34: Concentration

I've tried to write pesky blog number 34 for quite some time now, and I keep getting distracted by the tiniest of things - such is the wafer thin level of concentration in my noggin.

As all of these little notes are dedicated to things that I hate, I had previously tried to write about about a dozen little things but kept going off track somewhat and deciding that I hated something else even more. Then I'd eat a bakewell slice, have a nap and play Portal 2 for a bit.

My first idea was to talk about people who wear glasses when they don't need them. I have - despite many warnings from my mother about various teenage activities that would limit my vision - 20/20 vision. I know. I'm as stunned as you, to be honest.

I know a lot of people that rock a pair of glasses, and in many ways I am jealous of their awesome face furniture. Glasses are cool, no doubt about it. But I have been led to believe by the lady in the laser eye surgery commercial that it's possibly slightly preferable to have working eyes. After all, she looks so happy. After just two hours!

I'm not sure if people who wear glasses get as annoyed about this as me, but the only people who wear glasses without prescription lenses in them tend to be girls that think they're alternative because they once bought a fairisle knit cardigan from the Cancer Research shop and guys who have stupid hair and pretend to read Dostoyevsky on the tube. Cunts.

Then there's Radio 1.

As a former BBC employee I used to be limited in what I say about Radio 1, however as I'm now as free as a bird let me speak out on a couple of subjects:

1: It's not a "music festival" if all of the bands that are playing have essentially been chosen because they represent 80% of your daytime playlist.
2: I'm not that happy at you fuckers spending the license fee (that could be dedicated to you know, actually saving local radio) on putting on said "festival" and then mentioning it in every link for six weeks before and after the so-called event.
3: Fearne Cotton is the worst presenter in the world.
4: Greg James is the second worst.

Of course, this isn't as annoying as the new opening credits for the Simpsons.

Why change it? Yes, it jumped the shark ages ago (series 10, "The Principal and the Pauper") but I could still watch old episodes and bask in their timeless humour (something that Family Guy will never be able to do). Now there's an opening credits that tries to make minor characters important (the fucking one eyebrowed baby? Fuck you), has Sherri and Terri playing on Nintendo DSs and somehow manages to make a programme that is now in HD and better animated than ever look as cheap as a Primark wedding dress.

Not to mention that all new episodes of the Simpsons seem to follow the same formula:

Homer does something dumb
This leads to them going to a different place
Episode takes place in different place (Ireland, Italy, Africa, the Midwest)
Mild racism and minor wackiness ensues.

Don't even get me started on bicycle seats.

Riding a bike is fun, right? So why should the seat make me feel like I've been violated by an angry bear that is wearing that spiked sheathed from the film Seven?

Also, women who go out walking at a slow pace whilst wearing leggings, anoraks and carrying a bottle of water: That is NOT proper exercise. Try running. Or walking further than the small loop near your house with two of your friends talking about Emmerdale. Get out of my cycle lane.

I forget what this was about. Oh yes. Concentration, that's it.

Nope, I've got nothing.

But I will enjoy a bakewell slice.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

33: Brainache

I'd love to paint the image that I'm some kind of happy-go-lucky comedian that people tend to hope that all of my breed are; spending my downtime whistling showtunes or getting into scrapes like a heavily tattooed Norman Wisdom. Unfortunately, that's not the case.

I've not done any kind of survey amongst comedians, but I'm fairly sure that the majority - even if it's only 51% of us - are mentally ill in some way. Either keeping to themselves (as I have no doubt my Mother wishes I did) or like me, being a big old show pony about it.

I'm not proud of being bipolar, I don't view it as a selling point or anything like that. I mean, how could it be one? Imagine my agent ringing people up trying to get gigs for me purely based on that:

JON: Fancy booking Jim for a gig?
PROMOTER: Not seen him before, what's he like?
JON: He can be quite funny and full of energy...
PROMOTER: Excellent...
JON: Or sometimes he just sits in the corner of a green room, rocking backwards and forwards whilst sobbing uncontrollably.
PROMOTER: There's a call on the other line...

I have my condition under control, with medicine and positive thinking. The fact that I have my dream job of course helps - but that doesn't mean that I'm not prone to bad days. I am. Today was one, for no real reason. Let me talk you through it.

9am: Got up. Ate chocolate weetabix - a cereal guaranteed to get you off to a bad start as there is clearly NO FUCKING CHOCOLATE IN IT.
9.15am: Tire of the day. Have a massive wee and go back to sleep.
1pm: Wake up. Check emails. Send some texts. Go back to sleep.
5pm: Wake up. Remember I need my prescription. Get dressed, collect it, visit my parents, feel vaguely human, come home.
9pm: Start writing this. Goal: Do something productive with my day.

I've got a tattoo on my arm of a power switch. I had this done to symbolise that I never switch off - fuck it, I'll take a gig in Azerbaijan at the drop of a hat if I have to. Even if it's a Mirth Control one and I have to drive people back to London afterwards.

(Non comedians: Just trust me, that last bit is funny. Do what my mum does and laugh, pretending you get it. Thanks)

Of course, the power switch does also say, apparently, that I'm permanently turned on. That's regrettable. Thank fuck it's funny.

Point is that I don't like having days off. If I sit at home I have time to think and worry and panic and fret. That's all I've done today. I've worried about all of the following:

1: My weight
2: My appearance
3: Money, or rather my lack of it
4: Edinburgh
5: My career
6: My daughter
7: My lack of friends
8: My teeth
9: The environment
10: The crack in my car windscreen
11: My fines at Blockbuster
12: Bills
13: Whether I've had too much sleep
14: If my neighbours might try to kill me
15: The economy
16: What to eat
17: My heart
18: My liver
19: Whether my penis is too brown (it is freakishly brown)
20: My website
21: Whether I worry too much

When I got to number 21, I started the list again in a different order. That is what the inside of my brain looks like, a constant ticker whirring by listing everything in the world that I can worry about. If I'm having a bad day like today, I can't convince myself to do anything other than worry. I can't even play videogames to distract me, because I worry that I'm playing too many videogames.

The way out of this is of course to face my worries and do something about them. If I don't like my body, I could go out for a run. If I'm worried about money I could put a load of my stuff on eBay. If I'm worried about my car windscreen I could call Autoglass as I'm led to believe that they are able to both repair and replace.

I don't do any of those things though. I sit and mope and can't drag myself out of the gloomy pit that I've made. I don't like being this way, I just can't get out of it on a bad day.

I may have been addicted to a lot of things, and they've all done me a lot of harm. I do have an addiction still though - an addiction to being onstage. If I didn't have comedy I don't know what I'd do.

It's interesting that I NEVER have a bad day if I'm working. No matter how bad the gig is, I'd rather be doing that than sitting at home on my own. I spend most normal days writing to get better at what I do - god knows I've got a long way to go yet. I may spend a lot of time sitting on the M1 or M6 but at least that means that I'm on my way to a gig. 20, 200 or 2,000 people - it doesn't matter. I have the greatest job in the world and it's ironic that making a few people happy makes me more happy on the inside than they'll ever know.

There's no real point to this little rant, no punchline at the end, nothing that I want it to achieve other than pull me out the funk that I've been in all day today.

Just bear in mind next time you see me onstage that if I make you giggle even in the tiniest way that you're helping keep me on the straight and narrow. If you look at my daft tattoos and grin then that makes me happy.

