RONALD PICKUP

If I’d started writing something of this ilk ten years ago, I don’t think Pickup would have been included, but society at large seems able to recognise even our finest thespians with increasing infrequency these days. Despite not being huge theatregoers, my Mum and Grandad would both have been able to identify the likes of Victor Maddern, Cyril Shaps or Michael Bryant without pause. Nowadays our papers and screens seem to have less interest in fine character actors than reality stars, so I am choosing (for this edition of this semi-regular blog) to profile someone whose stature is such that his name is as well-known as his face, but to an increasingly smaller circle of people. This is no disrespect to him, but every disrespect to the coverage of arts and popular culture in this country. Pickup is one of the most respected actors of his generation, with a string of huge stage credits to his name (latterly playing Lucky to the Vladimir and Estragon of Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart). He first made a splash working his way up at the National Theatre in the late 1960s, including playing Rosalind in As You Like It. There’s an old fashioned poise and delicacy about Pickup – he is one of those actors whose merest flicker can suggest a chasm of suppressed emotion. He’s proved adaptable as well, mixing classical theatre, popular television and sitcom with equal skill.  A quite brilliant actor: leading man and character player, always lending class to anything he graces with his talent.

Five Pickup performances worth chasing down (a purely personal and not remotely definitive selection):

Prince Yakimov in Fortunes Of War:

Prince Yaki informs mighty character actors Vernon Dobtcheff and James Villiers that they'll have to wait their turn to be featured in I Know The Face But ...

Quite simply one of the greatest television performances I have ever seen. Yaki is at turns dishonest, snivelling, thoughtless and conniving, and yet he remains entirely loveable throughout Alan Plater’s adaptation of Olivia Manning’s Fortunes Of War (custom should dictate I mention the director James Cellan-Jones at this juncture as well, as his work is sublime). It may have given us an early sight of Branagh and Thompson in action, but the performance you remember is Pickup’s. Yaki has a dishevelled charm, an unkempt dignity and an ill-fitting English-toffness that betrays a man who has adopted the mores of the gentry with slightly more affectation than he should (he is a Russian émigré you see, who has learned his Britishisms by rote – slightly too well). This makes the character’s eccentricity genuine and amusing but offbeat and original. It’s a charming, delightful and rather moving performance, and I urge everyone who thinks they are a good actor to watch it, and then think again.

George Orwell in The Crystal Spirit – Orwell On Jura (not online or commercially available I’m afraid). When it was aired in 1985 this created a huge impression upon me. The sight of the consumptive Orwell on a landscape as bleak as both his prospects of a long life and his postulation of the future, is indelible. Alan Plater’s (again) piece vividly draws a picture of a creative talent both blighted and driven by illness, and showed that great masterpieces are wrought at a cost to their creators. Pickup, as ever, fizzes with intelligence and insight, whilst an innate decency washing through him at all times. He shows the human Orwell though: this is no tortured artist cliché, but a story of a man and the dignity of a great mind expressing its creativity to the very end. Orwell was difficult and ill but loved by his loyal friends and family, and in Pickup’s portrayal you can see why.

Fraser in The Worst Week Of My Life. One of our finest classical thesps being brilliant in a sitcom just emphasises how impossible it is to be pigeon-holed when you’re a proper actor. The Worst Week Of My Life is a rare thing: a brilliant television farce. If Geoffrey Whitehead’s terse father-in-law threatens to steal the show with a look, Pickup is on hand as the self-denying Uncle Frazer. He’s a tough, outdoors type, full of military stories and who definitely isn’t gay. And woe betide anyone suggests otherwise. He gets a consort in the shape of the fantastic Terence Hardiman in series two, and the character and situations get even funnier.

The Forger in Day Of The Jackal. It’s all too easy to forget that this veteran of the profession has been gainfully employed, consistently, for about forty years. He doesn’t just do Britishness and nobility, as this early turn as a slimy forger trying to outsmart Edward Fox shows. Pickup has excelled as real people (Orwell, yes, as well as Verdi and Einstein), and brings genuine class to aristocratic roles, but fine actors treat kings and paupers alike, and Pickup can create characters from scratch who are a million miles away from his actual personality.

The Physician in Doctor Who: The Reign Of Terror (the link is to a reconstruction, Pickup appears at 9 mins 31 seconds and it is his TV debut). I mention this only because it is an insignificant role in one episode of a not very well known Doctor Who story, and the episode he’s in doesn’t even exist anymore. Despite that, I suspect he gets more letters about it that he does about everything else he’s ever done put together. I don’t know if that makes me pleased that I’m a Doctor Who fan or ashamed, but I hope it doesn’t annoy the venerable Mr Pickup.

(Addendum: since I wrote this, I have met Mr Pickup and asked him about much of his work, and he was only too happy to talk about it all, including Doctor Who. The latter was his first job: he got it the week he graduated from drama school, and is therefore very grateful to it. What a gent).

Fell free to suggest other faces you’d like to get to know the names of.

Basic for now, links etc to follow:

JANUARY

6th-7th Jan
Frog And Bucket, Preston, MC

8th Jan
New Stuff, Comedy Store, MC.

10th Jan
XS Malarkey, MC (Dave Longley headlining)

11th Jan
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

13-14th Jan
Baby Blue, Albert Dock, Liverpool, MC

17th Jan
XS Malarkey, MC (Seymour Mace headlining)

18th Jan
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

20th Jan
Leeds, MC

21st Jan
Halifax, MC

24th Jan
XS Malarkey, MC (Mundo Jazz Headlining)

25th Jan
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

27th Jan
Corporate Booking

29th Jan
New Stuff, Comedy Store, Manchester, MC

31st Jan
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC (Mickey D headlining)

FEBRUARY

1st Feb
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

4th & 5th Feb
Recording and Broadcast of topical Radio 4 play in the “From Fact To Fiction” strand.

