Media

If you were watching the Six One News back in early June you may have gotten a bit of a surprise and recognised a familiar face. Yes, the beardy visage on your telly was mine and before anyone cracks wise I didn’t commit any crime, I featured on a piece for Fighting Words, the creative writing organisation I volunteer for.

They were up for an award and the news wanted to cover some of the nominees. It was all organised at very short notice, with Fighting Words only finding out the evening before that the cameras would be rolling the next day. They were good enough to give me call as soon as they knew to see would I be happy to appear on screen. Not wanting to make things difficult, I said of course I would, but I have to admit, I did have some reservations.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been on RTE programming. Back in the mid nineties I made my television debut on the comedy panel show Don’t Feed the Gondolas. At the time it was a very poor attempt to be Irelands answer to ‘Have I Got News You?’ but in retrospect, with the current plethora of piss poor panel shows, it seems like halcyon programming.

I attended a recording of the show as a member of the audience but when I was approached in the holding area by a man with a clipboard and a huge headset asking if I would like to appear on camera and ask the panellist a question I was very excited and instantly agreed. I signed the appropriate forms and was given a card with the question I was supposed to ask written on it.

Having made a couple of attempts to forge a career as a stand up comedian at this time, I presumed that the show’s producer had recognised something in me, a hilarious quality that would make excellent viewing. This was my opportunity to break out as a star.

I can’t recall now (which is highly appropriate considering the rest of the story) what exactly the question was but it had something to do data protection or freedom of information. I was supposed to put my question to one of my heroes, American comedian Rich Hall and, bizarrely, Nigel Pivaro who played evil Terry Duckworth in Coronation Street. I was instructed to read the question when the host, Sean Moncrieff asked for the first question from the audience.

But reading is for losers. I was superstar in the making, with three open mic spots in various comedy spots around Dublin and the lead role as Elvis in Waterford IT’s production of Bob’s Last Stand under my belt. I’d quickly learn my lines and deliver them with such panache that the head of RTE would have no choice but to immediately sign me up to a million punt contract for my own chat show. Unfortunately, none of this happened.

Perhaps it was the three or four glasses of the revolting but free white wine that was laid on for the audience in the waiting room, perhaps it was nerves addressing my favourite Montana native or maybe it was just the pressure of the cameras focusing on me. My mind went blank. I knew I supposed to say something but nothing was coming out.

The audience, including the friends who I had gone with thought this was hilarious. So did Moncrieff and the other regular panellist Brendan O Connor. Rich Hall sat there with insouciant bemusement that anyone familiar with his work would expect. Nasty Terry Duckworth, however, was lovely about it, told me not to worry he was always messing up his lines on Corrie. The only two people in the studio who didn’t seem to get some sort of amusement from the fluffing of my lines were me and the programme director. In no uncertain terms did he tell that I didn’t have to learn the question and I should just read it.

I could feel everyone looking at me. This was intensified by the fact that the two full size motorised television cameras with men riding on them were pointing right at me. Between this and the fact that it was sweltering under the studio lights, I was feeling faint. All the blood rushing to my cheeks made me feel like the most blushingest man in Ireland. I read the question out meekly and left the comedy to the professionals.

My televisual initiation ruined, I struggled to sleep that night and the next day I was on tenterhooks wondering if they would even show my question when the episode aired that night. I had foolishly told some people that I would be on the telly and it now seemed possible that I would be left on the cutting room floor.

I sat on the chair in my parent’s sitting room as the programme started, the opening credit reigniting the feeling of ignominy I felt when it occurred. I watched with dread, waiting to see what would happen. When it was coming close to the part where the host goes to audience I couldn’t look at the screen.

“And now a question from our audience.”

I couldn’t not look either. There I was, on screen, my face the colour of Wales’s rugby jersey, wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt (like I said it was the nineties) which seemed to blur and flare against the lights I sat, head bowed, blatantly reading the question from a card in my lap. Relief washed over me like the greatest shower known to man, cleansing away my anxiety. It wasn’t so horrible after all. I’d gotten away with it. Or so I thought.

A couple of months later, on St. Stephens Day, I got a phone call from a friend who thought I’d been hilarious on TV. I had no idea what he was on about having forgotten all about my experience. He told me I’d been on Don’t Feed the Gondolas the night before. Had they repeated the episode I’d been on Christmas Day? How cheap were RTE?

