I drove down to Brighton in a light sulk, given that my Rugby League team, St Helens, were playing in the World Club Challenge at the exact same time as my gig on Friday.

The World Club Challenge is basically a one-off match every season where the Champion club side of Great Britain play the Champion club side of Australia to decide who is the best club side in the world. So it was St Helens versus Brisbane. And I was compering the Komedia.

I do my very best to ensure that I keep dates free in my diary to accomodate the big Rugby League games of the season. I find it difficult enough as it is not going to every match, as that was always the way when I lived up north, but as I now live in Knebworth (yeah - when did that change? Kept my moving from St Albans quiet, haven't I?), it's a bit of a trek to make it up there every week. Couple this with the fact that most St Helens rugby league games are played on Friday nights now, a night that is of course terribly busy to the stand up comic, and I have a no-win conflict of interest.

The point I'm making is, I'd have rather been at the Reebok stadium in Bolton that at the Komedia in Brighton.

However, a plan was put into place, as the match was repeated on Sky at midnight, and I had called ahead to the hotel to ask if they would allow me to watch it in the bar, which after a degree of flirtation on my part with the lady on the phone, they agreed to.

So, the gig itself on Friday was an absolute pleasure and I compered my little heart out. It was especially cool to be on the bill with Al Pitcher as we used to tour together, and as we were both in Brighton alone we got to hang out for the weekend too.

We got back to the hotel, with me refusing to turn on my mobile in case someone had sent me a text about the game, and avoiding passing any Walkabout pubs in case they were celebrating out the door. As Al Pitcher is a Huddersfield lad (despite his ridiculous New Zealand accent) we settled down to watch the rugby in the bar at midnight. Over the years, myself and Pitcher have swapped texts from time to time about the rugby league, and we went to the semi-final of the cup together a few years ago as our teams were playing each other. He stopped sending the texts as he was getting sick of being on the losing side all the time.

But anyhow, it was nice to sit and watch the game with him. Saints have had a bad start to the regular season, lost a couple of soft games, had a few key players injured and had been written off by pretty much everyone as having no chance of winning this game. The game began, I instructed some girls at the bar who they were meant to support, and then we sat back and watched Saints get beat for most of the match before pulling ahead 10 mins from time and holding on to be crowned World Champions. There are times when that team move me to near tears with their spirit, and this was one of them. The pride I felt was a force to be reckoned with. Everything against them and they came out on top. Never write off the Saints.

Al went to bed because he had a sore back, and I stayed up for a bit and chatted and drank with the lasses at the bar who proved to be exceptionally poor company so I went to bed.

Saturday was spent wandering the streets of Brighton, I bought a DC tshirt that I had wanted for a long time, saw some DC trainers that I really liked and for some reason didn't buy them, and then we drove along by the sea with the roof down on my car until Pitcher complained that his head was too cold and ruined it.

I could have written this entire entry about the two back-to-back gigs at the Komedia on the Saturday night, but have decided against it. Suffice to say, they were the worst two gigs I have ever done, the worst two experiences I have ever felt on stage, and the second show was the absolute worst display of human nastiness against one individual I have ever seen, let alone experienced first hand, in a comedy club. Not gonna lie to you, it fucking hurt and upset me a lot. A proper lot. I wasn't on form, but no-one deserves that. I then drove home in the worst rain and floods I have ever seen. It was a night of worsts.

I thought about how all those people in that audience would feel had I been killed on my way home, and then three aquaplanes later I decided to stop with the warped fantasies and concentrate on the road. I doubt they would have cared to be honest.

But that's enough of that, as a word of advice to any clubs out there doing two shows in one night - it is perhaps not the best thing for an act's confidence to have a message sent from a fucking doorman telling them what not to do on stage. It may just make them feel angry, undermined and unappreciated. For somebody who has made an all right living from being confrontational with audiences in a very tongue-in-cheek manner to be instructed not to be confrontational with the audience by a fucking glorified bouncer, well...

Also, the comic probably wouldn't feel the need to be confrontational with the audience if the fucking doormen and security got up off their arses and actually kept check of a late night, drunken audience.

Oh you get the idea.

As compere on Friday I was great guns, as an act on Saturday I sucked balls, and in the first Saturday show that was kind of my fault. In the second show, I had just been unsettled by others. Which again, is my fault for allowing it to happen I guess. You could do without the shit though...

Anyhow, that's me done for a bit. As I said the other day I am going on an adventure so will be completely offline for a short time - probably a couple of weeks - maybe slightly less or more, so there shall be no words of wisdom from me here during that period. It may be an idea to subscribe to this blog if you want to know when I return (this is pretty easy to do on MySpace, not sure on Chortle).

I know it's going to be hard - it will be hard for me too, but at least I am telling you. Some of the other bloggers on Chortle fuck off for months sometimes, without so much as a by your leave. I should have just said nothing maybe. I just didn't wish folk to think me rude if electronic messages aren't returned.

I'm sort of looking forward to not having to deal with the internet and emails for a bit though - I think it will be liberating on some levels.

You take care of yourselves x

The more pop-culturally aware of you will know that the title of this blog is a quote from Pulp Fiction, said by "Lance" (played by that Eric fella, the one with the big face out of Mask) in reference to men who damage other men's cars. Whilst I am not a hundred percent sold on this punishment, I'm certainly wavering in the nineties.

My manager says he has never known anyone to have such bad luck with cars as I. In the past few years alone I've had them blow up, stolen, crashed into, vandalised, break down at the worse possible time (not sure there is a good time, but you get the idea), as you already know, only last month, I went out to my old car and found it had grown a dent over night.

Now I am sure the tale I am about to impart will bring great delight to the increasing number of people who read this blog only to revel in my misfortunes, but I don't actually care.

Last night I was doing some work in my office. Now, I actually was doing work, I'm not just saying it. It was my only night off this week and I've been in a relatively creative mood so thought it best not to allow the creativity an evening to wander off, and as my Playstation is currently packed away in a box, there was little else to distract me other than internet porn.

Anyhow, I heard some very loud singing and bangs from outside my house at around 3am. Looking through the window I saw a gang of drunk lads running at parked cars and kicking them.

Reeeeeally hard.

I was straight on the phone to the police. I have a special number that I can call that gets me straight through to them. It's supposed to be a secret but I'll tell you that it's '999'. That's the number that you need to call if you want the police to come out to you fast. Not that they definitely will. They may take fucking ages and allow the cunts to escape without fear.

So as I am on the phone to the police, and they are fannying about asking me questions like what I had for my dinner and other irrelevant bollocks, I watch the gang moving closer and closer to my car. My brand new car. The sexy one.

I'd like to hear back the recording of my emergency call just to hear the moment they drop kicked my boot. Not that it would provide me with any satisfaction, but just to hear how I can remain calm in moments of sheer fucking horror.