7th Feb
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC (Daliso Chaponda headlining)

8th Feb
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

10th – 11th Feb
Highlight, Camden, MC

11th Feb (daytime)
Big Finish Day

12th Feb
New Stuff, Comedy Store, Manchester

14th Feb
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC (Gary Delaney headlining)

15th Feb
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

21st Feb
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC (Dave Williams headlining)

22nd Feb
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

26th Feb
New Stuff, The Comedy Store, Manchester, MC

28th Feb
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC (Jo Enright headlining)

29th Feb
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

MARCH

2nd March
Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, Brewery Arts Centre, Kendal

6th March
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

7th March
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

9th-10th march
Highlight, Camden, MC

11th March
New Stuff, Comedy Store, Manchester, MC

13th March
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

14th March
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

16th March
Hereford, Headline set

17th March
Highlight, Watford, MC

20th March
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

21st March
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

23rd – 25th March
University Challenge TV Warm-Up

25th March
New Stuff, Comedy Store, Manchester, MC

27th March
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

28th March
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

30th March
Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, Neston Civic Hall

31st March
Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, Bradwell Village Hall

APRIL

3rd April
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

4th April
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

5th-7th April
Frog And Bucket, Manchester, MC

10th April
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

11th April
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

13th – 14th April
Highlight, Camden, MC

15th April
New Stuff, Comedy Store, Manchester, MC

17th April
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

18th April
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

20th-22nd April
University Challenge TV Warm-Up

24th April
XS Malarkey, Manchester, MC

25th April
99 Club, Leicester Square, MC

27th – 28th April
Laugh Inn, Chester, MC

29th April
New Stuff, Comedy Store, Manchester, MC

Next week, it’s the anniversary of when I began a comedy night that I hoped would give me regular employment for the next two and a half months. On October 4^th, XS Malarkey reopens to celebrate its fourteenth birthday.

We’d shut down for the first time over the summer as our venue, The Queen Of Hearts, was being refurbished, and this gave us plenty of time to consider the club’s future. I’d not been especially happy at the Queen as the venue never really seemed to have its (ahem) heart in the club and with a new brewery taking over I decided to reclaim Malarkey’s independent status. We’ve always worked best when not answerable to an area manager who knows nothing about comedy, hence our happiest times being at Remedy (a fantastic freehold venue closed by a short-sighted council).

It'll be a bit tidier than this when we open.

After some soul searching and a fabulous meeting of minds, we have opted to relocate to Platt Chapel, an ethical venue with a real desire to create something of an artistic hub in South Manchester in these financially trying times. They’re very much into audience interaction. You want real ale behind the bar? Great – let’s organise a tasting and you can vote on your favourite. Obviously, some of these things will take time to sort out, but there’s a real opportunity for you – as well as us – to create the environment here.

I’ll carry on booking the very best comedians. You just need to keep coming. We have always run on a not-for-profit basis, and we continue to do so. We have no budget, we are entirely dependent on ticket sales, which is why we rely on you to spread the word. In the current cash-strapped climate our prices of £3 (members) and £5 (non-members) for the level of comics we get is unparalleled. We’ve got an illustrious bevy of acts for our birthday, and in the next 6 weeks I can promise at least two high profile TV names. I can’t say when and who, because they’re playing the gig precisely so they can work in front of the XS crowd, and not some interlopers who’ve been lured by a famous person. One act we can announce is Stewart Francis, a Malarkey veteran (he played during that initial two-and-a-half month run that helped put us on the map) also seen on Mock The Week, who’ll be popping in at the end of November. We have a deliberate policy of promoting new talent alongside established acts, and don’t need to play it as safe as some clubs are obliged to at big weekend gigs. That means you never quite know what’s going to happen at Malarkey, except that it’ll be funny and cheap. And that I’ll probably be annoyed about something (just because I generally am).

Stewart Francis - A Malarkey Advocate

So please spread the word and get it out there that Malarkey is here to stay, and that there’s not a better value, high quality comedy night anywhere else in the country.

www.xsmalarkey.com

More pictures and infor on Facebook. Be sure and “Like” us: it’s terribly good for our self esteem.

For the sake of plurality, this blog will occasionally be given over to Jan Jones, The Daily Mail’s expert on cultural, social and media affairs, from her unique perspective of being fiscally comfortable mother of two with a second home in Provence and a stunning recipe for fruit cake. And you don’t achieve those dizzy heights without knowing a thing or two …

First up, Jan on Toby’s comedy club in Manchester, the current cricket test, and the state of our nation’s libraries.

THE JAN JONES OPINION

COLUMN ONE

To ensure some balance was restored to our suffering nation, a Daily Mail columnist ventured bravely to the frontline, at one of the country’s most critically acclaimed “alternative” comedy nights. To her lack of surprise, if you were black or gay or militant, you were welcome. But an ordinary working taxpayer … ?

Words by Jan Jones

Well that takes the biscuit (can you call them biscuits anymore? Probably not). I have been asked to write my thoughts on XS Malarkey comedy club, compered by this website’s host, the “comedian” Toby Hadoke. Do you see what I did there? I used inverted commas to say that he isn’t really one because I don’t find him funny. It’s brilliant – you can do it to anything you don’t like but don’t have the vocabulary to deconstruct. I bet they haven’t thought of that at the “Guardian”.

I have to say, I was frankly appalled by this “comedy” (see, it’s easy this humour thing) club. First off, the price. It was only £3 for members. £3 – why should an award winning comedy club be so cheap? I asked the woman at the “door” if this was the case but she, shockingly, insisted upon dealing with everyone who was in front of me in the queue. Wasn’t it enough that they were going to get in before me by sheer chronological advantageousness, but now this “woman” wasn’t even going to speak to me despite the fact that if she ever gets ill, it’ll be the tax I’ve paid that is used to cure her? When I finally did get to the front of the “queue”, I spat at the woman and attacked her with pliers and she had the affront to take offence. I was paying, surely I’m entitled to behave in any way I see fit? The customer is always right. Apparently not at XS so-called Malarkey, where they don’t allow stag dos or hen dos or office parties. Hmm, I wonder what their policy is on Muslim discos or gay backpackers? They probably let them in by the lorry load.

I could investigate this by going undercover, but frankly, I’m a journalist! Why should I be trying to find stuff out that people could just tell me. Well, not at XS Malarkey – apparently this girl couldn’t spare me the time because she had “a comedy night I need to get started”.

