Gig One

Stand Up and Coming, The Hideaway Tuffnell Park

10.07.2009


It's a typically English summer's Friday in early July, slightly muggy and half arsedly raining, and over a year since I've done my first Stand Up 'gig' when the email pops up. I click on it, knowing fine well what it's about but just to see it in black and white.

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Hi everyone,

This is a reminder that you are booked to perform at Stand Up and Coming on:

Friday 10th July

For some of you this booking was taken quite some time ago, so if you can no longer make it please let us know asap so that we can fill your place and get you a new date to suit.

This month's line-up

Daniel Simonsen

Shaun Carse

Gwilum Argos

Gavin Inskip

Hatty Ashdown

Albion Gray

Dave Bailey

Naz Osmanoglu

Anthea Neagle

Sunna Jarman

Bob Slayer

Matthew Janes

Headliner: Mike O'Leary

Compere: David Gibson

----

My name is up there, in there, amongst them. To the untrained eye it's lost amongst lots of other names you've never heard of but I can see it. The last name on the list, under the title 'Line Up'. And just above two other equally frightening words, 'Headliner' amnd 'Compere'.

This is really happening unless I excercise the right to lame out of it.

The email's chatty opening gambit 'Hi everyone' literally could not be any further away from the icy feeling of fear gripping my heart, neck and nether regions. It's a mixture of emotions though, somewhere within the abject horror of what I have agreed to do is the warm glow of personal pride that I actually am doing it.

But that warm glow can only really be basked in once I have done it, so for now the icy fear wins out.

The reason I used inverted commas to describe my last 'gig' is not because I enjoy winding people up by using inverted commas willy nilly - this is something that really winds me up as I'm never sure what the other person actually means, but rather that my last 'gig' - see there I go again, was really more of a 'showcase' - that's the last time I do it, I promise - with twelve or so people who'd attended a six week comedy course doing their five minutes of stand up to a crowd made up exclusively of friends and family of the acts.

Since doing the course I've met quite a few people who went on to pursue a Stand Up career one way or another all of whom affectionately reminisce of that night as the "warmest crowd you'll ever get". "One of the best gigs you'll ever do". And so on and so forth.

Maybe subconsciusly that's why post showcase, where many of the course's alumni trotted off and hit the Open Spot circuit, circuit just being one of the many comedy world I'll be dropping in witout any sense of self-deprecation no matter how strange it feels to write then, I never did another gig.

I mean, why would you?

If you've just done "One of the best gigs you'll ever do" why sully it with any lesser performances, or let's face it, reactions, as it's reactions are what performances are gauged by.

But now compelled by a strange sort of 'why not' feeling I've decided to give it another, or more accurately a whirl.

And so I desperately try and learn my set.
Again, another comedy world word dropped in for your delight.

Really all a set is is some material you try and learn to the best of your abilities so that when you're up there fumbling with a microphone and staring at some vague audience outlines throuhg a light that's burning right through your retinas, you'll have something to say so you don't feel like a complete spoon.

What no one tells you and there' absolutely no substitute for experiencing first hand is that how much of a spoon you feel up there looking out a sea of expectant faces, they want to laugh, you want to make them laugh, at that precise moment more than anything on god's earth, but you can't.

Comedy impotence. It's no laughing matter.

So I try and learn my set, I record various bits and bobs on a dictaphone, play them back, try and imagine that I'm not mental talking out loud to myself in my flat, wonder if my neighbour who's a photographer that seems to spend quite a lot of time in his flat can hear me.

Try and time it all it out.

Try and imagine the laughter.

Imagining the laughter was also something I had to do at the gig itself , but more on that later.

So, I'm good to go. I've dug out my floral Liberty's "He looks like he could be funny, but he isn't" shirts. I selected and then de-selected a grey velvet jacket which looked a little too gameshow, a little too 'Faking It' but if truth be told I de-selected it mainoly because I was travelling to the gig on a motorbike and so a leather jacket over a velvet jacklet wasn't going to work for me.

So, off I shot on my Kawasaki 650 out of Harlesden, right at IKEA, onto the North Circular and off to North London.

Nothing funny happened on the journey. There was light drizzle I like to remember. I was going top havde to rely on my set.