I saw it. They made me watch.

For the life of me I don't know why I didn't just drop the phone and go out myself to deal with it. I'm not scared of situations like that, despite the fact that they could end badly, I would rather stand up for myself and not allow these fucking retards to continue their terrorising unnopposed. I know it's the sensible thing not to challenge them, but I think I'd be feeling better now if I had at least distracted them long enough so that they were still here when the police arrived. Sure I could have distracted them for half a fucking hour.

In an unprecedented move of cruelty, on hearing this story today, my manager said that my "cowardice" was the right thing to do. I demanded that it had nothing to do with 'cowardice', I just thought the police might get here a bit quicker. He then went on to say that I did the right thing by "tucking myself up safely in bed" and that if I had gone down to fight them I may have "torn my dress".

I sometimes wonder what I get out of this professional relationship.

I imagine my manager sometimes wonders this too.

He apologised for his flippancy when he realised I was properly upset, and put his boisterousness down to the fact that he believes he may have chicken pox. Even though he has absolutely no symptoms.

So my brand new, beautiful car is now sporting a rather fetching dent in the boot. If the cunt who did it had hit it a bit cleaner then I may have got away with claiming that it was part of the car's design, but it is annoyingly just off centre. The idiot couldn't even vandalise it properly. I couldn't be more fucked off.

I spent the day willing them to show their faces again - in continuing with the Pulp Fiction theme, I was fantasising about going "medieval" on them.

I was so happy with my new car. It was so sensibly planned. It's got a guarantee, and free servicing and it doesn't need an MOT for ages and all of that, I really thought I would be free of the annoyance of car trouble for a good while yet. And I've never had a properly nice car before, I've always had shitty Ford Escorts or company cars or hand me downs from my mum (nice as they were, they were never sleek and shiny). And when I finally get myself to the point where I have a grown up car, that I've worked really hard to be able to afford - this happens. Just a few weeks after I bought it too. I'd kept it clean and everything. There really are some truly horrific individuals out there, it can make you very sad about the world.

Anyway.

Tonight I travelled over to Wales for the second time in a week, this time to Swansea, for my last headline slot with the Chortle Student Comedy Thing. Most of my time this evening was spent irritating Corry (who was in charge of filming the contestants) so if the film clips that appear on Chortle soon are a bit shit and shakey then that is my fault and I take full responsibility. Please do not blame Corry. I kept tugging at her sleeve to ask her questions about the acts, and undoing her bra (with one hand - yep - pretty fucking cool ain't I?) and stuff like that. She will have enough grief dealing with all the bruises I gave her by throwing free packets of Revels at her - really hard - when she returns to her home town of Edinburgh tomorrow. I am also hoping that she completely forgets that I wrote "I'm a cunt" on her hand, and has to explain it to strangers during her journey.

I get bored easily.

The acts were an up and down bunch this evening, and the audience could maybe have given a bit more, but it was nowhere near the car-crash that the Leeds heat was the other day. I actually had a really nice gig at the end of the evening, which I am glad about. I wish I was doing more of them now, the whole thing has been a pretty good laugh and I've met some really cool people in the three that I headlined.

And Steve Bennett as well.

Okay, okay, I concede - he's all right really. He takes my bullying square on the chin, and you have to begrudgingly respect that I suppose. I'm sure he'll more than get his own back should he ever get round to updating my review on Chortle. His criticisms will be innaccurate though. I am fucking well brilliant at comedy me. Only a fool (who knows how to work a computer a bit) would claim otherwise.

Off to Brighton for a weekend at the Krater/Komedia tomorrow, then I am going on an adventure from Monday. There is no such thing as the internet where I am going so I shall be away for a while. I shall endeavour to update on here over the weekend (actually that shouldn't be too hard as Brighton is fantastic for having wireless coverage all over the place - they have made a concerted effort to create full internet access throughout Brighton), and then after that you can spend a bit of time without me.

Oh stop crying, I'm not all that...

Now...who's gonna fix this dent for me? I will gladly offer you the sum of four pounds and a free advert in this blog.

Which brings us onto the Leeds heat of the Chortle Student thing award on Monday.

On my way up I had a wander around Meadowhall which is a big shopping centre thing just off of the M1 in Sheffield. When I was at University I used to go there quite a lot to buy Star Wars toys with my then girlfriend, and it took quite a while for the place to lose that association for me once I had left Uni and she had dumped me (yes, can you believe it? She actually dumped me...). It is one of many major flaws in my character that I allow places to be haunted by the past, often to the point where I simply can't go there anymore.

Anyhow, I hadn't eaten a thing for about 24 hours by the time I reached Sheffield at 6pm, and as I wandered around I began to become aware of that fainting feeling. You'd really think that someone with as much reserve as myself would be able to last without food for perhaps a year or so without resorting to fainting, but there you go. I found myself beating a track to the food court bit (I say 'bit' - it's massive) and once again had to ask a stranger for help. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as the other times I've come close to the fainting thing recently, but the girl at the organic juice counter looked after me tremendously and even gave me a discount for being so fucking pathetic.

And, not wishing to come over all Robin Askwith, but if you're ever passing through, it's worth going to the Meadowhall to see the girl working at the Pasty King counter - she was wearing what appeared to be a bikini covered by an apron. She didn't give me a discount but I don't care. Some day I will marry that girl.

Unfortunately, I recovered sufficiently to make it to the Leeds University gig.

Hard to know what to say about it really, I don't want to have a go at the acts because they were all relatively new and some of them were actually very good, but suffice to say that the Newcastle gig was a potentially false dawn in terms of standard. One of the acts was a man dancing with a puppet duck for five minutes.

Actually, to be fair, that was one of the funniest things I have ever fucking seen in my entire life. Two minutes into it and Dan Nightingale leant over to me and said "he's actually going to do the whole song isn't he?", and he did. It was incredible but hard to see where he would go from there in a full set...I suppose he could get a longer remix of it...

What you need in these situations is a good up-for-it audience.

That didn't happen either.

It's a really awkward situation to find yourself as a performer blaming a bad audience for a night being rubbish, but there really was nothing to be done with that crowd. Dan Nightingale was compering and wasn't getting anywhere near what his standard of bantering and material deserved, a good percentage of the audience were pompous and arrogant and determined to sneer at proceedings, which is fine for myself and Dan because it's just another night for us, but for the entrants of the award I felt it a little shitty.

Yes, they weren't all great, but they were having a fucking crack at it, they had all clearly prepared (albeit misguidedly for some), and they had all turned up to give it a shot. I thought the audience were rude and miserly and lacking almost enitrely in any form of joy or, more importantly, basic fucking respect.

I perhaps shouldn't have told them that when I went on to headline, but as a former student of Leeds Uni, I felt pretty much ashamed of my slight association. I'd been looking forward to doing that gig too...

