Turns Out Nudity Was An Option

It just wasn't my option.

Have you ever tried to dance to 1930s tunes while a gold man with dreadlocks and a wildly flailing todger boogies on down next to you?

Have you ever sung along to Bugsy Malone while a transvestite who looks cuter than you in a dress flashes some thigh by the bar?

Have you ever tried to look comfortable whilst simultaneously keeping both nipples inside the corset you borrowed from a Polly Pocket?

Have you ever thought to yourself "Everyone here has made a real effort to dress the part", and then turned round to see a guest with grey hair completely naked trying to dance with your confused friend. Have you then turned the other way to see a man in a string vest, leather trousers and Futurama mask?

Have you ever used so many rhetorical questions that you've largely forgotten what your point was?

I tried my best to boogie on down with the best of them - I have learnt some important things about myself... including that I will try and touch a bottom if it's out in public, I am not a natural ballroom dancer and that I have a tendency to look like a miserable cow as soon as someone produces a camera...

I felt a little sorry for most of the people in the vicinity when I tried to dance - if it wasn't a stray boob trying it's best to act as an unwanted air bag, it was an elbow attempting to cause ferocious nose bleeds. I had to make my apologies and tell the unfortunate "Ewan" (my second dance partner of the evening) that I was leaving when I'd shuffled my way through two songs with him and then felt like if I stayed any longer I was going to break a couple of his toes. I think he was relieved but to be honest the tears in his eyes had been there since one of carefully curled and hairsprayed ringlets had hit him early on in our tango.

Oh, and a quick note on corsets - WHAT THE FRIGGING HELL? Who thought that it would be a good  idea to invent an item of clothing that encourages your spleen to rent the back of your throat as a summer house? Breathing is an important part of my day to day life - something that the man who invented the corset clearly capitalised on... "I know, let's form an outfit that forces the breasts up into the nostrils as soon as you take in air." Brilliant. Thanks for that - never trying that as an ensemble again. I felt like I ought to be wearing a badge that said 'wench' and possibly carrying steins of beer. I think it's best to leave the corsets and the dancing to graceful people. I'll stick to my soapbox and shorts thanks.

Nudity is Not an Option

I thought I was going to a posh frocked masked ball tonight. Before you start any of your scoffing about how I must have misinterpreted and I'm not actually invited - I'm still going, it's just that it's not quite a posh frocked masked ball... having looked at the website for the event, it turns out it's a little bit more of a nakey, nudey, posh masked (but not necessarily clothed) ball.

There will be a buffet... but there will be a few naked people lying artistically in the buffet. There will be masks, but I may be running around slipping them down to lower parts of people to cover other bits of their anatomy. Why would you put a naked person on a buffet? Naked people are terrifying, they generally signify 1 of 4 things -

1. A naked person you are supposed to touch privately and make them feel all tingly. This is a terrifying prospect because some of us are not natural lovers. We like to be clothed, with no skin touching someone else's skin, and we like to not to have to pretend we like the idea of being mauled. That's just how some of us work. And we like it like that. So there. So please don't put naked people in our buffets.

2. A naked person (usually very young or very old) who is naked because they need taking care of. This may involve bathing and putting cream on the areas of the anatomy that are not seen when the person is not nudey. If this naked person is your own (either parent or child) then it may not be considered too bad...however, it may still be uncomfortable.

3.A surprise naked person. These are potentially the worst type of naked person because they constitute a very real nudey danger. This is either a surprise nudey person in your immediate vicinity (I still have flash backs to my second year at University when I returned to my room with two cups of tea to see that they guy who had called round was a little more comfortable in my presence than I'd thought. The tea had already left my hands before the promise to put his pants back on had left his lips. No one likes a scalded testicle.) or a nudey person out in the wild. Arguably the wild naked person is slightly more alarming because it shows mental instability and potential desire to be infectious. If nudity spread as an epidemic then we would have to consider laminated bus seats and a lot more exercise.

4. A nudey person hired to make you feel inferior at what was meant to be a posh frock masked ball that you are going to in support of your beloved housemate's birthday. I am going to take a lot of hessian sacks and signs that say "What would your mother think?" and then wander round with a Nora Batty type expression on my face while people tut and tell me I'm a kill joy. I'm not a kill joy, I'm just a nervous nudey person. I will feel insecure because if I was nude on a buffet people would be asking why there were so many sausage rolls and why someone had thought to put sundried tomatoes on the two iced buns.

Campaign To Get Me Elected

Hello all, this is the beginning of my campaign election. I feel I would represent the people, represent our innermost thoughts, represent the way we really feel about things and get them across in an accessible, edgy and understandable manner.

