Search the site

  

Grab my RSS feed | (What's this?)

About...

Stanley McHale is a single man rapidly approaching thirty who loves and dreams of the same things he did when he was seventeen. But the band was never formed, the novel never finished, and the ill-chosen career in stand-up comedy is giving him more headaches than headlines. With the self-imposed deadline of his thirtieth birthday to either make an international success of himself or go and work in Woolworths, why not pull yourself up ringside seats for the tragically inevitable descent into mania and psychosis by reading his increasingly inane, pedantic, desperate, harrowing and wretched daily diary. It'll make you feel a whole lot better about yourself.

Tag cloud...

Sponsored links

Recent comments

Recent Posts

Feeds

Categories

Useful links

Archives

Sponsored links

February 2006 Archives

Tuesday 28th February 2006

Posted by on February 28, 2006 6:09 PM

I might have mentioned before that my Mum runs a petrol station. I popped in to visit today and sit in her office stamping pieces of paper with red ink, one of my favourite pastimes - and the closest I’ve ever got to a proper office job. You may think that taking pleasure in stamping pieces of scrap paper with ink is the sort of thing a toddler might do, or a mentally unfortunate child. You’re wrong, it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour for a mentally competent man in this late twenties. It’s actually very therapeutic.

It’s not the closest I’ve ever got to an office job, now I come to think of it. I had a fruitless few weeks doing telesales once. It was a dark time. The main problem was that I was selling the large barrels of water that feed water cooler machines, and at the time the county was under about six feet of flood water. Quite a few offices were washed out, damaged significantly, and abandoned. Their phone would ring, if it was still working, and the beleaguered manager, sloshing about in his wellies, would think ‘Oh, that must be the insurance people. God help me, they better be willing to pay up or I’m finished’ and it would be me saying “Do you want to buy some more water?� I got shouted at a couple of times.

Anyway, today when I entered the office Mum was sat by the computer looking over archieved CCTV footage of the forecourt. Apparently she’d had a shifty looking bloke come into the shop a few days back, and such was his shiftiness that Mum had gone to the effort of noting his car’s registration plate to refer back to if any crimes happened over the weekend. She doesn’t make a habit of doing this, indeed it’s probably the first time she’s ever done it, but something about him made her suspicious.

There weren’t any crimes over that weekend and she threw away the piece of paper with his registration number on it, but then a couple of days later the Tonbridge cash heist happened, not at all far from where the garage is, and she remembered this dodgy East End unpleasant man and so reasonably thought there’s might be the slim chance of a link. It was certainly worth looking at the footage to see his car and note the details again.

Couldn’t find it in the footage though. The criminals are safe. For now. There’s apparently a £2 million reward for helping apprehend the thieves and it would be nice to get a little bit of that action. And then go into hiding in the Witness Protection Programme for fear of revenge attacks from underworld gangsters. And change our names. And sell up. I wonder if you can choose your new name? I think I would be Kingsley Beckett. Or Thor McSweeney. Or Hunter Zanzibar. Something that doesn’t stand out, you know. Hopefully my Mum will be responcible for bringing these villains to their knees and the new name thing can happen. I can dream.

Monday 27th February 2006

Posted by on February 27, 2006 12:27 PM

A full and interesting day. I left A’s flat with her as she made her journey to work and decided that I too should get something done. I felt guilty that she was having to go to her office and I had the day to myself if I so chose. I resolved to be productive.

I wandered through Soho as people went to work or sat down for a coffee and passed the Welsh comedian Rob Brydon. It made me feel that I too would like to have a couple of successful and admired comedy series and films under my belt and be thought of as a clever Welsh actor. It made me feel doubly sure I should get something done with my day.

I sat outside Café Italia for breakfast. I noticed the person sitting next to me was the producer of Have I Got News For You and I knew this because he’d been one of the talking heads on the 100 Funniest Moments programme last night. This too felt like some sort of omen. A strange one, and one not very clearly defined, but still an omen.

I had a loose copy of Callcutta in my bag and went to a print shop up the road to get it copied and wire bound. Then I spoke to a lovely person called Vanessa at a production company called Celador whom I’ve known for a while. She’s in charge of developing all their comedy projects. We met for a coffee and I gave her this early version of the script, explaining that it’s a million miles from a copy I would normally distribute, but it’s a start. I thought it was a good idea to get a copy ‘out’ and get some feedback from someone in the industry, aside from A, that I can trust and who’ll be objective and honest. Brutally if need be.

We chatted about the interesting and exciting things happening on the comedy scene at the moment. I told her about that Bastard Funny night I went to in Manchester last week and discovered there are plenty of similar things happening in London. Lot’s of people are doing fascinating residencies and really pushing themselves. As I said about the Manchester night, it feels a little bit like it must have done in the 50’s and 60’s when people really started to change things. I think it’s tremendously exciting and want to be part of it if I can.

