London Mewsings

What The British Say (And What They Really Mean)

2012-02-01T17:53:00.000Z

Imagelink (BBC America)

This is super-handy clip-and-save guide to help you understand what the British mean when they talk to you. This is especially applicable in a business context, but also applies to any creative or personal project you might undertake with a Brit.

I wish I'd had this a couple of years ago; I have misinterpreted most of the comments on this list. I know that now.

Executive Bonus Charity Challenge

2012-01-31T14:29:00.000Z

RBS executives recently decided to award themselves gobs of bonus cash. Or it was always in their contracts. Or whatever. However, as they've:

recently laid off tonnes of employees
are 83% owned by UK taxpayers
have seen share prices dropping like rented plates at a Greek wedding

the plan to award themselves big bonuses caused major public outrage. Especially considering that the average chief executive earns 40 times more than the average employee.

So RBS chief exec Stephen Hester waived his bonus cheque. But having dithered too long now Hester doesn't get the money nor does he get any credit for forgoing it. And who knows where that forgone bonus cash goes?

I have a plan to solve the whole sticky situation. It's simple and incredibly getbehindable, so why don't you get behind: the Executive Bonus Charity Challenge?

BACKGROUNDWhen beautiful and hyper-rich celebrities (or even plain-looking regular-rich ones) go on game shows they always play for charity. That way no matter who ends up winning, everybody wins. Or at the very least, the RSPCA, or Save the Children (or some other worthy cause) gets a novelty-sized cheque. Oh, and the celebrity not only gets to continue collecting absurdly gross-sized paycheques (in number of zeroes, not just size) - they also get major plaudits for being magnanimous and civic-minded. Unfortunately, banking execs make misery instead of light entertainment, so the stakes for Executive Bonus Charity Challenge would be slightly different.

THE PROPOSALI suggest executives (let's start with the top three tiers of management) continue to receive their bonuses (which, let's be honest, they will probably continue to do anyway), and then risk them on Executive Bonus Charity Challenge in a series of head-to-head contests. Including feats of:

Mild athleticism. Like walking up a few flights of stairs or doing a handful of star jumps.
Mental agility. Like identifying oil-rich countries on a world map, or naming all the chambers of a human heart.
Creativity. Draw a tree. Audience votes for the one they deem 'most tree-ish'. Or a karaoke battle. That kind of thing.
Business. Each contestant has to explain the causes and response to the financial meltdown to a co-contestant: a six-year old child. The exec with the last co-contestant to start playing Nintendo DS is the winner.

And so on.

The point is: whoever wins gets to donate their bonus to a worthy cause of their choice. The loser gets to keep their bonus. The winner leaves the studio in a limo, to rapturous applause.

Then loser gets their bonus handed to them, in cash. Then they kill the lights in the studio and invite him to try to leave through the audience.

Job creation, (potential) bonus retention, wealth distribution, goodwill bridge-building for the vilified bankers and vigilante justice. It's time we gave the Executive Bonus Charity Challenge a try.

Get: Psychemagik - Sunrise (mix)

2012-01-27T14:46:00.002Z

If you're looking for some new (old) music, you can do much much worse than Psychemagik's Sunrise mix.

According to Test Pressing , the website hosting their mixes, they are "two producer/DJs who cover all bases from balearic to folk, electro synth jams to heavy funk, lush orchestral soul through to psychedelic hip hop and beyond."

According to me, they put together an incredibly solid hour of rare, classic feel-good tunes. An atmospheric mix of old soul and mellow grooves and well, other stuff that's been doing wonders for my mid-commute mood.

Download Psychemagik's Sunrise here.

It was brought to my attention by the consistently excellent Very Short List.

(Lots of Psychemgik's other stuff gets a bit too clubby for my tastes, but if you're into it check out their Soundcloud.)

The end of an automotive era

2012-01-27T12:35:00.002Z

When we woke up this morning our car was parked on the street out front. It's usually not there, because we don't have a resident's parking pass for the little lady, so we have to park it a seven minute walk away. Now we no longer park it anywhere.

It's gone.

Our white 1998 Citroen Saxo, eight-year strong member of our family and veteran of three transnational moves has been set free. It's a vehicle that's acquired 150,000 kilometres, but still looks not a day over 80,000. Actually, that's not true, it's a crappy old car, but it was our crappy old car. More than the miles it's got on it, it's been loaded with memories.

And now it's gone. We've never been real car people - we're bus people. Cyclists when we can be. I'd even prefer my old skateboard over the car. But having a car always afforded us the opportunity to drive places if we needed to. Sure, it was usually just IKEA every fifteen months or so, to pick up some candles and a houseplant. But still, there's something about the promise of freedom that a car offers, even if I don't like driving, or parking, or maintenance, or the political statement a car makes.

Well, now it's no more. Rather, it can only be speculation, memories revelled in while looking in the rearview mirror of Once Were Car Owners. Our adorable car has been taken off to get sold. We hope.

The bad news is that for all the car was worth to us, it was worth a mere £175 to the dealer who purchased it. And that was the best offer we had, after many many phone calls. But the fact is that sentimental value matters little on the vehicular marketplace, which is ill-equipped to adequately compensate for continental roadtrips, airport pickups of old friends, or even that one time the car was towed.

In fact the only thing the market can pay for is the ability of the vehicle to get to IKEA and back. Here's hoping she's still worth more than the sum total of her parts.

Blackout on SOPA and PIPA

2012-01-18T13:22:00.001Z

Imagelink

The names Sopa and Pipa may sound like protagonists from a Scandanavian children's story. But they are far from harmless fictions.

In fact the SOPA and PIPA legislations have more in common with the vicious ogre from those fairy tales - the one who, due to a lack of understanding of modern ways of life, lashes out in a blind fury, causing massive amounts of damage to the villagers' livelihoods and homes.
As Tim O'Reilly explains:

"These legislative attacks are not motivated by clear thinking about the future of the Internet or the global economy, but instead seek to protect entrenched companies with outdated business models. Rather than adapting and competing with new and better services, these organizations are asking Congress for cover."There are just a few ways to mount a counter-defense: make an awesome .gif like The Oatmeal:

Come out of pencil-sharpening semi-retirement and make a whole bunch of clip-art comics like David Rees with Get Your Censor On:

Or, if you're the biggest open source online information source, you could blackout your service, like Wikipedia:

Or, if you're none of those things, and let's face it, you're not, you should go to Public Knowledge and read up on the proposed legislation, and then register your opposition at American Censorship (even if you're not in the U.S.

Competitive non-starter, stand-up edition

2012-01-14T16:50:00.000Z

I am not experienced as a stand-up comedian - but I have been performing improv comedy for about a dozen years, have a solo comedy show under my belt, and am (let's never, ever forget) an award-winning playwright.

With all of these theoretically transferable skills, I fancy my chances that stand-up comedy is something I could get good at. Plus I enjoy (and fear and respect) it.

So, even though stand-up still scares the hell out of me and I haven't managed to get out on the 'circuit' as often as I'd have liked (and when I have made it out, the results have been decidedly mixed, I made a move which I felt was both bold and admirable.

I swallowed my terror, threw caution under the bus and registered for Laughing Horse New Act of the Year competition back in the autumn. The date for the final heat was January, Friday the 13th. That bold move was a long time ago.

For months now, I've known the date was looming, but I didn't bother doing much preparation. Because hey, it's easier to sit by idly, passively, and let these things approach. They do it anyway - it requires no effort on your part. Plus it's certainly easier than confronting the lack of polish (and experience) in your stand-up act. Although in my defense, in the intervening months I did come up with a little bit about being married that I thought I'd chuck in to my competitive set.

Soon, the date was drawing so near that I had no other choice than to start thinking seriously about what I was going to do. So I did. Unfortunately my preparation didn't stretch as far as actually getting out in front of an audience (according to everybody, just getting out and working your material in front of audiences is absolutely vital). Presumably if you're entered into a competition this also applies. But it just didn't happen. To be fair, I've been busy with pretty steady improv gigs, but still, my last stand-up set was in November.

But I managed I put together a five-minute set, including some killer (I hoped) bits on Charles Dickens, weighing pros and cons, and the aforementioned marriage bit. I timed it out, said it aloud, practicing my cadence, playing with the language, pacing the living room. I got a good handle on it, changed some parts to be cleaner. But there was no stage time. The day continued to approach, and I was getting more and more nervous.

I wrestled with the decision about whether to cancel, as it was clear I hadn't put the requisite amount of effort and energy into it. At the same time, I figured why the hell not? Five minutes of total embarrassment (worst-case scenario) would be character-building, and five minutes of stand-up in an amateur, but slightly more pressurized than an open mic, environment would make me fitter, faster, and stronger (best-case scenario).

On the day I made the incredibly brave decision to not run away like a chicken. Instead, dragging my wife along for much-needed support I showed up at The Goat Tavern behind Regent Street, ready to put my best foot forward, let my light shine, and fire some comedy missiles at some broad targets.

It was still 45 minutes until showtime when we arrived, but the tiny room was already packed and heavy with sweat. I surveyed the narrow room, clocked the tiny stage and walked with what I hoped was a confident gait to the back to check in.

The booker asked my name, then checked his list - my name wasn't there. He double-checked, still no. Then he pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his breast pocket. It read 'Has not confirmed' in bold. There were four names printed underneath; mine was one.

"Sorry," he told me, "there's already 24 comics on the bill, there's no more room." He seemed genuinely apologetic.

Before he could change his mind I grabbed my wife and bolted out of there - but not before getting my wife's cover charge refunded.

Because there is no situation that I can't haphazardly back into, immediately overcomplicate, procrastinate and dither over for an extended period, and then, at the zero hour, realize that I had (probably not-so-inadvertently) sabotaged it all along. I guess it's a curse, but I've certainly got a flair for it.

The good news is this gives me some time to try out some of that material before signing up for the next competition.

Principles for living: TED talks improv

2012-01-10T16:12:00.000Z

A common audience comment after an improv show is "Oh, I couldn't do that." As if that person's life has a script which they follow. Of course it doesn't.

But people (all of us) hide behind self-censorship (our 'social filter'), and saying no to ideas. This protects us from embarrassment (especially the dreaded faux pas of revealing how we really feel). Unfortunately, these things also 'protect' us from freedom, creativity and cooperation. It is precisely these things that allows improv to flourish.

Improv trains people to say yes, have fun, make sure your partner is having a good time, accept, explore and add to other's ideas, etc. All things that coincidentally make people fun to be around. And allow individuals to be more expressive, authentic, and (theoretically) successful.

But despite these valuable improv teachings, and their practical applications in the real world, I've always felt that improv has a bit of a bad rep among the arts.

It's the thing:

That the drama teacher assigns when she runs out of 'real theatre' curriculum
That the stand-up comedian does between scripted bits, to pad out a set
That the googler finds when trying to source information about free jazz

In all cases, interesting - even useful - but primarily a diversionary tactic. So I'm glad to see improv (as an idea, as a process, as a set of principles) finally get some representation in the public sphere.

A year ago Charles Limb presented at TED on his findings of brain activity during freestyle rapping. And even more recently, upstanding human beings, friends and improv colleagues, in two separate TEDx events, have made the case for improv more directly.

First, at TEDx Munich, improv duo Crumbs (Stephen Sim and Lee White) synthesized the day's worth of talks into a freeform, process-driven improv exploration.

It wasn't so much a talk as a straight demonstration of improv. TEDx Munich inputted a whole bunch of ideas into their brains, and Crumbs outputted some entertainment and musings, via improv. No talk, all rock.

Then, even more recently, Victoria's Dave Morris took the stage at TEDx Victoria to espouse the joys of improvising, and encourage his audience to apply those principles to their lives - in his charming and impish way.

Here, Dave makes the case more directly; he extracts some principles from improv and encourages the audience to apply them to their lives. If you're not an improviser, watching these videos might make you realize that, in fact, you already are. And there are ways to get better - and it's fun.

Maybe I'll start getting a few less "Oh, I couldn't do that" comments after shows. And a few more "Oh, improv! It's so practical. I apply some of those principles you were using onstage in my own day-to-day life. It's been really helpful. Improv rules!"

But only time will tell.

EDIT: Here's another TEDx talk (this time at McGill University in Montreal) by improvisers Marc Rowland and Brent Skagford. It's called 'Yes and: an Improviser's Guide to Content Creation'. It's about providing tools for improv scenework. Check it out.

Books for 2012; how bibliomantic!

2012-01-01T19:23:00.001Z

On my holidays I acquired a really nice collection of books. I've decided to use them - not only as 'reading objects' - but also, in celebration of the calendar shift into 2012, as some sort of guidance and inspiration for the new year.

Turns out there is some precedence for telling the future through books. Bibliomancy being a long-standing form of divination. However, bibliomancy usually involves examining religious texts, not speculating on the significance of books from your holidays, but let's open a new chapter of bibliomancy right now.*

*I made a book pun!

The Books

Solar, by Ian McEwan - The pullquote on the cover calls it 'savagely funny', so that's a good sign for my new year. Also, it's about environmentalism and alternative energy (I think), which is kinda what I do for a living already. In 2012 I will combine humour writing with building a better tomorrow. (Christmas gift from my brother).

The 4-Hour Workweek, by Timothy Ferriss - According to Ferriss, if you're still stuck in your daily grind instead of riding tigers in Thailand or getting blowjobs on a yacht then you seriously need to get your shit together. In 2012 I will get my shit together, by working less and earning more money. All signs also point to me racing motorcycles in South America at some point in the next twelve months. (On loan from the personal library of Geordie Aitken).

Writing Movies for ~~Fun and~~ Profit, by Robert Ben Garant and Thomas Lennon - An instruction manual for writing crappy movies that can make hundreds of millions of dollars at the box office. It is funny and filled with insider tips (e.g. Billy Crystal is a dick, where to park at Paramount). In 2012 I will write a screenplay. It may not be good, but I will get carpal tunnel syndrome and some rejection letters. Possible trip to LA, too. (Christmas gift from my brother).

Fresh at Twenty: The Oral History of Mint Records, by Kaitlin Fontana - The story of Mint, Vancouver's legendary independent label. I've already read parts of it, and it gives a real insider's account of Vancouver's indie rock scene. Thoroughly engrossing, and weighty and pretty. In 2012, I will make some music and my breath will be fresh. (Gift from the author).

Troubles, JG Farrell - I brought this book, winner of the lost Booker, on holiday, but didn't read it too much (although I'm about halfway through). In 2012, I will start some projects, and no matter how much I enjoy them, I will not finish all of them. This will get me into some trouble. (Bought in Belfast, autumn 2011).

Ninja Attack!: True Tales of Assassins, Samurai and Outlaws, Hiroko Yoda - This isn't the fake ninja stuff of fiction; this is all real bad-ass ninja stuff, as well as weapons, anecdotes and profiles of some of the most dangerous assassins of the past. In 2012, I'll need to be watching my back, to avoid lurkers, prowlers, and practitioners of the dark arts. (Gift - possibly illicit - from Geordie Aitken and Magda Dominik).

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer - The old-timey story of Huck Finn and Jim, who fetch a raft and have episodic adventures on a river. In 2012, I will have adventures, and maybe live with a rich family for awhile, until a senseless feud shatters the peace. I will then hook up with some conmen. (Bought secondhand sometime between 2010-2011).

The Etymologicon, Mark Forsyth (not pictured) - A book about the hidden connections between words. In 2012 I will use a lot of words, and use some hidden connections to my advantage (perhaps fighting ninjas?). (Received at our work Secret Santa).

***

It looks as though 2012 will be a year of promise and adventure. Good weather and fortune can be had, if one works diligently for short periods. Fresh creativity awaits, but the pitfalls (and potential ninja troubles) must be navigated with attention and wit. Be careful - and carefree. And remember, the gift of books is one that can be enjoyed, like life, one page at a time. Good luck.

Vancouver Theatresports: Guestspot

2011-12-23T18:52:00.000Z

In the true spirit of Christmas, Fun Police friend and Vancouver improv stalwart Allen Morrison has arranged for me to do an improv show in Vancouver on one of my three nights in town. I'll be on stage with some old friends and colleagues at Vancouver Theatresports 'Year in Review'.

It's been a long time (many years) since I've done a show in Vancouver, and I've never been on stage at VTSL, nor seen their new Improv Centre, so this is all kinds of exciting for me.

And the timing is ideal, really. A little post-Christmas, pre-New Year's comedic palate cleanser; the best way possible for me to celebrate this heavily-belated Vancouver visit. And maybe there will be a few familiar faces in the crowd as well.

Home for the holidays

2011-12-22T20:13:00.001Z

After an epic journey through California (of which more later), we've made it to Vancouver Island. We're doing lots of Christmas visiting with family. So far it's involved hockey, spinach dip, card games, and some overdue admin - which was remarkably painless.

So yeah, things are good.

In celebration of this time, we'll be spending the time celebrating (as in the picture above). I hope you're having a worthwhile holiday full of joy and nog as well.

Bookish & pantless in the Guardian

2011-12-13T20:56:00.001Z

It's nice to be recognized, publicly, as a public reader. That's what happened Monday, December 12 2011 in this Guardian article on why "Book swaps at London tube and train stations are 'a good idea'".

I wouldn't even have noticed the article if Nicola of Nicola's Book Club hadn't pointed it out to me. Thank goodness she did, because otherwise not only would I have missed this picture of me in the Guardian - I would've missed the most incredible thing about it.

I'm not wearing any pants.

Yup. I'm totally trouserless and completely sans pants. A fact that's not touched upon in the article, and barely noticeable in the photo.

So, while trying to figure out why I'd had my photo taken on the tube - and why I hadn't noticed - I noticed that there was a glimmer of thigh in the photo. Then it all made sense.

