Friday, 24 January 2014

It's just a website darlings

When twitter became twatter
The bruised egos just got fatter
You treated the trolls to a three course dinner
All for what? To try and prove you're a winner?

It's just a website darlings
Nothing less nothing more
Think before you tweet
Don't become the pub bore

Defending friends is noble, that I understand
But it's hard to give a cuddle with a pitchfork in one hand

You gave them attention then instantly lost the fight
Then took the fun out of funny and two wrongs don't make a right

It's just a website darlings
Nothing less nothing more
Think before you tweet
Don't become the pub bore

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

Stupid Nature.

I've never had a garden I have been able to enjoy.  Well that’s not strictly true, up until the age of about 12 I think the garden was my football stadium, my jungle, my alien planet and my Narnia, but after 'growing up' I have never been able to settle in gardens.


It's either too hot, too cold, too many wasps/flies/alien things flapping around. On the rare occasion when I would get comfortable with a book (and that’s another thing, how are we suppose to get comfortable on garden chairs? its  almost impossible, has anyone invented a garden sofa yet?) then of course the neighbours would decide to work on the engine from an F16 jet they had picked up at a car boot sale, or 43 grandchildren would descend, each armed with a megaphone, a football, cricket bat and enough energy to keep Norwich running on electricity for several months.

The very idea of eating outside was so full of pitfalls that when it was suggested I would start to panic as each danger shot through my mind;


Flies land on food.

Flies land in food.

Wasps land in drinks.

It's always colder than you think, or it's so hot that salads explode as they leave the kitchen.

It's always windy. Always.

I can't see the t.v

It was supposed to be relaxing but I would shove food in my face like Oliver Twist before nature invaded my lunch.


And I haven't even mentioned barbecues.


Well we moved last year, practically in the middle of nowhere, with a proper garden that has nature and strange things. Last winter took so long that I changed my name to Jon Snow and took to whispering "winter is coming" to anyone I saw. The very idea of a summer was a distant memory, or just something you saw in American films.


After the Starks had left and the Lannisters had taken back the throne of Coningsby, Spring eventually arrived and a few weeks ago I found myself sat in the garden, something was different and I couldn't quite think why, after a few minutes I realised what it was; I was relaxed.


No noise apart from nature noises, it wasn't windy, no Phil Collins Greatest Hits in the background and I was comfortable. I actually felt like I had taken two nurofen for a headache and they were working instantly.

I found myself watching birds going about their daily routine, collecting twigs, having a snack, talking to each other, always busy and it occurred to me that humans really are stupid aren’t they? And so arrogant.


We feel superior to nature in so many ways but really we have got it so wrong. Despite what God announced in his press release Sunday isn’t a day of rest for all his creatures is it? Birds don’t have a lay in on a Sunday, or stay up till 3 drinking vodka on a Friday night.

They eat with the seasons, they don’t order food from Tesco, although they can fly so they have an advantage I guess.


Nature gets up when the sun comes up, works away, quietly, peacefully, without annoying anyone, has some food and drink, then goes to bed when the sun goes down. And when winter arrives they either sod off to somewhere nice or if they can't fly they hibernate for six months.


Whilst we plough on regardless getting up at the same time regardless of daylight or weather, even changing the clocks, yes we have got the nerve to change actual time itself to suit our routine!


Driving to work in the dark, coming home in the dark, the only daylight we see is car parks or outside busy shops, the only thing stopping us from going completely mad, or that tips us over the edge of madness, is Christmas. One day to keep us going in six months. Really??


All the while the birds and the cats and the bats and the rabbits must watch us and think "what on earth are they doing?!"


Anyway my point is this, gardens are great. If you have one appreciate it, spend time in it, don’t try and impose silly human values in a garden, we don’t need to smell burning cheap burgers or the Macarena in our gardens to enjoy them. Sit and watch and listen and you will feel the benefit, as you realise how insignificant we are compared to how significant we think we are.


All of this came to me whilst sat in the garden as I watched a pigeon fly back and forth from a tree in our garden, collecting leaves for a new nest at 7am on a Sunday. Then as it flew overhead for probably the fortieth time something happened.


It shat in my coffee.

Stupid nature.

Saturday, 19 January 2013

Bins, Graffiti and The Matrix

So I saw some interesting graffiti near where I park my car the other day, in big black writing, quite neat too. It said REALITY IS ARTIFICIAL, that’s quite deep I thought, especially compared to the normal phrases I see like “Dave 4 Emma” and “Kevin woz ere wiv Baz 2010”. Making us think about how our day to day lives are nothing but an elaborate sham in order for us to generate some form of energy for a corporate Godhead figure, reducing all of us to nothing more than a aaa battery, not even the ones that fit in remote controls, the ones even smaller than that. Meaning all of our lives are in fact the equivalent of watching a low budget long running soap opera omnibus without anyone famous in it, like the Matrix but more Office Admin based. Or Emmerdale, but more realistic.

