Welcome to my electronic lair...

Ambition makes you look pretty ugly

2007-04-18T17:31:00.000+01:00

It will, or should, come as no surprise to anyone to find that the world is a cutthroat place. I personally work in an industry of remarkable contrast in this respect; although it is, on the surface, a friendly, fun and informal way of earning cash, it is very bitchy and backstabbing behind the scenes. There are only so many gigs, and now hundreds of established and thousands of aspiring comics all jostling for a slice of the pie. Do a good gig and, certainly once you have a reputation as being at least reasonably handy behind the mike, no-one will draw reference to it. Give an under-par performance though, or, heaven forbid, die on your stinking hoop, and the news will be gleefully bandied around the circuit with the pace of a Japanese bullet train. Ill tidings travel so fast in this business you can practically hear them swoosh.

All businesses are like this, though, certainly at the top end, and just about everyone wants to make at least some headway in life. Although barefaced ambition and careerism may be decried as vulgar, most of us have things we want to achieve and plans to get there.

Such is the subject of one of my favourite televisual delights, “The Apprentice”. Now in its third series, it offers contestants the opportunity to win a job (with a six figure salary, no less) with Sir Alan Sugar, the famous entrepreneur. Each week, he sets his hopefuls, who are organised into two teams, a mini business task. The team that displays the most enterprise, and thus generates most profit, are treated to a day at the races, or a night at the opera, or some other reward that coincides with the name of a Queen album. The losing team are hauled over the coals before one of them suffers the indignity of being fired on national television.

Of course, the show is farce of the highest order. The carefully staged grillings that the contestants receive from Sugar in his boardroom, set to eerie, tension-cranking music, are designed to have the viewer cringing as the desperate, dry-mouthed hopefuls babble their excuses, pointing the finger of blame at each other to save their own scrawny necks. The show also employs the classic (by now, in fact, maybe even hackneyed) tactic of forcing the competitors to live in a house together, so they can plot each other’s downfall whist maintaining the façade of being the best of pals. Being forced to live together also maximises the potential of any underlying personality clashes erupting into proximity-induced meltdown. Nothing, so TV execs seem to think these days, makes good telly like an old fashioned set to.

Despite ticking many boxes in the game of “Naff Reality TV Bingo”, the show has garnered a reputation as required viewing with people who would spurn the genre’s more tawdry offerings. I know many who would rather have a leprous crack-whore with acid for urine squat over them and piss into their eyes than sit through an episode of “Big Brother” (and the tortures they would endure instead of watching “Love Island” are truly, unspeakably foul) but they watch “The Apprentice” religiously. It has become the respectable face of an often ridiculed oeuvre.

The thing I find most fascinating about the show is not the contestants, however, but rather their taskmaster and his cohorts. Sugar gives off the air of a perennially grumpy uncle, but his assistants really put the fear of God into me. Margaret Mountford has a stare that could cut through a bank vault door, and Nick Hewer’s facial expression suggests a subtle blend of mild distaste and extreme discomfort, like a man with chronic haemorrhoids changing a nappy. She is medusa after a haircut, he looks like he has never smiled in his life.

If I were a contestant, they would make me think twice – do I really want this job if that’s what a lifetime working for Alan Sugar does to you?

How did Sugar make his money, anyhow? He owns, amongst other things, Amstrad, but to me that company name is synonymous with slightly less than state-of-the-art computers from the late Eighties. My mate had an Amstrad when we were kids, and all I remember is how blocky the graphics on “Double Dragon” looked compared to on my Atari ST. He also owned Tottenham Hotspur Football Club for a time (Alan Sugar that is, not my mate) so, considering how fraught with hazard investing in football is, it’s a wonder he has any money left at all.

Not that Sugar is the only entrepreneur flashing his wad on telly, as any devotee of “Dragons’ Den” will tell you. On this show, you get not one stern faced businessperson to impress, but five. A panel of investment capitalists sit before you, all willing to throw money at your ideas – for a sizeable piece of the action, of course.

This show is great fun, if slightly more ostentatious than “The Apprentice”. Alan Sugar is famous for being filthy rich, so he doesn’t need to make a song and dance about it (if you discount the huge office building, the fleet of black cars and his habit of turning up by helicopter to announce this week’s task). The eponymous “Dragons”, however, are not household names and so assert their considerable financial dominion over the hopefuls by sitting with huge bundles of cash on the table in front of them. It always reminds me of the Emperor at the end of “Return of the Jedi”, sat with Luke’s lightsabre on the arm of his throne, hissing, “You want thisssss…..don’t you”.

The “contestants” are ushered up the stairs to the “den” where they pitch their business ideas, only to have them torn asunder by the irascible “dragons”. Some of them frankly deserve it, some of the concepts so ludicrously pointless and some of the pitches so hopelessly inept as to be beneath contempt;

“Hi, I’m Jim. I, erm…(gulp)…excuse me, I’m a bit nervous...I love gardening, me, and I also love Radio 4. I often put the radio on when I’m doing some gardening, you know, turn it up and leave the kitchen window open…anyway, my garden is quite big. Not as big as the one at the last house mind, but we couldn’t keep on top of it in the end…what with our Elsie’s leg… so, anyway, when I’m weeding at the far end I often struggle to hear, and I’d hate to think I’ll be missing the end “The Archers” just for the sake of a few dandelions! So, I have invented…the combined hoe and AM/FM radio! Just this prototype for the time being, but in time we could extend the range to cover all manner of gardening equipment – spades, pitch forks, trowels…you name it! I would like an investment of £150,000 in return for 2% of the company. Thank you”.

“Do you have a business plan?”

“No”.

“Get out”.

For me, the standout “dragon” is Duncan Bannatyne, a man who doesn’t so much cross the line between charming and smarmy as use it to floss his teeth. He is the owner of the famous chain of “Bannatyne’s” gyms (where pretentious young execs pump iron in between sipping lattes and checking their Blackberrys) and presides over the whole affair with a cocksure swagger and a perpetual smirk plastered over his greasy face. Despite the fact that his “I’m doing rather well for myself don’t you know” smugness doesn’t quite cover his roots as a working class Scotsman (he still has the faint air of a man who would glass you for looking at his bird), he is great entertainment and worth tuning in for alone. Take, for example, his putdown to a person who had come on the show with his “invention”, a wedge shaped device designed to alleviate the problem of wobbly tables in pubs;

“Well, I don’t mean to rain on your parade pal, but such an invention already exists. It’s called a beer mat. I’m out”.

That's the thing about ambition, you see. It's not always focussed in a suitable direction. Sometimes, people just need to be told.

Peace. X

Let's talk about sex (or The Beast with Two Backs is a Monkey on MIne)

2007-04-16T17:22:00.000+01:00

Sex. Sexy, sexy sex. It’s everywhere and, according to some, everything. We are told it's one of the three basic human drives (the others being finding food and shelter, although I think popping bubble wrap should be in there) and we live in a world where we are bombarded with sexual imagery and content almost unrelentingly. Men are supposed to think about sex every seven seconds – the way things are, I’m not entirely sure we have a choice in the matter.

I am no prude and I certainly would not claim that sexual thoughts never enter my head, but I desperately hope I am not alone in wishing that advertising and the media would just take their foot off the sensual gas a little. I’m single, you see, and being single for me pretty much means being celibate. Despite several attempts, I just never really came to terms with the one night stand. Being naked with someone I’ve met only hours previously is an ordeal of awkwardness and paranoia for me, and I fail to understand how other men can be so cavalier about it. I’d love to be cavalier about sex. The very term evokes a wonderful mental image of me, naked, swinging on a chandelier with a rose betwixt my teeth, ready to swash some lucky maiden’s buckle.

The fact is that, being a sensitive creature, it takes a bit of trust to unleash my adventurous side (which is definitely there, mark my words, oh and how) and so the periods between relationships tend to be barren. I don’t, though, think this is necessarily a failing in my character or by extension my life, and as such I object to the media painting me out to be some hopeless loser. I’ll do that on my own terms, thank you very much.

I was watching a film in the wee small hours last night when it struck me what disdain the programmers at ITV hold late night viewers in. There was an ad break at about one in the morning and every advert – every advert – was along the lines of this;

“All alone? Then pick up the phone! Talk to horny girls now, they’re just longing to speak with you. Chat, flirt, maybe more…call 0891 23 23 23 now, or text IAMASADBASTARDPLEASEFLEECEME to 90098…”

I took genuine and quite unexpected offence at this barrage of demographic pigeonholing. How dare the planners at ITV assume that simply because I stay up and watch the late movie, I am clearly some kind of social cripple who is so profoundly sad and lonely that my only hope of taking any human comfort in life is to be charged £1.50 a minute to speak to a moonlighting dinnerlady from Grimsby?

Then my righteous bubble was burst somewhat when I remembered that the film I had stayed up to watch was “Street Fighter” starring Jean Claude Van Damme. That really is a loser’s film. I could defend it by saying that Kylie Minogue looks especially hot in it with her long pigtails, but that would probably constitute a massive own goal.

At least I’m a passive victim of this branding, though. Others willingly allow themselves to be tagged in such a way. I despair at men’s magazines like “Nuts” and “Zoo”; they’re like the tabloids to FHM’s broadsheet, and any analogy where FHM is the intellectual’s choice is tenuous at best. These weekly men’s glossies focus primarily on the unholy trinity of semi-naked women, football and photos of horrific injuries.

I question the reasoning of any man who buys these magazines. The whole thing reeks of cowardly conceit to me - if you want to see naked women, have the courage of your convictions and buy some porn. If you wish to read about football, buy a dedicated soccer monthly, of which there are many. If you wish to see photos of horrific injuries, seek professional help.

I can’t even begin to describe the pointlessness of the storm in a teacup I saw fanfared on the front of one of these magazines last week. “AT LAST”, it declared as if announcing a cure for cancer, “SEE LUCY PINDER’S NIPPLES!”

For those not in the know, I should explain that Lucy Pinder is a glamour model who has carved, some might argue, a rather shrewd niche for herself by refusing to expose her nipples. She has been the darling of the assorted lad’s mags for some time now, but all published pictures seem to involve her artistically cupping her ample cleavage in such a way as to obscure the action end of her breasts from view. The teasing hussy.

Finally, though, to the relief of red blooded males everywhere, her iron will has dissolved (either that or she’s decided that the tiresome gimmick has run out of steam) and she will gift the image of those vaunted, hallowed, fiery buds to the eyes of the nation.

I had a look, obviously (strictly for the purposes of research, you understand) and was astounded to see…some nipples. Yep, that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. Probably the most anticlimactic thing I have ever borne witness to, and I watched Live 8.

I mean, after all that build up, I was at least expecting something approaching a talking point; that they were bright green, or had little pincers on the end, or that they span around in a hypnotic swirl. Or maybe that she didn’t have nipples at all, but rather an extra set of eyes. That would have been cool. But it was another totally over-hyped letdown, the hollow and empty dressed up as the earth-shatteringly substantial, like the Emperor’s New Clothes (or maybe the Empress’ New Lack of Clothes).

All I’m saying is that maybe it’s time that we punched a hole through all this sex-obsessed bullshit, cast aside our base instincts and took the time to acknowledge and embrace the nobler, more poetic, more aspirational side of ourselves. Maybe it’s time enlightenment emancipated us all from our carnally fixated excesses.

Or maybe I just really need to get laid.

Either way, I’m likely to be frustrated in the short term.

Peace. X

Will you still love me tomorrow?

2007-04-15T23:15:00.000+01:00

Deep down, we all wish to be loved. I realise that this is no earth shattering revelation, but the lengths people will got to, and the hardships they will endure, in order to achieve a lasting, loving relationship never cease to amaze me. This week, three stories have highlighted the stunningly irrational behaviour of amorous folk everywhere.

Let’s start with the big hitter; the break up of Prince William and his girlfriend, Kate Middleton.

On the surface of it, this is not much of a story. A couple in their early to mid twenties, sweethearts since their teens, split up. It is a common tale these days – something about that period in a relationship, especially when it correlates with the participants being of that age, equals the death knell for many a coupling. I’m not entirely sure why, either; maybe, as people ease into their third decade, relaxing into their own skin, growing and developing as individuals, they look one day at their partners only to find that the confused teenager they fell for has also changed. Maybe they no longer recognise, let alone like or desire, what they see.