The photo was from The London No Pants Subway Ride 2010. A yearly event organised by Improv Everywhere. And someone at the Guardian Books page was looking through an image bank trying to find a suitable photo to accompany the piece. And they did.

I only wish they'd also encouraged people to enjoy the gloriously silly and fulfilling feeling of riding the rails in their underpants. And reading.

This year's No Pants ride will be the 11th annual. If you're keen to get involved go the FB event page.

Wild Bomarr Vol. 6

2011-12-08T17:40:00.000Z

If you're tired of the same old Christmas carol tripe that gets trotted out every year, well then you should get Bomarr's brand-new Wild Xmas Vol. 6.

He always brings the most under-appreciated, melodic (and frequently weird) Christmas jams to pump up your family's holiday playlist. Don't forget to donate while you're there.

And it's already early December, so turn that playlist on, plug in those lights and start necking down the eggnog. Also, you don't have to buy tonnes of presents this year, so enjoy these holidays!

Coastal desert Christmas

2011-12-08T12:57:00.001Z

Imagelink

Christmas holidays need snow, a long journey, egg nog, and family time to really feel like a holiday. I think. Although it also works if you opt for sunshine and adventure.

Fortunately, like an elf specializing in toys for boys and girls, we've come through with a little something special that works for everybody.

From a touchdown in the tinsel-encrusted Hollywood Hills to re-encounter friends old and new, and an extra day to see Conan celebrates the Yule season (HINT: Straight Up), through to a trip into the shimmering expanse of desert that rests outside the big-city sprawl of LA, we've got SoCal sunshine covered.

Weather permitting.

And coast too. A pleasantly restrained and free-spirited up the coastal ribbon of road is also a chapter.

And this is only part one. We're going to write the rest as we go, but all the elements of true holiday classic: drama, comedy, characters, adventure, family foibles, joyful reunions - they should be covered.

At least that variety is what we're packing for.

Life expectancy and phantom ailments: UK vs. Italy

2011-12-06T15:47:00.001Z

Imagelink

A recent piece on BBC Radio 4 and BBC website discussed the idea of Italians being susceptible to all kinds of illnesses. The 'colpo d'aria' (hit of air) that can happen if a chill wind picks up and you're scarfless was one example cited. Having extremely specific internal pains and a dead certainty as to their cause is another.

As a westerner married to an Italian, I appreciate Mitzman's piece. When I lived in Italy I had more than one conversation on the phantom ailments phenomenon with other westerners. My wife has an infuriating knowledge of human anatomy, and a health regime that sometimes dips into the inscrutable.

But, in claiming that "being Italian is bad for your health" Dany Mitzman misses a very important point. She personally may be 'superhuman' when measured against the sometimes bizarre health-related peccadilloes of the Italians around her, but how does that measure up in the bigger picture? Not as well as she might hope.

I'm not going to get into a 'who's healthier, the Brits or the Italians?' argument.

Ok, that was a lie. I am. And it's not the fat, alcoholic, hyper-promiscuous Brits.

Now I like junk food, booze and sex as much as the next guy (unless I'm standing next to an Englishman) but there needs to be a little perspective on what constitutes 'healthy'.

Britain's culinary culture is... well it's actually okay. That old trope about the food being all terrible for you is not really true anymore. But still, there's a whole lot of pork sausages, battered cod and fried chicken on the menus around here. Italy, on the other hand has recently had its Mediterannean diet inscribed onto the list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. As they say, it "encompasses more than just food. The system is rooted in respect for the territory and biodiversity, and ensures the conservation and development of traditional activities and crafts." In other words it nourishes your body and soul. In short: it's healthy.

And though Italians only live about a year longer than the Brits, that's still a whole year. Think of how nice of a boat you could build in a year. Or how much television you could watch - it's a lot of time.

And of course, that nourished and long-lasting spirit is present in their public life. Not that I think Silvio Berlusconi is any paragon of anything to aspire to, but that cretinous slimeball was throwing sexual callisthenics parties at 75 years of age. Bunga bunga! That's a sign of rude health.

And even their politicians who aren't sleazy are sprightly. Georgio Napolitano, the President of the Republic, is 86. And not a scummy creeper. Way to go Georgio!

In England they need to get younger people to run their country - PM David Cameron is just 45. But even that age assessment is in doubt because it's also been determined that he's a 'pitiless blank-eyed hell-wraith'-cum-lizard creature. A speculation that was subsequently corroborated by numerous independent sources.

I guess the lesson here is that, while Italians have some quirks that can be frustrating, they are also endearing. And as a people they eat better, fuck longer, and are just undeniably more healthful than the rest of us. And though their last PM was an incompetent sexpest, at least he looked like he was having fun - better that than a "malevolent paranormal entity continually shifting between dimensions," I say.

But rather than refute Mitzman's assertion that being Italian is bad for your health, I would say that she is in an extremely privileged position - that of not having to suffer the thousand natural shocks that Italian flesh is heir to, yet also being able to live in Italy and enjoy the salubrious nature of their cuisine and culture, away from hideous lizards and binge drinking lager louts.

Perhaps she's onto something after all.

December's a Happy Place

2011-12-02T16:53:00.001Z

Next week I'll be extending my streak of Wednesdays at London Improv to 'two'.

This time though, there will be no competition. The Miller will become your Happy Place - a night of comedy that may just solve many of your deep-rooted psychological issues. And we've specially crafted this, our second special event, to be as special as we could make it. We have succeeded. Click through to see the lineup.

First the hurricane of comedic bottled lightning the 'Hugely enjoyable' (Timeout) Horse & Louis do some major dicking about, and also welcome a host of top-notch comedy acts:

Loaded Laftas Finalist 2011 Tom Toal, who Stephen K Amos describes as ‘F**king Hilarious’
London's finest pizza-based sketch comedy Quattro Formaggio and their ‘Life affirming and buoyant’ (Three Weeks) examination of life in the suburbs
The ‘sheer comic gold’ (Metro) of character comedian Dave McNeill who will romp some ‘mesmerising’ (Time Out) personae-driven hilarity all over the stage

And then, to administer a dose of improvised comedy love, your favourite Cornish-Canadian improvised comedy duo Marbles has been broken down into its constituent parts and then reassembled with the Haroldic stylings of 8Bit and Katy Schutte (The Maydays, Silly String Theory) to create an unbeatable delta force of long-form improvisation.

Using nothing but mere ideas they will create a one-of-a-kind theatrical experience. Like a roundhouse of poetry right in your pleasure centre.

If that sounds like something you would enjoy than you should definitely come. If it doesn't I don't know how to help you.

The Fun Police Serve and Protect

2011-12-01T16:24:00.001Z

I had the pleasure last night of playing Catch 23 (UK) with old friends Stephen Sim and Allen Morrison, two excellent humans and fantastic Canadian improvisers who were in London at the same time for different reasons, and unbeknownst to one another.

Allen was my first friend when I started at UBC in Vancouver from Summerland BC many years ago. Some years later, after he had become a classically trained actor, (and I a university dropout) Brad MacNeil and I bullied him back into doing improv. He is now a regular at VTSL. And still an awesome guy.

Steve Sim is also an awesome guy, and one half of legendary improv duo CRUMBS, and spends the better part of his year touring continental Europe, sharing prairie improv magic.

they both got in touch with me individually to let me know they were coming to town. As it happens, I managed to get in touch with the elusive Professor Stevphen Doctors and request some slots for us fellow Canadians in the November 30th show. He saw to it.

So last night the three of us shared the same stage for the first time as the Catch 23 team Fun Police. But instead of clamping down on fun, we enforced it.

It was great to see them both and to rock out an interconnected series of hospital scenes involving a sleepy lobotomy, a roboticized father, a daffodil-blossoming romance, and the world's plushest carpet.

I think they both promised to come back next month so we can defend our title, but I may have imagined that.

Giving the gift of giftlessness

2011-11-25T11:59:00.001Z

"The greatest gift is a portion of thyself."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Today is Black Friday, when shops open at dawn (or even midnight) to kickstart the holiday shopping season.

This to help consumers get at all the stylish and cutting-edge gifts chockful of trendiness, coated in a veneer of desirability and packaged and shipped to the retail outlet near you. As much fun as getting gifts can be, Black Friday can bring out the worst in people (especially if they own pepper spray).

Some people prefer to celebrate Buy Nothing Day on 25 November and opt out of the orgy of consumerism. Great! I'm all about that, but I still need to get something amazing for the sister-in-law who got me a Kindle last year?

Herein lies the problem. You can't celebrate Buy Nothing Month and show up at Christmas empty-handed, unless you're a total prick - which you're hopefully not.

So what's an Occupy-sympathizing, sensible person who would like to stay out of Christmas debt to do?

Many years ago, as an irresponsible amateur actor, professional barista and part-time unfocused university dropout, I handmade (with help from friends) sock puppets for my whole family. They were my Christmas gift. Each one was unique and cute, with button eyes and felt tongues or neckties or whatnot. They had personality, and my whole family had fun pretending to enjoy them.

Of course, when you're the only one playing homemade Christmas gifts, it can be rather humiliating. But I'd still say my meagre Christmas budget was better spent on craft supplies than a trip to the dollar store.

The good news is that this year we're making a collective move into a Christmas that's more sustainable, thoughtful and probably a little closer to the true meaning of Christmas (whatever that is).

We're chiming in with Leo Babauta over on Zen Habits, who has issued the No New Gifts Holiday Challenge.

In my family we're not going quite the level of austerity suggested by Leo - at least not this year. But we are mixing a mandate for charitable donations, shared experience and homemade gifts into our financially-constrained-by-mutual-consent gift-giving.

It's something that's worth thinking about pitching to your family - not just storebought gifts exchanged out of a shared sense of seasonal obligation, but thoughtful, one-of-a-kind meaningful presents. Do this and you're also automatically giving them the gift of less stressful month. So text them and suggest it. If they're in the lineup at Best Buy waiting to arm wrestle a stranger for some Dr. Dre headphones they'll probably be willing to listen.

And if you need to slowly introduce the idea, that's good too. Start now.

Save money. Have more fun. Be more thoughtful. Learn a new crafty skill. Drink eggnog. Help at a charity. Celebrate. Fill your Black Friday (and holidays) with some white light.

Sandwiches are beautiful

2011-11-24T17:00:00.001Z

Imagelink

It was just an ordinary evening many years ago. I became, as often happens a bit peckish, and started making myself a sandwich. It began as a quick hunger stopgap - a bagel and some cheese. But upon looking in the fridge another part of myself took over the process, and I got all stone soup on that bagel.

That night I constructed a sandwich of such significance that it ceased to be merely a sandwich... it became an epiphany.

For some idea of how intense that experience was I'll tell you this: I toasted half of the bun. I wanted to experience both fresh bread and toasted, so I just toasted half. I pulled out pickles, salsa, mustard mayonnaise, different types of meats and cheeses. It wasn't an excessively stacked or ornate novelty sandwich, but it was a thing of perfection that grew from humble origins into something powerful and tasty. My reality subdivided as that sandwich was being created; I reassembled my life's goals in accordance with the methodology.

As I pulled almost every condiment jar and sliceable vegetable out of the fridge I realized that it wasn't just the excitement of the impending deliciousness that was getting me giddy; it was the realization that I could pour myself into any task or experience, and the more I did so, the more I'd get out of it - in this case it was a transferable learning about attention and focus into reward and results. And the most beautiful sandwich I've ever eaten.

I've attempted to pour that sandwich-making dedication into other areas of my life, with varying levels of success. But making a sandwich isn't a destination, it's a journey. And that journey continues. It's like life like that. And

There's more though. Nowatimes I'll often find myself eating a delicious one-of-a-kind sandwich in front of my computer, while surfing the net. And, sandwich in one hand, mouse in the other, I can head over to see what kind of innovative definition-busting innovation is going on at Insanewiches, find out how a particular sandwich shop fits on the 'Wich plot at Simply Sandwiches , read as Pete waxes lyrical On Sandwiches, and hear the unified voice of the British Sandwich Association. It's all there, in the palm of my hand.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't let the sandwich just go from hand-to-mouth; there's a whole world of delights, culinary, cultural and metaphysical that can be found between two slices of bread.

If you're wondering where the title of the blogpost comes from, don't sleep on this tune:

Rotate your Owl

2011-11-16T23:35:00.000Z

If you've got an owl, you've just got to rotate it. I always suspected it, but now know it empirically. Thanks science!

In Our Happy Place

2011-11-10T15:23:00.000Z

Last night Marbles Improv teamed up with Horse & Louis to deliver the first of what will definitely be a regular (and regularly awesome) monthly comedy night. It's called Happy Place, and at The Miller last night that's exactly where everybody seemed to be.

Marbles has had a monthly slot at London Improv since April, and it's gone through a few different set-ups. We had The Yak, a chat show (which may make another appearance down the line), and we've hosted some short form improv as well, but what our stated aim had been (to get a variety of comedy acts from the circuit in and put them up with our improv all on one bill) has only now seemed to come together in the way it should.

I'd never met Horse nor Louis before last night, but from first hellos it was clear that they knew what was what. This is really important to me.

I'd also never seen what they do, but seeing them on stage sealed the deal: their hosting skills, musical chops and comedic sensibilities definitely put them in the 'knowing what is what' camp.

And they held the show together brilliantly, getting the audience well and truly on board from the first few moments. They also booked the acts, which were all top-notch (and new to me) Canadian comedic songstress Mae Martin, sketch group Expeditionary Force, and stand-up Tez Ilyas.

The second half was Marbles. And for the first time in a while, Dave and I just had fun. And, playing before a truly warm crowd, our show was fast and loose. We did a shortened set due to a lengthy first half, but still managed to stuff in some nice scenes, curious characters and friendly banter (including a scene involving a hitchhiker and a driver competing for ownership of an array of gestures that Dave called "one of the best things I've ever done improv-wise"). The result? We're all already looking forward to the next one (7 December).

To keep abreast of what's going on I suggest joining the mailing list, which will be a totally non-intrusive yet personal way for us to let you know what will be coming up, so you can come visit your Happy Place. (7th December, The Miller, London Bridge)

If you like it, do it longer

2011-11-09T17:25:00.000Z

Jules Munns, Jonathan Monkhouse and Alex Fradera in Cellblock

I have a pretty short attention span. Receiving a YouTube link that approaches the five minute mark gives me pause.

And movies, conferences, books and documents - pretty much anything that doesn't heed the "brevity is the soul of wit" axiom turn me off. But push it to the extreme and I get interested again. And I've recently had a few instances of seriously longform performance.

First there was the London 50 hour improvathon, and more recently I dropped in on Cellblock, the Nursery Festival's 26 hour improv show set in a prison.

Then just a couple days ago I listened in on Pat Thornton's 24 hour stand up set as part of the Dare to Remember. I even chipped in a few jokes (and a few bucks). Feel free to do the same. (Donate here).

All of these events got me thinking about what's engaging about extended-length performance. It's not the calibre of the show itself (I've seen some pretty sloppy improv tailing off towards the end of the marathons, and the jokes from Pat's Dare? Well, there was quality and there was quantity - but not in equal amounts).

I think what's so compelling is the pushing of limits, and pushing through those limits; challenging your endurance levels to see what is truly possible. But that's not it entirely.

Pat Thornton of #pats24hrs

As this recent Guardian article identified in its reference to Cellblock, it's the exploration, and seeing what comes out of a sleep-deprived mind. There's a lot of twisted rantings, but there is also a level of near-genius that comes from being locked into something for so long. When I've joined in those improv marathons I've felt an exhilarating energy from the other performers, working, fighting and surrendering to exhaustion. It's a cool thing.

But I would say that, because I like extreme things in extreme measures - and being part of the action. But what about the people for whom this is all for? Is there something more to be gained from watching an epic piece of theatre, or listening to the entirety of Moby Dick?

I think so. Because at a certain point you stop feeling a like a viewer, and instead become a participant. This is especially true in the case of improv, where the audience has been known to join in during the small hours, and most definitely in the case of Pat's Dare to Remember, where the audience tweet in jokes. Some of my finest contributions here and here.

But even in the case of Moby Dick, it becomes a thing that you are part of. An experience that transcends the watching.

It's not the quality it's the engagement - and the commitment to the duration - from both performers and audience. What happens in the in between time just takes care of itself.

Guy Fawkes all over again

2011-11-05T16:42:00.000Z

Everybody loves Guy Fawkes day in the UK. Something to do with fireworks and bonfires. Oh, and celebrating the maintenance of the status quo.

This year it's different. With the spread of the Occupy protests, and the V mask from V for Vendetta (and its association with the Parliament exploding anti-hero) long since having been adopted by protesters, it's all of a sudden the day itself.

In addition to the bonfires and fireworks there are plans to kill Facebook, close accounts at mega-banks, and march on Parliament. And probably some other bespoke pop-up events.

I'm not into mischief, but I like the confluence of the symbolic/historic and the modern zeitgeist. The global spread of dissent using social media coupled with the local in person throwback to a centuries-old act of rebellion.

Considering the failure of the recent G20, and the general nefarious unscruplousness of the banking system in general, and the antiquated dodginess of the City of London in particular, it's reassuring to have something constructive to believe in. Something that belongs to real people, who are working for change.

Tonight I'll be out not causing havoc, but supporting the positivity and creativity that can be born behind a mask.

I'm not a dick, really

2011-10-28T14:35:00.000+01:00

Imagelink

In the past couple days I've twice been reminded of a bitter truth: I'm a total prick.

Not really, obviously. In fact I'm a friendly, outgoing, considerate, compassionate, pleasant, heartwarming, deadly handsome and impossibly modest person. I'm also hilarious.

However, that doesn't always read to a stranger. In fact, in my efforts to be charming and funny, which I do almost ceaselessly, I've managed to come off as a right prick.