For every day I have like today, stupid little brainache day, I have a dozen great days. I see the world, I meet great people, I ignore my stupid brain and have a blast entertaining as many people as I can. You'll note that I didn't worry today at all today about having a purpose in life. As silly and frivolous as mine is, if I am forced to be a jester for the rest of my life than I'll die a happy man.

I know it's surprising. Who'd have thought that a man who listens to loud music, has a ton of tattoos and wears a lot of black t-shirts could be such a fucking emo?

If you take anything away from this posting, take this: If you ever see me away from my comfort zone of being in a comedy club and I'm moping, quiet and miserable: Slap me around the head with a large fish and remind me that I'm one lucky fucker who, most of the time, adores life and everyone in it.

No punchline, as I said. So I'll give you a sentence and you write your own joke around it. I'm off to try and enjoy chocolate weetabix again.

Here goes:

It turned out it was swarfega!

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

32: Saturday Night Out

Tonight, as I walked back to my car after performing in Birmingham, some youth chose to punch me in the face. I was more stunned than hurt - his clumsy pugilism merely vaguely bruised my forehead so I doubt that the cowardly fuck will be troubling the highest echelons of boxing at any point soon.

I have no idea why he decided to attempt to give me a pasting. He walked out of a bar across the road from where I was working, strode up to me, said nothing and lamped me. It did lead to a very awkward moment where he expected me to go down and I just stared at him and said "ouch". He then considered hitting me again, panicked and buggered off. A very odd moment in my life.

This happened just off Broad Street, a place that pretty much resembles my idea of hell on earth. Hundreds of drunken revellers being as pissed as it is possible to be without sleeping on a bench every night, all trying to have loud conversations with people over booming R'n'B music in the vain hope that they can possibly go home and have awkward sex.

This is, of course, a Saturday night out.

I've been working at the same venue for the last couple of nights and I was astonished upon leaving last night just how short girls dresses are. I must stress - I was shocked. Not "pleasantly surprised". Genuinely shocked. Where do they get these dresses from? Hang on.

(Goes to look)

Ah, Lipsy.

Anyway, I should be pleased about this as a heterosexual man. Women wearing less should be a cause for celebration, surely? No. It just reminds me that I'm getting old and that I've got a seven year old daughter who'll probably be out and about doing the same thing in about ten years. Maybe that's why that dude punched me - he must be a parent of a girl and the sight of so much flesh panicked him. Poor little guy.

I've noted that on these Saturday nights out that there are three distinct groups that form pretty much all of the so-called revellers in bars and clubs.

ONE: ALL GIRLS TOGETHER

Masses of girls together, usually wearing as little as possible. At least one will be crying, one will hate all of the others and half will not be wearing their heels by 11pm.

TWO: THE BOYZ

A load of lads hanging out together, spending a lot of time proving they can drink more than the others and staring at the uncovered backsides of the girls that are out and about. From my experience this weekend they seem to all look EXACTLY the same: Very short hair, polo shirt, shit tribal tattoo. Hey, fellers? Just because your polo shirt is from Lyle and Scott it doesn't mean that you've managed to escape your social class.

THREE: COUPLES

Jesus, these are the worst. A group of four or more couples, where all the women are friends (NEVER the men) and the guys are forced to sit next to each other and pretend to like the others. They like to remind you that they're all attached and happy and that they don't NEED to be out on a Saturday night, but they choose to be because if they stayed at home watching television they'd worry that they were missing something. Nope. If you stayed in when you were single you didn't miss anything, you miss even less when you're attached and merely spend a fortune trying to relive your youth which you only see through the rose-tinted spectacles of booze and drugs back in the day.

Of course, I say all of this whilst hiding a guilty secret.

Yes.

I have never enjoyed a Saturday night out.

When I say "never enjoyed" I don't mean that I've been on hundreds of nights out and they've all sucked. I mean that I don't think I've ever had a Saturday night out. Not with dancing and fun and conversation and the sort of epic adventures that drinkers and revellers enjoy. The kind of weekends that prompted Pete Tong to tell us all that they started on Thursday and have idiots text into Radio 1 talking about how they were going to "large it". Cunts.

I digress. My point is that I quit drinking aged 20. Prior to that I'd never liked clubs and bars. I now work in comedy clubs every Saturday night. I still don't drink, have precious little time to socialise and after gigs people seem more scared of me than wanting to hang out.

Anyway, if you're reading this you're probably thinking that you've had loads of great Saturday nights out. I will not deny this. I will merely remain annoyed and jealous about it. Trouble is, I don't think I can fix my aversion to Saturday nights out now. As:

a) I'm likely to be working every Saturday night until the end of time and convincing people that Monday is my Saturday doesn't really work.
b) I'm nearly 33 for fucks sake. That train has sailed.
c) Large groups of people are always suspicious of little me, drinking coke while they get hammered.

And most importantly of all:

d) It seems that I have a face that people like to smack.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

31: Not Being a Proper Boy

I am 32 years old, nearly 33. In my life I have watched football, been drunk, done drugs, touched ladies on their rude parts and generally been a bit of a tearaway from time to time. Yet my family don't treat my escapades as (formerly) youthful exuberance, the actions of a bit of a lad in the prime of his life, oh no. They react in a different way.

My mother simply refuses to believe that I've ever done anything untoward, as she's my mum and she likes to presume that the sun shines out of my posterior. When I told her that I used to be an alcoholic she merely shook her head and went "naah, not my boy" and made me another cup of tea with too many sugars in it (and with a plate of assorted biscuits on the side).

My father accepted the alcoholism confession with a much more direct answer:

ME: Hey dad, I used to drink a lot.
DAD: When?
ME: I my teens, mainly. Like, all the time.
DAD: Ah, explains a lot. I just thought you were a twat.

However, on the few occasions that I've dared tell jokes about my surreal and downright wrong sex life he has stared at me with a look of "yeah, right", rolled his eyes and carried on. No matter what confessions I tell my parents (and my sister) they just seem to wash over them now. And having thought about this recently, I know why my fanciful stories of regret and wrongness are so difficult for my family to swallow.

You see, as a child I was never a proper boy.

I don't mean that I didn't have the required bits or anything like that, it's just that I was a RUBBISH boy. I'm still useless now, and I think it's too late for me to become a proper one.

Let me stress what I mean: This has nothing to do with sexuality or manliness, it's to do with those things that make you a boy or a bit of a lad when you grow up. I was never the sort of child to have scraped knees and muddy clothes (indeed my mother reminds me that I even hated finger painting at school because it got my hands dirty). Let me give you my life history:

Age 0: Born by caesarean section because it was too much physical effort to be born via conventional means and I wanted the extra attention. As I'm whisked away in foil my Dad sees me before my Mother and presumes that I'm a baked potato. Apparently I was emo even before birth and tried to hang myself with my umbilical cord. The Smiths were not even formed at this point.

Age 3: My sister is born. I surreptitiously eye her toys.

Age 5: Start school. First day is dictated by the few moments that I stop crying for long enough to be able to read a book quietly in the corner. One memorable day someone tells me that the toilets in our school are haunted, so I eventually wet myself. That day I was wearing bright yellow trousers. This was not the choice of my mother, but rather mine - and a foolish choice in which to disguise urinary mishaps (but a good colour to stand out from the crowd, it would seem).

Age 6: Discover something called "football" after watching Dundee United play Gothenberg on TV. Turns out that most children wanted to play the sport rather than watch it. I tried for a while but was so bad at it that in the end I would sit at the side of the pitch and provide commentary whilst eating my dairylea sandwiches.