Sunday 26th February 2006

Posted by on February 26, 2006 12:25 PM

Wade, my new friend, rung and asked if I wanted to watch the Carling Cup Final. Actually, why should I call it by the sponsor’s title? I could accurately just call it the League Cup Final. What has Carling ever done for me? I imagine, if anything, their weak and yucky lager got me into all sorts of teenage scrapes, I should hardly give them free exposure to a further six people here.

But then that’s what they pay for, isn’t it? They pay to sponsor the event so people say “We’re in 4th round of the Carling Cup.� And then that person might subliminally think ‘I might go and drink a pint of Carling lager now. Even though it’s repellent and full of dangerous chemicals.’ They pay for the countless times their product will be mentioned in the media as a result, and so – in some minute way – they’re paying so that people like me mention their product in their Blogs. Well they’ve failed because I’m not going to mention them by name ever again. See how they like that. See how that fits them for size.

I met Wade to watch the LEAGUE Cup Final, (Ha! I bet they’re already feeling the pinch of my rebellion), but it was too one-sided to be entertaining. Manchester United beating Wigan 4-0. So they pay all that money in sponsorship and it was a rubbish game, the brewing idiots.

I wonder though, in all seriousness, how much they can profit by sponsoring a big event? How much any large company can? When you see a Vodaphone sign on a Formula One car or on Wayne Rooney’s chest does it make you want to switch your phone contract over? Most people have mobile phones and I can’t see them choosing a new network because they support Manchester United or admire Michael Schumacher. Considering the momentous sponsorship fees these companies pay out, can it really be worth it?

Saturday 25th February 2006

Posted by on February 25, 2006 12:41 PM

The Travelodge in Bracknell is the worst I’ve stayed in. Checking in yesterday was an ordeal that lasted half an hour and this morning I had to make weary relays back and forth to reception, asking with steadily increasing indignation and irritation for things like soap and my pre-ordered breakfast. It’s not worth £55 a night and indeed, if you book a month in advance, you can get rooms for £10. But even that’s slightly too much. The rooms are worth about £7.

It’s also out in the middle of nowhere and so I taxied to the station, totting up the added expenses of this trip and hoping that more work would come in because of it. I was meant to have a full weekend of gigs but tonight’s show at the Comedy Store had been cancelled late yesterday – you don’t really get much shorter notice than that – and one on Monday in Earls Court has also been wiped. So really the whole trip, professionally at least, was for last night’s show. At least I enjoyed it.

For a largish commuter town, Bracknell has a miserable and unsheltered train station. It was bitterly cold and the train was mysteriously delayed without explanation. It’s funny what you’ll take for entertainment when the minutes are passing slowly waiting for a train that might not come with numb fingers and a runny nose. There’s a mural on the London-bound platform, and it’s amusing in it’s blandness. It’s supposed, I assume, to show Bracknell in the best light possible but it looks instead like an Orwellian vision of suburban Hell that you’d do well to dream up in your darkest nightmares. Here’s the grey 1960’s office building with ‘Panasonic’ written at the top. Here’s the shopping centre. The bus station. I wished I’d had a camera on me.

If only this Blog was read by millions it would be possible for someone to simply drop by Bracknell station and take a photo of it for future publication here. Alas, that’s not very likely. At least that throws down the Gauntlet. If you fancy a little cultural light relief, why not take a day-trip down to Bracknell, stand in front of the mural and laugh? Point at it as you laugh if you like. Then look around and look at the locals peering at you with envious and bitter eyes, knowing in their soul that the source of your amusement is their very lives.

Friday 24th February 2006

Posted by on February 24, 2006 12:00 PM

So there have been arrests in the cash heist case. I’m sure the perpetrators know the game’s up. If there have already been (let’s assume) valid arrests, the ringleaders must know it's over. They’ll be full of dread right now.

Who knows, the main men may still get away with it. Perhaps it was even part of their plan to allow certain people to be arrested so to distract attention in some way?

Nah. That would be a rubbish plan. People would soon realise they’d been safraficed and spill the beans. Ah, but what if arrests were all part of the grand scheme, with those arrested promised a large cut of the loot in return for their time behind bars? If they’re convicted of minor roles, it might be worth doing five years in chokey if you’re family are going to be set up. Oh I don’t know. It’s not really my sphere. And why am I so obsessed with going to prison purposefully?

