Monday, January 31, 2011

Pocket Sized Balls

I am having insane trouble sleeping at the moment. Something has gone incredibly wrong with my body at night time and it's meaning I'm spending many of the dark hours wide awake and not sure what to do with myself. There's nothing worse than being awake at 2am knowing you're going to have be up at 6am with puffy eyes and a confused body wondering why you aren't staying asleep now that you've finally got there.

My body temperature...which usually hangs somewhere around the subarctic levels anyway...has somewhat plummeted of late meaning that on Saturday night I actually slept in ski socks, a polo neck thermal top, flannel pyjamas (shexshual), my dressing gown, a blanket and my duvet. And I still only got 3 hours sleep due to shivering. What the hell? Last night I tried to tackle the issue by sleeping at the other end of my bed (further from the draughty window - I'm a wonder child) in pyjamas, ski socks, a hoody and my Dad's fleece (lingerie is not a word I really compute). I was warm...but I was warm and awake. At about 2am I finally drifted off to the soothing voice of Tony Robinson (he was in an audio book of Mort by Tezza P not sat at the end of my chilly bed) and a scanty 4 hours later I was up and in the shower preparing for the day ahead.

I had big plans for today. Today was going to be the day I faced my fears and admitted to one of those bloke type people that actually he was the kind of bloke type person that I'd quite like to use to keep warm instead of my Dad's fleece. Not that I don't love my Dad's fleece - it's lovely, but it can't make me breakfast or buy me flowers. I was planning to be very brave. I wasn't entirely sure how I was going to say vague plan was to choose something between hiring a jet and writing in the sky and writing I LOVE ? I.D.S.T. on the back of my hand and hoping he asked.

I feel about 15 years old at the's quite a long time since I had a crush on someone. In honour of my new crush I've listened to a lot of Jennifer Paige and have been smiling to myself walking down streets a lot.

The trouble is, I've bottled it. I realised I left my filofax in Canterbury this weekend. And without my filofax I am powerless to reveal my true feelings for anyone. Even my mother. She will never know that actually I'm a huge fan and have forgiven her the endless years of courgette and freedom to choose my own haircut (A 7 YEAR OLD WHO WANTS TO BE A BOY SHOULD NOT HAVE CREATIVE FREEDOM). My filofax is like my security blanket and without it, it's just unthinkable that I would do anything as silly as to punch someone in the arm and tell them they're not hideous.

I'm not great at situations like this. I once honestly sat across from a boy I liked in school and said "Look what I can do" before poking myself in the eye and grinning broadly. And we wonder why I didn't have my first kiss until I was a healthy 17...sigh.

What if I declare my undying love and then I get my filofax back and in the aftermath of having had my hopes and dreams dashed against a wall of uncompromising teen angst, I realise I've forgotten something important like Yom Kippur? Yom Kippur is in September I think so we might be ok on that front but isn't it Shrove Tuesday soon? I don't want to forget pancakes! I don't actually like pancakes, but I might want to make them for other people? And there'd be reams of sad people with no pancakes saying, "Where are my pancakes?" and someone will say "Oh Laura was going to make them but she's over there spilling her guts to that guy putting his trainers on..."

Ok. So there's a strong chance I'm using my lack of filofax as a very poor excuse for being an absolute pussy. But you have no idea how attached I am to him (the filofax). I think the lack of sleep is the least of my problems...

Him and You 2

You: So, it's been occurring to me since I met you that you're incredible.
Him: Right.
You: Right, you're incredible?
Him:Just 'right', processing...
You: Processing.
Him: Well, it's a pretty blunt statement.
You: I'm a pretty blunt girl.
Him: Yes. So what do you want to do about it?
You: Etiquette lessons...?
Him: I meant my incredibleness.
You: Not sure there's anything I can do about it really. Short of killing you.
Him: I'd still be incredible in death.
You: Admittedly.
Him: Like Elvis.
You: Can you sing?
Him: No. But I have great hips.
You: Right.
Him: Processing?
You: Your hips?
Him: Yep.
You: Yep.
Him: Right.
You: You could try being less incredible?
Him: Well, I can do...but seeing as it's only really you that's noticed so far it'd be a shame to stop.
You: No one else has noticed?
Him: Certainly no one's told me.
You: Faux pas.
Him: Not at all.
You: I'm pleased.
Him: Maybe I'll just have to be around you more as not to waste the incredible?
You: I'd like that.
Him: Is that why you told me?
You: Might have been.
Him: It's things like that which make you incredible.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Cooking Up An Onion

Sundays are just never long enough to do everything you needed to do and lie around in your pyjamas for a decent length of time. My day has consisted of a good old fashioned jog which resulted in severe muscle tightness and a bruised ego. Bruised ego due to me going running in my green bobble hat and hearing a child comment that 'Dobby runs funny'. Burgess Park shall not be visited again for some time.

Then I took myself on a walk to the National Gallery. I decided to stroll there as it was a lovely sunny day and I'm always happier in the sunshine. I got all the way there without looking at a map in under an hour...with only one shop managing to side track me on the way there. This shop did display some of my favourite greetings cards under the sun and if you are actually lucky enough to know in person then you are likely to receive one of these cards at all of your future celebratory events. IF you don't know me but want one, send a SAE to my house with your date of birth in it and I'll do my best but I can't promise anything.

At the gallery I mosied around trying to look neither glib nor pretentious...this is not easy when you are still wearing your elbow length bright red gloves and your gilet. I'd removed the hat by this point for fear of hearing 'Dobby likes the Degas'. I make a point at galleries of buying a postcard of the paintings that struck me most that time I went round...I am absolutely not allowed to buy a postcard of a painting that I haven't seen for real. No matter how much I like the postcard. This often leads to me buying postcards which are rather gross because the awesomeness doesn't transfer...and ignoring postcards which would look cracking on my wall. It might seem backwards but it works for me.

Unfortunately today, the paintings that struck me most were -
a) The Immaculate Conception by Diego Velasquez (crappy postcard doesn't do the halo justice and I now look a little bit like I'm a fan of hazy Roman Catholic art).
b) Susannah and the Elders by Guido Reni (didn't have a postcard so ended up spending far too much money on a print of it).

My wall has been duly decorated with this weekend's efforts to make the most of living in the capital and pretending I have cultural inclinations. Dobby has delusions.

This week is going to be a busy one...first off tomorrow I have the 2011 Quiz In My Pants return to form - I'm pretty excited about the line up (Jay Foreman, Bec Hill, Lou Sanders and Pete Dillon-Trenchard - thanks for asking) and hoping the whole thing goes off without a hitch and with an audience. A Monday night extravaganza is just the springboard I need to kick the week off at a flying pace...I've decided to be brave this week and bite a lot of bullets I've been dodging for a long time. Here's hoping the bullets taste a lot like belgian chocolate and less like broken teeth. Ho hum. Dobby has a fire up his arse.

Saturday, January 29, 2011


I’ve been in Canterbury for the last 24 hours...actually, technically last night I was in Whitstable but unless you’re familiar with the county of Kent those two places will actually seem very similar...Whitstable is a lovely place – the sort of place that will never feature on Sky news. There is simply nothing dangerous or terrifying about it all. Even the W in the name has been softened with an ‘h’ in case someone pokes an eye out.

I had a lovely gig last night with some very funny fellows (Fergus Craig, Paul Sweeney, Tom Goodliffe and Pappy’s) and I think I broke a rib laughing at Pappy’s headlining. It was a great night, and the first of a new set of shows from Chatback comedy who have been operating in the Kent area for a while now.

Today I reminded myself how much I enjoy Canterbury. Canterbury is possibly the most garlic filled high street in all of England. It actually has an Italian restaurant for every single resident within a 2.3 mile radius. It's really quite incredible. I discovered I don't enjoy taking a suitcase over cobbles but, really, I think that's quite a minor thing to discover at the age of 24.

I was taken to a vintage fayre today. It turns out that 'vintage' means old but still expensive which is erm, nice? I'll be honest, I don't fully understand it. It was explained to me that "If it's still fine when it's this old then it's worth paying for because you know it will carry on lasting". Sure. Ok. What? Why not just buy something new and if it doesn't last as it should do...take it back? Call me a modern cow but I just don't want to buy something that's grubby and being sold to me by a woman in a faux fur coat. I think I am mainstream. But I'm sort of ok with that. Because it means I get to wear new stuff.

I don't really understand the concept of bohemian indie stuff. It seems to be it involves spending more money on older stuff that is illfitting and essentially ugly but in a chic way? Bizzare. If it's ok with the world I'll just stick to jeans. Maybe with a nice hoodie. From Fat Face. Ok? Good.

I did buy some lovely red gloves today. From a chain of stores, not a stall. They go right the way up to my elbows and make me incredibly happy. They clash with everything but not in an intentional way that says I don't care what I look like. I care a lot about looking like a person who just goes about their day in clothes that keep them warm. They just clash because I wear a lot of green knitwear and the shop didn't stock green gloves that go all the way up to my elbows. So I have red ones. If it comes to it I'll buy red knitwear to match ok?

Tonight I am off to do the Laughing Horse competition gig. I've entered twice and never, ever gone past the first round. Why do I keep doing this to myself? Who the hell even freaking knows or cares anymore. But you know what, it's stage time and I'll take it. Whore.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Your Momma Sure Does Care About Your Schooling

I tried going for a run's not something I do very often but am on a bit of a kick to shed some excess pounds and get healthy so I thought I'd give it a try. Put on some joggings bottoms, dug out a sports bra (or restraining order) and put on several tops and a bobble hat. I felt pretty good - what could possibly go wrong?

I bounded down the stairs and bumped into my housemate who was putting a pizza into the oven. Gutted. There's not a lot worse than preparing to go an mow down innocent passers by on a freezing January night whilst your housemate is eating melted cheese and ham and sitting on the sofa.

He looked at me a little oddly. I think it was the hat...I hope it was the hat. If it wasn't the hat it was just a look of curiosity at the concept of me about to go and exercise. I asked him if it was the hat. It was the hat. I put my trainers on and prepared to leave...

