Barbeque & A 'n' R&R

Yesterday, I found myself at a hastily organised barbeque. While it was organised quickly, years of barbeque organisation on the part of the organiser truly paid off, and fun and a full stomach was had by all. The position of Head Barbequeer was allotted responsibly, which is of crucial importance. The Head was a grizzled veteran of barbequing, and the undercooked mess I had assumed all barbeque to be was disproved magnificently. If either Organiser or Head Barbequeer are reading this, my thanks and compliments, it was a wonderful night.

It was a fairly dynamic affair, I turned up with my ACREstablemate Dafydd, and the rest of the barbeque (apart from the Organiser) consisted of people I had met once or twice before and a number I'd never met. This would usually mean that slight awkwardness and heel-scuffing was to follow, but it turned into a really nice night. The dynamism was added to further as people left early and were replaced by latecomers, meaning that fresh energy was always being added. A few old friends turned up (for me) unexpectedly, and it was excellent to have a catch-up.

As the night wore on, it felt as though Dafydd and I took over the conversation more and more with fairly full on filthy topics. It got to the point of hysteria a number of times, and laughing to the point of not being able to breathe was further intensified by the nearby campfire. I very much enjoyed this inappropriate improvised vulgar double act, and it was a delight to see people we didn't know really enjoying our puerility, only slightly more delightful than seeing the disapproving looks of those who weren't.

Two barbequees in particular did not enjoy these 'japes'.

Two American transfer-students, one male, one female, were also at the barbeque, as acquaintances another of the guests had made whilst travelling. They were amiable and talkative for the most part, although something eventually went awry. My back was first raised when the man, during a discussion on the idiosyncratic differences between the UK and the US, inquired:

"So, this may be a weird question but you haven't got anything strange like having made gay marriage legal over here have you?"

I was slightly taken aback, but Dafydd saved the day magnificently with his instant reply:
"Yeah it's not just legal over here, it's encouraged!".

Having misjudged us quite significantly, he was completely wrong footed and he quickly fell silent with the look of a non-swimmer caught in a mortifyingly realistic recreation of Waterworld plastered over his fundamentalist Christian face. They were full-on you're-all-going-to-hell-and-I-might-be-aswell-for-being-at-this-bbq Christians. They were lovely, apart from their lazy, hateful beliefs.

They didn't much enjoy anything I said.

My favourite discussion I instigated that they definitely wouldn't have enjoyed began with me struggling to get my words out. I don't know if this happens to other people, or whether I occasionally fall into some sort of mania where my own ideas amuse myself to the point where I have trouble getting the idea out. If only people would start to think I am as funny as I find myself (occasionally). When I finally managed to get my sentence out, I began an hour long experiment in vulgar tedium. I asked:

"When Spiderman ejaculates, does it come out as a web?".

At the time, I was bent double laughing. It was probably my enjoyment, rather than the actual idea which made Dafydd join in. It was at that point that the American asked "Is he serious?", which made me laugh all the more. Yes, I was being serious. I wanted to know whether, at the point of climax, the fictional superhero Spiderman's fictional superpowers stretch even to his ejaculate. Of course, he should have known I was being facetious, because Spiderman's webs aren't a part of his powers, they are chemical tools loaded onto Peter Parker's wrist, hence how he can run out of webs. Pedantry would have killed my fun, but he wasn't anywhere near pedantic enough.

What I have learnt about myself is that I am an incredibly single minded individual when I have discovered a new comedic formula, and if I am in the right mood I will relentlessly plough that furrow until it is empty, and I am exhausted. The new formula was superheroes + ejaculation = amusing sperm. I was delighted, the Christians less so.

My favourite picks are these:

Cyclops - Power: Shoots lasers from his single eye = self-explanatory.
Captain America - Power: Not really sure, super strength? = shoots twirling shields out of his peep.
Rogue - Power: stealing other people's powers = steals a man wang and does them with their own bits
Iron Man - Power: iron suit = normal semen
Captain Planet: Power: he is Green (as in looking after the environment) = pure white semen which he shoots over oil-covered seals which washes them clean (also dolphins).

As we ran out of steam, the topic changed and we veered away from such superheroic filth. But as the other chatted about something knew, I came up with a final, delightful example. I patiently, callously waited until the conversation petered out, and in the ensuing silence I flung my final attempt in the direction of the forlorn Americans;

"Does The Thing spunk bricks?".

I am delighted by myself.

As the night wore on everyone left, the christians seemed to harbor no ill-will towards me, and I had enjoyed myself thoroughly. My petty attempts to make the two uncomfortable, and it was incredibly petty, had worked, and they had conducted themselves in a christianly way and turned the other cheek. Luckily for them The Thing wasn't there, or he's have seen their other cheek and come down on them like a ton of bricks.

Though none of us lived in the house the final three contenders in the garden (I am watching way too much Royal Rumble) were me, Daf and the Head Barbequeer. Daf indulged in his favoured past time of tending the fire, which therefore burned beautifully for hours on end, and we sat outside idly philosophising, discussing old video games and appreciating the moon.

We got home irresponsibly late, and I awoke responsibly early, so my exhaustion is all to do with responsibility. Response-silly-ability. I am tired.

www.theacre.net
@adamgilder
acrecomedy@gmail.com

What have Mail and Rumbles got in common?

Royalty.

When I ventured downstairs after arising this fine Wednesday morn, I discovered that I had been served an annoying note from a delivery company apologising that they had called and that the house had been empty. Of course, there would be no need to apologise had the house actually been empty, the apology should in fact read: "We're very sorry, we tried to deliver your parcel but we have sub-standard door-knocking/attention-grabbing skills, and our feeble knocking failed to wake you from your Snorlaxian slumber.

Underneath the mass-produced apology, which suggests that they foresaw their own inadequacy (FOR SHAME!), I saw a hastily scribbled phrase. It read: "behind the plant pot on the decking". Not even a full sentence. I was disgusted. I also felt that the slip of paper should have read: "we're very sorry, we tried to deliver the parcel and you weren't in, so we played a dangerous game of half-arsed treasure hunt with a possible risk of your parcel being nabbed from your garden, lots of love, I Hate My Job, Sr."

It's probably not around to ferret parcels in the garden instead of actually delivering them, but on this occasion it worked out, and the nuisance of having to get up early on the off-chance they come back to redeliver this week has been avoided. Thank you, I Hate My Job, Sr!

So in other parcel news, I received the first volume of the Royal Rumble Anthology this week, because I am a fool for a Royal Rumble. I was addicted to wrestling as a child, and my love of the Royal Rumble has survived into my adult life in spectacular style. I don't know why I love over-the-top-rope eliminations, but I do, I love them very very much. Watching wrestling, as an adult, requires a hefty suspension of disbelief, and also requires that I step away from any sort of cynicism, which is highly refreshing as cynicism is like a splodge of black paint which can easily smudge and darken an otherwise pastel piece. That's right, I am watching wrestling because it makes me a less harsh person, so leave me alone before I eliminate you.

