THE FOLLOWING TOOK PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 13.30 and 22.00 ON SATURDAY DECEMBER 19th 2010...
13.30 - BARWELL, LEICESTERSHIRE
I open my door and stride into the cool winter air. I'm prepared for a tricky journey - being a plucky BBC employee I've seen the weather reports and instead of lying in bed all afternoon catching up on my sleep I'm leaving early for my gig in central London. Plan is pretty much this:
1: Drive the two hours to London
2: Possibly see some snow showers
3: Not worry about #2 because I'm a mighty human in a car
4: Get to London
5: Find a pub
6: Watch Leicester City beat Ipswich Town on TV in said pub entirely populated by chirpy cockneys eating Pie and Mash
7: Do gig and make much mirth
8: Go home, finished for Christmas and happy with my lot.
As I leave there is a light dusting of snow. I smile to myself, thinking about how Christmassy it looks. Bless.
14.00 - LUTTERWORTH, LEICESTERSHIRE
Journey so far is a piece of piss. Nobody on the road as people are warned off the road by what I wittily call "scaremongering". It's only some snow. And besides, I'm on the M1 already and smashing it down to London. I think about how I'll show off to my London based comedy chums, listening to them talking of struggling on the tube when I've travelled 120 miles - like a green room version of the Four Yorkshiremen Monty Python sketch.
At this point I am planning my dinner. I reckon Mexican, somewhere near Embankment.
14.15 - DAVENTRY, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE
It's snowing a little bit, but is clearly no match for my mighty iron steed. Brrrrrrm.
14.30 - NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE
The snow has stopped. Stupid fucking weather forecasts. Although I am buoyed by knowing I'll be well early, clever little monkey that I am.
15.00 - NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
Quite need a wee, but pass the services knowing that Toddington has a Marks and Spencer and they do wasabi peas. Besides, I know I'll be there in 15 minutes or so.
15.01 - 1 MILE BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
How come it's so cloudy and foggy and that all of a sudden?
15.02 - 1 MILE BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
Fuck me, it's snowing like a bastard.
15.05 - 3 MILES BEYOND NEWPORT PAGNELL, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
Ah, it's slowing down. Besides, the roads seem fine.
15.10 - JUNCTION 14, M1
Probably no point getting off here now, traffic is sluggish but it's bound to be a little congested. I laugh at the saps queuing to leave the M1. MORE MOTORWAY FOR ME, FUCKERS!
15.11 - ABOUT THREE FEET PAST JUNCTION 14, M1
More snow.
15.12 - ABOUT THREE FEET PAST JUNCTION 14, M1
More snow than backstage at a Motley Crue concert. In Switzerland. Midwinter.
15.13 - AS ABOVE
A car in front makes a bold move and drives forwards, then sideways, then into a barrier. I laugh in the style of a man who is mildly aware that he's fucked. Still have over four and three quarter hours to showtime. Pride myself on leaving early enough, although do briefly think I may miss City's scintillating start in Ipswich. Everything is bound to clear up soon.
15.20 - TWO FEET ON
I have spent the previous seven minutes getting excited every minute when the car in front moves a couple of centimetres. Have decided that the man in the car in front is a twat for the following reasons:
A: He has a personalised plate. Not a good one, like J1MMY or something like that. One so obscure that only he knows that it refers to the time he was born and the initials of his dog or some shit.
B: He's driving a car with too much torque, so it's struggling to get the power down on the snow. I have no idea what this means, but I've watched Top Gear.
C: He is leaving TOO MUCH ROOM BETWEEN HIM AND THE CAR IN FRONT.
15.30 - ANOTHER TWO FEET
Now swearing at the radio. Thanks to the weather I'm having to listen to Blackburn vs West Ham. Laugh briefly when the commentator describes Avril Grant as having a hang-dog expression. His face is the actual dictionary definition of the phrase.
16.00 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Start inventing new swearwords for the people in Four Wheel Drives who seem to think its acceptable to drive on the hard shoulder merely because they have bigger wheels. And secretly regret buying a tiny little Ford Fiesta and giving a flying fuck about fuel economy. The best words I've invented thus far are "festwich", "clinth" and "banzunt".
16.30 - ANOTHER FIFTEEN FEET
Brief sense of excitement of hitting 8mph for three seconds is ruined by looking in my rearview mirror and realising that I have moved absolutely clinthing nowhere.
