I continue to upset the PUBD (People Upset On Behalf of the Disabled) on a pretty much daily basis.

On Friday night I broke my own rule and doubled up on gigs (two in one night). This is the second point of hypocrisy on my behalf this week having previously condemned other acts for doing just that (the first hypocrisy being my purchase of a sports car after claiming I had no interest in it). In my defence of the doubling up, it was kind of as a last minute favour, and in defence of the sports car...erm...nope, haven't got one.

The first of my gigs on Friday was at The Comedy Box in Bristol, a great gig as previously declared herein, but the Friday nights are new and last week was kind of quiet. Audience members I did battle with included a cunt from the tax office, a GP (or so she said...she was a snooty pedantic fucker at any rate, in my opinion), some woman who got upset by me saying "cunt" and went on to offer an argument on semantics (whilst not having the intelligence to realise that as a result of her interjection I went on to say the word 'cunt' another twenty or so times in the resultant discussion), and a selection of folk who took offence at my beautiful and tender impression of Jordan's first baby.

According to my friend who overheard a discussion in the ladies toilets after the event, it was this that 'crossed the line'.

I don't really know why though. Nor do I fully understand my own personal justification for doing the impression (which I have been doing for ages now - it's basically me cross-eyed with puffed out cheeks - it's rather uncanny I'm told). I don't fumble around the stage and bump into things (although I might have slapped my legs as if they were burning on Friday...), it is not a joke about blindness or anything, it's just supposed to be silly. When it upsets people though, it tends to be the blindness thing that is brought up.

But why should that make it a taboo? You could argue that the kid in question doesn't deserve to be ridiculed, but I'm not particularly ridiculing it, and it's own mother seems to sell a story a week to some vicious fucking rag about how "Harvey kicks me" or something. How come I'm the bad guy for crossing my eyes?

And I'm not personally overly convinced with the blind claim either. I don't know what the official party line is on the matter but I don't personally reckon he's blind. He certainly appears to be finding the fridge...oh there I go again...

But again, why am I the fucking bad guy? "Oh he got his legs burned at Christmas!" cry the sensitive audience members. Well why is a blind child being left to wander around a house of it's own accord turning on hot taps? If it was any other family the fucking council would get involved. But I'm the villain for puffing my cheeks out.

***deliberate naughtiness*** Surely Jordan has enough money to have pigs eyes transplanted or something? I don't know how these things work to be honest. ***deliberate naughtiness***

So, anyhow, The Comedy Box wasn't my finest hour, but I got enough off the cuff laughs to consider it a draw.

I then went on to a gig in the middle of nowhere. It was in East Harptree in Bristol and mobile phones don't work there. The gig was in a room above a beautiful pub, and was packed to the rafters with locals...a room full of people who all knew each other. If you will indulge me being 'hack' for a moment it felt like I should be standing in front of them saying "I am looking for this missing girl".

Mark Olver had booked me to do it a few weeks back, and informed me that they were a pleasure to perform to...

Now, I would take the word of any comedian with a pinch of salt at the best of times, but on this occasion Mark was telling the complete truth. They were genuinely a pleasure to stand in front of, and totally open to laughing at everything. Just determined to enjoy themselves come what may, which naturally makes the job of the comedian significantly easier and far more fun than it has any right to be. It was one of those gigs where you almost feel bad getting paid, because you probably would have paid the money yourself to have enjoyed yourself as much as you did. Please note, I did say 'almost'...before I'm asked to return the money.

Ironically, by a twist of fate, I spent the first five minutes on stage pretending to be blind (long story) without causing so much as a whiff of offence. I was acknowledged as a comedian, as a jester and mischief maker, and on those terms it is virtually impossible to cause offence. It felt like a far more grown up way for an audience to be - which considering what they were laughing at is slightly odd, but I have to say I much preffered it to the overly self-aware, middle class, slightly sneery, knee-jerking I'd encountered at my earlier gig.

Not totally cool with this blaming the audience thing, but every now and again they don't half make it hard work to be a comedian.

I feel sometimes that people do themselves no favours by being so sensitive. Just like the story on the Chortle front page about Russell Brand causing offence with his 'cancer' joke. Fair enough if you don't find something funny, but you gotta bear in mind other people perhaps do. Why should they have to only have comedy that has been vetted to your particular standards of allowability? People take us far too seriously sometimes.

I got a nice review today that kind of demonstrates this difference in certain audiences - it's HERE and is about the Cardiff gig from the other week.

I am going to go and get some sleep now as I am taking little Raji James who used to be on Eastenders on an adventure to Manchester (XS Malarkeys) - I am looking forward to it greatly, especially as I have spent the last 48 hours without sleep and swimming in receipts whilst that cunt on the tax adverts kept reminding me during every ad break that I was running out of time to get in my tax return.

Now that it is complete, I'm gonna drop the roof on my car, put my foot down, and make Raji show his "Johnny five is alive" impression to as many people in the country as possible. We are going to stop at every services on the M1 (up until the M6 turn off) and then every services on the M6 (up till Manchester).

Be sure to get there early and only one autograph and photo per person.

Sooooo, some stuff.

Arrived at the gig in Kent on Tuesday night after a smashing little SatNav inspired jaunt through a fucking forest, to find that not only was my poster up, but there were also posters up for Mr Rob Deering esq and Mr Rhod Gilbert esq, both advertised to be on the same night as me. Apparently there had been an admin fuck up and they had been sent all of our posters and, rather than call to check, or perhaps look at the contract, they just put them all up.

It was packed - as it should be with that bill - and I was beginning to feel a little uneasy as, with the greatest respect to me, if one of those acts had to not be on, I know who I would choose for the chop if I was in charge. As it turned out, that was the only one they were getting.

Gotta say, as I was driving through the forest to the gig (I don't know what forest it was, all I know is my SatNav brought me off the M25 at Junction 26 if that helps?) I can remember clear as day thinking to myself "Wouldn't it be great if I just did a normal gig tonight? If when I was writing my blog later I could just put that it was lovely and normal and then talk about something else?".

Then I thought "Fuck I may have just jinxed myself".

See, one of the best points of doing this writing on here thing is that I am able to rant and vent and get some frustrations out - and it is a genuinly cathartic process I have to say. One of the worst points is that it does require me to remember what has happened at gigs so as to be able to recount it here for you, I basically have to store it and relive it as I write in order to get the 'closure', rather than just picking up my money and forgetting about it. I think that's why it has taken me a few days to actually write it.

