Carriage of Doom

It's been some time since I posted a train story. But this one was apocalyptic.

The train sped across the flat Hertfordshire countryside in the eye of a raging storm. Thunder rolled and lightening flashed, prompting shrieks from all my co-passengers whenever the sky lit up. As the pastry crust from the pasty I didn't actually need hardened around my arteries, I realised I was in the coach (from or to) hell. Jammed in and sweating with me were a chattering bunch of Japanese tourists, some sort of group outing for the Hagrid look-a-like society (massive West Country men with loads of hair and Hawkwind t-shirts), some young Downs Syndrome kid who kept running up and down the aisle and shouting at people, and worst of all, a bunch of Cambridge drunks. You could could tell they were Cambridge drunks because they manged to be both a) nosily pissed and b) bilingual. Then we all were booted off at Royston and rammed into buses, and arrived at our destination seemingly a month after we actually set out.

Just as well the trip into town to see Bearded Ladies recording was worth it then. The Ladies were ace, and some really good sketches in there (including our hilarious sofa bed sketch - which naturally was the most complicated in terms of sound - make 'em work I say.) In the record I managed to plunk myself down next to handsome celebrity and star of Green Wing and Tomb Raider, Julian Rhind-Tutt. I had hoped that by sitting next to him some of his celebrity would rub off on me - unfortunately on my other side was a very odd man who noisily drunk a pint of Guiness and spent the whole evening studiously taking pictures of the ladies with his mobile phone. If there was any rubbing off last night, I think he was the one doing it.

Bureaucratic Oaths

The Doctor and I went to give notice of our marriage to the County Council. Things started going wrong almost immediately when we drove into the carpark and several men in luminous tabards delighted in telling us exactly where we couldn't park.

Undeterred, we went into the registry and sat among the plastic potted plants and waited to be seen. For half an hour. Eventually we approached a woman with tightly permed hair and tighly pursed lips.

"Excuse me, we have an appointment at 11.30."

The woman's eyes narrowed, "Impossible. I've just had my 11.30."

"No, I rang up and booked last week."

The woman resentfully opened her diary.

"Well, I have you crossed out on Monday."

"I know - we changed it to the Tuesday."

"Are you sure you didn't change it to next Tuesday? Or the Tuesday after?"

"No! Definitely today."

The woman's lips went grey. "I see," she said, and slammed the diary shut, "Well bang goes my lunchbreak."

And so the scene was set for one of the most awkward twenty minutes encounters I've ever had to sit through. With hackles raised on both sides, we went through Kafka-esuqe questioning with a woman who had to ask whether there was a 'h' in Chichester. It was extremely difficult to keep a straight face when the furious woman asked if we might be brother and sister. I immediately had the 'Dueling Banjos' music from Deliverance run through my head - and the way the woman eyeballed me suggested that she knew what I was thinking and was not amused.

"Have a pleasant day" she managed as we left. "But remember to hand in the correct forms."

Yee-ha!!

Beards at the Beeb

I should say now that recording begins next week (Wednesday in fact) for the new series of Bearded Ladies, which includes sketches what I have wrote.

They're recording evenings at The Drill Hall, London's premier Lesbi-Gay Theatre (guaranteed one production of Entertaining Mr. Sloane per week), and you can book tickets through the BBC's website here.

The Beards are great and I shall be there laughing at them - especially when our stuff comes on ha ha.

So come along too. That is an order.

Late Night Sin

Last night, I toddled off on my bicycle to treat myself to a late-night screening at the spanking new leisure-park down the road (multi-screen cinema, bowling, Nando's, Subway - it's like stepping into the future.) Decided on watching Sin City - a) because it's the kind of violent film I could never persuade the Doctor to go to and b) 'cos the cinema's air-conditioned.

I purchase my packet of fruit gums and large lemonade and to my delight it looks as if I'm going to be the only person in the 120 seat cinema. I don't mind going to the flicks on my own - I quite like it - so I settle in happily. The film's been released for a bit, it's May week so all the students are toffing around with their DJs and Balls, and so I reckon I'm going to be enjoying my own private screening. The projectionist obviously thinks so too, and for his - or my - amusement, he starts putting the local business ads that precede the trailers in the wrong way.

Then bang. The doors fly open, and into the cinema run two female youths. Oh Christ.

"You are such a bay-itch!"

"Shut up! Facking hell it's cold in here!"

The girls are clearly not over 18 and are dressed (or not very dressed actually) in finest chav-ery - hair scraped back, belts as skirts, earrings the size of hula-hoops (not the crisps).