On back-to-back days. On the first occasion I was out with Marbles to have cake and discuss our next project. The cake shop was empty when we showed up at around 5:30. Politely considerate of the wishes of the staff we inquired if they would soon be closing. After first assuring us they would be happy to stay open as long as we were there, the waiter embarked on some banter-ish comments about ways that he would indicate when they were ready to close - putting up chairs, banging dishes etc.

We were all enjoying a light chuckle when I told him: "Actually, that would be great. I respond really well to passive aggression."

There was an awkward pause. And then he walked off. It was clear that my response - somehow - went too far. It was not as funny as I imagined, and my tone sounded mildly threatening. My quip also introduced an unexpected neologism and unpleasant psychological condition into a conversation about cake.

What can I say? I got caught up in the chat of the moment.

The second occasion was the very next day. I was shopping at Boots. I needed some floss; I go through a lot of floss. On my trip to the floss aisle I was waylaid by a '3 for 2' sale of men's beauty products. Now I'm aware that men shouldn't have beauty products, they should be 'handsomeness tools', but nonetheless I stopped, and after minutes of agonizing deliberation I selected for purchase some moisturizer, some aftershave, and some other product which I don't remember, but may one day prove useful.

I then continued on to the floss aisle. A shop assistant, who had noticed me lingering at the Men's Sexiness Aisle, looked at me and asked

"Did you know that those products are on sale?"

"That's why I have three of them." I smarmed.

My response was meant to be a warm affirmation with a hint of thanks, but as soon as the words escaped my lips I realized that I actually sounded like a patronizing cunt. I was probably just as stunned as she was.

I turned away to avoid making further eye contact, quickly grabbed some floss and headed for the tills.

How could my words, so quickly formed in my mind as instruments of good-natured and light-hearted bonding and bonhomie, turn so acid when they reach shared air?

Thankfully, I've discovered the answer: it's not because I'm a dick, it's because I'm perpetually misunderstood. Yep, that's it. And this is fantastic news. I can now continue to act like a total dickhole (even if unintentionally), and cultivate an air of victimization. I can work on my non-verbal cues for: "Sorry if I'm a dick, but it's not my fault! The world just doesn't get me."

I think I'll start with a peacoat and a notebook, maybe add in some rapid blinking and a furrowed brow, and then just see how I go.

There. I don't know how all the strangers I'm rude to will take it, but I already feel better.

21st Century Dodos: A Guesting

2011-10-17T10:18:00.000+01:00

There's a book just out called 21st Century Dodos. It's about stuff (and other things) that have gone extinct.

I often find myself thinking, now that I'm old enough to reminisce, about driving to 7-11 on a Saturday night to see who's there, because there was no other way of knowing, or staying home on a Thursday evening so I wouldn't miss my favourite TV shows. You know, nostalgia for hallmarks of my bygone era. So the book sounded like my kind of thing.

Then I found out, via the author's twitter feed, that he was doing a blog tour, so I invited him here to London Mewsings. He agreed, and fit me in between Writers Little Helper and My Little Notepad. He also sent me a copy of the book, and I have to say it's great - not only because he sent me a signed copy, though that certainly was awesome. So I turn it over to Steve Pack.

Greetings one and all.

Thanks to Ryan for allowing me to gatecrash his blog today. Is it gatecrashing if you have permission? Probably not. Anyway, it is nice to be here.

It isn’t just a social call though, I have come along to plug my new book, 21st Century Dodos. It is a collection of (sometimes) humorous articles about inanimate objects. Specifically, the sort of objects that surrounded many of us when we were younger but which are now finding themselves on the scrapheap due to the relentless march of progress.You know the sort of thing: VHS tapes, 10p mix-up bags, that clock that used to count down to the start of schools programmes on BBC2. All of these and over a hundred more are celebrated and commemorated in the book. I suspect it is destined for toilet libraries rather than reference libraries, but I am OK with that.

Here is a sneak preview of one of the more obscure entries, something that many of you may not recall at all. But I bet some of you do.

Election Vans with Loudspeakers

Before the days of 24-hour news channels, Twitter, and all things internet-related, politicians had to really put in some graft if they wanted to be elected. There was the door-to-door canvassing, the kissing of babies, and driving around in a van that had a loudspeaker on the roof.It sounds daft now, if you have never seen such a thing, but it was standard procedure at the time. Seriously.

A big speaker or loudhailer would be strapped to the roof of an available vehicle, and the prospective MP would be driven around town while trying to convince people to vote for him or her. Usually this involved inspired and unforgettable rhetoric, such as, ‘Vote for Peter Jones, I’m the man for you’ or some such nonsense.

It was like the ice cream van of your nightmares.

Usually the arrival of said van would be greeted by jeers from builders hanging off scaffolding (if it was a Tory candidate) or a disapproving look from posh women in headscarves (if Labour). I presume it must have had some effect, though, as politicians did it for years.

Now they just poke you on Facebook or something.

***

Amazon link . Or go here if you like them newfangled Kindles .

And thanks Steve, it was a pleasure having you.

Doug Segal Knows What I'm Thinking

2011-10-15T12:14:00.001+01:00

When Doug Segal came on stage, I had to quickly re-calibrate my expectations. He was not, as I had somehow convinced myself, an awkward nerd in his late twenties. Nope he was a hairy-chested, brash belt-buckle sporting, middle-aged former ad agency man.

How had I so misjudged him? I think I confused him with another guy named Doug I went to high school with 15 years ago. Clearly a mind like mine wouldn't be easy to read. Right? Wrong.

He read my mind. And then he blew my mind.

The first thing Segal did was toss some ping pong balls into the audience. and once he had six audience members - myself included - to pick a number between 1 and 49. The six numbers we picked were all sealed in an envelope sealed inside another envelope... ON A LOTTERY TICKET HE HAD BOUGHT EARLIER!

Think about that for a moment; I've been thinking about it ever since.

From that opener the show just tilted into even more amazing feats. To me it seems like magic, but Segal is careful to explain that he uses no magic or audience plants, just "persuasion techniques, statistics, reading body language, subliminal influence and two key advertising skills: 'cheating and lying'”. He moves through a number of different set pieces of audience participation involving planting suggestions, predicting responses and plucking words and numbers out of people's minds. Each one slightly different, and all impressive.

On the night I saw the show suffered a little from a strangely subdued audience - relative to the awe-inspiring stunts taking place on stage. It might be a culture thing - the crowd was quite international - but where I'm from, people don't teach other people to read minds in the space of five minutes (as Doug did in the finale).

The show ran overtime, which I suspect was a result of Segal working so hard to get and keep the Greek-heavy crowd onboard. But the length notwithstanding, afterwards most of the audience was milling around the pub downstairs, eager to shower him with chat and compliments when he emerged.

Rightly so. "I Know What You're Thinking" is a show well worth seeing - whether tonight, or when it tours - which it surely must be doing soon.

Though I unfortunately wasn't given the ability to read minds (as I thought I had been promised), Doug Segal showed me that it can be done - without pomp and artifice.

Globe and Mail Caption Writer/Hero

2011-10-13T11:38:00.001+01:00

Imagelink

This week the Globe and Mail's 'Celebrity Photos of the Week' slideshow was captioned by some person with a scathing sense of humour, and a naked support for the Occupy Wall Street Protesters. I appreciate punchy writing. And if that punchy writing is wryly subversive and appears (presumably surreptitiously) in a major media outlet, then I classify that person as a hero.

Not only did they wittily pierce the masturbatory self-aggrandizement of celebrity culture, they managed to slip in some photos of protesters as well. Click through for more.

Maybe the person responsible was on their way out the door anyway, and left this as a parting shot.

And if it's a Globe and Mail stunt to offer a hat tip to protesters and the whole Occupy movement then kudos to them. Or maybe the site was hacked?

Regardless, it's affirming and hilarious. I've screencapped and annotated a few standouts below.

The moment when we realize that the beautiful Sofia Vergara is not campaigning for higher taxes for the wealthy is a sad one.

A defiant and angry protester. But he's not famous. Yet.

Yeah, he does kinda look like a dick, now that you mention it, caption-writer.

Set up.

Punchline.

Tag.

Some captions aren't witty jokes. this one just tells it like it is.

A simple but important message, regardless of what Sofia Vergara may or may not be campaigning for.

Yeah. Mad respect.

Astronautilus - Contrails (Video)

2011-10-10T14:51:00.005+01:00

Astronautilus went to Vancouver and made a video with Tegan Quinn (of Tegan & Sara). Click through and enjoy.

If you're looking for more Astronautilus, head over to YouTube and check out some of his freestyles.

Streetwear, so street

2011-10-06T00:02:00.005+01:00

Levi's has new jeans out. The line is known as Levi's Streetwear Collection. For some years now I've been enjoying thinking of jeans not as clothing, but as a project.

For someone who sucks at DIY (like myself), breaking in raw denim goes right up there with assembling IKEA furniture as a project. But it's better than IKEA because breaking in denim has the advantage of being personal and custom fitting.

Now my mind has changed again. Because this new line of Levi's is the opposite of raw, and I love them.

The Cordura fabric has more than 4x the resistance to abrasion compared to regular denim, and all jeans feature thick black bar tacks at all stress points, triple-layered belt loops and a reinforced back pocket. They've also got some elastane for extra mobility, plus tonnes of other features, like a Black Tab and rubber coated hem.

The whole ethos - street-built and hard-wearing - sells me from the off, and I'm not alone, they're selling out in selected stores across the UK.

Levi's® Streetwear Collection- Look Book Fall 2011 from LEVI'S® on Vimeo.

Full disclosure: I've been doing some copywriting for Levi's Streetwear.
Fuller disclosure: I'm wearing a pair right now, and never want to take them off.

Sunshine and Good Deeds

2011-09-30T16:05:00.004+01:00

Photo

After I got off the bus at Liverpool Station this morning, I looked into the sky and saw the blazing sun and thought, I'm going to ride the rest of the way to work today. It's outdoorsy and also fast, which was handy because I was running late.

As you may know, I love riding the bikes. However, that's because it's usually pleasant and not at all an emotional rollercoaster. Today however, was different.

I pulled the bike out of the stand and kicked off, riding along with Marc Maron's WTF in my headphones. The sun was shining, but it wasn't too warm; I was feeling good.

Three-quarters of the way through my commute, that happy feeling was abruptly elbowed aside by the sinking concern that I had lost my keys. I pulled over and looked through my bag three times. Not one of those times did I find my keys. That concern became panic.

That panic then became a realization, a fuzzy memory, that maybe when I pulled my bike out of the docking station, I left a scene like this behind.

Two more searches through my bags and pockets yielded nothing, and I then realized that yup, I'm a fucking idiot.

There was nothing else for it: I turned around and rode back to the scene. By now I was really late. I arrived back at my starting point but there was no set of keys.

As the station is outside of RBS, I went in to ask if anyone had turned them in. Nope.

So I texted the office, saying I was going to be especially late and got on the bus back to the office. Since I had nothing but time I figured rather than stew in bitterness and self-flagellation I'd call Barclay's to cancel my cycle key. After a minute I was put through to a human who said he'd cancel my year-long subscription while I waited on the phone. I could hear him typing, then he told me.

Someone had already done it!

Someone had found my keys, cancelled the cycle hire subscription (the only thing of any value to anyone other than myself), and then turned them into the police station.

I must say, this St. Martin's summer weather is making London feel like a nice place to live. But the good turn of a some person to save some random stranger untold frustration and expense is working at least as well.

Today's a good day to be a Londoner. Even if I did have to lose my fucking keys like a complete dickhead to really appreciate it.

Sick of it all

2011-09-29T17:28:00.001+01:00

It's been a month now, officially, that I've had a chest rattling, wake-me-up-at-night cough.

Now, I'm not one for complaining, but it's driving me (and my wife) crazy. The upside is that I've been able to catalogue the slightly different forms the cough has taken: chesty, throaty, sneezy, barky, tickly, phlegmy, and hoarse.

It's like the seven dwarves, only with fluctuating mucous and discomfort levels.

And for as shitty as this month has been, their Disneyfied cartoony images superimposed onto my lungs have given me some comfort.But now I'm really really ready for it all to stop.

That's so Autumn

2011-09-25T17:46:00.000+01:00

It's now officially fall (or autumn) in all of the northern hemisphere. Well, in the UK it is just autumn, as they refuse to enjoy the delights of a seasonal synonym.

But what else would you expect from a country still giggles when you call your trousers 'pants'? But regardless of how you refer to it, here in London this season, which is only days old, is about to get unseasonably hot:

If those temperatures seem reasonable, then you didn't spend July or August in London, where the average temperature was 13.9 degrees and raining.

So we're all looking forward to a week or so of Indian Summer. And if that term seems un-PC, we can all agree to use the seasonal synonym St. Martin's summer.

Not only does the term seem less racist, it also celebrates St. Martin of Tours, the man who popularized the rakish half-cloak, the ideal garment to wear during St. Martin's summer.

Trade Show or Carnival?

2011-09-19T11:46:00.011+01:00

Imagelink

I recently spent a few hours up in Birmingham, at their trainstation/airport/convention centre.

If that sounds deadly boring it's because:

You've spent time at an airport
You've spent time at a train station
You've been to Birmingham

I felt a sense of dread on the train ride up there, and not just for the above reasons, but also because I had been dragooned in the day before to give a half hour presentation on water efficiency.

The presentation went as well as could be expected; that is, passably. I went a little too fast, a few of the slides didn't work, I leaned too heavily on charm over preparation, and ultimately received a well-deserved warm smattering of applause from the sparse crowd. Then, with nothing else to do, I was free to roam the Energy Event killing time before my train home.

I very quickly realized that I had convention/trade shows all wrong. If you can get past the pervasive smell of desperation, you can have an amazing time.

Okay, maybe 'amazing' is overstating the case a bit, but trade show attendance (even at something dry and nichey like this) is a lot like going to a fun fair. In some ways, it's even better.

First of all, it didn't cost me anything. Second of all, I got paid. And third of all, I learned all kinds of things about energy procurement and state-of-the-art billing techniques. That never happened at the fun fairs of my childhood.

As for the good times:

It wasn't the same as getting a cheaply made teddy bear, or gigantic rubber ball, but I collected a set of branded reusable shopping bags full of candy (so! much! candy!), as well as a Rubik's cube, foam squeeze toys, balloons, pens, highlighters, magazines and notepads.

If I'd had the inclination and bag-space I could've collected up a door-stop sized stack of business cards. If I'd had the time and wherewithal, I could've collected up even more giveaway trinkets - the stuff they keep under the table, for discerning punters only.

But I didn't just spend my time wandering around collecting things; that would've been silly. Instead I seized the opportunity to drink deep of the experiential happenings available. There were no tattooed chain-smoking carnies, but in their place were an awful lot of mid-twenties guys in shiny suits and spiky hair. And the occasional leggy blonde.

During my day at the fair I managed to, at various points: ride a Segway, play an Operation-like metallic wand game for the chance to win an iPad2, sit behind the wheel of a prototype sportscar, get up close to a prototype of a different electric sports car, check my emails, play some roulette and do some simulated clay pigeon shooting. It wasn't quite on the level of 'knock the milk jugs over with a baseball', or 'shoot water into clown's mouth' type games, but I still had difficulty prying myself away from the showroom floor in order to make my train.

Obviously all that activity seriously taxed my energy levels. Fortunately I was able to keep peppy thanks to the steady stream of complimentary goods on offer. I had three flat whites, two muffins, a glass of champagne, a chicken finger dipped in salsa, a handful of triangle sandwiches, two energy drinks (Siemens and npower, respectively) a homemade cupcake washed down with a ginger soda water cocktail shaked up by an actual bartender, and of course, candy.

On the train ride home I built myself a nest out of all the free swag, and covered myself with my reusable shopping bags in order to sleep off my stomachache.

But now that the food pains have subsided, the giveaway treats have been disposed of, and my mood has leveled out, I can look back with fondness. I may not get a chance to go next year, but I'll always have my memories of the Energy Event 2011.

Hand Drawn World Map

2011-09-14T17:11:00.003+01:00

Source

It's not easy to be globally offensive in one fell swoop, but it can be done. All you need is some markers, a piece of paper and a rich array of stereotypes.

There are some other offensive maps here.

Total Sperlonga

2011-08-24T10:22:00.010+01:00

There are two famous Sperlongas in Italy.

One is the Sperlonga pictured above; the small whitewashed seaside town outside of Rome, where Emperor Tiberius built his grotto, that is currently a destination for sun-seeking holiday-goers.

The other is this Sperlonga, first name Lorenzo. A pin-up artist contributing to Heavy Metal and Hustler magazine. He painted the image above. Here's a link to his gallery, and more stunning art of stunning Amazonians.

Anyway, when you search Google images for 'Sperlonga', you get images of white sand beaches beneath a marble-encrusted hill, and scantily clad women of gravity-defying proportions toting weapons.

To separate fact from Sci-Fi/Fantasy: I will soon be on a white sand beach with a bikini-clad beauty, because my wife and I are going on holiday.

The reality is that she probably won't be riding a unicorn or a polar bear. But who knows, maybe I'll buy her a sword and some leather arm straps before we board the train.

Marbles Anger Management

2011-08-18T13:33:00.009+01:00

The Edinburgh Fringe experience is known to be a supremely taxing endurance test. In just one short week in the pressure cooker both Dave and I had highlight-reel rants at the unsuspecting.

Dave Enraged
Dave is one of the mellowest guys I know. He's also a pretty straight-shooter, as when, at the Meet the Media event, he finished his explanation of our show with the plain-spoken inquiry "Did you even give a fuck about anything I just said?" The critic was apparently taken well aback by his honesty. She did not review our show.

