I was surprised at how lovely the park was yesterday. The trees looked lovely, the grass greened at me as I arrived and the sun made the river look like it was constantly winking at me. It was cheery and these things made me very, very happy. To be honest, the thing that made me happiest was the lack of people there. People should be banned from the park because they ruin it. They throw frisbees (grown adults, mind), they "forget" to pick up their "dog's" excrement and they chuck fridges into the river. Honestly, who the fuck could be bothered to throw a fridge in a river? It's not like anyone lives nearby so they have to drag it all the way to the river, lift it over a fence and then chuck it. What happened to the good old British way of just leaving it in the street? I mean, you must really hate your fridge to drag it all the way to a park and heave it into a river. But how do you HATE a fridge? Well, I've thought about it and the only conclusion I can make is that these people fuck their fridge one night, then can't look at it the same way again and MUST get rid of it. I mean, it just sat there and let you fuck it so why would you respect it? That fridge is a WHORE and looking at it only makes you feel sicker and sicker and sicker. It just sits there faintly buzzing like better wouldn't melt (which, if it's working properly, it wouldn't). And when you're out you dread coming home because you know that slag will just be waiting there for you to use it again. Forget it, love, you think, I wouldn't put my bottle of milk in you to clean it. And, like all partners in your life, you drag it down to the park and abandon it. You never see ovens in the river, do you? That's because ovens aren't FUCKING DIRTY KITCHEN WHORES.
What was great about being in the park was the fact that the tennis court was actually being used. It was particularly great because Andy Murray was playing the exact same hobby at a tennis court in Wimbledon at the exact same time but his game got on international television for some unfathomable reason. I really admired these people for not sitting at home watching a hobby but actually participating in it. Not that I'm a complete cunt, although I loathe tennis I did actually "want" Andy Murray to win. A lot of people got excited about him and that's good. But he didn't win. He came last in that particular match and even though a lot of people are dissappointed he's probably fine about it. At least now the media will refer to him as Scottish again.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Thursday, 2 July 2009
O homem irritado escreve uma carga da merda.
I've said before that it's the little things that make me happy. Things that you don't expect. Like seeing a hedgehog when you're waiting in Chester for the National Express bus back to London at midnight. Last night was no exception and I'm glad because yesterday was quite, quite shitty. I got sworn at by two complete strangers. Actually, that's pretty normal for me. Sigh...
I took Jerk for a walk in the park, the setting for many of my disasters. On my way I crossed the busy Ladywell Road and, halfway across, waiting on the pedestrian island for traffic on the other side to go by. I saw a driver approaching with his arm out the window, like he was riding a bike and wanted to turn right. Didn't know what he was doing but I also didn't care so that was fine. He wasn't slowing down, he was just driving normally with his hand out the window. He got closer and there was no other traffic behind him. Good, I'd soon be crossing that road, eh? NO! He stopped right in front of me and said "I'm letting you across, mate". He said it rather aggressively so I wasn't over flattered by his kind gesture.
"Oh, OK", I said.
"What do you think this meant?", he said talking about his hand out the window.
"It means I'm turning right on a bicycle".
"Fuck off, then".
He drove off but not before I gave him my default insult. I crossed the road and walked into the park. Jerk was very excited because I had brought the ball launcher. It's a long piece of plastic that you can put a tennis ball in and when you fling it the ball is catapulted over a distance I couldn't possibly throw otherwise. About 6 feet. Jerk loves the ball launcher. I love the ball launcher. I tell you who HATES the ball launcher: that fragrant, young lovely who shouted "Don't fucking throw that thing near me".
I wasn't going to throw a ball near her. She was lying on a blanket enjoying the sun. Why would I want to disturb her? My plan, though improvised and not really thought through, was to throw it nowhere near her so that she wouldn't be disturbed at all. It's one of those Good-Dog-owner things that I do. But if she was scared of dogs (something that, to be honest, I'm running out of patience with people) she just needed to say "Excuse me. Do you mind playing with your dog over there as I'm scared of dogs, please?" She didn't. She said "Don't fucking throw that thing near me". No prizes for guessing where I aimed the ball launcher.
There was a man sitting near her but not with her. He wanted to be with her. I could tell by his gallant "She told you not to throw that near her, didn't she?" as he strided towards me. What this man didn't know is that not everyone falls for macho bollocks and that appearing a bit mental wins over brawn any day. "No", I said. "She didn't TELL me to do anything because she CAN'T tell me to do anything. She just swore at me and that's what happens when you swear at people". He stopped and realised that I was either a nutter or I had made a valid and reasonable point. Of course, you was right either way.
