Fergus Craig

Meandering blog post.

2012-02-10T02:38:00.000-08:00

I love football a lot and by that I mean I watch it a lot. I don't play it because of my pussy ass bad ankle. That and because I'm shit at it. I don't like to do things I'm shit at. This is why I haven't had sex in 9 years. I did, however play a lot of football at school. Every break time and lunchtime for 12 years I played football. In that whole time I think I touched the ball twice.

Last night I had a memory of the first time I played football at school. I was six years old and we were playing with a stone. I'm not joking. There were about twenty of us kicking a mid sized rock and I don't mean just kicking it about. We had an organised eleven a side game. If the rock went over a fence into someone's garden one of us would have to go over there... 'Can we have our stone back please?' This was Newcastle in 1986. Times were hard. If you want to do some research watch Billy Elliot. I think Newcastle had just the one football that year and I'm guessing Gazza had it that day.

Even though I love football I have found the way it's dominated the news in the last couple of days embarrassing and I'm someone who frequently watches Sky Sports News for eleven hour stretches. Many a time I've seen the same Mick McCarthy interview fifteen times in a day. But such blanket coverage feels very wrong on the proper news channels. Yesterday they cut away from Heather Mills at the Leveson inquiry to go to an FA press conference. I was momentarily angry. How could they cut away from real news for football nonsense? Then I remembered that what I was regarding as 'real news' was Heather Mills.

It seems obvious that the 'real news' going on right now is in Syria. But here's the thing - every time Syria comes on the news I turn over. That's right guys, I'm telling it like it is. You come here for the truth, don't start complaining if you don't like it. The situation in Syria seems so utterly helpless I've decided to ignore it.

Right, this blog post isn't going well. I've backed myself into a corner where I'm talking about ignoring Syria. How did I get here? This was not the plan. I blame the illuminati. They're always fucking up my shit. The other day the god damn illuminati made me leave my phone charger at home. God damn illuminati!

I'm a little out of practice with this blog. I spent last week filming a sit com pilot near Huddersfield. I wanted the pilot and the my performance to be as good as possible but for much of the time my main focus was staying warm. Actually we shot pretty much all our scenes outside in minus 'Christ, it's cold' temperatures so 'staying warm' wasn't an option. We never were warm. The ultimate aim was to 'approach warm'. I was creeping up on warm from behind but I never caught it.

What do you think the chances are of this blog post getting a movie deal? The plot seems to veer all over the place. There are no protagonists to root for. There's just this narrator character who seems to not know where the fuck he's going. Perhaps it something to do with the fact the narrator has only had a yoghurt for breakfast and isn't fully awake yet. Perhaps the narrator will now make himself some peanut butter on toast that he'll regret within minutes.

Bowl of sausages.

2012-01-11T06:23:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago I went on an impromptu pub crawl with comic and professional German Henning Wehn. We ended up at a lock-in in what could only be described as 'a dirty fucking East End boozer'. People were smoking. I'm serious! They were actually smoking... in a pub! I have mixed views on the smoking ban. As a non-smoker and someone who likes wearing jeans for a fortnight I appreciate the fact that a simple visit to the pub no longer causes every inch of my body to stink of fags. At this point, I'd like to let my American readership know that every inch of my body ALWAYS stinks of fags. The unfortunate side effect of the smoking ban is that it means that people now stand outside for a smoke. I live opposite a pub frequented by Dalston type bellends which means that on any given night I have 30 smokers shouting about bellendia outside my window. I just invented the word bellendia because I don't actually know what those types talk about anymore. I was going to say The Strokes and then I remembered that that was 10 years ago. I am OLD.

Hi guys! Good to have you back for the second paragraph... here goes! So there I was in this East End boozer, a little drunk and actually enjoying the indoor smoking with a kind of nostalgia. Myself and Henning sat at the bar like real men. Then a cardboard bowl of warm, cut up sausages with ketchup was placed in front of us. Bar snacks! This was fantastic. Perhaps they had noticed my German friend and decided to welcome him. Who'd have thought that 70 years on from the blitz an East End pub would not only serve a German but feed him with one of his favourite foodstuffs? We devoured the sausages. Yum yum. 'I love East End boozers' I think to myself. Two minutes later the publican saw that the sausages were gone and everything changed...

'Those sausages weren't for you!'

'What?' We mumbled with sausage breath and ketchup round our lips.

'Those sausages were for that bloke over there'.

Oh. They were just resting in front of us. We look over to see an extra from Danny Dyer's latest film 'Shut It You Nonce!' Suddenly I'm not having fun anymore. The thing is he did put the bowl of sausages directly in front of us. If it was a baked potato then I would have assumed a mistake but a bowl of sausages... surely they were just giving us some bar snacks. I wasn't familiar with proper East End lock ins. I guessed that's just what they did. I was certain someone had put a free bowl of sausages in front of me before. Hang on. Maybe that was in Spain. Perhaps I should explain that I was a little too accustomed to the tapas bars of Salamanca and Seville. Maybe not. No worries. This was easily solved. We could simply apologise for our mistake and buy a new bowl for the gentleman behind us. If that didn't work then, heck, sausages for everyone!

'Oh. We're sorry. We didn't realise. We'll buy another bowl of sausages then. And here, get yourself a bowl of sausages on us.'

There. Panic over.

'Can't do that. There's no more sausages'

'What?'

'We're out of sausages'.

Suddenly this had gone from a sausage emporium where sausages are handed out with abandon to a veritable synagogue. Now we were properly fucked. We'd made an error and now it appeared irredeemable. I considered ordering a taxi to the nearest 24 hour Tesco and grabbing some. They could hold my German friend as a sort of deposit while I did so.

The end of the story is kind of disappointing. Some of you want it to end with us turning it round with our wit and charm and joining them in an cockney sing-a-long. Most of you want it to end with us getting the shit kicked out of us. That's what you read this blog for - the violence. The truth is we just quickly finished our drinks and left with a little menace still in the air.

Thank you for reading my 100% true anecdote about a bowl of sausages.

Why are nice things are bad for you?

2011-12-21T06:45:00.000-08:00

This week I am reminded of one of life's cruelest truths - nice things are bad for you. My favourite things are chocolate, alcohol, chips, curry, unprotected sex, auto-erotic asphyxiation and spending 4 month periods on the couch. All of those things are reducing my life expectancy. This seems unfair. The more you enjoy life, the less of it you are allowed to have. Why have we evolved to become so damaged by pleasure?

During the festive period, pleasure, damaging pleasure is in constant supply. A couple of weeks ago I ate the nicest mince pies I've ever had. Why were they so nice? They were made with puff pastry and had a lot more sugar on top. They were nicer because they were less healthy. It was only this year that I suddenly realised any dish can be made much tastier by adding shit loads of sugar, salt, butter or a combination of the three. Why does our body love what's bad for it so much? Our bodies are like insecure women with bastards.

Drugs are probably the best example of this. As I understand it the drugs that offer the most pleasure are heroin and crack cocaine. I, no matter how often my girlfriend offers them to me, have never tried either. I have enough trouble sustaining my Cadbury's Chocolate Trifle habit. I don't think I'm too far off the mark when I say that heroin and crack are, although not particularly calorific, massively bad for you. I honestly don't get it. Why are our bodies structured in such a way? Surely evolution should have brought us to a point where the nicer things are, the better for us they are.

There is probably someone reading this who feels we've already reached that place. Right now, she's nibbling away at a bag of seeds whilst in a yoga position. Tonight, she might 'treat' herself to some pumpkin soup before her nightly jog. She tells herself that carbs make her feel bloated and she actually much prefers a night out without a drink. Over the Christmas break she's thinking of reading Wild Swans for the 8th time. Well, if you are reading this - stereotypical girl who I've just made up - I think you're lying to yourself. When you do eventually die at the age of 106, I think you might wonder whether you really needed the extra 30 years that healthy lifestyle has given you. As we all know, by the year 2050 Earth will be a dystopian hell ran by Apple cyborgs. You, girl who I've made up, will spend you're twilight years under their titanium thumbs. I, meanwhile, will have had the memory of a thousand late night cream horns to keep me happy on my early death bed.

This is all obviously bullshit I tell myself to make me feel better about my subscription to the local Indian takeaway. That is why I don't jump headfirst into the hedonistic lifestyle. I am aware of the damage that pleasure can do and therefore ration my pleasure intake. Instead of drinking 6 times the recommended weekly alcohol limit, I just hang around daringly a bit above it. Instead of downing entire tubs of Ben and Jerry's I go through them in thirds. I have found a compromise. Neither slim nor obese - podgy. Neither a life brimming with pleasure nor a life lacking of it - content. So I may well live long enough to see the Apple cyborgs. I just won't be fit enough to fight them.

My appearance in Jonathan Creek and other abominations.

2011-12-19T07:07:00.001-08:00

When I enter a room people often ask me if I'm cold. This is because I have the sort of posture that suggests that I am cold. I have the posture of a cold man. Those of you who saw me brilliantly deliver the single line 'How can you tell?' in a 2003 episode of Jonathan Creek will not be surprised to learn that I went to drama school. There my posture was somewhat of an issue for the faculty. A lot of time was spend trying to correct it. I think they feared I'd have a career of simply playing cold men. Upon arrival at drama school I was very skinny and so was not too worried. I was quite happy to play Gulag prisoners in big movies for the rest of my days. But then my diet of potato waffles, chicken burgers from Abduls and Guinness helped my waist to expand and my career in the Gulag seemed no longer guaranteed. I too, started to worry about my posture.

The thing is posture isn't a very easy thing to correct. Although I did seem to spend every morning doing Alexander technique (rolling around on the floor) it didn't seem to be changing for me at any noticeable rate. Other students waxed smugly about the wonders it was doing but it always looked to me like they had perfect posture in the first place. It grew into a massive annoyance for me. It's a weird thing to move to the other side of the country to learn your trade and to find that not being able to pull your shoulders back is your biggest obstacle.

I'd like to think that my posture is moderately improved although if a former teacher was to see me they'd no doubt tell me it's still shit. It's almost certainly had an effect on the type of roles I've been given. I seem to have played a remarkable number of children, freakish virgins and mentally handicapped people. Perhaps if my shoulders would simply move an inch or two back I'd be competing with Ryan Gosling.

That reminds me of a story. Years ago I changed agents. My new agent was contacted by a casting director from The Bill who had been trying to track me down for a few days. They were very keen to see me for a role they thought I was perfect for. I awaited the script with excitement. The Bill, back then, was a rite of passage it seemed and it looked like I was about to make my mark. What was the role that I was so perfect for? A new bad boy PC? A local villain?I'll tell you what it was. A 15 year old with special needs. At the audition I gave it my best. Then the casting director told me I didn't need to do 'the voice'. Here's the thing. I wasn't doing a voice. I wasn't doing a voice! This means, ladies and gentlemen, that my voice to that casting director sounded like a bad actor attempting the voice of a teenager with special needs.

Whilst I'm in the mood to tell you grim stories from my chequered career I'd like to briefly bring you back to my appearance on Jonathan Creek. I did in fact have three lines in that episode but two of them were cut. Why? Because I shit. It was my first TV job and I had no idea what the frig I was doing. In the unlikely event that anyone reading this runs a drama school (I know I have a big readership in the Eastern European absurdist theatre world) then do by all means try and coax your students shoulders into optimum position. I do, however, suggest that you spend at least a modicum of time teaching them how the fuck a TV shoot works. The thing is that's where they are likely to find the bulk of their income and if they walk onto their first set utterly clueless then they are going to look like a giant twat. I was and I did.

It's hard to describe just how useless I was that day. Without knowing any of the technical jargon and being riddled with nerves I must have looked like a 6th century Native American who'd been transported and forced to walk around the Ideal Homes show in Earls Court. I distinctly remember hearing the director and the writer debating as to whether they could cut my part and still make the scene work. The answer was in the edit. They kept the one line and then quickly cut to Colin McFarlane who would later appear in The Dark Knight. Well done, Colin. Nice to see you've done so well. How come you don't keep in touch anymore? It's me! Fergus! I played the paramedic in Jonathan... Colin?... Colin?

It occurs to me that in the current climate in which there is less and less work for actors talking about how shit I can be may not be wise. If any casting directors are reading this I should point out that I am in fact amazing. I have moved on a lot for my Jonathan Creek appearance which is about 5 mins 30 into this clip...

Massive house in Hampstead.

2011-12-07T04:48:00.000-08:00

On Monday I spent most of the day filming in a four storey house in Hampstead. I haven't spent much time in rich people's houses in the past as all of my friends are scum and during my seven year affair with Princess Anne we usually spent the night at my gaff. The Hampstead mansion was in one sense very impressive. For the price of a one bedroomed flat in Hampstead you could pay the wages of Canada's civil service for 5 years so with a four storey house you could probably get China's navy. I regularly checked in cupboards for gold bullion.

In another sense it was a bit of a shit hole. Well, not a shit hole, but if it was on MTV Cribs I don't think I'd like the person. All the walls were white and adorned with modern, no doubt expensive art that looked like it had actually come from Ikea. There were plenty of book shelves impressively stocked with hard back copies of every single book that has been recommended by a broad sheet newspaper in the last ten years. There wasn't one book that could be described in any way as embarrassing. That to me is suspicious and embarrassing in itself. I have to say the books looked remarkably untouched. Perhaps there was a draw somewhere filled with well thumbed autobiographies and Coleen Nolan's novel.

The bedroom was where, for me, the dream house properly crumbled. It was, of course, massive and en suite. There were two sinks in the same area as the bed. Fine. There is nothing wrong with seeing someone brush their teeth. Then there was a bath hidden by a little wall that didn't extend across the whole room. Fine. I don't mind hearing someone slosh about whilst I pretend to read a hard back on Russian gulags. But then there was a toilet. Not fine. You couldn't see the toilet but there was nothing to stop you hearing or smelling everything that was done there. I'm no prude. I like water sports as much as the next perv but I do not want to wake up to the smell of shit. How must it feel to have spent £8 million on the house of your dreams only to wake up to the smell of your partner's morning dump?

This is the problem. The wrong people have all the money. Give it to me please. Give it to me.

Theme parks.

2011-11-16T07:03:00.000-08:00

Whilst in Florida (keep up) we stayed in a lovely hotel connected to the Universal theme parks. As you no doubt remember Warwick Davis and his family were also there. That strikes me as rather sad - a family of dwarfs staying beside a theme park where none of them were tall enough to get on the rides. You're right. That is quite a cruel observation to make but it is a true one and we will leave it at that.

I on the other hand am tall enough to get on the rides and have been for some time *takes a puff on a cigar and says 'ladies'*. It took me until I was well into my 20s until I developed the courage to get on proper roller coasters though... 'ladies'. Now I bloody love the bastards. If I could take a roller coaster to work I would. For that to happen I will first need to get a job.

There was a guy at Islands of Adventure that day who was having an even better time than me. He was about 30, on his own and had full Darth Maul face paint on. My guess is he thought to himself... 'I'm at a theme park. I obviously have to get face paint done. I am, however, an adult so getting Mickey Mouse would be sad. Wait! I know! I'll get Darth Maul! Now I look super cool... ladies'. Brazilian Darth Maul (I for some reason decided he was Brazilian) was everywhere we went. He powered down the artificial streets with a massive smile on his face, camera in hand, taking pictures of everything he saw... Popeye, dinosaurs, lampposts, hot dog stands and trees. I reckon he made his money on the Brazilian stock market, retired early and now he stands outside Universal at 6am every morning waiting for it to open.

On Friday we went to Epcot. For those of you who don't know, Epcot is a science museum/theme park/collection of fake countries. The funniest part is probably Future World. Having been built in the 1970s, Epcot's vision of the future is like a 1980s shopping centre. Seriously, it's like the Arndale Centre in Manchester. I half expected to find a key cutting machine.

Another funny attraction is a short 3D film made by George Lucas and featuring a Bad era Michael Jackson. I found it hard to follow but this is what I gathered - Captain Eo (Jackson) and a band of what appear to be stuffed toys have to defeat an evil woman in space. They do this by gradually, through the medium of music and dance, turning each of her space soldiers into backing dancers. With every step they become stronger until it is eventually a Michael Jackson music video. Then for, as far as I could see, no apparent reason Angelica Huston is carried on and joins in the festivities. Made in 1986, I'm impressed that it's stayed open for so long. When Jackson was on trial few could have had more invested in the verdict than the staff who work on the Captain Eo attraction at Epcot. Now that he is dead and sainted their positions are forever safe.

The bulk of the park is taken up by replicas of countries. First was the United Kingdom. I was geared up to be offended but I found it fairly acceptable. It featured a pub (the Rose and Crown), a gift shop selling football shirts and tea related things, some red phone boxes and a bandstand in a pretty park. There is of course more to Britain than that and it is a rose tinted view. I don't feel the need though, to demand a replica of the Thamesmead estate or Fred West's patio. If you're going to boil down our country to a few things then I'm fine with pub, tea and football.

One last thing which made the day at Epcot quite creepy. There was a plane in the sky that kept writing religious messages. As it wrote 'Love' I thought it rather charming. I pondered on whether people ever train to be a pilot with the sole intention of writing in the sky. 'I like calligraphy, I like planes. Why not combine the two?'. But then it evolved (ironic) into 'Love God'. Now this plane was making demands of me that I didn't feel I could live up to. The messages kept on coming... 'God is love', 'Jesus is God, worship him' and 'Moses is such a cutie pie'. I made that last one up but the religious plane did exist. Pray to God it never comes your way.

I can't get it into this blog but here is a link to Captain Eo... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AstW05bDiQU

I Bloomed In Orlando

2011-11-15T06:25:00.000-08:00

Those of you who could be arsed to get your heads out of those bloody comics of yours to read my blog yesterday will remember I left you with a cliff hanger. Someone paid for me and my girlfriend to fly first class last week but where were we going and why? The answer is we were going to Orlando, Florida (USA) and we were going because my suspiciously unnamed girlfriend (Robert) was being inducted into her old University's Hall of Fame. This is remarkable for a couple of reasons. Firstly, my girlfriend's success in her own career so outweighs mine that I'm proud of my ego for surviving our relationship. Secondly, educational institutions in the States can be so rich that they can afford to fly one of their former students' boyfriends to Orlando in first class. Not only that but they paid for us to stay in a lovely hotel for a week too. The very same hotel that Warwick Davis and his family were staying in no less.

The Hall of Fame ceremony was both incredible and to cynical British eyes a little ridiculous. As I describe the events I want you to imagine how a similar ceremony would be played out at your old college/school. The image in my head consists of a sports hall and two bowls of crisps.

First, a series of celebrities were introduced in a very American presenter voice as they walked down a fully fledged red carpet. The celebrities included two members of the band 'Disturbed' and Stedman, Oprah's boyfriend. Robert (Robert's real name is Laurie) had foolishly given me the task of being her 'presenter' which meant that I had to introduce her once the ceremony was under way. Each of the 'presenters' were individually announced as they walked down the red carpet. I have been on a few of red carpets in my life. Most of them at badly decorated B and B's, one of them at the BAFTAs. No one has ever taken the slightest bit of interest in me on one. But here I was in a foreign country where NO ONE beyond my girlfriend's family had a fucking clue who I was and literally 20 photographers were frantically taking my photo as I gingerly walked down it.

I should give you some context here. The ceremony was being held at 9am on a Monday morning and the night before a jet lagged me had been treated to a free drinks do. After a couple of beers I decided to have a glass of whiskey. In Britain a glass of whiskey is actually a thimble of whiskey which has been poured into a glass. In the States a glass of whiskey is... A GLASS OF WHISKEY. Brits tend to be sneering about Americans capacity for heavy drinking. Brits tend to be wrong.

So there I was sat in my chair on the stage, sweating alcohol and waiting for the ceremony to begin. We watched on a big screen as the inductees (including Robert) walked down the carpet. A camera cut to shots of the inductees proud families in the audience. Another camera, on a crane, took swooping shots of the room as a whole. This show had a bigger budget than most of the TV series I have appeared in. In true American style, the ceremony's pre-amble was topped off with us all standing for the national anthem sung by the group 4Sure who nearly made it to the finals of American X Factor. None of this is a lie.

Then the head of the university made a speech. He was a certain kind of American. The kind that truly has no British equivalent. He appeared to be utterly devoid of cynicism and spoke with what looked to be the upmost sincerity about that university's 'family'. As a Brit I smelt a whiff of bullshit. Looking back though, I think I may have been wrong. It must say more about me than him that I found it creepy for a man to speak so positively about his work.

And then came my introduction for my girlfriend. I couldn't help but see this as my first overseas gig and littered my little speech with gags. To my delight the Americans lapped it up. I mean they properly chowed down on my humour. And so I left the room truly in love with Americans for their apparent openness and positivity. Would a British audience, on a Monday morning, have been so ready to laugh? I fear not. In fact, in my experience a British audience on a Friday night is rarely so ready to laugh.

It is decided. I am moving to America. Based on last week it is a land of nothing but free booze, free hotels, unending positivity, easy laughter and theme parks. Tomorrow I will tell you about the rest of my trip for there is much to tell.

Note: for the purpose of a theme I have characterised Americans as exclusively positive, fun loving hippies. I did and have, in fact, met many negative American energy sieves. Robert, for example.

First class

2011-11-14T06:28:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I flew first class for the first time in my life. Actually I flew first class on BMI to Glasgow once but with that I just got to sit near the front and there was enough time be handed a bag of nuts. Yesterday was proper, BA, transatlantic first class with metal cutlery and everything.

I was actually meant to be flying first class last Saturday but I was downgraded which was more than a little annoying. I have built the idea of first class flying up in my head for a long time so when it was cruelly taken away from me I felt like crying. I was casually told that the flight was 'oversold'. This seems such an odd phenomenon to me - airlines overselling flights. In what other field is it acceptable to sell more of something than you can actually provide? Lots probably. I should read more.

