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!

Alone in Munich

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dodgy territory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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