Or perhaps they just think, “Oh God, it’s been years. I want to fuck other people”.

Either way, it’s happened to countless friends of mine, and it’s also happened to me. Seeing as we’re on the subject, I’ll tell you the tale.

I met V, as we'll call her, when she was working at my local Co-op. Unlike the cackling, toothless hags that usually seem to wear the famous blue tabard, she was young, pretty and feisty, with cheeky eyes and a great penchant for flirty banter. I swiftly fell for her from across the checkout, and would find myself visiting the Co-op at all hours, buying all manner of nonsense on the off chance of catching a glimpse of her. For months, I admired her from afar and bided my time, amassing a huge collection of tinfoil and Brillo pads in the process.

I finally plucked up the courage to ask her out, and to my delight she offered minimal resistance to the proposition. Thus followed one of the more purple patches of my life, as for two years, set against the burgeoning of my new career as a stand-up, we shared a loving, exciting relationship.

Unfortunately, we did eventually start to become complacent, to take each other for granted, and so to grow apart. She did not share my passion for comedy, which with almost exponential rapidity became a huge part of my life. She got a new job, as a legal clerk, and her aptitude meant she was swiftly promoted a number of times. We were both broadening our horizons, meeting and hanging out with new people. She eventually decided that our relationship was holding her back.

Not that she told me straight away. She waited for months, nearly three soul-mangling months of emotional distancing and rejected attempts at physical intimacy. Eventually, the night that we had tickets to go and see the pop-star Pink (one of her favourites) came and went. The concert was brilliant. She dumped me the next day.

Yeah. Ouch.

Like I said, though, it’s a common story, and the only thing that makes the William / Kate affair newsworthy is that he is Diana’s son. The fact that the story of their break-up has been the top news story of the day (COUPLE SPLIT UP SENSATION – MORE TO FOLLOW!) is as equally perplexing to me as the hysterical reaction to his mother’s death. I remember being as saddened by that as I am by the death of any celebrity who seems to have been a basically decent person, but feeling completely out of step with the perceived mood of the nation, baffled as to why the world had practically ground to a halt. “But Ben”, people would say, “she was such a good person”. Indeed she was. But then my Gran was as good a person as you could possibly hope to meet, and when she died there were twenty or so people at her funeral. The rest of the world couldn’t have cared less.

Either way, in Diana’s absence the press have latched onto William with similar furore - although strangely not Harry to the same extent. Why could that be, I wonder? Oh, excuse me, I have to sneeze.

A(Hewitt’s son)choo.

This considered, it’s a wonder that the relationship lasted as long as it did, existing inside a bubble of media-induced duress. The recent footage of Middleton being hounded through the streets by a horde of snapping photographers was scarily reminiscent of how the “Queen of Hearts” herself used to live. Kate probably decided to cut her losses now before she ends up dead in an underpass.

Meanwhile, another story of much less profile but comparable interest this week was of an Australian man and an English woman who, having first been in touch on an online poker site and subsequently corresponding through email, were engaged to be married within four minutes of meeting each other in person. There is a joke about taking the term “poker” too literally here, but I’ll leave it.

The couple went on to marry four months later and now live together in Australia. Whilst I admire a streak of devil-may-care in anyone (except maybe air traffic controllers) I must say that this is a kind of rash that no amount of calamine lotion will quell. I wish them well, but this does smack of a mutual act of desperate loneliness. I sincerely hope I’m wrong.

Maybe I’m just being a killjoy cynic, which is a shame because I’m a romantic at heart. Why not go out on a limb, take a chance at happiness, no matter how unlikely or fleeting it seems? I refer you to the last of my stories, the tale of a Sudanese man who was so enamoured with the object of his affection that he decided he would consummate the relationship without further ado. Unfortunately, he was disturbed mid-act by his lover’s owner, who was, to say the least, not best pleased to find a total stranger balls deep in her goat.

Sorry, did I not mention it was a goat?

It has backfired on him spectacularly, though. The woman complained to village elders who judged, in their ineffable wisdom, that the best solution was that the man married the goat. The man now has a wife with curly horns, which is something that no-one should really aspire to.

I sincerely hope she divorces him. It would be great to see a goat owning half a farm.

In fact, that is one Prince William story that would be newsworthy. “READ ALL ABOUT IT – WILLS TO MARRY GOAT!” That would sell papers.

Having said that, his father has already stolen his thunder by marrying a horse.

It just goes to show that, no matter how desperate and lonely one gets, there are some limbs one should never go out on.

Peace. X

Like a Rolling Stone

2007-04-14T19:47:00.000+01:00

One of the odd things about life is the way that sometimes, realising you have made a hideous error somewhere along the proverbial path, you are forced to take a proverbial step back in order to take another two proverbial steps forward. This is an inconvenience at best, but is inestimably preferable to blindly blundering on down said proverbial path and finding yourself rapidly immersed in the proverbial shit right up to your proverbial ankles.

The last thing you want to do, having erred, is compound your error by fronting it out. Far better to stop, take stock of the situation, then write a self-indulgent blog about it, preferably using a certain word in the first paragraph far more often than is necessary or sensible.

To get to the point, I messed up last year. Professionally, personally and on most other levels I can think of, I made a fluffy duck's bum of things. I was involved in a house-share in Manchester with some other comics and, with all due respect to them, when the tenancy came to an end in November and the decision was made to go our separate ways, I was relieved as it represented the end of a less than fruitful chapter in my life.

The only issue was financial – being as I am a struggling artist (Irony or pretension? You decide!) I didn't have the money put aside to pay the deposit on a new flat, so I was forced to take the step back I alluded to earlier – namely, I had to move back in with my parents.

I will caveat the rest of this blog by stating explicitly that my parents are both loving and supportive and welcomed me back into their home with open arms, providing me with a comfortable and expedient base from which to reassert myself.

However, I must say that, from my point of view, this was far from ideal. They live in Skipton, a breathtakingly picturesque market town in North Yorkshire, a lovely place to retire to, or to wander round idly on a summer's day. It is, though, officially at the at the arse end of nowhere, and a nightmare to get back to when your job requires you to be away at night. It is also, compared to the bright lights and myriad attractions of inner city living, a very sedate place to be. Factor in that I know no-one here save for my parents, and my evenings at home can seem long indeed.

The other problem is the stigma (in my head, if no-one else's) of being a 28 year old man who is still living with this parents. Surely this is the domain of losers and misfits. I'm a comedian, and comedy is largely the purview of losers and misfits, so maybe I shouldn't be so taken aback at feeling this way. It is, however, a bit demoralising, especially from a social point of view. Should, heaven forfend, I secure the affections of a young lady, I can think of no more assured passion killer than the sentence, "You wanna come back to mine? But you'll have to keep it down – my parents are in bed".

Of course, it's not ideal for my parents either. They had just settled into the steady groove of retirement when I came back like a bad penny. They have been remarkably gracious in accepting their boomerang child back into the fold, and I owe them a massive debt of gratitude. Things are okay, - aside from the odd quibble about my infringment of house rules (which I am guilty of, although I've not lived at home for 8 years, and have got so used to being king of my castle, master of whatever grubby little domain I've surveyed, that there are times when I forget that this is technically not my house) and my frustration at not being able to persuade my father that when, for professional reasons, you keep the hours I do, 10am does not constitute a lie in.

I suppose it's just culture shock. I'm not used to being here and they're not used to having me. It's just a blessing that they agreed, as the streets of Manchester have been, I'll warrant, a bit nippy over the last few months. I may look like I belong in a shop doorway, but when it comes to image I'm no method actor.

I would like, for the sake of balance, to sign off on a positive note, so here goes.

The food is wonderful.

Peace. X

Chicken Wire?

2007-02-25T17:25:00.000Z

In response to the trend set by fellow comedian Chris Brooker (http://www.myspace.com/thebrookerman ) in his blog, I thought that I might take this opportunity to recount the tale of one the weirder gigs I have been “lucky” enough to participate in (the title of this blog, for those who don't know, is a reference to the film "The Blues Brothers", in which the eponymous band turn up to play a gig at a redneck country and western venue and notice that there is indeed a shield of chicken wire around the stage, to protect the performers from the barrage of beer bottles hurled by rowdy punters).

I was booked in to do a weekend of gigs in London and my then agent rang me the Monday before and asked if I would like to go down a day early, on Thursday, to do a private bash.

Now I’m normally a little shy of accepting gigs that are not at established comedy clubs or nights. We comedians, you see, in our more self-indulgent moments, like to convince ourselves that we can make funny happen anywhere, that we can summon comedy at will to do our bidding, any time, any place. This is, of course, fanciful nonsense of the highest order. If people have gone out with the expressed purpose of watching live comedy then I (at the risk of sounding arrogant) am pretty confident I can do a good job of entertaining them, but the better part of me is always very wary of having to convince strangers who have not come out expecting comedy to listen as I awkwardly quip at them. Hence, any shows where comedy is not the primary theme, or where the comedy section seems tagged on, always make think twice before signing up.

On this occasion, though, I decided to throw caution to the wind. The gig paid pretty well and I thought, as I was in London that weekend anyway, that I may as well go down a day earlier and earn an extra three figures. Besides, I thought, this is my job. Not all gigs are going to be fun…

The event was the opening of a posh new restaurant in Ealing. The owner had booked a jazz band to play two sets for his assembled guests, and my job was to do thirty minutes in between. Hardly the most auspicious arrangement ever, but I kept my mind on the money and headed down to London, trying to remain as optimistic as possible.

I arrived at the restaurant at about 7pm. Outside was a grand, extended section of decking, covered by some smartly trimmed awning. Well dressed, glamorous people mingled, drinking champagne and eating canapés being distributed by waiters who circulated the throng with silver trays. The jazz band played in the background, largely ignored, adding some suitably sophisticated acoustic wallpaper to the proceedings.

I was greeted by the owner and exchanged pleasantries for a minute or so before asking what would prove to be the killer question.

“So, could we just pop inside so I can have a look at where I’ll be performing, please?”

He shot me a quizzical look before saying, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

I thought, being a stranger to the city, that maybe he had misunderstood on account of my Northern burr, so I repeated the question, being careful to enunciate as precisely as I could without going overboard and addressing him with the exaggerated air of a schoolmaster patronising a halfwit.

“Oh no”, he replied, “It’s not happening inside. You’re performing out here”.

My jaw, my optimism and my bottle all dropped like a stone.

We exchanged an awkward glance as he studied my face, trying to ascertain the reason for my barely concealed distress. Eventually, after what seemed an age, I feebly blurted out an acknowledgement.

“Out here?”

“Yes, over there”, he said, gesturing to where the band were playing.

I took a deep breath and tried to resign myself to the fact that I was about to perform my very first open air gig. I was just about coming to terms with this when he decided to throw me another curveball.

“You did bring a mike, didn’t you?”

I smiled a laughed a little, but, seeing his face had not changed, I cleared my throat and said, “No”.

“Oh, damn it. I left specific instructions with your agent that you needed to bring your own mike.”

“I could use one of theirs”, I said, motioning to the band.

“No”, he replied, he now adopting the tone of a schoolmaster patronising a halfwit, “you can’t use one of theirs because they’re not using one!”

He was right. The band was entirely instrumental. I felt my cheeks burn and the butterflies in my stomach fluttered wildly. It would be hard enough for me do this gig as it was, never mind having to bellow at the crowd without amplification.

“Well”, I said eventually, trying my best to be assertive, “I’ve not brought one and I can’t do it without”.

With this the owner shuffled off with a hail of “if you want a job doing” and “as if I haven’t got enough to do” type mutterings, eventually going to a pub across the road and returning with a microphone and stand. I was told in no uncertain terms to look after it, as the landlord needed it for his quiz on Sunday. Damn it, I thought. There goes the big rock’n’roll ending where I smash all my gear up.

The jazz band finished their set to be greeted by polite applause by about five people. They gathered behind their instruments for a fag as I set up my mike, then I joined them for a nerve-settling smoke. The pianist, a friendly chap, seemed completely unfazed as to the indifference of their reception, stating, “It’s always the same with these gigs”, before asking me what I was about to do. When I replied that I was a stand-up comedian, he almost choked with shock. The other members of the band looked at me with horrified faces before earnestly expressing how brave I was and how they wished me luck.

