So this is again one of my freeform blogs. Because the others were so clearly structured and considered.
I guess I have one or two things to talk about, but that being said, I'm not going to come on here and just bitch about my job. 1) Because I do that enough at work, and 2) Because now I know some people are reading this, it becomes slightly more than just my outlet for thoughts that probably won't turn out funny. And that would be selfish. That's what therapy is for.
Speaking of which, I gave that a shot. Well, there's the whole issue of my dad and my occasional overeating that I'd like to address, so it seemed like a worthwhile exercise.
You know when sterotypes smack you in the face? When you realise from whence they were born initially?
Yeah, well my therapy bloke came to greet me and couldn't have been more clichéd if he'd been Frasier Crane.
He wandered over to me in sandals, slacks and a 70s-style shirt, with a long, curly ponytail dragging behind him. Oh yes. Stereotastical!
He also kept talking in that annoyingly obvious "calming" tone, with lots of hand gestures like a hippy Tony Blair. And they're annoyingly simple. It's almost patronising, but of course they mean well. But talking about the difference between feelings and thoughts and behaviour...I mean meh. When I'm in a mood it's all three in a distorted mess. I don't fucking know.
So throughout this assessment and hypothetical further "treatment" appointments I have to put aside my somewhat layman's knowledge of psychology gleamed from years of being generally interested in it and self-psychoanalysis and talk in baby terms about it. "Dan made a boo boo. Dan sad." Fuck off, I seem to be better at your job than you are at this point. I may as well have an NHS-funded mirror at home.
Ok moving on from that, what have I done? What's been funny to me. Oh yes, you'll like this. I got my car broken into. Yeah, funny as fuck I know. The funny thing about it wasn't the act itself though. I mean I don't know why they chose my car, maybe ease or intrigue or they just plain liked the colour, I don't know.
What I do know is that they didn't take my radio. It's nothing special but it's a CD player and I guess it's worth more than nothing, at least. They also didn't take my (admittedly paltry) collection of CDs in the glove box. They opened it, looked at them and just thought "nah, I'm really not into old-school emo, I'll leave them. And the radio's been tainted by them, so leave that too."
No, they took my tent out of the boot. A lovely, eight-ish-year-old, slightly mouldy (honestly, what self-respecting man hangs up an already-packed-away tent once he's home?), £30 tent, two lighters and two boxes of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes. Yep. And they left one box of those as well. They were on offer - £1 a box. Don't look at me like I'm weird.
Fucking tramps breaking into my car for food, shelter and a means of starting a fire. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I don't have to replace my CDs and radio...it's just a little bemusing. We live in the times when a car stereo is worth less to thieves than breakfast cereal. Think about that for a minute. It melts your mind, right?
So right now I'm currently sitting in my office at work - yeah, believe it or not I'm still holding down a 9-5 - and everybody else has gone home. It's nice and quiet. And I'm being paid to write nonsense for all you fine people to read, which is lovely. I guess that officially makes me a professional comedian, what with this being ostensibly a comedy blog and all. Bonus. No need to get on stage - I've already made it.
So as for this gig...whenever it happens to be (as I'm struggling to come up with a coherent full set from the vastly different conglomeration of ideas on here), the bookers want some blurb about me. So I've been tasked with writing my own biog - the industry term for biography. Yeah, us showbiz types know the lingo. Professional comic right here.
So basically that's your usual fluff about how "he blends postmodern wit and audience interraction with surrealist songs about badgers and artichokes to create a blissful, transcendent smorgasboard of comedic delight".
Yeah, for mine I was thinking about "If you're lucky he'll make you giggle 'til you wee a little."
What you think?
Professional comic. Right here.
Monday 6 September 2010
Tuesday 24 August 2010
Hmmm
The question is, where to go from here?
I'm not entirely sure myself. I'd hardly call myself seasoned at this. Or even lightly spiced. I'm just a man(boy) rambling away his thoughts and stories, hoping to come up with something hilAAAArious. Yeah, it's surely only a few flicks of my fingertips away.
Well Chris suggested I talk a little more about being fat. I guess there's humour in that. Though when you are bigger, you do tend to fall a little more on the sympathetic side of the fence.
That being said, I have become quite adept at ripping the piss out of myself purely because when you're at school getting called named and having jokes made about you, it always hurts less if you're the person to make the joke. Even if you did just call yourself a tubby funster.
Ok, so yeah, I used to be big. Like proper American-style fat. It's easy to do, trust me.
Step 1: Eat what you want, when you want.
Step 2: Repeat.
Job done.
So I looked distinctly different than the man I have grown into (out of?), the handsome buck that stands before you now (yeah I know you're reading this but I'll hypothetically be performing it on stage so bear with me, you cynical bitch). I had a shaved head - yes I'm aware that it's only a matter of time before that becomes the case again.
Do you have any idea how annoying it is to shave your head for around eight years, then grow it again only to find out that you're losing it?
That's like having a really nice cake and keeping it hidden for a special occasion and then when that occasion finally comes...you're bald and no-one wants your cake, you weirdo.
So aside from the lack of hair, I also had an eyebrow piercing. Because as I say this to you now, I know you were thinking 'my my, that boy is terribly gangster. I'm surprised he doesn't have piercings and some fly ink.'
As you can imagine, picturing me as you are, bloated, pierced, bald and with quite the rack on me, you know...you just know...I did well with the ladies. Oh yeah. Form a queue girls, keep calm. There's more than enough to go around.
So in my teens I predominantly met girls online. Well, not many, a few. But I did meet my first - and only real - girlfriend that way. On AOL of all things....oh yeah. It's a good job we didn't get married because telling the grandkids that story would have gone down like a lead balloon.
But it's a good way to meet people. You grow to like them as a person before you judge the physical side. Which is great, particularly as a bald, bloated virgin. But of course there is a downside. I was fairly lucky with my ex. She wasn't incredibly hot, but she did it for me...at least before our relationship became stale and she went from a size 10 to a 16. Chicken nuggets and chips followed by Ben & Jerrys and no sex = chubsters. Teach the kids that maths in school. If you're gonna eat junk food, at the very least get yourself laid to work off some calories.
But you can fall foul of the exact situation that gives you an advantage online. Now I consider myself a modern, intelligent, thoughtful and caring man who absolutely puts personality above looks in a potential partner. I will avoid really hot vacuous girls because they just don't do it for me (I might cut this out of any real gig in case there's a really hot, vacuous girl in the audience just looking to sleep with me...you understand).
But you occasionally end up going on a date with a proper heffer. Or a scary weirdo, the sort that's got the real crazy eyes. She looks like she might tie you up in her bedroom, and not in the fun way. More in the way that she'll only feed you a biscuit once every 12 hours and force you to watch The World At War while reciting her family tree as she attempts to breathe life into your understandably flaccid member by hitting it with a kipper. Beware online girls...just think, if you were really really hot and awesome, would you really hunt online for someone instead of going outside? Exactly.
I'm not entirely sure myself. I'd hardly call myself seasoned at this. Or even lightly spiced. I'm just a man(boy) rambling away his thoughts and stories, hoping to come up with something hilAAAArious. Yeah, it's surely only a few flicks of my fingertips away.
Well Chris suggested I talk a little more about being fat. I guess there's humour in that. Though when you are bigger, you do tend to fall a little more on the sympathetic side of the fence.
That being said, I have become quite adept at ripping the piss out of myself purely because when you're at school getting called named and having jokes made about you, it always hurts less if you're the person to make the joke. Even if you did just call yourself a tubby funster.
Ok, so yeah, I used to be big. Like proper American-style fat. It's easy to do, trust me.
Step 1: Eat what you want, when you want.
Step 2: Repeat.
Job done.
So I looked distinctly different than the man I have grown into (out of?), the handsome buck that stands before you now (yeah I know you're reading this but I'll hypothetically be performing it on stage so bear with me, you cynical bitch). I had a shaved head - yes I'm aware that it's only a matter of time before that becomes the case again.
Do you have any idea how annoying it is to shave your head for around eight years, then grow it again only to find out that you're losing it?
That's like having a really nice cake and keeping it hidden for a special occasion and then when that occasion finally comes...you're bald and no-one wants your cake, you weirdo.
So aside from the lack of hair, I also had an eyebrow piercing. Because as I say this to you now, I know you were thinking 'my my, that boy is terribly gangster. I'm surprised he doesn't have piercings and some fly ink.'
As you can imagine, picturing me as you are, bloated, pierced, bald and with quite the rack on me, you know...you just know...I did well with the ladies. Oh yeah. Form a queue girls, keep calm. There's more than enough to go around.
So in my teens I predominantly met girls online. Well, not many, a few. But I did meet my first - and only real - girlfriend that way. On AOL of all things....oh yeah. It's a good job we didn't get married because telling the grandkids that story would have gone down like a lead balloon.
