My Other Life

I recently started another blog (yes, I know...) to cover all of my work stuff. It has me pimping various things I've done, and thoughts about comedy and writing. The political / funny / imaginary things will remain here.

If you'd like to read the other why not go over to the site and click on Blog. I'd love to see you there.

Metaphorically. If I go to the site and it is actually just a picture of you I wouldn't love that. Iwouldn't love that at all.

There may be some of you who feel that you haven't seen enough of my flabby, white arse in your lives. There may be some of you who yearn for the opportunity to glimpse that pellucid pork-peach bouncing up and down on your television screens. I can only suggest that those of you seek immediate professional help, before you completely lose it in the middle of Sainsbury's and begin wedging whole Stiltons down your trousers, braying like a donkey, and attempting to climb into the frozen peas because "They're so lovely; so green and friendly..."

However, although I've not seen it, this DVD may well answer your prayers. Your my-bum prayers, containing, as it claims to, the Best of Tonightly. I like to think that my wobbling anus was one of the highlights.

Of course, it may not be on there at all, but you could look at my face on the front cover, and just imagine my bum. That's what I'll be doing this Christmas...

Tonightly DVD

Announcing In The Gloaming

In The Gloaming is the new project from me and the rest of the Dirty Blondes. It's a series of monthly comedy-horror podcasts, and they start at Hallowe'en.

Do pop over to the blog, and sign up to be kept up to date with all that's going on. We've got special guest stars, jokes about bums, all sorts...

It's going to be magical.

My response to Decca Aitkenhead

For those of you who haven't read this lovely piece of work, you should before reading what's below...

Twatt Lucas, More Like...

by Aitka Dickenhead

The jowls opposite me wobble like two toads full of custard taped to a thin man's cheeks. I fear for a moment that the jowls are going to slide liquidly off the head of bald, Jewish comedian Matt Lucas, taking the rest of the skin with them, and leaving just two eyeballs staring out of an insecure skull.

When I replay the tape of my interview with the overweight, Jewish comedian, one thing really stands out: I am excellent at interviews. He is rubbish at them.

To be fair, it doesn't start well.

“Good morning,” he said, a thin line of sweat glistening on his bald brow. Yes, he's polite, but does sheer, biting misery force him to be polite? Fortunately, I have no such qualms.

I'm not meant to. I'm a hardbitten, no-nonsense, take-no-shit reporter for a tough paymistress. Yeah, fuck you. I'm an arts correspondent for The Guardian. To show the bald, overweight comedian quite how unimpressed by him I am I fart loudly. Unexpectedly. Brilliantly.

Does he say something funny in return? No, he coughs and changes the subject like he's embarrassed about having a middle-aged woman farting at him in a restaurant. He has no self-confidence. I think he might be gay,

If you're one of his millions of fans, I can only assume you haven't been exposed to good comedy, like the scintillating prose I craft for this very paper. Many people have said that my articles, on occasion, were 'quite funny'. And yet I don't have a series on BBC1. I don't have a career in films. Because I'm not bald or overweight.

Now he's staring at me like an accountant peering through a flesh-coloured life-preserver. Maybe it's not the 'done thing' to be typing this at the table, but you'd hope a so-called comedian would have a healthy disrespect for authority. I stand on the table and urinate into his soup. He says nothing, but I notice he doesn't eat any more of it. I think bald, Jewish comedian Matt Lucas is quite rude.

The moment he mentions thin, fully-haired non-Jewish comedian David Walliams, he suddenly is full of praise. Words tumble out of his head as if he meant them, and he seems genuinely and warmly affectionate. He is so insecure he even feels the need to pretend to like his friends. Or, what is even sadder, he might actually think he likes them.

It can't have been easy, growing up bald, overweight, and Jewish. In the maternity ward, the bald Matt Lucas must have waved looked at all the other babies – lithe, with full sets of teeth, and hair down to their shoulders – and begun to wave his tubby arms and wail. An act he would perfect for Shooting Stars, a programme he continues to want to work on.. I find myself pitying a grown man with the massive insecurities that could lead him to still admire someone and wish to work with them whilst in his mid-30s.

His adenoidal drone reminds me of everything that is wrong with comedy nowadays: it is written and performed by people who don't feel the need to constantly amuse me. Thoughtful, shy, and embittered people all now think they have the right to write comedy. Long gone are the fun-loving clowns, always ready with a quip or light-hearted anecdote. I'm thinking of the Spike Milligans, the Tony Hancockses, the Lenny Bruces. Song and dance men, who made your rotten heart soar.