16.45 - NO PROGRESS
Start going through the cartoon cycle of despair. I've pretty much exhausted anger, I'm now onto wanting to weep. On the verge of tears until I watch a man climb out of his stationary car and walk to the hard shoulder to urinate. He steps onto what he thinks is a grass verge and vanishes up to his waist in snow. I laugh so hard that I stall the car and he definitely notices.
17.00 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Match kicks off in 20 minutes. Have a feeling I may miss it.
17.15 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Gig kicks off in 165 minutes. Have a feeling I may miss it.
17.20 - ANOTHER TWO FEET
Small surge in movement makes me foolishly think that I can get to Luton then get a train to London. Because of course the UK is well known for its reliable railway network that can cope with any small problem and is in no way ever delayed because of a wet leaf here and there, let alone a fucking blizzard of biblical proportions.
17.30 - ANOTHER TEN FEET
Cancel gig. Worry about the money I won't be earning that I may have already spent on tattoos, cake and hats.
17.35 - NO CHANGE
Realise that even with the gig cancelled I'm still not going anywhere. Wonder if I have a junior hacksaw to cut through the barrier and do a U-turn. Google Maps tells me that, with traffic, I'm over 90 minutes from the next junction. Which is three miles away. Fuck my life.
18.00 - TWO AND THREE QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Man in front with private plate gets stuck. I watch him for a bit and then get out and push him as he accelerates. He moves on and I shout "I AM THOR! STRONGEST MAN IN THE UNIVERSE!" as a white van driver stares at me, agog.
18.15 - TWO AND A HALF MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Listening to 606 as City are already two down. Can only tolerate it for two minutes at a time before I either want to punch the listeners or Robbie Savage in the face.
18.30 - TWO AND A QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Weeping.
18.45 - TWO MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Get deeply annoyed that the kids in the car next to me are watching a DVD. Try to keep pace with them to watch it over their shoulders but am blocked by a pie van. It was Toy Story 3 as well.
19.00 - ONE AND THREE QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Remember how much I need to urinate. Consider sneaking onto the hard shoulder to relieve myself but then look at temperature gauge and realise that if I do so my penis will actually shrink back up inside me like a too-wide bellybutton.
19.15 - ONE AND HALF MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Everyone else has started using the hard shoulder as a lane and I no longer care about my strict adherence to the highway code. I'd drive over a sweet old lollipop lady if it got me to that fucking junction a minute sooner.
19.30 - ONE AND A QUARTER MILES TO JUNCTION 13
Screaming.
19.40 - ONE MILE TO JUNCTION 13
A SIGN! A MOTHERFUCKING SIGN FOR A JUNCTION!
19.50 - HALF A MILE TO JUNCTION 13
The traffic seems to be sorting itself into wheat and chaff. Chaff being the people choosing to stay on the M1, wheat being people like me who are leaving the M1 with no plan at all. Note that the other side of the M1 is equally fucked. I had not thought about that. Arses.
20.00 - EXITING THE M1 VIA JUNCTION 13
Start singing "Take on Me" by A-Ha in celebration at getting to 15mph. Realise I have no plan at all. I can go to Bedford or Milton Keynes. I reason that the easy road layout of Milton Keynes would be the best option to get me to the A5 and my steady route home.
20.15 - SOMEWHERE IN MILTON KEYNES
Whoever designed this place was fucking mental.
20.30 - STILL IN MILTON KEYNES
Seriously, how could you pick out landmarks in this place? Even if the entire concrete monstrosity wasn't covered in bastard fucking snow?
20.45 - THE A5, HEADING NORTH
Somehow a single lane A-road is better gritted, salted and cleared than a major motorway. Although the Little Chef is closed and an Olympic Breakfast would be awesome right now.
21.00 - STILL THE A5
Hit a bump in the snow. A bit of wee comes out.
21.15 - DAVENTRY
The snow just fucks off. Seriously. Vanishes. Like I'm playing a bad video game.
22.00 - PARENTS HOUSE
Throw myself on the mercy of my mum and dad. Beg for food, shelter and somewhere to have a wee.
22.05 - PARENTS HOUSE
Piss like a racehorse.