Well I say I have to, I don't have to do it. But if I ever want Steve the editor of Chortle to give me my children back then I do. If I don't do a blog for a week or so he sends me a finger through the post as a little, as he calls it, nudge.

Know what, the gig was fine and lovely. For about an hour.

My total running time was 90 mins, but I added another 20 mins to that in the dressing room afterwards.

It was the age old thing of people heckling and then getting upset when they are destroyed in return. It happened at St David's Hall in Cardiff last week and it happened in Kent on Tuesday night. Thing is, this table that were upset (a minority in the room I hasten to add), then shifted the argument completely and it became a little more heated.

They said I had took the piss out of disabled people in my act.

Now, thing is, I hadn't. I had spoken about disabled people, I talked about the paralympics (which I have been doing for years - it's basically saying that I watched the mens hundred metres swimming and there was nothing wrong with any of them - they were just slow - won't work in type - but I just want you to know what I actually said - the joke is meant to be my ignorance at not understanding the wider reaching definitions of disability) but at no point did I take the piss out of disabled people. And, don't get me wrong, it could be argued that I have done in the past when doing the character act, but even then I was kind of mocking certain people's attitudes (not always successfully but my intentions were pure).

Anyhow, I got really pissed off on stage, and just started an argument. It wasn't funny as such but it was stirring and got regular rounds of applause, kind of like a speech at a party conference. I was really upset though, because it had evoked a pavlovian response from this table. They had heard the word "Paralympics" and gone all fucking snooty and pc and offended yet, and here's the rub, when I gave them the floor they couldn't tell me why.

At one point I offered the main lad a grand if he could quote back to me what I had said that took the piss out of disabled people...

Nothing.

He "couldn't remember"...you see what I have to fucking deal with? Have to admit, I did kind of panic when I offered the grand...I wasn't a hundred percent sure...

So it got pretty rowdy, and then I finished and got my claps and cheers, and off I went to the green room thing. Within two minutes it was full. Firstly with people being very kind and complimentary, I don't think there was anyone in the audience who didn't end that night without a definite opinion about what had happened. Then in wandered the lads from "The Table", swaggering in like fucking Reservoir Dogs - about six or seven of them.

I think I was maybe meant to be intimidated by them, but to be honest I was so surged with adrenalin all I needed was a fucking half-reason to start chucking my (average) weight around. But the discussion was relatively civil in defence to them, the main dude was upset, he'd been humiliated with comedy by me, and he wanted to have his say outside of the gladitorial setting of the performance. Despite his 'arguments' being fundamentally flawed you can't help but respect that. Well I can't anyway.

I repeated my points to him, and my justifications for what I had spoken about. He repeated that he had found it offensive. I gave up asking why, because he didn't know. I said that every single joke in the world, or funny tale or whatever, has the potential to offend somebody for some reason. I challenged him to tell me a joke that couldn't possibly offend anyone. He couldn't. Then his mate said "I can".

This was the joke...Two pieces of bacon in a frying pan, one says to the other "Hot in here" and the other says "How come you're talking? You're a piece of bacon".

I stared at him and then said "As a vegetarian I find it incredibly offensive that you can be so matter of fact about the murder of an animal for food".

Some of the gathered throng clapped. He tried to think of another one and couldn't - again to their credit, he conceded that I was probably right. I left the gig on good terms with most of them I think, and I had a load of really supportive emails through MySpace yesterday, some of which I considered cutting and pasting before deciding that I should just defend myself on this one.

I was pretty charged up driving home though, got very anxious about the whole thing. Even though I felt it had been left on good terms the venue still insisted on escorting me to my car for safety. It can shake you up a bit.

On my drive home I bumped into Isy Suttie (almost literally, she was crossing the road in front of me) who, despite my telling her countless times how stupid it is, is still insisting on wandering the streets of London on her own after midnight. So I gave her a lift home (I never offered, she just opened the boot and put her bags in). It's always nice to see Isy, even though she has a tendency to over-dramatise everything, for example it was apparently "Fate" that she was crossing the road at that time as I was driving past. Isy and I have had many a post-gig-mortem having toured together loads, so we sat outside her luxury appartment in Kensington and I told her all about the night I'd had. It's good to talk to Isy about that sort of thing because she is essentially kind and thick in equal measure so will always take your side. Maybe it was fate a bit. I felt better after chatting with her anyway.

Then I spent most of the day yesterday getting upset to the point of tears because I was part-exchanging my old car for my great new one (The Tigra won in the end - and, as a message to my manager, it's not a girls car actually, I have the boys one - and despite the fact that it was snowing a bit last night, I still had the roof down which only a boy would do). I should have been mainly excited about picking up the new one, but I was just sad to see my old Peugot go. I sat in it for ages yesterday, just having a think and reminisce about all that we had been through together, all the gigs it had never once failed to get me to, all the hours I had spent sat in that seat. When I dropped it off at the garage I felt like I was abandoning a child, and genuinely had to concentrate quite hard not to well up again.

See.

I'm a sensitive soul really.

Just not with spastics.

(I am crediting you with the intelligence to understand what I did there...please don't let me down...oh and I'm not a vegetarian really by the way...)

As I am now a regular contributor to the site I make it my business to have a little mooch about on Chortle at some point in the day, but I missed one bit of "news" in the comedy gossip bit the other day. Luckily my manager, who was obviously very busy in the office getting me work and not just dossing about on the internet in between the latest request for Russell Howard to read the News At Ten or whatever the fuck they want him to do next, is far more thorough in his surfing of this site. He very kindly sent me this;

"Here’s one to get the speculation going. From the gossip website Holy Moly: ‘A Mole's girlfriend was once involved with a northern character-based comedian (but which one?). The sex life was fairly dull, until he took her on a walking route around the Brighton and Hove area. Over the next few weeks they began a routine which would be repeated until the relationship ended. On reaching a deserted field he would demand that she ran a few steps ahead of him. Then, on his command, she would be obliged to squat and piss in her pants. Only on completion of the urination would he be able to gain an erection, and then penetration and full sex would occur."

Not only did my manager insinuate that I was the comic in question, he made sure I understood the implication by attatching the words "Is there something you need to tell me?".