The Chortle Awards continued up to Edinburgh last night, leaving me behind to do a gig in Northampton instead.

Now, conversely, I was really not looking forward to going back to the Northampton Picturedrome. I've done it about six or seven times, and the audience there have always been...well, pretty much like the audience were at Leeds uni to be honest. I've been having such enjoyable gigs so far this year, I really wasn't relishing the prospect of having two duff ones back-to-back, and completely confounding my expectations the Picturedrome was actually all right last night.

Well, I say "all right", there may be a degree of me saying that by comparison to what it is usually like, but I at least didn't leave the building in a major sulky strop this time and text people to tell them that I'd had enough of all these cunts and was going to quit doing stand-up which is what happened when I did it last year.

Not saying I enjoyed it, because that would be pushing it, but I was wide of the mark in how I had decided it would be before it had even started.

I should stop trying to second guess gigs.

And that was that.

I donned the cap of the 'character' of Ray Peacock last night as a one-off for the very last time on stage and now I don't envisage ever getting it out of my bag again.

It had already been over a year since he came out to play, and he was kind of subdued at the Blackwood Miners Institute in Wales given that his owner (me) was in the early stages of illness (some sort of coldy flu thing - am valiantly attempting to stave it off), and that he had ridiculously long hair for a man of his age (it was tied back and stuffed down his shirt which proved surprisingly uncomfortable). The gig was nice, I didn't do a word of material (as I don't recall any of it), and I got to abuse a lady from the tax office for spreading misery around the world. Shouting was difficult but I persevered...sorry, he did.

It feels so wanky referring to a character in the third person, but it's also incredibly difficult not to. I was chatting to Steve Jameson about it the other week as he kept referring to his character Sol Bernstein as "he" and "Sol" and it was really making me laugh. I kept telling him that he is Sol, but then he reminded me that I did the same with "Ray". You really do start thinking of them as just somebody that you know.

James Dowdeswell was telling me that John Oliver always talks about me once saying at a gig "I would hate this gig, but Ray will love it". Now I have no doubt this tale is recounted with the emphasis on me being some kind of twat, but despite having no recollection of saying this, I totally get it and would stand by it. The other week I was offered a big lump of money to stand at the front of a bus that was transporting casino owners to a conference and 'entertain' them. That was all that was in the brief, and I turned it down out of sheer fear and complete lack of idea as to what I would do for 90 minutes - I found it totally daunting. The following day it occured to me that "In Character" it may have been a piece of piss. I couldn't have done it, but "Ray" could ("Ray" the character I mean...they're right - it is confusing...) yet they are both me.

Anyway he's gone now, so let's not even think about it. For any other budding character comedians out there, I have just one tip. If you leave your costume in a bag for over a year and then do one last gig in character, the costume WILL stink.

On Thursday night I was headlining the first heat of the Chortle Student Award thing up in Newcastle, in what turned out to be rather an agreeable day out.

I'm really no good at working out times and things for driving so tend to arrive at gigs that are very far away ridiculously early - my call for the Newcastle gig was 7.30pm, at 3pm I was sat next to the Angel of the North having some quiet time and a ponder.

I've never been to the Angel of the North before, drove past it a few times, but as I was wanting for something to do I had a little drive up to it - it has something about it when you get right up close. I was there for about an hour. Probably won't go again, I've finally done that now. There was something a little sad about it - hard to explain...if you go up there you'll maybe see what I mean.

The actual show at Newcastle Uni was really enjoyable - the contestants did themselves justice and the standard was as good as a 'normal' comedy night. I was a little excitable when I finally got onto the stage as I had just been secretly informed that the winner of the heat was my friend Ed Gamble, and to be fair, he totally won it on the night. Before the show, Steve Bennett (the editor of Chortle) had told me I could be a judge if I wanted, but I politely declined. Well, I say 'politely' - I said "who am I to judge - I'll leave that to you cunts". I'm so glad I did decline though - I wouldn't want the controversy of my mate going through when I was a judge. For the record I had no say in the matter.

I've known Ed for a few years, he is in the Durham Review (I deliberately spell it wrong) and in my show Ray Peacock & Son in 2005 he and his colleagues took it in turns to play the role of a tax inspector at the end of the show. I am made up for the lad to progress in the Chortle competition, he genuinely did deserve it. Although, technically speaking, I perhaps should have won the heat with my brilliant thirty minute set which consisted of me throwing bags of Revels at high velocity in the direction of a student who informed us all he had dyspraxia. It was morally reprehensible, yet really really funny.

To me anyway.

I have no recollection of why I was doing it.

When Steve Bennett took to the stage to announce the winner at the end, I struck a blow for every comedian that has been mauled on this site by his misinformed and cruel reviews, and heckled him brutally. He said that he is going to write some put-downs for the next heat that I am headlining, and I have to tell you, this gave me goose bumps. Finally, this ongoing, tongue-in-cheek, war of words has been made public. How often can a comedian be given the opportunity to go head-to-head with a journalist who has written (sadly mostly accurate) critiques of their work?

And then have said-journalist write them a cheque for the privelage. I almost don't want to cash these cheques - I'm more inclined to frame them next to a print out of the reviews he has given me. It feels as though that would be good feng shui.

I was gonna stay up in Newcastle, but as I had to be in Wales last night I decided to bite the bullet and drive back down the country.

I blew a kiss to the Angel of the North as I passed and put my foot down.

Well last night's Montreal Showcase was a lot of worry over nothing - all went very well and it was a relief to get through it unscathed.

I managed to get around the instructions not to talk to the audience by telling the people shouting out that I was not allowed to talk to them and nor was I allowed to get into put-downs or shout at them. I then went on to put them in their place whilst all the time reminding them that I wasn't allowed to say these things. Yeah, pretty fucking clever eh?

On the downside it did mean that, as feared, it took me right to the limit on my allocated time slot and I had to cram four minutes of material into one minute at the very end. I'm told it wasn't noticeable - but I fucking noticed as I gabbled away, ever conscious of the fact that the red light (to tell you when you're nearly done) above the stage had gone from a brief flash to strobe.

During this gabbling I heard a particularly lame heckle from the left of me - it was pretty quiet and not heard by anybody else in the room other than myself and the people in the immediate vicinity of said heckler. The time light was still flashing so I ignored the heckle, and it is my contention that I should get to go to Montreal for this alone.

Have you any idea how difficult it is for me to ignore a negative comment from the audience? I really regret it now, but I proved in that moment that I can behave myself if the need arises. I've also convinced myself that the heckler in question knew that I was out of time and so picked that moment to be brave, knowing full well that I was rendered impotent (metaphorically speaking of course...no worries in that department ladies...and if there ever was it would be your fault not mine) by the impending deadline. Fucking coward. I hope our paths cross again and I can unleash my wrath on the snidey little cunt.

