Teeth

I have never had a filling. If I was a bawdy comic from another generation I might have turned that first sentence into a bawdy joke about my never having been penetrated. I am not though so I won't. For a man of thirty I think it's quite an achievement to have got this far without the need for a filling. Still thinking about penetration aren't you. I'll change tack.

I've never had a cavity in one of my teeth. Today I went to the dentist for the first time in nearly three years and thought, surely - now's the time. I drink fizzy drinks most days and I ain't talking about no motherfucking sparkling mineral water bitches! I never floss because I ain't got time for that shiiiit. But no! I still have a near perfect set of teeth. How? Are they superhuman? Am I special? Have I been sent here to save the human race?

I think the answer probably lies in two key areas. Firstly - I'm a thorough brusher. I know you think that you're a thorough brusher but your brushing doesn't come close to mine. I brush with purpose. It's not about the amount of time I spend on it. I would say that my average brushing session lasts less than a minute. But I attack those teeth with firm, aggressive brushing. Picture a right wing mother of three brushing rude graffiti off of the side of her house. 'I will not stand for this in my neighbourhood' she says as she brushes. That is the kind of attitude I bring to a tooth brushing session.

The second reason for my cavity free mouth (hello ladies!) is based on my upbringing. For most of my childhood I wasn't allowed sweets. Every day, at nursery when it came to 'story time' all of the children were given a lollypop. The nursery teachers were under strict instructions to give me a muesli bar or a piece of fruit. Not only was I a curiously camp weakling with a weird name who only really spoke to adults but I was also on a diet. One Halloween my dad took me trick or treating. What with it being a special occasion and all I don't think my dad would have minded me having sweets but because I was known as the 'no sweeties' kid I was given fruit. For years I resented my parents for this enforced outcasting. At the age of ten I had a fight with my mum over my right to buy a Push Pop. Christ, they looked good in the adverts. It was those adverts for Push Pops which push (popped) me over the edge into demanding 'MY RIGHT' to eat sweets.

She gave in and the next couple of years of walks to school I was accompanied by a Mars Bar. It turned out Push Pops weren't that good. I no longer resent my parents for their sugar rationing. It gave my teeth a good infancy for which I am still reaping the benefits. It was just unfortunate that in 1980s Newcastle it was considered freakish for parents to question a child's sugar intake.

If I end up having kids in my current neighbourhood (Stoke Newington) the story will be in reverse. I won't want my kids to miss out like I did and will no doubt be a push (pop) over when it comes to sweeties. They will, however, be surrounded by the lactose intolerant children of the Independent reading liberal elite. They will be considered freaks, just as I was, but instead for being allowed to eat bread or whatever.

I must not worry about my future offspring. The chances are they'll never come. I expect nature has balanced out my extraordinary teeth with disabled sperm. And on that note... a wank!

Dodgy territory.

So here it is. My 51st post. I'm guessing this is as big a moment for you as it is for me so I'm happy if you want to take a minute just to reflect on just how big of a deal this is...

Ok? Everyone alright? Super. It's fair to say that since I started writing this blog the world has become a better place. Oh, hang on. No. No, it's not. The news in the last couple of weeks has been properly awful. Death, death, more death, royal wedding, death, impending doom, more death, spat upon hope and death. And what was I doing while all of that shit was kicking off? Writing links for Mr T to say in a clip show he's soon to be presenting. I'm not joking. That's not only true but also a big fact fuck off reminder that in the grand scheme of things I and everything I do is meaningless. I don't mean that in a kind of - 'I am 1 of 6 billion - how much difference can one man make in the face of such incredible forces?' sort of way. I mean that in a kind of - 'What were you doing when the world ended?' - "I was writing the line 'Look at this FOOL on a skateboard!'" sort of a way.

People always say that comedians can provide an escape for people by making them laugh or showing the absurdity of life or whatever. There is a lot of truth in that - though I can think of some gigs I've done in which I have provided neither - Wimbledon, June 2009 anyone? Surely, there's only so much difference a comic can make though. What the people of Japan do not need right now is a 20 minute set from me. For a start they would get hardly any of my references. Perhaps John Bishop? He's a bit broader. Have I wandered onto dodgy territory now? Now that I've mentioned Japan explicitly and I'm still trying to be hopelessly pithy. Sorry. I am in a very real sense proving my impotence in such situations.