So I went to my gig in a foul mood thinking that maybe Lewisham isn't for me anymore. It's now full of cunts so I should probably go so they can make room for more. But on my way home a lovely thing happened. I got on the tube and found a copy of "Via Gospel", a Portuguese religious magazine. It's now my favourite magazine. I can't speak and foreign languages at all but now I have realised that it's much more fun to not really understand what I'm reading. That way the articles have an air of mystery about them. And there were some crackers too. One was about the religious side of Psoriasis and as a "sufferer" I'd probably have got something out of that but, like religion itself, I just couldn't fathom a word. "Susan Boyle nos Simpsons" seemed an interesting read but my favourite article was definitely "Sobre a Parada Gay", a religious celebration of homosexuality which seems very refreshing in this day and age. Good for you, Via Gospel. I will start subscribing to you immediately.
To be honest I was cheered up well before that because the gig was excellent. I'll be honest, dear reader, I never really thought I'd say that about doing impro (or improv) again but it was a genuinely great, fun, really funny gig. I recommend you go and check out the London Improv Players during their weekly residency throughout August at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square every tuesday. Last night it was Tara Flynn, Brendan Dempsey, Rufus Hound and me. I was particularly proud of my tribute to the King of Pop during the improvised song at the end. Everyone made up a very funny verse and then it was my turn. I'm crap at this sort of thing so I chickened out by walking right into the audience and sang She's Out Of My Life VERY passionately. It's called failing big.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
I took Jerk for a walk in the park, the setting for many of my disasters. On my way I crossed the busy Ladywell Road and, halfway across, waiting on the pedestrian island for traffic on the other side to go by. I saw a driver approaching with his arm out the window, like he was riding a bike and wanted to turn right. Didn't know what he was doing but I also didn't care so that was fine. He wasn't slowing down, he was just driving normally with his hand out the window. He got closer and there was no other traffic behind him. Good, I'd soon be crossing that road, eh? NO! He stopped right in front of me and said "I'm letting you across, mate". He said it rather aggressively so I wasn't over flattered by his kind gesture.
"Oh, OK", I said.
"What do you think this meant?", he said talking about his hand out the window.
"It means I'm turning right on a bicycle".
"Fuck off, then".
He drove off but not before I gave him my default insult. I crossed the road and walked into the park. Jerk was very excited because I had brought the ball launcher. It's a long piece of plastic that you can put a tennis ball in and when you fling it the ball is catapulted over a distance I couldn't possibly throw otherwise. About 6 feet. Jerk loves the ball launcher. I love the ball launcher. I tell you who HATES the ball launcher: that fragrant, young lovely who shouted "Don't fucking throw that thing near me".
I wasn't going to throw a ball near her. She was lying on a blanket enjoying the sun. Why would I want to disturb her? My plan, though improvised and not really thought through, was to throw it nowhere near her so that she wouldn't be disturbed at all. It's one of those Good-Dog-owner things that I do. But if she was scared of dogs (something that, to be honest, I'm running out of patience with people) she just needed to say "Excuse me. Do you mind playing with your dog over there as I'm scared of dogs, please?" She didn't. She said "Don't fucking throw that thing near me". No prizes for guessing where I aimed the ball launcher.
There was a man sitting near her but not with her. He wanted to be with her. I could tell by his gallant "She told you not to throw that near her, didn't she?" as he strided towards me. What this man didn't know is that not everyone falls for macho bollocks and that appearing a bit mental wins over brawn any day. "No", I said. "She didn't TELL me to do anything because she CAN'T tell me to do anything. She just swore at me and that's what happens when you swear at people". He stopped and realised that I was either a nutter or I had made a valid and reasonable point. Of course, you was right either way.
So I went to my gig in a foul mood thinking that maybe Lewisham isn't for me anymore. It's now full of cunts so I should probably go so they can make room for more. But on my way home a lovely thing happened. I got on the tube and found a copy of "Via Gospel", a Portuguese religious magazine. It's now my favourite magazine. I can't speak and foreign languages at all but now I have realised that it's much more fun to not really understand what I'm reading. That way the articles have an air of mystery about them. And there were some crackers too. One was about the religious side of Psoriasis and as a "sufferer" I'd probably have got something out of that but, like religion itself, I just couldn't fathom a word. "Susan Boyle nos Simpsons" seemed an interesting read but my favourite article was definitely "Sobre a Parada Gay", a religious celebration of homosexuality which seems very refreshing in this day and age. Good for you, Via Gospel. I will start subscribing to you immediately.