But it's a good way to meet people. You grow to like them as a person before you judge the physical side. Which is great, particularly as a bald, bloated virgin. But of course there is a downside. I was fairly lucky with my ex. She wasn't incredibly hot, but she did it for me...at least before our relationship became stale and she went from a size 10 to a 16. Chicken nuggets and chips followed by Ben & Jerrys and no sex = chubsters. Teach the kids that maths in school. If you're gonna eat junk food, at the very least get yourself laid to work off some calories.
But you can fall foul of the exact situation that gives you an advantage online. Now I consider myself a modern, intelligent, thoughtful and caring man who absolutely puts personality above looks in a potential partner. I will avoid really hot vacuous girls because they just don't do it for me (I might cut this out of any real gig in case there's a really hot, vacuous girl in the audience just looking to sleep with me...you understand).
But you occasionally end up going on a date with a proper heffer. Or a scary weirdo, the sort that's got the real crazy eyes. She looks like she might tie you up in her bedroom, and not in the fun way. More in the way that she'll only feed you a biscuit once every 12 hours and force you to watch The World At War while reciting her family tree as she attempts to breathe life into your understandably flaccid member by hitting it with a kipper. Beware online girls...just think, if you were really really hot and awesome, would you really hunt online for someone instead of going outside? Exactly.
Thursday 19 August 2010
New blog
I'm thinking of starting a new blog about the perils of being a well-endowed man.
It's called Tripods and Tribulations.
It's called Tripods and Tribulations.
Wednesday 18 August 2010
Pure Terror
So I thought I might talk to you about being scared. More specifically, the theme park version of being scared.
Now I don't do theme parks well. I don't care for heights, or speed, especially when I feel completely out of control. Yeah fuck it, I'm a big gay, whatever. I don't like spiders either. And I'm fine with it.
I have been to Disneyland in Florida, when I was 15, and actually loved it. Went on a few rollercoasters and really enjoyed them. My first was the Rock 'n' Rollercoaster (featuring Aerosmith). Yeah I never knew a rollercoaster had to 'feature' anything but speed and the occasional big drop, but apparently what was missing was an ageing rock band trying to act. Yeah, it really made the experience.
Good fun though, it was. One of those fast-start jobbies. Firing you up to 50mph in a second and a half or something. Then into darkness, with neons and all sorts flying about your head. Proper cool stuff, and the darkness helped take away a little of the "ohmygodisn'tthatthegroundcomingtowardsmyface?" feelings.
The thing is, though, that all the rides at Disney felt safe. I never thought I was actually going to die on them. There's always that thing in the back of your mind that they can't run these things and let thousands of kids on them every day if they're not mechanically sound. Well ok, maybe only I think that way, but I was an odd 15-year-old.
Fast forward a couple of years and we find ourselves at my next theme park experience. Flamingo Land, Yorkshire. Yeah, people have called it Eurodisney 2. It's that fucking special. Like special needs special. It's in Yorkshire for fuck's sake.
I think an indication of the quality of the rides at Flamingo Land comes in the fact that they need a Zoo tacked on to keep people's interest. Hence the name. It's not just a particularly oddly-themed park in which every ride is pink and stands on one leg. And they only serve prawns.
So I've clearly been badgered into driving to this god-forsaken place by my then-girlfriend, and so we trudge around, me dragging my heels and moaning about everything like a proper well-balanced grown-up. And so we have to go on some rides. Fair enough. If we're not here for that then we're only here for the incredibly uninterested-looking animals. Well if I was a tiger living between York and Scarborough I'd probably be wearing a frown most of the day as well.
In all honesty, it's actually not a bad park. It's got some decent rides and some decent animals, which is really more than you expect for a zoo/theme park in Yorkshire, and from somewhere than chooses to call itself Flamingo Land. I mean really, if you're looking to get people excited, maybe don't focus on the Flamingoes. It just doesn't make sense to me. Call it Lion Land, Rhinos and Rides, just not fucking Flamingo Land. That's like renaming Disneyland something like Ralphland after the guy that sells the candy floss. It's not why you're there.
Aaaaanyway, I urge you to go to Flamingo Land, genuinely, because you'll have some of the most visceral experiences of your life. I've never been scared on a ride like I was at Flamingo Land. It was this sort of disc, that we were all hanging from the outside of, facing inwards, and it rotated while lifting into the air, so you were thrust towards the ground and then hoiked back up again. Fun times.
Yeah, so I was sat in my seat next to my girlfriend and the brace thing comes down over my shoulders and locks and we prepare for lift-off. Then one of the guys running the ride, let's call him Archibald, or Archie, wanders over and is doing his last-minute checks. Then he shouts out to his mate, who we will call Nigel, "Oi Nige, check 23 for us!" and then simple-looking Nigel wanders up to me and begins to examine my shoulder brace thingy.
I may remind you at this point that I was considerably larger than I am now, and was probably approximately 19 1/2 stone. So Nigel is looking at the one thing holding me in my seat while I'm thrown into the air and spun around at high speed. He pulls at it, shakes it back and forth, then just starts repeatedly shoving it into my stomach. Just shoving, looking over his shoulder at Archie, who is staring intently at what I can only imagine was a warning light, telling him that I was clearly not secure in this situation.
Now I'm not proud of how big I was, but I had to some extent come to terms with it at that point. I'd grown larger and larger throughout my childhood and had got used to not being able to do certain things. Like shop in Topman. And use kids' trampolines. I was fine with this. I wasn't bothered about the ride. The only ride I was bothered about was the one I was hoping to get when I got home for being such a great boyfriend.
So at this point, I'm realising what's happening and am just about to start saying "Don't worry about it, mate, I'll sit this one out" when the moronic tit decides that despite the obvious safety warnings, it was all good. "Yeah it's cool, take 'em up" he shouts to Archie, who instantly, before I can utter a word of caution, or more accurately fear, flicks the switch and starts us spinning.
We begin to speed up, round and around and around, then beginning to lift higher into the air, me desperately clinging to the handles on the brace, knuckles white, face drained of blood, literally terrified of death.
I'm convinced this thing is going to just let me out. Let us not forget that it wasn't happy with me WHEN IT WAS STATIONARY. And I'm not a stupid man. I'm a physics geek, deep down. I've studdied circular motion and angular momentum. Centifugal force. If you don't know it by name that's ok, but you will have experienced it. The force you feel when you go around a corner in a car and you're flung to one side or the other.
Right, so I'm there realising that I'm now putting more force on this already strained contraption because I'm spinning around and a-fucking-round, thinking that all I'm going to have to save me is my own grip, which was considerably less than needed to hold my tremendous weight to this machine.
The ride goes on its side, with people flying down straight towards the ground before coming back up on the other side. Now I'm feeling the force is primarily pushing against the brace itself, not even the seat. I'm at the top, the highest point of the fucking ride, with 19 and a half stone pressing against a dodgy mechanism, convinced I'm going to die, tears streaming down my face, desperate to get off, clinging on for dear life.
Finally, the ride slows and drops and ends with me intact. I've never been more scared in my entire life. And my loving, doting girlfriend - of two years at this point, I might add - turns to me after the ride, looking at my red, tear-strewn face desperate for comfort and love, and just simply says: "You fucking pussy."
Thanks for that Sarah, love you too.
Now I don't do theme parks well. I don't care for heights, or speed, especially when I feel completely out of control. Yeah fuck it, I'm a big gay, whatever. I don't like spiders either. And I'm fine with it.
I have been to Disneyland in Florida, when I was 15, and actually loved it. Went on a few rollercoasters and really enjoyed them. My first was the Rock 'n' Rollercoaster (featuring Aerosmith). Yeah I never knew a rollercoaster had to 'feature' anything but speed and the occasional big drop, but apparently what was missing was an ageing rock band trying to act. Yeah, it really made the experience.
Good fun though, it was. One of those fast-start jobbies. Firing you up to 50mph in a second and a half or something. Then into darkness, with neons and all sorts flying about your head. Proper cool stuff, and the darkness helped take away a little of the "ohmygodisn'tthatthegroundcomingtowardsmyface?" feelings.
The thing is, though, that all the rides at Disney felt safe. I never thought I was actually going to die on them. There's always that thing in the back of your mind that they can't run these things and let thousands of kids on them every day if they're not mechanically sound. Well ok, maybe only I think that way, but I was an odd 15-year-old.
Fast forward a couple of years and we find ourselves at my next theme park experience. Flamingo Land, Yorkshire. Yeah, people have called it Eurodisney 2. It's that fucking special. Like special needs special. It's in Yorkshire for fuck's sake.