Fortunately we were given access to BA's lounge at Gatwick so didn't feel like the complete normaloids that we are. Myself and my girlfriend had arrived there early just to experience the lounge. In my head it was a leather seated paradise, an indoor Club Tropicana with dancing girls, foot massage and American pool tables. In actuality it was more like the awkward bit before a Coventry based accountant's leaving do started. There were some free drink and nibbles but not much else. It was like a Travelodge without the glamour.

Having said that, Britain's most famous dwarf, Warwick Davis was there. What if he was one of the bastards taking our seats in first class? I mean this in the nicest possible way - it's not like he needs the fucking legroom! Sure enough, as we left for our departure gate, Warwick and his family were headed the same way. What an injustice?! It seems that all you have to do to be guaranteed first class is appear in about 10 of the highest grossing movies of all time. Disgusting! It turned out Warwick was in premium economy with the rest of us premium plebs.

Celebrity spot!... Warwick Davis watching his own sitcom 'Life's Too Short' on his ipad on the plane and pissing himself. Fair play to him. Most of my weekends are spent watching my 3 second appearance on Jonathan Creek on a loop.

Miracle of miracles we weren't downgraded on the return flight and I got to experience first class to the fullest. These are my impressions...

1. You do indeed get metal cutlery and proper glasses. The assumption here I think is that terrorists can't afford to fly first class. My point would be that if you're prepared to kill yourself and hundreds of others you might not feel guilty about taking out a loan you can't pay back.

2. You do get turbulence in first class. I thought this was only an economy thing.

3. Being able to lie fully horizontal on a plane feels enormously decadent. You are, however, in an enclosed space with lots of stangers. It's a bit like a youth hostel dorm except everyone is rich.

4. Everyone in first class looks pretty normal. I thought it would be 70% Arab sheiks. I guess they fly Emirates.

5. You get a little bag with moisturiser and toothpaste etc. The bag itself is worth no more than £20 but somehow it adds to the idea that spending an extra £2,000 on a flight is worth it.

I should say now that neither I nor my girlfriend paid for these flights. As I know that my demographic have short attention spans and no doubt need to get back to head butting walls, I'll tell you who paid for them and why tomorrow. Bye!

Stags and Hens and Wallys and Bellends

2011-10-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night I was unfortunate enough to take a train from Newbury to Reading. The train was, myself excluded, entirely populated by 20 year old bellends in costumes. I am not saying that being a 20 year old in a costume makes you a bellend by the way. That would make Jedward bellends which is absurd. I am saying that the people on the 9.05 from Newbury to Reading were bellends. Consider the evidence;

About 70% of them (honest guess) were dressed as Wally from Where's Wally? There were three separate groups of Wallys. Nothing says 'I'm wacky and crazy' like being in a group of 25 all wearing exactly the same outfit (sarcasm). I don't get why groups all wear the same costumes. It seems so depressing. It was like a Hitler Youth night out. I'm not sure if they were stags and hens or just off to a party. Either way they, to me, they were just a giant globule of shouty Jagermeister vessels in red and white. At one stage one of them turned to me and showed me a picture on his phone, asking if I thought it was funny. It wasn't funny but was horribly racist. It showed a black child in a supermarket trolley with the caption 'Get used to the bars little nigga'. If you're ever in any doubt as to whether racism still exists in Britain - just take a trip to a small town. The fact that he didn't think twice about showing it to a stranger and was surprised when I pulled my Guardian reading face of disapproval says it all.

Slightly related question - what has happened to stag and hen nights in the last few years? If early Neighbours is anything to go by a stag night used to just consist of a night at The Waterhole, a stripper who Des will marry and die in a car crash (don't they all?) and then the stag getting tied naked to a lamppost. Now everyone has to go to fucking Prague. Stags and hens of the world! It is not fair to essentially force your friends (and your fiance's brother) to spend their holiday money at a destination of your choice. I am lucky enough not to have any real friends but everyone I know at the moment seems to spend every other weekend doing massively expensive activities miles away from where anyone taking part actually lives. All this simply because an old school friend who they no longer have anything in common with (hence the fucking hat making weekend) has found a mate.

Stags and hens! I understand that it is your 'special day' but does it have to be your 'special four day weekend' and does it have to be in fucking Krakow and do we really have to drink shots at 7am before we go fucking paint balling?

A visit to the nurse.

2011-10-26T07:11:00.000-07:00

Last night I couldn't get to sleep until about 4. This is not unusual for me. A couple of weeks ago I had a night in which I couldn't sleep till 7.30 in the morning. That is proper bullshit. That night went something like this; Lay in bed for an hour, get up and go to the toilet, lay in bed for another 40 minutes, get up and watch some baseball (!), lay in bed for another hour, get up and flick between baseball and Fox News, lay in bed for another hour, get up and go to the toilet, lay in bed for another 40 minutes, wake my girlfriend up to tell her I can't sleep, get up and watch Daybreak for the first time ever, go back to bed and watch my girlfriend get up for work, fall asleep. Your sympathy is gratefully received.

In other news my 81 year old Grandad phoned me up on Monday. Something had happened to him on a trip to the hospital which he thought I could use in my 'comedy'. Amazingly he went to the trouble of writing the whole story and emailing it to me. Can your Grandad use email? No. He can't can he? Gutted.

Here's the story he sent me, word for word. If you're at all unclear, the implication is that it sounded like he and the nurse were having sex. As far as I know, they weren't...

A visit to the Nurse

The waiting room was full as usual with a mixture of retired pensioners and young mothers with their offspring creating the usual mess on the floor with all the toys.

I took my place at a convenient seat near the door I was going to be called into.

In due course the door opened and the nurse called me by my Christian name “William” and I rose from my seat and went into her treatment room, without any apprehension, as it was only a breathing test I was having to check my lungs were functioning properly.

The nurse prepared me for the test by explaining in hushed voice what she would be applying to me in order to get the best test results.

She explained all the graphs on a screen like a T V which would record all the efforts I was capable of achieving, each one had a significance to some part of my Bronchial efficiency.

The procedure had 3 bouts of breathing activity I would be asked to follow.

The nurse was very enthusiastic in going over all the details of how I was to respond to her instructions.

She told me to take a very deep breath and in a loud instruction she encouraged me to take more and more and kept saying “more William more” and “don’t stop, don’t stop”, then the instruction changed and she exalted me to push harder into a tube in my mouth, “push William push harder” repeating it over and over. Then she said, “ When I say start I want you to give it all you’ve got and force as much as you can”. “ Right start now, More William don’t stop keep going keep going, that’s lovely, keep going, don’t stop your doing very well, very well.” “Now I want you to do it all again only this time push harder”. “ Wait until I say start, right start now, fill it up as much as you can and then push with all your might William, don’t stop that’s wonderful, give it all you’ve got, don’t stop William, your doing so well its brilliant, don’t stop William.” “I want you to push as hard as you can William. “I’m so pleased. “O yes you have reached the right mark William, I’m so pleased.

I relaxed for a moment or two and then had to start the procedure all over again. This time with even more encouragement and with all the enthusiasm and words of praise as to my performance.

Just then the door to the treatment room opened and the doctor came in and asked “what is going on “ but saw the equipment being used and understood and said “I see” “But could you keep your voices down as The patients can hear what you are saying”.

When he left another nurse came in, who usually took my blood for tests, and said, “ What are you doing to my William, He’s my patient” and laughed.

As I left the surgery I got some very mixed looks from many of the waiting patients, some of envy and some of disgust

Near death experience.

2011-10-04T08:16:00.001-07:00

Last night I was approached by a man outside my house. I instantly knew that he was going to ask me for money and I also knew that I wouldn't give him any. He was pretty dishevelled and only one tooth had bothered to stay in his mouth. In a sense I shouldn't be judging him on his appearance but, you know, so would you.

In London I am frequently approached by people asking me for 'money for the bus'. These people always look like alcoholics or crack heads. Either alcoholics and crack heads just love riding the bus or they're lying. It is a sad state of affairs when my instant response to a stranger in need is an immediate 'no'. Especially considering their stories are often quite elaborate and believable. What if they're true? What if one day I end up getting beaten up, losing all my money and need to get the bus back to Penge to see my sister who's sick? And what if that all happens on a day I have chosen to dress like a crack head? Then I will have to hope that I find someone nicer than me.

What was interesting about last night's guy was his method. He played a genuinely startling mind trick. He starting by taking an i.d card out of his wallet. My first thought was that he was trying to prove that he was a responsible member of society in a fix by showing me that he had a normal job. Instead the card was from Brixton prison. He told me that he'd just left there. He then showed me cuts on his wrists which he said were from recently applied handcuffs. I ruled out inviting him in to watch Dragon's Den with me. He explained that he needed money for the bus (don't we all - thanks BORIS!) and that he didn't want to reoffend to get it.

Ahhhh. So that's the trick. For a second I considered giving him it because I was so bamboozled. Not least by the fact that they give you an i.d card when you leave prison. What possible circumstance would that be useful in other than... I don't know... applying for a job at News International?! SATIRE!! Then I figured that if he really needed the bus then he could just hop on a fucking bendy one. I said 'no, sorry' (always polite) as I was walking into my house and then he said 'that's a nice house you've got, I might have to reoffend and burgle that'. Well, just as long as you only burgle £2.20's worth for bus fare and not a penny more.

This is the sad thing about the city. We don't trust anyone and we're right not to. If I ever ask for directions it always starts with the person looking away in fear at first and I look like a sick school boy.

Here is something I can't be arsed to fit into the structure of the blog post. Consider it a bonus feature; There's another guy on my street who frequently asks me for money. Each time he has a bloody mouth and says he's just been punched in the face. First off it's sad that he is so desperate that he regularly punches himself in the face to try and get what he needs. Secondly, it's sad that he's stupid enough to do it on the same street, to the same people every night.

Bye!

Getting my hair cut.

2011-09-19T09:06:00.000-07:00

I was going to go for a haircut today but I've decided not to. I don't like getting my haircut. There are two different types of people who cut my hair; When I am feeling flush I go to expensive places. The first time I went to one and got a head massage it blew mind. She just started groping my head. 'This feels nice, don't say anything' I told myself. What I don't get about the head massage is that it's never mentioned. Sometimes you get it, sometimes you don't and we never talk about it. When I don't get one I feel like saying 'excuse me but where's my fucking head massage?'. But I don't.

I always feel out of place at the expensive places. Usually because I'm the only customer with a penis (and a rather impressive one at that). On an average visit my hair is cut by a gay Scottish guy coming down from a pill and it is clear within 15 seconds that we have nothing to talk about. I fein interest in a magazine that is 2 inches thick, costs £8 and seems to feature ONLY adverts.

When I'm not quite so flush (my finances fluctuate like a moderately pretty actress's self esteem) I go to what is known as a 'barbers'. There I feel even less comfortable. I find it strange that male hairdressers are either gay and expensive or ridiculously blokey and cheap. It's clear that there is no place for a man like me in this business. Here, in the barbers, my accent will always do it's very best to go authentic cockney. I have serious trouble with this phoney accent brought on by my feelings of inadequacy as a man. In the presence of barbers, taxi drivers and Mickey Flanagan I leave a pile of dropped h's by my feet. When I'm in Manchester my accent goes Corrie without me even noticing it. Then people ask where I'm from and I find myself sounding like Reg Holdsworth as I say 'I'm from London, me, love'. By the way I've noticed that on IMDb it says I was born in Ireland (never been there) and on Wikipedia it says I was born in Manchester (not true). Where was I really born? You shall never know. Or care.

At barbers you don't always get magazines either which leaves me to simply look at my own face in the mirror for 20 minutes. Well, that is a depressing sight. I think my face looks like a pale chubby child's school photo after it's put through a computer ageing programme. Then no matter what I look like at the end I feel like I've got the worst haircut ever. This is in direct contrast to what I tell the barber. 'Yeah, that looks great. Fanks very much!'.

Congratulations on reaching the end of this blog post. As a reward here is a video I found funny...

Advert auditions

2011-09-09T04:21:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I am going to go through the ritual humiliation of an advert audition. If it's so humiliating then why am I going? Because adverts pay large amounts of money (sometimes really, really large) for one day's work. So this afternoon I am entering a lottery with relatively good odds and a nice cash prize. The difference is I don't pay for my ticket in cash - I pay for it in dignity.

I should say that not all advert auditions are awful but a fuck of a lot of them are. For those of you not blessed with the talent to be in my industry let me describe them to you. You get a time from your agent (let's say 1.20) to go to a casting usually in a small room somewhere in Soho. You get there at 1.10 and find 20 other people that look like you but a bit younger have taken all the seats. A young runner behind a desk with a trendy haircut hands you some forms and a script. If you are a man and about my age that the script will most likely be;

a) A group of likeable lads wind each other up in a likeable laddy way. Their problems are either solved by or their friendship somehow represents alcohol, junk food or BT.

or...

b) A geeky but likeable guy is embarrassed in the company of an attractive woman. He either becomes attractive to her because of or takes comfort in alcohol, junk food or BT.

You then wait for an hour and a half to be seen. This is perhaps the most annoying part of advert auditions. I believe that the assumption on their part is that we, the auditionees spend our days waiting for the opportunity to sell Wotsits to an unwilling world. We do not. We spend our days working on other stuff so that we can get to a point in our lives in which we are happy to turn down thousands of pounds to sell Wotsits.

Then when you enter the audition room you are confronted by a friendly casting director and five advertising goons in deck shoes on their iPhones. The advertising goons refuse to look at you while you stand on a spot and say your name and agent to a camera. Then the director (usually much more polite than the goons) tells you that the script you've been looking at for the past 90 minutes is the wrong one. They'd like you to improvise something for them. This, I think has become a major problem. Advertisers get comedy people to come in and 'improvise' and thereby 'help to write' their advert for no fee. The role is then offered to Ralf Little.

What has become unbearable for me is the dynamic in the room. From the goons point of view I am a shit actor, struggling for work and this is a massive opportunity. Their assumption, I think, is that only the shittest of the shit end up at Wotsits auditions. The fact that they are making a Wotsits advert doesn't seem to lead them to question their own place on the shit scale at all. In this small instance these bellends have a power over me - the ability to pay me a huge wad of cash for my services - and, too often, they abuse that power by treating me like doggy plop.

There's certainly an arrogance on my own part at play here. I don't like the idea that these people seem to feel above me. I want them to know what I've done and respect it. Respect me, God dang it! Just because I wouldn't mind a 12 grand cash injection to help pay for my mother's crystal meth habit doesn't mean I haven't given one of the finest Prospero's the world has ever seen. I mean, I haven't (I'm far too young for the role) but how do they know that?

I fear I haven't quite described the sheer disdain and smugness that oods from many of those advertising goons. This Cardinal Burns/Fat Tongue sketch which you've probably seen displays the humiliation pretty well...

The most sexist place left in society is around a pool table.

2011-08-17T05:23:00.000-07:00

Below are the beginnings of a post I wrote whilst slightly drunk in a hotel room a couple of weeks ago. I consider it an unfinished masterpiece and feel it is my duty to release it. If I die before it is completed - like Speilberg completed A.I for Kubrick - I elect George Orwell to complete this blog. That is assuming he doesn't die first. What?! He has?! How did I miss that? In that case I designate the responsibility of completing any unfinished works in the event of my death to Gaby Roslin....

I'm in the Holiday Inn Express Cardiff City Airport and my career has reached a nadir. I'm not sure I know exactly what nadir means but I'm prepared to say that I've reached it. Earlier on this evening I did a gig at the Barry Memorial Theatre and it was pleasant enough. As a young boy who was so desperate to perform that at the age of five I voluntarily did a talk in assembly about the pillars of Islam (true) I never dreamed that I'd get this far.

I'm starting to appear sarcastic aren't I? In this instance I'm not. I mean it's not a nadir (whatever that means) but it's been lovely. I'm on my own. When I arrived at the Holiday Inn Express I decided to have a drink in the bar downstairs. I usually do this when I'm away. Hotel rooms are essentially just fancy bedrooms and I don't really do anything in bedrooms except sleep and MAKE LOVE.

So there I was in the bar downstairs with a pint of Caffreys. Beside me I had a copy of Tina Fey's Bossypants (which is brilliant) but being a prick I was embarrassed about it because there were builders around. The builders were playing pool and I decided that I wanted a go. Guess what? I am fucking brilliant at pool. I mean really. To a builder I probably look like I'd rather stick a pool cue up my arse than pot a ball with it but I am honestly really good. I

And there I stopped. I remember that I was worried that, being drunk I might regret posting. I think it was alright. I wonder what I was about to say with that final 'I' that made me stop. Perhaps the 'real me' was coming out and I was about to unleash a tirade about immigrants. Anyway, I did beat the builders at pool because I am, indeed, brilliant at it. That wasn't just drunken bravado. It's a source of great pride for me that I am good at pool and I love surprising people with it. Lots of men seem astonished that someone with no muscles and the gait of a bi-curious teen can beat them. They forget that pool is a game of skill not braun.

The most sexist place left in society is around a pool table. My girlfriend is very good at pool (when she's not on the crack pipe) and the way men handle it is incredible. If she plays a male stranger they nearly always start by giving her advice. This is before she has even done anything. Then when she plays a couple of good shots they make a point of saying 'good shot' quite loudly but clearly believe in their heads that it was a fluke. Then when she eventually beats them they lay on the praise a little too thick as if she's just done the impossible. "Fifty years ago the world saw it's first talking woman but never did we think we'd see the day when someone with a vagina could create the necessary angle required to pot a ball".

Many women play into the sexist atmosphere around a pool table. Of course, plenty of them are shit at it but there is no need to act so helpless. There is something very 1950s about the way they giggle and defer to the be-testicled for advice. It's not that hard of a game. Just work it out for yourselves, ladies. And if you really can't do it then maybe I could give a private lesson some time. At my place. Nekid.

There a two things that strike me about this post. First, the story in the original one about me giving a talk about Islam is genuinely true. I will have to tell you about that sometime. The other is that although I flatter myself to say so I think my two favourite phrases in the history of this blog are included within this post. They are; 'the gait of a bi-curious teen' and 'be-testicled'.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

People are horrible.

2011-08-12T03:13:00.000-07:00

Did anyone see those riots on the news? Nasty business. The overwhelming feeling I got from them was that people are horrible. First off, what the rioters themselves did was horrible. No, no, come on, it's about time someone said it. What those rioters did was not on. I'm not sure it's entirely a generational thing though. I can think of maybe 3 or 4 people that were in my year at school who were naughty enough to throw a brick through the window of a JD Sports and then torch the joint. Not that we had a JD Sports in Braintree. We had a Jenny's Burgers though. I reckon there were 30 or 40 other people at my school who were naughty enough to stand around and watch, then go inside and nick some of Jenny's Burgers. I fit into neither camp. There is a strong chance that I would have missed out thanks to the intensive rehearsal schedule of the school's production of Under Milk Wood. Oh, and thanks to not being invited to the looting for being a dweeb.

People have been awfully quick to find reasons for the riots. Some folk seemed to think the closing down of youth clubs was to blame. Table tennis is a great game but I'm not sure that it can prevent large scale country wide rioting. I'm being facetious. Not having much to do probably is one of the many and varied reasons why these bellends did this. It does not however change the fact that they are bellends. How they came to be bellends is another matter. Some people are born bellends though aren't they? If we can accept that a percentage of society is born gay can we not accept that a similar percentage are born bellend? If you don't believe me think of Paul Robinson. He had an excellent parent in Jim and has been given chance after chance but he consistently proves himself to be a bellend. That's genetics. Or simple archetypal soap script writing. One of the two.

Not all the bellends were rioting though. Some of them were in the EDL 'protecting' their neighbourhoods by chasing innocent black teenagers. Apparently a couple of weeks ago the EDL had a 'meeting' in a pub in Plymouth. They got pissed, wound each other up about 'bloody immigrants' and then smashed up a kebab shop. I like to think that the following night they got pissed, fancied some post-pub nosh and then realised they'd shot themselves in the foot.

Other non-rioting bellends include the people who are taking massive glee in calling for strict punishments. By all means punish the rioting bellends but the idea of taking away their council housing and benefits is a little silly, no? What happens if you take a group of people who are already prepared to riot and loot and then make them homeless and take away their income? If you think it's apply for a job at Halfords, I'm not so sure. And if it is apply for a job I sense the people calling for this aren't the same people who would give them one.

Adolescent political rambling I will no doubt be embarrassed by in two weeks time.

2011-08-04T07:20:00.000-07:00

Good news guys! I've worked out the fundamental problem with free market capitalism and the reason why I will most likely never be able to afford a nice house in a nice area. For those of you who prefer my blog posts about poo and testicular examinations - stick with it - you might learn something.

In many ways I quite like the idea of capitalism. It strikes me that all the alternatives I've come across don't really work. When I was a kid we sent food parcels to my mum's relatives in Communist Poland so I had a very real sense that that little theory wasn't working out. The basic premise of the free market (I think) is that if you work hard and have good skills, ideas or a good product to offer you'll do quite well. There are of course lots of uncomfortable issues with that (what if you're thick, weak and chronically depressed?) but I at least get it. I reckon, in the States particularly that theory worked out quite well for a while.

But here's the problem. Get ready for my theory because it's going to blow your fucking mind. Some people are really really smart. Now it seems that there are a small but significant number of people with a 160 IQ who work 80 hour weeks and only care about money and Top Gear. Let's call these people 'Dicks'. These 'Dicks' now control the world by virtue of having all the money and capital and they are too smart and 'Dickish' to ever let it go. These 'Dicks' have been buying up all the houses in London for years, thereby pushing up the prices and leaving me the holder of a mere 7 GCSEs, a meaningless degree and a casual disregard for money unable to buy one.