Age 7: Have a massive tantrum when I'm not allowed to wear my favourite bottle green cords to school. Later in the year, parents decide to buy me my first football shirt so I can be like the other lads. Instead of choosing England, Leicester or even Liverpool, I choose West Ham because "their kit is the nicest colour".

Age 8: Too frightened to learn to ride a bike, I spend most of my nights after school running after my friends on their BMXs. I become very good at running, but still look like a pissed giraffe when doing so. I eventually get bought a bike (with no stabilizers) and regrettably have to learn. I fall off one day and cry so much that I'm sick all over my teddy bears (George, Nim and Little Gordon).

Age 9: First swimming lesson. Fall into the swimming pool and nearly drown. Upon being rescued I sob uncontrollably until the teachers give up hope and just read me the last rites and offer me a noose to end it all as soon as possible. Once the crying ends I realise that my skin is ablaze (not literally) and that I'm allergic to chlorine. My 7 year old daughter can swim now and constantly mocks me for this and my dedication to drowning the very second I come into contact with her paddling pool.

Age 11: Move school. Our new school field has trees in that we have expressly forbidden to climb. I stick to this rule, and when mocked for never climbing said tree I run and tell some teachers. Result: I am saved from climbing the tree, which I would not be able to do as a fully grown adult, let alone as a stick thin non-adventurous child. Also, all the other kids are banned from climbing the tree. I receive special attention from the teachers for this, and coincidentally also receive a different type of special attention from the kids too.

Age 12: Discover the Smiths. Uh-oh.

Age 13: Quite like girls. The standard way of showing this amongst my chums is as follows:

1: Pull hair of said girl.
2: Hit said girl.
3: Run off.
4: Repeat until they give you a kiss reeking of marmite and pickled onion monster munch.

My method is slightly different.

1: Admire girl from afar.
2: Send her anonymous notes quoting Smiths lyrics.
3: Realise she knows you sent the notes.
4: Ask parents if you can change schools.

Age 14: Discover booze. Not in the usual way, behind a skip in a park, pretending to be wankered on half a sip of Diamond White. Oh no. Much better to get drunk in my room listening to Morrissey, Nirvana and Joy Division and then really nail home this image of teenage angst by playing Turrican on the Commodore Amiga.

Age 15: First touch the lady bits of a girl. Slightly repulsed by it and have nightmares about losing my hand in an octopus for the next month.

Age 17: Sleep with a girl. Did not lose my virginity in the way most lads do (at a party, pissed) but instead lose it by candlelight to a girl 4 years older than me (who looks 4 years younger than me) whilst drunk on wine and listening to a mixtape that I made her. And one point she paused coitus to stop the tape (midway through a song from the Cure) and put on a Mary J Blige CD. I could not reach orgasm.

Age 18: Experiment with drugs. Not with my friends, sat around in a circle giggling at nothing at all whilst high on weed, oh no. But take large amounts of LSD in order to (and I actually wrote this phrase in my diary) "unlock my deeper consciousness" and be able to write more "heartfelt, yearning and personal stories". Jesus.

Age 20: Quit drinking and drugs just at the point when I should be being sociable at university and doing these things.

Age 25: After being married and divorced, briefly date a lapdancer hoping it will earn me some man-points. It doesn't: I find myself far too eager to give advice on what music she should dance to and find myself terrified that she'll one die run off with Peter Stringfellow.

Age 27: Start doing comedy. Not because I think I'm funny, but because I want to be less shy. Least rock and roll reason to fall into a career EVER.

Age 30: Start getting properly tattooed. My Dad lives in hope that one day I'll have a bit of tribal or the City badge etched into my skin. He rolls his eyes at Princess Peach et al and just lets me get on with it.

I had a conversation with my daughter the other week where she told me what the boys at her school were like (noisy, dirty, smelly and very active) and she - without even blinking - looked at me and said "but I know you weren't like that at school, Daddy". How did she know? I had to ask her. She shrugged and said "I just know. You're a proper Daddy but not a proper boy".

Enraged by this (but not showing it) I decided to take her to a chilly adventure playground and leap about the climbing frames with her. She dashed all around, demonstrating monkey-like agility all over the place while I gamely tried to keep up (I made it look like I was letting her win, I wasn't). Eventually I tripped and fell, hurting my ankle. I made Amelia come and sit next to me on a swing while I tried to not scream in agony. As we sat there swinging, Amelia soon got bored and stood up. She patted me on the shoulder and said the following:

"You just sit there Daddy. The swings are much more your thing."

So I did. Damn her little perceptive mind.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

30: Snow

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

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

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

26: The Daily Mail

I'm immediately faced with a slight problem when it comes to writing this rant about the Daily Mail. See, when I initially wrote out my list of 50 things that I hated I was not working as a respected broadcast journalist - I was merely a gawky stand-up comedian with a distinct lack of jokes and some daft tattoos.

OK, I'm still that as well.

But because of my journalistic integrity I'm not allowed to really cut loose and let you know what I think of the Daily Mail. All I can do is present you with the facts - and as it is sadly Britain's second most read newspaper facts seem to be quite easy to find.

I feel I must point out that although the Daily Mail is clearly aimed at Conservative voting middle England, it does rather hilariously think that its a deeply respected broadsheet newspaper. If you want proof of this, read its society columns or entertainment reviews. I can wholeheartedly assure you that the average hyper conservative, anti-everything Mail reader is not likely to be interested in the slightest in opera or the latest French art-house film. And lets be honest, if that film has any nudity in it then we'd be looking at a very negative review from the Mail anyway.

So then, facts.

1: The Daily Mail has a clear editorial stance. For example, it is not only anti-EU but has at least one article a week harking back to what it sees as glorious bygone days for Britain where we invaded other countries and claimed them for ourselves. Ironic, that. The newspaper is also pro capitalism and pro monarchy - which wouldn't be problematic if the paper didn't make such an issue of denying any other alternatives like a teenager denying any other form of music exists outside of what they like. It's childish, negative journalism blinkered with jingoism and xenophobia. Allegedly.

2: My mum used to read the Daily Mail. One day I flicked through it and on the front cover it had its usual moral panic outcry choice for the day. On that given day it had a massive "exclusive" about the number of Bulgarian people that would move to the UK following their admission to the EU. Which begs the following question:

How did the Daily Mail know this? Did they comduct a survey in Bulgaria to see how many people wanted to move to the UK? You can only presume so, unless they have some kind of magic crystal ball with which they can predict the future.

(By the way - their vision of the future allegedly involves slavery being brought back and abortions being performed solely in alleyways in Whitechapel)

Anyway, in that VERY SAME edition of that paper they had a massive feature in their travel section. This crowed about how the newer, larger EU was of benefit to everyone in the UK because we could buy proper overseas at a massively reduced rate. Where did they recommend? Of course. Bulgaria. Thus ensuring that their readers could help drive up house prices in another country. Hypocrites. Presumably all of their readers who did buy property in Eastern Europe took British flags to claim the country as their own.

3: This is a newspaper that ran (on 16th July 1993) the tasteful headline of "Abortion hope after gay genes finding", showing that the paper is quite for abortion - but only when it fits its own remit of being distinctly homophobic.

4: The Mail is very good at mobilising its readers to complain about anything and everything - even things that they may not even have read, watched or listened to. See the Russell Brand / Jonathan Ross / Andrew Sachs controversy, which was as much to do with the paper's hatred of the allegedly left wing BBC than it was defending the honour of an innocent girl. Oh no, hang on. A burlesque dancer. No, wait. A goth stripper who shagged a famous bloke in order to say that she had.

