Brian Micklethwait's Blog
In which I continue to seek part time employment as the ruler of the world.Home
Simon Gibbs on Wedding photography (4): Preparations
6000 on Bookshops as Amazon showrooms
Darren on Bookshops as Amazon showrooms
Michael Jennings on Wedding photography (2): Signs
MarkR on Feynman Diagrams on the Feynman van
MNB Achari on Google Nexus 4 photos
MNB Achari on The ups and downs of English
Robert Hale on Feynman Diagrams on the Feynman van
Laurence Sheldon on Bookshops as Amazon showrooms
Bryn Braughton on Bookshops as Amazon showrooms
Most recent entries
- Wedding photography (4): Preparations
- Bookshops as Amazon showrooms
- Reflections on a strange coincidence involving an Android app and a malfunctioning bus stop sign
- Feynman Diagrams on the Feynman van
- Rothko Toast
- Wedding photography (3): Technology as sculpture
- And another posting from my smartphone
- Posted from my new smartphone
- Google Nexus 4 photos
- Wedding photography (2): Signs
- Wedding photography (1): The superbness of the weather
- A Fleet Street lunch
- So painters also used to “take” pictures
- Funniest run out ever?
- Shadow photography
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Category archive: Comedy
Lunchtime O’Booze is the name given by Private Eye to a certain vintage of Fleet Street era (i.e. when they really all did work in or near to Fleet Street) journo. One of these (now long retired) characters was staying with me earlier this week, kipping down on my sofa-bed to be precise. Tony now lives in France, but he was over here for a few days, to participate in a lunch, with a dozen or more of his old Fleet Street cronies.
I met up with Tony on Sunday evening, and we dined out, very well. Thanks to my twiddly screen, I was able to take photos of him like this, with the camera resting in the middle of the table, and me just looking down at it:
Tony looks rather like one of those South African type villains in The Saint, which I have been watching lately from time to time, waiting for the IPL to start on ITV4.
Next day, Tony departed for the lunch. Ring me when it’s over, I said, maybe we can do something in the evening. Nine hours later, Tony rings to say he’ll be back soon, and eleven hours later he is. I feared drunken disruption. Which I would have survived. Tony has been very hospitable to me over the years. But the evening ended very pleasantly.
To give you a further idea of what kind of lunch it was, here is a limerick, which Tony brought back from it:
An Argentine gaucho named Bruno
Said I’ll tell you something I do know
Girls are just fine
And boys are divine
But a llama is numero uno
And here is a photo, taken by someone else with Tony’s phone:
The big guy - a very big guy indeed - in the middle used to play prop forward for the Harlequins and is now a wine correspondent, the sort of bloke who has a special table in his home for drinking guests under. The ultimate oh-stay-a-bit-longer-and-have-another-one bloke. I think the guy on the right drives new cars for a living, in such places as the south of France, and then writes about them. Certainly, someone of this kind was involved.
Do not ask men like this to drink and drive. They just might do it.
Here is a joke tube map of London, send in by Michael J:
If you google “joke tube map” you get lots of stuff like this.
But, and I realise that I will probably be revealed very quickly as humiliatingly stupid, what does “XXL” mean? All the others make sense. Although “France” I only get a bit. Is that where all the French in London live these days? Anyway, I at least know what France is. It’s a country. But what is XXL? Not a clue. Is it something to do with the South Bank, or the Wheel or Waterloo Station? That’s roughly where it is. But what is it?
Earlier this evening, or last night if you think today begins at 12 midnight (and has thus already begun) rather than when you get up next day (in which case for me it has not yet begun), I went to a Comedy Improv Evening, at the Leicester Square Theatre, in a small downstairs room. It was a laugh, which is what you obviously want with comedy.
The format was clever. They had a interviewer guy, who interviewed a borderline comedy celeb, and then a gang of comedy improvisers improvised comedy, taking their cues from what the celeb said. Then another borderline celeb, then more improv. Then a final borderline celeb, and a fnal dose of improv. It added up to just over an hour.
So, for instance, comedian Nish Kumar, borderline celeb one, talked about how he got a bit bored seeing his face on a poster everywhere in Edinburgh. Yeah, I know, a not very subtle way of saying: I’m doing okay, I’ve got my face up on posters in Edinburgh. But it was okay. And the improvisers did a thing about how Stalin got bored with his face being everywhere.
Then they had one of those women who had high hopes for herself, having trained herself to do Shakespeare and such, but who now has a job selling eyebrow trimmers or something similar on a TV shopping channel. She was really funny, switching between herself, so to speak, and herself doing her shopping channel spiel. And then they improvved a bunch of act-ors selling each other eyebrow trimmers, in the style of a Shakespeare comedy. How we all laughed.
Those were just two bits I happen to remember. There was lots of other stuff, and never once did I sneak any looks at my watch.
