Kill Keith Vol. 2

Damn my ignorance! @ShowbizSimon on Twitter makes some comment about killing Keith Chegwin as a movie, I think ‘that’s a great idea’ and, in an Ernie Wise fit of fifteen minute screenwriting, I bash out my take for a film called Kill Keith.

Damn it all! Then, I go and find out it exists! Who knew? Well, many of you I guess. I didn’t know. Or I’d forgotten (Trev thinks I’d forgotten and he knows my mind better than me).  So, I write it this morning (like I say, 15 minutes… let’s not get too precious over this) and send it over to Trev. He gets in touch to tell me it’s real. There is a film. It is called Kill Keith.

Damn it to high heaven! And we didn’t even get a part in the damned saga!

So, for entertainment purposes only, here’s ‘the film what I wrote’. Let’s call it Kill Bill Vol.2

All of the ‘real’ people referred to are made-up, including myself. Though the beginning knocking on the door stuff is true.

KILL KEITH Vol 2

Everyone loves Keith Chegwin. He’s had his ups and downs – whether battling alcoholism or accusations of joke theft on Twitter – but as long as he does something cheeky soon afterwards – whether getting nuddy for a low-rent quiz show, opening a supermarket in Stoke, or laughing on a morning chat show – he always comes up smelling of roses.

Everyone loves Keith Chegwin. Apart from Simon Hickson.

The early 90’s. Simon is asleep in bed. Well, a kind of a bed. Simon, despite being a regular on Saturday morning’s kid’s TV, lives a squalid live. Like Keith a few years before, he’s battling his demons. Even in his sleep.

As he dreams, he hears the squeaky voice of Cheggers. Just a dream. A nightmare. And then his door bell rings and Simon is awake! Keith is at his door. All part of those jolly early morning wake up calls he does for the live Channel 4 show, The Big Breakfast.

This is horrible! Surely this kind of thing only happens to proper celebrities, like Linda Lusardi. What can Simon do? He calls his agent but it’s 7.30am and she doesn’t get in until noon. He calls Trev. Trev’s wife answers and refuses to believe Simon’s story; she knows he’s delusional, mad, not good in the mornings. She hangs up on him, refusing to disturb the slumbering Trev who deserves a lie in after a late night watching Bid TV.

“He he! I’m here outside Simon out of Trev and Simon’s house! He’s not answering. Yet! He he!”

Simon’s in a panic. What to do? Then he knows. He’ll scare Keith and also get Trev and Simon some well-deserved notoriety. It’ll do them good to cause a bit of an uproar.

Simon answers the door to Keith. Naked. Waving a replica firearm.

*****************************************************************************************

It didn’t work out.

It stopped Trev and Simon’s career in its tracks. Keith had a breakdown, went into a home, and emerged a few months later, loved by the public more than ever.

******************************************************************************************

Years later. Simon can’t let it go. He’s met Keith since, at showbiz do’s here and there, and Keith has apologised. He was only doing his job. So we’re the Nazis Simon points out.

Simon decides his only option is to kill Keith. Trev, aware that he slept through the whole thing after a long night of Peter Simon watching, feels just a tiny bit guilty. He reluctantly agrees to help out. And then Trev and Simon approach the comedians whose jokes have been stolen by Keith on Twitter… discreetly… direct messaging.

A cabal is formed. An elite team of comedy assassins dedicated to ridding the world of Keith Chegwin; Trev, Simon, Ed Byrne, Lee Mack, Milton Jones, and Jimmy Carr.

They meet and form a plan.

They put their assassination plot into action.

***********************************************************************************************

Keith Chegwin is tied up in a basement. Jimmy Carr’s basement, full of suits. It’s his suit cellar. The team argue over who’s going to kill Keith. And how.

But Keith is wily. And cuddly. He he! And the asinine assassins find it impossible to carry out the vile task.

This wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

They hated Keith, but, after holding him captive they’ve all developed Stockholm Syndrome in reverse. They love him now, and he has grown to love them.

***********************************************************************************************

Keith understands, he empathises. Irritating celebrities should be dead. His team are just targeting the wrong people. Keith has been wronged too along the way and he has a revenge hit list. Between them they draw up a list of ‘celebrities’ who really do deserve to get it! He he!