I think an indication of the quality of the rides at Flamingo Land comes in the fact that they need a Zoo tacked on to keep people's interest. Hence the name. It's not just a particularly oddly-themed park in which every ride is pink and stands on one leg. And they only serve prawns.
So I've clearly been badgered into driving to this god-forsaken place by my then-girlfriend, and so we trudge around, me dragging my heels and moaning about everything like a proper well-balanced grown-up. And so we have to go on some rides. Fair enough. If we're not here for that then we're only here for the incredibly uninterested-looking animals. Well if I was a tiger living between York and Scarborough I'd probably be wearing a frown most of the day as well.
In all honesty, it's actually not a bad park. It's got some decent rides and some decent animals, which is really more than you expect for a zoo/theme park in Yorkshire, and from somewhere than chooses to call itself Flamingo Land. I mean really, if you're looking to get people excited, maybe don't focus on the Flamingoes. It just doesn't make sense to me. Call it Lion Land, Rhinos and Rides, just not fucking Flamingo Land. That's like renaming Disneyland something like Ralphland after the guy that sells the candy floss. It's not why you're there.
Aaaaanyway, I urge you to go to Flamingo Land, genuinely, because you'll have some of the most visceral experiences of your life. I've never been scared on a ride like I was at Flamingo Land. It was this sort of disc, that we were all hanging from the outside of, facing inwards, and it rotated while lifting into the air, so you were thrust towards the ground and then hoiked back up again. Fun times.
Yeah, so I was sat in my seat next to my girlfriend and the brace thing comes down over my shoulders and locks and we prepare for lift-off. Then one of the guys running the ride, let's call him Archibald, or Archie, wanders over and is doing his last-minute checks. Then he shouts out to his mate, who we will call Nigel, "Oi Nige, check 23 for us!" and then simple-looking Nigel wanders up to me and begins to examine my shoulder brace thingy.
I may remind you at this point that I was considerably larger than I am now, and was probably approximately 19 1/2 stone. So Nigel is looking at the one thing holding me in my seat while I'm thrown into the air and spun around at high speed. He pulls at it, shakes it back and forth, then just starts repeatedly shoving it into my stomach. Just shoving, looking over his shoulder at Archie, who is staring intently at what I can only imagine was a warning light, telling him that I was clearly not secure in this situation.
Now I'm not proud of how big I was, but I had to some extent come to terms with it at that point. I'd grown larger and larger throughout my childhood and had got used to not being able to do certain things. Like shop in Topman. And use kids' trampolines. I was fine with this. I wasn't bothered about the ride. The only ride I was bothered about was the one I was hoping to get when I got home for being such a great boyfriend.
So at this point, I'm realising what's happening and am just about to start saying "Don't worry about it, mate, I'll sit this one out" when the moronic tit decides that despite the obvious safety warnings, it was all good. "Yeah it's cool, take 'em up" he shouts to Archie, who instantly, before I can utter a word of caution, or more accurately fear, flicks the switch and starts us spinning.
We begin to speed up, round and around and around, then beginning to lift higher into the air, me desperately clinging to the handles on the brace, knuckles white, face drained of blood, literally terrified of death.
I'm convinced this thing is going to just let me out. Let us not forget that it wasn't happy with me WHEN IT WAS STATIONARY. And I'm not a stupid man. I'm a physics geek, deep down. I've studdied circular motion and angular momentum. Centifugal force. If you don't know it by name that's ok, but you will have experienced it. The force you feel when you go around a corner in a car and you're flung to one side or the other.
Right, so I'm there realising that I'm now putting more force on this already strained contraption because I'm spinning around and a-fucking-round, thinking that all I'm going to have to save me is my own grip, which was considerably less than needed to hold my tremendous weight to this machine.
The ride goes on its side, with people flying down straight towards the ground before coming back up on the other side. Now I'm feeling the force is primarily pushing against the brace itself, not even the seat. I'm at the top, the highest point of the fucking ride, with 19 and a half stone pressing against a dodgy mechanism, convinced I'm going to die, tears streaming down my face, desperate to get off, clinging on for dear life.
Finally, the ride slows and drops and ends with me intact. I've never been more scared in my entire life. And my loving, doting girlfriend - of two years at this point, I might add - turns to me after the ride, looking at my red, tear-strewn face desperate for comfort and love, and just simply says: "You fucking pussy."
Thanks for that Sarah, love you too.
Sunday 15 August 2010
Proverbs
Failure is the mother of success but success has many fathers...does that mean that failure is a whore?
Sexy Boy
So I know what you're thinking, "this guy is FAR too attractive to be doing stand-up!
"He must be a model working undercover like in Zoolander or something."
"Or at least should be so busy having sex with beautiful women all day."
But no, I know it's hard to believe, but it turns out I'm not constantly having sex with goddesses because I'm a twat.
Shocking, I know. But it's true. I don't get women. Well, let me clarify. I never KEEP women. I can get them interested in me. I mean there's a reason I'm in stand-up, I love to talk. Promblem is, this gets me in all sorts of trouble with women.
Women don't want the guy that constantly doubts himself, yet that's been an intrinsic part of my life for as long as I can remember. Girls want the debonair guy who barely says anything - except with his eyes.
The guy who doesn't let on whether he likes her, even when fucking her brains out. He just thrusts nonchalantly while planning who he's next going to fuck, or writing a song.
Yeah the whole band-boy thing. Fucking irritating. Just because some lad strums out an ear-destroying din while crying about how his parents didn't buy him enough puppies or take him on as many skiing trips as he wanted as a child. every girl in the place wants to suck his dick.
I'm smart! I'm funny (hopefully). I'm kind, sensitive, confident and well-hung. Oh yeah. And I get NOTHING!!
I get two, three dates at most. Occasionally a one-night stand before they realise what a knobhead I really am. Then it's always "yeah, I've been thinking actually I'm just not ready for a relationship right now..."
or "I don't like what you did with my ass"
or "Hitting on my sister was the final straw"
I mean REALLY?! Come on. I'm a catch!
I mean what do you have to do to please these people?
Maybe I'm shit in bed. That's occurred to me. I mean I don't think I'm terrible, but I'm relatively inexperienced for my age. I had a long-term girlfriend who didn't want to have sex with me much. Which is always an indication that you're a stallion between the sheets.
Actually, there's at least one reason for that - we lost our virginities to each other so it was all a bit awkward and clumsy, but then, just as we were getting into it, on the night when she instigated sex for pretty much the first time, our second time of that day, i was ecstatic, blood was coursing around my body, she was on top of me, riding away, starting to get comfortable with the sexyness...
and i decide in my infinite teenage wisdom that i'll tell her that she has "the best pussy in the world". Yeah, it sounds shit. I know this...NOW.
And unfortunately for me, she decided not to ignore this statement, and, while gently bouncing up and down on me, asked me how I knew this to be true. A reasonable question, you have to say. She knows me pretty well and suspects that I haven't done the requisite research to corroborate this statement.
So I, being me and havign a brain that constantly fucks me over, have a bunch of responses flash through my mind. I think the reasonable but very cheesy "well it must be, it feels so amazing!"
But despite the fact that would have got me out of the conversation and back to thrusting, I didn't say that. Oh how I wish I had. I took a second, looked at her, and, with all the blood in my body nowhere near my brain, responded by lifting my hand up to by my face and saying..."well, better than this!"
Yeah, I wonder why she never wanted to fuck me after that...
Friday 13 August 2010
Dating perils
Ok so I've decided to attempt to scribble something vaguely amusing about dating. Mainly, this is, because I'm fucking useless at it.
So first there's the asking them out, that bit I'm not so bad at. It's when the serious shit kicks in that I begin to struggle. I.e. where to go. Like I know!! Maybe I should be all erudite and keep mental notes of great places to take a potential ladyfriend, or have limitless imagination for inventing great days together.
Problem is, I'm not and I don't. My ideas basically range from "dinner?" to "quickie by the bins?".
I got told on one date that this girl thought it was important that, at least on the first date, the guy should take control and have a plan for where to take the girl. Now I see the benefit in that - it displays confidence and knowledge of the area, whilst also providing her a window into your social life and tastes.
But what about if you aren't acting like your true self? Hardly anyone is on a first date. You want to impress. You want to be better than you are really. Present yourself as the paragon of single men, the one who will blow them away. Or at least the one they'll blow.
So you go somewhere you don't generally go. To look all cultured and shit. And then she thinks "oh well he's kinda nice, but I'm not into all this art gallery shit" and dumps your ass. Turns out if you'd bought her a kebab and chucked on an episode of Scrubs you'd have jizzed on her tits by the end credits.
But you're not yourself. She's not herself. It's a fucking dance of deceit. A tango of trickery. A foxtrot of fraudulence. And I for one am sick of it.
WHY CAN'T YOU BE YOU ON A DATE?
