The last time Steve and I worked together we spent most of the time drawing pictures of people with Downs Syndrome having adventures.

I'm not entirely sure I should have told you that. Oh well, too late now.

For some reason, I get into little habits like that (drawing people with downs syndrome). It is purely for reasons of offence, and an (up until now) private occurence - normally between myself and somebody else.

For example, when we were rehearsing for "Ray Peacock & Son" in 2005, Isy Suttie and I spent a ridiculously long period of time swapping emails where we had found pictures online of people with white stuff over them and adding to them the legend "That's not come". It was usually people with milk or mayo on their faces, the only rule being that it couldn't actually be come. It came about because I had shown someone a clip of a bukkake film online (look it up if you don't know - but don't do it at work, wait till you get home) and they had watched it in silence before declaring "that's not come". Don't know why it was so funny, but it creased up both myself and Isy and spawned the trend.

I think it runs along the same lines of the "Aristocrats" joke that was documented so definitively in Provenza's film of the same name, just the idea of trying to shock your peers for the sake of it, the true challenge and ultimate reward seeing the look of horror on the other persons face as you reveal your latest creation.

You may feel this makes me a very bad man, but I would beg to differ - I think it shows that I am unhindered by artistically-restrictive social constraints as to what is a suitable subject for humour.

All right, fuck it, I'm a very bad man.

I've dropped a fairly major bollock.

Fell asleep at about 2.30pm today and have just woken up. Totally wide awake...well done me.

I've got an early start tomorrow for location filming so now I have the head fuck of trying to work out the best way of going about this. Do I stay up and see it through (as I am only on set for a few hours) or do I attempt to force myself to sleep knowing that this will most likely conclude with me tossing and turning for hours on end before rising in a stinkier mood than I would have been had I just stayed up?

My sleep is erratic at the best of times, and has become twice so in recent weeks as the medication I'm taking for that thing inspires very vivid, unsettling and unusal dreams. Today I dreampt about the journey from the house I stayed at in Edinburgh to the Pleasance Hut. In my dream I did this journey over and over again. There was no reason for me to keep making the journey, but I was locked in it. Another 'favourite' has been me dreaming that my laptop is broken and I have to work out a way of fixing it. I often wake and continue to try and work out the remedy for hours before having the epiphany moment where I realise it was just a dream. Anxiety dreams - can't beat them.

I watched Stephen Grant's dvd last night (the one of his live show), he sent it to me when he sent me the other dvd of the Stephen Fry depression programme that he didn't send me because that would be illegal unless he sent me his own copy of it which would technically fall into a loophole as long as I return it so yes that's it. I was really glad to see people rally around Stephen on the Chortle forums (which I never read of course) when someone had a pop at him the other week. If you didn't see it, some 'promoter' (who nobody appears to have heard of so I'm guessing they ran a gig at a pub once or something) said "That's the first time I've heard Stephen Grant be described as popular..." in reference to the description of his blog. He went on in further posts to say that Stephen was one of the few people in comedy (one of only three I think he said) that he would happily punch.

Now, here's what I think.

And please bear in mind that this is coming from someone who has learnt the hard way. It is very easy to throw mud when you are in the lower divisions of the comedy industry. The temptation to be outspoken is enormous in order to portray yourself as 'edgy' or 'maverick', but it is ultimately misguided. I know this because in the first couple of years I was in Big And Daft I fell into this trap myself, randomly slagging people off and playing the big "I am". It wasn't long until I regretted it, and started to be a bit more grown up about the whole thing. I found myself in Edinburgh 2001 apologising face-to-face to an act that I had been rude about in the press, and my apology was (at face value at least) accepted. Thing was, I stood by my opinion of them, but recognised that shouting my opinion (for that is all it was - my opinion as opposed to unarguable fact) in public was not only incredibly ungallant, but also reflected badly on me. Who the fuck was I to be spouting judgement? This is a difficult enough job as it is without us turning on each other.

