Festivals and camping.

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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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!