28: That Tosspot in the Hat

Before I begin here, I should let you know that this little rant is not the sweary modernisation of a Dr Seuss story. This concerns my second of two gigs in Nottingham on Tuesday, at the Canalhouse.

One of my favourite songs is "Thou Shalt Always Kill" by Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip. Fantastic wordplay, such passion and anger AND a sense of humour. It also features two elements that I really like - the pleading for people to spell the word "pheonix" correctly (as I have just done) and one line that I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs as I drove home last night. And I quote:

"Thou shalt not attend an open mic and leave before it's done just because you've finished your shitty little poem or song you self-righteous prick"

Of course, I wasn't taking part in a poetry slam or anything like that. I still can't get my head round the fact that poetry doesn't have to rhyme. If we had limerick slams I'd be well up for that. And of course, I wasn't strumming a guitar singing songs about unspeakably sensitive I am. I can't even play the ukelele.

No, I was performing stand-up comedy - which has been my full time employment for the past year and a bit - headlining a show in front of what I suspected could be quite a nice audience. A bit studenty, but seemingly up for it. Pleasant.

When I arrived a small new act competition was in full swing. The first two guys were decent enough, the second in particular being very talented indeed. Twas performer number three though who will forever be known as "the tosspot in the hat".

Let me describe what this miscreant looked like. Oddly, I'd pegged him as a cock before he'd even begun - and this was merely as he sat in the audience. The first thing to note about him was the hat perched atop his head. As I write this I am wearing a hat. I have no beef with hats. But this student urchin was wearing a fucking straw trilby.

Take that in for a second.

A straw trilby.

He had curly hair and looked to me like he was auditioning to be a lead singer in a tribute act to someone like The Kooks or Razorlight or the View or any of those so called "indie" bands that have their clothes supplied by Topman and spend more time doing their hair than, you know, writing songs and being anything less than run of the mill shite.

He was also committing one of my pet fashion crimes. Shorts with a long sleeved button up shirt. I hate that. It isn't "preppy", you don't look like you're about to take in the Boat Race, you just look like a fucktard who can't make his mind up if he's in the office or on the beach. And hey, just because you've seen the emaciated models in the aforementioned Topman dress like that it doesn't mean it's viable. THEY'RE TRYING TO SELL YOU THEIR SHITTY CLOTHES, DUMMY!

Anyway, our chum wandered up onstage to do his two minutes.

Issue One: He began his set by telling us his name (which I genuinely forget) and then said that most people only know him by his nickname. It was Tatchy or Blotchy or Scratchy or some such shit. The sort of name that only features in sentences uttered by middle class cocks at university who think that "[INSERT NAME HERE] is totally wacky, we had this random night where he drank five pints blah blah blah heeeee hawwwwww".

That last noise was a donkey.

Issue Two: When he wandered up onstage, the back two rows exploded in some kind of ticker tape parade for him, akin to the reaction for Argentina in 1978 when they won the world cup. The back rows consisted of my least favourite type of students - orange girls with massive hair who seem to think that Peaches Geldof is a style icon, rather than a vapid, pustulating axe-wound in the already gangrenous, fetid corpse that is celebrity. Sprinkled amongst this appalling dressed valley of mongs was the occasional bloke, all dressed in a similar manner to the aforementioned tosspot. So much bad hair in such a small space.

I must stress that the rest of the audience was lovely.

Issue Three: I love most comedians, whether they be old or new. But I do despise some johnny-come-lately accident at the clothes show thinking that comedy is "easy" because he makes his retarded friends laugh with crude jokes and by tapping girls on the head with his semi-erect elongated acorn of a penis. Here's the thing - try and be funny. Don't wander up onto the stage and reel off a list of swears that you know mixed in with other peoples gags, you fucking cretin.

Issue Four: This is the big issue. Don't lose a new act competition and then in the break decide to decamp - with all your cronies - to the back of the room and talk all the way through the closing act (ie me) despite being warned by the organiser, bar staff, MC and so on. Also, when I threaten to kill you from the stage I'm not kidding.

Seriously.

Should this person ever have the audacity to perform at a gig with me ever again, one of two things will occur:

ONE: I'll be MC and in charge of prepping the room for his arrival onstage. When people speak in hushed tones of the legendarily downbeat introductions for new acts provided by Malcolm Hardee in his heyday, they will pale into insignificance compared to what I have planned. It'll go something like this:

"This next act is the best type of new act, one with no gags who believes he'll be on E4 in six months times. He's wearing a hat and that is the limit of his personality. I can assure you no laughs in the next five minutes. You'll want to pull your own eyes out with a rusty spoon rather than gaze upon his face again, and replace your cotton buds with drill bits in order to ensure you can never hear such dross again. But don't take my word for it. Judge for yourself. Feel free to mill about while he's onstage, talk to your friends or do anything to keep you from losing your enthusiasm for life if this tosser is the future of comedy.

Oh, but before I bring him onstage, I need to share something with you. I went to the office of births, deaths and marriages today and found out that I'm actually an orphan..."

TWO: I'll be performing a set and he'll be doing an open spot, sat nervously at the gig with none of his friends around him. And i'll think back to when I had to do that, too scared to speak to the other acts, stomach churning in terror before my slot comes up, panicking that I'll die on my arse in from of people who do this for a living. Upon seeing that fear I'll go up to him and quietly reassure him. Because this business is hard, he'll need all the help he can get. I'll put an arm round his shoulder and with my own panful memories burning behind my eyes I'll put everything behind me and try to impart some knowledge into him and have him go on and give it his best shot. He'll look at me and realise that respect in this industry is the way forwards, take my words on board and go up there more pumped up than he ever could be.