I sink into my seat - I really don't want to spend an evening trying to watch a film with two Vicky Pollards in the back row. Their presence has automatically made me feel (and look) like some dirty old man weirdo for being on my own in the cinema. I try to remain nonchalant, as if I haven't even seen them come in (nonchalant meaning of course grabbing a handful of fruit gums and trying to chew too many at once.)

Naturally they run around a bit first before they decide to choose their seats. One sits right in the front row in the centre, while the other sits in the exact spot at the back.

"Move your head your bay-itch I can't see the screen!"

"Shut up you c*nt. I'm the c*nt of Chesterton!" (!?!?)

I am a dead man. I try and will myself to melt away - (normally not a problem) - but the air-conditioning in this theatre is just too good. I don't have to wait long.

"'Ere look that bloke's on his own." (Here we go...) "'Scuse me?"

I turn round and try to affect an untouchable, imperious glare - like the Fonz.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you on your own?"

A million excuses whirl around my head. Whatever I say will impact the next three hours and decide whether I'll survive this screening without being torn apart by these teenage velociraptors. Or whether I might just get away with a bit of popcorn aimed at the back of the head.

"Because.... My.... Girlfriend... (Damn! Should have said wife... No! Girlfriend's good. They understand what they are!) is.... in... (Think! Think! The truth! The truth will work!) York...? (Excellent - confuse 'em with a place outside their immediate location.)"

It seems to work. In fact they almost seem sympathetic – so I’m not a weird dirty mac (shorts actually) man. “Aaah.” Phew. But then: “What’s this film like then?”

I pause to consider. Do they want a detailed review, letting them know it’s sourced on several graphic novels by Frank Miller? That it’s entirely digitally constructed and packed with Ruyon-esque dialogue? That it’s probably the most extreme expression of comic-noir to hit cinema screens?

No. Instead I’ll try and pretend I’m hard. “It’s very violent” I say, putting a weird emphasis on the last word. Yeah, don’t mess with me ladies. I’ve fought South London crack whores, I imply.

They turn away – unimpressed – and start a burping competition.

Well, thank God another couple came into the cinema. Shortly followed by the girls’ baseball capped boyfriends – who seemed to actually want to watch the film (well it was full of beatings, guns, naked ladies and genital mutilation.) They made noises throughout but I was able to ignore them.

Because I was more annoyed as just when the opening titles scrolled up two Goths with massive hair came and sat right in front of me and took their shoes off.

Jesus.

AUTOFUTUR

Sitting in my pants in the sweltering heat, lager in hand (you can have that image for free readers) listening to the new Kraftwerk live album.

It is excellent. Or if you prefer: Es ist ausgezeichnet.

I mean, you can only really tell it's live because they put cheering inbetween tracks - (I doubt 50+ year-old Ralf and Florian and whoever the two new ones are put down their computers and decide to crowd surf) - but it's a cracking set, with all the best songs. People even sing along to the lyrics - "VE ARE ZE ROBOTS."

It takes me happily back to the Kraftwerk spoof band we used to do in Fit To Burst - Autofutur. Red shirts, slicked down hair and little black ties:

"In ze future sere vill be no men."

"In the future sere vill be no women."

"In the future sere vill only be - UNISEX."

I loved doing Autofutur. Perhaps we'll have to reform them now Kraftwerk are releasing records again. They could go on the road with a selction of their uncannily predictive songs - "Electric Grid" (The Internet), "Strudel Synthetique" (The Findus Crispy Pancake) and "Angry 2nd Home Owners" (Wind Farms).

There’s No Business Like…

Andrew and I were in conversation with two comedy writers over a beer. I won’t name them here in case my shameless recycling of their showbiz gossip is in any way unprofessional, but they are proper old school – having written for the Two Ronnies, Frankie Howerd, Barry Cryer, Russ Abbott & Les Dennis (!) etc – with sitcoms and comedy dramas to their names (one of which was recently rather successful for Granada and has just been recommissioned…)

And what a comedy anorak treat it was to hear stories about how Spike from Hi-de-Hi (my favourite, big ensemble sitcom – I have the DVDs and it’s ace and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise - Simon Cadell was a fantastic comedy performer) – came into his dressing room to find Barry the Ball Room Dancer drunk and pissing in his sink.

Or Bobby Davro – yes the Bobster, man of a number of voices – going on stage after being kiss-and-told upon by one vengeful lay. Rather then sensibly ignore the tabloid headlines, furious Davro tried to gain the upper-hand by going “It only felt like a tiny organ ‘cos it was playing in the Albert Hall” etc to a bunch of bemused pensioners – when second-half nutcase Freddy Starr frogmarched across the back of the stage holding The Sun or whatever it was up high for all to see. Those crazy lads!! (Apparently B Davro believes he has been made the pariah of all that was naff and terrible about 80s ITV comedy and bemoans his lack of money and career – from the poolside of his massive Surrey mansion.)