Sadly my friends, despite being a very very sexy man, adventurous and uninhibited, I cannot lay claim to this being me. As I explained to my impertinent manager, I have done all of the above with the exception of the walking bit. I can usually summon a degree of energy (admittedly limited) during bedroom gymnastics but I draw the line at going for walks.

Hope that narrows the speculation field down...I know who my money is on...

On Saturday night I performed the role of compere at EDComedy at The Hob in Forrest Hill. I don't think I need to go over my usual sycophancy about it being the best club in the world again - it just is, let's accept it as a given.

In my occasionally brilliant job I meet lots of people. In the years I have been performing there have been thousands and thousands of faces in front of me, and hundreds of them laughed. Some were cunts, some were great. But with respect to all the other people that this excludes, I have never had a better audience member in one of my gigs than Mike Thompson (I nearly put 'Michael' just now, but then I remembered that he prefers 'Mike').

The night was all going fine, I was fucking about as I tend to do during compering duties, and I was happily chatting away to Mike in the front row. Normally, as a compere, you would end up chatting to quite a bit of the audience over the course of a night...I pretty much just talked to Mike. I've never before been drawn to an audience member to the point that I have given them my mobile number whilst I was still onstage, but that's what I did Saturday night. And because I requested that Mike ring it to check that he had got it down right, I also rather cleverly acquired his number too.

What sort of professional comedian spends the time he is off stage texting an audience member that he has just met? What sort of comedian tells the audience member in the texts to stop laughing at the other comedians whilst they are on? What sort of a comedian spends the entire interval sending the audience member more and more increasingly stalkerish texts?

Mike was great - it transpired that he worked in I.T or something, and I asked him what his dreams had been when he was younger. He informed myself and the rest of the audience (all of whom were as taken with this pleasant young man as I was) that he wished to be a porn star. I just had to make his dream come true, if only for one night.

I offered him the chance to audition live on stage.

In a move that wrong-footed everyone - he agreed.

During the first interval I wrote a little script for him to read from, and - after deciding it may be legally problematic to have a lady from the audience be his 'prey' I constructed a pretend lady out of a mannequin head, a witches wig, and a stuffed bin bag in a tshirt. I admit it wasn't ideal, but it meant that The Hob didn't need to fear for it's license.

I'm not going to make a habit (after today) of this linking to YouTube clips, but here for your enjoyment is the first part of Mike's audition (Mike doesn't have a handlebar moustache in real life - I made that for him);

CLICK HERE

You will note at the end of the clip, Mike does exactly what it says on the script I wrote and takes down his trousers. Whether he would or not was a subject of speculation backstage in the interval and, contrary to what I would later claim, I had predicted that he wouldn't. I should never have doubted him. I don't know what I was thinking of...

Then came the business end of the season - I know the quality of these clips is poor as usual, so just for the record, Mike's opening line is "I've already come down your chimney". Why on Earth I am not offered more script writing opportunities is an ongoing mystery when I am capable of coming up with lines like that.

CLICK HERE

It's not very clear on the clip but if you look carefully you will see that he literally fucks 'her' head off.

You can say what you like about me as a comedian, I am more than aware of my weaknesses - but there's not many comics can successfully pass off bullying an audience member into fucking a binbag as comedy.

If you see Mike in Forrest Hill, buy him a drink. He's the one probably still wearing the Father Christmas costume.

One hundred posts old today.

You don't need to stand up...

The pub quiz at EDComedy was as lovely as always. Matter of fact, it was lovelier than always in fairness, despite the fact that all anybody was talking about was fucking Celebrity Big Brother and all that nonsense. I spent most of the night staring at people in disbelief - is it really that ridiculous that Jade thing has emerged as a nasty little shit? I had her pinned as a cunt of the highest order the second I laid eyes on her. I've had people try and defend her to me too, but just fucking listen to the 'girl' for one minute - that's really all it should take. And if no other good comes of this big racism row, then at the very least it will almost certainly slam a big fat final nail into the coffin of her career and nobody but her stupid fucking hand-in-her-pocket 'mother' and whatever five idiots enjoy her retarded reality shows will miss her.

Anyway good morning.

As I was saying the quiz was lovely. It's got really busy in there of late. When EDComedy moved to their new venue (at the Hob in Forest Hill), the quiz was taking it's time to get off the ground. It had always been very popular at the other venues but, whilst the Saturday night comedy shows hit the ground running, the quiz had a stuttering restart. Not so now though, last night the room was rammed and it was a top evening. It was also the longest quiz I have ever hosted there (and I've done a shitload of them), only coming to an end after midnight.

The main reason for this was my little friend Raji James who used to be on Eastenders. That's how I think I shall refer to him from now on.

See, I thought it would be a nice reward for all the people who have thoroughly enjoyed the YouTube clip I lovingly created of him if he performed his impression that he does live. I suggested it to him at the beginning of the evening and he refused point blank (I think mainly because he reads these blogs and wanted to prove that he wasn't my whipping boy and wouldn't just jump through hoops for me at the drop of a hat despite what I may have previously insinuated on here).

Well the last thing you do to me is refuse me. That's rule one.

If I could choose a celebrity friend (and I use the term exceptionally loosely) then it would be Raji James. Even if I didn't know him. If I had never met the lad and you came up to me today and said "Right, you can have one celebrity friend, who do you want?", then I would say "That bloke that used to be in the Fereira family in Eastenders, the one that was a gambler in it".

Then you would look at me blankly and I would say "Oh you know who I mean, he was on The Bill for ages but then one day he went to get a pencil and never came back".

And you would shake your head all confused and I would say "East is East?" and you would say "nope...can't place him".

And I would say "He was in Doctor Who last year, he got killed by three daleks all eating his head", and you would say "I really, really don't know who you are on about..." and then I would say "Well him anyway, that's who I choose".

The thing is, Raji was probably right not to want to do his impression in front of the audience, because - and here's the thing - I am one of the only people in the world who finds it funny - but I was certain that I could get other people to love it too. It just needed a bit of persistence.