"So..." says bemused housemate, "Whereabouts are you going to run?"
"Um...." says I, "I don't know...I don't know the area very well."

Now, my housemate is quite a protective, sensible kind and we live on Old Kent Road so I could instantly understand the look of panic that flashed across his face. I can imagine his thought process was something along the lines of "Great, I'm the only other person home and my slightly crackers housemate is going to go and waddle aimlessly round South East London until she's either skinny, raped or sold into slavery. And I'm going to have to leave my pizza to go and rescue her."

I tried my best to be reassuring.

"I've got my phone with me. It's got GPS." He didn't look reassured but he tried a smile. "Tell you what," I offered, "If I'm not back in 2 hours then just call an ambulance and ask them to look on the floor. That's likely where I'll be."

He smiled wanly and went upstairs to draft a letter of condolence to my parents.

Looking like a reject from the Oxfam Annual Fashion Show for the Colourblind, I stepped out onto the street. Now, with running, I always find it awkward to know when to you just jog straight away? Do you walk a little bit down the road and then break into it gently when no one's looking? Are you going to look like some sort of dodgy type if you suddenly break into a run without doing an obligatory calf stretch first of all to warn passers by?

I went with crossing the road and then immediately breaking into a steady one shouted anything derogatory so I'll assume I got it right. Within about 3 paces I wanted to stop. Well, I didn't want to stop...I was quite keen with myself to carry on but the parts of my body involved in the actual running began referring to my brain as a 'freeloading limbless wonder who wouldn't know a thing about hard work if it came up and bit him on the cell.'. I tried to act as peacemaker but I have to be honest, the entire jog was a bit of a tedious rant between the dangly bits and the thinky bits.

I managed a respectable 3.3 miles...which I feel I'm ok with. I'm not sure how soon I'll be able to repeat the exercise as my hip has decided it's gone on vacation again and is no longer nestling carefully into its socket. I have no idea why it does this but if you see me in the next few days don't ask to see it unless you have a strong stomach - it looks a bit like my hip is trying to give birth to a rubix cube. It turns out that's what could possibly go wrong.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Give The Dog A Bone

Shazaaaaaam interworld...this is Lexxington FM on the blog medium wave coming at you right from your monitor. Monitor my words closely like a monitor lizard and you'll notice I'm on it won't notice. Huzzah. I'm listening to some rapping music right now and it's having an interesting effect on my mood. I have had one of the most productive mornings in my illustrious career as a desk jockey so far.

Desk jockey is a term I've coined to try and make my life as a muppet who deals with the insignificant issues of other muppets more bearable. I'm not sure if more bearable is a phrase that's strictly correct English? Can anyone pedantic help out a bit there? Thanks.

Today in my desk jockey position I'm wearing a glittery blue head scarf over my head and have been told I look like a fortune teller. Unfortunately, I don't have a crystal ball with me to tell fortunes so I've got my small desk cactus. Sadly I was part way through telling my colleague's fortune with my cactus when the film crew popped into the office to see if we'd mind being filmed this afternoon. The camera guy took a brief look at me and then said 'But we'll give you lots of prior notice'. I'm not sure if this means to take the scarf off my head or for me just to leave in general. Either way, I've added a cardigan to my head now so we'll see what happens. My boss has said nothing. I do wonder if I'd be capable of working somewhere if I had a boss who wasn't quite so 'understanding'.

I say 'understanding'. However, I did get into the office today to find out that he's signed me up to be the company speaker at a technology event conference in March. I am to write and deliver a presentation on Online Video Marketing. We were trying to come up with titles and he told me to 'Squash every natural intent in your mind to make it sparky and interesting - that is not your crowd here.' Brilliant. And, er, why have you picked me to deliver this speech may I ask?

Apparently the speech itself can be as dynamic as I can make it. We're now approaching dangerous territory. As dynamic as I can make it you say? He has clearly forgotten the night he asked me to host his church quiz and I may or may not have used a clever pun concerning the composer Tosca when referencing a member of the congregation...ahem. This is not an admission of guilt. I said 'may or may not'.

In a hilarious in-joke, the title of my presentation is to be 'A Short Guide to Online Video' and my ever caring boss has promised to provide a crate for me to stand on. Are you beginning to understand now that the witticisms of office banter just never cease? Ricky Gervais had no idea. He was only the beginning.

My rapping music has now swiftly switched to Cheryl Cole now so I must dash and pretend to tut whilst really soaking in her subtle harmonies/inability to hold a note cleanly.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

I Won't Say I'm In Love

Had a bit of a brave today folks...spurred on by yesterday's attempts at being a little less defensive about shit? Oh fo sho...!

I day didn't exactly start bravely. It sort of started with me crying. On the Jubilee line. Because someone offered me their seat. I know what you're thinking - it's a slow start, Lexx...where are you going with this? Well, the problem was I didn't really know where I was going with it. I felt rubbish this morning, panicky and then annoyed at myself for feeling panicked about nothing.

Then the tube got delayed, as is its wont, due to a train getting sick at North Greenwich or something shabby along those lines. Getting delayed along different lines wouldn't have affected my day at all. Feeling a bit dizzy on the train I decided to just squat down a bit and get my head together - within about 3 seconds someone had asked if I was ok and someone else had given up their seat.

They say Londoners are mean and just stare straight ahead of them? Well, of course they do if there's no reason to strike up a conversation. Who goes into a pub anywhere and just sits down with randoms for a drink? But when there's a problem, I think London folk are mighty cool. And I showed my appreciation by bursting into tears like a proper lemon.

By the time I got to work I was starting to look like I'd let Helena Bonham Carter star as me for the day.

Enough is enough.

I solved a few issues in my mind, listened to a shed load of Disney and some 90s tunes, got a lot of it stuck in my head to hum through The King's Speech which I went to see today.

And then my phone beeped...was it a message from the man of my dreams? No.

Return of the ex. (Sing it to the tune of Return of the Mac and it's quite funky). Out of the blue he's apparently back in the country for a bit and wanted to say hi. I'll admit, this caused a brief chink in my 'I'm a rock hard fucking iron woman' mood...until I deleted the message and carried on with my day. Turns out all it took was a well placed cigarette and some damn fine acting from Mr G Rush and I'm perfectly capable of going about my day.

Came home, ate gnocchi (terribly significant) and thought about where to go next. Where to go next? Naturally it will be to track down said man of my dreams and tell him he is the subject of some dreams of mine. Will he be pleased? Probably not. But who gives a damn, at least for the next 50 minutes I am superwoman. After that it's tomorrow. And anything could happen.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Letting Down The Guard (Not Necessarily at Buckingham Palace)

I wasn't sure what I wanted to write about all. Nothing humorous has really happened to me today's been an uneventful day.

But someone just told me I needed to 'let my guard down'. And it's floored me to be honest. I've always thought I'm fairly open and honest (too open and honest on occasion) and don't really have a problem discussing stuff. Clearly, I keep an entirely self involved blog every day...what's not free and easy about that? But it reminded me of being in told in the past that I use humour as a weapon. An ex boyfriend of mine told me I had comedy armour - referring me to a touching Jason Mraz song with the line 'Your come backs are quick and, probably, have to do with your insecurities.'

He always said that song could have been written about me. It's a beautiful song but not with the most flattering lyrics - for a start it's called 'Beautiful Mess' and contains the line "it's like picking up trash in dresses". See my blog on garbage disposals for my view on Americanised terms, and bear in mind I wouldn't pick up trash in a dress that was anything other than at least knee length. No fouffee on display here thank you very much.

I suppose I feel a bit exposed at being told to take my guard down. How far do you take it down? Is it like a date situation? Can you flash a bit of guard shoulder on the first dinner and then have full on legs akimbo guard by week two? Are there rules on guard letting down?

Is there some kind of manual that says...These are topics it's ok to share NOW. What would happen if y'all clicked an unassuming link tomorrow and I gave you all the details of a monstrous inner thigh rash? I swear I don't have a monstrous inner thigh rash. It's beastly at best.

Beastly at Best may well become the title of my blatantly impending autobiography.

Is it odd that actually I find opening up to complete strangers far easier? Sunday night I had an incredibly surreal late night train ride back to London where I found myself telling someone I'd only known for 4 hours about things my best friend doesn't know...there's a certain safety in that. Like farting in close proximity to an old dog.

There are certain characteristics to my 'guard' which I'm well aware of -
1. I can't make eye contact when talking about serious subjects.
2. I can't talk about serious subjects for more than a few minutes.
3. I hate to be the subject of attention on negative aspects of my life.
4. I sweat through the palms of my hands in all of the above situations.

I think it's natural to not want to burden other people with your problems. It's natural to not want everyone to know you have weaknesses. It's really hard work to allow yourself to try something a bit more open. This blog has been exceptionally difficult to write and I'm still not entirely sure I want to publish it. But maybe it's a good thing...not every blog is going to be like this, but perhaps it's better to be honest and say that somedays this is just the sort of junk that's floating around my head? And maybe, just maybe, not every line that comes out of my mouth needs to be made OK with a joke.

Tomorrow's blog - 'Carving Pi into my arm because Mr Carter wouldn't touch me' and other honest revelations.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Mojo a Gogo

2011 I have gigged in you. Fast and hard with a little more enthusiasm than finesse. But you loved it didn't you...dirty little year that you are. Sweet. That's was awkward wasn't it? Not half as awkward as it'll be by tomorrow's blog when I've listened back to the gig tonight and decided it was all awful and I should never write new material. What I should do, I discovered this evening, is write an ending for my new material and not just let it peter out quietly and sadly...yep - I'll definitely do that by next time. Ahem.

I've been at the delightful Ed Comedy at The Hob tonight in Forest Hill. Was an alright get together - mostly acts in the audience but a few spectators who either tittered awkwardly or arfed tiredly. It wasn't the most sensational night in the world but it's calmed the nerves of a little me who hasn't gigged in a month or so and was slightly apprehensive. So a big pat on the back to me. Just what I needed.