So I get there, to the fabled The Hideaway pub which I'd never heard of and went in. I'm there at 8.20, which meant I was pretty much the last comedian to turn up and ensuired I got my rightful place of last on the bill, which ensures you can't really enjoy any of the acts or the night as all you're doing is pooping yourself about going on.

As someone who's tardiness is not his best point I realise, one gig in and not even done yet that that's a part of the bill I might be seeing quite a lot of on the open circuit unless I can sort my timekeeping out.

So, it's a nice boozer The Hideaway, a nice North London boozer. Upstairs people are milling around doign their thing. They've got nice imported beers like Sierra Nevada and Cooper's behind the bar and they're deliciously cold, and, and, and how I wish I was spending the nigth supping them with some mates, talking bollocks and relaxing after a week of so-called work.

Instead, I'm waiting to stand behind a microphone in front of a group of strangers trying to trigger their laughter glands. Which as you'll no doubt suspect fromt he quality of thsat last sentence means I've got my work cut out. can tell from that last senr

introduce myself to the promoter(s) - who are very warm and friendly people, promoters. More on promoters as we go on. So nervous am I that I actually re-introduce myself to one fo them, he was kinf enough to tell him I'd just come and said hello

Emailing someone who lives in the same house as you

Emailing is weird.

I think it's conclusive proof that people don't really like speaking to other people.

You would have thought with the success of phones and stuff that people do actually like speaking to other people but the success of emailing shows that that's not really the case.

Nowadays, given a simple choice between emailing and calling, people would rather email.

They like the sound of their own voice better in an email. And it means they can take their time yto make their voice sound better, more witty than it actually does in real life. When you're emailing you can look up words and facts and include them and think to yourself "I'm so fucking clever. Check out how eloquent that last sentence was. It was fucking great. And so am I".

But of course all emails are are speeded up faxes. Which is why they are so gloriously inefficient.

It's a bit like ringing someone up, saying something to them, then hanging up, then waiting five minutes for them to call you back, they say what they've got to say then they hang up.

Or they just call to say, did you get my email.

"No"
"Email me when you do"

You know the whole email culture has got out of hands when people who live in the same house, and retired people at that, start emailing each other.

My mum and dad, who are retired and live in the same house email each other.

And check this out, they both share the same computer so they have to wait 'til open person gets off it to email the other.

I'm not saying their marriage suffers from communication problems.

OK, scratch that. That's exactly what I'm saying.

Having said all of that, I don't want you to think that I'm anti email, that couldn't be further from the truth.

In fact, if anyone here's got any heckles, feel free to email them to me.

My email is I'matwat@I'mabigtwatwithnomates.com

No apostrophes.

And if you type that into a computer, hood luck to you.

I broke the internet this afternoon

I typed Google into Google and somewhere far, far away I heard a distant explosion.

Kind of like a whumpf.

I think it was probably in California.

About 11 seconds later I got a phone call from Steven Hawkins. He said.

(SH voice). "Have you just broken the internet?"

I said "No."

He said "Are you fucking taking the piss.
Who do you fucking think it is. Delia Smith?"

I said
"To be perfectly honest I thought maybe you were the speaking clock?
It did confuse me as I always thought that was a recording"

Anyway. I was getting scared so I hung up. And I ran straight to this gig where I was hoping to be safe and find some kind of sanctuary.

If anyone was hoping to use the Internet when they get home, or maybe later in the week, I'm really sorry.

I'm afraid you're going to have to go back to Argos catalogues now and if you want to
compare insurance quotes online, well, tough shit.

I'm sure someone can fix the Internet.

After all, Arnold Schwarzenegger is the mayor of California and Bill Gates lives there so they've definitely got a head start. But in the meantime probably best to stock up on stamps and biros.

Seinfeld Says

And whether you like him or not, this guy should know.

Comedy. Proving something trivial with rigorous logic.

Really, really good comedy is a dialogue. You've got to allow time for the audience to laugh. Their laughter is their dialogue. You let the audience breathe, they let the comedy breathe, and so on and so forth.

This is when comedian's get into a 'roll' when this rhythm works.

On persona. Figure out who you are and express it well.
It's hard.

(His style). For me, the little things are the big things.

