I was dark and it was drunk

Belfast Fringe 2011 - Friday 21st October

2011-09-10T17:35:00.006+01:00

I WAS DARK AND IT WAS DRUNK

Friday 21st October

Media Zoo, Unit 21, Weaver's Court, Belfast

Doors @ 7:30pm

Admission £3

BYOB

Presenting his one man show, Marcus Keeley is a stand-up, writer, poet, film-maker and general dissenter. He relays his estranged musings on contemporary life and his own personal failures including unemployment, disillusionment and self-hate in an irrepressibly cynical, deviant and charming fashion.

"Trademark ‘old beyond his years’ brand of disaffected wryness; one of the wittiest sets on the circuit." - Comedy Basement, Belfast

"Darkly funny, with all the bitter wisdom of a reborn Philip Larkin" - Big Laughs, Belfast

"Bard Of The Bar" Poetry Slam Winner, Belfast Book Festival 2011

PLUS SUPPORT FROM

LORCAN McGRANE

Lorcan McGrane is originally from Monaghan, if fact he is still from there. He started stand up in 2006 while doing a PhD on Superhero Movies and has foisted his perversions and peccadilloes on an unsuspecting public in Norwich, London, Edinburgh, Dublin, Monaghan, Derry, and Belfast, with success, if by success one means making people laugh, rather than parlaying his brand of veiled self-therapy, blasphemy, gauging of audience’s perversity levels, and childhood (and adulthood) existential loneliness into a viable job.

SÉAMUS FOX

All-Ireland Poetry Champion 09 Séamus Fox has been delighting literary and comedic audiences all over the country for the past number of years and has become an occasional favourite of comedy clubs. His honesty and passion are not lost through the humour of his poetry which can range from fleeting single stanza quips to full blown hip-hop epics.

Doors: 7:30pm / Show: 8:30pm / £3 Entry / Bring Your Own

Facebook Event Page: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=107571366014031

Presented as part of The Belfast Fringe Festival 2011

This and that

2011-04-22T17:42:00.004+01:00

Last night I competed in The Kilkenny Festival's "Comedy Talent Search"; Craic Attack! at the Black Box, in Belfast. 13 competitors were vying for a spot in the semi-finals in Dublin, in order to be in with a chance to gig in Kilkenny on the 25th May.

Comedy competitions are odd; they tend to take the fun out of comedy, which seems a bit redundant as there's plenty of pre-existing things about doing comedy that will take the fun out of it soon enough. Any gig is already enough of a popularity contest without the need for it to be an actual popularity contest. All this aside, it's all good; it's a gig for those who take part and (hopefully) someone who deserves the spot at Kilkenny will get it.

Old and new hands of Northern Irish comedy were there last night, and it was genuinely pleasing to see the blanket support all the comics gave to one another before and after each other got up and then off the stage. With 13 folks doing 5-7 mins each of their best made for a great night. I would have enjoyed it more if I weren't on second to last and wasn't stressing out for most of the second half. In the end, Mr Lorcan McGrane Esq (PhD Pending) triumphed and is through to the semi-final in Dublin, either on the 16th or 17th May, check out the website for details if you fancy going. Failed Human Morgan Hearst and Pun-Liner Maestro Sean Hegarty were runners up. Congrats!

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I've been busy lately gigging around in preparation for The Norwich Fringe Festival 2011, where myself, Ruaidhrí Ward and Lorcan McGrane are due to do our one man shows, during the 26th - 28th May period. Rua and Lorcs have recently performed their shows again at The Black Box in Belfast, whereas mine has yet to make its debut.

Named "I Was Dark And It Was Drunk", the same name of this blog, the blurb for the show goes thus:

"Marcus Keeley is a stand-up, writer, poet, film-maker and general dissenter. He relays his estranged musings on contemporary life and his own personal failures in an irrepressibly cynical, deviant and charming fashion."

Suitably vague, I'm sure you'll agree. I've got a lot of the bits and pieces of the show, the work in the next few weeks will be to put it all together, perhaps with a narrative, perhaps not. I'll be incorporating a very Voicebox-style feel to it (read: ramshackled), with videos, poetry, powerpoint, and so on, It's always nicer to feel like there's a story or you've "learned" something, rather than a series of disconnected gags.

The comedy line up at Norwich looks pretty good this year, with the likes of Wil Hodgson, Andrew O'Neill and Peep Show's Isy Suttie. Check out the official website here!

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More or less a year since, I'll be back at The Empire doing a quick 5-7 mins. Although I think this time round I'm listed as "Marcus Keely" as opposed to "Macus Keeley" last year, on the website and elsewhere. Interestingly (or not) "Macus" is how Detective Monk pronounces my name, so at least I can pretend he's storming about behind the scenes at The Empire, sitting people down, making them a cup of tea then demanding to know where their cars are parked. I'm looking foward to it, last time I was bricking it and massively nervous and was very surprised and pleased when I did it. As far as I know I'm on with our very own Liam Watson and Scotland's Mark Nelson. It's all kicking off on Tuesday the 26th of April.

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Just in case you want to hear about all of that above and more, check out the excellent comedy podcast Failed Human with Morgan Hearst. It's episode 5 and this time it's my turn to gibber on about comedy and other such nonsense. Check out previous episodes for even funnier people!

Musings and new venture

2011-01-18T19:07:00.005Z

Recently I've been putting off writing entirely new material or crafting existing "bits". When I've got a gig coming up, I instantly try and remember what the venue's sound-system is like. Have they got a projector? How are the audience sat? For the past while I've been seeking out ways to do something that isn't just (as Lorcan McGrane would say) "gurgling behind a microphone for ten minutes". This could include a lecture presentation, a short film, poetry, a character; basically something that isn't what would immediately pop into your mind when you think "stand-up comedy". It's not that I'm trying to smash expectation and be some sort of pioneer (all of the above have been done for years in Belfast alone, with hopelessly funnier than me people doing them).

Like every comedian, another comedian influences them. Whether be it their first ever five minutes, or indeed the reason they clamber up onto the stage. For the past while I've been watching less "conversational" comedy; quite little straightfoward "stand-up" itself, so it makes sense that I might want to write something of another ilk. However, lately I've seen other comics being influenced in such a way that baffles and depresses me. Probably to the point where I'm subconsciously running away from the traditional areas of stand-up to more surreal fare.

For example, you ask a comedian who their favourite comics are, and out will spill a predictable list with perhaps one or two you haven't heard of. You ask them who their influences are, and you're likely to hear names like George Carlin, Doug Stanhope and most lamentably of all, Bill Hicks. Chances are that means their routines will contain swearing. Swearing and abortion, probably some paedophilia as well for good measure. Now, the three mentioned comics all, or independently, covered those three topics. They shocked their audience, but had a point. Stanhope makes apparently inconceivable comments about defending child pornography, Hicks railed against anti-smoking laws and the government of the time, Carlin also tackled the administration and censorship laws, having made the leap from the "old style" of comedian to the fresh and "edgy" new era of comedy, as did Richard Pryor.

Because those comedians swore and made outrageous comments has seemingly given a carte blanche to a lot of comics. It's understandable with newer comedians who are more concerned about getting over the first few hurdles of laughter before the idea of "crafting" a routine comes into play. Open mics are of course known for such territory. Eventually, the crudeness has to be counter-balanced with wit. As does the comic who has a lot to say and strong opinions, has to get to the punchline before their routine becomes stuffy rhetoric. It's ironic that a lot of advocates of Hicks and Carlin have overlooked one of their most valuable talents; the ability to present a cogent argument under the guise of a comedy routine, and vice-versa.

However, lately such devices are not entirely necessary - the student gigs are the new working men's clubs, with simple swearwords themselves getting big laughs, and the only "points" being made are those which go into women's ladyparts (retrospectively told, of course). With such obscenity-driven comics self-describing and billed as being "dark" or "black humour comedians", you'd have to wonder if they are indeed "black", or actually just very very very...

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What with watching a lot of Shooting Stars and Tim & Eric related madness, myself, Ruaidhrí Ward and Lorcan McGrane are debuting a new Comedy Pub Quiz Show next month with the spirit of Voicebox behind. It's called...

Menagerie's BIG Sunday

"Comedians Ruaidhrí Ward, Marcus Keeley and Lorcan McGrane present a new Comedy Pub Quiz Show, featuring stand up comedy, video, characters, prizes and biscuits! Also expect local comedy guests to pop in and interrogate you through the medium of stand-up!

The most alternative pub quiz you will ever see with your weeping eyeballs!"

Check out the fan page here on Facebook and put yourself down for the launch gig on Sunday the 6th of February! See you then.

Remarkably Young

2010-12-18T18:40:00.007Z

To those who are interested, myself and a few others had our performances reviewed recently by Joe Nawaz of Culture Northern Ireland. It was the Big Laughs @ The Black Box gig not long ago. It's good to see gigs getting reviewed; it's the first time it's happened for Big Laughs. There seems to be a bigger culture for it elsewhere, as I got most of my reviews over in England. Anyway, the article can be read here.

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Here's a silly Christmas video. Enjoy.

Voicebox Comedy

2010-12-04T13:47:00.006Z

Voicebox Comedy was started by myself in the summer of 2008 at Safehouse Art Gallery. I had returned to Belfast from university, and in order to keep myself occupied during the interm, I decided to start a small, informal night. I had first "officially" got up behind the mic as a stand-up in late 2007, at LOL's Student Comedy Night at The Rose Tavern in Norwich, where I had been studying. I had only originally planned to do a few in Belfast before I returned to the scene over there.

The couple that went ahead were small, falling apart at the seams and very scatterbrained. With no microphone, muzak or a bar, it was essentially a white room with some school canteen dinner chairs thrown in. Hit with acute inspiration, as I'm sure you'll agree, I named the night from the fact it was comedians in a square room, with only their words to hide behind. The crowds that were there, in just about double-figures, had fun and really enjoyed the night for what it was. It was an inclusive, amateur, alternative grassroots comedy night, a different beast to The Empire Comedy Club and the Laughter Lounge, which were two of the few places you could go for some comedy in the city. From the few who were there, it was were I and many other amateur comics realised that there are other needy, insecure and ultimately funny people about. Many nights have been started since by those comics, and are still going strong.

I returned to Belfast just at the start of 2009 and kicked off in big-style with Voicebox. I made it a monthly affair; every first friday of the month. The only proviso I had with the comics, which stood until the club closed, was that they had "free reign to do whatever you want". Stand-up comedy inherently has that rule; as a performance by one person, entitled to talk about any given subject for their amount of time. It wasn't my judgement to make; if the audience didn't find it funny, the comic would soon know. With a large amount of performers (the average night usually having 10) doing as they please every month, it's no surprise that along the way there have been some unforgettable moments.

It may be a while before I'll find myself sitting with a carry-out, watching someone on stage slide-tackle a chair, do an elaborate and surreal dance routine or simulate defecation using a can of squirty cream to the background music of a drum and bass version of The Magic Roundabout theme. Well, except maybe in my night terrors.

Sincerest thanks to the performers in this non-definitive list:

Aaron Marshall, Adam Laughlin, Adrian Aicken, Andy Hamilton, Anne-Marie Mullan, Anthony Barrett, Brian Dunwoody, Caitriona Ward, Chris Montgomery, Ciaran Bartlett, Ciaran Flanagan, Colin Geddis, Colm McGlinchey, Dan Terrins, Ed Goodall, Enda Muldoon, Gary Croft, George Quinn, Gerard McKeown, Graeme Watson, Harry McGarry, Hotrod McCaughan, Jason Johnson, Jason O'Neill, Joe Lindsay, Justin McKeown, Karl Schultz, Lauren Kerr, Liam Watson, Lorcan McGrane, Mark Cahill, Meabh McDonnell, Mick Thompson, Micky Bartlett, Morgan Hearst, Neil Woodside, Paddy McGaughey, Paul McCarron, Peter Maxwell, Robert Best, Ruaidhrí Ward, Ryan Hollinger, Scott Calonico, Séamus Fox, Shane Horan, Shane Todd, Simon McCullagh, Stacey Mead, Susie Showers.

And to the folks who turned out to see the show, helped behind the scenes and provided more than enough enthusiasm, thank you.

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Enjoy a wee (purposely) saccharin tribute video of Voicebox Comedy, made by the one and only Lorcan McGrane.

Gagged

2010-11-22T15:00:00.007Z

It's going to be a busy lead up to Christmas for me; gig-wise that is, not in a yuletide way. Over to the right there is the upcoming shows I've got, so to speak. Someone asked me recently how the "touring" was going. Even though I've only got Belfast and Dublin lined up for slots varying between five and fifteen minutes long, I guess it is touring. There's tours in Belfast every day, and all they have to differentiate themselves is a big red/yellow bus. There's still someone behind a microphone drivelling on about some past glory or long-gone misdemeanour, struggling to make it interesting, while the listeners are led down the same predictable path in an old, ineffective vehicle. Sorry, I'll have to stop there as I've seen flashes of my future career. And present one.

Anyway, speaking of Belfast and Dublin, I did a gig somewhere that's not either of those places. Last thursday I clambered into the Morgan Hearst Comedy Vehicle with his good self and Ruaidhrí Ward and we all headed up to Derry to do a turn at Mason's Gagging Order Comedy Night. I'd never been to Mason's before, but heard nothing but great things about the place. It's a lovely room upstairs, with an even nicer, enthusiastic crowd and, best of all, great drinks promotions (double Jack and coke for a fiver?).

Gagging Order is the open mic/competition variant of the usual night they have there, so there was about eight different comics doing between 5-10 minutes. As fate would have it (or rather, the runner Eavan King), I was on first. Now, usually I hate going on first. It's not the fear of getting up in front of a crowd - that's long gone, as well as hope, aspiration and tact. Sure, there's nervousness in the five minutes before you get behind the mic; I'd be worried if there wasn't. It's just that sometimes parts of my material don't suit the start of the night, but MC Micky Bartlett had them warmed up nice and toasty and I launched into my five.

With the night being called "Gagging Order", you can't help but appreciate the tragic irony of what occurred halfway through my set. Everything was going great - the audience were up for it, I was enjoying myself a lot more than at other gigs, and was just building up to a big punchline, throwing in a few smaller laughs. I reached the end of the sentence, pointed to a random person in the crowd and - stared at them for five full seconds of silence. My mind had blanked. It wasn't that I was scrabbling around through the dirty laundry of gags in my head; my cognitive senses were caught short while on a smoke break. I just couldn't think of anything to end the sentence on. The guy I had been pointing at looked frightened and shrugged his shoulders, as if he were supposed to know the end of my own poxy joke. I apologised, moved on and got to the "big" punchline, which due to the unscheduled stop along the way, had folks confused, but still got a few laughs.

That's the first time that's happened to me in almost two years. It was by no means catastrophic, but very hard to recover from. Anyway, in the end, Mason's regular audience member Julie Lecky debuted and rightly won the evening. If she's doing it again around Derry or elsewhere, check her out, as well as more comedy nights at Mason's.

In any case, provided I don't have a mind-crash onstage again, check out the gigs to the right there. If you're reading this retrospectively, ignore the "Rest In Peace; 1989 - 2013" sign and donate some money to a local struggling comedian in your area.

Monaghan man Gerry McBride was also up in Derry for the night, and he has a blog about various Irish comedians and (much better written) post-gig reports. Check it out No Punchline here.

Unlike me that night, here's someone who can recover from forgetting his lines (albeit in a very constructed way).