The final borderline celeb was an actor who had been in various movies, doing scenes with famous actors, many of which were cut out of the final movie. Ah the joy of hearing about the misfortunes of others.
It worked well. The borderline celebs got to put their faces about and to be used to get an audience together, but without them having to do lots of rehearsing. And the presumably less well-known performers get a bigger audience.
My two favourite performers, among the gang of improvvers I mean, were Joseph Morpurgo, and one of the ladies, called, although I could be wrong, Idil Sukan. If Idil Sukan was actually a different lady, no matter, because they were all good.
Recommended. But, alas, there is no run for you to go to a later performance in. There was just the one show, and the one I saw was it. Besides which, if you go to another show of theirs, it would be completely different, what with everything being improvised.
At the website of these amusing people, there is, on page one, at the moment, the plug for the show I just saw, already linked to above, with pictures of the three borderline celebs. Where it says What Monkey Toast Is, they describe what they do. (They certainly do not describe what monkey toast is and why they’re named after it.) But where it says “Upcoming Gigs”, there is currently nothing. So, no more shows fixed. But I don’t believe that this will be their last.
I don’t know why they’re called Monkey Toast. I’m guessing comedy troupes are like race horses, in that they have to be called something or other, but the main thing is not to take a name that’s already taken. So, you call it Purple Bilgewater or Our Daughter’s Wedding (a real pop group of former times, that one) or The Funny Peculiars, or some other daft thing that if googled gets you nowhere, simply because you have to call it something and can’t spend all your time arguing about what. As the comedy troupes multiply in number, the names get dafter and dafter, like with the horses.
This posting might have been funnier and shorter if I had worked harder at it instead of just stream-of-consciousness-ing it the way I actually did. But that way it would probably not have been written at all.
A cat gets into a box. Eventually. Video. Here.
And no, I don’t know what language that is.
Last night we had a Transport Blog dinner, dinners every now and again being all that is now left of Transport Blog.
As I told the guys last night, if we did still have Transport Blog, then this would have gone up there, rather than here:
Forget about train privatisation. What the world needs is giant motorised shopping trolleys.
Incoming, from Nicholas I. Kierniesky, to the Samizdata team:
Says Perry de Havilland:
Talking of Jobs, Michael J recommended this, about the good one of the three. I still haven’t read it, but have been carrying the print-out with me on my travels. I will read it, Real Soon Now.
As for all the irreverences now circulating about Obama, well, like it says, it’s the economy.
If Romney wins, will he also be a one term President? Worse, far worse, if that happens, would Samizdataism, so to speak, get the blame?
Presumably these exoplanets are inhabited by gods.
Or perhaps by very rich socialite ladies. “My exoplanet is simply divine, my dears.”
I know, silly. Divine means identify. But I laughed.
Overheard while channel surfing last night:
Her, trying to persuade him to carry on with the romance: “Do you believe in fate?”
Her: “Neither do I. You see. This was meant to be.”
This is from the movie Wedding Daze. One of those unregarded little movies which only gets two stars in the Radio Times, but which I think is a bit better than that.
However, I don’t believe the Moists actually care that their precious prophet has had his picture flashed about. I think they’re just looking for a fight, and I am giving them the oxygen of publicity. Oh well. But you can’t just ignore this crap. Here’s hoping the Gendarmes get them.
Don’t agree with the French politician (second link) who wants everyone to “respect” all opinions. Just tolerate, even as you despise and/or detest, is quite sufficient.
What’s Mo saying, by the way? Anyone? Ah, answer here.
Hope this goes viral.
Did the lion steal it because it wanted its battery?
And somewhat the worse for wear, I’m afraid:
I think it’s fairly obvious how this hedgehog was “sculpted”.
Perhaps originally it was just a hedgehog. But then there was a terrible accident, and they found that the result sold much better.
Snapped by me exactly a fortnight ago, beside the canal, about an hour before I took this photo, as it happens. (I do love how digital cameras tell you exactly when you took it.)
Today saw yet another disappointing performance by England’s former wonder batsman Kevin Pietersen. Once again, he was dismissed by a bowler, and England fans are now openly speculating that Pietersen’s Achilles Heel is that he is vulnerable to bowlers. Statistics do not lie. Almost all of his test dismissals have been to bowlers.
Pietersen denies that he has a problem against bowlers, but England legend Geoff Boycott and England Not Really A Legend But Still From Yorkshire Michael Vaughan both concur that Pietersen does have a definite problem.
“He says he has no problem against bowlers”, said Boycott, “but we keep going on about it because he keeps on getting out to them. It’s got so every time he goes in to bat, the opposition immediately put a bowler on to bowl against him. And it keeps on working. He keeps on getting out to them.”
But England captain Andrew Strauss, who also got out for a small score today when he fell down the slope at Lords and was LBW, today defended Pietersen. “We have every confidence in Kevin”, he said, “and will continue to do so until we get fed up with his relentless incompetence and sack him.”