The theatricality of shop assistants

Does anyone here remember a time, I think it was back in the middle ages, shortly after the wheel had been developed but before the credit crunch, when you went to a shop to pay for things using a card and all you had to prove it was your card was sign your name?

Does anyone here remember that?

[Anyone here under 25 is going [whisper] I think that man up there needs professional help. He's talking stupid talk]

Now of course, no one signs for anything any more.

It's all chip 'n pin. Chip 'n pin. Chip n'pin.

I don't have a problem with Chip n' pin, but around the same time they brought chip 'n pin in, did they re-staff every shop in the country with bad amateur dramatic actors.

Because every time I go to pay for something and it's the moment to put my pin into the machine the assistant goes

[physical acting: the most hammy look away you can possible imagine].

Which if you think about it, is really quite strange.

Is the assumption that I think they look like a criminal?

Are these people who since Chip 'n Pin find the temptation of card fraud overwhelming, maybe it's got nothing to do with me, maybe it's just their way of protecting themselves from committing fraud.

Of course, I find the idea of anything that happens to me not being about me almost impossible to imagine.

Actually, not almost impossible.
Just impossible.

And it's not just fraud they would be committing.

First they'd have to commit robbery possibly, possibly with aggravated assault.

Because let's not forget, presuming they do see my pin number, they still have to get the card off me. That part of buying things hasn't changed. You still you get your card back. They do actually need your card to buy things.

Something else I've noticed about this theatrical gesture is that actually it's pretty impractical. Because all this turning away and not looking means that you don't actually know when the transaction has happened.

So unless shop assistants do that thing that children do when they want to watch a scary programme on TV but when they do so feel safer watching it from behind the sofa, and then they do this.

[physical - hand over one eye, then just ease the fingers apart].

Of course, as a customer, if you need to spice up your day at all. And I find there's very few days in my life when that's not a requirement, you have the option of not putting in your pin number at all.

This then means when the shop assistant does the child watching TV thing, you can be looking directly at them and meet their gaze. And with that gaze throw in some raised eyebrows, I can't do it myself, but if you know how to do the one eyebrow thing, so much the better.

The unspoken assumption that passed between you both is that they're trying to steal your card.

They're about to commit fraud, possibly with aggravated assault.

Then, the only option available to them is an even more theatrical gesture.
And you've got to wonder at this point whether as they're turning away and shielding themselves from the temptation of stealing your card whether they're thinking

(thespian voice) "I wish I'd started smaller with the first gesture, then I would have had somewhere to go, that last one really was too much, too over the top".

Of course, if you're having a particularly boring day, or just feel like needlessly playing some kind of cat and mouse game with another human for your own childless gratification, you don't have to stop there.

At some point they're going to snap again and do the fingers thing.

And then you do the eyebrows thing again. But this time you can combine it with the slow nod. The nod that says,

"I'm onto you buddy. I'm watching you. I'm watching you, watching me.
But this is one Chip 'N Pin you're not getting.
This Chip 'N Pin is mine, so you best look away one last time while I key it in, and this time none of that peeking through fingers crap.

When it's time for you to look, I'll tell you to look".

Has that ever happened to anyone here. Does anyone get that?

** SIDE THING** Of course now when you do go on holiday and you're asked to sign for something it's like being an Aristocrat in the 1920's. A time when a man's signature was more than enough proof of his means to pay.

Oh how I miss those days I was never a part of.

People think I'm gay

[PARACHUTING IN]

What's your name. Where you from. Having a nice time, la la laaaa. How easy do you think it is to determine someones sexuality from the way they look. Do you think for example by looking at you now, the clothes you're wearing, the way you're sitting on that chair, I could tell if you're straight or gay.

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Opener:

People think I'm gay.

There it is. I've said it. I'm not gay, and I don't mind if someone is gay, or if someone isn't gay, it's none of my business, but what I do mind is when the people who think I'm gay, think I'm gay they just think I'm gay.

There's no, "Oooh, well he could be, he might be, hard to say, if he's not full blown gay - because that's the kind of thing straight people say about gay people - then he's probably Bi. Or Bi on the weekends. Part time Bi.

Part time Bi?

I'm not a sales assistant at B & Q.
Bums and Queens.

I don't do Bi shifts Tuesdays - Fridays.

No.

I've always thought anyway, as a, and I don't know if I need to emphasize this any further, as a straight man, that bisexuality is a bit strange. Again, speaking as a man, and this is a very personal point of view, I kind of think when you suck another man's penis, you've crossed a line.

A pretty big line.

A big throbbing purple line.

And I'm not saying it's impossible, but I just think if you've gone into Penis land, I would think for women it's less easy to take you sincerely.

"I like dicks, but I still like chicks"

Now if you say that on a first date, that's a line a lady will have texted verbatim to at least one of her friends by the time the night's done.

Probably the moment you go to the toilet she'll be on her phone texting like her life depended on it.

While you're in the toilets looking for Bruno.

---

So back to people thinking I'm gay.

And right now in the audience and I pretty much guarantee this, there'll be someone who is either about to whisper to her friend, or maybe even already has.

"I think he's gay"

---

No.

I'm not.
Part time B & Q.

Definitely.

Nothing more.

---

So, I'm at someone's housewarming party at their flat in Chelsea. As you do. Everyone there's pretty well-heeled, and I knew a few people - be a bit weird if I didn't right - and over the course of the evening chatted to a few more people.

And got talking to this bloke who was so posh he almost couldn't speak.
He made Prince Charles sound like a bare knuckle gypsy boxer

"I'll fight you for a fiver"

And he started telling me this story about his girlfriend. And bless him, he was obviously having, or about to have a very modern moment. Before he continued with his story, realising that clearly I was gay and that the sooner that was mentioned the more we could all relax, he said,

"you know how it is when you want to do one thing and your girlfriend, or partner, wants to do another"

"I mean, you're a gay man , right"

What?
Que?
You're a gay man right.


And then he said "Oh, mate, maaaate. I'm so sorry. It just that my girlfriend said there's no way a man dressed like you could be straight"

What, just because I'm wearing a chain mail singlet, arse less leather chaps and noshing off some gorilla of a man, he thinks I'm gay.

No, not that. Extraordinary. I was wearing a purple cardigan and I am starting to think that purple is one of those colours that (finger quotes thing) "Let's people know"

So, I'm in Sainsbury's right.

And my friends, my dear dear friends have just had twins and I've proudly been made the godfather which is such an honour. And they're always looking out for and after me, so I thought, I'm going to go round to there's for some Sunday lunch but I'm going to make them a nice fish pie so they don't have all the hassle of making food themselves and they don't have to leave the house which is a hassle with young kids.

None of this actually happened by the way.

I'm just telling you to make you like me.

Or on the off chance there's any women out there who are considering having sex with me, you know 'turning me', this might be the story that pushes them over the edge.

Of course it happened.

I would never play with your emotions like that.

So I'm waiting at the fish counter in Sainsbury's. As you do. And I got talking to the woman behind me and once I started ordering the fish she said to me

"Are you making a Fish Pie"

And, possibly in an over sharing kind of way, I then told her the story I just told you.

And you know what. At the exact moment when I said

"my friends have had twins and I'm making a fish pie, she smiled and raised her eyebrows" in a way that just said, without saying it

You're gay.

Not you might be gay.
Not even maybe he's part time B & Q.
But he's gay.

And then when I told her I'd been made a godfather of those beautiful baby girls her eyebrows went even higher and her smile broadened in a way that said.

He's unequivocally gay. I'm in fact now going to allocate him as Full Blown Gay or FBG which is one of those gays that does bottom sex. Not just a holding hands gay. A full blown one.

Full time B & Q.

Probably a B & Q manager or something.
Worked his way up.

And I just don't know how to react.
Maybe I've misread the signs.
I haven't.

But I just want to say to her "You think I'm gay don't you. Not that I have a problem with that, but I'm not gay. And frankly I don't welcome the judgement that just because a man bakes his friends a fish pie to take round to their newly born twins, and noshes off someone he met on the night bus, and keeps poppers and magazines like Hard Bodied Man and Man Muscle '(insert gay porn reference here)' that he's gay.

The last things I made up.

So, I'm not quite sure how to deal with this problem. I suppose one thing could be to stop wearing purple. You might even argue that's a sensible solution and I'm sure it is.

There is another idea I've been working with, but I'm not sure whether it's direct enough. And to be honest, I think maybe if I was going to re-do it, I would pick another colour than purple.

But I just find myself so drawn to purple.

Really, I do.

[T-shirt reveal]

---

Thank you, you were truly wonderful, I was Matt Janes.

---

Back to mic.

I'm not gay. I just heard someone say that as I was walking away from the mic.

Who said that?

Yeah. Well, Please don't say that.

I'm bringing my own gong

Go to a Gong show but take your own gong along.
One of those Chinese ones, maybe even a pocket gong.

None of you fuckers are going to gong me.

I'm the gonger of me.

I'm King Gong.

Then walk off

G.N.N. Geordie News Network

Now as you can tell from my accent, I grew up in Newcastle.

Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Rarely a day goes by without someone remarking on that fact.

If you're wondering why I haven't got a very thick Geordie accent, it's because I only lived there since I was thirteen, so I only really developed one so I was able to go to some of Newcastle's dodgiest estates and buy hash.

"How man, have you got any tack. Aye fiver deal?"

"Do you want to come in for a bucket" served as hospitality in those days, a bucket is a mind bending way of consuming hashish smoke, if doesn't really matter what it is, but suffice to say you never really have more than one bucket in your life.

Unless you're mental.

So that's why I had the Geordie accent.

Because I then moved to London and wanted to get a job in something other than the doorman industry, it seemed like a good idea to drop the accent.

I was also now able to buy drugs just by asking for them in a normal voice, so why bother.

I love Newcastle. Newcastle is a great, great city.

Geordie's are by far the most positive people you'll ever meet.
Normally, the consensus is that Americans are the most positive, that's not true.

I once saw a documentary on the Bigg market, Newcastle's infamous drinking, vomiting and fighting square mile and a Geordie Bar Man came on and looked straight to camera and said

"Some times you speak to people and they're depressed and that. And I just don't don't understand it. Get a bar job man". Mint. Trebles for singles. Blarty. Yeah. Keegan. Toon Army." Etc etc.

Of course if you ever find a Geordie that's emigrated to California, you're going to have the most positive person, in the world, ever.

"Just like sometimes you speak to people and they're depressed and that and I just divvent get it man. Get a bar job in California. Sunshine. Bikinis. Pina Coladas. Arnie Schwartzy. Miiiiiiint!".

I did once ask a Geordie why they thought Geordie's were so positive and they said "Well, there's fuck all else to do."

Which, having been to Whitley Bay is fair enough.

Anyways, what with Geordies being so positive and the news always being so negative I thought maybe the two could balance each other out.

Everything always sounds so much more upbeat and positive in a Geordie voice so why not have a Geordie News Channel, staffed only by Geordie Anchormen.

No, hang on, let's think bigger, let's go International.

Let's have a Geordie News Network.

G.N.N. we could call it.
See what I did there?

"And today in Quala Lumpar, there's been a muckle big bomb gone off and that, and lerrdds of people have been incinerated in the ensuing fireball that swept through the city. It's not good. Is it. But, at the end of the day, there's no use sitting around moping aboot it, get a bar job man. Miiiint!"

"Swine flu is shaping up to be a global pandemic which threatens world health as today the United Nations upgraded the threat to Defcon Five. But, at the end of the day, there's nee point getting depressed aboot it. There's nowt you can do. So you might as well just, get a bar job man Miiiint!".

"Global recession is biting hard in the UK now with pub chains Wetherspoons announcing 400 job cuts in the next quarter. Well, fair enough,m like, it's not great news, but, just get an Unpaid bar job man. Miiiint!"

Songs that start off really exciting

Do you ever get that thing with songs where the start of them is just really, really, exciting.

Like they've sat down and thought, how can we make this song really, really exciting, so that when it starts, people just feel all tingly and they've got butterflies in their stomach and say they're at a wedding disco or something and they just go a bit crazy, they jump up, maybe spilling a glass of beer on the way, grab their friends who are perfectly happily having a normal conversation and then once you've dragged your friends out onto the dance floor and forcibly wheeled your friend in a wheelchair out onto the floor knowing he had no choice in the matter, that's when the song starts proper.

It's like the actual start of the song was a false start, it's like it's an advert for the song but it's not the actual song.

And then you're into the song proper and you're standing on the dance floor with your friends and you know, it's in your eyes, that the song's not really that good, and then you, slightly embarrassed, because you've dragged everyone there, then have to over compensate for the song and start doing all this crazy dancing to try and get everyone into it, but you know.

And they know.

And you know they know.

And no amount of disco pointing or inane grinning or spinning your wheelchair bound friend around is going to disguise the fact. The start of the song was the best bit.

It's a bit like going for a curry.

You sit down, you order, you have poppadoms and a cold, lager. You order all manner of bhunas and kormas and baltis that you think you want and then you're eating the poppadoms and drinking the lager and thinking, "this is great, why don't I come for curries, like all the time, why don't I eat curry for breakfast?"

And then they take the poppadoms away and the main course comes and you just don't want it. And then they bring another dish and another dish and you think, did we really order all of this.

And then fleetingly the idea comnes into your head, do we have to pay for everything we've ordered if we don't actually eat it, could we send some thing back, because of course, if you ran a restaurant and someone ordered something and then when it came they said they no longer wanted what they'd asked you to cook do they still have to pay for it,of course, if that were you, you'd be cool with that.

So that's the thing.

It's the same thing with poppadoms and the pointer sisters. And there's a sentence you don;t hear too often.

The first bit's always the best bit.

But you never learn. I never learn. If the pointer sisters came on right now, despite knowing all the things I know I would still be consumed by the start of the song, and try and grab someone, the nearest person to me and get them to get up and dance.

I have an infinite capacity for forgetting lessons learned.

(then as I walk off, track starts again and do this, adopt maniacal look and try and grab some poor bastard from the audience.)

Bonding with the audience

One thing which is important as a comedian is to always try and bond with the audience, so, if you're about to tell a story, or an anecdote as sometimes they're called if they're not very good, as I'm about to do, then you might start of by saying

"Did anyone here follow Wimbledon?"

See, I haven't even asked the question yet, I'm just talking about a question I will ask later, and already, couple of people nodding, few flickers of recognition.

So wait 'til I do actually ask the question. This place is going to go interstellar. Especially now I've prompted you before I've even asked it.

The idea of involving the audience in this way of 'bringing them in' (put your arms around the audience and bring them in) is that people listening, the audience, you, think, ah! this is relevant to me, this chap's talking about something I can relate to, there may even be some laughs to be had in what he's saying. I'll prick up my ears and set my laughter glands to high alert.

Really, what I'm doing here is just giving you a few tricks of the trade.
Just so you can see some of the deliberate decisions being made behind what I'm saying.

Like, here's another one.

Does anyone here work in an office?

I'll ask again, because I think there's more of you out there.

Does anyone here work in an office?

Shit isn't it?

Now, that's a technique which I don't recommend. It's known as inviting the audience into your home, into your living room, then not offering them a drink and then just saying "It's time to go now".

Then giving them a kick up the arse on their way out of the door.

Right.

Let's go back to method A.

Has anyone here been watching the tennis at all?

Don't worry, don't be shy.
I'm not going to say it's been a bit shit, because I've really enjoyed it.

So, let's go again.

Has anyone been watching the tennis?

Have you ever seen the look on a man's face when he's selecting some reading material to take in with him to go and have a number two ?

It's very similar really to the look of a shoplifter.

I suppose you could describe it as over natural acting.

(do physical impression of this)

Already, the man's in a slightly heightened state, given that his body is telling him it would like to release a little packet, so time's not on his side.

He doesn't have a big window to act in, and he knows this.

But, still, he reckons he's got enough time to nonchalantly look for something to read, pick it up, as if he's not about to go and have a shit, which kind of looks a but like this.

(more physical stuff)

If there's more people around, and the thickness of the material allows it, you might be lucky enough to witness the fold into four and put in the back pocket, which, let's face it, is almost identical to shoplifting.

If you're very lucky, and you're watching a man who's misjudged the thickness of the reading material, your perception may be rewarded with the man trying to fold the magazine into a pocket-sized square - say he's gone for a World of Interiors rather than a Nuts or a Zoo, and then realising this isn't going to happen he'll sheepishly pretend he was trying to fold it for some other reason than taking it to the Thunderbox - one of my favourite Australianisms for toilet - for a poop.

What other reason that might be, unless he's trying out for The Strongest Man in the Worlde, is never really explored or discussed. But the man might try and do a couple fo re-folds of said material, not because he thinks he can do it, but because he thinks if he dopes that and you see then you'll think 'Oh, I thought he was trying to fold that to put in his pocket to discreetly go and have a poo, but it turns out he's just checking the tensile strength of World of Interiors, what an unfair assumption I made about him".

When a man gets caught trying to fold something he cannot, it really is the shoplifting equivalent of being caught buy the security guard trying to detach the alarm tags.

The shoplifting equivalent then resulting in said shoplifter, under the watchful gaze of the security guard, trying a couple more tags of other products in the shop and giving the security guard the thumbs up, as if somehow, the shoplifter is actually doing the same job as him, or her Reg, or her, but in a plain clothes capacity.

Of course, to what extent a man tries to disguise the fact that he's taking some 'literature', as men specifically refer to reading matter that is bog-bound, depends on how in touch with his feminine side he is, or indeed how Australian he is.

Another school of thought entirely is the man who takes the newspaper out of your hands while you're still reading it and announces, normally over the back of his shoulder "I'm just heading for a shit, love. Be about five minutes".

This of course will be the same man who comes out of there five minutes later, hands you back the paper, and gently advises "probably best to give it ten minutes love, unless you've got some high end breathing apparatus".

A joke, which unfortunately for you as a women, he will, never, ever tire of.

The indignity of Goldfish poo

Goldfish are the aristocrats of the fish world.

In terms of pecking order they're pretty much at the top, which is why it's very, very, very funny, that when they make poo, kit trails behind them for up to four times their length.

I mean, can you really imagine, do you have any inkling whatsoever the embarrassment that must accompany having a shit that's five times longer than your own body for the whole world, which in the case of a goldfish is really just the whole fish tank, to see.

If would be difficult if the goldfiosh were not an aristo. If the goldfish were a normal, blokey fish like the bottom feeder, which is the fish equivalent of a cross between a bin man and one of those council workers that cleans graffiti off underpasses with a jet washer.

If those fish did the equivalent of thirty foot poops they'd just employ the classic bloke mentality.

"Oi, Nipper. Check out this shit. That's got to be a personal best that. That's a monster"

"Way!"

"Way"

"High five"

"Er. can't do high fives mate. I've only got tiny little pectoral fins I'm afraid."

"alright, alright. Don't get all hoioghty toighty with me mate. Bloody pectoral fins. Who does he think he is. Ideas above his bloody station that one"

They might say to one another.

However, the lot of the long poo is not destined for the bottom feeder such as the Cory Catfish which emits perfect pellets of poop from his tiny little fish anus hole.

No sir.

The long poop destiny awaits the goldfish who is particularly nonplussed and embarrassed about all the lesser fish of the tank seeings his ablutions.

That's why in aquariums you often hear

(ultra posh voices) "Er..... mate"

"Yes, mate":

"Errr, have you done number two's recently"

"Yes, mate, about half an hour ago, why do you ask?"

"Well....errrr...mate......it's just that you have....errrrrr.....a 30 foot......adjusted to human scale......pooo fixed to the end of your anus"

"Oh mate! Not again. I was just over there putting in a bit of quality time with that new goldfish and I thought she was looking over my shoulder, I thought nothing of it"

Of course, the worst part of all of it is that what with Goldfish having a seven second memory and all they keep forgetting they've done the poo, so they get annoyed and disgusted about the poo and then swim off and then catch another glimpse of their little orange bottom in the reflection in the mirror and they're disgusted again

and they're like "Oh, mate!"

And then they forget about it all again and swim happily off and then it's more "oh, mate".

Maybe the reason why they've got such long poos all the time is just a direct bi product of their seven second memory.

They quite simply forget to wipe they're bottom. Or by the time they do remember and go and look for the goldfish poo paper they get there and can't remember what they were looking for.

Not that it would matter anyway because as earlier discussed it' not like they have any hands.

They've got pectoral fins haven't they.

If you take nothing else from the last five minutes, take that. Unless you had it clear in your mind already in which case consider it re enforced.