Now, as a comedian you are constantly being told how brave you are. Most people seem so petrified of public speaking that they elevate it in their minds to a level of apprehension it just doesn’t deserve. I’ve had a fireman, who, lest we forget, has to walk into burning buildings to rescue people, tell me I’m brave.

On this occasion, however, the assertion of my courage was not based in ignorance, but on the fact that even a layman, in comic terms, could see that I had my work cut out. The band could play, ignored, safe in the knowledge that they were merely employed to add ambience. But I was employed to entertain, and I would need their attention.

I stepped up to the mike, saying, “Hello ladies and gentleman, listen, there’s gonna be a stand-up comic on for your entertainment soon, so have a seat and gather round”. About six or seven people turned their heads, then went back to their conversations.

I waited a few minutes, before plastering on my best “Mr Saturday Night” smile, walking up to mike once again and beginning my act.

About a dozen of the hundred or so people there actually clapped as I stepped up. I tried some patter, before hitting them with an off the cuff comment about our surroundings.

“This is a bit weird, eh? All this decking, these huge sheets of awning…it’s like doing a gig in B&Q!”

With that, one of the few men listening made a big show of rolling his eyes at me before turning back to his drink.

It took at least a few minutes of talking before most people even realised I was on. Slowly their conversations dwindled and they looked over at me, their expressions a mix of confusion and mild annoyance. Who was this hairy, Northern upstart who had the barefaced insolence to interrupt their evening?

I continued to fire my jokes at them, although gradually their annoyance turned not to affection and laughter but to indifference again. The chatter resumed, quietly at first but then louder and louder, almost as if to spite me for having had the nerve to disturb them.

At this juncture, just to underline the pointlessness of what I was doing, an ambulance went past. I was stood about ten or fifteen metres from the road and the noise from the siren, with no walls or windows to deflect it, was deafening. I paused until it had passed and continued blithely on, only to be heckled about thirty seconds later - by a man walking down the street. It was a very casual heckle too; he simply strolled along the pavement near the restaurant, screamed “WANKER!”, and kept on walking. It’s very hard to defeat a heckler with a scathing putdown when he is, effectively, just using the back of your gig as a right of way.

I kept ploughing gallantly on, but was thinking of giving it up as a bad job when I suddenly became aware of a stream of steady laughter coming from my left. I turned to find a pocket of about fifteen people sat around a large table and realised that, God bless them, they were really enjoying it. I told a few more gags, and again the laughter came, this time with a little applause. By now, whether I realised it consciously or not, I had turned my body towards them, and my back on the rest of the crowd. I was performing just to them. I was like the comedic equivalent of table magic.

I did about another twenty minutes just to this table, and both they and I had a great time. It felt as though I was storming this tiny gig – an exclusive gig that was, strangely, being held in the middle of a busy crowd, oblivious to its existence. It was a surreal experience to say the least, but actually a lot of fun.

I wrapped up and immediately the people at the table called me over. They were a bunch of very friendly Irish folk who insisted on getting me drunk (which took little persuasion). As the band piped up again and the first of many pints of Guinness was plonked in front of me, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. What could have been a soul destroying gig had actually come up trumps.

Well, in a way. Generally speaking I do aim to have more than 10-15% of my audience listening and laughing, but then generally speaking I don’t have obstacles to overcome like I did on that night. Normally the crowds I play to want to laugh. That’s what they’ve come out for. So I actually felt quite justified, maybe even a little smug, that those who decided to have a listen found the experience worthwhile.

Of course, I’ve done worse gigs in terms of how I’ve been received, but this stands alone as my weirdest gig, if only for the inappropriateness of putting a comedian on in that setting. Still, it was a good skin-thickener and I got the money, so who cares…

Peace. X

What a tangled web we weave

2007-02-06T16:38:00.000Z

In today’s fast paced world, it as often easy to take even the most monumental, significant and frankly astounding things completely and utterly in our stride. This blog is my modest attempt to shake mankind out of its collective complacency and force it to acknowledge one of the wonders it has achieved. In something of a coup of relevance, I will even use the object of my awe as the means of expressing it.

I refer, of course, to the Internet (and I have used a capital “I” on purpose).

The Internet is, frankly, amazing. No, actually it’s more amazing than the word amazing can convey. When I think about it, it has to go down as one of the most truly gobsmacking things I have ever borne witness to. The sheer volume of information we can now relay to each other at the push of a button or the click of a mouse is actually quite frightening, almost beyond comprehension. One can read, watch, hear, learn and find out about almost anything.

Instantly.

I try to shrug this feeling off, to treat the Internet as just another technological convenience, like cash machines, or digital watches, or the George Forman grill – a simple tool to make our lives easier. But every now and then the full enormity of what it represents washes over me like a wave, making me feel giddy and a little dizzy.

This is where the “Age of Information” begins to scare me a little. There really is too much information in the world now. We cannot, as mere mortals, hope for a second to process all this data. Our brains and senses do not interface that quickly. We are all doomed to drown in an ocean of facts, figures and opinions.

Have we gone to far? Is our compulsion to know all there is to know finally destined to burn us?

On balance, I think not.

For a start, I’m not sure that there is as much information as we presume. With so many websites dedicated to the same topics, some of it is surely repeating or reiterating itself, and so cannot be said to be truly adding to the total. It’s also worth noting that at least 50% of the web is taken up by pictures of people in various degrees on undress engaged in activities ranging from the mildly titillating to the downright obscene. Interesting, for a plethora of reasons, but hardly educational.

Also, I have a suspicion that the whole thing has begun to eat itself (and I’m not referring to something I saw in the pictures I mentioned – although that would be impressive). I found out recently that Teletext has a website. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but Teletext is a website. In fact, it was the first ever website. A basic one, granted, but it’s pages of information navigated via a simple point and click interface (i.e. the buttons on your remote). That’s where we’re at now – we have websites of websites, like some technological tautology.

But the real clincher, the thing that convinces me that actually everything is going to be okay, is that I’m sure I can’t be the only one who has sat at a computer, online, with the collected knowledge of mankind literally at his fingertips, and thought, “God, I’m bored”. The Internet is, for me, the shining epitome of mankind’s achievement as a species – but sometimes, for whatever trivial reason, we just can’t be fucked with it.

But our poor attention spans will be our saviour from information meltdown. It is this simple flaw that will save us – and I think it amply demonstates the unique and beautiful contradictions that make up humanity. Ultimately, our feet of clay may well prove to be our salvation.

Peace. X

More ramblings on tea...

2006-12-11T02:59:00.000Z

...as inspired by a conversation with my mate Rich, over a steaming mug of said beverage.

Basically, I was extolling the virtues of the great British cuppa when he hit me with it. "You see, Ben", he said, stirring his mug playfully, "you know where you are with tea drinkers. They're alright. But coffee drinkers...", he left a dramatic pause and arched his eyebrow, "...you can't trust coffee drinkers".

I was sufficiently intrigued to ask him to explain further, and he elaborated thus. The thrust of his argument was that tea drinkers are laid back, honest to God, salt of the earth people, where as coffee drinkers are by and large crabby, ill tempered, devious, self-serving ratbags. I laughed initially at the sweeping generalisation of this theory, but, having given myself time to mull on it, it does stand up to further scrutiny.

Go somewhere where tea is being drunk and people will be relaxed and welcoming. The conversation, if there is one, will be lofty, noble and philosophical. If there is no conversation, then people will be indulging in a moment's silent contemplation, musing over the important issues of the day, such as whether to have custard creams or bourbons.

Go to where coffee is being served, however, and the atmosphere will be tense, terse and cutthroat. The conversation will be bitchy and the whole ambience will be so fraught with understated ill-intent that one is forced to either tactfully retreat or down a few cups and join in the passive-aggressive melee.

Don't believe me yet? Think about it. High-powered business people drink coffee at board meetings. It's the perfect drink to foster that ruthless, materialistic, I'm-all-right-Jack outlook that serves them so well when sealing that million dollar deal.

Still don't believe me? Try going to your local Starbucks, especially early in the morning when commuters on their way to work are queuing for that pick-me-up to get them through to their first break. Note the mood in the queue; people will look desperate, frantic, twitchy and irritable. By the time they reach the counter, bloodshot and hurting, they will be so overcome with anticipation of that hot, black elixir they will be literally foaming at the mouth. I'm reasonably convinced that this is how the cappuccino was invented.

Once they get the wretched stuff inside them, however, the change is marked and disturbing. They become almost maniacally animated, bolting off down the street like the over-confident vulgarians they have inevitably become. At least until the effect wears off and the whole terrifying cycle begins again.

It's disturbing how, as soft-drug use often leads to hard-drug use, so we have graduated from our milder coffees to the more potent continental ones. The Italians especially have an impressively powerful repertoire of coffees at their disposal. This perhaps explained why they are such intense and animated people. Such is their predilection for gesticulation that for many years I thought that everyone in Italy was deaf.

But the Italians have been drinking this stuff for years and have become hardened to it. When it comes into contact with our more fragile constitutions it plays havoc.

Take espresso, for example. This hellish potion, which is comprised of two parts diesel oil and one part crack, has to be treated with the utmost respect at all times. More than a few mouthfuls and you will be up all night, wide eyed and wired. When you have finished cleaning the entire house (twice) and sorting your CD collection into alphabetical order, you will spend the hours until sunrise babbling as you chew through your own limbs.

So, the next time someone offers you a coffee, look them straight and the eye and, with all the righteous outrage you can muster, demand they get a brew on.

Peace. X

Reasons for global conquest...

2006-11-30T14:08:00.000Z

...are many and varied, but, musing recently, I think that the British, when pursuing that whole empire thing that preoccupied us for a century or two, probably had the best motivation for wanting to take over the world.

Other nations are a bit boring and predictable, like America, the country currently in the ascendency, who seem to be looking for oil and other such tedious nonsense. The British did not get hung up on the acquisition of anything as contentious as fossil fuel - we had much simpler objectives in mind. We travelled to the far corners of the planet, bullying and oppressing as we went, but when all is said and done only seemed to have three things, aside from land, to show for our enterprise; tea, potatoes and tobacco.

Or, to put it another way, hot beverages, crisps and fags. We conquered the globe in order to improve the quality of our breaktimes. To this day, as a result of the endevour of our brave ancestors, the British breaktime is the finest in the world.

Tea, especially, is a great example of the way in which the British treat the culture we import. In the Far East, a cup of tea is an event. It is a delicate drink, served with great grace and ceremony. The Japanese in particular are renowned for their intricate and ornate tea rituals, some of which are so long-winded that by the end of them the tea has gone cold.

The British wanted none of this, of course, and after getting tea we then focussed all our efforts on finding faster ways to get it into our faces. The ceremony of the East was discarded in favour of sheer, bloody-minded, twelve-cups-a-day efficiency. Even the teapot and the whistling kettle on the hob seem obsolescent now, thanks to teabags and Russell Hobbs. It encapsulates the typical British philosophy; no fuss, no nonsense, just a nice, hot cup of tea. Mmmmmmmmn.

And, just to add insult to injury, we went on to advertise it using chimps.

Land of hope and glory indeed.

Peace. X

I'm single again...

2006-11-12T15:33:00.000Z

... for those of you desperate for an update. Things just didn't work out. C'est la vie.

Being footloose and fancy free once more it's all I can do to despair at how useless I am at the whole "batchelor" thing, specifically my afore mentioned aversion to one night stands. This has caused me to question the nature of the stereotypes placed upon us by society, especially the assumption that all men are very promiscuous and have a cavalier attitude towards sex. I contest this. In fact, the more I think about it the more convinced I am that it's actually women, not men, who are more single minded when it comes to sex. I can prove it - using sex toys.

Hear me out.

Lots of women own a sex toy now, it's big business, so they must have done some market research. They must have asked women what they wanted from sex toys, and they've thought about it and then said, "Erm... oh fuck it, just give us the dick".

