Eire Mail

Its a lovely day and I have to go and waste a large part of it in the Post Office because despite it being the future and that, its still nigh on impossible to transfer money to Ireland without a series of gruelling charges and procedures. I have to post a cheque to Mr Keith Farnan for his awesome work at Fat Tuesday a few weeks back. I’ve tried getting my bank to do it using computer things via the phone, the internet and lastly the branch itself. The first two just straight out told me no. It can’t be done they said, its an ‘international transfer’ they said. There were certain grumblings about needing all the codes. I gave them the codes, they grumbled even more now they had them. Eventually I gave up, queued for 40 minutes in my crap local bank only to be told that if I want to BACS transfer it over, it’ll cost me £30. I realised at this point that for that much I may as well fly over on RyanAir and hand Keith the cash myself. Ireland is only over there. Sadly, being strapped for time, I am merely posting a cheque, which will mean another 40 minutes in the post office queuing, just to get an air mail sticker. I will refrain from making a joke about Eire mail or they will get confused. I am terrified of the day when cheques get phased out. I can only assume the UK/rest of the world relationship in terms of money will crumble. Oh wait, it has already. I forgot.

Anyway, before I condemn my afternoon to being stuck next to morons who can’t work out how to seal an envelope, here’s some other things:


I’ve realised that heading isn’t good and probably implies wrong things. I didn’t mean that. I was simply going to note that if you are interested in seeing Legally Blonde the Musical, why not, instead of paying loads for a ticket, sit in the pub The Coal Hole opposite, look through the casts partly open dressing room window and just see all their bums instead? That’s what I did last night. Not on purpose, like a professional peeping Tom. No, that career hasn’t been around since the 70’s. No, I was merely having a pint with my old sketch partner (she’d draw the faces) Lauren and her friend Peter, when we noticed opposite, a cavalcade of bottoms. Some bare, some in nice pants. Some lady’s, some men’s, some we weren’t sure. It became a fun game of guess who’s arse was who’s. The window was pulled down just enough so no other part of the person would be shown. We are fairly sure we’ve seen Sheridan Smith’s bum, which despite it having been touched by James Corden, looked rather lovely. Beyond that, I can’t tell you anything else about anyone else’s. Still I highly recommend you play Legally Bummed by yourself by sitting in the upstairs section of that pub in the correct table at around 9.45pm.


Yesterday I got my first ever hate tweet or twate as some idiot/twidiot will probably call it. I’ll be honest, I feel rather proud. So far my tweets have only ever reached a limited audience of people who seem to like what I send. Various jokes about Michael Jackson dying to all sorts of other mildy but not really controversial tweets have gone by unnoticed by the ignorant mob. Then yesterday, I posted a gag about Camilla Parker Bowles, with a cheeky reference to her equine features, and stating that because of such and her broken leg, she may need to be put down. This gag was also thought of by Dan Atkinson and various others as Camilla is a well known figure of mockery. If you are part of a royal hierarchy, chances are, you are open for criticism. Them’s the rules. Anyway, Shappi Khorsandi retweeted it, which was very nice of her, and as a result I gained several new followers and one, from a man called Barney, who, among other comments, thought I was a dick. Needless to say, he has no followers and seems to delight in following celebrities and harassing them with a) pervy comments or b) mean comments. I was delighted! Surely this now means I am reaching a level of celebrity where such things happen? I just want Barney to know that I’m really grateful that he’s helped elevate me from a normal tweeter to one amongst the ranks of stars. With luck, I’ll get some people soon saying I should be banned from the BBC before I’ve even got a job at the BBC and then I can go and have a career in the states.

There’s more, but I feel I must brave the Post Office queue. I fear there may be no blog tomorrow or gig tonight due to me still waiting while some loon shouts about stamps in front of me for 7 hours. Wish me luck.