This is why I have such a problem with a lot of the 'list' shows on TV. I find it so uncomfortable to watch relative unknown performers slagging off established people. It all feels a bit snidey to me. Yet, five years ago or so, I'd have been first in the queue to do it.

So, what I am saying is, I understand why somebody would go onto a forum and slag someone, but with benefit of experience, I also see how stupid it is to do so. Not least because Stephen Grant is one of few genuinely genuine folk in the world of comedy. The only problem I could envisage anybody having with Stephen is the belief that he is not what he portrays - that he is almost too good to be true. Thing is, he really is that way though.

Case in point, he said to me he would send me a copy of a programme I missed and wanted to see and then DID. I've lost count of the amount of times I've said to people I'd send them something and then not done, or people have said it to me, but he goes through with it. Not only that, he also encloses a copy of his live dvd and forewarns me that the other programme may be a bit heavy going at times. Added to all this the fact that he is a great comic, and for my money the very best compere in the comedy world, and you have even more reason not to be knocking him. He is to be treasured that lad. There is a reason that the audience at the Krater Comedy Club in Brighton sulk for the whole first section when I am announced as compere, and it's not because I'm rubbish, it's because Stephen Grant isn't there.

So that's what I think on the matter, and as my opinion is the only one that counts then I think we can safely say that this is now the matter resolved.

I'm at a bit of a loose end now. I'm still wide awake. Haven't even got any lines to learn as my days work tomorrow involves stalking a pretty petite French girl (in the sitcom I hasten to add). I suppose I could go out and do some real stalking as a 'rehearsal'...I'm sure that restraining order has run out now...

I've got a day off.

Is there anything better than a day off?

Well, yes, loads of things, but I hadn't finished yet. What I was going to say was, is there anything better than an unexpected day off? I don't mean like when you're ill or when someone dies or something, I mean just when you were expecting to be working and then found out you didn't need to.

Oh, you knew what I meant, you just make me explain everything.

I did another full days rehearsal today (Mon), and when I got home I just happened to look at my call sheet (bit of paper that tells you what time you need to be on-set and what you need to be wearing and that) and noticed that it was dated for the 11th. I was under the impression it was for tomorrow (Tues), but a phone call later and I was given the brilliant news. Tomorrow they are filming me running up some stairs (which I hadn't been looking forward to on account of it sounding 'athletic') but as they are only filming the feet on the steps I am having a stand-in to save me the journey. So how brilliant is that? Not only do I have a day off but I can now tell people that I've had a body double like Demi Moore or Julia Roberts except mine was for my feet and not my bum or busters.

I've always loved getting unexpected days off. I love it when a gig is cancelled at the very last minute. That sounds terrible doesn't it? Course, I only love it on the proviso that I still get paid, and there are some nights when it isn't welcome (if you were planning to try new material or if it is just pulled because it's the fringe and nobody loves you because they've all gone to see Jimmy Carr or something) but generally speaking I like it. It doesn't mean I want gigs to be pulled, or that I don't enjoy my job, it's just a little occasional treat. I think it's great. It's like when you used to go to school on a snowy day only to be told that the pipes had burst or the heating was fucked and you had a day off. It was amazing. I can vividly recall walking back out of the school gates, seeing the blanket of snow covering the fields and feeling a surge of optimism at the possibilities held within this temporary emancipation from enforced education. Don't get me wrong, it usually consisted of playing Star Wars as it was very rare that a Hoth battle could be sufficiently replicated without the need for buying copious amounts of self-raising flour, but surely optimism is a positive emotion whether credibly fulfilled or not?

So who knows what brilliant things I shall be filling my day off with today?

My money is on a couple of episodes of Family Guy, a flirtation with my neglected Playstation and possibly a wank early afternoon (so don't phone me between 1.00pm and 1.03pm).

In other news, I just accidentally deleted the first draft of this post. Fucking hate it when I do that. I've tried to replicate it as best I can but I've got to say the first draft was better. I was trying to sort out the paragraphs and you have to insert a "/p" thing at the top and I accidentally hit the delete button and it skipped me back a page and when I skipped forward again this box I am typing in was all empty and mocking.