Fringe Reflection

2010-10-27T15:52:00.005+01:00

Bedraggled, sore and aching - I would guess that's how the comics of Belfast Fringe Festival feel now that it's all finally over (and perhaps their egos too, in some cases). Hopefully the audiences feel much the same. It was a heavy-going weekend by all counts, with hilarity, drunkenness and ramshackle fun throughout.

Despite seeing some excellent shows and performances, by far the best thing about the weekend was the sense of community between the comics. Even for a small city, sometimes the "scene" as it were, can feel fragmented. If a comic could, they would stay for the entire day to watch and support the proceedings.

There's a lot of potential and talent in this tiny part of the world, and if that can be harnessed and built upon like it was last weekend, then who knows what can be made of it. Either that or the entire thing will perhaps be left to "the realm of silly-billies".

I Got Some Booty

2010-10-16T05:40:00.006+01:00

In the run up to the first ever Belfast Fringe Festival, Mr Lorcan McGrane (Phd Pending) posted me some flyers to distribute throughout the city for his hour-long, one man show, Geekdom.

In three different, glossy flavours and all! He also sent a delightful array of lovely things including a ton of comedy featuring the Tim and Eric Show, Louis C.K., Richard Pryor, Stewart Lee, etc. He even sent a lovely postard.

On the back it says: "See reverse for thrilling views of old stone buildings and the rusting metal roofs of garages." I think I'll wait a while before tasting the delights of Monaghan.

So yes, it's a comedy frenzy next weekend at The Safehouse Arts Gallery, home of Voicebox Comedy. Two days and three nights of local comedy stars showcasing their work in the hope that you come in and have a peek at what's going on. The events and listings can be found at the Fringe website.

One show in particular I'm looking foward to is Ruaidhrí Ward's "Cats and Dogs. Living Together. Mass Hysteria"; featuring a whole bunch of acts he was quicker to ask than I was - Morgan Hearst, All-Ireland Poetry Champion Séamus Fox and the peerless Enda Muldoon. Of course Ruaidhrí will be doing some stuff I suppose (if that's your sort of thing). The place's roof will be blown clean off.

Voicebox Comedy is having a special Fringe Show, featuring stalwarts of the club it has amassed since its inception, providing an alternative and sometimes surreal comedy injection as is the standard.

Just before I end this post, which is pretty much one big fucking advertisement, remember to come out in your droves to support whoever tickles your funnybone. Not even your doctor would do that, he'd probably just snap it open and suck out the marrow for a disease-ridden, high-paying celebrity type. Until then folks!

We Have Ways Of Making You Talk...

2010-08-20T02:55:00.006+01:00

A long overdue coffee with a friend in the early evening is why I'm up in the early morning. Not so early to be respectable and give the illusion of motion within one's purpose, but just early enough so that you can hatefully slip into a cast-iron slumber with the knowledge that neighbourhood children will be screaming outside in what seems like five minutes. Joyful children and their summer. It won't last; back to school stuff is in the shops, I've seen it. Ha. Shower of bastards.

I have unintentionally avoided coffee for the past few months, so the quick succession of caffeine while moaning to said friend about anything she'd (thankfully) listen to proved to have an odd sensation. Especially in Clements, where mirrors line every wall, forcing you to watch yourself as you slobber on and on about your problems, the caffeine aggravating your already jittery nature from having to look at yourself for an extended period of time. It felt like I was giving myself an intervention; each time catching my own eye, forcing myself to squeeze out another nugget of fail so it'll stop. Nevermind attaching electrodes to my bollocks - stick me in a changing room with a thermos and I'm fucked.

The last time I drank coffee on a regular basis was when I was masquerading as a student a few years ago. Up all night I'd be; drinking the flavoured coffee I'd bought in town because it was slightly more expensive than regular coffee and wanted to feel productive. I was going to the toilet a lot. Mission accomplished. My degree? Not so much.

University is something I'd be interested to tackle again. I've come to the conclusion after much introspection, finally having opined enough over what my dog thinks of me when I'm not in the room and how much of my internet traffic is legitimately directed towards me. Answer to both: not much. Glamour model Keeley Hazell and that other Marcus Keeley (who, according to my Google Alerts, is quite into Formula 1 forums) win this battle. I'm off to a hall of mirrors with an espresso machine before I change my mind.

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(Just so the male 14-80+ age bracket doesn't feel like they've been tricked onto my page)

Blah de blah

2010-07-20T16:46:00.002+01:00

Not many updates have been happening because frankly, not much has been happening. A few gigs here and there, but nothing out of the norm. Belfast is a small town, and it doesn't take long before there's the overhwhelming sensation of existential ennui and inertia. I've tried to leave before a few times, even managing to live elsewhere quite happily for a while, but I'm beginning to think my life is some sort of low-budget spin-off of Lost.

"What? I have to go back for some indiscernible reason and drag all this out fairly needlessly? Oh. Great craic altogether. The reason is that I've fucked up? Righto, fair enough."

So I've decided to book a couple of gigs elsewhere around the country. It's good fun doing a completely fresh audience and place. It also prevents you from binning potentially good material when you think it's gone rotten just because the same audience aren't laughing at it anymore. Oh and screaming at the walls in your room. Check the list on the right over there, which will be regularly updated.

The Empire x 2

2010-05-22T16:17:00.010+01:00

Well, last tuesday I finally got around to playing at The Belfast Empire. It was a lot of fun, and I think I went down well, although it's impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own voice. Especially when you're hammering through a 5-8 minute routine and have no room to pause. It's been a while since I played to such a big room and crowd, but they were very appreciative - going along with the story and listening. Good times. The folk backstage and the other acts were very pleasant: support from Mark Nelson, the headline slot taken by Brendan Burke and MC'ed by Empire and BBCNI regular, Colin Murphy. It was good fun and I can't wait to do it again.

From one Empire to another. All you avid, fictional readers of my blog may have remembered a video I posted a while back, featuring Belfast's Smyth's Furniture Store. Well, Empire Magazine caught wind of it and it's featured in this week's online newsletter.

Screencap here.

Thanks to Serena Driver Cnut for the heads up!

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Upcoming Gigs

Thursday 27th May - Comedy Basement @ McHugh's Bar, Belfast
Friday 28th May - Laugh On The Metro, ...on buses to and from West Belfast, 4pm
Saturday 29th May - Laugh 4 Haiti (5 hour comedy marathon for charity), OhYeah Centre, Belfast, 1pm onwards
Friday 4th June - Voicebox Comedy @ Safehouse Art Gallery, Belfast

Lonely Gordon

2010-05-13T00:52:00.007+01:00

I caught a bit of Time Team earlier tonight. Exciting stuff with Tony Robinson. I'm not bashing it - if anything, I wish I was more interested, or understood more. Genealogy is another thing I keep telling myself to find out about, but I don't have the iron-cast patience and frame of mind to look through uninterrupted beige at things Tony "might find to be of particular interest". It's like watching someone do dirt admin. At least they've kept the same format for years. That and The Sky At Night with the sublime Sir Patrick Moore - two dependable stalwarts of the nation. We'll need them if we're gonna get through this David Cameron/Lizardman governed country for the next five years. Christ.

On a vaguely related/achaelogical matter, something was recently uncovered in my mind thanks to broadcaster and gentleman, Joe Lindsay when he performed a stand-up routine mentioning The Giant's Ring.

If you haven't heard of it, then whenever you've stopped laughing at its unfortunate name, you'll be interested to know that:

"The Giant's Ring is a henge monument at Ballynahatty, near Shaw's Bridge, Belfast, Northern Ireland...The site consists of a circular enclosure, 180m in diameter and 2.8 hectares in area, surrounded by a circular earthwork bank 3.5m high."

Oh, and it's a popular site for dogging. Again, if you don't know what dogging is:

"Dogging is a British euphemism for engaging in sexual acts in a semi-public place (typically a secluded car park in a car) and then watching others doing so."

Although, potential confusion may arise as the area is also very popular for dog-walking. Sexy irony. Anyway. Joe pointed out the dogging connection with much gusto, and it unearthed some memories of the place in my mind. For instance, I once found a blackened pound coin on the burned soil within the "tomb" in the middle of the ring ("probably weirdo Pagans here at night lighting fires" surmised my father). One other occasion is something I can't believe I'd forgotten.

One blustery weekend around 2-3 years ago, my family and I somehow decided the best thing to do was to visit The Giant's Ring for...I dunno, probably to give the impression that we enjoy spending time together doing "family activities", fuck knows. My mother stayed in the car whilst myself, my father and my brother walked about the ring, not doing much. The weather turned a bit more torrential and I decided I'd walk the whole way around it; my father and brother opting to head back to the car.

Nearly all the way round I decided to stop under a tree for a smoke and to generally observe the crazy rain sweeping across the open land. Then out of the distance a man approached, wearing cycling spandex and pushing a bike along. He pushed it up and down the mounds until he reached where I was standing. He was in his 30's I'd say. Terrible, dwindling hairline. Yuck. From memory, the conversation went something like this:

Man: "Hello."
Me: "Hi."
Man: "Mad weather, isn't it?"
Me: "Yeah, but I kind've like this dramatic weather. Look at the gusts and sheets of wind blowing across the ring - it's pretty cool."
Man: "Yeah, it's nice."
Me: "You're brave to come out in this weather dressed like that. You must be freezing."
Man: "Oh I don't mind. I'm up here most weekends anyway ... do you come here often?"
Me: "No, not at all. I'm just here with my parents. They're in the car with my brother. Couldn't handle the weather."
Man (disappointed face): Oh. Well. Okay. My name's Gordon. I'll see you later, maybe... what's your name?"
Me: "Oh, Marcus. Bye now."

Then he shook my hand and left. I walked back to the car, thinking what a polite man he was. Once I told my parents about the encounter, it was a good source of amusement. For them. I personally felt nauseous and violently showered once I got home.

It's not a bad place really. Minus the weirdoes. I'd like to see Time Team do a dig there, while the sexual deviants in cycling spandex try to ride the archaelogists. Perhaps in the stone tomb bit the Pagans would be cowering in fear, smearing each other in fowl's blood while Patrick Moore tries to poke them out using an antiquated telescope.

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More mentions of Tony Robinson and Time Team:

Labour of love

2010-05-10T03:27:00.006+01:00

Last week I watched Channel 4's Alternative Election Night and despite my vague dislike of Jimmy Carr and Laverne Lauren, they did very well to help me overcome the similarily vague terror creeping up my spine as I realised the exit polls were becoming a reality. I'm not very politically-inclined (they're all crooks), but I have to admit my heart sank a bit when it was revealed that the Tories looked ashooin'. With David Mitchell sveltely swanning around the studio, delivering facts and theorising with some political experts, it seemed that he would protect the country from degrading into madness, all seemed safe. I don't know what it is about Mitchell, but I'd happily have him running the universe with no questions asked.

Anyway, eventually we saw longtime favourite Charlie Brooker appear live, and in person, as opposed to pre-recorded VTs. However, he slowly began to disappoint me. Much like his recent series of You Have Been Watching (or as I like to call it, "Screenwipe Lite") and worrying attempts at acceptable haircuts, bordering on emulating his own Nathan Barley creation. He recycled a lot of his comments from his Guardian articles and in some cases, simply repeated or directly lifted entire spiels from just-shown or upcoming pre-prepared VTs. When something approached serious debate, he deconstructed it unceremoniously with something trite, unfunny or crass, my faith in him chipping away slowly.

However, the next day I considered a few things; he's not a comedian, he's essentially a journalist. A very clever and funny one at that. On the same hand, comedians repeat themselves all the same - why shouldn't I expect this from Brooker? Surely he should be given a bit of lee-way regards this sort of thing, especially considering I'm a heavy Brooker reader?

The main thing was too - HE WAS ON LIVE TV! Jesus Marcus, give the guy a break. He looks as if he's about to have a mild nervous breakdown when he's on camera, live or otherwise. Brooker himself talks about the event fantastically in his latest article, delivering me a smack about the head with a rolled-up newspaper for being such a needy, expectant cunt. Which for some reason, I'd imagine Mitchell administering. I don't know why. Read it here.

Another thing he talks about in the article which struck a chord with me is the editing process with video:

"I'd been up until 5am in an edit suite, where we were cutting one of the VT packages I'd written (to make two of them, totalling just over eight minutes, took roughly 40 hours; viewers, of course, are blissfully unaware of the slog involved, and often assume it takes as long to create something as it does to watch it)."

First of all, I must point out that none of my output is comparable to the excellent and comprehensive degree with which Brooker's programmes are made. Still though, it's a bitch. Most of the time, I'd be writing, directing, "acting" and editing all of the videos I'm involved in. Sure, it's fun to be getting on like a spare dick infront of a camera in a vague attempt to amuse your potential Youtube audience of millions (in reality: about 20), but it's a surefire way to fall out with people very efficiently. Much like playing with a friend in a beat-em-up game where they keep using the same move to paralyse your character into submission.

If you can, work alone, use a tripod, be inventive with stacks of books/DVD cases. I've made a good few videos with Ruaidhrí Ward; we're good friends, but after a couple of hours, it gets pretty close to telling each other to die in a car fire, or unexpectantly sucker-punching one another in the throat.

Thrust a camera into someone's hands and telling them very specifically what to do soon degrades into "you know what would be funny..." from the honorary director, or outright on the spot artistic licence - usually nothing like your mind's eye masterpiece. Joyful, spur of the moment directorial deviation means more megabytes of shite I have to slog through in the editing just to keep you happy. Again, I stress that I've absolutely nothing to justify my directorial prowess apart from my sorry collection of uploads, but goddamnit, sometimes a tripod isn't good enough, but at least it won't unsubtlely fish for an undeserved co-credit. However, I'll mention here that it's a rare occurence - I haven't collaborated with anyone like that in a long while.

By the time you actually get around to editing the thing, it's not long before you're sick of the own sight of your face. Your big, stupid face. Halfway through the process you wonder if it's funny anymore, much like when you're editing some writing and you wonder if "each" is really spelled like that. Is that even the word you're looking for? Fuck this. Fuck everyone. Fuck everyone's ma.

Quite often I'll make a short video and "premiere" (yeah I'm a self-indulgent dick) it at a comedy night. Partly for novelty's sake, but mosty because there's a paranoia that everyone in the audience has seen it already in the 6 hour space since uploading it online. Which is fairly unlikely, as when you send someone a youtube link or post one on Facebook, most people will ignore it (fuck it, I'm guilty).

If you actually get to this stage, just before you show the video to a room of expectant folk, you mentally think, "If no-one laughs, I am going to kick the fuck out of this place...". That three-minute vignette? Yeah, that took 6 hours, three packets of cigarettes, an inordinate amount of alcohol and a season of Lost's worth of screaming at walls. And that's without the dignity surcharge. Which I'll never get back. Not even through your laughter (please laugh though).

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Hey kids! I've made some new videos! Here's one of them! RATE AND SUBSCRIBE! PLZZZZZZZZ!

A Working Day...

2010-04-25T15:36:00.003+01:00

It's all go (or at least it would appear, hopefully). Having now achieved global hipster fame, I got around to doing something I probably should have a while ago: get a comedycv.co.uk page.

What is a comedycv.co.uk page, I hear you ask? It's pretty self explanatory, I bellow back into your face. It's all set up by a lovely man called Martin Mullaney, who provides comedians with a free web prescence - just in the name of comedy. How nice. Sure, it might be a bit defunct these days what with Facebook and comedians having their own websites, but it helps the fresher comedians get their name at least somewhere they can direct cigar-chomping gig promoters such as myself.

Why did I put it off? Who knows? Probably the same reason I've avoided doing The Belfast Empire (although I'm now doing that on the 18th May, go figure), but let's just say, after seeing a few names on comedycv.co.uk and The Empire, I've been "inspired" to do it.

