Union Jacks Unsettle Me

Call me a pinko-lefty-liberal-fag-Commie-cheese eating surrender monkey-Jew-homo-leftist-moonbat-leftard-socialist-freedom hating ballbag but when I see a house that has a Union Jack in the window, I shudder.

I shudder because the chances are they are some kind of daft racist and/or suffering from a crippling small mindedness and/or, worst of all, feel that flying the flag is their patriotic duty at this time of war. And I'm not talking the conflicts in Iraq or Afghanistan, people have been putting up Union Jacks in their windows long before those conflicts.

I'm talking about the imaginary war being fought in Britain, as it comes "under siege" from Johnny Foreigner, darkies and a smattering of gypsies. Oh and don't forget about all those Somalians...

Thankfully, the people flying these Union Jacks fight this imaginary war by...well...putting up flags, moaning to their mates down Wetherspoons at the Curry Club (every Thursday 3-10) and shouting at the TV, as they become one with their Argos sofa bought on the drip with their nan's death money.

I'm not sure why I'm so squeamish about the Union Jack, maybe because it represents a union of nations that I don't really believe in, or because nationalism seems so silly in the modern age as we learn that national identity and basic elements of nationalism are relatively new man-made inventions, with little basis in reality.

I think the main reason it puts me ill at ease is that the Union Jack has been won over by goons like the BNP and the National Front, that my flag has become their flag and as I don't really care much for it anyway, I've handed it over to them and they've sullied it and transformed it into something deeply unsavoury.

Come back next week folks, where I'll be attacking people who fly the Saint George's Cross and bang on about celebrating Saint George's day as daft racists that are clinging to outmoded ideas of nationality and that Saint George was actually a Turk with an Arab mother.

The Asshat on the Front Row

It was Eva-Jane and I's anniversary yesterday and for a treat we went to see Louis CK at the Soho Theatre after knocking back some seriously good curry, topped off with milkshakes for dessert; we made our way for an evening of laughs.

Before I wade into the subhuman cunt who tried his best to spoil the fun for everyone else, can I just describe the joys of the curry I had, which was lamb based, very creamy with spaghetti in it and an omelette on top...

IT WAS PERHAPS THE BEST THING I'VE EVER EATEN!

Moving on swiftly...

Louis CK, for those that don't know, if an American comedian of the first order (I'm not sure what that means but if US funny people have an order, Louis is in it and it is of the first order kind of order) and he had me and Eva in stitches all night with his awesome routine. My personal favourite bits were a nice section on sweating (I feel his pain, being a pro-sweater since birth) and mini-people coming out of your vagina and shitting all over your dreams.

However, sat next to Eva-Jane, on the front row that is, was a man who was not only Australian but also seemingly high and drunk, who had completely lost his personal space parameters. Before the show started, I warned him to watch himself and make sure he gave Eva room, job done I thought, twat dealt with, now bring on the laughs.

Unfortunately, once the show began his sprawling body, foot stomping, ostentatious clapping, semi-passing out on Eva's knee, wandering hands and general asshat behaviour meant that he did the best job he could of ruining the night of all the people around him who were digging the work of Louis.

I was in a conumdrum, do I...

1. Beat him to shit in front of a theatre of people and spoil the show
2. Swap places with Eva and hope that our shifting on the front row doesn't distract from the show and inflame the mong-bat any further as he rubs up against me
3. Sit there and fume, trapped between wanting to do something and not wanting mess up everyone's night

I did number 3.

Shame on me.

I hope that horrible little man gets diabetes and his feet drop off from poor circulation.

Coast to Coast Update: Rehearsal Week Number One

The first week of rehearsal is nearly over and an eventful weeks it's been. I can't believe in two weeks time we'll be doing our first show at Edinburgh, the first of 26 consecutive performances!

I feel as if we are ahead of schedule, we've blocked and planned out every scene, ran it in rough form and even done a few stumble throughs. I'd hoped we'd be at this point but never imagined we'd be this far, although I don't know why, Mark and I always work well together.

Having said that, it's not been without concern, the two of us knocking the show together is tough and you get strangely fatigued, also we have so much content to cram into 60 minutes of showtime that we are struggling to find a compromise between exposition and material.

But we're getting there, I have no doubt it'll be a great play.

Mark and I are rehearsing at his home in Oldham on the outskirts of Manchester, which is a lovely environment to work in, especially as Mark and his wife-to-be Jess have a baby son called Billy (2 in August) who livens up rehearsals by coming to play with us.

Billy's presence around the house and getting to play with him certainly turns my mind to having kids myself, suppose I'll have to wait many years for that but hope I can have them with Eva-Jane; no doubt she'd be an amazing mum and a wonderful partner to share my life with. I love you baby.

Another update next week, until then comrades.

The Adventures of Yannis

Yesterday my good friend Kirky came to visit, after a brief and dispiriting trot around Harvey Nicks (do you know how hard it is to get jeans that fit my giant body?) and some ridiculous haircuts on the staff in the Paul Smith store, we adjoined to Dirty Dicks near Liverpool Street station for a few pints and some man chat.

From there the curried delights of Brick Lane was only a stumble away, so after a brief haggle (25% discount and two free drinks) we feasted ourselves on fine snap and chatted about whether or not Darren was right in his comments concerning art. I hit Kirky until he agreed with me that Darren was very wrong indeed and that art is a tool for change…

A few more beers later, we began the journey back to Loughton and this is where Yannis appeared, a Greek (possibly Turkish) gentlemen whose broken English; littered with expletives and dangerous imagery, hollered through the London air. Key snippets of his dialogue included the now legendary:

“I LOVE MY LIFE! DON’T SHIT MY LIFE! I JOHN LENNON! DON’T SICK ON MY KIDS! I LOVE MY KIDS! I BOB DYLAN! DON’T SHIT MY KIDS OR I SICK ON YOU THIGH!”

Unfortunately, on the tube on the way home, Yannis saw some posters for UK TV station Channel 5 and he responded quite badly:

“ALL I GET IS CHANNEL 5! I LOVE MY LIFE! CHANNEL 5 GIVE ME CHEMO! MY HAIR FALL OUT LIKE PINE NUTS! CHANNEL 5 GIVE ME CANCER AND CHEMO SO I SICK BUT DON’T KNOW IT! STOP SHITTING ON MY KIDS!”

Thankfully, Yannis was a figment of me and Kirky’s imagination and turned out to be us shouting in the street and on the train.

Oh the joy of booze.

Have a good weekend people; I know me and Yannis certainly will…