5: I shouldn't need to recount the vile column from Jan Moir from 16th October this year, where she was incredibly poisonous and spiteful over the death of Stephen Gately in what has to be one of the most homophobic and nasty pieces of so-called journalism ever written. How ironic that a newspaper that calls for so many people in a year to be fired from their jobs once they mobilise their complaining army that she should still somehow be in a job. 25,000 complaints - the record ever recorded for a newspaper article - and she's still got a job.

6: Even more nauseating is the fact that Richard Littlejohn works for the same newspaper. The man who has been named by such a well-to-do pillar of the community as Nick Griffin as his favourite journalist is paid £800,000 per year for his "hard work". Shall we see some of his greatest hits?

i) He once suggested that the police should use flamethrowers against "militant homosexuals".
ii) He has constantly lied about the benefits that asylum seekers can claim - often quoting hundreds of pounds per week. When journalist Johann Hari put it to him that the actual proven figure is £37.77 it became quite obvious that Littlejohn hadn't bothered doing his research. Hari often criticises Littlejohn - whose response is to say that Hari fancies him. Hmmm.
iii) On writing about the Rwandan genocide he stated: "Does anyone really give a monkey's about what happens in Rwanda? If the Mbongo tribe wants to wipe out the Mbingo tribe then as far as I am concerned that is entirely a matter for them." Classy.
iv) On December 19th 2006 Littlejohn's response to the Ipswich prostitute murders was to descrive the victims as "disgusting, drug addled street whores".

All of this got me thinking. The Mail can't just write what it wants in regular stories for fear of criticism of its already slight grasp on journalistic integrity. But it can employ columnists to write whatever hate-filled garbage that they choose on a weekly basis.

Hmmmmm.

Well then, as a broadcast journalist myself I can't state how I truly feel about the Daily Mail as that wouldn't be at all correct.

I can, however, employ a columnist to take over at this point of this rant to talk about whatever he chooses.

So then, I hand you over now to my guest columnist - James Littlemann.

"Hello there, dear reader.

The Daily Mail, eh? What a bunch of cunts. With aspirations far in excess of the limited brainpower of their readers and employing such imbeciles as Jan Moir and Richard Littlejohn it makes my blood boil. I would rather be fellated by a rabid polar bear with a coldsore than be caught reading that newspaper.

If you scan any random issue of the The Mail you will find at least one coded mention of "Enoch Powell had a point, you know". It's usually written within their letters page. Or by Littlejohn. The papers attitude to homosexuality is as blinkered and retarded as that of a twelve year old boy living in a village in Devon. Only difference is that child can be educated. There is no turning the Mail around.

The average Daily Mail reader lives in a small house surrounded by unkempt animals. Their lounge has a Union Jack taped to the wall and on top of their ancient television set (which only gets BBC1 and ITV - too much filth on the other channels) there is a framed photograph of Margaret Thatcher. Across the mantlepiece are framed photos of a miner getting punched by a policeman and two of their four grandchildren. They don't care for the other two - one grandson once played with a Barbie doll and the other speaks French.

The average reader would still have a job but they were fired for deciding to put a large sign reading "ARBEIT MACH FREI" above the entrance to their place of employment. They claim benefits but it's ok because they're white.

In the next election they're not voting conservative as Cameron is a bit Blairish, but that nice chap Nick Griffin seems like a good bet. After all, he loves Richard Littlejohn.

Littlejohn earns £800,000 per year. Horrific homophobe and bigot Jan Moir earns around £100,000. Its nice that in delicate financial times that the Mail can afford to pay these figures. Luckily they recoup a lot of these by selling "exclusive" tat to their senile and infirmed readership who are too drunk on propaganda and morphine to say no. Important things like portraits of the Queen and Dambusters coins, available in monthly instalments.

I will go on record now as saying that if you can find me £50 for the train ticket to London that I will happily save the Mail this money by hunting down Moir and Littlejohn. I'll no doubt find Littlejohn in Soho, sat in a coffee house pretending to shake his head and be disgusted by all the gay men - when we all really know that he's merely as repressed as Cliff Richard. And I'll happily stab the bigoted fuck in the face so he can't have a state funeral in a glass coffin - like he no doubt thinks he's entitled to after two failed TV programmes and a few failed books. Cunt.

Then I'll hunt down Jan Moir. I won't do anything to her. I'll merely threaten her and record her trying to backpedal out of her opinions once again, like she has to when faced with any opposition. I'll then play them via loudspeaker outside of her own house until she doesn't know what her opinion is anymore and she's locked away in a padded cell, screaming to herself about the power of twitter and how unfair everything is.

Of course, the Mail still won't fire her and she'll have a column showcasing her bizarre, insane views. It will be slightly more readable than her previous efforts. Even though often she'll use no vowels.

Then I'll burn their offices down."

I'd like to thank my guest columnist there. What refreshing views. Nice to see someone say what we were all thinking.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

25: People Blowing the Paper Bit of Restaurant Straws Off

I have a temper. It takes a lot to push my buttons enough to make my face crimson and my blood boil, but there are certain little things that you can do to guarantee that I'll become irate. Not just mildly miffed (in the way that middle class people feel the need to write a letter to someone) but proper testicle-dropping, teeth-grindingly irate. Some of the things that do this to me have already been mentioned in these little rants. Others include:

Insulting any member of my family or friends.
Moving my wheelie bin too far from my house because you think it's YOUR wheelie bin.
Calling the Police to tell them I've parked over your driveway when I haven't.
Knocking on my door to tell me to move my car when I'm parked on a public road.
Getting your solicitor to write me a letter about my perfectly fine back fence.

OK then, the main person to make me angry at the moment is my next door neighbour. In fact, his entire family. He's the only person in months who is capable with a sheer ham-fisted lack of social skills to make me want to commit actual murder. Of course, I didn't tell this to the Policeman when he came round. I find they frown upon that.

You know how people go on about the old days, when you could leave your front door open and how everyone in a street knew everyone's business? My mother always says that she wants a return to these good old days, despite her hating the people who live directly opposite her and not talking to any of her neighbours for the last ten years - unless you count saying hello whilst making an excuse to go back inside as a detailed conversation. I certainly don't want a return to those days either. You know what I want? A return to the apathetic late eighties, where everyone was wrapped up in their own business. People were depressed and had no prozac, people had no money but speculated wildly, every man was for himself and therefore no-one bothered getting to know their neighbours and better yet, this was in a time before anyone had a clue what legal rights they thought they had over fucking fences.

I will gladly wear a pinstripe suit, pink shirt, braces and red spotted tie every day if we can somehow bring this way of life back.

I would love to be a fly on the wall in my neighbours house every night. I see the blinds twitch every time my car pulls up (and I'll be honest, I've taken to pulling up with a screech of brakes with Metallica playing very loudly to make sure I see the twitch every night - they haven't invested in double glazing yet, presumably waiting to sue me for some reason). I'm sure that my very existence irritates them beyond all belief, in the same way that theirs bugs the heck out of me. I want to catch them outside in the dead of night measuring how close I've parked to their drive with a small plastic ruler that came in a special Snoopy pencil case in 1988. I want to have been in that very house the day they thought that a useful way for the Police to spend their time (in Barwell, for fucks sake, well known for its policing issues at present) would be to call them and complain (I imagine in a whiny tone that belies my neighbour blinking back tears of frustration) that someone had parked an inch over their driveway.

Where was I? Oh yes.