He'd have probably been allowed to stay

I looked around me: there were all sorts there. Students, couples, young professionals, people from the North. But what struck me was how much fun they were having. A typical example of today’s society: enjoying themselves, blissfully unaware that the spectre of  inheritance tax and compulsory recycling bins would very soon gobble them up and leave them as empty husks of pain. There were some comedians on, but they swore and joked about the Queen. Well, I assume they did, it was very difficult to hear because I was trying to talk to my 24 hour dry cleaners but what chance does a humble mother of two stand against a left winger with a microphone? They even had the audacity to ask me to be quiet. I didn’t ask them to be quiet, what right have they to deny me access round-the-clock skirt pleating and chemical stain removal? Really, this country.

It got me thinking though, this laughter business. I bet that tragic murder victim from Christmas would have liked to have enjoyed an evening of comedy, but she never will again. And yet none of these people saw fit to stop and ponder that for a moment. A shocking indictment of our selfish society.  And if she hadn’t been cruelly snatched from us, I doubt she’d be laughing at jokes about the government. She’d just be happy to be alive. She wouldn’t be demanding to wear a burkha or medicine for “depression” or joining a union. She’d just be grateful she got to eat her pizza.

My thoughts (and phone call to my friend Lynn) were rudely interrupted when I was asked to leave the premises. “We don’t tolerate people talking through the acts,” I was told. “Well, if you tolerate this then your children will be next,” I said, quoting that pop star. They had no words, and so I turned on my heel and was escorted from the premises.

I left, the “laughter” ringing in my ears. These people probably think they are happy, but they wait until their maid turns up late for work, or until the olive oil delivery becomes 50p more expensive because of fuel charges. Then they’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces (some of which were pierced).

A homeless man asked me for money as I made my way to my Land Rover. “I’m homeless,” he said. “Lucky you, you don’t have to pay council tax or contents insurance” I said, wisely. He had no answer to that.

And nor does so called “comedy”.

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Champagne : Illegal in India no doubt

Apparently the BBC give away something called a Champagne Moment during the cricket. Glad the BBC has plenty of champagne: something that I’ve singlehandedly paid for through my licence fee. However, this particular one was won by the Indian captain. Well, being Indian, it’s likely he’s a Muslim or Hindu or one of those other ones that aren’t quite as bad, and they don’t drink. I bet you no-one expected him to drink the champagne out of respect for our way of doing things. How different to if we’d been over there and won their equivalent, (the IBC’s Ramadan Moment or some such, no doubt). I bet you our poor, apologetic team of Westerners would have downed that Ramadan out of sheer politeness.

Think on.

************************************************************************************************************************

I rang my local library the other day and asked if they had  an organic chicken they could provide me with as I forgot to get one from my local butcher, who was now closed. They said they didn’t and when I told them that my job was terribly important and that I couldn’t do it without having a nice supper, they curtly told me that they only dealt in books, music and a small selection of educational DVDs.

Is it too much to ask people to think out of the box, provide genuine customer service, and stop being jobsworths?

Apparently not in today’s Britain.

This article originally appeared at the XS MALARKEY website. The club reopens in September after refurbishment.

For more Daily Mail wisdom, try this expose of the NHS.

PHILIP MADOC

I was at Alexandra Palace the other night to see my stepson perform for Kaos, the signing choir. That’s not a misspelling of singing, they are a signing choir: they sing and sign at the same time (try typing that drunk). The performance was facilitated by the London Welsh Male Voice Choir, whose patron, who I was delighted to see taking his place at the end of our row, is Philip Madoc. Excited, I informed the rest of my party. None of them knew the name. So shocked was I at the whole scenario that as I reeled off credits, my addled brain forgot to mention soggy chips, not telling Pike and German U-Boat captains.

But it got me thinking. I love British character actors, and I forget sometimes how actors I could recite the CV of (unaccountably mislaid wranglings with The Home Guard notwithstanding), might not resonate with the great unwashed as much as they should. Some of our finest talents are prolific and versatile and in most of our favourite shows. So there’s going to be some corner of the internet that is forever theirs. Everyone knows who Amanda Holden is for goodness’ sake. So there’s no excuse not having space for Madoc in your brain. In the first of an occasional series, I Know The Face But… dedicates a few paragraphs and links to the works of some of this nation’s finest performers, starting with, of course,

PHILIP MADOC

He really should need no introduction. He’s been in everything, bringing with him a suppressed venom or quiet danger to a number of character parts. He is sometimes on the side of the angels, where his rich Welsh tones add gravitas and weight to professional men or moral crusaders. For decades, though, he really was your actor of choice on TV if you wanted a terse, simmering, edgy villain. Despite often being focused, and using menace through stillness, Madoc also allows his eyes to light with fire and his mouth to twitch with flickering amusement. Tiny nuances flitter across his countenance to suggest that despite his apparent coldness, he’s only flirting with sanity. Well known for his intellect and ability with languages, Tom Baker once claimed to have caught him reading a book in Latin. One of those actors incapable of doing anything other than lift his part off the page, here’s a barely adequate five credits to pique your interest or trip your memory. Links to clips may come later, but I only speak pidgin internet at the moment.

Your name will certainly go on my list of venerable character actors, Mr Madoc

Yes, The German U-Boat Captain in Dad’s Army. ‘Nuff said. Well, not quite ‘nuff, for as every great comedian (and I) will tell you, you need a good straight man, and Madoc quite rightly doesn’t send up Mainwaring’s Nazi nemesis, instead playing the steely eyed Hun with all the patronising menace he would have done in an actual war film. The results are rightly legendary, and have ensured Madoc a pension’s worth of repeat fees from clip shows.

Noel Bain in A Mind To Kill. Pretty impressive for an actor who was a well known face in the late 1960s to still be trusted enough for his ability and profile to play a lead role in a long running series in the next century. Madoc starred as Bain for 10 years, playing the old school copper getting used to modern police methods in a series filmed in both Welsh and English.