They hadn’t repeated it; I was part of the Christmas special, where they were showing the best bits of the previous series. I was hoped they just showed me in context of a hilarious response that my question got (again I can’t remember what it was) but no. They had decided to show the out take of me getting my question wrong.

According to my friend I swore a bit and you could see my face gradually turn crimson. I looked like I wanted the ground to swallow me up. What he didn’t understand was why after I got it wrong the first time I didn’t just read the question. Why did I keep trying to act natural?

Hang on! I had only made one attempt at ad libbing.

With the help of editing, showing me from different angles, replaying the incident in different sections and cutting back to the host for a witty comment about how incompetent I was before showing the same clip again they made it look like I messed up lines five or six times. I was made to look like a complete buffoon. Over the next couple of weeks I would bump into people I knew who had seen me looking like a jackass on national television on Christmas Day. I was humiliated but because I signed a waiver I didn’t think I could do anything about it.

Having been burned once, I think my trepidations about appearing on the news were understandable. As it turned out though, they were unfounded. Thanks to being forewarned by Orla and Sara in Fighting Words, I made an effort to ensure I looked somewhat presentable, instead of my normal rolling out of bed and running out the door. The camera was a handheld one so it was easier to ignore and the camera man was quite friendly and put me at ease.

I thought I looked well on TV this time. That I was doing something I enjoy and am semi good at helped. I even looked taller than I normally do, (in fairness I was talking to a bunch of nine year olds who were sitting on the floor.) I was only on for thirty seconds or so but I didn’t feel awful about it.

It’s not as if I’m going to run out and start auditioning for reality TV programmes, but I’m really glad I did it and I would probably be ok to make appearance like it again, as long as I had the appropriate time for hair and makeup.

Of course if they do use some outtakes for a Christmas special all they will have is me talking about farting robots and telling a bunch of children that my boss hates them because they are from Navan. And that’s hardly the worst thing to be caught on camera saying. Just ask Richard Keyes.

Innuendo

“So you’re looking for a hard one is it?”

This question is one I directed a few weeks ago to a customer at my part time job. She was looking for a case for her sunglasses. We carry a nylon soft case but she was looking for something sturdier. I really was just looking to help her with her query.

I could feel her eyes bearing into me. I tried not to laugh, fighting the dirty chuckle that was building inside me. Resistance was futile, my cheeks were heating up and the tension on the shop floor was dense. I looked down at the floor. If I could avoid contact I might be able to suppress it.

The idea that she was ‘looking for a hard one,’ rolled around my infantile brain for what seemed like an eternity but was surely only seconds. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I snickered. Some of it came out through my pursed lips while the rest escaped through my nostrils.

Incredibly childish I know. I’m a thirty five year old man with Bevis and Butthead tendencies. I should know better but if something is delivered in the right tone or wrong context I revert to my giggling teenage phase. I can’t help it.

In this case I think it is a case of nurture over nature. When I was a child one of my favourite things to do was to sit down and watch Benny Hill or a Carry On movie with my Dad. If something made him laugh, it had to be funny, right? If my dad approved of Barbara Windsor’s Fanny or Benny Hill slapping the baldy man then it was comedy gold as far as I was concerned.

Of course as I grew, I tried to rally against this. Maybe I was rebelling against my Dad’s taste but I like to think that as I was exposed to more mature politically correct comedy and began to see Carry On for the crass sexist childish humour that it was. Have I Got News for You, Who’s Line Is It Anyway became more my cup of tea.

Ironically this cup of tea was laden with lascivious, juvenile frippery, but it seemed to be of a different kind. It wasn’t so blatant. It was insightful and intelligent, poking fun at the ludicrousness of society. At least that’s what I told myself.

But try as I might I could not deny my roots in smut. Once I started working full time my choice of viewing was dictated by what could be left on in the background without requiring too much attention. So banal cookie cutter comedy was my ideal early evening television. Scrubs, Friends and Two and a Half men each had at least one character whose job was to make stupid offensive, sexually loaded remarks. And I could not help but laugh.

It could be argued that the characters are often portrayed as idiots or actually infantile and as such this is not the same as being straight up offensive. We are laughing ‘at’ them rather than ‘with’ them. I’m not so sure my funny bone was making that connection.

