I went to see some friends in a play yesterday. It was alright. Tony was dressed in a white tuxedo and red velcro bow tie which never got boring to rip off. A human Paddington Bear, he’s a gay, 5 foot tall man from Peru, who’s command of the English language isn’t great, so his role was to collect the tickets and act as ‘Host’ (showing people to their seats). Tony was supposed to be in the production but was dropped because he was shit. He scuttled around offering free champagne, as it was a production funded entirely by a local, autistic millionaire who wanted to put on a play basically. A lot of people thought it was Tony because of the tuxedo. He probably said he was. In fact the philanthropist to himself was acting in the play, and he wasn’t that bad. Things only got weird when he tried to perform a striptease at the after show party. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to awkwardly sing an unexpected 83rd verse of striptease music, as an autistic millionaire gets his arms caught in his jacket in front of about 50 people, whilst a 23 year old girl who’s birthday it is looks on in horror, but it’s fucking mad. He stopped at the jacket leaving Tony, who was cutting marble cake at the time and who nearly shat himself with laughter, to sit at a piano and play a piece he’d learnt at school. Really bad, one of those hands being all symmetrical jobs. If he wasn’t dragged off he’d have been whipping out the Rugrats theme tune. I left after that. I also bumped into someone who was in my Drama class at Uni. Proper Christian but he never shoved it down your throat and he said ‘Eat my cock’ once which made me cry (with laughter) so I always liked him. Out of context and with my phrasing, that is a very poor sentence. Anyway he was telling me that the Cathedral had spent £12 million pounds on a new performing space which he felt was a bit un-Christian, a bit grotesque. I agreed. ‘I mean’, he continued, ‘If Jesus had £12 million, would he have built that?’
‘Erm… I dunno. No?… Erm… so do you still act?’
‘Yeah, every month me and 3 others do an improv where we act as the 12 Disciples but we’re really stupid and dumb. It’s so funny. Really silly. Do you still do comedy?’
Dermot O’Leary was born in a television in 1920. One day his parents turned it on and there he was, a perfectly formed star of the small screen. His first words were, read perfectly off the autocue, ‘Hello, I’m your host Dermot O’Leary’ and then he shat himself. His mum pressed her heaving Irish bosom against the screen but Dermot couldn’t get a drop. He hasn’t eaten any real food in his entire life. Dermot O’Leary is very hungry. At school he had to be wheeled into the classroom and was frequently bullied, the volume constantly turned down so he couldn’t talk, sometimes even the plug was pulled. Dermot in that darkness, had to make a decision: To turn his problem into everyone else’s problem. And the bullies aren’t bullying him anymore. Dermot murdered Michael Jackson (when he was still alive!) whilst introducing him at the O2 in London, 2009. It was classic O’Leary, leaning in with a hug, microphone in one hand, knife in the other. It was the perfect murder, the knife so well positioned that Jackson didn’t actually die for another month. On the X Factor, Dermot says names and also phone numbers, spins around and kisses women’s cheeks and mens shoulders. He’s even on Radio 2 where he also reads out names and presses buttons, occasionally reading out the time. Sometimes he talks to a group of men, a man, a group of girls, maybe just a woman, sometimes a man and a woman, sometimes a man, a woman and a man at the same time. Don’t worry though, he is sitting down! Dermot O’Leary at the age of 87 doesn’t look like he’s ready just yet to give up the crown of the Small Screen. Vernon Kay would love to steal that crown. He also presses buttons on radio and says family names on television, but he’s too tall and where O’Leary has the Irish charm, Kay can only pronounce vowels. When he appeared on Countdown 7 years ago, every letter he asked for was a vowel. When the late Richard Whitely asked him whether he’d consider picking a continent, Kay was violently sick on Carol Vorderman’s head. Because he’s so tall.
I dunno who follows this. Anyway you don’t follow a blog, you read them. You follow leaves and taxis and someone you fancy at a party. Like a dinner party perhaps. Maybe not at a dinner party, that’d get in the way of the eating, that’d actually be very awkward. Just don’t follow anything, it’ll only get you into trouble. My point is, if you do read this, there’s a comedy show happening this Friday at the Canal Cafe Theatre at 19.30 which involves my friend Pat Cahill and I performing with stupendous support from Apocalypso and Nick Helm. Please come if you can. My friend who has 99,556 followers on Twitter tweeted everyone should go. 17 Confirmed on Facebook, 26 Maybes, 132 Not Attending and 651 people still need to reply. I need 30 people to turn up so I break even on renting the place. 100,000 know its on. Place. Your. Bets.