A weekend in Wisconsin

Last Sunday I was waiting in line at a urinal at Lambaeu Field, the most legendary stadium in American football. An announcement came over the PA asking for everyone to "please remove their hats and be upstanding for the national anthem". Two gentlemen in front of me, both engaged in the act of urinating, took their hats off. I know that the USA is a patriotic nation but it would seem to me that the respect ship sailed the moment you took your dicks out lads. I'm not suggesting they should have put their penises away, I know better than any man that once you've started to piss it is impossible to put the genie back in the bottle. I guess I'm just saying that in that moment it would have been best to chalk that opportunity to show love for the flag up as a loss and make amends on another occasion.

I found myself in Wisconsin, thanks to an invite from my father in (common) law to attend a Green Bay Packers game. Being a big sports fan and desperate to cut loose from my current responsibilities as a toddler monitor, I jumped at the chance. Sadly I was with, other than those participating in the actual game, the only three sober men within a five mile radius of the stadium. A wild weekend away isn't just about drinking though is it? It's also about eating thousands and thousands of nutrition free calories, something I am always happy to do. I have the appetites of a man with a far better constitution.

On Monday I had the day to myself in Milwaukee, one of those mythical American place names like Wichita or Syracuse, most famous in my mind for its appearance in the movie Wayne's World. I went into Milwaukee Public Market and after using the public toilets to say a long difficult goodbye to the previous night's meatloaf, I treated myself to a Wisconsin Old Fashioned. A Wisconsin Old Fashioned is like a normal Old Fashioned but for two small differences - one: it uses brandy instead of bourbon and two: it has the word Wisconsin in front of it. If you stick the name of the place I am in in front of something I will always want to consume it. Later on, at the airport I would have a Wisconsin Beer Cheese Soup which was essentially a bowl of cheese sauce. If you're a restauranteur I recommend sticking your town's place name in front of whatever your lowest selling dish is. I would happily order a Sheffield Spaghetti Carbonara.

I left the market and headed for Milwaukee Public Museum. It was okay but as with much of life, all my days in foreign cities are filled with the nagging feeling that there's something better somewhere around the corner. I sat down on a bench in the 'Old Streets of Milwaukee' exhibit and with the recorded voices of out of work actors playing 19th century butchers ringing in my ears I did something I've never done before - I typed the word 'pie' in to Google Maps. Few things divide the Americans and the British more than what we encase in pastry. While we see it as an opportunity to serve mystery meat, Americans see pie as a fruit filled dessert. I fancied sitting in a diner, slowly eating a blueberry pie and having a long conversation with a charming old local, all the while thinking 'this is lovely but you probably voted for Trump, you racist old cunt'. Unfortunately my pie search was, just like the pies in my homeland - fruitless.

One observation about Milwaukee, and nearly everywhere else I go, is that there's no one there. Having lived in London, a place more crammed with people than a (please finish this joke, I do this for free), for seventeen years whenever I visit a new place I find myself asking 'where is everyone?'. Living in London has taught me that one should expect to cue for twenty minutes for a sandwich and that any walk down a major street is like a viral Black Friday video. Turns out most places just don't have that many people.

Despite only dipping my toe into its frozen waters, I rather liked Milwaukee or at least I think I would if I'd had the chance to fully submerge myself. It seemed as if every single conversation I heard was about the Green Bay Packers performance the day before. While on the one hand it brings to mind a totalitarian state in which only one topic of conversation is permitted, it is nice to have an entire community invested in one thing. Especially if that thing is something I happen to like - sport.

Back in Montreal now and back on baby duty. I can hear him waking up from his nap which means I have to go. Although I suppose I could leave him in there. Give him a little thinking time, you know.

Tim Hortons, minus 19, my big break.

It's minus fourteen and yet there's a queue outside of Schwartz's Deli. Not inside. Outside. Schwartz's Deli is a famous smoked meat sandwich diner type joint just a couple of streets away from where we're staying. I've been meaning to go there. Blessed with a rare childless afternoon (lost him somewhere, will look later) I thought I'd pop down. Won't be a queue outside at 3pm on a Thursday will there? Well, there damn well is. I refuse to believe that mankind has yet created a sandwich good enough to wait in minus fourteen for. Especially when directly opposite there is a deli selling exactly the same kind of shit.