Dave's willingness to swear at the unsuspecting really hit a high mid-week. During his 'Manual of Style' show Conor O'Toole goes through audience-donated flyers and criticizes their font choices. Rob and I were sitting in the front row, and when he asked for some flyers I duly offered him a stack.

After some cutting remarks about a few of the flyers, Conor plucked the Marbles flyer out and mocked the 'pre-stressed font', before making some disparaging commments about improv in general.

After the show, while Rob and I were thanking Conor, Dave (who designed our flyers) thundered down from the back row and launched into a brief - but loud and filthy - fuck-filled tirade, before storming off. The last we saw of him was two upraised fingers as he was yanked backwards through the doorway by his girlfriend. There was no lack of commitment on any level.

Rob and I could not stop laughing all the way down the stairs. It was, without question, one of my favorite performances of the festival, cleverly blurring the line between truth, art and anger. I'm still not sure how pissed off he was at the critique, though there's no question that it provided a great outlet to vent some frustrations.

Ryan Lashes Out
The very next day I ended up doing, as usual, Roman Around, followed immediately by Marbles. That afternoon Dave, Rob and I battled rap act Sanity Valve, before having a freestyle session with them. Both sessions were on the Royal Mile, and attracted quite a crowd. After that I felt 'done' performance-wise. However, I had agreed to be in the improv pub quiz Fingers on Buzzards that evening. My state of mind was 'fraught' to the point of 'almost completely undone'.

The show itself went fine, if not spectacularly, until, as we were walking towards the finish, we made a pitstop at an unscheduled finale.

In the middle of a straightforward and meaningless improv game I interrupted proceedings to shout and swear at the audience for their slipshod and vindictive scoring. I called them all out collectively and then team by team, before threatening to leave with the old comedy chestnut "fuck all a y'all! I'm fucking outta here!" The bit killed, though I suspect it may have been ever-so-slightly terrifying for those of a delicate disposition.

I was gently cajoled back and finished the show without further incident. It may well have been my finest performance of the festival, as I too managed to blur the line between truth, art, and anger.

Afterwards I chalked the moment up to subverting the format of an improv show (which I think was an informed and intelligent choice), coupled with the need for there to be some sort of climax in the hour. But equally as important was the need to let off some steam. Mission accomplished!

Rob Keeps Cool
Rob did not lose his shit at all during the festival. I think this can be attributed to his character-inspired catchphrase "Spare me," which he used frequently when he was tired of some bullshit or other. In retrospect there's no question that it helped him maintain a detached air of equanimity.

My Edinburgh 2011 - wrapped up

2011-08-16T10:55:00.012+01:00

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I'm back from the Edinburgh Fringe. And again it felt like I wandered off the train at Waverley, got sucked into a heaving vortex of blurry eyes, comedy gold dust, and draft beer, before touching down on the same platform, an indetermined number of days later, feeling most confused and wearing damp socks.

Fortunately I took some notes while I was there, so can comment on some of the things that happened.

Numbers Game

Days in Edinburgh: 10
Days in which it rained: All of them
Shows performed in: 17
Shows watched: 20
Smoothies ingested: 7
Beers drank: Many
Rap battles fought: 3
Cabaret performances: 2
Trips up Arthur's Seat: 0

5 Highlight Shows:

1. Pajama Men: Inexplicable, highly physical absurdist comedy. Just go.
2. Shamblehouse: Former Penny Dread David Reed's haunting and hilarious solo show.
3. Lady Cariad's Characters: Consummately acted dark and twisted character comedy.
4. Horne Section: Big band, big tent, rotating guests, a spinning wheel, plenty of laughs.
5. Mirazozo: Not a show so much as a big inflatable tent with trippy colours seeping in. Ideal Edfringe downtime (if you can handle relaxing while kids are having fun nearby).

Routine homelife:
Though our grip loosened over time, we started the week with the best of intentions and activities. This included morning writing sessions, followed by porridge, and finishing with some character exercises before we set off flyering.

Evenings consisted of some homemade meals. Including an amazing vegetarian chili (with yams), bangers and mash with red onion jus, and chicken breast with tomato/pesto sauce, mashed potatoes and green beans. We also recorded some freestyles, a podcast, and Dave and Rob even made a sketch comedy video.

However, it wasn't long before we slid down from Lords of the Manor to Lords of the Flies. Nobody's glasses got smashed, and we didn't kill anyone in a ritual frenzy, but we did go to bed pretty late. And slaughter a pig.

Rhyming straight off the top

Our flyering tactic was simple: Rob on ukelele and me and Dave freestyling about people in the street. It worked pretty well. And with this chorus, of course it would:

Come and see a show from these three guys/
An hour of stuff, all improvised/
On Hanover Street, at the Jekyll & Hyde/
Step inside, blow your minds, at 1:45/

We also did two cabaret shows. One with our friends from Music Box at C soco. And the other at Electric Circus with Eleanor Conway. As we sometimes do, we finished each set with a rap battle. At the Music Box Cabaret Dave was William Shakespeare and I was the other famous Will, William Shatner. I was thoroughly trounced.

I got my own back the next outing. Dave was Gandhi, and I was Hitler. With some cutting remarks and off-colour threats I was clearly victorious. Unfortunately when Hitler wins, nobody cheers.

Review(s)

So far, Marbles has not been reviewed, but a decent review of Roman Around came out in Three Weeks yesterday. I think I know which show the reviewer saw, as I remember one show dragging quite a bit. If that wasn't the show that she saw, then there's a bigger problem.

I really would've liked to see what a reviewer would make of Marbles, but there will be time for that.

Our shows

We did 8 shows in the basement of a gothic pub, in what could generously be called 'a venue entirely and completely unsuited to the performance at hand'. Fortunately we managed to make it work, utilizing the high banisters, horseshoe-shaped bar, thrusting steps and bizarre shape of the audience to feed our scenes.

Highlights of our run included a battle of the bands where both Dave and I sung (a first!), Dave's story of being an English teacher in Japan, a touching scene about an ambivalent lover and his teenage sweetheart, and the modern artists Sharkface and Wolfbits.

Doing so many shows in such a short period of time helped us define and refine what we do. It also gives us some license to ease back on our shows in the fall, pursue some more personal projects, do some more rehearsing, and just generally take our time getting this project to the next level.

Little known fact: there is also a calm after the storm.

Marbles at the end of our last show

London Riots & Aftermath

2011-08-15T16:20:00.012+01:00

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The recent riots have shattered the image that Britain is OK. Because it's clearly fucking not OK.

The good news is Brits like complaining about things, and tutting - and these riots have given them far better reasons to complain than 'inclement weather' or 'underperforming football team'.

The downside (other than the damage and fear and so forth) is the potential for these riots to wreak sustained and lasting damage on people, families, public services, and society. A potential that the government is wasting no time acting upon.

Rioters (and their families) are being kicked out of their homes, and/or pushed off benefits. Some wannabe participants are being jailed for four years for making stupid facebook comments. The anger and fervour has switched sides - from rioters to the riotees - and being transmuted into profound and lasting changes.

Naomi Klein's Shock Doctrine talks about "using the public’s disorientation following massive collective shocks ... to achieve control by imposing economic shock therapy." And sure enough that's what's happening. Plans to cut funding to social programmes or give greater powers to the police can now continue as either: necessary to prevent another outbreak, or punishment for the rioting that has already occurred.

Not that I disagree on punishments being meted out for unjustifiable lawless thievery (on whatever social level it occurs) - because I think people sticking taxpayers with massive bills because they themselves wanted to indulge their misplaced sense of entitlement is just plain wrong.

But greater alienation of those already most willing to disregard social norms seems like a pretty short-sighted and narrow-minded plan. Especially as many of those people are already disconnected from support networks and socialization channels. And while you're at it, stripping funding to groups and institutions that those people rely on is unlikely to help in the long term.

Now I don't support yobs or yobbishness, nor do I think 'benefit recipient' should be a viable life plan, and yet, I can't help but feel that, riots or no riots, the re-engineering of society is being done entirely the wrong way.

34 reasons to keep on keeping on

2011-07-31T18:17:00.020+01:00

Last year's birthday blogpost was all peppy, as I looked out on a year full of promise. That year is now behind me, and it turned out to be full of reality.

So what now? I'm not sure. All I know is that the highs and lows must have taught me something; there's a lesson around here somewhere, I'm sure of it...

Aha! I've found it. That lesson is: keep on keeping on.

And sometimes keeping-going needs inspiration. Fortunately, I've got a list of 34 reasons to keep going/excuses not to quit/pithy wisdom nuggets

Like me, you can use them to help you keep going when times get tough.

     34. Just keep going, even (and especially) when times get tough.
     33. Buy yourself a really nice hat, you'll feel better and keep your head warm.
     32. Traffic can be a real bitch sometimes so maybe find an alternate route. Or invent the hoverboard. There, you just set a new goal. Easy.
     31. They keep moving the fucking goalposts? Maybe you need to take more shots then, you fucking baby.
     30. Even though everybody knows that 'it's a small world after all', Planet Earth is actually pretty big by most standards of size. That's why hot-air balloon travel has fallen so far out of favour.
     29. You haven't synched your Facebook, Twitter and Google+ accounts? Maybe you should go outside for awhile. See what the sky looks like.
     28. Dreams don't come true - which is good because some of your dreams are pretty fucked up. Like that one with the rattlesnakes at Disneyland.
     27. Aspirations and goals can come true, if you work hard at them. And are extremely lucky.
     26. Relax. Do some breathing. Do this all the time.
     25. Nobody ever won a gold medal for crying.
     24. You can't spell fun without U. Or F-U. Or the N... Look, you need all of the ingredients to bake the funcake that is your life.
     2. Don't worry about writing out a whole list. Just cover a few key points and a couple other random things. That's good enough.
     1. Wear a tie now and again, but not too often.

It worked. I'm feeling much better now. About my life, and moving forward.

Look out 34, here I am.

Countdown to Edinburgh Fringe 2011

2011-07-27T15:09:00.011+01:00

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In just one week's time I'll be back in Edinburgh for another kick at the Edinburgh Fringe. You may remember last year's encounter with the fringe as a thoroughly exhausting, and deeply rewarding experience.

And so, as August draws close yet again, I prepare to make another assault on the festival. Although there are some key differences in this year's strategy.

Two shows
It's not quite madness, but doubling the number of shows I'll be doing might be silly, or it might just be brilliant. We'll find out soon.

I didn't want to abandon Roman Around. It's a quality show, it got some good press, and I love doing it, so I've been polishing it up in preparation for another trip north for the Edinburgh Fringe. Due to the fact I've already done a bunch of previews I opted to go virtually preview-less this summer, save one excursion to Bedford this Saturday, for their Bedfringe.

I'll also be doing Marbles, my two-man improvised comedy show. (It'll actually be three-man, as we'll be joined by our Funk Overlord Rob Grundel). I can't say enough about how much I love working with these guys, and love the unpredictable nature of our show. It's both relaxed and slick, and always thrilling to perform. We prostrate ourselves before the comedy gods, and the show goes wherever we're blown. It's pretty special.

Flatmates
Last year I was a lone wolf. I met people of course, and knew some people up there. But I went alone, performed alone, flyered alone, often ate alone, and went home alone every night to a bubble outside of Fringe mania. And to be honest, it was great. But this year us Marbles will all be rooming together. I expect our flat will be a hotbed of us doing bits, writing, rapping, cooking and generally hanging out having fun. Even though we've had a busy year getting Marbles to this point (regular monthly shows in London, gigs at other comedy events, an Edinburgh run...) the three of us don't get to hang out all that much. So we're all very much looking forward to that. What will result from rooming together for ten days? I don't know, but I'm excited to find out.

Publicity
Last year I was on the fringe hustle from June. This year, I'm slightly less so. I'm more 'quietly confident' instead of 'giddily nervous'. Unfortunately, with thousands of shows seeking media and audience attention, quiet confidence won't go far. Of course, I've sent out some press releases and have tried to get some people interested. But one show is a re-tread, and the other, well, people have no idea what a Marbles show is like, so it's a tough sell to journalists. That means that while we're in Edinburgh we'll be pounding pavement and flyering incessantly. The question is: will that be enough? Let's just say that I'm quietly confident that it will be.

Guest spots
Last year I did my 12:30 Roman Around slot and then had the rest of the day to myself. It usually involved a fair amont of flyering, a few shows, and possibly a nap. This year I'll be doing a few 'guest spots' in addition to the regularly scheduled programming. Already I've got a guest improv spot lined up at Fingers on Buzzards - a global pub quiz/improv mash-up, a couple of slots (improv/stand-up) at Late, Live & Loud at the Electric Circus. There's also a mad rap battle planned, where Marbles will attempt to verbally dismember Sanity Valve and the Beta Males. Shit's gonna be real.

Whether other opportunities arrive or not, it's always nice to have the opportunity to collab with other performers up in Edinburgh. I mean there'll be like 15,000 comedians and performers, so why not?

Shows to see
Last year, I performed like a raconteur and meandered like a flaneur. This year, I've got an agenda. As I don't usually go out in London unless I'm performing, there are a lot of shows of friends, acquaintances and friends of friends that I am quite excited about and want to see while they're all lined up for me in Edinburgh. Such as Music Box, Max & Ivan, Cariad Lloyd, Fraser Millward, Casual Violence, Alex Horne, the Pappy's trio, Cabaret Whore, Late Night Gimp Fight, The School of Night, Baby Wants Candy, Jingo & Butterfield, Delete the Banjax, Mr B. The Gentleman Rhymer, Lady Garden, Robin & Partridge. And many more. Will I be able to see all those shows as well as hang out and relax and flyer and stuff. No. Will I try? Yes. And I'll also try to see some other shows from people I don't know, or haven't met yet. Setting comedy dials to 'overload'...

Conclusion
It's going to be a mad, mad time. Not unhinged fear and loathing, but a seething cauldron of creativity, comedy, inspiration, baked potatoes and beer. And it's just one week away(!) If you want to stay regularly up to date on what's happening, I suggest getting your Like button-clicking finger ready and go to Facebook (for Marbles and Roman Around). Or follow Marbles and/or me on Twitter.

Let it commence.

Opening the '-gate' gates

2011-07-25T15:49:00.012+01:00

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Before any scandal even hits the streets of the internet it's got a '-gate' tacked onto the end.

Wikipedia has a page dedicated to scandals with the 'gate' suffix. David Marsh, editor of the Guardian Style guide wrote a blogpost about the practice last year.

That post was recently invoked when people were attempting to come to grips with the News of the World/News International-led collusion of the Government, the police and the media. Marsh proposed ending the practice, but it didn't work.

Instead people dithered about what word to attach to the front of '-gate'. Would it be known as Hackgate, Everything-gate, or simply Gategate? In the end, they just went with the ho-hum Hackgate.

But how to '-gate' your scandal is really just an issue of taste. There are bigger, more practical concerns.

For one: There will soon be a massive scandal about water. It's impossible that there won't be - what with the issue of global water privatization, and the powerful socio-economic forces behind it, and the effects of climate change. The documentary Flow raises some key questions, but not the crucial one: how will we call this scandal?

If we continue using the current system of suffixing, we will be unable to have a handy shorthand for this global water crisis. We'll either end up with 'Watergate' - which, while retro and catchy, would be totally confusing.

Or we'll be forced to circumvent that confusion by calling it something like 'Aquagate', 'Liquigate' or 'Privatizagate'. Stupid and unintuitive, one and all.

A lesser concern, but one which deserves to be raised is: what if there's another scandal involving the Watergate hotel? It's certainly possible. Going by current practice that would be known as 'Watergategate', which is entirely too unwieldy as a moniker, and much too self-referential. So where do we go from here? Easy.

Buck.

That's right. Buck. The trend of a short, hard, single syllable word that can double as a suffix is now long-established. So why don't we arbitrarily pick a sweet new word, like '-buck'. It will save us so much confusion when that water scandal hits. So let's work on it. Try using it now: Hackbuck or Everythingbuck. Remember Bigotbuck?

Try them on, see how you feel.

It's only slightly less arbitrary than 'gate' - it just popped into my mind. But it works.

As a bonus, check out this picture of a waterbuck.

David Shore's making waves!

2011-07-15T22:19:00.010+01:00

A recent article in the Guardian on Canadian improviser and improv teacher David Shore has stirred up a lot of feeling among the London improv community. And by 'feeling' I mean 'indignant anger'. The article, which was essentially a puff piece on Shore, can also be interpreted as a hatchet job on improv in the UK.

Broadly speaking improv in the UK lacks some of the panache and forcefulness of its overseas cousin. It's frequently viewed as the poor relation of stand-up here, and doesn't have the same tradition of innovation and broader respect within the comedy community that it enjoys in Canada and America. But it's getting there. And rubbishing it was definitely not Shore's intent.

According to him in a response he posted to the article, "The article itself contains a few errors and some of my statements were taken out of context." I believe it.

The piece, written by Andrea Hubert - a former student of Shore's - suffers from a distinct lack of research. Not on the origins of longform improv, how advanced the scene is on the other side of the pond, or Shore's background - those are all covered off well. However, she definitely doesn't seem informed on the scene here.

I mean the whole article does not once mention Marbles. That's a stunning gap in basic research, that's for sure.

She's put to rights in the comments, which are as interesting a read as the article itself. They correct a lot of the misconceptions and factual errors.

But for all the strong feeling (much of it justified) that this article has generated, I think people will eventually see the bigger picture.

Longform improv got a big article in The Guardian! The Guardian is a national newspaper, and a tastemaker for a lot of potential audience so this can only pay off for the community as a whole.