Here's my comedycv.co.uk page.

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I've also made the third in the line of Superstar Poet/Comedian videos. This one was inspired by the post-gig ennui/depression you get lingering for a while; you may have killed and brought the house down, or you may have died on your hole. Either way, if you don't get it, you're not doing it right.

Heston Blumenthal's Balls

2010-04-21T13:20:00.005+01:00

Cooking is all over the TV in a variety of manners. Some focus entirely on nutritional benefit and are health-slanted, some provide basic entertainment value by having a lunatic in charge swear incessantly in the faces of the other chefs, and some fill their remit by suggestively cooking so that half the country's carbohydrate-stuffed males watching are placed in a wishful, bloated trance, almost expecting The Delicious Miss Dahl to crawl through the screen and suck them off.

Then there's Heston Blumenthal.

Watching Heston's Feasts, I quickly became confused. I mean, it's not hard to understand - Blumenthal picks a period of history and usually a piece of literature or event around that time, examines the diet of the people/one particular person, and tries to emulate that "for the 21st century" as he relentlessly states. He then presents a 3/4 course meal for a group of celebrities to consume and discover the secrets of the quite well constructed and designed meals.

The problem with all of this is that, despite all other cooking programmes which have amazingly gotten past the barrier of non-existent smellivision/tastivision, Blumenthal's programme can't. His ingredients are so outlandish, that I have no frame of reference for what he's cooking, apart from a vague description from Blumenthal that camel is "a bit tough" (as you'd expect anyway), or from his attention-starved "celebrities" that everything tastes "absolutely delicious". Well of course they're going to ooh and aah and gulp down whatever demented shite put infront of them - they need the exposure, and let's face it, watching them eat whale's pan-fried smegma or whatever, is essentially a more civil Bushtucker Trial.

I suppose what the viewer at home is expected to take from the programme is entertainment value of the end product and how it looks, considering the ingredients involved. However, that fell on its hole in one episode where a recipe consisted of seal's blubber or some such and he substituted it for duck's liver...so what's the point at all? None of the meals are practical to recreate at home and listening to the hateful, ball-licking guests swooning over the meal as if each course represented the second coming of one part of the holy trinity.

What's really unnerving/irritating is that due to Heston's presenting style, it's almost as if he knows how underwhelmed I am, instead opting to look slightly to the right, away from the camera. As if he's talking to his "real" audience just over my shoulder, ones not populated by nay-sayers and stick-in-the-muds. I'm being ignored by Heston because he hates me, and would rather make singing soufflés and exploding loafs for the likes of Caroline Ferraday and Jenny Falconer. That bald fiend. By the end of the programme you're left feeling cheated and confused. There goes an hour of your time, on a load of balls, not just any balls, but Heston The Cock's Balls.

Bon Appetit.

Dazed & Confused

2010-04-19T14:00:00.004+01:00

It's been a while, but can you blame me? What with my hectic and debauched superstar lifestyle, accentuated by my appearance in the hipster skinny jeans crotch-dampener Dazed & Confused magazine?

Not only that, it's the "Naked Truth" edition. Which basically means lots of cocks and fannies and the like throughout the magazine, and as Ruaidhrí Ward accurately pointed out, there's a strong chance that a frenzied, masturbating hipster will turn the page to unexpectedly see my face. I opined that the occurrence is surely rampant regardless of the article. He remained silent. Hmm.

Anyway, here's the article for your eyeball-viewing pleasure, and hey kids, you can find out my deep, deep thoughts on politics and the like!

And yes, I'll write a proper post soon.

Use for old rope

2010-03-02T02:57:00.004Z

My laptop unceremoniously killed itself over a month ago, prompting me to feel a bit like a technological refugee, rudely plopping myself down in the living room floor of my brother's hard drive, promising to sort my situation out while he trips and stumbles over weird, mismatched documents and half-completed projects any time he tries to find his own stuff under the slowly-amassing collection of personal failures. Not only do I leech from my family's good-nature, I'm also a digital moocher.

Irritatingly, I appear to have lost all of the information on my hard drive, especially the funky video editing software I'd grown rather fond of. Now I'm stuck with Windows Movie Maker. While it has some excellently inappropriate and ker-azy transitions, it's a damn sight near impossible to do any serious editing work on it. Incidentally, if anyone knows of any decent, free editing software out there, let me know. I've since relegated myself to working more on writing (thankfully I never got around to transferring my wine-stained scribblings to the Sarlaac Pit that my laptop turned out to be) and lent my camera and audio equipment to Ruaidhrí Ward, who has been using it to full effect the past week or so for a video project for this week's Voicebox. I can't give too much away at this point, but this clip mightn't be completely unrelated. Turn up to find out.

I haven't been envying Ruaidhrí's task of video editing, but reminded by my current lack of technological crutches I was prompted to re-discover a bit of kit I have always neglected.

It's the Archos AV700, a digital video recorder. But not like a camcorder; that'd make too much sense. Essentially it's a device for you to watch/listen to media "on the go" (Archos' new tagline circa 2004/5 after dumping "think smaller", which admittedly, can conjure up negative images). Personally I wouldn't carry this around to watch stuff "on the go" unless I wanted to look like a bit of a Nathan Barley ballache from the mid-2000's. Which I guess is what my 17-year-old self thought when my very gracious parents bought me it for my birthday/Christmas.

What is interesting about it and has thus redeemed itself after 3 years of being stuffed down the back of a cupboard in its' original packaging is that it has the ability to digitally record footage from the television onto its' 80GB hard drive for seamless transfer onto a laptop. I'm sure it does other wonderful, convenient things, but this is what interests me the most.

Sometimes I may see a peculiar/horrible/worthy of criticism programme/advertisement on television and come up with an idea for a video of my own, or a sketch. Unless a programme/ad is especially popular or notorious, it's fairly unlikely that I would be able to find it on youtube or torrent it (gasp), and literally impossible anyway since my internet connection seems to take a ring road through The Treacle Dimension before it gets to my computer. This technology allows me to rip whatever I need from my Sky+ recording and do what I like.

Which would be great, if my laptop hadn't died recently and took the video editing software along with it. Boo. I suppose you'll all have to wait that little bit longer for a Poor Man's Screenwipe.

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After booting the Archos up after three years I found a load crap that must've been from my old (and now defunct) desktop computer. One of which was this track below. Mostly bollocks, but there's a line or two in there that mildly tickles me.

Housekeeping

2010-02-08T15:20:00.004Z

There has been a lack of updates, partially due to me being busy, and partially due to me not being able to think of a better excuse. Just a few bits of information and I'll definitely properly update in a bit.

First of all, a collossal THANK YOU to the folk who came down to Voicebox last friday. There were so many people we had to turn some away - apologies. Ruaidhri Ward was sterling in his first MC performance, Lorcan McGrane was relieved to go on as a mildly sober opener for once and the planets aligned then promptly collided when Enda Muldoon took to the stage in the headline spot. Thanks once more to the crowd that came down and the acts themselves. We'll see what we can do for next month.

www.nicomedy.com has been given a facelift, so check that out. The bones are all there with a few hefty chunks of meat included, but it should be tip-top in a few days. Have a look at the upcoming gigs (one tonight and one on wednesday, and I'm on both, harr) and see if you can make them.

Also, there's now a NIComedy Youtube Channel where you can find all of our hilarious stand-up clips, short films, vids and bit pieces all in one easy place! Check it out here.

FINALLY, Belfast Calling gave me a lovely interview recently, and you can all have a read here.

I will leave you with Ruaidhrí Ward's latest video endeavour.

Je voudrais un balcon

2010-01-16T15:47:00.004Z

Thankfully all the snow and ice has gone, unfortunately none of the people who wished it upon us perished. There's always a group of people who simply plead for it to snow, I guess in some vague attempt to distract themselves from the pointlessness of their monotonous endeavours. I'm not saying I'm better than them, I'm the same, I just realise it, accept it and move on; knowing that an aesthetically-pleasing, yet tangibly unpleasant weather event will do little to exert the momentum needed to launch myself out of life-long minutiae. But I guess getting sick a dozen times in three months and constantly almost falling on your hole makes up for it, yeah? Grow up. Fucking snow-enablers.

I recently found a video showcasing the small town where I made this short film. Last time I was there it was unbearably hot, sticky and hot. Still, I think I'd prefer it over Belfast at the moment. Chances are the weather is minimally better and the language barrier prevents me from getting into a conversation about snow.

Cake and Fine Wine

2010-01-13T04:49:00.005Z

Well, 2010. It's the future, officially. Here we still are, flailing around in our own filth and still having to dexteriously negotiate with wires. Which is probably for the best; I'm still a little bit frightened by the internet on phones and the existence of Sky+. Balls to the future.

I have no resolutions. I had a bit of an idea a while ago when I happened across a very nice notebook I had once bought then promptly forgot about. There's nothing nicer to someone whose pleasures lie in writing down internal verbal diarrhoea than a fresh, blank, crisp notebook. I intended to attempt to write down a page or so every day of that very diarrhoea for private reflection in that very notebook.

Problem is, I forgot to write in it and when I decided to make a start, I discovered that I'd written something intelligible when drunk on the first page. Bereft of any virginial properties, I'd been put off. Then again, it's not the first time.

Plus I've been given a handy digital dictaphone for recording my "thoughts" a la Alan Partridge. So far I've recorded nothing but puerile rubbish and a handful of gigs where the microphone was too close to the sound system. Oh well.

Although it seems a decent alternative to using my internal mic on my camera, as the minimally improved sound quality shows you in this comedy short I made with Ruaidhrí Ward recently.

Most intriguing.

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I haven't watched a lot of films people say I definitely should, so out of boredom I recently watched the excellent Withnail & I for the first time. I can see why people have heavily recommended it to me specifically. Here's one of my favourite clips.

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Last but not least my next gig is this coming sunday, have a look here. Featuring Ruaidhrí Ward, Bored Housewife and a collection of fun stuff. Make it if you can.

No white wine whilst on antibiotics in the cold

2009-12-23T20:59:00.005Z

It's that time of year again, yep, I'm sick. I have caught the lurgy that everyone has been whoring around. I've been ill quite a lot this year, thankfully nothing serious. Such highlights include:

The cold/flu at least four times
Allergy problems
Chest infection
What felt like a broken ankle for about three months
Busted hand
Uncomfortable cyst

Mmm, lovely. I'm currently on antibiotics and coughing up my essence. I actually boked in my mouth last night while trying to sleep. Merry Christmas.

Rage Aginst The Machine, X-Factor, etc bollocks aside, here's a lovely, non-secular Christmas song. Heartfelt and comedic in the way that only Tim Minchin can do. Enjoy.

Have a giggle this Christmas?

2009-12-17T19:18:00.006Z

At least, leading entertainment retailer, HMV, is encouraging you to. Let's examine what they've put on offer!

Dave Spikey, The Best Medicine Tour

David G. Bramwell (better known as the hilarious Dave Spikey), invites you to laugh at various incredibly original stand-up concepts and not at all hackneyed joke constructions, made even funnier by the charming and under-used North West English accent. Blessed to hail from the same place as comedic superstars Peter Kay, Paddy McGuinness, Vernon Kay, Ralf Little and Marlon from Emmerdale, yes, Bolton has another golden boy.

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Omid Djalili, Live In London

Iranian-born Omid Djalili, has starred in such films as The Mummy and Alien Autopsy (with the fantastic Ant & Dec). Now watch as the Iranian comic, Omid Djalili (from Iran) dances about the stage. The Iranian comic will enthrall you with his impressions and silly voices (that he might have learned in Iran) as he Iranically tickles your funny bone like some sort of laughter terrorist (terrorist because he's from Iran, LOL! OOPS).

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Rob Brydon, Live

The not at all annoying Welsh motherfucker, Rob Brydon, known for being a traffic warden, baptist and friendly with confusingly popular cunt duo, Horne & Corden invites you to spend a mere £14.99 on his DVD so he can regale you with the under-travelled stand-up avenue that is the difference between men and women (also with silly voices!).

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Jethro, Too Late To Grow Up!

Who the fuck?

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Jim Davidson, If I Ruled The World

Join everyone's favourite alcoholic, bankrupt, wife-beating racist, Jim Davidson in being an alcoholic bankrupt, wife-beating racist in If I Ruled The World (which he would, if everything wasn't so fucking politically correct, fucking cripples and darkies eh?). Watch him below entertaining AAARRR BOYYYS from his previous DVD, "I'm a Fucking Disgrace and Everybody Knows It, But I Don't Care".

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Roy Chubby Brown, Too Fat To Be Gay

Chronic pathetic loser, Roy Chubby Brown, continues his interminable stand-up "comedy" career with his latest DVD, much like Davidson, catering to thick people. Buy now, before they sell out (or are burned in a giant fucking furnace)!

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Well, I don't know about you, but I'm positively devastated that I'm skint this Christmas, otherwise I could've had so many laughs. I guess I'll have to just have to strip the skin from my ballbag using a potato peeler instead, even though it's clearly the less enjoyable option.

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In other news, I recently saw Eddie Izzard's "Stripped" tour at The Odyssey in Belfast. I also wrote a review, find it here.

Also, here's the excellent Lorcan McGrane doing a stand-up set recently in Norwich. It's good stuff.

PLUS, something I did to pass the time one evening:

I'd say that's possibly your Christmas lot.

Laughing with a bad taste in your mouth

2009-12-01T23:47:00.004Z

While Facebook stalking, I happened upon some more comedy "news". Have a look for yourself.

"There’s so much xenophobia and Islamophobia – where are the people getting great laughs from that? Why don’t we laugh at Gordon Brown? Of those 100 comics only two made jokes about the BNP ... are we going back to the bad old days? There’s a growing lack of consciousness. A feeling that you should say nothing. That’s really worrying. It’s so frightening, so frustrating.

What are comics scared of? There’s no jobs for comics any more – it’s difficult for anyone but the big names to get an audience. There’s no future for comedy."

While he may have a relevant point in the UK circuit, as always, Northern Ireland is a bit of a grey area when it comes to comedy aimed at politics. It's very rare in the circuit to hear some intelligent satire about the political situation and/or the main players in it. Whenever it does occur, there's a good chance that the audience just make the kneejerk catholic/protestant connection and wheeze laughter, like a fissured old punching bag, overlooking the intrinsic point.

To be fair, there's a lot of comedians out there latching onto that, including a lot of the more well-known comics in NI. Spinning out the same old yarn for decades. Why? Because people laugh.

When Roland Muldoon says that it's gone "all Michael McIntyre", it's because he gets people in through the doors. They laugh. I don't like McIntyre an awful lot, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why people do. From that, it's not terribly difficult to see why comics emulate him (knowingly or otherwise).

With him at seemingly 100% exposure, it's bad for comedy. It's not challenging for the audiences, and that goes doubly for the comics. Who wants to spend time crafting a routine, toying with wordplay and attempting to "get" an audience on multiple levels when you can zoom through from a to b using a funny voice and jumping about the stage? Sometimes with a better response?

Interestingly enough, McIntyre gave a recent "interview" with The Daily Mirror about his beginnings in the stand-up world, and divulged that

"He shudders when he remembers his stand-up debut 10 years ago at an open mic night in North London.

Michael says: “I got a laugh with the first thing I said and then I died on my a*** for about two years solid. It was horrific.

I was trying to do one-liners and it took me years to realise I just had to be myself. My fear was if I was myself and no one found it funny, I’d have nowhere left to go.