I believe I have the tact to discuss relations with our fellow Europeans without offending long term, without soft footing for fear of reprisals and without being blindly personal in my feelings on certain performances.

I would be prepared to conduct substantial research to make sure my coverage of all events and history was fair, interesting and contributed well to the proceedings. I would be willing to travel, to dress for the role and to use my position in the spotlight to bring events up to date with a modern audience.

For too long, it has been viewed as uncool to want to be involved - people have questioned the relevancy of theis 'outdated' procedure asking why so much money is wasted, why we continue to subject ourselves to humiliation and why we let the sorry charade continue.

But this is exactly why the Eurovision Song Contest needs me. I believe I am just the person to put this embarassing Graham Norton period aside and step into the shoes/slippers of Terry Wogan to bring you all the latest news from the stadium.

I can be a bitch, I can be kind, I can comment beyond belief on awful outfits and, if required, I can also have a very good go at some of the more hilarious dance moves. For the last 10 years I have faithfully watched Eurovision with unwavering commitment - I've seen transvestites, bum cheeks, unkempt saccharine and blindingly horrendous electropop. But my scorecard and I have sat faithfully by, never giving up home that one year there might be some genuine entertainment in the show.

When will England win again?
When will the Israeli entry not make you want to choke yourself on romantic warbling?
When will Ireland learn that panpipes and violins are a thing of the past?
When will Germany stop scaring us?

When will my shrill little voice be bringing you all the commentary you can handle?

Only you can make that happen. Get protesting people and let's see what we can do.

Understanding Racism - Catchphrase Is Educational

Last night I had one of the most glamorous evenings of my miniature life - I sat in jogging bottoms and a vest eating chocolate buttercream icing out of a tub, watching Catchphrase and then Family Fortunes. Bliss. I somehow managed to enjoy my evening despite the sensation of my teeth and brain simultaneously rotting away in my head.

I also learnt something about the human race - I learnt we are different and that some people's brains simply see the world in different colours, sizes and patterns to other people.

I love Catchphrase - I think it's a wonderful lateral thinking challenge. Perhaps we could even call it the predecessor to Sudoko in cajoling the masses into thinking they're intellectually superior because they are enjoying mental agility.

I love Mr Chips - I think he does his best with some pretty poor animation techniques to inject some personality into a show that seems to comprise mainly of contestants at mismatched height and awful shirt & tie combinations.

I also love the way it teaches you that some people think very differently to you but it doesn't make you or them a bad person. Sometimes, people just don't see what you can see. It will make you angry, it will leave you screaming at the TV...

"JUMPING ON THE BANDWAGON, YOU MORON!!! THERE IS MR CHIPS, LEAPING UP AND DOWN LIKE A DRUGGED UP GAZELLE ON A WAGON WITH A FULL FUCKING MARIACHI BAND. WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED?"

While you're screaming your sage wisdom at the goggle box, Julie from somewhere where going on Catchphrase is deemed exciting, is staring embarssed at the massive screen repeating -

"Men bounce?" "Band leap?" "LEAP OF FAITH??" "Wagon dance" "Wagon band!" "On the band wagon?" "Off the band wagon?"

"JUMPING ON THE BANDWAGON!!!" You chime in helpfully... how has she not got this? How has her mouth come out with all those different options, but not the blindingly obvious phrase you've been chewing into your pillow for the last minute.

"Cart Music...? Jumping on the music cart...? Flamenco truck...? Scaling the horizon...?"

By now, even poor old Roy has exhausted his supply of "It's good but it's not right.", "It's close but it's not right!", "Keeee-eeeep guessing!" and has had to move on to taking a stricter line with poor Julie from the inside of a cardboard box.

"That's not a phrase Julie."He says politely as you watch the poor man's career evaluation flicker behind his eyes like the saddest Generation Game prize procession ever.

"Do you know what is a phrase?" You think, as you clench your bum cheeks to try and stop yourself farting out "Jumping On The Bandwagon" in time with the cheerful music blasting through the studio. "Jumping on the bandwagon is a phrase... Julie, did you know that? Julie - Jumping on the bandwagon is a phrase that indicates you are joining a craze. For example they might say, Laura wanted to kill Julie - she was jumping on the bandwagon with the studio audience. Now do you see? Why don't you say the words Jumping On The Bandwagon and then the whole matter will be resolved?"