Some of you may well be thinking that if they were so smart they wouldn't have let the economy crash like it has. The 'Dicks' didn't really lose out though did they? They all walked off with shitloads of money. The people who are supposed to keep the 'Dicks' in line are the politicians and the regulators but they are nowhere near as clever as the 'Dicks'. If they were then they'd be 'Dicks' themselves and earn a lot more money than they do. Of course some of the politicians are 'Dicks'. But as we all know 'Dicks' look after 'Dicks'. That's just basic biology.

So there we are. My argument is impenetrable. I've worked out exactly what's wrong with the world and at the same time, through my shambling prose proven why I don't have the IQ to ever be a 'Dick'.

The most sexist place left in society is around a pool table.

2011-07-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Visit to the doctors.

2011-07-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

When I was 21 I thought I had a lump on one of my testicles. At the time I was in a play and we were in the States (United, of America). After a couple of days of touching myself I decided that it definitely was a lump - a small one - but a lump nonetheless. After speaking with the tour manager (I always kept him up to date with my testicles) I decided to wait until I returned to Britain before seeing a doctor. About a week later I was back home and the lump was still there so I set about booking an appointment. I didn't have a doctor though so had to go through the ball ache (ha!) of registering. It wasn't until about 3 weeks after originally noticing the lump that I actually saw the doctor.

On the morning of the appointment something horrible happened. The lump wasn't there. Do I cancel the appointment? No. It was 8 in the morning. I hadn't been up before 11 for weeks. The chances were, I figured, that my lump was keeping the same hours as me. Once I was showered, dressed and at the surgery the lump would know what was up and make an appearance. Sat in the waiting room, I desperately wanted to know if it had awoken yet but stopped short of feeling myself in public.

Now I'm sat on a chair in front of a doctor. 'What's the problem?' he asks. When people walk in do doctors try and guess what's up with them in their heads? They must do. 'I think I have a lump on one of my testicles' I say. 'Bingo!' he thought to himself. At this point I actually just really hoped I did. 'Ok, well I better have a check, pull your trousers down for me'. Oh, ok, this quick? No pre-amble? Can't we at least get to know each other a little first? I like movies, good food and long walks by the sea. How about you? You're putting on a glove. Right, ok.

In his room there was a curtain. He didn't suggest I stood behind it. So, here I am in the middle of his surgery, my jeans around my ankles and, yep, it's happening now, he's feeling my balls. I look over his shoulder. The blinds are open. Someone walks across the car park.

'Which one was it?'

'The right one. My right'.

Being fresh out of the theatre I nearly said stage right.

'I can't feel anything'

Well, this is embarrassing.

'I think it's a bit further back?'

'Right.... no, I really can't feel anything'. He looks me in the eyes... 'There's nothing there'.

At this point I should give you an idea of his tone. It wasn't a sort of 'looks like you don't have anything to worry about' tone. It was a sort of 'how dare you come in here without a lump on your bollock?!' sort of tone. I think he genuinely thought that I just really really wanted someone to feel my balls. To be fair, I actually did, but not under these circumstances and not a 50 year old Asian man. I pulled up my trousers and thanked him for the most humiliating two minutes of my life. And then I left. There was no... 'come back if you think you have one again' or 'oh well, better safe than sorry'. There was just a very firm... 'Goodbye'.

The lump never returned.

I realise that in my last two blog posts I have written about having a poo and now my testicles. I'm sorry. I will try and keep the next few posts above the waist.

I was on the toilet.

2011-07-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned the other day - I'm obsessed with this phone hacking malarkey. If you're not then don't give up on this blog just yet. It takes quite an interesting turn. Yesterday was a big day for me. I prepared for the committee hearing with the Murdochs like it was a World Cup game. I got up early, excited, and started to watch the build up. As the event drew closer I pondered when I was going to have my shower - I shower daily (!) - I worried that if I timed it wrong I might miss out on a pre-match interview with one of the players.

The actual hearing itself managed to be enormously exciting and terrifically boring at the same time. Jimmy Murdoch provided most of the boring moments. His long, entirely meaningless answers helped drag things on to such a point that I couldn't hold in my much needed shit any longer. I'd unwisely had a pretty significant burger the night before and am not renowned for uncomplicated digestion. Not wishing to miss a single moment I took my laptop into the toilet with me and watched the live feed. After about 5 mins or so (I'd set aside a good 15) I heard a massive commotion coming from my telly in the living room. With my (not quite) live feed having a delay those of us having a shit (me) were in the dark. It really was like the World Cup now. It was like I'd gone to the toilet, heard a cheer from a nearby pub and realised that I had missed a goal. The difference here is I had no idea what I'd missed.

Once the 'pie throwing incident', as it will forever be known, hit my toilet laptop screen I was still none the wiser. Some of you will remember that at that stage it was unclear what had happened. I quickly tried to wrap up my excretion (not like that) and ran into the living room. I frantically rewound my Murdoch provided Sky Plus and tried to work out what had happened to the old charmer. My twitter feed filled up with people asking 'What happened?' interspersed with Jedward thanking their German fans. Then the oddest thing happened. Marcus Brigstocke retweeted Michael Legge asking 'Is that Fergus Craig?'.

Wh-wh-what?! Now, bare in mind, having rewound my telly I'm still watching the past. How have I suddenly been drawn into this hacking scandal? I guess it was bound to happen at some point. Should I resign? I reset my TV to 'the present' and see a man in handcuffs with what I at the time assume to be paint on his face. Two things cross my mind - 1. Oh, so it was just some bellend making a 'point'. 2. Two comedians with over 80,000 followers between them think I look like that bellend. They think I look so like that bellend that they think it's worth pointing out to their followers, the majority of whom, no doubt, don't know who I am.

What I'm still not sure about is did they actually think that was me? Confidence in my own appearance tends to fluctuate - this week I was feeling fairly good. When my twitter feed filled up with other people calling him a 'fat twat' that confidence dropped a little. I'll take it on the chin. The extra weight I'm carrying will soften the blow. I'd like to think that I would have chosen a nicer shirt. Neither Legge or Brigstocke knows me massively well (no one ever will) but I'd like to think they wouldn't expect me to do such a thing. If nothing else, I'm far too lazy.

We found out not much later that he was, indeed, a comedian - a comedian who now has 16 times as many twitter followers than me and is therefore 16 times as funny.

In unrelated news I woke up with this song in my head today...

Let kids swear.

2011-07-17T04:40:00.000-07:00

Get this! My girlfriend is watching the Crystal Maze. She's foreign (America or Mexico I think) so has no childhood memories of the show. This means that she is able to see past the ridiculous clothes and enjoy it for the puzzles. Yeah, puzzles! My bitch love dem puzzles!

When it comes to the look of the show the Crystal Maze has dated horribly. They're all wearing these brightly coloured yet still somehow faded jumpsuits. Also, every woman seems to have the same permed haircut. At the time of course we didn't notice this. I guess every woman in our lives in 1991 had the same permed haircut and we accepted that as what a woman's hair looked like. By 1996 the Crystal Maze already looked dated. Would a 2006 episode of the Weakest Link look dated to us now? I suspect it would. Just a little bit.

This is my theory. At every stage in time we as a people think we've finally cracked fashion. We think what we're wearing is ridicule proof. But think about what you're wearing now. If a photo is taken, will you be embarrassed about it in 5, 10, 20 years time as you sit in your silver space suit? I am currently in my pants (Calvin Klein, actually) with a blanket over my legs to keep them warm so I'm not sure I fit the experiment. My embarrassment is 'in the now'. But what about the plain brown polo shirt I'm wearing. It's so conservative and 'normal' that surely that won't look odd? It probably will though. They'll be something about the colour and the collar that will be so... 'Oh my God dad! I can't believe you actually fucking wore that!'.

In my vision of the future I have kids and it has become socially acceptable for children to swear. Ah, now there's a point worth side tracking into. Why don't we just let kids swear? If we are personally offended by swearing then fine. But if we ourselves swear all the time and don't really see what's wrong with it then why won't we just let them do it. It's one rule for us and another for them. There's a good reason why parents won't let their kids drink - it'd be too expensive - but why not just let them say 'fuck'? It's a cheap, safe way for them to enjoy themselves. Kids fall off bikes and break their bones all the time. I've never heard of a swearing induced injury. In fact it probably makes them safer. If you were a peodophile (just imagine it, don't do anything) would you go for the kid innocently riding his bicycle or would you go for the one shouting 'fuck off wanker!'.

This video represents what I actually want fatherhood to be like. If you can see past the prejudices about Americans from the South that I imagine my readership has then you might get the heartwarming feeling that I do. I have now watched this video 5 or 6 times but not in a creepy way...

Festivals and camping.

2011-07-14T04:47:00.000-07:00

I'm going to a festival tonight. Luckily I have a lift back to London otherwise I'd have to stay overnight. I hate festivals. Well, no, that's not true. I'm just not built for them. For a start I don't like camping. I point blank do not get it. No one has ever been able to explain the appeal to me. If you have the means and the opportunity to sleep in a bed and with a roof why would you choose to do otherwise?

Admit it. Camping is shit. Any task in a tent is a massive ball ache...

'I need to blow my nose. Where's the tissues?'

'Get the torch'

'Where is it?'

'I think it's by my feet'

'It's not there'

'It is, in the bag'

'Which bag?'

'The one by my feet. The little one'

'Right. Got it. Where's the tissues?'

'In the big bag. In the side pocket'

'Not there'

'Maybe in the front pocket'

'Right... Oh fuck'

'What?'

'They're soaking wet'

Added to that I am the sort of person who struggles to sleep under normal circumstances. Under a centimetre wide canvas with strangers talking two feet either side of my tent I find it impossible. The only solution I've found to this problem is to get drunk and pass out. The problem with that is that you get to sleep at 3am and at 5am the sun decides to shine. Suddenly the place that was freezing cold two hours ago is boiling hot. Now you're awake in a cramped, sweaty cocoon with some fresh insect bites and a full bladder. So you go through the enormous rigmarole of putting on your trousers (putting on trousers will never be harder) and walk to the toilets. There there's a queue and a powerful stench of other peoples piss.

So no, I do not like camping. I am told that by a lake and a natural beauty spot it's much nicer. Still, it strikes me that the fundamentals are the same. I'd much rather be in an en suite hotel by a lake and a natural beauty spot. Even without the camping I don't really like spending three days at a festival. Now I like music as much as the next man (unless the next man is Steve Lamaq) but three days of it in a field feels a bit much. When do we get to just have a nice sit down? In a chair? A proper chair? With a telly in front of it?

Now! That's when! And Neighbours is on in 20 minutes! Fergus wins at life! Fergus wins at life! Fergus wins at life! Fergus wins... Chant it! Why aren't you chanting with me? Why?

NEWS!

2011-07-12T06:23:00.000-07:00

I am obsessed with this phone hacking scandal. Obsessed. So obsessed that as I write this blog I am concerned that I might be missing out on valuable new information. I just went to get a sandwich and missed much of Andy Hayman's evidence at the select committee. By all accounts it was very entertaining and I am livid. Sure, they'll replay the best bits later on but I wanted to see it live... LIVE! Give me LIVE NEWS!

For as long as I can remember I have had a massive boner for news, particularly politics. That's right - as long as I can remember. When I was five I wrote a letter to Reagan and Gorbachev asking them to give up their nuclear weapons. My mum insists that this was my idea. They never got back to me but I like to think that my letter might have been a contributing factor in the slowing down of the arms race and the eventual fall of the iron curtain.

At school, when I was 10, we were asked to stand up in class and give a short speech saying why we should be prime minister. All the other kids offered things like free sweets for everyone and 'no more school'. It was a harmless little exercise aimed, I suspect, at introducing the children to the idea of democracy and public speaking. I declared that I would 'continue this government's path of privatisation'. Being in the Labour stronghold of Newcastle I obviously lost. God damn commies! My interest in politics really took off when I was off school for 7 weeks with whooping cough during the 1992 general election campaign. Looking back I genuinely think that I may have faked my whooping cough or at least it's severity so that I could watch the election coverage. Other kids bunked off school to sniff glue and steal Twixes. I bunked off to watch John Major take questions on weird phone in shows.

Here's the thing though. My infatuation with politics is on an almost entirely superficial level. I have very few political convictions, if any. I just enjoy the theatre of it. I like seeing smart people argue. My own opinions usually work like this - my first response to any political topic is to take the reactionary, usually left wing point of view. For example - anti-war, pro-immigration, anti-Murdoch. Then a couple of days later I start to think that lots of smart people think otherwise so in the interest of balance I look at things from their point of view and try to read things that support it. Before long I am utterly confused and don't know where I stand on anything.

When Thatcher left office we had a discussion about it at school. I realise it sounds like I went to a type of x-men academy for young politicos. This was actually the only other instance in which I remember us talking about politics. All the little Geordie boys and girls said things they'd most likely heard from their parents. They said that Thatcher was a horrible woman who had ruined this country and that they were glad to see her go. What with it being Newcastle and all this was the dominant opinion. Upon reflection, the chances are that a lot of their parents (and perhaps my own) lost jobs because of her policies. I, however, sensed an injustice. Who was going to stand up for Maggie? I stood up and said my piece. I distinctly remember feeling quite emotional and getting very close to tears.

'I think that she has done some bad things but she's also done a lot of good for this country and we should be thanking her for that'.

Two teachers looked at each other with raised eyebrows. I now know that they were thinking 'Tory parents eh?'. My parents weren't Tory. I was just a strange, strange child. I didn't even know what the good or the bad things were that she had done. I guessed that there must have been some good things and that I ought to defend her.

Now it's time for me to turn the telly back on and see where we are with this hacking shit. There are far more important things going on in the world but it has all the ingredients of my ideal news story. Pantomime villains, corruption and the pursuit of justice. Somebody has already said this week that it's like The Wire and the parallels are indeed, delicious. Sorry this blog hasn't been that funny. My brain is full of NEWS.

Stupidity

2011-07-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

When I was at school I would always have a packed lunch. A friend told me a while ago that she always thought that it was called a 'Pat Lunch'. Most people's pat lunch consisted of this... cheese and pickle/ham on white bread sandwiches, a Club, a packet of Quavers, possibly a piece of fruit and a Capri Sun. Mine consisted of a soggy wholemeal sandwich, two pieces of fruit and a rice cake. Once I was in my teens that lunch was hardly ever eaten.

It was the sogginess of the sandwiches which made them most unappealing. They always seemed to be really flat too. I felt guilty that I wasn't eating my lunch. Every night I'd come home with the soggy sandwiches in my bag and fear that my mum would find out that I wasn't eating them. Then I would do something really odd. I would put them in the top of my wardrobe. That's insane right? Why didn't I just throw them away at school? Did I not understand the concept of rotting food and the resulting smell? Soon I did, as my bedroom developed a stench that went beyond the normal teenage boy's smell of B.O, hormones and misery.

What now? Well, I did what any rational person would do and took the sandwiches from the wardrobe and threw them from my bedroom window and into the bushes in our front garden. These sandwiches were now green and furry so I would retch as I did this. Picture it. I look hot don't I? Now, it's important that you know that the sandwiches were still in the cling film they'd been wrapped in. So I wasn't really solving my problem. There was now just a pile of cling film and rotting sandwiches at the bottom of our garden that would surely be found by my parents. My parents would have also surely heard the rustling in the bushes. Perhaps it frightened them.

This is where, as I look back, I realise just how fucking mental I was - I repeated this process for I reckon about 2 years. I continued to not eat the sandwiches. I continued to not dispose of them at school. Instead, I placed them in the top of my wardrobe. Then, once the stench became unbearable I threw them into the bushes outside my window. These are the actions of someone who is surely 0.01% away from being a serial killer. Amazingly, my parents never found out. Or if they did they never confronted me about it. Perhaps they were seriously worried about my mental wellbeing. That explains why most of my holidays were based around a strict programme of Electroconvulsive Therapy.

People are stupid. I guess I just expressed my stupidity in an eccentric way. Which, I suppose, makes me quite cool. That's right bitches! My spin on this story is now that it makes me cool. Real cool. Someone at work was talking to one of the ushers the other day. This is how the conversation went...

Usher: You're from up north innit?

Actor: Yeah.

Usher: Yeah, my mates are from up north... Devon and Cornwall.

Everyone is stupid in their own way. I have a friend (Christ, I've got a lot of friends) who went to see a mortgage advisor the other day. The mortgage advisor kept on saying 'We can borrow you three times your income'. BORROW YOU! It is her JOB to talk about LENDING money all day every day and she doesn't know the right word! How did this happen? Surely, you would have thought, that someone might have told her. At least I managed to keep my stupidity secret for 15 years. This poor mortgage advisor is wearing her stupidity every day like a badge. Everyone who walks into her office sees it like a giant corn on the cob stuck in between her teeth.

Then again, there's probably a fair percentage of people who don't even notice her error. Because, they themselves are stupid. My point is that we are all stupid. Cripplingly, shamefully stupid buffoons who do not deserve oxygen let alone the vote. Even the world's greatest minds (Hawking, Dawkins, Vorderman) must have secrets that match my sandwich story for sheer idiocy. Maybe not. Goodbye!

Tears of a clown

2011-07-01T04:33:00.000-07:00

My birthday's coming up in three weeks. If you don't leave me a birthday message somewhere then I gonna be so mad! Right, here's a dangerous subject. Birthday messages on facebook. Every year I get a few and I am of course grateful for each and every one. I do, however, always get a couple from people whom I'm really not sure if I know at all. There's usually one from someone who I don't remember ever speaking to at school. Fifteen years later though they take the time to leave me a birthday message. I must stress that the thought is lovely but it's a little weird, no? Some people must leave birthday messages every single day of their life. I realise I will now get no birthday messages this year.

As long as I get some cards I'll be happy. That's another thing though. I find birthday cards a little weird too. Christmas cards even weirder. What purpose do they serve? I guess it's a way of saying that you want to wish someone a happy birthday/Christmas so much that you are prepared to go above and beyond the call of duty and put that sentiment into writing. In practice though it is usually done out of a simple respect for protocol. That is why I never give cards. I am a renegade. Once again, I have fucked myself over there. No birthday cards this year I suspect. I will no longer be able to weigh my popularity in cards.

Hey! Did anyone see Beyonce at Glastonbury? Wasn't she good at the singing and the dancing? I do really like Beyonce. I think her and Ronnie O'Sullivan are probably the two most talented people on earth and are missing a trick by not going on tour together. Seriously. They could alternate it - one night they'd play an exhibition match and then one night she'd do a concert and he'd come on and mumble like Tricky did on Sunday night. That was sad by the way. I used to love Tricky so much but he was shit. She might as well have brought Kevin Whately on.

Talent like that makes me quite emotional. Beyonce, not Whately. I don't cry at anything in my real life (because I am tough) but I do well up whenever I see someone being really talented and getting the respect they deserve. Whenever I see someone win Wimbledon, no matter who it is, when they lift that trophy I cry a little bit. I'm just so happy for them. It's like a weird little fetish for me. The only other thing I cry at is weddings on Neighbours. Honestly.

Here is a video of Beyonce shot by Jay Z on his iphone that I am unashamed to say made my lip quiver. This will surely test the strength of your music snobbery. Right, stop saying I'm not cool because I cry at Beyonce. I am! I am! I am cool! I'm wearing Calvin Kleins for crying out loud!

Slagging people off

2011-06-24T03:56:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday night something truly terrifying happened to me. It may count as one of the most horrifying incidents to have happened to anyone, ever. Strap in chaps...

I'm in a play at the moment. A real one, with lights and everything. As is the way with all tortured artistic geniuses we often go for a drink after the show. I find that it's the only way I can shed the character. Being a dedicated actor of some repute I get into character at about 6 in the morning. I then spend the rest of the day doing what I think my character would do. My character eats a lot and watches a fair bit of telly. Once the show is over I am physically and mentally shattered. The only way I can wind down is to have a drink or two.

On Saturday I and much of the 'company' (wanky theatre word) had quite a few drinks. At about 3.30am I was in a taxi with another cast member and some of the crew. I try to treat the crew with the same respect as actors although they are obviously not quite as important or talented. I was drunk. We were all drunk. As I remember it we were talking in a drunken, shouty way but I don't know what we were saying. Then I received a phone call from another cast member...

"Hi it's (insert name). Can you stop slagging me off please?..."

"Wh-wh-wh..."

"(insert name)'s just called me on his phone in his pocket and I can hear you slagging me off!"

My pants were gently browned. What was going on? In my drunken state I was entirely unable to handle this situation. Had I been slagging her off? I had no idea. Now, I'm going to level with you guys for a moment. I have, in my time, slagged people off. I don't do it all day, every day but I do do it for a bit of the day, lots of days. I have rightly slagged off appalling people. I have wrongly slagged off lovely people. I have slagged off people because I feel wronged by them. I have slagged off people because I am jealous of them and want to feel better about myself. I have slagged off people to garner respect from other people. I have slagged innocent people off for the sake of a joke or out of boredom. You have all done all of those things. Unless, that is, you haven't, in which case I have just revealed myself to be a cunt.

Surely you have though? I can tell you now that I have probably slagged off at least 3 of the people reading this. There may even be someone reading this who has slagged me off at some time or another. I find that unlikely though as last time I checked I was the only person in human history not to have been slagged off by anyone... comedy forums don't count. In all my slagging off though I cannot remember ever having been caught. That is the greatest fear of the slagger-offer. Being caught and, no matter what the other person may have done to deserve criticism, immediately becoming the villain.

On the phone I went into full blown denial mode. I had no idea what I had been saying but that seemed like the only course of action available to me. I'd like to think that a more sober me would have cunningly got myself out of it but I have no idea how. It appeared that I had been caught red handed. I was OJ Simpson except that the glove seemed to fit quite snuggly.