And the subject of the piece is a talented and accomplished performer and teacher. He's got the gravitas and chops to get an article in The Guardian, and deserves respect for that. Yes, an opportunity to spread some of that love around was missed, but let's rectify that by using this publicity to invite more.

And the contentiousness of the piece is actually another huge positive. The article has gotten a bunch of London improvisers all hot and bothered. I'm expecting that heated botherness to turn into a greater enthusiasm for the craft, a deeper belief and pride in their own abilities and what they've accomplished, and redoubled efforts to step up their own game.

And hopefully, rather than ultimately dividing the community, David Shore's Guardian article will get improvisers talking to each other more, and working together to bring longform to a wider audience here.

Cycling London on a Boris Bike

2011-07-14T14:27:00.011+01:00

Photocredit

I'm a people person. So you'd be forgiven for thinking that I like to spend a bunch of hours a day standing nose-to-shoulder on the bus or tube.

I don't though.

What I do like is getting off the bus, punching a bunch of numbers into a screen to free up a heavy bike and zipping through downtown London on said bike.

Yup. As much as I love(d) actually being a bike owner, there is something even more convenient about being able to pick up a bike from a docking station and scooting from place to place. No attachment, no maintenance - just pick it up whenever you want, and dump it off when you're done. Think no more about it.

Not only has this arrangement got me out of the necessity of taking two (or more) buses in the morning, it's actually significantly faster than straight transit. And it gives me options when I'm moving through the city; sometimes I bike, sometimes I walk, sometimes I'm on the bus, and other times I even plunge into the sweaty bowels of this city and hop a tube. It's about freedom. Of choice.

There is of course a downside: sometimes the docking stations don't work, and you end up meandering like an unfocused pinball from machine to machine trying to make the docking station release just one lousy fucking bike.

Or once the cycling leg of your commute is done you can end up circling neighbourhoods looking for a docking station. But it gets easier, once you know your spots.

On another level, the TFL Barclays Bike Hire London City Gadabout Arrangement also suffers from being known more colloquially as the 'Boris Bike' scheme. Boris merely carried on the scheme started by his predecessor 'Red' Ken Livingstone. So perhaps they should be known as Kencycles. But that's just nitpickery. Let's think big picture.

Right now these bikes are holding a significant added advantage over buses: I can spend my bike time frantically muttering my Edinburgh show to myself, and not look like a crazy. (I do have headphones in, so in theory it appears that I'm on the phone. That's what I tell myself, anyway. Not crazy at all.)

And, as Edinburgh draws ever nearer, this precious rehearsal time trumps all. Even rainstorms.

Beats, Rhymes & Mirth: The Anthem (live)

2011-07-11T10:53:00.009+01:00

Friday night was Beats, Rhymes and Mirth #3, London's foremost live jazz and improvised comedy night that features a lot of hip hop.

The first two BRM nights were good - amazing even - but, with apologies to those who didn't make Friday's show, this night was when we became proper alchemists.

If you want to get a sense of how correct it got, click on the link below and listen to the BRM anthem.

BRM-001-Anthem by Beats Rhymes & Mirth

It just went on from there.

Carry on through to hear the strange rap battle that took place between Henry VIII, Fred Flintstone and a dinosaur.

Toe-to-toe on the mic? That's right.

BRM-010-HistoricalFreestyle by Beats Rhymes & Mirth

There was a serious amount of sweaty uplifting fun funk thrown down. Hopefully enough to tide everyone over until the next comedy jazz and rap spectacular in October.

Until then, keep checking the Marbles website, or fanpage to keep up-to-date on what's going on.

If you can't wait to get your fix, the next episode of our talkshow The Yak is this Wednesday, and it will be of the highest order.

John Arne Riise: Making sandwiches

2011-07-08T14:10:00.005+01:00

Roma's short-sleeved, left-footed wingback John Arne Riise is heading to Fulham.

The reason that is important is the video you'll see if you click through. It is a JAR tribute that will blow your mind.

Thanks to Chris at the always-excellent Roma Offside blog, for digging this up.

Celebrate Canada in London

2011-07-01T12:37:00.003+01:00

It's Canada Day in London! There's a massive street party in Trafalgar Square. In addition to timbits and poutine, there is a hockey tournament and music from The Mahones, Alex Cuba and Blue Rodeo. Also yoga. And chef David Adjey. I don't really know who most of those people are, but the point is: it's a party.

I mentioned this to a colleague today, to which she remarked that Canada Day is a way bigger celebration in the UK than any British celebration of anything patriotic.

That gave me pause.

When I resumed I realized why that is: because while both Canadians and the Brits are known to be modest and self-deprecating, Canadians secretly think they're awesome - and are happy to have an opportunity to bury their 'aw shucks' persona under a Canada Flag cape and belch along to Oh Canada. In public. In a foreign country, no less. Canada Day makes this kind of behaviour acceptable.

The Brits have no such release valve. Generally uncomfortable with any boast that isn't either sarcastic or almost-impossibly roundabout, they're just not good with celebrating Britishness. The only day that even comes close is St. George's Day in April. And that day has been co-opted by racists (or the concern that celebrating it appears racist).

How to deal with this sensitive situation? Easy.

I did what any Canadian would do: I invited my colleague to come down to Trafalgar Square and celebrate how awesome Canada is! That's Canadian pride and Canadian hospitality for you.

We're more than happy to come over to your place, throw a huge party celebrating how awesome (and dangerous), we are - and then make sure you feel free to attend.

You're welcome.

Seriously... come on down.

The Yak, Episode 2

2011-06-20T16:57:00.004+01:00

"We tame the chat beast, you drink the milk"

Marbles, everyone's favourite Canadian-Cornish comedy duo consisting of Dave Waller and Ryan Millar, have a brand new undertaking on the go, and it's real/surreal televisual entertainment. It's called The Yak, and it's a talk show.

We already had Episode 1, and it was rock-solid. Episode 2 is this Wednesday, 22 June at The Miller, and it should be a proper doozy.

The Yak is a real-style talkshow; it has opening credits, hosts, cameras, guests, a commercial break, music and all of the other trappings of talkshowery. Dig it.

The difference is that the guests are the cream of London's character comics. They grace our sofa with their oddest creations and we shoot the breeze, then chew the fat.

Afterwards, we have a proper chin-wag.

As if that wasn't enough entertainment for your Wednesday evening, it's followed by a full two-man improv show from Marbles: compelling improvised oddness will unfold right in front of you and your bestest friends.

The Yak, Episode 2 features:

Fraser Millward
Andrew Gentilli
Chrus Werren
Musical Guest: Morgan James & Dan Roberts

Hate Violence, Love Vancouver

2011-06-16T18:05:00.007+01:00

(Rich Lam/Getty Images)

The Canucks were outplayed at home and lost the Stanley Cup Finals to the Boston Bruins 4-0. Not even a goal to cheer for in the last game. How depressing.

I wish that was the most depressing thing about Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

Unfortunately, in a stunning and sustained display of douchebaggery, a bunch of fucking tools burned and looted the downtown.

The world, understandably shocked, turned on Vancouver. A riot over a hockey game? Again? Every single person I know is embarrassed and depressed.

But those same people - and all the people that make Vancouver such a great city - are turning it around.

From the hashtag #thisismyvancouver - a collection of things people love about the city - to quickly erected sites dedicated to helping police track down the thugs (Brock Anton I'm looking at you) people are coming out to show that these actions don't represent us.

Of course, the greatest indication of how Vancouverites feel about their city is the facebook group (Post Riot Clean-up: Let's help Vancouver; in the space of half a day 15,000 people signed up to pitch in and get the city ship-shape again - many of them in their Canucks jerseys. This show of community spirit and constructive defiance, well #thisismyVancouver.

The city is showing that, despite the non-representative actions of a bunch of complete assholes, Vancouver is a city capable of love amongst the ruins. Let's make that the image that endures after this mess.

A Date with Curt Hatred

2011-06-10T00:10:00.003+01:00

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After numerous scheduling SNAFUs, I finally had a date with the legendary Curt Hatred. I'd never met (or even seen) him before; this isn't surprising, for he's a shadowy figure. What is surprising is how magnetic he is in person.

A bon vivant, raconteur and something of a gadabout. Curt Hatred is also a sexual philosopher, battery farmer, performance art reconstructionist and scout leader. Among other things.

My encounter was both brief and delightful; he's simultaneously more and less than human. He was the inspiration guiding a pataphysical intervention at The Miller pub. It was entirely improvised.

On the surface, it would have appeared as a show in which Michael Brunström directed a group of improvisers in a longform-via-shortform improv format. It was that, and it was good.

Various narrative threads were explored. A refrigerated love story touched down on a tropical island, via vigilant veganism and religious symbolism. It made sense in a way that transcended ordinary sense. In fact, maybe I do understand pataphysics after all.

And hiding backstage rifling through handbags and leaving half-eaten cheese sandwiches, was Curt himself. I'm grateful for the chance to be in the room with the man, and on the basis of this, will seek out his back catalogue of b-sides.

Amphibious Ice Cream & Weekly Celebrations

2011-06-08T17:14:00.004+01:00

London is a land of opportunity, but only if you're paying attention.

Just last week, I missed the UK's National Ice Cream Week. Which means I missed the opportunity to swim out into the middle of the Thames and get myself a Flake 99 from a floating ice cream truck.

First of all: this is an awesome idea. Not the swimming in the Thames, but the ice cream vanboat. But now that the week is over, I may have literally 'missed the boat'.

And not that much earlier, I missed out on National Sandwich Week. Clearly, I have a problem.

I realize I need to be hyper-vigilant if I want to celebrate all of these great weeks that seem to happen so often here.

So I'm getting myself focused for next week: it's Carers Week, National Crime Writing Week, and National Eye Health Week.

And this time I've got the weekend to prepare, so I will be ready.

Of course, I don't yet know how I'll celebrate these special occasions, but I assure you it will involve a lot of ice cream sandwiches.

Me and Vancouver's Stanley Cup Fever(s)

2011-05-31T15:23:00.006+01:00

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The entire city of Vancouver is gripped by Stanley Cup fever. Raucous celebrations, parades of high-fives, car flags whipping in the west coast breeze - the signs and symptoms are everywhere. The fever has an unshakeable hold on the city and its inhabitants. Or so I'm told.

Too bad I'm in London.

After the emotional rollercoaster of an exorcism that was the Chicago series, the team - led by an heroic Ryan Kesler - ground out a victory against Nashville. And in the conference finals against San Jose, the Canucks seemed to collectively find another gear - from Luongo on out.

And now, just as they're hitting their stride, they're in the Stanley Cup Finals. Unlike their last two appearances, this time they're the favourites.

If EA Sports' Stanley Cup Finals Simulator is right (as it has been in 13 out of the 14 match-ups so far) this will be a tight seven game series with two overtimes. And at the end of it all, the Vancouver Canucks, in their 40th year in the league, will hoist the cup. The city will go coconuts for weeks.

I wish I could be there to soak up and stoke the revelry.

Instead I will be huddled around my laptop very late at night, or very early in the morning. My sunken eyes fixed unwavering on the screen. I will be irritable and sweaty, with a blanket wrapped around my shuddering frame. I will drink tea and eat biscuits - no chicken wings and Molson Canadian for me. I will be alone. I will cheer silently (so as not to wake my sleeping wife).

It doesn't sound as fun as the honktastic celebrations that will rule the Vancouver streets. And it's not, not by a long shot. But it is a playoff fever I call my own.

And, if the symptoms sound suspiciously like actual fever, let's just say that while we may all be Canucks, we all do it in our own way.

The Rapture has been Rescheduled

2011-05-24T16:43:00.008+01:00

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When 21 May came and went without so much as a single Ascension, lead Rapture enthusiast Harry Camper was half dumbfounded and partially flabbergasted.

But, rather than getting all bummed out about it, he did what any good doomsayer would do: he went back to his scripture to see where he fucked up.

Camper had always claimed that the endtimes would begin on 21 May, and continue through to 21 October. But, according to the BBC, after going over his notes, and crunching some numbers late on the Sunday of a Rapture-free weekend "it had 'dawned' on him that a 'merciful and compassionate God' would spare humanity by compressing the apocalyptic destruction into a shorter time frame."

And, though his math will be called into question, nobody doubts his earnestness; when one rapture fails to materialize he just gets right back to progosticating the apocalypse. It must have been so easy to teach him to ride a bike.

And it's great news for us naysayers, because his revised timline for the End of Days means we've got a bit more time to get ready.

However, the people who sold their worldly possessions and invested heavily in the 21st of May as The End are reportedly pretty miffed. All too easily I can imagine their disappointment at not being dead. It's pretty sad stuff.

But maybe they're just not seeing the big picture. So here's a quick pep talk: "Chin up you big palooka! At least you don't have to worry about quitting your job, selling your home and giving away all your worldly possessions - that's already done. You can just chillax until October's Rapture. Feel better? I thought so."

And here's some more encouragement (this feelgood sentiment applies to everybody): "Hurray! The world hasn't ended!"

Yet.

A man and his will to survive

2011-05-18T15:48:00.009+01:00

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I rolled up to the office complex yesterday and - stomach rumbling - ducked into the ground floor cafe. It had been a long bus-and-Boris-Bike journey; I was hanging tough and staying hungry. My goal was simple: a bagel with cream cheese.

The cafe was almost empty. I placed my order. Then, rising up to the challenge of a steadily-increasing hunger, I asked for some tomato.

I surprised myself with this bold decision. I'm normally heavy-lidded and plodding at least until noon, but on this day I was resolute and steely-eyed. I felt completely at ease, yet entirely ready to change my passion for glory.

As I waited, I rocked onto the balls of my feet and surveyed the deli counter. My hands instinctively closing into fists.

Even as my every sinew coiled, I felt peaceful. Then, with my consciousness rising up, I realized what made this day so peculiar:

Eye of the Tiger was being pumped in through the overhead speakers at a barely audible volume. Not loud enough to really be heard, but definitely loud enough to turn a down-on-his-luck bagel-eater into a champion.

The clerk handed my bagel over the counter. I snatched it out of his hand, and, without bothering to pay, I jogged out the front door. With the weak sunlight streaming shining off my glasses, I pumped my bagel-carrying fist above my head and jogged into the lobby. I continued to jog in place as I waited for the elevator.

Moments later, I exited the elevator, strode into the office, perched myself on the corner of my desk and stripped down to the waist.

Then I destroyed that bagel.

Highbury & Islington's Danger Park

2011-05-14T13:47:00.002+01:00

Cars and lorries chug around the square, peeling off to the M-something to the north, or penetrating into the heart of north-east London. Smack in the centre of this whirl of vehicles is an oasis of lawn and tall trees. A park – completely inaccessible – surrounded by a fence of circulating traffic, and an actual fence. It has no gate, nor a crosswalk to facilitate access.

Highbury and Islington is a representative slice of London – double-decker buses, cars, and lorries circle a roundabout, there's an underutilized section of green space. The buildings around the square are also representative: charity shop, a couple of chicken places, tube station, a bank and of course, a pub.

But Hen & Chickens is more than a pub. It is also a theatre that features new comedy, including impro, sketch, stand-up and any of the above in various stages of completion.

I've never been inside, but it may just be my favourite pub in London. I love comedy (doing and watching), I adore beers, and I can be contented with a weekend paper, book or good company in the dark, rich atmosphere of a proper London pub for hours on end. Throw in a comedy show and it could be much longer before I emerge.

But fear of a late resurfacing is not what keeps me out of the H&C. The most time I spend near the Hen and Chickens is a few idle moments peering in the window whilst waiting for the 277 bus to peel off of the traffic and take me home.

And as soon as a bus I intend on taking arrives, I switch into what some might call 'commuter-mode' but what I prefer to think of as Jason Bourne-mode; with a powerful urgency I slip through the crowds and make an escape.

Of course, I always plan to come back up here and catch a show – or at least a beer – but it just hasn't happened. However, with the expectations I've got built up, I may prefer to just keep the Hen & Chickens as it exists in my mind: the perfect, lighthearted, beer-soaked respite from the traffic of the corner on which it stands watch. A purpose built booze and laughs oasis, maintained forever as it should be – unspoilt. Just like the patch of green in the centre of the square it stands watch over.

Gimme Indie Rock

2011-05-09T16:25:00.004+01:00

Let's face it: your Monday could probably be improved by Noah 23's great 'Gimme Indie Rock' mixtape. Noah, a Canadian underground hip-hop stalwart, messes with a bunch of indie rock, rapping overtop of Pavement, Modest Mouse and Cat Power, among others.

And/or, if you feel so inclined, this 23 minute DJ Z-Trip megamix of 30 years of Beastie Boys is also pretty damn fine.

Happy Monday.

A Nice Business trip

2011-05-07T12:34:00.009+01:00

Last week I found myself on my way to Nice to represent our organisation at a series of meetings with people I'd never met, on topics I had only the sketchiest of details about. Not a recipe for guaranteed success.

Couple that with my general aversion to businessness and, as sure as the probability of being regarded with deep suspicion at the airport, a cornucopia of faux-pas was in the offing.

Fortunately, that trouble never really materialized. The south of France was Nice. And I managed to take care of business. The biggest problem was that Nice was even warmer and sunnier and beachier than pictured above, and I was dressed like this:

However, I did manage a quick submersion in the chilly May morning Mediterannean, and for great chunks of the meetings I managed to present myself as capable and earnest. So yeah, success. Business and pleasure mixed.

I realized, while waiting for my return flight, that business trips - when required very infrequently - are novel and, largely on the strength of that novelty, are even enjoyable.

Plus when they are to vacation-friendly places like Nice, you can complain about them in a way that makes people both despise and envy you; that's a winning combination.

However, I've heard that once the novelty fades, you're left with nothing but the pain in the ass from uncomfy plane seats, and bags under your eyes from watching incomprehensible late-night French TV in bed.