In the interest of disclosure I need to point out I’m a big fan of Scrubs. It made me laugh regularly and not just in an infantile way but ‘The Todd’ is the perfect example of the kind of character I’m talking about. When The Todd points at his crotch and talks about Hot Italian Sausage, I know it’s not actually funny but I laugh. The same with Joey from Friends or Jake in Two and a Half Men.

I know it’s not big or clever; but as I’ve said before neither am I. I can’t help it if the whole point of this blog post is so I could tell you about all the sticky substances involved in getting ready for work in the morning (shower gel, Brylcreem, moisturiser.) But I have been trying to control it.

Working in Fighting Words I learned pretty quickly that eight year olds don’t mean anything suggestive by talking about a monkey who likes to ‘play toss the coconut’ or the chicken who wanted to win ‘The Cock of the Year Award.’ At least I hope they don’t. Somehow I’ve always managed to control my childish side in those situations. That must show some level of maturity.

So what’s your favourite Double Entendre? Please post them in the comment box below and you might win a prize....yea a prize....not an actual physical prize, more like a moral victory. But go on...you know you want to.
Of course some of you will have noticed that the title of this piece is out of sequence with my alphabet theme. Very observant, there is a reason for that. The ‘H’ will be delivered next but I just thought it would be more fitting if ‘Innuendo’ was 69th post.

Heehee 69.

Hilarity

A horse walks into a bar and takes a seat. The bartender comes up to him and says “Why the long face?” The horse, who for the sake of making my point in a humorous manner, can talk. So he says, “Because I just watched the Fosters British Comedy Awards and frankly if that is what passes as humour these days I might just blow my equine brains out.”

The annual celebration all things supposedly hilarious on TV, was recently shown on Channel 4. It is a programme I always enjoyed because of its unpredictable nature, whether it was Spike Milligan calling Prince Charles a ‘grovelling little bastard’, Julian Clary claiming he had fisted the then Chancellor of the British Exchequer or the drunken antics of Vic Reeves or Johnny Vegas.

These days, unfortunately, it has been sanitised beyond recognition. Reflecting a world where television is churned out in order to keep the masses stupefied and numb, it has become a shell of it’s once slightly left of the norm, borderline edgy self, consistently rewarding and acknowledging comedic dross such as Harry Hill, Michael McIntyre, catchphrase shows like Little Britain or The Fast Show, Ant and Dec and Jo Brand.

When I first started watching comedy fifteen or twenty years ago, Jo Brand was an unfunny comedienne who made jokes about being overweight, menstruating, men being rubbish and eating cake. Two decades later, she no longer quips about her periods. She’s replaced that side splitter with the fact that she is old now.

This year’s big winner at the Comedy Awards was Miranda Hart. She won gongs for Best Female Actress, Peoples Choice and TV sitcom. It’s not something I have ever watched but I felt pretty sure from the clips that they showed when announcing the nominees that it was tripe.

In the interest of fairness I decided to watch an episode so that I could give you, the reader, a proper informed opinion. And here it is. It’s shit. The main joke seems to be that she is funny looking and a bit posh. Tall, big boned and with an annoying voice she plays the role well but it really is something that should have been banished from television a long time ago.

There was one scene which did actually make me laugh. She ended up having to deliver a eulogy for a deceased relative but she wasn’t sure which member of her family had actually died. I laughed out loud twice before the rest of the show descended into comedy prat falls and jokes about M People songs (that’s right M people.)

Maybe I just don’t get ‘television comedy’ anymore; it’s made for younger cooler people than me and I just bitter. I like to think I have a pretty good idea of what is funny. Having grown up with Channel 4 showing Just for Laughs from the Montreal Comedy Festival and other comedy specials (Bill Hicks, Sean Hughes, Emo Philips,Paul Merton and more) I’ve always been interested in what makes funny on TV.

Old Schtick

I’ve been going over some of my old notebooks today. A lot of notes from when I was trying stand up. Wow. I can’t believe I thought I was funny. In fairness I did have some mildly amusing lines…but actually funny? I’m not so sure. Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t Michael McIntyre bad…but I can see why my career as comedian never really took off.