Anger.

When I was a child, Hinckley had a McDonalds in the town centre. I would go there for a treat every now and again. This became a virtually daily ritual when I was studying my A Levels and could drive - we would skip lessons and go there for breakfast. It was at around this time - and yes, I'm a late starter in this regard - that I discovered the joy of tearing the top bit of paper from a McDonalds straw, and then blowing the rest of the papyrus sheath in the face of a friend.

Ho ho ho.

The first fifty times, this was funny. It was always funny because I would be the only one able to buy a McDonalds every day (thanks to my burgeoning business selling pornography to my peers) and therefore the one most likely to have a straw. I would do it to an unsuspecting friend, they would jump and flinch, we would all laugh and so on.

After a while, I would carry on doing it out of a sense of duty but it really wasn't having the same effect as before. So I feel that I got out of that particular game at the peak of my career, with around 65 faces struck with paper and only my shoulder and right forearm ever struck in return.

Fast forward several years. I have graduated university and have been to Next for a job interview. After I leave their head office I go for McDonalds. I sit in a plastic booth in my suit, mulling over the events of the day. I'm very much in my own world when...

FFFFFFFFT.

I am hit in the face with the paper sheath from a straw. I look around me: Could this be one of my old adversaries taking revenge? It hardly seems likely. The only people within striking distance are a McDonalds employee (sullenly wiping down the life size plastic sculpture of Grimace), an old lady who upon further inspection is only drinking a coffee, and an 10 year old child who is staring at me, beaming.

I have been made humble by my prepubescent enemy.

At this point I find myself blinded by completely pointless rage. I should sweep the whole event under a metaphorical rug but I cannot. I look at my drink - I already have a straw. I could get up and get another straw to fire back but the whole charade would lack decorum. What do I do?

I do nothing.

Fast forward again several years. Any time that any person I know repeats the event of what I like to call "Black Tuesday" is met with my wrath. Pointless, childish wrath. Girlfriends, nephews, my own Father. All have been met with fist shaking and cursewords as they stare at me bemused. For to them, all they have done is have a mild laugh at my expense. To me, they have besmirched my honour with a slap in the face made from 95% recycled paper.

Recently I sat in a McDonalds drive through (I refuse to spell it "thru") with Amelia, my 6 year old daughter. Someone had taught her the skill of straw-sheath blowing. She giggled and smiled as the paper flew past my face and ricocheted on the drivers window behind my head. I laughed back. But I smiled at her with a grin that I hope gave away my true feelings:

If she wants a war, there will be a war.

I love my daughter more than life itself. But I know what will happen the second that her aim improves. I have already secured myself ten spare straws in the side pocket of my drivers door for that very second she comes even merely close to striking my visage.

She will face my papery vengeance, daughter or not.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

24: Religion

A friend of mine once told me, in a very matter-of-fact way, that I will be going to hell when my time on Earth is through. This doesn't bother me in the slightest, as being a devout atheist (How devout? I believe in nothing at all WAY more than you do) the concept of hell is as imaginary and non threatening to me as the threat of me somehow being transported through time and space to the land of the dinosaurs.

And why exactly will I be going to hell? Take your pick, dependent on how crazy your religious choice is - we can cover everything from the serene buddhists all the way up to the hellfire and brimstone nutters in the Westborough Baptist Church in the USA - those lovely people that picket funerals of dead soldiers.

I'm divorced.
I've had sex before marriage.
I don't go to church.
I worship false idols (Josh Homme and the entire LCFC team)
I've kissed a man.
I'm friends with more than one homosexual.
I've stolen several things (a mars bar, a miniature keyboard and a Faith No More album from Hinckley library, to name but a few)
I may have masturbated once or twice.
I often take the lord's name in vain. I may have also taught my 6 year old to do so.
I once vandalised an RE textbook at school with several amusing speech bubbles. (My favourite, however politically incorrect, was the stupidity of putting a speech bubble between two starving boys saying "Oi, give us a crisp")
I honestly believe that if my neighbour had an Ox that I would strongly covet it.

I must quickly state that I have no problem with anyone who believes in any religion whatsoever. If anything, I admire you and I'm a bit jealous. There's no saying that what I believe in is right. If my friend was correct and I die and end up in the place filled with flames and stalagmites then that's my problem. Must say though, I vastly prefer to be warm rather than cold.

My main issue with religion is not the obvious one. The stereotypical thing to choose would be the fact that religion is seemingly blamed for every conflict in global history. While this is true on many levels, I'm always ashamed that most patriotic, jingoistic British people don't look in the mirror and blame the old days of Imperialism for the problems of the world on an even keel with religion.

The war in the Middle East is as much to blame on oil and America's mistakes as it is religious fervour from the Taliban. The troubles in Northern Ireland stem from the British Government occupying territory that isn't theirs to take as much as it is sectarian issues. World War Two was driven by an Axis of insane people wanting to take over the world, and the horrors committed by the Wehrmacht and the SS were driven by racism as much as intolerance for another religion.

Religion has a lot to do with the problems of today, but it's not the sole problem. In fact, if everyone followed the teachings of their relevant religion to the letter then we would have no war, would we? Pretty much all of them stress the whole "not killing" shit over everything else. Also, if everyone heeded the teachings of their religions then there would be no greed, no desire to expand territory, no mistrust, more diplomacy, more handshakes, more hugs, more tolerance.

The world is essentially fucked up because we're fucked up. People are greedy, scheming, manipulative beasts who want to achieve their own goals. I know I do. Apparently admitting that makes me some kind of satanist - well, it would if I believed in him as well. But I don't, cool as a dude with goat's feet would be.

My issue with religion comes from the fact that as a society we are getting pushed away by it more and more with each generation. We're smart people. We know that we're not all sinners. I've done plenty of stuff wrong but I'm still a good son, brother, colleague and friend. I go out of my way to help people. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I try my best to be. But in the eyes of the faith I was born into does this matter? No, not one bit. Because I was born a sinner, I've lived through sin and I'll die a sinner - because I'm not repenting anything I've ever done. All I've done is live a life. I may have made mistakes but I always learn from them - isn't that more important?

The way forward for religion is this: Find a universal belief system that everyone can adopt. Nothing too difficult to describe. Nothing too airy-fairy and open to misinterpretation. None of this "born sinners" rubbish.

We're all essentially born nice. Why not focus on that?

Let's form a new religion now, all of us. A new ten commandments.

1: We're all essentially nice people.
2: Treat people how you'd like to be treated.
3: If you make mistakes, learn from them.
4: Don't kill other people. I'm stressing this, but number 2 should give that away.
5: If someone has a different viewpoint to you, that's just human.
6: If your neighbour has an Ox, just stroke it or feed it grass.
7: Worship who you want, but don't force it on others.
8: Seriously, don't kill other people.
9: Don't feel the need to buy into something just to make you feel better. In fact, feel free to ignore this if it's clouding your judgement in any way.
10: Did we mention not killing people?

If only we could all agree to get along. Disband every religion and simply reverse the notion of being born into sin to that of we're all born nice and remain nice until we do something wrong. And let us all remember, if you do stuff wrong then karma gets you in the end. After all, who on Earth have you ever heard of being complete scumbags and getting away with it for their entire lives?

OK, I shouldn't have asked that.