I was a bit disappointed, therefore, by Royal Rumble 1991. When I began to play the disc, I expected to view roughly 3 hours worth of gargantuan/steroid-filled/fat men bouncing into each other and gurning ludicrously. I was looking for the best of acrobatic pantomime, athletic slapstick. While these things did occur, there was an overwhelmingly blatant stream of propaganda running throughout the event. I was slightly suspicious from "Rowdy" Roddy Piper's impassioned monologue/shouting like a maniac at the start, which featured the phrase 'our boys' quite heavily. My knowledge of modern warfare is very limited, and so it was necessary for me to have it spelt out for me, which it was fairly quickly, 'our boys' were away involved in Operation Desert Storm. I don't really know enough about the occasion to comment with any confidence, but I am fairly pacifistic in my tendencies, despite the fact I am, of my own 22 year old free will, watching wrestling, and I didn't enjoy the jingoistic pro-war messages clumsily doled out during the event. I think that conflict of any kind, but especially on that scale, has such complicated and varied motivations which I don't feel a WWF main even can convey with sufficient subtlety and tact. Supplying the Ultimate Warrior with a leather jacket bearing 'Old Glory' and pitting him against Sgt. Slaughter who suddenly is allied with General Adnan, an Iraqi general character who spends most of his time shouting 'allahu akbar' into the microphone, is a tactless and cackhanded attempt to address the issue.

　
The event ends with Hulk Hogan posing as his theme music plays behind him ("I am a real American, Fight for the rights of every man, I am a real American, fight for what's right, fight for your life!") before he pulls various signs from the audience which read things like 'Peace in the Middle East' (slightly ironic but responsible choice from the Hulkster) and later 'Slaughter and Saddam will Surrender'. The downfall of Saddam was promised a few times in the show, and given that with hindsight we know it took over 10 years and another war for this to occur, make the comments seem poignantly naive. Although Hulk Hogan was (and is) still wrestling at that time, so if he was instrumental in the eventual capture of Saddam that would have been hugely impressive (and entertaining).

The number of conservative and particularly far-right individuals among the wrestling contingent is upsettingly high, not sure what it is about the format that, perhaps, lends itself as a spiritual home of the right-wing.

A more amusing outcome of watching retro Royal Rumbles is that should I meet anyone, male or female, big or small, that is wearing a red and white horizontally stripey shirt then I amuse myself by imagining they are Tugboat.

Childish, but delightful. Like wrestling itself, in fact.

Pedantic Semantics

I resurrected a section for the radio, last Saturday, entitled Semantic Pedantic. It usually deals with turns of phrase that annoy me, or words what are get mispelt a lot coz no1 reedz bwks nemo. It has been awhile since any came to my attention and genuinely annoyed me, and I have learnt my lesson of manufacturing annoyance, it changes your mindset so that you are dissecting anything for the potentially annoying nugget, not a pleasant outlook. The lesson is, if you aren't Charlie Brooker, don't try to be.

Nevertheless, last week two phrases entered my world, and their presence affected me in some way.

The first phrase is 'rhyme nor reason', which didn't annoy me, as much as perplex me. For me, reason is a tenet of central importance in the grand scale of everything. For me, the source of so much of the awful that there is in the world stems from unreasonable or illogical attitudes. Any sort of meaningful progress has its roots in the logical and the reasoned, science is the ultimate manifestation of this.

The assumption embedded in this phrase is that rhyme is as persuasive a tool as reason. From my point of view it is saying that if something doesn't make sense, then if you'd like it to hold the same punch, make your argument rhyme. I made a bit of a song and dance about this on Saturday, pointing out that it is a bit ridiculous, but when considering the clout advertising and marketing has, and the penchant that industry has for rhyme, it doesn't seem half as ridiculous. I had come to think that consumers were cannier in their attitudes towards adverts, but I recently overheard someone asking "Which is best, gocompare or moneysupermarket.com?", I have come to doubt this. Both of these money website whateverthehelltheyare have run lengthy television campaigns, to the point where the individual assumed they were the only two worth checking, possibly not even considering that there might be other options. Bah, humbug. Didn't Bill Hicks have something to say to people who worked in advertising?

Okay, so lets move away from preaching about the evils of advertising, although I suppose this may turn out to be the most directly hypocritical blog post I have written.

The next phrase deals with the writing up of comedy acts, which I suppose is a part of advertising, although I would argue it is a more sincere process than mass media advertising I was discussing earlier. For example, when a new comedy is to be aired, they show a clip of the show and tell you when it's on, they tend not to air something completely unrelated and then tag a vague strap line to it. I'm lovin' it, indeed. (This is a hate for another entry). I do foresee a time when comedy will be advertised as such, and when it comes I will look on knowingly and tut.

But for now, even with all the advertising/PR savvy in the world, there is only one way to describe a comedy act/comedian. One lazy, thoughtless phrase that gets tagged on to everyone, which, though this isn't really an accurate measure, typed into google returns over 23,600,000 results. While that may not be reliable evidence as to how widespread this phrase is, it is deliciously ironic.

The phrase is 'unique brand of humour'.

A quick glance over the first few pages of results show that this phrase is attributed to: Katy Brand, Russell Brand, Joe Pasquale, Warren Holstein, Jo Brand, Bill Bailey, Cartoonists, John Cleese, Joel Chasnoff, Jerry Seinfeld, Tom Cheney, webcomic XKCD, Andy Kaufman, Roy and HG, Rove McManus, Mick Molloy, Wendy Harmer and George Carlin.

I must admit, of the acts/etc listed above that I am aware of, their styles are quite distinct from each other. Katy, Russell and Jo have presumably made that list because journalists must feel it is compulsory to put the phrase in because their surname is Brand as well, do you get it, brand brand brand brand brand brand brand brand hahahahahahahhahaa. I am off my wits.

Given that that number of acts can be referred to with the same phrase, acts that are genuinely dissimilar to each other, isn't it safe to say that the phrase is fairly useless in practical terms? It is a phrase which is meant to describe an act, inform you in some way of their style, and yet it is so vague and non-descriptive that it can, correctly, describe such wildly different brands of humour.

I would like to propose a moratorium on the phrase, if only to force people to come up with a more meaningful phrase when they are describing a form of comedy.

So having used this blog to complain about advertising and the use of a specific page, I will admit that on the old web page for rhonddaradio, under the section which described the content of the Adam and Dafydd Weekend Antics show, the write-up for us almost certainly claimed that listeners would be subject to our unique brand of comedy. The phrase is not illustrative, which makes it of little use, but in our case it is also, unfortunately, not accurate.

As much as we put in the work and are trying always to do something new and not to tread too much on old ground, we are well aware that our podcasts and sketches are derivative. It is a staple comment from so many of the comedians I have heard interviewed that it takes a number of years to really find your voice comedically, and so while it does make me anxious when we stray into territory that is perhaps someone-esque I am not overly concerned at this point.

Our podcasts almost certainly owe a lot to other podcasts Collings and Herrin, Peacock & Gamble, Precious Little and The Trap in particular, I would say. But it is also the case that the amount of poetry I write increases if I am reading John Hegley, and my attitude tends to be more critical if I am reading Charlie Brooker. Perhaps this is just my propensity of absorbing things, such as the time when I went away on a trip, made a new friend and came home with a lisp.