When men, on the other hand, buy sex toys, be it one of those pricey life dolls or an inflatable affair, they get a woman! A whole woman. A woman with a face, with eyes you can gaze into longingly. Some of them even have hair - flowing, realistic hair that you can run your fingers through for that full, sensual experience.

But not you girls. You just wanted the cock.

I rest my case.

Peace. X

Sorry to break all the ladies' hearts...

2006-09-20T18:48:00.000+01:00

...but I have a girlfriend. Yes, finally, after nigh on three years of solemn and occasionally desperate singledom, someone has succumbed to my finer qualities. The mad shagger strikes again.

The thing is, you see, that I've never been one to go out with a girl just for the sake of not being single. We've all seen those minor tragedies that some people pass off as a relationship, watched poor, insecure souls frantically cling to the arm of someone they are clearly as suited to as chocolate sauce is to chips, simply so they may give off some semblance of normality to the casual observer. "Look, look at me with my partner. See how happy we are together, how loving and well adjusted!"

This has meant that I have avoided the "token girlfriend" route, thus making for a very long gap between lovers (although, for the sake of balance, it should be noted that prospective partners have hardly been beating a bloody path to my door). It's not even like I could keep my hand in, as it were, through the dubious virtue of the one night stand. I realise that this is a distinctly un-manly stance to adopt, but I've never enjoyed them. Being naked with someone you've known mere hours is just plain weird, not to mention a little undignified, to me. I know this may seem very British and reserved for someone who looks like the ageing bassist of a seventies metal band, but there you are.*

So here I am, with a lovely girlfriend and a glorious relationship in the making, a spring in my step and the world at my feet - although I must confess that I am, in more ways than one, out of practice.

This came to light the other evening when we were to share a bed together for the first time (to those blushing, don't panic, this has nothing to do with sex, to those who are disappointed, my apologies). As we settled down to sleep, she snuggled into the nook (you know the nook, ladies) and allowed herself, safe in my arms, to gently drift off. I laid there, gazing at the stars through the skylight in her bedroom, enjoying the near forgotten sensation of physical intimacy. I felt her flesh against mine, ran my hand idly up and down her midriff and thought to myself, "This is bliss".

Then ten minutes later, I thought, "Okay, my arm's gone dead now".

I then spent the next half an hour silently trying to dislocate my own arm so that I might escape without waking her, writhing and wriggling like some naked Harry Houdini in an attempt to get free.

I finally managed to get away, but she has been single for a while too before this, so the second she was unencumbered by my presence she reverted to Single-Person-In-Bed-By-Themselves Mode, a default setting for all single sleepers which basically involves lying diagonally across the bed. I spent the rest of the night on six inches of matress with a small corner of duvet to cover my testicles with.

Still, on balance, it was just about worth a patchy night's sleep to be able to wake up next to each other. In fact, I was great. So yay for me. For a change.

Peace. X

* Do not be too dismayed by this revelation. In all other respects I am more rock and roll than you can possibly imagine.

Houston, we have a problem....

2006-08-23T15:16:00.000+01:00

It has emerged in a newly published book that Osama Bin Laden was, as a young man, obsessed with American diva Whitney Houston, to the point of, apparently, even fantasising about marrying her.

Now I've heard of guys going to extreme lengths to get a girl's attention, but I can't help feeling that frankly Osama has gone a wee bit too far.

If they catch Osama, will it be like that scene in "The Bodyguard", where the slightly "special" janitor with the shrine to Whitney in his locker is captured by the cops?

"So, I'll ask you again, did you destroy the World Trade Centre?"

"Noooooooo, noooooooo".

Whatever happens, we've got to act quickly. It must only be matter of time before somebody flies a plane into Bobby Brown.

Peace. X

A part of me hates visting others...

2006-08-03T20:49:00.000+01:00

... for the simple reason that it brings into sharp focus what an utter shithole I live in.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the hospitality I am shown, the opportunity to legitimately drink other's tea and eat their biscuits. It's just that I can't help but become ever so slightly (and obviously) envious of how tidy, well-kept and generally salubrious other people's pads invariably are.

My digs are cheap, don't get me wrong, but that's the solitary virtue of them. I see the clean lines and smart decor of other's pads and quail at the thought of the damp walls, peeling wallpaper and ill-fitted, delapidated fixtures of my own. I don't think there's a single door in my flat that isn't either hanging off its hinges or doesn't quite fit the frame.

I'm perpetually flat broke aswell. I bought some chicken from the butcher's the other day to make a curry. This seemingly simple task became a momentous occasion in my head as I realised that tonight I would dine for the first time in some days on something that hadn't come out of a tin. My hand was practically quivering as I handed over my £2.50.

I think to myself sometimes that I surely deserve better. I lie awake at night, my pillow inches fom the damp patch on my bedroom wall, pondering my quandry. I should be living in comfort, wallowing in my palatial dwelling and feasting on the fat of the land. Then I remember I am a struggling artist, enduring my inevitable period of penury until sweet recognition emancipates me from all this squalor. Then my pretentiousness crumbles like spent charcoal as it dawns on me that I am just a four letter gag merchant who is on the very bottom rung of the professional ladder, and I am living like this because (in my eternal wisdom) I decided that I would accept a compromised lifestyle to accomodate the fact that I don't really work for a living.

Then I get up and have tea and (if I'm flush that week) biscuits, and count my meagre blessings.

All things considered, I don't think things are going too bad.

Peace. X

I'm not going to the Edinburgh Festival...

2006-07-21T18:34:00.000+01:00

...and here is a quick summary of exactly why.

I have been to the Festival many times as part of a theatre company, but never been tempted by it as a comic, as it has always seemed to me that the last thing the Edinburgh Festival needs is another f*cking comedian.

The place is crammed way beyond saturation point with us already, all of us, except the very good and the very lucky, working hard on our shows then parting with thousands of pounds (which I don't have) to perform in a tiny room to four or five people a night, two of whom will probably turn out to be Icelandic backpackers or something and will not get the references in the limited portion of your set they actually understand.

The streets are uncomfortably busy, if not with hordes of Nikon-wielding tourists then by a swarm of your fellow performers thrusting flyers into the hands of all and sundry. You must join them and gamely attempt to flyer your own show, only to suffer the soul-destroying indignity of seeing tourists who stood and watched a Romanian theatre company who were performing extracts from their show (dressed as teacups!?) with abject fascination, take your flyer, look you up and down and give it the most cursory of glances before dropping it six paces away.

The whole city, pretty though it is, has been built clinging for dear life to the side of a mountain, it seems. You will quickly become almost pathologically averse to stone staircases.

The food and drink are outrageously expensive, and, despite all this personal stress, every other comic you meet, when asked, will no doubt tell you that things are going just brilliantly for them.

So I will save the thousands I don't have, stay at home this August and sweep up the last minute bookings that inevitably come when nearly all the other comics in the country are otherwise engaged.

There ain't no cure for the summertime blues...

2006-07-18T14:56:00.000+01:00

...or at least so it seems. This is always a tough time for comedians, what with most gigs either being stopped for the summer or pulled on the night, when you've already spent the best part of the day getting there in a baking hot coach. In these humid, sticky months the trauma of a long coach journey is such that National Express actually operate less like a public transport service and more like a fleet of mobile S&M parlours.

People, you see, just don't want to be cooped up in a dark sweaty room when the sun is still beaming down outside. They want to be sipping cold ale in the clement evening air as the sun gently sets. I can't blame them either, as so do I.

The problem then, as a comic, is that you then find yourself at odds with both your audiences' and your own desires. You want them cramped into that dark sweaty room, forcing themselves to sit and listen and be entertained like good boys and girls, ignoring their discomfort and excusing the fact that the air conditioning must be switched off (as it's noisy and will interrupt the acts). You then have to make yourself want to get up in front of this grumpy, lethargic mob and be sparkling and witty, not letting on that the stage lights are making you at least twice as hot as anyone in the room, smiling as the perspiration blinds your eyes, quipping with cheeky wink as your more intimate nooks and crannies become so uncomfortably moist you begin to seriously consider the possibility that your genitals have melted.

We comics MUST face this, as this is what we do to live, and work is scarce enough at this time of year. We must forge sweatily on, fighting to banish the now strangely appealing prospect of a job in a nice air-conditioned office (repeats to self; the grass is always greener, the grass is always greener, the grass is always greener....).

Peace. X

Yes, it's me, I'm actually blogging...

2006-07-17T14:16:00.000+01:00

... and I know it's been a while. Not that anyone ever reads this blog except;

i) Bron, so she can nag me ;-)

ii) My Mum, so she can nag me ;-)

I have therefore come to the conclusion that I may well start using my myspace blog (http://www.myspace.com/benschofield) instead of this one. I know this one is linked to my website, but no-one looks at that either. It's had less hits than a Christian rock band.

So, till we meet again, check out Myspace.

Peace. X

The World Cup is here (and boo to the naysayers)...

2006-06-17T03:34:00.000+01:00

...is what I say. I've a bee in my bonnet and this seems as good a place as any to get it out. Of my bonnet, that is. The bee, I mean. Metaphorically.

I am a football fan, and don't care who knows it. I am therefore, England's lacklustre performances aside, enjoying the feast of football that is the World Cup very, very much. But not everyone agrees. Which is fine. I have no problem grasping or accepting that some people do not feel the drama of a heated cup tie, or cannot appreciate the asthetic wonder of a brilliant passing move, a dexterous dribble or a spectacular shot. I know some people will live happy and fulfilled lives without ever knowing the wonderful feeling of being stood on the terraces with thousands of others, singing at the top of your lungs, contributing with unrestrained joy to the glorious din that accompanies seeing your opponent's net ripple.

But there is a faction amongst the non football fans who are really starting to get up my nose, namely the sort of whiny, self-satisfied individuals who screw up their noses in disdain at the very mention of football, who see football as contemptable or somehow beneath them, who see football fans as brainless imbeciles without the intellect or wit to understand how pointless the whole affair is.

The thing is that, their snobbery and air of superiority aside, these people are right. Football is, essentially, surplus to requirement. The world does not really need it. But that doesn't mean that you shouldn't be passionate about it.

Passion, you see, just doesn't work that way. It is, by it's very nature, an irrational thing, often misappropriated and nearly always directed at superfluous objects or concepts. Most of the things people do tend to be very passionate about (music, films, art, literature ...hell, even comedy) are unessential to the human experience. But, tellingly, they are all things that enhance it. It's these silly little indulgences that actually stir something in you, that evoke emotion, that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end... these are the things people cherish and obsess about.

I would therefore argue that football is no more or less valid or legitimate than any of the other things that people tend to be passionate about. If it's not your thing then fair enough, but don't presume to be pretentious and write it off as eye candy for the proles. If you are that deluded, then, when England win the World Cup*, I pity you, as you are not only foregoing one of those rare, wonderful opportunities to really feel alive, but you are resenting someone else that joyous experience. If that is your attitude, then the devil take you.

Peace. X

* Okay, IF we win. Fingers crossed.

Shakespeare was a show off...

2006-06-01T17:28:00.000+01:00

... bandying his fancy text around like it was some kind of linguistic penis extension. "Hey, I know I've got a smug, little round face and a shiny slaphead but I'm dead good with words love. Oh please sleep with me, pleeeeeaaaassse!"

Sorry. Just venting my frustration at the bard because I am required to deliver one of his sonnets at my sisters wedding tomorrow. Not since my am-dram days have I been required to tackle a Shakespeare piece, and it is with much dismay that I report that the knack of delivering it correctly has not returned to me as readily as I would have liked. I've lost performance skills. Years of standing onstage just taking the piss and swearing a bit have obviously made me sloppy.

The wedding should be interesting to say the least. I've never been to the wedding of a close relative before and am not sure what to expect, from the day or from myself. It will be... an experience.

I look brilliant in my morning suit, like an upper class Victorian rogue. I will endevour to be suitably rakish all day.

What else to tell..... just the usual round up of poverty based tales and stories of gigs gone well and awry. Nothing new there.

I will report on the wedding over the weekend. Until then, erm, rock on.

Sheesh, that ending sucked.

Peace. X

The more observant among you may have noticed...

2006-05-19T00:11:00.000+01:00

...that a recent post has, due to the mutual will of those it involved, been deleted in it's entirety. If I am to impart any wisdom to my readers from this it is that problems are best discussed face to face and not via the internet, where, you know, everyone can see (blush).