Here's hoping the travel stays novel.

Marbles Presents: The Yak

2011-05-06T10:39:00.007+01:00

On Wednesday 11 May, Marbles (the world's foremost Canadian-Cornish improvised comedy duo - consisting of Dave Waller and Ryan Millar) will be unveiling a sweet-ass new comedy show.

It is The Yak, an improvised talk show hosted by the beardy bespectacled duo. It is part of London Improv, the sexy new comedy club taking place at The Miller pub.

The patter will be unscripted, the commercials fake, and the energy will be loosey-goosey. As always, it will also include a one-of-a-kind Marbles long form set.

A recipe for thought-provoking hilarity.

And, like any good talk show, we will also have guests... and those guests will be real characters.

For our run we will have all manner of ludicrous folks coming down (including a tortured French chanteuse, an embittered theatre critic, a seven year-old stand-up, a guy from a gay future... the list goes on) and some very classy musical guests.

Our first show features:

Hannah Barberra Cartland, a cycle courier and performance poet from the West Country
And a very special appearance from some undersea royalty...
An undoubtedly brilliant musical act (TBC)

Watch comedy future tap into comedy past and have a chat about it... watch a live taping of The Yak!

Willing the Canucks to victory

2011-04-27T13:03:00.007+01:00

I got home last night exhausted from a long weekend in Dublin. I went to bed. Of course, I wanted to stay up until 3am and watch Game 7 of Canucks vs Blackhawks, but I knew that would be folly. So instead I steeled myself for some mental willing-and-hoping-for-victory before I went to bed.

To begin putting that positive energy out into the world, I tweeted this: "I am applying all my psychic energies to willing a massive Game 7 victory. Go #Canucks Go!"

My friend Dylan replied almost immediately, putting me through to this article. No, I hadn't read it. But when I did, I realized I'd been on the right path - the path to victory; I redoubled the amount of good vibes I was pouring into the atmosphere.

It turns out that putting out positive vibes and fervent hopes from afar was actually a strategy endorsed by the owner, who asked fans to "get that positive energy out."

My positive playoff energy was already out, all over London. And then, on the weekend, all over Dublin.

I had suffered through the successive defeats from afar but - rather valiantly I would say - I refused to give up hope.

And Game 7 I put it all on the line, and online. My willing and hoping and positivity had reached fever pitch. And according to that article, even being so far away wouldn't be a problem.

As Anna Golbeck, co-owner of Vancouver’s Vikings Dragons & Fairies says: "You don’t need to be there at all. You just have to remember that you have a mind and you can use it to influence and create the reality around you." So I did.

I'm happy to report that it worked.

'It' being both my positivity and - also - the hard work, grit, passion, and belief of every single Canuck.

Beats, Rhymes & Mirth 2

2011-04-20T15:52:00.004+01:00

Our first Beats, Rhymes and Mirth show was a huge success, back in March - fusing hip-hop, comedy and jazz. Furniture provided the music, we provided the improv, and then us and various audience members rocked mics. Some evidence.

All in all, pretty damn amazing - a view you might have reinforced by this excellent review.

We're bringing it back 16 May at the Wilmington Arms in Clerkenwell. And we've got some amazing guests(including Rob Broderick from Abandoman) and some new and old surprises lined up for this one. Should be a scorcher. Get tickets.

Greening the thumbs

2011-04-17T15:08:00.007+01:00

There are currently real live plants growing all over our terrace (and the perilous wraparound perimeter) of our top-floor flat. Strawberries, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchinis, lettuce, peppers, and even more strawberries. Weather and green thumbs permitting, those bushes above will be heaving with fresh strawberries in a month or so.

But it's too early to tell how this experiment in nature-nurturing and increased self-sufficiency is really going to go. But that's not the point; cutting open soil bags and inserting the little seedlings was as fun a Sunday afternoon activity as the trawling of the garden centre was for my Saturday.

I think this enthusiastic gardening effort is due in part to the sunshiney weather, partially to the farm fresh produce we've been getting delivered every week from Abel & Cole, and partially due to the latest Marbles booking: a night in a theatre in Ealing, performing for an evening of theatre based on Allotments. It's got me thinking about gardening, and how it's probably a skill, and one that can only be acquired by actually having a go.

So here we are, having a go.

Stephen Harper, shit-doer

2011-04-14T20:42:00.009+01:00

Stephen Harper, former Prime Minister of Canada, is quantifiably a terrible human being. The website Shit Harper Did is a harrowing catalogue of things that Stephen Harper has done during his tenure as Prime Minister of Canada (AKA the Harper Government). There are some really great promo videos too. Watch them, and get your friends to watch them. Check out the website, see some of the shit Harper's done.

And then vote.

The website is fun to visit: the layout is clean and the snappy headlines well-written. The content, however, is heart-wrenchingly depressing. How is this possible? Are the things Harper does to seem human really that effective?

Ugh.

This is even worse for me, as I've recently discovered that I'm unable to vote - due to residing abroad for too long. But that doesn't mean that I don't care about Canada, and don't want to have a decent human being as leader.

Wills & Kate getting married, separated

2011-04-05T16:47:00.010+01:00

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I don't know if you heard, but very soon Prince William will be marrying Kate Middleton in London. The news cycle is heating up as we count down. For example, just days ago, this story broke: Wills is having pre-wedding jitters!

Juicy!

Any wedding under this much scrutiny, followed by a life in the public eye on the public's dime, would put a lot of strain on any union. It can't be easy, this goldbricked road in front of them; I, quite honestly, wish them all the best.

New Zealand, however, doesn't fuck around with such niceties. At least the Stamp Department doesn't.

As you can see above, the stamp-printers of this sheep-loving Commonwealth nation figured: what with the likelihood of divorce these days, why don't we make a joint Wills and Kate stamp that's perforated right down the middle?

That way you can use the commemorative stamp of them united in blissful wedlock to mail a family member a small wheel of cheese or their car keys. Or other slightly weighty or oversized item.

But if you only need to send something small, like a couple pieces of dried fruit or a copy of a divorce certificate, then you can just rip the soon-to-be-wed Royal Couple apart and use them as individual stamps.

Maybe Wills caught wind of Kate and Harry's commemorative mug fandango?

But if the thought of tearing the betrothed asunder is too much to bear, remember: it need not be permanent rupture. Just think of it as separate first-class vacations. Or perhaps a trial perforation.

And not that anyone's counting, but the Wills stamp is worth a full New Zealand dollar more than Kate's half. I hope that's not what drove them apart.

UPDATE: As a Kiwi friend has pointed out. The stamp is actually from Niue, a tiny island nation close to NZ. They use NZ money and stamps, but are not actually New Zealand.

Dogboarding!

2011-03-29T12:17:00.006+01:00

Skateboarding and dog ownership are, independently, pretty awesome things. If your dog can skateboard, well, that's the pinnacle of coolness.

Until dogboarding came along.

Turns out owning a dog that is a skateboard beats owning a dog that can skateboard. Best. Shit. Ever.

Click through to watch dogboarding in action. Then go to the Daniels website and hire them to do stuff.

Dogboarding from DANIELS on Vimeo.

For the record:
"No animals were harmed in the making of this video.
Don't harm animals, dummy."

Canadian Election, British Protests

2011-03-28T17:00:00.006+01:00

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On March 26th 500,000 people marched through the streets of London against the savage cuts the current coalition government has been undertaking without any mandate whatsoever.

Led by David Cameron and incompetently supported by the once-upon-a-time-political-upstart-now-has-been Nick Clegg the coalition government have been dismantling the public sector and making slight concessions to regular people, whilst 'reshaping the economy in the interests of business'.

Meanwhile, in Canada, former Prime Minister Stephen Harper spent his Saturday asking the Governor General for a writ of election. Because the day before Canadian MPs gave Harper's government a vote of non-confidence.

Between the two, there's the will and the way for change, but independently, I'm not sure much is going to happen.

Here in London the government has already made it clear that half a million people taking to the streets won't affect their plans. David Cameron didn't bother to comment on the demo - because half a million angry citizens isn't really something a leader should concern themselves with.

Or should they?

Meanwhile, in Canada, the polls are already suggesting another - albeit narrow - Tory victory.

Now obviously, the respective situations are different, and the level of cuts here is ridiculously, obscenely and cravenly extreme, but still, being aware of both events, and having a vested interest in the outcome of each, I can't help willing there to be a bit of crossover - a bit more protest and hullaballoo in Canada, and a bit more toppling of a non-representative and generally terrible government ruling without a clear mandate here.

Marbles on Vonnegut

2011-03-25T16:35:00.010Z

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Me and Dave Waller will be doing our Marbles improv comedy business at So it Goes, at Cafe Oto in Dalston. We'll be accompanied by music Marble and fellow Vonnegut enthusiast Rob Grundel.

If you read this blog, you may already be aware that I think quite highly of old Mr.Vonnegut, writing this upon his passing

We're really looking forward to this event, as not only was Kurt Vonnegut and his writings hugely influential on me during my formative years, we'll also be debuting a new form we've been working on, called a Riff.

We'll be riffing that night on quotes from Kurt Vonnegut. Rob has been in touch with Donald Farber, the man responsible for the Vonnegut estate, and a pretty tremendous dude in his own right.

And Donald likes what we're going to do (so I gather), but as the rights of the work lie with various other parties, we're not able to record the show. So you;ll have to come see it, or ask me about it, or best of all, come to the event, and draw a picture in the margins of your notebook during our set, scan it or rip it out and mail it to me.

There's also a whole bunch of other acts presenting "original work inspired by the writing and ideas of the author of Slaughterhouse-Five, Cats Cradle, Player Piano, Welcome To The Monkeyhouse and Timequake, among others."

It promises to be both original and inspired.

Double-Gigging for World Water Day

2011-03-22T13:34:00.004Z

Today is World Water Day, and to celebrate I'm giving two public addresses. One is, as pictured above, a talk on Waterwisdom and water conservation at the National Geographic Store on Regent Street. Leap Anywhere recommends this, and so do I. Especially if you like inspiring, fact-based powerpoint presentations.

After that, I'll be making my way to the Comedy Bin event at The Horatia.

This event will feature at least one bit about water. It's a joke, yes, but not a joke about water conservation, as that is no laughing matter, least of all on World Water Day.

And, if you ask me at either event, I'll be able to give you some genuine tips on reducing your water wastage. Come to both and get double the tips!

Surprised by Spitalfields TeaSmithery

2011-03-15T19:49:00.005Z

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"Experience the exquisite aromas and visuals of exceptional tea leaves at our unique Tea Bar."

This quote is the opposite of exciting. I'm not really into tea. And even though I've been known to indulge in some English Breakfast, rooibos, or even chamomile teas, tea in general, and herbal teas in particular, are for pussies and weaklings.

I've got other drinks that I'm into. Awesome drinks that inspire devotion and crafstmanship. Like whisky, beer and coffee. Drinks that are not served in tiny plastic cups to stuffed animals.

In truth, though I'm not really a tea drinker, neither do I look down at those who do, I just never thought tea drinking to be worthy of the same amount of studied devotion that monks in Belgium can apply to beer, Scottish scientists can apply to whisky, and Canadians to coffee (and donuts).

Tea was just something you drank when your office ran out of coffee.

Then my wife introduced me to the TeaSmith in Spitalfields. I was initially put off by the suggestion that we go somewhere that wasn't a coffeeshop or pub. Seeing how my wife drinks neither booze nor coffee, I figured the tea thing could be a strategic sacrifice.

But soon after we entered the TeaSmith I found my mood picking up and my anti-tea stance softening.

TeaSmith's interior, by Jonathan Clark Architects, is soothing and minimal. The service was knowledgeable and passionate - as were many of the customers. Also importantly: the tea was really good. So were the biscuits. Though my palate is not terribly refined, I loved the vocabulary on the menus, and the fusion of art and science that they use to come up with their blends was fascinating to watch. It's a marvel really.

Though at first I kinda sniggered at the ceremony, I quickly came to appreciate that it wasn't just for show, they were really making a damn fine cup of tea.

My visit to the TeaSmith was surprisingly enjoyable; turns out tea can be awesome.

Although I'm a little upset they've complicated my relationship with coffee.

Kid Koala et al. at Koko

2011-03-14T16:30:00.007Z

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KOKO in Camden is an impressive venue, stacked like a wedding cake, with the biggest disco ball I've ever clapped eyes on hanging from the distant galaxy of the ceiling. It's easy to imagine the turn of the century elegance and glamour when admiring the ornate carved frieze above the stage; it's made a little more challenging whilst nursing a mid-grade cocktail in plastic cup.
I spent Saturday night there enjoying a Soundcrash gig featuring The Impellers, DJ Vadim's The Electric Project, Polar Bear, and Mr Thing. Headlined by Kid Koala. So yeah, basically a party. I haven't been out to a club to get down like that in a while, so it was

The Impellers are a big ol' funk and soul band with all kinds of horns and guitars and an absolute belter of a lead singer. They won me over - especially with their tune "Knock Knock!" That's a chorus and a great set up for many many zinger punchlines.

DJ Vadim and Polar Bear should probably have gone in reverse order, as Polar Bear's deep and sweaty funked-out jazz, while undeniably awesome, isn't the most accessible of musics. Neither was it made more party-rocking by an MC who seemed ill-suited to the job of rallying the crowd and being the face of the inscrutable jazz-fiends.

DJ Vadim, on the other hand, playing just before Polar Bear, had four vocalists - all of whom seemed to want nothing more than have fun and make sure everyone in the packed house was doing likewise. Although the first half of their set was pretty generic, they brought their good-timey vibe to a storming second half that got the crowd well up for further party time. Hence maybe they should've gone reversies with Polar Bear. Except I guess it kept the bear-themed names close to each other on the bill.

And the bear-suited Kid Koala came on post midnight and, as his place on the bill suggests, he was the real highlight. While there was less of the clever samples scratched into beats (i.e. raw turntable comedy) that I remember, there was plenty of turntablism and charm to get the packed crowd roaring their approval. He revealed which song is the favourite of his two-year old, and that the bear suit was the result of a lost bet - this was show number 23 of the 100 he'll play in the outfit.

The goofy sense of showmanship is allied with his mastery of the decks - and wrapped up in his self-described 'cute and cuddly' package. Hopelessly endearing and endlessly inventive. Though my attention wavered a couple of times, his set was fantastic. Beat juggles, scratches and refereeing a one-armed pillow fight - it was everything one could want in a DJ show.

Afterwards, I sent him a tweet to thank him for the show, to which he not only replied - he also answered my question about the bear suit bet. It involves an unrealistic self-confidence about jumprope skills. What's not to love?

A Matter of Habit: All Dressed Up

2011-03-10T17:23:00.000Z

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As a rule, I'm not that well dressed. This is a plus, in that I'm not overly obsessed with fashion details and latest trends and other time-consuming stuff like that. It's bad because I sometimes look like I got dressed in the dark. Or, more commonly, like I only own jeans, sneakers, and casual or second-hand shirts.

Now that I'm part of the working world, it's an opportunity to get serious: I'm trying to regularly rock a dressed-down version of 'business casual' in a way that makes it look like a conscious choice, and not just because I only own one suit.

So I recently went, with my keen-eyed and stylish wife as my personal shopper, into the heaving centre of London and emerged with some new clothes.

Chunky sweater? Check.
Khakis? Check.

I also got a couple of other items, so I'm on my way to being well-dressed in a way that is more than "my best jeans and finest sweatshirt!"

It may take some time and effort, but when you look good you feel good, right?

Dress for the job you want, not the one you have. Right?

So I'm reading up - looking at some classic tips, and some looks that might be a little more fashion-forward. And, if I get this all going, I might start rocking a something with a little touch of class.

Or I may not, but I do have a couple nice new sweaters.

Trying to Travel on Easter

2011-03-07T17:35:00.006Z

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Thanks to Jesus' late-April resurrection and Kate and Wills' impending nuptials, late April is a glorious logjam of bank holidays.

The significance of the propinquity of these crucial events can only mean one (or two) things: either the divine right of kings is somehow related to the chocolate bunny myth via an arisen Zombie Jesus, or it's coincidence. But I doubt it's a coincidence: these things just fit too well together.

Regardless of the theories, this magnetic throngy crush of visitors and vacation days means that it's really expensive to travel at the end of April. Prohibitively so.

I think if Jesus and the Royals (good band name?) were really keen on giving something to the fair citizenry they would have somehow conspired to make it a little bit cheaper for me to go back to the west coast of Canada this April. I'd happily make room here in this crowded town for a tea towel-toting church-and-stater.

As it is, a trip to Vancouver and Victoria BC Canada (where I'm long overdue and acutely keen for a visit) has been thwarted by grossly exaggerated airline ticket prices.

I can't help but think these benevolent leaders really missed the boat by not making my holiday planning easier and more economically feasible.

So I'll just have to eat extra chocolate eggs and cream teas on my souvenir cup and saucer set in a vain attempt to fill this void and sate this wanderlust.

Rango - The Premiere Experience

2011-02-28T16:26:00.011Z

I saw Rango - Johnny Depp's new film - this weekend. That's right: before the actual release date.

Why? Because I went to the premiere.

How? Because the film has a water-efficiency/conservation theme which is a tie-in with work. So yes, I worked on a Saturday, but it was at a Gala Film Premiere: Family Edition.

The red carpet experience was just as I had always thought it would be: we woke up early Saturday morning and took the bus downtown in the grey dawn light; a good premierist never misses a photocall.

Arriving at Leicester Square we slipped inside and mingled with mariachi owls, rubbed shoulders with tweenage highland dancers, snacked on churros, and gladhanded the inflatable cacti that were spread out in the lobby. I worked the room like a showbiz vet.