Here is the first time he did it - please note the complete confusion of the audience, and almost mute response it gets (apologies as always for the quality);

CLICK THIS

Now most comperes would give up on it at that stage, thinking that it was an idea that just didn't work, and moving on. Not me - I gave it another ten minutes and then tried again;

CLICK THIS

You may need to watch that again and compare it to the first one, to see the very subtle improvement in audience response. You probably won't even notice it because you are just a normal person probably, but as I am an accomplished performer and I have formal drama training (BA Hons) I am able to notice that I could get this audience to the point where they were literally desperate to see Raji do it again. It's known technically in the comedy world as the Little Britain rule (also known in some circles as the Catherine Tate rule, and formerly The Fast Show rule). The rule of repetition - the more you say it,no matter what you are actually saying, the funnier it will become. It is basically the same principle that fat lads like me have to apply to courting - you just need to wear them down, eventually they will give in.

You may notice that I have tagged on the catchphrase "That will never not be funny to me" after Raji does his impression. I will always say this now after he does it, because it makes people think that they just aren't understanding the joke so they get shamed into laughing.

And it works too. Here is the encore of Raji's performance, filmed a mere 12 hours ago;

CLICK HERE

See? Listen to them cheer. They were so excited they had probably forgotten they were even meant to be doing a quiz probably.

The guy is a legend and I am going to have a t-shirt made with his face on it.

I think you should too.

In other news I am no longer going up North today as, according to my mum, the North has "blown down", which seems a little broad but who am I to argue? I get a lot of broad statements from my family, I was informed of the 7/7 bombings by my dad who rang me to tell me "London's blown up".

Anyhow, the rugby match I was going to watch has been postponed for a week or so because it was going to be in the North and the North has blown down, so I am going to go into London and spend some Forbidden Planet vouchers and eat some YoSushi.

If anyone wants me to do a gig tonight in London then call me...I'll bring Raji...

Have a lovely day x

I don't reckon that anyone will ever get to read this post - from the mess that the Chortle front page is at the moment, and the fact that I received 880 spam emails from this blog today (and I promise I will get round to replying to every one of them - even the dutch ones) I have a sneaky suspicion that Chortle may have been compromised. Just like the Counter Terrorism Unit in 24 is sometimes compromised so that's quite exciting in a way. Perhaps not for Steve Bennett the editor bloke (head of CTU), but it is for me (one of the Field Ops, like Tony Almeida - no, no - I'm being Jack Bauer. Yes, I'm Jack).

Apologies to anyone who doesn't watch 24 - but you really should. I am also quite fond of Boston Legal at the moment, which I have been watching in bed.

Anyhow, that was all just a bit of banter to get us to the main bit of the post which is this bit now;

I was mooching about on MySpace again this morning, snooping through people's business, trying (and failing) to not follow paper trails from people's comments, and seeing what my contemporaries (or as I like to call them, the aspirers) have to say about themselves.

Tell you what I noticed about myself in comparison - in all my PR stuff that I have, like this, and the Avalon site, and my MySpace page - I never really promote my gigs. I don't have a list anywhere other than my personal diary about where I'll be on. I know that Chortle have one on the comedian's pages, but according to that I've only got about three gigs for the rest of the year which of course, given my exceptional talent, is not the case.

Thing is, I feel a bit self-conscious about plugging my gigs really. Rather than just think that people may like to know, I get it into my head that it looks like I'm begging for support. I think it's the psychological scarring from when I used to run the Big And Daft gigs, and the horrors and humility of trying to get people through the door. It makes me feel like I have my cap in my hand a bit, and rather than feel that I just don't do it.

The other thing is, unlike when I was running gigs a million years ago, nowadays I get paid the same no matter who comes to the gigs. So what possible reason would I have to try and get people to come and see me? Other than vanity and desires to be well-known, which would be horrible attributes surely? Maybe. I don't know. I do write this blog I suppose...

I got some emails from people in Cardiff on MySpace, saying they wish they'd known I was on. I felt bad about that. I'm sure if they read the last post on here they will realise they missed fuck all, but perhaps I should be more pro-active about it.

Erm...ok...

I'm hosting the quiz at EDComedy tonight...at the Hob in Forest Hill. Raji James is coming down, and I reckon I could persuade him to do his impressions. Ermmm...I'm not doing a gig tomorrow because I'm going up North to watch Saints play. Then on Saturday I'm at EDComedy again, but compering it...you don't have to come if you don't want. Oh fuck this, there's loads - I'm not typing them all out here.

How would I get a diary thing to put on MySpace? Any ideas? Just so I can get this out of the fucking way.

In other news, I am in the process of buying a car. The shortlist is; an MG (been told not to touch these because they have gone bust or something), a Hyundai Coupe, a Mazda 3, a Celica, a Tigra (this is emerging as favourite), and for some reason the garages seem very anxious to shift Astras, but I'm not so keen on them. I am officially having a mid-life crisis and, contrary to what I said a few posts back about not caring about the look of a car, when the girl in the showroom asked me what sort of car I was looking for I said "one where the roof comes off". My hair is lovely and long and it would look great blowing in the wind I reckon.

My present broken car is still sitting outside my window...it may just be the rain dripping off the headlights that makes it look so sad...

It was to be a day trip to Wales yesterday, but it didn't quite feel that way.

Cardiff is another place (like Birmingham) that I may have been to on too many occasions recently. You can get overfamiliar with somewhere I think. I wasn't too much feeling like going, not least because my car failed it's MOT on Monday and I have decided not to fix it.

It's a horrible feeling to say goodbye to a car, but the fact that it has been becoming temperamental and that it's done over a hundred thousand miles and that it has grown a dent and the fact that I spent a fortune on it at a garage in December and then less than a month later it failed it's MOT at the same fucking garage all seems to point to me not investing further in it. I did that with my last car and regretted it the moment I found myself in a ditch with an airbag in my face.

So I am without a car of my own (I own one - I can see it through the window looking all sad and dejected, but I'm not going to fall for that, it can look as sad as it wants - I'm not spending more money on it), so am driving a girl's car.

Anyway, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, I wasn't looking forward greatly to Cardiff.

As I drove over the Severn Bridge, the rain was sheeting across in high winds. I normally like driving in extreme weather, but that's because I am normally not genuinely thinking that my car could be blown off this fucking bridge. I made it to the toll booth on the other side and, such was my relief at surviving the crossing, I decided to break up my journey by haggling the fee.

They don't really see the funny side of that. Nor do they like you trying to blag your way into Wales by saying that you need to check that your friend is in there first. I managed to get in for £5.08 rather than £5.10 - even though the lady (who started off moody but I reckon kind of fancied me by the end of our exchange) said that if she let every car do that they would lose thousands of pounds. I countered that if she let a thousand cars do it they would only lose a tenner. I don't even know if this maths is right, but she gave me a nice smile and raised the barrier.