This other deli probably opened just a couple years later and therefore missed out on legendary status. That's gotta suck balls. I went in and ordered a hot chicken sandwich. There was curling on the TV. The winter olympics isn't on but there's curling on the TV. Big league match I assume. Will catch up on the results later. My sandwich arrived. It comes with fries and peas on the top. Not on the side. It's a chicken sandwich with some peas on the top. Maybe that's their big idea to finally compete with Schwarz's. "What if? Now, hear me out Janet. What iiiiif we put peas on top of the sandwiches?"

I ate, left and ran straight to the Schwarz's queue. "Guys! Guys! Cross the road! They're putting peas on top of the sandwiches!"

Montreal's most popular eatery is Tim Hortons. It seems that for every five people here there is a branch of Tim Hortons. Selling coffee, donuts and all day McDonalds breakfast style fare it's a little like Greggs if Greggs was open 24hrs and all the staff were bi-lingual. When you enter any establishment here you are greeted by "Salut! Hi!". This is their way of letting you know that they're happy to communicate in either language. Imagine having to know two languages just to work in Greggs. What am I saying? Everyone in Greggs speaks two languages. They speak English and they speak the language of baked goods.

Tim Horton's donuts have become one of my coping mechanisms. The other day I went to get my fix and outside a man in the side alley just outside the Tim Horton's window was receiving CPR. What the circumstances were I don't know but it was dramatic. Cops, flashing lights and a paramedic doing everything he could to save a man's life. I pondered on whether there was something distasteful about proceeding to enter the queue and purchase a Glace au Chocolat. I decided there was nothing that I, personally, could do and that actually the best thing would be for me to give the medics some room, stay inside and eat my donut. And do you know what? No one even thanked me.

Last night as I walked across town it was minus nineteen, the lowest temperature I have ever felt. If you'd have cut me open and taken out an organ you could have stuck it on a sprained ankle like a bag of peas. I was on my way to an open mic gig. I've decided that having a sniff of the comedy scene here might be a good way of keeping creative and meeting some people. Someone recommended a night and I contacted the guy who ran it on Facebook. He suggested that I go to his Wednesday night open mic show.

I'm very far from gig fit and have no intention of ever doing any of my stale old material from 2015's Jongleurs circuit again so some open mics seem like a good idea. I had a look at the venue on a search engine everyone's using here called 'Google'. A significant proportion of the reviews made mention of the bar smelling like urine.

Walking upstairs I found no smell of pee but also nothing that looked like a comedy gig. I was assured there'd be one. It was the diviest of dives but as regular readers will know that is my domain. Whilst sat at the bar trying to work out who was a comedian and who was a heroin addict a homeless man complained that someone had just stolen his sleeping bag. Of course my first thought was sympathy but my second was that two years ago I was a lead in an International Emmy Award winning sitcom and now I'm hoping to get the chance to perform in a room where people are stealing from the homeless.

I did perform. To ten comics and two civilians. I don't want to speak too soon but I think it could have been my big break. Will call my agent tomorrow to see if any offers have come in.

My morning.

Look out window. Heavy snow. Look at phone. Minus seven (feels like minus eleven). Think I'll take the baby to a playgroup on the other side of the city. 

Dress baby, against his will, in sixteen layers. Leave apartment. Realise you've forgotten changing stuff. Return to apartment. Angry, sweaty, whiny baby. 

Leave building. An arctic fox walks by. A baby polar bear takes his first steps. Cute. 

Realise you don't have change for the bus. Baby crying now. Go into a Tim Hortons. Purchase a donut and plot plan to eat donut without baby seeing. 

Can't find bus stop. Gust of wind, buggy rain cover takes off. Successfully battle to re-attach rain cover but hold up important businessman on his way to important business meeting in the process. 

Find bus stop. No bus, no shelter, baby screaming. Consider eating donut. Bus arrives. Packed. Squeeze on with screaming baby no doubt crashing buggy wheels into four different people's ankles. 60 faces look at you and say 'what the fuck are you doing?' in French. 

Three minutes pass. Consider getting off the bus, leaving the baby and joining the army. 

People alight and space opens up. Sit down in front of screaming baby. Hand him a toy phone to play with but baby in giant coat has no access to hands. Enthusiastically pull out book. Baby bats it away with giant arm, continuing to scream. All of the world's faces stare at you. 

Take now mangled donut from pocket. Put piece in baby's mouth. Put larger piece in your own. Crying persists, but volume decreases. Another piece in baby's mouth. Larger piece in your own. This is a very sugary donut. Picture father and son as self induced diabetics. Continue until donut finished. Baby still crying. 