To be honest I was cheered up well before that because the gig was excellent. I'll be honest, dear reader, I never really thought I'd say that about doing impro (or improv) again but it was a genuinely great, fun, really funny gig. I recommend you go and check out the London Improv Players during their weekly residency throughout August at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square every tuesday. Last night it was Tara Flynn, Brendan Dempsey, Rufus Hound and me. I was particularly proud of my tribute to the King of Pop during the improvised song at the end. Everyone made up a very funny verse and then it was my turn. I'm crap at this sort of thing so I chickened out by walking right into the audience and sang She's Out Of My Life VERY passionately. It's called failing big.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Too Much Too Old.
I am old. If you know me at all then you will know that I am old. I don't really need to be reminded that I'm old but some people feel that they need to rub my fucking ancient nose in it.
It was my fault, really. I was very happy at home but about 9 I got the urge to go to my local pub, The Fox & Firkin, and check out their Ska Night. I'm not a Ska expert but to me Ska is music that sounds a bit like a lovely, big brass band playing really cheery reggae while a misery guts sings about Thatcher. That sound right to you? Well, how wrong I was. There were no men in suits looking sharp and cool, there were no pork pie hats and, very noticeably, there were no black people. At all. Three bands played in this Ska night and, I think, one of them played one song that was kind of like ska-ish. The rest was the whitest rock music you've ever heard in your life. They were whiter than Michael Jackson's corpse (HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Topical. You can have that).
They were also all about 18 years old. Great to see young people starting bands but, and I hate to be nit-picky, it wasn't Ska. Ska doesn't do ballads with guitar solos or have call and response bits between the bass player and the drummer. Ska definitely doesn't sing about texting, I'm pretty sure about that. Plus the look? Is this really how Nu-Ska looks? White boys with dreadlocks, beards, tattoos of their favourite fires and, Christ Almighty, shorts?
It's No Doubt Ska, isn't it? A Ska band that don't do Ska at all ever. Well, that's not how we did Ska in my day. It wasn't songs about love and pretty blonde singers and it definitely wasn't about joy. These bands were actually happy. The fucking cheek of them. I stood there with my friend Anthony mildly grumbling about how all young people should be sent into the army at 17 and then have a war on the moon. But after a while the joy of The Scaredy Cats (that's what they were called) was too infectious and in the Fox and Firkin, they say, that the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day. I went down the front for a dance.
I lasted about half a song because, as everyone around me proved, I am old. The band were slowing down on purpose because they pitied me trying to keep up.Being old is crap. I wouldn't do it if I were you.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
It was my fault, really. I was very happy at home but about 9 I got the urge to go to my local pub, The Fox & Firkin, and check out their Ska Night. I'm not a Ska expert but to me Ska is music that sounds a bit like a lovely, big brass band playing really cheery reggae while a misery guts sings about Thatcher. That sound right to you? Well, how wrong I was. There were no men in suits looking sharp and cool, there were no pork pie hats and, very noticeably, there were no black people. At all. Three bands played in this Ska night and, I think, one of them played one song that was kind of like ska-ish. The rest was the whitest rock music you've ever heard in your life. They were whiter than Michael Jackson's corpse (HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Topical. You can have that).
They were also all about 18 years old. Great to see young people starting bands but, and I hate to be nit-picky, it wasn't Ska. Ska doesn't do ballads with guitar solos or have call and response bits between the bass player and the drummer. Ska definitely doesn't sing about texting, I'm pretty sure about that. Plus the look? Is this really how Nu-Ska looks? White boys with dreadlocks, beards, tattoos of their favourite fires and, Christ Almighty, shorts?
It's No Doubt Ska, isn't it? A Ska band that don't do Ska at all ever. Well, that's not how we did Ska in my day. It wasn't songs about love and pretty blonde singers and it definitely wasn't about joy. These bands were actually happy. The fucking cheek of them. I stood there with my friend Anthony mildly grumbling about how all young people should be sent into the army at 17 and then have a war on the moon. But after a while the joy of The Scaredy Cats (that's what they were called) was too infectious and in the Fox and Firkin, they say, that the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day. I went down the front for a dance.
I lasted about half a song because, as everyone around me proved, I am old. The band were slowing down on purpose because they pitied me trying to keep up.Being old is crap. I wouldn't do it if I were you.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
No More Mr. Nice-Guy.
I'm not nice anymore. I think I lasted nearly a week and really enjoyed the upset caused by simply being friendly and intrusively courteous. But it's not me. I knew I had given up being nice on Saturday when I saw a man running towards the escalator in London Bridge tube station. He was going down, the escalator was going up. I saw him stride confidently towards it for quite a while knowing fully well what might happen but, instead of being nice and stopping him from embarrassing himself or falling or dying, I just watched him do it. It was fun. He looked a twat for about a second, I felt like a git for an hour. Balance restored.