The phrase 'unique brand of comedy/humour' falls flat at every hurdle, especially when describing The ACRE, as it was on the rhonddaradio website. There are three of us, and while our senses of humour aren't identical, there is certainly a lot of overlap.

It is quite ironic that my complaint about this phrase is, in itself, quite humourless. Not ironic enough to make it funny, however.

I am not as grumpy as this blog probably sounds. Although I desire a New Deluge to come and wash away all from the face of the Earth, resulting in the Death of Everyone.

Also annoyed that I missed 'Everyone Draw Mohammed Day'.

(O?O) <- This may, or may not, be him (it is him).

I've Been Remembering

I remembered, in the week, a thing I and my friends used to do in primary school. When it happened I wondered to myself whether or not the remembering process was the same one that Peter Kay goes through when he unearths his gold from the gas-filled mine of his memory. It occurred to me as I saw kids engaging in an activity that was needlessly foolish, not naughty or dangerous, just slightly annoying in a "WHY!?" sort of way. I can't remember what exactly they were doing which triggered my recollection, which is partly why I am unable to engage in observational comedy, I am too ignorant.

During playtime, when we'd got to the age where we were taking our own bottles of pop (fizz/soda/etc) in our bags, we'd all gather round and conduct what seems now to have been some sort of communistic experiment. Between us we would have amassed quite an array of various pops, from the simplistic blank sheet of lemonade, to the refined dandelion and burdock, to the more extreme limeade, the absinthe of the ffisibop world.

A huddle would occur, where the bottles were opened, and the tops traded around chaotically, before we began the haphazard, messy experiment. A dash of limeade would turn the lemonade a weak green, raspberry and strawberry would combine without changing colour, but making both flavours bizarre. The frantic yet meticulous exchange of liquid from differently sized bottles through dissimilar necks would ensure that most bottles were inevitably covered in the sticky sheen of spilt pop. The thoughtless, joyous experimentation would end with the floor awash with spilt specks, the bottles drained from wastage, and the remaining pop in every bottle reduced to a vague, mucky brown, regardless of the original base content. Simple fun.

Perhaps tellingly, the only other time in my life where reckless mixing of drinks was involved heavily in fun was during University, where an ill-advised punch often coagulated in an ad-hoc manner. This potent brew also invariably ended up a fetid brown colour. This is probably down to the marketing genius of Ian Coca-Cola, leading to the drink being unavoidable in daily life.

This fluid-mixing-based memory led me on to another similar remembrance. As far as I can remember I have always loved bathing. I use the time primarily to read, with having a wash becoming a handy side-effect of the process. As technology advanced and I became more reckless with it, I began factoring gameboys (that is the handheld gaming console, not young males who were up for it) into the bathing experience. This morphed into the DS and PSP, which I occasionally take in, should I be addicted to a game, to the chagrin and frustration of people who understand the cost of a pound. In all my years of taking things into the bath, I have only ever dropped something in once, it was a book. Someone else's. I put it on the radiator afterwards and it dried out (badly). Apologies can be worth $7.99RRP between siblings. I used to have a more expensive bathtime hobby, though I couldn't have realised it at the time.
I used to use shower gels, shampoos and whichever other lotions live on the bathroom shelves as the ingredients for my amateur bathtime alchemy. I very much enjoyed mixing the clear green of Timotei with the reluctant viscosity of conditioner. I probably wasted a hell of a lot of product. And, of course, I never discovered gold or the secret of eternal life. But my hands were always soft and clean.

A friend of mine came home briefly as he had finished his Uni course, and I went to visit him, in the process taking a walk I took often a number of years ago. It was easy, on autopilot, to regress to feeling like the jittery teenager I had been when we used to hang out most of the time. I was delightfully brought up to date by a trampolining child at the end of my street. The pavement goes right past a garden, which the trampolining child, and the trampoline, were in. Not taking a gap from his bouncing, the small boy, possibly around 6, piped up; "Hello". "Hello", I replied. "Hello, old man", spake the child.


Now, a jittery teenager I may no longer be, but I would like to this that my occasionally haggard and bearded visage still holds the glow of youth. I suppose to a child of 6 I might have looked like an ancient giant of olde, traipsing the land in search of the bloode of an Englisheman. Either that or he was a little shit.

Either way, I was amused and gently smiling to myself as I went on my way.

The path that leads to my friends house is overhung with trees, and was heavily overgrown in the olde days whither I did wander to his abode, overgrown both with the trees and with the pickies and stingies. The council have, in the intervening time, laid a wider concrete path there, and trim the encroaching growth back from time to time. I vaguely remember hearing that something dreadful happened to someone in there (some form of assault probably) and so they took steps to make the path less dreadful in the night. It hasn't really worked. The path is devoid of electric lighting, and so if it is nay a night where the moon is fat then it is in complete darkness. 'Mor tywyll a glo' (as dark as coal), we would've written in Welsh, as we lazily avoided using our imaginations to concoct fresh similes. You genuinely cannot see your hand if you hold it up to your face in such circumstances, which I delight in telling people.

The path overlooks a park, which has had most of its appendages switches since I yobbed around there as a vagrant teen. Gone are the simplistic features; the slide, the swings, the roundabout, the see-saw and the frankly dangerous rocket ship which a bigger kid pushed back and forth and the little kids flew backwards and forwards in the middle crushing themselves against the dividing bars and sustaining severe rib injuries. In place of these classics there are shiny multifaceted items, colourful pieces which are a slide, swings and monkey bars all in one, and as fun as none of them by themselves. If you take out the classic, simple, plain swings, then where oh where are nervous teenagers going to hang around in the night and have their first clueless cackhanded pseudo-sexual experiences? SELFISH COUNCIL! Just because the kids don't have a vote! It's immoral etc.

Behind another, larger, fence, there is an outdoor swimming pool, which I think actually does open during the summer, but to me will always be an empty circle filled with discarded strongbow cans (not mine, I hasten to add). I have a hazy memory of a time where, after a day spent playing football in the adjoining rugby field, a group of us spent the night in our pants playing water polo in the pool after hours. I was fairly certain of this, as I walked the path, but the memory is distant, and my first thought was of how cold is must have been, which in my sensible jumper, seemed an insurmountable issue with late-night water polo.

There is no place in my memory of that night for the cold, only the irreverent fun of the moment, and the probable bollocking I received when I got home. And yet as I walked and remembered, my first thought was for the cold, focusing on the reasons against, rather than the reasons for, getting involved in such a silly thing.

"Hello, old man", indeed.

Garden the Past

I was told last night that the man two doors down from me is dead. That is to say, he has died, and he no longer lives there, because he is dead. I'm not suggesting that he is inhabiting the house in an undead capacity. Because he isn't, he is dead.

I didn't know him at all really, I only ever saw him sat on his doorstep as I walked or drove past, and he always seemed happy enough. That is pretty much the extent of my knowledge of him. Strange to think that with the huge size of the earth and the multitude of people upon it, that even people who must have spent years and years within 40 foot of me can be completely outside my sphere of experience.

My bedroom window looks out onto his back garden, which, since we live on the side of a hill, stretches upwards quite steeply. For this reason, a number of the back gardens in my street are untended, covered with sprawling brambles and weeds. Some people are more resilient in their garden-tending habits, however, and so precarious sheds, flowerbeds and decking adorns certain plots, looking like a collaboratory project between Kevin McCloud and Tim Burton.