I've been super flat feeling all day - no, I haven't lost weight or had my fun bags decreased. I've just felt a bit beige. A bit bland. Except for a brief highlight in the middle of the day when I discovered a brand new bike to add my list of dreams. It turns out you can have anything you want from me if you buy me a Yamaha XV 1900A Midnight Star. Just get it delivered with a hand written note declaring your undying love and I might even make you a cheese sandwich. Might. Might is important.

Mighty is also important. Today I made some pretty mighty decisions - some of them are of a far too personal nature to publish here. I save only public announcements like my scrotty bowels or my catastrophic inability to keep a man by my side. Some of my decisions today have been less mighty - like that I am going to wear nicer clothes to gig in, I think I would like to see a doctor about my gnarly foot and that a pair of Boyfriend jeans from Next might actually make me happier than the real thing.

And you thought it was going to be a slow news day?

The audition yesterday went pretty well (I think and hope) thanks for asking. So watch this space for an announcement as to whether I've been selected to pretty much outshine any English thespian who ever walked a board or sat in front of a lens. It felt good to be acting and shizzle...I think I might have made the right choice in dedicating 17 years of education to it. What a turn up for the books eh? Who saw that coming...? Probably Nostradamus. I'm pretty sure I featured heavily in his predictions for 2011. He and Paul the octopus used to sit up pretty late discussing where they felt I was going and in what sort of time frame. Bless. Good guys. Not really my kind of people but I threw them a bone. You know?

It's late. I need sleep. And a purpose. Yep.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

One Unholy Black Swan

I made the somewhat catastrophic mistake of going to see The Black Swan last night. There are some superb qualities to that film...don't get me wrong, I am pretty far from saying it was appalling. It was just the worst possible film you could have sent me to see.

Never, ever, EVER send a long sighted, nervous, theatrical, squeamish female with a furious career focus to sit at the front of a cinema watching a jerkily filmed piece about a self harming, anorexic dancer who goes out of her mind.

I have never been so uncomfortable in a cinema - and the seats were fine. I mean, sure cinema is supposed to move you - but hopefully not to the point where you're unable to look at the screen.

Portman's portrayal of the fragile dancer is intricate and strong but never really haunting. Despite being blown away by certain elements of her performance - she still hasn't moved into the league of the greats in my opinion. It's difficult to say what was time the film almost steps into a comical melodrama which leaves you unsure of the director's intent. The irony of Miss Portman stealing from Winona Ryder in the early portion of the film had my irony criteria filled sufficiently to tick another box in the film's deconstruction. Perfect.

I salavaged the evening by going back and watching 'Take Me Out' which reminded me that anything awfully brilliant is superior to something comfortably atrocious. Take Me Out is an abysmal show which gathers together the worst strains of all that's within people and flogs it into a Paddy McGuinness quip.

Today I am off to my audition to try and rekindle my acting flame...wish me luck!

Saturday, January 22, 2011

You'll Never Make It!

I'm lying on my sofa under a blanket watching The Neverending Story and wishing I was 8 years old. Today has so far been a day of reminders that I am not really young any more...and it's a tough feeling.

Firstly, I woked up at about 8:30am this morning. I was thrilled to have had a lie in. I woke up, got up, showered and started working on everything I needed to do today. Then my housemates appeared and we watched the tennis.

I cannot even begin to list the things that are wrong with that paragraph...thrilled to be up at 8:30am on a Saturday?? Give over! I'm clearly not 16 any more. I got up? I didn't lie in bed hating everything that was vastly unfair with the world? Showered? Without a reason to leave the house? Got dressed? Without having to be pummelled into my room by a parent with an agenda? Watched the freaking tennis? Where was Bert Racoon and Grandma Gummi? What the hell has happened with my life?

It's not that I think things were simpler when I was younger - not by a long chalk. That's a fallacy created by people who can't remember how terrifying the things you worried about then were. Alright so I may owe the Government thousands of pounds right now...but the Government isn't going to threaten me with a smacked bottom. The worst that they can do is put me in prison. Not anywhere near as terrifying as the sound of my Dad's footsteps up the stairs behind me. The Government has never had me sitting on my bed with my hands clamped so solidly to my behind that you'd need a chisel to separate them.

It's just that when I was 8 time stretched out so could wake up on a Saturday with the promise of a party and a loop bag at 4pm and still have an entirely adventure filled day between then and now. These days a party on a Saturday is liable to happen somewhere in Hoxton between 9 and 10pm at which point I'll be wondering whether it's even worth getting two buses to go to it without the promise of any kind of party bag. In my experience birthday parties very rarely even have cake any more.

I'm off to Brighton in a few hours which is sure to be a fantastic time - I'm to see Portman depress the crap out of me as a ballerina. Why wouldn't you want to watch that? Oh, because you have an interest in maintaining some sort of sense of joy in your being. I think I might be the only person left in the country who hasn't seen the King's Speech and so I've missed my window to find someone to go with me to see it.

If I was 8 I wouldn't even want to see the King's Speech, and I wouldn't be expected to go and see The Black Swan. I don't even like ballet. I do like popcorn though so maybe the two will cancel each other out. That's definitely the best thing about not being 8 - you can eat what you like. Someone might raise their eyebrows as you stack only blue smarties on your popcorn, microwave it all and then put it on ice cream - but they certainly can't stop you.

Maybe what I need is my own 8 year old? Maybe not. I think between the two of us we'd make the Chuckle brothers look like the ideal business partners. I have a tiny nephew who is good enough for me at the moment - he's devilishly cute. So much so that he is the wallpaper on my phone screen. This lead to an interesting event in the pub last night. I was out for a quiet drink with a friend of mine and happened to notice a guy across the room staring quite persistently...he wasn't really my type so I studiously avoided but eventually he got up and came over.

This NEVER happens to me and I really didn't know how to cope with the situation. My body took over and decided that reckless giggling in the style of a sea lion would help. He dutifully explained that he couldn't stop staring at me (I'd noticed) as I was very beautiful (I snorted and actually produced snot here) and could he please have my number...?

He couldn't have my number and by this point I was helplessly paralysed in fear, shock and hialrity. The people next to me were stuck between a grimace at the poor guy havign chosen the worst possible prospect in the pub to approach, and laughter at my inability to deal with the situation. I tactfully offered to take his number and call him tomorrow and on producing my phone slipped the catch off and passed it over so he could enter his number.

He saw the baby on the screen.

"Is that your son?"
"Because it doesn't matter if it is. If it came from your womb, I'd like it."

Absolute silence.

My diaghragm was sent into absolute paralysis of laughter as the poor unfortunate soul back tracked merrily and tried to make it sound less like he would eat my placenta on a platter. He stuttered his way to the door and I asked for some paper towels to deal with the fluid leaking out of all orifices I'd lost control of. I'm not sure how I'll ever cope if I see the guy again...I'm not sure how he'll cope either. But I think it's safe to say that adult me has no better skills to cope with the real world than the 8 year old.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Can't Get No Satisfaction

Meh...turns out a poem didn't quite cut it today...just in the mood to ramble you know? I feel it's my duty as a moron to inform you that I've got my tickets to see Tim Minchin at The Royal Albert Hall on the 28th April. Tickets went on sale at 9am this morning and I bought seats 1 and 2 of the Grand Tier (apparently it's fancy??) at 9:25am. Sad? No. Excited? Pant wettingly so...

Now that I've snapped up space for my bum I think you should go and see it too -

While you're there you should also buy tickets to see this rather fine show, which I saw many more times than once when I was at the Fringe last year and it is super great -

There...I think that's all the plugging I need to do today...oh except for my own show on the 31st January which is called Quiz In My Pants, happens in London at The George - a fine pub on The Strand. Tis only a little bit of money and is even cheaper if you join our Facebook group -

So! That's fun!

Anything you need to tell me about?

It's a beautiful day in the city of London today...there's sun streaming in through the office window and I am as productive as a honey bee. In that I'm buzzing around looking fairly lumpy and not really progressing the achievements of my species in a way that will go down in history. It's a sad state of affairs when the success of your day is not measured by the number of lives you've saved or even impacted on, but by the number of your emails people bothered to open. They may not have even read them if we're honest...

Hell, I don't care. It is Friday today and I have a large glass of sparkling Rose waiting for me at the proper end of the day and then tomorrow I head to Brightonia. Brightonia (as regular readers know) is one of my favourite places to go and take in the air. See previous blogs for inane ramblings on how great the sea is and how much heartbreak you can fit into one city...

I've got an audition in Brighton. To do some funny acting. To do it on video too...who knows, one of these days I might have something to show you that resembles me not being sat at a computer. While I'm in Brightonville I'll be catching some very funny friends of mine The Noise Next Door on Sunday night (just when you thought the plugging would stop...hahahahaha - Eeeeeevil me).

For now, let me entertain you with the anagrams of my co-workers names I have produced this morning whilst waiting for things to get done -

Ban Rain Jar Aim (Wrestling competition)
Main Wheels (Nickname for head honcho of a garage)

KA head away banana jar (Which I like to think is a headline describing a story about a car that chases away an evil jar of bananas)
Ferd Boner (Disgusting penis issue)

Edinburgh Pangs

I'd like to go back to Edinburgh please,
I want to be a thesp...
I'm bored of this city,
It's smoggy and gritty,
I'd like now to pack up my desk.

I'm after some more liver failure,
Some cobbles,
A Crabbies or two,
I'll put on a show,
Hell why not all go?
I'll even consent to take you.

We'll go see the Dome and the Courtyard,
We'll party til 6 in the streets,
We'll go see some shows,
Some good and some awful,
And finish it off,
With a mouth of falafel
Or grab us some good deep fried eats.

There may be some slight overcrowding,
On the mile,
Some folks in white paint...
Feel free to ignore,
Applaud or deplore...

But if you should see one,
Wobble and faint
With theatrical sighing that's likely to taint,
Your stroll in the sunshine
Don't act like a saint...
Don't bother thinking,
Don't show self-restraint
A kick in the head
Is the best way to taint
Their misguided belief
That street theatre's quaint...