But what is the point in being nice? Everyone else is a complete cunt so why can't I be? Think about it. Seriously. Do you know anyone who isn't worse than Hitler? You don't, do you? Everyone is a big, annoying, embarrassing, evil cunt so, fuck it, if you can't kill them, join them.
When I logged on to Facebook yesterday there were 5 fucking, fucking, fucking photos IN A ROW of comedians on stage at The Comedy Store with the logo behind them. WELL FUCKING DONE! You utter genius. You managed to phone up people who despise you and grovel for a five minute open spot and a friend who owns a camera saw you there. That logo isn't a smile, you know? That's a detailed picture of Don Ward's toothy sphincter that he uses to eat desperate acts cocks with. So please, new acts (and others who should know fucking better), don't put your head too far up Don Ward's arse, you'll be decapitated.
That put me in a mood, to be honest. So I thought I'd spend the day sorting my house out. I built a bed! Fuck, yeah. I'm a carpenter now just like Jesus and Harrison Ford and Karen and Richard. It's a good way to get all your frustrations out, putting a bed together. It's so fidgety that you have to scream your face off every 9 seconds. Very releasing. Very primal. Probably good for you. I was dumping some old bed crap in the bin when my neighbour pointed out that a fight had started at the corner of our street. Good old Lewisham. Such a civil place.
She was right. A man was grabbing a woman by the head and trying to shove her into a flat. She was screaming (obviously) and he was shouting the language of the pissed at her. I phoned the police while I approached them. He stopped hitting her and said everything was fine. I disagreed. Luckily, our country's finest only need to be told 85 times where the "disturbance" was taking place and they'd send someone round right away-ish. In the meantime, I stood by the angry, drunk man and listened to him dribble his explanation. I said that he needed to tell this to the police not me. He then hit her again. She went into the flat and closed the door on him. The police arrived! Then drove right past. Eventually they got out of their car and started to walk directly into my neighbours house. She told them it was the house at the corner they wanted. You know? The one with the shouty drunk man outside it. The then briskly marched to the house at the corner. It was the WRONG corner. Again, I pointed out that it was the corner with the shouty drunk man. Fuck's sake.
The man was cuffed and taken away. I saw him this morning (about 9.30) coming out of his flat drinking a can of lager. He said Hello but, to be honest, I don't really want him as a friend. I bet he DEFINITELY has a photo of him beside the Comedy Store logo on his Facebook page.
So, back to being a cunt for me. It's the only way to fit in. Shame because during my (near) week of being nice I met some really nice people that just seemed so friendly and lovely (though they're probably faking it) but since I gave up nice on Saturday I seem to be surrounded by cunts. Maybe it's me?
I said I'd leave the subject of Michael Jackson but I saw the latest copy of Q Magazine yesterday. Jackson is on the cover and the story inside is about his upcoming O2 gigs with the claim "The Comeback of 2009!" Also on the cover is a story titled "Dead Rockstars Exhumed". Surely they regret all of that?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
But what is the point in being nice? Everyone else is a complete cunt so why can't I be? Think about it. Seriously. Do you know anyone who isn't worse than Hitler? You don't, do you? Everyone is a big, annoying, embarrassing, evil cunt so, fuck it, if you can't kill them, join them.
When I logged on to Facebook yesterday there were 5 fucking, fucking, fucking photos IN A ROW of comedians on stage at The Comedy Store with the logo behind them. WELL FUCKING DONE! You utter genius. You managed to phone up people who despise you and grovel for a five minute open spot and a friend who owns a camera saw you there. That logo isn't a smile, you know? That's a detailed picture of Don Ward's toothy sphincter that he uses to eat desperate acts cocks with. So please, new acts (and others who should know fucking better), don't put your head too far up Don Ward's arse, you'll be decapitated.
That put me in a mood, to be honest. So I thought I'd spend the day sorting my house out. I built a bed! Fuck, yeah. I'm a carpenter now just like Jesus and Harrison Ford and Karen and Richard. It's a good way to get all your frustrations out, putting a bed together. It's so fidgety that you have to scream your face off every 9 seconds. Very releasing. Very primal. Probably good for you. I was dumping some old bed crap in the bin when my neighbour pointed out that a fight had started at the corner of our street. Good old Lewisham. Such a civil place.