Apparently the Police already have a list of the ‘usual suspects’, because they feel there’s only about forty criminals in the country capable of doing something on this scale. If you knew you were in that select group, you’d be pretty foolish to commit any major crime at all, surely? They only have to figure out where each of those forty people were on the night of the crime and bish-bash-bosh, job’s a good ‘un. If you were one of the Usual Suspects wouldn’t it be more profitable to commit lots of medium-sized crimes and immediately have yourself discounted by the Police as a possible perpetrator because “that’s too small for me, surely Officer? I’d only attempt something far bigger as well you know. Ha Ha, you copper idiot! Ouch!�

Thursday 23rd February 2006

Posted by on February 23, 2006 12:01 PM

We love a good cash heist in this country don’t we? Yes, Sir! It’s all to do with the historic and now non-existent lovable rouge element to the criminal underworld that goes back certainly to The Great Train Robbery, but probably to far earlier examples. Well, the legend of Robin Hood is a good starting point. When did that story start doing the rounds?

Look at Dickens. He wrote the character Fagin as a complete bastard, but it was only later he was portrayed in the musical versions of Oliver Twist as a quite favourable, if ultimately corrupt, character. People in this country actually like Fagin. I think most other societies would see him as the scheming, flee-bitten, fingerless glove wearing scumbag he really is.

So today we wake to the news of a £40m cash heist in Tonbridge, Kent. It’s where my brother lives but I’ve rung him, but he had nothing to do with it. He swears blind, Guv. He’d tell me if he did. Mind, he was at the airport… and did sound in a hurry to catch his plane to, where was it again, Moscow?

There’s no doubt that the perpetrators of this crime are a nasty bunch of people that you wouldn’t want to know, but the tabloid headlines this morning – although stopping short of praising the crime – did just report it glamorously, which underlines what I say about us just loving a bit of traditional criminal daring-do in the UK. The journalism won’t really concentrate on the fact the manager of the cash depot’s family were held at gunpoint and threatened with execution, something that will live with them forever, but sooner the fact that some chancres have grabbed the loot and given it toes into the night like a right pair of scally-wags. We just love crooks, plain and simple!

I wouldn’t be surprised that, during the obviously immense and frantic police operation to apprehend these people, they almost become folk heroes at the same time. The Ronnie Biggs thing. I hope not, I hope they’re found in some stinking bed-sit in Lambeth having spent four days in a blind panic.

Wednesday 22nd February 2006

Posted by on February 22, 2006 6:06 PM


Thanks once again to Jill, whomever you might be, for providing more news on the anonymous and mediocre actor Ben Kingsley and his latest projects. You can see the latest news under yesterday’s entry. And once again I should point out that there is nothing funny about that last sentence, it’s perfectly logical and sound.

The article basically states that he’s going to be in a documentary about the Pakistani earthquake tragedy. Not helping with the Pakistani earthquake disaster you’ll note, no, just appearing in a film about it. For money.

Ben’s reported as saying, whilst commenting perhaps justly that the often-used phrase ‘we should sort out our differences’ isn’t very helpful because it highlights difference, and indeed – to quote Ben - “We are far more similar as human beings than we are different.�

I’d say that’s obvious and the opinion of all right-minded people. I would say we are all very, very, very similar and that they fact Kingsley thinks we are merely more similar that different means he still thinks we’re up to 49% different and therefore I think he’s exposed himself as a racist. He is a racist.

Then there’s a horribly funny bit when he says “When you see a woman crying because she can’t find her child under four million tons of rubble, that’s humanity…We all have moms, dads, brothers, sisters and grandparents who we’d miss terribly if they disappeared in 26 seconds.�

Bit specific. Twenty six seconds. But we’ll let that go. I just like the way he points out that we’re all pretty similar around the world really, because it doesn’t matter where you live, if you see your entire family killed in front of your very eyes you’ll doubtless be a bit upset. Well done, Ben. And again, by alluding to the possibility that might have existed in some people’s heads that perhaps some people might NOT find this upsetting, and on the contrary that everyone would, he is again being a screaming racist.

The next time you look at Ben Kingsley’s racist face try shouting out ‘Nazi’ at it. We must expose these people.

Tuesday 21st February 2006

Posted by on February 21, 2006 4:56 AM

I’m glad yesterday’s expose of the stupid, short, unfamiliar actor Ben Kingsley’s insistence on being addressed as ‘Sir Ben’ has drawn some kind of response.

I’m very sorry to ‘Stark’, who sent two (count ‘em) comments to this site raging at Ben Kingsley, and in particular the actor’s recent egotistical nonsense. Regrettably, and I mean this sincerely, I cannot publish Stark’s opinion of Ben Kingsley because they were so full of passionate swear words I am not allowed. You see, this site is officially hosted by the Liverpool Echo newspaper and they can’t allow any poor tongue.

I say what I like, but I can’t say words like f*** or s***, otherwise they interject and put ‘***’ after the first letter of the still-obvious swear word. See?

This is annoying because Stark’s comments were funny and very true. It’s good to know that Ben Kingsley is hated so much by at least one other individual.

