Cut Up to Size

Yesterday I had my first professional haircut in 2 years and it was a doozy. Not having been inside a salon for a while, I asked the hairdresser for something fun and he proceeded to cut and build a quiff the size of a small country. After 35 minutes and £20, he’d completely transformed my look from “homeless-not-so-chic” to “rockabilly sex offender” which was startling to say the least. He also gave me a folding, flick-knife style comb that has my name on it.

I walked home in the drizzle and snow feeling a like a taller, hairier, less-dead James Dean; certain that I was radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated cool. When I got back to my flat and passed the hall mirror, I almost shat myself as an unfamiliar, high-haired stranger stared at me from the depths of the reflection, creeping me out with his silly do (and the fact that he was wearing my face).

By the time it came to “drive-to-the-gig-o’clock”, I’d completely forgotten about the hair, so I picked up the other comics and drove to Ipswich oblivious to the fact that I looked like some greaser, lumberjack from the 50s with a severe case of muscle atrophy.

My first hint that something was wrong came when I walked on stage at the Ipswich University Student Union & Cock Fighting Area. A snigger went up from the crowd as I took to the stage but I foolishly thought that I’d left my fly undone, not that I was wearing hair that made me nine feet, two inches tall.

About ten minutes into my spot, well aware that something was amiss, but unable to ascertain what it was, I leant to the side as part of a joke and began to topple to the left, my hair’s gravitational pull exerting its influence on the Earth and pulling me to the floor. For the next few seconds I staggered about like a newborn giraffe, struggling to find my new centre of gravity.

In the end, the gig sucked but I can’t just blame the hair. Sure it made me look ridiculous, but stand-up comedian is an occupation where that shouldn’t be a problem. Tonight I’ve got the night off, so I’m going to spend a few hours, pacing around the flat, adjusting to my new-found height, so the next time I take to stage, I don’t flail about like a drunk transvestite in platform boots.

Often in life, the true consequences of your actions aren’t apparent until they’re running towards you with a baseball bat and nail gun, and by that time, there’s nothing you can do except take a beating and get attached to something. What you’ve got to remember though, is that sometimes the beating you take is worth it. Sometimes, it’s worth £20, 35 minutes and a shit gig in Ipswich just to be able to say to people “my hair is taller than yours”.

Twitter Weekly Updates for 2010-02-21

  • Costa now make a Flat White. They're about as difficult to swallow as a Uwe Boll adaptation of anything you love. #
  • Going to Jewish wedding today & have to take own yarmulke. What's the point in being chosen by God if you don't even get a free hat? #
  • Augmented (hyper)Reality: #
  • I'm last-minute MC tonight @ Bright Club, Wilmington Arms, Exmouth Market London. Science meets comedy & they fight to the death. Come along #
  • Strangers who don't approve of me singing the Terminator theme song to @FloValentine as we walk down the street need to get over themselves. #
  • BTW – these are our favourite versions: @FloValentine's @KentValentine's #
  • There's something about the plug hole of our kitchen sink which can turn a scrap of something I'd eat into "Jesus that's disgusting". #
  • Soho: proof that the cultural epicenter of one of the world's largest cities can still be a bit shit. Good coffe though. #
  • Tranny with a 10 inch beard! #SightsOfSoho #

Ignore at your peril

My grandma used to say: “Denim is dubious.”

Not my jeans BTW.
I didn’t think to ask her what it meant before she died, but she never owned a pair of jeans, so I think it’s safe to say that it was a disparaging comment on the people that do wear jeans. Bloody communists. I however, like to think it’s warning to always try on jeans in the shop, because you just never know how they’re going to fit. This way, not only can I remember my Grandma as being a fount of useful tips and information, but also she doesn’t sound as intollerant as she otherwise might.

I bought two pairs of jeans today; identical pairs because I lack any sense of fashion imagination. I knew what size I was after (32” waist, 34” leg if you’re interested) so the entire shopping experience from go to woah only lasted 5 minutes. I was a shopping ninja – in – buy – out – that is, if ninjas had to buy their own jeans. Unfortunately, I didn’t heed my Grandma’s advice. I was cocky that because I knew my sizes and thought there was no need to waste time with the “try” before I got to the “buy”.

I’m now at home wearing a pair of jeans so tight that I’m sure my sperm count has dropped to, if not zero, then the number of bullets I would leave unfired if I was locked in a room with Kyle Sandilands and a loaded revolver – which is pretty fucking close to zero.

The other pair of jeans purchased, which are (seemingly) identical, fit absolutely fine – no unnecessary pressure on calves, thighs or groin which is both a physical & mental relief. Why the hell then, if they’re meant to be identical, do one pair strangle my entire lower section while the other, more reasonable pair, just make me look like a man in his early thirties desperately trying recapture his youth (the look I’m going for)?

When I hold them up, their dimensions seem the same, the labels and documentation claim that they’re identical, but there’s something deeply wrong with one of the pairs. I feel like I’ve just tried to buy healthy, identical twins from a small, poor country and flown them home to discover that one has cholera. Shit! Why didn’t I try them on in Malawi? I can’t turn up to my HEAT magazine shoot with a broken child.

Of course, if I’d just listened to my Grandma and tried the jeans on in the shop, I could have avoided all this whole palaver. I would be happy, my dead Grandma would be happy and you wouldn’t have just had to read a crass metaphor about an adopted bought child. Still, if I had listened to my Grandma, I would have joined the army at sixteen to let the “beat the weak” out of me; so why don’t we just agree that A) old people aren’t always right, B) ill-fitting jeans aren’t the end of the world, and C) Malawi is no place to buy children.

Dubious Friends

I know this is more vitriol than comedy, but I didn’t have time to be angry AND funny today.

Ok, so Israel sends a Mossad hit squad to Dubai to murder a Hamas leader and the UK gets angry – so far so good. UK then calls Israeli ambassador to the foreign office for diplomatic bollocking – also looking good.

Unfortunately this is where disillusionment kicks in, as it becomes apparent that all the UK is concerned about is the fact that some members of the Israeli assassination team were travelling on fake UK passports. What the fuck? Who gives a shit about passports when your friend just sent a massive team of assassins to murder someone.

I don’t know about you, but if one of my friends killed a dude, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck about their travel documents, at least not until I’d gotten my head around the fact that I’ve been friends with someone who’s obviously a massive dick. Even so, there would be some pretty heavy consequences as a result of that crazy little thing called murder.

For a start, I don’t think that we’d be friends any more. We all have friends who are dicks, but surely there’s got to be a line, and I think murder is a good place to draw it. I know that Hamas can be real arseholes, but who deserves a 17 on 1, gang-bang style assassination in their Dubai hotel. You know you’ve crossed a line when there are Australian Rugby League players who think that you’ve got too many people in the hotel room.

Secondly, I’d voice some heavy disapproval. I think that assassinations on foreign soil deserve a slightly sterner rebuke than “please don’t murder anyone while you’re carrying our passports”. Maybe the focus of the rebuke could even be less on forgery and more on the cold, calculated, state-sanctioned killing if humans.

I think it’s correct and proper that the world is a upset with Israel, but get angry at the right thing. If you’re out to dinner with mates and one of them climbs on his chair, shits on the table, then pulls up his pants and sits down as if nothing happens, it’s ok to get angry… but not because he didn’t wash his hands.