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Prejudice, Baroness Warsi and a trip down Rainbow Road

There's a big storm a brewing today on how prejudice against Muslims is now becoming the social first I assumed that 'Baroness Warsi' trending on Twitter meant that they'd brought out a new Supermario character. It turns out this is not the case.

I'm not really sure what I think of the subject. (Prejudice not Mario - I'm a huge fan of Mario) but strap yourselves in and let's find out...'s come to light that people aren't completely fair to Muslims. People are accepting of moderate intolerance towards other religions - particularly Islam.

I might be completely insane but I think I'm ok with that...? I don't think it's natural for different races to instantly bond - how can you bridge the gap between a total cultural divide instantly...? Should we not be stopping to be proud of the fact that the ethnic tension is limited to snide remarks across a dinner table and not resulting in mass murder and rioting?

Isn't it perfectly natural that Islam will take the hit as the least understood religion in the country as, for most people, it's been the only real source of war/terrorism/conflict in living memory? We need education not condemnation - but education takes longer so the condemnation is bound to exist in portions.

Besides which, anyone who has been to University will know that the Christians take a far bigger weight of mockery and disparaging tuts than any other religion. I believe they are only superseded by the drama students.

There's a tendency to think that all issues like this will escalate...can we not see this as quite a good step forward? That actually, although we're not 100% there, on the large scale, two cultures with a huge history of warring and misunderstanding are largely living together side by side?

I found it interesting earlier this week that during 'Big Fat Gypsy Weddings' one of the guys in it used the term 'Paki'. Instantly Twitter was aflame with how this was unacceptable, what the hell were channel 4 thinking broadcasting can this 'gypo' be so narrow minded?

Personally, I think it's a pretty cool thing that Twitter was in uproar - is it not great that one man says it and thousands are furious? Does this not mean that on the whole we are moving closer and closer to a society of acceptance and language that fails to alienate? The news report the next day does nothing to show how many people of how many different ethnic backgrounds were really uncomfortable with the idea. Perhaps it's a good thing that once in a while something like this slips through the net and we see the response of the populous?

As a country it would seem we're all sitting round the dinner table and slagging off Muslims over our roast beef and yorkshire puddings. Isn't this an entirely normal thing to happen?

Surely, if you're not a Muslim yourself (add Christian/Jewish etc etc as you will) it's because you don't 100% agree with their beliefs? If you thought a religious group were right in their thinkings and teachings you would join them. If you haven't, it's because you disagree...?

Cultural slagging off is slightly different...but the mass influx of ethnic minorities to this country only happened about 60 years ago. It took thousands of years for the counties of this country to stop's only been 70 years since the countries of the worlds stopped warring en masse - and that's not to say there's even anything like world peace when we're all behind our own why would we expect that within a mere 60 years we'd all be able to mingle with zero intolerance on the same street?

Can we please stop and praise the progress that has been made for racial integration? We didn't start from a point of perfection and regress - we're trying to work out an entire race's existence worth of differences.

When I first moved to London I moved in with Muslims. In my first week in the house I opened the microwave and found a tupperware box labelled 'goat'. I was grossed out by it. I immediately felt ashamed for being naive. I moved on. There's nothing unnatural about not being instantly cool about eating an animal I've never really considered food before. It's not cultural ignorance - it's instinct and a lack of exposure.

When I split up with my boyfriend whilst living in that same house, one of my Muslim housemates sat me down and explained that my ex's cheating was my fault - that I'd given him my body too early and that there was no real reason for him to stay with me after that. He gently explained that what I needed to do was to give up my job, get a husband and hurry up because at 23 I was getting on a bit.

I'd never been so insulted and furious and hurt and confused. But, who was wrong? Should I have accepted it's a valid point and changed? Should he have kept his opinions to himself and respected my cultural inheritance? Should I have phoned Jeremy Vine and told him about my housemate spreading hatred towards women at the foot of my bed?

What happened was I cried for a while, told him that was really quite an offensive thing to me, he apologised and we both moved on. We carried on living together. After that I understood he wouldn't really ever understand why a career is more important to me than a man and I never fathomed the hard wiring in his view of the world that meant women and men were completely different and incomparable.

Whilst I was home after Christmas my mother and I discussed the levels of ethnic minorities in this country. I found her view on 'them having their own aisles in the supermarket' almost amusing. Is this what religious tension has come down to?

There is one less aisle for cheap American crap because we've put some brown rice and jerk chicken out? Is halal meat taking up space for a white person's baby food? Gutted.

Personally, I'm proud to live in a country where it may not be perfect but there's the understanding that while your head might not have caught up, we know that religious tensions are wrong and, in the majority, we don't act on them. You can't control thoughts...they won't evolve quick enough to instantly comprehend the complexity of another person - but you can know that you want to.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Him and You

Him - Hi
You - Hi
Him - You wanted to talk?
You - I'm pregnant.
Him - What?
You - Yeah.
Him - Really?
You - No, I just find dilated pupils really attractive.

Him - I don't find that very funny.
You - I do.
Him - It can't be funny if I'm not laughing.
You - That's a pretty screwy theory.
Him - Thing like that need mutual acceptance to exist. Humour etc...
You - In which case I think we've had far less 'sex' than you'd imagine.
Him- Cheap.
You - It is.

Him - So you're not pregnant?
You - No, sorry.
Him - It's ok...maybe you would be if our sex was really sex?
You - I like it when you joke.
Him - Times when you're happy must be pretty few and far between...
You - Well that was two in a row.
Him - Isn't that 1/8ths of an orgasm for you?
You - Jokes and sneezes are not interchangeable my darling...
Him - No. People might ask questions about the pepper mill on the bed stand...
You - Are you drunk?
Him - Just trying to make you happy.

You - I might not break up with you then...
Him - Were you going to?
You - Thinking about it.
Him - Any particular reason?
You - I don't like your glasses.
Him - I could take them off.
You - You wouldn't be able to see.
Him - You could see for me.
You - I wouldn't trust me...
Him - Neither would I. That's what makes it fun.
You - We might as well stay together then.
Him - I suppose so.

You - This was a pretty wasted trip.
Him - Why don't you let me buy you a drink?
You - I love you.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Severed Heads and Mushy Peas

The sun has come out...hurrah for a wonderful bit of blue sky just for a minute! To celebrate this I have had some super brilliant tunes playing in the office and have been dancing. I danced straight into the MD of my company...I'm not sure if he was less impressed with my dancing or my new office slippers. I wear slippers at work because I essentially work in a fridge and I also have a foot which is becoming increasingly knackered. Today it is numb and I can't move my toes. I have literally no idea what could possibly be wrong with it but I'm hoping whatever it is I'm the first to have it and it'll mean getting my name into an encyclopaedia. I would like that. I'm still eagerly awaiting the day I turn up on Wikipedia. Or Wikileaks. Maybe I should start bad mouthing some politicians and stuff and see what happens?

Not that that really works for a stand-up's kind of just what we do. You could do a whole new website for the stuff Ricky Gervais said at the Globes. Not that I understand the furore over that...unless someone was under the deluded impression Gervais would be so grateful for a few crap movies made in America that he would lose all hint of comedy? If you want a safe speech full of fawning ask Nick Clegg. He's the Brit you want.

I am also going on a blind date tonight. Well, not exactly a blind date...I've seen a photo. And it's not exactly a date...I'm interviewing a woman for a role in my play - Ink. I'm intensely nervous about this...not the actual meeting but just the recognising bit. I am a teensy bit of a worrier and so the thought of having to try and pick the right woman out of the crowd at the Royal Festival Hall is worrying me immensely.

There are a number of scenarios that can happen in this situation that are guaranteed to make me sweat somewhere I would rather be dry.

What if she sees me and decides I look far too pesky and immature to direct her in a show? She may have a point...
What if I don't recognise her from her picture? This could lead to various awful situations whereby I either have to admit that she's hiding behind a pic that looks nothing like her and give up looking...or...I'll approach someone else and we'll all three of us be gutted. I'm not sure anyone but me would actually be gutted as they probably have lives and a grip on social reality.
What if I never find her? And I'll have terrible thoughts about how unreliable she is, and then it'll turn out she got run over on the way there. And then I'll have thought ill of the dead/horrendously maimed. Then I might go to hell.

So you see...eternal damnation is what's potentially waiting for me at the end of the day. I'm brave. I'm very brave.

I heard back from the radio people turns out I'm not quite right for the position of MC. I am however perfect for their live comedy broadcasts and a resident comedy lady. Typecast? Yes. And damned pleased about it.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Disaster on the Orient Express I went for an interview this evening for a position as a radio was interesting.

I think you know an interview/audition is going well when the interviewer asks 'Have you ever considered the noise coming out of your mouth?' become achingly aware the position might not be right for you when you immediately respond with 'It's usually my most reliable method of making noise.'

I was really keen to get this role - I'm dying to get some radio experience and have yet another outlet for all the words that regularly accumulate in my brain.

The problem is that I speak too fast...and the words have a tendency to come out as one. One big mushy word - a bit like a trifle taken to school by a 6 yr old. A 6 yr old with Parkinsons. There's no space bar with the spoken word - I think it's something we could do with introducing to the modern world.

When I first learnt to write we were taught to put our baby finger after the last word we had scrawled before starting the next one. This way you got an appropriate sized space between your words. I'm thinking this approach could work for me when talking - when I've finished saying one word I will briefly put my finger to my lips (the baby one) (finger not lips) (I don't have baby lips) (I don't have baby lips ANYWHERE on my body) (I feel it's important to stress that) and then repeat between each word...

Hopefully people will find this a cute tic and they won't have me sectioned.

It's not a natural feeling for a stand-up comedian to try out for radio I don't think. I found it quite difficult to get it into my head that people wouldn't be able to see me. I spend most of my life assuming people are looking at me - either because an unruly item of clothing will be tucked somewhere it shouldn't be or because I'm fucking beautiful and people just should be staring at me.