Fancy reading what someone who doesn't really understand everything thinks about Libya? Here's your chance. I do not envy our politicians in situations like this. It seems to me that there were many good reasons for trying to deal with Gadaffi when a few years ago he 'came in from the cold'. He was clearly a prick but having that prick on your side seemed like it made sense at the time.

Right. I've written and deleted this paragraph three times. I, a comedian and sometime Mr. T writer, cannot fully comprehend the complexities of our relationships with middle eastern dictators without coming across more out of my depth than Carol Vorderman was on Question Time. If you fancy it there's a link to an article below that got my fucking goat. Not only did we help to arm Gadaffi but it didn't even provide jobs in British manufacturing which is what the politicians always bang on about...

http://www.private-eye.co.uk/sections.php?section_link=hp_sauce&

I will back soon to write about far less important things. Perhaps I'll meet an oddity in the street tomorrow or summat. For the record, 'summat' is how people say 'something' in Northern plays.

How many Fergus's does it take to change a lightbulb?

I have a problem in the bedroom and I don't mean with my sexual performance. That is flawless. With regards to the act of lovemaking I have an unblemished record of producing consistently phenomenal results. My problem is the lightbulb. I can't change it. I have, to my credit, changed lightbulbs before but this one is proving tricky.

You may remember me mentioning in a previous blog that I am shit at all things practical. I genuinely got a 'G' at GCSE Craft, Design and Technology. Let me repeat that. I got a 'G'. There are a whole 6 letters before 'G'. No one gets a 'G'. Even those kids at school who spent their days sniffing Copydex and stabbing weaker kids (me) with compasses tended to get better grades than 'G'. My low grade was because of three key reasons;

1. In 5 years at secondary school I made one thing in CDT. It was a breadboard. I took a piece of wood, cut a seriously ill shaped handle into it and called it a breadboard. 'Here you go Mum. I made you a breadboard'. 'Thanks, Fergus. How was Drama?'. Needless to say I handed in no practical work.

2. Knowing that I was headed for a shit grade I had a bet with a friend on who could get the shittest one. Unbeknownst to me, I was the only one who took it seriously. In the exam I was asked to design something for the garden. Being hilarious, I designed a device for worshipping all the Gods. I said I would consult Morphy Richards for advice on construction.

3. I had zero aptitude for the subject. Zero.

What's odd is that, assuming my parents aren't withholding information about my true 'birth parents', genetically I should be good at this sort of shit. My Dad built a massive boat with his Dad when he was 16. My Granddad has spent his life making contraptions and claims (with very little evidence) to have built most of the things in the world. Why have I lost out in this gene pool to such an extent that I can't change a fucking lightbulb.

I've established that I need to put a bayonet in. At least I think I do. It just won't fucking go in. This means that for the second night in a row my girlfriend will return home to a dark bedroom and question how she ended up with this retarded clown. She will eventually change it herself with ease and I will be one step closer to my inevitable lonely death.

Until then I will watch this again and again...

My night at the basket-ball.

On Friday night I went to watch a new sport called basket-ball at the O2 Arena with my brother. A couple of things happened which I think are worth mentioning. As we arrived at the arena there was a group of enthusiastic youngsters in basket-ball jerseys who had formed a sort of corridor. As people entered the arena, if they wished, they could run through the corridor and engage in a series of high fives to massive whooping and cheering. Giddy with excitement I thought - 'that looks like fun' and asked my brother if he fancied going down the wacky corridor with me. 'No', he didn't. Wise. Because, I guess, I wanted to access the small part of me that is 'fun' I went for it with gusto. Get this readers - there were no whoops and cheers for Fergus. There were only a couple of quarter hearted high fives. It was seriously embarrassing.

I can think of only two reasons why I was so spurned in the 'wacky corridor of fun'. 1. I had completely misread the situation and rather than offering a public service the corridor was for them and their friends. As I ran through they all thought 'who's this twat?'. Or 2. I look too old/square/diseased to ever be truly welcomed through a 'fun corridor'. I hereby withdraw my application for Gladiators.

Here's something else that happened at the O2 that night. At the game they would from time to time show celebrities on the screen. I like the way at American sporting events they constantly entertain the fans although if they did it at the football it would be awful. Anyway, as celebs appeared on the screen the crowd of 16,000 people showed their approval or disapproval for each of them. It was a horrible sort of trial of public opinion that I could completely enjoy, safe in the knowledge that my limited telly CV and position in the cheap seats meant I would never appear on the screen. First was Didier Drogba. Unsurprisingly he was vigorously booed. Next was Chris Moyles and Vernon Kaye. They got cheered. Ok, I thought. Drogba got it because he plays for Chelsea and is an unpopular footballer. Outside the realm of football though it looked like people were safe. But then Adrian Chiles came on the screen. The poor bastard got booed. Now I know he's been the butt of a few jokes of late but I have always thought he was alright. What, exactly has he done wrong?