There is some stuff that I want to keep for posterity and I’m going to spend the next couple of days typing them up. My handwriting has always been atrocious anyway, but some of the notepads look like they are about to erode into the sands of time.

I even had some comedy poetry. I used to write what I called my ‘5 minute poetry’ when I was queuing in the bank for change when I worked in Murphys. It was called 5 minute poetry because that how long it took to write. I wasn’t a big fan of poetry and by producing what I thought were clever little ditties, I was proving how facile poetry was.

If I could come up with this in 5 minutes that what was the big deal. I wasn’t huge fan of poetry. It rarely felt real to me, often incredibly contrived and unnecessarily trite. Although its possible people feel the same way about some of the stuff I write.

I think a lot of it harks back to my adolescent attempts at poetry. I once wrote about how the feathers on the crow in a heavy rain shower reflected my soul. I’m sure you’ll all agree that frankly, that’s a load of mind jism.

Of course there has been some amazing poems written through the years and it says more about my arrogance than anything else, that I felt this way. I’m not sure how valid it is an art form in the modern world.

Anyway I digress. The point is, seeing as I’m typing up this stuff I was thinking I might stick some of it up for people to point and laugh at. I’ll keep them separate from regular postings and I won’t advertise them as such when I send out links….so if you like them and you want to read more you can find them tagged under ‘Old Schtick’

Please remember most of this was all written around 10 or 11 year ago. I wasn’t the fully rounded individual that I am today. And if anyone was ever dragged along to my comedy gigs it will be familiar to you.

Its not supposed to be a masterclass in writing or comedy. I just think its interesting (for me at least) to compare my style and material to what i was doing back then. I might even throw a little commentary as to what the thinking behind it was.

So without further ado. Ladies and Gentlemen, Insert Witty Pop Culture Reference Here is proud to present, My Old Schtick part 1.

NEW WARDROBE

I need a new pair of shoes
My own are battered and worn
I need a new pair of shoes
My own won’t last long

I need a new pair of trousers
My own are out of style
I need a new pair of trousers
At Parties I stick out a mile

I need a nice new shirt
One with the buttons all there
I need a nice new shirt
I also need new underwear

I need a new wardrobe.

This was one of the first of my 5 minute poems.( The second maybe? The first was the first verse of Ode to a Doleite.)I was working in Murphys Newsagents on Baggot St. earning between £3.50 or £4.00 an hour.

Most of my wages at the time was going to the many drinking establishments such as the The Wellington and Searsons. Between them and paying for trivial things, like food and board to my mother, I had no time for extravagancies such as new shoes.

I wrote this the day after walking, in the rain, to one of the local hostelries with some of my colleagues. My current footwear had an enormous hole in the sole and my socks were acting as some kind of sponge taking in all the excess rainfall of Dublin 4.

I commented that I might 'splash out and treat myself' to a new pair of shoes...you know, ones without holes. Colin, having always been incredibly wise, rightly pointed out that such a thing wasn't really a luxury item. More of a necessity in a place with a climate such as Irelands.

It changed my way of thinking I tell you.

It is also worth nothing that while in the poem I do say I need new underwear, at this time I was permanently going commando.

Satellite

“Let me take you on a journey. A journey into German Opera”

The above statement was contained in a text message I received recently. Apropos of nothing, that would be quite a vague sentence for anyone to take the time to type. However, it been preceded by a rant about the banalities of the current crop of BBC presenters and their insistence on using clichés when segueing into the next link, gave it some credence

It had come from a friend who had just heard that very sentence used on T.V. Angered and appalled by such tired presenting she felt the need to text me and vent her frustration (She also text me when McDreamy was shot…whatever that means.) I agreed with her that is was ridiculous and trite and we concurred that he should be taken out and beaten about the face with potted plants. It was an enjoyable conversation. She told me I could use it in my blog.

Now there a couple of reasons why I wouldn’t do this (oh the irony.) The first reason is that “Let me take you on a journey” is used at the start of The Mighty Boosh. A wacky comedy show that the ‘kids’ love. I enjoyed its off the cuff irreverence at first. The more I watched and the more I heard the ‘kids’ saying how genius it was the more I questioned it. Its really not as clever or as funny as it thinks it is.