Girls don't want you. They want what you could become. And I'm pretty fucking perfect as-is, so they don't seem overly interested. It's understandable.
Meh I'll think more about this later.
So first there's the asking them out, that bit I'm not so bad at. It's when the serious shit kicks in that I begin to struggle. I.e. where to go. Like I know!! Maybe I should be all erudite and keep mental notes of great places to take a potential ladyfriend, or have limitless imagination for inventing great days together.
Problem is, I'm not and I don't. My ideas basically range from "dinner?" to "quickie by the bins?".
I got told on one date that this girl thought it was important that, at least on the first date, the guy should take control and have a plan for where to take the girl. Now I see the benefit in that - it displays confidence and knowledge of the area, whilst also providing her a window into your social life and tastes.
But what about if you aren't acting like your true self? Hardly anyone is on a first date. You want to impress. You want to be better than you are really. Present yourself as the paragon of single men, the one who will blow them away. Or at least the one they'll blow.
So you go somewhere you don't generally go. To look all cultured and shit. And then she thinks "oh well he's kinda nice, but I'm not into all this art gallery shit" and dumps your ass. Turns out if you'd bought her a kebab and chucked on an episode of Scrubs you'd have jizzed on her tits by the end credits.
But you're not yourself. She's not herself. It's a fucking dance of deceit. A tango of trickery. A foxtrot of fraudulence. And I for one am sick of it.
WHY CAN'T YOU BE YOU ON A DATE?
Girls don't want you. They want what you could become. And I'm pretty fucking perfect as-is, so they don't seem overly interested. It's understandable.
Meh I'll think more about this later.
Monday 9 August 2010
Guy logic
I was thinking how much I love the way guys think at times. That however much glory we could bring to the world through inventing things that make everybody's life better, sometimes we just get sidetracked.
Take the man who invented the titty fuck, or tit wank, if you will. This is a man who looked at breasts - one of man's favourite things in the world (yes, even a lot of gay men love them) - and said 'you know what...these aren't doing enough for me.'
He looked at them from every conceivable angle, placed his hands on the outside of each and gently pushed them together, enhancing the cleavage, and...suddenly...a lightbulb appeared above his head.
"I'm gonna fuck 'em. I'm just gonna slide my dick right on in there."
"What's in it for her?" asked his scientific friend.
"What do you mean?" responded the man, clearly seeing this as a ridiculous notion.
It's great though...us men are programmed to want to fuck anything we can. It's evolution people, don't get upset by it. This is just a by-product of what makes us the greatest creatures living on earth. So stop your whining girls!
Men will fuck anything though. The titwank is proof of this, but is by no means the most extreme case. Teenagers particularly will look for anything that half-resembles a vagina and will happily shove their cock into it. I mean look at American Pie. I suppose that's warm and wet but surely it doesn't grip you right. Not having tried it myself.
I think food products are probably the most common, as boys look at them and see flesh, and at that age that's all it takes, you're ready to go. You look over one shoulder, over the other, then hastily retreat to your bedroom with a tin of spam.
I'd love to throw it open to the room to find out what the weirdest thing you've fucked is, but I'm a bit scared of the answers I might get.
For me, the internet made it worse. I was hitting my sexual awakening when the internet was in its infancy, yeah dial-up baby! When signing on sounded like a ZX spectrum having an orgasm.
Well the internet doesn't make it better. It just allows you access to what is basically the whole world's 'dick in the playground with an idea'. You can read what they've all written. And give it a go. They wax lyrical about this shit, professing it to be "just like the real thing". Bollocks is it. I'll tell you from personal experience that fucking a rubber armband sandwiched between two sofa cushions is NOTHING like a fucking vagina! It's useless! And at the end of the day, you're fucking furniture. You're slamming a sofa. Cumming in a couch. It's no way to live.
Take the man who invented the titty fuck, or tit wank, if you will. This is a man who looked at breasts - one of man's favourite things in the world (yes, even a lot of gay men love them) - and said 'you know what...these aren't doing enough for me.'
He looked at them from every conceivable angle, placed his hands on the outside of each and gently pushed them together, enhancing the cleavage, and...suddenly...a lightbulb appeared above his head.
"I'm gonna fuck 'em. I'm just gonna slide my dick right on in there."
"What's in it for her?" asked his scientific friend.
"What do you mean?" responded the man, clearly seeing this as a ridiculous notion.
It's great though...us men are programmed to want to fuck anything we can. It's evolution people, don't get upset by it. This is just a by-product of what makes us the greatest creatures living on earth. So stop your whining girls!
Men will fuck anything though. The titwank is proof of this, but is by no means the most extreme case. Teenagers particularly will look for anything that half-resembles a vagina and will happily shove their cock into it. I mean look at American Pie. I suppose that's warm and wet but surely it doesn't grip you right. Not having tried it myself.
I think food products are probably the most common, as boys look at them and see flesh, and at that age that's all it takes, you're ready to go. You look over one shoulder, over the other, then hastily retreat to your bedroom with a tin of spam.
I'd love to throw it open to the room to find out what the weirdest thing you've fucked is, but I'm a bit scared of the answers I might get.
For me, the internet made it worse. I was hitting my sexual awakening when the internet was in its infancy, yeah dial-up baby! When signing on sounded like a ZX spectrum having an orgasm.
Well the internet doesn't make it better. It just allows you access to what is basically the whole world's 'dick in the playground with an idea'. You can read what they've all written. And give it a go. They wax lyrical about this shit, professing it to be "just like the real thing". Bollocks is it. I'll tell you from personal experience that fucking a rubber armband sandwiched between two sofa cushions is NOTHING like a fucking vagina! It's useless! And at the end of the day, you're fucking furniture. You're slamming a sofa. Cumming in a couch. It's no way to live.
Wednesday 4 August 2010
Writing Exercise: A Letter of Hate - a bit shit.
Dear Virgin Media,
I am just writing to you regarding my recent call to your technical department. I think it is tremendous that a company as large as yourselves is taking such a vested interest in finding gainful employment for people with learning disabilities. These people might possibly struggle to break into work after falling out of education but I think it is admirable that you offer them a way to keep their eight kids as obese as their parents.
It’s also commendable that you are able to integrate these young bucks with also the minimum effort, seemingly sending them straight into full-time roles with absolutely no training, and thus no cost on your part.
I think that this should become a full program within your company, possibly becoming affiliated with local schools and colleges. Well, ok, not colleges. Maybe art colleges. That way you can recruit the absolute worst sufferers of dyslexia, low intelligence and general chivvy ignorance as soon as they set foot off campus.
I am just writing to you regarding my recent call to your technical department. I think it is tremendous that a company as large as yourselves is taking such a vested interest in finding gainful employment for people with learning disabilities. These people might possibly struggle to break into work after falling out of education but I think it is admirable that you offer them a way to keep their eight kids as obese as their parents.
It’s also commendable that you are able to integrate these young bucks with also the minimum effort, seemingly sending them straight into full-time roles with absolutely no training, and thus no cost on your part.
I think that this should become a full program within your company, possibly becoming affiliated with local schools and colleges. Well, ok, not colleges. Maybe art colleges. That way you can recruit the absolute worst sufferers of dyslexia, low intelligence and general chivvy ignorance as soon as they set foot off campus.
Writing Exercise - Timeless Classics (1984)
It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston’s Smith’s nipples were like bullets, piercing the bland shirt that covered his emaciated torso. His clothes were unfathomably boring, all greys and whites. How Winston was crying out for a splash of colour – maybe some new red cowboy boots or a nice feather boa. You know, to inject some class into proceedings. He looked around him for fashion inspiration and yet found nothing, each passing stranger looking blander than the last. Winston wondered what the Airstrip One Fashion Show, on next week at the Ministry of Really Nice Clothes, would be filled with. Surely not this drab shit, he hoped. Winston was desperate to break free of this nightmare world and express his feelings in the only way he knew how…with fierce threads.
Snippets
Ok so I got into comedy because my favourite thing in the world is to make people laugh. Well ok, that’s not strictly true. My favourite thing is getting attractive women to make noise, and I’m really bad in bed so this is as close as I’m ever going to get.
Ok so I got into comedy because my favourite thing in the world is to make people laugh. Well ok, that’s not strictly true. I just like causing attractive women to make noise, and for some reason I thought laughter might be more enjoyable than the usual “RAPE!!” I’ve been getting.
More to come later...and no I'm not talking about the rape.
Ok so I got into comedy because my favourite thing in the world is to make people laugh. Well ok, that’s not strictly true. I just like causing attractive women to make noise, and for some reason I thought laughter might be more enjoyable than the usual “RAPE!!” I’ve been getting.