Ooh, I love those stories. I probably scared off these guys from ever having a drink with me again by displaying just a bit too much knowledge, but there you go. It’s worth it if only to find out what Bella Emberg was really like.

Sing Is Back

I knew it. I always knew I was cool.

Karaoke - my dirty, (not terribly) secret little pleasure - is now officially where it's at. The Guardian (and what a style-bible that is baby) devoted a two-page spread today to the rebirth of Karaoke. No longer the preserve of the drunk and the big-headed (although it helps - certainly for me) karaoke is now hip. Apparently proper Japanese-style karaoke bars (a la Bill Murray doing Roxy Music in Lost in Translation) are on the cards for London Town, and sales of home karaoke systems and games are going through the roof.

Which just shows how cool I and my friends are, as on Saturday night, the Doctor and I, our friends Tim and Lou and my annoyingly-good, cool-as-a-cucumber brother spent a night belting out the hits on Sing Star on the Playstation. There's about 20 different songs, they play the videos, and you belt 'em out and the machine grades you for pitch, tone etc.

Now, as an artist, I have an indivdualistic, impressionistic style, and I won't be graded by some electronic chip. If I choose to throw in some Mariah Carey-stylings up-and-down the musical register that is my artistic choice, and the Sony organisation should recognise that. It's not all about hitting exactly the right key all the time - it's about the passion. If there were any Smiths or Divine Comedy on Sing Star I would have won - although annoying Franz Ferdinand were - and yet again my brother beat me there. I won't have it. (Mind you - you gotta be aware of your audience when you're picking your tune. Last year I sang XTC's angular 1979 minor-hit 'Making Plans for Nigel' to a packed Spanish bar full of Brummies in football shirts. I don't think they liked it.)

Ah well, karaoke's ace. The Doctor and I are mooting a karaoke-style wedding. Will we get away with it?

Stop Me Before I Kill Again

Standing in the market behind a tousle-haired student with his Ralph Lauren shirt unbuttoned to his navel, a half-finished bottle of champagne in his hand, and wearing no shoes on his feet. He turns to his identical friend:

"Yah, well, God knows how I got through these finals. My novel has just taken up so much time."

Frraffaxxxsdhgdgaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

(I didn't get into Oxford nine years ago. But I'm over it, d'you see?)

Blog Block

I seem to have a case of blog clog. Stay with me. Something funny's bound to happen in a minute.

Here we go - the cleaner who looks like he got caught in a fire in a platics factory is eyeballing me because he wants to empty my bin.


I'm off.

Privvy to Laughs

To the Hen & Chickens for a double-bill of comedy with Gavin and Gavin and The Hollow Men.

Both excellent and hardly in need of write-ups from the likes of me* - so instead I'm going to review the new toilets they've put in the Hen & Chickens.

"What a transformation! ****" Nick Swift, Obscure Fringe Comedian

For six years, often with pre-show nerves, I've had to utilise those WCs - previously contenders for 'The Worst Toilets in London' award - but now... It's amazing what a lick of paint and a few coloured spotlights will do. The theatre actually carries in with you to the lavatory. Worth going to the place simply for that.

If only they'd do the same at The Etcetera, where I'm doing some new stuff on Monday at Nice Mum Etc. But then, that's Camden "Skunk mate?" Town (as opposed to genteel Islington), so I suppose they have to keep the grungy, dirty, pierced vibe by law. If you happen to be around - 8pm on Monday, loads of good acts - including new material from Peter Gold and myself, both together and apart, plus I'll be ringmastering some ranting, swearing sketch with those filthy Nice Mum boys probably.


*Suffice to say go if you get the chance. The Gavins working in their new Edinburgh show, and Hollows flexing their best material (including great new Barbers sketch) before they go to America. Bastards.

Werepig Redux

You may remember some time back I did some impressions for a promo reel for a (yet-to-be-made) film called Werepig.

Last night Pete and I went to a party to raise funds for it.

It was at the Genesis Cinema in Whitechapel, virtually opposite where I used to live - and where I enjoyed such fine cinematic fare as Galaxy Quest and American Pie 2. I didn't realise at the time - (though I should have done considering its position up the road from The Blind Beggar, where the Krays topped Jack "The Hat" McVitie) - that it has a faintly gangster-ish air. Lots of big men in suits hanging around looking intimidating. Even the popcorn seller looked like he might be concealing a shooter in the Westler's Hot Dog machine.

Anyway, we were promised glamour and glitz.

Hmmmm.

