Wednesday, 26 January 2011

PMQs and sexism and books and shit.

If it is 12 o'clock on a Wednesday lunchtime and I am in the house then I watch Prime Minister's Questions. I honestly believe that this has no higher intellectual merit than my addiction to Neighbours. PMQs (as those in the know call it) is silly. The actual content of the 'debate' is so rarely of any substance that they might as well just talk about who has the biggest dick. For the record, ironically enough, Ed Balls has the biggest dick.

What's entertaining about PMQs is the absurdity of watching the governing elite jeer at each other like drunken bellends. Today, a Labour MP started a question with the following;

"This week I visited a constituent of mine,... (her name)"

This was greeted by ironic cheers and wolf whistles from the Tory benches. I'm not joking. I believe they were implying, hilariously, that the Labour MP 'fancied' his constituent or 'got off' with her. A while ago I remember reading that whenever a new female MP was speaking in parliament some other MPs would mumble 'tits' under their breath. Again, I am genuinely not joking.

In a week when two Sky Sports presenters have been (rightly) castigated for surreptitiously recorded sexist comments it's worth noting that parliament is riddled with similar pricks who behave awfully in public. I've just noticed that 'surreptitiously' has the word 'tit' in it. Brilliant. Of course, it's not just sexism that is the problem in parliament. It's the dominant juvenile, boisterous humour which is so poorly hidden. It's there for us, or at least those of us without proper jobs, to see every Wednesday lunchtime.

I should declare that I love juvenile humour. My favourite joke (and much of my life) involves dog fellatio. The problem with the politicians is that their humour appears to be so ball achingly unfunny. If you're not at least going to be funny then just behave like normal adults. Although, I do find the sheer ludicrousness of PMQs entertaining I find it embarrassing that it is supposed to be democracy in action. MPs frequently condemn the atmosphere of PMQs but it never changes. I think that the average politician is probably a far better person than the general public give them credit for but they really don't do themselves any favours.

Since I've mentioned sexism today I think it's time I made an admission. I have never read a novel by a woman. When I told someone that fact about 7 years ago they were astonished. It still remains the case. I fear I may have mentioned this in a previous blog post. If so then consider this an update. I have STILL never read a novel by a woman. I am told that there are now literally dozens of novels by penis-free authors and yet I am yet to read one. The problem is that now there is so much pressure on the first female written novel I read. Of course, you'd be right in responding that it would be ridiculous to judge a whole gender on one book. That, however, is what I intend to do.

I have started a few novels by women but as is the way with a good two thirds of the books I read I haven't finished them. I consider (the blatantly sexist) Martin Amis one of my favourite authors and yet I have only actually managed to complete one of his books. I read at least 300 pages of both London Fields and Money and gave up.

I think I'm going to have to stop writing because I'm finding my book reading habits less and less easy to defend. Feel free to give me book recommendations but know that the thought process that will go into whether I read them or not will be devoid of logic.

Over and out.

Your friend and sometime lover.

Fergus Craig

Friday, 21 January 2011

Have you got a cigarette?

Oh, hi guys. Innit cold? Get a load of this! I was outside my house on Wednesday when a man shouted across the street at me -

'Excuse me mate! Have you got a cigarette?'

To which I replied - 'No, sorry, I haven't'.

I'm assuming that if I had a cigarette and was prepared to admit that I did then social convention would dictate that I then gave him the cigarette. Funny that. Don't think it applies to many other things...

'Excuse me mate! Have you got an i pod?'

The fact is that I didn't have a cigarette and I never do. I've never liked the idea of smoking and on the very few occasions that I've attempted it I've immediately coughed. It strikes me that anything you have to persuade your body to not react violently to has to be pretty bad. That is why I don't go to the gym.

He then asked me the same question.

'Excuse me mate! Have you got a cigarette?'

At this point I wondered why he was singling me out. I live on a main street and there were plenty of other people walking by and yet he chose to shout across the street at me. Why?

'No. Sorry' I replied.


What? Really? Surely this conversation should be over by now? I tried to be as clear possible. I now felt a little uncool for not having a cigarette but there was no use pretending because that would only cause trouble further down the line.

'I haven't got a cigarette'

Then the man shouted something that truly blew my mind.

'What? You don't have sex?'

I wanted to check I'd heard right. 'What?'

'You don't have sex?!'

I resisted the temptation to get defensive and say... 'Yes! I do actually! I have done on a number of occasions. I'm not prepared to tell you that number but, in short, yes!'

Instead, I just smiled weakly and walked into my house. What amazes me is that the man who did this was in his fifties and walking his dog. Did he really want a cigarette? Was this a joke that he has been playing since he was twelve and never gets old? Weirdly, I'm pretty sure I saw other people on the street laughing. What hilarity have I missed out on here and why was it aimed at me? What the fuck was going on? WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON?!

You may remember my last post centered around another man in his fifties who messed with my head. Have I somehow done something to offend all British men in their fifties and they are now using a 'drip, drip' effect of Fergus head-fucking to bring about my nervous breakdown? I don't remember publicly insulting their God, Jeremy Clarkson.

I am now genuinely going to go to the pub on my own and read Private Eye. I am telling myself that I'm going to write some new material while I'm there but perhaps this is the first sign of that aforementioned breakdown. Most of the people in a pub on a weekday afternoon tend to be men in their fifties so I may be entering a bit of a lions den. Aren't I brave? Wish me luck.

Before I go, just in case you've not heard them yet, I'd like to nudge you in the direction of some podcasts I made with Sophie Black. They're all improvised (flawed) and enormous fun to do (indulgent). She's off to India now so we'll make some more when she's back. Alright, I see you later guys. Have a nice weekend and all that. Lots of love.