Kill Keith has become Keith Kills. Headed up by their new honcho our team of crappy killers see off deserving celebrities one by one.

No one knows who is behind the mystery murders of some of the most despised and undeserving ‘celebrities’ on TV… from the original Nasty Nick through to poor old John Stape from ‘Corrie’ – heck, he’s only an actor, does he really deserve to die? The public can’t tell fact from fiction and are happy to scream ‘Yes!’

Murder after murder… from game show hosts to reality ruffians to bad actors… the team are inventive with their killing ways, making the death suit their TV crime.

Eventually they make a mistake and the mystery murder team are exposed. Like Taxi Driver or The King of Comedy though, they go unpunished. They are just too loved now by a public happy to see the demise of those least loved. Those who now go by the names of ‘Killebrities’.

All films should have happy endings, and Kill keith is no exception. The team get their own prime time TV show; Killed by Keith – a gameshow where ‘game’ celebs go through a pretend execution if they fail to win viewers votes.

But why’s it called Killed by Keith? Lee Mack’s not too happy. Resentment starts to brew in Milton’s hair. Byrne by name burn by nature. Carr wants to push Keith off a cliff. Trev and Simon suggest a new plan… to be continued… ?

And here’s the real thing…

The Comedians part 2

Yesterday I put up a post where I took a look at the Christmas comedy DVD’s andpassed a few ill-judged thoughts on their covers. Everyone should have a comedy DVD for Christmas, but how to choose? Is it fair to choose purely on the basis of the artwork? No, not really.

But who cares? It seems few comedians care about their artwork. Or perhaps it’s just me who thinks the covers are all bizarre pieces of shit showing the comedian facing away from his audience and trying to do something ‘funny’ with his/her (though his) microphone.

Here’s some more.

Remember… I have not seen these.

Remember… I am not judging the act here. Maybe.

Ok, I suppose I am. Yes. Yes, I am, once again, judging a comedian by their cover.

Someone said never judge a book by its cover. But why not? The author must have approved the cover. They must be happy to have their art sold in such a way. If they were overpowered or overruled by marketing folk, then… well, they should have stood up for themselves.

It’s your work, your cover, take responsibility.

I deny any responsibility for the following opinions. I am sick. I am on antibiotics. I am not myself.

Here goes.

Eddie Izzard

Wow! Believe! What? Believe what? I don’t have to believe, I know Eddie exists. What am I supposed to be believing in? Or is it his belief?

He’s lit by a lone light. Or is it a star? He has a quote from the L.A. Times, so we know this comedian is a big fish, successful across the pond*.

The artwork is classy. I think someone may have been hoping for us to go… “Ooh! look! Eddie is a little like Dustin Hoffman!”

Or perhaps they want us to think he is a little like Jim Cavaziel.

I just don’t know. You decide.

* The pond is an informal term for the Atlantic Ocean. I believe.

Simon Amstell

This cover has some lovely shades of blue. A darker blue “cog crab” looms over the comedian. On closer inspection this “crab” has cats for hands. Then there’s the scary badge and the gold leaf hand holding a feather. This is not a DVD cover that has been hastily thrown together.

It is called Do Nothing Live. And that is a funny title. It makes me laugh. This comedian is excellent. He is called Simon and he looks like Harpo Marx. You decide.

Ricky Gervais

This cover makes me feel ill. I don’t like the colours and I don’t like the woman on the front.

I’m not even letting you decide on this one. It’s just too- I can’t write anymore.

You decide.

Dylan Moran

This comedian has a quote from The Telegraph, but this time online, making him more up-to-the-minute and with-it than Michael McIntyre (see yesterday’s post). Unlike McIntyre though, this one looks a little distressed. He seems anguished and he’s holding the microphone as if he can’t think of anything funny to do with it. There’s no photographer telling him to stick it in his ear (see yesterday again) and there’s no holding it out to us, the DVD cover viewer, as he grins to show us he is funny, his back turned on his paying audience. Indeed, there is no audience in sight! And the DVD is called “Aim Low”! Everything about this says avoid. But I’m going to recommend it to you. You decide though.

Trev and Simon

This is just awful. They can’t decide whether to smile or grimace and instead settle for some kind of sub-Next catalogue action pose. There’s no quotes and no mention of laughter. We are told it is stupid, but what kind of a recommendation is that? To make matters worse it’s a video and not a DVD. A redundant format for a product no longer available.