While all of this was running through my mind I noticed that someone had added to this simple but profound statement. What have they added I thought, a call to raise arms and awaken the human race from the slumber imposed on it? a phone number to join a revolutionary army who will overthrow the duplicitous governments that keep us squashed like sardines in a tin, oppressed by doom, gloom and fear? (That sounds like the worst name for a solicitors doesn’t it? “had an accident? Slipped on a step and had you football career tragically cut short Mrs Miggins? Well call Doom Gloom and Fear and we will arrange your compensation claim for you!”)



I was almost temped to call in sick until then.

My favourite ever piece of graffiti, yes I have a favourite, was one I remember seeing at school, carved into one of those old wooden desks. There were three parts to this particularly piece of work, like a decade spanning living artwork that the greatest minds of year 10’s metalwork class had worked on, each one not just casually written in biro but carved into the wood and then coloured in, so much deliberation and thought must have gone into each addition, knowing it was a permanent mark, like a blue peter time capsule that generation after generation would see and ponder at how children before them had possibly gained this knowledge, making them feel humbled and privileged to be sat at the very desk where three separate people had written the life changing words:

then underneath


and underneath that

Anyway what I want to talk about today is Bins, yes Bins. How much of our lives are spent either trying to figure out what goes in what bin, which bin to put out this week, whether beer cans are recyclable and OH GOD is there anything more annoyingly competitive than refusing to be the one and admit to your partner that yes, the bin is full and I shall take it upon myself to rid this household of the foul smelling rubbish monster and throw it from the house, causing harmony and a fresh linen smell to be felt throughout the land. But no you just try and squash down the weeks’ worth of waste – again, so you can slide in one solitary crisp packet, that you have already gone to the trouble of ironing.

And on this goes for days and days like a new Jamie Oliver Kitchen Russian Roulette Show until finally one of you gives in, concedes defeat and decides to try the delicate act of getting the bin bag out of the bin. We don’t choose this lightly you know as the risks involved are enormous and the chances of a BIN BAG SPLIT are horrifying enough that we daren’t even say the words out loud in public in case people hear us, scream and runaway.

And then we have the endless "can I recycle this" "which bin does this go in" conversation. Sometimes I spend an entire day with a pukka box wandering between the bins and the kitchen wondering what to do with it. When my girlfriend witnessed this once she came up with a solution to my rubbish dilemma.
"I have bought a new bin with TWO compartments" she said, as if world peace was about to break out.
"one is for food waste,and the other is for everything else" at the same time looking at me the same way a parent looks at their child when they have just explained how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly.
Of course this being life, my life, it wasn't as simple as this. I walked over to the "miracle box" and put my pukka pie box in the special compartment. Which was now full. You see this special compartment for ALL RECYCLING was approximately the same size as a rabbit. A small rabbit, with small ears, rolled up to the size of a small hedgehog.
Ok the special compartment was the same size as a small hedgehog.
Which meant of course that the entire bin would need emptying twice as much, making life twice as complicated and boring as before.
The next day as I walked to my car I noticed the graffiti REALITY IS ARTIFICIAL again. I pulled a pen out of my jacket and making sure no-one was watching, I wrote underneath it "SO WHICH BIN DOES IT GO IN THEN".

Saturday, 9 June 2012

Reading Room Live

Me at the Reading Room Live event at the LPAC. With my favourite T-Shirt, T-Shirt fact fans.

New Rules Of Facebook

New Rules Of Facebook
No-one is allowed to post anymore pictures of funny cats with captions. If you want to look at a funny cat you will have find an actual cat doing something funny. Or persuade him to do something funny possibly with the promise of some tuna or a squeaky mouse thing.

No more use of the letters LOL. It’s not a word.If it’s funny say it’s funny, or type Ha ha ha ha at least. The letters LOL are only allowed if using words like Lollapalooza or lollipop.

Don’t type anything unless you are sure it’s more interesting than watching a toilet flush. Admittedly one man’s Keats is another man’s Peter Andre. But unless you would happily have it etched on your gravestone as the one thing people will remember you for don’t type it.