Remember that morning's Facebook post from friend currently filming HBO TV series in exotic location. Look out of window and go through each of your failures in detail. Arrive at intended bus stop. Plough through disgruntled passengers to carry buggy off bus and into giant slush puddle. Lean forwards and walk through snowstorm until you arrive at playgroup only to find that it's closed. 

More from Montreal.

I have no idea what is going on here. Trying to follow the news in a new country is like joining a TV show in its 83rd season. I don't know any of the characters. I bought the Montreal Gazette today. Here's a snippet -

'Former Parti Quebecois leader Jean-Francois Lisee says the party would have done much worse in the election had he not aggressively attacked Quebec solidaire in the last days of the campaign'.

Is Lisee a goodie or a baddie? Are Parti Quebecois Nazis? Centrists? Goddamn hippies?

I'm such a foreigner. I wonder aimlessly around supermarkets, not able to find anything or understand what it is, politely nodding at people and hoping I don't accidentally join a white nationalist pressure group. They don't do squash here, as far as I can tell. Lots of croissants though. Piles and piles of them. Little ones, big ones, salted caramel ones. I'm yet to see anyone buy any.

My twitter following choices mean that I'm still very connected to British news. We're five hours behind so every day I wake up to find fourteen Brexit related shit shows have already happened. There's a lot of 'the rest of the world are laughing at us!' going on. As far as I can tell the rest of the world isn't paying any attention. They're all laughing at Jean-Francois Lisee. Or not. It's difficult to tell. Like I say, I'm a long way from being able to pick up on the nuances.

We have snow now. Yesterday morning, the local park had about fifty of Saturday's snowmen still standing like the terracotta army. It's odd to live in a place where snowmen aren't a novelty but a part of life. It's so cold that I can't imagine they ever really melt. Is there a limit of one snowman per family? Build him in November, take care of him over the winter, and teach your child about death in early April? Or do people just build new snowmen every Saturday so by March the city's largest demographic is overweight white men - which should be pretty good for Jean-Francois Lisee's poll numbers - am I right guys? Am I right? Seriously, I don't have a fucking clue.

I'm writing this as my toddler sleeps. A brief window in my day in which I don't have to supervise what is essentially a tiny drunken half wit stumbling into a coffee table, pointing at things which very clearly aren't a flower and saying 'flower!'. Readers of my last post will be pleased to know I've learnt how to put mittens on a child. The average temperature here is currently below zero so any trip outside is preceded by a twenty minute fight to dress him. Then if you enter a building he is immediately far too warm so you either have to undress him, knowing you'll have to dress him again or turn up your Brexit related podcast and ignore him.

It's a rather beautiful city, covered in snow. Yesterday, trudging through the street with a coffee in my hand an old silver Mercedes pulled up beside me and I felt like I was in a 1980s American Christmas movie. So much of everything here triggers memories of American films and yet everyone has a French accent. How odd. Imagine if everything about Britain was the same except East Anglia spoke French and overstocked their supermarkets with croissants. So Norwich still had Nandos and Wetherspoons and Ladbrookes but everything written inside them was French. Everyone in East Anglia can still speak English but they've just decided, for a laugh, to speak French. It's nuts. It's like some bizarre Jean-Francois Lisee dream.

First post from Montreal.

Every time I tell someone I'm moving to Montreal I always add 'for a year'. This is a reminder to myself more than anything. It's only for a year. That's because the whole escapade is enormously stressful - a new country, a new language, a radically new climate and an abandoned network of friends, sources of income and Greggs outlets.

So why have we done this? Why have we done this? WHY HAVE WE DONE THIS?

This was a question I asked myself frequently last week as I woke up at 4am every day to monitor my jet lagged and dangerously curious toddler in our death trap of a temporary apartment. With my partner in bed, suffering from a chest infection (though she could be faking it) I flitted between stopping my son from climbing the stairs, turning the oven on and licking the wall sockets. Concessions have had to be made. I've decided that it's ok if he licks the wall sockets. Fuck it. You can't wrap them in cotton wool forever.

We've done this because my partner had the opportunity to transfer with work, because we've always wanted to try out another city and because death is always looming (sorry lads, it is) and one doesn't know if one'll get such an opportunity again.

When you tell a Montreal resident you've just moved here they all look at you like a veteran, sixty smokes a day detective and remark 'so your first winter huh?'. They love that. The consensus seems to be that from January until March it's minus 30. The internet says otherwise. I even pulled out my phone and thrust it in a bartender's face - 'Look! Minus ten! Minus ten!'. She laughed. At me, not with me. I've never felt minus thirty. Perhaps that's where I'm at my best. 'You know I never really hit my peak until I spent three months in an industrial freezer'. I guess they could be fucking with me. The whole city is built on a lie. It's named after Mt. Royal which is not a mountain. It's. A. Hill.