22.10 - PARENTS HOUSE
Relax on sofa. Try not to think about what I could have done with the 8 and a bit hours I've spent in the car. Deeply troubled by the lack of snow in Leicestershire. After my day I want to build a snowman just so I can punch it in its stupid fucking carroty face.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Monday, 13 December 2010
29: "Sexy" Mrs Claus
I don't want the first thing to think when you read this that I dislike Christmas in any way. I mean, I don't love it. I don't own any Christmas decorations - but that is mainly down to the fact that I'd have to put them up and then take them down, and I'm too lazy to do that. I'm so lazy that I tidied my lounge for the first time in about a year today and found the following things that I never knew I had:
1: A cigar. Cuban, I believe.
2: A copy of "Dead Snow" on Blu-Ray.
3: A small, neat pile of Ikea catalogues.
4: A hand-made ceramic snail.
But I do like Christmas. I enjoy giving presents to my family and friends, I enjoy Christmas dinner and I enjoy my early Christmas with my daughter (we have our present opening time on Christmas Eve, as she is under the impression that I have Santa's phone number and I text him every year). That's about it. I don't enjoy the crowds in the shops, the special menus in restaurants, the Christmas music on the radio or Egg Nog, whatever the fuck that is.
As a comedian we have the joy of performing in clubs in front of many a Christmas party during December, and I know that this is a subject of some consternation for many comics. It doesn't really bother me - this December I've had some beautiful gigs in front of Xmas party crowds that have outweighed the shoddy one that springs to mind that I hated every minute of.
I was in Putney this past Saturday at the Comedy Tree, a venue that I must have performed at around ten times this year. I like it there and had a great time this weekend, despite feeling like death and having a pain in my jaw so bad that I felt that someone was constantly hitting me in the face with a spade. Above the comedy club however is the Wahoo bar, a place that if I believed in Hell would resemble it somewhat.
At the beginning of any Saturday evening there it is full of sports fans watching the big screens and drinking quietly. At some point during the evening - I suspect at around 9.30 to 10pm - the mood of the venue changes. It becomes awash with crop-headed wannabe south London gangsters, all sovereign rings and attitude, and middle class girls from Putney, Wimbledon and Kingston who want to shock their parents by fucking one of these knuckle-scrapers to prove how terribly "urban" they are. It's a horrible sight, the air crackling with static electricity as G-Star jeans rub against Ugg Boots to the sound of Tinie Tempah.
I usually exit the gig through the fire door so I can avoid having to see how the youth of today chooses to mate, but this past weekend it was blocked and I had to step through the club to leave the building. And there, I saw three of them.
"Sexy" Mrs Claus.
You'll note my use of inverted commas around the word "sexy", because I imagine the only people who consider such an outfit sexy are the deeply deluded women that choose to wear them. Two were already hideous, one was actually quite attractive (although seeing the drinking venue and outfit she had chosen, I doubt we would have too much in common) but the costume she was wearing merely made you pity her.
As I left the bar and reached my car, I saw another two women dressed in similar garb. Then on my drive through London (taking in Chelsea and Kilburn, amongst other places) I saw dozens more. I genuinely lost count, although they may have been because a taxi driver cut me up and I was calling him a cuntbubble. A word I have genuinely never used before.
If you're not familiar with what a "Sexy" Mrs Claus outfit looks like then let me enlighten you (it's safer at this time of year than going to Primark or Ann Summers to find out for yourself):
A Santa hat, obviously. This part of the outfit is fine.
A very short red velour skirt, trimmed with white fur.
A red bra, again trimmed with fur.
If not the above two garments, then some kind of micro dress in the same vein.
Red stockings or long socks.
I hasten to add to the mix here that I was, the last time I checked, definitely a red-blooded male. I like girls. Without divulging too much of my personal predilections, I'm not adverse to girls dressing up. There's a list of outfits that I consider sexy and that I can share with you now:
Princess Leia.
Chun Li.
Nurse.
Snow White. (watch the Rammstein video)
Silk Spectre. (from Watchmen)
Empowered. (another comic book character)
Morrigan.
Felicia. (the last two both from "Darkstalkers", the video game)
Bayonetta. (Shut up, I'm a nerd)
I should really, ageing pervert that I am, applaud the decision for these hardy young ladies to expose themselves to the cruel winter air in order for us to gaze upon their bodies and be filled with Christmas cheer. But I can't. Firstly, here's a phrase I have never, EVER heard another man say:
"Phwooooar. I'd love it if she dressed up like Mrs Santa Claus."
