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.

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