The back garden of the house two doors down was rigorously tended. It didn't have the new shininess of the garden that, at great effort, had gravity-defying decking installed, nor the simplicity of the plots where it is merely grass, cut short. It doesn't have the collected order of my grandparents old garden did, which, since it was further up the street, was subject to a less extreme incline, and was larger, allowing for spacing out of the glasshouse and the shed, with a small patio area and a stretch of grass.

The garden is busy and full, with any likely bit of turf used to a definite purpose, to make the most of the small, difficult terrain. There are a patch of flowers, I am not able to give much more information on them, if I was ever described as having green fingers then it would definitely be in connection to a medical mishap. They are purple, with long stems. They look slightly overgrown now, looking more like wildflowers than I assume they must have done when they had someone to tend to them. I can't be certain of that though, since I never paid the garden any attention whatsoever until this afternoon. The garden has been partitioned into levels, with the flower level being the lowest I can see from my oblique angle, it is likely raised from the ground level by a wall. The level above the flowers is still covered in growth, though I make a distinction because they are plants rather than flowers. I'm not overly sure whether that is a distinction botanists/biologists would make, the chasm is my own knowledge is becoming clearer with every entry of this I write. These plants aren't bearing any sort of fruit, and it is only because of the strips of bamboo that are holding them straight that I assume they are in fact, plants. There's a small wooden construction holding these bamboo strips upright, it's odd that nature gets anything done considering how much needs to be done to make even a tiny garden grow to specifications. Upturned cans of Fosters adorn the top of the bamboo, though I needed to strain my eyes to make out the brand as the cans have faded due to the sun. Considering how little sun we get in these parts, the cans must have been there for quite some time.

On the level above that, the highest level, is a sturdy old shed, which, if it bears any resemblance to the one which used to stand in my grandfather's garden, I would not enjoy being inside. The rust and the mustiness of old tools and compost, hollow watering cans and a coating of spider's webs, it is that kind of shed in my speculations. The sort of spiders that would inhabit such an outdoor indoors would be the fat, strong kind which fill me with the same kind of revulsion, and trigger the gag reflex upon seeing them, in the same way I get when George Osborne is on the TV. It is the sort of shed that is filled with functions that I do not understand, and have no interest, currently, of involving myself with.

Some of the windows of the shed are open, and I feel disquieted looking at them, because I don't know whether or not they should be open or not. Are they always left open to air the shed, or were they left open the one specific time? And now the person who knows whether they should be open or not is unable to affect their positioning.

The garden is, perhaps, sadder to see than the insides of the house (not that I did or will see that). The garden was working towards a purpose. It was a cyclical beast, an organism that was growing and being replanted, growing and being replanted. It was the culmination of the plans of one man, and with that planning force removed, the garden will eventually leave the cyclical path it was meant to be following, eventually growing unmanageable or having a new vision imposed upon it. Perhaps it will be utterly scrapped, and a completely new cycle will be established, an utterly different organism in the exact same geographical location. Perhaps some of the garden will be salvaged, and incorporated into a Frankenstein's garden type creature.

I didn't realise when I woke up this morning that I would actually be interested in the fate of a garden. Perhaps I'm being possessed.

I hope that when new people eventually move into the house I remember this line of thought and watch the garden cycle.

I could also stop being so lazy and actually sort out the garden behind my own house, which is insanely overgrown with pickies. Although that would require that I become the sort of person who goes inside sheds and knows what is in there, and not only that, knows what those things are for. I already know what's inside sheds; rust, must, tools, compost, cans and webs.

I'll stick to watching through the window.

Ashes to Ashes, Moth to Moth

I'm not really sure how to contextualise this story. It is another tick in the 'for' column of my 'for or against thinking kids are evil' tally. As you'll be aware if you read this regularly, I work around children and so I am surprised that I am not handed more occasions to put a tick in said box. Saying that, I have just illuminated my own prejudice and bias, therefore outing this as an unreliable study.

The annoyances that come my way from children are generally of a low level; the volume of their conversation or the frenzied nature of their incessantly running around perhaps. Or maybe their ignorance, stupidity, lack of respect, stupid hair, high pitched voices, idiotic questions etc. I am about as child-friendly as a wall of sweets armed with child-seeking circular saws. But I make more of an effort, at least.

So when a situation comes around that genuinely informs my intolerant 'argh! children!' attitude, I am delighted. Although in this case, also shocked by the child's actions.

It is spring here in the fair land of Walisich, and this means that the weather lapses incoherently between nippy winds and rain to days where the we may all feel the soft palm of summer stroking down upon us. It is on the latter days whence the various buzzing nuisances descend upon us, managing even to make their inconvenient ways indoors, or more accurately, inwindows. So it came to pass that the Moth found his way into the cafe. Such an event, is it, that it will be hereafter remembered as the Great Mothcoming of '10. Or not.

It wasn't a particularly large moth, such as the corpulent terrors which sometimes breach indoors and lunge at your face, causing unparalleled fright. A moth mid face-swoop is a terror unmatched in all the time of Man. Nay, twere not such a creature. Twere but an injured lil moth, the sort of moth that would be amiably rendered in a pixar production, say in, The Adventures of Mothy McMoth; the Injured Moth. I clearly have no real knowledge of pixar. I didn't even capitalise the 'P'. Shame on me.

Unfortunately, this moth had the poor luck of landing near a demonchild. That is perhaps a bit strong, but I am taking creative licence. If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then hell hath no evil like a child bored. While most children, I imagine, would freak out and break into a psychedelic frenzied dance of disgust should a moth land on them (I still would), this child reacted with the composed nature of the Spanish inquisition.

I am unable to directly deal with the details of the event, so I have rendered the crux of this tale in verse.

*****
Sadism in Children

"I am unable to fly", quoth the moth.
For him, the wortht pothible lohth.
In the hands of a child about to serve hell up,
For his empathy is underdeveloped.

He put-th the moth in thome thquath,
Then drownth him in froth,
To show him who'th bohth.

There'd have been an experiment,
Had I not arrived;
Could a moth have survived,
Insertion into a CD-Rom drive?

*****

I've had a mixed reaction retelling this tale to people. All find the actual thought of a child holding a computer-based cd-tray moth-execution quite a disturbing and grim thing, though some are significantly more appalled. There was conjecture in a seminar about challenging behaviour, which I attended awhile back, where some posited that cruelty to animals is sometimes a precursor for more seriously harmful behaviour in the future. If this is founded with any accuracy then his neighbours should be concerned, for the uncaring coldness with which he undertook the grim preparation was unsettling.

We may in the future be searching frantically for a technologically-advanced futuristic Jigsaw character, who will be attempting to slice humans in half using a giant, purpose-built, cd-tray.
Luckily the child didn't mumble "Do you want to play a game?" as his hand hovered over the button which would retract the tray, so perhaps we'll be fine.

As the poem describes, I managed to stop him completing the garish procedure on Mothy Antoinette, but I was slightly boggled as to what I should have him do with the moth. Eventually I told him to put it out the window, having decided that putting him in the bin would be equally unethical, if lacking the I AM THE DEATHBRINGER feel of the cd-tray fate.