More to come later...and no I'm not talking about the rape.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
Idiocy
Do you ever have those moments in your life where you wonder how the fuck you've survived this long?
That your brain fails you so spectacularly that you consider whether it's even worth carrying on?
I was once doing a crossword at work - can you see why I'm getting into stand-up? Not very professional!
So I was doing this crossword with my old lab manager, avoiding the pain that is real work, and we come across a clue, which, in hindsight, is fucking simple. But for some reason - maybe it was the constant monotony of a job in industry where every day is like being butt-fucked by your superiors while they dance a jig and flash in front of your jizz-soaked face the big wodge of money they've just earnt while covering you in their ectoplasm.
Whatever it was, the clue was as follows. "Christmas fare." Yeah, f.a.r.e. as in a bus fare, or food, like "lovely home-cooked fare"...5 comma 3
Yeah, I can hear the whirrings in your heads and the mutterings under your breath. It's not that hard a crossword clue, and we had letters! We had blank-I-blank-C-blank, then the second word, blank-I-blank. So, we're not complete idiots. We worked out that the second word was pie. Oh yeah...two engineers, we're no morons. Or so we thought.
We're both staring at this fucking clue...brains empty...nothing coming whatsoever...this is the easiest fucking answer in the world! We're asking each other "what sort of pie do you have at Christmas???"
Ok so now I'll turn it over to you...what sort of pie, a word that is spelt something-i-something-c-something...do you have at Christmas time? Exactly. Fucking mince pies. Not that hard. Except if you're a fucking moron. Like me.
I turn to Steve and I say to him...nothing else in my head..."I know this is wrong, but all I can see is Bitch Pie"
FUCKING BITCH PIE????!! Where did that shit come from? What sort of dick can't think of the word 'mince'??
Sometimes I wonder why I'm even still here....
That your brain fails you so spectacularly that you consider whether it's even worth carrying on?
I was once doing a crossword at work - can you see why I'm getting into stand-up? Not very professional!
So I was doing this crossword with my old lab manager, avoiding the pain that is real work, and we come across a clue, which, in hindsight, is fucking simple. But for some reason - maybe it was the constant monotony of a job in industry where every day is like being butt-fucked by your superiors while they dance a jig and flash in front of your jizz-soaked face the big wodge of money they've just earnt while covering you in their ectoplasm.
Whatever it was, the clue was as follows. "Christmas fare." Yeah, f.a.r.e. as in a bus fare, or food, like "lovely home-cooked fare"...5 comma 3
Yeah, I can hear the whirrings in your heads and the mutterings under your breath. It's not that hard a crossword clue, and we had letters! We had blank-I-blank-C-blank, then the second word, blank-I-blank. So, we're not complete idiots. We worked out that the second word was pie. Oh yeah...two engineers, we're no morons. Or so we thought.
We're both staring at this fucking clue...brains empty...nothing coming whatsoever...this is the easiest fucking answer in the world! We're asking each other "what sort of pie do you have at Christmas???"
Ok so now I'll turn it over to you...what sort of pie, a word that is spelt something-i-something-c-something...do you have at Christmas time? Exactly. Fucking mince pies. Not that hard. Except if you're a fucking moron. Like me.
I turn to Steve and I say to him...nothing else in my head..."I know this is wrong, but all I can see is Bitch Pie"
FUCKING BITCH PIE????!! Where did that shit come from? What sort of dick can't think of the word 'mince'??
Sometimes I wonder why I'm even still here....
Suicide Tuesday
You know despite the fact that only one or two people (maybe because only one or two people) read this thing, it's also nice to forget about the funny and just vent, letting stuff off my chest that would probably grate in person. Thankfully, you lovely folks can gloss over that sort of stuff and I can feel a little bit better about my life, at least for 15 minutes or so.
Well, I'm not exactly on the verge of self-deathination, but I am experiencing a mild comedown from Sunday's exuberance and coupling that with my shit job really isn't filling me with glee. I'm fixating on The One That Got Away and, despite her ignoring my message two weeks ago, am still tempted to ask her out for a drink. It's foolish. I know it's foolish, and will probably end up making me more depressed either way (even if she said yes it could only last two months, then cue tears), but you just can't help but be tempted. Fucking sentimentality and your brain deciding to try and filter out all the not-so-perfect memories to just leave the rose-tinted ones.
Anyway, I'll get past it, now I'll try to see if this inner reflection can result in anything that would make anyone laugh, ever. Nah may as well give up now. I kid.
So maybe I should tell some stories. Which seems odd, given that they're not that new and I've told them out loud so many times, but maybe this whole writing stuff out thing will help with noticing where needs work and so on.
Ok so...the reason I love live comedy. My first ever stand-up gig. Aged 18, and having just returned from Leeds two weeks previously in my clapped-out Y-reg VW Polo (sort-of) estate. It was white. I know you were wondering. Now the car didn't like long drives, as many old cars do not, and Leeds to Dorset is a motherfucker of a drive. It didn't take it too well, especially when the hills hit us at the end of the journey.
So anyway, I'm sat at home, playing an awful lot of Pro Evolution Soccer, as you do. Well, did. It's FIFA now...it's just the superior game nowadays, don't judge me. And I'm on the phone with my friend Jamie talking about our upcoming gig to see Marion & Geoff live. This wasn't a middle-aged double act, this was a live show based on the BBC2 comedy. Give me a cheer if you know Marion and Geoff?!
Yeah not people called that...the show. And yes I'm aware that on a blog I can't hear a cheer, but you know why I'm writing this so why don't you shut up :P
So this was Rob Brydon doing his Keith Barrett character, at the Nuffield in Southampton. Lovely theatre. And so Jamie and I were getting excited about it and he asked me when it was...I'm like "ah it's sometime next week, loads of time, no worries. I'll just check the exact date so you know not to book anything else in..........................so you said you were free tonight, right?"
We both hop into my clapped-out Polo and head to Southampton post-haste. Well, I say post-haste. To be fair we left the house quickly, but as soon as we got into the car, there was definitely no rushing. The clutch was almost gone, but, being 18 and with no other visible means of making it to this gig, by Job we're gonna give it a go!
So we head out past Corfe Castle, via Wareham and Poole and Bournemouth and then reach Ringwood, where the road opens up before the M27 kicks in, taking us the final stages of our journey. We get onto the dual carriageway and are happily cruising...until a large uphill section of road decides to fuck us in the ass. The car did not like this hill. They had some bad beef from years gone by, it seems. And the hill was stronger. The engine is revving as fast as I can make it, the temperature is flying up and passers-by are screaming at me as they drive past, making what I can only describe as very rude hand gestures in my gentlemanly direction.
I'm beginning to feel the pressure now, but I know we can't give up. We've been waiting for this gig for months. So I try to drown out the horrible, horrible people with the radio. I crank it up as a song fades out and the news comes on. We sit through it and try to not let the weight of all the world's problems get us down any further, but then we hear something...."and there is a large tailback between Ringwood and Southampton, approximately two miles of cars moving very slowly"
"Fuck"
"That's us, isn't it?"
"Yeah.....fuck"
Woops!
So we pull over, which was quite frankly necessary to let the poor car cool down, accepting all insults, gestures and thrown rotten fruit from friendly fellow road users, and headed back on our way.
Thankfully for us, the top of the hill wasn't too much further away and we were able to cruise at about 50 the rest of the way to Southampton. Well, I say the rest of the way. We get to the slip road for our turn-off, and what do you know? It's another fucking hill. Not a big one this time, but my poor car wasn't having any of it. We crept up that fucker at about 10 miles per hour, then 5, 2....nothing. I manage to get it onto the hard shoulder and out of harm's way. But it's dead. We have no idea what we're going to do. It's not like we can even get a bus or train from here. We're at the side of the motorway.
So Jamie takes the lead. He gets out of the car, saying nothing, walks calmly around it, then places his hands on the boot and screams "GO GO GO!!" and I slam my foot to the floor, surely providing even less power than his arms were, and we creep, inch by inch, up this hill. Sweat running down Jamie's face - incidentally I should point 0ut at this point that I did in fact weigh about 19 stone at this time in my life - not what you want when pushing an already not-so-feathery car uphill).
We inch onto the plateau of the slip road and I can feel a tiny amout of drive come back to the wheels...Jamie runs around the car and leaps into the passenger seat. We get back onto the road and proceed - at about 12mph - up towards the venue. The rest of the way I was dodging anything I could in order to keep momentum. Just keep moving, is all I'm thinking. I'm not missing this gig. Other cars, traffic lights, mothers with pushchairs...I had not a care in the world except getting into that seat for a giggle.
We finally make it to the venue - somehow without any police interference, and almost apologetically roll into a parking space. We get out of the steaming, weeping, tortured car, turn around and walk away.