The place has a lot going for it. Excellent food, friendly people, plentiful pool tables and a perfect place to hideout after all the murders I did in London earlier this year. Thus far I haven't had much of a chance to experience it. Until we find our proper apartment, we can't stick the boy into a daycare and despite being nearly a year and a half old he is still utterly incapable of taking care of himself. And so the woman trudges into work and me and the boy run out of things to talk about.

There is a chance that in twenty years time Louis (his name) will, waist high in climate changed water, find this blog and perhaps I should moderate what I say about him accordingly. Look, son, in 2018 you were endlessly cute and my love for you was boundless but as a conversationalist you were piss poor.

"What sound does a cow make?"

"Mmmm"

"Good. What sound does a dog make?"

"Oufff. Ouffff."

"Good. What sound does a duck make?"

"Du! Du! Du!"

"Ok. Can we talk about the mid terms now? There's a lot going on. All this voter suppression doesn't bode well for 2020 does it?"

"Du! Du!"

This week is all about trying to get mittens on a toddler and then keep them on the toddler. So far I haven't come close but it's about to hit minus ten (which apparently means minus thirty) so it's either stay inside, get mittens on the boy or teach the boy a thing or two about frostbite.

I have to go now. I had an incredible smoked meat sandwich an hour ago and it's currently aggressively introducing itself to my bowels. Here's an observation - every other commercial on television here is for a bowel medication. Concerned looking woman after concerned looking woman with a voiceover about constipation. But then every other advert is for a fast food outlet yelling "THE TEN FOOT HIGH DEEP FRIED PORK CHOP BURGER DELUX - BABY YOU NEED IT!" Could these two things be connected? Or am I just being overly suspicious? No collusion!

Belgravia pub trip.

You may remember a while ago I went through I brief period of visiting dirty pubs and writing about them. That venture was scuppered when my friend got punched in the face and I re-evaluated the smarts of entering such fight ridden joints armed with only a middle class face and a strong pool game.

Last week I went to the opposite end of the spectrum. Have you ever hung around Belgravia? It's an area of London so posh that Monopoly couldn't afford to feature it on its board. Enormous mansions, 4x4 Rolexes and the lingering question 'What do all you fuckers DO?'

The answer for some of them is go to the pub. I started with The Grenadier. I became aware of this pub when looking through the Sunday Times Rich List and seeing a picture of Britain's richest man stood outside it. Worth a look, I thought. Walking down the mews in which it's situated and seeing the blazer-ed crowd outside I pondered on what I'd discover within. Chateaux Neuf on tap? A quail shitting eggs in the corner? The bloke from Razorlight?

What I did find (as arranged) was my Old Etonion friend. By pure coincidence I had invited my poshest associate. If the place suddenly descended into an Eyes Wide Shut style ritual I trusted he'd show me what to do.

It was different to your average pub but not radically so. Plummy voices filled the air and the card machine took American Express but I wanted to see something spectacular - two land owners demanding that their servants fight for betting purposes - something like that. I suspect I might have learned more if I'd listened in to their conversations.

That wasn't a problem in the next pub we visited - The Nags Head. This was next to a corner shop in another mews and when my friend and I entered we increased its patron population from three to five. 'Take a seat!' said the drunkest of the original three. We sat at the bar and he proceeded to give us a twenty minute long monologue on why the 'Nags' was London's last remaining proper boozer and would always be there for us. 'You'll always have the Nags. If your lady is giving you shit, you know that you can come down the Nags, have a beer and chat to your mates'. This was performed with theatrical cockney masculinity. I don't think this man was faking his cock-er-ny twang but I wanted to know how come his local was surrounded on all sides by £40 million properties owned by Qatari arms dealers.

Before long his alcoholic actor friend arrived, a man so rosy cheeked he had to be a Baron. This dude looked like every minor Richard Curtis character drinking a stupidly large whiskey. Then an elderly gentleman sat at the bar and ordered a sparkling water, then a well dressed Indian man came in and joined in the fun, buying everyone a Guinness. Now it is possible that this Indian gentleman simply works in a shop in Mayfair and stops off at the Nags on the way home to his modest flat in Tooting. But I refuse to believe that. There was something about the way he carried himself and my preconceptions about anyone who buys a round of drinks in Belgravia that made me certain he is the CEO of one of the world's top three chemicals companies.