But anyway, long and the short of it is, despite the best efforts of some audience members and, revoltingly, some of my peers to put me off my stride, I did just fine.

It was also nice because I've never actually played the Comedy Store before. Never called them for a gig or anything like that, it's one that has just passed me by really.

Thing is, because of my involvement in the Big And Daft team, I got reasonably known as a performer within industry circles and so by-passed the open spot circuit when I started doing solo stand up. Never done an open spot. Would have - don't get me wrong - but it never became a neccessity. I went straight in as a headliner on the Comedy Network universtity tour after being in the right place at the right time and filling in for last minute gigs and the club gigs followed on from that. I am more than aware at how lucky I am for this, but in my defence I was working very hard in another area of comedy for little-to-no money in an attempt (successful) to get known.

The other reason I never played the Comedy Store is because of their supposed no-character act policy. Before I elaborate I must say that this may be a load of bollocks, I have never been told this by anyone officially connected to the Store and it may just be urban legend, but I was told by other acts that they simply don't book character acts. Given that, at the time that I would have been most likely to have gotten in with them, I was exclusively performing in character I just wrote that club off as an option.

So there we go...that's my explanation.

Speaking of the character act, he is to return for a one off appearance this Friday coming at the Blackwood Miners Institute in Wales (which couldn't be more perfect). It's a character night compered by "Ray Peacock" with Simon Brodkin and Simon Munnery. It was booked in ages ago, and at the time of the booking I thought it would be okay to do a one-off without problems but for the second time in seven days I find myself with the alien feeling of worrying about another fucking gig! It has been over a year since I donned the cap and passed off shouting as an act, and I can't really remember how to do it. Nor am I a hundred percent sure where the costume is. It is my intention this evening to dig out some of the old videos and teach myself my own creation again. I must remember to take hair bands with me as well, because my hair is far too long for that character. It is more than likely going to be the final time I ever perform that character onstage, which I know may come as a relief to many, but I was quite fond of him in his heyday.

We'll see.

I'm looking forward to it though - think it will be fun and nostalgic.

My entire week ahead is looking pretty enjoyable, as it is a week on the road, which sometimes I hate and sometimes I love. I'm in the mood for it right now (even though I can feel a cold coming on slowly but surely which I am trying my very best not to think about).

My travels begin at Newcastle University this Thursday when I am headlining the Chortle Awards (which I am genuinely looking forward to doing because I love Chortle and I love Revels - did I do it right Steve Bennett?) and then takes in Wales (twice), Northampton, Leeds, and a weekend in Brighton, so I shall be doing the hotel thing with a vengeance and clocking up some miles.

I'll keep you up to date with my brilliant adventures.

Although my next few posts may just consist of me saying "am back in the hotel, am really tired, there was a traffic jam on the motorway again".

I reckon this post may jinx my career but as I am in one of my proper 'fuck it' moods I am going to go ahead with it anyway.

I am kind of half asleep as I dropped off at about 8.30 last night and just woke up, more in need of my back being massaged then I think I ever have been before. In a throwback to my teenage years I have been properly hitting the weights since watching Rocky Balboa the other week and it is beginning to take it's toll (although you want to feel the size of my arms).

Anyway, here's the jinx bit: I don't recall a time that I had so many good gigs so close together.

Oooooh that's fucking asking for it...

It's true though. In the last few weeks, I can recall immediately quite a few nights that were simply a joy to behold from where I was stood onstage (Olver's gig in Bristol, XSMalarkey, EDComedy, etc etc - all of them rocked) could this continue at my gig on Friday night at The Comedy Cellar in Bracknell?

You mention that gig to any comedian who has played it and their face will properly light up - it is genuinely that good a gig. It is pretty difficult to put a foot wrong in front of such a delightful audience.

And as I have already demonstrated to you my tendency towards superstition on these matters, that fact is enough to fill me with dread before a performance - when you know that you would have to fuck up dramatically to not have a brilliant gig somewhere. On my way over to the gig I was filled with caution about assuming it would be a walk over.

Even as I sat in my car in the car park at the South Hill Arts complex, watching the audience arrive, all of them seemingly full of life and happiness and ready for a night of comedy, I maintained my apprehension. It's like when a top sports team are drawn against a rubbish one and take for granted the win - that's when they end up getting turned over (ironically, as I was constructing this metaphor in the car on Friday, my rugby league team St Helens were doing just that against London, which of course royally pissed me off when I got home).

Further concern came from the fact that I last performed there just four months ago and I really couldn't properly recall what treats from my fantastic repertoire of comedy musings I had offered them then.

I realise that the manner in which I am writing this entry would seem to imply that I am about to tell you about how it all went wrong, but that is not the case. In answer to my vague tease a couple of paragraphs ago about whether the run of form could continue at The Comedy Cellar, it did with a vengeance. It is so rare that when I do my compering (sadly and mistakenly not nominated in the prestigious Chortle awards for a record fifth year) that I actually begin to look forward to going back on, but this was the situation I found myself in on Friday.

I wish the night had been filmed. But from the stage. I'd have sent a copy out to every comedy night in the land with instructions to play it on a big screen before gigs so the audience can see exactly how they should behave to get the most from their evening.

They entered into the spirit perfectly, there was heckling without any bad blood, there was enforced interaction without any need for crowd control, when I came on they played and when the acts came on they listened and laughed.

That sounds like they didn't laugh when I was on but they did. Just want to make that clear.

When you get to the last section of a show as a compere and think to yourself "Right, I'm going to do a little bit of material now", not out of neccessity but by choice, then you know that everyone in the room has contributed in the correct way and it has been a good one.

I want to make special reference to a gentleman in the front row named Brian. Now, without meaning to sound rude, it would be fair to say that he was an elderly gentleman, and I mention this because it is the crux of why I am drawing attention to him here. See, I have always taken issue with the lack of respect for the elder generation. You may think that this is just me showing signs of middle age (as I am 33 now and I think 66 will be my high score as long as I play a tight game towards the end), whining about the lack of respect shown to senior citizens, but I have always had a gripe with it. I think perhaps it may be as a result of my having been very close and respectful to my own grandparents (all very much missed from my life) or maybe it is just an inherent common decency, but whenever I have seen comedians make lame jokes about old people smelling of piss and all of that fucking lazy bollocks, it has annoyed me no end.

Not saying that they are beyond mockery, I suggested that the end of the road was nigh for Brian on several occasions throughout the evening on Friday, but just the manner of doing so has always felt important to me. I don't think that I disrespected the guy at any point, we just had a great night teasing each other, and his comebacks to my mockeries were as sharp as fuck.