We leave the car to lick its wounds as we enjoy one of the best character-based shows I've witnessed to this day, knock back a nice cold pint and head back to the car. Maybe it'll have cooled down and be ok again. Maybe it'll have been stolen. This is Southampton, after all. We get back to the car, make an honestly rather token effort to get it moving and it literally will not move. I realise...I'm with the AA.
"What's that? You'll be here in an hour to tow us home?
"We'll be in the pub."
Well, I'm not exactly on the verge of self-deathination, but I am experiencing a mild comedown from Sunday's exuberance and coupling that with my shit job really isn't filling me with glee. I'm fixating on The One That Got Away and, despite her ignoring my message two weeks ago, am still tempted to ask her out for a drink. It's foolish. I know it's foolish, and will probably end up making me more depressed either way (even if she said yes it could only last two months, then cue tears), but you just can't help but be tempted. Fucking sentimentality and your brain deciding to try and filter out all the not-so-perfect memories to just leave the rose-tinted ones.
Anyway, I'll get past it, now I'll try to see if this inner reflection can result in anything that would make anyone laugh, ever. Nah may as well give up now. I kid.
So maybe I should tell some stories. Which seems odd, given that they're not that new and I've told them out loud so many times, but maybe this whole writing stuff out thing will help with noticing where needs work and so on.
Ok so...the reason I love live comedy. My first ever stand-up gig. Aged 18, and having just returned from Leeds two weeks previously in my clapped-out Y-reg VW Polo (sort-of) estate. It was white. I know you were wondering. Now the car didn't like long drives, as many old cars do not, and Leeds to Dorset is a motherfucker of a drive. It didn't take it too well, especially when the hills hit us at the end of the journey.
So anyway, I'm sat at home, playing an awful lot of Pro Evolution Soccer, as you do. Well, did. It's FIFA now...it's just the superior game nowadays, don't judge me. And I'm on the phone with my friend Jamie talking about our upcoming gig to see Marion & Geoff live. This wasn't a middle-aged double act, this was a live show based on the BBC2 comedy. Give me a cheer if you know Marion and Geoff?!
Yeah not people called that...the show. And yes I'm aware that on a blog I can't hear a cheer, but you know why I'm writing this so why don't you shut up :P
So this was Rob Brydon doing his Keith Barrett character, at the Nuffield in Southampton. Lovely theatre. And so Jamie and I were getting excited about it and he asked me when it was...I'm like "ah it's sometime next week, loads of time, no worries. I'll just check the exact date so you know not to book anything else in..........................so you said you were free tonight, right?"
We both hop into my clapped-out Polo and head to Southampton post-haste. Well, I say post-haste. To be fair we left the house quickly, but as soon as we got into the car, there was definitely no rushing. The clutch was almost gone, but, being 18 and with no other visible means of making it to this gig, by Job we're gonna give it a go!
So we head out past Corfe Castle, via Wareham and Poole and Bournemouth and then reach Ringwood, where the road opens up before the M27 kicks in, taking us the final stages of our journey. We get onto the dual carriageway and are happily cruising...until a large uphill section of road decides to fuck us in the ass. The car did not like this hill. They had some bad beef from years gone by, it seems. And the hill was stronger. The engine is revving as fast as I can make it, the temperature is flying up and passers-by are screaming at me as they drive past, making what I can only describe as very rude hand gestures in my gentlemanly direction.
I'm beginning to feel the pressure now, but I know we can't give up. We've been waiting for this gig for months. So I try to drown out the horrible, horrible people with the radio. I crank it up as a song fades out and the news comes on. We sit through it and try to not let the weight of all the world's problems get us down any further, but then we hear something...."and there is a large tailback between Ringwood and Southampton, approximately two miles of cars moving very slowly"
"Fuck"
"That's us, isn't it?"
"Yeah.....fuck"
Woops!
So we pull over, which was quite frankly necessary to let the poor car cool down, accepting all insults, gestures and thrown rotten fruit from friendly fellow road users, and headed back on our way.
Thankfully for us, the top of the hill wasn't too much further away and we were able to cruise at about 50 the rest of the way to Southampton. Well, I say the rest of the way. We get to the slip road for our turn-off, and what do you know? It's another fucking hill. Not a big one this time, but my poor car wasn't having any of it. We crept up that fucker at about 10 miles per hour, then 5, 2....nothing. I manage to get it onto the hard shoulder and out of harm's way. But it's dead. We have no idea what we're going to do. It's not like we can even get a bus or train from here. We're at the side of the motorway.
So Jamie takes the lead. He gets out of the car, saying nothing, walks calmly around it, then places his hands on the boot and screams "GO GO GO!!" and I slam my foot to the floor, surely providing even less power than his arms were, and we creep, inch by inch, up this hill. Sweat running down Jamie's face - incidentally I should point 0ut at this point that I did in fact weigh about 19 stone at this time in my life - not what you want when pushing an already not-so-feathery car uphill).
We inch onto the plateau of the slip road and I can feel a tiny amout of drive come back to the wheels...Jamie runs around the car and leaps into the passenger seat. We get back onto the road and proceed - at about 12mph - up towards the venue. The rest of the way I was dodging anything I could in order to keep momentum. Just keep moving, is all I'm thinking. I'm not missing this gig. Other cars, traffic lights, mothers with pushchairs...I had not a care in the world except getting into that seat for a giggle.
We finally make it to the venue - somehow without any police interference, and almost apologetically roll into a parking space. We get out of the steaming, weeping, tortured car, turn around and walk away.
We leave the car to lick its wounds as we enjoy one of the best character-based shows I've witnessed to this day, knock back a nice cold pint and head back to the car. Maybe it'll have cooled down and be ok again. Maybe it'll have been stolen. This is Southampton, after all. We get back to the car, make an honestly rather token effort to get it moving and it literally will not move. I realise...I'm with the AA.
"What's that? You'll be here in an hour to tow us home?
"We'll be in the pub."
Thursday 29 July 2010
Terror
Okay, so this is my second ostensible attempt at funny writing with a view to shitting myself whilst stood in front of a room full of people.
As you can tell, this prospect, whilst it has indeed been a dream of mine for a number of years, scares the holy bejesus out of me. Fuck knows where to start, you know? Maybe everyone goes through the same things when they start, who knows. Every time I ever read something one of the pros says about when they started they always just go "I did my first gig and it went..." then either "great" or "terribly, which taught me a lot". I mean what the fuck happens before that?
Is it that easy to write jokes? I don't think so. Maybe I'm funny. Maybe I'm also a paranoid, self-deprecating, confidence-lacking shmo and the stuff that falls from my lips would get me by initially. Either that or I'll have a Dragons Den-style breakdown and, well, I guess that would at least be funny for someone, even if not myself.
So what's been on my mind I hear you ask...well, the whole turning into your parents thing. Because it fucking creeps up on you! It really does...how many times as a kid did you laugh off your parents' suggestions and recommendations, and, well, orders, because hey, you knew better. Fuck off, you were 12. You know shit-all at 12. But you get by. You live. Nothing hideous happens to you. But for some fucking reason, when you hit your mid-20s, those little comments your parents made when you were younger start resonating within your head, never to leave.
Case in point - I was heading to the Silverstone Classic festival. I mean I had no idea what to expect, but a reasoned thought process might have been "it's at a racing circuit. It'll be all paved I imagine. I have a feeling they have one or two cars down there at times". But when packing my bag, the latent voice of my mother just popped up, as if sitting on my shoulder, and said to me 'but Dan, what about if it rains and your jeans get soaked through?'. I'm a lazy 26-year-old twat...I wear the same pair of jeans for at least two weeks before I wash them. There's no chance I need two pairs of jeans over the course of one weekend unless I unfortunately manage to catch an airbourne case of "nuclear diahorrea". This seems unlikely. So why did I feel compelled to pack a second pair? I couldn't stop my fucking arms. They weren't attached to my brain any more. My head was going "shut up mum, this'll be fine. I'm not retarded", but my hands picked up the jeans and threw them in the bag...'just in case'.
Fucking just in case. I took a huge motherfucking bag to this festival, wore one pair of jeans and three t-shirts - and that was being flamboyant. I even wore the same boxers two days in a row. But I had sun tan lotion, plasters, extra boxers (at least one more pair than days you're away for - as I frequently shit myself in public), wellies...fucking wellies! At a race course! What the shit?! What's wrong with me? Why have I been conditioned to carry the world on my back whenever I leave my god damned house? I'll make do! Fucking ludicrous....
As you can tell, this prospect, whilst it has indeed been a dream of mine for a number of years, scares the holy bejesus out of me. Fuck knows where to start, you know? Maybe everyone goes through the same things when they start, who knows. Every time I ever read something one of the pros says about when they started they always just go "I did my first gig and it went..." then either "great" or "terribly, which taught me a lot". I mean what the fuck happens before that?