One word that is constantly bandied about when describing it original. Its no more original than I am. Its style and humour can directly be traced back through the likes of Vic and Bob, The Goodies, Monty Python and The Goons. I’m not saying its terrible but they didn’t invent comedy as some internet boards would have you believe. In fairness my problem is probably more with their fans than their comedy.

The second reason I wouldn’t be using it in my blog, is because it wasn’t my idea. If it had come to me naturally after the conversation well then I would have used it. A clever little dissection of the decline in quality televisual reportage. However because she suggested it, it would be a little cheeky of me to take her idea and claim it as my own.

It did however make a nice change to have someone suggest that I could use something I shared with them on here. People have become a little paranoid about meeting me. Many conversations and encounters are suffixed with, “don’t talk about this on your blog.”

I find this a little offensive to be honest. Over the years people have trusted me enough to share secrets with me. A vast range of confidentialities have been entrusted to me. I have never once felt the need to share. And some of them would make great stories. Who wouldn’t want to hear about the girl who cries out “Oh thank you, Easter Bunny” at the height of passion (you know who you are.) But I have never betrayed her trust.

Also what they fail to understand , is that its not about them. Even if they are featured in one of my pieces, its not about them. Its about me. I know that sounds a little egotistical but hear me out. Even if someone is involved in one of my little tales, its not them I am talking about. Its an imaginary version of them that I have created to fit my mood. Doesn’t everyone do that?

I guess its like that part in High Fidelity (the book, not the movie) where Rob is talking about how he is the star in the movie of his own life, but when it comes down to it he’s probably only an extra in a crowd scene in someone else’s movie. For someone else’s movie, I’m probably left on the editing room floor. But here on Insert Witty Pop Culture Reference Here, I’m the character, subtext, romantic subplot, comedy relief and gratuitous nude scene. But none of that would make any sense without my supporting cast. (That’s a compliment I swear.)

So in the context of the movie of my life, I’ve decided to cast it with the crop of Hollywood's finest. Of course I can’t cast everyone who has ever featured in my life so some of the characters are a composite of more than one person from reality.

Of course to play me I would love to cast John Cusack. He’s smart, funny, has a good track record of playing men struggling to reach maturity. However I don’t think people would buy him as me. Instead I am going to cast him as a cross between a spirit guide and my conscience. He will play the part Adeela, my therapist (who by the way was lady of Pakistani origins, Cusack has got range.)

To play the role of my parents I am going to reunite one of Hollywood's power couples from back in the day. The part of my Dad will be played by Jack Nicholson. Mostly because some of Jack’s facial are very similar to my dads. To the point where I was uncomfortable watching As Good as it Gets. His wife will be played by a woman who has played a lot of Irish mammies lately, Angelica Huston.

My two oldest friends will be played by Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, despite the possibility of Affleck being attacked by lumberjacks. My other friends will include, Kevin Bacon, Jarvis Cocker, The League of Gentlemen, James Galdofini, Dylan Moran and Basil Brush.

The love interests will be played by Reese Witherspoon, Jeanane Garoffolo and Uma Thurman. Oooh I can hear the women I’ve known wondering out who is whom as I type. They are compositions ladies.

I suppose for me we are looking at someone like Jack Black. I do however find his schtick really irritating these days. So instead I considered going to go with the greatest actor of his generation, Philip Seymour Hoffman but when I thought about it, he’s just doesn’t have the requisite sex appeal. Clooney and Pitt are too ‘traditionally’ handsome and Johnny Depp is frankly a terrible actor. So I’m left with no choice but to play myself in my opus.

And off course I’ll find a role for my good friend Glen, who is a professional actor and this week is appearing in J.P. Shanley's ‘Doubt’ in the Teachers Club on Parnell Square West. It is an excellent play and I heartily recommend you go see it if you can.

I’ve even thought about some songs that should be on the soundtrack. It contains music from people like Whale, Paul Simon, Avril Lavigne, Fighting Spiders and Elton John. It would be a must have album for a generation. Like the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction or Trainspotting.

I am aware that this makes me sound incredibly egotistical. However, surely everyone is entitled to be an icon in their own head at least. I’d love to hear who you would pick to play you in the movie of your life.

I guess most people wouldn’t be vain enough to post it on the internet for all to read. Let me have this one thing. Let me be a star. In fairness, in the movie of your life I’ll probably be played by Leo from Fair City.