Although I wouldn't call the Nags 'London's last remaining proper boozer' it was impressively pubby. No leather sofas or restaurant vibes here - just beer, bar stools and some eye rolling Irish bar staff. But how does such a place survive in an area with what I can't be bothered to look up but have decided are the highest rents in Europe? The same goes for the corner shop next door. There's no way selling milk and Twix's brings in enough revenue to compete with whatever the Crown Prince of Richdickistan pays to rent the place across the street.

My assumption is that there's some kind of arrangement between the local residents that they'll allow these places to continue. 'It may well be that I am the man behind turning every other corner shop in Britain into a Tesco Express but on a personal level I actually find them a little gauche'.

And so while the 99.9%  have to find shelter from global warming in soulless retail parks the architects of its destruction will be maintaining their own little enclaves of the British idyl. I fully intend on joining them. My goal is to become a Nags regular, ingratiate myself with the clientele, persuade a Duke to fall in love with me and live in an outhouse on his land in exchange for one buggering a week.

I was bullied.

One morning when I was fifteen, I walked into my form class and one of my peers punched me in the side of my head for no reason. I did nothing in response, I just sat down. Yesterday I turned 38 *leaves for an extended period of vomiting before returning to the keyboard to complete the sentence* and only now am I starting to admit to myself that I was bullied for pretty much the entirety of my school life and that it had a major effect on me.

There was only one other violent incident that stands out. This was when I was about ten and a case of mistaken identity. Riding my BMX up and down the back lane, two slightly older boys approached and accused me of playing the violin. 

"He plays the violin"

"No I don't. Honest"

"Yeah you do"

"No, you're thinking of Max. He lives at number 16"

Notice the way I so easily gave up my best friend at the time.

"He's lying. He plays the violin. Get off the bike."

I then proceeded to do as they asked, put myself into the embryo position on the ground and allow them to kick the shit out of me until a neighbour shoo-ed them off. 

These two stories give a good hint as to not only why so few string quartets come out of Newcastle but also why I was bullied. I didn't fight back.  I just didn't have that instinct. 

There were a few other reasons. I was a geek, interested in things. Being interested in things is not a good look at school. At the age of five I asked the teachers if I could give a talk in assembly on Islam. I wasn't boy-ish. Although I was obsessed with sport and had that Aspergers like obsession with facts that all boys seem to have, I didn't have that boy-ish posture or love of smashing shit up.  I was timid, I flinched easily. This was interpreted, as anything out of the ordinary is at school, as being 'gay'. The word gay followed me around everywhere - shouted at me in corridors or from passing bus windows.  Despite a pretty solid record at getting girlfriends and my weekend hobby of bike riding to distant newsagents and buying the highly nippled Daily Sport - I was 'gay'. And I was just a little bit odd. Still photos of me in conversation still usually catch my hands gesturing in strange positions or my grin extending Ardman Wallace like. These oddities have at times been beneficial in my career as a comic actor. They weren't as a child.

Now when I walk into rooms I no longer fear being punched in the head or hearing a colleague suggest everyone stick their backs up against the walls. But I do have, somewhere in my recesses, a fear of attack. This has led me to build myself a sort of defence system otherwise known as a dysfunctional personality. Every now and again someone tells me 'I thought you were a bit cold, a bit of a nob at first but actually you're alright' which I have to tell you is a fun conversation. I'm very cautious about showing enthusiasm for things or people. Showing you care about something is a vulnerable act. I wrote an entire book and 2,700 tweets mocking my own industry. This may well have been a way of projecting "I don't care whether you cast me or not, I don't like you guys anyway". Of course I do care but am incapable of showing it.

My experiences have served as a useful motivational tool at times. I've given all my tormentors imaginary miserable lives made only more miserable by turning on the TV and seeing my success as a star of under the radar digital channel sit coms and Birdseye chicken commercials.  

But when the work isn't coming in, when I'm in an actor's trough (Actor's Trough could be an excellent euphemism for something filthy I expect) what am I left with? Twenty years of social anxiety, a dickish demeanour and a poor track record at making friends. No one has come out of this well. I wasn't even on the bottom rung at school - I floated just above it - think of the lifetime effect on those who took hourly savagings. 

It's too late to change my personality now. I have what I have, all I can do is work with it. 

Writing this has given me a knot in my belly and a quiver in my lip. I'd like to end on a positive note but that doesn't feel honest. I am ashamed of being bullied which seems rather unfair, that I should have to suffer the shame, but it's the truth. The entire experience was utterly without merit. And there I go again, not showing enthusiasm for things.