In other, other news, I had a costume fitting today (as in Monday). Well, I say a costume fitting - I tried a pair of jeans on. As they were tossed over to me I noted that they were a size smaller than my size and immediately started with "No chance - I won't get in them", but on they slipped with ease. So I've dropped a jeans size. The fact that I am on the last notch of my belt (the good way) and that my jeans unceremoniously dropped to my ankles in Asda the other day should have been a bit of a clue really.

I don't want you thinking that I am some sort of Adonis figure now by the way (is that right? Adonis? It doesn't look right, does it?) - I'm still a fatty. I've just lost a bit, and do feel better for it. Not that I would ever admit that publicly as that would imply that I attatched negative connotations to when I was carrying a wee bit more and that couldn't possibly be true.

Finally, (and this is a sporty thing so don't worry if you want to skip it and just go - I'll understand), the annual Rugby League awards were given out last night and it was a clean sweep for my beloved St Helens. Man of Steel award and Players player of the year went to Paul Wellens - and a nicer, more committed and more deserving man it couldn't possibly have gone to. It's long overdue recognition for him, his only honour so far had been the fact that I named the tax inspector in my Edinburgh 2005 show after him. Young player of year was James Graham and coach of year was Daniel Anderson (both of St Helens). I know, I know, it's boring to you but it means a lot to me. It's put a bit more pressure on the final deciding game of the season this Saturday, but I like that. If they win that, they've won everything they possibly could this year.

Anyway, I can't stay here talking to you losers all day.

I have a day off to go and waste.

Oh hello...

Right, I've checked and it was the Secombe theatre that was rubbish and refused to pay PRS so had no music. That's the Secombe Theatre. It's in Sutton (the one in Surrey, not the one in St Helens).

I should be in bed really, I have another full day of rehearsals tomorrow and I have been yawning for a while now. Better get on with this.

So, tonight I did a gig in Clapham at The Railway. It was relatively quiet, as one might expect from a Sunday evening, but the vast majority of the audience were perfectly agreeable (there was one woman who looked at me sternly throughout - utterly devoid of fun and completely reluctant to retain an open mind to the prospect of having any). I really wished to enjoy my gig tonight, given that due to my filming/rehearsing commitments I don't have another gig until next Sunday in Hull Uni (that'll be good that one - always is - although thinking about it...if Hull beat Saints in the Rugby League cup on the Saturday it might not be...Ah, it'll be all right...they wont beat us).

Tonight, it was one of those nights where it felt like you were just stood up in somebodies living room, but for some reason I found this quite a nice feeling. I placed everything very low-key, made lots of eye contact (avoiding the witch in case it turned me to stone) and ambled along at a leisurely pace, it was genuinely pretty much stress free and relaxing.

There's a massive inherent inclination to speed up delivery in such situations, but I think that allowing yourself breathing space and not being panicked into filling every silence is a base prerequisite of being a comedian. That and, at least giving the illusion of, knowing what you're doing.

I remember Barry Cryer talking about Les Dawson once and he said that Les was such a magnificent comedian because the second he walked on stage you felt safe in the knowledge that he knew what he as doing, you knew you were all right. I think there's wisdom in that. Obviously it massively helps if you do know what you're doing, but attitude is a big part of that battle won I reckon.

I go out of my way to appear half-arsed on stage. My manager has often accused me of being too good at it, and the other night when I did that gig with Brendon Burns, Burnsy said it was the least arsed he had ever seen a comedian or audience at a gig, yet he really enjoyed it (or so he said). Fact is, I was working my bollocks off, but it's a way of lulling an audience into believing you are perfectly happy doing the job your own way. Audiences can be savage beasts and there's nothing awakes their bloodlust faster than the smell of fear. As Brendon said, the fact that my apparent "fuck it" attitude infected the sensibilities of the audience meant I had effectively rendered impotent the prospect of disappointment - there was nothing worth being disappointed about.

See?