The backdrop is some kind of foul Mondrian mess-up, even worse than that awful shampoo ad from years back. Ok, it highlights some of the “characters” that we must assume are featured on the video you can no longer get, but even then the so-called characters just look like the same two blokes in funny costumes and wigs.

You can’t get hold of this one anyway so don’t even bother deciding.

You decide.

If you want to get a head

Hats! Hats off to them!

If you want to get ahead, get a hat!

My minimal research shows that this was a phrase coined in the 1940′s by either Dunn and Co. or The British Hat Council. Go on, try finding them! I can’t find a council or any history of it. There’s a Guild, but try clicking on their website; it takes you to Banarnia!

And Dunn and Co. vanished from our high streets so long ago I can only vaguely recall the days when me and Mr. Trev ransacked the closing down stores, buying up their fittings and fixtures; old prints of long forgotten pugilists, antlers- yes antlers! Antlers, stuck on a wooden plaque. No deer head, just antlers. And even then they were plastic.

And umbrellas with dog-faced handles!

I’m losing the point. Hats!

Yes, sure, we get it. If you want to get ahead… a little play on words.

Get a hat and you’ll succeed. And we see it now in the glam hat revival that is Mad Men (I love this pic, whoever they are).

It’s as simple as looking. Here’s John Hamm as Don Draper.

Don Draper (image courtesy of Esquire)

And here’s John Hamm as someone else. Possibly John Hamm.

Photo by Rachel Sklar

There’s a difference. And the hat makes it.

With a hat, you don’t just get ahead, you get ‘a head’. It makes the man’s head.

But there’s a reason why men stopped wearing hats. (Sure, there’s a supposed revival on, but again, there’s a reason for that too.)

First, why did men stop wearing hats? Because, simply, we all realised we’re no Cary Grants, Frank Sinatras, Clooneys or Hamms. Even John Hamm has realised he’s not John Hamm. Or, put another way, John Hamm has realised he’s not Don Draper.

Don Draper is a fictional character (and let’s not get all meta-whatever now, I’m talking fiction as in made up, by a writer, not as in a character with a secret life etc. etc. oh, come on now, you know what I mean). He’s TV. And TV hat wearers have people who follow them around and when they take their hats off… Bingo! Stop filming! Maude! Touch him up! (I don’t know why Maude, it just seemed right). Hey Maude! John’s looking a little sweaty. He’s a little shiny. A little greasy. Get in there Maude! Touch him up. Make him Donish.

You get the drift. John gets Maude. We get no one. We take our hats off and we look like this.

Ken Dodd in Blackpool

And don’t get me started on antimacassars. Antimacassars!? Who thought that bloody word up? What the hell are they? Ok, so they’re anti… anti bloody what? Macassars? what the bloody hell is a macassar?

Oh… I see… thank you Wikipedia. So, macassar was an oil used in the 19th century. On the hair of course. Really, an antimacassar, should be called an antibrylcreem.

Are you still with me? (I haven’t written a blog post in a while so I may be getting a little carried away. Sorry). Antimacassars! Thery’re those intricate handkerchief-like things people of a certain age will be familiar with from their trips to their grandparents in the 1970′s. They look like this.

(I pinched the above image from nothingisnew; a lovely blog worth taking a look at, and with a whole post dedicated to antimacassars).

They look nice yes? The antimacassars you dope, not the girls! Well, they might look nice, but here’s what they really are. Horrible grease collectors. (No! Not the girls! Stop that now!)

Antimacassars were put on furniture to collect Brylcreem from men’s greasy heads. Sweaty greasy heads under hats. Hats now stained with greasy sweaty brims. Heads full of hair that, when hatless, had a deep rut marked in the grease from where the brim had once rested.

Wearing hats. It’s thankless without a Maude around to touch you up.

So we stopped wearing them.

And that’s that.

But… it’s starting again. Hats are back! Sure it’s one of those nostalgia things. But could there be another reason why we are wearing hats once more? Yes! We’re all bald!

Here I am in my new hat. If you like it get it. Primark £4.

Photo by ben Norris using Darrell K. Morris' camera

Here’s Primark’s blurb on ethical trading.

