Take a Chill Pill?

There is something wrong with me. Nothing life threatening or painful, just something unpleasant. Sadly I can’t go to

the Doctor about it, he would laugh. Yes my doctor is a man, so I’m not being sexist.  He has a cock and everything, I imagine, so he constitutes a man in my book, and I have a book.

So, like many people these days, I am broadcasting my problem to the entire world. This way people can dissect the troublesome thing and provide me with a simplistic and stupid solution. You may begin your emails: “have you tried {insert the bleedin’ obvious}?”

My problem is simple; I have become excessively relaxed. For months now I’ve not shouted at a television, kicked a monkey to death or vomited in rage at the phrase ‘station stop’. Also, a few weeks ago when I visited Edinburgh, I spent a lovely evening with comedian Michael Legge and Jim Bob (off of Carter USM). Now, I loved Carter, they are one of my favourite bands. So you would expect that meeting Mr Bob would have sent me into a tailspin of excitement, but instead my brain simply processed him as a nice man who I was enjoying a pint with aaaand relaxed. In fact throughout that week, I was introduced to many people whose work I really really like, but did I tell them this? No, I shook their hand and chatted about the weather and on one occasion ignored the person completely while I attempted to retrieve a lost email message on my phone. Proving that, as a schmoozer, I’m a dead loss.

When did my brain stop supplying me with feelings of euphoria and substitute them with that feeling you get after a lovely wank? It is a nice feeling, don’t get me wrong, but creatively it’s a black hole.  How the hell am I supposed to come up with comedy material if I’m like this? Comedy comes from pain and conflict, not from watching the Antiques Roadshow in a daze.

However there is one thing which can snap me out of this reverie. It goes by many names but the most common are: ‘Grumpy Old Men’ and ’Grumpy Old Women’. Yep, those television shows are guaranteed to make my blood boil. In fact I’m brimming with rage now, just thinking about the parade of wealthy Cunts, complaining about getting a wrong shaped avocado from the Ocado man. I hate them, I hate them! Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

So if you see me in the street and I smile beatifically at you, simply whip out your phone and show me some footage of A.A Gill moaning about his Aga. I may hit you and smash your phone to bits but I’ll thank you later.