She was right. A man was grabbing a woman by the head and trying to shove her into a flat. She was screaming (obviously) and he was shouting the language of the pissed at her. I phoned the police while I approached them. He stopped hitting her and said everything was fine. I disagreed. Luckily, our country's finest only need to be told 85 times where the "disturbance" was taking place and they'd send someone round right away-ish. In the meantime, I stood by the angry, drunk man and listened to him dribble his explanation. I said that he needed to tell this to the police not me. He then hit her again. She went into the flat and closed the door on him. The police arrived! Then drove right past. Eventually they got out of their car and started to walk directly into my neighbours house. She told them it was the house at the corner they wanted. You know? The one with the shouty drunk man outside it. The then briskly marched to the house at the corner. It was the WRONG corner. Again, I pointed out that it was the corner with the shouty drunk man. Fuck's sake.
The man was cuffed and taken away. I saw him this morning (about 9.30) coming out of his flat drinking a can of lager. He said Hello but, to be honest, I don't really want him as a friend. I bet he DEFINITELY has a photo of him beside the Comedy Store logo on his Facebook page.
So, back to being a cunt for me. It's the only way to fit in. Shame because during my (near) week of being nice I met some really nice people that just seemed so friendly and lovely (though they're probably faking it) but since I gave up nice on Saturday I seem to be surrounded by cunts. Maybe it's me?
I said I'd leave the subject of Michael Jackson but I saw the latest copy of Q Magazine yesterday. Jackson is on the cover and the story inside is about his upcoming O2 gigs with the claim "The Comeback of 2009!" Also on the cover is a story titled "Dead Rockstars Exhumed". Surely they regret all of that?
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Monday, 29 June 2009
Michael Who?
Well, everyone. Glasto 09 was totally wicked! The weather was incredible and the facilities were perfect for me. No queuing, clean-ish toilet and a proper bed to sleep in. Plus there were no hordes of out-of-touch with reality crusty smelly people who like to pain stuff on themselves, just perfect views of all the bands plus you could fast-forward through the tedious world music artists. There's such advantages to watching it on TV. Of course, if you were there then you would have missed terminal cunt Edith Bowman's tedious sycophancy on the BBC so you win.
The Michael Jackson being dead thing still seems to be going on but not in the way I thought it would. It's actually quite interesting. Sure, Michael Jackson fans are upset but I kind of thought that a lot more people would have pretended to care too like when Princess Diana died and everyone forgot how much they hated her before. Well done everyone for not losing your minds over this one. Sure, there were a lot of folks on Facebook that had their R.I.P. status updates like they actually knew him but besides that it just seems that the media are excited about it all but the public have largely got over it really quickly. The BBC went insane, really scraping the bottom of the barrel to find people to discuss the cultural impact of The Jackson. Uri Gellar was, of course, insane. Practically salivating at the thought of being on TV again even if it was to talk about a complete stranger who was best man at his wedding. Mica Paris prided herself in her own insanity when she said that Michael Jackson's death was more "important" than Princess Diana's. She didn't say who's it was more "trivial" than which is a shame. I would have liked that. "Michael Jackson's death", said popstar Mica Paris. "Is big. But, you know, when Howard Jones dies that's when we'll really start crying our eyes out".
My favourite really, really famous person to say boo-hoo to Michael Jackson on BBC news was definitely that man who used to be in 5 Star. He must have wondered what that noise was when his phone rang. Surely there was someone more trivial than him that the BBC could have scraped out of the desperate barrel? Was Owen Paul busy? Did Jim Diamond have other commitments? Fuck sake, I WAS FREE. Why did the BBC think that anyone, including the other members of 5 Star, would give a shitting shit what he had to say about Michael Jackson's contribution to popular culture? Fuck the guy from 5 Star. I want to know what Stephen Hawking thinks about it. Or God. Or, even better, Prince Philip.
I did a couple of Jackson jokes at gigs this weekend and they went down fine (one person booed one gag). In fact after one MJ gag a member of the audience shouted "I love you". I just don't think people connected to him the way the papers think. Still, he was quite good if you like that sort of thing but it's Monday now and that's the last I will talk about it.
King of Everything did the first preview in over 6 weeks last night at The Hob in Forest Hill in front of 12 people. They were 12 absolutely lovely people. We couldn't have asked for a better 12 people. The Apostles look like turds compared to our 12 people at The Hob. We were good too. Not perfect, far from it, but good. Still lots of work to do but that's part of the fun. Isn't it? Please come along to our next preview this sunday at The Funny Side of Covent Garden. We'll be singing. Don't let that put you off.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
The Michael Jackson being dead thing still seems to be going on but not in the way I thought it would. It's actually quite interesting. Sure, Michael Jackson fans are upset but I kind of thought that a lot more people would have pretended to care too like when Princess Diana died and everyone forgot how much they hated her before. Well done everyone for not losing your minds over this one. Sure, there were a lot of folks on Facebook that had their R.I.P. status updates like they actually knew him but besides that it just seems that the media are excited about it all but the public have largely got over it really quickly. The BBC went insane, really scraping the bottom of the barrel to find people to discuss the cultural impact of The Jackson. Uri Gellar was, of course, insane. Practically salivating at the thought of being on TV again even if it was to talk about a complete stranger who was best man at his wedding. Mica Paris prided herself in her own insanity when she said that Michael Jackson's death was more "important" than Princess Diana's. She didn't say who's it was more "trivial" than which is a shame. I would have liked that. "Michael Jackson's death", said popstar Mica Paris. "Is big. But, you know, when Howard Jones dies that's when we'll really start crying our eyes out".
My favourite really, really famous person to say boo-hoo to Michael Jackson on BBC news was definitely that man who used to be in 5 Star. He must have wondered what that noise was when his phone rang. Surely there was someone more trivial than him that the BBC could have scraped out of the desperate barrel? Was Owen Paul busy? Did Jim Diamond have other commitments? Fuck sake, I WAS FREE. Why did the BBC think that anyone, including the other members of 5 Star, would give a shitting shit what he had to say about Michael Jackson's contribution to popular culture? Fuck the guy from 5 Star. I want to know what Stephen Hawking thinks about it. Or God. Or, even better, Prince Philip.
I did a couple of Jackson jokes at gigs this weekend and they went down fine (one person booed one gag). In fact after one MJ gag a member of the audience shouted "I love you". I just don't think people connected to him the way the papers think. Still, he was quite good if you like that sort of thing but it's Monday now and that's the last I will talk about it.
King of Everything did the first preview in over 6 weeks last night at The Hob in Forest Hill in front of 12 people. They were 12 absolutely lovely people. We couldn't have asked for a better 12 people. The Apostles look like turds compared to our 12 people at The Hob. We were good too. Not perfect, far from it, but good. Still lots of work to do but that's part of the fun. Isn't it? Please come along to our next preview this sunday at The Funny Side of Covent Garden. We'll be singing. Don't let that put you off.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Friday, 26 June 2009
Sham Off.
What a brilliant day for death yesterday was. Farrah Fawcet, Jeff Goldblum (although that turned out to be a hoax) and Michael Jackson, the singing man.
Personally, I think Farrah is the greatest loss. Charlie's Angels was a coming of age eye-opener for me and there will always be a tiny, tiny, really tiny part of me that owes a great deal to Farrah. But the news seems to be more fixated on Michael Jackson, the twirly dancer. I bet Jeff Glodblum is happy he's not dead after all. He'd never get a look in on the telly dying on the same day as a man who had a fairground and a monkey.
All hail Twitter. Twitter was the first to break the news last night, way before BBC and SKY. Sadly, some people on Twitter think that a comedian making a joke is unsuitable. I got a good few nasty comments wishing for my suicide because I made a joke about a man I, or they, had never met. "about the whole mj dancing with dead people - why don't you cut your wrists and find it out yourself : - P", said one angry fan of a middle of the road entertainer. Not that I could be offended by anyone who finishes a sentence by drawing a face but I'm pretty surprised that anyone who would follow a comedian would be offended by a joke. The great thing about Twitter last night was that our little community all came together, all shared the breaking news and then all shared jokes. No-one was saying "HA HA HA! Michael Jackson is dead", it was just a lot of very clever jokes (and some stupid ones from me) being shared. We were having a laugh. Strangely, not many people were tweeting tributes to the self-appointed King of Pop. Anyway, my favourite Tweet came from a charming chap who wrote "Comedians thinking that they can joke about this are completely wrong. Far far too early! You should be ashamed. And @michaellegge is a prick". Not even a face at the end....
He is wrong. Comedians can joke about anything at any time. It's up to you as to whether you're offended or not. Personally, I loved reading the funny comments last night. The best came from Richard Herring, Tiernan Douieb and some utter classics from Johnny Candon. Check their Tweets out.
I saw Michael Jackson in 1987. He was good. He sang and danced and cried. Just like he's supposed to. He did Wanna Be Starting Something and that made me happy because I really like that song. Can't really think of any others of his that are that amazing but the Off The Wall album is generally great. It was a good gig. I went there with my friend Dotes but we were more interested in seeing the support act (Kim Wilde) and getting off with two girls we met on a bus.
Anyway, if you stop reading this now and watch the news you might catch some report about the death of the man who sings and wears hats and has a funny face and is "friendly" to children.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Personally, I think Farrah is the greatest loss. Charlie's Angels was a coming of age eye-opener for me and there will always be a tiny, tiny, really tiny part of me that owes a great deal to Farrah. But the news seems to be more fixated on Michael Jackson, the twirly dancer. I bet Jeff Glodblum is happy he's not dead after all. He'd never get a look in on the telly dying on the same day as a man who had a fairground and a monkey.