Shift Run Stop

Last week I was a guest on Shift Run Stop, “a free comedy podcast full to the brim with games, geeks and special guests. Brought to you by Leila Johnston and Roo Reynolds”.

Leila and Roo have been asking me and Trev to pop along for quite a while, but it’s just been too difficult, what with Trev now living in Tristan da Cuhna.

So just me went along. And talked and talked and talked. I don’t get out much and I don’t see many people, so they just couldn’t shut me up. They’ve managed to edit it down to a listenable half hour. I think I went on for an hour and a half. Still, at leats they’ve done the decent thing and edited out the bit where I was rude about Peter Kay. In case you’re thinking you’ve missed out on something big there… well, you haven’t.  Read this though, by Stewart Lee, officially the 41st Best Stand Up Ever (unofficially, the Best Stand Up Ever.)

Find out the truth about Don Draper. Find out about Marti Pellow and the kids in the basement. Oh, and that bloody Five Star thing crops up yet again. Also, the time we worked with Charlie Brooker. My tips to aspiring comedians (I know, I know, just ignore anything I say. What do I know). And other bits.

Anyways, here it is to hear here.

Thank you Leila and Roo for inviting me along.

Roo and Leila being serious

What is Brigitte Nielsen?

Yes. That’s my question today. What is Brigitte Nielsen? It’s not intended to be rude. Clearly she’s just a person, like you or I. So that’s one answer. But is she a movie star? A model? A singer? A reality TV star? The daughter/wife/sister of funnyman Leslie Nielsen? All of these things?

Heading off to see Step Up 3D before going on to the monthly BFI Film Quiz (Hey! We won!) I saw Brigitte (with ‘film stars’ we all feel like we know them well enough to use first name terms. Don’t we?) standing outside Cafe de Paris (Cafe of Paris) just passing the time. look! Here she is!

Look at me! I’m a paparazzi! look at that guy on the right. He didn’t move once during the 60 seconds or so I stood and gawped. I think he might be a heavy. I think he might be looking out for her. I also think he might have a nail-biting problem, but he knows he can’t do it in public so he’s settling for a good pick.

I wouldn’t normally dream of taking pictures of strangers without first asking. It’s just rude. But with these Hollywood folk it’s a little different. I still felt impertinent but I relaxed when I saw others taking pics and Brigitte not minding; in fact actively smiling and looking to the camera. Look! Almost my way!

What’s with the guy to her left? look at the first picture. Both of them can’t look her in the eye. It can’t just be because she is eight feet tall. Perhaps looking into her eyes turns men to stone. Maybe I had a lucky escape.

She posed with the public for a few photos, but I didn’t dare. It’s not often you can get this close to proper Hollywood stars. I once saw De Niro and Pacino in Leicester Square, but they were standing on a balcony above the Empire cinema (Brigitte could have walked passed and had a face to face conversation with them).

So well done Brigitte. Well done for stopping and shooting the breeze with the folk of London. For smiling for photos. And for having a nail-biting minder.

But what exactly are you? I’ll let the poll decide.

Beer and Clothing in Lewisham

The title’s misleading. There’s no beer in this post. Years back me and Trev came up with a programme idea called Beer and Clothing in… . It was to be a Hunter S. Thompson-esque road trip thing with the two of us drinking beer, dressing up and messing about. You don’t need to know any more details. There aren’t any.

Yes? So? Ok, it’s just a play on Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Ok, it’s only one step up, or down, from Monkey Tennis. But what do you expect from the guys who brought you this?

A long-winded introduction to my day out in Lewisham. It’s easy to spend a day in Lewisham. We’ve just finished a first draft of our film, we have a meeting next Thursday to discuss it, get notes… so, for now, I’m just a waster, passing time. If anyone has a job for me, let me know. In the meantime I wander Lewisham.

I started off at the Post Office depot. I had to pick up Coma by Alex Garland, the picked book for next week’s Book Club. It should have been popped through the letter box, but I had to sign for it and the postman called at some ungodly hour. 6am. Or 9am. Or 10.24am. Something crazy when decent people are asleep.

Back to the depot it went. Or not. It hadn’t turned up by the time I got there so I had to wait til 12.45. I used the time to think about Douglas Copeland, Alex Copeland, Douglas Garland and Michael Crichton; the variety of names I had gone through before I found the right book.