Then I got a more balanced comment from Jill, which you can see below yesterday’s entry. (Stop laughing, British people. Just because I’ve written a sentence which includes the words ‘below’ and ‘entry’ it does not make it rude. Why would it? You are idiots. Take a proper look at her entry – stop it - and tell me what’s rude about it? Nothing. But you saw the singular words ‘below’ and ‘entry’ and decided it was your birthright to make some sort of non-joke out if it, didn’t you? Like Sid James. Well there’s nothing funny about that sentence and you should all just grow up. Oh hang on… ‘under’….’entry’…? Oh I get it! Ooooh! Fancy!

Monday 20th February 2006

Posted by on February 20, 2006 12:06 AM

I looked on the BBC’s website today (which incidentally is incredible and gargantuan if you’ve never explored it, I use it for all online news and sport – it’s ‘magazine’ section is also great on a daily basis) and discovered to my horror and bemusement that the bald, unimportant actor Ben Kingsley has been insisting that everyone address him as ‘Sir’ lately. Sir Ben. And he’s very, very fussy about it. True, he is knighted, but most people surely don’t insist on going by Sir Alan or Sir Clive or, indeed, Sir Ben do they? They probably enjoy the title but aren’t going to get stroppy if someone forgets.

But Ben Kingsley does. This reminded me that I once read an interview he did for either the Evening Standard or Time Out a few years back and the interviewer basically had to bring a halt to proceedings because the whole thing was impossible due to Kingsley’s astronomical ego. This poor journalist, who’d interviewed his fair share of stars and touchy showbiz types, simply couldn’t stand it any more and the stuff he was coming out with was virtually unprintably vain and preposterous. I’ve hated Ben Kingsley from then on. I know I wasn’t THERE at the interview but I got a good idea of what was going on.

So now this. It has to be ‘Sir Ben’, not Mr Kingsley, certainly not ‘Benjamin’ and absolutely definitely ‘Baldy’. You might say that, technically, he has a point but in reality he doesn’t because a knighthood doesn’t mean you’re actually a Knight anymore. It’s a symbolic gesture from the silly and poorly advised Queen. If you were about in medieval times and a Knight of the Realm game snorting up on his enourmous horse with his blood stained sword by his side then of course you’d call him Sir. “Hello, Sir Arthur. You alright? I respect you.�

But an actor? I mean you’d accept it if Sir Michael Caine suddenly said “Right. I want to be Sir Michael from now on. But close friends can call me Sir Micky.� That would be alright because he is a sort of heroic figure. But Ben blinking Kingsley? ONE good film. ONE.

I’d say to Ben Kingsley, to Benny, (and I will if I ever meet the short-arse pretender) that if really wants to be recognised as a knight, then he’s got to act like one. Do a bit of jousting. Rescue a Princess from a tower. Slay a dragon.

Sunday 19th February 2006

Posted by on February 19, 2006 12:06 AM

Started work today on the actual script for Callcutta, the sitcom set in an Indian call centre that A and myself came up with when on the phone to National Rail Enquires one freezing Kent night on a dark and desolate train platform after Christmas. The way we’re going to play it is we are jointly credited with coming up with it, also the story and characters have been devised between us, but I’ll do the actual writing. It should be a happy way of doing things. So before today the scenes were already all laid out and now it’s just about fleshing it all out with funny words in an order that will result in mirth.

Things went well today and I’m sure I’ll have a first draft done quite quickly, then I’ll show it to A when I’m in London over the weekend and we’ll make changes, write a 2nd draft and then arrange some meetings with glamorous TV executives. There’s already some unofficial interest because I’ve mentioned it to a couple of people that could certainly help us take things further. It’ll be a slow, tortuous and most probably futile process though. I’ll keep you updated on my frustrating progress.

So some of today was spent in front of the computer and the rest was spent desperately looking for excuses not to sit in front of it. This is the world of writing. Ideally, you need a locked cell with nothing but bare brick walls and a simple desk and chair in it to have an uninterrupted day. I don’t have a locked cell however, I have a room full of things to look at. I have a TV. I have some books. Next door I have a kitchen where I can go to look through the cupboards and make tea.

I even started watching Black Beauty on Channel 5 this afternoon as an alternative to actually working. I only watched the opening credits before forcing myself back to the desk, reasoning that I’m not an eight year old girl and therefore wouldn’t get a huge amount of enjoyment from the film. Or rather, more worryingly, I might really enjoy it and cry. That would be unacceptable in a 28 year old man and I didn’t want to run the risk.