The city centre of Cardiff has always been a happy place to me, but yesterday it was gloomy and wet and sad. It is undergoing all roadworks and stuff too, and the Christmas lights were still up but not turned on, it felt like a living room the day after a party. I was given a guided tour of the city centre by my SatNav machine, got very angry with it (the machine), switched it off in a huff and opted to try and find St David's Hall by myself and then when I finally did, I realised that my SatNav had actually been taking me the right way so immediately felt guilty. No wonder my possessions ultimately choose to throw their hands up rather than deal with me any more.

The gig was in a foyer, which appears to be becoming common practise in theatres these days. Fuck knows why - it doesn't really lend itself to performance for my money. It was pretty full though, with a folk of all ages, and with the exception of some gobby self-righteous 'lady' at the front of the room, it was a nice enough gig.

On the subject of the 'lady', and I kind of don't want to mention her as I am merely giving her the attention she craves, she left me slightly baffled. She first of all got in a huff because I mentioned BUPA, and started getting on her high horse about disagreeing with private healthcare (which, ironically, I sort of believe too), but then she started trying to edit me. She said that I shouldn't have mentioned it as it was not needed in my "story". I wasn't actually doing a story, I was just saying that I had been visiting a BUPA hospital. I then was speaking about doing some writing late at night, and she announced that if this was my writing I needed to work harder...which may have been a good heckle if I had actually fucking started my act, but as all I had done is give her the floor, it kind of shot her in the foot.

Not that she noticed sadly.

Then she announced she was going to the toilet.

I don't reeeeeeally know why she was so upset, but - and I don't say this with any pride - that's not gonna stop me from trying to upset her further.

Her husband sat staring into his pint all the while, no doubt dreaming of the life he could have had if he had not ended up lumbered with this gobby cow. Whilst she was in the toilet (when she eventually did go, there was a lot of theatrics and waving her arms about on the way) I tried to interrogate her husband further, in an attempt to get to the bottom of what her beef was.

I put another audience member on guard at the toilets to warn us when she was returning (by making the sound of a giraffe) and began the interrogation. The results were inconclusive. There were no results. The only conclusion I could put forward is that eloquence and communication weren't too big a priority in their house...fair enough really...why try and have a conversation when grunts and big arm gestures will do? And, as compere John Robins said in the dressing room afterwards, why try to involve yourself in a show and yet be unable to reply to the simplest line of questioning once you are involved?

Both of them sulked like children for the rest of my part of the show.

I liked that a lot.

I concluded my forty minutes by saying I had really enjoyed the gig but for 'no good reason'. As I was driving home, having chosen not to stay at The Big Sleep (once the novelty of thinking you are staying at John Malcovich's hotel wears off - just as you get to the lift - you realise it's just a hotel, and not a great one in my opinion...the pillows are lovely but who puts carpet on a fucking chair? I just couldn't face it...couldn't do it), I started to ponder as to why I had enjoyed the gig.

And I kind of worked it out I think.

As I said, the audience in there were of many different ages, and presumably social backgrounds. I certainly didn't blow them all away with my exquisite comedy that I do brilliantly, but some sections were really into it. Some of them really got what I was doing last night, particularly when I was being naughty. The ones that didn't were still very smiley and nice, and I threw them a bone from time to time to keep their attention, but I was really enjoying the feeling of not belonging on that stage in such a nice building.

I swore even more than usual, I turned into a naughty boy and deliberately misbehaved. I can have something of the demon about me now and again, but last night it was just cheek, and I got the feeling that there were big sections of the audience who were enjoying encouraging me. That's why I enjoyed it, and that's one of the reasons that I usually love my job.

At it's best, to me, it feels like just talking with friends who think my behaviour and naughtiness is hilarious.

And if these friends who think I am hilarious have also brought people along who have never met me, and they just sit open mouthed at the fact I am getting away with this until they eventually, despite themselves, start laughing too - then more's the better.

Every year I dread my first gig back, and every year it is fine fine fine...

I think this year I was kind of dreading it more than usual because my first gig, for one reason or another, was last night and most people are back gigging already by now. I was also dreading it because, for one reason or another, I hadn't really given performing comedy a second thought for the last few weeks.

When I did my last gig before the break, as I was driving home, I had a little think to myself about what it would be like starting up again, and acknowledged in my own head that every fucking year without fail I get myself into a little panic that I won't be able to remember what I do come January. So I sat in my car, driving back, and mentally persuaded myself that it was all in there, went over it, lived the feeling of totally knowing it and convinced myself that I had all I needed in my head to do the job and a few weeks away would hardly be enough to destroy that. It was forward thinking and an attempt to look out for my future well-being.

Didn't work though, so that was a waste of a fucking paragraph.

So off I trundled last night to Northampton University to headline their comedy night thing. And it was fine, no problems, lovely crowd generally speaking and a pleasure to play.

Got dragged back into the old thing of being shouted at/spoken to by the audience though, and this was what I was thinking about as I drove home last night. I often decide what I am going to write on this blog as I drive home from gigs - I even plan my posts a little bit and then forget them before I get home, usually because there's been some sort of distraction on the journey like a telephone call or because some fucking retards have stolen rockery stones from a garden and placed them in a perfect line right across the road so that folk like me with a social conscience have to stop their cars and get out to move them even though they were far too heavy and I end up pulling muscles in my back...

At one stage during the gig last night, at around the forty minute mark (I was on for just over an hour even though I had promised compere Dan Atkinson I would keep to time which I felt bad about) a bloke in the audience said something out loud. He didn't shout it, wasn't being agressive or hostile, he merely referred to something I had been speaking about and joined in. I looked across at him after he said it, and made an instant judgement on him.

Thing is, when you have spent so much time in your career actively encouraging rowdiness from audiences as I have (particularly when my act was a character act) you tend to get a feel for when somebody is going to be shouty or gobby or just a cunt. It becomes a sort of sixth sense, they have a certain aura about them, and it helps you as a performer because you can be ready for when that audience member has their moment. But this guy that joined in last night didn't have that aura - if you had lined up the audience for me before the gig, I would never have picked him out. So when he said whatever it was he said (I forget), I was immediately curious beyond belief and spoke to him. I wasn't agressive or anything, it wasn't a put-down situation because he genuinely hadn't "heckled".