Now I almost overly embrace how weird I am, how I look and how oddly camp I am." "

However (massively) unlikely, it's worth wondering if McIntyre's material back in the day was closer to what Muldoon is asking comics to edge towards. It's reasonable to assume that McIntyre realised what sells comedically and finally threw in the towel artistically speaking and adopted his middle of the road (read: boring, uninspired, tedious) comic per$ona. Perhaps as a gay comic, I should "camp" it up a bit, and "embrace" it, as that's obviously fucking hilarious if his DVD sales are anything to go by.

Before the comics become more challenging, the audience need to challenge the comics, instead of laying spread-eagled for those who plunge right in, thrash about, make a few silly faces, then leave before you notice they've taken your entry fee from the bedside dresser.

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Here's an interview with Bill Hicks, and without trying to sound like another comedy groupie by verbally sucking him off, he's on the money with how a comic should treat the audience. Going by this logic, McIntyre and others like him, nationally famous or otherwise, are practically shitting in the mouths of the audience when they do their guff. The problem is, they appear to love it.

And here's the excellent Doug Stanhope intentionally shitting in their mouths because they love it. Both are making the same point.

"I'm not homophobic, but..."

2009-11-12T05:47:00.003Z

While trawling through the internet due to insane insomnia and the wistful flights of fancy associated with fantasising about getting up early and eating some awful cereal while thinking, "Oooh I'm a good boy", I tiredly found this article.

Without going into the bones of the law, there's an interesting enough point towards the end of the article:

"However, some comedians have criticised the plans, saying they could stifle creativity and even lead to the threat of people being arrested over jokes."

Interesting point. They neglect to mention which comedians, who seemingly, are poised to tearfully shred hours worth of material. In my experience, the gay-related material that gets me in an angry frenzy is the sort that insults me comedically rather than personally. I'm more likely to turn away in disgust at an easy, childish shot than the condemnation of homosexuality.

I've seen people get up on stage and gleefully throw around the word "faggot", using it as a gag itself, rather than others who have used it to curve some sort of rollercoaster narrative. The first camp mostly aren't aware of the outwright offensiveness of the word and see it all as an innocent laugh. The others in the same camp understand the word, and use it as pure, cheap, shock factor.

While I would gladly see those sorts of people arrested and have their key thrown away for hogging stage time and being lazy comics, there is the real danger that (if this law is as dystopian as some might think) those few clever comics, gay or not, who know how to straddle the line respectfully, can craft their spiel, embrace an audience despite what they've said and make an intelligent point, won't be allowed to rail against the hate by fighting fire with fire.

Not only that, what of gay comics? How far can they push the envelope when talking about themselves, and their experiences? While I personally don't make the whole basis of my routine about my sexuality (unlike tiresome others), I could be thrown in jail overnight. I seriously doubt that at the trial, they'll be picking through the nuances of delivery and timing, figuring out if I was trying to be offensive to my own preference. Hell, that's assuming I get a trial, or any other comic, gay or straight. Not that I actually think for a moment the PSNI are going to burst into an amateur comedy club and drag me out, mic stand and all. Although if that's a possibility, I'd gladly do it tomorrow.

While the law appears to have good intentions, it's another possible sign of mainstream entertainment having another limb chopped off in an effort to satiate a crowd who, paradoxically, will laugh themselves senselessly at the phone-in performances of Alan Carr, Little Britain, the "faggot"-using comics as described above and so on, despite being insulting to intellect, comedy and identity. While there is a minority attacking homosexuality with hate, the majority of people are to blame for laughing at it as soon as a hint of showbusiness is draped over it. I certainly wasn't.

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Now, decide if I'm a hypocrite by watching this clip from Shooting Stars. It contains something that could perhaps be deemed offensive to homosexuals, but I'm not offended at all. In fact, I find it hilarious. It was a ballsy move by two of the most under-rated comic minds of the past 20 years. The question begs, would I be pissed off if the same thing was done by two comics who I'm not so fond of?

David Walliams playing a role he's yet to fully accept in real life. What an attention whore.

Marcus KEELEY'S BLOG POST.

2009-10-24T01:34:00.004+01:00

In my last post I said I was going to watch Russell Howard's Good News, a new BBC3 self-congratulatory wank-a-thon involving the mentioned comic. Instead I watched Question Time (which was on a proper channel) and was more amused by blind bigotry and holocaust denial by the UK's biggest wankshaft, Nick Griffin - a man who appears to regularly receive a punch in the face and an old VHS copy of "Sanford & Son" in his Christmas stocking.

I attempted to Sky+ Howard's show to watch later, but truthfully, my Sky box kept giving me error messages; assumedly a soon to be archaic technological expression for confusion and "Really? My word, where have your standards gone?". Instead, I was lucky(!) enough to catch it after watching Jonathan Ross brown-tonguing everyone in sight on his show. It's really quite spectacular, totally off the scale. Incidentally, Boy George was a guest, and Ross (not "Wossy" for fuck's sake) spent ample time discussing Boy's time in prison, but cheerfully ignored why he'd gotten himself a four-month break in prison. I was just imagining the opening gambit:

"So yeah. How are you? And what was all that madness about chaining someone to a radiator? Fuck me, like."

No such luck. Was nice to see the fantastic Tim Minchin on it though.

Anyway, back to Howard. The main premise of the show is that he asks a rhetorical/meaningless question in the same suspicious manner of a wet-behind-the-ears door to door salesman who seems overly pleased with himself that he can read his badly-written sales pitch into the gust of wind usually accompanied by a slamming door, before answering with an overplayed, unfunny news/internet clip to somehow justify this poor segway. Less than ten seconds in and he's over his first cock joke, no kidding. There's a worrying fascination with the anal tract, and as a result, plenty of gay jokes.

Cue poor character skits interconnected with puerile bullshit, "funny" voices and essentially what you have is a children's scat party with hints of Charlie Brooker's excellent Screenwipe and Harry Hill's TV Burp accidentally turning up at the wrong address, but not leaving straight away because they figure that the slightly autistic-looking kid flinging crap everywhere might have a spaz attack if they do.

Other highlights include his infuriating projected background wallpaper, which reads, "Russell HOWARD'S GOOD NEWS", over and over again. The fact that he's an egotist doesn't annoy me, it's the superfluously lower-cased "Russell" going on there. What on earth is that all about? Another "moment" was a video clip of him singing and dancing along to a Michael Jackson song, aged 8. Who knew all shit comedians imitated him?

Just to piss you off a little bit more and to give Howard a reason for this whole show, which flows as well as someone giving you second-by-second updates through the bottom of a cubicle while they shit out a pineapple, he finishes on an incredibly badly-paced final clip wherein a teenager donates the reward money to a rape victim after helping solve the crime. What are you saying here exactly, Howard? That it's somehow surprising that someone did what any morally correct person would do in that situation? If that's the case, then please don't show the seven (yes, seven!) remaining episodes of your programme.

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Anyway, enjoy some good comedy with Adam Laughlin's headliner set from monday at The Pavilion. Shaky camerawork by yours truly.

Big Laughs at The Big House is on every monday. Pavilion Bar, Ormeau Road, Belfast. This monday it's Sketch Night. Should be something different.

BBC3...again.

2009-10-22T02:37:00.004+01:00

Despite Lunch Monkeys plauging the ratifiable non-channel, the bigwigs haven't stopped there in their sordid attempt to become complete craic-vacuums towards comedy by giving smarmy, charmless man-boy, Russell Howard his own television programme.

Let him break it down for you:

Not only does he look like he's been coming off heroin for the past fortnight, but he's exhibiting all the major qualities of someone who's on drugs:

i) The misguided opinion that anything/everything they say is vaguely interesting/funny.
ii) Annoying nervous facial tics (I actually think that his continual blinking stems from the fact he can't believe how lucky he is to have gotten this far on paedophile jokes).
iii) Genuine dislikability and increased punchability factor.

I can't take any comedian seriously who wears a t-shirt on stage. It's insulting. Why should I listen to you? You look like you're jonesing for a packet of Haribo half the time. If you needed any more proof that he was a bit of a lazy cunt comedically, have a look at this:

Fuck research man, get the proles to do it for you! What an hack way to please your audience. Nevermind what you think and stand for as a comic! Have a point of view? Fuck that! Just talk about what people suggest to you! It's win-win. Sweet Christ.

Anyway, it's on at 10:30pm on BBC3 (technically) tonight. I'll watch it, just because I'm a bit of a self-loathing cunt. That's right Howard, I don't actually hate you, it's all about me, so don't flatter yourself for thinking this bile is being sent your way, you self-indulgent cunt.

Also, just for a laugh, if anyone wants me to write about, review, etc something, give me a shout. I'll beat Howard at his game. Facebook me, or comment here.

Shine your shoes?

2009-10-16T01:16:00.005+01:00

Long time since an update, and I'm sure you're gasping for more words from your favourite pseudo-racounteur.

Well, I have no tales to tell. The reason is because not much has been happening. Actually, plenty would be happening, but I'm currently financially rotten; nothing happens unless you have money. Look at Africa, not an awful lot goes on there. Except disease, war, famine, etc. I don't want to get into that, I'd only have to clean up the mess in the end.

Speaking of crimes against humanity, I was unfortunate enough to catch the last five minutes of the climactic end to BBC3's latest djfsdgsefsd, "Lunch Monkeys". It was supposedly "climactic" according to one of the out-of-work actors doing voiceovers this week, as I strangely caught the intro to it an hour afterward, probably, on some arbitrary +1 channel.

While it's unfair to comment on a programme when you only caught the haggard arse-end of, it's also unfair that I have little else to do on an evening than see it, so here we go.

Some sort of vague office-based "comedy" appealing to the 4-8 year old range (mentally), intolerable pricks across the land and the families of the cast (maybe). While we're talking about the cast, they all look like they're their target, i.e. morons. Morons with gormless, punchable faces, unrealistically worn work attire and the conversational skill of a broken toilet seat. Walk out into the street on any friday or saturday night and you'll bump into these people. The world is swimming with them. It doesn't mean I want to see them on television either!

Watch this short clip. For every time one of you laughs, I'll surrender a testicle to my fridge door.

Guffaws abound.

I honestly can't see how this is an entertaining programme. In fact, I find it downright offensive when they comission a show about listless spastics working in admin, being generally useless and not getting the sack (oops, spoiled the finale for you, ah well), when I'm currently out of a job! In their fictional world, I could USE that job!

But as I said earlier, the world is full of spastics like them - in the street, in offices, in law firms, in the government, in university ... and seemingly, in the BBC Comissioning Department. Roll on the Mad Max style civilisation. Mel Gibson can even be in it, I'm that serious.

Busy week

2009-09-27T17:58:00.004+01:00

Thankfully I have a night where I'm not gigging. This week has been busy as all hell and seems to have lasted forever. Here's a quick run-down.

Wednesday 23rd Sept: Launch night of Comedy in the Bunker @ Lavery's

A good turn-out to the first night of this hopefully continuing gig. Myself, Ruaidhrí Ward, Shane Todd and Micky Bartlett took to the stage with George Quinn MCing. I'd never been in The Bunker (middle floor) of Lavery's before, as I prefer to shoot pool on the top floor or mingle in the smoking area.

The crowd were nice and appreciative, but from the word go, you could tell something was up with them. I surmised that they:

a) Had never been to a comedy gig before
b) Easily offended/were of particularly religious persuasion
c) Both

Eventually I decided on option c, but nonetheless, it was a great gig and I felt particularly comfortable swaying from my routine to do a bit of improvisation and crowd-working. Good stuff.

Thursday 24th of September: The Comedy Basement @ McHugh's

A regular gig that I attended for pleasure that night, rather than to get up and be a dick. The fantastic Adam Laughlin MC'd with grace and finesse, which seemed to be lost on a good amount of the (smallish) crowd. They seemed a bit off and cold towards most people of the evening. I was asked to fill a short seven minutes after the interval, and got very much the same response (and a rotten lapdance from some drunk cunt). Perhaps folk were saving up for the following evening.

Friday 25th of September: Culture Night 2009 @ Safehouse/Cathedral Quarter

The streets were buzzing with costumed folk, drunk louts and snobbish middle-class delusionals. It was all well and good; I had planned an all day free-for-all event at Safehouse, inviting all of Belfast/NI to come and do their stuff (comedy/poetry/music/anything). As the event wore on, I discovered that (unlike England), in Belfast, no-one will do something unless you specifically ask them, even if they aren't getting paid. So I was left with a few friends to fill a good few hours of comedy and poetry with a mostly disaffected rotating audience thoughout the night. By the third performance of the evening, I was quite honestly indifferent to the audience's opinion due to their chronic unwillingness to have any sort of reaction.

However, we did have (as far as I know) a first for Belfast; Lorcan McGrane joined us via webcam linkup to perform a stand-up routine all the way from Monaghan! As he said:

"If we were doing this in some sort of awful polytechnic they'd be throwing grant money at us. Bastards."

Indeed.

Saturday 26th of September - Comedy @ Bric Café, Warrenpoint

A gig that, as I have been endlessly told, is one of the best around. In a tiny café with lovely food and a BYO policy. Nice and intimate. What could go wrong?

Well, I honestly crashed through my set as I failed to raise a smirk from seemingly uninterested punters. I cut my set down and just got off stage. Later, mingling through the miniscule establishment while others were on stage, I discovered from overhearing comments from the crowd, they're very fond of the cock jokes and aggresively anti-gay ones which permeated the air somewhat. Fair enough, if you don't want to listen to a joke that takes more than five seconds to say, then I won't waste three of those speaking to you.

I've been told it was a one-off and usually it's a better gig, but if my humour isn't what that crowd likes, then fair enough. Different tastes and that.

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I've spent most of sunday feeling rather pish. My insides don't agree with me anymore, and they feel as if they're purposely banging into my inner walls as they hastily fill their suitcase, block the drains and put the water taps on, then leave without locking the door. Hopefully I'll make it through until the next gig.

"Hey, I like you, kid. You're through. You'll be eating chips in no time."

2009-09-22T23:44:00.002+01:00

Lately I've felt a bit down and pish. I go through the wonderful depressive cycle, mope for a bit, then get over myself. Usually I stave it off by keeping busy, but I've been so tired and pissed off with various things, I need to throw a bit of a tantrum at myself then continue as normal.

Tomorrow night I'm performing comedy at Lavery's, watching comedy at McHugh's and hoping that folk turn up to Culture Night @ Safehouse. I also need my hair cut, which I will do tomorrow, hopefully.

Rock on?

-

I was interviewed by Faff Comedy Magazine recently. Here it is.

Find Me The Edit

2009-09-14T16:53:00.003+01:00

For those of you who don't know, BBCNI's Find Me The Funny began airing last friday. Tune in this friday to catch a glimpse of a few familiar faces in the Belfast auditions. Hopefully they won't be too harsh.

In the meantime I edited the first episode together, showing Big Laughs regulars, Adam Laughlin, Sean Hegarty and Micky Bartlett on the show (with a few puerile edits of my own). Hopefully someone like me didn't edit my part this friday.

Soapbox Arts Festival - 6th June 09 Showcase

2009-09-13T16:11:00.003+01:00

The lovely Amy Wragg has compiled an hour's worth of performances from the 6th of June Soapbox Arts Festival, recorded at Norwich Arts Centre and even got to play it on Future Radio, a community radio station in Norwich. It aired about an hour ago, but if you missed it, the podcast is here.

I'm the very last performer, but it's worth listening the whole way through to hear some of Norwich's best musical, poetic and comedic talent. It's all very rock and roll.

