Grumpy Old Man

I am a grumpy old man. Here’s proof:



Of all the days I’ve chosen to drive to Wales (I say chosen, but there is a Comedy Club 4 Kids gig there that needs hosting and whilst I may have had some part in choosing the date, I can’t take all the blame) I appear to have picked the one day Wales is playing France in the Rugby World Cup Final. Sure, I suppose that means the roads will actually be empty as everyone is stationary watching it, but it could also mean if they win, all my audiences (including the kids) will be mental. If they lose it could mean that all my audiences (including the kids) will be mental. It really feels like I’ve done this badly. It doesn’t help either that I have no interest in rugby at all. I mean, I prefer it to football on account of the fact that it seems to happen less, requires men not being all pathetic if they get hurt and the players don’t get paid such ludicrous amounts.

Thing is, I don’t think I can ever like rugby that much after having met the rugby team that went to my university who’d spend a large amount of time making an effort to be a massive bunch of dicks. Every year they’d do an initiation ceremony whereby they’d all have to dress up, mostly as women which I’m sure actually confused several of them being only 18 and not fully aware of who they are, and then run around with bananas between their legs stealing various things from campus to earn drinks rewards. Traffic cones, road signs, the usual banal toss. The only one I ever respected was the one player who was dared to steal a monk from the nearby monastery and he did. With approval from the monk. Seeing a bulky lad run across the uni walkways with a man in robes on his shoulder, fireman lift fashion, was fairly entertaining. Its just the group mentality I don’t like and never have. I’ve dealt with rugby teams at gigs who seem to need to prove that they have muscles and brute force by being loud at every opportunity and generally they aren’t my favourite people.

So today, much like every busy sporting event, while I hope Wales win with the tiny bit of loyalty I have to them being a) part of the UK and b) my grandad being Welsh, I also just wish they’d do it smaller, quieter and on another day. Or at least involve stealing monks as part of the process.



Two days ago (yes I meant to write about this then but Andrew Lansley got in the way) as L and I were walking past the driveway by our flat (driveway. I know. I know. We are Flash McHarrys) a family were walking past in the opposite direction with their whippet dog. The dog was sniffing around a small patch of grass near Nat’s car, and then, without hesitation, proceeded to shit there. The family gormlessly smiled as he did so and I stood in a slight state of shock that in lovely Muswell Hill people would have such a disregard for property. I decided to exclaim very loud ‘oh no, not in our driveway’ as someone doing this were I the culprit or culprit’s owner (the former sadly is more likely) that I would be so overwhelmed with guilt that I’d definitely remove my pet’s faeces from someone else’s home area. Instead they just continued to grin like moronic automatons, as the whippet continued doing the shit of all time. I walked past certain they’d do the pooper scoop thing most honourable people would, but instead they carried on smiling and just walked off. Yes, I should have said something more along the lines of ‘oi you fucking dickbags, don’t let your mongrel shit on our turf’, but if they were good people, that wouldn’t have been needed. Sure, maybe there’s some misunderstanding. Maybe hearing me say ‘oh no’ in such a negative way was translated into them thinking that I loved it when dogs shat in our driveway. Perhaps it was some sort of bourgeois code for ‘oh wait, I fucking love nasty dog turd right by our house and where our cars drive.’ Or maybe they were just the embodiment of evil. If you see three grinning idiots (mum, dad, and baby) walking around North London with a whippet, beware, they are merely there to shit on your doorstep.



I did a gig for the Labour party in Crystal Palace last night and bloody lovely it was too. Of course I omitted my ‘Ed Milliband is shit material’ and proceeded with 20 minutes having a go at the Tories and Lib Dems instead. All round lovely time. Then as I got in my car, I realised that what I had just done was comedy to order. Had I been less of a chicken I’d have explained to them that whilst I hate the coalition, I think they’re bloody useless too and I wouldn’t have pretended to have any such allegiance to a party who’s original morals have gone quite horribly array. But, y’know, I didn’t want to get heckled or die on my arse. Life’s tough eh?