Having got the book I headed to the shops to spend, spend, spend. I bought a laptop stand, a load of A4 paper, five pens, candles, shampoo, conditioner, all sorts of stuff. By this point I’d spent £9. I had to draw the line somewhere and so I resisted my desire to buy the £6 Mohammad Ali T-shirt in Primark. Nor did I buy a bundle of the £2 T-shirts. But, if you like your T-shirts go to Primark. I’m fussy about necks and the necks on the Primark ones are lovely; nice and thin, with none of that visible stitching thing going on.

Then, a read of the papers and a coffee. I used to go to Ponti’s, inside the Lewisham Shopping Centre, but they’ve introduced some new system of looking at menu’s, remembering your table number, going up and ordering; all too much for me and, I guess, for others since the place was unusually empty. Off to their neighbour, Muffin break. Old school. Go up, tell them what you want, get it.

It’s now the next day and I never got around to finishing this rambling post.

I’ll come back to Lewisham. There are good things going on that I’ve never noticed before.

In the Lewisham Shopping centre I did something I’d never done before. I went for a wee. And, in passing, I saw the Lewisham mural- a celebration of 200o years of Lewisham history. For once I had gone out without my camera. But I’ll be back. Bringing you details of Lewisham. Telling you how Max Wall, Boris Karloff and Spike Milligan fit into the picture.

For now, here’s the trailer to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And for now, for me, more rambling, wandering, passing time. Bad Lieutenant (the new one) calls.

The Trev and Simon Summer Special (with notes)

The marvellous Joff Thompson has very kindly uploaded the Trev and Simon Summer Special on to YouTube. This has been hidden away for 15 years. And most likely only ever shown once on TV. That shows you just how special it is. Oh, and it was shown in the summer. The summer of 1995 if I remember correctly. I haven’t seen it since we made it. I watched it, and I surprised myself by laughing out loud once. I think, 15 years on, I can watch it and fool myself  I am watching someone else. Someone a bit like me working with someone  a bit like Trev.

It was  a bit of a troubled production. We had such grand ideas for it, but the BBC kept very tight control over us. We were even told, by a friend on the production team, that the BBC had another script they planned to shoot; one full of alternative (but not necessarily alternative) jokes and sketches. We fought to get our stuff made. If we hadn’t been so full of ourselves I’m sure we could have benefitted from a like-minded script editor.

Well, here it is, and, if not ideal, I can see glimpses of the troubled minds that, at the time, were intent on overthrowing early Saturday evening viewing as we knew it.

In typical disclaimer style, all the comments that follow are mine. Do not hold Trev responsible for any libel that may follow.

Here’s Part One, featuring Private frank Porritt, The World of the Strange, Lottery gamble, the Inbred Idiots, and letitia Dean wearing a costume that made her cry.

Yes, it’s true, and we’re not proud of it; forcing Letitia Dean to wear an aubergine costume made her cry. To this day I am sorry. We had no skills and no tact when it came to telling someone they had to dress up as an aubergine. She did it though, and she looks very fetching. And she does a fine job with the Inbred Idiots, our attempt to inject a little Evil Dead/Deliverance into early Saturday evening viewing.

I like the aquarium. At the time I didn’t. We wanted a real aquarium with real fish, but the budget was tight. Now I think it has a kitschy charm. All things were inevitably compromised through budget. You only get a sneaky peak at some of our more outrageous demands in the opening sequence. We wanted a volcano, a mermaid, an Elvis. And somewhere on some cutting room floor are all the extra bits we filmed with them.

We got our sniper. Even now I’m surprised that sneaked by in a Little and Large slot.

The World of the Strange was filmed in its usual style; in front of a live audience and with no editing, just us running around the camera and ducking and diving in and out of fridges. I’ve always like our Two Ronnies nod at the end.

My favourite bits are at the desk, just messing about, being stupid with a Lottery pen, smashing things up, calling the Lottery pen Guineapig instead of Guinevere. I think we were always at our happiest when we could break things.

The I won a mini line reminds me of one of the cut jokes. This was in another of our Trev and Simon at home scenes, our attempt to pay tribute (nick?) the Morecambe and Wise style. Trev receives a Readers’ Digest type letter. He excitedly reads out  Congratulations! You have won a car before unfolding the letter to see it carry on to say digan. I love that joke. In that same (cut) sketch we had another special guest; the late great Keith Floyd. And in that sketch I painstakingly made an Airfix kit of a large plane. I can’t remember much other than at the end of the sketch it got smashed to pieces.