But that's not all.

After enjoying a real live mariachi band, we also watched the film. Rango is ostensibly a children's flick, but it's also a western with some fairly adult themes and a hearty dose of fifty-cent words. It also has some ugly creatures doing violence and wreaking vengeance.

Apparently a few moms were less than enthusiastic about some of the darker stuff that went on. Sure, but every kid in the theatre was absolutely rapt, and the messages on the importance of being true to self and conserving water were clear as an unmuddied lake.

Sometimes I wonder if parents can be hyper-sensitive about children. Maybe kids have a greater capacity for grown-up content and ideas than we give them credit for. Think about it: kids are just like grown-ups. Only smaller.

And younger.

It was in this spirit of encouraging children to engage with grown-up themes that inspired me to help one young girl discover the importance of sharing.

She was outside the theatre hoarding multiple inflatable cacti. People (mostly the children) had been encouraged to take one. But this kid had four! I urged her - politely - to give one to me.

Because, you know, she didn't need four. And though she handed it over begrudgingly, hopefully the idea of making some stranger's day will be worth more to her than having four inflatable cacti. You could say that it was I who gave her a gift.

But if it didn't work out like that, at least I tried. That's what premieres are for.

Bust 65 in Hoxton

2011-02-22T16:40:00.004Z

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I hesitated for a moment too long about whether I could make Buck 65's February 21 gig in Hoxton. So when I went online to get tickets, there was a big X through the ticket icon.

Despite getting ample heads up from Amsterdam Andy, I had missed the boat. "No online tickets," the site read, "But a limited number will be available at the door." Oh, I thought, that sounds promising.

There weren't.

Not for lack of waiting either. We spent three hours outside the venue door, drinking beers and monitoring the situation, until it finally became clear that we were not going

Fortunately, I'm fucking irrepressible. I took this disappointment on the chin. This frankly excellent attitude is due to a couple of factors: one I've seen Buck before a few times, and have those sweet memories.

Plus I had very recently (less than an hour prior) received a sweet new haircut, so I was in a pretty good mood.

And my co-attendee Dave Waller can roll with punches like few others. So 66% of us took the news pretty well.

But our new friend Spanish Martin railed, wept, shook his fist, and was nigh-on inconsolable for stretches of our futile wait. I met him at the venue when we both arrived around 7pm and peeked in on soundcheck. Turned out we had similar music tastes, he bought a round of beers, and we settled in, to be joined by Dave a little later on.

By the time 9:30 rolled around Martin, Valencia's oldest and most earnest Buck 65 fan, had run the gamut of emotional extremes. Luckily, he had emerged from the despair-rage of the 8:05-8:28 period to arrive at a good place.

Besides, we three had enjoyed some beers, some laughs, some frustration, and some life lessons.

So in the end, not a bad night. But, can't help but think that we could have had all that cake and ate it too, with a little less pre-purchase hesitation, and a little more ticket.

Marbles & Furniture, Comedy Jazz

2011-02-17T17:07:00.015Z

Marbles, London's favourite Canadian-Cornish improv duo now has a website! Designed by the bearded Cornishman Dave Waller, it is located right here.

But Ryan, you find yourself asking, I want to know - here and NOW - when is Marbles' next show?

Excellent question. 3 March, at The Miller.

But there's more:

This show, Beats, Rhymes and Mirth, features jazz, improv comedy, and hip hop, all together under one roof. I'm almost impossibly excited. It's ridiculous how sweaty and giddy I am over this.

First, jazz trio Furniture will be playing some funked-up, beat-heavy jazz. Listen. I know right? So good.

Then, Dave and I will do a set of Marbles-brand freeform comedy. For the first time publicly we will be joined by Furniture keyboardist, improviser, Australian, and all-round classy guy Rob Grundel.

If you've never seen Marbles before let me tell you that you've really never seen them until you've seen them multiply their freewheeling comedy stylings by keyboard. To the power of a Korg Kaossilator.

Already it's a huge win and a great night out. But there is a bonus element, for those who really want to party.

After Marbles has done their set, Dave and I will host a freestyle mic-rocking hip-hop free-for-all. One which may also include:

An actual rap song by Canadian deep underground mic-wrecker Ryman Illa (of See Spot Rhyme)
Guest spots by some of London's premier comedy talent
Some drunk guy (TBC)
You?

All this for just £5.00. To book a ticket go here.

Seriously. Do it.

The Hood Mixtape vol. 5

2011-02-09T14:11:00.004Z

Since I discovered the Hood Mixtape vol. 4 last year, I've listened that tape down to a nub.

And, just in time, the new volume is out!

As Jason Kottke would say, Yes. Yes! YES! It's MIXMAS!

An Edinburgh Fringe Moment

2011-02-04T17:45:00.006Z

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From my Edinburgh Fringe notes of August 7, 2010.

I arrived at Fringe Central early – at around nine, as has become my custom. I was seated, coffee in one hand, stapler in the other, with a two sheets-worth of glowing reviews of Roman Around printed out on fortune cookie fortune-sized strips of paper, and a stack of flyers on the table in front of me.

While having your flyer adorned with bold pullquotes and five star reviews is preferable, if you'd already printed your flyers before the (three and four star) compliments came in, it is apparently accepted practice to just staple them to your flyers. I was not about to hide the nice things that have been said, and there’s a meditative quality to the rhythmic papercutting and stapling that’s a nice way to start the day – productive and relaxing.

And then I witnessed, and was drawn into, something that upon reflection was pretty amazing - and somehow emblematic of the hustled flurry and random encounters of Fringe-ness. It was also hilariously awkward.

Fringe Central was busy, as it always is, with Fringe staff, producers, journalists, performers and all manner of folks in various stages of panic or hustle. As I sat down I noticed the smartly-dressed journalist, about my age, sitting two tables over. He always seemed to be at Fringe Central when I was there, working his laptop and his phone, lining up shows to see and emailing finished reviews to papers.

Not too far away on the other side of me was a middle-aged producer, sweat stains already creeping out from the armpits of his baby blue golf shirt. He too was working the phone lines. I sat stapling away on my stapler, letting their respective half-conversations flow around me – adding more sensory filling to my HOLY SHIT I'M AT THE EDINBURGH FRINGE experience.

After some minutes of overheard phone moments I realized that a single phone conversation being was formed from overheard snippets. Actually, it first entered my consciousness more subtly – their fractured halves aligning in what seemed like a remarkable coincidence.

“Hello,” the journalist answered his phone.
“Good morning,” I heard the producer say. I noticed the way the conversations seemed in sync, and then focused back on a tricky bit of stapling.
The voices then increased in volume, the journalist enunciating into his iPhone, “It's kind difficult to hear you.”
From the producer, just to my right: “I'm sorry, is that better?” an edge creeping into his voice as he shifted in his seat.

By now, I had twigged that I was witnessing something special.

After a moment’s hesitation I stood up to inform the producer that the conversation he was having would be a lot easier if he put the phone down and addressed the gentleman sitting right in front of him. The producer though, confounded by the poor reception, was growing increasingly desperate. He had a reviewer on his hook and did Not. Want. To. Be. Distracted.

As I approached he made a studied attempt to look away and concentrate harder; he did everything but actually wave me away. I tapped him on the shoulder and waited. When he glanced up I pointed at the journalist the next table over. The journalist looked up. I said, loud enough for both to hear, “I think you guys are on the phone with one another.”

After jointly attempting to verify my claim over the phone, they hung up. Then they had an awkward conversation that I enjoyed as a background to my stapling, pleased that I had a personal stake in what was happening: not only had I facilitated a real-life Fringe Connection, I had been part of some bizarre alignment of circumstances and people that can only happen in Edinburgh, and only during the Fringe.

Fucking Periodic Table Shit

2011-02-03T17:42:00.005Z

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If you're a regular reader you know that I'm way up to date on periodic tables.

Sometimes I'd say I'm right on the knife edge. Like when I was the second (or maybe third, I don't remember exactly, but I was right there) person to break the news of a new element being added to the Periodic Table of Elements.

And the elements one is obviously a pretty good periodic table, and will always hold the title of 'the original'.

But it is not a patch on the Periodic Table of Awesomements, which I reported on here in 2009.

That table even made its way into an improv show by Ottawa's Crush Improv.

Now, my local neighborhood bookstore Pages of Hackney has turned me onto a new periodic table: The Periodic Table of Swearing. Credit to Modern Toss for putting that shit together.

All the fundamental building blocks of a good tirade or invective-torrent are there. But there are also some new favourites, such as Cock Garage (Cg), International Cunt Circus (Icc), and the remarkably restrained - considering it has an atomic number of 68 - Shut Your Bloody Noise (Sbn).

So get some bloody swear science into you, you Big Fucking Arse.

My Brother Woke Up a Bear

2011-01-28T19:20:00.007Z

Comedian Darren Millar acts out Photo: Kreddible Trout

I wrote a short story a couple of years ago about a guy who turns into a bear. It's pretty good. As I sometimes do with writing I'm proud of, I sent it to my brother Darren Millar, a very funny comedian and writer in his own right.

Last week Darren performed an adaptation of that story at Victoria's Big Rock Showdown.

He didn't win the $100, but his story and performance won the hearts of the attendees.

Click through for a short excerpt from the story. It's not the adaptation of course, for that you'll have to see it live.

Consciousness lifts me into an irritable haze. Light and pain spasm in my head, my guts are roiling fire, brimstone and hunger in my belly. I struggle for a moment to open my eyes. Can't. My eyelids are glued shut with crust. Heroically I push them on.

Man, I am tired. Exhausted. And dizzy. And hungry. As I stretch and yawn I feel an overwhelming craving for salmon. Or rabbit. Or berries. Wha- where am I? This isn’t my bedroom! This isn’t my bed! These aren’t my furry arms, or my beclawed hands – Oh Jesus Christ, I exclaim in my mind: I’m a monster. Some sort of giant furry beast. Or maybe a werewolf... maybe it’s a full moon.

Nope. That’s not it. I lumber to my feet in a panic, and that’s when it hits me: I’m a bear. A fucking bear! Fuck! Panic hits me like a bee sting on the nose.

My second thought is more upbeat: this is awesome! This is totally bad-ass! An image of me rampaging through the streets of Baltimore flashes through my mind. The next instant a rush of conflicting ideas crowd my hungover, bear-like brain.

Desperate for something to keep me from puking, I focus on my surroundings. I realize this isn’t my bedroom, or a park bench; it's a facsimile of wilderness. I’m in the bear habitat at the Baltimore Zoo! It was just on Sunday I took my nephew here. That was a good day. He really liked the monkeys. Usually he cries at least once when we spend the day together, but not Sunday. Shit, that was just what, well last night was highball Wednesday...three days ago. I hadn’t been to the zoo in years, and then all of a sudden – twice in one week. Once as a person and once as a fucking bear!

The zoo looks a lot different from behind the bars. I throw my head back and a huge roar blasts from my massive, muscular jaws.

Having emitted a pleasantly satisfying roar, I take a better look around my environment. I can clearly take stock of my situation: a cage. But a nice cage, much bigger than my apartment. Like a giant terrace. And hey! A pool. My new place has a pool. This is the big-time. I lumber up to a four-legged stance, which is more comfortable as a bear than as a human. I amble out of the cave entrance and rub my belly on the artificial stump to the right of my cave opening. I believe the correct term is ‘mouth’, as in ‘cave mouth’, but at this point, who gives a fuck?

I use my massive neck to point my impressive snout into the air. The sky is newspaper-ink gray. It's early morning. I guess I’m not hibernating. Do bears even do that anymore? Did they ever? Is it possible to sleep for months at a time? I hope so; I feel like shit.

Wait. Back up. What happened last night? Last thing I remember I’m buying a last round of shots at Madison’s. Then there’s a blackout. Next thing I know I’m here. A bear.

Hold up, what’s 7 x 6? 42.

42!

I’m a bear that can do math. I’m going to be rich! The richest bear in all of the animal kingdom! If I could just get out of this cage.

Improvathon – not heroes, but close

2011-01-24T16:22:00.007Z

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I went to London’s Improvathon for the second year in a row, only this time I not only watched an episode, I also joined in for an episode. All I can say is: it was too short a time watching and playing.

The improvathon concept (and some stalwart performances) has been imported from Edmonton, home of the Die Nasty improvised soap opera.

The scenario of this year's event was a dance competition at the fictitious and legendary Studio 50, run by Andy Warhol. And from that premise, all sorts of funky madness unfolded.

I joined in for Episode 22 as Billy Spearwood, a golly-gee smalltown boy with bigcity dance dreams. It was a blast, and involved a lot of dancing. In fact, my part was mostly just dancing.

But I was amazed by the concentration of the exhausted cast, and the ability of the shattered and sleep-deprived to be not just lucid, but compelling and funny. And friendly.

It also refired my own brain on the idea of improv endurance, inspired by the shades of brilliance that can colour overtired imaginations.

Marathon improv is something I'm keen to have another go-round on. Although just my proximity to that many super-pooped people meant I myself felt a little out-of-sorts and dazed afterwards. I wish I'd pushed it that much further.

I also regret that I left as they were ramping up towards the final push. I have it on good authority that the storylines wrapped up in ways that were both hilarious and profoundly emotional.

These kudos go all the way around.

Antarctic Whisky Comes Home, Leaves Again

2011-01-17T19:30:00.007Z

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Last year, five cases of 100-year-old Mackinlay whisky were discovered beneath the floorboards of explorer Ernest Shackleton's Antarctic hut. The temperatures there apparently keep it chilled, perfect conditions to store Whyte and Mackay's now-forgotten malt.

Now three bottles have been flown out of the southern hemisphere and back to Scotland on the private jet of billionaire owner, Vijay Mallya. Once triumphantly home, a few precious drops of the whisky will be meticulously tested in an attempt to reverse-engineer the recipe. Then it will all be flown back to Anarctica and stuck back under the floorboards of the hut, to remain there forevermore.

And nobody is going to try any - not even a drop. Nope.

Not even a teensy-tiny little sip of the perfectly-preserved hundred-year-old long-lost vintage left beneath the floorboards of the hut of revered Antarctic explorer and hero Shackleton.

Certainly not once it's in the hands of men who have devoted their lives to appreciating and understanding whisky. They are definitely just going to take a couple of scientific drops, reseal it right back up, and send the bottles back to Antarctica to be tucked back into the ice, as per the agreement.

I call bullshit: on the grounds of sheer implausibility, and also because I can't help but think that if Shackleton were put in that situation, he might put that fearless maverick spirit to work sampling some of that ancient hooch. And if those men want to show their respects, they'll do the same.

How to Date Sea Captains

2011-01-14T16:52:00.010Z

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I've explored a lot of nautical issues recently: Life, Death ...and now Loneliness.

Being the captain of a ship means you're married to the sea; the occasional siren call of a mermaid is about all you're really able to hope for in terms of companionship.

Until now.

Say goodbye to the crushing loneliness of life at sea, and say hello to Sea Captain Date, a dating site that only has "Grade A, top-quality sea captains."

Click through to check out their promo video. It's pretty amazing.

I can't decide whether it's better if it's a hoax or real. But I think it's real, which is probably just slightly awesomer.

That's right, it's pronounced "Sea-Captain-Date-The-Fuck-Dot-Com."

Enlightening Microlectures Next Week

2011-01-07T00:05:00.007Z

Next week I'll be giving a lecture (of sorts) entitled Life and Death at Sea. It will be an ideal opportunity to: learn about the risks and rewards of tempting a watery grave; hear of the creatures real and imagined who populate Davy Jones Locker; and discover the full title of Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. Among other stuff.

These are things that I've not only been researching, but am prepared to educate the public on, possibly using a very authoritative and professorial tone. Or my pirate voice. Or both.

This edifying talk, is my contribution to the very cool Camden School of Enlightenment. An event that features microlectures, poems, stories, stand-up, and songs.

The next installment of the night (which occurs regularly on the second Tuesday of each odd-numbered month) is Tuesday, 11 January 2011.

Other smart and entertaining guests include Fran Isherwood, Jon Stone, and Racker Donnelly.

As always it will be at the Camden Head. And it's free. Be smart and come get enlightened.

A Holiday of Sharing

2011-01-04T11:05:00.003Z

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If there’s one thing I’ve learned about people, it’s that they love a good whinge. Especially here in the UK, where complaining is considered a national pastime. The weather is a good go-to moaning topic, and with temperatures this week across the UK returning to sub-zero iciness, people are giddy with anticipation of great opportunities to let loose a stream of weather-related grumbles.

There are of course plenty of things to complain about: joblessness, homelessness, listlessness, the list goes on.

But, regardless of content, at the core of each of our mini-rants is the very human need to connect with other people; our desire to feel that the way that we feel about things – and by extension who we are – has an impact on them. We want empathy, sympathy, and outrage, but most of all, we want to matter.

Which is why I love cold and flu season. With all of the sniffling, sneezing and attendant traveling of germs from one sickly orifice into another, people finally start to truly communicate – even if it’s only through the medium of infectious diseases.

It may seem insignificant, but a single well-timed sneeze on the bus and you’re influencing literally dozens of other people in a very real way. Poking ex-lovers and friends-of-friends through the impersonal medium Facebook does not compare to the very primordial interface of germ transference via sweaty bus poles.

And, as a further minty vapo-rub on the chest cold of our alienation, having a fever and runny nose gives the people you’ve infected something to kvetch about.

And there’s nothing people love more than grousing about a very personal inconvenience. None of this, “I have a neighbour who had a four-hour sneezing fit!”, or “My Nan took so much cough syrup she hallucinated a scene from Inception,” or some other once-or-twice removed complaint. No. Thanks to you, this shit is now real – it happened to them!