You can't fault 'em for trying. Free booze, a few sequinned ladies - and at one point two men dressed as mutant hunting marines with laser-guided rifles descended in the bar (maybe friends of 'Tyrone' the cinema owner) - but the sad fact is there just didn't seem enough people there. A handful of fringe showbiz weirdos - (of which I include myself) - are not the kind of people brimming with cash and ready to invest in a flick about about a mutant porker.

The highest-profile member of the cast, Lindsey Dawn Mackenize (star of Boob Cruise 2000, aka Boobs Ahoy! and Mammary Lane) was, sadly, not in attendance. Though Pete and I did end up talking with one actress who doggedly dished up her generous décolletage into the conversation:

"So, this Werepig looks quite interesting..."

"Yes, that's why I've got my cleavage out!"

"... Yes, good, so have you known the director long?"

"Since we were teenagers that's why I've got my cleavage out!!"

"... R-i-ight. Well, I hope he raises the money..."

"Me too! After all that's why I'm dressed like this with MY CLEAVAGE OUT!!"

We didn't - unusually - know where to look. Even though we were being told where to.

Let Loose the Mimes of War

After a meeting at Broadcasting House yesterday for the new series of Bearded Ladies (where during a gap I sat and made eyes at Hugh Dennis in the hope of getting more Radio 4 work - fingers crossed readers!), I was walking back via Covent Garden, and stumbled into some street theatre people having a good old bitch.

Mr-Painted-Golden-Robot was standing on his box, entertaining backpacked Portugese students with his amusing extendable arms. Watching him contemptously was Miss-White-Harlequin-Face, arms folded and sneering out the side of her mouth to Master-All-in-Blue-Tie-Blown-Back-Caught-in-a-Gale.

Her: "Look at him, with his arms. He's just spray-painted the tubing from a tumble-dryer. That's so naff."

Him: "He thinks he's the first street mime to use an amusing kazoo whistle. He's not. I've been doing that for years. Johnny-come-lately, mate."

Her: "Oh yeah, here we go - the flashing chest panel. Jesus, everyone's got a gimmick these days. I just stand still and wave when someone puts money in the box. Purity, that is. Simplicity."

Him: "What's challenging about being a robot? It's childish. Caught in the wind. That's where it's at. Took me half a morning to starch this tie and bend it backwards. That's commitment."

Her: "God I hate him."

Him: "Me too. Wazzock."

Beat.

Him: "Fancy a pasty?"


(Of course, that conversation is all conjecture. But I hope it was true.)

All Change 2!!!

The Doctor went for an interview for a lectureship in Bath this morning. Within half an hour of the interview ending she quite brilliantly got the job. A-mazing. She only passed her PhD half an hour ago. It's incredible what she's achieved already at a (relatively) junior level.

So! The implications of that mean - we're moving back to London town! THE STREETS ARE PAVED WITH GOLD, GOLD D'YOU HEAR ME? I've been itching to get back for some time, and now we have the excuse (Bath being an hour and 15 mins commute from London - very manageable.)

God knows how the timing of all this is going to work what with nuptials and all that, but it's great news. I can be nearer to where things are for me career-wise, and I can swap a nice house, gardens and peaceful living atmosphere for sweaty, dirty London with its amusing tramps and menacing air*! Thank the Lord my wife-to-be is a bit more of a get-up-and-get-things-done person than me!! I can ride on the coat-tails of her success!!! WOO-HOOH!!

So - if anyone knows of a nice flat in or around Shepherd's Bush area (anywhere near the Bakerloo, District or Hammersmith & City line - basically anywhere in easy reach of Paddington Station) then let me know!!


*Actually, I really like London, and people who moan about it are fools.

**If any London-based people need some sort of cleaner or PA, or might occassionally need someone to do an amusing impression of Jamie Oliver and/or Darth Vader, then I'm your man.

All Change

Yes, a vulgar and egotistic makeover for the blog - prompted by me new websites (www.nickswift.com and www.swiftandmccaldon.com) but also because that copyist Pete Gold has started a new blog and plastered his face all over his, so I see no reason why I can't do the same with mine.

It's quite possible that the colour scheme for this is all wrong, as I've hijacked an already existing template, so things may change. But it's ring in the new time, baby.

Last night Pete, Andrew and I all met up in town to toss around (ideas that is). We went for food and were extremely loud and irritating (especially me) and we were shot dirty looks at by both clientele and staff. Had I been sitting there trying to eat and having to listen to three supposed comedy writers squawking and pontificating, I would have thrown a dirty look as well. And perhaps some cutlery. And a frag grenade.

Anyway - have to go and do a phone audition for a v/o now and pretend to be Darth Vader. Fingers crossed it's a bad line - because everyone then sort of sounds like Darth Vader.