The night ended with him onstage with me, miming as I sang the Clive Dunn classic "Grandad" behind him. It may sound rubbish when I regale it here in words, but live on stage and in the moment it was utterly magical. I have never seen a more generous, spontaneous and non-patronising outpouring of applause and cheers as I did in that audience when I added Brian's name to the list of performers at the end of the show. It was actually pretty touching, especially as I could see the flushed delight on the dude's face when he saw that the audience were ovating for him.

I get myself into all sorts of situations on stage - partly down to staving off boredom on my part and the fear of finding myself doing the same old stuff night after night, partly because I have a mischievous confrontational streak inherent in me, but mainly because - every so often - something like that happens.

I can't be fucked with just regurgitating the same old bollocks on every stage I step foot on. I look at certain comedians who have been doing the rounds, with material as old as their careers and cannot begin to understand what they get from it. I'm not even criticising here, if that works for them and the audiences go home with a smile, then job done, who am I to judge? I'm just saying that I personally can't even begin to relate to the notion that doing this could be rewarding on any level other than financially, and that has become a foreign desire for me as my 'career' has 'progressed'.

It's the reason that I ultimately felt I didn't do myself justice in my Edinburgh Fringe show Out Of Character last year. Even before I got there I had people saying that I should allow time within it to do some of my 'fucking about', but I didn't (or hardly did) because it all felt as though it had to be slicker than that, and better planned, but the more evenings I did the compering at the Free Beer Show after my own show, the more I realised that my true strength is in going out there and throwing caution to the wind. I always had the material to back it up with should that be needed, but I rarely have to resort to it when I go out with the right attitude. Matter of fact, I don't think that beyond the first night of the Free Beer Show I ever did a word of material. In my own show (with the exception of a couple of isolated nights) I never wandered off-script. The audience response was almost always better at the Free Beer Show.

On Monday night I am going to be performing in a showcase for the Montreal Comedy Festival at the Comedy Store in London. I have seven minutes and I don't know where to fucking start. It's not so much the actual time constraint (which I am happy to respect...no really), but more the constraint that this stops me doing what I do best as I need to do just material - the only time I am ever 'punchy' as a comic is when I am interacting with audiences, but I am under (sound) advice not to enter into that on this occasion. My material, such as it is, is far more laboured and 'building'.

I don't know...it's starting to concern me this gig on Monday.

I just wanted to tell someone...and perhaps make an excuse before the fact.

We'll see.

I'm trying to learn like.

Was meant to be going into the ofice today to do some writing with my writing partner Steve Morrison, but the snowfall has put pay to that. So I am sat in my home office, ready to do some work...which I am more than likely not going to do (hence me writing this blog).

This is exactly the reason why I need to go into the London office - there are far less distractions there. Far too many dvd's, Playstation games and pornos here for me to be writing a sitcom. I should though...should do it really.

I have recently gotten dead famous as well, I have been getting loads of autograph requests through the post because of the thing about me in Doctor Who magazine, and after my monumental, some may say seminal, performance at Herts Uni last week I keep getting recognised in Asda (I live not far from Herts uni), which frankly is a pain. I'm just a regular guy, just trying to do my shopping and get on with my life a bit, yet all these bloody girls keep coming talking to me, just because they saw me do my comedy thing all brilliant and that, and now they fancy me up so they try to get close to me at the supermarket. Such a pain...

To be honest it's mainly lads shouting "Where's your lightsabre?" but I thought I would lie and pretend it is all girls and then pretend to be bothered by it like the proper celebrities all do.

The Doctor Who autograph thing is totally true - I guess there are people who just collect all autographs from the series. I considered not sending autographs back in an attempt to become a bit of an enigma and a "must-have" "hard-to-find" autograph.

When I was young and the Star Wars figures for Return of the Jedi came out - there was one called Klaatu that you couldn't get for love-nor-money in the North West, and despite Klaatu being a background character (a much less relevant character than my brilliant character that I do in Doctor Who) it made the character take on a whole new gravitas and meaning.

So I thought by being awkward I could become the Klaatu of the new millenium. Then my ego nudged me and said "No - you are being asked for your autograph" and before I knew it I had signed them and put stamps on.

On top of all this, my television presence is enormous as Paramount are for some reason showing the trails that I recorded for them in character in 2005. Not seen them on there myself, but I had a load of texts the other day about them. They are on in the middle of the night, and advertise my 2005 show Ray Peacock & Son.

So they are useless.

Not just because they are in character (which I don't do any more - except for a special one-off in a few weeks - I'll tell you nearer the time) but they are for a show that has long since been banished from existence and exorcised from my mind.

Still, I am on telly and that's the important thing isn't it everybody in comedy?

I've not done a film review for a while have I? I went to the cinema last night. The fact that there is mustard all over the sleeve of my coat proves it. I keep getting mustard on my sleeve in the same place - after the Ipod incident the other night (false alarm) and the fact that it attracts condiments, I am beginning to think that my coat may be jinxed and I should just stop wearing it. It does make me look like Luke Skywalker (in a funhouse mirror) but it's not worth keeping it for that. But anyway - my film review...

Last night I saw Bobby, which is about Bobby Kennedy (don't want to ruin it for you, but he dies in it...get's shot). It was all right. Went on a bit, was clearly influenced in some ways by Magnolia, but the ending was good and Anthony Hopkins was great in it and I don't normally care either way about him but he was dead good in this. I give it three stars...maybe two...no, I'll stick with three, it wasn't bad - just a bit boring.

I saw Night at the Museum the other week as well and I remember liking it. Yep, that's my review of that one. I remember liking it.

I'm going to go and try and do some writing on this sitcom. It doesn't look good to be honest - my standard of writing is lower than normal...I've been boring myself with this entry...

Fuck knows how you feel reading it.

Long Version

Yeah the gig was fine thankyou.

Southampton University, pretty run of the mill and uneventful, did my best, didn't get distracted, everyone laughed and then clapped at the end, blah-di-blah.

I am enjoying doing driving at the moment because of my new Tiger car. I have decided to call it a Tiger instead of a Tigra because every time I say Tigra somebody will always say "That's a girl's car" even before they have seen it. Then they see it and say how cool it is, and that it isn't a girl's car after all, particularly when the roof is down, but the damage is already done by then, so to nip it in the bud I am referring to it as a Tiger.

So anyway, I am driving home in my Tiger, mulling over whether to stop at the services for a wake-up-wank, when I remember that there is a podcast on my Ipod that I want to listen to (it's a Kevin Smith one). So I reach over to the ledge behind me (or the "secret compartment" as I am insisting on calling it) and grab my coat, reaching into the pocket for my Ipod and finding nothing.

Fucking nothing.

I check the other pockets, but there is already an impending sense of doom. I bought this coat late last year because it looks a bit like the outfit that Luke Skywalker wears in The Empire Strikes Back, but the thing is, the inside pockets are as gaping as (insert popular slaggy celebrity)'s foo-foo, and I tend to lose things from them. Yet I keep insisting on using those pockets for expensive items like my phone and my Ipod because I am stupid.