The child later asked to be allowed onto the computers, and I had to say "no". When he, inevitably, asked "Why?", I had the joy of replying; "because you tried to shut a moth in the cd drive".

Case closed.

Indulging the Unusual - Unusuindulgence

It has begun. The process of doing weird things just to talk about them on the radio.

For me, the blogging and the radio have been hugely helpful in forcing me to be creative. I am someone who definitely needs fairly short-term deadlines to work towards, even if they are self-imposed. It is when I get into that mindset that I blog often, and since having radio shows every weekend it has become normal to work towards them through the week, rather than being a lazy sponge and watching weeks slip away fruitlessly.

In the sort of life-affirming seminars that get booked by schools and are forced upon children, a lot of importance is put on the taking of opportunities. One in particular that I remember touched largely on half-chances, and on how you should grasp and indulge every half-chance, because you never know what that could amount to. It was a similar philosophy that led me to take the music gig last Friday, and it will certainly, at least I hope, continue to inform my decision-making. But the sort of half-chances that I want to talk about are of a less serious variety.

During the gig, which was for charity, there was to be an event where the audience would be encouraged to throw pound coins at a bottle of Baileys, with the nearest thrower winning the bottle. I was asked whether or not I would like to be in charge of this activity, which I turned down automatically, as the thought of actively having to corral the drunkest members of the audience was not one I relished. As I thought it over by myself, however, I realised that I had to be involved in it. My childhood enjoyment of commentary kicked in and I suggested that both I and the organiser should run the event, and commentate on the throws. I thought this would be a weird and enjoyable experience, which it was, but foremost in my mind was the prospect of doing the radio show the next day and declaring that I commentated on a game where drunk people threw pound coins at a bottle of Baileys. And I was paid for it. I was quite surprised as I asked for each new competitors name, how docile their reactions were. It took me by surprise that simply having a microphone, and having already been on probably helped, put me as quite a figure of authority. The reactions I received were the reactions of people who were speaking to someone who knew what they were doing, while I was, at that point, massively winging it. That, I suppose, is really the key to genuinely being in control. I was a lot calmer and more casual while performing on Friday, and I think that helped, I certainly enjoyed it more, and it felt less like a recitation and more conversational.

The whole ethos of saying yes and going for silly things has probably seeped into our worldview in part thanks to Ray Peacock, who is a bastion of willfully daft eccentric behaviour. We haven't quite got to his level of not worrying about things, but I'd like to think we are on that path. I am using 'we' to refer to The ACRE, I am not being overly bombastic.

When I drove up to Dafydd's house to pick him up on Saturday, he was being accosted on the doorstep by two Jehovah's Witnesses. There're always two, a master and an apprentice. He flashed me a huge grin through the middle of them as I parked up, and he tells me that the belly laugh I let out at that point was audible to him. It later came out that he had been talking with them for quite awhile, keeping them talking because he knew I would turn up soon. It amused me all the more to know that he had indulged them at the door purely to amuse himself and me, which in itself, for me, was more amusing and noteworthy than being accosted by the religious in the first place.

I hope we can keep true to this silliness and open-minded indulgence of the unusual, those two very small occurrences brightened up my weekend no end.

the end.

Weekend Round-Up

From this weekend's experience it seems that only doing a Saturday show is a very good decision. We were really up for it, and I think it was one of the most solid shows we've done for ages.

Similarly, having the Sunday completely free to loll around being lazy and spending the entire day simply reading was an immensely enjoyable thing.

Last Friday there were several odd events that I didn't write about as I was planning on talking about them on the radio, so I'll do a quick recap of them now.

I have a standup routine about how I am unable to deal with kids, and given that I work in a room full of them everyday, its probably surprising how seldom new bits get added to that routine. The routine is set up as combating the 'kids say the funniest things' attitude, as in my experience their utterances tend to be on the highly annoying/brain numbing spectrum. Last Friday, however, I witnessed a kid saying something which amused me, and I decided I would commandeer this comment for my own comedic ends. When I actually got on stage, however, I forgot to add it in, so I'll tell it here instead.

I was in the toilet, washing my hands (in the sink hur hur hur), and a kid came in and asked me whether I had seen his friend. I indicated to him that I was in the toilet, and therefore had seen no one. He quickly understood his foolishness, but decided to awkwardly stay in the toilet regardless. He stood right up against the sink, staying there even when I moved away to dry my hands, so I commented that he must be very fond of the sink. He replied: "Yeah, it's my brother-in-law". While this isn't incisively hilarious, it was quite the surreal swerve ball, and I was quite amused. And then I kicked him out. Kicking out is the only language they understand. Apart from English. And some of them speak Welsh as well.

It was a fairly unconventional gig for me on Friday, I was originally meant to be compering a music gig, but it panned out so that I was actually doing two five-minute spots in between the bands. It went quite well, although the second set suffered because of the drunkenness of the audience and the state of shouty-excitement they had been whipped into in the meantime. It is possibly my failing that I couldn't win them around the second time, but instead I opted to call my set short and bring on the last band early. I think it was a correct decision.

After the first bit I fled the room. I was there completely on my own, so I figured it would be slightly weird to tag on to the end of a table after having just been on, so I escaped to the main bar. Whilst I thought I had secluded myself in an alcove, I had in fact sat myself right in front of the main door, so every single smoker in the crowd filed past me during this time. Most just passed through, though some stopped briefly and said "that was funny", which was really nice. I think it's probably par for the course that the comments I will remember will either be the negative or the boggling ones. Luckily I've not had any explicitly negative comments as of yet, and one of Friday's feedbacks is easily the most boggling.

A slight man, probably in his late teens, came up to me, looking slightly bedraggled and bemused. I haven't much experience of conversation with people on drugs, so this was quite easily the most stoned I have ever seen a person, but I would hazard a guess that he was very fucking stoned indeed. His opening gambit was: "Heeeeeeeeeeey! Mister Comedian!". It was an example of, literally, high camp, and I really wasn't expecting it as I attempted to cool down with a glass of water. I laughed in his face, which he seemed to enjoy. He followed this up with: "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey! Bill Hicks!". As I look back on it, I wish I'd replied: "I think you've mistaken me for somebody else", but in the moment I replied: "Yes, he is a comedian". He then asked me about Ricky Gervais and the IT Crowd, before admitting that he would say something about the set I had just done, but that he was so stoned it went over his head. I think I like the fact that he didn't engage in any way with the act, but felt it was necessary to come up and talk to me. I say 'I think I like it', because I am not really sure. It did amuse me. If I shamelessly morphed comments that people had given me after gigs together, I could describe my act as being 'a borderline surreal, byzantine and labyrinthine Bill Hicks'. Which sounds amazing, and anyone who'd want to see my act on the strength of that description would be incredibly disappointed.

I was very pleased after the gig, and this carried over into Saturday, and hopefully into the shows. The show after ours (3-5pm) is presented by a group known facetiously as ACRE Jr, made up as it is of younger siblings of 2 of the ACREs. BUT WHICH ONES!?