I woke up the next day remembering only the phone accusation and my pathetic denial. I was terrified that I had hurt someone's feelings. Someone who I actually really like (well, moderately) whom I had to work with for another three weeks. For all the apologising and grovelling I planned to do I clearly faced three weeks of awkwardness and ostracism. Throughout Sunday and Monday I cowardly avoided calling (insert name) to apologise/find out what the fuck had happened.

Come Monday night I prepared myself for the horror that awaited me at work. It did, of course, turn out to be fine. I think. What had happened is that she had been accidentally been called and heard us singing Area Codes by Ludicris. I'm not joking. It's something of a cast song. Somebody then said 'Oh, (insert name) loves that song'. I replied '(insert name) needs to grow some motherfucking balls, (insert name) needs to motherfucking man up'. It was drunken bravado brought on by hip hop and a desire to be funny. (insert name), upon hearing this, thought it would be funny to call me and scare the shit out of me. (insert name) succeeded.

So all is well in theatre land. That is unless I really did say something properly horrible and (insert name) can't bring herself to discuss it. That's the problem with (insert name). She's so cowardly and two faced. If she's got a problem with me why can't she just say it to my face. I can't stand that bitch. Hope she doesn't read this.

Great Scot

2011-05-05T04:57:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago my agent called to tell me that I'd been nominated for an award. Instant ego-boner! 'What's the award?' I ask. Johnnie Walker Blue Label Great Scot Entertainer of the Year 2011. Bit long winded but, double boner! I then do a bit of research and it turns out this award is for Scottish people. Here's the thing. I'm not Scottish. I genuinely think someone was looking through Spotlight and went 'Fergus Craig - that sounds Scottish. He'll do'. I was left in a bit of a moral dilemma. Do I go to the ceremony and eat the free food and drink the free booze? Or do I have a bit of integrity, call them up and explain the mix up so that my place can go to someone more deserving?

So last night I went to the ceremony. As I walked past the bagpipes and into the lift the absurdity of my presence hit me. Inside the lift was me, my mate and six Scottish people in kilts including sometime Newsnight presenter and pimp (one of those is true), Gavin Esler. Upon leaving the lift I saw Richard Wilson, Sam Torrence, Willie Carson, Douglas Alexander, Lorraine Kelly, Kirsty Wark and plenty of other Scottish luminaries. If a bomb had hit that venue last night then all Scotland would be left with is Sir Alex Ferguson and the band, Travis. I felt like Dane Bowers at the MOBO's. A fraud. A waiter handed me some haggis and I thanked him, disguising my accent.

How the fuck did this happen? My name is also kind of Irish sounding. Will I be at an Irish award ceremony next week living it up with Jedward? After some champagne and Scottishy hors d'oeuvres we sit down to dinner. I kid you not - we are sat next to former Scotland manager George Burley and opposite blind Mikey from Big Brother 9. I try to break the ice with Burley by telling him about me being English. Funny eh? He doesn't think so. He clearly thought one of the Krankies should have been in my seat. Once the booze started flowing things lightened up but at first the conversation was pretty stilted. Mikey and Burley were both on their own and chatted about how they didn't like salmon.

What if I win? - I thought. Clearly, I wasn't going to but what if I did? I had two options. Either I tell the audience I'm not Scottish and hope they find it funny rather than infuriating or I mumble 'thank you very much' in my best Scottish accent. Luckily I didn't win. Guess who did - Lorraine Kelly. Bitch. First she beats me to the GMTV job and now this!

Funny old night. I'm actually a little hung over and don't feel I'm depicting the evening as well as I might had I not had those extra few drinks with Burley at the end of the night. Yeah, we got on in the end - me and Burley. We even had a bit of a dance together. Nothing sexual. At least not from my point of view, anyway.

USA! USA! USA!

2011-05-02T05:14:00.000-07:00

USA! USA! USA! USA! Man, I wish my country's name could be broken down into an acronym of three letters. If it could then there is no doubt in my mind that I would roam the streets chanting it day and night. Team GB maybe? Yeah! We should chant it at all our proudest moments. Kate and Will are engaged... Team GB! Team GB! Kate and Will are married... Team GB! Team GB! Confirmation comes from the palace that the marriage has been consummated with the act of full blown penetrative sex... Team GB! Team GB!

Of course, now that Osama Bin Laden has been killed the world has forgotten about the Royal wedding. Nice one America - thanks for pissing on our chips. 72 hours ago, with the kisses on the balcony (Kisses! Plural! You spoil us your majesties!) our nation reached it's peak. We stood at the summit of our achievements and waited for the inevitable comedown. And now here it is. America reminds us who's boss. By the way, Fox News are calling him Usama Bin Laden now. Why the change? I notice they also call Gadaffi... Qadafi. I like this suggestion that the first letters of names can be anything you want. I may now be called Bergus. Mmmm... burgers.

Over the last few days I have fluctuated between irritation at the pro-royal coverage and irritation at people going on about how embarrassing it all was. Some of it definitely was embarrassing. When W and K (that looks like 'wank') left the palace in that car the BBC commentary was incredible. First came this gem... 'isn't it wonderful to see the future king driving himself?'. Do I need to analyse the idiocy in that sentence? I guess not. I've just put it out there for you to feel a little ashamed that you live in a world where someone said that. It didn't end there. WanK were driving slowly down that massive mall, with no traffic except for a protection vehicle when a BBC 'commentator' said 'He's a good driver isn't he?'.

It strikes me that this country treats the royals like disabled children on prize giving day. We pat them on the head for completing the simplest of tasks. It could be fun to be a royal. Just to see how low you could set the bar for head patting. 'Isn't it marvellous that Prince Bergus can chew food? It's easy to forget that the royals are just like us and capable of eating solids unassisted'.

But here's the thing. It seems so ball achingly obvious that the royal family is a ridiculous institution. Therefore, I find it quite dull when people bang on about it. I bang on about it all the time and kind of hate myself for it. Talk about something else, bellend! Who cares? Not the populous, of that we can be certain. For years, republicanism has been my strongest political conviction. That and my belief that all Virgos must die. Now, as I get older, I'm starting to give much less of a shit. They're not going anywhere so I might as well enjoy it. My mother genuinely watches all royal weddings whilst wearing her wedding dress. She does this whilst insisting that she is a staunch anti-royalist. That strikes me as quite a nice balance between common sense and mental. If you can't beat them - join them, but do so in a way that's borderline disturbing. Team GB! Team GB! Team GB!

Alone in Munich

2011-04-22T13:25:00.000-07:00

Be honest. You've missed me. Sorry I haven't posted anything for a while. From what I hear the absence of my pithy prose has started to effect national morale. Fine. I couldn't give a shit about how you 'people' feel. What's worrying is that once national morale goes down so does productivity and with it - GDP. Once something starts to effect my wallet I take notice - so here I am. Bloggin'.

The reason for my disappearance is work based. I'm rehearsing a play which I'm being reminded is quite a serious and grown up thing to do. One of the director's frequent notes is - 'I think this bit needs to be... brilliant'. It turns out making something 'brilliant' takes quite a lot of effort so that's what I've been up to. Not now though. Right now, I am in a hotel room in Munich watching a snooker match between charisma mammoths Ali Carter and Graeme Dott with German commentary. In Britain snooker commentators are all ex players. I'm not aware of any German ex- snooker players so I wonder who these pricks are. I'd like to think they're just translators listening to a feed of Johns Parrott and Virgo.

Why am I in Munich? Well... having cancelled an American road trip that my girlfriend is now currently on (traitor) to be a theatrical bellend I thought I'd use the Easter weekend to get away. Booking the trip at short notice, flight times and cost left me with two options - Munich or Warsaw. I went for Munich. So far, so alright. I like going away on my own but in the first 24 hours I often flirt with depression. A baby has just started crying in the neighbouring hotel room so that's not ideal. I should of course be out enjoying the nightlife but I'm pretty knackered. I sampled a beer garden earlier on. There were some people wearing lederhosen and some young lads singing German football songs. That was enough for me to feel like I was abroad. Job done. Back to the hotel room.

Tomorrow will be more adventurous. There's a military shop opposite the hotel which from the looks of the window is pretty well stocked with automatic machine guns and massive knives. I was born on the cusp of Cancer and Leo and if I was more of a Leo than a Cancer instead of vice versa I'd probably head straight there and then go on a bit of spree. I am, however, more inclined to Cancer traits so I'll probably just settle for a sightseeing bus tour.

Well, Graeme Dott's just pulled it back to 8-8 and the baby's stopped crying. I might celebrate with a weird chocolaty wafer thing from the mini bar. I was desperate for a slice of cheesecake tonight but the little research I did suggested that it's not easy to come across in Munich. That may be why Blanche from Golden Girls was rarely seen here. Now that I'm doing obscure references from early 90s American sit coms I think it might be time to piss off. Quite frankly I'd rather be Hanging With Mr Cooper.

Teeth

2011-03-30T07:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-22T05:51:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-03-16T08:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-07T02:47:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-03T05:14:00.000-08:00

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.

My speech after winning Best Actor at next year's Oscars.

2011-02-28T03:52:00.000-08:00

"Thank you. Thank you! Thank you all so much. Wow! Thank you. What an honour. Thank you. *Deep breath* Wow! What is so incredible about this is where I was a year ago tonight. Wow! Thank you! Thank you Jeff! A year ago tonight I was performing stand up comedy in front of an audience of about 40 or so largely disinterested people in a function room in Andover who assured me that their town was a shithole. A year ago tonight I had never even been in a movie. I had, weirdly, auditioned for the role of Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit and a small part in Nicolas Cage shit fest Season of the Witch. I had, however been deemed unworthy of both roles and my career up until that point was confined, mainly, to children's television, cameo roles and under the radar sit coms.

I distinctly remember getting up the morning after last year's Oscars and watching the ceremony. I had Sky Plus - things weren't going that bad. I remember thinking that The King's Speech was an entertaining TV movie that I'd expect to see on ITV on a Sunday night and being surprised that it had beaten the likes of The Social Network, Toy Story 3 and the Black Swan. I remember being slightly depressed by how anything that portrays the Royal family is almost always highly praised especially when it gives them completely unworthy reverence and forgives their implicit bigotry.

But now look at me! Wow! Thank you! Who'd have thought it? I am officially the BEST actor in the whole world. Suck on that! Playing the role of Wesley Snipes was an incredible journey and one which I am grateful to David Fincher for giving me the opportunity to do. I accept that I was a brave choice and that there were many other actors who would have been more obvious for the role. Most especially, Wesley Snipes but also Idris Elba, Jason Statham and Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink. It looks like you made the right choice though Finch! I properly fucking nailed it! I would thank the crew but let's face it the camera was pointed at me and not them for a reason.

Someone told me earlier on tonight that I don't actually get any money for this award - I just get the statue. I'm not being funny but that's well unfair. Even the Laughing Horse New Act of the Year gives it's winner £500 or something. Anyway, I guess I'll see you all at one of the after parties right? I know I've only been in movies a short while but I get the feeling we're going to get along great. I'm going to spend the evening guessing which of you is properly coked up. Right now, my money's on Mila Kunis what was in the Black Swan and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. She's just got that look in her eyes hasn't she?

I won't be staying for long though. I have to get back to London to watch Leyton Orient in the Champions League Quarter Finals. Oh and I have a casting for a Lenor advert as well. Fingers crossed! THANK YOU!"

Thursday's blog post.

2011-02-24T04:07:00.000-08:00

My left pectoral is hurting because yesterday I went to the gym for the SECOND time in a WEEK. Have you ever met anyone who's been to the gym twice in a week? No. I didn't think so. That's because you don't know anyone as cool as me. Right. I'm going to have a game of 'random article'. Stand well back. This could get dangerous...

The first random article that's popped up on Wikipedia is 'Housedon Hill'. Essentially, it's just a hill in Northumberland, not far from the Scottish border. I bloody love that part of the world. Growing up in Newcastle, when I was a kid I had a fair few day trips to the Northumberland countryside. I remember going to a market in Alnwick and getting really excited because I had bought a bullet. Apparently it's ok to sell a child a bullet. Not understanding how gun play worked I thought that if I threw the bullet on the ground it would cause a massive explosion. So I did. I was, of course, disappointed. But given what I thought would actually happen it's probably one of the most reckless things I've ever done. That and killing that tramp last year.

My cursor is hovering over 'random article'. Let's hit that bitch. Ooooh. 'KC and the Sunshine Band'. Apparently they were formed in Miami, Florida (been there!) in 1973. I think the names of the hits sound funny if you say them in a Yorkshire accent with a deep voice and imagine you're talking to your elderly wife. No matter where you are, try it now... "(Shake Shake Shake) Shake Your Booty", "I'm Your Boogey Man", "Get Down Tonight", "Give It Up", "Please Don't Go". It's best if you imagine that with these last two he's talking to her about tea... "That's The Way (I Like It)" and "Keep It Coming Love".

The most striking sentence in the whole wiki entry is this...

On July 28, 2000, Jerome Smith (rhythm guitar) died accidentally while working as a bulldozer operator.

That's all it says on the matter. If he simply died operating a bulldozer then I could be happy imagining him spending his millions on 'diggers' and getting a bit carried away when messing about in the grounds of his mansion. But, no. He was working as a bulldozer operator. I guess that's what happens when your band has 34 members, past and present. There's not enough money to go round. Sketch groups beware. Perhaps he did have enough money though. Maybe it was just his dream to be a bulldozer operator and the band was just his day job. One more thought, and apologies to the family of Jerome Smith if they are reading this. How do you die in a bulldozer? Bulldozers cause destruction but I would have thought that they're actually quite safe places to be in. Perhaps his was destroyed by a larger bulldozer. Perhaps that was operated by KC himself. I imagine, as is always the case, tensions in the group grew over the years. KC probably had a lot more money because his name was in the band's title. Maybe he bought a larger bulldozer to taunt the other band members and went on bit of a rampage. Isn't it time the FBI looked into this case again?

One more pull on the 'random article' lever I think... Well this is crap. I've got 'Raw Score'. Here is the Wiki entry in full...

In statistics and data analysis, a raw score is an original datum that has not been transformed. This may include, for example, the original result obtained by a student on a test (i.e., the number of correctly answered items) as opposed to that score after transformation to a standard score or percentile rank or the like.

Often the conversion must be made to a standard score before the data can be used. For example, an open ended survey question will yield raw data that cannot be used for statistical purposes as it is; however a multiple choice question will yield raw data that is either easy to convert to a standard score, or even can be used as it is.

Can anyone come up with something funny about that? No. Didn't think so. Actually I reckon there are many comedians and writers far better than I who would come up with gallons of hilarious and life affirming material on that. There's probably the makings of a game changing and award winning Edinburgh show in that Wikipedia entry but I have neither the skill nor the inclination to find it. I'm off for a dump. Bye!

I went to the gym.

2011-02-21T07:47:00.000-08:00

Today I decided to go to the gym. Well, that's not exactly true. About 3 years ago I decided to go to the gym and today I actually got off my imperfect arse and did it. Terrifyingly, the gym is 5 minutes from my house and I have a fair bit of time on my hands at the moment (not that I'm not massively in demand) so it'll be difficult to find reasons not to go regularly.

Each step of the way I hoped something would prevent me from being able to actually 'work out' today. First, I was disappointed to see that the bloke who deals with joining was there. Bollocks. Perhaps I won't have one of the necessary documents to become a member. 'We just need your bank details'. Bollocks. I should probably tell you about Imran's (that was his name) haircut. I wouldn't want you to miss out. It was one of those weird jobbies where the front half is seriously matted down with gel and the back half is spikey like a peacock's feathers. I think I have a pretty creative mind but I don't think I could design a shitter hairstyle. Some (usually bad) footballers have it and I always imagine that they've entered the salon asking for 'the most expensive haircut you've got'. This perfectly pleasant man had the worst incarnation I have ever seen. Not only had he used at least 3 pots of gel but the front half looked suspiciously like a comb-over leaving me to wonder if he was actually going bald.

Shit haircut managed to get my membership sorted pretty quickly though but before I could 'work out' I needed to be inducted. Yes! Hopefully there wouldn't be a chance to do that for at least a week. No, I could be inducted immediately. Bollocks. Five minutes later my inductor took my blood pressure (fine) and my heart rate which apparently proved that I was officially a little unfit. Bollocks. A part of me hoped that he might decide that I was already in fact the world's fittest man a therefore really shouldn't be there as it'd be like taking the piss. Not the case.

George, took me to the machines. Suddenly, I'm on a running machine. He turns it on. I'm walking. Fine. He adjusts the gradient so I'm going uphill. Ok, fine. He speeds it up a bit. Fine, I think. We start chatting. Right, so you've just told me I'm unfit and now you're going to stand here with me while we prove that very fact. My main problem with gyms is that I feel really awkward in them and very conscious of my inability. Although he was very nice it didn't make things easier. He asks me what I do. Now that I'm starting to sweat just a little I can't think up a lie in time. It's pretty obvious I'm not a labourer. Because it's the last job I did I say 'comedian'. 'Oh right. We used to have that Frankie Boyle come in here. He never used to say much. Just came in with his headphones on and did his workout.' What did he expect? As a comedian is the pressure now on me to come in every day and try out some routines on the the staff there while I'm on the cross trainer? How about I start with my new bit about the bloke with the shit haircut downstairs?

We try out a couple more cardio machines. Well, I do. He just watches while I struggle to look like I'm actually pretty bloody fit already. Then we head to the weight machines. Bollocks. I am a PHENOMENALLY weak man. Often when I mention that, people say 'oh, me too'. Then we arm wrestle and they are amazed by how easy their victory is. This has happened with 6 stone teenage girls. I get on a chest press after a middle aged chubby woman. I move the setting to a significantly lighter weight and huff and puff my way through about 4 'reps'. Does the gym really have to be so humiliating? If you weigh 60 stones it must be hard to find the motivation to lose weight because if you lose 20 stones you're still 40 fucking stone! I feel like that with strength.

Now that I'm a member at a gym that's all going to change though. Just you wait, bitches! In a couple of weeks I'll be like Slater from Saved By The Bell. Every time I walk into a room girls will scream and I will find at least three opportunities every half an hour to flex my biceps.

For those of you who have wondered whether after my last post I did go down to the nightclub below my hotel the answer is no. I think that was a good choice because this is genuinely what happened at that very nightclub that very night!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-12517702

Drunk Blog!

2011-02-18T15:09:00.000-08:00

That's right motherfuckers. I'm drunk! Well, not really. I'm a little bit tipsy. I reckon I'm at the the stage where I might find it difficult to do more than 5 kick-ups with a football whereas when sober I could do about 7 or 8. So, it's a Friday night, I've had a couple of drinks (4) - why am I writing a blog post and risking a reputation as a writer that's gathering pace by drunk typing? 'Fergus!' I hear you say. 'You are no Hunter. S. Thompson! This will not end well.' Good point, well made - but here's the thing...

I'm in Porthcawl, Wales and I'm on my own. The life of a travelling stand up is something I can't truly appreciate because I dip in and out of it. I can however document a small part of it. Tonight I did a gig at a venue known as the Grand Pavilion. Thanks to the relatively mid to low profile of the other act and myself we were in fact performing in a basement bar below the Grand Pavilion. The gig was fine. It's a Friday night and luckily the good folk of Porthcawl were up for a laugh. What follows is the problem.

Now that the other act has left to stay with his mum in a nearby town (pussy) I am left at the Porthcawl Hotel. Fine, you say. 'A couple of chapters of that soperific Catherine Cookson you've been inhaling of late and you'll be dead to the world'. It turns out that there is only one nightclub in Porthcawl and it is below the Porthcawl Hotel. As I write the song 'Black Velvet' is genuinely booming out below my feet. Surely that's karaoke? No. I think that is a song they still play in nightclubs in Porthcawl. Are there people slow dancing to that right now? Or are they stood at the bar, in serious mode, preparing the moves that will get them laid?

'Why don't you go down there, Fergus? If you can't beat them, join them, right?' No thank you. I hold no grudge against these people. I have spent much of my life among them in shit nightclubs in small towns but to do that on my own, at the age of thirty, would be surely be a suicide trigger. Having said that - I am genuinely starting to twitch. The atmosphere seems to have taken a leap in the right direction, there's some whooping and cheering, and it feels like it might be the place to be. Maybe I'll wander down there and stumble across some people who were at the gig. They'll tell me how great I was, massage my ego and buy me a drink or two. Or... maybe I'll wander down there, look like a blatant outsider who is on his own on a Friday night and summon the Friday night kicking that is so often dished out in these places. Maybe I'll pull! I've been in a relationship for nearly 7 years with someone I love but I see no logical reason why the person whom I belong with isn't in the basement of the Porthcawl Hotel dancing to what I think is now Tinchy Stryder.

Earlier on I had a drink in the 'lounge bar'. I felt like a 1950s American salesman away on business. To complete the image I was reading a book about baseball called 'Moneyball' by Michael Lewis. I recommend it highly but this is a digression. I've taken a gin and tonic (which is now pretty much finished) to my room. What now? Seriously chaps! What now? The music will go on till 2.30am. It's 11.43pm. Do I join them downstairs? I cant. It will bring back memories of when as a 21 year old I desperately scoured nightclubs for romantic (or otherwise) interaction and habitually failed. I am curious though. If nothing else it would surely provide the material for another blog post. My choice as it stands is... at least 2 hours in my room playing Football Manager OR going downstairs and having what could potentially be an incredible experience but what will almost certainly be one of the most depressing episodes in my life. As I sign off from this blog the decision is yet to be made. First! I will have a piss!

Legally Blonde

2011-02-17T06:49:00.000-08:00

It's about time I levelled with you guys about a couple of things; 1. last night I went to see 'Hit West End Sensation' Legally Blonde. 2. I fucking hate musicals. How could those two facts co-exist within the confines of one human being? As the lights went up I wondered the same thing.