And then after he's died on his arse, I'll take more solace in his broken spirit than I would from kicking his fucking teeth in.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

27: University Hoodies

A lot of people find it hard to believe that I went to university, never mind that I got a decent degree. I'm not sure why this is. I mention stories of my student days onstage a lot, I have used my education to get myself more than one stint of gainful employment and I'm certain that my mother has shown several hairdressers photos of me on my graduation day (which works as a rudimentary bush telegraph in rural Leicestershire).

Possibly the reason for the doubt over my educational credentials comes from my general scruffiness. In the eyes of most people, university graduates of the male persuasion come from two differing schools of fashion:

1: Smartly dressed, well turned out, impeccably groomed and resonating with intelligence and the wealth that brings with it.

2: Crazed, bearded nutcase wearing a tatty jumper, odd shoes and ripped cords. Clearly a mathematical genius.

I'm certainly not smartly dressed enough to convince anyone that I'm doing well - although, may I add, looking this spectacularly mediocre seems to cost me a lot of money - and the sight of me in a suit is one of the funniest things that you will ever see. I don't even own any shoes. Why should I? I'm never required to wear them. If I get invited to a formal occasion I either a) wear black converse or b) don't go.

I can't grow a beard, which is a shame. I'd love to straddle that line twixt madness and genius like so many beard wearers can. I'd like to buy my clothes exclusively from charity shops (preferably garments that someone has died in) then take my bearded face on the streets to scream equations at people whilst drinking horlicks from one of those faux-aluminium stay-hot mugs. And people would look at me and think "I bet he went to a good university. What stories he must have of his time in Russia, being courted by the KGB before writing an oft-quoted thesis on the genetic structure of ants".

The way people look at me at the moment is a fleeting glance - only ever a fleeting glance - never a penetratingly inquisitive stare or a worried look. They make one of two assumptions: That I am not worth their time and energy to imagine my delicately woven backstory, or that I'm a bit of a chav because I wear trainers and have tattoos.

Of course, what I should clearly wear to illuminate my fellow man of my illustrious educational background is a university hoody.

I work a lot at universities. I adore doing so. Students are great, they really are. Most importantly of all, my young friends are the DVD buying public of tomorrow so I love and respect them all. They love comedy, drink a lot (making me hilarious) and have enough free time to follow me on twitter and the like. Good on them.

Of course, that's MOST students.

The students that I find baffling are those that wear these university hoodies, which come in two types:

A: Plainish coloured hoody detailing the name of the university in a vaguely American collegiate font on the front. For people who seem to forget where they are, or want to show off about going to their university. Which I can understand if it's Oxbridge, I guess. Less so if it's Harper Adams Agricultural College. Or [INSERT NAME OF A TOWN NEAR YOU SO I'M NOT LIBELLOUS OR ANNOY A UNI I'VE WORKED AT], as those fuckers are dumb.

B: Dark coloured hoody detailing the name of the university on the front then whatever godforsaken "society" said owner is a part of on the back, often with a completely insufferable nickname to go with it. These people like to consider themselves as "wacky" and possibly, argh, "random".

Unsurprisingly, when I was a student I was neither part of a society nor proud enough of being a part of the population of De Montfort University that I felt the need to advertise it. I think it's the societies that irritate me the most - I can just about understand sports teams giving each other nicknames and wearing hoodies maybe on the way to a game (but at NO OTHER TIME) but these are GENUINE societies that I have seen marked out by hoodies on various campuses across the country:

"Latin and Ballroom Dance Society"
"Young Conservative Society"
"Countryside Alliance Society" (at an inner city university)
"Tea and Cake Society" (I would actually join that)
"Young Abstinence Society"

The last one was my favourite, as it included the owner's nickname on the back.

"Blonde Slapper"

I think my deep seated hatred for these hoodies is a consequence of two things. Firstly, I dislike the general university hoody because I miss being a student. I have a mortgage now, responsibilities, bills and the like. I miss the carefree days of studentdom and working at universities only seek to remind me of this.

Secondly, I really do believe that joining a society at university is merely a CV padding exercise OR an excuse to get drunk. Why not do what the rest of the world do?

* Lie on your CV. I claim to have invented wool.
* You don't need an excuse to get drunk. Just do it. In your home. Whilst listening to the Smiths and crying yourself to sleep, like I did. None of this being sociable and partying nonsense. Education, solitude and alcoholism.

Of course, this saves you £34.99 for the hoody. Which you can spend on drink.

I did think that wearing the university hoody was to create a sense of belonging. But how often have you seen someone in the uni holidays wearing a hoody from a far distant place in your home town, presumably while they are on holiday? Have you ever seen ANYONE go up to them and say "oh, you're studying there? Well done!" or "I used to study there myself" and exchange some kind of secret handshake? Never.

Of course, none of this has anything to do with the fact that I went to a fairly ropey university and that hoodies were not invented at the time.

Nope.

And besides, if you must wear a university hoody, you don't even need to be a student. Merely walk down Oxford Street in London and check out one of many street stalls. For about a tenner you can buy a hoody that reads:

"Cambridge University - London, England"

That'll show them all. Even with it being vastly incorrect it's still a better option than saying you went to Luton.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman