He was a paedophile and I was the only one who knew. He lay there on his brown-stained mattress absorbing himself into the damp grime that speckled out on the wallpaper in his corner. That wasn’t his granddaughter. My friends and were tired; the exhausting game of football was ended by a fight that broke out nearby; it hadn’t been safe to stay. They were so tired they didn’t want to listen. “He’s ok. He’s just tired like us and he needs to sleep; they both do,’ one of them piped up. I was tired too, but I couldn’t sleep. I knew the truth and they were not listening.
The cats turned all at once like a mandate had been passed down that we were too human to hear. Their soft warm fur that runs down their backs spiked forward; against everything we took to be nice in this world. Their soft sweet faces contorted into rigid mould like a snake ready to swallow an egg. And there was my cat, worst of all, with one of her big innocent pupils gone and replaced with tiny syphilitic white spots. Not Maggie too, and then she bit me and the fleas latched on to my skin. You cannot be sure of a cat’s love, that’s what had made it so lovely. And now it was gone forever. Your arrogance is lost, and they are programmed to hate you. I’d taken nice and lovely for granted once too often
And then he woke up and it was just a dream.
It was told to me from a young age that ‘And then he woke up and it was just a dream’ was the worse ending possible to a story, and I’d agreed. After reading ‘Fight Club’ by Chuck Palahniuk it’s difficult not too agree with his ‘or was it?’ Twist. The book is different to the film; it’s worse. But on Tuesday night I realised that just going ‘right! Bye!’ Is probably worse.
This week I’ve had some pretty terrible dreams - what could they possibly mean? But I learnt a definite reality too: don’t end on new material. No one remembers a strong opening if the rest just loses its way (except Saving Private Ryan.) Maybe the opening isn’t quite the groundbreaking tour-de-force it seems? I had my set pretty much down pat, so I ventured into the unknown of new material, which was fine and necessary. However, it’s difficult to add the requisite flair when you’re desperately trying to remember what you wrote. And, when you’ve desperately remembered everything you wrote, make sure you’re last line isn’t a so…
I had a go at Australians and it was supposed to be a tirade but it was caught up in nerves and fear, and came out like a very, very mild ribbing. And ended with a joke about the Queen and the Oedipus complex, which no one got; probably as it takes quite a long time to make the link between being the Head of the Commonwealth and, therefore, like a mother figure. If only they’d listen - properly fucking listen - so I didn’t have to work harder for the love of something that will just turn on me and ruin everything forever. So…
Err, right! Bye!
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Monday, 24 August 2009
For the achives...
Here is one of the first routines that I ever wrote. It’s about the Richard Timney scandal. If you’ve forgotten, it largely proves my point that I missed my chance to say it. I was happy with it but wrote while still too timid to get up on stage. It was six months ago, so can’t really count as satire - treat it like watching Have I Got News For You on Dave; you might laugh a bit but you won’t be able to escape the feeling you’re moving slowly closer to death.
It’s also probably over five minutes. It’s really not worth the effort of seeing what works and what doesn’t on stage with more time elapsing and thus becoming less and less relevant. So instead I have posted on the Internet, where genius is lost in its infinity.
Sit back and imagine my hilarious delivery and beautiful face…
There’s always been this strange attitude to wanking in this country – stranger than our relationship with, you know, like normal sex and stuff.
In the Victoria era they believed that masturbating would lead to moral impurity and vanity, and possible case the collapse of the British Empire as it had the Roman Empire, so they invented rugby and football and made all the public schoolboys play to think as a collective, and make them good leaders of tomorrow.
You were actually expelled from public school if caught wanking. They had prefects looking for younger boys wanking. Strangely, they were just as concerned with homosexuality. But times change, it’s all light-hearted buggery and wanking competitions now.
The world’s moved on.
Not so long ago, when I was young, I remember first becoming aware of sex like most people with the saucy seaside postcard. The one with a pair of woman’s breasts pressed together holding an ice cream. I was on football tour and all the boys were kind of staring at the postcard not saying a word, all of us, in that moment, losing our innocence. They’re better than ice cream. We knew it was rude, really rude and it would be our only glimpse for months. Apart from the Spanish boy, who was stocking up on cock-shaped like pencils and hardcore porn.