Watching these opening credits though, it struck me that film and TV are the only mediums that have lots of information at the start of the ‘performance’ that tell you what you’re about to see isn’t real. It should theoretically shatter the illusion instantly. You’ve got haunting music and introductory visual information, but over this a lot of words that just say “this isn’t real. It’s a film.�

Saturday 18th February 2006

Posted by on February 18, 2006 4:11 PM

Thanks to Kerry for commenting under yesterday’s blurb that the prison idea, i.e. going to prison on purpose to get work done or pay off debts, would only work up until the point you realised there wasn’t a bar.

This is true. I don’t think you’d have to be a hardened alcoholic to suddenly realise the worst part of your stay at Her Majesties’ wasn’t going to be the time, the confinement, the criminal classes or the poor food, it was almost certainly going to be the fact that prisons are dry. I don’t think it occurs to people. If you gave it any though it’s obvious, but I don’t think people naturally associate prisons with not having anything to drink, they sooner associate them with violence or boredom.

As I say, even the occasional drinker is going to miss it after a few weeks. I think it’s a big element to the punishment. They could probably free up a lot of prison space by not incarcerating people at all but allowing convicted criminal’s their freedom whilst adding they’re not allowed booze for five years. Instead of a security tag on their ankle to determine if they’re home or not, they could have something inserted into their stomach that recognised alcohol had been ingested and then set off an alarm or a small bomb.

Any religious nut or prohibitionist oddball will tell you that’s alcohol’s evil. Of course it is. It goes without saying. And everyone knows that criminal’s are evil too, so it stands to reason that there must be some sort of illicit booze cartel in most prisons. The two go hand in hand. They must be mixing up some moonshine somehow, or perhaps simply smuggling it in? I wish I knew what they made. Perhaps different prisons have different brews?

Yes! They must! Only a fool would suggest otherwise. Therefore I think it would lift the prisoner’s spirits to compete with other gaols and have their moonshine and gut rot tasted by experts at a special event to see who makes the finest product. You could have that Jilly Golding woman there swilling it around her glass and holding it up to the light. “I think, after some deliberation, that winner of Her Majesties’ Moonshine Award 2006 goes to… Wandsworth. For their delightful Lag’s Gold. A beautiful pale spirit made from bread, sugar, and fermented in John’s socks over a radiator. A truly remarkable nose on this one. And the finish… just the right amount of white spirit. Very commendable. Oh dear, I appear to have gone blind in one eye.�

Friday 17th February 2006

Posted by on February 17, 2006 12:45 AM

I was wondering today what would happen if you just refused to ever pay a bill ever again. I know the initial effects would be obvious, your phone would be disconnected, as would your electricity and gas. But say you were fine with that and just got on with things. You could go and sit in a library during the day to keep warm and then at night you could take yourself up to bed by candlelight and sleep under lots of blankets. Washing could be done in public toilets, and at a friends house whenever you fancied the luxury of a bath or shower. Laundry would be done at the laundrette obviously.

Then there are the other type of bills, i.e. council and income tax. These could probably be put off for years. I’m thinking perhaps five.

Before that gets too serious, you’d have your unpaid utility bills referred to debt collection companies. These would write you letters but what I’m pondering here is what would happen if you just simply shrugged them off forever? They’re not going to beat you up. They’d probably eventually make you go to court, but you don’t bother with that, so would the Police eventually have to come around to your house and arrest you? I don’t know how long that would take – several years I would expect.

Then you’d go before a judge and they’d say “Do you have the means to settle these debts?� and you could say “Yes. But I’m not going to. I’m going to spend my money on things like holidays instead.� And the judge would go “Well. If you don’t pay your bills, I’m going to send you to prison.� And you could say “Does it cost much?� And the judge would say “No. It’s free.� And you would say “Ace. Let’s do that for a bit. And when I come out, I wont have any debts?� And the judge would say “Um, well you’d be technically clear of them, yes.� And you’d say “Good. Then I can start all over again?� And he’d say “No. That’s not what I mean.� And you’d say “But that’s what I could do?� And he’d say “No. I…� And you’d say “That’s what I am going to do so ner.�

Thursday 16th February 2006

Posted by on February 16, 2006 7:06 PM

I don’t really proffer any sort of political view most of the time, be it in this Blog, or when doing stand-up, or just in general conversation. This is because I don’t have any particularly strong ones, I’m a wishy washy New Labour sort, but also because whenever people get political they always sound preachy and alienate most of whom they’re addressing. I’m not big on political comedy. Just make people laugh for goodness sake. Rob Newman is one of my comedy heroes but now he’s basically an activist fighting the good fight and although I enjoyed his Edinburgh show last year I do wish he’d just revert back to lifestyle material, if only in part.

Anyway I mention all this because the only time I do get irritated enough to enter political arguments is when I see those posters advertising The Socialist Worker. The headline will invariably just be criticism of the government, ‘Blair out!’, ‘Labour Lies!’, ‘Down With Everything!’, and although I’m perfectly aware that the government are at fault for lots of things and that, more importantly, there always needs to be an opposing voice to maintain democracy, I’m tired of the ultra left being so objectionable and unrealistic.