I asked him if he had been to the comedy before, he said yes.

I asked him if he had ever shouted out before, he said no.

I asked him if he had ever shouted out at any performance before, he said no.

Even as I was speaking to him, I could see the realisation dawning on his face that he had for some reason been drawn to do something completely alien to how he would normally behave. I asked him genuinely why he had done it now then? I emphasised again and again that I wasn't having a go at him, and I wouldn't make him look stupid or anything - I just wanted, once and for all, to know just what it is that makes audiences talk to me whilst I'm onstage. There was no massive revelation, his conclusion was that I was "generally just a funny bloke"...I don't see why he had to include the word "generally", but as I have said before, I always take audiences chatting to me as a compliment.

I reckon I'd be brilliant hosting a show like Jeremy Kyle's one...

See, in my personal life I appear to be a pretty approachable chap too. Also, a persuasive chap. I get trusted and told secrets all the time, people tend to open up and reveal themselves to me. No idea why. I am good for it like, pretty trustworthy, but from time to time I will admit that I abuse my jedi powers, purely in the name of mischief making, and sometimes because I see the potential for something hilarious to happen, so like a little demon I whisper suggestions in people's ears and watch with glee as they act on their trust.

I tell you this because I did it yesterday with my friend Raji.

I spend a fair amount of time online these days, especially since starting this blog, and a fair amount of my time online is spent on MSN. There are only four people on my MSN list, but one of them is Raji. Raji is the dude I was telling you about the other day who used to be in Eastenders. In fact, he's been in loads of stuff, The Bill, Robin Hood, Doctor Who, East is East, the fella is pretty prolific and works all the time. I've known him for a few years now, ever since he heckled me at East Dulwich Comedy (when it was at the Magdala) and I tore him to shreds. He is genuinely one of the good guys, and very supportive of me and his other friends. He is also a bit of a technology freak, and rarely without some sort of new toy.

His new toy yesterday was a webcam and headset.

I should also tell you that he is completely under my spell should I make a suggestion to him. There was one time when we were both hosts at the Celebrity Pub Quiz, again at East Dulwich Comedy. He'd never hosted it before so was asking me for advice about what he should do. Now, the correct advice would have been "just go and read the questions, be your normal charming self, and if the opportunity arises for a bit of a chat with people then just go with it but don't force it"...however...what I actually said was "just hit the ground running and call them all cunts".

And he did.

It was fucking amazing to watch, it was pure theatre - he was whirling around the stage shouting at the stunned audience, and blaming them all for writing to Points Of View complaining about the new brown family on Eastenders (of which he was one). When he eventually came off stage, his eyes wide and excited, we sat and laughed at what he had just done for...well...years.

You couldn't wish to meet a nicer bloke and I think the world of him.

But that will never stop me from whispering my suggestions in his ear should I think he could entertain me (and now you by default). When he came onto his webcam yesterday, wearing his daft headset and waving excitedly, he just reminded me of somebody. So I made my suggestion and got my camera phone ready.

You might not find this funny, but I have already watched this more than I have watched The Empire Strikes Back...and that's saying something.

He's gonna go mad when he knows it's now on YouTube but this will never ever not be funny to me...apologies for the quality.

Ok...you ready?

Click this for gold.

Soooo fucked off.

What me? Surely not.

In 2005, just before the fringe run of my show Ray Peacock & Son, somebody reversed into me in a multi-storey car park and fucked up the side of my car. At the time it really upset me, not least because there then ensued an argument via insurance people about who was to blame. Given that it was a massive dent in the side of my car I couldn't quite work out why there was an argument - I'm a brilliant driver (as I am brilliant at everything) but even I couldn't have driven my car in such a way as to cause that dent...not without the help of some woman reversing from a space without fucking looking at any rate.

The most hurtful part of the arguing was the fact that the woman claimed to the insurance people that I had admitted responsibility at the scene. Now, if there was one thing that was drilled into me as I was learning to drive, it was that you never admit responsibility at the scene. Even if it was actually your fault. Which it wasn't. I simply would not do it, and I was up front with the insurance company about that. So this lady, who I had actually felt sorry for, calmed down and looked after at the time of the incident given how shook up she was, went away and had a think and then lied to try and get me to have to pay for the damage. Long and the short of it is, I won.

I've got off point as usual...(I'll be honest with you at this stage, I am using you. I have nothing of interest to say in this entry but I am in a really bad state of seething depression and want to vent it out somewhere - what better place than here in public? Where everyone can read it and take secret pleasure in my continuing misfortune...).

The thing was, overall I was the most upset about seeing my car with a dent in it. Out of everything I mean. And it isn't a flash car like what Stephen Grant has got - my car's value wouldn't pay for one of his tyres - it's just a very humble, hard done to on mileage, little thing. Couldn't care less about having a flash car, nothing against people that like them, when I drove around Brighton with Stephen Grant doing a million miles an hour in his pussymobile I could see the attraction. But I tend to look at them, find out how much they are worth, and just think "fuck that's a lot of dvd's and Star Wars stuff I could buy". However, I do get very attatched to my cars. And seeing them with horrible dents in them upsets me as I would get upset seeing my friends with horrible dents in them. It's not that I care about the cosmetic appearance - it's that I sort of see it as an injury. It looked...hurt.

The only smile I was able to rise after coming back from Scotland despondent (as usual) in September 2005 was the fact that I was reunited with my car and it had been made better.

So my mood today, which wasn't that great anyway, plummetted further when I went down to my car to find exactly the same fucking dent back on it, in exactly the same fucking place, for no apparent reason.

Don't know what's happened. If it's vandalism it's very random and carefully done, if it's something that's blown into it then that something has since been moved, and if it was another car then they haven't left any details for me. It's genuinely upset me, and we know how shaky my emotions are at the best of times. I don't even know what I am meant to do to make it better. I don't know who to call. It is a stealth dent, it came in the night and left no evidence as to it's origin. I could genuinely cry. Well...I could stop crying and then start again but about the dent this time.

Looks like 2007 has stated it's case early for me.

I also got a lovely email this morning from somebody that, in reference to my last entry here, wished to tell me that stepping on a dog was "not funny". I shan't repost the email (it would take me ages to correct all the spelling and I can't be arsed with that), but I shall say for the record that it was not deliberate on my part to step on the dog. It happened very quickly, and I only laughed out of nervousness.