It’s different now, the Internet, the great democracy it is, means anyone of any age can watch the nastiest shit imaginable, but in Britain we’re still the same.
The Richard Timney affair, the Home Secretary’s husband, proved how strangely obsessed we still are with wanking. Jacqui Smith has since admitted that she left the third highest position in the country because of her husband wanking. The fall-out was too much to bear.
The MP expenses scandal was brilliant for the increasing irrelevant newspapers in this country, because there is 24-hour news, so they just rely on stories that can be serialised like Jade Goody, Maddy McCann, and MP Expenses, and they played their trump card with the wanking.
I know what you’re thinking; I do remember it was six months ago. Too short a time-span to become a clever cultural reference and too long to be actual satire.
I know what you’re thinking –
The thing every man thought is why didn’t you use the fucking Internet?
But this was where Richard was almost very clever because Jacqui Smith as Home Secretary oversaw the UK adult industry, so he could kind of say; “I’d guessed you thought it was alright. You can’t see any penetration or anything. I’m not a pervert.”
What the fuck does it matter anyway? He had a wank, so what? Ahh but it was with our money. So… It was £10.
What does it prove? Apart from the fact a middle-aged man can’t come in under 10 minutes.
Well eight minutes with adverts.
It’s also probably over five minutes. It’s really not worth the effort of seeing what works and what doesn’t on stage with more time elapsing and thus becoming less and less relevant. So instead I have posted on the Internet, where genius is lost in its infinity.
Sit back and imagine my hilarious delivery and beautiful face…
There’s always been this strange attitude to wanking in this country – stranger than our relationship with, you know, like normal sex and stuff.
In the Victoria era they believed that masturbating would lead to moral impurity and vanity, and possible case the collapse of the British Empire as it had the Roman Empire, so they invented rugby and football and made all the public schoolboys play to think as a collective, and make them good leaders of tomorrow.
You were actually expelled from public school if caught wanking. They had prefects looking for younger boys wanking. Strangely, they were just as concerned with homosexuality. But times change, it’s all light-hearted buggery and wanking competitions now.
The world’s moved on.
Not so long ago, when I was young, I remember first becoming aware of sex like most people with the saucy seaside postcard. The one with a pair of woman’s breasts pressed together holding an ice cream. I was on football tour and all the boys were kind of staring at the postcard not saying a word, all of us, in that moment, losing our innocence. They’re better than ice cream. We knew it was rude, really rude and it would be our only glimpse for months. Apart from the Spanish boy, who was stocking up on cock-shaped like pencils and hardcore porn.
It’s different now, the Internet, the great democracy it is, means anyone of any age can watch the nastiest shit imaginable, but in Britain we’re still the same.
The Richard Timney affair, the Home Secretary’s husband, proved how strangely obsessed we still are with wanking. Jacqui Smith has since admitted that she left the third highest position in the country because of her husband wanking. The fall-out was too much to bear.
The MP expenses scandal was brilliant for the increasing irrelevant newspapers in this country, because there is 24-hour news, so they just rely on stories that can be serialised like Jade Goody, Maddy McCann, and MP Expenses, and they played their trump card with the wanking.
I know what you’re thinking; I do remember it was six months ago. Too short a time-span to become a clever cultural reference and too long to be actual satire.
I know what you’re thinking –
The thing every man thought is why didn’t you use the fucking Internet?
But this was where Richard was almost very clever because Jacqui Smith as Home Secretary oversaw the UK adult industry, so he could kind of say; “I’d guessed you thought it was alright. You can’t see any penetration or anything. I’m not a pervert.”
What the fuck does it matter anyway? He had a wank, so what? Ahh but it was with our money. So… It was £10.
What does it prove? Apart from the fact a middle-aged man can’t come in under 10 minutes.
Well eight minutes with adverts.
