In The Name Of The Father

Again today’s blog will be tiny. In a moment I shall be rushing off to help film Dan Antopolski’s music video for his Sandwich Rap. If you haven’t heard it, you’re an idiot. Or just have possibly never seen him live. Or you’re an idiot who hasn’t seen him live. Either way, its brilliant and you should. More raps about everyday food items please. There have never been enough. I often peruse my old Wu-Tang and NWA albums and think, ‘What’s missing from these golden LP’s is a tune about Petit Filous’. Today I am playing a chef of sorts. This suits me well as I like food. And hats that billow out at the top. Not that there are many hats that billow out at the top, or that I wear many of them, but the opportunity to wear a chef’s hat is always a good one. I’ve always wondered how the design came to be. Perhaps a chef said that he felt there wasn’t enough billowy empty air space above his head and demanded more. Or maybe the first ever chef has a stupid billowy head and that was the only way to cover it up. Who knows? Well wikipedia probably, but even then it might have been written by a liar. You just don’t know anymore. Then after filming I have to drive to York to do a preview. It will be hard to do a preview in York, because I might not be able to resist talking about the Jorvic viking centre for at least 20 minutes. Its one of my favourite viking centre’s ever. Not that I’ve been to any others, but I bet they’re shite. Where else can you take a perfectly valid 1p of currency and crush it into a really useless viking coin by paying £1? No where. Why? Because its probably illegal, and if not illegal, definitely stupid. You just lose £1.01 for no reason. Vikings were idiots.

That phrase, ‘you can never judge a book by its cover’, very much came into play at last night’s gig. Walking in, I immediately decided it was a rancid football club gig in a part of Kent I hate. I looked at the crowd, sitting at their dinner tables, eating food that looked as though school dinner ladies of the past would scoff at its wrongness, and I assumed the gig would be completely unplayable. The manager, who had the sort of Mohican that looked as though a giant hairy slug was sitting on his fat head and insisted on calling me ‘Tinnyin’, or ‘Tearernan’, told me we had to do a raffle and a game of ‘heads and tails’ during the show, which just made me hate the evening even more. Then we started and suddenly the crowd became attentive and eager and ready for comedy. It was akin to seeing a beast tamed. Don’t get me wrong I didn’t woo the group of Kentians with clever Guardian reader comments. No, instead I indulged in calling a bald tattooed man special needs and cussing someone for being from Rotherham. To be fair people from Rotherham deserve to be cussed.

After the 1st section a man came and gave me the worst insult I’ve ever had. It wasn’t meant as an insult but Ive never felt more upset with an audience comment ever before. This chav shirt wearing geezer said ‘ you were brilliant mate. I went to see Jim Davidson last week and you were definitely on a par with him. Great stuff.’ What an arsehole. How dare he compare me to that racist, bigoted, drunken cock? I felt like I should probably reasses my comedy career and go and wash myself clean till I scrub all my skin off. Then I went back on stage and did terrible Jamaican impersonations. Not true.

Speaking to other members of the crowd made me feel better, mostly because they helped to confirm that they were not my type of people. One man told me he was the safety officer but that his idea of safety is ‘wearing a condom once in a while.’ There is no hope. You wonder why the French hate us, but when their first port of call is a bunch of Daily Mail readers you can’t blame them. Let’s hope Global Warming causes the tides to rise. In the end it was all ok. We did the job and escaped without being lynched. It is shows like that that prove that stand-up is sometimes just a job. Still it’s a better job than working in at A provincial football club booking entertainment. At least I’ve always got my Jim Davidson act to fallback on.

It is of course Father’s Day today. Even though it’s an event created by card companies for evil corperate reasons, I hope you are cheering on all dads everywhere. Father Christmas, Father Ted, Farthing Wood, Fatherma Whitbread and er, my dad. I gave him a card today. It said you are the ‘best dad I have’. It’s meant to be nice, but is probably a tad cheeky. Still at least I didn’t say he was on a par with Jim Davidson.

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