Recent Search Results

2009-09-11T00:17:00.004+01:00

While I sit here with a runny nose, sore eyes and sneezing like fuck (allergies probably) I decided to see what interesting search results have led unsuspecting folk to this blog once more, apart from the usual "how to be deep"'s (of which there are many, (seriously)):

"flush toilet porn" - Came from a search done by the Czech Republic (.cz) arm of Google. What the fuck...?

"haed flush fuck" - Again, what the fuck? I assume the incorrect spelling of "head" was a result of the person Googling and feverishly masturbating at the same time.

"wheres my weehole" - ...what sort of people does this blog appeal to? I'm not sure whether to be proud or genuinely disturbed.

"drunk on each syllable" - Now this, I like.

"why have a prince albert" - Thanks to this and the "how to be deep"'s, I can safely assume that this blog appeals to star-struck, insecure, confused (in all senses of the word) and morally questionable teenagers. Send them my way.

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And to finish, someone went to my blog after looking at the recent Electric Wizard + Blood Ceremony gig at The Limelight event page on Facebook. No big deal, until I realised I walked past it an hour or two before it was due to start to visit a friend who lives around the corner. I think I may have a stalker. Ooer.

Remember to come down to Safehouse Arts Space tonight for the September edition of Make Yourself Heard; Belfast's premier open mic poetry night for the masses.

Top Secret!

2009-09-09T13:37:00.004+01:00

Top Secret! is a comedy film from 1984, it comes from the same folk who were behind Airplane!, it stars Val Kilmer (who is a complete bastard) and it is very, very funny. I first saw it a good few years ago, then totally forgot about it until it randomly entered my head a little while ago. It doesn't seem to be that well-known at all, even by Airplane! fans. Which is a total shame, as it's more of the same type of humour and in some places, shockingly clever and intricate. Here's a few of the funny scenes (most of the film) edited together. Although I would recommend getting the DVD just for the whole experience.

It's a shame that films like these (Airplane!, The Naked Gun, etc) aren't made anymore, instead replaced by absolute balls such as Epic Movie, Meet The Spartans, Seth Rogen & Adam Sandler movies and other such uninspired ventures. As well as 95% of the cinema today. These films were clever, fun, surreal, slapstick, innocent (most of the time) and generally just a bit unhinged. Never get something like that these days.

---

Remember to watch the unendingly charming Derren Brown tonight on Channel 4, 10:35pm as he attempts to predict the National Lottery draw, as it happens, live.

Personally, I have a sneaking suspicion that he'll do it. On the other hand, in the lead up to such attention-grabbing events he gives off an air of confidence, which is only marred by the heavy suggestion of self-doubt. No doubt that's just part of his bag of tricks to make the actuality (or near actuality) of his stunts all the more impressive.

Even if he fucks it up, I'm still a fan. His demeanour, stage persona and genuine likeability will keep me watching him. The fact that he's one of the few openly gay people on television at the moment who doesn't make me vaguely ashamed and needlessly angry also helps. Rock on, Derren.

I've seen them sittin' on my windowsill - regularly

2009-08-30T02:07:00.005+01:00

Just now I found a gem in the dark, moist husk of the internets while trying to distract myself from a toothache by listening to Communist Defectors Will Be Shot. Watch this short news report (related to, but pre-dating the Communist Defectors music vid there) and listen to the residents.

Surely not? Eh? Well of course surely not. The American's name is Jett Loe and he's a comedy director. Surely BBC NI haven't been gullible fools (again), surely not? Eh. That was fucking beautiful.

I had a quick look through some of Jett's videos and found a rather amusing, well-shot piece also related to Belfast which tickled me a fair bit.

I hope this Jett Loe character still hangs around Belfast.

A HOLIday In the Life...

2009-08-29T16:23:00.003+01:00

There's what I did in France. Enough about that.

I got back a few days ago, but I was too busy (alcoholism) to update this immediately. I was at McHugh's Comedy Basement on thursday there and met a few friends, had a few times, got cunted off my face. Ended up spending the night at Ruaidhrí Ward's place, sat alone to five in the morning watching random, uncontrolled bits of The Dark Knight on Blu-Ray. I was plastered and had no idea how to use the controller, so I settled for staring at the immense detail. After all this, I awoke only to unconsciously verbally threaten Ruaidhrí by shouting "WHAT." in his face as he tentatively prodded me awake (oh ho ho). Whoops.

I have a few gigs coming up, the most pressing of all is that BIG LAUGHS AT THE BIG HOUSE has returned! Yes, The Pavilion's comedy gig has returned and it is roughly a year old! £4 in, doors at 7:30pm. This will be fun.

There is a list of my upcoming gigs on here, as well as other goodies.

-

Yesterday I spent the day in Safehouse Arts Space hungover as fuck, and the wonderfully affable Lorcan McGrane shared a link to an internet meme I wasn't aware of. Enjoy.

Je suis supermarché.

2009-08-12T02:54:00.005+01:00

I'm heading to France in a few hours for two weeks, and due to my knowledge of the area, I know there's not an awful lot of internets, so this won't be updated much for the next fortnight (quelle surprise). So instead, you can fawn over my latest offering, which is an audio diary of a fictional stand-up comedian. From my own experience with stand-ups, poets and generally performers. Although none of it is from my own personal experience on stage. Not yet anyway.

(Part 2 is already up, so should be in related videos or something).

See you all in a bit. I'm going to get cunted off my face on red wine and attempt to write some stuff (which has never happened when I'm on holiday). In the interm, check out some of the links on the right there. It's all good stuff. Bye.

Where's My Goddamn Coin-Jar?

2009-08-09T21:16:00.003+01:00

Voicebox was a lot of fun. I was beyond drunk by the end of the night. I blame a few bottles of wine and some painkillers (oops). Again, thank you to everyone who came down to watch or perform. I had a lot of fun.

It was an unofficial Scott & Stacey night, due to them having to pull out of Voicebox a month ago due to the BBC Find Methejgbrdgd. Along with some great stage performances, a good few of their comedy shorts were projected onto the wall (along with yours truly's A Day In The Life...). Here's one with all three of us in it which I mentioned a while ago.

I had slept in those clothes for about forty minutes, was very tired and hungover. As a result, I look genuinely ill. Enjoy.

From a Great Height

2009-08-04T21:52:00.007+01:00

Today I whiled away an afternoon with the endlessly charming fellow comic Graeme Watson at Bookfinder's Café on University Road. He's compiling together some informal interviews with the comedic scene in Belfast.

It was a lot of fun. In the past I quite disliked interviews because of the banal nature of them. Interviewing others, in my experience, isn't an awful lot of fun either. Then again, I was interviewing bands, which is so incredibly tedious and boring it's unbelievable. Even moreso because I hadn't heard of them/their music or plain just didn't give a fuck.

Just after we'd finished, I got the worst heckle ever. I was mid-anecdote and all of a sudden a load of shit splashed all over the table, nearby ground, and my lower leg. Yep, a particularly caught short/vindictive seagull did a drive-by. Graeme was fine, but obviously very shaken. I assured him I was fine and kept having to tell him to put his phone back in his pocket, letting him know that if I needed someone called, I'd do it myself. Poor Graeme.

Later in the day I remembered that something similar had happened a few days previous while walking around Botanic with Séamus Fox. Except we were two seconds too early, as a massive amount clapped onto the ground directly ahead of where we were walking. Lucky us.

AND AGAIN. Exactly a month ago, I inadvertedly leaned against some bird shit which had soiled a wall outside Safehouse Arts Space. Everyone saw it first except me, as there was a bit of a crowd outside due to the Alternative 4th of July was that night. Nasty stuff. I'm tempted to think it's been the same seagull each time.

Anyway, fecal matters aside, this friday Voicebox Comedy returns to Safehouse for some fun and laughs, featuring some of the best local/amateur comedians. For more info, check out the Facebook event here.

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Recent Google search referrals to this page:

"drunk down by the pool" - Not me.

"hot drunk" - Obviously me.

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The rest of the 6th June Soapbox Festival at Norwich Arts Centre footage has surfaced. Check it out and keep an eye out for the Vienetta incident. It's in two parts.

Thanks to Amy Wragg and Soapbox folk.

Oh, it's just a phase...

2009-07-22T16:53:00.004+01:00

It's been comedy a go-go the past few days (well, apart from the last consecutive two days, I've done fuck all really). On sunday, after being up for nearly two days straight, Stacey Mead and Scott Calonico asked me to help them test shoot a comedy short film. It was a lot of fun, but in my state of extreme tiredness I slowly began to lose it between shots and made less and less sense. Still, it was good to do. We'll see if any of it surfaces as it was just a test run, but I'd like to get my hands on it and do a bit of editing. Learning how to do it correctly can make something already funny into something hilarious. I'm not talking about special effects or anthing cheesey like that. Just knowing when to cut shots, or when not to, the order of sequences, etc. I just find it quite fascinating and oddly relaxing to do it.

Anyway, the day after, Big Laughs At The Big House returned for one of two summer comedy nights before properly returning weekly in September. Fellow comic and general bald spasmo Ruaidhrí Ward gives an account of his performance on the night here. I was personally pleased with how I went down on a notably tough/odd crowd with brand new material.

I go in and out of phases where I'll write only poetry for x amount of time, then slowly peter out and write fuck all for y amount of time. Then gradually I'll start writing comedy for an indeterminate amount of time, peter out, etc etc. The process repeats and has done for years. I guess I'll just have to make the most of me writing comedy now; if I write enough material I can still do gigs with it when I'm not writing anything new, so I get the best of both worlds. We'll see.

In other news, other fellow comic, Simon McCullagh (whose stand-up video featured here a month or two ago) is having a benefit gig tomorrow night at The Beaten Docket on Great Victoria Street to help raise money for him going to Africa soon for two months to help teach kids English and various other things. How rock and roll is that? The format is a pub quiz, but with various comedians doing 5 minutes of stand-up between rounds. Pub Quiz Comedy Madness, no doubt. I'll be doing a set, as will other geniuses in the NI stand-up scene. Tomorrow night, 7pm, and a suggested donation of course.

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Sometimes I get really pissed off at myself for not realising how easy it can be to do something quite clever and humorous instead of sitting around on my hole wondering what to do next. This video is a good example of a simple idea that almost does the work on its own.

Another example tomorrow.

Hangover Cure

2009-07-17T10:45:00.005+01:00

For me, watching any Shooting Stars-related material cures the hangover right up. If you haven't seen any of it or other great 90's shows (Bottom, for example) then you know little to nothing about comedy. If it doesn't cure the hangover, it occupies me enough for the rest of the day to ignore the urge to lick the bowl. I don't feel like that today. Was out being rock and roll last night, but surprisingly fresh this morn.

I also take solace in that particular clip by wandering around the house in the morning after a drinking session shouting "PEANUTS!", which was fine until I realised that "peanuts" is one of those words that if you say again and again, it begins to sound like another word. Try it and guess what it is.

A Day In The Life...

2009-07-15T02:36:00.002+01:00

New video. Check it out. Knocked it up in a few hours.

Mostly inspired by the days where I sit and do very little (apart from the above). Keep an eye out for a cameo from my brother! Hard to tell because of the darkness/quality. Oh well.

A wee jobbie

2009-07-14T01:44:00.003+01:00

I need money. I need it to fund my rock and roll lifestyle. But only on my terms.

One look at the jobcentre website convulses me into boking all over my front, and hey, I can't fucking afford much more t-shirts. It's a vicious, bileous cycle.

Half the fucking stuff on it doesn't make any sense whatsoever. No way in hell would someone say half the guff on the job description when you ask them what their job is. The conversation goes a lot more like this:

Me: "So, what do you do?"
Person: "Oh, tech support for CorpInc."
Me: "Oh, so it's hands-on?"
Person: "No...I work in a callcentre."
Me: "Ah. How's that?"
Person: "Please fucking kill me."
Me: "Fair enough."

It's just sickened me too much. I'm going to leave it at that.

Everybody's lookin' for that special Marcus

2009-07-13T04:25:00.005+01:00

Around this time of night I tend to have a perverted, slurry glaze upon my eyes and to sate it, I like to have a look at how people have found my blog and where they've come from in the world of the internets (that and frenzied, lonely practices); just so I can somehow get to know all my fans (you) better, I mean, only a few very lucky number of them (you) will ever pierce my wistful and complex mind.

I'll throw a few out here and there at the end of some blogs if anything interesting ever comes up, but these days it's mainly:

"Marcus Keeley" - Well obviously! And I bet that not all of those searches are done by me! Which is bound to be true, as the many incarnations of my apparently awkward name appear in full force; "markus" "keely" "kelly" etc etc. I know I've got too many "e"'s in my name, alright?! It just makes up for the lack of the real life ones I (definitely) don't take.

"How to be deep" - Not a week goes by where I get at least five hits from this exact search term. I wish I could help them, I really do, but someone who puts that into a fucking search engine is beyond even my help, I'm afraid. Not because I can't, just that the association I'd have with them as a result would make me feel so intrinsically dirty that no amount of wire brush scrubbing and bleach would make me feel better. Maybe in the future I'll host a Channel 4 (or maybe 5) programme with that title when my career has completely hit the skids and it's the only way I'll be able to continue my lifestyle of snorting gravel from a dead swan's breasts, only to wipe my tears of self-hate and regret on expensive silk curtains, while a starving family in the corner fondles the skeletons of their dwindling numbers.

"Funny poems about the 12th of july northern ireland" - Well, no surprise really, given the time of year. I do wonder what ones they did find though. I'm guessing that there's two camps:
i) Sectarian slaggings rhymified
ii) Sickenly, wistfully, bokefully romantic harkings back to ye olde greate times past by

Let's check!

Well, I come up 7th on that garbled and lazy search from whomever. 2-3 pages in and nothing really poem or 12th of July related. I'm not going to ask for a more precise search or go through more pages because the event and whether there are any "funny poems" about it disinterests me from both sides of the fence.

"your pish reeks o boke" - I'm not surprised that they ended up here due to, well, the content of my blog, and the fact that there's not going to be an awful lot else on the internet along those lines. Perhaps this is a saying around Northern Ireland or elsewhere. At least I hope so; a lot worse could have came up in the search...

"drunk edinburgh july 2009" - Somebody's making plans.

"anal douching" - Fair enough, it's from that blog about Mika ages ago, but the air of joviality my friend had disappeared whenever they realised they had said, "oh hey, I found your blog when I was looking up anal douching!". Good times.

And lastly my most recent favourite:

"syllables for drunk" - Well, if you need somebody to spell it out for you...

Hot pool, hot park, hot boke

2009-07-08T15:10:00.005+01:00

Lookit the "new" blog, eh? It's even got art on it by Jay Howell. Maybe one day he'll draw me semi-nude on a couch. I dunno why, he seems to draw best when he's like that.

Anyway, the July Make Yourself Heard and the Alternative 4th of July event were both successes, although it was touching cloth for a bit due to the general public's insistence on turning up two hours late. The 4th of July one was especially dodgy, as there was an unrelated music event happening right after, so the longer people took to turn up, the less of a show they got. However, as usual, a big group just magically turns up at once, so it was all good. Thanks to all who came. Especially Lorcan McGrane who did a fantastic job filling in the headliner slot with a brand new powerpoint lecture basically at the last minute.

Since then, not much has been happening apart from last night. I met up with fellow poets Dale Mawhinney and Stephen Hollywood for a bit of smokin' hot pool. Then a litle bit later, fellow comic George "Magic George" Quinn arrived and all was well. Simon McCullagh also made an appearance but myself and George buggered off to watch Dale spin fire in Crescent Park with some very cheap wine. The event is fortnightly (so I'm guessing the next one is the 21st July) and starts roughly at about ten.