But Julie doesn't say Jumping On The Bandwagon... £300 slips through her desperate fingers. The tension is incredible. Is she just going to take her own life when Roy tells her how close she came? Will she just literally die through sheer stupidity? Will she cry and beg to be forgiven as family and friends file past her spitting on her shoes?

She does none of this! Barely even a flicker of emotion from her as her monstrous faux pas is revealed. She's already limbering up for the next catchphrase and a chance to beat Steve from Worcester to the grainy holiday we saw at the beginning. Incredible.

How does she not care? How did she not get it? You're at home stuck to the wall where you've climbed in a nervous fervour trying to make her say the words 'Jumping On The Bandwagon'. You sit there - not sure what to do, like a lover at the end of some terrible sex where your elusive climax has just been glossed over as your partner lights up and smugly enjoys the afterglow. Then, slowly, as the cold dissatisfaction of loathing creeps over you, you realise - people are different.

Some people just don't think like you. It's not that you're superior, because you certainly didn't get "Bell Bottoms" from that frankly disturbing cartoon of the yellow cheeked boys. You're just different, and that's the way it's always going to be. The best you can do is just get over it....

...until Family Fortunes starts in 4 minutes and you simply cannot comprehend for the life of you why no one in the Johnson family is forthcoming with the blindingly obvious answer to Things You Might Pull.

A DOOR? DO YOU HONESTLY THINK YOU'RE MORE LIKELY TO PULL A DOOR THAN, SAY... OOH I DON'T KNOW... A MUSCLE? NO WONDER YOU'VE JUST HAD TWO NUH-NUH'S IN A ROW YOU PILE OF IDIOTS, YOU PULL A MUSCLE...

15 Reasons Finding A Grey Hair Isn't The End Of The World

1. It is, really, only one hair - which in the grand scheme of things is not important. It's not even worth worrying about. It turns out I have 114,528 other hairs which are brown, and so this one grey hair is definitely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It's barely even worth thinking about really, if you think about it. So what if 0.0008731% of the hairs on my head are grey? Only a fool would put any energy or time into worrying about such miniscule issues.

2. This could be the beginning of an incredible transformation into a Cruella DeVille type figure where I get a funky patch of white hair instead of going all over grey. This is the perfect opportunity to find out whether I'm inherently evil, and whether I should be scheming instead of thinking up jokes.

3. I now have a picture of myself up behind the counter in every Boots store in London (grey hair not visible). In my quest to find a mate, this might make things easier as I am casting my net to a wider audience. In retrospect, storming into the hair dye aisle and painting "Follicles Be Damned" all over the floor in Garnier Nutrisse may have been slightly immature but what's done is done and we must look on the bright side.

4. All my years of suffering Davina McCall's incessant blathering to her mother may not have been in vain as I now find myself in a position where I could choose to purchase her product. There is no mention in the advert of how many greys you require before you must join the ranks of the paint heads.

5. If my new grey (I call him Bertram) is to be a permanent and spreading fixture it may be possible, when I choose my next mate, to befriend Courtney Cox and achieve the label of "cougar"". I feel this can only be a positive attribute and will make me wildly attractive to anyone seeking a woman with a slight smell of desperation and ammonia.

6. I can stop worrying about split ends and these mysterious pentapeptides as it's increasingly clear that my head will now look awful whatever I do.

7. Grey is often seen as the colour of wisdom. As I search for my new job it may be possible to look for better positions now such as librarian or dinner lady in which a distinguished head of Bertrams is an essential attribute.

8. I can stop carrying my passport around at all times in case I should want an alcoholic beverage, a cigarette or to prove I'm not a dirty stinking immigrant.

9. Having a grey hair feels significantly better than being a racist. This may be something I'll remind myself of from time to time.

10. Should my hairs ever need to hold an election to decide who is going to be their leader, it will now be very obvious who they should choose as Bertram is distinguished and stands out from the crowd - worthy attributes of a leader. Of course, my hairs will first have to decide whether they are going to have AV or not and this is something that might lead to widespread nosebleeds at the sheer tedium of the whole debate. If the outcome of any election is a Government too desperate to please a whining population into voting to pay them more than do what's right for the majority public, then the election was a waste of time. Why not just stick to one Government and let them U-Turn on policies once every 2 years? It would have the same effect. Bertram would be different. Bertram stands out proudly and is the vice-versa Obama on the America of my scalp. Huzzah for Bertram.

11. Theoretically I have lost weight - which is, of course, a positive for any female in the Western world. Bertram has significantly less melanin in him than the rest of my flock. I am now 8.5 stone minus the weight of Bertram's melanin - making me probably somewhere near a healthy 7st8. This will be of much use to me in my impending acting career as I can now jostle for roles usually taken on by the famous stickle brick in a wig - Renee Zellweger.