First, let me explain my reasons for hating musicals. It does not stem from cultural snobbery. I have spent literally weeks of my life watching Neighbours and genuinely enjoy Paddy McGuinness vehicle Take Me Out without irony. Before last night I'd actually only ever seen one West End musical and, weirdly, I'd seen that twice. It was Blood Brothers. Before you get all excited, this was before the least attractive Blue member, Anthony Costa joined the cast. Although Blood Brothers (as I'm sure most musicals do) had it's merits I couldn't get past the fact that people always sang for no reason. You have to admit that it is kind of strange. I think even as a little child I found it odd when kids TV characters broke into song without explanation.

Not only do the characters sing about fucking anything as the Question Time musical proved - 'I've always felt that EU fishing quotas exacerbate the problem rather than deeeeeeeeeeal with iiiiit!' - they also all seem to be singing the same song the whole time. There are of course many exceptions. I'm sure you could pick out plenty of unique musical numbers but the bulk of them just seem to be someone singing a sentence with a vague melody that isn't really going anywhere.

My other main complaint has always been the sentimentality and in your face energy of them. I don't begrudge people's enjoyment of that (aren't I nice?) but I can't handle it. I've never thought I'd do well on an 18-30 holiday because of the enforced jollity and musicals strike me as kind of similar.

But Fergus! You judgemental BASTARD! You've only seen ONE musical! That may be true, but that has never stopped me from being absolutely cock sure in my opinions on them. I've seen plenty of performances from the cast of 'Banana Boat!!' and 'Memory Train!!' or whatever on Children In Need or the National Lottery show.

Recently I realised my argument, as this blog is proving, may not be rock solid and that I should perhaps give the theatrical abominations another chance. The press and friends have been banging on about how great Legally Blonde is for a while now and I mentioned to my girlfriend (who hates musicals even more than I do) that we should perhaps go. Unbeknownst to me she booked it. So last night, there we sat - two people who hate musicals about to watch one and we had no one to blame but ourselves.

As regular SERIOUS theatre goers (Christ, we're educated) you couldn't help but notice the different audience. There was an older couple in front of us who smiled at each other after every song and most jokes. This is how I imagine they will tell their nephew who works in London about it in a few weeks time... assign an accent of your choice;

'We went to London didn't we?'

'Yes'

'We didn't like it'

'Dirty!'

'Dirty! It were dirty and different do you know what I mean?'

'Not many English!'

'No. We went to see Legally Blonde and that were brilliant'

'Funny.'

'Oh yeah, it were REALLY funny and most of them were beautiful singers but I wouldn't want to live in London'

'No way'

'Too expensive!'

SERIOUS theatre is full of people who probably think the same things but would say them a different way.

So, did I like the show? I'm confident that I opened my mind nice and wide but at first I found it quite hard going. The show is very much 'tits and teeth' and although that's done with irony it still is 'tits and teeth' and for a battered old cynical arsehole like me that's hard to adjust to. Gradually though I started to enjoy it. I would be going too far if I said that I got swept up in the fun of it all but I certainly wasn't looking at my watch. It's safe to say though that I won't be rushing to go to other musicals. I'm just too much of a prick.

I did of course feel my jaw do it's obligatory tightening at the emotional ending. Maybe that's where my declared hatred of sentimentality comes from. I'm actually embarrassingly susceptible to it. I never cry at real things but often have to fight back tears at Neighbours weddings and Super Nanny. Sometimes I don't think you lot give me credit for just how complex I am.

Poor decision maker.

2011-02-14T03:55:00.000-08:00

Top tip! If you, like me, haven't achieved all that you wanted to by your current age then don't watch documentaries about people who have before bed - it's depressing. Last night I watched a Fry and Laurie retrospective, calculated their ages when they were doing various things and weeped. I suppose that gives you an idea of the depths of my shallowness. It's not programmes about Einstein or Gandhi that leave my questioning my contribution to the world - it's shows about clowns.

I'm never going to get anywhere if I continue with the poor decision making of last week. A series of bafflingly stupid choices led me to - eat something called 'crispy rice' and suffer the gastric consequences, spend an afternoon in Wolverhampton, watch the Green Hornet 3D, pay a £40 fine on a train and worst of all pay £9 on nachos which were essentially just Doritos and dip.

The nachos were by far the least defensible choice. I was at the cinema and starving so asked for the £7.50 'Nacho Combo' which (generously) came with a drink. The girl behind the counter asked what dip I wanted. What have you got? Back came the answer - 'cheese, salsa or sour cream'. Let me say that again. I had to choose BETWEEN 'cheese, salsa or sour cream'. Other than the chips those are the KEY ingredients of nachos! Would you like salt OR vinegar with your chips? Would like meat OR veg with your roast? BOTH!! I want them BOTH!! Also, for the record, those ingredients (cheese! salsa! sour cream!) should be all over the nachos - not in a separate little plastic pot. It's emerging that I feel more strongly about this than any other subject. In a week when the people of Egypt overthrew a dictator, propped up by the west for 30 years, leaving the world to question whether it will cause a domino effect bringing democracy to the Middle East or cause those regimes still in power to become more dictatorial and militarised in order to defeat any revolution before it takes hold and also question whether democracy will create a more peaceful Middle East or a more radicalised and anti-Western one... I have chosen to rant about nachos. You should know that I ended up paying £9 just for the privilege of having two dips. Perhaps I should have children just so I don't spend my disposable income on such ludicrous things.

Who's up for a game of 'random article'? That's right folks! It's the game where Fergus Craig clicks 'random article' on Wikipedia and then tells you about what he reads leaving you to wonder if it would actually be less boring just to get back to work instead of reading my blog as a diversion tactic. Get ready bitches!

Right. This game may have died a premature death. I've ended up getting the 1991 Stella Artois Tennis Championships at Queens Club. It just tells me that Stefan Edberg beat a chap called David Wheaton 6-2, 6-3 in the final. I do remember that at school everyone liked Edberg and I liked Boris Becker. This was because even at that age I was a dangerous renegade smashing the system from the inside. I'm still dangerous to this day. So dangerous, in fact that I'm prepared to go for another roll of the Wikipedia dice. 'The guy's a madman!' Damn right I am. Here goes...

Jackpot!! Beninese Hip-Hop! Just when you thought this game was dead and buried it comes out with Beninese Hip-Hop. If you've read all my blogs (who hasn't?) you'll know that I am a big fan of the old hippity-hop. I am not familiar with it's Beninese variety. I do know that Benin is a country though because I am clever. Turns out that Beninese rap is done in the language of Fon which is spoken by 1.7 million people in Benin and Togo. Footballer and all round bellend Emmanuel Adebayor is from Togo so I imagine he's partial to a bit of Beninese Hip-Hop. Perhaps when he's travelling to matches he listens to the Ardiess Posse. I know I will from now on...

Random Article

2011-02-07T07:42:00.000-08:00

It's Monday afternoon and I've had a take away Nando's . Time for something moderately productive. I'm going to play a game in which I click 'random article' in this crazy new thing called Wikipedia and then I'm going to tell you what I find. I promise to be honest about what comes up and not skip anything. OMG guys! This is going to be so RANDOM!

Article number 1; 'Brunswick Star'... Right. This is a short one. The 'Brunswick Star' is an emblem in the form of an eight or sixteen pointed star. So far, so dull, so 'who bothers to put this shit on Wikipedia?' What it is most famously used as is the badge for almost all British police forces. BLOODY PIGS! Interestingly (honestly) Brunswick is the English word for the German feudal state 'Braunschweig'. Ah, there is nothing quite like Braunschweig in the Summer time. Wiki tells me that the reason for this star originating in Germany is linked to us having a Hanoverian (BLOODY GERMAN!) descended royalty. With royal arse licking on the rise in this country it's is a timely reminder that the idea of associating royalty with patriotism is absurd.

And now I shall click 'random article' again. OMG guys! Can you feel it too? This is almost as mad as that time we all did poppers!!

Article number 2; 'Wood Lawn'. Exciting! For a lawn to get onto Wikipedia it'd have to be pretty special. 'Wood Lawn' is in fact, misleadingly, a house in Mount Mourne, North Carolina. As far as I can tell the most significant thing about this house is that it was built in 1836. What with USA being a new country and all they seem to get very excited about old buildings. Britain is of course riddled with them. Did you know that the building you are sat in right now was most likely built around the time of Christ? That is why we don't have cool American things in our houses like garbage disposal, massive fridges and showers that don't simply trickle a narrow stream of cold water onto your pale body. My favourite sentence in this Wiki entry is; 'In 1981, a bathroom was installed'. It's nice to think that should I ever do anything remotely DIY like in my life someone might think to document it. The Wiki entry for my flat might say 'In 2011 a light bulb was changed'.

Ok, strap in chaps. Another roll of the dice. Don't say your bored. This one's going to be amazing!

Article number 3... 'Aramoana massacre'. Yes! It's a mass murder! I knew I wouldn't let you down. Right, this is actually quite grim and might be a little tricky to be pithy about. It's basically one of things where a bloke went mental and shot a lot of people. It happened in 1990 in New Zealand. A man called David Gray (not the singer) shot 17 people, killing 13. When things like this happen the papers always go on about it for days. For some reason, I've never been the type to read all of the character analysis. I suppose it's because I think it's pointless and stupid. It's like on a far smaller level when the lady put a cat in a bin. People went on about it for ages. Why? Why did she do it? Why? Can I offer up an answer? Because thanks to experience or the chemicals in their brains some people are a bit strange and sometimes they go through a breakdown and do weird, irrational things which are impossible to defend. Now can we all watch Bargain Hunt?

I'll spare you all the grim details of this massacre. If you're the type of person who gets off on that stuff (Why? Why are you so sick? Why?) feel free to look it up. Rather than belittle the incident I'll offer you an opportunity to do so yourself thereby making you responsible for any lack of taste. May I suggest riffing on this? In the lead up to the murders Gray became increasingly angry. On one occasion 'he was served a cold pie, and became confrontational'.

This may have come to a natural conclusion but I'm enjoying it so here goes! Open your minds friends. As soon I've finished writing this paragraph I'm clicking the 'random article' generator. For those that are interested I have another tab on the go. Are your palms sweating too? I FEEL SO ALIVE!

Article number 4; 'Delhi Gate'... well this is a bit silly. That old house in North Carolina got about 6 big paragraphs. This gate links the New Delhi city with the old walled city of Delhi only gets about 3 lines. You'd think it was more important. Having said that it is only a fucking gate and apparently they're quite a few in Delhi. If the Brandenburg Gate wasn't so up it's own arse then perhaps all these other gates wouldn't feel that they have to make themselves feel worthy by writing themselves' Wikipedia entries. As is the way with anywhere Britain went between 1700 and 1950 (those dates are plucked out of the air) it manages to fit in something abominable that we did. Apparently the Delhi Gate is close to another gate whose name translates as 'The Bloody Gate'. There in 1857, some chap called William Hudson killed the three sons of the last Mughal Emperor during the 'Indian Rebellion'. Nice. Assuming you're British I now want you to turn off your computer and sit in silence for a few hours feeling guilty about the awful things that your ancestors did. Bye!

PMQs and sexism and books and shit.

2011-01-26T07:10:00.000-08:00

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

Have you got a cigarette?

2011-01-21T07:16:00.000-08:00

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?'

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.

Fergapop

http://itunes.apple.com/gb/podcast/in-conversation-patrick-dempsey/id406234862?i=90280443

Angry man.

2011-01-07T07:04:00.000-08:00

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...

'HEY!!'

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.

'TURN THE LIGHT OFF AND SHUT THE DOOR!!'

'Sorry'.

I do so. He is angry. Weirdly angry.

'THERE ARE TWO SIGNS IN THERE! ARE YOU BLIND?!!!!!'

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'.

'YEAH WELL YOU DON'T HAVE TO LIVE WITH THE FUCKING SMELL!!'

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...

'HONESTLY, THESE PEOPLE ARE DEAF, BLIND AND FUCKING STUPID!!'

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!'

'FUCKING IDIOT!! YOU'RE A FUCKING IDIOT!!'

'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...

January 4th

2011-01-04T04:50:00.000-08:00

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...

EXT. LONDON. NIGHT. A DARK STREET CORNER.

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

"No thank you"

THE END

*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...

New Year isn't it.

2010-12-31T07:34:00.000-08:00

Hello darling. You may or may not be aware that this evening is New Year's Eve. Until the last couple of years I've not really been a fan of New Year's. Here's my issue(s) with it;

It's the sort of night in which people who don't normally 'go out' do so. They are well within their rights to 'go out' and 'have a laugh' but being out of practice as they are, I find that they tend to act like pricks. Cramming a year's jollity into an evening they feel they have to wear stupid hats, sing Grease medleys and cackle at passing traffic. I suspect that most of them are nice folk but unaccustomed to heavy public drinking as they are they become irritants.

These buffoons make traveling anywhere on New Year's a fucking nightmare. One New Year I was on a bus. Someone asked a couple of teenage lads where they were headed and they replied 'Anywhere where there's pussy, man!'. Nice. It transpired that they were going to Trafalgar Square. I'm sure they would find possessors of female genitalia in Trafalgar Square but there is no telling as to the quality or availability of said 'pussy'. Also, what with it being cold at that time of night in winter I'd imagine there's likely to be quite a few layers between those gentlemen and the 'pussy'. I reckon they ended up wishing they'd stayed at home and watched Babestation.

Now there's a question - what happens at midnight on New Year's Eve on Babestation? That is surely a seriously depressing moment for both the viewers and the 'performers'. Not only are they the type of person who is on/watching Babestation but they are also the type of person who is on/watching Babestation as the rest of the country celebrates the arrival of a New Year. To be fair at least the performer is getting paid - double time I imagine. The viewer however is so lonely and horny that they can think of no better way to spend Hogmanay than with their penis in hand watching a glistening Nuts reject do a poor imitation of sexiness.

Does Babestation even acknowledge that it's New Year's? Surely at 11.57pm they should say 'Listen. It's nearly midnight. Turn to Jools Holland on BBC2 for 5 minutes and pretend you're a normal person. Then come back to us and we'll get back to the misery disguised as erotica'. I'm so curious as to what happens at midnight on Babestation that I have set my Sky+ to record it tonight. I'm genuinely excited to see what happens. It is however important that I delete it before my girlfriend gets back from Florida. She would no doubt suspect that whilst she was gone, not only had I spent my evenings watching Babestation - I had also recorded it so that I could re-enjoy it during the day. By the way, I do realise that by going on such a long rant about Babestation I am admitting that I have watched it. Be honest, be you man or woman - so have you. Maybe not. Shit.

The last couple of New Year's have been fun because I've spent the night at a lovely pub a short walk from my house. This has kept 'dickhead encountering' down to a minimum and eradicated the obligatory 2 hour taxi wait. Tonight however due to the movements of 'friends' I am going to a house party in another neighbourhood. I look forward to people stealing MY BEERS from the fridge and talking to crying women on the stairs as I wait for a taxi that was supposed to be there an hour and a half previous. Happy New Year bellends!

Why I Will Never Appear On Question Time

2010-12-09T08:28:00.000-08:00

I would like to make a pledge right now to never appear on Question Time. Although I take a 'keen interest in current affairs' (that line is straight from an old CV) and undoubtedly have the gift of the motherfucking gab I am absolutely certain that I would make a tit of myself. I am the prime example of someone who passionately regurgitates things I've read about politics seconds after I've read them. Then when someone challenges me on my shiny new opinions I scrabble around for my book mumbling 'I'm sure they addressed that point... they must have done!'.

I realise it is unlikely that I will ever be asked on Question Time unless there is a sudden demand for perpetually peripheral cast members in 'under the radar' TV shows to talk about EU fishing quotas etc. They did, however once invite Carol Vorderman on and it is a Vorderman like performance I live in fear of giving. Much in the same way that she spewed The Daily Mail letters page I worry that I would do the same with The Guardian. In all seriousness I reckon that would be just as bad. Well, maybe not but... you know.

Similarly Nick Clegg made a pledge a while ago that he never thought he'd never have to worry about breaking. What irritates me about his tuition fee reversal is not the reversal itself but his defense. He says that they didn't win the election, they came third, and therefore they can't do whatever they want. But their pledge was to 'vote against any rise in tuition fees'. The Lib Dems knew that they wouldn't win the election. They also knew that there was a possibility that they could be involved in a coalition in the event of a hung parliament. Now Cleggo says that they have to compromise within that coalition. He's right, they do. I fully understand that they can't implement all (hardly any) of their policies. With their share of the vote that wouldn't be right. But they pledged to 'vote AGAINST any rise in tuition fees'. People voted for the Lib Dems knowing they might be in a coalition and expected them to stick to that pledge. It's pretty simple really although the length of this paragraph suggests that I have failed to make it so.

And that ladies and gentlemen is why I will never appear on Question Time. My belly rumbles with opinion, I overestimate my IQ and I waffle. For the record, I concocted that opinion without the aid of reading materials. In addition I'd like to let it be known that I'm not sure what the right thing to do about tuition fees is. I've genuinely heard some bloody good arguments on both sides. Why can't we all just... you know... get along?

Here's a short list of books that have caused me to annoy people with my new found opinions. For what it's worth, I recommend them all very highly;

Nick Cohen - What's Left?: How Liberals Lost Their Way
This book, I think, is amazing. It convinced me for a while that the Iraq War was the right thing to do (back to being anti now but with less vigour) and that Chomsky (a previous hero) was a cunt. For 6 months I tried to steer every conversation towards this book.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Whats-Left-Liberals-Lost-Their/dp/0007229704/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1291914353&sr=8-1

Al Franken - Lies And The Lying Liars Who Tell Them
This taught me to hate and laugh at Fox News before I had seen it. It's kind of meaningless political point-scoring but it's fun nonetheless. I read it in two days. It's that kind of book.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Lies-Lying-Liars-Tell-Them/dp/0141017805/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1291914776&sr=1-1

David Aaronovitch - Voodoo Histories
This reaffirmed a still held opinion that pretty much all conspiracy theories are bullshit.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Voodoo-Histories-Conspiracy-History-Bestseller/dp/009947896X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1291914898&sr=1-1

Simon Kuper and Stefan Szymanski - Why England Lose: And Other Curious Football Phenomena Explained
Get's a little boring towards the end and has a shit title but is otherwise brilliant. Smashes lots of perceived football wisdom - eg. foreigners are bad for English footballers and managers make much difference.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Why-England-Lose-phenomena-explained/dp/0007301111/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1291915106&sr=1-2

Michael Lewis - The Big Short: Inside The Doomsday Machine
This man is my new favourite writer. He explains one side of the financial crisis through the eyes of some people who saw it coming. Very exciting, funny and makes you feel smart reading it. I would try and steer all conversations towards this but I seriously struggle to remember the detail. Still, I can't recommend it enough.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_27?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=michael+lewis+the+big+short&x=0&y=0&sprefix=michael+lewis+the+big+short

And that concludes today's lesson. If I have bothered you with 'read opinions' in the past I apologise. I look back on the three month period, after reading the God Delusion, in which I, like every other twat who read it became aggressively (almost evangelically) atheist with embarrassment. It was fun though.

Aerosmith, Bryan Adams, Wills and Kate.

2010-11-20T08:57:00.000-08:00

This week I went to Seville (it's in Spain - numb nuts!) which was alright. I went on my own. I imagined myself strolling the streets, soaking up the Iberian breeze (is that a thing?) and looking cool as I read in cafes. I kind of did all those things but, of course, in actuality it's not all that romantic. At one stage I went into Seville Cathedral. That's the sort of thing your supposed to do isn't it? Walk around a cathedral. At one stage I sat down on what I believe is known as a pew. Not sure though - I'm not religious. As I tried to find meaning in the relative silence someone started to whistle... quite loudly. Instead of pondering the audacity and genius of the people who built what is the world's largest cathedral I found myself desperately, luckily internally, shouting 'what the fuck is that song?'. Thankfully the whistler, presumably another visitor, kept going for a full ten minutes. Perhaps this is a traditional Sevillian game. Or maybe the man was employed to entertain tourists. No matter how great a cathedral, let's face it, they can be a little dull. For me, the introduction of 'name that tune' added to my enjoyment.

Eventually I got it. The man was whistling 'Don't Want To Miss A Thing' by Aerosmith. I fucking hate that song. It reminds me of when I worked in the Co-Op in Essex and was literally forced to listen to Essex FM all day. What amazed me was the complete unawareness of the whistler. What made him think that it was appropriate to whistle that song at full volume in a place where everything suggested that it would be anything but? What put that song in his head? Maybe he, like me, was on a short trip and having looked at the plethora of things to do in his guide thought to himself 'I don't want to miss a thing'. I'm glad he did whistle it because I found it hilarious. It was genuinely one of the highlights of my trip. Similarly when a couple of years ago I spent less than 24 hours in the beautiful country of Jordan I heard the song 'Please Forgive Me' by Bryan Adams no less than FOUR TIMES. That became a hoot. It felt like every time we walked into a room or a taxi the locals said 'Quick! The westerners are coming! Put Bryan Adams on!!'.

So I was in Seville when I heard the GLORIOUS news that Wills and Kate are to be married. My heart was all a flutter and I took out my the Union Jack I always keep in my luggage wherever I go and waved it vigorously for a good two hours. I am, of course, being sarcastic. I watched the coverage for a full 90 minutes on Sky News and it depressed me to the core. I hate being told how happy the whole country is about it. It's like every now and again we Brits have to be reminded to be remedial, subservient, singing dickheads.

Just for clarity I have nothing against the royals as individuals. And for even further clarity I think that Kate Middleton is a boner-fied hottie. It's just that I despise the idea that we're supposed to be so joyous about the marriage of two undeservedly rich people that we don't even know. But Fergus, they're so NICE. Nice isn't good enough. As far as I can tell, Jamie Cullum is nice but that won't make me buy his music.

