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....
Thursday 29 July 2010
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.
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