12. If this radicalisation of my hair tone continues there's a good chance The Crash Test Dummies will be able to dedicate a verse to me and my incredible body based phenomenon.

13. There is living proof on my head that middle class white girls with a good background, healthy support system and no real issues at all can be stressed too. Stressed to the point of aesthetic depletion I might add. Now please can we have some charities?

14. Waxing the nether regions will no longer feel like a pointless chore given that nobody in their right mind has foraged there for approximately far too long for comfort. I can now tell myself that this is a localised heart attack prevention scheme designed to help me avoid feeling rubbish when I have a squirrel nutkin coloured lady garden. Eventually I'll be able to pack the Veet away and go for a blue rinsed noo-noo but for now I can set aside my own alarming lack of human contact and Brazillian away without considering the deforestation effect it will be having on any tribal inhabitants. Discovering my grey hair has also made it clear that the reason I may have less romantic attention than the average darts player is that I intimate I may have tribes living in my pants.

15. Should I ever need to plead insanity after committing a heinous crime I can submit this blog post, tell them Bertram told me to do it and get of scot free to go and live in a deliciously padded room and pretend to be the Marquis de Sade.

Thank you Bertram.

Weaker Than I Thought

Firstly - an apology to anyone who cared/noticed there was no blog yesterday. There was meant to be a blog yesterday but then I was busy and I wanted to play with my small nephew who is small and my nephew and very lovely. I don't see a lot of him (not because he's that small but just because he's a long away in Somerset and I'm in London). Which is kind of what I wanted to talk to you about, blog folks - by talk to you I obviously mean I will type out some unedited mind-tripe with spelling mistakes galore and you will scan through it to see if I've started being funny again yet or whether I'm still in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Let's find out shall we?

London. What the hell is London? Is London as good as we all seem to think it is? I'm not really sure what I'm doing here if I'm honest and it all feels a little topsy turvy. Last night I shared a bill with 14 OTHER COMEDIANS in Brixton, last week I shared a bill with 19 OTHER COMEDIANS in central London... these are not good conditions for comedy, surely? Tonight I am on a bill with 2 other comedians, in Buckinghamshire, and I have half an hour with which to play around... lovely and delightful! But it is making London and it's terrible cattle-market new act machine seem like a not so good place to ply my trade.

Perhaps I will up sticks and back to the country where I can play with small nephew boy and write books and plays and comedy like a true Bronte sister (with less moors and more high falutin gags) and set up a really lovely comedy gig somewhere else.

Are we sure you have to sit in a slum (sorry Elephant & Castle but you had it coming) and do 4 crap gigs per week to 6 disinterested audience members who've paid £6 for the privilege of watching 19 new comedians trying out crap knob gags and their one topical gag? I'm not slating new comedians here - I'm saying in your first 4 years the scurrying around trying to write original material is fooking difficult when you're also still trying to work out how to do timing, persona and everything else too IN FIVE MINUTES, and so sharing a bill with 19 other people who are in exactly the same boat is often going to make acts seem either outrageously similar or pretty freaking rough round the edges. This state of affairs is neither good for the acts nor the audience.

So perhaps it's time to ship off and set off something really good, something that is good for comedy? Something that at least pays new acts for the trouble they've gone to in getting to the gig. If you're making money (I'm looking at you promoter) and you've considered the act trustworthy enough to delight an audience who you've told are going to have a good time, then you can damn well pay them.

So my fairytale country gig will have maximum 4 acts per night. On their first gig they will get travel expenses, if they do well, they will come back and be paid properly when enough time has passed. If you want comedians to stay happy and to stay good, you have to give them something to work for. I will bake cakes for the comedians and for the audience (the cakes may have a slow release happy pill in them to aid matters as the night progresses...) and we will all be lovely and delightful. Lovely and delightful. Because my life I don't think I can take another painfully quiet new act night where I wonder whether if I scissor kicked the front row to death it would be a quicker way to progress...

Is It Time?

I went out last night in my home town and had one of those high school movie moments where the geeky kid meets all the guys who were "totally super cool" back in the day. And nowadays they're not super hot or super cool. Neither are you particularly, but you are happy and you don't stack shelves so that's a bonus.

Why did no one make it absolutely crystal clear at school that the grown ups were telling the truth when they said that if you worked hard and had morals you would win eventually? I mean, sure I am about to unemployed and I have less than no money and am still repulsing the opposite sex on a regular basis, BUT, I'm quite happy about it.

What a victory for the school nobody.