"It's not that you're not funny Miss's just that - well, do you listen to much radio?"
"Mainly Radio 2..."
"Chris Evans?"
"Yes. Why?"
"That explains it."


Which either means I should be coming into some serious money soon which I can then lose on seriously stupid decisions...or that I give off the vibe of 'annoying ginger twat'. Either way I'm not sure it's a good thing. I potentially won't keep my fingers crossed all the way to the results of tonight...

Sunday, January 16, 2011

What a Difference a Day Makes - 24 Little Owls

If you went for a walk right now, put on your shoes, and a coat, stepped out the door and headed to House Number 9, 9th Avenue, The 9th City on Cloud 9 in the 9th district of the would find me.

When you get there, I'll be the one sitting cross legged with some awesome music playing full volume, fluffy hair and a massive grin. You might think at first I am on some sort of drug because I have the sort of manic energy in my eyes that is unnatural and yet you can't help looking. Like a dog who can't get the last bit of poo to fall off but doesn't have the luxury of wiping.

Of course, given that my usual mood pattern is much like several rounds on Nemesis with a child fed entirely on pre-ban blue smarties...I'm not saying this is going to last forever. But right now I have no intentions of moving to the shitty shack on cloud 7. Fact.

Why so happy Lexx? Thanks for asking alternative personality that it's much easier to get away with having if you pretend its for the comedy purposes of amusing other people. I will tell you why so happy.

I've had a damn good weekend - after the discomfort of Friday and the temporary blindness of Saturday I am now happily back on track with my lifelong ambition of having the world revolve around me. I've seen some of my favourite people on the planet this weekend. Firstly I saw the type of friend everybody should have - a Geordie (or something like that - Northern anyway, with a tendency to talk about indecipherable crap). If you don't have one of these people - get one. They are entirely to be depended on for laughing at and looking at with your head on one side wondering if they're from the same planet as you. I'm still in love with mine. When the novelty wears off I'll let you guys know so you can put Best Before stickers on yours and then kick them out of touch.


Or something along those lines...

...Then I saw my friends 'The Couple'. The couple seem to have been together forever now and we all have a tacit understanding that they always will be. I found myself last night watching Eclipse with them...regular readers will notice I seem to have given up fighting this decent into tedious cinema. I can't say that it was improved by watching it with a couple. A couple discussing what their wedding will be like. I chipped in for a while with musings on my forthcoming bridesmaid dress before sinking deeper into my red wine and accepting I will die a spinster. But at least I will have The Couple to feed me and make sure I wipe any areas of my body that have gotten overly moist. I love The Couple. I think they'll probably have to take over from my parents permanently in a few years. Lucky fuckers.

I stayed with The Couple last night. Now, The Couple have a dog and a cat - not unusual. The cat is bigger than the dog. The dog is perpetually adorable and as loving as any animal could ever be. The cat is the biggest, meanest, complex piece of kit I have ever seen. And at about 6am this morning it opened my bedroom door. It opened my fucking bedroom door - what kind of insanely educated feline is this?! and wandered in to where I was sleeping. This led to a kind of sleepy Mexican stand off involving me pleading with the cat to please go away and not eat my skin if I go back to sleep and the cat telling me to get the hell out of his house and to please leave his Couple alone. I just about won. But it didn't feel like much of a victory to be piling possessions against the door, creating a serious fire escape hazard, just to outwit a cat. Where was the dog when you need him?

Today I had a very successful cast meeting for the folks involved in taking my play up to the fringe this year. We all decided it's going to be great and I decided I had a lot to do to get things ready...then I discovered I also had 2 auditions coming up this week and that I still apparently work full time - which will require some attention.

Cloud 9 is suddenly becoming littered with paperwork and 'To Do' lists. But let's face it, at the risk of sounding really quite pathetic - I'd rather be exhausted in the middle of a challenge than asleep before I'd accepted it.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Naked Hotdog Wrestling

There is absolutely no frigging way I could have been any more productive this morning. I smashed the shit out of cleaning my house. It now hurts a little bit to look directly at the kitchen surfaces and the person that fucks up my alphabetising of the spices is going to get churned.

I also cleaned the oven. I've never cleaned an oven before and overall it was an interesting experience. It was all going swimmingly until I got oven cleaner in my eye. Hmmm... not being a particularly successful domestic goddess I wasn't totally au fait with oven cleaner but even I was aware that this was fairly dumb and that the stinging was sure to get worse.

Using bleach to wash it out seemed like a fairly sensible next step as the only thing I could think of that's stronger than oven cleaner is probably bleach. That or kryptonite but I don't have any kryptonite under the sink. It's mainly just a stack of scouring pads that nobody will touch in case they've ever been toilet cleaning implements. And 3 bottles of Alpine polish. It's interesting that we have 3 bottles because we don't particularly have any surfaces that generally require polishing. Who the hell keeps buying it?

So, I got a bit of a weird look whilst trying to get the bleach open because it has one of those difficult caps that are meant to stop children drinking it. My housemate came in, opened it for me, asked why I needed it opening, then put the lid back on and put it in the cupboard.

Apparently water is the best option for getting shit out of your eyes. Not other products. Especially not products with big black crosses on them. Whatever.

So, I've had a shower and I looked directly into the shower head for a good few minutes. Sadly, I still cannot see out of my left eye. Well...that's an exaggeration - I can see...but it looks like I'm looking through some bubble wrap. Everything is kind of swirly and a not really like the world looks like. Unless the oven cleaner was so powerful that it's cleaned away a severe layer of grease and actually this is what the world is meant to look like? It's difficult to tell without putting oven cleaner in the other eye. Which I'm not going to do. Because it hurt a bit.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Stash and Churn

Right ok.

I've started and deleted about 9 versions of this blog because I'm trying to write something cheerful when actually I'm in a totally black mood. Not racially. I'm not sitting in my room being inappropriate in an afro wig, face paint and stereotyping. I just feel awful.

I was going to try and write something super happy to disguise it but every time I try and write something all I can think about is that I have stomach ache. Not just any stomach, and fuck off, no not an M&S stomach ache. I've got the sort of stomach ache that makes your face try and climb off so that it's not associated with the body of pain. 

It feels a little bit like someone is trying to inflate a bouncy castle inside me.
It feels a bit like a hedgehog is living above some very noisy tenants in my tummy and is jumping on the floor to get them to shut up resulting in a thumping pain and also spiky bits where he is prickling the walls and ceiling a bit.
It feels a bit like Michael Barrymore is chewing on my liver.
It feels a lot like things might fall out of me if I open my mouth.
It feels a bit like Sigourney Weaver has made me eat a quilt and I'm now digesting it.

It's entirely my fault for eating a Weight Watchers froze spaghetti bolognese. Why would anyone ever think that would be a good idea? Answers on the back of a postcard. It took precisely 7 minutes to cook and then about 15 to eat and now a lifetime of shame. It was like eating gritty meat, marinated in plaster and tomato ad poured over the conditioner soaked dreadlocks of an albino without access to sunlight.

I'm not a happy bunny. And now to make it even worse I've failed at being hilarious and upbeat and all I've done is whine that my tummy hurts. But it does feel a bit like Fantastic Mr Fox is digging through my tummy button. The only solution is to finish tidying my room and go back to staring vacantly at Arrested Development. Another solution could be to just nip to Tesco and buy some medicine but I don't want to behave like a wuss.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Female Erectile Dysfunction

When I first moved into my house the first thing that struck me and made me really want to move in was the fact that it had its own garbage disposal. As opposed to having to borrow one from round the corner. I was going to just delete the 'its own' part of that previous sentence but then I realised it made a great 'comedy error' and this is a funny blog. So there you go. Explained that right down to the tedious nubbin didn't I?

I love the idea of having a garbage disposal. It feels ever so American to say garbage disposal. The whole concept of a garbage disposal is terribly American.

Shall we put it in the bin?
Bin? Ha, how quaint. You, you with your one syllable to describe something perfectly functional. Why not use five?? And why, WHY put it quietly into a tidy pedestal with a single bag when you could grind it noisily in the kitchen? Peasants.
Yes dear.

I liked using my garbage disposal for about a day. Then I got annoyed with the noise - the kind of noise you get in your head if you ever try and chew marbles. The novelty hadn't worn off so I carried on using it, but then I got annoyed with the funky smell - the kind of funky smell you get if you cuddle a salmon. But I persevered until it bothered me that the switch was so far away from the sink - I am nothing if not lazy.

So, since about day 4 of having lived in my house I've not really paid much attention to my garbage disposal. It just sits ext to the sink and the draining board looking like a dark hole of gloom. Or Adrian Chiles' gammy face.

All that changed today. Now, today is not just any day - today I am working from home. This means I've had a largely successful day where I've not been bothered by as many issues and I've been able to get things done. I also managed to put some washing on this morning.

The washing machine was rumbling away in the kitchen and I was making a cup of tea. I turned around to put the teabag in the bin - personally I find one syllable quaint and efficient - and I glanced at the garbage disposal. Or where the garbage disposal usually sits.

It was though someone had taken Adrian Chiles' face and thrown a delectable strawberry milkshake at it. There was pink, bubbly water spewing up the garbage disposal and then sulking back down into its murky depths. Something is clearly malfunctioning here - why is the washing machine water in the garbage disposal?

The mental process went as follows -

Hmmmm, I should phone Dad and ask him about that. S'not right.
Maybe you should leave Dad alone - he lives several hours away. Call a plumber.
The house phone's ringing - I should answer that.
Fuck - we have a house phone? Where is it?
It's stopped. Never mind.
So water from the washing machine is getting into the garbage disposal. Right.
Could be worse, it could be the other way round.
What if it is the other way round?

And then I was paralysed. Stood there in the kitchen wondering if grime and skank and bits if ancient onion were floating around in my washing. And when it came out I would bury my face it in like a new born baby to smell the sweet scent of ASDA's own washing powder with no softener because it's fucking pricey and makes no difference, and I would really be burying my face in the remains of dinners gone by...?