All hail Twitter. Twitter was the first to break the news last night, way before BBC and SKY. Sadly, some people on Twitter think that a comedian making a joke is unsuitable. I got a good few nasty comments wishing for my suicide because I made a joke about a man I, or they, had never met. "about the whole mj dancing with dead people - why don't you cut your wrists and find it out yourself : - P", said one angry fan of a middle of the road entertainer. Not that I could be offended by anyone who finishes a sentence by drawing a face but I'm pretty surprised that anyone who would follow a comedian would be offended by a joke. The great thing about Twitter last night was that our little community all came together, all shared the breaking news and then all shared jokes. No-one was saying "HA HA HA! Michael Jackson is dead", it was just a lot of very clever jokes (and some stupid ones from me) being shared. We were having a laugh. Strangely, not many people were tweeting tributes to the self-appointed King of Pop. Anyway, my favourite Tweet came from a charming chap who wrote "Comedians thinking that they can joke about this are completely wrong. Far far too early! You should be ashamed. And @michaellegge is a prick". Not even a face at the end....
He is wrong. Comedians can joke about anything at any time. It's up to you as to whether you're offended or not. Personally, I loved reading the funny comments last night. The best came from Richard Herring, Tiernan Douieb and some utter classics from Johnny Candon. Check their Tweets out.
I saw Michael Jackson in 1987. He was good. He sang and danced and cried. Just like he's supposed to. He did Wanna Be Starting Something and that made me happy because I really like that song. Can't really think of any others of his that are that amazing but the Off The Wall album is generally great. It was a good gig. I went there with my friend Dotes but we were more interested in seeing the support act (Kim Wilde) and getting off with two girls we met on a bus.
Anyway, if you stop reading this now and watch the news you might catch some report about the death of the man who sings and wears hats and has a funny face and is "friendly" to children.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
Thursday, 25 June 2009
I Think We're Going To Need A Better Blog.
I'm nice now so I thought I'd do you a favour and recommend a couple of films to you.
The first is a film that I beg you to see and implore you to ignore. If you can do both then this is the film for you. It has a dream cast: Mark Hamill, Christopher Reeve, Linda Kozlowski and Kirstie Alley. Could you ask for better? NO! NO, YOU FUCKING COULDN'T SO SHUT UP. The film is Village of the Damned made by John Carpenter, a man who got lucky a couple of times, in 1995 and tells the every day tale of a cloud that rapes women, impregnates them and their children grow up to be blonde. Terrifying. What is more frightening is Mark Hamill as a priest trying to organise a village fete. He's the son of Darth Vader for Christ's sake. At times you can really see the Hayden Christensen in him. Plus you get to see creepy children make grown adults put their hands in boiling water WITH THEIR MINDS and, as pointed out by Tweetolla, this is probably Christopher Reeves final 'walkie'. Recommended (but not very highly).
Jaws is a different matter. I saw it last week for the first time in years and I've thought about it every day since. It has had a huge impact on my life anyway. The first time I saw it was during a family holiday in Dublin when I was six. Basically, I haven't set foot in the sea since. I'm genuinely terrified of the sea and it's Jaws' fault. After my evil parents forced me to watch it when I was just a baby (sort of) I was actually too scared of turning on a tap just in case a 60 foot shark came out (I wish I was making that up but it's true). Sometime in the 90's my then girlfriend, Hairy Maude, persuaded me to go into the sea via a pedalo. The pedalo was in the shape of a smiley duck and, after explaining that I might not be comfortable in the sea, I stupidly got in it. We were six feet from shore when I started to panic. I screamed at her, called her a fucking bitch and, generally, lost all fucking reason. We didn't speak much after that day. It's hard to look at your boyfriend after he's called you a fucking bitch while sitting in a big duck.
The thing is, there's no fat on Jaws. It starts really quickly. There's no slow, mysterious beginning. It just starts. BANG. Naked woman runs to the sea, dives in, gets eaten. That's the first minute of the film done. And the way she dies is just horrible. It's not a cartoony sort of death-by-shark, you can hear her drowning as she struggles to get away from a million razor sharp teeth. Her lungs are filling with water and blood and you can hear and feel every bit of it. Horrible.
All the characters are amazing too. Our hero Chief Brodie's flaws and mistakes are the driving force of it. He is scared of the sea but, hey, he's basically to blame for the death of at least one shark attack victim. That doesn't look good to the rest of the classic Spielberg suburbanites on the island. Can you have suburbia on an island? FIND OUT. Anyway, luckily Brodie has a twat and a prick to help him find and kill the shark. They're a fantastic twat and a brilliant prick, though. The scar-comparison scene on the Orca is classic.