Four appearances in TV Doctor Who (plus one on film). Alright, I’m not going to limit my choices for this blog-series to that show, but to be fair, it is Doctor Who fans who generally celebrate fine actors. More so, certainly, than modern TV critics (whose job should presuppose some knowledge of the

"Look into my eyes, not around the eyes..."

medium). Would Sam Wollaston or Ally Ross be able to identify Madoc at fifty paces? I doubt it. Anyway, he’s incapable of a bad performance, but the silky menace of his purring War Lord in The War Games and his slenderest grip on sanity as the zealous scientist Solon on The Brain Of Morbius are two distinct but equally effective studies in villainy. They also show how important facial hair is to intergalactic crime.

Starring in the title role of The Life And Times Of David Lloyd George. An epic production of the kind the BBC excelled at, mixing fine scripts of historical events with experienced actors delivering good dialogue, they trusted the audience that that would be enough. It was, and more.

Sir Alec Guinness simply wasn't available

Magua in The Last Of The Mohicans. Long before Daniel Day Lewis was sleeping rough and eating bracken for his art, BBC TV adapted James Fenimore Cooper’s novel into 8 episodes. Native American actors were scarce in the UK, but no matter when you have a stony faced, wild eyed Welshman to ooze vitriol as the Huron Indian Chief determined to scalp the maidens in distress under the protection of frontiersman Hawkeye (Kenneth Ives) and  Mohican chief Chingachgook (an Emmy nominated John Abineri).

The above is a tip of an impressive iceberg, and one that would easily sink some of today’s supposedly titanic CVs. The internet is your friend should you want to find more. I had the honour of meeting Mr Madoc once. Mr Bacchus joined us too, and we discussed his contributions to British television in a most convivial manner. Legend.

For suggestions to other entries in this series, do Tweet me, and I shall do my best to oblige.

Well, these ramblings have a sister blog entirely dedicated to all things that go with XS Malarkey, the comedy club I am proud to run in Fallowfield, Manchester, every Tuesday. The club is enjoying a rare rest whilst it gets refurbished, ready for a spanking relaunch in September.

To keep it separate from my more content lead stuff on here, I’ll be posting all things Malarkey on the XS Malarkey site, but will provide links in these here quarters should any accidental web tourists be interested.

XS Malarkey Blog One : One Day, Tuesday, Happy Day

Warning: This blog contains signs of the wear and tear of middle age.

1.       Listening to music on public transport loudly. This is includes using those useless headphones that seem designed to leak whatever racket you’re numbing your aural and neural pathways with, just enough to give everyone else in the vehicle/carriage a sort of hip-hop tinnitus. Then there’s not even bothering with headphones and just playing it loudly with a swagger that suggests you’ve got a knife or have no fear about administering a punch to a remonstrator. This shows that consideration for others in this country is about as popular as brushing your teeth with a chainsaw or drinking a syphilis milkshake. It’s also a sort of challenge, daring the timid commuter to ask you to desist just so you can give them lip or bust theirs. You may like your music, and fair play to you. You’re welcome to listen to it – so long as you use headphones that actually do the job headphones were designed to do. Lest we forget, they are the key component of something called a personal stereo – personal, as in for your own, private use. Otherwise it would’ve been called a Bus Disco, Tube Rave, or Pendolino Glastonbury.  There are things I enjoy doing that it might not be appropriate for me to do every time I would like to, and certainly not on the bus in the presence of other people. Like say, playing Twister, pretending to be a soldier in a film, or making love to my wife. And are any of these ear rapists listening to Suzanne Vega, Showaddywaddy or Daniel O’Donnell? I think not. My point is made.

2.       Saying “yourself” when you mean “you”, and “myself” when you mean “me”. Using words of unnecessary length makes proceedings appear neither more formal nor more intelligent. It just makes yourself sound thick.

3.       Shrinking TV credits. That our major national broadcasters think that the sudden appearance of the English Language on our screens will have us reaching for our remotes insults us. Yes, there are some people who do that, but in my kingdom those people will not exist. They will never have existed. Readable credits are a conduit behind the scenes, and a good theme tune stays with you forever and gives you a comforting shroud of nostalgia on a lonely night. They are essential elements of the viewing experience, not to be used as nests for the advertising cuckoo. If I want to watch what’s coming next, I will, but not because you’ve just shouted at me to do so and thus mucked up the ending of something into which I’d happily immersed myself. Would the Mona Lisa really be improved by having sticker in the corner with “Look, over there, it’s the Venus de Milo, she’s ‘armless!”? (the answer to that, by the way, is no). As punishment, any TV exec who sanctions this will have someone shout in their ear, every time they make love, “Coming soon, a melancholy feeling of at worst shame, and at best inadequacy – stay tuned” just at the moment of orgasm.

4.       Treating the opinions of Richard Littlejohn with any seriousness whatsoever. This will be redefined as a hate crime and awarded the maximum possible sentence.

5.       Dropping litter. I sometimes pick up discarded things like cigarette packets and say “you dropped this” and when they reply “oh, it’s empty”, I put it in the nearby bin and say “Oh, look, that was difficult wasn’t it?” This will, one day, get me killed. If you’re a grown-up who can’t use a bin, you don’t deserve democracy, frankly.

6.       Sitting on a train where one of the few plug sockets is but not using the plug socket for anything. This will be a capital offence. With no right to appeal.

7.       Tabloid newspapers quoting “a friend” of whomever they’re doing a hack job on, who speaks in apposite puns. You know the sort of thing, a friend of a cricketing cuckold’s mistress quoted saying that “after a short first innings his middle stump wouldn’t stay up for a second one” or the friend of a woman having an affair with a World War 1 veteran saying that when they first saw each other it was “The Phwoar To End All Phwoars”. It’s bad enough that they use something as precious as freedom of the press and abuse it to reduce national discourse to childish tittering. But to parade such dishonesty about using the weakest humour available to humanity on one page and then assuming the umbrage of the morally affronted on the next is worse than stabbing a sleeping child’s head with a pin whilst its mother isn’t looking.

"Did you see the game last night? Yes, me too. OMG - What a goal. ... Oh, hang on, my patient seems to have exploded"

8.       Talking on the phone when you serve me in a shop. Can I take a call when I’m at work? No. Halfway through a set I’d be rightly pelted with eggs if I said to the audience “Hang on, this is more important than you” and answered my mobile. Bus drivers don’t do it either. Or teachers. I’ve never seen a judge dial out for pizza during a trial. I’m sure not even the most bargain basement lady of the night would break of her servicing of whichever inadequate requires a siphoning to book a holiday or ask about improved broadband services. So, shopkeep, nor should you when I’m purchasing a Wagon Wheel, crucifix or lingerie magazine.