For those that did read it, and for what it's worth, you will be thrilled to learn that the matter in hand has been all but resolved. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Nothing to see here. Please disperse...

Peace. X

I am an absentee landlord...

2006-05-15T12:13:00.000+01:00

...as far as this blog is concerned. I leave huge gaps between posts and then I'm overfaced by the amount I have to catch up on.

Hell, I just can't motivate myself to keep up to date with it. I could do it every day, but lets be frank - it's not like thousands of readers are hanging on my every word. Besides, why should the world care that I did a gig on a wet Tuesday in Rhyl to a dozen people and then this happened and so I said this and blah blah blah etc?

I've done all sorts of things since my last blog - a trip to Jersey was particularly good fun (it feels very rock and roll getting a plane to a gig, even if it was only a 45 minute flight) - but I can't even begin to list them.

I'll try and keep this daily, I really will. If only for my own benefit. To keep me writing. To help me be creative. To help me convince myself that anyone gives a shit, and would inexplicably take time out of their busy, busy lives to read it.

So...

Nothing has happened today yet. Well, not really, nothing worth reporting.

Erm, watch this space.

Peace. X

Like pulling teeth...

2006-05-05T11:25:00.000+01:00

... last night at the Blue Cat in Stockport. It's normally a sweet little gig but the beautiful weather hurt the attendance, meaning I had to go on first to about 15 people. I got my laughs, but they did take some coaxing to abandon their initial predilection for icy staring.

Well, it's been a while... had a nice weekend in London. Bron and Chris were going down to see friends so I got a lift. We stopped in Oxford to see Bron's freind Katie on the way and I had my first experience of narrow boat punting. Katie navigated the waterways with expert aplomb but I have to admit to being terrified - never have I been so frightened on something moving so slowly. Every time someone moved the boat rocked and I felt like screaming at them to keep still.

The gig, at the Hob in Forest Hill, was cool - I compered and got into a dialogue with an old man on the front row. Or rather I didn't, as any attempt to engage him in banter was cut short with a gruff and quite threatening, "Don't bother". I was backstage during the last interval and found - of all the things - a real bullet proof jacket. I enquired with the landlord as to where he acquired this and he shrugged and said "Don't ask". 'Nuff said. Anyway, I put it on and went onstage for the last section, looked the old man in the eye and said, "Right, I've taken my precautions so I'll give it one last try - what's your name, mate?". It got a big laugh.

On Sunday night we went to see the Comedy Store Players, which was brilliant as, with my recent forays into improv, it was cool to see arguably the best troupe in the country in action. Paul Merton was playing, which was a special treat for me - I am an admirer of his.

Oh, Bron wants the computer so I'm off. I'll fill you in on the rest of my recent adventures soon.

Peace. X

I've done my bit for a good cause...

2006-04-27T13:35:00.000+01:00

... last night at the Unite Against Fascism benefit gig and despite my initial resignations it was a lot of fun. The fact that I was sandwiched on the bill between two such heavyweights as Jason Manford and Alan Carr was a concern but I did the business and held my own.

I came home, retrieved Dug from Pleasure Bar, where another comedy pal of mine, Mike Belgrave, was onstage being heckled by drunken scallies. Unable to sit through this cringeworthy debacle we went back to the flat to be with Bron as it was her birthday yesterday. Unfortunately she was in low spirits as she had argued with her sibling earlier and so the remainder of the evening was spent cheering her up with kind words and cake.

I'll spend today making calls about gigs (again) and then I'm off to Newcastle tonight to headline a student gig. Full report tomorrow.

Peace. X

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...

2006-04-26T12:41:00.000+01:00

...and indeed I was this weekend with a fun trip to Bournemouth. I drove down with double act Rob & Scatz, walked along the promenade, got the monorail up the cliff, had fish and chips on the seafront and generally had a lovely time.

Oh, the gig was fun too. I got a lift back with headliner Duncan Oakley, a comedy pal of mine, and stayed at his in Nottingham, giving me a chance to see for the first time the place he has bought with his missus, Kirsty. Both are accomplished musicians and multi-instrumentalists and as such their house was full of guitars and the like. I was in hog heaven.

Kirsty was a source of great inspiration for me too in my quest to find a woman who will appreciate and share my passions. First of all, she starts the day by banging away very skillfully on a drumkit, whilst still in her jim-jams. Later, I could hear her in the shower singing "Whole Lotta Love" at the top of her lungs. Be still my beating heart.

Now obviously she is spoken for, but women like her exist. I have seen proof.

A quiet few day, sorting through more receipts (grrrrr) and taking time to go bowling on Monday. I've not done it years, but can safely say that it is now added to the list of sports I am officially crap at.

Anyhow, I went to XS Malarkey, my local comedy gig, to watch the show last night and bore witness (and chipped in a little) to a great political debate. Two comedian friends of mine, Chris Tavner and Jonathan Paylor, had a ranging and at times quite heated debate on the topic of socialism.

Now, I love a good debate. A lot of the time it's just because I'm not sure of where I stand on an issue and wish to hear other's opinion on the matter (although my predilection for playing devil's advocate does annoy people sometimes - they think I disagree with and am attacking their convictions, where as I actually just want to explore alternative viewpoints). I am willing - keen, in fact - to discuss and dissect most issues, but party politics is something I tend to leave well alone.

I despise politics and try to avoid it (and discussion of it) in the course of my day. This is of course an act of extreme folly, as it permeates every aspect of our lives whether we like it or not. But open discussions on the subject are to be avoided as they nearly always end in the participants falling out with eath other and I, as irresponsible or shallow as it may seem, am wont to do just about anything for an easy life. I suspect that I am not alone in this - the vast majority of people I come across do not seem to be very politically motivated. As long as they have bread on the table and a roof over their heads, they seem content to plod along and are more concerned with whether their team will win at the weekend or who is shagging who on Coronation Street.

John and especially Chris, a passionate socialist, are obvious exceptions (or maybe most people are when you scratch the surface, maybe it's just me being a woolly headed beatnik) as they thrashed around for hours. Although I eventually had to distance myself from this, I did pause and consider that, be it indicative of the fine city I live in or just the pedigree of the company I keep, this was a rare and uniquely beautiful thing - a pub argument, that at times looked set to degenerate into a fist fight, over the nature and definition of socialism. Anywhere else it would be over a spilt pint or who had looked at whose bird. Priceless.

Tonight though I too am going to do my bit for the polical cause, as I am to appear at a benifit gig at the Dancehouse Theatre called "Stand Up to the BNP", a night of comedy to raise money for Unite Against Fascism's campaign against the BNP. Chris Tavner was organising it and I, rather gallantly I thought, offered my services. It should be fun. I hope. I have a visions of two hundred or so lefties overly tutting at percieved political incorrectness in my act. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Bernard Manning, but I do say a few off colour things. Oh, I sure it will be fine. Just pre gig paranoia. I'll let you know either way.

Peace. X

I've been doing my tax return...

2006-04-21T18:58:00.000+01:00

... and, bearing in mind that I foolishly neglected to keep my accounts up to date from about October onwards, it has taken me the best part of today and yesterday to get just last year to a straight edge. When I go to bed tonight, I will see dancing receipts in my sleep.

Now, not wanting to suggest for a second that I dislike my job, I must say that wading through huge piles of unprocessed receipts is one aspect of being self employed I can live without. Yes, I know, if I did it more regularly it wouldn't be such a big job. But this is me we are talking about. If I was organised I'd be dangerous.

Anyhow, can I just get something off my chest;

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Thanks. I feel much better for that.

Peace. X

Not much to report...

2006-04-21T12:43:00.000+01:00

... on the personal or professional front (my life remains as reliably dull as ever) but I must tell you that I have engaged in a dialogue with the blogger whose less than favourable review of me I provided a link to on my previous post.

It turns out that Ben (for that, coincidentally, is his name) found out that I had started a thread about the review on the Manchester Comedy Forum (link here). I was inviting other comedians who use the forum to share their experiences of negative feedback. It was meant to be a bit of cathartic fun but my initial post caused Ben 2 some offence as I did use a very rude word indeed to describe him. Some people then went a bit far in verbally crucifying their detractors and caused further offence.

Ben 2 himself then waded into the debate on the forum, with some eloquence I might add, and we ironed the whole thing out. Basically, we agreed to disagree (he still thinks I suck and I still happen to think that I'm rather good), but both retracted certain things - basically, I apologised to him for the namecalling, but pointed out that he had no right to call my act "lazy". I work very hard on my act, always trying new bits of material and striving to tighten and polish older bits. To infer otherwise is just not true and as such I found that very insulting. He conceded that this was uncalled for, before we settled on the alternative adjective of "uninspired". Still hardly complimentary, I grant you, but a valid opinion nonetheless.

Above all, I learned (or rather reiterated in my mind) two important lessons. Firstly, anything that one does, artistically or creatively, is always going to divide opinion. Not everyone will appreciate everything you do. I personally would rather provoke polarised opinions in people than have most people think that I'm "okay" or "alright". As far as I'm concerned, faint praise is damning indeed.

Secondly, just because someone disagrees with you on something, even something you fundamentally believe in, it doesn't make them a bad person. Ben 2 turned out to be a decent enough sort and is also clearly a passionate man, a trait I admire and respect in people above just about all others.

Anyway, Ben 2's site is here. Have a read. The guy has something to say.

Peace. X

I need to blog more often...

2006-04-18T19:36:00.000+01:00

... according to her royal Bronness. I will try, but I prefer to do it every few days so as to be sure of having lots of fun things to talk about. Still, what Bron wants... You may remember I mentioned some posts ago about her taking over the flat. I was not kidding. Her insidious influence tendrils through the very fabric our dwelling, bending all to her maniacal will. We have left it too late. We are powerless to deny or defy her.

Just kidding. We're still the best of friends.

Anyhoo, Bradford on Friday was much fun. I am starting to really enjoy my residency there, as are the audience, many of whom are coming every week. I've got a good rapport going on with several of them, one of whom has the ever so slightly masochistic tendency to sit at the front every month. I, like a doofus, always forget this and get talking to him every time. This month, when I asked what he did for a living, he actually said, "You know, you've asked me loads of times before", which got a big laugh. I stopped, then shouted after a short pause, "STUDENT RADIOGRAPHER", the correct answer, which got a round of applause! A fun moment, but I doubt I will forget again.

A fun Saturday night as we went for a curry and then on to the Comedy Store to celebrate Chris' birthday. He's hit 30, bless him. I didn't get him a card or anything and feel a bit bad now. Still, I suppose he'll get over it (oh the guilt...)

The night was very jolly as we were joined by freinds Daisy and Derek and, it seemed, the best part of Chris' family who made the trip up to see him. I do have pictures, but her ladyship is not around to show me how to upload them (apologies for being a bit of a technophobe, but it's a wonder I can tie my own shoes). I might try to get them on later, because I wore my new purple jacket and looked and felt a million bucks. I sense your doubt, but I have pictures, I can prove it. I looked like Jack the Biscuit.

Whoever he is.

On Sunday I compered a lovely gig in Sunderland. The fact that the locals were friendly was a huge relief as the first thing to greet me as I bounded enthusiastically off the train were some chavvy kids shouting, "LONG HAIR! HA HA HA! LONG HAIR!". Jesus, I thought, how backwards is it here? A false start, as it turned out, as the night was great fun with a table of three IT workers who I told a joke to in binary code (the punchline was, "010001111010000....010!"). The crowd gave a round of applause for this, before I got another laugh for pointing out that one of my stooges, who had nearly fallen of his chair, actually seemed to have got it.

I love moments like that. Little moments that exist only on that night, at that gig. Audiences know it too and nearly always react accordingly, making them a special occurrence in any performance. Another reason why I love what I do.

Not everyone is so appreciative though, as a dull Monday sat vainly googling my own name uncovered. I found a stinking review of me, just from someone else's blog but a corker all the same. What is curious is that I did very well at the gig in question (although that fact is curiously omitted), bringing to mind a glorious image of him sat with a distasteful look on his face, scribbling contemptfully into his notepad as the people around him fell about laughing.