Is it that easy to write jokes? I don't think so. Maybe I'm funny. Maybe I'm also a paranoid, self-deprecating, confidence-lacking shmo and the stuff that falls from my lips would get me by initially. Either that or I'll have a Dragons Den-style breakdown and, well, I guess that would at least be funny for someone, even if not myself.
So what's been on my mind I hear you ask...well, the whole turning into your parents thing. Because it fucking creeps up on you! It really does...how many times as a kid did you laugh off your parents' suggestions and recommendations, and, well, orders, because hey, you knew better. Fuck off, you were 12. You know shit-all at 12. But you get by. You live. Nothing hideous happens to you. But for some fucking reason, when you hit your mid-20s, those little comments your parents made when you were younger start resonating within your head, never to leave.
Case in point - I was heading to the Silverstone Classic festival. I mean I had no idea what to expect, but a reasoned thought process might have been "it's at a racing circuit. It'll be all paved I imagine. I have a feeling they have one or two cars down there at times". But when packing my bag, the latent voice of my mother just popped up, as if sitting on my shoulder, and said to me 'but Dan, what about if it rains and your jeans get soaked through?'. I'm a lazy 26-year-old twat...I wear the same pair of jeans for at least two weeks before I wash them. There's no chance I need two pairs of jeans over the course of one weekend unless I unfortunately manage to catch an airbourne case of "nuclear diahorrea". This seems unlikely. So why did I feel compelled to pack a second pair? I couldn't stop my fucking arms. They weren't attached to my brain any more. My head was going "shut up mum, this'll be fine. I'm not retarded", but my hands picked up the jeans and threw them in the bag...'just in case'.
Fucking just in case. I took a huge motherfucking bag to this festival, wore one pair of jeans and three t-shirts - and that was being flamboyant. I even wore the same boxers two days in a row. But I had sun tan lotion, plasters, extra boxers (at least one more pair than days you're away for - as I frequently shit myself in public), wellies...fucking wellies! At a race course! What the shit?! What's wrong with me? Why have I been conditioned to carry the world on my back whenever I leave my god damned house? I'll make do! Fucking ludicrous....
Wednesday 7 July 2010
Anger
Well now I'm going to try and list a few things that make me angry so I can hopefully turn them into comedy. Yeah, I'm like Midas, in that in trying to turn all that I hate into gold, I'll probably ruin my life and everyone I love's too.
So...people. I just hate people. Not an individual person, they can be (not always) alright. Great, even. With the right breasts.
But crowds, dear god they're annoying. Why is it that when you need to be somewhere, a silent alert goes out across the area telling everyone with a spare second or two on their hands to get in your way by whatever means possible?
That old lady who insists on just spinning on the spot in front of you, then has the temerity to give you a look that says: "How dare you walk close to me, you sick fuck." It's not my fault that you can't walk past a window with anything knitted in it without stopping to regale Doris with everything related to it that you can gleam from the last 60 years of your life. "Oh the weave on that jumper reminds me of a weekend Derek and I spent in Skegness in 1962...no, wait...61....no 62..." OH FUCK OFF AND GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!
Or the idiots that believe advertising talk. Yeah, you know who you are. Well maybe you don't, such is your level of transparent idiocy. "Oh but this is chock-full of pro-youthitude and anti-age-isols so it's got to be good." You prick.
And fucking Whole Grain. Seriously, who decided that we needed the whole grain? And why does everyone think it's good for us?
Because it's surrounded by that lovely green bar on the top of the cereal box, right? The rest of the grain could contain AIDS for all we know, but if you advertise it with green we'll gobble that shit up.
There's never been anything to say that we need it. I mean, hell, why did we remove that part of the grain to begin with? Surely there was a reason. It can't have been cheaper to remove it.
Was it part of some genius "New Coke" style ploy to rope us all in long-term, or was it purely shit that we don't need, that we're now being sold as if without it, lepracy will take us all and the robots will reign?
And they're always backed-up with lies, damned lies and statistics such as: "People who eat whole grain as part of a calorie-controlled diet are less likely to die of being a big fat fatty." Yeah no shit Sherlock! People who eat lard as part of a calorie-controlled diet are less likely to die that way. That's why it's called CALORIE-CONTROLLED, dickwad. These are healthy people. If you take a poll of tubby fuckers I'm sure you'll get some pretty damning statistics if you ask the right questions.
It's a chicken-egg thing that advertisers use to dupe fucking morons.
It's like saying: "
So...people. I just hate people. Not an individual person, they can be (not always) alright. Great, even. With the right breasts.
But crowds, dear god they're annoying. Why is it that when you need to be somewhere, a silent alert goes out across the area telling everyone with a spare second or two on their hands to get in your way by whatever means possible?
That old lady who insists on just spinning on the spot in front of you, then has the temerity to give you a look that says: "How dare you walk close to me, you sick fuck." It's not my fault that you can't walk past a window with anything knitted in it without stopping to regale Doris with everything related to it that you can gleam from the last 60 years of your life. "Oh the weave on that jumper reminds me of a weekend Derek and I spent in Skegness in 1962...no, wait...61....no 62..." OH FUCK OFF AND GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!
Or the idiots that believe advertising talk. Yeah, you know who you are. Well maybe you don't, such is your level of transparent idiocy. "Oh but this is chock-full of pro-youthitude and anti-age-isols so it's got to be good." You prick.
And fucking Whole Grain. Seriously, who decided that we needed the whole grain? And why does everyone think it's good for us?
Because it's surrounded by that lovely green bar on the top of the cereal box, right? The rest of the grain could contain AIDS for all we know, but if you advertise it with green we'll gobble that shit up.
There's never been anything to say that we need it. I mean, hell, why did we remove that part of the grain to begin with? Surely there was a reason. It can't have been cheaper to remove it.
Was it part of some genius "New Coke" style ploy to rope us all in long-term, or was it purely shit that we don't need, that we're now being sold as if without it, lepracy will take us all and the robots will reign?
And they're always backed-up with lies, damned lies and statistics such as: "People who eat whole grain as part of a calorie-controlled diet are less likely to die of being a big fat fatty." Yeah no shit Sherlock! People who eat lard as part of a calorie-controlled diet are less likely to die that way. That's why it's called CALORIE-CONTROLLED, dickwad. These are healthy people. If you take a poll of tubby fuckers I'm sure you'll get some pretty damning statistics if you ask the right questions.
It's a chicken-egg thing that advertisers use to dupe fucking morons.
It's like saying: "
Monday 5 July 2010
Bleh
Yeah I'm in one of those moods. Where you're stuck between anything that you can identify and all you can think is "meh", "bleh" or "muh". I have an incompetant manager who cannot satisfactorily manage workers. Quite the problem. But hey let's try to locate that funny again. Again? Yeah, that makes the assumption that I've found it before. I know where it likes to hang out. I know its friends. I am fully prepared to sit in a dark hedge with Bill Oddy, lurking with intent...actually that sounds kind of funny as it is. Though I do feel that the reality of the situation would turn out to be predominantly scary and not all that funny at all. I know he was in the Goodies and all that jazz, but doesn't he just creep you out now? He's a textbook weirdo. Hanging out in hedges with binoculars doesn't help that image.
And I'm smoking now. Not just the fun stuff, but the crap, pointless brown tobacco shit. One questions how this came to be, and it just feels as inevitable as the sun rotating around the moon. I cannot survive this job at the moment without regular breaks, regardless of what I'm doing whilst breaking. It's just a joy to see the outside world, even if it is only fleeting before we're hurled back into the office as if attached to the plug end of a hoover lead when someone presses the 'retract' button. Speaking of those buttons, I've got one on my thigh for whenever I see Kerry Katona on TV. Safety first, after all.
This is the thing with writing comedy. You put yourself under this pressure and then you're so serious about it that nothing seems funny anymore. Maybe I should be drunk. Yeah while at work. To be funnier. It's a means to an end. It's perfectly justifiable. Fuck you.
You start looking at every fucking thing with new eyes. Trying to gleam something poignant and hilarious from it. You're there, looking at a wall, desperately trying to convince yourself "yep, if I look at this in the right way, then this will have them rolling in the aisles." No it won't. You're a fucking moron. You're just staring at a wall, giggling to yourself, primarily out of sending yourself quietly but surely insane. And everyone around you is backing away slowly, terrified.
So you just hit your head repeatedly against said wall, and try again another day.
And I'm smoking now. Not just the fun stuff, but the crap, pointless brown tobacco shit. One questions how this came to be, and it just feels as inevitable as the sun rotating around the moon. I cannot survive this job at the moment without regular breaks, regardless of what I'm doing whilst breaking. It's just a joy to see the outside world, even if it is only fleeting before we're hurled back into the office as if attached to the plug end of a hoover lead when someone presses the 'retract' button. Speaking of those buttons, I've got one on my thigh for whenever I see Kerry Katona on TV. Safety first, after all.