There isn’t a socialist party in this country with any political clout so the long and short of it is they don’t have a party they can put their weight behind. Therefore any die-hard radical socialist with any sense would realise that the policies and aims of the government, be it Labour or Tory, are not going to be exactly right up their street. And if they took a moment to think about it, they never will be. New Labour is never going to be a socialist party, despite Mr Blair describing himself as one. The Conservative Party is obviously never going to have socialist sympathies. So the socialist’s fight is a continual and unwinnable one. And there’s a word for that; futile.

Wednesday 15th February 2006

Posted by on February 15, 2006 12:29 PM

I invented a TV show today and so wrote a treatment and sent it off to A in London who works in the tele biz. I’ve invented TV shows before and made some money from this but they’ve never got made. I invented one called Whatever Happens I Hate You, in which a celebrity has to spend a couple of days with a member of the public who can’t stand them for whatever reason. The celebrity and the non-famous person have to work together to complete challenges and the celebrity will hopefully show that they’re not as popularly perceived. They’re also competing against another celebrity / public team. It was picked up by a UK company, and then about six months ago I got a call from the producer who was initially behind it but now lives in LA. He wanted permission to make changes and pitch it to VH1 in The States. I said he could do what he liked and thought no more about it until I got an e-mail from him saying it had gone down to the wire but VH1 had rejected it at the last. I had no idea how close we were! I would have been a millionaire!

Their argument was that no celebrity would do it, but that’s not true. Celebrities of a certain stature will do anything, and indeed some are only famous because they were willing to do anything. Not so much in The States but certainly here.

Anyway, this new one doesn’t have a pithy title as yet but is provisionally called ‘Straight In At…?’ It’s a rubbish title, I’ll change it. But the idea is still sound. Basically, two established bands or groups have one week to write and record a new single, film a video, and get the thing pressed and distributed for a release the following Monday. (This is not impossible at all I don’t think). They’ll appear on Top Of The Pops and so forth before performing the song live on Saturday night TV and then spending the following week promoting it like hell whilst it’s on sale. Then they come back for the Sunday show at the end of the week to see, live, what position they’ve got to. The band or group with the highest chart position wins. Each week two new bands are revealed and so it’s an ongoing process – after the first week there will always be a total of four bands fighting it out. Then, at the end of the series, an album’s released of all the songs and everyone gets a genuine career boost out of it because it’s their own work and it’s making money and putting them on prime time TV.

Tuesday 14th February 2006

Posted by on February 14, 2006 3:07 PM

I was determined to make it back from Leeds to Liverpool without stopping off for an unnecessary extra night in, say, Rochdale, Oldham, Manchester, Stockport, Warrington or Widnes. The method I’ve developed to do this is to stare at the horizon and not pay any attention to the hypnotic road signs that will pass you, trying to tempt you from your natural course with the promise of all sorts of exotic locations and mysterious adventures.

I’ve noticed one thing about the road signs I’ve passed on my odyssey from Sunderland to Liverpool and that is they have all been directing me to The South. This is because you have to drive a long distance south from Sunderland to get to Liverpool, even though it’s commonly believed that Liverpool is in ‘The North’. It isn’t, as any basic map of England will point out. Liverpool, along with Manchester and Leeds and other, so-called ‘Northern’ towns, are in fact in the middle of England.

So why are counties like Lancashire, Cheshire and Yorkshire considered ‘Up north’? To my mind, it’s because they’re not in London, and therefore are – for the purposes of the London-based media and power mongers – Northern. Even though this is quite inaccurate, it’s a blessing really because saying ‘�I live up North� is a lot better than saying “I live up Middle.� And films like Saturday Night, Sunday Morning or A Taste Of Honey wouldn’t have been so enticing if they’d advertised themselves as ‘a slice of gritty Middle life.’

There was one stop to make on the journey home however, and that was to check the price of a prawn sandwich and small bottle of water in a Moto service station to decide, once and for all, which is the better of the two service station franchises, Moto or Welcome Break.

Monday 13th February 2006

Posted by on February 13, 2006 9:45 PM

I’m fine at getting to places but rubbish at getting back from them. I always delay the journey, and once on it, will purposefully stop off somewhere or make things difficult for myself. It means a daytrip, or one that should involve a single night away, can often drag on for weeks. I remember the journey back from Kent to Liverpool by car a couple of Christmas’ ago taking in three hotel stops in London, Oxford, and Birmingham. It’s like travelling by stage coach in 1754.