Screw it. Forget my religion idea. Believe in what you want. I'll believe that when I shuffle off this mortal coil that I'll be buried and have my face eaten off by worms. At least I'll be getting some sleep.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

23: Hulk Hogan

There comes a point in every life where you have to make a decision on what path to take. Just like Luke Skywalker turned his back on the Dark Side, or Adolf Hitler decided to become a mass-murdering cock with a natty line in moustaches. I once faced that choice. The decision to dedicate my life to the good, the worthy, the needy... or to be selfish, self centred and a little bit evil.

I remember the day I made that choice.

I was sat watching television in the lounge of my parents house. We had recently had an Astra satellite fitted, the precursor of Sky TV. What I really liked to do with this lovely analogue device was wait till my folks had gone to bed and retune it to the german channels where pornography could be readily viewed through slight distortion. One particular favourite was TeleKlub ("Der Kino Kanal") where the best in banned video nasties could be balanced out with ropey eighties porn. One excellent night was spent being scared by "Zombie Flesh Eaters" followed immediately with a wank - half out of terror, half lust - over "Sperma Spiele" which I'm led to believe means "Sperm Games". How would they even work? Unless they were having competitions to test muzzle velocity.

They didn't, as it turned out. Mainly just shagging.

Anyway, the day in question. I sat on my parents sadly-missed floral sofa, flicking through the channels. The satellite decoder made a very satisfying click as it thunked its way through the 16 channels on offer. I avoided MTV, as I was not yet of the age to have opinions on music. But I did stop on the sports channel. And there I watched my first episode of WWF Wrestling Challenge.

Wrestling was not that new to me. I had been forced to watch World of Sport by my Gran and her Husband (Dave) every time we visited them on a Saturday, with Dave always grabbing me in a wristlock and shouting "submit" until I cried enough for my Gran to yell at him and I would be sent to the paper shop to buy some sweets while they had a massive row. I did not like wrestling. I thought it was boring and hokey, with my parents always reminding me that it was fake.

But by 1989 - when my revelation occurred - the WWF was the talk of the playground. After my discovery of it I would go on to ridiculous levels of fandom for a good few years. Every morning we would recreate the in-ring action we had seen that weekend, swap stickers from our WWF sticker albums and do impressions of Randy Savage. Because he was the easiest to do an impression of. I even got a day off school once because my mate Lee knocked my fresh TB scar off, drenching my school shirt in blood (unbeknown to me as I was still wearing my Nevica ski jacket) with a well timed double ax-handle from his desk.

So I was already aware of the WWF thanks to the playground buzz. My friend Richard already had a lot of official videos that I wasn't really interested in until now. I watched the first couple of matches, my eye half on the action and half on the game of football taking place in my street between kids I didn't like. But then I heard the strains of Rick Derringer's "Real American" and out strode Hulk Hogan. He was the real deal, the superstar that all the other kids were talking about. The crowd went INSANE for him, every single man, woman and child getting to their feet to welcome into the arena not just a man, not just a wrestler but some kind of demi-god, superhero and action figure all rolled into one.

He spoke. He uttered forth phrases that drew squeals from the collected masses; Americanisms, references to saying your prayers and eating your vitamins and how he would vanquish his foe. None of this was contentious to me - I was an idealistic 11 year old boy. I knew I was an atheist and I wasn't a fan of sanatogen, but this was Hulk Hogan. He was already a legend. I knew that the talking was merely the precursor to him kicking some serious ass.

I forget who he was wrestling that day, but the match lasted about 30 seconds. I can sum it up for you as follows - and I know that this match was meant to be a squash match, but it's the sheer wooden nature of what transpired that offended me.

Hogan enters ring, tears off t-shirt. My mum brings me a cup of tea and shakes her head, saying "what a waste of a good t-shirt".
Opponent attacks. Hogan takes a small beating for a few seconds.
Opponent punches Hogan. He shakes his head, points his finger and shakes his head some more.
Opponent tries to punch Hogan. He blocks it and hits him back.
Opponent runs at Hogan. He hits him with a big boot.
Hogan bounces off ropes and lands a legdrop.
Ref counts to three.

Even though I'm 11 years old and I know that I should join the other baying thousands in smiling at his win, I can't do it. I go from seeing him as the legend people had falsely told me he was to seeing him as a balding, orange, overrated, wooden and pointless figure. What I had just watched was as fake as British wrestling. I had suspended my disbelief as I watched the other matches, but this? His terrible promo before the match and performance within it was as bad as those of Big Daddy, with kids trailing in his entrance and his one move. Horrible.

Luckily the next match was the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. And everything about him was amazing. His entrance music, his mean streak, his crispness in the ring. Next up was Randy Savage, a bad guy at the time. He leapt across the ring like a cat with bad intentions, desperate to hurt his opponent. These guys were good to watch. As I watched more wrestling I became even more enamoured with these bad guys - Ric Flair, The Big Boss Man, Jake Roberts, Curt Hennig, even the Honky Tonk Man. But it wasn't their superior skills that I enjoyed. It was the prospect of them beating Hulk Hogan. I couldn't bear the sight of him. When the Ultimate Warrior beat him for the WWF Title at Wrestlemania 6 I was agog with excitement, even if the Warrior was the most useless, steroid infested waste of oxygen that ever drew breath.

I lost interest in wrestling in around 1993, as I was 15 and it turned out that girls and drink held a lot more interest for me. In 1998 I got into it again, after accidentally seeing Mick Foley fall off the Hell in a Cell whilst channel hopping. I then spent my time researching who was still around, trying to get myself back into it. And lo and behold, I found that Hogan was still around - now trying to get on my good side by being a bad guy. It didn't work.

He was terrible as a good guy. As a bad guy he was even worse, not acting like enough of a coward, only expanding his moveset to include eye and back rakes and he took something that was earth shatteringly awesome (the Outsiders) and turned them into a joke that eventually destroyed WCW and indeed competition in wrestling.

And then when WCW died, he somehow parlayed his way back into the WWF fold, with fans cheering at his very presence like the mindless sheep that they are. They had Austin, the Rock, Michaels, HHH and so on to deify but they chose the Orange Goblin as their hero instead. All he did was make me hate wrestling once again, sapping my love for it that I had built up over the years. Now I only watch independent wrestling or the occasional pay per view because my joy has been so sullied.

But back to my revelation. That day back in 1989 I set my stall out. If everyone else thinks that one man is the highest possible power, the ultimate force and the real deal - in spite of all the evidence to show that he is hokey, fake, false and unworthy - then I can question it. I decided that day to ignore the cheers of the sheep and back the others, the black side of the coin, those whose opinions were reviled and whose actions were deemed unsavoury. And I have taken that idea on throughout life, driven first by my dislike for Hogan and then amplifying it to bigger ideas and more complex theories. And this is where I stand today.

And for all of my hatred for Mr Terry Bollea, I must thank him for something.

Because his existence seems to have made me a satanist.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

22: Ageing

I realised during my sojourn to Edinburgh in August that I'm getting old. I'm aware that I cannot stop the relentless march of ageing, but I kind of hoped that my natural charm would somehow keep it at bay for a while. I was wrong.

I've had to start wearing hats because my hair is falling out. Now, I can rock a hat pretty well. But I bought a brightly coloured trucker cap in Edinburgh and realised that, upon seeing my reflection, I am no longer a teenager and therefore look like Jonathan King or some other fucktard who is trying desperately to cling onto his younger years. Of course in my book, I'm trying to do that because I don't want to get old. He does it for quite different reasons.

I mistook a guy in the audience for a teenager. I genuinely thought he was 14, and it turned out that he was 25. That's quite a mistake to make. In retrospect, he didn't even look boyish. He just looked younger than me, and for some reason in my head I still think that I'm 20.