9.       Not tipping your waiter, who’s given you good service because “well, it’s optional innit.” Yes, you have the option not to tip if the service wasn’t very good, but not just because you’re not in the giving vein today. It’s optional for me not to batter your face with a cactus mallet or scythe your baby, but I doubt you’d take that as an excuse. If you had decent service and you don’t tip you’re a twat. Simple. Don’t try to intellectualise it by saying – well, I don’t tip person in x,y and z job, either. Waiters’ wages are kept low because of the tipping system. You’re not bucking that system or campaigning for higher wages by not playing ball, you’re simply denying the person who has worked for you all night what they might reasonably expect for doing a good job.

10.   Being anonymous on the internet. This would suddenly emasculate the world’s keyboard warriors pretty quickly. Imagine having your name and address flash up every time you fancy yourself as a cyberspace Oscar Wilde (if Wilde was a witless hobgoblin who only developed a pair when cloaked in anonymity and protected by a monitor screen that serves as a vileness amplifier). They’d also, in true Bullseye! style, be shown all the real life girls they could have touched if they hadn’t spent their lives articulating their own crushing lack of self-esteem and achievement through a conduit of bile pixels that contribute precisely nothing of value to anyone or anything, anywhere, ever.

Oooh, what’s that sensation? Oh yes, my chest feels much lighter now.

See you at the coronation.

Warning : this blog provides mild amusement at best.

Now then, in my blogging for a week experiment I have discovered that the (relative) pithiness of my Top Ten from the other day (Oh God, it was weeks ago: so much for “every day”) seems to have elicited the most popular response in terms of feedback and numbers. So I shall do a repeat (if it’s good enough for UK Gold it is good enough for me) but this time trying to accentuate the positive (a bit like in my book Running Through Corridors which lesser men than me would blatantly plug whilst warning that the first print run has nearly sold out).

As well as the best feedback it has also had the silliest, with someone telling me that my Ten Things That Annoy Me More Than I Think They Would If I Were A Reasonable Human Being were quite normal and that I had erroneously used the phrase “personality disorder” to describe my grumpiness. Possibly, or perhaps I was taking something that has a basis in truth and extrapolating it for whimsical or comic effect. Almost as if I was adopting the modus operandi of a professional comedian or something. Similarly, if I type a sentence like “I was so shocked I almost had a heart attack” I don’t mean that I was actually really having a heart attack or that I am somehow undermining the true suffering of heart attack victims. If you think that I am, I suggest you spend less time trawling the internet looking to take offence and find some stuff in the real world to get annoyed about as there’s plenty that doesn’t involve the application of semantic gymnastics to manufacture umbrage.

Anyway, positive, positive:

1. Tic Tacs – Just another sweet, sure, but a veteran of the confection world (he’s outlived the Pacer, the Banjo and the Texan Bar) who was never my first choice as a child but was always noted for its uniqueness. No other sweet quite rattled so in a box. Tics Tacs were also always mint – I remember the introduction (to my world at least) of the orange and lime flavours and was initially quite impressed if a little suspicious of this dual coloured interloper. Hitting Europe in my travels I’ve discovered a large number of varieties, but as with voting and love making, clearly we Brits can only be trusted with the most straightforward and uncomplicated varieties. Euro-sceptics could reasonably cite the recent creeping barrage of passion fruit and cherry flavour onto our territories as evidence of our capitulation to the continent, but most of us will simply enjoy the inspired taste-combination for its deliciousness. The lesser spotted sleeper agent that is lychee and grape, however, possesses that petrol fume flavour for which yer actual lychee is so inexplicably prized. And as an occasional weight watcher, that you can neck a box with apparently little threat to your waistline is final proof that these are little sticks of joy dynamite that blow your tastebuds but not your physique. In America they have cinnamon flavour, which almost makes up or their inability to spell theatre properly.

2. Inspector Crabtree from ‘Allo ‘Allo – ‘Allo ‘Allo isn’t the greatest comedy of all time. It’s not especially my cup of tea (I’m

more of a satire/dry humour type of chap), but there are achievements in the world of popular entertainment that I don’t think are appreciated enough due to the fact that they were in, well, popular entertainment. And Inspector Crabtree is one – an absolutely inspired and well-wrought creation that was just one part of the make-up of a programme that became televisual furniture for years. Not a programme such as The Killing that makes you sound impressive at dinner parties, or like Brass Eye that demonstrates how savvy and maverick your tastes are, or even The Only Way Is Essex which blithely displays your sense of irony and lack of pretention (whilst unwittingly contributing to the destruction of the universe, may I add). This was just on and people just watched it. The conceit was simple with ‘Allo ‘Allo – take the fact that the actors playing Germans in the brilliant wartime drama Secret Army spoke in German accents and do the same, but with exaggeration (in addition to the comedy French accents which – unlike Secret Army – were given to our heroes). By adding a farcical element and catchphrase characters to the humour it somehow managed to dodge any squeamishness we may have had about a comedy set during an atrocity in which millions died. In series two, someone hit upon the genius idea that an incognito Englishman could disguise himself as a gendarme. In the logic of the ‘Allo ‘Allo world his inability to speak French well would manifest itself as inexpertly wrought English in a daft accent. The result was desperately stupid – and very, very funny. Add to that the mighty Arthur Bostrom playing the role absolutely dead straight and you have a comic creation of such brilliance it should be celebrated every time great British comedy is mentioned. Every time I hear the line “Good moaning” or see Bostrom’s face etched in earnestness, as he conspiratorially whispers that he was “pissing through the streets” I do an enormous amount of pissing, myself (pissing myself).

3. Ladybirds – You’ve got to love a ladybird. Most garden dwellers that are brave enough to hang about with us humans are of fairly mundane appearance (those black beetle fellows, greenflies etc) or nice enough looking of themselves, but not so much so that we don’t soon get used to them (you know, bees and things). But there’s nothing quite like a ladybird – a little compact nodule of colour, gamely crawling on your hand without being tickly or slimy or threatening, and then hoiking itself off optimistically as its dainty wings provide unlikely carriage for its Mini Cooper frame. There’s even a song about them, in which they are encouraged to save their children from arson. What’s not to love?

4. The Shipping Forecast on Radio 4 - It has no practical or entertainment value for me whatsoever. I don’t even know what it means. But the fact that it is there and always has been, I find rather wonderful and comforting. It’s something that interrupts something that the majority of people are enjoying to give vital information to a small minority, and nobody minds. That’s how life should be. It’s like aural mogadon – calming, relaxing, and the key to a less stressful life. Part of me does worry though, that it’s one big joke that’s got out of hand but that nobody has quite had the courage to own up to (I mean come on – Dogger? German Bite? Yeah, right).

Scrunch

5. The nice scrunchy sound my laptop makes when I send something to the recycle bin – I like it. It sounds scrunchy. And nice (see also, Bagpuss’s yawn).

6. Bernard Cribbins – if you need a reason you are not human. Even his name is brilliant. Bernard and Cribbins, the stuff that unassuming British institutions are made of. We all know he’s the charming, quirky array of voices of The Wombles, the comic crooner of Right Said Fred (why does that work? No idea, but it’s fab), and of course, the impossible-not-to-love Wilfred Mott, funny and heartbreaking in a trice in Doctor Who. But remind yourself of his fantastic turn as the irritating suspected Hotel Inspector in Fawlty Towers for a sublime piece of character acting. We don’t make ‘em like Cribbins anymore, and that’s a terrible shame. His knighthood is long overdue (after I drafted this his OBE was announced – well deserved but not enough).

7. Penguin Book Covers – I love a book. I like having books more than I actually read them. And there’s something about the simplicity of the penguin covers – a thick stripe of orange, sometimes green, a penguin, the title and author in a humble, undemonstrative font … classic design work. It’s like the No Frills of the publishing world yet brings with it none of that itinerant snobbery about cheapness. There’s something honourable about a raft of papers containing a great work of literature but being confident enough in its own worth not to carry a hefty price tag. It’s like the millionaire who wanders around with wellies and a hole in his jumper but is well spoken, erudite and intellectual. You can’t buy class. Except you can, in book form, and as I’ve demonstrated, for not very much money.

8. Cryptic Crosswords – Nothing in the universe can make you feel both abjectly thick and rather pleased with how clever you are than a cryptic crossword. You can stare at them, baffled, and make absolutely no headway, or you can make relatively decent progress. I’ve never actually completed one, and am certainly nowhere near to being an expert, but there’s nothing wrong with having something achievable to try to crack and improve at. Especially if it stimulates your brain cells and gives you something to do on the bus other than tsk at boisterous young people. I tend to do them when I’m in a play (I generally get cast in roles that have plenty of time off stage and require the acquisition of a hobby) so they also comfort me that I’m being gainfully employed. Favourite clues have included “Half of the alphabet is very small (4)” which is ATOM (A to M geddit?), and “Cowardly Balloonist? (7,2,1,6)” which is, gloriously, CHICKEN IN A BASKET.

9. The “Slippery Surface” Road Sign – because no matter how often I see it, I always try to rationalise the tyre markings which are surely impossible to achieve. It’s one of the Seven Wonders Of The Even More Modern World (others include that unfathomable feeling of approval and admiration one feels upon seeing an old man with a sculpted handlebar moustache, the creation of the name Barry Scott to conjure just the right naffness:knowingness ratio to effectively market a cleaning product, and The Tube Map).

10. The fact that even though raspberries are red, making raspberry slush puppies blue sort of makes sense – it does. They taste blue. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is.

I thought by saying I would blog every day would make me do it. But it hasn’t. I am going to blog more though, so keep an eye out. I’ve also been doing some other writing, so watch this space. It’s worth noting that the one about how irritating things are was much easier to do than this one about things I enjoy. A sad reflection of humanity, its inherent grouchiness and alacrity for criticism (and by “humanity” I may well mean “me” but what the hell, if I’m going down I’m going to take you all with me).

Warning : This blog’s initial draft contained a reference to Jedward that was replaced with something marginally less predictable.

I’ve been supposed to be blogging every day this week as a test of discipline and to see if I can be remotely interesting, but haven’t posted yesterday’s up as it needs some cosmetic surgery and doesn’t quite make sense yet. I’d left myself plenty of time but I’d had a bit of travel hassle that led to my train journey and subsequent gig being cancelled. Then Doctor Who was on, I drank some Chablis and then the evening disappeared in a blur brought on by mind boggling continuity developments and Bacchus’s brain-fug juice. So I may post yesterday’s blog up later tonight or even tomorrow, which isn’t quite blogging every day but I could get away with it by saying it’s a clever timey-wimey manipulation, or, for the more down to earth, argue that it’s a bank holiday weekend and so one of the days somehow doesn’t count. Or, like the Sinclair C5, the coalition government or Cheryl Cole on X-Factor USA, you could just deem the “blogging every day for a week” thing a failed experiment and gloat.

Whatever.

Anyway, there are a number of things that annoy me that I’m perfectly happy annoy me. I am supposed to be annoyed by things like shrinking TV credits, that little evil plastic hair shard bit from a trainer that sometimes sticks into your foot and itches that you can never quite find or prise out or work out what it’s bloody doing there in the first place, and genocide. Being miffed about those shows that I am a righteous, frail and reasoned human being. But despite the fact that I think I’m generally quite benign, and pretty easygoing if you get to meet me, there are some things that annoy bat-shit out of my brain-cave that in my more contemplative moments lead me to think I have some kind of personality disorder. This isn’t that contrived “grumpy old man” oo-isn’t-Ikea-irritating nonsense. That’s been done to death. I’m actually worried that being irked by the following might just mean I’m evil.

I do hope not, it would be most inconvenient.

