dawkins; my part in his downfall

Sunday 18th July 2010 8:58 PM

With the help of my old friend Steve, who lives in the South West, I've been trying to organise a comedy tour based on the St Michael ley-line. So far I'm booked in at the Ebeneezer chapel in Burrowbridge, Somerset on the 1^st October, and the village hall in Avebury, Wiltshire on the 2^nd October. Certainly a line has been drawn here, one almost contiguous with the aforementioned mysterious terrestrial current, but as it's not so much a tour as a two-er, it would be nice to extend it in either direction. Taunton, Okehampton, Bodmin, Redruth and Penzance to the west would all be appropriate, as would Thame, Dunstable, Luton, Royston, Bury St Edmunds and Beccles to the east. The blatant desire for geomantically inspired gigs in these parts must be so infinitesimally small that I'm not surprised that no one's thought of it before.

These days, in a culture where revered sages tell us that butterflies are randomly made by blind pitiless indifference, it's not an obvious money-spinner being a mystical troubadour. Gentle philosophy, nice little earner, not. However, the suffering can be fruitful and the hours are very flexible, as indeed are the weeks and months, and if truth be told, you could hardly call the years and decades rigid.

I don't have a pension plan as such, more the shimmering vision of a golden future set in a fruitful land of organic, unsweetened soya milk and ethically-produced honey, where music and laughter are found on the breeze and ready-made roll-ups hang down from the trees. When this present madness has been usurped by uncommon good sense, and a slim, sensitive Jeremy Clarkson smiles as he cycles past John Terry playing footy for fun, then my job as a shamanic bard will be done, and I'll be able to retire to the Happy Duck rest-home in Nepal and work on my memoirs.

The second leg of this future legendary two-er will actually take place inside the circle of huge stones that make up the temple complex at Avebury. No one really knows when it was built, but I remember visiting in the early seventies and it was there then, so goodness knows how old it could be. As for its function, there are three main schools of thought. The mystics maintain that it's a spiritual instrument that harnesses terrestrial and cosmic energies whereas the followers of Miss Tiggywinkle believe that it's just for beauty. Then there's the lunatic fringe of course, the archaeologists, who think that it's a collection of really large kitchen utensils. These two-dimensional, deluded spoon-finders, their minds strangled by neo-Darwininnyism, believe that we're on a one-way evolutionary climb, from the primitive savagery of the pyramids to the point where we can come up with concepts as sublime as the 'Kentucky Fried Chicken Mums-night-off Bucket'. After the meal there's no washing up to do and you've got an empty bucket to vomit in.

I don't suppose it'll be easy getting mainstream publicity for this St Michael Ley-line two-er, but Steve's got a few connections and he reckons we should be able to get the gigs listed in the Fortean Times. Perfect. It's almost as if… but then again, no.

Posted 8:58 PM | 105 Comments | Permalink

saturday afternoon fever

Monday 5th July 2010 11:36 PM

Three weeks ago I was infected by a particularly virulent strain of world cup fever and have subsequently been sofa-ridden ever since. In the first fortnight of my ordeal I was injecting up to four and a half hours of live football every day, and at times was reduced to being drip-fed and sitting in a pit of my own filth. Thankfully, Mark the farmer came round to hose me down before the knock-out stages and since then I've been eating solids and taking more interest in my surroundings.

The main source of pain has been England's pitifully poor performances and in particular the ball's mysterious, magnetic attraction to Wayne Rooney's shin. I also suspect I snapped a hope-tendon whilst wistfully watching a sad, slow Gareth Barry wistfully watching a happy, snappy German disappearing into the distant sunny uplands of a defenceless green space.

In my minds-eye, which sometimes wears a rose-tinted monocle, I imagined that England were actually going to make love to the world with football. Seduced by experience and a fabulous technique honed in the furnace of Albion's passion, ah, how the planet would thrill to our first touch, and gasp in pleasure at the swelling, sensuous symphony of delicate caresses and thrusting penetration. Most importantly of all, aside from the obviously pleasurable rhythmic convulsions of ecstasy, I wanted there to be some sort of lasting emotional commitment. To put it bluntly, without being hysterical, I wanted the world to have Wayne Rooney's baby.

Alas, the now ridiculously small and shapeless popped balloon of hope looks like a used condom, the shrivelled relic of a loveless back-street hump, rancid with the sharp tang of disappointment, lost dreams and the thwarted jism of Emile Heskey. Since England's elimination, any team that I've transferred my affections to, like Ghana, Argentina and Brazil, have immediately been knocked out, but because they're all meaningless flings on the rebound from a failed relationship, it hasn't really hurt that much. I quite fancy Spain now, but because I'm feeling a tad unlucky in love, I haven't told them yet.