“I think you are very boring, and this interview is making me want to puke my gall bladder into your lap in the hopes that you will do something entertaining.” I say, flicking his ears, spitting on a photograph of his mum. He seems shocked.

“I suppose you think I'm rude!” I bellow through a megaphone I have brought along for just such an eventuality, “You idiot!”

He smiles, with what would appear to be good grace, but is probably a murderous hatred born of many years being a sub-standard hack. It is the oleaginous smile of the rich, bald and overweight. And Jewish.

“No, it's probably just me,” He's right. It is him. “I'm a little tired at the moment from rehearsals-”

I cut him off by ramming my right elbow into his mouth, stifling anything more he has to say.

But I hope he's right. I hope he's tired from rehearsals. I do, truly, from the bottom of the calcified olive pit with which they replaced my heart, hope that he's not that insecure. I hope he's not a grasping, dusty nun's-quim of a human, whose only joy is belittling others. I do hope he's not that.

But I can't be sure.

The style and grace of a young Marilyn Monroe. Birthday fail.

Eleanor shows the poise and sheer star quality we all know she has...

HINT: Watch right until the end. The last two seconds are the best two seconds...

Last Sunday we did the first 'episode' of our new improvised show, Off Your Chest, at Lowdown at The Albany. I've never had to improvise a whole show before, so it was 'a learning experience'.

One of the things I learnt was that a pun isn't always just a groan moment for an audience. In the right context it can take their breath away. And leave me spluttering like a deflating twat for a good four minutes.

As a Kilroy-esque chat show host, I'd been challenging Darren Strange to explain how he spent his benefits. We'd established that his benefits were insufficient for him to eat at Pizza Express every day. He said:

"If I stop going spending my benefits on pizzas in the current climate they'll go under. Pizza Express will go under, ASK will go under, eventually Pizza Hut will go under..."

And from behind us, John Voce, veteran of the Comedy Store Players, the voice that launched a thousand Kwik Fit adverts, said:

"It's the Domino's effect."

Just wow.

In scripted comedy that's a sigh, something we've all been aware was coming, a punchline. Here it was a small but tiny victory over chaos, manna from the comedy gods, a moment when the universe falls into alignment.

I had to hide my face because I was laughing so hard.

So there is a time and a place for a pun to be majestic and exciting. It's at our next show, April 12th at Lowdown at The Albany, 240 Great Portland St, at 7:30.

Why not come and see if John can do it again?

Just wow.

Apparently, Homer Simpson was at Obama's latest speech (listen carefully at 6:34)...



Woohoo!

I'll be in the Channel 4 show, Tonightly, from August 1st to 22nd. If you'd like to watch, it's on after Big Brother.

My Chortle Review

Laughing Horse New Act Final 2008' review : Chortle : The UK Comedy Guide

Nathaniel Tapley is an actorly character turn very much similar in style to Al Murray’s loud, declamatory performance – not to mention his ill-thought-out right-wing opinions derived from his many psychological, emotional and social failings. In fact, this rabid Tory boy would probably see the Pub Landlord as some sort of namby-pamby liberal.

His veins throb and his eyes bulge as he harrumphs his way through his personal manifesto against political correctness. He’s imperialistic, homophobic and sexist – and very, very funny. The comically exaggerated opinions crystalise into wonderful one-liners, including a gag about his ‘handicapped boy’ that was the best single joke of the night. There are a couple of formulaic lines in the mix, but they are done with such panache that it matters little. A powerhouse performance, and funny with it.

The Beppisode

The Meeting, Episode 7 Michael | The Meeting | Video

Huzzah! All of our sketches are now up at ComedyBox, you can find them hidden in my 'comic profile', here. Please go, watch, and give them many stars, and add them to your Favourite Things, if you feel so inclined. Thank you all, and we'll see you soon...

For those whom I have not yet pestered to so do, please watch this. Then click on lots of stars and watch it again. Then tell your friends.

If you'd like...

Here's the trailer for our upcoming documentary about one folk band's struggle to bring English music back to the English. And to reinstate imperial weights and measures...

Here's our latest video for Clantessential's new single.

Here's the new Marsipan mission for those of you who haven't yet seen it...

Well, I'm the Pick of the Day, over at 4Laughs again.

However, the observant among you may notice the changes in the sketch that have had to have been made for legal reasons. Barry is very litigious.

If you've got time, do go and rate everything we've done incredibly highly, please.


Thanks.