Right. I hate the institution of monarchy. I really do, but I worry I'm not going to do my hatred justice right now as my girlfriend is shouting at me to go and fetch us a take away Nando's. That's right, guys - we live next door to a Nando's. For nearly two years we boycotted it because our liberal middle class street opposed it's opening. Now, it turns out we'd be quite happy to be surrounded by Nando's. May I suggest that the whole nation pulls together behind the glory of Nando's rather than the marriage of two people it's quite possible you would have hated if they went to your university?

Things to do before I die.

2010-11-17T12:58:00.000-08:00

1. Find out what a horse is.
2. Tell Margaret I love her.
3. Read an old poem, 'get it' and decide that it's shit.
4. Make a number 22 record - 21 or 23 is not good enough.
5. See the world (a globe/map would do).
6. Tell Ruth I love her.
7. Perform bypass surgery on myself and those closest to me.
8. Meet one of the Blairs' kids.
9. Shoot a wasp.
10. Piss off a butcher.
11. Tell Gabrielle I love her.
12. Pronounce a word wrong.
13. Capitalise on a tragic event in order to gain extraordinary wealth.
14. Outlive my kids.
15. Prove/disprove the existence of Gary Mabbutt.
16. Successfully translate Don Quixote into English (assuming this hasn't been done already).
17. Put my willy in between my legs so that it looks like I'm a lady - sustain this for a year.
18. Patch things up with Wesley Snipes.
19. Teach a crab to walk forwards.
20. Go on a stake out/stag night.
21. Push the limits of what it is possible for a man to do within the confines of a granary bap.
22. Square up to a Samoan.
23. Divorce a Nolan sister.
24. Convert a simpleton from a poor country to Christianity and then tell him it's all bollocks shouting - "Gutted! In your face loser!"
25. See a film.

Bus Drivers

2010-10-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

I must start with an apology. It’s been an awful long time since I’ve written a blog and that is for two reasons. One – I don’t have internet at home at the frigging moment. Two – I’m incredibly busy. I mean, gosh… my diary! Guys, I don’t think you appreciate just how busy I am. Think about you at your busiest then multiply that by ten… you’re not even close. I am SICK AND TIRED of people hiring me to STAR in their TELEVISION SHOWS!

I’d like to title the second half of that paragraph ‘faux arrogance’ in the hope that you ‘get it’. Tone can be very difficult to get across in print which is why a writer with my skill level and bravery should not have a blog. Sooner or later this blog is going to cause someone’s death and I will hold you, the readers – the people who supported this madness – responsible. It’s only a matter of time.

The subject that has dragged me to write this bitch is bus drivers. I worry for them. I think it is fair to say that they are the most miserable group of people I’ve come ever across. The question is – do miserable people become bus drivers or does the profession itself make them miserable?

Yesterday morning I ran for a bus. With any luck this rare show of physical effort bought me enough calories to have at least 2 guilt free Pringles. As I was only 10 feet away when the bus was about the pull away, the driver was kind enough to leave his doors open and wait for me. It wasn’t an exceptional deed but it was the decent thing to do and I salute him for it. Having watched in agony and wrath as many bus drivers simply drove off in identical circumstances I decided to thank the driver for his humanity with the following statement;

“Thanks very much. Cheers for that.”

Not bad for 8 in the morning, I think. Direct. Polite. Appreciative. Mainstream.

The driver wasn’t so sure. For some reason, my attempt at a ‘thank you’ produced nothing but disgust in him. His face suggested that a little bit of vomit might have come up. He scowled, rolled his eyes and then turned away from the prick who dared to speak to him. I laughed out loud. You may know it as an ‘lol’.

What was it that I had done so wrong? It’s not like the bus was supposed to arrive at a certain time and I had dared to be late for it. I had simply ran for a bus and then thanked a driver for waiting three seconds for me. This is my theory;

Oyster cards and the like (in London at least) have made it completely unnecessary for bus drivers to have any contact with the hundreds of people they drive around each day. This lack of human contact has led them to resent us. Locked in cages, dealing with shitty traffic and cumbersome vehicles for hours, they have turned into (with the greatest respect) abused animals. So when one of us offers out the hand of friendship they are angry, suspicious and afraid – and they bark. Heaven forbid one of them bites.

As a solution may I suggest the following? Look upon all bus drivers as a (again, with the greatest respect) dog you have just adopted from Battersea Dogs Home. No matter what they do to you, show them nothing but love. ALWAYS thank them when getting onto and off a bus and try to offer them as many smiles as possible. Gradually they will realise that we are nothing to fear.

What I have learnt in India...

2010-09-29T06:11:00.000-07:00

Here are the things I have learnt whilst in India...

1. On Indian billboards, all products are advertised by a chubby middle aged man with a moustache who gestures favourably at pictures of the product. It is tempting to think that it is the same man but I don't think it is.
2. Eating curry at least twice a day is actually better for my bowels than than my current diet in England.
3. When people ask me where I'm from I say 'London' rather than England or Britain. Deal with it.
4. When talking to 'locals', no matter how hard I try, I'm pretty sure I come across as a dick.
5. Compared to residents of other poor countries I've been to, Indians seem less keen to scam you out of money. Egypt was the worst for that. I remember a shopkeeper, as a passed his gaff, literally saying the sentence - 'How can I take your money?'.
6. Indians love football just as much as cricket. Unlike cricket though, they are shit at it.
7. The young man on the reception desk at my last hotel was gay but I don't think he knew it yet. He is genuinely about to study in San Francisco though. I believe he will 'find himself'.
8. When overtaking (or indeed, doing anything) in a car, an Indian will ALWAYS sound his horn.

I hope I learnt more than that. Probably not. Tomorrow I have to return a week early because I got some (bloody) work. A man has not been so in demand since Sean Maguire left Eastenders. This means I've left my girlfriend to fend for herself in Kerela and am spending the night in a business hotel in Mumbai. I am now going to sit at the bar like a businessman and wait for prostitutes to propasition me. Good bye!

Holidays and Gazza

2010-09-21T03:19:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I go to India on a two week holiday which means my blogs are inevitably going to get really wanky. Here is an example of the sort of tosh you are likely to read over the coming fortnight;

"I'm writing this from an internet cafe in the middle of paradise. The people here are so friendly. I feel that unburdened by the pressures of money they are able to truly become human. A moment ago I looked into a little Indian boy's eyes and saw a message of hope that could warm anyone's heart. When I get back I think I'm going to really re-evaluate my life. Stand up is futile. I'm going to work with disadvantaged children."

It could be said that what I just wrote confirms me as the ultimate cynic. I am already mocking my future self for taking anything other than a sun tan from my holiday. Truth be told I am looking forward to this trip rather a lot. Weirdly, I always really look forward to the flight. Flights are an opportunity to sit down and watch telly for a long time without feeling guilty. What?! You mean these movies are FREE?!! On planes I get so excited about watching movies I would never otherwise watch that I never ever sleep. "I could get a couple of hours kip before we land OR I could watch 'Music and Lyrics'".

The reality is that often, no matter how incredible the actual destination I spend much of my holidays kind of wishing I was somewhere else. This is the problem with old Fergapop. Not very good at enjoying the moment.

What I am enjoying (LINK!) is Gazza's autobiography. You should know that I just read a ridiculously intellectual and difficult to read book about finance* so I felt I had carte blanche to read whatever I liked this time. It won't surprise you to know that Paul Gascoigne is properly mental and, it seems, very dangerous to be around. Just imagine spending an extended period of time with the man in the picture. Gazza could possibly be the worst person to ever go on holiday with (LINK!). Here are some choice passages. These are all, honestly, straight from the book...

"Gary Linekar and his wife, Michelle, were there. She was standing sipping her champagne when I decided to leap on her as a friendly gesture. I landed on her back and we both went overboard."

"He'd left his motor home in the car park, and someone had put one of those traffic comes** we use in training on the roof. I asked my friend if he'd climb up on the roof and get it down. As soon as he was up there, I got in the motor home and started driving it down the A1, going faster and faster. He was screaming and shouting, 'Please, please, Gazza, stop! I'm a married man, I've got a family! You're going to kill me!' He was clearly terrified, so I stopped. I was only having a laugh."

"Another time I drove my car at Jimmy, going about 30 miles an hour, just to scare him. Which it did, especially when I hit him. I thought I'd killed him, but he recovered. Yeah, it was a bad thing to do, but I was bored. That was the reason."

And this is what happened after England went out of Euro '96 to Germany on penalties...

"Back at the hotel at Burnham Beeches, I drank down my sorrows, along with Robbie Fowler. We started squirting tomato ketchup at each other. We'd found a couple of tubes on a table and soon finished them off. I went into the kitchens and found a monster carton of ketchup, which I emptied all over Robbie. Then I ran to my room and had a good cry."

I hope you enjoyed that low brow entertainment while was able to give it to you. I appreciate that the bulk of this blog is me essentially me stealing stories from someone else's autobiography. Soon, after a few days in India, I will be an altogether more enlightened man. Thanks you and good byes.

* It's called 'The Big Short' and it's by Michael Lewis. If you have any interest in the insanity that brought about the recession that I recommend you read it. It is also very entertaining. I promise.

** It genuinely says 'comes' instead of 'cones'. Perhaps they allowed him to write the odd paragraph himself.

Mr. T hates trees!

2010-09-14T06:43:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of giving my girlfriend control of the television remote for a brief period on Sunday. Within seconds it was on the 'Painting and Drying Channel' which is clearly beyond parody. Then we were watching an infomercial on a channel somewhere in the late 600s. They were advertising some kind of see-through oven and had hired the services of Mr.T to help explain it to us. Mr.T is on about 20% of adverts at the moment. He is either a fan of a great number of different products or simply happy to whore himself to the hundreds of advertising execs who earn their money by saying -

"Guys, guys, what if...? Now bare with me on this... what if...? Jesus, I'm good... What if... we got Mr. T to advertise it?"

"Woah, woah, woah! Mr. T from the A Team?"

"Yeah. We could, like, get him to say, like, 'You'd be a FOOL not to buy Gaviscon!"

"Danny, you're amaaaazing! Consider your salary justified!"

It is important that I let you know, as I have proven on a handful of occasions, I am perfectly willing to 'whore' myself in adverts. The fact is that adverts pay big chunks of money for very little work and therefore only a dickhead (or someone with integrity) would turn them down.

This blog was going to be about the fact that Mr. T is still known as Mr. T although that was just the name of a character he played in a TV show 25 years ago. I was going to make jokes around the premise that Ian McShane still called himself Lovejoy. Then I did some research and discovered/remembered that Mr. T is in fact the name of the actor and the character was called B.A Baracus. Now I am lumbered with a blog with no discernible direction. The parallels with my career are striking.

Someone told me on Sunday night that Mr. T owned a huge estate outside of Chicago with hundreds of oak trees on it's grounds. He then decided that he hated trees and got rid of them all, upsetting the local residents. I have since googled this and the story can safely be upgraded from pub anecdotal evidence to 'true' - he did do it. I now have an image of Mr. T roaming the grounds of his property ripping trees from the ground with his bare hands and shouting 'Mr. T hates trees!'. He would only stop from time to time to yell advertising slogans at passing camera crews.

One point worth making (is it?) is that I don't think I've seen Mr. T do anything but advertise things for over 20 years. That means that there is a whole generation that only know him as the 'black guy on telly who shouts about Snickers/World of Warcraft/that oven thingy'. To them he is just an American Barry Scott. To his credit, what Mr. T has done is created an instantly recognisable image. I will be working on my own over the coming months. How about policeman's hat, wet suit, Dr Martins?

The smarter amongst you will have noticed, to prove what a sick world this is, I have included an image of Nancy Reagan sat on Mr. T's lap. As I understand it, she sat on his lap to distract him from the tree behind him. Any sexual activities that may or may not have happened after this photo was taken are between them. And as for the video below - she's right, he could have used the door knob...

My time in the RSC.

2010-09-10T07:50:00.000-07:00

My friend, Alex has asked me to write about my time in the RSC and as it seems I now take requests like a wedding DJ that is what I'm going to do. Yes, that's right! For seven months of my life in 2002 I was in the Royal Shakespeare Company. When my mother told my Grandma that I had got a job with the RSC she thought I was now working for the RAC and, bless her orthopedic socks, was very impressed.

I played a fairy in Midsummer Night's Dream (because I'm cool) and also had the role of Philostrate who gives a supposedly funny speech near the end. Every night I stood on stage in a ridiculously unflattering toga bashing out that unfunny speech and every night the audience laughed knowing full well that it wasn't funny but wanting to look smart. At first I took the job quite seriously. I was 21, fresh out of drama school and keen to impress. Then I fell into the clutches of the eldest member of the cast.

He was a Northern chap in his 50s who'd been consistently employed in the theatre for 25 years. Let's call him Barry. The problem was that Barry absolutely hated fucking acting. Truly hated it. He was properly hilarious but, weirdly, hated it when the audience laughed. Whenever it was time for him to go to the stage his shoulders would slump and he would mope towards the wings (theatrical term) in agony. Barry's way of countering this detestation was to piss about. Because I am what's known in the business as 'game for a laugh' he focused a lot of his attentions on me.

One night I was stood at the back of the stage in my stupid toga concentrating on the scene in front of me. Being the fresh faced wannabe that I was I reacted to the action with what's known in the trade as 'facial expressions'. This was despite the fact that none of the 1000 people in the audience would have been looking at me. Barry, the theatrical veteran, who was stood close by in an equally stupid toga, leaned over and said, under his breath... "Stop acting, you cunt.". The man was a hoot. Another night, in the same scene, he whispered (but not especially quietly)... "We're doing the wrong play! We're supposed to be doing "Importance of Being Earnest!".

Gradually, this tomfoolery spread to the younger cast members. 100 performances in and things just got silly. One night I was stood close to a stage exit waiting to give my tedious speech. Another actor, let's call him Jerry (why not?), was stood just offstage by the same exit armed with a dictaphone. Over the course of a minute he played the same fart noise into my ear 40 times. Farts are always amusing but in this instance it brought about uncontrollable laughter on my part. This wasn't stifled laughter that only eagle eyed viewers might spot. This was proper mouth wide open, tears rolling down face, laughter. Unable to concentrate on the action on stage I began to panic. Terrified of missing my cue, I started my dialogue, interrupting another actor's speech. In the pompous theatre world that is a crime tantamount to baby buggery. The serious actor whom I'd interrupted was livid and as soon as the show was over let me know about it. In retrospect he was right to do so. I probably made him feel quite vulnerable and ruined his evening. In my defence his speech was so ball achingly dull I don't think that anyone noticed.

I like a lot of Shakespeare and love theatre (OMG! I just LOVE it!) but when you don't have a particularly interesting part, doing the same play 130 something times is BORING. A fault of mine is that I'm not all that good at hiding boredom and it was most likely spotted by the decision makers in the R to the S to the C. That may be why they never asked me back and I spent 2 and a half years working in a call centre.

In my last blog I touched on the bellends who go to trendy bars in East London. This video says everything I tried to but is far funnier. I should mention that I posted this on twitter and failed to credit my friend and zeitgeist beacon Imran Ahmed for sending it to me. Twitter etiquette is a minefield.

Pubs

2010-09-08T07:22:00.000-07:00

My favourite pub is conveniently and dangerously close to my flat. It's an Irish boozer (I never use that word) called The Auld Shillelagh and can be found on Stoke Newington Church Street. My drink of choice is Guinness and as such I haven't had a normal shit since Kula Shaker last released a successful album. The Auld Shillelagh (pronounced 'old shill-lay-lee') serves superb Guinness and that initially was my primary reason for frequenting it. Now I go for the aura of the place.

Right. I'm going to have to stop for a moment. I just used the word 'aura' when describing my favourite Irish 'boozer'. It is clear that a few years mixing with the North London liberal media elite has led me to disappear so far up my own wanky arsehole that I sound like an advertising 'creative'. Apologies. Please bear with me as I try to explain why I love this pub without sounding like a social tourist tit.

It's a long narrow pub and all the alcoholics sit at the bar by the entrance. This meant that for years I rarely went in. I didn't have the balls to get past the gauntlet of middle aged masculine misery. Then one night a friend and I dared each other to sit at the bar all night and try to fit in. Within an hour and a half all our preconceptions were well and truly battered. It turned out that two of the previously most frightening men were in a civil partnership together. Now, I'm not saying that gay men can't be frightening (Christopher Biggins?) but it definitely altered our perspective.

Now, I see The Auld Shillelagh as a rare example of what in my opinion a good pub should be. It's a place where all different types of people come together to get pissed and talk. 'Isn't that a description of any pub?' I hear you say. Yes... but... it's the AURA!

I'll tell you what kind of pub I hate. One where the music is so loud that you can't talk but is also a) too shit to dance to, or b) there's nowhere to dance. Does ANYONE like these pubs? I'm sure it's not my age that makes me hate them, I remember moaning about them when I was 17. Now either I was a really boring 17 year old (impossible, just impossible) or hundreds of pub landlords are making very bad business decisions. Thinking about it though, these pubs are always full. Who are these people who enjoy standing with expensive drinks as someone yells incomprehensible noises into their ear? Perhaps they're aimed at groups of workmates who hate each other. The pubs provide a cocoon of noise so that they can wind down after work but not actually listen to the inane bullshit of their colleagues.

Another type of bar I hate is the uber trendy indie place. Shoreditch is riddled with them and if you live in a city I'm sure you've been to a couple. Peer into one of these places and all you will see is a gaggle of twats simply wearing clothes. They are not smiling or dancing. They are hardly talking. Their primary purpose seems to be simply to wear trendy clothes. It is also worth noting that despite the strive for individualism that their demeanors suggest they all look the same. A few years ago they were all wearing trucker hats. I'm most likely behind the times but last time I checked they were all wearing lumberjack shirts with the top button done up and horn rimmed glasses. I should admit that for a long time I kind of wanted to be part of this gang. I always failed in my outfits miserably though* and count myself lucky that I saw the light and gave up.

One last thing (remember Columbo?) I'd like to mention is the beers in these bars. To me, all lagers pretty much taste the same. The fashions however, change year on year. Once Carlsberg was considered cool. I think even Stella was for a while. Then we had the Czech beer years. Now some bars wouldn't dream of selling Carlsberg. Instead they'll give you a warm bottle of Zatec for four quid. Ladies and gentlemen of Britain - all these beers taste the same! Thank you and goodbye.

* I went through a phase of wearing vintage 80's jumpers with 'kooky' pictures on them until someone pointed out that I looked like a child with special needs. They said it looked like I was picking clothes that were 'easy to put on'.

My Ankle Rankles

2010-09-06T06:18:00.000-07:00

My friend Imran (British Pakistani, 5' 9") has requested that I write a blog about my ankle. This is not a fetish of his. The fact is that Imran (jogger, cocky) seems to find it hilarious that I have a bad ankle and wants to read about it 'for a laugh'. Fine...

Take yourself back to March 2000. Brit pop was on it's last legs. Noel Edmunds was still safely in hiding. Jack Whitehall was nine. Let me say that again. JACK WHITEHALL WAS NINE!* Contrary to what it says on my Wikipedia page I was at Manchester Metropolitan University 'studying' acting. I spent one Saturday evening drinking John Smith's (1.25 a pint) in the Student Union and then me and my mates left for a house party because we were cool. Pissed and brimming with post-pubescent energy I ran down the stairs of the Union. I think I may have been trying to recreate a scene in 'Heat' (which loads of people hate when it is in fact brilliant) in which Al Pacino runs down lots of steps very quickly and yet maintains his lovable intensity. I fell, like a twat, and in the process turned my right ankle, severely spraining it. It says something for the largely charmed life I have lead that that moment is easily the biggest regret of my life. One has to wonder, despite the fact I was already 20, studying acting and shit at football - if not for that fall could I have played for England?

So, for the last 10 years I have had a bad ankle. Some months I hardly notice it. Some months I hobble round like Paul Robinson**. I've been to a series of physios who have all told me that I will have a bad ankle for the rest of my life. It's hardly a disability but it is a genuine source of annoyance and the bane*** of my bloody life.

In the early noughties, as was my want, I spent a lot of time in nightclubs wondering how to make girls like me. My strength in the arena of courtship has always been my rakish wit and capacity for japes. Basically I'm a fucking hoot. It's difficult to let this ability shine through in a noisy nightclub. That didn't stop me trying - acting out the words to songs like the desperate tit I was. What made my evenings even worse (and they were, on reflection, caked in misery) was this pissy bad ankle of mine. Like many of my fellow revellers I could often be seen munching on pills except that mine were Nurofen. Dancing for hours at a time is tricky with a Grandma sized swollen ankle so I chomped on ibuprofen like they were jelly babies. Incidentally in googling the spelling of 'ibuprofen' just now I learnt that it is not in fact 'ibroprofen'. I have been saying the name of my drug of choice wrong for the last decade.

Since you ask, I'm having a good month ankle-wise. I even had a bit of a kick about yesterday and was reminded that I really can't do more than about 7 or 8 kick ups. Keeping a ball under control (wink) in the air is mighty difficult. Whatever your opinion of Tony Blair is he should always get credit for that head tennis session he had with Kevin Keegan in about 1996. Look up the footage if you've not seen it. It's really quite impressive and if he had just done that at the Iraq War inquiry I think his 'legacy' would still be very much in tact.

One final point on ankles in general. I fear for the current crop of young men who wear deck shoes and the like with no socks. Not only must their feet stink but their ankles have no support. Forever a slave to the whims of fashion, Imran (30, angry) is one of these poor souls headed for disaster. It must be boom time for the physiotherapy industry with thousands of Vampire Weekend fans limping in to their clinics with fresh sprains. I now, on the other hand almost exclusively wear high tops which not only give me the support I need but also help me to fit in when I visit the ghetto. Thank and and goodbye and if you like this blog then spread the word for I have an ego that needs feeding.