As a diversion to my illness, I've been watching some of the Glastonbury highlights on BBC2. As someone who once made seventeen straight appearances, and three stoned ones, at this iconic festival, I've always fancied that it was essentially a hippy affair, so it was slightly perplexing to see a massive, swaying crowd, arms aloft, knees slightly bent, giving it the big thumbs up to the ludicrous US rapper, 50p Diddy Dog Poop.

'I know he's into guns and pimping, and that his message is essentially one of fear' said delighted festival-goer, Trudy Offal, a 28 year old lecturer in Women's Studies from Banbury, 'but he's got manly arms and I like some of the tunes'.

.What possessed the organisers to have this potty-mouthed, cock-strutting, sister-dissing soul-pygmy follow the magnificent Willie Nelson is beyond me. It's like playing Steven Gerrard on the left. Who picks these teams?

Posted 11:36 PM | 19 Comments | Permalink

substitute

Sunday 6th June 2010 10:56 PM

There's no excuse for the recent lack of wordage on this website, especially in light of my recent release from two potentially onerous and time consuming tasks. Despite my fiscal rectitude, sound internal policies, and charming doorstep manner, I failed to secure a seat at last month's general election, and although it's a slap in the face for democracy and the chance for real change, it means a lot less government-forming for me.

Also, despite a deeper mystical appreciation of the esoteric truths underlying football as a solar myth, and twelve goals from midfield this season, I failed to secure a seat on the plane to South Africa for this year's World Cup. It seems that the England manager, Fabio Cornetto, has gone for Aaron Lennon and Sean Wright-Phillips, so I'm afraid it's me and poor young Theo Walnutt who miss out on the trip. Although my non-selection could be seen as a slap in the face for comic fancy, and the chance of a new-look England team, it gives me a great chance to spend the summer concentrating on crosswords and pottering.

In many ways it's quite a relief, as I've heard that Fabio is a strict disciplinarian with far right-wing views, and I'd worry that we wouldn't get on. Although I've heard that he sometimes lets Wayne Rooney smoke a bong before friendly matches, I don't imagine he'd take kindly to me rolling up nerve-soothing fat ones of the local Durban poison every time we get to a penalty shoot-out. I've also heard that he insists that all the players eat boiled ham before a match, whether they like it or not. Well, I'm sure I'd like it not, and because I aspire to an ethical system that values truth over expediency, I'd have to tell him, and even if that resulted in me being force-fed by burly Italians, I'd still go on to tell him that Sir Stanley Matthews, who played top-class football until the age of fifty, and whose England career spanned twenty three years, was a life-long vegetarian.

(Sir Stanley was one of the surprise names I got when I googled 'famous vegetarians' in search of site-specific gags for an upcoming gig in a veggie cafe. The other surprise name was Jesus. I could have sworn he had a brief, but very successful fish restaurant on the shores of Lake Galilee. The fact that he fed five thousand people with five loaves and two fishes suggests that it could have been one of the earliest examples of nouvelle cuisine.)

All this recent summer unburdening has enabled me accept the late offer of a gig at this years Glastonbury festival. Last year I declined the engagement because I was still sulking about the previous head-liner being Jay 'What's this got to do with peace, love and understanding?' Z. However, I've matured quite a lot over these last twelve months, and if Stevie Wonder, Toots and the Maytals, Willie Nelson and Dr John can forgive and forget and move on, then so can I. If it turns out that I'm an emergency replacement for the lead singer of U2, Nobbo, I might get a helicopter ride and the chance do some over-long anthemic choruses on the pyramid stage. That'd be nice.

NEWSFLASH

I've just heard on radio 5 that Rio Ferdinand's injured his knee and is out of the World Cup, and is going to headline the Glastonbury festival on the Friday night, instead of Nobbo or me. Even though I'm absolutely gutted at missing out on playing the pyramid stage, and a chopper ride, it would be cute if I end up replacing Rio in Rustenburg, or Rustenburg in Rio, although I suspect that Fabio, who's not known for his love of surreal comic fancy, will probably go for Michael Dawson.

Posted 10:56 PM | 16 Comments | Permalink

x marks the spot

Friday 7th May 2010 12:29 AM

ELECTION SPECIAL

This morning I went out to exercise my franchise, and because it can sometimes be a dirty business, I took a little plastic bag with me. Over the last few weeks, while the many have feasted on the fast meat of the manifestly many-fisted, money-fest manifestos of the mainstream parties, there's a few of us who have elected to sample the simple salad and slow cheeseboard of the political fringe parties.