We got very sloshed, talked to a drunk 41-year-old ex-joyrider and then headed to the Empire where it gets a bit hazy and messy; George fell over with a pint in his hand, I spent time talking to someone French who barely understood me but I vaguely attempted to ride anyway, Simon dared me to down a pint of Guinness for £1 (which I did), then he coaxed me to boke straight afterwards in the bogs (which I didn't). For a bog in a bar, they're pretty fucking bad. They completely reek beyond acceptable standards of smelling like piss.

And that was about it. I vaguely feel like I want to lick the bowl right now, but I'll stave it off with some screaming at the walls instead.

Anyway, at the Alternative 4th of July, things got a bit slow, so I got up and tried to do the following routine (giving all credit, but people always think it's yours even if you explicitly fucking say it) from memory, as it's vaguely American related. I'm much better at reciting Moran's stuff when I'm drunk. He's quite obviously written it while pished, and so it flows better in the head of a drunk.

Somebody's done their research... (Hey, I like this guy!)

2009-07-02T02:31:00.007+01:00

Sundays are well-known for being lazy, drawn out, finding it hard to do anything and generally seeming the longest day of the week. This was especially true last sunday at the BBC Blackstaff House during the Find Me The Funny auditions. Although there were a few delights to be had.

Much of the day, starting at 10am (well, I say "started", due to the huge number of applicants, a two hour wait ensued before we even got into the building) and ending at 1am, consisted of waiting around. Ad nauseum. Which was nobody's fault I suppose, such is television I'd imagine.

For the first eight hours (which was how long it took for me to get to do my initial audition) there was a lot of jollification, chat, piss-taking, bitching at the BBC and clandestine trips to The Crown to keep our spirits up and general standing about amongst most of the regular amateur comedic scene, as well as people new to the world of comedy.

Eventually when I was seen to in the studio, I was faced by Kurtis Matthews (the main judge; American comedian, toured with Bill Hicks, Jim Carrey etc), a comedy director and (worringly) a runner-up from another reality show. Both their names escape me. They sat behind a bizarre edam-sized, shaped and coloured desk which didn't look as if it could fit all three behind it, but somehow did.

I answered a few basic questions and did my prepared material which included a few of my comedic haikus. Which was fine, then, they produced some of my other writings. Namely this blog. Specifically the entry (not long ago) where I slated the show. The very show I was on at that moment in time. It was surreal enough with them behind their edam slice, the bright lights, the white set, cameras in my face, without one of the judges who partially decided whether I went to Edinburgh this summer scott-free, reading my blog out loud, word for word, with special emphasis on the word "cunts"; which as Simon Cowell Angry he was being, seemed to especially relish saying, repeatedly. I thought I was having a particularly spiteful out of body experience.

Expecting me to walk out/cry/shite myself (as I later found out) I instead opted to argue my point, which I won't repeat here as most of it is in the entry anyway. In the end, they more or less went "fair enough" and let me through to the next round. Which I thought was fair enough too.

Anyway, after the first round a healthy number of people were culled, one of which, a particularly dramatic and "WOW FUCK, LOOK AT MY QUIRKY DRESS STYLE AND COOKY ATTITUDE" type of borefuck person exclaimed to many as he was leaving, "Hmph! Too good for this!". Yeah, see you later, mate. A workshop/exercise took place (9:00pm), with half writing punchlines based around one feed-line and the other half (the poor sods) doing improv comedy with props. Thankfully I was in the punchline group.

I say "thankfully", but I rarely write punchlines. I almost sort of hate them. Most are horribly obvious. Instead my routines are a sort of monologue and kind of ramble on...

However, I was vaguely pleased with a good few of them, and did the next round with a feeling of extreme exhaustion (it was around 11pm at this stage) and cautious optimism. I was going to share the list here just for the sake of it, but I used them at The Pavilion the night after, and it went well, so I'm keeping the one decent bit of new material for live performances, tough luck.*

Then back downstairs in the holding pen (11:20pm), cabin fever had set in to the extreme. The remaining contestants were either getting incredibly tetchy or bouncing off the walls. I went through phases of both of these. One moment I was joining friends in making the telephone sockets on the walls talk and faux vomit using our fingers and another moment I was loudly and irritably bitching in the vague direction of the BBC staff. Who seemed to feel very much the same (and in retrospect took our tirades in very good nature).

Ultimately, I got a "no" when it came to the crunch (12:45am). But Kurtis did say some flabbergastingly complimentary things, which I won't repeat here as it'll just look as if I'm polishing my own pole. All this even though I called them "cunts" publicly before I even turned up.

All the best to the folk I know and met throughout the day who got through. Least of all Stacey Mead and Scott Calinco who are supposed to be headlining the Alternative 4th of July at Safehouse Arts Space this saturday because, well, they're American. However, they're supposedly filming solid from friday to sunday this week, so it screws the gig up. Their names are on the flyers and everything.

Perhaps the BBC will let them off for an hour or two to do it. And maybe bring a camera crew. And Kurtis too; he's American as well. He'll enjoy it. Do it. I know you're reading this thing anyway, you sleuths.

Anyway, in he meantime, I'll just leave this picture here. The folk who were held prisoner for 14 hours throughout the day will appreciate it.

* The feed-line is "My grandfather died a peaceful death in his sleep..." if anyone wants to comment with their best efforts. Which I promise not to steal, because when you're left in a room for over an hour with that to do, you tend to whittle through them fairly quickly.

Totally radical, man!

2009-06-24T21:18:00.005+01:00

Well, I didn't win the poetry slam, as no doubt you all have been saddened to hear. Although, I did get the highest marks in the first round, for a maximum-speed recital of 24DD. It usually takes around or over three minutes to perform naturally, in the slam, you are required to do a poem in 2 minutes and 15 seconds (or at least I thought so; on the night that rule seemed not to have any particular relevance, so I could have went about 30 seconds over if I wanted to). In the end I had two seconds to spare. Rock and roll.

I was randomly picked first in the second round, and I regrettably did a mellower poem, while the other competitors kept with the rhythm and humour. Ah well, I'll know better next time. Congrats to Mark Madden and I hope him all the best for the event in Liverpool in September!

Since then, I was asked by Justin McKeown, one of the co-ordinators of The Sunday Night Strip Club (not as viscerally exciting as it sounds, but still a lot of fun) to do a bit of poetry on sunday there. It's a new event that takes place at The Pavilion Bar that encompasses live music, comedy and poetry. I quite enjoy the mix of mediums in one event. It reminded me of the Norwich Soapbox days, with the mellowness and kind faces. Check it out.

Thanks to the 12th of July "celebrations" some of us have here in Northern Ireland, the next Make Yourself Heard has been moved foward to the 3rd of July, with it being yours truly's turn to host. Hopefully I'll have some new stuff to tell. Then straight off the back of that, the next day there will be what I'm provisionally calling an "Alternative 4th of July" at Safehouse too, including some American comics doing stand-up, sketches and anyone who cares to come along can read some work by favourite American authors and poets. Still sorting the logistics of this out, but no doubt it'll be "awesome" and much high-fiving will be had. Will keep you updated.

Anyway, to vaguely entertain you, I found something on youtube I had heard a good few years ago, that being a monologue written by Dylan Moran for Radio 4. I have been intending on trying something similar for a while. Anyway, have a listen, it's good stuff, here's part one.

I Have A Prince Albert

2009-06-17T15:57:00.004+01:00

So it's going to be a busy week or two for me. This thursday I'm due to battle it out against friends and wankers at the BBC Radio 4 All-Ireland Poetry Slam at the Black Box. Free entry with a suggested donation. Never taken part in a slam before, so it should be a good experience. Although some of their rules are a bit pish (i.e. No Swearing), I'll have to spend much of today editing my poems and re-learning them. Bah.

Also on the 28th of this month, I'm supposed to attend an audition for BBC Northern Ireland's newest "reality" show, Find Me The Funny. Basically they're looking for "Northern Ireland's Next Top Comedian" or something. To be honest, it sounds like a vaguely bad idea and no doubt will perpetuate the type of comedy that fucking alienates us from the rest of the UK. Do we really need another Patrick Kielty? Hole In The Wall Gang? Frank Carson? Boke.

But it might be worth turning up and saying that I took part. I was vaguely surprised to receive a phone call from one of the producers or whatever about it, as I didn't take the application form seriously at all. A few fellow comics and I discussed it the other night and there was a consensus on the shittiness of it. Such questions included, "What's the funniest thing that's ever happened to you?". Oh please. It seems that this show will cater toward people who haven't done stand-up before, the show will groom them in a certain style or type of comedy, then push them to the front of our already horrifyingly bad regional TV. As well as getting to go to the Edinburgh Fringe. Cunts.

In other news, Gerard McKeown and I were invited to NI Podcast to guest present the show. Listen to it on their site, here.

Takes us a while to get going, but I listened to it the other night while cunted off my face and boked all over myself in the dark. True story.

Sometimes when I smoke I inhale and all!

2009-06-14T12:35:00.005+01:00

This might be old news to a lot of you, especially if you've seen it, but I saw Angels & Demons last night with Catherine Hawcroft on a whim.

Despite the throwaway nature, bad science and the presumptuous manner of Dan Brown's books and the seemingly effortlessly boring The Da Vinci Code film, I reserved my scepticism for once and decided to try to enjoy Tom Hanks and his big AIDS face.

And it was alright. I preferred the Angels & Demons novel to The Da Vinci Code anyway, when I read them a few years ago. Only having a vague recollection of the story and what happened next, there were a few "eureka!" moments when I suddenly remembered what was about to happen.

For a 12A it's surprisingly graphic, and although I'm not squeamish at all and have seen worse things in the cinema, I did feel a little bit ill afterwards. Maybe it just caught me off-guard, or maybe because I hadn't eaten much that day. Apparently it had to remove five minutes of footage, otherwise it would have been rated "R". Cool stuff.

Some of the annoying things in it were:

i) When Tom Hanks isn't speaking and is just standing around in the background while characters discuss things, he looks genuinely drunk. Or is having a stroke. Keep your eye out.
ii)In the film, people are getting killed every hour, on the hour. Every time they fail to save the person, they sit around and have a cup of tea and try to get over it. Seemingly wasting about 40 minutes for no reason at all, then have a big rush in the last few seconds, then fail again, then have a cup of tea. Count the amount of cups of tea Tom Hanks and his arbritrary female cohort drink. I had 37.
iii) At times they were running to a place, without knowing where they were going. Huh?

So there we go. It wastes about two hours.

Also, while I was standing outside the cinema, one of the things that riles me happened. There was some guy, trying to look cool and aloof, by smoking a cigarette, using his thumb and forefinger. Don't do this. It looks daft as fuck. You look as if you haven't the faintest idea of what you're doing. Thumb and forefinger smoking is only for cigars, sometimes rollies and usually spliffs. If you smoke a straight cigarette like that, then you look like a daterapist who has just left court. You fucking prick.

Here's a video of me at Norwich Arts Centre last weekend. There's a few others up on the getonthesoapbox channel, as well as a lot more to come.

Road trip! For your health.

2009-06-07T13:35:00.004+01:00

As you can just about see from the image above taken in The Birdcage, myself and fellow superstar comedian Lorcan McGrane have been rock and roll vomit partying all night long in Norwich.

I have managed to piece together what I've been up to through my vague and embarrassing updates to Twitter, which can be seen here.

We have been to Havana's, an infamously late-opening, leg-opening filth of a hole club in Norwich (myself only once, Lorcan three times in a row, culminating in him boking violently in his hotel room for hours). We attended Tim Clare's book-launch (We Can't All Be Astronauts can be bought here), I am looking foward to giving it a good read. And of course, the Soapbox Art Festival in Norwich Arts Centre where myself and Lorcan were smokin' hot on stage. No doubt there will be vids, pics, reviews etc to follow in the coming weeks.

In the meantime, if you would like to literally see what we get up to, then have a look at Lorcan's Twitter page where he is uploading various pictures.

Showboatism-ism

2009-05-31T17:45:00.005+01:00

Original Zeitgeist is a new publication in Belfast. Articles, poems, reviews, etc. Myself and Gerard McKeown are in the first issue, which includes a free CD of local dance, club and whatever music. I have an article about live music which can be found below and Gerard has a poem, "Eulogy For Chris Miles" in it.

They're looking for poets, writers, musicians, DJ's, artists, photographers etc to contribute. Contact them via originalzeitgeist@hotmail.co.uk

As for where to pick up a copy (£1), at the moment, you're just going to have to be lucky enough to bump into Joseph Pelan (the editor), who may be found around botanic/holylands doleing it out. More info on distribution and availability when it comes.

Anyway, in other news, I'm due to do a short set at The Pavilion tomorrow night. Err, we'll see how that one goes; I haven't done straight stand-up in a while, so I feel a little odd about it all.

Also, I will be in Norwich from the 4th June to the 9th. Myself and fellow comedic superstar Lorcan McGrane are flying over to take part in the Soapbox Arts Festival, taking place all day on Saturday 6th June in Norwich Arts Centre.

More info and tickets here.

Rock and roll.

Just so you can finish yourselves off, here's a smokin' hot pool game myself and Gerard played last week sometime (with commentary).

Some people wait a lifetime

2009-05-30T15:23:00.004+01:00

Was in the hospital on tuesday night because breathing wasn't as easy nor pleasurable as it had once been. Got some tests done and turns out I didn't have a chest infection at all, nope. It's my allergy to the dog, which I had assumed the anti-histamines had been taking care of. I was given an inhaler and some steroids (grr!). The verdict's not out yet as to what will happen to the dog.

So I've been spending most of the week out of the house so I'm not inhaling dog spores and generally just catching up with events, fans and people I've been neglecting the past while.

Here's a video of Simon McCullagh's stand-up set I recorded on thursday night at McHugh's because his camera's batteries ran out.

Last night I was at the last poetry night of the season in Bookfinder's Cafe. Readers included Brian Bailey, Jane Bailey, Catherine Hawcroft, Séamus Fox, Stephen Connolly etc etc. While I could post a video of Séamus or someone I know well enough for you to enjoy, I decided to see if any of the other readers had anything up on youtube or whatever the case may be. It's not poetry, but I found it vaguely interesting. Have a look.

Raiding the medicine cabinet like a Cookie Monster gone wrong

2009-05-24T17:54:00.003+01:00

I'm finally vaguely beginning to feel better. I found some antibiotics for this chest infection and they appear to be slowly doing their job. I feel like I'm out of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest with the amount of pills and medicines I'm popping around the clock.

Drowsy meds can be fun however. The ability to fall asleep really quickly has an added bonus of fucked up dreams. None of which I can remember exactly, but leave me with an unsettled feeling when I wake. Probably something to do with my crippling fear of London, which is something I may have dreamt about.

On a related note of feeling sick and London, here's one of the stories from the underrated film, Tube Tales with Armando Iannucci's short, "Mouth". Enjoy.

Dedication

2009-05-21T16:46:00.001+01:00

Ill, ill, ill. While I'm still busy coughing up razorblades, enjoy my new poetry video, featuring Séamus Fox and Gerard McKeown. Rock on.

Europishion

2009-05-20T02:44:00.008+01:00

Alright, I don't really think that it even nearly deserves to be spoken about. It's not that big of a deal. It affects hardly anybody. However, I watched this year's Eurovision the other night with some friends and I nearly damn had a fucking seizure.