* Jack Whitehall was in fact eleven in March 2000 but I thought it would be funnier to say that he was nine. The soon to be equally as famous, Daniel Sloss was nine in March 2000. The fact is that there is a strong chance that when I sprained my ankle neither of those young men, who are both more successful at comedy than me, had pubes. Depressing. Oh and I realise that I have pondered on the likelihood of other other men having pubes two blogs in a row now. This is a dodgy habit I will keep an eye on.

** That was a reference especially for those of you who still watch Neighbours. Paul Robinson now has an artificial leg and in turn, a limp.

*** Following on from the footnotes of my last blog, 'bane' is another one of those words. I only ever hear it in the context - 'bane of my life'.

Sport and stuff.

2010-09-03T03:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my brother turned 26 which is for me rather odd. I find it difficult to even believe that he has pubes. I have however been told by a number of reliable sources that he does. Question - is it appropriate to start a blog discussing my brother's pubes? It's too late now. I've done it because I am a RENEGADE. We celebrated by having a game of tennis in which he, of course, beat me. He has been doing this since he was about 5 and being four years older than him it's a source of genuine hurt and frustration that will no doubt bring about my eventual demise.

This brings me neatly onto my love of sport. It doesn't actually but I thought I could just slip that past you. I love sport a lot. Far more than someone of my astonishing IQ (over 100!) and qualifications should. I once said that for my retirement I'd like to get Sky Sports and just spend my days watching 'all the sport'. My brother recently pointed out that that is what I have ended up doing well before actually starting any kind of pension. Writing that down is, thinking about it, quite depressing. Not only did I fantasize for myself one of the dullest possible retirements but I chose to take that retirement 40 years early. Hang on tv producers, just to clarify I am still available for work and only have enough money in the bank to cover the next couple of months.

It is impossible to explain to someone who doesn't 'get it' just why I love watching and playing* sport so much. Both my parents hate it. I grew up in Newcastle and instead of taking me to watch my beloved Newcastle United every Saturday my dad would take me to craft fares and stately homes. Perhaps it was a kind of rebellion on my part. Most teenagers (I am told) blare* loud music their parents hate from their bedrooms in angst. My parents were both quite embracing of my music tastes. For the record my mother's favourite Wu Tang song is 'What The Blood Clot'. My dad showed his appreciation by saying that EVERY single thing me or my brothers played sounded like the 60s psychedelic group 'Gong'. Instead, I expressed my adolescence by demanding that we watched Match Of The Day and faking sick days so that I could watch Wimbledon and the World Snooker Championships. I did that every year by the way and always got away with it. In... your... face... system!

Now that I have the disposable income of a forty year old gay man I go to watch an awful lot of football. I know no one who loves it quite as much as me so I end up going to most of the games on my own which weirdly doesn't bother me. My adopted London team has become Leyton Orient and I go to see them most weekends. At Orient the stands are filled with pale, podgy freakish looking men who are no doubt divorcees and live on microwave shepherd's pie. In essence they are me in 10-15 years time. One constant at football games is the abuse of players, officials and surprisingly often stewards. I went to one game last year in which the chap behind me was moaning loudly about how shit we were playing within 20 seconds of the game kicking off. It was far too early to make an assessment of how well the team were playing but he had obviously had a bad week at work. The football match provided him with a setting in which it was socially acceptable to shout 'you fucking lazy cunts!' and he took it with open arms. He probably didn't even like football.

I on the other hand do. I really really do. My love for it is so abstract that I can't properly describe it. It's something to do with the fact that it is fairly unpredictable and means a lot to a lot of people. I think what happens is that a large group people decide to care about one effectively meaningless thing (a match) and therefore our collective investment makes it really important and therefore more enjoyable. R U wiv me?

Tomorrow I'm going to see Orient play away at the mighty Dagenham and Redbridge. I will be joined by the recently crippled Holly Walsh and her (stunning) boyfriend Jon. My hope is that they develop a love for the Orient that will result in us attending all Orient games together until the end of time. What will actually happen is that they will say they had an amazing time and would really like to come regularly but when I give them the opportunity they will be mysteriously unavailable. I've been stung before. Time and time again.

* I realise I do not have the body of a man who plays a lot of sport. Pool is a sport.

* Is the word 'blare' ever used in any other context? Similarly the word 'beck' is only used in the phrase 'beck and call' and the word 'incredible' is only used in the phrase 'Fergus Craig is an incredible man'.

My (Firey) Relationship With Stewart Lee

2010-08-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

I've started reading Stewart Lee's recent book and it's bloody good. I did a good two hour stint of pure reading this morning and I've rarely had that kind of session since I read Roald Dahl's Going Solo in 1989. Although I read a fair bit (because I'm smart) I find it difficult to do so for long periods of time - a problem I don't have with television which I can take for 20 hours at a stretch. Like much of what I do I imagine Stewart Lee would frown at that kind of low brow heavy dosage. This is the problem. Sometimes I feel like Stewart Lee is watching what I do and judging me.

Let me go back a bit to explain. In the early nineties I used to regularly go to my room to read Select magazine and listen to Lee and Herring on Radio One. Along with The Day Today and Reeves and Mortimer they were the first comedy programmes I properly loved. Later, on the 23rd of July 2001 (my 21st birthday) I went to see Stewart Lee, Simon Munnery and some others (I think Danny Bhoy was on) at the Camden Head in Islington. They were trying out new material but not having seen much live comedy I was blown away. Munnery was super pissed and spent his entire set shouting 'scum' at the audience. Lee, I remember talking about being adopted and (gently) berating my (then) girlfriend for laughing. Reading his book this morning has taught me that at that exact point (summer 2001) he was at the lowest ebb in his stand up career. I thought he was brilliant.

Now to the present day. For the last few years I have lived in the same neighbourhood as Stewart Lee and until recently we lived on the same road. This means that fairly regularly I see him on the street. We'd met a few times before we started bumping into each other but, really, we hardly know each other. We do however sometimes attempt a brief conversation. Having somewhat idolised him over the years and being awful at small talk I find these conversations tricky. This is not helped by the fact that he has a fairly distant air and in print and on stage seems to have strong negative opinions about a great deal of things. I must stress on the handful of occasions we've had these chats he's been perfectly pleasant. This does not change the fact though that throughout each of those mini events my paranoia leads me to think that he is (unfavourably) judging every single thing about me. Sometimes I read The Sun (something I'll have to defend in another blog) and I live in fear of Lee catching me with it on the street and vomiting in disgust.

Perhaps I'm revealing far too much about a dynamic he is completely unaware of. Should Stewart read this I suspect all our future street encounters will become horrible spectacles. Mr. Lee - let's talk this through. Or maybe not. That could be awful.

The Republic of Nauru

2010-08-24T04:15:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone. Fergus here. Much has happened since I last wrote my pithy prose. Not sure I can be arsed to bore you with it though. Instead, I will tell you a little bit about the Republic of Nauru. Everything written below is, as far as I know, true;

Nauru is the world's smallest island nation (8.1sq miles) and has a population of about 14,000 and is situated somewhere in Micronesia (abroad). So far, so wikipedia but that is not what is interesting about Nauru... Nauru's entire economy is based on bird shit*. I don't really know the science of it but essentially the Nauru-ians 'mine' phosphate from the significant amount of bird shit that lands on their island and then sell it. But then I imagine those of you with phosphate habits already knew that. Now, this is where in my opinion it gets proper funny...

Surprisingly enough the bird shit money was providing a pretty hefty revenue and considering the size of the island they were loaded. Just from the droppings they were pulling in AU$100-120 million a year and it was costing them only AU$30 million to run the island. The government of Nauru was left with a problem which I picture them wording like this - 'What are we going to do with all this bird shit money?' The answer came in the form of the 'Nauru Phosphate Royalties Trust' which was set up in the 1970s to make 'investments'.

At first the trust did well with sensible investments in properties in Australia and elsewhere. The island was nicknamed 'The Kuwait of The Pacific'. The Nauru government grew cocky. 1500 people out of a population that was at the time less than 10,000 worked for the state and flaunted their wealth with abandon. With their pockets stuffed with bird shit money they travelled the world, many of them developing a particular fondness for golf in the Bahamas.

But then the trust's investments became a little eccentric. Money was loaned to a Aussie Rules Football club that went bankrupt and a number of failed developments in Australia. Craziness peaked in 1993 when the Republic of Nauru decided to invest 2 million pounds in Leonardo the Musical. The rambling plot focused Da Vinci getting a young model named 'Lisa' pregnant. In what I assume was a nod to the pink pound it also hinted that he might have been a bit of a gay. As it turned out Leonardo the Musical was one of the biggest failures in West End history and closed after 5 weeks having lost (bird) shit loads.

With so many failed investments the trust's funds were rapidly dwindling. At least they still had the bird shit. But no! For some reason (my entirely Wikipedia based research can't find out why) there was hardly any phosphate left to mine. I like to think that the birds looked down on the arrogant folk below and aware of the wealth their bowels provided decided to go and shit somewhere else.

Nauru is now a relatively poor nation which relies on financial help from other countries. Unemployment is at 90%. It's a sad story really. A whole country made rich by bird shit and then brought down by a shit musical. I'm sure there are many lessons we can learn from it but I'll leave that up to you. Right now, I have to sort out my visa for my trip to India and as with all bureaucratic bullshit it's a pain in the arse. Can somebody do it for me please? Go on. Do it.

*I want you to know that I chose not to do a joke about ITV2's revenue also being based on shit because I thought that that would be cheap.

TV I watch.

2010-08-18T08:59:00.000-07:00

As someone who spends many of my days at home here is a list of SOME of the things that I often watch on telly. Don't judge me.

1. Sky Sports News. Sometimes for hours at a stretch. When you've seen the same Roy Hodgson interview 4 times it's usually time to stop.
2. Prime Minister's Questions - Absolutely nothing to do with politics. Men pretend to be earnest and angry while their mates jeer from behind. The worst thing is the loud fake laughter. If, as a comic, the audience laughed like these bellends I'd walk off.

3. The Wright Stuff - I really want to be on this programme. It's like Question Time except two thirds of every panel have been on Dancing On Ice.
4. Bargain Hunt - I only watch the end. I genuinely, whether they're on the red team or the blue team, want them to do well.
5. Neighbours - I believe I covered this in an Edinburgh show last year. Yes. I still do. Every day.
6. Fox News - Haven't watched it properly in a while. It's important to be in the right state of mind before doing so. You can either gently chuckle to yourself... 'dickheads' or you can end up shouting at the screen... 'dickheads!!'.
7. Cricket. Great for getting stuff done while it's on. If you don't 'get' cricket then it's worth watching just for David Lloyd's commentary. Once I turned it on to only catch the end of one of his Northern rants - '...New Order! Joy Division! Proper bands!'. You do not get that from Andy Townsend.
8. The World at War. I never really follow it properly though I'm pretty sure I know the basics.
9. Live From Studio Five - Channel Five's answer to Newsnight. It will never beat the chaos of it's first week when it was Ian Wright, Melinda Messenger and Kate Walsh shouting over each other for an hour. They could not have picked three less qualified people. They might as well have got snap, crackle and pop (or Alvin, Simon and Theodore depending on your frame of reference). Here's the opening to the first episode if you can bare it. You'll have to copy I paste it I'm afraid so you need to really want it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lhdtkO255k

On the train.

2010-08-17T09:21:00.001-07:00

After doing my only gig of the fringe (BBC night - there is a lot of buzz about my performance) I spent Saturday evening in Brookes bar. Brookes is officially a bar for Pleasance performers and the more naive of you might expect it to be just a little bit glamorous. In actuality it resembles a sixth form common room/youth club and is almost exclusively populated by unrecognisable journeyman comics like myself. Although it's not particularly hip to say so, in small doses I love it because it's also filled with my friends. There was one event though that slightly spoilt my binge...

I spilled half a pint of Guinness over a lady's trousers and a man's jacket and bag. I was immediately enormously embarrassed and went into apology overload. Now when you're on the receiving end of a spillage you get understandably annoyed and then you accept the spiller's apologies by saying 'it's alright, don't worry about it' whilst inwardly despising them. Those are the rules. That is what you do. But this lady was a maverick and I hated her for it. She proceeded to have a serious go at me.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm so sorry.'

'You've ruined everything!'.

'I'm sorry.'

'You're a prick'

'I know. Sorry'

This went on for a good five minutes. Happy ending - I poured the rest of the pint over her. Real ending - I waddled away mumbling sorry.

I am now on the train returning from Edinburgh. There have been a couple of events worthy of note on this journey but 3 days of booze and steak bakes have rendered me a shadow of my former self and I fear I won't be able to do them justice in the telling. In brief the first half of the journey was dominated by four ADHD suffering teenagers from Doncaster pestering two gay upper class American lawyers to let them have ' a shot' on their laptops. The biggest incident of the second half has been the poshest man in the world. He has a booming voice, a pair of binoculars and bellows things like 'Gentleman! Mumsy is over here!'. He is talking to a different pair of Americans who no doubt think he is completely representative of the average Englishman. I have genuinely never come across anyone who is closer to how the British are portrayed in bad American movies. Perhaps he is hired by the tourist board to roam train carriages giving visitors the cartoonish Englishness they came to see. Just now he bounded down the carriage shouting things like 'Good evening sir!' to strangers. It is 5 o'clock.

Every show I saw at this years fringe was good and I hesitate to single one out for fear of upsetting friends. Fuck it though, Nick Mohammed's show may well be the best I have ever seen in Edinburgh.

Posh twat update - He is ASTONISHING and pissed out of his mind...

'I'm looking for my wife!! We went to Paris - I went for the rugby, she went for the opera!'

Then he shouted at an Asian trolley pusher; 'Good evening good sir, are you going to the Oval tomorrow for the cricket? They are playing a team from the South Asian sub continent and it's not India or Bangladesh. Are you with me matey!?'

If this was a sketch it would be considered unoriginal but it is HAPPENING and it is INCREDIBLE.

'You, good sir, are a fine young man!'

I am lost for words which, I guess signals the end of today's blog.

Names

2010-08-11T10:36:00.000-07:00

Today I overheard a mother call her 3 year old boy 'Dennis'. Dennis. Really. Child naming fashions operate like all other fashions - in cycles. On each new cycle a couple of new names are added and a couple are discarded. I imagine the name's Keith and Bernard, for example won't come back. "I'll be with you in a minute, I just need to change Bernard's nappy". Recently, turn of the century before last (that's what we have to call it now) names have been very popular. Nowhere is this more noticeable than where I live - Stoke Newington, the liberal North London family's cultural epicentre.

Living on it's main street I wake up every Saturday morning to mother's shouting "Archie! Stay away from Olive's croissant!". Dennis was not a name I saw coming back. Actually, the more I write it the more I like it. "We bought Dennis a clarinet but he gave up after grade 2". Maybe not. That sounds a little more like you're speaking about an elderly relative with Alzheimer's rather than an 8 year old boy.

Unusual names are far more popular now than when I was growing up in the 1980s. Back then having the name Fergus was like having bellend written on your forehead. Unfortunately I had both. Now, I like having a fairly unique name. The only serious irritant is that people ALWAYS just assume that my name is in fact 'Craig Fergus'. Every time someone sees a form filled in by me I can picture them saying "Look at this Beryl. Another twat who doesn't know what 'surname' means!". There's another one - Beryl. Could that ever come back? Cast your votes now.

As a child it felt like there were 8 Johns in my class, 4 Christophers, 3 Roberts and me... Fergus. And of course the girls. I didn't go to prep school dickheads! If I did would I be able to do this? *attempts roundhouse kick, unintentionally breaks vase*. Quick question - did I use those *s correctly just then? I mean, I know it was hilarious (that goes without saying) but was it grammatically correct?

The name Fergus spawned the following nicknames; Fungus, Fungus the Bogeyman, Fungi, Fungal, Fergil and most creatively... Fungibell. Though that last one probably had a lot to do with the fact that I would often wear the girls' hairbands. I've thought about that a lot since and have concluded that I just did it for laughs and not because of any gender/sexuality curiosity. I'm as straight as they come mate. Now pass me another bevvy and stick the blaaaaady footy on.

Shit Jobs

2010-08-10T08:20:00.000-07:00

It is now 5 years since I have had what I like to term as a 'shit job'. A 'shit job' is a job you cannot bare to go to but have to in order to pay for essentials - food, shelter, legal fees. It is my primary ambition to never have to do another 'shit job' again. My last 'shit job' was in a call centre.

I spent two and a half years at that call centre trying to persuade people to give more money to various charities. The way it worked was this - I worked for a company that was hired by different charities to either persuade people who had already donated to donate on a monthly basis or to persuade those that did give monthly to give more. One part of me felt that I was helping charities to get vital funding. The other felt like I was bullying old ladies into giving me their biscuit money.

Animal charity supporters were the most mental. A friend once asked one if he had any pets. "No" he replied. Then after a pause "...well, I've got a dog?". One elderly lady picked up the phone to one of my calls after less than half a ring frantically shrieking "DID YOU RING THIS MORNING?!!". I pictured her sat on the stairs in a talc smelling house, petrified. She'd missed an earlier call and had spent the last 4 hours waiting for the phone to ring again. In retrospect I have a lot of sympathy for many of the people I called. I don't like being badgered on the phone either but at the time each call was just another step towards reaching my targets. I think any job in sales (and this was essentially sales) ultimately makes you hate people. You find yourself thinking 'why won't these people just do what I ask of them?'. Any empathy for why they might not be able to just aids them in saying 'no'.

Most of the people who worked there didn't see it like this. My competitive nature led me to obsessively chase targets because it got me through the unbearable hours. What is kind of absurd is that as I often worked for third world or cancer charities, I spent a lot of my time talking about horrible things. And yet instead of this making me appreciate the healthy, western, relative splendor that I lived in I felt completely detached from the things I spoke about and felt very sorry for myself.

This is the nature of 'shit jobs'. They can, I believe, seriously damage your personality and turn you into a selfish, miserable, lazy arsehole. It's the hours that do it. They just go on for fucking ever. Clocks on the walls of 'shit jobs' go at least five times slower than clocks in houses do. If you are currently in a 'shit job' you have my sympathies. May something happen tomorrow that adds just a little colour to your day. Perhaps the computers will go down, leaving you unable to do your job. It's brilliant when that happens.

So that it is fully documented, here is a list of all the shit jobs I have had. Everything below is true. Read at your leisure;

1993 - Paperboy delivering Evening Chronicle in Newcastle (6 quid a week).
1993 - Paperboy in Braintree - sacked for being too slow after 2 weeks.
1994 - Paperboy in Braintree - hit by a car while delivering papers.
1997 - 98 Working on the till at the Co-Op.
1999 - Revolution Bar, Manchester - Sacked for being too slow after 4 shifts.
1999 - The factory months; Perfume factory, potato peeling factory, putting stickers on bananas factory, making screws factory, loading boxes factory, frozen chicken packing factory (here I dropped some chickens on my foot and went to hospital with a suspected broken toe. I was fine but I was never paid).
1999 - Bin man for one day.
2000 - 01 - Usher at Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester (this was the best 'shit job' I ever had)
2000 - 01 - Horse and Groom pub, Braintree (many stories here)
2001 - Night shift, shelf stacker at Tesco - left after one week when I got an advert for Boots and thought I was rich.
2002 - 05 - Charity call centre with Colin Hoult, Hayley Jayne Standing and Chris O'Dowd amongst others.

Apologies if today's blog (I hate that word) is a little indulgent. I dedicate it to everyone who truly knows the meaning of the phrase 'shit job'.

Hilarious Pun

2010-08-09T03:43:00.000-07:00

Hey! Isn't it about time I told you about my weekend? I'll start with Saturday night because, other than some fish donburi nothing of any real consequence happened prior to that. But that night I did one of the more memorable gigs of my fairly short stand up career. Stag and hen nights are often a part of weekend stand up gigs but for some reason I've not really come across them much thus far. Not until Saturday night that was.

I was booked to do 20 minutes at a gig I've done quite a lot now and really enjoy. It does however have a legendary reputation as being quite feisty and although I've only encountered good natured banter in the past the reputation alone is enough to make me nervous. When I walked into the venue those nerves turned to outright terror. What I saw was a sea of bunnies' ears and hair gel. The night was sold out and of the 250-300 people in the room at least 70% appeared to be on stag or hen dos. I say this, well aware of my middle class liberal pomposity - they were members of what I think is now known as the 'underclass'. I looked for someone filming a documentary for Sky One but, no, this was real life.

I'm sure that there were plenty of nice, perhaps even smart people in that room. But operating in the packs that they were they were far closer to animals and not nice ones like pandas. The opening 10 minutes for the compere was pure crowd control. I genuinely think there was a significant proportion of the room who were not aware that they had come to see comedy. As far as they were concerned there just happened to be a man on stage with a microphone and if they got bored with their conversations they could listen to him for a while. He did an excellent job of getting through to the majority of them that they shouldn't talk while the acts were on.

I realised I was about to do a gig to a room full of the people who bullied me at school for being 'gay'. I had flashbacks of performing drama pieces to sniggers in assembly. Aware that each of them appeared to have already drunk more WKDs than they had GCSEs I filtered my set. My new joke that includes a reference to George Orwell's 'Down and out in Paris and London' was the first to go.

As it turned out the gig wasn't too bad. I had feared that once they saw my slightly camp gait and 'cool vicar' looks it was only a matter of time before I was lying on the stage in the fetal position while they took turns to kick lumps out of me. Instead they seemed to enjoy what I said until about 15 mins in when they're bladders were too full of blue liquid to concentrate. Towards the end I think there may have been a couple of disapproving shouts from the back but by that stage the room was such a complex organism it didn't seem to matter. Some people were in fits of laughter while others were vomiting into their handbags. I left almost immediately after finishing but not before taking advantage of a couple of the particularly worse for wear women in the disabled toilet.*

I headed straight to a house party in Crouch End where instead of learning lessons from what I had just witnessed I very quickly drank myself into a stupor. Because I arrived sober I felt that I had to drink more to catch up. Foolish in the extreme. There is something odd about a person who when arriving late to a party takes a look around at the people slurring utter bollocks and thinks - I want to be like that.