What’s more, you’ve given them an infection that they, in turn, can also pass on. To friends, loved ones, strangers, and co-workers. Forget the Christmas Cuisanart or flop-eared puppy, the flu is the seasonal gift that truly keeps on giving.

I’m currently nursing a hodge-podge of flu-type symptoms: runny nose, head cold, and a deep chesty cough. Concurrently, I am trying to get as much time on public transit as I can, bravely putting myself out there into this cold and impersonal city.

What’s more, to anyone who doesn’t mind listening, I’ve got a stream of viral laments I’m more than happy to share with you. Whilst coughing in your face.

Pass it on.

Colour Me Optimistic

2011-01-03T12:29:00.004Z

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I'm not making any judgment calls yet, but the above picture, depicting pencil crayons carved by artist Harwinder Singh Gill, seems a pretty good indication that 2011 is going to be a colourful year full of whimsical artistic accomplishments and some surprising uses of writing instruments.

How the Turkey got Done

2010-12-25T20:02:00.007Z

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This Christmas Day, I felt not just the seasonal joy of family time, gift exchanges, and eggnog-induced warmth, I also basked in the heady highs of being the Man of the House.

Yay, verily.

For it was I who prepared the Turkey, and the Fixings, and (having given thanks to the turkey for his sacrifice), carried the Christmas Day lunch to the table.

Of course, some people perform this function regularly - even routinely. But I am not some people.

You need only ask around as far as my wife to discover how shit my domestic skills are.According to her, I rarely rate as a passable room-mate, let alone a 'man of the house' type husband. From weather-proofing windows to unplugging drains, from hanging curtains to washing dishes, my greatest natural talent is being in the way.

However, Christmas Eve, while visions of sugar plums danced in the heads of our young visitors, I was in the kitchen, sauteing spices and herbs, mixing up stuffing, and prepping the kitchen for a busy daybreak.

And Christmas morning that task continued anew. Armed with a family recipe emailed directly to my inbox from my father, I carried on a proud family tradition of serving up a juicy bird.

And I'm happy to report that the turkey came out crispy of skin and tender of flesh. The potatoes were mashed to a consistency not dissimilar to that of the lump-free gravy, and the peas and carrots served their supporting role admirably.

It might not seem like much, but Christmas is not about the big things. It's about the little ones. Or the medium-sized ones that seem big - like the preparation of lunch.

Christmas History: Eggnog

2010-12-22T11:57:00.007Z

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A couple of years ago I unearthed and presented some fascinating and true tales of Christmas History. Subjects discovered were: snowballs, lumps of coal, mistletoe, and wrapping paper.

In the interests of scholastic thoroughness, I've decided to take another stroll down Christmas History Lane. This time to reveal the results of my inquiry into the origins of eggnog.

From the 12th Century (when Christmas really started getting going) onwards, there was no nog standard. It was made from whatever was handy: Potato nog in the northeast; wheatnog in central Europe; in the south a spicy variant made of berries to rice sprung up; and briefly, in the Nordic countries, a herring nog was bandied about. And a million regional variations between. It was total chaos.

Without one single benchmark for holiday drinks, there was no way for intercultural holiday festivities to proceed without offending guests, or embarrassing hosts. Or both.

Travellers would often return home with horror tales of the fallout from Welsh leeknog or the vomit-inducing Portuguese beefnog. Or fail to return home at all, after an untoward remark led to their unfortunate beheading.

Something needed to be done, not only to preserve the sanctity of the holidays, but also to bring people together in a danger-free environment.

Noted 18th Century Christmasologist Sir Ebenezer Paddington writes "How tragicke and disgust-inducing these scores of despickable Nogges. The citizenry cravethed a solitary Nogge, to Unite their Holidays."

Finally, a powerful cabal of Christmas heavyweights (consisting of church leaders, captains of industry, the North Pole Lobby, and carol-writers) convened for the Council of Mannheim in 1581. It was there that, after sampling and discarding a plethora of other options, they ultimately settled on an egg-based nog as the beverage of choice for the holiday season.

It was not the most radical (or tasty) choice, but it was the one least likely to disturb the more conservative factions of the society.

There was of course some difficulties enforcing the new regime, as people attempted to continue whipping up their local nog of choice. Fortunately, these uprisings were swiftly and brutally suppressed.

And eggnog has been the drink of choice for the holidays ever since.

Wild Xmas Tunes!

2010-12-20T12:02:00.002Z

There is no shortage of terrible Christmas music. In fact, most of it is objectively awful.

But I can't help playing it. Even the stuff I hate I feel compelled to listen to, in order to bring a little bonhomie to holiday proceedings. I'm a sucker for Christmas music, though I recently found myself wishing for some that didn't suck.

So thank the tiny Baby Jesus and his wee little manger for last year's Christmas in the Heart - a reworking of standard carols by "Holiday" Bob Dylan.

But after listening that album to death last yuletime, I recently found myself in the market for some tunes to refresh my selection. And I found them, all in one place. Wild Xmas with Bomarr; the perfect mix of eclectic, entertaining, and mildly inaccessible Christmas tunes.

There are five (count 'em: 5) mixes for download.

I'm particularly feeling 2006's 50 minute mix of "obscure and strange Christmas songs featuring Audio Two, Hasil Adkins, Crafty Ladies, Paska, Erlend Oye, Mojo Nixon, [and] George W Bush."

Although his brand new mix for 2010 features an electropop instrumental version of Good King Wenceslas that's sweeter than a candycane, a drum n' bass Lovely Sleigh Ride that's guaranteed to warm your foot mittens, and a bad-ass cut-and-paste song called Bionic Santa that tells the story of the Fat Guy's cybernetic rebuild post-terrible sleigh accident.

Pretty much solid gold, including country, dub, and beat-heavy orchestral standards, with plenty of maudlin anti-Christmas numbers and straight-up weirdness to keep your attention. So get on it, and annoy your relatives with some new and obscure Christmas tunes.

Also, the albums are all available for free download, but seeing how it's the season, don't be shy about leaving a few pence in Bomarr's Paypal stocking.

The Warehouse in Brussels

2010-12-13T18:14:00.009Z

When I arrived at The Warehouse Theatre in Brussels on Friday evening I was struck by the size of the stage. It's huge. Without any backdrop curtain the theatre is absurdly deep. And it's always been wide, I just didn't remember quite how wide. It's basically a square, with the audience stretching from corner to corner on two sides of the stage.

For a solo performance, perhaps not ideal. Especially as it was the exact opposite of most places I've performed: the tiny stage of an intimate pub setting.

When the sprawling dimensions of The Warehouse were put in front of my face on Friday evening, and I tried to figure out how Roman Around would work, I opted to play way far downstage and ignore the oodles of space behind me. And, in confining myself to the very front of the stage, I also lost the lateral space.

As a result, the show Friday night was intimate, as I had hoped. But the staging was all awkward and wrong for the space. I have no doubt that the audience on the periphery (the bulk of them) enjoyed my devestatingly handsome profile, but they got very little direct face-time.

And in trying to transplant the small staging of the show so suited to backroom corner stages to the massive expanse of the The Warehouse, I also confused myself a couple times. Overall, I felt good about the show, but I knew that it could be improved simply by giving up my security blanket of being RIGHT THERE in front of the audience.

So Saturday night I moved away from the audience, forgoing that forced intimacy, and just used the whole damn theatre.

And it worked, I naturally spent my time using up all of the space, pacing up and down and elaborating all of the physical elements previously confined to the various upstairs pub-theatres of London, and the Little Cave of Edinburgh's Hive. The historical re-enactments were broader and wider, and the moves between narrators physicalized with actual physical steps.

Turns out, I liked it big. And I learned that the connection with the audience doesn't necessarily require my being three to four feet away from them at all times.

The show also works in a more theatrical setting, with the elements of the show (and the performer) having space to play around. I'm not saying it's time to book an arena tour, only that the trip to Brussels - in addition to being a whole shed load of fun and frivolity - was also a forward leap in my understanding of the show.

Portrait of a Tour Guide

2010-12-10T15:08:00.003Z

There's a 'Portrait' of me in this week's Brussels Unlimited, a "weekly listings magazine highlighting the best of arts, entertainment, TV and film." I think I fall under the 'arts' and 'entertainment' categories.

It's written in the first person. I've never had anyone write about me in the first person before. I like.

Read the whole article here. Or go to a Belgian newsagents and pick yourself up a copy. That's what I'm going to do.

The Xmas Tree Revolution

2010-12-08T12:56:00.008Z

In a departure from our usual holiday habit of travelling to Canada or Italy for yuletimes, this year we're staying put.

In another switch-up, we're hosting Chiara's dad, his wife and their two kids. This means that it'll be a house full of Italians. And also, as hosts, it's up to us to Christmasfy the house.

To me, that means drinking an unhealthy amount of eggnog and decking halls to the tune of a song with the word 'christmas', 'bells' or 'santa' in the title.

But we couldn't get beyond the tree debate. While I hate senseless murder as much as the next upstanding citizen, I was struggling to imagine a Christmas household without a tree.

Fortunately my wife is a handy and resourceful genius, so we spent Saturday night together - not just decking halls, but making a Christmas tree out of cardboard, crayons, and some leftover fabric.

As you've no doubt already noticed. It's pretty sweet, our tree. Especially decked as it is with two small boxes of decorations received from my parents some years back.

Also, this ornament from my brother and sister, which always makes my throat a little lumpy around holiday time.

Our adorable and plucky little tree has quickly swung me over to the 'advocating for homemade Christmas trees' side of things.

As a bumper crop of holiday frivolity, we've got a little burglar Santa scaling our bookcase. He came to us from Chiara's mom awhile back, and though his foot's a little gluey, and it's not clear why he doesn't just come down the chimney, he's also part of our Christmas decoration family.

So, though it doesn't smell pine-scented in here, it's starting to feel a lot like Christmas here. There is also a string of lights. I didn't post a picture here, but trust me, we've got some lights encircling our sliding glass doors. So the decorations are all in place.

Just one thing left to get set:

I recently noticed that our only Christmas album is last year's Bob Dylan's Christmas in the Heart. It's also our only Bob Dylan album.

So, my request is for any other hot Christmas tunes/albums that won't make anyone want to smash the stereo. For example, The Chicharones 'Straight outta Noggin'. Or any of these I discovered just now.

And then, also, we could do with some more Bob Dylan. I've heard that before he put out that Christmas album he made some other music that is also pretty good.

Pig's Ear Beer & Cider Fest

2010-12-04T12:47:00.005Z

Judging by my frosty reception at the Pig's Ear Festival, the East London & City branch of CAMRA is quite used to having people attempting to gatecrash their events claiming to be journalists. Without any press accreditation, or an appointment through their press office, I may as well have been wearing a big sign saying “I am a dastardly beer weasel, willing to try any devious method of subterfuge to avoid paying the 3£ entrance fee to get into your Real Ale Festival.”

Instead, I was there legitimately, if a little last minute, to write a review for Hackney Hive.

The organisers, suspicious of my intentions, were begrudgingly cooperative, answering some of my questions, and permitting me to breathe the rarefied air of The Round Chapel on Powerscroft Road for ten or so minutes.

Despite my misgivings at being treated so disparagingly, it's hard to stay mad at CAMRA, a volunteer-led organization devoted to “champion[ing] drinkers' rights and protect[ing] local pubs as centres of community life.”

And the Pig's Ear Beer & Cider Festival (so named for Cockney rhyming slang for a bottle of beer) was well worth my journey up the street to The Round Chapel. The church hall was rammed full of casks and bottles (some imported from as far away as Australia and Sri Lanka). The focus was a wide array of dark winter beers, though with such a carefully curated range there was surely a beer that to suit your unique tastes, even though you would likely have had to sample a whole lot to find your match. Indeed the diverse crowd of beer enthusiasts seemed well-absorbed in their quest.

In addition to the beers, ciders and selection of curries to soak up the booze, there was novelty drinking t-shirts, flasks and collectible mugs to check that raging beer enthusiast off your Christmas list.

And doing your browsing with a pint in hand is a way better way to get your shopping done than the faux-holiday madness of Oxford Circus.

Too bad for you the Festival finished last night. Good news for you, the Chatsworth Road Sunday Market is on tomorrow. That's where I'll be.

A Disappointing Movember

2010-11-29T18:42:00.010Z

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Movember is a sad time of year for me. And not because it's the month for sombre reflection upon personal heroes struck down in their prime, or generally acknowledge the finite nature of robust health. I wish I were that caring or philosophical.

No, it makes me sad because I cannot, for any reason, or in any substantive shape, shade or form, grow a respectable fucking mustache. As much as I love them, (and from the Chaplin/Hitler to the ape-hanger handlebar, from the Selleck to the Old-world Colonel, I do) I am unable to get anything better than a slight whisper of brown fuzz to populate my upper lip. If mustaches were troops, the space beneath my nose is Iceland - there's an occasional wispy nod to the notion, but no standing army.

Movember is a worthwhile cause on many levels: first and foremost it promotes men’s health. Given that, statistically, most men are fat and lazy and getting fatter and lazier, this is a noble and timely cause to champion.

At the same time, Movember allows men of all ages, regardless of background, job, or marital status to assert a bit of individuality. That this ‘statement of individuality’ comes in the midst of so many other men asserting their own individuality means he won't stand out so far that he risks solo humiliation. Any embarrassment is a badge for the brotherhood.

Actually he will stand out – but rather than getting snickered at for being a douche or a hipster-douche people passing in the street will look at him and think “Well, look at that guy, bravely cultivating a soup strainer on his face to raise awareness of prostate cancer and other pressing threats to men's health, in spite of the potential embarrassment. He may be many things, but that guy sure isn't a dick.”

From a fiscal responsibility standpoint, the annual November cultivation of some radical face furniture gives conservatively-dressed City workers license to do something crazy that doesn’t involve gambling away other people’s money, which may just have a knock-on effect of curbing the egregious mismanagement of others' life-savings that has been the watchword of the (male-dominated) financial industry for years. Possibly.

Myself, on the other hand, for this Movember I again look the unsupportive non-participant: just a regular jerk who thinks he's too cool to pitch in and raise awareness of important issues that need to have awareness of them raised by sporting some horizontal face plumage. But the tragic truth is that I lack the capability. I'd love to participate but I can't.

I have even tried to get my mo going this Movember, working on it for nigh on a fortnight. It was as futile as farming the Gobi. And even when I was trying to participate I looked like a non-participant.

In a weak moment I borrowed my wife's mascara to give my upper-lip growth “fuller, lusher volume.” I’m not ashamed to cop to this act of desperation, I’m only ashamed to admit that it was largely ineffective; until L’Oreal devotes greater attention to the crossover-market potential for a mascara-like product to thicken weedy facial growth, their product lines will remain unfit-for-purpose.

But this isn’t about stuffing advice into L’Oreal's market research suggestion box, it is a fist-shake at the heavens for damning me with teenage-level mustache-growing capabilities, and an envious doff of my bowler hat and squint of my monocle at those dandy gentlemen who have succeeded in crafting their lip-whiskers into a badge of honour and awareness-raising.

For me personally, this is the extent of my contributions to the cause: go get your prostate checked.

Roman Around... to Brussels

2010-11-23T19:01:00.005Z

Imagelink

Exciting news for anyone who is interested in Roman Around, and especially those who "like" the show.

Roman Around: A Guided Tour of the Eternal City will be showing in Brussels for two nights only. December 10,11 at the Warehouse Theatre.

Tickets and info are here.

You may already know how awesome this show is, having seen it yourself. If not, I can vouch for its awesomeness. If that's not good enough for you, and you're wondering what the critics think, check out some reviews.

If you live in Brussels, you should definitely come. If you used to live in Brussels, you should tell all your friends there to come. I'd really like to play to a big happy audience of friends, well-wishers and Belgians.

Mostly, I'm super excited to get this show back on its feet and take it on the road. Especially since taking it 'on the road' means a reason to go back to Brussels and see a bunch of wonderful people, teach an improv workshop, have lekker Belgian beer, and share the stories, jokes and 'invisible site-seeing that is Roman Around: A Guided Tour of the Eternal City.

Book tickets here.

The Magical Land of Oxbridge

2010-11-22T10:15:00.007Z

When I first moved to the UK I was excited because London is a cultural hub with tonnes of fashion-action, thriving avant-grade arts pockets, comedy and tomfoolery aplenty, and history like you wouldn't believe. It has largely lived up to the hype.

But there was also one other special place I was looking forward to visiting: Oxbridge. In my imagination, based on the tales I'd heard, Oxbridge was a place that smelled of old books, fresh air, and enthusiasm. A place where rowing was a constant sight on a river made of glass, and people of all shapes and sizes went to better themselves. Sounded like a great place to visit.

Even the name, Oxbridge, conjures up the image of a river crossing where hard-working beasts of burden trundle along a rickety wooden overpass, on their days journey from toil to travail, bathed in dawn light. How romantic.

But Oxbridge is a myth.

It is a magical fairy-tale land where, allegedly, people go to become "the dominant forces in Britain's cultural and political establishments." As if. I mean, how naïve was I to believe that such a place could really exist?

Look on a map of the UK and you won't find it. (Actually there's a tiny village called Oxbridge in Dorset, but it a tiny and sleepy place; there is no way that 85% of the judiciary went there: they wouldn't fit. Especially not if the majority of politicians were already there.

After falling for such an obvious ruse, I now get embarrassed when people mention Oxbridge, and all the benefits bestowed on those who manage to make it to this special place.

It's just too good to be true.

Besides, I've recently heard of a place that sounds even more interesting: Camford.

It's a depressing industrial town where children of the elite go to learn how to do soul-sucking low-paying menial jobs. That I'd like to see.

Problem is, I can't find it on the map anywhere.