Getting my hair cut.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Visit to the doctors.

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.