But of course I was trying really...

On that night it came off, but on the other side of the coin sometimes an audience may truly believe you simply aren't trying and get the arsehole with you for that, perhaps rightly so given that they have paid cash to see you do your thing. It's a delicate balance, and one that I don't pretend to have gotten right 100% of the time. In fact, it is proven that I don't always get it right as earlier this year I received a complaint letter after a gig I did at the Theatre By The Lake in Cumbria (a truly beautiful theatre, in a beautiful setting run by wonderful people).

It was from Harry and Judy Marsland from Brackenrigg. I didn't have to look up those names just now - they are burned into my memory because, much as I would like to put a brave face on it, that letter really upset me. Depsite my mock protestations on this blog about my Chortle review in August, I can actually handle criticism. Course it bothers me superficially, same as it would anyone, but I am aware of it's place in any artform and am able to differentiate between personal taste and constructive critique. The letter I got though was fucking nasty. I got absolutely obsessed with it. I had it in my back pocket for months, producing it at any given opportunity, brandishing it at people and demanding they read it and agree with me as to how unfair it was. In fact, I was overly obsessed with it, and I must have come off as pretty desperate and for want of a better phrase, a 'sore loser' to keep bringing it to light.

So I'm going to talk about it briefly here, a last fling, and then that's an end to it once and for all.

My main issue with it was the basic misunderstanding of comedy as a performance. This couple had a very specific view of what comedy was and would not be swayed from it one iota. They opened their letter by pre-empting this as my argument against their views by saying that if I said they just didn't "get it" then they would like to point out that they had lived in London and been regulars at Jongleurs and The Comedy Store. At the risk of getting myself a catchphrase - make of that what you will.

They went on to rip me to shreds, marvelling at how I had managed to fill 50 mins with such pointless and unprepared drivel, and condemning how 'unbothered and uninterested' I was about entertaining them. Interestingly, they added that my support act wasn't particularly funny but "seemed a pleasant enough person". So not only was I bad at my job in their eyes, but I was also deficient as a human being. It was a horrible assessment of the evening. It was also inaccurate on many points, it failed to mention I was encored at the show, instead implying that the rest of the audience were in total agreement with them, and the fact was, my part of the show actually ran for 80 minutes (I know all these things as I record many of my gigs so I went back and checked). So you see what I mean about the half-arsed thing? Attempting to create some sort of 'style' can sometimes make a rod for your own back.

I was desperate to reply to them. I was so infuriated that within an hour of receiving the letter I had found their address and telephone number on the internet, and it was all my management could do to restrain me. I composed letters in my head to them, ranging from pure vitriol to listing all my press quotes with the postscript "But what would these journalists know? I bet they've never been to Jongleurs and The Comedy Store like you have". I never did write the letter though, never sat down and did it - the reason being, the only letter I actually wanted to write consisted of me saying that their attack really, really hurt me. No smart arse defiance - it just made me feel shit.

But I'll tell you what bothered me about the letter the very most, and it's on my mind because I have had, by and large, a heckly week (if such a word exists - 'heckly' I mean, not 'week' - 'week' is definitely a word); The fact that they went home and wrote a fucking letter. And if you read it you would know the sort of persons they are, it has an exceedingly holier-than-thou tone to it, yet for all their proclamations of comedic authority and self-importance they didn't have the courage of their convictions on the night in question. They were in the same room as me - face to face - they had the opportunity to voice their displeasure but not a fucking peep. That would have at least allowed me the courtesy of immediate defence and discussion. As we know, I am all for heckling - always have been - I would never oppose someone's right to shout out at a comedy gig. I may disagree with their point, their timing or their manner of doing so, and I may reserve the right to deal with said heckle in any way I see fit, but I think heckling is a brilliant part of this job.

But to be heckled a month later in a letter - that's bad form I reckon, and only leads to this that I am doing now;

The most delayed, public, and long-winded put down I ever did.

But I had to explain it properly.

If I'd just typed "cunts" you wouldn't have known what I was on about.

Night x