Still, he's entitled to his opinion, I suppose. And on that note (and a link to the forementioned) I will leave you. Enjoy.

Peace. X

A day of mixed emotion...

2006-04-13T22:31:00.000+01:00

...for me yesterday. I took Bron to Bradford, land of my birth, to pick up some leaflets from Birch Printers, the firm I used to work for (okay, that was a plug, so in for a penny; Birch Printers (Bradford) Ltd - 01274 884455. Call for a competitive quote on all short to medium length runs of lithographic and digital printing).

Whilst there I took the time to go for lunch with Nicky, my former collegue and proud possessor of West Yorkshire's most nippable hips. It was cool to catch up with her a she is one of the few people I've met who shares my idiotic sense of humour. She's also going through a purple patch in her life at the moment too which is good to hear.

On the down side, the food at the local, which used to be spot on, has gone rapidly downhill in my absence. The cook lollopped about the kitchen for the best part of 45 minutes before bringing me a mixed grill that looked and tasted like assorted roadkill and Bron a burger with a burned bap (which, with it's inherent alliteration, is a joy to say but a bugger to eat). I think she was still getting to grips with the concept of flame. "Ooooh, the bright thing, it dances, it burns......".

It did feel kind of weird to be back there, what with it being my last "proper" job before throwing my lot in with the comedy. Adam in the repro department did jokingly say that he had some proof reading for me to do and I nearly told him, without the merest hint of humour, to put it on my desk.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I figured - let's make a day of it. So we went back to the house I used to live in in Clayton, which has magically transformed from a bohemian slum to a respectable dwelling, and then on to the house in Allerton where I lived with my family for the lion's share of my formative years. This felt really weird - I've never quite felt settled or truly at home ever since leaving this house, the house I grew up in. My parents have now moved to Skipton but their house, charming as it is, has never really felt like home either and the flats and lodgings I've stayed in since have just been places I've hung my hat, as it were. But here I was, back at the place I'd always thought of as home... but it wasn't. It felt wrong, somehow distorted, like a picture with all the colours streaming. It was familiar to me but at the same time seemed eerily distant. It made me feel very odd, sort of detached.

A walk through Chellow Dene Woods, setting for many of my childhood adventures, did little to exorcise ghosts of the past, though I did find time, even in my unsettled state, to pose for a daft photo or two.

From there we went into Bradford centre and the National Museum of Photography, Film and Television. Seeing Bron's little face light up at all the vintage cameras was a joy to behold. I love it when people overtly display their passion. We live in a sadly cynical age.

We then went in to watch a film in IMAX, involving a safari in, as the theme song put it, "Yeeeeeaaaaah, Africa". This was much fun, although the highlight was the gratuitous sex scene. Trust me, until you've seen two leopards indulging in a hot dicking in glorious 3D on a giant cinema screen, you haven't lived.

On the way back we popped in to see my parents, have a drink and listen to my mum chide me over the length of my beard. Okay. It was getting a bit out of hand.

I trimmed it today, which in itself was contender for most memorable event in what has been a dull old day. The only other highlight was buying some new trousers and a cracking purple jacket at TK Maxx as part of my ongoing campaign to do something about the blandness of my pastel colour infested wardrobe.

I'm going to do some thinking about tomorrow night's gig now - I'm back in Bradford again for my monthly residency at the Bag of Quips. I have some new routines to try, so I'll try to edit them in preparation.

Peace. X

A weekend of excess...

2006-04-11T19:05:00.000+01:00

... especially for my housemate Douglas, who, in honour of his birthday on Sunday, has spent the last two days on an drug and vodka fuelled bender. He is not his usual perky self today (unsuprisingly) and is currently sleeping in his room.

There was a party at ours on Sunday night, however, resulting in much noise and mess, signs of success for any good shindig. I drunk lots of WKD (grrrr, manly) and tried to eat my own body weight in nibbles. I stayed up very late too - the birds were tweeting and everything - without any chemical assistance, save perhaps for the sugar in the alcopops I was so bravely drinking.

Another big social do without smoking too! I've kind of got used to it at gigs now, but parties and the like are still a strain. Still, I did it...

Speaking of gigs, I did my first gig at Rawhide, a HUGE comedy club in Liverpool that is built into a disused theatre, on Thursday. I brought the house down. Well, I did a good job, anyway. There's something about big clubs with a good sized stage that cranks an extra gear out of me; I often find I scale my performance to the size of the room to some extent and that was certainly the case on this night. Lots of applause, even an impromtu second ovation from punters waiting for taxis outside the venue as I was leaving. Most satisfying. I'll be back there I suspect.

Then a fun gig in the sleepy hollow of Winsford in Cheshire to a much more intimate crowd of about 20-30 people on Friday. I was compering and the locals were quite heckly (to use an adjective I've just made up) but were a lot of fun, with punters ranging from Debbie (who had the cheek to introduce herself to the other comics and I before the gig in the following fashion; "Hi, are you the comics? Nice to meet you, I'm the heckler") to a total stoner mentalist on the front row who looked so of his tree on god knows what that I was in two minds over whether to talk to him, but eventually could not resist. With his big mop of hair and his Wishbone Ash t-shirt he looked, on the surface anyway, to be my kind of guy. But he wasn't even sure what day it was I don't think, let alone what was going on. I made the crowd laugh and applaud when talking to him by leaning over and saying quietly, "Listen mate, I don't want to worry you, but... I'm not really here". I swear for a second he looked genuinely concerned, before roaring with laughter himself. Later, when Rob and Scatz, a musical act (who were excellent, by the way), were on stage, he moshed enthusiastically along to all their songs. Bless.

Then a trip to London on Saturday, gigging at the Bearcat Club in Twickenham. The Bearcat is unusual in that there is no compere (well, a guy with a clipboard goes out and says your name, but he's not a compere as such). This problem is compounded when you are on first, as you effectively hit the crowd cold. Guess who was on first... yep, it was me. I still had a good gig though (get in) - it took them a minute or so to get into it, but when they did they really did and I had a lovely time. The night was topped off swimmingly with a curry supper with my comedy pals Barry Dodds and Paul Sinha.

Today was spent with Bron and her Comedy Sportz pals from Chorley, filming some sketches (the world's most lame "Jackass" style stunts was a running theme) and eating lots of pizza. Mmmm, pizza.

Right, I'm off to wake Dug up. It's a crazy hour to be asleep. Carpe Diem, and other latin platitudes. I wonder what the latin is for, "Sorry to disturb you Dug, please don't cut me".

Peace. X

A test of my professionalism...

2006-04-06T01:52:00.000+01:00

... and a hark back to my amateur dramatics days (luvvie, darling) as the mike at my gig in Barnsley tonight packed in and I was forced to do twenty minutes using only the admitttedly formidable power of my own lungs. Against all odds, to a big room with a hundred or so people in it, I had a good gig.

It's been a while since I had to project my voice, as evidenced by the aching in my torso from an underused diaphragm. Having said that, all of me aches for reasons that will become clear later. Suffice to say my classical training (ahem) won over and I was informed, to my delight and relief, that I could be heard at the back of the room with crystal clarity. I am a true pro, unflappable in the face of such petty setbacks. The show must go on (and all those other showbiz cliches).

Nothing wrong with my ego.

Or my bank balance! Over £600 of the cash owed to me rolled in over the weekend, along with a £400 tax bill. A tad unfortunate, but not-so-easy come, easy go, as my finances seem to work at present. At least my rent was covered.

Quiet weekend just gone, especially so as my gigs on Friday and Saturday were pulled at short notice. I felt like weeping, as if I were watching those little bags of money just fly away...

Still, a good gig last Thursday in Welwyn Garden City, the first night of a new comedy club, which is always a challenge as you are effectively setting the standard, determining whether people come back. There is also the added problem that the crowd may not be used to how a comedy night works and will not know how to "behave". Fortunately the night went swimmingly. I opened the gig with a fun 25 minutes, even having the audacity to start with a joke I'd just thought of, something I would have never dared do not so long back. I think the improv workshops have really helped my confidence in that respect, broadening my capacity to think on my feet.

What was the joke? Oh go on, I'll tell you. Basically, the compere was doing a routine about corporal punishment and asked if anyone had ever received any at school. A woman in the crowd replied with a (frankly horrific) tale of how she once had a teacher put a monkey wrench over her ear and twist it, all because she didn't happen to be very good at maths. I went on and told the woman I felt her pain, because;

"When I was at school, I really struggled with cross country, so the gym teacher... fucked me up the arse. After which I learned to run very very fast indeed!"

Not in the best taste, but it brought the house down.

Ah, you had to be there.

Anyway, a quiet weekend as I said, save for drinks in the Comedy Store on Saturday and accompanying my flatmates to a frankly mental gong show in Middlesbrough on Sunday, where I consumed my own body weight in Guinness and curry and yet didn't spend a penny, due to the profound and appreciated hospitality of the promoter (cheers Pete). Oh happy days.

Anyway, on to the root of my aches and pains... I played five-a-side last night! Some freinds of Chris Tavner needed a couple of extra bodies for a game, so Dug and I headed down to make the numbers up (which is just about all we did). It was much fun and there is the possibility of it becoming a weekly thing, which would be benificial since, when naked, I already have trouble seeing my dick when looking down, due to my ever-expanding barrel-like gut. Not that I spend hours doing such things, but you get the jist.

Today though, I ache as if four or five large men had taken turns over several hours to methodically beat me with large sticks. I swear it even hurts when I blink. Or type.

Owww.

Owww.

Owww Owww Owww.

No, sorry, I can't take it anymore. Catch up soon.

Peace. X

Cats, cats, cats...

2006-03-28T16:38:00.000+01:00

... the flat is full of cats. Well, two anyway. Bron has finally made the final commitment to living here and moved her mogs in. Our new additions are;

BINX

Petite black cat with friendly demeanour and an air of assured modesty. Purrs readily and loves a tickle. Has a few duelling scars to boast of (blind in one eye and chunk missing from ear) courtesy of a car accident (they should never have let her drive). If asked, however, she will tell you she picked them up in a bar fight with some sailors in Shanghai.

KITTY

Great, adorable lump of a cat. He really does weigh an awful lot, I've nearly put my back out twice trying to lift him. Much maligned and misunderstood, especially by his owner (to say Bron prefers Binx is like saying that people with lungs prefer oxygen), all he really wants is to be held and loved. Starved of affection, he nonetheless has much love to give. Usually in the form of a sloppy headbutt.

They are both settling in just fine, have discovered and are utilising the litter tray (thank god) and are getting along with us all. Kitty was a bit stressed initially (he spent his first few hours here under the coffee table mewling) but has since realised that, having never had as much attention in any of his nine lives, he is onto a sweet deal.

So what else... the play was much fun on Thursday, the players making good use of a tiny stage and quite barren set. The two leads were excellent, the direction sharp, blah blah critical bollocks blah. I could prattle on and on but I don't want to bore you. Let's just say I enjoyed it.

Quiet weekend really. The last improv workshop on Saturday was fun and featured lots of cake. I was meant to be gigging on Saturday night but it was cancelled (shakes fist defiantly at the world before realising futility of the gesture and weeping a little - blows nose, feels better). I compered a gig on Sunday in Newcastle which was hard work to say the least. Here is some unexaggerated banter from the night;

Comic (just onstage) - Good evening! (to punter on front row) Hi mate, what's your name?

Punter - Look mate, I'm here to see the headliner and I'm not in the fucking mood, so why don't you just get on with it and LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

Talk about a tough crowd. Sheesh. Still, I did spend a few hours after the gig being entertained by four very accomodating young ladies, before heading off for the night train. Rock and roll.

Not much doing yesterday. Or today for that matter. Not gigging again until Thursday, so I'll spend the time till then alternating between playing with the cats and hoping some cash comes in before the rent goes out at the end of the month.

Peace. X

Turned out better than I expected...

2006-03-23T10:41:00.000Z

... on Tuesday night. My gig at Harper Adams College near Stoke, a traditionally quite tough room from what I've heard, was actually quite a good laugh. Which is, y'know, kind of the point and stuff.