This is the thing with writing comedy. You put yourself under this pressure and then you're so serious about it that nothing seems funny anymore. Maybe I should be drunk. Yeah while at work. To be funnier. It's a means to an end. It's perfectly justifiable. Fuck you.
You start looking at every fucking thing with new eyes. Trying to gleam something poignant and hilarious from it. You're there, looking at a wall, desperately trying to convince yourself "yep, if I look at this in the right way, then this will have them rolling in the aisles." No it won't. You're a fucking moron. You're just staring at a wall, giggling to yourself, primarily out of sending yourself quietly but surely insane. And everyone around you is backing away slowly, terrified.
So you just hit your head repeatedly against said wall, and try again another day.
Monday 28 June 2010
More Musings, or Musings V2 if you prefer
Right, well this is me - rather pointlessly talking to myself as nobody else is expected to read this - rambling on in an attempt to 'find the funny'. Fuck knows whether it will work, but I'm attempting it really to distract myself from spending £18 on an addmitedly rather nice-looking digital dictaphone.
I don't know whether that would be useful for me, as I do hate the sound of my own voice, but in a general 'wanting to be a comedian' sort of way, getting used to hearing it and critiquing it could possibly be very useful. Either that, or it just ends up in the ever-growing pile of Stuff I Don't Really Use.
So let's just get on with it. Let's go on about my week, my feelings, that sort of shit. That's what you mnon-existent fans of mine want. So, the big news this week is the moving on of the ex. I am happy for her, but Jesus it's difficult to get your head around at the start. Plus there's the whole thing that he's a singer in a fucking band. She'd probably have left me for him even if I'd kept her up until now anyway. I don't really feel funny at the moment but I'm going to keep on at it, maybe I'll stumble onto something. Maybe it'll just be like therapy.
So yeah...the ex is moving on and I'm still single. Don't get me wrong, I'm doing alright at the moment. I've slept with a couple of girls since we broke up and have a couple of dates lined up. But it still feels like I've lost. Lost the 'race you to be in a relationship again!' part and lost the chance of getting the girl back. I do realise how ridiculous I am though, even as I've adjusted to her now and I think I'd fare better, we're still not exactly soulmates in my opinion...and, clearly, hers.
So...to focus on the better parts of the week. That sounds like a plan, doesn't it? Well, there was the main highlight, the comedy gig on Saturday night in Sunny Fareham. Mmmm, drink in that architecture and culture! But the Arts Centre (oooh!) was alright, even if I did get a bit fucked off at paying £11 for two pints of becks. Fucking no draught beers. Funny night though...Ed Gamble? I think his name was, was highly amusing and dealt well with the audience. I always like that. Plus he said I had a cool job. How little he knows.
So maybe I should try to remember the things this week that made me laugh. Yes, comedians did that, but regurgitating their material here would be both a) pointless and b) difficult. Yeah come on...unless you've poured over the DVD 27 times to remember at exactly which point the goofy-eared sweaty twat gurns and throws himself to the ground, you won't remember much of a live stand-up show.
So yes, I went to see Finley Quaye. Yeah, that Finley Quaye. Not my idea but it was a fun night, not least because I met a pretty lady who didn't seem to be completely repulsed by me. Novelty-tastic! The funniest thing encountered at this gig, however, was the man who, mid-performance, opted to take a phone call. A foolish mistake, one might think. But no. This man had a plan. He had a simple yet effective tactic which exploited the laws of physics to make this phone call crystal clear and perfectly audible. He crouched. Oh yeah, down to the ground, that's where the quiet is. Fucking moron - it's sound, not heat...it doesn't rise!!
I had this idea about WD40. Yeah that's a way to open a sentence. You know the thing about WD40 is that pretty much whatever the problem you have, a man of a certain age will always...ALWAYS suggest "give some WD a try".
"What's the problem son?"
"Ah it's nothing really Dad, just things have sort of gone a bit stale in the bedroom with Jill."
"Ah no problem, my boy. Get some WD on it, you'll be right as rain in no time. Works wonders, it does."
It's been suggested for every conceivable task the 80s had to offer, plus some new ones. It's apparently a fertiliser, sexual lubricant, water purification device, home-made soda stream, a baldness cure, it makes a creditable rocket fuel, you can use it as a scuba tank, and it repels vampires and Christians.
Oh and I may have some up with a new name for this blog...well, ok maybe a blog with a bit more of a point. I figure there must be well-endowed men out there who would like to share their experiences and help each other through the touch times. There must be tough times. I'm not saying mine is tiny - but it's a grower. If you were hulking around a 13-inch monster all day long you're bound to run into problems, right? Catching it on door handles or just simple back pain. Anyhoo, I figure this blog - or book or whatever. Let's create a brand!...would be...Tripods and Tribulations!
And on that note, goodnight and good fuck
x
I don't know whether that would be useful for me, as I do hate the sound of my own voice, but in a general 'wanting to be a comedian' sort of way, getting used to hearing it and critiquing it could possibly be very useful. Either that, or it just ends up in the ever-growing pile of Stuff I Don't Really Use.
So let's just get on with it. Let's go on about my week, my feelings, that sort of shit. That's what you mnon-existent fans of mine want. So, the big news this week is the moving on of the ex. I am happy for her, but Jesus it's difficult to get your head around at the start. Plus there's the whole thing that he's a singer in a fucking band. She'd probably have left me for him even if I'd kept her up until now anyway. I don't really feel funny at the moment but I'm going to keep on at it, maybe I'll stumble onto something. Maybe it'll just be like therapy.
So yeah...the ex is moving on and I'm still single. Don't get me wrong, I'm doing alright at the moment. I've slept with a couple of girls since we broke up and have a couple of dates lined up. But it still feels like I've lost. Lost the 'race you to be in a relationship again!' part and lost the chance of getting the girl back. I do realise how ridiculous I am though, even as I've adjusted to her now and I think I'd fare better, we're still not exactly soulmates in my opinion...and, clearly, hers.
So...to focus on the better parts of the week. That sounds like a plan, doesn't it? Well, there was the main highlight, the comedy gig on Saturday night in Sunny Fareham. Mmmm, drink in that architecture and culture! But the Arts Centre (oooh!) was alright, even if I did get a bit fucked off at paying £11 for two pints of becks. Fucking no draught beers. Funny night though...Ed Gamble? I think his name was, was highly amusing and dealt well with the audience. I always like that. Plus he said I had a cool job. How little he knows.
So maybe I should try to remember the things this week that made me laugh. Yes, comedians did that, but regurgitating their material here would be both a) pointless and b) difficult. Yeah come on...unless you've poured over the DVD 27 times to remember at exactly which point the goofy-eared sweaty twat gurns and throws himself to the ground, you won't remember much of a live stand-up show.
So yes, I went to see Finley Quaye. Yeah, that Finley Quaye. Not my idea but it was a fun night, not least because I met a pretty lady who didn't seem to be completely repulsed by me. Novelty-tastic! The funniest thing encountered at this gig, however, was the man who, mid-performance, opted to take a phone call. A foolish mistake, one might think. But no. This man had a plan. He had a simple yet effective tactic which exploited the laws of physics to make this phone call crystal clear and perfectly audible. He crouched. Oh yeah, down to the ground, that's where the quiet is. Fucking moron - it's sound, not heat...it doesn't rise!!
I had this idea about WD40. Yeah that's a way to open a sentence. You know the thing about WD40 is that pretty much whatever the problem you have, a man of a certain age will always...ALWAYS suggest "give some WD a try".
"What's the problem son?"
"Ah it's nothing really Dad, just things have sort of gone a bit stale in the bedroom with Jill."
"Ah no problem, my boy. Get some WD on it, you'll be right as rain in no time. Works wonders, it does."
It's been suggested for every conceivable task the 80s had to offer, plus some new ones. It's apparently a fertiliser, sexual lubricant, water purification device, home-made soda stream, a baldness cure, it makes a creditable rocket fuel, you can use it as a scuba tank, and it repels vampires and Christians.
Oh and I may have some up with a new name for this blog...well, ok maybe a blog with a bit more of a point. I figure there must be well-endowed men out there who would like to share their experiences and help each other through the touch times. There must be tough times. I'm not saying mine is tiny - but it's a grower. If you were hulking around a 13-inch monster all day long you're bound to run into problems, right? Catching it on door handles or just simple back pain. Anyhoo, I figure this blog - or book or whatever. Let's create a brand!...would be...Tripods and Tribulations!
And on that note, goodnight and good fuck
x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)