I tipped out my bag onto the passenger seat, just in case I had put my Ipod in there. Nope. Loads of junk in there stretching back about 9 months, but no fucking Ipod.

I was starting to get upset now - which for some reason made me drive faster, despite the fact that it was starting to snow. Snow is lovely when you can lean on a window ledge and watch it fall, but it's a bit shit when you are bombing down the M3 in an increasingly bad mood. Dangerous too, I believe - you have to keep your wits about you and drive extra carefully. And concentrate. I got to the point where I was starting to go over what songs and downloads I had on there, what pictures and movies I had stored on it, dreading the thought that they were lost for good. Then I started to get upset by the fact that my iTrip was also attatched to it. That's what I was concentrating on.

I pulled over on the hard shoulder.

I know you are only supposed to do that in emergencies, like if you had a flat tyre or if you and your lady friend simply cannot wait, but this was feeling like an emergency, and the swirling snow was only adding to the drama. I thought that it may have fallen out into the bit behind my seats (my phone fell out there once). It wasn't fucking there...I was doing that really moody thing that I do. If you don't know me in real life then I do this really moody thing where I go dead serious and start moving around fast and ocassionally kicking things. I also lose any semblance of patience.

The other week, for example, I started to spill a cup of coffee in my new car (the day after I got it) because the stupid Coffee Nation machine had filled the cup too full. I was still at the services when the spillage occurred and I literally threw the cup across the forecourt. Didn't just tip the excess coffee out onto the floor - I threw the fucker. Like about 10 metres or something too, but I get a red mist. I am 95% certain that one day I will kill whilst in one of these moods (that is not a legally binding confession should I be suspected of it).

So anyway, I am on the hard shoulder of the M3, getting into more of a state, and texting Christian Knowles (the booker of the gig) to ask him for the venue's telephone number as that is the only other place it can possibly be, and getting angry with myself because there is rubbish in my car even though I had vowed to keep this one clean, and cursing the fact that a gig I did as a last minute favour is gonna end up costing me significantly more money than I got for it when I replace my fucking Ipod. I had to keep stopping rummaging in the back of my car because lorries were flying past on the inside lane really fucking close, so I had to lean over and sound my horn and shout "cunts!" after them.

I have learned that it is very important not to bottle these frustrations up.

The rest of the journey is spent in a fucking seething mood. If I had been carrying a passenger I have no doubt that they would have politely asked to be let out of the car at the services and taken their chances getting home off their own back - possibly even on foot.

I imagined some fucking Southampton student celebrating at finding an Ipod with ten thousand brilliant songs on it. My fucking songs! The ones that belonged to me! And all rude pictures and stuff to boot as well. And then I imagined that they hadn't even enjoyed watching my stand-up, and hadn't laughed or clapped or anything, and they probably turned to their friends and said I was shit, and now they were sitting listening to my Ipod and feeling very pleased with themselves for not having to pay hundreds of pounds for it.

Then I imagined torturing them for being dishonest and not handing it in and seeing how great they thought it was then.

I got back to my house, looking on the floor outside, just in case it had fallen out of my jacket when I very first got into my car - but it wasn't there. It wasn't fucking anywhere.

Except for on the ledge by the side of the door.

I'm a fucking tit, but you'll be glad to know that the stress of that journey has probably taken five years off my already limited lifespan.

This post has been far more for me than it has for you.

Short Version

I did a gig and thought I'd lost my Ipod, but I'd just forgotten to take it with me.

I have no idea how to behave at an industry party - literally no clue.

To be perfectly honest, I don't think I would know how to behave at any party, but as I am rarely invited to them, and even more rarely go to them even if I am, it is not something that needs to overly concern me. It would be true to say I am not the most sociable soul (not in group get togethers anyway - I am more than capable of dealing with one-on-one social situations, even better at one-on-one private situations...by which I mean I am dead good at 'having it off' - and I'm not bragging - everyone says so).

I run out of smalltalk pretty fucking quick (at parties), usually resorting to being plain insulting in an effort to be 'entertaining' (as much to myself as anybody else), and when you see people that you haven't seen since the last party there is usually a reason that you are not more often in touch. I am rapidly learning that it is the done thing in the comedy industry (or indeed any industry) to maintain a level of willing around the important folk, but a lot of the time I simply can't bring myself to do the faux polite thing. A cunt's a cunt, no matter how much potential career power they have. This is why I have a manager to talk to them for me - I'd just say the wrong thing (like I probably am right now).

The other thing is, I don't really drink, and get pretty uncomfortable at the thought of being drunk in front of people. So I always drive to avoid the temptation, but that doesn't rule out other people drinking. Some of the most embarrassing and awkward moments of my life have involved the innebriation of others, be it people passing out and me panicking or that all too familiar boozy strop that drunk people tend to do at a certain point late into the evening. I simply can't be arsed with it, and I certainly can't be arsed with the apologies and all that bollocks that come the next day/week/month.

I have even more of a difficulty with people I know in a purely professional capacity getting to the point of coma from booze. I once worked on a TV show where, after the first days shooting, the producer and director took the cast to the pub and proceeded to get fucking leathered. I hardly knew these people. I had to leave as I began to feel the respect slowly but surely drain from my body.

You can all, by all means, go and get drunk to your hearts content - I just don't want to be there to witness it with sobriety.

So given my self-professed social inadequacies, it is always with a due sense of dread that I trundle off to the Avalon (my management) annual winter party. It started as a Christmas party years ago, and has gradually been pushed back over the course of time to it's present February slot. One day it will be a summer fete.

I've actually had some great times at Avalon parties over the years, unlike the Edinburgh Fringe parties where a million people are shoved into a shoebox to bitch and no matter how early you arrive the free bar has always just stopped being free, the decadence at the Avalon efforts has always unapologetically had it's tongue firmly planted in it's cheek. Be it the year that there was a grandiose ten-foot sculpture of Lenin behind the bar, or - my personal favourite - the time that all the waiters were little people dressed as elves.

However as the years have gone by, and the novelty has worn off, I find it more of a strain to attend. There's only so long you can stand and stare, or fight the feeling of uselessness as you realise that the producer that used to think you were the dogs bollocks is now avoiding eye-contact.

Most of the highlights of Friday night came about as a result of my writing partner Steve Morrison's youthful eagerness to do the industry party thing just right, which for a while reminded me of how I used to be when I first started getting invited to these things, and so enabled me to sort of enjoy myself for a bit. Within twenty minutes of arriving at the party I had gotten a text from him informing me he had got me "a job" by networking with a radio producer who was doing a panel show about rugby (it turned out to be rugby yawnion unfortunately - but fuck knows how he even got to the point of discussion).