I'd heard fearsome things, like how the crowd will take a pint of beer to the stage and then refuse to listen until the comic has downed it in one. Real "dance, monkey boy, dance" stuff. But my only real complaints were as follows;

i) The layout was weird. Loads of seats off to the sides, and then just two big leather sofas in front of the stage, which were occupied by big strapping lads in rugby shirts, one of whom was sporting a very fetching black eye. Not at all intimidating.

ii) In keeping with a lot of college/uni gigs, there was no compere, meaning I hit them completely cold. I did the business anyway though and got them laughing straight away. I'm quite good at this, you know.

iii) They were an odd crowd in that they would piss themselves laughing and even applauded me a few times for some pretty throw-away comments and lines, but then I would get quite muted responses for some of my jokes that are usually big hitters. In the balance of things, it all evened out and I still seemed to be having a good gig, but it did throw me a little.

iv) Harper Adams is an agricultural college. The place was half uni campus, half farm, meaning everything there smelt ever so slightly of straw.

Other than that, it was a fun night and the drive there with the Bronster was cool too, even though we did witness some scally lad break into someone's car and make off with a bag which the owner had left on the seat (not the smartest of moves in this day and age). We left a note on the windshield with our details and then went on our merry way. Bron did eye me in that way that only a woman can when she is about to test your manhood before asking, "Why didn't you chase after that kid?"

I used to do karate and as such people expect me to still be quite handy. I get out of breath, however, walking to the fridge and back. I am quite clearly not the lean, toned fighting machine of my youth but this fact was brushed aside by Bron with an expectant flash of her eyes. I then proceeded to point out to her, with as much subtlety as I could muster, that I have no intention of meeting my fate on the business end of a scally's penknife for the sake of a stranger's property. Besides, even if I had caught and collared him, the little shit would have probably done me for assault.

Anyhoo... In the post has arrived a DVD from the Comedy Store of my gig there last Friday. I watched it. It's good. I rock. I just hope the management at the Store agrees. Fingers crossed.

Not much doing yesterday, except in the evening when, trusty guitar in hand, I recorded a song on my four track and got Bron, who has a sweet folk rock style singing voice among her many assets, to croon on it. It sounds pretty good, you know. What a talented house I live in.

We then went shopping. Not fascinating in of itself, but there is something quite superbly bohemian about doing something as mundane as going round the supermarket, but doing it at midnight.

Off to see a play tonight (get me with the culture) - an amateur production of "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (sic?) are Dead", starring some of Bron's former students. I studied that play for A Level English, so it should evoke many a memory of being a tortured, confused teenager. Oh happy days.

Peace. X

Protesting for Free Speech...

2006-03-21T13:59:00.000Z

... in Manchester last night - that's right, yours truly was getting political on yo' ass. Last night was the first night of Jerry Springer - The Opera in Manchester last night and rumour was that Christian Voice would turn up to try and spoil the party, so a bunch of comics and writers, myself included, turned up to do a counter protest outside the theatre.

We numbered about 16 and were waving banners saying such things as, "Free Speech - I'm a Believer!", "Down with Protests", and my personal favourite, "For one night only - Much Ado about NOTHING!". Only about 8 Christian protesters turned up in the end, which was a bit of a shame, but we still gave it our all, singing and chanting and having a laugh. We were almost universally applauded by the punters queueing to get in, with the exception of one spectacular fuckwit who, in a textbook example of missing the bleeding point, saw fit to scream, "EVER HEARD OF FREEDOM OF SPEECH?". What was really lovely was having two of the crew from the show walk past and say, "If only there were more people like you", to us. There were news cameras and reporters there too, and we managed to make the papers and radio. Check this out.

I did feel a bit bad for some of the Christian supporters, to be honest. We found out that they were not Christian Voice as we thought, just local believers. One girl had hand written 300 postcards to distribute among the crowd. I went a bit far jeering at them to be honest - after the show had started, I bellowed, "How many people did you stop going in? How many minds did you change?". When one of them shrugged, I shouted, "You've wasted your time!". Whether or not I agree with their protest, they have the right to make it and I was in danger of crushing just what I sought to protect.

Still, it's only a show. Get over it, losers.

Well, what have I been up to... the improv workshop on Friday was a great success. What was I worrying about? (thinks - phew I got away with that) It was a bit weird having a load of school kids calling me "sir", though. My dad is a teacher and it was one of those unsettling "I'm turning into my father" moments. Still, I'm now a fully fledged member of ComedySportz, Bron's improv troupe. Check out my website (www.clik.to/benschofield) and look on the news page for the link to their website.

On Friday evening I did two gigs in London, one in East Dulwich to 20 or so youths with their icy, judgemental stares (it actually turned out ot be quite a nice gig) and one to two or three hundred pissheads at the Comedy Store's late show. The gig went well, I think. It was late and I was tired but I gave it my all. I'll have to wait until I see the recording. I did manage to get Rich, my mate I was staying with in London, on the guest list. He felt like Jack the Biscuit, sauntering in with a girl on each arm. The young ladies in question were hugely impressed and Rich thought he was well in. Right up to the point when one of them puked all over his jacket.

On Saturday I headlined a gig to 150 or so students at Manchester Uni, which was nice, and then spent Sunday mostly watching football. Such is my exciting life.

Off to Stoke tonight, to another student gig that several comics have reliably informed me is a notorious bear pit.

Wish me luck. Will report tomorrow.

Peace. X

A week of strange contrasts...

2006-03-16T12:31:00.000Z

... especially with regards to the gigs I've done recently.

Friday in Bradford was lovely. It was actually held in the Gods bar of the Alhambra theatre, as opposed to the studio theatre next door where it is usually held. Kathy, the sound and light tech, had changed all the light bulbs to red and green ones, which gave the room a suitably bohemian, nightclub-esque vibe (good work that woman). Thanks to the Alhambra's glass facade, I could actually see the light from across Centenary Square as I walked to the gig, shining like a big showbiz beacon. The crowd was in good form too, becoming very vocal in their support of my rant in the second half about the inequities of interior design. A good time was had by all, especially comic Kevin Hayes who got into a hilariously inappropriate dialogue about religion with a Catholic lady in the crowd. It was also nice to see Dave Holmes, an old musician friend of mine, in the audience.

Apologies to Nicky - a friend of mine I used to work with in Bradford - who I said I might meet before the gig. I forgot to call her. I am a terrible person. Please forgive me. Oh, lovely love...

Saturday I went to the improv workshop in the afternoon. I need the practice, as tomorrow I am doing my first paid show as an improviser! It's a show/workshop for a load of kids in Blackpool (mustn't swear, mustn't swear...). I'm quite flattered to have been asked by Bron to participate, although I must question why. I've narrowed it down to three possibilities;

i) She genuinely feels I am talented and developed enough as an improviser to do the business.

ii) She cannot bear to be apart from me at any time.

iii) I was the only person available.

I suspect the latter.

Either way, I'm looking forward to everything about it except the early start to get to Blackpool. I've every confidence it will be fine. *

On Saturday night we went to a party to celebrate the birthday of Bron's friend Rachel. A fun time was had, but I did drink quite possibly the most foul cocktail ever concocted, as presented to me by the hostess. I then spent the next few minutes doing a delicate balancing act between concentrating on not vomiting and assuring my poisoner (sorry Rachel) that the brew in question was not in fact "fucking gorgeous" but was more akin to having one's mouth raped with an aniseed cock. We left about midnight, due to Bron's innards being uncomfortably rearranged by the bass from the music.

On Sunday night I did a college gig in Leeds, in a room more akin to warehouse space than a concert hall. Still, add a hundred or so pissed up students and it turned into quite a fun night, barring a really shit, whistling sound system. I'm rock'n'roll, sure, but I prefer to perform without feedback.

On Monday I went to the birthday do (yes, another) of Dan Nightingale, the shiny headed wonder boy of Northern stand-up. It was held at the Frog and Bucket comedy club. Frankly, I think it is a bit sad for a load of comics to go out drinking at a comedy club, but comedy is one of those industries with a strong social scene built in and in can quite easily begin to dominate one's life if left unchecked. Besides, the Frog is free in on a Monday, so maybe I should shut up complaining.

Anyway, it was fun night, featuring a motley crew of faces from the Manchester comedy scene assembled on the balcony bitching about the show (as is our want). I even treated myself to some chicken goujons and curly fries, such was the air of gleeful abandon.

Then a real tale of two gigs. Tuesday night I did a rip roaring 40 minute set to two hundred students in Cardiff, one of those joyous, life affirming gigs that reminds me why I love this job. Then last night I compered a gig in Sheffield to fifteen or so terrified looking 20-50 somethings. They were in fact nice people and the gig picked up as the night went on, but it was a little like wading through porridge in places. That's the thing with small crowds - you can never really get them on a roll in the same way that you can with a bigger crowd. The laughter from a big crowd is like waves, and you can practically surf on it, adjusting your timing to it's ebb and flow. But smaller crowds tend to laugh in short bursts, then become suddenly silent again, which makes timing hard, nigh on impossible sometimes. All you can do is smile sweetly and keep hitting them with your gags. It's like laying on a comedic buffet and inviting people to pick out the bits they like.

Yesterday day we took a trip to Liverpool to visit the Beatles museum. It was a really good day (I've seen an actually pair of round lense spectacles as worn by Lennon - worth about £1,000,000, apparently). I had to shepherd poor Bron round as the museum is full of dummies, which she is utterly terrified of, but other than that, and a brief altercation with regard to a sandwich (don't ask), it was really cool.

Today is a day off (and relax...) so I'll get some admin done. Maybe get round to putting up those Led Zep posters...

Peace. X

* God, I'm so unbelievably, mind crushingly fucking nervous. Oh shit, I swore. Oh bugger, I did it again. Crap. Bollocks. Piss. Etc...

A good night's sleep last night...

2006-03-10T14:16:00.000Z

... for the first time in weeks, for reasons I cannot explain - I was just utterly spent last night. I slept really heavily, one of those sleeps where you wake up feeling like someone has dumped a ton of gravel on you during the night. Really quietly so as not to wake you, obviously.

Another grey day in Manchester, the city where the rain is part of the heritage. No wonder so many comedians gather here, the place needs a laugh. It is becoming saturated with comedians now though, certainly South Manchester. Withington, where I live, is curious as its population is comprised of equal parts post grad students, the intellectual/creative/bohemian crowd (of which I, of course, am a member) and your god honest, spit and sawdust, salt of the earth common man. I am loathe to be too pejorative in my description of the latter group, though a number of them do seem to think it acceptable to pop to the shops in their slippers.

Not an awful lot to report. I have secured another gig at the Comedy Store in London (get me folks) next Friday, at the late show which starts at midnight, a notorious bear pit which chews lesser comics up and spits them out like the pretenders and charlatans they are. Fear not. I will prevail. This is what I do.

Yesterday was kind of a fruitful day, in that I didn't spend half of it playing Playstation football, hurling vitriolic abuse at a bunch of indifferent pixellated players, who care little for me, especially as they all cease to exist every time I turn the switch off. I still haven't managed to put up my Led Zeppelin posters though. I may do it now.

Oh dear. In my initial post I promised not to bore you with the ins and outs of my life. But here I am doing it. How sad. How is anyone supposed to believe that I live an exciting showbiz lifestyle if I keep harping on about how drab and dull it is?

Oh, who am I kidding...

Dug is happy because his team, Middlesborough, defeated the mighty Roma last night. They "thrashed" them one nil. I watched the match with him and was an honourary Boro fan for the night. It should have been two nil but Mendieta, the man with the thinnest hair in football, missed a sitter in the second half, sending the ball high and wide and then, for full embarassing effect, falling over with all the inherent grace of a chubby pensioner being hit by a juggernaut.

I am off to Bradford tonight to do my monthly residency at the "Bag of Quips" comedy club. It's fulfilling to think that I did my first ever gig there and now I'm host of the show. It feels like things have come full circle. The only downside is the blunt animosity often displayed by Bradford crowds. The sense of humour in West Yorkshire is famously sarcastic and tough, making for quite a hard room and some pithy heckling. It's been a fun night so far though, so touch wood.

Breaking news... poor Bron has broken down and is stranded in Runcorn. I must go to her aid. Well, I'll give her a ring to help alleviate her boredom until Green Flag arrive.