Friday, 7 January 2011

Angry man.

On Wednesday I went for a meeting with my accountant because I am a grown up. I've had an accountant for about 4 years now and this was the first time that I went for my annual chat with them without at least a little bit of shit in my pants. Previously, I was always fearful that they would tell me that I'd completely misunderstood the tax system and unless I could find 15 grand within the next 8 minutes I would be escorted from the premises and taken to an open prison. At this point I should tell you that if it wasn't for it being full of criminals I've always found the idea of prison quite appealing. I like to think that I'd get a lot done there. I'd read a lot, lift weights, play table tennis, write a brilliant best selling memoir and get a law degree to work on my appeal. I realise I'm being naive. It's the same part of my brain that thinks I'd enjoy being a taxi driver.

Back to my accountant - this year, amazingly, I've managed to save some money and pay quite a bit of tax ahead. I've also, in a move that goes against all my past behavioral patterns, kept a good record of my expenditure and shit. This all meant that in our 15 minute meeting I felt awfully mature and respectable. Once we'd sorted everything out, my accountant and I had a brief chat about football (because that's what men do apparently) and then said our goodbyes. Just before I headed out the door I asked if I could use his toilet. Don't worry - this story is going somewhere. I was told to head to the top floor and there I found the Men's. After locking the door I did my business (you know, pissing and the like) and then tried to get out. The lock was pretty tight and there were about 6 seconds in which I panicked that I would have to be 'rescued'. To my relief my extra human strength managed to turn the lock and I walked out...


I turn round to see a bearded man in his late 50s sat at a desk in an office beside the toilet. I'm not sure if he worked for my accountant or a different company that shares the same building.



I do so. He is angry. Weirdly angry.


At this stage I start to feel that he is overreacting a little. I try to add some perspective but am a little thrown by the sheer near-foaming-at-the-mouth-mentalness of this stranger. I give a weak laugh and say the following...

'Look. I'm sorry, I don't think it's that big a deal. I didn't see the sign. I've closed the door now. I think you're overreacting'.


I understand that, sat there all day with people leaving the door open could getting irritating. I still maintain that this guy was properly insane though. Also, for the record, my piss does not smell that bad. He now starts mumble-shouting. As far as I am aware no one else witnessed this...


Now, I really want him to know that he is the unreasonable nutcase in this scenario but am so astonished by what's going on all I can do is a 'you're crazy' smile and say...

'Wow!... Wow!'



Then I ran down the stairs and left. I can think of two explanations for what happened. The first is that he's having a nervous breakdown in which case there is a genuine chance that (if it hasn't already) it will end in the blood of the innocent. The second is that he is a 'flawed genius' who cannot deal with people but is incredible with numbers. He makes the company lots of money but is impossible to live with - so like a modern day Caliban they keep him in a tiny office near the toilet and hope that he doesn't come into contact with the clients.

When people get angry over little things I find it really funny. Although, ultimately, I feel sorry for this kid I find this video very funny. He has plenty of other funny one's too...

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

January 4th

Shit bags. It's January 4th. Now that everyone is back to work I can no longer spend my days watching daytime TV without feeling guilty. That has not stopped me from doing exactly that for months on end in the past. But that was the old me. As Hannah Martin once said in Neighbours... "This is the new me, get used to it!". Speaking of Neighbours - I recently found out that Jesse Spencer who played Billy Kennedy (and is now in House) is the son of Australia's Nick (and Nicola) Griffin. His parents formed a far-right political party called Australians Against Further Immigration. It put's a whole new spin on Jesse's blonde, some might say Aryan looks. To be fair, Jesse may not have the same opinions as his parents but it's quite funny that he, having moved to the U.S, is now an immigrant himself.

Now, the moment you've all been waiting for... the results of my Babestation experiment. Perhaps unsurprisingly they were rather disappointing. For those of you who didn't read my last blog (why!? why!?) and are too lazy to scroll down I was curious as to what happens on Babestation at midnight on New Year's Eve. It turns out they simply went off air for about 10 minutes. I kind of wish I hadn't bothered checking now. I was hoping that by recording Babestation on New Year's Eve I would get some kind of insight into the human psyche and a damning record of where Britain is today. Instead I just got about 5 and a half hours of writhing women punctuated by 10 minutes of blank screen on the only bit I was interested in. That is not to say that I am not ever interested in writhing women. If you are a writhing woman - please don't take offence.

Changing the subject entirely, I went to the football twice in the last 3 days. First, I watched Millwall beat Palace 3-0 and then saw the mighty Leyton Orient beat Colchester United 4-2. At both games I noticed signs saying 'Say 'No' To Bad Language'. Firstly, it's ridiculous to imagine that a little sign would stop Millwall fans from swearing. Most of the Millwall fans were like the people who bullied me at school. No, wait - they were like the people who bullied the people who bullied me at school - except they were in their 50s and had their kids with them. Within the first 10 minutes I heard the word 'cunt' more times than I have ever heard it in one sitting - even at a New Act night!*

What I found funniest about the sign was it's phrasing. I liked the idea that bad language is something you are offered, like a drug...


"Hey, mate! Do you wanna say 'bollocks'?"

"No thank you"


*This is a reference to comedy nights in which about 16 brand new comedians try to impress the audience by talking about peodophiles and finishing every joke with the word 'cunt'.

Changing subject entirely again I'm going to leave you with a video of what is honestly one of my favourite ever songs. I have no idea what movie it's from or what he's singing about though I expect it's love or some shit like that...