So today I was faced with the drive from Sunderland to Liverpool and delayed getting in the car by walking around town for most of the day. It’s fair to say that Sunderland isn’t a beautiful place, but it’s not offensively awful and I enjoyed taking an aimless stroll. I walked over the Wearmouth Bridge and looked over the edge at the mammoth and perilous drop down to the water. It’s a very high bridge indeed. And without very much in the way of a barrier at the edge, meaning it would be very easy to have a bit of a mad moment and just jump off. It’s probably a favoured suicide spot. It would also be a good place for an evil gang to push someone to their deaths, and looking down at the shallow water you’d not stand a chance, even if you managed to tuck and stretch into a graceful dive like James Bond would.

I went to Mowbray Park, which is well appointed and worth looking around. This is how I’d spend every day if I had the choice, just strolling around an unfamiliar town. Comics are generally quite keen to get straight in their cars and race home after gigs but if I’ve travelled to a new place I think it makes sense to explore and perhaps see something alien. As walked I was giggling to myself about something the excellent and very funny comic Jason Manford had said at the show last night. He asked the audience if they had cinemas in Sunderland? They replied that, yes, they did. Jason then said “Right. But are they proper cinemas or are they still showing stuff like Teen Wolf 2?�

It’s always funny to cheekily slag off the place you’re appearing in and asking if they only have rubbish cinemas showing Teen Wolf 2 is a good a way of doing it as any. It’s weird, but audiences generally really love it when you’re rude about where they live. Why might this be?

Sunday 12th February 2006

Posted by on February 12, 2006 5:27 PM

I like a good Sunday and would normally spend it horizontally in front of Scrapheap Challenge but today I had to face a two hundred mile drive through rain and fog to Sunderland for a gig. A little while ago I might have been annoyed at this but I’m enjoying stand-up so much at the moment that it didn’t seem like that much of a chore. It’s easy to put a positive spin on things in you try and seeing as I’ve never been to Sunderland before I treated it as something of an adventure.

It was also a great opportunity to visit some more motorway service stations and have the pleasure of being robbed blind. I adore the inflated prices in Welcome Break and Moto facilities and have now devised a system to rate individual sites based entirely on their imaginative pricing. I have to tell you that the Welcome Break on the Eastbound carriageway of the M62 at about junction 26 is pretty high up there. I was impressed. I purchased a thin prawn sandwich and a small bottle of water for £5.08. That’s very good going and I think it lays down a formidable challenge to Moto, whom I shall visit on the return journey, to somehow charge more than that.

Any service station worth it’s salt should have a prices that are based on those at The Savoy Hotel. I’d assume that a round of prawn sandwiches at The Savoy or The Dorchester would be about £15, but you’d get more than at a service station, so it’s still on track and comparable. A cup of tea at The Savoy would also be about £3 so that’s in line with any self respecting Moto too.

If only the Savoy were savvy enough to follow Welcome Break’s example too and install a pick n’ mix facility for their wealthy clientele to feast on whenever they fancied some over priced and sickly sweets in a paper bag. If I ever own a high end London hotel, I’ll be sure to sort out the lack of pick n’ mix as my first priority.

Saturday 11th February 2006

Posted by on February 11, 2006 2:31 PM

I’ve always enjoyed the occasional flutter but tend to enjoy making bets on long odds, i.e. things that are quite unlikely to happen. I am a chancer.

Saturday means one thing and that’s football so I was watching the brilliant Jeff Stelling on Sky Sports News as the games were being played out around the country and couldn’t help but notice Middlesbrough take a 2-0 lead against Chelsea – something that Middlesbrough fans wouldn’t have dreamt of in their most deluded nocturnal fantasies. It was still 2-0 at half time but I had an inkling that Chelsea weren’t finished. You can never rule them out, mainly because they’re managed by Jose Mourinho, who in the modern era is as close as it gets managerially to a genius.

So I went online and checked the price for Chelsea on Betfair. Online gambling is very convenient and easy but doesn’t have quite the same feeling as going down to the bookies. Unfortunately, the morons who designed my flat failed to install a bookies and so going online is the only option I had. Ideally it would still be like the old days when you phoned your Turf Accountant who knew you by name but alas that’s gone the same way as parking where you liked and zeppelins.

I wonder though, when you had your own turf accountant, if when you’d ring them up with your bet they might say something like “What? Are you mad?� Computers don’t. Computers just take whatever bet you ask of them. As I say, I asked for the price for Chelsea to win. They were great odds, Betfair obviously thought that at 2-0 they were done for. Basically, if I bet £20 I’d win £190 if Chelsea did it. It was too good to turn down so that’s exactly the bet I made. Not silly figures, but enough to make the 2nd half exciting.