All night long I watched him offer his hand to strangers, introducing himself and then, for some god-knows-why reason, compare his clothes to theirs.

He is truly one of the most accidentally funny fuckers I have ever met. He drunkenly informed me that he always reads this blog at one point, before apologetically telling me it's mainly to see if he's in it. So I thought I would perhaps make him a featured character in this entry.

Mainly because I want to tell you about his worst onstage experience.

Steve used to do stand-up years ago but has stopped now. I have promised my manager that over a period of time I am going to attempt to wear Steve down to the point where he does it again, but at the moment he is absent from the stages. I've even considered the possibility of doing a two hander show with him, especially as earlier in the year there was very nearly an opportunity of an idea to hang it on when I was approached by a TV producer who had been reading this blog and read that I'd said Steve was one of the cub scouts eating ice cream on the rollercoaster on Jim'll Fix It.

Steve had intitially told me to write this on my blog, and I had no idea if it was true, but humoured him. The TV producer was doing a show about old TV clips, one of which was the cub-scout clip, and so wanted to talk to Steve. After my conversation with the producer I immediately called Steve to ascertain whether or not there was any truth in his claim.

Sadly there wasn't - but my mischievous mind went into overdrive and I suggested he try to pass it off as fact. Most people at this point would say "No no no - I can't".

Steve said, "Yeah all right, be a laugh won't it?".

Unfortunately, the practical joke was over before it began as the producer in question was far too clued up to be fooled, but it was a potentially great idea for a show.

Steve stole a bottle of vodka from behind the bar on Friday. It was a free bar and so was an entirely pointless theft, but implied a kindred desire for mischief, and one day I am certain that Steve and I will be able to cause some genuine fun trouble.

It won't be this year's fringe - I think I have decided to give Scotland a wide bearth for the time being. My money is on Edinburgh 2008.

Anyway, back to Steve's worst onstage experience (his telling of which had me on the floor laughing on Friday night).

See how I am always getting into fights and stuff onstage? Like in the last post I made on here about the gobby girl? Well, they all pale into insignificance when I tell you that Steve had fire thrown at him onstage.

Yes you read that right...fire.

I thought I was going to fucking die laughing when he was telling me about it - apparently the audience were so unimpressed with him that they started setting fire to napkins and throwing them at him.

Then he said "And then I got them calmed down and I was doing quite well for a bit but I looked down and they were getting their lighters out and I thought, oh there's that fire again...that's not good"

If only YouTube had been around then - fuck I would have loved to have seen that.

I never found out what happened at the rest of the gig because at that point of the Avalon party Steve's girlfriend got in an altercation with Les Dennis and he had to go and sort it out. I didn't see him again all evening.

I went back to standing and staring, got upset with 'friends' for not being friendly enough, got in a bit of a mood, left and ate a takeaway in my car with the roof down (see I can do some showbizzy things).

First off, I want to briefly mention XS Malarkeys, where I performed on Tuesday night. That club is fucking brilliant, and I was finally able to do the 'normal' gig I have been craving. There were no unique incidents, no little dramas, just a really really enjoyable 40 mins onstage to a lovely, warm, receptive audience. It's my joint top gig of the year so far, along with East Harptree.

If you haven't been there and you are in the Manchester area then please go (although get there early - it was sold out the other night). Little Raji James who used to be on Eastenders had a lovely time too, although he couldn't quite work out why somebody who had been through gender re-assignment couldn't then carry a child. We were speaking to a friend of mine who has been through that process (as mentioned yesterday, that was who's breast I was feeling - very odd experience to be essentially feeling somebody up in the middle of a pub because they have offered their new breasts for assessment - I had to do it several times just to be sure), and Raji simply could not get his head around why they could not also add a 'womb' in the surgery.

He put it down to "The Man" treading over the little people. I said it probably was possible to transplant a womb in some way, but it wouldn't be functional. Raji countered that they can graft things onto or into people, so why would it not be functional. I explained that it was probably possible for him to have a third arm grafted onto his chest, but that didn't mean the fingers would wiggle. The discussion went on for fucking ages. I think he may have been being deliberately stupid in his drunken state.

Which brings us nicely onto the gig I did last night...


Over the years, on and off, I have been accused of being a bully onstage.

Sometimes I have been accused of being one offstage but that was normally disgruntled romantic involvements having a swipe at me and the frustrations I provoke in those situations.

The thing is, I can sort of see why people would have said it when I was doing gigs in character, the character of Ray Peacock was to a degree a bully, but I was always very careful about who I singled out for attention whilst doing the character. Of course you can never be a hundred percent sure, but I was pretty good at gauging who would be good value for my intitial onslaught and be able to take it in the Panto way it was meant, and likewise, if I felt I'd misjudged the person I was quick to come away from them.

Since dropping the character, I've had conversations with people who have described the difference between me in and out of character (and there is a difference actually), usually by saying that I am much calmer as myself onstage.

Generally speaking, this is probably true. However, and it is a big however, I think that when the situation calls for it, I am far more ruthless than the character ever was, and I do target specific people nowadays.

Last night I performed at The University Of Hertfordshire, and when I wandered offstage to a standing ovation (partial) I had a genuine concern that I had pushed it too far. I was worried that with hindsight I would be seen as a bully, and further concerned that I would have been deemed to be misogynist - it was an emergency assessment of the evening in the car that cleared me in my own mind.

The gig had been fine, but as time went on I was beginning to get irritated by certain pockets of the audience that wouldn't leave it alone. I positively encourage heckles and chatting (as we know), but it can go on a bit longer than you perhaps want and last night was one of those occasions - you know that when other audience members start shouting across at the disruptance that you need to take the situation by the scruff of the neck.

So the girl that was chatting loudly, and speaking into her mobile, and being an all round arsehole, was the one that got it. And she got it bad, even by my standards. Proper bad. It was when she shouted out "You're only funny because you're fat and ugly" that I knocked it up a gear, and went all out in bringing her down. I think it was around a twenty minute demolition of her, and as everything I said to her was evoking rapturous applause from the rest of the audience culminating with them voting her "most objectionable cunt who ever lived" in a minute long ovation (and a minute is a pretty long time for an audience to be cheering mid-set), meant I felt justified in doing so.

So why the nagging feeling as I walked from the stage? I think it may have been because I felt that the situation had run a bit deeper than a standard gig, as though something important was actually happening, and I wanted to be sure that I had played my part right.

A girl from the audience came up to me and shook my hand, leaning in to my ear and saying "Thankyou". I must have looked quizzical back at her because she went on to explain, "I was bullied by girls like her".