The main thing Jaws has going for it is that it's exciting from beginning to end. When people aren't dying you think they're about to die or they're already dead. That's a lot to constantly take in. Obviously, it would be nothing without good characters and the fact that Brodie is with two shark hunting experts for practically the whole film just lets his character drag it's way out of it's comfort zone. He permanently looks like he'd rather be anywhere else doing anything else while the other two revel in the thrill of the chase. And the shark DOES NOT look shit. You barely see it and when they remake Jaws with a CGI shark you will be mourning the loss of Bruce throughout the entire shitty, forgot-about-the-characters, soulless, Zach Braff led pile of regret.
Recently, I met someone who hasn't seen Star Wars yet. I didn't think that they were stupid for missing the greatest film ever made, I felt jealous that they had this piece of utter perfection still to see. Jaws is the same.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.twitter.com/tweetolla
The first is a film that I beg you to see and implore you to ignore. If you can do both then this is the film for you. It has a dream cast: Mark Hamill, Christopher Reeve, Linda Kozlowski and Kirstie Alley. Could you ask for better? NO! NO, YOU FUCKING COULDN'T SO SHUT UP. The film is Village of the Damned made by John Carpenter, a man who got lucky a couple of times, in 1995 and tells the every day tale of a cloud that rapes women, impregnates them and their children grow up to be blonde. Terrifying. What is more frightening is Mark Hamill as a priest trying to organise a village fete. He's the son of Darth Vader for Christ's sake. At times you can really see the Hayden Christensen in him. Plus you get to see creepy children make grown adults put their hands in boiling water WITH THEIR MINDS and, as pointed out by Tweetolla, this is probably Christopher Reeves final 'walkie'. Recommended (but not very highly).
Jaws is a different matter. I saw it last week for the first time in years and I've thought about it every day since. It has had a huge impact on my life anyway. The first time I saw it was during a family holiday in Dublin when I was six. Basically, I haven't set foot in the sea since. I'm genuinely terrified of the sea and it's Jaws' fault. After my evil parents forced me to watch it when I was just a baby (sort of) I was actually too scared of turning on a tap just in case a 60 foot shark came out (I wish I was making that up but it's true). Sometime in the 90's my then girlfriend, Hairy Maude, persuaded me to go into the sea via a pedalo. The pedalo was in the shape of a smiley duck and, after explaining that I might not be comfortable in the sea, I stupidly got in it. We were six feet from shore when I started to panic. I screamed at her, called her a fucking bitch and, generally, lost all fucking reason. We didn't speak much after that day. It's hard to look at your boyfriend after he's called you a fucking bitch while sitting in a big duck.
The thing is, there's no fat on Jaws. It starts really quickly. There's no slow, mysterious beginning. It just starts. BANG. Naked woman runs to the sea, dives in, gets eaten. That's the first minute of the film done. And the way she dies is just horrible. It's not a cartoony sort of death-by-shark, you can hear her drowning as she struggles to get away from a million razor sharp teeth. Her lungs are filling with water and blood and you can hear and feel every bit of it. Horrible.
All the characters are amazing too. Our hero Chief Brodie's flaws and mistakes are the driving force of it. He is scared of the sea but, hey, he's basically to blame for the death of at least one shark attack victim. That doesn't look good to the rest of the classic Spielberg suburbanites on the island. Can you have suburbia on an island? FIND OUT. Anyway, luckily Brodie has a twat and a prick to help him find and kill the shark. They're a fantastic twat and a brilliant prick, though. The scar-comparison scene on the Orca is classic.
The main thing Jaws has going for it is that it's exciting from beginning to end. When people aren't dying you think they're about to die or they're already dead. That's a lot to constantly take in. Obviously, it would be nothing without good characters and the fact that Brodie is with two shark hunting experts for practically the whole film just lets his character drag it's way out of it's comfort zone. He permanently looks like he'd rather be anywhere else doing anything else while the other two revel in the thrill of the chase. And the shark DOES NOT look shit. You barely see it and when they remake Jaws with a CGI shark you will be mourning the loss of Bruce throughout the entire shitty, forgot-about-the-characters, soulless, Zach Braff led pile of regret.
Recently, I met someone who hasn't seen Star Wars yet. I didn't think that they were stupid for missing the greatest film ever made, I felt jealous that they had this piece of utter perfection still to see. Jaws is the same.
www.twitter.com/michaellegge
www.twitter.com/tweetolla
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