Never.
It isn't sexy. Not in the slightest. When I worked in an office the only girl who would dress like for the Christmas party eventually left to start a career in pornography, specialising in DVDA.
(Dad, if you're reading this, that's a sexual practice. Not where you get your driving license from)
Also, when deciding what men may or may not find sexy, here's a tip. If Ann Summers sell it, it's probably not sexy.
Sorry, I just went to check the Agent Provacateur website to see if they sold anything like that. And they don't, it's just that I got distracted for a very long time indeed.
Anyway, you're probably reading this and wondering why I'm so bitter about this seemingly tedious and pointless issue. I'll tell you why.
Because once I dated a girl who thought that a relevant Christmas present for me would be dressing up in such a fashion so we could do the sex. That was it. I bought her LOADS of stuff. She bought me nothing. No video games, no DVDs, nothing. Not even a pair of socks. She bought herself some cheap lingerie and allowed me to have sex with her.
Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr Smallman.
It was during said intercourse that I really thought hard about why what she was wearing was so wrong. I mean, think about it. She is dressed up as Mrs Santa Claus. She is literally the wife of Santa Claus. I have no beef with ol' Saint Nick. I happen to like him. I like him enough to ensure that I NEVER smash the living heck out of his wife. Because I respect the man who brought me presents and that my daughter still believes in.
Also, if she is representing Mrs Claus then also consider this: If we take the modern representation of Santa Claus as starting in the 1950s at the latest (Coca Cola blah blah blah) then she needed to have been 16 then. So, 16 in 1950 makes her 76 now. And until Helen Mirren is 76 it is impossible to be 76 and sexy, man or woman, animal vegetable or mineral.
But, I hear you say: What if she's his second, third, even fourth wife? Then I put this to you: If she usually dresses like that around the North Pole then she's nothing but a money grabbing hussey. I bet when Santa is out on his rounds she's in the middle of a train-pulling orgy with the elves, and when Santa is resting she's probably constructed some kind of hoist arrangement in which to abuse the reindeer.
I know that you now think that I think about things too much, and you'd be right. But I got that outfit worn for me for Christmas once and it's scarred me forever. If you struggle to understand then let me utter the phrase used by many in Vietnam to quieten down questioning:
You weren't there man. You weren't there.
http://www.twitter.com
1: A cigar. Cuban, I believe.
2: A copy of "Dead Snow" on Blu-Ray.
3: A small, neat pile of Ikea catalogues.
4: A hand-made ceramic snail.
But I do like Christmas. I enjoy giving presents to my family and friends, I enjoy Christmas dinner and I enjoy my early Christmas with my daughter (we have our present opening time on Christmas Eve, as she is under the impression that I have Santa's phone number and I text him every year). That's about it. I don't enjoy the crowds in the shops, the special menus in restaurants, the Christmas music on the radio or Egg Nog, whatever the fuck that is.
As a comedian we have the joy of performing in clubs in front of many a Christmas party during December, and I know that this is a subject of some consternation for many comics. It doesn't really bother me - this December I've had some beautiful gigs in front of Xmas party crowds that have outweighed the shoddy one that springs to mind that I hated every minute of.
I was in Putney this past Saturday at the Comedy Tree, a venue that I must have performed at around ten times this year. I like it there and had a great time this weekend, despite feeling like death and having a pain in my jaw so bad that I felt that someone was constantly hitting me in the face with a spade. Above the comedy club however is the Wahoo bar, a place that if I believed in Hell would resemble it somewhat.
At the beginning of any Saturday evening there it is full of sports fans watching the big screens and drinking quietly. At some point during the evening - I suspect at around 9.30 to 10pm - the mood of the venue changes. It becomes awash with crop-headed wannabe south London gangsters, all sovereign rings and attitude, and middle class girls from Putney, Wimbledon and Kingston who want to shock their parents by fucking one of these knuckle-scrapers to prove how terribly "urban" they are. It's a horrible sight, the air crackling with static electricity as G-Star jeans rub against Ugg Boots to the sound of Tinie Tempah.