The following is best read in a voice of slightly strangulated indignation:

1.       Finsbury Park Tube station has a tunnel that leads to and from the tubes. There is a barrier in the middle so people all have to walk in the same direction (decided by which side they’re on) and so not bash into each other. So far so good. However, the whole design is rendered useless when people walk three abreast on one side (making those behind them unable to overtake) and amble, chatting,

Looks Innocent Enough Now, But Just Add People And It Becomes Worse Than A Big War

oblivious to the fact that people behind them might – what with all the tube trains and things lying about – be in something of a hurry (see also people who stand side by side on escalators and people who stop walking to chat or look at a map in a fucking doorway).

2.       “There’s millions said Henry* all under one roof.” There may be Henry, but the backward R in Toys R (no, I’m not doing it on a point of principle … and because I can’t with this keyboard) Us isn’t the worst of your evils. There are millions Henry, not there’s millions, and it’d still scan if you said it correctly. You benefit neither your ditty nor your target audience by your slapdash approach, Henry. People make spelling and grammatical mistakes all the time – I’m no lexicographical fascist and can forgive this. To perpetrate such felonies on purpose to be either cool or branded makes you Satan’s fluffer here on Earth, Henry, you giraffe-bastard. No wonder our children are feral.

3.       People texting or calling me when Doctor Who is on (I should put it on silent, sure, but I expect people to know and leave it on deliberately so that I can get annoyed).

4.       I like to cook because I hope I’m quite good at it, I get a great feeling when people enjoy my creations, and like to think the whole process is creative, cathartic and rewarding. Speak to me whilst I’m doing it however, and I’m about as pleasant as a chlamydia sandwich at Jeremy Clarkson’s house.

5.       My eldest son remembers the minutiae of television episodes and describes them in detail, without pause, recalling dialogue, jokes, and situations. I find myself getting grumpy with him for doing so despite the fact that it’s what I do for a living and what I did when I was his age (and probably to a greater extent).

6.       The fact that the makers of Appletise bowed to public ignorance and renamed it Appletiser. Why? The public were wrong. Just because everyone pronounced it incorrectly wasn’t a reason to change the name. Especially as the people who did it will now think they were right all along. That’s like God ironing the Earth just to make the ignoramuses who thought it was flat feel good about themselves. Or Wendy Richard changing her name by deed-poll to Wendy Richards. Or the word “ask” deciding to spell itself “arks” because some cockneys can’t talk properly.

Correct

Evil

7.       Fussy eaters. I hated loads of food as a kid. My Mum made me eat it. I learned to like it. Anyone else that can’t be bothered to go through that process deserves at best starvation and at worst, some sort of extreme food camp where desperately middle class fascists like me force feed them asparagus and wean them off Big Macs. A bit like those courses where batty Christians try to cure people of being gay, except morally right. “I don’t like any vegetables” I hear people say. As if vegetables all taste the same. That’s like me saying “I don’t like any people” just because some people – like you – can’t be bothered to see if your taste buds might have matured since you were six.

8.       The fact that for about 7 years I didn’t realise that Jools Holland’s Annual Hootenanny wasn’t live. When I found out the truth it was, of course, so obvious  – why would those high end celebs (no Big Brother winners here ) all give up their family New Year’s Eve to sit in a BBC studio to listen to Ladysmith Black Mambazo doing covers of Kajagoogoo’s back catalogue? Yet I was still crushingly disappointed when I found out. And I don’t even care about music. Or know who any of the people on it are. Except Jools Holland.

9.       When I was a kid I did amateur dramatics with a woman called Glenys. That’s right, Glenys. Except my Mum always pronounced it Glynis, even when I’d corrected her more times than Keith Allen’s come across as a bit of a knob in interviews. When I hear her say it in my head, now, as I type, it bothers me so much that I’ve gritted my teeth enough to give me lockjaw. It’s like the mispronunciation equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard. She probably hasn’t done it for twenty years, but I know, deep down, that I can never forgive her.

10.   I still haven’t thought of a reasonable excuse for not having done yesterday’s blog, and even though it’s up to me whether or not I do it and it doesn’t really matter, it still really annoys me, and it annoys me even more that I’m explaining it and justifying it in a massively uninteresting way but nonetheless feel the need to clarify my position even though I don’t know what that position is.

There you go. I never said they had to be enlightening.

XX

* Before you both write in, the Giraffe Grammar Pervert is called Geoffrey (of course, alliteration is your friend when luring children into your den of imminent parent poverty) not Henry. I let my initial mistake stand because (a) I’m not afraid to admit to mine and (b) Glenys Barber (very good) who points out the mistake in the comments below does so in an extremely witty way and deserves credit for doing so.

Warning: This blog contains a number of justifications for hypocrisy.

I’ve had this blog for ages, but only really updated it sporadically because to be perfectly honest, and despite the fact that I have chosen to earn my living standing in front of strangers, demanding their attention and craving their applause, there is something that makes me view attention seeking as somewhat distasteful. Doing stand-up may seem to be the anathema of this point of view, but the way I – as someone who has to spends hours plucking up the courage to send an unsolicited e-mail to someone I like or to phone an official body – see it is this: with stand-up, I have been given permission. There is no way I would prat about in front of a room full of people going “Me, me, me” just for the attention,  but the infrastructure of a comedy night is such that there is a stage and a microphone that people have chosen to pay money to look at and listen to. The people who have been invited to tell world class jokes (say, Gary Delaney), issue satirical barbs (say, Mark Thomas), or fume about trivial issues in a way which would be unacceptable in proper social situations (say, um, … me) have usually earned the right to get up there and do it. Usually through hard work, perseverance or talent, although occasionally through chronic lack of self-awareness, overweening arrogance and bewildering good fortune (say, err, … no, I’d better not say). Despite my job, I wouldn’t describe myself (or indeed, most comics) as massive show offs. Around my family dinner table I’m not especially keen on dominating a conversation and I find new social situations with unfamiliar people absolutely crippling. Give me a microphone and an obligation to fill the silence, and any urge to receive attention feels legitimised (but still has to be earned).