It was the birthday of one of the ACRE Jrs, so I celebrated by manhandling him off the windowsill (but what was he doing there!?) carrying him on my shoulders in a reverse torture rack position, before 'eliminating' him over the top of a settee. I did this not by, as is conventional, dumping him off my shoulders, but by throwing myself bodily over the settee, still carrying him there. We ended in a crumpled explosion on the floor, stuck upside down because our arms were entangled. I then later forced him to play an Arthur Isherwood track, the medley 'Happy Birthday/One Year Closer (To the Grave)'. The track begins as a grizzled tearjerker over the top of plinky old-school piano, complete with buzzing vinyl pops, but then morphs into contemporary death metal, eventually including more experimental death-ska. It is painfully disparate and chaotic, especially at the ridiculous volume we played it in the studio. I capped this off by climbing on the desk, and adding the the screamed vocals 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY!' in studio. I felt it was appreciated. And just hated in general. (Appreci-hated, hahahaha, I got paid to tell jokes last week so shut up). That track can be downloaded from our website.

Here ends the entry.

Late Night Gig Update

Hello everyone, I felt it was my duty to provide feedback and closure on the gig tonight, as I made such a fuss over it.

It went very well, it was a seated crowd so that didn't cause an issue. Luckily, I was introduced with such vigour that the chatting subsided and most people were paying attention when I started, which meant I didn't have to battle to get attention.

I tried a lot of new jokes, as well as finding a use for the pink trilby I bought in Bristol oh so long ago, and also reading some poems. I am very much enjoying spreading myself out creatively. The specific material I did about the charity worked quite well, which is heartening. Its the only time I'll ever do it I imagine, but nice to know that one off writing can still pay dividends.

The bands were amazing, I ran out of the room to hide during Tiger Please, because I knew I had to go back on, so I had to stay in the zone like Ken Shamrock. It was an acoustic set from their guitarist and their singer, with a lot of covers but plenty of their own stuff as well. I am currently listening to their Seasons EP, which is outstandingly accomplished given how young they are. The singer does not look as if he could possibly house the voice he has, and he was lovely when I met him afterwards. I hope they become as massive as they look like they will become, if only so I can have a handy, but lame, claim to fame story.

Magden Audio, the members of which had organised and run the night where worse for wear for drink when they took to the stage, but their barefaced apologies when they messed up amused me greatly. They hit their stride after a few cockups and the energetic headbanging that followed is more tribute to their performance than any sentence of mine could be. They were awesome.

I will likely share some interesting tales from what happened in my next entry, I'll be talking about it on the radio I imagine, though some of it isn't suitable.

I trust you are doing magnificently.

Pip pip.

Also, I got paid £20 for my clowning, I do believe this means that I have 'made it'.

Rue-tine

My days have molded into a routine where I feel as though I can never get anything substantial organised. As things stand at this point I am attempting to prepare some sections for our new scaled back radio show. We are only on for the one day now, so I am trying to prepare stuff so that it is full to the brim, rather than having long downtime where we don't have all that much time to ensure that we will come up with something entertaining eventually.

Its a weird one because I don't necessarily want to keep on a lot of the old sections, some of them are quite flexible and still fresh, the C-Section for instance, which is malleable enough to go anywhere, and include anything. But there are a number of sections which I feel may have had their time. Footballer or Religious Figure is one of the founding sections, which is becoming increasingly tedious, both in researching and actually delivering. The problem with scrapping it is it also means God or Fabio drops off the radar, which is not ideal as God or Fabio is one of the most reliably energetic sections we have.

What we need to do is come up with some new sections that can house the energy of sections which have run their course, but with the routine I am stuck in, as I said earlier, there's no real time to invest in coming up with new things. Due to the compering gig I have tomorrow, it would be smart to prepare radio things today, leaving me free to concentrate on the gig tomorrow. I am planning on taking a Cannonby in this Saturday, since I have left it hanging for ages, and it really does need to be brought to a close. Preparing an episode of Cannonby usually takes until the early hours, and I feel like I will struggle to battle it out tonight, but leaving it for tomorrow will just ensure that it doesn't get done.

It is likely that the drabness of the routine feeds into this. I hardly do anything that is out of the ordinary for me, with the obvious exception of this compering gig tomorrow, which I hope will throw up an interesting story at least. The nerves for that gig have already set in, although I already feel that flagging that fact is redundant, as I am likely to type that every single time an unusual gig comes my way. Which, bearing in mind how few venues I have currently played, will be the vast majority of gigs that do come my way. It is currently in the 'I just want to do it' stage, which, again, is probably a hindrance in preparing stuff for the radio, because I half feel I should be preparing for that gig. Which I have already done. It is going to rock. I am going to tear the place up. Leave me alone.

We were having a new front door fitted this morning, which meant that my usual morning routine was disturbed, which probably hasn't help put me in a productive mood. I usually spend the morning exercising, which gives me plenty of alone time. Instead of this I opted to hide in the bath reading Dracula, while the dog was locked in the kitchen letting out a neverending barking stream which quickly became infuriating. In the book the Count is described as having a strong jaw and a moustache. Sometimes the tiniest bits of information can shake a worldview to its core. Dracula, with a moustache!? What sort of bizarro world are we living in?

This blog is metaphorically treading creative water, so I will bring it to an abrupt end here so that I can prepare for the radio properly.

Hope that's okay with you. It is? Cool.

Actually, as an afterthought, I have tried to be more observant lately as I have realised I am fairly ignorant, which, as someone who is attempting to be known as a creative writer isn't a fantastic way to be. What I have noticed today is that male children enjoy playing FPS games where the characters are chunky blocks of lego, and female children enjoy watching youtube videos that are very slow photo montage of gay emos (male) kissing. I wasn't heartened by this discovery, as it supports heteronormative assumptions, but I can take solace in that my research sample probably isn't representative. And that out of the 3 female children here 2 are playing the FPS lego shooting game, while only 1 is watching slideshows of snogging emos. That's right snogging. It was either that or macking. Both are useless.

I am no good at ensuring a representative sample, it was a good decision to escape academia, I don't have the patience needed.

@adamgilder
www.theacre.net
acrecomedy@gmail.com

When I Rhyme I Get All Vulgar

I have spent much of today working on an old idea I'd put on the backburner. It was a rebuttal of the widely accepted belief that Welsh as a language adopts English words and puts 'io' at the end of them in order to Welshise them. More accurately, it was addressing the belief that this is a bad thing, for it certainly does happen. I have built up a large list of English words and phrases that are plucked wholesale from other languages.

I was hoping to work this up into a comedy routine, but I realised as I was writing it that it was far too dry, and that I would come across as lecturing and dry. I also figured that I wouldn't be able to remember all of the phrases, as it would require remembering the material word for word rather than simply remembering the relevant funny bits that I have to get to. So instead of that I figured I'd try and write it up as a poem, so that I could conceivably read it from the page until the point where I had memorised it, and also hoping that the rhythm and rhyme would make it seem less critical and give it more of a humourous edge. As it stands at the moment that really isn't the case, and over the course of the afternoon it became a lot longer than I expected it to. I finished it off very sharply, and I decided to leave it for awhile, I'll go back and have a stab at shearing it down when I have fresher eyes for it.