Even worse, one day I was sat with several lovely people in our Fringe hideaway of the GRV office. Loud music played downstairs. I found myself - with not one beat of my heart skipping to warn me - complaining that the bass drone from beneath the floorboards was "just a noise". Some of my younger chums stared at me. They agreed with me, it was a noise. But they are young and do not need to state this. They don't need to make the rest of the planet hear their irksome quibbles and complaints. Because they still have youth, and life is still rosy and good for them.

My rapid ageing puts me in somewhat of a quandry. How do I deal with this? I can go down two routes. I can grow old gracefully, or hold on, kicking and screaming, to my youth until I'm even more gap-toothed and a darn sight balder than I am now.

I don't know. I don't feel like a 31 year old. I certainly don't act like one. I still get really excited driving into tunnels. I buy Pick and Mix whenever I feel like it. I consider Weetabix topped with Jaffa Cakes as a nutritious breakfast. In the bath I will fashion my hair into a bubble-bath mohawk.

I was too sensible when I was younger. I had a "career" and a house at 22, married at 23, Dad at 25, divorced at 26. I started comedy at 27, so a large part of what I do these days is counteracting my sensible early twenties, where I would wear a suit to work and trawl around garden centres at the weekends. But at least my body was intact then, even if my sensibilities were more aged and mature. I had a full head of hair. My man breasts still only required a training bra. During Edinburgh I got out of breath doing part of my routine about me and drugs. I used to be able to run for ages at a time, what happened?

It's ageing, thats what. Not me becoming unfit through laziness, no way. Stupid ageing.

So then, let me examine my options:

1: GROW OLD GRACEFULLY

To do this I will need to do the following things.

a) Stop wearing brightly coloured trainers, preferring a sturdy brogue.
b) Avoid daft hats at all costs, especially for irony reasons. So no Stovepipe.
c) No more tattoos, ever. And cover the ones I have with swaddling.
d) Adopt a proper diet. No more scotch egg and mars bar dinners after gigs.
e) Get a proper job.
f) Consider getting an ISA.
g) First, find out what an ISA is.
h) Consider Take That as the forefront of British music.
i) Clean my car every weekend. Especially if it doesn't need doing.
j) Get dressed on my days off.
k) Buy some slippers. Not tartan. I'm not a monster.
l) Start to enjoy soup as an actual meal.
m) Watch football matches just to be disappointed.
n) List at least one Richard Curtis film as a favourite, replacing "Dawn of the Dead".
o) Abandon hopes to somehow become WWE Intercontinental Champion.
p) Start to view the TV as something to watch documentaries on, not just play games.
q) Stock up my freezer. Just in case.
r) Dream of DIY at night, rather than scoring the winning goal in the cup final.
s) Claim to prefer Vanilla ice cream to all the other flavours.
t) Ensure I exhale loudly after sipping tea or sitting down on a high backed chair.
u) Stop going to the cinema. No-one over 30 goes to the cinema.
v) Steam at least two meals a week, whilst wearing a self-satisfied grin.
w) Wear a tie to go to Sunday dinner.
x) Rate funerals as "good sendoffs" rather than sad events.
y) No longer listen to rap music, heavy metal, punk or electro. Or music.
z) Accept each birthday with a wry smile, knowing that dreading the onset of age is pointless and accepting my fate with the meekness I will only exhibit later on when I'm undoubtedly a dribbling fool in an old folk's home.

That's the first option. A quiet slide into my forties awaits. When I was a reckless twentysomething I couldn't see myself living past 40. You may think that is a frightening prospect, but I find the potential future of mowing a lawn whilst wearing rugged outdoor sandals and combat trousers on a damp September morning infinitely more terrifying than a premature death.

But there is of course option 2.

2: TRY TO HOLD ONTO MY YOUTH

This is the option that I seem to be taking my default, and failing at it. Sure, I still spend money on clothes that are best suited to a teenager and I own enough trainers to be classed as the Imelda Marcos of comedy. But when even my six year old daughter tells me that I'm old and embarrassing then it's probably time to throw in the towel. When I worked in a school I thought of myself as quite cool. I dressed differently to the other teachers, retained a sense of individuality and made a point of empathising with the kids. That said, when they guessed how old I was, what did they say?

42.

Now, if my daughter or nephews had of said that, then fine. Little kids always overshoot estimations. That's why you don't ever employ them as quantity surveyors in a washing machine warehouse. But 15 year olds? Come on. 42? And they LIKED me. They weren't trying to offend me. I went home from work that day and stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror for far too long. You know what I mean - until the mirror starts spinning slightly in your head and the Boards of Canada start providing a soundtrack to the whole sorry situation.

I then decided to amp up the acting young. Which made me arrive where I am today, wearing a parody Run DMC T-Shirt I bought from a skate shop, stupidly low slung jeans and pink and green patent leather trainers. With video game girls tattooed on one arm, plans to have Ron Burgundy tattooed on the other and hare-brained plans to have a piercing just because I don't have one yet. With a lounge that looks like I won a competition in Nuts magazine, bursting to the seams with video games, films and a massive telly. With kitchen cupboards that have nothing more sensible than biscuits in them. With a job - my dream job - that I do full time, wearing a permanent grin.

So I think I have my answer.

It's not how old you are, it's how old you feel. And though my body may be falling to pieces and my forehead is starting to be as wrinkled as Abdullah the Butcher's, I'm not ready to be old yet. Or sensible. So my solution to my hatred of ageing is to take a measure akin to holding a pillow over my head and screaming "Lalalalalalala I'm not listening".

I shall merely stand here, smile, and hold up two fingers to the tireless march of time.

Fuck you ageing. I win.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

21: Coventry

It's not unusual for people to hate the nearest town to them - it's the cheap and easy staple of any comic to slander the next-door neighbour town whenever they're working at one venue and reverse it the next week whenever they're in the town that they've just slagged off.

Towns that I have slagged off onstage in my last ten gigs include:

Barnsley
Wakefield
Elgin
Welwyn Garden City
Marseilles
Chloride (It's in Arizona)
Montevideo
Fray Bentos
St Petersburg
Atlantis

I've honestly got no ill feelings towards these towns at all, but it's easy to slate the unknown. I've only visited three of these towns anyway - although I'll always be sad that I haven't visited Fray Bentos in Uruguay to see if they specifically farm incredibly gristle-bound cows.

Coventry is a horrible city. If you've never visited, don't. I can very quickly describe to you the main attractions to save you actually needing to ever take the trip up the M6.

THE CATHEDRAL - After the tragic events of World War 2, the Coventry cathedral (which was a beautiful Gothic structure) was rebuilt as some terrible angular nightmare, bearing resemblance to a comic book villain's lair.

THE TAPESTRY - There is a massive tapestry in Coventry. It's of the virgin Mary, I think. Who even bothers making tapestries?

THE TRANSPORT MUSEUM - Just to remind the people of Coventry that once upon a time they had a thriving industry.

That's it. Nothing else.

There is no real reason for me to despise Coventry so. There really isn't. It is completely unfathomable. I don't really dislike anybody. I'll take a gig anywhere and pretend that I am madly in love with any audience that makes even the slightest giggling noise in my direction. For I am a comedy whore. A joke-bearing slut. I'll take gigs in Coventry (and often have) but the only reason I dislike the city - despite it having a ring road shaped like a Scalextric - is merely down to the geographical proximity to the town I grew up in.

