Monthly Archives: July 2010

Seventy Three

“A couple of lads were murdered just over the road this morning.”

Start the car. Continue reading

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Seventy Two.

It would appear that our relationship, such as it was, was over. I was tempted to reply with a glib “We’re through? But… But what about the children?”. Continue reading

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Seventy One.

James mentioned that the audience seemed a little flat tonight. Flat? There are comedy clubs worldwide that would love to be able to describe the attentive, enthusiastic crowd in attendence as flat. Continue reading

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Seventy.

It’s a challenge to maintain a calm zen-like interior when my inner viking wants to shake people until their teeth rattle and they forget the names of their family. Continue reading

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Sixty Nine.

Ask many alternative comics to define a mainstream comic and they’ll paint you a picture of a fat, northern man in a frilly shirt telling stolen racist jokes to an audience that resembles a BNP rally. Reverse the equation and you’ll probably end up with a picture of a scrawny, flopped haired middle class twentysomething talking about badgers and jam to an audience of students that are pretending to find it funny so that nobody thinks they’re thick. Continue reading

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Sixty Eight.

“Get off, you’re shit.”
“Sorry I’m not to your taste. Which one of these is your carer?”
“Sandra.”
“Oh.” Continue reading

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Sixty Seven.

Despite having both eaten well that night Laura and I still found room for a slice or two of pizza. That’s how pizza works, somehow there’s always space for it. Maybe humans have a bovinesque second stomach just for pizza. Continue reading

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Sixty Six.

I cried during Braveheart though I suspect this is less because of my identification with the struggle of my (semi) countrymen and more because I am, at heart, a massive hand-knitted poof. Continue reading

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Sixty Five.

The Cricketers’ faithful had demanded an immediate encore of Jason’s pony impression. Doesn’t hurt to have the tail wag the dog from time to time. Continue reading

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Sixty Four.

You might emerge as a washed out, broken wreck of a human being with a thousand yard stare and a nervous tick that manifests itself whenever you hear the word “flyer” used as a verb. Continue reading

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