---

To add in: a bit about the fact the poo can in no way be cut.
Maybe they should have a revolving door with sharpened steel edges in the tank, or maybe just an exceptionally sharp pair of scissors.

But as discussed earlier.

Goldfish don't have hands they only have pectoral fins.

So if you put in a revolving door they'd just peer out at you, the owner and with their liitle goldfish eyes say to you

"Is he fucking winding us up"

And then seven seconds later

"Oh. Mate. I'm being followed by a thirty foot poop"

And then seven seconds later.

"Where did that revolving door come from?"

This place is weird.

I could have sworn some poo was just following me a few seconds ago but I can't remember bnow".

Andy Murray's Mum

It's not new news when I say to you that professional sport's a way of releasing primal agression in a controlled way. In a way that's more acceptable to society than just going out and smashing someone over the head with a brick.

So when we're watching sport, and someone starts shouting and yelling either at how well or how badly they're doing, we're cool with it.

It's fine.

We get it.

But there's something about seeing that level of aggression in someones mum that, I don't know, it's just wrong somehow.

When Andy Murray's Mum watched him play the Marathon match against Stansilav Wawrinka to get into the Semis, she was not holding back in her showing of emotion.

Every time he hit a winner, she was up out of her chair going.
(complete with actions - tearing head)

"come on, get him, fuck him up"

"fuck that fucker up"

"rip the dirty little Swiss bastard's head off"

"tear off Stanislav's balls and make him choke to death on them"

I mean, a lot of this stuff I'm garnering from lip reading, or a combination of lip reading and body language analysis.

Let me show you some of the stuff I saw and try my best to ape the body language and I'll see if any of you can guess what she was saying.

The person I felt most sorry for in all of this, apart from Andy Murray's dad, and Andy Murray, she doesn't look like the kind of mum that would take too kindly to your only contribution to the housework being lifting your feet up off the sofa as she hoovered around them.

No, the person I felt sorry for was Andy Murray's fiance. I mean, what is the correct way to behave in such a situation with your future mother-in-law.

Andy Murrays' Mum had raised the bar sufficiently high that the only option of out-doing her on the aggression/love/support scale would be to take out an actual heart from a Tupperware box she had in her Hermes handbag and actually start gorging on it while mumbling

"Rip out the heart of his first born Andy, destroy him, kill him, eat his kids".

As blood dripped down her pretty white camisole.

Which I think we'll all agreement that this would have been a little strong. So she just had to do the right thing and let the mum be the Alpha female supporter, and she could just take a supporting back seat.

I'm not looking at your pin number

When you buy something in a shop and put your pin number in using chip and pin have you ever noticed how unneccesarily theatrically the assistants look away to demonstrate that they're not looking at your pin.

The inference being, presumably that they're not thieves.

And then there's this kind of 'do you think that I think that you're thinking about stealing my pin number, cloning my card, stealing my identity then burgling my Gran?'

"Is that what you think I think you're thinking about?"

Which is odd because when I'm buying petrol or something, the idea that someone's not a thief is kind of my first instinct really, that's my starting point.

Not a thief.

That's why they've got a job, right. I think if you were a thief and you took a job you'd be a pretty low-grade thief.

I'm sure they do exist though, people that have bar jobs and take money from tills but maybe that's different, the kind of thief we're talking about here is someone who defrauds you, takes your card and gets money out in your name.

I've always thought it's kind of strange though the theatrical thing.

Sometimes I just take an uncomfortably long amount of time to put my digits in just to see if, like a child watching something scary on tv and covering/uncovering their hand, whether they're going to sneak a peek to see if I've finished.

Of course, this game always ends up with me shooting them a raised eyebrow glance as if to say

"Are you looking at me putting my pin number in?"
"Are you thinking of cloning my credit card and stealing my life's savings"
"Are you?"

Which always then elicits an even more theatrical look away as if there's no possible way, on heaven's earth that they could possibly, in any way, ever, be looking for for your pin number.

Which I never thought they were anyways.

But when someone's so overtly not looking at your pin.

You've got to wonder don't you/

Are they trying to steal my pin number, clone m,y card, steal my identity and burgle my Gran?

Makes you wonder doesn't it.

Makes you wonder.