Until next we meet.

Peace X.

Busy Busy Busy today...

2006-03-09T10:51:00.000Z

... or at least that's the plan. To be honest, I've been such a slob recently it's starting to lose its charm. The thought of a day spent productively seems like bliss. This is of course peverse and twisted thinking of the foulest order, but I think it none the less.

It's not that I'm short of things to do. My agent and I parted company recently and I have since developed a keen awareness of just how much admin goes into self employment. I therefore need to ring for gigs, do about three months worth of accounts, chase promoters for cash and sort out travel and accomodation for the next few weeks.

Also, on a more frivolous note, I have two very fetching Led Zeppelin posters that I still need to put up.

I'm just so unmotivated at the moment, stuck in one of those awful ruts where you have loads to do but are still bored. Maybe I'm having an early midlife crisis (although technically I've had that already when I grew my hair and went rock*). Maybe I'm coming down with something. Maybe I just need to get laid.

I don't know. Either way I'm at my wit's end with wallowing.

Yesterday was a classic bit of slobbing, truly world class. I did absolutely f*ck all, wasted a whole day of my life on the sofa scratching myself. I only got dressed to go and buy snacks.

The bitch of it is that I used to love days like that. There was a time in my life that I considered it almost a hobby. Now it seems to bore me intensely. Yesterday was so dull that I could practically feel myself getting older, valuable seconds of my life ebbing away, never to be replaced. Well never again, I tell you, NEVER AGAIN!

Until the next time, that is.

Tuesday was a lot of fun. My housemates Bron and Dug and a fellow comic and friend of mine named Chris Tavner and I went to Blackpool for a day trip. The weather was awful (there's a lovely picture of me with my umbrella, broken and buckled by the vicious wind, looking for all the world like a big sewer rat), most of the attractions were shut and the one place that I really wanted to go, Seaworld, cost £9-50 to get in (f*ck that). Despite these setbacks we really had a good time, frolicking on the beach, blowing money on arcade machines and going in the Doctor Who museum (geek heaven - it's frightening how inexplicably excited you can get upon seeing a costume in a glass case that was once worn by Kate O'Mara). Chris did contemplate going for a paddle at one point but I physically restrained him to save him from fatal hypothermia.

On the evening I went to a local comedy club to watch and was beset by a problem that is occuring in my life far too often. In short, I was mistaken for another comic.

Now, I don't want to sound precious here (moi?) but my look is pretty distinctive, in real life if not just the comedy world. Why then does this keep happening? Not so long back I was mistaken for Chris Brooker, my housemate, fellow comic and fellow big bearded hairy bloke, at another gig I went to just to watch. A punter pumped my hand and said, "Hey, you're a comic aren't you, I've seen you on stage. Man, you are really funny!"

Naturally, I smugly agreed internally, but externally replied with a falsely modest, "Oh, thank you".

He then p*ssed on his chips. "You're called... Chris, aren't you?! Chris Brooker!"

I shot him a look that could have melted a bank vault door and spat, "No", from between clenched teeth, before scurrying off to nurse my wounded ego.

Now, Chris Brooker is a fine comic and I have no issue with the comparison, but it is quite upsetting to find the praise you were soaking up so proudly was actually directed elsewhere. It's the self esteem equivalent of being killed by friendly fire.

But on Tuesday, there was a comic performing called 80's Luke (which I hope for his sake is a stage name). Now he's a lovely bloke and all, but his resemblance to me begins and ends with him being a fat bloke with a beard and glasses. This however was enough for the punter who came up to congratulate me on my performance. When I pointed out, as politely as I could, that I had not been on that night, he insisted that I had and got quite aggressive upon my repeated denial.

I would like to get something straight, once and for all. It's a matter of pecking order. I do not look like Chris Brooker or 80's Luke. They look like ME.

Egos, folks. Very volatile. Handle with care.

Peace X.

*Yes, believe it or not, I used to have short hair and wear pastel colours. Despite having always been a rocker at heart, I had a real stick up my *rse as a teenager and in my early twenties about not having to define myself by the way I look. I was watching "The Big Lebowski" with a mate a few years back though and had a sudden epiphany. I sat bolt upright in my chair and exclaimed, "I wanna look like The Dude!". So now I do and, I might add, it suits me well. I am gorgeous. I have it on good authority.

COLDNESS ENGULFS ME...

2006-03-06T16:04:00.001Z

...for reasons I will explain in good time, but in the meantime hello.

What an interesting few days!

On Thursday I went to the gig my housemate Chris runs in Crewe and did 10-15 minutes of brand spanking new material for my one-man show... and it all worked! I had a lovely time and it filled me with joy because;

i) It's always nice when a gig goes well

ii) I've been feeling really down about how i'm struggling to write of late, so to do some new stuff and have it go down well feels a bit like finding my mojo again (i've not lost it, it was here, in my pocket, all along)

iii) None of the new material was blue or rude. It's not that I have any issue with naughty jokes (in fact my set is quite "scatalogically cerebral" as one reviewer put it, which I interpret as meaning that I tell knob gags, but clever ones - either that or I have really intelligent poo), it's just that a large chunk of my set is sex based and I want more material that I know is funny (i.e. it will make a bunch of stag parties laugh on a wet weekend in Barnsley) but that I could do in front of more reserved crowds without seeming like some brutish ogre. Maybe I'm going soft. I don't know, but that meant something to me somehow. Basically, I have no issue with rudeness in humour, but it was nice to remind myself I don't rely on it to get laughs.

I then did a very nice gig at a hotel in Daventry on Friday. I thought it was going to be a nightmare as the organisers had set the gig up, let about 200 punters in and then buggered off. The "show must go on" spirit prevailed however and the other comics and I teamed up to sort out lights/sound/music etc, and a cracking gig was had by all. The drive back was fraught with fog and blizzard based danger, but I got back in one piece.

Saturday was was a little odder. After having had no confirmation from the promoter for my gig in the evening, I rang him to find that I was double booked and that the other comic had already confirmed. In short, I was out of a job. Grrrr.

Getting over that annoyance, I went to the comedy improv workshops that Bron runs on Saturdays (she is the real talent and brains of the house and the sooner the rest of us realise, the better) only to return home and find that the electricity had gone off. We managed to get the lights working, but the plug sockets and the boiler (which is wired into the mains) were having none of it. The house was like a meat locker, so as Bron and Chris nestled on the sofa in a blanket for a very quiet evening in indeed, I accompanied Dug to a party at the house of Ros, who works at XS Malarkey, a nearby comedy club.

The party was fun, but I can honestly say that Ros' city centre apartment, with its cosmopolitan vistas, beamed celings, stylish fittings and working electricity, led me to the the sharp realisation of what an utter sh*thole I live in. I honestly cannot fathom why I live in such squalor.

Oh, wait a minute, it's cheap. That's the reason. Well, the real reason anyway. I have another, grander reason, something to do with me being a artist (because artists are meant to live in squalor, at first at least), but that's just me being a ponce.

Anyway, I had a good time, and spent much of the evening cradling Danny Deegan, another comedian I know, in my huge hairy arms. As he curled up foetally and purred with primeval contentment, I was reminded that sometimes all a man needs is to have another man hold him and tell him everything will be ok.*

Dug and I stumbled back into the flat at about 7-30 in the morning on Sunday, bleary eyed and freezing. The day was largely a write off, though notable for the excellent curry Chris made for us all to use up the now defrosted chicken that was in the now useless freezer.

The electrician came this morning, and has managed to get the heating on again (my hero) and make a few sockets work but will need to come back on Wednesday to finish the job, which apparently may involve tearing up floorboards to get to the necessary wiring. Oh joy. I swear this flat was built by the lowest bidder.

Oh well, off I go for now. The freezer is defrosting and apparently it is all my fault. As usual. Sigh....

* Man Hugs provided at reasonable rates, no questions asked. E-mail for details.

The advantage of BOREDOM...

2006-03-01T19:19:00.000Z

... is that it inspires me to do crazy things, like post on this here blog.

Sat at home alone listening to some obscenely loud rock music courtesy of The Wildhearts. Bron was with me but she dashed away suddenly an hour ago, late for some class or other, bolting through the door in a blur of purple hair and knitted scarf, like some strange mesh of Cinderella and the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

So, solitude. In fact, it's nice every now and then just to have the run of the flat. I could do anything. I could watch dvds in my jim jams. I could sit brazenly biting my own toenails on the living room sofa. I could run round the house butt naked and growl at things. I won't, but I could, and that's what counts.

A nice day had though. For some reason previous occupiers of this crazy flat of ours have seen fit to use it as an inpromtu storage depot and Bron, who has been systematically slapping our sorry asses into shape since moving in, finally snapped and decided we should load her car with old tvs and such and dump them. So off to the tip we went, followed by a pub lunch to reward ourselves for our proaction.

Bron took the opportunity to fill the space we had made with her stuff. Slowly but surely, she is taking over the whole flat. Left to her own devices, the world itself may be at risk. We can stop her now if we stand together. Before it is too late...

In other news, I've stopped smoking! Not for any namby pamby, "cough cough oh it's a filthy habit how can you cough cough" reasons, but simply for fiscal reasons. It's money better spent on other things. I do enjoy a smoke and I may have the occasional social one...ahem...but it's costing me at least £20-25 a week and I'm a poor impoverished artist.

Bron, of course, is delighted and has, in keeping with her self appointed role of surrogate mother to the whole house, been bombarding me with, "You're doing the right thing", and, "You'll feel the benefit", type platitudes. ALL F*CKING DAY.

Or maybe it wasn't all day. Maybe she barely mentioned it at all. I'm so crabby and wound up at the moment, what with my nicotine abstinence, that she could look at me the wrong way and I'd accuse her of hating/patronising/insulting me. Factor into it that she is in the "sensitive" stage of her womanly cycle and the situation is a veritable powder keg. Earlier, we had a blazing row because I put some boxes down wrong. Or something. Later I had the nerve to suggest some improvements to a form on her computer, which apparently I did with all the subtlety and tact of a professor condescending a half-wit. I thought I was being helpful. Apparently I was just being a tw*t.

Oh well, this is often the way with people you live with. It doesn't matter how much you like them (and Bron and I are the best of friends), quite often familiarity can breed some degree of contempt. The closer you get to someone, the more you tread on each other's toes. If you fly close for long enough, you'll clip wings. And several more tired bullsh*t cliches.

It's ok. I'll make it up to her with a cheese supper on her return. Cheese to Bron is like the elixir of life itself. I swear that if, heaven forbid, she is ever in a coma, all I'd need to bring her round is a really strong parmesan.

Speaking of supper, there's a belly pork joint in the fridge with my name on. Crackling makes everything better...

Peace X

Greetings my people...

2006-02-28T17:28:00.000Z

...and welcome to this shiny new high tech journal of mine. Before I proceed to bore and baffle you with the inner workings of my life and mind, I must give an honourable mention to Bron, my good friend and one of my staunchest allies, who designed the website from which you probably found this blog. All hail the Bronster! (the link to her blog can also be found on this page - try her, you might like her)

I imagine I will be using this facility to try out ideas and such. I'm in the process of writing my first one-man show at the moment, which if everything goes to plan will debut at the Manchester Comedy Festival 2006. I'm using the working title of "Professional Dickhead" as it's the most honest appraisal I can give of my chosen profession.

Not all my posts, therefore, will be of the, "took the dog out this morning, had muesli for breakfast", variety. Some if not most will be random musings or short comic essays as I thrash ideas about. Read, digest, enjoy. All comments welcomed. Just don't nick my gags or I'll cut you. *

This feels like progress. My own website, my own little stretch of the information superhighway. At last, I've entered the 21st century. Things are looking up.

I'm in good spirits anyway today as I've been paid just under a grand I was waiting on for what seemed like an age for some gigs I've done over the last few months. I honestly thought I was going to starve recently, but now my account is back in black again. Takeaway for tea!!!

No, I'll be good. Save some cash. Besides, Bron has promised me PANCAKES! God, I love pretending to be a Christian when it suits me...

I'm off to enjoy my feast. More posts soon. This could be the start of a beautiful freindship...

Peace x

* Just kidding. But don't nick my stuff. It's crap anyway.