People say he's just a normal bloke who got lucky so people resent his wealth and fame. I don't agree with that argument but I accept it. But hang on just a second... CHRIS MOYLES and VERNON KAYE got cheered! What have they got over Adrian Chiles that wins them the public's affections? I have no strong opinion on any of these men but if I was to rank them in order of how worthy they were of being booed it would go... 1. Chris Moyles, 2. Vernon Kaye, 3. Adrian Chiles. I really don't get it and this is why I will never be able to successfully tap into the money well that is 'the man on the street'. Me and 'the man on the street' just don't get on. I like Adrian Chiles (there, I've said it). He was great on Working Lunch. Is that too strong a word? 'Great'. There have only been three truly 'great' things in British history - Churchill's will against the Nazis, the work of Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Adrian Chiles on Working Lunch.

Before I go. Here's a video my brother showed me of a Hungarian rapper called Speak getting all anti-war and shit. Listen to the lyrics. It will change the way you think. I like it when he starts talking about his 'black brothers'. If only they could have got this to Bush and Blair in time...

Cash Cow

The bloke who sang and wrote Brimful of Asha lives near me. Perhaps I'm being naive but in my head he lives off that song. It is my hope that I will be able to live off this particular blog post for the rest of my life. It will be so irritatingly good that money will just roll towards me for all eternity. I haven't yet figured out how, in practical terms, that would work. More worryingly I haven't decided what to write about yet. I'm quietly confident though. As I write this I have a separate tab open in which I am viewing property I intend to buy once this cash cow starts paying off.

I've always thought I'd make an excellent millionaire. I do the lottery quite regularly and enjoy plotting out my spending plans. I have a 'friend' (I have no real friends - you will never get close to me) who says that she'd rather win £3 million than £50 million. That's fucking stupid. Her theory is that £50 million would be too much responsibility and would only lead to stress. I think I would handle that responsibility superbly. Any stress that I felt would be easily offset by the first class travel. £3 million is nowhere near enough. Especially if you have some hangers on - you know parents, children, siblings - those kind of pricks. I need to know that I'll have enough money at my disposal to live in perpetual luxury.

In the unlikely event that this blog doesn't bring in £50 million - how am I going to get there? Comedy seems an unlikely route. There are of course comedians who make a lot of dough but I'm not sure that I have that 'everyman' quality required for the big bucks. There's not many who make it to £50 million anyway. Perhaps I should take up football. I'm 30 and have a bad ankle. Is it too late? J.K. Rowling has something like a billion. Maybe I should write kids books.... 'Jimmy Fire And The Box Of Backstabbing Rodents'? That title alone should be worth at least a mil or so.

The real money is of course in the worlds of business and finance. I'm not sure I have the required indifference to my own position on the bellend scale to make it in that dimension. Also, I just genuinely paused this blog post to Sky Plus Neighbours. It strikes me that that was not the action of a future CEO.

Why do I so want to be rich? I suppose the obvious answer is that I was pretty poor as a kid and would like to never worry about money again. Also, things like the fact I never went to a restaurant until I was 18 or abroad till I was 15 make me appreciate those sort of things more I think. So much so in fact that I spend all my money on eating out and holidays and never have any left to save towards my first million.

I've just realised that I might be implying that I'm somehow wacky and unusual for wanting to being really rich. I realise that everyone fantasises about being rich one day. Everyone except those goddamn Commies! What annoys me is people who say 'money really isn't that important to me'. People like that invariably seem to have come from money therefore have never really had to worry about it.

If there are any potential benefactors reading this I'd like to add that I would of course do lots of good things with my money. I'd start by helping out that poor Charlie Sheen. I saw him say in an interview that the network are trying to destroy his family by taking away his means to support them. Hasn't he already made shitloads of episodes of that shit TV show (I've never actually seen it - maybe it's great) for something like $1m a pop? It's hardly hand to mouth. Perhaps he was treating each week like Brewster's Millions. As for me - Fergus's Millions would be a lot duller. It would just revolve around a moderately nice guy enjoying his life whilst wearing nice clothes and living in a house with a room big enough for a pool table and 100 life size mechanical wives. Goodbye.