I've been drawn to two parties in particular, the 'It's my and I'll cry if I want to' party, and the Magic Mushroom party. Even though both of them lack strong fiscal policies or any sort of coherent defence strategy, they've both got pluck and charm in abundance, and I think a vote for either of them, while being futile, would also be a vote for real change, and as someone who's done a lot of busking in his time, I've never been frightened of change.

However, when I got to the polling station, I found the sword of my discernment suddenly and strangely sharpened, probably due to it being tempered in the white heat of suffrage, and then hammered with a really big hammer on the anvil of democracy. Amidst the bloody battle for the future of Britain, in that polling booth of destiny, as I butchered the mercenaries of falsehood with my newly-honed weapon of truth, I began to realise that my previous bonds of trust with the minority parties had been sadly misplaced, and so, in a last-second, heat of the moment, change of heart, I decided to vote for myself. I wrote my name at the bottom of the ballot paper, put a cross next to it, and then went home to prepare for government.

So pessimistic am I about my chances of getting a workable majority, instead of preparing for government, I actually went to B&Q and bought a sheet of corrugated plastic to mend the conservatory roof with. If I do happen to wake up in power tomorrow morning, I'm aware that every aspect of my past private life will come under intense media scrutiny, so while I was in the shop I bought everything I needed to make a Sun-proof closet for keeping skeletons in. To be honest, I'm more excited about if I've successfully mended the roof or not, but I won't find that out until it rains.

Posted 12:29 AM | 16 Comments | Permalink

sit down jimmy, stand up comedy

Sunday 11th April 2010 10:13 PM

Huddersfield's main claim to glory lies in the fact that Jean Luc Picard, captain of the Starship Enterprise, was born there. This oddly normal-eared captain gives hints of his West Riding provenance by being occasionally taciturn and having an allotment on the holodeck. As a fellow native of Huddersfield I can only admire his early childhood attempts at boldly going, seeking out new life-forms in Marsden, especially in face of the then widespread belief that Slaithwaite was the final frontier.

What is less known about Huddersfield, and indeed less celebrated, is that it is also the birthplace of many Klingons, and reputedly has the largest population of them outside the capital planet of the Klingon empire, Qo'noS, (pronounced 'Kircudbright')

For a while it was thought that Greater Manchester Council, in conjunction with Galactic Federation, had an anti-klingon warship, disguised as a Toyota Carolla, parked up in Stalybridge, but it turned out to be another one of those dodgy expenses claims.

On Thursday I had a very trying stand-up gig in Sheffield, was found guilty by a jury of eighty, and sentenced to twenty-five minutes hard labour, only avoiding the death sentence by dint of a late testimony from Dylan's 'Hunters Bar Woman'. When I got home, after my release, I found this in the comment box from Sean.

'Hi Rory, it was me who clapped the 'Flamingoland' gag tonight. I went especially to see you and was very pleased. You're so Radio 4, the audience was a bit 'Viking FM'.'

(Thank you very much for that, Sean the not-sheep from Sheffield, it was a really welcome and reassuring read…..for specific replies on stuff, please send me an e-mail).

The gag that Sean refers to is this one; 'Last week I met a woman who lives just the other side of Flamingoland…. there's a strange animal attraction between us…'

Three weeks ago, at the battle of Motley Club in Otley, this barbed and deadly-sharp, lethal line was one of the most effective weapons in my armoury, both disarming and killing the audience at the same time. This Thursday, however, except for grazing Sean the non-sheep, it wafted harmlessly over everybody's heads and floated out through an open window into the soft fizzing sulphur of the Sheffield night sky. Alone, abandoned and ashamed, and too loyal to catch a bus to Glossop and take up with another comedian, this sweet child of Mercury bravely threw itself in front of a taxi on the Eccleshall Road. I loved that gag, and I'll never forget it.

I suspect the difference was that the Otley gig was a lovely, wonky cabaret, while the Sheffield one was straight stand-up. When I was a regular on the stand-up circuit in the nineties it was called 'alternative comedy', and it attracted audiences that preferred non-racist, non-sexist material. I've got loads of that stuff. Nowadays it attracts people who apparently laugh when Jimmy Carr says 'What's the difference between football and rape? Women don't like football'.

There might be hope for me out there, because I'm sure I've got much better football gags than that.

Posted 10:13 PM | 178 Comments | Permalink