For the rest of the afternoon I was stuck in a rhyming mood, and I still had a lot of foreign phrases that I hadn't used. I wrote a number of shorter, less serious poems, most of which focus almost exclusively on sexual perversions. My mind isn't much of a mystery. So today is a poetic entry, I'll post a few of the short poems underneath, I hope you enjoy them.

*****

Pole-Dancing etc.

The good sir, a voyeur,

Gave to the concierge a dossier.

Safe passage to a secluded somewhere,

Where he can sink into a chair,

And sink his eyes on fleshy derriere.

The room is a dimly lit pit, a gaudy safari,

The women contorted in impossible human origami,

To please the empty, broken men,

and their empty, broken salami.

*****

Lewd, crude and in the mewd

This is a missive from my perversion

to womankind at large:

I would like to spill my man-fromage,

All over your decolletage.

*****

A fruity misunderstanding between a Frenchman and a German (in English)

Au contraire, mein Herr,

This is not an apple,

but a pear.

*****

I wrote a few more little ones, and I found an old first draft which I will play around with soon, so there should be more poetry in the near future.

I hope that fills you with joy.

IT SHOULD!

Oh, by the way, we (The ACRE) have put up another sketch on our youtube channel, it's waiting here for you. There's a new podcast out today aswell, but I'm sure you are all familiar with that anyhow. If you aren't, search for them on iTunes, they're called The ACRE Podcasts.

I hope you have pleasant waking hours.

@adamgilder

www.theacre.net

acrecomedy@gmail.com

Without Compere

I have been offered a gig as compere on Friday, and so I have spent most of today scrabbling around for information.

I am slightly nervous as to how this gig will go, and while I am hopeful that it could go very well I am prepared for it to be a catastrophe. If I can profess to have a 'style of comedy' without that sounding dickish then I don't think it is overly suited to compering, which is one of the reasons I am so eager to do it. Audience participation hasn't featured very much in my gigs so far, I feel as though the way I perform must make the audience slightly standoffish, it is in a very definite 'I'll talk, you listen' mould. I am trying to be open to new experiences and not turn things down out of an arbitrary preconception that may be founded on nothing. I think that's why our podcasts and sketches (new ones out tomorrow) are slightly frenetic, because we are actively trying so many different ideas and styles. I am really enjoying the experience of turning our hands to different things.

So I spent the afternoon in a mix of researching the Women for Women foundation, which the night is a charity event for, and also scouring forums for advice about compering. Both the Chortle and the Manchester Comedy Forums were a huge help in that regard, as always. Of course it is necessary to sift through some vitriol in order to get to the levelheaded advice but that's the nature of forums I suppose. The advice was essentially that as a compere its essential to keep calm, and to appreciate that every single sentence doesn't have to be a joke, it is more important to create a positive atmosphere than to be considered hilarious. More than the advice being mindblowing I just think the reading of it was a process I needed to go through in order to get in the mindset, although the more practical pieces such as laying out the rules and order of the night etc were invaluable, and flagged up a number of 'well, duh' things that I wouldn't have considered.

The night isn't focused on comedy, and essentially I will be the only comedy element, and I will be introducing two bands. The advice on the subject of compering music gigs was 'Don't', which isn't overly comforting, and my abiding memory of my own personal experience of being on a music bill previously is of a confused and apathetic crowd chatting quietly in front of me. But of course, I know best. This is different to the artsy open mic set up of that gig, but whether or not that'll change this for the better or for the worse, only time will tell. The two bands are Tiger Please and Magden Audio, who I have been checking out since I got home. I am enjoying both of them, which is good, because even if I have a torrid gig I'll get to enjoy them for free. I'll be doing some research on them through the week so that if the crowd really don't want comedy I can just spout something interesting about the bands. Both of the bands are aspirational and fairly professional outfits, which is slightly frightening given that I am being trusted with introducing them. I hope to prove that the organisers blind faith in me is founded by doing my homework and preparing thoroughly, but it will still likely be touch and go until I get up there.

I'm planning to do some material on the charity that the night is for. I figure that since I am getting involved it is the least I can do is a little bit of research, take an interest. I'm hoping that by starting the gig by addressing the charity directly I can contextualise the night, and put people in the 'give some money' mindset. There was mention of me pulling the raffle afterwards so I figure it would be appropriate to actually touch on the charity beforehand. The charity is 'Women for Women' as I mentioned earlier, and the event is called Cycle China, where women go abroad and bike around Beijing (I think, could be Shanghai, will have to check) and get sponsored. I am going to try and play the charity for cheers, get the audience applauding, and also suggest that the women are only taking part for free holidays to China. The charity is run by Professor Robert Winston, who is a face that people would recognise, but not a name, which isn't very useful. He looks like a well-to-do Mario from an alternate dimension. He is allowed to go biking along with the rest of the all-woman group, so I'm going to suggest he has a fetish for sweaty, exhausted bike riding women, and if that goes well I'll suggest he particularly enjoys applying vaseline to the chafing crotches of said women. Fern Britton is also heavily involved with the charity, and on one occasion she went of the fundraiser biking through Jordan. If the stuff about the charity is working I'll say I would have given her a lot more money if she rode Jordan through on a bike, rather than riding through Jordan on a bike. It needs to be phrased better, I'm working on it. I am trying to get charity-specific material because I feel as though just going on as compere and ploughing through the comfortable 10 I have at the moment would be wrong. It could just be a variant on the nerves I get before any gig though, where I feel as though nothing I've ever said or written has been funny and I am about to make a colossal bell of myself.

I have completely failed at audience participation in the past, probably because my act tends to be a self-contained monologue which I then break out of abruptly to ask a question, which ends up with someone in the front row looking blankly and slightly frightened at me. I have just realised it's always a woman aswell, but that says more about my bias in selecting a questionee rather than anything else. Rather than opting for 'where are you from?' / 'what do you do?' questions that are the staple of audience banter, I figured I would go with a 'what bands do you like?' angle, focusing on the music, which is really what people are there for. Given that the bands on the bill are on the indie/rock end of the scale, I am hoping that I will be familiar with most bands that might get shouted out, and if I am I will do my best to do a knobbish impression of them. I was driving home when I decided on that, and I gave myself a headrush from screaming "ghost in the fog!" on the top of my lungs. This was an impression of Cradle of Filth, who I have never really heard, and it is an impression I stole of my ACREolleague Gethin, who is somewhat extreme on occasion.

My only real worry about this gig is that there will be an empty dancefloor in front of the stage while I am on, because I am not overly sure how I would go about bringing people forward, which I would have to do. There's only so long I can be funny to 10 foot of empty space before it becomes pathetic. I spoke to Dafydd about it earlier and he suggested that I would have to follow the example of Matt Price and go out into the audience and corral them directly, which I am not overly eager to do, but perhaps if I wind myself up enough beforehand I would be able to do it well enough.

Hopefully I am being too pessimistic here, but it will prove to be a delicate balance on the night, having to weigh up just how much I would be willing to cajole people into listening to the comedy given that it is a music gig, not wanting to sully it for the bands, but also wanting to keep it bouncing along for the charity end of it aswell. I am really looking forward to the experience.