And this is the thing - I'm not a bully - I fucking target bullies, and the second she said that "fat and ugly" thing, I subconsciously knew that she deserved no mercy if that was the type of person she was. And as for my fear of appearing misogynist, it was again unfounded - I wasn't attacking her because she was a woman - I was attacking her because she was a cunt.

Several more people came and shook my hand with similar reasons, I was starting to feel like I'd done something genuinely important. I know it sounds very self-congratulatory to say that, perhaps borderline arrogant, but there was no arguing with what happened in that room last night. It wasn't my intention to do it, it just happened, I got caught up in the twister and my house fell on the witch, but that didn't stop the majority of students (or Munchkins if I am going to continue the analogy) at Hertfordshire Uni being grateful for what I accidentally/subconsciously did.

As I left the gig, someone was laying into the group that I had already destroyed. A big row was starting - all I overheard was "I think you're out of order, you always have been, and it's about time someone put you in your place...".

Now, it's not my intention to start fucking riots, but I do love the fact that my intolerance of them was infectious. Who knows how long people had put up with it, wanting to say something, wanting to do something, but not knowing how? And then along comes a little, fat and ugly catalyst striking a blow for the silent majority, giving them the impetus to finally feel that they could make their point to those who had been causing them distress.

I took that girl to pieces for everyone she had ever looked down her nose at, for everyone she had walked all over, for everyone she had ever called "fat and ugly".

I am great.

It's been a very emotional week really.

The last seven days have been highly transitional in my life, I was already feeling as though things would never be the same, and that certainly culminated today. I've found on several occasions that I have been experiencing a lump in my throat, triggered by different yet consistent things.

The first time it happened was in St Helens on Saturday, at the rugby game that was rearranged from the other week.

St Helens RLFC, as previously mentioned on here are one of a few things that I would consider to be a fundamental part of my life. I know there are people that don't get the passion that can be stirred by supporting a sports team (and I only follow one sport - rugby league - exclusively), but watching Saints and fucking (not at the same time - that would be weird) are about the only times in my life that I will ever externally show any excitement.

The older I have got, the more pronounced the passion has become - no doubt due to the fact that over the years myself and St Helens rugby league club have accumulated a history (and a turbulent one on occasion too). There have been major highs and major lows, I have loved them for the joy of success and hated them for the dissapointment of failure, but I have stuck with them and always will.

The game on Saturday was a testimonial game for a player named Sean Long who has been at the club for ten years now. He is a genuine individual, a star player who every now and then does something foolish or controversial (one year he was banned for a few months after being caught betting against an understrength Saints team), but for all his misdemeanors he has also been the key player that has pulled it out of the bag for the team in the big games, winning us many trophies (sometimes almost single-handedly). A loveable rogue I guess would be the easiest and laziest way of describing him, you simply can't stay mad at him for long.

But, the celebration of his career aside, the thing that got to me at the game on Saturday was the fact that three of the substitutes in the game were former star players from years gone by. They are all 35 now, been retired for quite a few years, consigned to history and very fondly remembered. Whenever I have watched an old Saints game on dvd and they are playing, it has always brought a tinge of nostalgia and perhaps sadness that I would never see them play again. Yet on Saturday they were back on the pitch, in front of me, wearing the Red Vee of St Helens. It was impossible not to be touched by it, especially when - despite the obvious physical restraint of age - there were glimpses now and then of what had been.

My emotion wasn't helped by the fact that I'd watched Rocky Balboa earlier in the week, and been surprised by how much it had moved me. As Tommy Martyn, Chris Joynt and Paul Newlove got stuck into the game, I found myself thinking about the idea that every great person has one fight left in them...I so wanted at least one of them to have a moment of glory. I thought about the history we had together, under the umbrella of St Helens rlfc, and what had been going on in my life at the times of different games, different moments in time, defined by the pass of a ball or the sight of a lifted or denied piece of silverware.

It was pretty powerful stuff really, but there was no glorious ending, the final hooter went.

I know this might seem a bit wanky but I mean this. If you don't get it, that is totally cool - just stop reading it and come back tomorrow when I'll do you a blog about how I rocked at XS Malarkey's last night and felt a ladies new bosoms after the gig. If you do get it though...well...you know exactly what I am talking about.

Another fundamental part of my life are The Beautiful South.

Well...were.

They split up today, citing "musical similarities" as the reason (which raised a smile through the tears).

People talk about having a soundtrack to your life. I've had stupid quizzes come through on MySpace that ask you what song was playing when you did such-and-such. My answers, should I ever lower myself to complete one, would have all been songs by The Beautiful South and to be honest, I don't really know what I am going to do without them.

Many years ago, 1999 I think it was (or it might have been early 2000, around then anyway), I was in the process of a very nasty relationship break up. For reasons still to this day unknown, I had moved in with a girl who simply wasn't right for me (nor I for her if you can even begin to imagine such a ridiculous notion). The last time we ever went out together before I fucking ran out of that house for the very last time, was to a Beautiful South concert at Brixton Academy. We weren't even on speaking terms and she had no interest in them - fuck knows why she was with me that night...in fact, fuck knows why she was with me any night but let's not get distracted by irrelevance.

At the beginning of the gig, Paul Heaton and Dave Rotheray (the songwriters of the group) came out onto the stage alone without the rest of the band. With Paul on vocals and Dave on an accoustic guitar they performed "Prettiest Eyes".

Now, as I have explained, I was in a highly emotional situation anyway, but during that song I was moved like I have never been moved before, nor - I am sure - will be again. Just as with the Saints match at the weekend, I thought back over my life, over the highs and lows, of how I had got to that unhappy point and - more importantly - how I had been brought through unhappy points safely in my life before, more often than not with the accompanying music created by the two men performing in front of me at that point. I'd been so worried about what was happening in my life, but I trusted at that moment that I would get through and be all right again. I felt like the song was being performed just for me and I was just fucking grateful.

Today I feel like a friend has died. No word of a lie, I don't even consider that to be an overly dramatic statement. And I know that there is a trend to be dismissive of The Beautiful South, but if you subsribe to the notion of them being middle-of-the-road music then you've clearly never listened properly to their work...or legacy as I now have to accept it as. There is anger, love, tension, passion, betrayal, simultaneous hopelessness and hope...fucking everything is in there...but nothing more so than soul in it's purest form.

There was no concession made to chart position, no following trends or conforming to what was expected, no "I need you baby" - just a credibility that can only truly be achieved by trusting yourself to know what is the right thing for you to do in your art - the honest thing for you to do, the chase of self-truth rather than the chase of the pound.

It may have ultimately destroyed them, made their existence untenable for the corporate music industy to further indulge, but they can hold their heads high forever - just like those three former Saints players that had one last run out at the weekend.

The legs may be gone, they may be no longer painting it red, but the fact that they will be held in the hearts and memories of the people whose lives they truly touched, and always appreciated simply for being who they were, means they will always, always be glorious.