On Sunday I lost at tennis to my brother and got properly angry, nearly smashing my raquet like some crazy American. When I was 12 and he was 8 he used to beat me. That's when I should have been collecting victories because now that I am 30 (and I believe that number will continue to rise) he will always be better than me. My only hope is that he develops some kind of disability. Fingers crossed.**

The rest of my weekend can be summed up with struggling to digest food and performing to some tourists in Leicester Square. Leicester Square is the sort of place where only tourists seem to go and when I go to European cities I always worry that I've ended up in their equivalent of Leicester Square. That concludes today's blog. It would have been nice to finish with a bang but it wasn't to be. Or was it? BANG!

*As there is a definite chance that my stalker-ish mother*** reads this blog I feel I need to point out that that was a joke.
** Again. A joke. I wish him many years of able bodied health.
*** Mother, I think it's great that you show an interest in my work and would be upset if you didn't. Feel free to keep googling me.

David Suchet is a prick!

2010-08-06T03:07:00.000-07:00

Oh... hello! How have you been? And the Mrs? Glad to hear it. Now, let me tell you about the Wu Tang gig I went to on Wednesday. Despite some great moments it was all in all, of course, a bit of a disappointment. Brixton Academy seems to be the place I go to see my music icons when they're well past their prime. I also saw Bob Dylan and Morrissey there (on separate occasions, they didn't sing White Christmas together or anything) and was largely disappointed. I think I go to see veteran acts just to tick them off the list though really. At least I can say I saw them.

It's like when I was about 22 I saw Damon Alburn at a Streets gig. 22 year old me didn't really care about meeting Damon but I knew that 15 year old me would have given my left ventricle to speak to him. So, knowing he was from Essex I touched him and shouted directly into his face 'Damon! I'm from Braintree!'. Despite always coming across like a bit of a tit in interviews he played his role superbly and graciously gave me the 30 seconds of conversation I was clearly just collecting like a Panini sticker. That's the thing with being famous I think. Every person you ever meet, however briefly, walks away with an anecdote. It must be terrifying to feel that you have to forever have your charm turned up to eleven.

'He wasn't very chatty'.

'But you served him at a road toll booth, there was a queue behind him'.

'Still, he could have stopped for a chat. Spread the word - David Suchet is a prick!'.

I do hope David Suchet isn't a self googler. Though if he can operate the technology, I have no doubt that he is. All performers are. In a really low moment he may google the phrase "David Suchet is a prick" and will be distraught to see that the term was found. David, it was a joke. You are a great actor, a good man and miles cooler than your creepy brother. Now, stop moping and get on with your day.

And this, incredibly, neatly brings me back to the Wu Tang. For all the bravado that comes with being a professional rapper some of them must suffer from huge insecurity. Other than RZA, who also produces much of the music, they all essentially have the same job - write some verses and spit (street term, kids) them out. But some members are far more popular than others because, quite frankly, some are far better at it than others. On the one hand Masta Killa (birth name?) can go to sleep knowing that he is a member of the greatest hip hop group of all time. On the other hand it must wrangle to know that out of nine members you are the least popular. Emile Heskey can at least tell himself that he always 'did a job' for England. Masta Killa knows that he did exactly the same job as the eight other Wu Tangers for 18 years and finished bottom of the league table. Once again, I do hope Masta Killa is not a self-googler. Masta... you are a good man and valuable member of the Wu. Incidentally, I have just learnt from Wikipedia that Masta Killa is a vegetarian. No joke needed there really.

That's all for today I think. You should know that my girlfriend (you shall never know her name) and I booked flights to Mumbai last night. Very excited. That trip can't be a disappointment can it? If it is and I slate it then I do hope Mumbai isn't a self-googler.

One last thing. Thanks for all your advice on the football podcast. Oh hang on... THERE WASN'T ANY! Unbelievable.

Wu Tang Clan Man

2010-08-04T04:05:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm going to see the Wu Tang Clan. Yeah, that's right bellends - you read me correctly. I'm going to see the Wu bloody Tang Clan and I can't wait. I've loved the Clan since I was 14. Growing up in a small village outside of Braintree in Essex I felt that they really spoke to me. Bad textiles lesson? Stick on some Old Dirty Bastard. He understands. Bike chain playing up so you can't get to the village newsagent for a Lion bar? Stick on some Ghostface Killah. He gets it.

This is the problem you see. There is still a stigma attached to being white, (lower) middle class and a fan of hip hopping. I always feel a little embarrassed when my love of rap music comes up, like I have to defend it. Why though? When it's good it's incredible and more fool you to anyone who dismisses it... That's why I'll never quite fit into the hip hop community. Not because I'm white, wear cords and have an A-Level in Theatre Studies but because I use phrases like 'more fool you'.

It is fair to say that hip hop is often shit live. When I do go I always think that I start to hear what someone who hates rap music hears - a series of indistinguishable basslines and people shouting lyrics I can't understand. That's not because the music's shit though. That's because the venues are usually used to hosting rock bands and don't get the sound right. At least that's what someone who sounded like they knew what they were talking about told me. I went to see Jay-Z at Wembley Arena a few years ago. What was not a great gig was made worse by the fact that when leaving I slipped over on some ice (not diamond jewelry, real ice) and fell on my arse. I was surrounded by 'urban youths' shouting "Oooo! You fell man! You fell!".

That said, I'm still massively looking forward to this evening. The Wu Tang in my (sought after) opinion represent hip hop at it's finest. They may still be ruffians but they're super smart ones. I imagine this evening to be a little like all the roughest kids who bullied me at school getting together and putting on a little show. That reminds me of Blazin' Squad. Remember them? I always thought they looked a lot like an ID parade breaking into song.

In conclusion - rap music is ace and the Wu Tang Clan are the pinnacle of that genre. If you don't know the Wu Tang and feel like opening your mind here's a good introduction. It's positively ludicrous but a lot of fun. Oh and if you don't like it then I will assume that you're racist.

One more thing. If you haven't seen me do stand up in a while, this is what my set is like now;

Fringe Binge

2010-08-03T07:31:00.000-07:00

Right now many of my friends (and enemies) are up in Edinburgh shitting themselves about their fringe shows. For most of them, their first show will be tomorrow. I do not envy them. As someone who has done 4 Edinburgh shows (3 with Colin Hoult) I feel I have a fairly good understanding of how they are feeling. Or maybe it was just me who felt like this.

Tonight, the night before your first show, is very weird. Aware that you will be drinking excessively for the next 4 weeks you stay sober. Big mistake. This just leads to a sleepless night pondering your show. One half of you is terrified that you are embarking on a huge failure. Any career that you may or may not have will be over within a week when people realise what dogshit your show is.

The other half of you wonders whether this really might be 'your year'. You remember a producer who told you that it would be and a preview that went incredibly well. That was one of the best gigs you ever did and that was 2 weeks ago and the show is so much more 'slick' now. You wonder if you should wear a suit to the awards ceremony when you're inevitably nominated for the Perrier (I'm still calling it that) or whether that would seem a little fake given that you never wear one normally. Excited, you treat yourself to an expensive meal out, spending the prize money in advance.

Then you remember how much the show is costing you and it spoils your meal. Why do Edinburgh shows cost that much by the way? Last year I sold something like 13,000 pounds worth of tickets and yet I lost 4 and a half grand. That, I think is a fairly average story for someone of similar standing to myself. That's indefensible and the people responsible should be ashamed. Oh, hang on. That's the performers. If we didn't all have our heads up our own arses (and mine sometimes gets all the way up to my pancreas) then we'd all get together and do the free fringe or something. Then the big venues would be forced not to charge such exorbitant rates. That said, if I go next year I imagine I will use the same methods I always have. What a fool I am.

For anyone reading this who is up in Edinburgh I'm sorry if I've sunk you into a depression that you did not yet have. If it's any consolation, deep down, I kind of wish I was up there. Edinburgh is fucking brilliant it's just important not to get to stressed about the whole thing - something I never really succeeded in doing. Two weeks into any Edinburgh August half of the comedians think that they are now famous and half of the comedians think that their careers are over. Both groups are always wrong.

Rant over. Now may I share something with you? This is a band called The Shaggs and they are so awful that they are amazing.

Flat-pack Fergus

2010-08-02T04:19:00.000-07:00

Just to solidify the fact that I am now thirty, yesterday I put together a flat-pack chest of drawers. I say 'I put it together', a more realistic representation would be that my girlfriend put it together and I tried to look helpful. Here is an example of our dialogue, mid construction;

HER: Lift it up.

ME: What does 'IT' mean?

HER: The thing!

ME: What is 'THE THING'?!

She picks it up

HER: This fucking 'THING'!

ME: Oh. Sorry.

I lift it up

HER: It's too late now.

The fact is I am so bad at anything practical (and I include sex in that) it is beyond a joke. Once she asked me exactly what it was that I brought to the relationship. I meekly replied - 'entertainment?'. Yes, that it what I bring to the table... entertainment. I may struggle to put food on that table and if it comes in a flat-pack I will almost certainly fail at putting that table together but I can bring entertainment to that table. That is if the 'entertainment' you are looking for comes from a Championship standard comedian/writer/actor/voice over artist/presenter who's probably spread himself a little too thinly in his career thus far.

Speaking of spreading myself thinly, I'm hoping to start a podcast about football (as if there weren't enough already) by next Monday. Any tips on and advice on how to practically make that happen would be most welcome.

Before I finish today's posting, it has come to my attention (thanks to pedants) that I make the odd spelling or gramatical error in this blog. As someone who has often been chided for being an irritating stickler for spelling and grammar this came as quite a shock. I can only offer my sincerest apologies and the following explanation - you can take the boy out of the ghetto but you can't take the ghetto out of the boy. I'm keeping it real, bitches.

I went to school with this guy

2010-08-02T04:15:00.000-07:00

There's a strong bleeding chance that you've seen this already but I thought I'd post it anyway. Watch until the end.

Careers Advice Is Bullshit

2010-07-28T03:29:00.000-07:00

Last night I went for a drink with an old friend and we got talking about our careers advise at school. We both were told to fill in a series of questions on a computer programme called Kudos and Kudos would tell us what we should do every day for the next 50 years or so. My (male) friend's came up 'midwife' and mine came up 'road safety officer'. At the time I had already been hit by a car once and over the next 5 years I would be hit two more times. I'm not lying. Careers advice is bullshit. Kudos asked people if they were afraid of heights and if they liked being outside. Almost everyone who gave the appropriate answers was told to be a TV ariel installer. Clearly Kudos didn't see digital TV coming. My home town's job centre is populated by 30 year old former TV ariel installers cursing Kudos.

A shitty computer programme is easy to dismiss but face to face careers advice is far more dangerous. As a child my brother was obsessed with insects. He had a subscription to a magazine called Bugs and knew as much as an eleven year old could possibly know about them. He was also a very good student. When he had his careers session he told his adviser of his interest and stated that he hoped to go to university and become an entomologist (insect boffin). My smart, determined brother was told that he should work in pest control for the council. That is genuinely appalling. My brother's dreams were shattered and he lost confidence in his entomology ambitions. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so easily deterred but when your interested in such a specific field and you live in a town where very few people go to university it's not difficult to get thrown off track.

The town I speak of is Braintree in Essex. Just to give you an idea of the kind of place I'm talking about the local band was called 'Hot Ice' and the nightclub was called 'H20'. I lived there from the ages of 13 to 18 and for the most part I hated it. Towns like Braintree are incredible ambition sappers. Ten maybe fifteen people from my year of about 150 went onto mediocre university. About five years ago I met some of the people I used to hang out with at my previous school in Newcastle and they'd nearly all gone to Oxbridge. I'm not saying that everyone should go on and study PHDs but it's nice to know that if you're bright and hard working enough you can do anything. Living in a town like Newcastle bright kids can see a future. Living in a town like Braintree means you need a lot more drive and belief to get where you want to be unless it's pest control.

So why do careers advisors give such shit advice? Because they hate their own shit jobs that's why. What they are essentially saying to every child is 'Listen. We've all got fucking dreams but that's what scratch cards are for. Do you think I wanted to be doing this shit? Course not. That's life. Get over it and do you work experience at the fucking council.'

I'm getting wound up now. More on this tomorrow. The chip on my shoulder is turning into a jacket potato.

Granddad

2010-07-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

I've been saving up a blog because I knew I was seeing my Granddad last night and I felt sure that he'd provide me with some gems of conversation I could relay to you. In the past he has told me that;

1. He once drove the wrong way down the Dartford Tunnel and got away with it because he told the police he was MI5.

2. He once got so angry at a nigger (his word, don't shoot the messenger - EVERYONE'S grandparents are racist) that he broke his own teeth purely from gritting them in rage.

3. He personally invented laundry detergent, the three bar gas fire and a piece of apparatus used in major medical procedures.

I suspect none of those are true but I do know that he invented a machine that puts oysters into weight categories. Just stop for a moment and imagine where you'd be without that device.

Unfortunately Granddad didn't provide me with anything. Usually there's at least some ultra right wing ideas. But no, even when the rapes at Latitude were brought up he was relatively balanced and said nothing of castrating the villains. Perhaps he's mellowing in his old age. Tomorrow is my Granddad's 80th birthday which in turn means that tomorrow is my 30th birthday. I was born on his 50th and thus far we've managed to pretty much maintain that 50 year gap. There was a short period in the mid-90s when I caught him up by 6 months but it didn't last for long.

What's that you say? You wish me and my grandfather many happy returns? Oh, thank you. We look far younger than our years? Nice of you to mention it. We could be brothers? Fuck off. That in no way flatters either of us.

So you might me able to tell I'm struggling for a neat finish (or start) to today's prose. I'll manufacture one for you... In summary - my Granddad's a bit of a character but didn't give me much to work with last night and tomorrow I'm 30 and to be frank I'd rather not be. Thank you and good night.

Swan Lake is disgusting

2010-07-14T04:27:00.001-07:00

Last night in contrast to my macho image I went to see a ballet for the first time ever. I went for Swan Lake because I think it's best to start with the classics and go from there. That's why the first book I ever read was Don Quixote (not true). I turned up genuinely not knowing the story. Having now seen it in my opinion Swan Lake is fucking sick. Let me tell you the story as I understood it;

There's this prince and he's hanging out with some dignitaries and a jester (bellend) and they have a bit of a dance. Then the prince decides to go and shoot some geese. Fine. It's of it's time. Then prince comes across a lake full of swans. Let's call it 'swan lake'. Then either the swans get out of the water or the prince gets into the water and they have a bit of a dance - together.

Then (and this is where it gets a little weird for me) the prince falls in love with the swan. The prince is, I can't stress this enough, HUMAN and he falls in love with a SWAN. He wants to fuck a SWAN... one of the QUEEN'S swans. The asylum seekers that The Sun got so wound up about a few years ago only ate a swan - they didn't fuck it.

Then the prince goes back to a palace or something, probably because it was all doing his head in, and him and his mates have a bit of a dance. Then that swan bird turns up in disguise. That's some disguise! At a stretch I would say that a swan could pass itself off as a duck but a human?! The swan had to get dressed (!), find the party (with very little land experience) and then get past the bouncers. The prince then sees the swan, fancies her even more and they have a bit of a dance. She keeps showing off with little dances on her own, pissing off and then coming back again. He's lapping it up.

Once she's finally actually left he's obviously got blue balls so he turns up at the lake again. Then either he gets into the water or she gets out and they have a bit of a dance. But there's a problem. There's what I assume is a male swan and he's got this crazy idea about keeping sensual relations within the species. The prince is having none of that and they have a fight. Eventually in what was always going to be an unfair fight the prince kills the male swan by pulling off his wing and proves once and for all that a swan cannot break a man's arm.

Then the lady swan and the prince share a warm embrace. They sort of kiss but their lips don't touch probably because the dancers are allowing for where her BEAK would be. This is considered by the entire audience a happy ending. There are children and old ladies alike cheering on what is essentially a story about beastiality. Like I said... sick.

I am cooler than you. Deal with it.

2010-07-12T01:31:00.000-07:00

Hi. I'm Fergus Craig and I'm the coolest person you could ever hope to possibly meet. Let me tell you why...

1. I have snogged over 20 girls.

2. This morning I completed my World Cup wall chart having had to tippex over only one mistake.

3. I know the 'known' family tree of most Neighbours characters.

4. Derren Brown has seen me in a play and from what I hear thought I was good.

5. I have played Pro Evolution Soccer most days in the last 7 years.

6. My girlfriend is American.

7. At the age of eleven I wrote a rap that included a reference to John Major.

8. Sometimes I go into Ladbrokes on weekday afternoons and bet on dog races.

9. I was in an unscreened advert for Thomas Cook

10. My eczema hasn't flared up in ages.

11. I am the Northumberland under 13s badminton champion 1992.

12. I have a couple of non-white friends.

Trainers in 1992

2010-07-08T07:56:00.000-07:00

Ghana's captain at this year's World Cup was called Stephen Appiah. That got me to thinking about a chap of the same name whom I went to school with in the early 90s. I'm pretty sure it's not the same bloke. At the time I was in Newcastle and my Stephen Appiah had had a heart transplant. He was black though. And he bullied me.

That's what's been bothering me. You see, he had the gait of someone with serious disabilities AND he was black (probably the only black person in our year) and yet he was the chief bully in our class. Retrospectively I think he might be my hero. On paper, given the nature of where I grew up (Britain) you'd have thought he'd have been the first port of call for anyone wishing to dish out some abuse. Instead he was a phenomenal ringleader, with all his minions dancing to his tune - invariably 'rave' based.

So how did he achieve this status and more importantly how did I end up close to the bottom of the social pile? The answer is trainers. I'm sure some of you remember that in the early 90s trainers were a key part of social structuring at school. I wonder if they still hold the same power? It seems to me that it's now quite fashionable to wear what are essentially plimsoles (easy for any parent to fork out for) so perhaps not. Then again I'm probably being naive. In 1992 the big brands were of course Nike, Reebok and Adidas but there were some that seem to have fallen by the wayside - LA Gear, BK Knights. Dunlops and Hi-Techs were not acceptable but what if your parents couldn't afford (or at least weren't prepared to sacrifice nice French cheese for) even them? Then you were stuck with either Clarks or white plimsoles. Then you were me. Appiah, of course had the peak of footwear technology - Nike Air Max. I always wondered, is Nike Air different to normal air? If you were to breathe it in would it give you powers?

Every day I suffered laughter and taunts aimed at my shoes all emanating from Appiah. I guess his disabilities had given him a resolve to never be someone's inferior. To dish it out before the taunts came his way. Either that or he was a cunt. People often forget that I think - those with disabilities can be pricks too. But then one day I arrived at school confident that there would be no laughter headed my way for a while because I had a new weapon... some gleaming new BK Knights. Praise be to shopping centres there was a sale on in town the night before and I'd managed to persuade my mother to get me them.

That morning I arrived early and sat at my desk (just in front of the form teacher, I was a real boffin) and struck a pose. It was a pose I'd seen Appiah perform on a number of occasions. Lent back on my chair, BK enclosed feet on the desk I felt as cool as I had ever done in my previous 12 years. To give Appiah credit he burst my bubble with real aplomb. The second he saw me he burst into a villainous cackle - one that really put me in my place. I immediately became aware of how ridiculous I looked. I had thought that simply sticking some C-List trainers on my feet would earn me instant respect. I'd be welcomed into the cool gang with open arms - 'We thought you were a right bender but now you've got them BKs we'll show you where we keep our popularity juice'. The fact was though I was still the same dweeb with a shit haircut. You can put a monkey in a suit but unless he's got some seriously high powered mates he won't get into The Ivy. Lesson learnt. I focussed on my studies for a while.

Did trainers play a massive part in social hierarchy at your school or was it just in my hood?

Getting Started

2010-07-07T08:20:00.000-07:00

For years I have not done things because I've made an assumption that they are somehow not meant for me. Blogging is one them. I've never learnt to drive because I've made the decision that operating a large chunk of metal at high speed is not for me. Considering I've been hit by a car on three occasions that's probably a good call. I'm not dripping with road sense. Though while I'm on the subject anyone who does drive is fucking mental. Seriously. The sheer arrogance of it.

But there are other things I've avoided for no good reason. Making internet videos, starting a website, boat shoes. I figured they would be way too much hassle and I'd crumble under the pressure. But then, just now, about 15 minutes ago I googled (yeah, I'm down with that google shit) the word 'blog' and it turns out it was a doddle. I mean I haven't posted this yet so I may be way off the mark. Have I chosen the right place to blog? Is Google a well sad blogging spot?

So I'm not exactly sure how this will go but anything less than a book deal within 3 months would be a disappointment. You'll notice I've simply named it 'Fergus Craig'. Not a brave choice but I was worried that any name a chose in the heat of the moment I'd be stuck with. I started a business with a friend when I was 15 basically illegally copying music tapes and we called it 'Sorted Tunes'. I always regretted that name but once you've ordered the letter headed paper your fucked. Still, I could live to regret rather pompously calling this blog 'Fergus Craig'. It's going to be hard to disassociate myself from it when when it goes tits up. If in a couple of weeks time I drunkenly write a post in support of national service for under twelves then paint my hands red, it's a fair cop.

Anyway, I intend to update (correct term?) this bitch as often as possible. I might even jazz up the design a little. Whether anyone will read it is another question. I might recklessly start up a few beefs to get me noticed. Probably not though.