Worst case scenario is they aren't interested in the comedy and I look like a bellend. I can deal with that. And in that eventuality at least I can take solace that I cared enough to try, and that it is everyone elses fault for being a narrowminded muso.

Of course, that's not going to happen because the gig will be outstanding. How can it not be, with a semi-finalist at the helm?

Democratic Damage

I remember that while in school I always found a lot of pleasure in dragging out strained analogies and comparisons for far longer than they should last. One such comparison occurred to me when I was failing to get to sleep on Saturday night, so I decided I would use it on Sunday's radio show, which is the last Sunday show we are doing for the foreseeable future. We are scaling back our volunteering operations to the Saturday show only, so that we can ensure that our show doesn't descend into barrel scraping tedium, and also freeing us up for sketch filming, or just having a normal day off.

The analogy I developed was one for explaining the current political party leaders in terms which I decided my co-presenters would understand and engage with. They aren't really politically ignorant, but it was good fun to antagonise them in the name of facetiously setting up this analogy. Back when Obama came into office I realised quite how similar he was to The Rock; the sound of his voice, his style of delivery, as well as aesthetic similarities. Even cheeky comparisons to being 'The People's Champion' can be drawn, as well as rehashing The Rock's catchphrase to 'If you smell what Barack is cooking'.

I applied this Politics=Wrestling Theory to the current British parties, and was surprised by quite how many tenuous links I could draw. I started off with the newly popular leader of the Liberal Democrats, Nick Clegg, who has gone quite some distance in shaking up the Tory-Labour dichotomy, and has become the 'trustworthy' face of British politics. The popularity he enjoyed after the first televised leader's debates was described as "Cleggmania", which I personally thought needed a vowel in the middle of. If we apply my vowelisation then it becomes Cleggamania, which is when I was reminded of Hulkamania, and it was then that this lengthy operation began.

Nick Clegg has a lot in common with Hulk Hogan. Both of their forenames have 4 letters in them, and similarly their surnames consist of 5. Could this possibly be mere coincidence? I think not. The 'cuh' noise in the middle of their names could lead to misunderstanding, where someone could believe that they were called 'Nick Legg' or 'Hull Cogan'. The similarities are undeniable!

Both men are heavily associated with the colour yellow, and have a type of 'mania' attached to their names. The 'Hulkamania' which Hogan enjoyed eventually died down, and to kickstart his career it was necessary for him to form a new stable, nWo, consisting of Kevin Nash and Scott Hall. These two wrestlers were hugely dissimilar to Hogan, and yet they had to put their differences to the side in order to have any authority. The actual result of the May 6 election showed that Cleggmania isn't paying dividends in the current, useless, first past the post system, and it will be necessary for him to form a coalition, or at least an agreement with either Cameron or Brown in order to have any sort of sway over the future of politics. My only hope is that Clegg will adopt the methods of the nWo and have teams of Lib Dems interrupting various meetings and laying into other MPs with steel chairs. They could also take notes from Sting, who later joined the nWo, and during a meeting of Parliament they could have Vince Cable descend from the rafters on a rope and cause mayhem with a baseball bat.

The problem with the nWo/Con-Lib coalition comparison is that though Hogan was popular during that time he was still a 'bad' character, and so I hope Clegg doesn't keep his 'Hollywood' Nick Clegg persona for too long. Hogan eventually returned to his Hulkamania roots, and is rich and successful to this day.

The best thing Clegg could do is convince the Tories that he is willing to agree to a compromise, and then when it actually goes to a vote, rip his shirt in half (far easier than it was for Hogan due to buttons) give Cameron a weighty forearm smash and then finish him off with a big leg drop, before playing to the crowd using Hogan's famous cupping the ear gesture.

In contrast to Clegg's heroic wrestling persona, I see Gordon Brown as more of a Mick Foley person. Foley started wrestling out of a complete love of the thing, he once, as a teenager, skipped school, travelled across a number of states to see a huge event, where he saw Jimmy Snuka perform a body splash of the top of a steel cage. I know this because I have read Mick Foley's autobiography, but the details are sketchy because I read it many years ago.

Foley's first incarnation was as Cactus Jack, a slightly unhinged, but earthy, character who was no-nonsense and route one in his approach. Cactus Jack had a penchant for hardcore/no holds barred matches, I don't know what they are called nowadays, they are the matches where people get attached with bins and wood with nails in and the ropes are made out of barbed wire etc. Jack's finisher was the incredibly simple Double-Arm DDT, which is no-frills but gets the job done. I feel this covers Brown's time as Chancellor.

Foley then became the deranged Mankind. This transformation marked his passing into the big time (WWF/Prime Minister). Mankind wasn't overly popular, but he continued in the vein of no-nonsense hardcore wrestling, earning a reputation for being incredibly resilient. Mankind was the first wrestler ever to fall from the top of the Cell, from off've the Hell in a Cell match, crashing through an commentator's table as a result (a potent metaphor for Brown's lack of PR savvy). Mankind was constantly being bashed around by the Undertaker (Lord Mandelson), despite both having the whiff of the dark side, in fact it was the Undertaker himself (Lord Mandelson) who threw Mankind through the commentator's table.

When the script writers/spin doctors realised quite how unpopular and pathetic Mankind/Brown had become they changed tack, and focused on making him/him popular with viewers/voters. It is during this time that Foley became Dude Love, and the new hippiesque positivity and cheerfulness that was forced upon him was unnatural, sinister and wrong. Same goes for Gordon.

In his final incarnation, Foley wrestled under his actual name, Mick Foley, and he seemed far more at ease and became incredibly popular for being eccentric, slightly deranged and cute, in a torn and worn teddy bear sort of way. Brown did get back to what he was good at towards the end of the campaign, but probably too little too late to make the difference. Although if he agrees to get David Cameron in a Mandible Claw I would definitely reconsider my politics.

Cameron is William Regal, a floppy jellybaby man fighting above his ability, unable to escape his posh caricature and eager to go for the low blow and then feign innocence. I wonder if my political tendencies show up in this blog.

I'm not really familiar with the other prominent party members but going on what little I have seen of them, Ed Balls is Kurt Angle;

the Milibands are Kaientai;

Lord Mandelson is the Undertaken (as we have established);

and Lord Adonis is Scotty 2 Hotty, because neither live up to their names.

Nick Griffin troubled me for awhile, it was tied between either Henry Godwin (for his backwards-hickness) or the Iron Sheik, because he'd hate that. I also considered making him Big Daddy Shirley but while the fatness, the ugliness and the Britishness all made sense, Big Daddy is a beloved character, while Griffin is scum. Eventually I realised he was only ever going to be Paul Bearer:

Caroline Lucas is Gregory "Hurricane" Helms.

It would be in bad taste to compare Nigel Farage to Owen Hart, so I won't. Although by pointing out that I haven't pointed it out I have, in fact, pointed it out. I don't really want to make light of Owen Hart's accident, so I won't.

Politics is basically Wrestling without the athleticism. Admit it.

*Update.

Since posting this originally I have gone back and added the photographs. In the intervening time (an hour tops) Gordon Brown has stepped down as the leader of the Labour party. I'm not saying this blog is responsible, but if Gordon turns up in a squared circle near you then you know who's responsible. Me.