Friday 10th February 2006

Posted by on February 10, 2006 1:43 PM

Out of my window I can see The Mersey and before it a disused dock. By ‘disused’ I mean it’s no longer used by boats, but is home to a lot of jellyfish in the summer. Other than that, it’s an empty expanse that serves mainly as an enourmous water feature.

Today I was looking out of the window when I noticed some large ripples moving away in ever increasing circles from a point in the dock where there had evidently just been some activity. I’d not seen anything happen, and to my knowledge there aren’t any fish in there, and by the size of these ripples it would have had to been one almighty fish in the first place.

I was puzzled by this and tried to think what it could have been but drew a blank. I’d almost forgotten about it when a duck appeared from out of the water, having obviously been for a long dive and probably causing the initial ripples as it went under. But that would mean that the duck had been under for some time and I didn’t think they were that proficient in submarine environments. So I watched it, hoping it would dive again. Then I could time it.

The duck paddled about for a bit before again going under the water and disappearing. I thought I might keep my eyes on the spot it disappeared and then, in my preliminary vision, notice where it resurfaces, to see how far it had travelled. My day’s are very empty. Anyway, after what seemed like quite a long time it still hadn’t come up and I began to feel rather uneasy, as if the duck was somehow in trouble. Ludicrously, I was starting to fear for the wellbeing of an aquatic creature in some water.

Still it remained submerged. I assured myself that it was obviously fine, it was a duck, but then began to imagine it having caught it’s leg on a discarded piece of wire or shopping trolley which had ensnared it. I started looking around the dock to see if it had resurfaced somewhere some distance away but no, it was still down there, in what I now took to be it’s watery grave.

Thursday 9th February 2006

Posted by on February 9, 2006 12:49 PM

I was in Marks And Spencer today selecting some food when I noticed that the queues for the checkouts were quite long, and because a high proportion of M+S’s shoppers are doddery and senile I took this to suggest there might be quite a substantial wait. I considered putting back my few items and not subjecting myself to the inevitably frustrating delay at the grizzled hands of some old duffer who’s lonely enough to want to engage the checkout assistant in conversation, but then considered that if I left I wouldn’t have anything to eat this evening.

It was a tricky one because hunger’s not pleasant, indeed it’s one of our most primal instincts to avoid it at all costs, and yet I have an almost stronger instinct to avoid standing in long queues. Any queues, mind. I wont wait at a cash point if there’s more than three people in front of me. Not because I mind waiting, it’s not as if I’ve got anything that pressing to get to, but because it annoys me how long some people can take over a simple task. I won’t go into this because I believe I’ve expanded upon cash point idiots (“Order a new chequebook? Top up my mobile phone? Yes please!�) before. The long and short of it is that I can be put in quite an irrationally irritable mood when waiting around in queues so I avoid them for the good of all involved.

Some people love queues. I was going to go to the Halifax cash machine on Bold Street the other day but there was a queue so I thought I’d move on. Then I noticed the machine next to the busy one was free and didn’t have anyone using it. I presumed maybe it had run out of cash but no, it was fine. People just like joining the back of queues. Not only that, there were three cash machines free inside the bank. One good reason for never getting into politics and becoming an MP; you’d have to REPRESENT this lot.

So there be I, standing in Marks And Spenser with some lovely food and faced with the problem of having to ruin an otherwise pleasant and hassle free experience by having to pay for it. I decided that if I can’t put up with a short cue, even one that smelt ever so slightly of colostomy bags, then I’m as bad as them only different. It’s not ridiculous to dislike queues (Euro Disney? No ta), but it’s plainly absurd to not be able to join a short one when it’s to your advantage and would cause you inconvenience if you didn’t.

Wednesday 8th February 2006

Posted by on February 8, 2006 1:40 PM

My work-filled regime got off to a stuttering start today. I was sat at my desk with everything neatly arranged and had already made sterling progress checking the BBC Sport website for the week’s football fixtures and even managed to complete two full games of Pub Pool 3D on my mobile phone – I was embroiled in a hive of productivity.

Then Renata rang and asked if I wanted to meet for lunch. Ideally I should have said “No. No I don’t. I’m trying to work here and have very nearly got to the top of the Pub Pool 3D leader board. Go away.� But I like Renata and haven’t seen very much of her recently so agreed. But to make sure my productive day wasn’t really interrupted, I suggested we meet in the pretentious Korova bar on Fleet Street because it has wireless internet access so I could continue with my work and play online games to my heart’s content.

There is a law about going to Korova that you have to be armed with an Apple iBook computer. If you’re not, they wont serve you a drink, or only serve you drinks in dirty glasses that they have spat in. Or they’ll pour you a drink and then purposefully spill it down you so you’re all wet and have to leave.

When I walked in they eyed me suspiciously, perhaps thinking that I didn’t own an Apple iBook and that I wasn’t setting up my own funky and ultimately failed