From now on nobody is allowed to tell the world what day of the week it is. Monday’s on Facebook have turned into an endless stream of the same words. “I can’t believe its Monday” “I hate Mondays” “Where did the weekend go?” over and over like an internet with Alzheimers. Similarly when it is Friday even someone that’s favourite film is Home Alone 3 will have managed to figure out that it is indeed Friday, so we don’t need 89 lines of “Thank God its Friday” or “Friday Yay”.

Be. More. Specific. If you are feeling angry, upset, happy or sad don’t just type “is really mad now” or “is so angry now” as your status update. If you don’t tell us why we will assume that you are the biggest drama queen since Christian from Eastenders stole Elton Johns favourite cushion and are attention seeking at a level not seen since Jessie J singing along to songs on The Voice.

Holiday photos. Before posting 435 photos of your trip to Spain ask yourself this; if my friends were at my house now would they want to sit through each and every one of these photos? If the answer to this question is yes, then ask yourself why none of your friends come to your house anymore.
If these rules are broken, even once, then you will be instantly banned then arrested and sent back to My Space for 200 years.

Saturday, 26 May 2012


When was it decided that everything should be beige? or magenta? or any of those colours that are the equivalent of retiring and watching those Michael Parkinson adverts while slowly shrivelling up until you look like a giant walnut with slippers on. They should have colour charts that describe these colours more accurately. So instead of Barley; Death By Deal Or No Deal. No more Harvest Moon. Replace it with Hell On Tea. Get rid of Autumn Sunset, lets call it Midsummer Murdered. When approached by the sales guy in the carpet shop I was in last week, after being asked ‘if I was looking for anything particular’… ‘yes I was looking for a Tuba but you don’t seem to have any in stock IN A CARPET SHOP’. He proceeded to take me through the seven stages of beige, each one being more dusty and boring than the one before. All the while I am being slowly brainwashed by inhaling the evil carpet dust and having the sudden urge to buy the daily mail and eat a nice bit of sponge cake when I get home. No! I refuse to comply to the beige army. I want carpets made from the same material as Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat but fluffier. I want carpets that are the result of a loom being connected to Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland played at full volume. I want my stairs to look like a waterfall from a Salvador dali painting so that everytime I walk up and downstairs I feel like I am in the Yellow Submarine. What I don’t want is BEIGE.

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Reading out loud in a big room with people watching

Ok so after rehearsing infront of my two cats for a few hours in the morning (one walked out and one fell asleep, tough crowd) I made my way to the LPAC and to have a look at the stage. Although it wasn’t the 02 Arena it was much bigger and lit better, than my living room. Although funnily enough I was less nervous now than when I had been practicing infront of the cats, and better lit.
After a few minutes a couple of the other performers (Abigail, Michael and Jodie) arrived and after being shown to our dressing room (complete with complimentary biscuits, yes that’s right COMPLIMENTARY BISCUITS) we hastily made our way to the cafĂ© to calm down by drinking coffee and prepare our voices by eating sandwiches and crisps.
What became clear very quickly is how well we got on in such a short space time. Before the show I had visions of half a dozen people all sat in corners practising their acts whilst listening to relaxing music on their ipods and not really saying much to each other.
It was the complete opposite, just a few friends hanging out on a Saturday night, having a laugh and relaxing (I refuse to use the word chillaxing. Unless someone gives me the power to destroy words by saying them really loud, which doesn’t seem likely before Saturday at least).
Then the very man himself; Robert Llewellyn arrived. We all went quiet and waited to see how he would be……
Well we needn’t have worried, he was down to earth, funny, told some brilliant stories and quickly became part of the “friends hanging out on a Saturday night” gang. So after all that fun, we were reminded we had a show to do.
Rather like a strange showbiz Doctors waiting room we were called out one by one, hearing the applause from the acts on stage made us feel good, but also we wanted to make sure we lived up to the previous act!
After collecting the last lines of each of our scripts, which lead to a great conversation with the singer/songwriter Michael:
“so how will we know when you have finished”
“I will have stopped singing”
And then again with Jodie;
“What the last line of your act?”
“The End”
“Er ok maybe the one before that one then….”
I made my way to the side of the stage to listen to Mike and prepare to go on afterwards…
After some words of encouragement from a couple of the others I confidently strolled on stage. By “confidently” I mean “nervously” and by “strolled” I mean “shuffled”.
Initially it was a bit of a blur but after a few minutes I began to settle as people began to laugh in the right places. After a few minutes I even started to enjoy myself which was a pleasant surprise and then it was over, people were still laughing and I left the stage to enjoy the rest of a wonderful show. Then a few drinks afterwards to celebrate what had a been a pretty extraordinary night!