Eurovision is supposed to be about the camp, bizarre and downright awful. This year it was as bland as fuck. The only notable examples were Ukraine's "Be My Valentine! (Anti-Crisis Girl)" who as so much didn't get a Valentine but appeared to be asking her (inexplicable) Roman centurion slaves for a champagne bottle up her fanny, Dita Von Teese (inexplicably) in Germany's entry as their fabled instant-win ticket (who most likely shoved a champagne bottle up her fanny in the green room), some fucked up turqoise zentai bastard molesting a young child for some psuedo-country I can't care to remember and the smug, preening, misguided cunt who won (from Norway).

I never really had a problem with Norway, ever. It's one of those countries which are just up in the north, that don't really seem to do much (apart from unleash barely pubic, repressed turds who patronise the fuck out of me with an infantile song). Well fuck Norway now. The next Norwegian I see, I'm going to pish right in their face.

I've posted Ukraine's 2007 entry which was totally robbed from them by some tuneless, ugly lesbians from Serbia or an equal non-country. It exhibits all the features of a great Eurovision song, transvestitism and the accompanying vague sense of intrigue, catchy tune, campness to the max and most importantly an overwhelming sense of pointlessless. Still fun though.

Fucking robbed, I tell you.

Tryin' To Get My Nose Unblocked

2009-05-18T16:18:00.004+01:00

I still have the fucking cold. That's a week today. What a crock of shit. Although despite this, I managed to shoot a video for fellow poet Séamus Fox a few days ago, along with some footage for a future video of mine (more about that soon). Check it out. The end result is quite pleasing and I was glad that the whole thing was done in one long continuous shot (less editing for me, harhar) as I quite enjoy that effect. Anyway, have a look and send me lemsips.

Textually Transmitted

2009-05-15T00:48:00.003+01:00

I haven't been writing much the past while. I've been ill with the cold. In May. And no, it's not Swine Flu, before you jump on the unfunny express bandwagon like all of the other gloating turds have done.

Each time someone says it to me, I'm caught between either licking their eyeballs and transmitting it or replying with "yeah, haha, but at least it doesn't cause your legs to break overnight,". That'll teach them. It'll also constantly keep them up during unsocial hours, jumping at every minute sound they hear in the night, with me tittering in my bed thinking about them, only to sneeze and choke on bodily fluids as I sink my cheek into my phlegm-soaked pillow.

In other news, I forced myself outside today to somehow get over the malady. As I stood outside a restaurant smoking (smoking is awful when you're not well (who would have thought?), every time I do it, I'm shocked and disgusted by this recurring revelation), a small boy walked past quite content with an ice-cream. As he walked into the restaurant he muttered "idiot" under his breath at me.

What the fuck? I was tempted to follow him in and shove the ice-ceam cone into his face or stub my cigarette out on him, or maybe just perhaps a good aul kick to the small of the back, then repeatedly stamp on his head while he struggles to figure out what happened and/or get up.

Anything except lick his eyeballs. I'm not a paedophile.

How to be deep in 17 syllables

2009-05-10T04:26:00.000+01:00

Slutty Frankensteins
Are far more interesting
Than dull mannequins.

But That's Not My Real Job

2009-05-07T01:17:00.004+01:00

So far the dog still hasn't got a name. I have got tablets to combat my allergy though, so I guess one good thing has come out of it. I'm also very tempted to take a piss on the floor and see if I can get away with it.

The naive disposition of the puppy, running around, banging into walls and getting on like a general spastic prompted me to consider my own youth. Not a lot is different these days to how the pup is getting on, it must be said. Although, a friend and I discussed our teenager-hoods (get your mind out of the gutter) a while ago and realised that it was quite dull. There was no rebellion, no hanging around Custom House Square with all the other emo-goth-"bi-curious" folk, no skateboards, no piercings. Not much at all really. Just uninterrupted grey with flashes of beige.

I really can't remember what I did from 13-16. A lot of sitting around and waiting until I can drink, probably. Anyway, thanks to youtube, I managed to find something that evoked a few distant feelings.

It's exactly as I remember it. Sigh.

Doing it Marcus-style

2009-05-05T13:34:00.004+01:00

Here is the cover image for the upcoming chapbook of mine, "Love Is An Excuse". It was drawn by Jay Howell of Designer Bruises, a good friend of mine back in Norwich. Check out his site and his Deviant Art profile for more arty goodness.

Unfortunately the chapbook itself will be in black and white, so an alternative (with the colours messed about a bit) will feature on the cover instead. So I thought I'd whore it out here while I can.

Incidentally, I met up with Colin Dardis for a bit of discussion and editing on the chapbook. As soon as I do a few tweaks, it should be more or less ready to print, so get your chequebooks at the ready.

He also revealed that Speech Therapy has re-opened for business, so check it our for info and guidelines on how to submit. Also, Make Yourself Heard is on this friday (8th May) for more open mic poetry goodness, so come on down for some rock and roll vomit partying and poetry.

Throughout all this, I've been sneezing, streaming from the eyes and having unsettled sleep. Not Swine Flu, but:

The family got a puppy. Despite me being heavily allergic to cats and dogs (maybe they're trying to tell me something?). I never was until a year or so ago when myself and a few poets played some poker at Catherine Hawcroft's house, and her cat, Splinter, decided to be friendly with me. Half an hour later I couldn't see or breathe and lost a fair bit of money. It was fucking planned, I tell you.

I quite like cats (and dogs to a small extent), but they despise me on a biological level. Oh well. Woe is me. Anyway, the dog is a Yorkie and female. She still hasn't got a name, apart from wishy-washy pish psuedo-names like "Betsy", "Maddy", etc ad nauseum. I suggested "Flaps" for obvious disgusting reasons, but they weren't too keen on it. Suggestions welcome.

Nothing personal, LOL

2009-05-03T23:43:00.004+01:00

Since I'm unemployed, out of education and essentially a layabout, it's understandable that an awful lot of the time I'm fairly emotionally vapid.

When there's not an awful lot to look foward to, I tend to put all my eggs in one basket when plans are made. I get pumped, anticipate the future and run through the possibilites over and over in my head.

Naturally, the idea that something will be cancelled, or a general no-show will occur. While this can be unavoidable, I tend to take it extremely personally; as if someone has just guffed right in my face, laughed and dribbled over a photograph of me due to their glee of being an orchestrator of the Fail in Marcus. Even though I know (or at least hope) that it's not personal.

I usually swear a lot, think of nasty rumours to spread and most of all, seem to think it's my fault and go into "well, what did you fucking expect, you moron?" mood. Not the best method for self-development.

However, when stuff goes to plan, and it's all good, then I go home, I feel even more emotionally defunct. Almost as if I've blown a massive load of joy and have a huge fall-out. For some vague reason I feel like a total liar and replay the events in my head, criticising my own words, actions and thoughts at the time. Then I go and hide in my room and get on like a right cunt for days.

I feel that it's self-delusional to believe that I can enjoy myself. When I do, I feel daft and embarrassed. It's probably a self-defence mechanism I've screwed into place a bit too much over the years. I don't like putting myself out there and feeling vulnerable (well, no-one does, do they?). But sometimes I feel so anxious it's unbearable. All the while everyone's having fun, carrying on and I'm there too.

Inside I just want to be somewhere else, even though I know I shouldn't.

Get Me a Towel

2009-04-25T15:49:00.003+01:00

After much recent rock and rolling, including the "POCKET-POEM-SERIES" open mic night at Blick Studios last night, I awoke this morning to find a large white envelope on the front hall floor with my name printed on it.

I was a bit perplexed, have my debtors found my real address? Was it yet more stained and sticky fan mail? Or had my organs finally sought a restraining order with a threat to move out of my body, lest I stop sucker-punching them in the collective throat via alcohol?

No, even better.

The Spring issue of Ulla's Nib is out, and was posted to me, because I got a bit of work published in it, "Puddle" to be exact.

If you're unfamilar with Ulla's Nib:

"Ulla's Nib is a quarterly magazine dedicated to publishing new writing from Northern Ireland, while keeping up with the events and programmes we run here at Creative Writers Network in Belfast."

All very snazzy, and it's free too! So pick a copy up if you spy one in Belfast, give it a read and submit some stuff for summer, best to support it and all that. Especially as things are a bit sketchy these days with arts funding and whatnot.

Check out the CWN site too for info:
www.creativewritersnetwork.org

Ask me an open question and I'll give you a closed fist.

2009-04-21T02:35:00.003+01:00

Tomorrow (today) I'm due down at the scummy dole to get my pittance. Rather than ration it (like they suggest), no doubt by this time next week, it'll all have been blown on alcohol, cigarettes and fur coats (like they expect).

As per usual, I'll wander in, do the required deed and be out again in under five minutes. Like most job"seekers" I'll probably go home and go back to bed. Not because I'm a completely lazy cunt, but for the fact that it depresses the fuck out of me. For what it is, for how long it takes to do it, it's concentrated, soul-crushing nihilism at its' best.

I often try to take solace in the fact that most people, at some stage, sign on. Using the economic crisis as an excuse works too, for about half an hour maybe. It is true that there are less jobs around these days, so I probably shouldn't feel so disgusted with myself.

However, there are jobs available. Y'know, those jobs. Jobs that misguided sixth-formers take on weekends so they can splash out and get people drunk enough for some dick/faff action. Jobs that students flirt with over the Easter/Summer/Etc holidays just to keep themselves occupied and to save up for going back to uni for rent/dick/faff. Jobs that 50+ year olds take after their kids have moved out and/or have just accepted that their life hasn't quite panned out like they'd hoped, so they do them so they aren't reminded how little dick/faff action they're getting.

Call-centres, are what I'm trying to get at. Those and sales jobs. Sometimes both, eep.

While I'm whinging about not having money and feeling that my life is lacking meaning at the moment, those sorts of jobs can go suck my balls, to put it bluntly. I've done enough of them. Enough to know that being required to spend time with people who think they're in The fucking Apprentice is not earning a wage; it's selling your soul to the devil. All the signs of The Occult are there:

1. You use a strange language that doesn't seem to exist or have much meaning in the real world. E.G. "active listening", "buying warmth", "sales funnel".

2. You often gather at regular intervals to use the special language in an attempt to invoke a sense of meaning for the cause and disregard for others.

Wannabe Yuppie #1: "Hey guy, how do the BigCorp numbers look for this week's cross-sale-trial look?"

Wannabe Yuppie #2: "The variable in that sector of the telesales market will affect the prospect unless the product offer is closed in the next quarter, guy."

Wannabe Yuppie #1: "Alright, guy, promote the USP, push for a puppy-dog sale and hopefully the lead time and sale cycle will be reduced for an above-average target."

Wannabe Yuppie #3: "Hey man, I just fucked a sales report."

*everyone high-fives*

Me: "Hnngggggg."

3. You can no longer function in society with normal people and you are openly riviled.

Salesperson: "Hi, can I have twenty cigarettes please?"

Cashier: "What? So you can sell them to children? YOU MONSTER!" *spit*

-

Seriously, in almost all of the sales jobs I've been in, the managers (or anyone with a vested interest in their job) or similar personnel strike me as the type of people who would wander into work with virgin's blood around their lips, then casually wipe it off with their tie, only to disappear into the stationary cupboard and wank off about this month's numbers.

Fuck that, I may be frustrated and needlessly tense about not having money, but I'm happier doing that and flaling around melodramatically, weeping and proclaiming "I'm an artiste!" to anyone who tells me to get a job than to work with other-worldly scum like that again.

If I Was an Apple, I'd Be Rotten To the Core

2009-04-18T03:47:00.003+01:00

Since posting last, I've been trying to shift my attention on other things to write about. I hope for my own sake, nevermind others, that I ever end up writing about banal balls like the credit crunch or subjects I (or they) really cannot fairly comment on, such as racism, etc. It truly irritates me when people who do it for exposure's sake and end up looking like great big, misguided blubbering vaginas.

Anyway. Instead of writing about love (or hot, juicy racism), I decided to probe any prominent memories in the past and drag them out for a bit of bona-fide, hand-down-trousers action-style leering and wonder what (if anything) could be done with them.

Yet, the anger and bitterness remains. It vaguely worries me that recollections of people being cunts comes to the fore of my hindsight. Sure, once bitten, twice shy and all that. But am I over-compensating for some sort of looming revenge plot against me sometime in the future?

Possibly. More likely however that I plain just enjoy having an awful time. Quite often, I'll start a conversation with someone who downright irritates the fuck out of me, just to hear what they say and ride off the crushing sense of disappointment and regret the whole way home.

I'll give you an example, I went and saw 17 Again starring Zac "I'm Definitely Not Gay, and If Anyone Says I am, I'm Going To Fucking Tell On Them Again" Efron and Chandler "Matt Perry" Bing. Why did I decide to see it? I'm not totally sure. Did I enjoy it? Yes. Oh my yes. I cried until I was sick for hours after I got home.

The first five minutes of the, I suppose you'd call it a "movie", had me wondering what happened to whoever keeps the world in check to stop things like these from happening. I surmised that a few hundred years ago he popped out to have a cigarette break, saw visions of our present in the reflection of a nearby lake, lost faith, and just walked into it, leaving the self-fisting monkeys unsupervised for the rest of time.

A friend and I have a theory that whenever Zac Efron has his period, a Kinder Egg comes out, and the plastic capsule has a piece of paper inside with a list of names of people he has to save in the next 24 hours, otherwise they die. A bit Minority Report, I'm sure you'll agree, but I suppose we can get away with the comparision, as it also stars someone who's definitely not gay. Plus, 17 Again was pretty much "Big" in reverse, so we can get away with stealing half-baked ideas.

Everyone else seems to anyway.

Love Is An Excuse

2009-04-16T04:56:00.002+01:00

"Love Is An Excuse" is the chapbook's title and I'm sticking to it. As well as the poems selected to go in it. I know this because I've sent the "final" manuscript to a good friend who will print them. Otherwise I would have sat and changed it about over and over again for no reason.

Here is the list of poems within (no doubt you know most of them very well already).

A Portrait of the Author as an Utter Cunt
24DD
I
STFUDisco
The Siren's Song
Voyeur
Pair
II
Puddle
From My Sweating Brow
WLTM TLC
One Real Regret
III
Top-Up
Routine
Perspective
Joie De Livre
Numb
Just Like Real Life
Double-Bluff Placebo
Bizarre But Comfortable
Importance
Author Bokes On Sleeping Bag and Hopes That Man of Dreams Doesn't Notice
Paris
County Clare
IV
I Retract It All

There's a big mix of performance pieces and stuff just for the page. So it may seem a little off or misplaced in certain parts, but I need to get these down, printed and away. A sort of purging, if you will. Most are vindictive, nasty, disgusting, sweary and bitter. Those ones are usually the more popular performance stuff. Possibly a sign that I'm not very happy at the moment, but it's good to get a response, even if it's worried looks from the audience, or a lady shouting out, "You have problems!".

However, the stuff written specifically for the page tends to be a bit more hopeful and succinct. Drastically short in places. Perhaps it tells me that I'm much more willing to call people all the cunts of the day and more afraid of actually being content and willing to take risks with relationships and the idea of love.

Who knows, I'll be able to see what people think if they buy and read it. I don't want to write stuff on the same theme, or even possibly in the same manner. I've tried to move away from it, but I find myself making the same mistake when I'm halfway through writing a new piece. Ideally the next chapbook will be something a little bit more optimistic and generally "nice", for lack of a better word. Maybe I'll properly fall in love, get a new perspective, -redundant optimism-, etc.

But I wouldn't hold my breath; I've smoked too much today.

The Night's Only Great Because You're Not There

2009-04-12T22:33:00.004+01:00

It's been a busy few weeks for a superstar comedian/poet indeed. I've been busy putting together and editing my first chapbook. Of course, it's about love. More on that in the next week though, I've been crying my eyes out too much to possibly divulge more information.