What if the pants that are currently housing an epic derriere and a pretty well preserved lady garden are actually carrot peel soaked rags? Can you catch anything from washing your pants in old shepherd's pie?

Needless to say I am now baulking at the thought of touching anything that's been in my washing machine. The bed now looks more like a compost heap in my mind's eye than a cosy swamp filled with dreams and books I've not finished reading.

I phoned a plumber, slightly hysterical at this point, who told me I was hysterical. He seemed to get the impression I was worried about an STI and suggested 'Calling a doctor' and 'Maybe not being so adventurous with food stuff in the bedroom'. Useless.

I'll let you know how the bonfire goes tomorrow.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Most Effective Method of Retaining Lab Cardigans

This has probably been one of my most productive days in terms of things I have produced in my day. Productivity isn't usually my strong point - that is wondering about things and then hoping that no one can read my thoughts.

The fear that people can hear my thoughts is quite prevalent in my day to day life and I've realised it's probably not very healthy. The trouble is that once I'm worried people can hear my thoughts it then causes an utter cascade of thoughts I wouldn't want them to hear - like the whole 'don't think about pink elephants' thing.

It also occurred to me today, that when big coincidences happen in my life that answer questions I had or make me wonder if there's some sort of organisation in the chaos of the universe, I am far more likely to consider the idea that I'm living in a Truman show style world, than wonder if there's a God. I think this may mean I've reached my full potential for levels of self-involvement.

What this basically means is that my mind thinks the idea the world revolves around me is more likely than that there is a deity. Wow.

Even I didn't see this coming - and I am practically a god.

Today's been particularly successful - I've booked gigs, been offered an audition, worn slippers to work and refrained from replying to an email slating the play I've written for the Edinburgh festival and giving me several lengthy paragraphs of advice on how to 'fix' the problems. It's difficult to type through gritted teeth without the spelling coming out a bit cockney so I've not replied. I fact, I've deleted the email. This must show some sort of level of maturity? If I take a deep breath, really deep, I can almost say the line 'I appreciate your feedback, thanks for taking the time, however...' before my breath runs out and I want to switch on caps lock for maximum effect and say 'I SPEND 90% OF MY TIME THINKING ABOUT THIS SCRIPT AND JUSTIFYING EVERY LINE I AGONISED OVER SO WOULD YOU MIND PERHAPS READING IT MORE THAN ONCE OR EVEN SEEING A PERFORMANCE OF IT BEFORE YOU LAY IT'S FLAWS BARE AND SUGGEST I ALTER THE ENTIRE CONCEPT?' levels of maturity seem to be waning and I really didn't want them to. I'll go back to my happy place or zen or whatever the hell it's called.

In other news I finished reading Stewart Lee's book today finally. It took me a long time, not because it's not great but just because I find it difficult to read footnotes. There.

I also decided I think paint shops should be called glossaries as it just makes far more sense and you know it.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The First 4 Years (Before the rest is the same)

I worry sometimes I'm too crude and not funny,
I worry that much of the time my poo's runny,
I worry that often I talk about poo,
And that people will stop on the street and shout, 'You!,
'You are the girl with the lines full of shit,
And a total lack of political wit.
You are the girl who can barely write puns,
The one who's too honest about getting the runs.
You never have comment on topical events,
It's not even that you sit on the fence;
It's just you ignore it and talk about crap,
And occasionally your brother, who sounds like a sap.

Why can't you be more like our GOD Stewart Lee,
Who we worship, amazed (atheistically).
Why don't you have Kitson's power of emotion,
Charter new routes on the comedy ocean?
You're not Josie Long and you should aspire
To produce something stronger with a hint of satire,
You've not got a single original joke,
That would make someone think, and that might provoke
A feeling of change in the heart of a punter
You're a slowly developing comedy cu... er?

What's this spectacular display of ambivalence?
Simply a feat of outstanding resilience?
Or are you OK with a slow burning dream?
Where most of your gigs will doubtlessly seem
Like a nightmare consisting of very little funny,
Accompanied by less than the least sum of money.
You might never kill with the most efficient walk,
But you'll certainly learn how to think and to talk
With a passion that fuels all the Edinburgh shows,
And a pride in your work that invariably glows.

You're OK with the travel, low budget and grit,
Because you can tell the world you struggle with shit
And some folks will say that you'll never survive,
But anything's better than plain 9-5.

Schmoozing is for Geeks

I think by the time I've finished this blog it will be about 12:30...this is upsetting for 2 reasons -

Reason 1 - I need to be up in 6 hours to go to work.
Reason 2 - It means technically I have already failed in my Pre New Years Revelation to blog every day for a year.

Can I be forgiven? I mean...I'll still do one tomorrow and I'll try and have a hilarious mishap that can be written about so that it's extra funny? I might even try writing a knob joke. When referring to a penis, does the knob have a 'k'? Which reminds me, there is no funnier (k)nob joke in the history of the world than the scene in Bedknobs and Broomsticks where the little boy is asked to use his magic bedknob to take the whole family to the magical island of Nabubu. I challenge anyone with an ounce of fun in their blood to watch a small blonde cockney boy say "What's that got to do with my knob?" to Angela Lansbury, and not cry with laughter.

The reason I'm so late, anyway, thanks for asking, is that I was out on a date...ha. Lies. Lies, lies and damned lies. The lengths I will go to in order to please my mother. Not that she's reading. I don't think. Mum?

Anyway, the reason I'm so late, thanks for bearing with me, is that I was out viewing some comedy! I went off down the road to the gloriously wonderful night that is 'Old Rope' at the Phoenix. Run by the delectable Tiff Stevenson - who was great incidentally and I wish I'd discovered more than her Twitter feed a long time ago. That sounds debauched. I've somehow managed to make Twitter feed sound a little bit like Tiff Stevenson stuffs seeds in her lady garden and then spreads away and lets the birds do their thing. Tuppence a bag.

It was a great night, really nice to be a punter for once without any fear of getting up. I won't do a run down of what I thought of all the acts - there were only two I wasn't keen on and I really did seem to be in the minority so we'll put it down to taste and I won't do anything like as controversial as state an opinion. We are not a tabloid.

Got me quite excited about getting back on the stage - I've had an extended break from gigging which began just before Christmas and ends on the 24th January at Ed Comedy at The Hob. (Plug? I think it's fair...) I stopped doing it because I was tired and it wasn't feeling fun any more - and the break has worked perfectly, as now I've got material ideas popping out of my ears and some of them don't involve talking about poo in any way. I highly doubt I'll be political in any way, but still, 'not poo' is a step in the right direction.

One of the other things I discovered tonight is that I categorically will not schmooze. I would rather stand in front of 300 people with a license to boo and heckle me off the stage, than go and speak to someone I've met before but who I'm worried won't remember me. This may require further examination later on...but for now I'm hoping it shows a real strength of character. It doesn't. What it shows is that my inflated ego is already saying, 'If you go and talk to them now...when you're really big they might remember it and think you're a dick. Wait for them to come to you...' Which is a truly awful state of affairs. But at least I'm honest. Did I mention I had IBS?

Sunday, January 9, 2011


I don't feel well today. I'm going to power on through and still write something - because that's just how much I give. I'm a giver. I've mostly just hung out with my housemates. We've had some pretty frank conversations. Ones that would make your hairs curl if you believed old cliches. My hair is still poker straight. Either we were just a lot tamer than old wives of yore, or talking about threesomes and all the debauchery you achieved as a student doesn't actually have the power to change your hairstyle.

It would certainly change the atmosphere at the local hair salon if a perm was only achieved with a bit of blue. Not really sure how you'd achieve a blue rinse...I'm not sure that's a place I want to go on a Sunday evening. GHD's the world over could be replaced with a really dull people recounting what happened on Hollyoaks the previous day.

I did actually go and get my haircut yesterday. I now have a pretty intense fringe. I think I look like a boy playmobil person but no one else seems to have really noticed I've even had my hair cut. This could mean one of three things:

a) It looks Ok
b) No one really pays me much attention
c) I've always looked like a boy playmobil person

I think it's probably answer b. I recently got told that I'm a show off. I'll be honest - it rocked me. I've always known I'm outgoing, I am quite attention-seeking...but a show off? Hmmm.... is this what happens when someone who has spend their entire life with other drama students and comedians meets people who like offices? Are we all insufferable? Or is it just me. Or does me thinking it's just me make me very self centred? Does the fact that I'm blogging about wondering whether I'm too ego-centric make me even more self involved?

I think, let's face it, the answers to all these questions are yes. But is this going to change anything? No. I'll just avoid talking to people who don't worship me from now on. Problem solved.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

21st Century Fox's Mints

I'm in my room listening to music. Pretty standard stuff huh?

So far I've listened to what I think is Club Anthems Volume Cochlea Defamation. I'm not listening to my music you see. I'm listening to my neighbour's music. Periodically I have to shuffle my bed back to the wall it originated at, as the vibrations from what I can only assume is 'Usher' are making it want to emigrate. This is what I get for living on a street almost entirely populated by students. Yes, I'm aware I've only been a non-student for 18 months but I'm a fast learner. Plus, I listen to a lot of John Denver and, apart from 'Take Me Home Country Road' it's not really designed for playing at drum shattering volumes.

I live on the Old Kent Road in South London. It's a pretty interesting place. I grew up in the West Country which is famed for its rolling hills, ridiculous accents, and a lower ethnic population than the KKK. It means that living in London is quite a learning curve - I'm not sure many people in their early twenties had to work out if they were racist or not. Thankfully it turned out I wasn't so I'm OK to live here. Phew. I might be the only person on my road who keeps a spreadsheet of acceptable slang for each denomination. The 'No' column has so far been largely trial and error but I'm getting there. Painfully.