Monday, 17 August 2009
Choose Life
When it goes well it’s the most unbelievable rush. It’s pure euphoria. It takes you out of the curmudgeonly shit-hole where you keep your thoughts, away from the stomach cramping nerves and from the exhausting self-doubt that occupies your mind daily. Doing stand-up when it works, when you fucking nail it, is amazing, I assume. So far I’ve done eight open-mic spots, and had tasters of the feeling. I can only compare it to taking ecstasy at university. I’d never felt like that before, nor had I ever had a full-blown panic-attack before. I’d felt like the world could be so full of vibrant wonder and the comforting warmth of all the love within it rush through me so slowly and strongly, and a couple of hours later think, but ‘you’re going to die, you’re going to fucking die.’ The latter sentiment is actually provable, so I stopped taking ecstasy. I chose life.
And I’ve died. I’ve died spectacularly, naked with an orange in my mouth and a fist clenched tight with Rigamortis around my penis as I swing from a hanger rail, to take that particular analogy to its ultimate conclusion. It was my first gig and, there’s no use denying it, it really was awful. I was tight with nerves for days on end and then went up their shaking until my entire routine fell out of my head. When the mercy of time intervened and my five minutes were up - I had no energy left. I was shattered and felt draped in shit. I know I’m not particularly handsome or intelligent or fast or strong or anything else, but I believed I was funny, I knew I had a sense of humour. The same night a comedian offered someone out because a heckler suggested he sounded like Dennis Norden. And he really did, it was uncanny - even when he was threatening to fuck the prick up. All my energy was gone; I didn’t even smile. The whole fucking thing was absurd and unreal. If I’d been on the safe side of the line with the rest of the audience, I’d have been able to laugh at the delusional Dennis on stage. But I’d crossed it. He was I and I was him (slim with the tilted brim on 20 inch rims.)
The whole idea of doing stand-up comedy is absurd, and there’s very little point acting any other way. Already in the small little world of open-mic nights I’ve noticed cliques, factions and superiority complexes. There’s no denying I think I’m better than everybody else; I’m not really a confident man or a show-off in the crudest sense. I clearly think I’m good otherwise I wouldn’t keep on but equally, and maybe more importantly, everyone probably feels the same.
From now on this blog will document my career in stand-up to give me perspective and posterity. Hopefully one day someone will find it interesting enough to read but, at the moment, that’s just me.
That said, I’ve no plans to actually advertise this as yet, as I’m not that keen on everyone knowing what I’m doing, so if there’s no fucking comments then that’s why. I also have no idea about how to use the internet beyond playing a really rather good version of pong…
www.jeffwofford.com/rong.html
And I’ve died. I’ve died spectacularly, naked with an orange in my mouth and a fist clenched tight with Rigamortis around my penis as I swing from a hanger rail, to take that particular analogy to its ultimate conclusion. It was my first gig and, there’s no use denying it, it really was awful. I was tight with nerves for days on end and then went up their shaking until my entire routine fell out of my head. When the mercy of time intervened and my five minutes were up - I had no energy left. I was shattered and felt draped in shit. I know I’m not particularly handsome or intelligent or fast or strong or anything else, but I believed I was funny, I knew I had a sense of humour. The same night a comedian offered someone out because a heckler suggested he sounded like Dennis Norden. And he really did, it was uncanny - even when he was threatening to fuck the prick up. All my energy was gone; I didn’t even smile. The whole fucking thing was absurd and unreal. If I’d been on the safe side of the line with the rest of the audience, I’d have been able to laugh at the delusional Dennis on stage. But I’d crossed it. He was I and I was him (slim with the tilted brim on 20 inch rims.)
The whole idea of doing stand-up comedy is absurd, and there’s very little point acting any other way. Already in the small little world of open-mic nights I’ve noticed cliques, factions and superiority complexes. There’s no denying I think I’m better than everybody else; I’m not really a confident man or a show-off in the crudest sense. I clearly think I’m good otherwise I wouldn’t keep on but equally, and maybe more importantly, everyone probably feels the same.
From now on this blog will document my career in stand-up to give me perspective and posterity. Hopefully one day someone will find it interesting enough to read but, at the moment, that’s just me.
That said, I’ve no plans to actually advertise this as yet, as I’m not that keen on everyone knowing what I’m doing, so if there’s no fucking comments then that’s why. I also have no idea about how to use the internet beyond playing a really rather good version of pong…
www.jeffwofford.com/rong.html
That’s perhaps a far more embarrassing insight in to my life than anything I can write here. I’m unemployed and seriously addicted to that game – I can’t remember which happened first.
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