I don't mind the people. There seems to be a larger chav population than most towns but fuck it, I've been to Burnley. Just because the rustle of tracksuits against fake Ugg boots punctuates the darkest of nights with noise and vague sparks, it doesn't make it a bad place. The fact that it is one of very few cities to have an Ikea within the city centre doesn't irk me, neither does the platoon of idiots that shop there, treating cheap Swedish furniture like its the most amazing thing they've ever seen whilst dodging roaming gangs of townie scum who are trying to steal large stuffed snakes for little Tyreese or Chardonnay.

It's not the layout of the town really. Sure, the previously mentioned slot racing-esque road system is annoying, as is the way that you have to cut someone up (metaphorically, not literally, although it may help relieve tension) in order to enter any of their roads because no one has the manners to actually let you out. I don't think that it's the fact that they decided to build some of the ugliest buildings ever committed to concrete - I mean, who the fuck decided to make a structure shaped like an elephant? Seriously?

Football is a major driving factor in my likes and dislikes - the fact that I was once chased by a man with a iron bar in Portsmouth means that I'll never speak highly of the town. But football doesn't bother me that much, especially when the team in question doesn't really matter. What have Coventry ever done? Keith Houchen once scored a fantastic header in the FA Cup Final, but apart from that? Nothing, asides from the legacy of having a famous brown kit. That is literally the ONLY thing people remember them for. What else is there? Having a football ground with stands that are too high for people to even walk up?

It's not even the fact that it's bigger than Nuneaton but further away from me, closer than Birmingham but not as big or that it has a shopping centre with an outside escalator.

Can't even think of a reason why I hate it so. Silly geography.

http://twitter.com/jimsmallman

20: Being the oldest person at music gigs

I recently went to see Kings of Leon with my Dad. I would class this gig as the biggest and most commercial that I reckon I've ever attended, with it being at the O2 Arena and all. You know what? It was very good indeed. Great support act (Glasvegas), great sound and great performance from a band that I tried for years and years to actively dislike. I just can't, because they're so talented and awesome and grrr. My Dad loves them so we attended together in a father-son type bonding way. Prior to the gig we ate Brazilian buffet food - which involves meat being brought to you on long knives by waiters. I made a dozen "pork sword" references in the first minute of our visit.

The good thing about attending gigs with my Dad is that I can guarantee that I'm not the oldest person at the show. Because I'm 31 and these things deeply bother me. The slight downfall of attending a gig at the O2 is that I have to sit down, pay a fortune for the right to attend and have to suffer the four types of fans that Kings of Leon seem to attract:

THE LOOKALIKEY - Late teen to Mid Twenties men who shop exclusively at All Saints and Top Man in their bid to look exactly like one of the Followills. All deep V necklines in charcoal with carefully coiffeured hair and a ton of necklaces. They only own the third and fourth albums. Own no trainers, only many pointed shoes.

THE GROUPIE - Women who fancy the Followills (usually Caleb). Dress in Top Shop's "I'm an Indie Whore" range - I saw one wearing an MC5 t-shirt with FUCKING GLADIATOR SANDALS and felt the need to ask her if she could name one MC5 song. Downloaded the singles "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody". Owns none of the band's albums.

THE SERIOUS MUSO - Wearing a band t-shirt - but crucially NOT Kings of Leon. Sonic Youth seemed popular. Lies and says he's there to watch Glasvegas only. Tuts when they play their biggest hits. Loudly requests an obscure B-Side to prove how much he knows about music. On the trip to the gig secretly listened mercilessly to the band's new album to ensure that he knew all the words.

THE CHAV - Heard "Sex on Fire" and liked it. Saw tickets on Ticketweb. Thought he'd go along in his tracksuit to see what all the fuss is about. Spends the first half of the gig pissed and screaming at the top of his lungs for Sex on Fire and (I genuinely saw this) Hey Jude.

Of course there were plenty of regular fans to balance out the above detritus, but you get the gist. I'm not one of those people however who decides to dislike a band merely because they become successful - after all, who on earth chooses to form a band to not sell records or fill arenas? They're living the dream, fair on them. It's just people that get my bile up. You might have noticed that.

Anyway, sometimes I'll go to gigs with friends and I'll clearly be the oldest person there. Due to the nature of much of the music I like, sometimes I'm not - Metal festivals are handy for me being able to blend into the crowd, as the bearded forty-something hordes come out to worship Thunder and Def Leppard. But more often than not, I'm the rogue old dude stood in the corner with people whispering about me. Ageism is rife in these parts.

You are probably thinking that the best way to deal with this is to throw myself headlong into gigs, whirling around the moshpit with my arms flailing and my face contorted into a grimace as the music takes over my very soul. I could do that, but I have my own solution.

To merely stand at the back of the gig, hands in my pockets, silently watching the music and the chaos pass me by.

Why?

Because then people see me and have to draw their own conclusions as to why I'm there. The youth of today are quick to judge and even speedier to leap to false conclusions. So I stand there and let them chatter amongst themselves, trying to work out why I'm there, like the proverbial rogue grey pube.

The best suggestions I've heard so far are as follows:

DRUG DEALER: It helps if you keep a coat on during the gig to pull this one off. Stare straight ahead at all times. Occasionally nod at a bouncer, so it looks like you've "paid them off". If anyone asks you for drugs, you have two options. You can either tell them that they won't be able to handle your "shit" with a sinister glare, sending them packing with a modicum of panic and dread; Or you can bring aspirin and paracetemol out with you and sell them at a vast profit margin.

UNDERCOVER COP: Every now and again just stop a youth and ask him what he's doing. Then let him carry on. Brilliant. Everyone will instantly believe you're undercover and you can then watch the gig undisturbed, with no circle pits of other childish shenanigans going on within a 50 foot radius of your location. Combine it with the Drug Dealer one too - start the first idea with some of the crowd, then the second part with some more of them and watch the panic spread.

MUSIC EXECUTIVE: Stand there watching the band and every now and then nudge the person next to you and say "I tell you, when they were recording this [INSERT LEAD SINGER'S CHRISTIAN NAME HERE] just couldn't get the harmony right, but listen to it now." Every now and again scowl as if you've heard a bum note or missed drumbeat. Ask people for their opinions of the band like you're conducting market research.

JOURNALIST: Take a notepad with you. A tiny one, like the ones you sometimes get in crackers. Every now and again take it out and write something down. Tut loudly from time to time. Allow yourself an ironic laugh or two as well.

THE MAN AT THE WRONG GIG BUT TOO SHY TO ADMIT IT: Every now and then nudge the person next to you and ask what the band onstage is called. Especially the headliners. Loudly wonder when The Communards Tribute Band is coming on. Keep looking at your watch and sighing.

BODYGUARD: Works if you attend the gig with others. Let them go off, but every now and then hold your hand to your ear, talk to yourself and then relay whispered messages to your friends. This is a bonus one, as your younger friends will have also entered the web of deceit. You win a pound from me every time you convince someone that you're trained in Jujitsu and your friends are all part of the Belgian Royal Family. And somehow are in Rock City Nottingham on a wet Tuesday.

You get the general idea. I'm glad I have this game, because I'm certainly not getting any younger. Neither can I bear the idea of stopping watching live music. But this occupies my time and keeps me from feeling too over exposed whilst bobbing my head to the music in a dreadfully out of rhythm fashion.

You could also argue that at 31 I should probably have retired from liking decent music by now and just become a Take That fan like every other poor fucking thirtysomething in the UK.

You could try that, but I'd ask you to grow up.