One of the things I’ve tried to talk about on stage recently is how dreadfully narcissistic we have become as a society. Self-expression without the need for social interaction to facilitate it has bred a generation of keyboard warriors and worriers. People go to forums to join with like-minded individuals to share ideas and spread the joy about their hobby, passion or favourite TV programme. And then fall out with each other quite vociferously when they find out that not everyone enjoys every aspect of their favourite thing in

A troll yesterday. Or the day before. Or maybe the day before that. Whatever day it was, he didn't have sex. And that includes tomorrow.

exactly the same way that they do. The rise of the internet troll has suddenly given worldwide exposure to the most kickable members of the human race. In the old days, if you wanted to be a mouthy prick you needed to be able to run fast or cultivate a powerful physique. These days you just need an e-mail account and no self-editor.

Twitter is the ultimate one way expression outlet, and with it comes a curious hierarchy that says everything about how it works. If I follow Mr X because he’s a famous comedian, I’m showing that I, Mr T (and why not?) admire him and want to read his jokes and opinions. The thing is, I’m also in his profession, so if he follows me he is conferring status and affirmation to me very publicly (his followers will think that if this comedian they really like, Mr X, follows this other comedian Mr T, then Mr T must be pretty good). If, on the other hand, he doesn’t follow me in return, he is accepting patronage but tacitly acknowledging that I am not in his league, or worthy of his attention. Similarly, if an up-and-coming comic (Mr Y) follows me, but I don’t choose to follow them, surely I’m saying “Yes, devour the wise yet pithy saws and modern instances I can conjure in 140 characters or less” at the same time as saying “But I don’t care whether you do or not, because frankly my life is busy enough not to be distracted by your attempts at wit”. Not so much Mr Y as Mr Y Should I Be Bothered By What You’re Banging On About?  By that logic, there’s someone, somewhere, who follows everyone and is followed by no-one.

You sir, are officially the worst human being on the planet.

"I am the only one who listens. I am your only friend. Kill the humans"

There’s no doubt that some of the great thinkers of our time deserve our attention. Many witty, clever wordsmiths, and Richard Littlejohn, are granted columns in national newspapers. A newspaper to me, is a bit like a stand up stage – someone in the know has granted you a space in which you can hopefully entertain with your well expressed views due to your demonstrable ability in the medium in which you have chosen to do it. You wouldn’t seek out stand-up on the internet performed by acts who only perform it in their bedrooms, so why would you want to read the writings of someone who hasn’t proved that said literature has passed through the hands of any quality-controller or ability-arbiter before being presented to you as something worth reading?

But this is the world we live in. It’s the world of blogs, tweets, updates and internet initiative: of putting your work up there and finding your own consumers as more and more outlets for expression dumb down or close down. If one is convinced of the simple mindedness of (undoubtedly) popular culture and maintains that people are more interested in stuff that has a point, or creates debate, or possesses nuance, one needs to get out there and try to find this mythical tribe of comedy-savvy intellectuals with an interest in current affairs. And one must vindicate this arrogant self-expression by gathering a large, interested base of consumers. It sounds horribly capitalist doesn’t it? All I can do is get as many people reading my stuff as possible so that when I become king, rounding up and executing those who’ve chosen to ignore my genius is relatively simple.

So in a way, reading this has just saved your life. Well done.

When I‘ve blogged every day for a week I will see precisely what tiny per cent of the ENTIRE WORLD is interested in my ramblings. I’m not sure I would be, and what I discover may be most sobering. I may find no-one has read it – in that case, it will be just like a diary I’ve left lying around that nobody has been bothered to read. I think I can live with that. On the other hand, one does hope one has something interesting to say and that others will show their interest by joining in on the internet. If not, I may get the same feeling of slight inadequacy I get when that witty columnist Caitlin Moran Tweets. She’s funny, clever, writes well, loves Doctor Who and lives near me. But am I important enough for her to follow me on Twitter? Nope. It’s a cruel hierarchy. In following her, I was really asking to be her friend. Isn’t that what we’re doing when we make statements, offer opinions and write funny things on Twitter, Facebook and blogs. Aren’t we just saying “Please be my friend?”

If you disagree, you’re probably not my friend.

Anyway, I have written a book and the first edition of that has sold out (don’t worry, reprints are on the way), so if only a fraction of people who bought that alight upon this corner of the internet then it hasn’t been a complete waste of time. Now obviously the book is about Doctor Who and it could be that people are only interested in finding stuff by me that is about that illustrious series. In which case I’d have to keep inserting the name Doctor Who into my posts. That’s Doctor Who. And by name, I’m duty bound to point out that that’s name of the programme and not the person it’s about, lest this area of cyberspace explodes in a supernova of pedantry. What name are you talking about, I hear you cry? Why, Doctor Who, of course. Yes, that’s the one. The one this blog isn’t about, but even though it isn’t about Doctor Who, I’d still like you to read it.

Doctor Who related or not.

If, like me, you’re interested in Doctor Who, you could follow me on Twitter. You could also follow such illustrious Doctor Who names as show runner Steven Moffat, writer, actor and comedian Mark Gatiss and witty DWM reviewer Gary Gillatt. I do. Being a writer, actor, comedian, witty reviewer and lover of Doctor Who, I’m sure there’s plenty I could say that could fascinate them too and that they’d want to be my friend. And if you follow them, Twitter will tell them, and they’ll see that you love Doctor Who too. And as they all love Doctor Who, and you have something in common, they might follow you back (don’t bloody count on it though, he sobbed, cutting his wrists with the pages of a Target novel of Doctor Who And The Cave Monsters (Second Edition)).

"Toby Who?"

Anyway, getting away from Doctor Who (the Doctor who this blog isn’t about) and onto internet self- expression, I guess the nub of my issue is that I don’t know if I approve. Thing is, I’m not sure I trust it. I am not sure it is healthy. I’m not sure we can trust humanity with it. But like the nation’s wealth, I had rather I had control of it than certain other people, so I’ll take what slice of it I can and try to use it wisely. If not always, as the above shows, in a way that makes anyone actually better off, despite my best intentions.

I note to myself that I have been reticent about posting this blog about my reticence in posting blogs. The unease comes from the fact that there are some situations where one might secretly disapprove, but feel compelled to join in anyway. In a football crowd perhaps. In a drinking game. At an orgy.

So welcome to my orgy. Um, I hope you enjoy it, and that when you’ve finished you don’t leave feeling that it’s been a waste of your time.

Or with a nasty taste in your mouth.