There've been other hurdles to overcome since the transition to the big city. I pretty swiftly had to drop my accent. This culminated in a confusing month for all involved where it appeared I had come out the other end as an Aussie. Once I'd tired of explaining to people I'd picked up the accent on my non-existent gap year, I listened to a lot of old BBC podcasts (or, recordings as they used to be known) and came out with a beautiful tone that goes well with a pony. I am well spoken. It means I can hang on to the illusion that what I'm saying is important for just a little bit longer. Tricksy. I bought a gilet over the Christmas holidays. It's a soft 'G' apparently. I revert to the Aussie when I'm wearing that so as not to confuse people into thinking my name's Harriet and I'm just back from St Andrew's for the holidays. I tell you what, I certainly give common Kate a run for her money in my gilet. Gilet may require a capital letter? I'm not sure. Perhaps only ones actually made in Hampshire.

Old Kent Road is a terrifying place when it gets dark, but it's also fascinating in the number of independent stores that it contains. My favourite is 'Modern Supermarket', which, if I were given the chance, would be my desired location for a blind date between Ed Byrne and Alanis Morisette. It is the sort of store that was built not long after the invention of shelves. When shelves were discovered to be an insanely good idea.

Things can be stacked high, without losing floor space - see? What we need is as many shelves as we can get. This place will then be truly futuristic. No, not futuristic. Better than that - Modern. What will put on these shelves? Who cares! People will come from far and wide to see the shelves. It will get more press than the wheel. You can't stack a wheel. Carpets? No one will be looking at the floor - they will be gazing up. Up. Up, at the towers of miraculous shelves...shelves as high as the eye can see...

I like to go there every few weeks and wonder why Tesco isn't called 'Dilapidated Supermarket' in comparison. You can't be truly modern unless you smell like a box that someone keeps their socks and one fish smoking a cigarette. You could learn from this Tesco.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Rinses Dairies

I'm trying out a new font...given that I have a touch of writer's block, I feel it can only help the creative juices flow. I'm not really feeling this font though. I feel like this font should be read in a slightly nerdy, male voice. I could talk about technical things in this font.

Star Trek. Oooh, remember how the doors slid? Erm...I'm not 100% sure if you're allowed to be nostalgic about Star Trek? Star Wars. You're definitely allowed to be nostalgic about Star Wars. Wasn't Jaja Binks shit? Yes. OK, that's done...erm, coding? We could talk about coding? I'm not sure I'd know what to say about coding - let alone make it funny...maybe we'll try another font.

This one? Oooh! I've lost weight...this feels a little zanier than the last one. The font of a woman who lives in a cottage and has romantic aspirations about the shy man who works at the garage. She possibly idolises the Bronte sisters. The shy man at the garage writes poetry about his lost youth and about how much he adores the throaty laugh of the woman who lives in the cottage with romantic aspirations. Her favourite film is Calendar Girls and although she can't cook savoury food to save her life, she's an excellent baker. She often makes brownies with her niece and nephew and muses over how great it would be to be allowed to eat them off the shy man from the garage's six pack. This is the sort of thought that leads her to worry for hours in the evening that the children can secretly hear her thoughts and she's poisoning their young minds. The shy man at the garage would happily slather himself in brownie mix and lay on her doorstep if he thought it might get her attention. But alas, they are both doomed to be eternal fuckwits without the guts to tell each other how they feel. It's probably best to leave them where they are...

This font is pretty difficult to decipher what I'm talking about. I'd be surprised if you can help me with a character assassination of this. I think it's the crazy ramblings of a child with too much imagination and red bull. Or maybe is how Matilda thinks.

If you can tell me what it says above I'll be very impressed with your tenacity. I might show you a nipple. This is the font of someone with no imagination.

And my final font? This one. I own an art gallery...I only drink red wine that costs more than £14...and I would never go south of the river dahhhhling. I wear scarlet dresses and no panties and pretend I like art galleries much more than I really do. I dislike myself sooo much that I'm afraid I'm just not comfortable staying as I am.

Well...that was fun...was that fun? Saved me explaining to you that my evening has thus far consisted of watching the Princess Diaries with my housemates and discussing the horrors of our early eyebrow experiences. I used to have one - a lovely 8 inch companion that stretched from ear to ear and looked like I'd adopted a timid ferret with poor sense of direction. It wasn't pretty. It may well explain my serious lack of man. I'm not sure what my excuse is now. It might be my neurotic obsession with publishing 9/10 thoughts that come into my brain.

Having just published this turns out the fonts I used do not transcribe to the publication. This now all seems like the slightly mental ramblings of a crazy woman. I am leaving them as they are in the interests of honesty.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Cricketmas Eve

For anyone with a mild interest in cricket or a sense of national pride, getting to sleep tonight is going to be harder than it was not thirteen nights ago when we all lay in our cots eagerly awaiting the big man...

...tomorrow could be the day we win, not retain, we outright win the Ashes on Australian soil for the first time in over two decades. This, is history.

I adore cricket. It's the only sport I follow with any interest and is one of two things that causes taxi drivers to say 'but you're a girl...?'. Please note the other one is the fact that I'm a stand-up comedian, not that I've just shown them my penis.

I often argue with my mother about cricket. The woman uses this subject to behave like an infernal tool and display a level ignorance rarely seen outside of the pages of a newspaper named far too similarly to the Holy Grail. I think she does it to find out if I'm pretending to like cricket to finally get a boyfriend - no offence to my cricketing lads, but surely I would learn what a 'try' is and get myself a simpler man and game to traipse round after? Nevertheless I find myself rising to her bait and grinding out my reasons for loving the game like a patient counsellor explaining why it's important not to try to pay for groceries with finger paintings.

"I would like it if it wasn't for all the walking that the bowler does, he spends half the match traipsing back to where he started just so he can run in again." She opines, gracefully...

I momentarily wonder if the game could be improved by some sort of travelator system, or, perhaps even better, we hire ex-Gladiators to give the bowler a piggy bag back to his mark? Then I explain to her why the bowler needs to have a run up...he's the sodding bowler. Perhaps we could rig up a pully system where Strauss stands in the outfield and pulls Tremlett back on a large elastic before firing him, and the ball, at a quivering Hussey but somehow I don't think it would have the desired effect.

"That's why they show the replays on the TV, Mum." I croon, softly, "So that you don't have to watch him walk back - you can have a look at what the ball did, where it might go, what the bowler did, how close it came to being out...there's barely time to see it all. If only Anderson had a limp, then we might get a full analysis."

"Well that's all boring too!" Comes the well-thought-out retort, "You watch endless replays of the same ball being thrown...."

"Bowled..." I growl...

"...and then he doesn't even hit it half the time anyway. It's boring."

Now, you could insert here a reasoned argument for why the replays and endless repetitions and breakdowns are of interest to someone who cares about the outcome. But it would be a waste, because the argument is quickly descending into, "Please date a rugby player so we don't have 5 straight days of the same game, and I can tell your grandfather you're not a lesbian."

I'm now on the receiving end of a monologue explaining the intricate delights of a game where grown men plough into each other at such high speeds their ears inflate. How has this not been outlawed along with cock-fighting, bear-baiting and Noel's House Party on the grounds that it's ear-inflatingly unbearable?

Cricket has a rhythm, a sense of grinding tension and, sometimes, (I'm taking to you Vaughany) a graceful strength that is magical to watch. It's understated and mesmerising. I know it isn't for everyone, but I'm speaking as someone who hasn't watched an entire film since 2003 and regularly forgets what they're watching in the ad breaks of a TV show. And yet cricket will hold my attention for days, or a month at a time.

Cricket's delicate, form is fleeting, and the chance to watch a match for free at home was given up quicker by Channel 4 than Ricky Ponting's wicket during this season. And yet the Barmy Army marches on and we are just 3 wickets away from one of the most impressive displays by an English side in living memory.

Fingers crossed that when the boys come home there'll be a big red bus to rival 2005 and we might be one step closer to bridging the gaping chasm between my mother and I. That's right England; win tomorrow, not just for your country, not just for the urn, not just for the chance of a lucrative deal in the IPL...but for the twisted relationship of a mother and daughter who just need some common ground. Some common ground that isn't the pros and cons of finding a rugby player to procreate with.

That's stumps.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Who is this Lily Bear?

Well...I'll be honest with you bloggettes. Totally honest. I'm sitting in my pants and socks in a hotel room in Manchester staring vacantly at a TV show about a bear called Lily who might get shot soon, and wondering what to write to you about.

It's a low point I think. The day didn't start well - you know a day's not going to be good when the first thing you hear in the morning is that the contraceptive you're on has failed 600 people so far... I was a little concerned. I felt a couple of hours rubbing my tummy and wondering if I was knocked up, and then I researched the story about those that had gotten pregnant.

The thing is, the folks that got pregnant apparently hadn't noticed that their implant was not in their arm. If you're not familiar with the implant, it's basically a stick like a candy cigarette that goes in your arm and keeps the babies away. Not ones that have already been born - although that would be useful. But, I don't understand how they could realise it's not in there?

Surely someone in the procedure of injecting it in must have noticed that the stick was still external to the body? Unless the nurse freaked out and was like 'Yeah, yeah we just duct tape them to your face and, erm, no one will shag you so no babies for you!'.

So I've basically gone from that, to my current bear-pants scenario.

I've just come back from dining out alone. I'm away working for the night by the way, not on the lamest mini break in the land. When dining out alone, I have learnt, don't choose an Italian restaurant. You will immediately be surrounded by couples smiling wanly at you and making bets at how quickly you will cry or when you'll give up waiting for your date.

The solution to this pity it turns out, is to have a full blown conversation with your invisible partner and have a better time than the couples are. I sat and played with my empty ring finger and whispered sweet nothings beyond the flickering flame of my bottled candle.

Apparently though my spinstery vibe was offputting because I was brought the bill halfway through my watery salmon. I scowled, took 45 minutes (new record) to finish my dinner out of spite, paid up and came back here.

Now I am back. I tried to shower. I failed at showering. How long do you spend butt naked with your hand in some tepid water before you work out there's no hot water and go put some clothes on? I gave it almost 8. Sort of through a misguided faith that something ought to go right today.