Actually, that's not true, I was laughing because I realised which dog it was, I can't lie to you.

Surely something is still funny even if just one person laughs?

I love dogs to be honest, but I've always had a problem with celebrities carrying fucking dogs around. I think starting with Geri Halliwell and her little shit (the only dog in the history of Battersea Dog's Home that wished it hadn't been picked up). I despise it, I genuinely do. Fucking Sharon Osborne and Paris Hilton and all them, treating their little rats better than they would a human being with their hand out. Paul O'Grady plonking his dog on the desk in his programme on the off chance that it does a shit live on telly one day, so that they can all smirk and snort at how naughty and rude they are being, whilst the fucking idiots in the audience sit there and say "ahhhhh" for an hour or however long his 'show' is.

They are using animals as fucking props, and quite how the RSPCA has never been involved is beyond me. They are hot places TV studios, very bright lights, lots of noise. To a small, lovely little cute defenceless dog it would be a bit like being locked in a car on a summer day whilst people let off fireworks next to it I should imagine.

I agree in principle with the person that emailed me - animal cruelty is bad - and I understand why my flippant jokey comments would have upset you, so I am now campaigning for the rights of the gorgeous, cuddly, little, adorable things.

And I shall start by saying that I think these dogs should be taken off these celebrities to stop the rot.

As a society we have for too long turned a blind eye to the bad behaviour of our showbiz folk, we should look out for the best interests of the dogs in question.

And unfotunately, because they are now spoilt little shits and it is practically impossible to undo that in animals, they will sadly have to be put down for their own good.

And to bring publicity to our cause it should be live on telly.

I never heard back from my Casualty casting so I should be free to host it...

What?

Don't blame me, I didn't fucking spoil them.

Right, before I start this - I want to tell you that there is a VERY VAGUE reference to something that happens at the end of Series Five of 24 at the very end of this entry. It really wouldn't ruin nothing, but if you are still catching up on them I thought it only fair to warn you, because I know that I would be pissed off if someone potentially ruined it for me. So, it's the very last paragraph, and is not a continuation of anything I write preceeding it so can be totally ignored if you are concerned. Never let it be said I do not take you into account. Right, here is the entry:

Tired doesn't even begin to cover how I am feeling, but I'm not going to whine about it because I am brave.

So, today (yesterday now) is the day when the year begins again proper professionally and I thought I'd make a bit of an effort.

I had a casting at the BBC but it wasn't nearly as much fun there without my missing-in-action writing partner Steve Morrison. Not as much fun I should say, right up to the point when I stepped on Paul O'Grady's stupid dog and made it yelp. Please do not take this as a sign of me condoning animal cruelty in any way, but if you are gonna let your dog just run about in a place of business then you have to accept that there may be a cumbersome and clumsy fat lad who is trying to learn lines for a Casualty casting and not neccesarily looking where he is going who may just step on said animal. With that in mind Paul O'Grady, don't look at the fat lad all disgusted as if he did it on purpose - even if the fat lad is laughing uncontrollably and considering doing it again.

So my casting was so-so, think it's a bit of a long shot. It was with the same guy who cast me in Doctors and to be honest, I was feeling rusty and distracted, and the fact that we were laughing and stuff in between readings meant it was then a bit harder to take it seriously enough. My own fault, lesson learned, blahdiblah, doubt I shall be reporting any trips to Bristol in the near future. Shame, cos I would have liked to do it.

This morning I did a radio interview (pre-record) for BBC Wales about my forthcoming gig at St David's Hall on the 16th January. It was a really nice interview (it's here somewhere for the next seven days) but we got into a bit of a discussion about my name.

Or my names.

See, my name - my real one - is Ian Boldsworth. Most people know this but I am telling you in case you don't. This is the name I use for acting stuff (and my brilliant appearances in Doctor Who magazine - Page 4, this issue, major article about me and how brilliant I am and...Oh, I can't lie to you, it's just my name). However, I have another name which is Ray Peacock.

I'm gonna put this as simply as I can.

The problem is - "Ray Peacock" started life as a character, that's the fucking root of all this confusion. So when people hear the name "Ray Peacock" they assume it is "that character that Ian does". However, Ian doesn't does that character any more (except on very special occasions but let's not mention that in case it confuses matters) but Ian has retained the name of "Ray Peacock" for comedy related issues, rather than fanny about changing it back to his real name.

I genuinely thought this would keep it simple. It has been a fucking nightmare.

The easiest way of explaining it is to say that, it's not a character any more, "Ray Peacock" is my stage name.

I think that's relatively straightforward, but it baffles every fucker. I was in the office at Avalon just before Christmas and one of the lasses who books gigs was on the phone to a club and I heard her say "I've actually got Ian Boldsworth in the office now". Thinking that they wouldn't have a clue who Ian Boldsworth was, I signalled to her to say "Ray Peacock". Through a series of chinese whispers the eventual outcome of this was a rumour that I had demanded to be referred to as "Ray Peacock" in the office and that I wouldn't answer to the name of Ian. This, of course, is ridiculous and simply not the case.

It's not a character any more, "Ray Peacock" is just my stage name.

In the run up to Edinburgh last year, I had my PR company coming up with outlandish stunts for me to do, repeatedly telling me that it would be a great thing for "Ray" to do, given that "Ray" was outspoken and brash and shouty and all of that. I explained that I wasn't doing the character. They came back to me with more outlandish stunts. I explained again that I wasn't doing the character. They said "but it's listed as Ray Peacock". I said "If you carry on reading you'll see it's called Ray Peacock - Out of Character".

They stared at me.

It took a long time.

It's not a character any more, "Ray Peacock" is just my stage name.

I'm not blaming anyone but myself, it was a stupid fucking decision but I am lumbered with it, because if I try and change it back it will just tangle the wool even more. To be honest, the name thing wasn't the half of it with the BBC Wales interview - I had to put him straight that I wasn't performing Big And Daft in Cardiff. It's a great thing the internet but there really is too much information on it.

So, to reiterate, and for the final time, and this is the definitive statement until I state otherwise on this public forum, It's not a character any more, "Ray Peacock" is just my stage name.

The other thing that happened today that I reeeeeeeaaallly want to tell you about, I can't. Because it is ongoing. But I will tell you at some point. It has made me laugh more than I have ever laughed - certainly in the last month or so - and I so desperately want to tell you about it but it would potentially ruin it so I'm not going to just yet.