On friday 10th April we had Make Yourself Heard as usual (Belfast's best open mic poetry night), with a special guest slot by Tim Clare of Aisle 16 and lots of other excellent mentions. The night rocked; we trashed the place with our guitars, got saturated underpants thrown at us and kicked paparazzo's cameras into the back of their skulls.

Check him out:

www.myspace.com/timclarepoet

The next Make Yourself Heard is Friday 8th May. Join the Facebook group here.

Anyway I'll just share a few things of interest to finish this off.

New video featuring me being...well, me I guess.

Also, check out my myspace for a few new recordings also.

AND, just for the lols, have a listen to the unimitable Gary Hatecrime, a relatively uprooted gentlemen I met and saw perform a few times in Norwich. His interests include running around office parties with his finger sticking out towards people's arses, squeezing limes in his eyes and having drinks "do a shit" in his face. Enjoy.

More longer, less diversionary posts in the future.

The sun has gone down, but the day has just begun.

2009-03-18T03:33:00.003Z

I've been ballsing around for the past while, going to open mic poetry nights, galas and opening shopping centres, so there hasn't been much time to write here. Although I have found another thing I think I'll share.

It's good (but also insanely frustrating) to see that Diddy is about ten years behind me in artistic development (I became 20 last week, thanks). Maybe if we met up (probably by accident, I'd never choose to) I could teach him a few things about being deep. Perhaps I'd even write the lyrics to an album of his. Same with Avril Lavigne, Mika, and all those sorts of artists. I could tutor them in what they struggle to comprehend and perpetuate. I will save these lost souls.

(I'm as well-versed on women as Mika is, as in, not at all, so I don't exactly see how singing about voluptuous bints is going to convince people he's not in league with anal douchery.)

The Essence of Colin Dardis: Poet, Musician, Artist, Weightlifter.

2009-03-09T16:45:00.003Z

I've been a little busy as of late; mostly crying about poetry and not much else, so I'm not really saying much in this post. It's too close to my heart, it's just some stuff which is intrinsically superstar comedian/poet Marcus Keeley at the moment, so instead, you can have a look at the interview I had with poet, musician, artist and weightlifter Colin Dardis. Enjoy.

When I flush my toilet teeth come out (because my wife's head is in the cistern)

2009-03-03T00:58:00.006Z

It's been a rough weekend. There was the usual strenous activities of beating paparazzos with a cricket bat with nails in it wherever I went, signing miles of autographs for people with their own blood (on request) and calling ambulances on behalf of spontaneous haemmoraging tourists as a result of them spotting me strutting about town (hey, it's the least I can do for my fans).

Ontop of all this, I called down to Bookfinders on friday to enjoy the Poetry Circuit going on there every few months. Myself and Gerard McKeown were given a couple of cool frosty ones on the way as we passed an off-licence, we made the sign of the cross as thanks to the weeping shop owner and arrived. Just as someone out of the corner of my eye opened the bottle of beer (without me even having to ask) as I raised it to drink from, I caught sight of Derry Poet Sensation Jenni Doherty. I couldn't remember if we'd properly met before, but we instantly smiled and greeted each other.

"Hey Jenni darling, how are you? Love your work, etc."
*air kissing*
"Marcus babes! How have you been keeping? Still a poet/comedian superstar?"

So after I filled her in (not like that, I'm a queer), we rocked out to some live poetry, hosted on this occasion by recently published Catherine Hawcroft. I also bumped into peerless prolific poet, rapper and comedian Séamus Fox, who told me that if I ever needed some legs broken that I "know what number to call". I nodded and gave the thumbs up.

Looking around, noting what company I was in, I decided that it would be a good night, lit up some cigars, passed them around, and we all stood around laughing, exchanging witticisms and high-fiving.

Cue heavy drinking, a trip to Lavery's, heavy drinking and then a trip to a house party in the holylands where a few guys from The Knights of the Round Table Arts Collective were jamming, and Séamus Fox re-appeared after losing him sometime earlier in the evening. We exchanged a nod and he tapped the side of his nose with a wink. Eventually the filth turned up at about 7am due to the noise. I had to be dragged into the house and held down on a sofa with a rolling pin jammed between my teeth. I managed to scream something about "free street performance being no crime" and that "the scum on the street like yourselves should be fucking grateful". Oh well, what can you do. There's always next time.

Earlier today I went to the dentist. It was a nightmare. I came home and wandered around the house with my mouth totally numb. I was like a syphilitic rottweiler. I couldn't eat or drink. Anytime I tried, I ended up looking like I was out of some fucked up fetish porn film. So I entertained myself by watching this video recommended to me by fantastic poet and name-to-look-out-for Josh Jones, on the basis that he was reminded of me and my poetry while watching it. No big deal. Most normal people are reminded of me when they respirate.

Tim Minchin rocks. Not just because he looks like Duke Special (who I met while doing a stand-up gig in Norwich while I was supporting Scroobius Pip (31st May 2008 @ The Queen Charlotte, Norwich - look it up if you don't fucking believe me)). Keeley & Minchin Worldwide Tour to be announced in 2010.

Don't Let These Streets Hurt My Heart

2009-02-27T02:35:00.006Z

It's been a good while since I've updated, but a superstar comedian/poet can do little else but be busy and be loved. The past couple of days I've been occupying myself with a few things in the pipeline to give you folk something to fawn over, but on the 25th I was at fellow poet extraordinaire; Catherine Hawcroft's book launch at Black Box.

Her first poetry anthology was given a shindig that it deserved, with tons of free wine and readings by Catherine herself. We all felt immensely proud and pleased for her, and it was great for her to get the recognition which she deserves. Although, she still needs a lot more; her book, "The Hour of Doubt" is available from Amazon, Waterstones.com and a few bookshops in Belfast. Go out and fucking buy it.

Anyway, as this is short, I'll leave this video here. It's something that me and Gerard McKeown did today to escape the rain while we were walking around, being deep, thinking our thoughts and other lofty poet practices. The quality isn't great, but I'm still learning. Besides, usually I'm infront of the camera.

"The Hour of Doubt" book launch:

Catherine Hawcroft, her book, me telling everyone how much Catherine rocks (a lot) and The Gerard concluding the evening.

The People's Poet

2009-02-17T20:28:00.011Z

I spent today wandering around Belfast. It was unusually warm, so I felt hot in my big black coat, and looked a bit like a sex offender as a result. People were looking at me, but it was because I am Marcus Keeley, poet/comedian extraordinaire. The big black coat just added another layer of mystery and intrigue; I am an enigma, my psyche is a gurgling black hole of complexity. Sometimes I let it out, and passers-by stop to listen earnestly, while their jaws lower slightly, leaving their mouth a slit of awe. (Fucking hell, I'm good.)

After spending the day kicking the pavement (this is cool street slang for "walking about") with fellow deep poets Gerard McKeown (you probably know of him) and Damien Mulholland, I sat in Bookfinder's Cafe on University Road with my latest read, "The Rik Mayall - Bigger Than Hitler, Better Than Christ", which kicks ass (so does The Rik Mayall; he digs poets, see below). I paused for a moment or two to think of all the great things I, Marcus Keeley, and The Rik Mayall could get up to if he fancied visiting Belfast. We would probably strut around Botanic (strutting is the only way to walk when you have bollocks as big as mine and The Rik Mayall's), waiting for students to come over and mob him and tell him how great "The Young Ones" was, and how true to student life it is. We'd then lure them into Botanic Gardens and beat the fuck out of them in the bogs (which they'd love anyway). After that we'd fill milkman's bottles with pish and rat's blood and throw them at the Seamus Heaney Centre.

I couldn't remember what I had planned next (I think it was something about getting an unmarked van and bundling Sammy Wilson into the back of it) because nearby two people started talking about Seamus Heaney and trying to be intellectual about poetry. I was about to throw my coffee over them and quote some Allen Ginsberg while grabbing one of them by the scruff of the neck:

"A word on the Academies: poetry has been attacked by an ignorant and frightened bunch of bores who don't understand how it's made, and the trouble with these creeps is they wouldn't know poetry if it came up and buggered them in broad daylight."

Which I think says a lot about poetry in Belfast. A rich literary history is a great thing to have, but it's tragic when it gets to the stage where it does more harm than good.

Instead, my attention was diverted again by two trendy-looking fuckers who I overheard talking about organising a poetry night in Bookfinder's. I stopped them on their way out.

"Oi. You're putting a night on in here?", I partially asked but mostly demanded.

"Yeah," one of them said, "who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Marcus Keeley.", at this point his bum-buddy went awfully pale and looked fairly ill.

"Y-You're Marcus Keeley?" said the first guy, his voice going up a few octaves with a notable tremor in his throat.

"Yes, I'm Marcus Fucking Keeley. How come I wasn't told about this poetry night? Also, what's wrong with your friend?". The guy looked as if he'd shat himself. It would have been all over the floor, but seeing as he was wearing ridiculously tight skinny jeans, I surmised that it couldn't escape and his whole system had backfired.

"He's in shock. He's never met an international superstar poet/comedian before. I mean, we've heard of you, all of the English Lit students at Queen's have. Sometimes we even broke into the Student's Union in the night and took turns telling stories with a torch under our faces. We never really believed you existed," He gave a reverent pause, waiting for my response. I slowly leaned back into my chair and lit a cigarette, even though it's illegal for no real reason. I just gave a nod to the management who understood. We're always sticking it to the man. Fuck social conduct.

"Well, I'm back in Belfast now, so you all better get used to the idea," I said after a few long drags, talking while the smoke came out of my mouth. It stung my eyes a bit, but I didn't let on because I'm quite hard. The guy then paused for a bit, for fear of speaking out of turn. I just looked into the middle-distance to let him know he could talk.

"Is it true you performed a sell-out gig at Norwich Arts Centre? And, and that you've worked with Susie Showers?" he asked, blinking superfluously.

"I see the stories you tell are true," I replied neutrally. He smiled and held out a flyer for me to take. I didn't. He left it on my table infront of me.

"It'd be really cool to have you at our poetry evening. A living legend among us!"

At this stage I launched out of my seat and got up into his face.

"'Amongst us'? I'm not part of what you are. You give poetry a bad name; almost as bad as those "intellectuals" who teach you what poetry is over there in that institution for the bardically unadventurous. Poets don't wear skinny jeans and lip rings and have feathered hair. I have feathered hair because that's just part of me. It's not there to make a statement. My words are my testament," I sat down and lit another cigarette before the other one was finished. The guy was lost for words. His friend was an odd colour at this point.

Eventually he opened his mouth to say something, I could tell even though I wasn't looking at him. I spoke before he could say anything,

"I'll think about it," and with that, they shuffled out in silence.

I wish The Rik Mayall was here so we could sort these fuckers out.

Bookfinders:

The first day of your continuing life.

2009-02-16T00:34:00.000Z

I'm somewhat at a loss. I have been for the past nine months or so. It's a pregnancy. A pregnancy of doubt; not knowing who or what's caused it and fearing the inevitable outcome. This is the only similarity I share with 95% of other West Belfast residents.

I think that's part of the problem; I've never liked where I've lived (not my parents, they're ace). The city of Belfast is quite alright, but it's an awful feeling when you know you'll eventually have to travel back to a live-action representation of the mid-70's (just the bad parts) and aggressive destitution like a sadistic yo-yo. The main thing I've noticed is that the people are aware of this, but quite serenely happy with it (and in some cases, pass it off as "culture", fuck off). Maybe they're on medication, but it must be something a fair fucking sight harder than Prozac (which is fun, more on that later).

A lack of drive is quite possibly humanity's most disgusting attribute (yes, genocide etc is fairly bad, but dictators got to that position by having an indelible vision, which is a powerful thing, regardless of how cuntish they were). So rather than stay in Belfast, I decided to get some perspective. I applied to go to University of East Anglia in Norwich (because I knew a few good folks there) to study Philosophy (yeah, I don't know either, bad grades, poor me). Needless to say, the course was balls and I had limited interest, but the main thing was that I was away from Belfast and that's all that mattered.

Cue around four months of heavy drinking, lots of alone time, a crap relationship or two, pining after unattainable people, random debauchery and writing shit poetry about it all. By around February 08 I decided to (unoffically) sever my ties with my course (by "unofficially" I mean I didn't turn up to classes, exams, etc), but still stay in accomodation because it meant I was still in Norwich, which was better than going back to Belfast (there's a recurring theme here, I'm not going to lie).

However, at some point between staying up all night drinking nasty, cheap alcohol and waiting until the buses started so I could go into Norwich city centre at 7am to stop strangers in the street to ask them "what do you think of poetry" (no joke, sadly) and breaking down mentally and physically in my room (at one point not leaving for about a week), I decided it may very well be time I invested in some professional help. The university counsellor, no harm to her, was shit. Not much was gained by either party except for the fact that I thought she had some really cool boots, to which she expressed a fairly lukewarm response. Bitch. So off to the doctor's, where I got me some medication.

Prozac was interesting for a week or two, it made me sleepy, calmer, etc. For the third and fourth week of the prescription, I was fairly hyper, generally content, and literally got out of bed when I woke up in the morning. Which I had mixed feelings about; I didn't know if this was me acting unnaturally as a result of the drug, or if it was how I was supposed to be, the real me finally brought through by my chemicals being balanced for once. In any case, it had to go. I couldn't perform (not sexually, LOL!) on stage, I couldn't remember my routines or poems and generally reality had a new, odd perspective. Sometimes unnecessarily diluted and sometimes unnecessarily tangible. Maybe that's just how it always is, but I prefer my own to be honest. At the risk of suffering even worse depression, I chucked the pills and threw myself into writing and gigging as much as possible to take my mind off whatever it was occupying itself with. Better than drugs.

So, summer drew in and I was back in Belfast. What to do? Start a comedy club. Naturally. Voicebox Comedy Club had about four nights (two of which I organised and was present for, the other two were co-ordinated by Neill Boyd), it wasn't big but it was clever. It forced my hand to become acquainted with other comedians in Belfast, and, as far as I'm aware, introduced a few of them to each other. There's now a number of local comedy gigs in Belfast which have sprung up within the past year. Now I'm not saying that I started the amateur comedy scene in Belfast, or spearheaded the young new talent around these parts, but if there was ever an awards show or something, you may as well mention me (let's be honest, who else would you mention?).

That occupied a month or two before I decided/was contractually obliged to head back to Norwich in September. A few shitty jobs which I was eventually sacked from because I can't be a lying bastard unlike soulless sales people and countless gigs ensued (which, y'know, was awkward for things like rent, bills, etc - sorry about that Scott & Tim). I opted for the "do as many gigs as possible before your mind cripples you" technique which had served me well over the past while.

September to December 2008 was one of the best periods of my life. It was a total blast. I met so many fantastic people, had great gigs, fell in love, wrote about it all and had so many outlets for all of these things. I would have stayed if I could, but thanks to my useless nature and the current climate, it couldn't be sustained. I left mid-December with a fantastic send-off by the Soapbox folk, who I love very much.

Once again, back to Belfast. This time permanently. I'll have to say at this point that Belfast isn't as dreadful as I may let on. A small circle of great people I have here more or less keep me going, keep me gigging and generally functioning, which I'm very thankful for.

Apart from a week-long stint back in Norwich, straddling January/February (which was fantastic, I don't think I'll ever be able to stay away from that place and the people there) to do two sell-out Soapbox gigs, I've been in Belfast, struggling to write and get a job. I'm not really sure what to do with my life for the forseeable future, nor am I sure why I wrote this.

Then again, a superstar poet/comedian needs a bit of cathartic outlet now and then.