On the plus side the show seems to be nearly over and none of the bears have been shot. Thrilled? Me too. Let's both get some sleep and hope tomorrow's haul round Manchester is better.

For the record, I hate to be alone. I am a social creature. Being alone in a hotel room is just about as miserable as I get.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Oh My Wicked Heart

I think I'm becoming a Cheryl Cole fan.

I don't know how it's happened and I don't know what to do to stop it if I'm honest. It's been a gradual slide which I've tried to resist and somehow she's overpowered me with her twiggy little legs, chavvy hair and demonic fashion sense.

All through the X Factor, the logical side of my brain was telling me that Danni was a vision and that I should be gazing at her not Cheryl. The incredibly logical side of my brain was telling me to turn the show off altogether but I had some Cardle issues that needed closure. My brain didn't listen to my brain and my crush on Cheryl intensified.

But it was kind of ok when I just had an appreciation of how beautifully she's been crafted. She's a vision. Let's face it. Cracker. And now, she's teamed up with Derek Hough - a man sculpted to look like more like Cheryl than Cheryl herself.

Will their children all be identical? A bit like when Lady & The Tramp have kids and each child is a perfect copy of the parent rather than an evolutionary step...? The Hough-Tweedy-Cole family could give Village of the Damned a run for its money in the freaky stakes.

Unfortunately I've now begun listening to her music. And this, is a major issue. I took the Jason Derulo music problem as a blip and I've thankfully moved on without issue. It turns out I just had to download The Baseballs album to remind myself that music without fun was less than enjoyable. But Cheryl?

Really Laura? Cheryl?

The music isn't good. It's not 'nice' on the ears. No one would choose to listen to it - I'm fairly certain given the choice even deaf people would pick silence when offered a Cheryl track or an audio void.

So, it's not the melodic stylings of Miss Cole/Tweedy/Cowell that I'm drawn to. Can it be her lyrical dexterity? Is it the way she effortlessly tugs on the heartstrings and draws you into a world of magic and illusion?

Given that I can't understand the vast of things she wails, no - it probably isn't that. The latest song that's found its way to my cochlea is 'Promise This' where I'm confident she sings a refrain from the popular French song 'Allouette'. It's either that or she's singing 'All the witter' - perhaps in reference to her own album?

Lordy. It's so difficult!

I'm starting to think this is what it feels like to be a man. Men seem irresistably drawn to certain women, literally without the physical power to do anything about it. If you've never had to confront someone who's cheated on you then I'll explain to you, often the line of conversation will run as thus -

"Why did you do it?"
"I don't know."
"Would you rather be with her than me?"
"No. She was just there."
"Do you love her?"
"No, I don't even like her. I don't know why I did it. I couldn't help myself."

This is how I know my conversation would go with Clapton or Dylan should they ever pull my headphones out and despair at my straying. There is no logic to it - she's just so shiny...perhaps had I understood this at the time of my relationship woes I would have forgiven...who the fuck am I kidding, I still should have stapled his balls to his nipples.

Please not my use of *should* here. My lawyer has advised me to use this in place of *would* until after the appeal.

But anyway...what is this mystical power that sirens like our Cheryl have over men, and now women too so it would seem?! They must be stopped before we're all bowing low to Diana Vickers and paying our taxes to Natalie Portman. And if we can't stop them, how do I become one of them...?

Monday, January 3, 2011

Guess Who's Back?

Ah London, how I'd missed wait, that's a lie. Bear with me while I just go and check the mirror for an extended nose. No wait, I don't believe in fairy tales. I just want to.

What an excellent beginning to this blog. Agree? Well fuck you buddy. If your opinion was that great you'd be writing a blog and helping to make the internet a forum for opining pricks without the good sense to leave their rooms and go and see the world they're hell bent on criticising.

I've made it safely back to London, thanks for the whoopie flags - they were greatly appreciated.

What the hell are whoopie flags?

Is whoopie sex? Because when I was about 9 the last song in my learn-to-play-piano book was 'Making Whoopie'. Nobody wants a 9 year old with painfully big knuckles murdering all 5 notes of a vaguely melodic starter-piece when they're trying to get their end away.

Also - want end is going away? That's a terrifying thought for any naive young man or woman that when the deed is done, half a knob is going to go flying off. Someone's going to be distraught and someone's likely to end up with an internal nubbin.

Perhaps it started out as a scary story - don't have sex or the end of your penis will fall off.
Don't have sex or a dirty man will fling half a cock into your personal glee quarters.

In which case, what do you threaten circumcised people with?

You're going to take more of it away?! What the hell's wrong with you people? Why bother giving me one in the first place??

I always thought whoopie flags were probably bunting, that seems the safest option and one that leaves no one with half a cock or an orbiting knob-end in their uterus.

Since I got back to London I've done an awful lot of housework and I've watched my shiny new Tim Minchin DVD that was waiting for me on the kitchen table. Exciting, huh? Of course, it's mostly the same songs I already have on his other DVD or on my mp3 player, but sometimes he uses different intonation. Exciting, huh?

I've got a few weeks between me and my next gig and so I'm working on some new material. I feel in my bones that 2011 is going to be my year. 2010 was a complete grind. I'm not saying it wasn't good (parts of it really were) but everything was really hard work. For a year. A whole year.

Human beings, young human beings, are just not built for that kind of exhaustion. We are brought up on education that spans 3 month max periods - we can only concentrate for that long without a week off at some point to run around and forget things. All of a sudden you hit your early 20s and someone tells you that you will be permanently doing work now - except for your 22 days of holiday.

22 days?? That is not long enough to plan to run away from home, pack a sandwich, slam all the doors as you leave home, eat the sandwich in the field and then go home before anyone noticed. As a child you wouldn't have even got through the "I can wear pyjamas until 1pm" by 22 days in to a holiday. Now, all of a sudden, you've got 22 days to span the WHOLE year.

Including Christmas.

Suddenly, Christmas isn't a right any more - it's a choice, do you want to use up some of your 22 days on the most precious of all precious family times?

If you're stupid, like me, you'll spend your 22 days in Edinburgh flyering, gigging and generally exhausting yourself beyond a reasonable level in the name of your 'dream'. It's not even like you've got a Martin Luther King style dream that's worth using up 22 days of paid leave for. You just want to make people laugh a bit.

I probably had a point when I started this rant. Hopefully you got it, if you didn't then we're in the same boat. If my de-cluttered bed is a boat and you are small enough to be here without me noticing.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Grout and About was my last day of holidaying before I head back to foggy London town to find out if the streets have been paved with cheese while I've been away. If they haven't, Feivel is in serious trouble.

Rather than spend my day wallowing in wrappers and mourning the loss of my freedom, I was volunteered by Mother to go and help Father at work. Whoop.

I used to work with my Dad a lot, he's a self-employed builder, so it's pretty easy to turn up with him. If I ever needed extra cash as a young-un I could go and give him a hand all day and earn some dough. I have never understood why he pays people in bread. Nor why people accept it. I tried doing some stand-up material about my life as a plumber/builder once but apparently it was believable. Short of bringing my PAYE slip and a portfolio of newly installed shower cubicles, there was little I could do to convince the Steve Bennett's of this world and so I moved on to talking about poo. Poo is believable. No one wants you to prove a poo is real.

So, I'm a comedian with IBS...."Prove It" You asked for this...

So today I was tiling with Dad. I was tile machine...for a while. Tiling is immensely satisfying. Sometimes on a building site you can do an entire day's work and the whole place still looks like a pile of rubble and you leave wondering why you bothered. Of course, if you're demolishing something then that's a massive achievement. There's nothing better than turning up to a building in the morning, smashing the crap out of it and then leaving that night with a big pile of bricks where the building used to be.

No amount of prissy emails I send in my current job quite equates to the feeling of a sledgehammer in your hand. Mary-Janes are also no match for my steel toe-cap boots either.

I started out as quite an effect tiler - they were going on the wall, they were staying on the wall and they seemed to be in lines. It was like paving the way for some immense cross-word writer to swoop in and turn my griddy architecture into a real doozy. The first wall went up in no time.

The second wall seemed to be fine, until I got to the middle. The tiles were sticking to the walls with absolutely no problem. I was gluing them quite firmly. The only problem was that I found myself holding the tile, with the portion of wall I had glued it to still clinging to the back.

Technically I was still tiling, I was just tiling portable wall now. Sort of making the changing room suitable for the life on the road. I wondered how impressed my Dad would be if he came back to find lots of tiles neatly adhered to a wall that was now laid out in piles across the floor...

...he wasn't very impressed.

I was dispatched to do something less challenging (making tea) while Dad fixed my mess. I'm not sure what he did but it involved more swearing than I've ever heard from Bob the Builder. Perhaps Bob isn't classically trained.

The second wall was completed. Unfortunately, I had let the tiles 'drift'. I thought this was fine, when I was at school I wish I'd been allowed to drift more often. I tried to explain to Dad that I was letting them reach their creative potential and that not everybody liked parallel anyway.

Dad explained to me that people don't like to feel nauseus after swimming because the tiles are swirling round the walls.

I called Dad a chauvinist.

Dad wondered why he had brought me.

We both briefly thought of texting Mother to tell her this had been a bad set up.

Dad fixed the problem while I made more tea and scrubbed some stuff with a brilo pad. I spent most of time scrubbing wondering who had decided to make brilo pads green? Mr Brilo must be the only person in the world with a lot of green stuff that needed scrubbing - in my experience a Brilo pad is no more effective than a normal cloth with your nail behind it and tends to leave everything an odd foresty colour.

Perhaps Mr Brilo had one of those awful avocado bathrooms. In which case he probably invented the Brilo pad to scratch his eyes out. Makes sense.

Dad and I then went home. Where Mum asked why I had worn 'that' to work (referencing my now ripped jeans and adhesive covered cricket t-shirt). I asked her what I should have worn to work and she said 'something disgusting'. I wondered for a while whether to ask her why anyone would own (and pack for their holidays) something so disgusting they were willing to ruin it but instead went off to was the grout out of my eyebrows...I bet Feivel never had these kind of issues.