I usually exit the gig through the fire door so I can avoid having to see how the youth of today chooses to mate, but this past weekend it was blocked and I had to step through the club to leave the building. And there, I saw three of them.
"Sexy" Mrs Claus.
You'll note my use of inverted commas around the word "sexy", because I imagine the only people who consider such an outfit sexy are the deeply deluded women that choose to wear them. Two were already hideous, one was actually quite attractive (although seeing the drinking venue and outfit she had chosen, I doubt we would have too much in common) but the costume she was wearing merely made you pity her.
As I left the bar and reached my car, I saw another two women dressed in similar garb. Then on my drive through London (taking in Chelsea and Kilburn, amongst other places) I saw dozens more. I genuinely lost count, although they may have been because a taxi driver cut me up and I was calling him a cuntbubble. A word I have genuinely never used before.
If you're not familiar with what a "Sexy" Mrs Claus outfit looks like then let me enlighten you (it's safer at this time of year than going to Primark or Ann Summers to find out for yourself):
A Santa hat, obviously. This part of the outfit is fine.
A very short red velour skirt, trimmed with white fur.
A red bra, again trimmed with fur.
If not the above two garments, then some kind of micro dress in the same vein.
Red stockings or long socks.
I hasten to add to the mix here that I was, the last time I checked, definitely a red-blooded male. I like girls. Without divulging too much of my personal predilections, I'm not adverse to girls dressing up. There's a list of outfits that I consider sexy and that I can share with you now:
Princess Leia.
Chun Li.
Nurse.
Snow White. (watch the Rammstein video)
Silk Spectre. (from Watchmen)
Empowered. (another comic book character)
Morrigan.
Felicia. (the last two both from "Darkstalkers", the video game)
Bayonetta. (Shut up, I'm a nerd)
I should really, ageing pervert that I am, applaud the decision for these hardy young ladies to expose themselves to the cruel winter air in order for us to gaze upon their bodies and be filled with Christmas cheer. But I can't. Firstly, here's a phrase I have never, EVER heard another man say:
"Phwooooar. I'd love it if she dressed up like Mrs Santa Claus."
Never.
It isn't sexy. Not in the slightest. When I worked in an office the only girl who would dress like for the Christmas party eventually left to start a career in pornography, specialising in DVDA.
(Dad, if you're reading this, that's a sexual practice. Not where you get your driving license from)
Also, when deciding what men may or may not find sexy, here's a tip. If Ann Summers sell it, it's probably not sexy.
Sorry, I just went to check the Agent Provacateur website to see if they sold anything like that. And they don't, it's just that I got distracted for a very long time indeed.
Anyway, you're probably reading this and wondering why I'm so bitter about this seemingly tedious and pointless issue. I'll tell you why.
Because once I dated a girl who thought that a relevant Christmas present for me would be dressing up in such a fashion so we could do the sex. That was it. I bought her LOADS of stuff. She bought me nothing. No video games, no DVDs, nothing. Not even a pair of socks. She bought herself some cheap lingerie and allowed me to have sex with her.
Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr Smallman.
It was during said intercourse that I really thought hard about why what she was wearing was so wrong. I mean, think about it. She is dressed up as Mrs Santa Claus. She is literally the wife of Santa Claus. I have no beef with ol' Saint Nick. I happen to like him. I like him enough to ensure that I NEVER smash the living heck out of his wife. Because I respect the man who brought me presents and that my daughter still believes in.
Also, if she is representing Mrs Claus then also consider this: If we take the modern representation of Santa Claus as starting in the 1950s at the latest (Coca Cola blah blah blah) then she needed to have been 16 then. So, 16 in 1950 makes her 76 now. And until Helen Mirren is 76 it is impossible to be 76 and sexy, man or woman, animal vegetable or mineral.
But, I hear you say: What if she's his second, third, even fourth wife? Then I put this to you: If she usually dresses like that around the North Pole then she's nothing but a money grabbing hussey. I bet when Santa is out on his rounds she's in the middle of a train-pulling orgy with the elves, and when Santa is resting she's probably constructed some kind of hoist arrangement in which to abuse the reindeer.
I know that you now think that I think about things too much, and you'd be right. But I got that outfit worn for me for Christmas once and it's scarred me forever. If you struggle to understand then let me utter the phrase used by many in Vietnam to quieten down questioning:
You weren't there man. You weren't there.
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