Part two really highlights my gift for accents. I’d say it’s a spot one one for French chef Geoff, with a G… string. And then there’s Terry in Vicar Watch with his local dialect. I’m just not sure where it’s local to.

I like Cook That! it fits nicely into our style of destroy. I could never understand though why we were not allowed to set fire to a real CD Walkman. You may have been fooled, or can you tell it’s a painted block of wood? But we have fire, a collapsing ceiling, and, in PVC, an out of control turntable/potter’s wheel. Thank you Graham Brown for providing auch great destruction. Graham was a great bloke to work with. We managed to get him up to Scotland after he had done loads of work with us for Going Live! and Live and Kicking. If you wanted something destroying Graham was the man for the job. Of course, there was always the issue of BBC Health and Safety. Thankfully Graham couldn’t have cared less for such rules and regulations. Once, working with him on a L&K New Year special filmed on Burgh Island, he set fire to all of the island. Well done sir!

Encyclomedia. If I remember rightly, this developed out of a thing we did on Live and Kicking called Looniversity Challenge; an interactive game played with kids at home over the phone. Kids in the studio had planets stuck on top of their heads and they were known as The Looniverse. Or did Encyclomedia come first? I can’t remember. I do remember having huge discussions over whether we could use the word loony or not. in the end we were allowed to. This led to other loony themed sketches such as Every Loony Wins. Our (weak) defence was that loony didn’t just have to refer to being insane, it could also mean foolish or ridiculous.

And then D:Ream. You may be able to spot Brian Cox, the whizzkid TV scientist, and, a few years back, Hannibal Lecktor in Manhunter.

Jones the chemists was the last in our line of oddbod shop owners. We started with Ken and Eddie Kennedy, the barbers, then Don and Dougie Draper, the dry cleaners, then… Roberts Records… oops, can’t remember their names. Tom Jones and Jim Jones the chemists and their barrage of bottom related euphemisms. Sorry folks.

We had a plan to put all these shops and people together in a TV show we would call Street of Shops. If anyone wants to make it now, please contact us. We would also include the father and son characters who ran Cobblers to the Stars, a chiropodist/made to measure shoemaker combo who bred pigs in the back yard to make into shoes for the likes of Robert De Niro. My picture on the about page of this blog is me playing the father shoemaker, holding one of his future pairs.

Stewart Lee

I went to see Stewart Lee perform his latest show, If You Prefer a Milder Comedian, Please Ask For One. This was a few nights ago. Last Wednesday. I’ve wanted to write about it. Not a review as such; I’m incapable, I’d get word-tied. I’ll leave the reviews to journalists like Nigel Pauley writing in the Daily Star. Here’s his take on one routine executed by the “posh comic”.

I’ve wanted to write about it but I’ve been unable to. I’ve put it off. And off. And off. And the reason is, I’m scared.

Not scared like as if Stewart Lee was a ghost or something; or a madman who might track me down and hurt me. I’m scared because he is so good. I almost have to stop thinking, because I know no matter how much I think, I will never be able to think like him. If I was a stand-up comedian I would see Stewart Lee and I would give up. There and then. I wouldn’t just give up stand-up comedy. I’d give up standing up. I’d give up moving. I’d devote myself to inertia. Nothing I could do would ever be as good and ………………………………………………. ………………………. …………….. …………………………………………………………………. ……………………………………………………………….. ……………………. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ………………………………………………………………. See? I just can’t……………………………

…………write now.

I laughed out loud throughout the show.

That’s it. That’s my review.

I’ll continue waffling on though because I can and I have license to. My licence was granted to me by one of Lee and Herring. I can’t remember who now, because this was many years ago and I am old and………………………… …………………………………………………… ………………………………….. …………………………………………………………….. …………………………………………………………. ……………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………. ………………………………………hell

………………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………. ………………………………………………………….

……………………….did the following even happen?

They gave me the licence to write this because I have nothing to live up to. I can’t fail because I am starting from the standpoint of being an idiot.

I met them at a radio station. They had copies of their Fist Of Fun book with them. They kindly gave me a copy………………………………………

…………or did they? Did I steal it? Was it given to me by the radio host who may or may not have been Danny Baker? I can’t remember.

Somehow, I had the book. And I asked them to sign it. They did. They wrote, To Simon, You are an idiot, best wishes, Lee and Herring.

Maybe.

The To Simon, You are an idiot bit they definitely wrote. I’m not sure how they signed off. They may have put Stewart and Richard, or some variation. They may have written all the best or lots of love, or swing um pant or something. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I’d check, but the book’s in storage and going there brings me out in a sweat and reminds me of all the mistakes I’ve made in my life and drags me down and

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. …………………………………………………………………I wish my storage unit would disappear………………………………….. …………………………………………I’m paying money I don’t have for things I don’t need….. ……………………………

No! I need my Fist of Fun book.…………………………………………………………

It makes me laugh, still- Simon, You are an idiot – but I don’t know why. What did they mean? Am I an idiot? Is that good or bad? It’s got to be bad really, hasn’t it? But maybe it was a joke. Just a joke. But we’re all products of that weird thing from the past that was Alternative Comedy, and the one thing we all know is there’s no such thing as just a joke.

Stewart Lee. He tells a great joke about Richard Hammond. See the review above. It’s merciless and cruel and funny and true and hurtful and sometimes not true but still true. If I was Richard Hammond I would see it and be rendered inert.

I’ve searched the internet. I want to know what Richard Hammond thinks. There’s nothing. He’s inertiad by Lee. In the same way that Pasquale has been inertiad (I know there’s no such word. What do you take me for? An idiot? But I know what I mean. I think. I……………………………………………………. ………………………………. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… …………………………………….it keeps happening

Pasquale. Watch Stewart Lee’s Pasquale routine. It’s there; on You Tube. I’m not putting up a link. Fear eats away. I’m not sure what Stewart would think. And that matters to me. But it’s there. Take a look. If you don’t laugh and laugh and laugh then maybe he’s not for you. I laugh and then I have no choice but to remain still and useless for at least an afternoon.

Pasquale must be inert. He’s never said How dare you, Lee! He’s kept quiet. There is no comeback to such a perfectly formed routine. Stewart Lee is a ninja………………………………………………………. …………………………………………………………………….. ……………………………………… …………………….. ……………….. ……………..now I’ve written that and it’s, it’s meaningless. Of course he’s not a ninja. He’s not even like a ninja, though he does tend to wear black. He’s more Mick McManus to Pasquale’s Jackie Pallo. Except Stewart and Joe’d never wrestle and……………………….. ……………………………………………… ……………………………………………though Bob Mortimer did once box Les Dennis

I really don’t know how to go on

Not much comedy makes me laugh. I like to laugh, it’s just that

………………….I’m not one of those comedians (I could just stop that there). I’m not one of those comedians who stroke their chins and nod and say that’s funny. If something’s funny, I laugh.

Frankie Boyle can make me laugh. I’ll laugh out loud at his rudery on Mock the Week, though I have rarely laughed at the show. He’s gone now. Stewart Lee does a routine about Mock the Week, without naming the show, that again is so perfect, so formed, that all comedians on Mock

………………………………………..just stop

Comedy makes me laugh when, well, it’s funny but also when I feel that the comedian has no choice but to do and say what he or she is saying. They are compelled. It drives them. It is them. And we know it’s them, it’s all them, it’s not an act, it’s

……………………………….Stewart Lee, Johnny Vegas, Richard Herring, Frank Randle, Andy Kaufman

not Bill Hicks.

Have I gone too far? Have I proved  my idiocy? He’s never made me laugh. All comedians love him. He’s the comedian’s comedian. I’ve never got past 7 minutes. I feel I’m being lectured. He says funny things but he seems smug. He also famously said Do a commercial, you’re off the artistic roll call, every word you say is suspect, you’re a corporate whore and eh, end of story. That’s just some big mouth, clever enough to earn money doing what he loves, getting all self righteous. I did a commercial in 1995. I earned enough to buy a car, a Ford Fiesta. I’m still driving the same car. Bill Hicks can fuck off.

Stewart Lee is my Bill Hicks (even if he’d say the same about commercials, spit in my face and damn me to

…………………………………… ………………………………………………………….. …………………………………….. ……………………………It was only the one.

…………….It wasn’t even a commercial. It was an advert. I wasn’t and still am not clever enough to get by without them.  I’d do another if I was offered. I’ve got a 15 year old car and no home

………………………………………………………………………………………….I wouldn’t do one for guns or anything like that

……………………………or poison

……………………………………………………..or fascism

……….just sweets, or beer, or cheese, milk

………………………………..flowers

…pets

……………………ciggies

Where was I?

Stewart Lee opened with a routine about Cafe Nero loyalty cards. Before getting into it he asked an audience member to name their favourite coffee franchise. The audience member said Starbucks.

I’d've said Muffin Break. I went there today. They have a loyalty card they hole punch instead of marking with ink. And you get a free coffee every five goes. Also, all their muffins are baked on the premises and the staff in the Lewisham branch are unglamorous and say hello and smile

…………………..maybe I can be the face of Muffin Break

….I’ve lost this post completely.

Should I let my daughter date David Platt?

My daughter is dating David Platt and I’m not happy.

For those who know me you know I believe Coronation Street to be real. For those who don’t know me, you’ll most likely think I’m just being funny, or weird, or perverse. But the great thing about beliefs is that that’s all you need. Reason goes out of the window. I believe Coronation Street is real… so there!

And psycho David Platt is going out with my daughter!

My daughter is Kirsty Leigh Porter.

Kirsty Leigh Porter (pic courtesy of Holy Soap)

Kirsty was only my daughter for a day. Trev and myself were writing for a show called My Spy Family. Kirsty played Marcy Desmond, and in one of our episodes, The Quiz Night Affair, I played her father Mr Desmond. He was a wild haired weirdo. I didn’t have to do much. Just turn up.

But now she’s changed her name to Zoe and is slowly creeping into Corrie as bloody Platt’s girlfriend. I’m going to have to put my foot down.

Crate Expectations

Ok, it’s not a great picture, but I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. That’s because we’re in the dark here and there should be no light. I used no flash, but there would have still been a faint orange glow from the autofocus. Sorry Tate Modern. And I apologise sincerely for this post’s poor title (though I like it… so not that sincere… but sorry anyways pun-haters).

This is the Turbine Hall of Tate Modern. And there’s always something worth seeing, whether it’s a big red horn or a large crack in the floor. Oh, I know my art and the right terms.

The large crack was called Shibboleth. I’d come across that word once before, in an episode of The West Wing. I had an understanding of sorts; that the word was a test, the right pronunciation showing whether or not you belonged to a certain tribe or another. At the heart of the West Wing Episode and the crack in the floor there is something being conveyed about racism and intolerance.

But,  when I go to the Tate Modern I don’t think like that. I see a big crack, and I hop from side to side and then try and stick my foot as far down as it will go. It’s fun. Then I read about Shibboleth, the work of art, and I become thoughtful. But not for long. I’m not sure you should have to read about a work of art to understand it. Sure, it helps. It Illuminates. But the reading and the experiencing seem like separate things.

That’s how I felt when I was in the big metal box yesterday. I just wanted to leap in, into the darkness, and run around.

It’s called How It Is. It’s by the Polish artist Miroslaw Balka. It’s a… Oh, why should I try to describe it when the Tate’s website does it so much better:

Hovering somewhere between sculpture and architecture, on 2 metre stilts, it stands 13 metres high and 30 metres long. Visitors can walk underneath it, listening to the echoing sound of footsteps on steel, or enter via a ramp into a pitch black interior, creating a sense of unease.

I wasn’t uneasy. I was happy and excited. I loved it. It’s a huge metal box that you just vanish into. No edges, no end, until you bump into them in the darkness. It’s so huge I couldn’t help but make a cheap joke in there about feeling like a midget illegal immigrant. I shouldn’t have of course, because when you read again, you read that the work has been inspired by such realities. And, like Shibboleth, the work is associated with the darker moments of recent history and the terrible crimes race can commit against race.

I’m going to stop reading.

The work is great fun. Go and see it. Or not, since you will be in the darkest place you have ever been.

Go and see it. Run into it. Be daring. Go in as far as you can, til you hit a wall you never knew was there. Then kiss someone. Or kick someone. Or go boo.