I shouldn't have even mentioned it should I? Such a tease me.

And that's it for now, gonna go downstairs now because I acquired the first four episodes of the new series of 24 in London today and am going to watch them now. I need to get to the bottom of the thing with him being on that boat...

Good - well that's that finished then.

The year ended in dissapointment for me, not just with the whole Saddam thingy (him off South Park) hanging, which made me genuinely fear for the world (particularly when Margaret Beckett released a statement from the government which intimated that he had finally been held accountable...this is the same government that helped broker the Good Friday agreement don't forget...gotta wonder about Robin Cook and Mo Mowlam haven't you?) but perhaps more significantly the death of Pauline Fowler in Eastenders.

I don't really watch Eastenders. I stopped watching it after my friend Raji James ruined it. He played Ash Ferrera (sp?) who was the gambling one, and after he was 'let go' from the programme I decided not to watch it any more as I didn't like the manner with which he (and his onscreen family) were made a scapegoat for the programme's waning popularity when in fact it was substandard writing that should have been staring at a pointing finger.

But I digress...

I am sad that Pauline has died. Not because I liked her, cos I didn't - I always felt there was a nasty streak going on there, do you know what I mean? But because in recent months I DID happen to see a few episodes of Eastenders and discovered a great new hilarious joke to shout at the telly. It's very simple - basically you refer to Pauline's dog Betty as "Pauline's Betty". Now, if you put the emphasis in the right place you can make it sound as if you are actually referring to Pauline's vagina rather than her dog.

"I can see Pauline's Betty!"

"Look at Pauline's Betty getting all hot and bothered."

"Pauline's Betty is going to ruin that sofa by drooling on it."

"Pauline's got her Betty in her hand and she's showing it to people in the Square."

You get the idea...the hours fly by in my house.

But now Pauline has gone - dying in front of the Square's Christmas tree whilst her Betty looked sad and cold. I'll miss Pauline's Betty. Haven't watched the programme since but perhaps Pauline's Betty will be put into safe hands. Maybe that downs syndrome girl, Sonia, and then the joke can carry on whilst being applied this time to a tubby occasional lesbian. Thinking about it, it might end up being even funnier then...

Happy New Year by the way.

So I promised I would do my best and worst gigs of the year, and as I am generally a man of my word - here they are;

BAD - 21st Feb 2006 - some gay club in Hull. The only good thing that came out of this is that Isy Suttie had a better gig than me. She ripped the room up, despite the fact that it was a really difficult room to play, and a lot of the audience were being noisy, she took it by the scruff of the neck and made sure I couldn't follow her. At one point as I died the death in the second half, a man in the audience threw a bottle of poppers at me. It is the closest I ever came to taking drugs on stage. It is also the closest I have come to taking a cock - and all just to rescue a gig that I now can't even recall the name of.

GOOD - 5th June 2006 - Oxford Free Beer Show. The first time I performed "Out of Character" my fringe show, and a real blast of relief when it went better than any preview I ever did of anything ever. My brother came to the gig because he lived in Oxford at the time, and he rang my mum aftewards and said it was the best he's ever seen me. I know this because then my mum rang me and told me. In our family compliments are never given directly. Like the time my mum once told me that she had been telling one of her friends that she was proud of me.

BAD - 10th July 2006 - RADA. This gig didn't even go ahead. And I'm listing it as one of my worst gigs of the year. That's because if it had of gone ahead, it would have been the only one on the list. I have no idea who at RADA (and that's RADA by the way - you'd think they'd have a fucking idea about where would be a good place to do a gig) thought that just putting a comedian in the corner of a coffee bar, where people were drinking their coffees and chatting and not expecting a gig at all was a good idea. And to do an hour long show this is by the way, with no support act or compere. It is the only time I have ever refused point blank to do a gig once I have got there.

GOOD - 2nd August 2006 - my opening night at the Edinburgh Fringe. There were loads of people there and they laughed all the way through. The relief was unbelievable. The run went downhill eventually of course, because I was in charge of it, but that first night was a joy to behold.

BAD - 25th Novemeber - THE KRATER CLUB LATE SHOW. I'm not going over this again. It's in my post of around that time. I still love the Krater Club though and will always maintain my statement that it is one of the best clubs in the land. Stephen Grant is better at compering the late show though. I'm prepared to say that much...

GOOD - 25th November - THE KRATER CLUB EARLY SHOW. Also reported on that blog entry from around then. This was definitely the most sheer fun I have had compering this year. Some of the Free Beer Show nights in Edinburgh were lots of fun, but in a far more knockabout way - this night in Brighton was me being a model professional and going for the laughs with every breath. It obviously exhausted me before the late show an hour later.

Honorary mentions:

BAD

5 March Keswick - it was a great gig, but was ruined by a vindictive audience member writing to the theatre afterwards and questioning my supposed lack of preparation (it was deliberate Harry and Judy Marsland of Brackenrigg you seemingly uncultured fucking cretins).

21st March Northampton Picturedrome - have to be careful cos I am back there soon but...well...fuck there's some fucking racist, sexist, homophobic, and just plain rude and stupid people knocking about isn't there? They were all at this gig on a coach trip I think.

5th December - Winchester Arts School - 90% pretentious pricks playing perceived part of...erm..artists. That aliteration was going so well...

GOOD

29th October - Winchester The Railway - again, have already mentioned this - the best and most generous and respectful audience, each and every one of them, that I may have ever played to.

1st December - Billericay Football Club - for the fact that I really wanted this night off and that when I arrived at this gig I thought it was going to be awful and then it was brilliant, and for the fact that I made a genuine friend in somebody that worked at the venue, and for the fact that the open spot Trevor provided me with enough to say so that it was just essentially a laugh with little material from me in my hour...that's what made this a treasured one.

Various dates - EDComedy at the Hob - still my favourite after all these years and all those venues.


And that's it. It was all right this year professionally really.

Although I don't always act it, I am very grateful to be able to make a living from my way of life, and I'm already looking forward to all the good and bad ones in 2007 (if anyone ever books me anywhere).

And I'm grateful to Chortle for asking me to do this blog...but your review of my show was oh forget it I'm not even bothered any more anyway you can just fuck off.

Love to everyone that thinks I would give it to them, and genuine best wishes for 2007.

xxxxx